Enjoy All Things Creative

Needless to say, Steve absolutely loathes him with every fiber of his being. He doesn't understand how someone like Patrick could be with someone like you. Who is, basically, an angel sent to Earth. 

And Steve is so patient with you, so selfless, so gentle, so caring, so full of love everytime he looks at you. That's because he's been in love with you ever since you helped him out at that stupid Halloween party at Tina's house.

How could Steve not be in love with you? That's the real question.

“He's completely, disgustingly in love with you, by the way,” Dustin would say once, after Steve practically sprinted over to you, taking off his jacket to put it on your shoulders as night fell and you were all outside fixing some stuff on the WSQK van.

You would just roll your eyes, ruffling your little brother's curly hair. “Just because he's a gentleman doesn't mean he likes me, Dus.”

“It totally does,” he would argue, noticing the way Steve would turn around every now and then to look at you, clearly more interested in you than in whatever Murray was babbling about the van's ridiculously large signal antenna. “He's pathetic.”

You see Steve giving you a big smile, and that made you smile too.

And Steve doesn't just smile at you.

He beams, he glows, his whole face lights up.

Like you're the only thing in the entire universe worth looking at. Like the Upside Down, the goddamn end of the world—none of it matters as long as you're standing there, wrapped in his jacket, cheeks softly pink from the cold. Looking back at him with those eyes.

When you open the door of your house, there he is. Steve. Stepping out of his pretty vehicle with that expression on his face that's meant just for you to see, his honeyed eyes softening at the edges, one of his hands twitching as he runs it through his hair. 

Lately, he's been doing that a lot more than usual, you notice. Twitching.

“You're twenty-four minutes late,” you say, pointing out something he obviously already knows, closing the door behind you and walking toward him across the front yard of your house.

Even when you bring up that disapproving tone and oblivious to everything going on around you, still he smiles so softly, genuinely happy to see you. He rests his elbow on the open driver's door as if he's the most handsome guy around. He is, probably.

“Take it easy, sugar, were you really that desperate to see me?” he snorts, taking advantage of the fact that he's pretending to look for your little brother, who is usually by your side, so he can look you up and down. He definitely doesn't find Dustin, but he does find your beautiful legs dressed in that pretty skirt he absolutely loves.

You roll your eyes, pulling up right next to his car as Steve rushes to open the passenger door for you. 

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Steve raises his hands in surrender, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Hey, I'm only commenting on what I see. Desperation to see me.”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder, but there's no real heat behind it. He knows it. He always knows it. And that's what makes him smirk — that stupid, charming Harrington smirk that makes your stomach do another one of those flips you pretend you don't get around him.

You slide into the passenger seat, smoothing your skirt as you sit. He— of course he notices. You catch the flicker in his eyes, the way he wets his lips before quickly looking away.

He's been doing that a lot too.

Steve closes the door gently — always gently — then walks around the car. When he gets in on his side, the scent of his cologne fills the small space, warm and familiar, and you hate how much you missed that.

He doesn't start the engine right away.

Instead, he rests his hands on the steering wheel, thumbs tapping in that nervous little rhythm again. Twitch, twitch. 

The muscle in his jaw works once, very subtly. Something is definitely off with him today, though you can't quite tell what. 

“Okay,” he says, exhaling softly, “so Dustin's not with you? You checked his room?”

“Obviously,” you mutter, buckling your seatbelt. “He left an hour ago after slamming the door so hard I thought the hinges would fall off.”

Steve winces. “Ah. Classic teenage meltdown. Love that.”

You shoot him another look. “He's been doing more than melting down. He's... different. Distant. I don't even know what's going on with him anymore. I'd like to be there for him—I am there for him. But he...” You nervously bite your lower lip. “He just doesn't see me.”

For a moment, all Steve does is look at you, with that gentle, knowing gaze, looking deeper into your eyes, as if he literally had your soul in his hands and was examining it delicately.

“Hey,” he says softly, fingers twitching on the wheel again. “The guy adores you. He talks about you all the time. He's just going through a rough patch, we all are, considering the current state of the world. He just needs time to clear that thick head of his.”

His words should reassure you, but they don't. Not entirely. You've been anxious lately, everyone has. Acting very out of it, on edge, tense, obsessed with Vecna and the Upside Down. 

“I know,” you say quietly. “But it feels like he's shutting me out. Like he doesn't need me anymore.” Your throat tightens with every word you speak, hindering your efforts to speak. “Like I'm losing him.”

Steve watches you for a heartbeat, his expression softening even further— impossibly so. He shifts in his seat, the leather creaking as he turns toward you, knee purposefully brushing yours.

As he opens his rosy lips to say something, you gently cut him off, shaking your head.

“Let's just not talk about it anymore,” you clear your throat, struggling to force a little sweet smile. With the appearance of that smile, he falls silent, gazing at you in stillness. “Let's just focus on what's important, okay? You said you needed help with the sound effects?”

Steve clears his throat now, forcing himself to shift his soft brown eyes away from your pretty face and onto the street in front of him, checking to see if any vehicles are approaching so that he can drive off the sidewalk. “Uh—yeah, the sound effects, I wanted to get your opinion on that.”

“My opinion?” you ask, curious, lifting an eyebrow. Truthfully, you assumed that Steve needed you for something more important when he called you the night before, requesting your presence by 5 p.m. the following day, urgently.

Steve grins, responding, “Yeah, you've been helping me all this time with it, so I figured it would make sense to have your approval on a few adjustments.”

“Okay...” you reply, still somewhat skeptical that this was really the point of the whole gathering.

Steve finally starts the engine, though he doesn't drive yet. His fingers drum anxiously against the wheel—tap-tap-tap—before he pulls the car smoothly onto the road. You watch the familiar streets pass by through the window, enormously more at ease now that you are in the company of Steve, who has been your best friend since, well, since all the Upside Down mess started—and ever since he finally decided to stop being a brainless dumbass.

“Okay, so,” Steve says after a moment of comfortable, clearing his throat again. “Don't laugh at me, but I stayed up until, like, three in the morning trying to fix the stupid 'creature roar' effect. And now it just sounds like... I don't know. A dying vacuum cleaner.”

“Well, I'll be the judge of that, Harrington,” you snort, settling back in the seat. 

That makes him smile again, a real one this time. But it fades a little too quickly as he focuses back on the road, jaw tightening again. 

The drive to WSQK radio station is quiet, a comforting, familiar silence, a silence that feels heavy and light at the same time, like an unspoken promise.

When you arrive ten minutes later, Steve rushes to open the door of the car for you, and that makes you smile once again. You smile a lot when you're with him. Dustin points it out every damn chance he gets.

You don't notice it because it's so natural, so uncontrollable. When you're with Steve, your whole world feels lighter, calmer, quieter. All you can hear is the sound of his voice and your heart beating in your chest.

The ride becomes quiet, a comfortable, warm, cozy silence. A silence that is familiar to you, that you enjoy. Because it's Steve, after all, your best friend. There's no place you feel safer than right there, sitting next to him in his car.

He swallows, like he's trying to work up to something, as you walk together inside the radio station building.

He's thinking about something. Or hiding something. You can practically feel it pulsing off him.

After a very long moment, he speaks.

“How's everything going with Patrick?”

Patrick. Right.

He pronounces the name as if it contains some deadly poison, his tongue twisting in disgust, his whole face contorting in revulsion as he says it. Steve is physically repulsed by saying it.

You sigh, waiting for him to open the radio booth.

“Same as usual lately, I guess,” you click your tongue, frustrated with the topic. “He hasn't come to see me, nor has he called. He's... distant. Upset, shut down.”

Steve clicks his tongue too and he turn his head to look at you with sympathy, anger perhaps too. “He's such an idiot. You should totally dump his ass, like, right now.”

“He thinks I'm cheating on him,” you blurt out, lowering your gaze for a moment. “With you.”

Steve's reaction is instant.

He almost swerves.

Steve freezes.

One hand still on the booth door, the other hovering mid-air like he forgot how to move. His mouth parts just slightly — not enough to speak, only enough to show how completely that sentence knocked the wind out of him.

“...with me?” he repeats, and his voice sounds different. Rough. Quiet. Almost strangled.

“Yeah,” you nod, hugging your arms to your chest. “He's been acting weird about it for weeks. Says we're 'too close.' That I look at you differently. That you look at me differently.”

Steve blinks once. Slowly. As if giving his brain time to reboot.

“Well,” he finally says, breath catching, “that's... that's rich. Because I'd never— I mean, I—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

Runs a hand through his hair again, fingers trembling.

The room feels suddenly too small, too warm, too loud with the sound of his breathing. He opens the door with some brusqueness, holding it open for you to pass through.

“He's jealous for no reason,” you try to add, but your voice comes out thin. “I'd never— we're just—”

You walk slowly through the door, stopping right in front of him, at the threshold, holding his gaze. His eyes scan your face with that intense, searching softness he reserves only for you — warm honey turning to fire around the edges. 

“Friends,” Steve finishes quietly, eyes flicking up to yours.

“Right,” you're an echo of his words. You bite your lip, exhaling a little nervous giggle, “Friends.”

Steve clears his throat and fumbles for the light switch, turning it on with a loud click. The booth fills with the warm hum of equipment, mixing boards blinking with tiny green and red lights.

He doesn't look at you for a moment. He sets down his keys on the desk, straightens a stack of cassettes that didn't need straightening, taps his finger nervously on the mixer — twitch, twitch.

You wander past boxes and shelves filled with vinyl records, recognizing many that you yourself had donated to the radio station.  

You're smiling as you find your all-time favorite one, and it's got a little pink note with words written on it, that you can read once you take the record out to take a look at it.

‘Handle with care.’

You recognize the handwriting right away.

Your eyes lift from Cindy Lauper's iconic pose on the cover of She's So Unusual to look at Steve, who is still rummaging through the cassettes.

Your fingers linger on the sticky note longer than necessary as your chest warms, tightens, twists, all at once.

“Stevie.”

“Mhm?” he hums, looking up to pay attention to you, as if you hadn't already caught his undivided attention the moment you stepped into his company.

“Why did you put a note on my record?” you ask softly.

“Because...” He laughs under his breath, but it's not really a laugh, it's a huff of obviousness. “Because it's your favorite.”

You lift a brow. “And that requires a warning label?”

He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushed. “Not a warning. Just— you know.” He shrugs helplessly. “I didn't want Robin or someone else to scratch it. I know it means a lot to you.”

“Right,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the overwhelming flood of emotions that is suddenly trying to drown you.

You put the record back in its spot, very slowly.

“So,” you smile lightly, taking a seat at Robin's desk, the radio host, “are you gonna show me the vacuum-cleaner monster roar or what?”

Steve snaps upright like you just gave him instructions to defuse a bomb.

“Right — yeah — yes.” He fumbles with a cassette, jammed between two others. “Okay, so, this one... wait— no, not this— crap— okay— this one!”

He pops it into the player and presses play.

A horrific, warbling screech bursts out of the speakers — something between a demon gargling nails and an actual dying Hoover.

You burst out laughing, clapping a hand over your mouth.

Steve groans, dropping his face into his hands. “Oh my God, I knew it— it's awful, it's— don't laugh— actually no, okay, you can laugh.”

You push your feet to pull the chair closer to his desk, “No, no, it's... impressive. Deeply cursed. But impressive.”

He looks down at you with that stupid boyish grin that scrunches his eyes at the corners, with his hands still hiding his face, looking at you through the gaps between his fingers. That way you can clearly see the brown-honey color of his eyes.

As he leans his elbows on his desk, you move close enough to pull his hands away from his blushing face, very gently.

You're smiling so hard your cheeks are quivering slightly, “I think it's really cool.”

Steve holds his breath, his eyes flickering for a split second to the sight of your hands cupping his, guiding them away from his face so you can get a better look at him. You catch him, though. You always catch him.

“You really think so?” His eyebrows furrow upward and he looks like a pouting child.

“I mean, you're going to scare the shit out of the radio listeners,” you giggle quietly. 

And Steve starts laughing too, uncontrollably. He feels so happy that he could float away. The only thing keeping him grounded are your hands in his, your gaze, your smile, your voice, your body.

Ten minutes later, after some more banter and approving comments about Steve's new sound effects, he's putting a record on one of the turntables in the booth. You're not paying attention to him because you're too focused on sorting through the boxes full of cassettes, organized by words, letters, and emotions. You put the new one with the creepy scream in the horror section.

A broad smile curves your lips as the first chords of Money Changes Everything begin to echo through the interior of the cabin.

“Well, he's been ignoring me a lot lately,” you continue telling him about everything that's been going on with your lame boyfriend.

Steve is listening attentively, he's now sitting in the office chair, his fingers drumming on the armrests along with the beat of the song. He knows it by heart, of course, you've listened to that album together countless times in your room.

“How long is 'a lot'?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

“...over a month,” you admit finally.

Steve's brows knit now. “Over a month since what?”

You settle more comfortably over his desk, “Since he actually talked to me. Since he touched me. Since we...” you gesture vaguely, your voice lowering sheepishly, “y'know...”

“Are you kidding?” he asks, voice low, controlled — but barely.

“No...”

He blinks slowly, very slowly. And sits up straight in his seat, as if he were rising from the dead, “He hasn't even— even tried anything?”

“Nope,” you shook your head, straightening the fabric of your skirt over your thighs.

He just... stares. Like you've just told him something so unbelievable, so painful, so wrong, that he can't fully process it. His eyes drag over your face, your lips, the way your fingers nervously smooth your skirt, and something darkens inside him — anger, disbelief, heartbreak, something protective and dangerous all at once.

“You deserve better than that,” he says softly, voice trembling with sincerity. “So much better. Fuck, that's crazy”

You try to laugh it off — small, brittle, dismissive.

“It's not that big of a deal, Steve—”

“Yes, it is,” he cuts in, more firm than you've ever heard him with you. Not harsh — never with you — but there's an edge, a rare sharpness slicing through his voice. “It is a big deal.”

Your brows lift, surprised.

He pushes himself up from the chair so suddenly it rolls back a few inches. He stands in front of you now, the record spinning behind him, Cindy Lauper's voice floating through the booth like some ironic soundtrack to the crackling tension.

When You Were Mine.

How fitting.

“Over a month?” he repeats, like he's still trying to convince himself you're not joking. “He hasn't touched you in over a month?”

Your cheeks warm, in embarrassment, frustration, a little sadness, a little humiliation.

You make a dismissive gesture with your hand, “I guess he's just... done with me.”

“No.” His voice cracks. Actually cracks. “Don't say that. Honey, he should be begging for your attention,” Steve whispers, every word slow, deliberate. “He should be feeling like the luckiest guy in the world. Because he—” He shakes his head, eyes burning. “God, he has no idea what he has.”

You swallow hard.

“Steve...”

He inhales — deep, steadying — and steps back just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to sever the electricity sparking between you.

When he speaks again, his voice is softer. And somehow, that makes it worse.

“Why are you still with him?”

It's a simple question. But it doesn't feel simple.

Why are you still with Patrick? 

You've asked yourself this question more times than you'd like to admit. And you tell yourself it must be because of the attention he gives you (very occasionally now) or the way he's there for you (hardly ever anymore). No, seriously, why are you still with him?

Why do you keep clinging to something that is clearly beyond repair? 

It's not afloat, so what's the point in sinking with it?

You fidget with the edge of the desk, sighing in hopelessness. “I don't know. Maybe because I keep hoping he'll come back to me. That things will go back to normal.”

“Well,” Steve speaks in a tone as gentle as his gaze, “if he can walk away from someone like you... he's even more of an idiot than I thought.”

Your lips part — a soft sound escaping before you can stop it.

And Steve notices.

Oh, he notices.

He notices everything about you. He knows you better than he knows himself, every gesture, every movement, every glance, every tone of voice. Every single habit of yours is a kind of religion to him, a form of fanaticism, a way of worship. Every part of you is divine, heavenly.

And nothing about you is normal. In the best sense of the word.

Steve's eyes flick to your mouth for half a second before he forces himself to look away, rubbing his hands on his jeans like he needs to physically wipe the moment off his palms.

“You're just saying that to make me feel better,” you huff, smiling faintly, holding his gaze.

“No,” Steve says immediately.

Too immediately.

He stands up like a robot, quick and precise. He walks toward you with slow, deliberate steps, brushing one of his hands through his hair. 

“You really don't see it, do you?” His question sounds incredulous. “You don't see what everyone else sees. What he should see.”

You blink up at him once he is standing right in front of you. “See what?”

“That you're...” He stops, jaw clenching. Starts again. “That you're impossible not to notice. You come into a room,” he continues, eyes burning into yours, “and it's like everything else gets quieter. You talk, and I—” He swallows, the sound thick. “I listen to every word like it matters. Because it does.”

Your pulse is pounding so hard you can feel it in your fingertips, twitching over the desk.

“You smile, and I...” He exhales. “I feel it. Everywhere.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Steve...”

“If you were mine, I wouldn't leave you for a second. I mean, look at you,” he smiles, glancing down at your lips. His hands rest on either side of you on the edge of the desk, gripping it tightly and holding on to it as if that would stop him from doing something he wouldn't want to do, something he might regret. “I'm supposed to be your friend,” he breathes out, defeated, leaning closer to you and pressing his forehead against your shoulder. “I'm supposed to be a gentleman.”

You feel his breath quicken against your skin, a shuddering sigh that ripples down your spine. The revelation lingers in the air, palpable and electric, poised to burst the bubble of that long-standing "friendship" that has kept you both afloat for so many years.

“Steve,” you whisper, because it's all you can manage to say. His name. Your voice fractures under its own weight.

You raise a hand, pausing for a second, before gently placing it on Steve's brown hair at the nape of his neck. Your thumb brushes against his warm skin, and a small sigh slides from his lips, a low, hoarse sound that makes you tremble.

He lifts his head slowly.

And the moment his eyes meet yours...

It's like the whole room tilts.

His pupils are blown wide, dark and hungry, and you swear you can feel the heat rolling off him, rising off his skin in waves. His gaze drops to your lips again — not subtle, not accidental, not friendly.

He's not pretending anymore.

Not hiding it.

Not even trying.

“I'm supposed to be good,” he chokes out, his voice nothing more than a hushed whisper, a confession. “But sweetheart,” he gasps, his voice cracking with restraint, “you make it really, really hard to be good.”

Steve notices that you want to say something, and shushes you, laying a finger on your mouth, tracing your lips with extreme delicacy.

“Shh... look at me, just look at me,” he demands in a deep whisper, his hands are cradling your face now, shaky, almost hesitant. “I can't stand the thought of that jerk neglecting you. Not when I... if I could, I would make you feel like the only woman in the world, every day.”

Your breath hitches in your throat as his finger traces the curve of your bottom lip, as delicately as if he were touching a porcelain doll. His hands, usually so confident and restless, are trembling slightly against your cheeks, framing your face with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting.

The way he's looking at you—it's devastating. It's the way you always secretly wanted to be looked at, a look of utter reverence and raw, agonizing need. It doesn't look like friendship. It looks like... everything else but it.

You lean into his touch almost imperceptibly, just enough to communicate the sudden, powerful shift inside you. The realization that he is the reason Patrick is jealous, and the terrifying, wonderful possibility that Patrick might be right. He must be right.

With a low, ragged sound that is half-gasp, half-groan, Steve closes the remaining distance.

“Kiss me,” you manage to utter, demand, or beg, your voice caught in your throat, like a tiny vibration in the air. It's the most coherent thing you can express, the most you need at that moment. Him and nothing but him.

With a low, ragged sound that is half-gasp, half-groan, Steve closes the remaining distance in between you. 

He shatters it as if it were his greatest enemy, the one thing he has loathed since he can remember. Distance. 

His lips find yours, hesitant for only a fraction of a second, then urgent, demanding, and utterly possessive. It's not the gentle, polite touch of your 'best friend'; it's the fierce, hungry pressure of a man who has been holding this back, hoarding this feeling, for too long. 

From a man who laid his heart in your hands the moment you met. Who took one look at you and knew he would be yours.

Your man.

Your Steve.

Yours.

His hands slide from your cheeks, moving to cup the back of your head, threading into your hair, tilting your face up just slightly, deepening the kiss with a desperation that steals your breath away. His nose, the one you love so much, bumps against yours roughly, and they fit together just right.

The air leaves your lungs in a rush. It's a dizzying, all-consuming kiss that feels like coming home and falling off a cliff all at the same time. 

Every question you had about Patrick, about your relationship, about why you were staying, dissolves into the white-hot certainty that this—this shocking, overwhelming connection—is what you've been missing. 

Why haven't you seen it before? Perhaps you had merely chosen not to see it. That you belong to him. The devastating truth. That you belong to him.

You lift your own hands through his body, gripping the front of his shirt, clinging to him as if he's the only stable thing in a violently spinning world. The fabric is soft, warm from his body, and your knuckles white as you pull him closer.

You spread your thighs, bringing him even closer to you, impossibly close.

When he finally, reluctantly, pulls back —only enough for a breath— his forehead is still resting against yours. His eyes are closed, chest heaving, his breathing a frantic counterpoint to the steady beat of the music filtering through the air. 

You can't help but kiss him one more time, just a little peck. Because he looks so pretty, so hot, so celestially beautiful, pressing against you, ready to worship everything you give him.

“God,” Steve prays, but it sounds more like a curse, the single syllable a prayer, a curse, and a confession all at once. His thumbs brush against your cheeks, pulling you back to look at him, his eyes opening slowly, dark and dazed. “I've wanted to do that for— God, I don't even know how long. Why did we take so long to do that?”

“Because you didn't have the guts to do it,” you whisper back, holding back a smile, which he kisses, gently tracing your curved lips with his tongue. 

He smiles too, and then leans in and kisses you again, softer this time, a tender sealing of the promise, a claiming that makes every other kiss you've ever had feel like a bad dream. When he pulls back, he's glowing, his hand never leaving your face.

“Don't,” he breathes out, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze locked on your mouth. “Don't go back to him. Please...”

“I won't,” you promise him. 

Because, how could you even want to see another male when you have him right there in your arms? Staring at you like that, so yearningly.

Steve's lips curl into a slow, relieved, and utterly triumphant smile—the genuine, dazzling smile that makes your world lighter.

You feel him exhale against your cheek, shaky, uneven, like every breath he takes is still trying to catch up to what just happened.

Like he's trying to catch up to you.

His hand slides down from your cheek to your jaw, then to your shoulder and finally to your waist — not squeezing, not claiming you the way he clearly wants to. Just resting there. Feeling you, with the softest, most enamored touch you've ever known.

“You're shaking, pretty,” he points out.

“So are you,” you whisper back.

And he is — his fingers tremble where they rest against your skin, his breath stutters each time he looks at your lips, and his chest brush yours with an unsteady pressure, as if he's terrified you'll vanish if he doesn't stay close enough.

And still, Steve pulls away just a little, only enough to take off his jacket and carefully drape it around your shoulders, his hands caressing your arms as he does so, making sure you are wrapped up and cozy. 

Your cheeks flush, and Steve smiles when he sees it.

The scent of his cologne fills your nostrils, so masculine, so him, so yours.

“There you go,” he coos contentedly once you're snuggled up under the warmth of his jacket.

“Thanks, Stevie,” you flash a sheepish smile, so happy you feel like you might burst.

You lean forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth — soft, slow, testing. And then, you lift your hand to his cheek, brushing your thumb across the faint stubble there.

Steve leans into your touch like it's instinct.

Like it's home.

“Everything for you,” he assures you, “Everything.”

He looks at you like you've just handed him the entire world.

And Steve Harrington — your Steve — lifts your hand to his lips, pressing the softest kiss to your knuckles, reverent, desperate, worshipful.

As if you were the beginning and end of his universe.

And for him?

“I already gave you ten,” you shout back up the stairs, pinching at the bridge of your nose. “And cool it on that tone of yours!”

“Why are you always such a bitch?!”

Like hell he’s going to talk to me that way, you think. “I told you—language like that isn’t allowed in this house! I don’t care how your little friends talk while you play your little games at Holly’s house, but if you keep this up I’m going to have to talk to Mrs. Wheeler—”

“I’m coming. Fine!” Pounding feet on carpeted stairs, and a flash of hair and a lanky ten year old appears before you. “You don’t have to mother me, gosh.”

The word stings, because you’re not his mom. You’re not meant to be. That title was reserved for the woman who only lives in the picture frames hanging on the walls throughout your childhood home, your father and her frozen in time and forever the ages they were when they were lost in the earthquake.

“Helmet?” you ask, to which he nods, “cleats…glove…bat…?”

“Yes,” he groans, swatting your hand away as your fingers comb through the messy hairs littering his forehead, grown out like a lot of the boys in his grade now, “now can we just go? This is my third time late to practice this week; Coach Harrington already got on my case for the last time.”

“I’ll talk to your coach and explain the situation. It’ll be fine, buddy,” you reassure him, because you’re used to making excuses for everything lately, “I’m already late for work, what’s a few more minutes?”

-

The sun beats down on the baseball field by the time you arrive, a phone call made before you left the house to the hair salon where you work a later shift answering phone calls part-time to apologize that you will be missing yet another day. To which the owner finally told you that if you were to call out one more time, they’d have to find someone else to fill your spot. Not exactly what you need at the moment, but that’s a problem for another day.

“Are we going to lose our house?” Davie asks from the back seat, picking at the strings of his baseball cleats. “Your boss sounded really mad.”

You’re not sure. “No…” Maybe.

“Is it my fault?” His voice is softer now, wobbly.

“Davie, no.”

“Are they going to take me away? I’ll be good, I promise. I don’t really think you’re a bitch.”

You know he means the social worker that comes around to check on you both once a month. Your heart fissures, his curse word disregarded (this time). “Hey,” you whisper, turning around in the seat to look over at the little boy swiping at the tears forming in his eyes. “You’re the best, you know that? We will never be separated, okay? My boss kind of sucks anyway. I can find something better. Something with better hours, too. Don’t you even worry about it, alright? I got this.”

Lie, lie, lie, because most days you don’t know what you’re doing. But Davie needs consistency and he needs strength in a time where there’s so much uncertainty. He comes first. Always.

Davie nods, lips tilting upward into a weak smile. “Okay,” he hiccups a little, letting out a shaky exhale.

“Turn that frown upside down,” you tease, unbuckling and slipping out the driver’s side door, shoes sliding on gravel as you open Davie’s door, “I love you times infinity, right?”

He nods, in that weird stage of boyhood where he won’t say it back, even if it was something your baby brother always would tell you when he was younger. You don’t begrudge him for it, never push, because the smile he throws you tells you everything his words won’t.

The boy clambers out of the car, asking you to hold his things for a second as he tucks his Cubs jersey into his pants. Satisfied, he grabs his things and lowers his head a little bashfully, awkwardly waving to someone behind you.

It’s not that you’ve never seen Steve Harrington before. You graduated high school with the guy. Sure you ran in completely different social circles, but everyone knew him back then. Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington. Part of the popular crowd before he fell from grace a little, and now high school health teacher and little league coach. Worlds apart from the teen you once knew.

Usually, you’re only on the field for a quick second to let Davie out of the car, with Derrick Turnbow’s family being the one to drive your little brother home after. You’re not able to linger, but it’s different today. Because even though Davie’s the one on Steve’s team, it’s on you that your old classmate focuses his attention.

“Steve,” you mutter, allowing your eyes to trail along his features, taking in the tufts of hair spilling out from beneath his baseball cap, the broader shoulders, the more manly features that replaced the boyish ones you remember within the lines of his face. “I apologize that my brother is late again today. Something came up.”

“I know I’m just their coach, but on my team I ask just a few things of my players. One of them being timely for practice. Davie is a good player, great honestly, but if I make exceptions for one kid I—”

“Have to make them for all,” you finish, chewing at your bottom lip. “Look, it won’t happen again. We’ve just had a lot going on, and I know it’s not an excuse, but…”

He opens his mouth to speak again, but cheering erupts on the field as one of the kids on the team hits a home run, and Steve rushes over to cheer on the boys with high fives and words to express just how proud of them he is.

Figuring now is as good a time as any, you make your way over to the bleachers and slip into the back of the crowd and flipping to the hiring pages in the newspaper, always feeling a little out of place surrounded by the team parents. Little more than a kid yourself, raising a ten year old, missing your own parents.

-

Ironically enough, food shopping is one of your favorite things to do lately. As much as you love Davie, being able to get out of the house under the guise of simply driving somewhere and not having to answer to a chaotic boy for an hour is a sort of bliss you never take for granted.

They say it takes a village to raise a kid, and you’re grateful to people like Karen who don’t mind if you drop the kid off for an hour at a time or so, if even to keep her daughter Holly occupied and out of her hair. A trade off, if you will.

Today is a bigger food shop, the fridge at home emptier than you would like. Fortunately, your boss hasn’t fired you yet. Unfortunately, when you get to the front register, your blissful bubble is popped when the cashier reads a number that is definitely higher than the cash you have on hand.

There’s a terribly awkward moment where you fumble with your wallet, recounting the money as if more will appear into thin air. But no matter how much you wish it so, the funds aren’t there. The teenager at the register awkwardly clears their throat as a slightly frantic and uncomfortable giggle pours out of you.

“I’m so sorry,” you mutter quickly, reaching to pluck a few things off the conveyer belt, deciding you can do without this time, “you know what, I don’t actually need these. You can take—”

“You dropped this,” a voice says from beside you, familiar and not at all comforting in a moment of pure embarrassment.

Steve Harrington stands there then, wearing a simple tee shirt and jeans, looking effortlessly handsome with his hair coiffed to perfection as usual. There, held aloft by two fingers, are a few bills.

“Huh?” you ask, swallowing the lump forming in your throat.

“You dropped your money…” he repeats, as if it’s simple, as if he’s not lying to your face because he definitely grabbed it from his own wallet.

Cheeks feeling suddenly hot, you blurt, “I don’t need your money—”

“You dropped it,” he urges again, those dark eyes of his oh so serious.

The cashier clears their throat again, a line clearly starting to form behind Steve. Hesitant fingers reach out to snatch the bills from him, before you turn to face the cashier, handing over the remaining balance on your grocery bill. Once the receipt prints, you thank Steve as quickly as you possibly can and speed out the front door with your cart, wishing for nothing more than to disappear off the face of the earth, because how pathetic.

Give yourself some grace, honey, you can practically hear your mother whisper in your ear, running her fingers along your scalp like she would before you lost her, your head curled in her lap after a hard day.

“You know, I never thought you much a runner back in high school,” Steve huffs a laugh, because obviously he was parked beside you the whole time. Naturally. Your shoulders stiffen as he pops his trunk and tosses in the one bag of groceries he has, before stepping closer to your popped trunk. “Let me help?”

“You really don’t have to,” you tell him, though you don’t protest much as he helps you lift a few of your heavier items out of the shopping cart and loads them into your car. “Why’d you do that back there?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, focusing at the task at hand, biceps moving with each bag he lifts and loads.

You exhale deeply. “I don’t need help. I’m fine on my own.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, turning on the heel to look at you.

He does a slow perusal of your face, and you wish for a split, and maybe silly moment, that you swiped on some sort of make up this morning before leaving the house. Because who cares what Steve Harrington thinks of you?

“It’s just been a rough week.”

“A rough week,” he agrees.

“A rough few weeks,” you add, kicking at a rock near your shoe.

Months, if you’re being honest, but he doesn’t need to know anything about your life. No one does. It’s yours and yours alone.

“You still live on Lark?” he asks suddenly, though you didn’t know he even knew where you lived at all growing up.

“Uh…yeah…”

“Let me help you out with these. It’s a lot of groceries.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Neighbors and hospitality and all of that, right?”

-

Steve whistles to himself as you both pull up in your driveway, waiting as you pop your trunk for him and mutter quickly that you’ll unlock the front door. While he’s occupied with your groceries, you rush into the house and kick Davie’s shoes and toys littering the entry hall, trying to make some sort of sense of the messy kitchen Steve’s walking into. In your haste of getting to the store, you left a mountain of dishes in the sink, with yours and your brother’s breakfast dishes still on the countertop. Steve’s entering with the first of your bags as you toss the dishes into your messy sink, managing a soft smile and a wave of a hand as he asks where to place your things.

This goes on for a few minutes, you working on cleaning some of dishes in the sink while Steve reassures you time and time again that you don’t need to help him, that he’s got it, that he wants you to do whatever you have to do to catch up. Part of you hates it, hates the helping hands, hates the feeling that he’s quietly judging you—even if there’s no indication he actually is thinking anything at all of the situation.

“This is a nice picture,” Steve says suddenly, pausing at the fridge.

Wiping your hands on a dish towel, you make your way over to his side, taking in the picture of your little brother standing in front of you, and your parents on either side of you. Everyone is smiling, and your chest aches because it’s one of the last few photos you have with them. “We look happy. We were happy.”

“I had heard from Nancy…” he says, not looking at you as he speaks, “I’m really sorry.”

Nancy, one of your old friends from school. You’d drifted over the years, but she’d called when they’d passed and offered her condolences all the same. “Don’t be. I’m one of many to lose loved ones in the earthquake.” His lips settle into a grim line. “I’m okay, Steve. I don’t even know why you’re here.”

“Why not?” He shrugs in that lackadaisical way of his. Like it’s not strange, like this is a normal occurrence, like you weren’t strangers in high school.

“Because we don’t like each other.” A poor choice of words, you realize, upon Steve’s wince. “I mean, we weren’t friends in high school or anything. You’re my brother’s baseball coach.”

“Tough crowd,” he laughs, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I just…thought I’d lend a hand. Davie’s a good kid and you were always…well, you. Nice.”

“I don’t need help.”

Steve nods. “I know you don’t.”

But still, it’s nice to have extra hands. “I’m sorry,” you utter softly, chewing at your bottom lip. “Thank you, Steve. I’m royally messing this up, aren’t I?”

He snorts, tilting his head back and forth a little. “I mean, just a little. I’m not fully innocent myself, I guess. You looked overwhelmed at the game the other day, and when I saw you today I just thought…I don’t know, maybe some extra hands wouldn’t hurt.”

“That’s…” Perceptive of him. “Thank you.”

“Now put me to work,” he demands, holding his hands open in the air, “I got two, and I’m ready to use ‘em.”

-

The saying proves true, about how many hands make light work. By the time you’ve finished putting everything away, you hear the familiar rap of Davie’s fist on the front door, alerting that he’s done with his play date at Holly’s. Steve perks up from where he’s perched at the kitchen island, sipping away at a beer you gave him in payment for his assistance.

Conversation had been good…simple. Nice. A breath of fresh air, honestly, since your life had gone from weekends with your friends and a life of carelessness to guardian to a little brother, helping with homework, running around to school events, and keeping a house afloat. It felt good to be twenty two again, if only for a little while.

“That’ll be Davie,” you tell the guy, walking over to the front door to open wide for the boy to come barreling in, kicking his shoes at the door as you yell thank you to Karen for dropping him off. “Hey, buddy. We’ve got company.”

“Who?!” he exclaims, pushing past you to see his baseball coach sitting a few feet away. His eyes widen. “I thought you talked to Coach about being late. Am I in trouble?”

Steve chuckles at your wide-eyed worry at your brother’s words. “Your sister and I talked, and you’re definitely not in trouble. How are you doin’, kid?”

“I’m…good…” Davie hedges, staring between the two of you. “Are you…and coach…like…dating or something…?”

“No!” you exclaim, just as Steve chokes on his beer. The poor guy practically drowns himself in it, the rasp of his breath filling the kitchen. “Steve was helping me with groceries. We ran into each other at the store. We went to school together. We’re…friends.”

“What your sister said,” Steve helps, clapping a hand on his chest.

This seems to satisfy Davie who simply shrugs. “Cool.” He pauses, and then, “Since you’re here…can we practice some throws?”

Steve looks to you for guidance.

“Do you have homework?” you ask.

“A little, but I promise to do it before bed,” your brother says, looking back to his coach eagerly. You suppose it’s not the worst thing, and maybe it’ll make him tired enough to fall asleep at a decent hour for bed tonight.

“Okay fine.” You pat the kid on his back, beaming as Steve jolts to attention and is ushered out the back door by the cutest ten year old you ever did see. Not at all biased, though.

With a sigh, you lean back against the refrigerator, palm sliding down the side of your face. For the brief moment you’re alone you allow yourself a second to breathe, just as the back door opens and Steve’s head pops in. Heart racing at the scare, you clap a hand over your chest, meeting the dark stare of your…new friend.

“Go do whatever you want. I’ll keep him busy for a bit. Shower, change, I don’t know. Whatever girls like to do after they get home after a long day.”

“This is really too much, Steve.”

“Neighbors, remember?” There’s a glint of mischief in those kind eyes, and if you were silly enough, you’d find yourself drawn to them. But this isn’t that, and he’s here to help, and you’re focused on making sure Davie gets everything Davie needs.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” you ask, “you’re off the clock.”

“I love little nuggets.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Little nuggets?” Your head tilts.

“Kids,” he amends, giving you another one of his megawatt smiles, “and he’s one of the easier ones I deal with. It’s really no problem. Go do whatever you need to do.”

“Okay…” you trail, watching him disappear from the doorway, as your thank you flutters in the wind.

-

“You good back there, buddy?” you call from the front seat, looking over your shoulder to see your little brother presently cradling his sore arm.

A school physical turned into a half day of school and a trip to McDonald’s once you realized the poor thing needed to get a vaccine at the appointment. You were reminded of the times your mother would do the same for you, treating you to whatever special meal you’d like and a day of rest.

“Yeah, still kind of sore. Are you going to call coach?”

“On it,” you assure him, knowing the doctor warned of potential fevers and just all around fatigue for the remainder of the day. There would be no baseball practice today.

“Can he come over again soon?”

“Huh?”

“Coach Harrington. Can he come over again soon?”

His gentle tone shocks you into brief silence. “Would you…want him to?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool. He threw the ball around with me,” Davie starts, breaking off into a sniffle, “like dad used to.”

Your fingers tighten around the steering wheel and you fight back the urge to cry at his confession. The heels of your palms press to your eyes as you shift your car into park, tamping down the emotions welling inside. “I’ll ask him if he wants to come over again this weekend. How about that? I’ll make your favorite baked mac and cheese?” You’d do anything for him.

Davie’s answering smile is all you need to see. It’s not long before he’s whipping his door open to the car and running up the stairs, ready to take the nap of all naps. In your own moment of peace, you find yourself curling up on the couch, and finally resting yourself.

By the time you wake again, Davie is in front of the tv, watching one of his shows with a bowl of chips in his lap. Stretching, you make your way into the kitchen, announcing you’re going to start cooking a pizza for dinner. McDonald’s for brunch, chips for a snack, and a pizza dinner. You can hear the protests from other adults now if they ever found out, but push them free from your mind. With your little brother distracted, you start to preheat the oven, snatching the phone from the wall as you throw together pizza ingredients.

It rings once, twice, and then you hear the familiar voice of Steve pouring down the line. “Hi, Steve,” you practically yelp, swallowing the nerves that bubble up. “It’s—”

“I know who this is,” he chuckles, and it’s a sound so rich, so warm your stomach dips a little, “how are you?”

“I’m…I’m good.” You swallow again, tugging open the oven and sliding inside the pizza, “I was actually calling you to ask you something.”

“I’m listening.”

“You can say no.”

“Out with it,” he urges, chuckling again.

“Davie had a doctors appointment today and he won’t be at practice today. Got a shot, so he’s just lounging for the day.”

“That’s fine, but also not a question.”

“He was also saying he had a lot of fun the other day, and I was wondering if you’d want to come over this weekend? If you want, no pressure, I’ll even make dinner and—”

“What time?” he asks, jumping over your words.

“I don’t know…maybe four?”

“I’m there.”

“Seriously?” you question, leaning your back against the countertop, chewing at your bottom lip.

“Don’t sound so shocked. Four sounds good. I’ll bring wine and dessert,” he says, bright and light hearted as ever, “tell Davie I hope he feels better soon. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Sure. Bye, Steve.”

“Bye,” he echoes.

-

Red dress. Black with dainty flowers. Pink with polka dots. That strappy one you haven’t worn in years. Maybe the denim skirt with that new blouse you got off a clearance rack? Or maybe you just throw everything in your closet on the floor and start all over with a new wardrobe. You don’t, but it’s a brief thought in frustration.

“What are you doing?” Davie asks, appearing in the doorway as you hold up yet another outfit on a hanger against your body. He pauses a moment, taking in the clothes littered about the bedroom. “Are you being a girl?”

“Being…a girl?” You blanch, not understanding his meaning.

“Some of the girls at school dress all weird to impress their crushes.” Davie looks at the outfit currently in your hand, dangling from a hanger. Suddenly a look of not so innocent glee crosses his young features. “Are you trying to impress Coach Harrington?”

“Absolutely not!” you nearly squeak out, swatting at the empty air, because how silly of a thing, and not at all true (psh, what does he know anyway?). “For that, you’re grounded.”

“I’m grounded because you have a crush on Coach Harrington?”

“I do not! And you’re grounded for two days now.”

“You’re so weird.” He sticks his tongue out. Little brat.

You narrow your eyes. “I just…want to look nice. We’re having company. We don’t have much of it these days.” Because you’re always working, always taking care of things you were never meant to. But life changes in the blink of an eye, as you’ve learned, and things have a way of turning out completely different than you could ever anticipate.

“Sure,” Davie says with a snort, head perking up as a knock on the front door echoes up the stairs. “I’ll get that.”

“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”

“I’ll tell him you were staring at yourself in the mirror for an hour. Sissy and Steve sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

“Do it and you’ll see how long I ground you for,” you laugh, reaching out to tickle Davie’s sides, trailing your fingers in a way that always gets him screeching.

“Stop, stop! Uncle!” He cries out, wiggling his way out of your grasp to thump down the stairs in search of his newest friend.

You can hear both their voices downstairs as you quickly tug on a pair of jeans and a striped shirt, turning this way and that in front of the mirror before deciding it is what it is. Steve’s downstairs in a gray tee stretched across his broad chest, a tray of cookies in one hand and a bottle of wine dangling in the other. A ball cap is turned backwards on his head, little tufts of his hair poking out the front and sides, a smile so wide across his lips you’d think he could light up a room.

Your heart does that stupid thing where it dances a little in your chest, which is stamped down quickly as Steve thankfully announces, “Cookies are for the kid, wine is for us.”

“Can I have wine?” Davie asks, hopping up onto an island stool.

“Absolutely not, you dingus,” Steve teases, slipping his baseball hat onto the smaller boy’s head.

The boys slip outside shortly after Steve gets himself situated, and you find yourself sitting outside on a plastic chair, ignoring the way your lungs tighten because the spring tends to make your asthma flare up as it is. You don’t want to miss a moment, not as the two of them throw the ball back and forth for what feels like hours as the sun sets, eventually end up just chasing one another around the yard, Davie hellbent on getting his coach wet with the hose he whips out from the side of the house. Steve’s fast, agile and quick on his feet, twisting this way and ducking, so in tune with his body. Davie screeches with giggling laughter as Steve flips him up and onto his shoulder, dangling the kid upside down.

“His sides are ticklish!” you cup your hands around your mouth to call out.

“Traitor!” Davie wails, but he’s laughing so hard you know he doesn’t mind. Not really.

Tears prick your eyes at the lightness to Davie’s features. The way he smiles easily and breathes that way too. How he practically beams with it, the grief you know he’s dealing with still clinging to his mind. Because you know it mimics your own, you simply hide it better. For a few moments like this, your brother is just a boy again, living out his childhood like you know he’s should be—memories of a double funeral something he should have never experienced in his short lifetime.

The two of them settle down on the grass, chatting amongst themselves, too quietly for your ears to hear. Without bothering them, you slip inside and start working on the dinner you promised them both, peering out the kitchen window every so often to watch them together. And you smile.

-

“You’re good with him, you know,” you tell Steve later that night as you sit on the porch swing with a glass of wine in your hand, mirroring the one in his.

The boy in question fell asleep watching one of his shows on tv, tired out by his baseball coach who sits by your side.

“I told you, I’m good with kids,” he reminds you, sipping his drink, “used to, uh, babysit for a bunch of them actually.”

“You? Really?” Your brows arch at his admission, because that’s the furthest from what you could ever imagine Steve Harrington doing in his spare time.

“I mean, yeah. I had a few odd jobs throughout high school and…after high school, but the longest was probably my…I guess babysitting gig.”

“You guess?”

“It’s complicated.” He winces, but you don’t probe him further. You’re about to start a new conversation when you start coughing, earning a look from the man beside you. “Are you okay? You’ve been coughing since we came back inside.”

“I’m good,” you assure him, clearing your throat, “it’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing. Sounds like a doctor should check you out.”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, because you have to be, because you only get money from the government for Davie, and it’s only enough to pay for the necessities.

Health insurance—well, that landed on an endless list of ‘I’ll get to it laters.’ You couldn’t afford a doctor’s bill right now, not really anyway. You’d use your inhaler later, it would clear things right up.

“I’m glad you invited me,” Steve says, changing the topic as if he knows how increasingly uncomfortable it makes you to think about your already dwindling finances. “I had fun tonight.”

“I’m, ah, glad you came too.”

“You,” he muses, “or Davie?”

“Davie…” You add with a whisper, “but me too.”

“Are we becoming friends? Because it kind of feels like we’re becoming friends.” Steve beams, wiggling your shoulder playfully.

“Don’t push it, Harrington.”

But your smile says it all.

-

Over the next few weeks, you fall into a sort of schedule.

You work during the day, drop off Davie at practice, and work your second shift at the hair salon on days you’re asked to come in. Steve often drives Davie home after practice and games to help you out on days where Davie plays baseball instead of stopping over the Wheeler’s with some of his friends for their game nights. It’s not a perfect routine by any means, but you’re able to work more and do a little more around the house, and you can’t thank Steve enough for the bit of weight he’s taken off your shoulders.

You also spend a lot of time with the man. He comes over more often than not for dinner (often with his ‘extra’ groceries he ‘accidentally bought at the store’ that you protest him giving you every time), and you find yourself spending many nights chatting with him until it’s time to head to bed for the night, or falling asleep against his shoulder while you watch movies together, your body seemingly finally allowing you to rest when in his vicinity. An unexpected friend, but a friend nevertheless. And you couldn’t be more grateful for it.

Another Monday morning greets you, your little brother still clinging to the last few minutes of sleep you’ll allow him before he has to ready for the day and head off to school. Your lungs are on fire, that persistent cough urging you to grab your emergency inhaler more frequently than you have as of late. And you’ve been rationing the medication as it is, the overdue heating bill at the forefront of your mind.

The room is a little wavy today, your body feeling heavier, movements slow like you’re wading through molasses. You push it aside, pouring a glass of water to try and quell the dryness in your throat, pressing the inside of your wrist to your forehead. Warm, too warm.

The room spins a little, a fearful thought of who would take care of Davie if something happened to you crossing your mind in the briefest moments of panic. Head shaking, you dislodge the thought, pouring yourself coffee instead to push through it.

Another newer bill sits on the countertop. Thicker than the others. A final notice stamped in red from the power company. Demanding money you just don’t have right now. In a few weeks maybe by some miracle, but not today.

“Davie?” you call out into the home for the second time that morning, his lanky form barreling into the room a split second later.

He squints at you as he enters, looking at you in that way that only he does, knowing you better than you know yourself. “Are you okay? You don’t look too good.”

“Oh thank you, a woman loves to hear that in the morning,” you chuckle half heartedly, breaking off into a hacking cough that has his eyes widening a bit.

“You sound weird too,” he says, tugging on the fridge door and grabbing some milk to pour into the dry cereal you’ve already put in a bowl for him. The little bits of food float to the top of the milk, like little floaties, and he opens to the comic pages you left for him in the newspaper. “I can stay home today if you’re sick. You might need help or something.”

“You’re going to school,” you tell him, urging him to eat faster as the bus will be by in a few minutes.

“Fine,” he groans, resuming his reading. “You should go to the doctor though.”

“With what money?” you ask, not meaning to snap the words at him, wincing at how harsh they come out. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know how. You know that. And he frowns in that quiet, worried way that makes you feel even more older than him than you already are.

“Will you please think about going to the doctor?” he asks, a little pitifully, “you always take me to the doctor.”

Yeah, because he has insurance. “I’ll think about it if I start to feel worse. Okay, buddy? Now go on and get, I hear the bus coming down the street.”

“Love you!” he shouts, hoisting on his backpack and running for the front door.

“Love you, too!” You jolt as the door slams behind him, a typical boy, and make your way across the room, pulling open the kitchen cabinet to try and find your inhaler.

You shake it, grimacing at the sound that greets you, and the number of doses you’d written down nearing empty. You’d wait it out a little, it would be okay, you think to yourself, knowing you wouldn’t be able to make it to the pharmacy at least until pay day. And even then you’d be stretching it thin with money.

Still, you are most definitely too sick to work, your body practically screaming at you to sit down and take a moment to rest. You dial the familiar number of the hair salon, dreading the sound of the owner on the other end. She sounds unamused as she answers, and even more so when you begin to speak.

“Hey, ah, Mrs. Gibbons, I’m not going to be able to make it today. I’m not feeling well.” You break off into another rasping cough that has your chest aching, breath coming in a little shallower.

There’s a pause and an annoyed sigh. “This is the last time, kid. I can’t keep you on the schedule if you keep calling out like this. I know it’s hard, being a single mom and all of that, but this is a business. You understand me?”

“I know,” you say quietly, tears burning in your eyes out of frustration, remorse filling your every word, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Feel better,” Mrs. Gibbons says, even though you doubt she really means it much, just as the line clicks and you’re left in the quiet of your home, chest and head aching and pounding as you make your way over to the couch on wobbly legs.

You’ll lay down. Just for a little, you think to yourself. And then you’ll figure out what to do next. Maybe you can sell more of mom’s old jewelry, or maybe some of your vinyls. Something, anything, for a little more cash.

Just for a little, you think to yourself as you curl up beneath a heavy blanket and hug yourself tight within it. A little too heavy for May weather. But you’re shivering, teeth chattering, needing to find warmth as quickly as possible.

“Just for a little,” you whisper into the nothingness as your eyes flutter shut, and the world slips away into darkness.

“Alright, listen up!”

The voice carried across the field; bright, firm, easy in a way that immediately commanded attention. You glanced up without thinking, one hand frozen halfway into your tote bag and eyes wide behind the dark lenses of your sunglasses.

He stood near the dugout, hands braced on his hips, a baseball cap pulled low over thick brown hair. He looked… young. Obviously young. Too young to be anything but background noise in your life, you told yourself.

But then he smiled.

It wasn’t polished or practiced; it was wide, unguarded, a little crooked, like he still hadn’t learned to be self-conscious about it (and he should never be, in your opinion). The boys clustered around him responded instantly, energy sharpening, shoulders straightening. Your son included, joy on his face that you hadn’t seen in so long.

You felt something unfamiliar twist low in your chest.

Annoyance, you told yourself. You were annoyed at how easily he commanded the space, the attention of others. At how naturally he slipped into authority. At how your son—who barely looked up from his books and games at home—was suddenly hanging on every word this kid said.

Coach Harrington, you’d overheard someone call him. Steve Harrington.

You would learn his name whether you wanted to or not.

Steve noticed you before you noticed him noticing you. He tried not to, he really did. He’d promised himself (promised) that he’d keep this job clean. Coaching middle school baseball was supposed to be a step forward. Responsibility and stability. Something that looked good on paper and felt even better when the kids actually listened to him.

Which meant: no distractions. And yet, every practice, there you were.

You didn’t hover; you didn’t shout advice from the sidelines, you didn’t try to relive some lost athletic dream through your kid. You just sat, legs crossed, sunglasses on, watching quietly. Sometimes you read and sometimes you talked to the other parents. Sometimes you just… watched. With focus, over the lenses of your sunglasses, like a sin waiting to be done. 

Steve hated that he couldn’t tell the difference.

He hated that he’d started timing drills by whether you were still there when they ended. Hated that he’d caught himself standing a little straighter when he knew you were looking his way—even if he told himself you weren’t. But weren’t you? Just a peep, a thought, a fantasy of having your hands on him. He hated that himself, thought about it, more than once.

You were older than him, not by a little but by a lot.

He knew that the first time he’d noticed the faint lines around your eyes when you smiled, the confidence in the way you moved through the world like you’d earned every inch of space you occupied or the way you so gently spoke to your kid whenever he ran back to you with a smile on his face.

You weren’t trying to be anything to him, that was the problem.

“Hey, Coach!” Your son’s voice cut through the late afternoon air as practice wrapped up. You stood, folding your chair with a practiced flick of your wrist, too busy to give an ounce of attention toward the coach’s way, for once. Steve turned, wiping sweat from the back of his neck with his towel. “Yeah?”

“My mom says we gotta go—can I grab my glove tomorrow?”

Steve’s eyes flicked to you instinctively. You were already watching him as if the words coming through your son’s mouth had woken you up.

Up close, he looked even younger; freckles dusted his nose, his lashes were unfairly long and he had that sun-warmed, grass-stained smell of someone who spent his afternoons outside instead of in an office. A cap on his head, backwards, making him look kind like a jock.

“Uh—yeah,” he said quickly, refocusing on your son. “Locker’s open, just don’t forget it again, alright?” Your son grinned, muttered a quick thanks, and jogged off ahead of you to get to your car.

Which left you and Steve standing there, alone.

“Well,” you said, pushing your sunglasses up onto your head. Your eyes were sharp, curious and kind. “Thanks for staying late with him. He’s been… really excited about baseball lately. More than when he plays games with his friends.”

Steve swallowed. “He’s good,” he said. “Real good arm. Just needs to trust himself a little more.” You smiled at that, something soft crossing your face. “Story of his life.” Silence stretched, not awkward, but charged. Like both of you were standing at the edge of something you weren’t supposed to acknowledge.

“I’m Steve,” he said finally, as if you hadn’t already known (you did).

You laughed quietly. “I know. I’m Mrs. Evans. But you can call me...” You told him your name, extending your hand and when his fingers wrapped around yours, it felt like a mistake.

Not because it was wrong, because it was easy. It was comfortable, warm and like it was destiny. 

The weeks that followed were dangerous in their normalcy.

Brief conversations turned into longer ones, a comment about your son’s progress became a discussion about his stubborn streak, which became an offhand mention of your divorce, which became inevitably Steve telling you a little too much about his own life. His high school girlfriends, his last jobs, the way his parents never seemed to be around.

He talked when he was nervous, you noticed that.

He also told you about coaching, about trying to be better than he’d been, about how strange it felt to be someone kids looked up to. You listened, really listened, the way people rarely did. And Steve found himself wanting—desperately—to deserve that attention.

He never touched you beyond polite, fleeting contact; a brush of fingers when handing you a water bottle, a brief hand at your elbow when you laughed too hard and lost your balance on the uneven grass. He tried to tell himself that you were above that, above him, above wanting the same things he did. That you would never think of him the way he thought of you.

But every almost-touch lingered.

You were careful too, you didn’t flirt and you didn’t cross lines. But sometimes your gaze stayed on him a beat too long, sometimes your voice softened when you said his name. Sometimes you wondered how it would feel to have him all to yourself; if it was truly something you were allowed to think about.

Sometimes, when you watched him coach, you wondered what it would feel like to let someone else take care of you for once—in the way your husband had failed before.

The breaking point came on a rainy Thursday. Practice had been cancelled halfway through, parents scrambling to gather kids and equipment before the storm worsened. Your son ran ahead, waving at you as he entered his dad’s car; soaked from the rain but laughing at something stupid your ex-husband might have said. 

Steve was soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, shirt clinging to him. “Hey,” you called over the rain. “You need a ride?” The offer was impulsive, you knew that the second it left your mouth. You were just supposed to drive back home, have a glass of wine and nap on the couch. Not… that.

Steve hesitated, every instinct screamed at him to say no. But the rain came down harder, and you were standing there, keys already in hand, looking at him like you were daring him to trust you.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “If that’s okay.” He replied, also soaked through his clothes.

The drive was silent at first, rain drumming against the windshield, the car warm and faintly scented with your perfume. Steve sat stiffly in the passenger seat, acutely aware of every movement you made, of every breath you take.

“You okay?” you asked gently. He let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect my day to go like this.”

You glanced at him. “Neither did I.” When you pulled up outside his apartment after being given the directions, neither of you moved to get out. The air between you felt heavy, thick with things unsaid. Anticipation, shame, desire. Something neither of you could push away or deny.

“Steve,” you said softly. He turned to you, eyes dark, searching your face for permission you hadn’t explicitly given.

“This is complicated,” you continued. “And if we do this—whatever this is—we do it carefully.”

He nodded immediately. “I know. I don’t want to mess anything up. Especially not with your kid.”

The sincerity in his voice undid you; you didn’t need a full conversation to understand what the other was saying, what the other wanted. You reached out, fingers brushing his jaw, feeling the faint stubble growing there. He leaned into your touch without thinking, eyes fluttering shut.

The kiss was slow and measured. A question, not a demand. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “Come inside,” he whispered to you.

You remembered the noise of the door closing behind you, the world narrowing to shared breath and restrained urgency. His mouth was already on yours the moment he pushed you back against the door of his bedroom, like a question, are you sure? And you pulled away, nodding, promising that everything was going to be alright.

His hands pressed and pulled at clothes the same way yours did, fingers against soaked fabric, the cold metal of a belt, the clickety-clack of your heels against the hard surface of his floor when you moved together toward the bed. Steve kissed you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he pulled away from your mouth; it wasn’t hungry or lustful, no. It was different from what you have known before.

His hands pushed you softly to sit down on his mattress as he lowered himself on his knees in front of you, his lips finally dropped to your legs; from your bare heel and up to your knees, and finished to your upper thigh. He looked up at you, eyes wide like it was his first time truly seeing beauty.

The room was dim, lit only by the glow of a lamp and the city lights bleeding through the rain-streaked window. Shadows softened everything, made the moment feel suspended, unreal.

“Can I make love to you, Mrs. Evans?” He asked and your breath hitched—making love. 

One of your hands cupped his jaw and he immediately nuzzled into it. “Yes, you can, Steve.” You kissed him again, deeper this time, letting the tension finally break. He responded eagerly, but never carelessly, following your lead as you guided him down beside you. The sheets were cool beneath your bare skin, his warmth a stark contrast as he hovered close, close enough to feel without rushing to take.

You didn’t pull away when you felt his hand slip between your thighs, or the way his fingers brushed your folds with a gentleness that made you shiver. You only pushed your legs more open for him, whining against his mouth when his thumb found the way to your clit. He was patient, slow and tender in a way that made you want more.

“Is this okay?,” he finally asked, mouth inches away from yours so he could speak to you.

He ended up resting his forehead against yours while his fingers explored you; circling your bud of nerves, digits parting your folds, middle finger teasing your entrance. You gasped, hands cupping his jaw again like you couldn’t bear not having him closer.

“It’s okay, Steve, it’s even more than okay. I’m not made of sugar, you don’t have to worry.” He hummed, nose nuzzling against yours while pushing a finger inside you, making your hips shift to give him more space.

He didn’t reply, he didn’t need to as he started to press pecks onto your face; like a reminder that you were more than just sex. Than just a body or a desire.

You decided to not be the only one to feel the pleasure; especially when Steve pushed a second finger inside your wet heat and curled them in a precision that made you shiver. You moved one hand from his jaw, brushing onto his chest and scratching the hair there—down to his lower stomach with the tip of your fingers. His skin shivered and he sighed.

His length was already hard, resting up and proud, the pretty tip a pinkish color. Your fingers wrapped around it, immediately realizing how above average he was. Steve moaned quietly against your face when you brushed your thumb onto his head. You couldn’t help but make a comment about his size.

“I didn’t expect you to be this big.” It wasn’t a mockery, a tease but just an affirmation. But then again, what have you expected, anyway?

Steve chuckled, licking his lips before his fingers curled against your walls, making you whine and shiver. “You’re going to make me blush if you say things like that. It’s not fair.” He said, rubbing the tip of his digits against your walls, trying to find that spot that would make you see stars. At that moment, you decided to move your hand up and down his length; jerking him off very slowly.

“I don’t mind you blushing, I think that would be a lovely view, darling.”

He did blush—perhaps from the pleasure he felt with your hand around his hardness or perhaps from the little pet name you had given him. You didn’t ask and Steve didn’t add after that. All he did was push his fingers deeper inside you, his pace now slightly faster as if your pleasure mattered more than anything else to him. The curl of his digits finally brushed against your g-spot and you shivered.

Your hips jerked toward his hand, searching for that sensation once more and he understood. No teasing, no mocking; he just started to rub onto the spot feverishly, his forehead now resting against your shoulder when your hand around his length disappeared.

There was too much—pleasure, warmth, comfort. You couldn’t have a single thought inside your brain when Steve touched you that way.

You moaned; his name, primarily, then whines escaped past your lips.

His long fingers were scissoring you, stretching your walls for what would happen next, making sure you were loose and ready. Steve could feel how close you were being when your heat clenched around his digits, sucking him in within. He sighed, his length twitching against his lower stomach, begging to be given attention. He ignored it, pulling his head from your shoulder just to look at your face.

“Do you wanna come, Mrs. Evan?” He asked you, as if he was begging for you to say yes; to feel your juices onto his fingers, to see your expression; the pleasure on your face, the furrow of your eyebrows, the way your lips would part. But you didn’t give him that satisfaction as you shook your head.

“I really want you inside, Steve. I really want you to make love to me.”

That did it for him, and he slowly pulled his fingers out of your warmth, a single last brush against your g-spot as he did so. You felt empty straight away, your walls clenched around nothingness before hands grabbed your hips in a gentle manner; pulling you upward onto the mattress. Your head hit the pillow and your eyes followed as Steve hauled a condom from his bedside table. 

He looked at you as if he still couldn’t believe the fact that you were here in his bed, all naked and beautiful. Like he couldn’t believe that someone like you had seen through someone like him. 

You smiled at him like you heard the thoughts running through his head. “Come here, darling,” you called and he executed himself, moving to sit between your open thighs.

His eyes, through devouring the beauty that you were, also seemed to soften when he saw the telling of experience you carried. The stretch marks onto your body, the telltale of you bearing a child into life, the wrinkles at the corner of your eyes. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just admiring you.

“Are you alright, Steve? Do you wanna stop? Because that’s alright if you do, we don’t have—” You started but was stopped when he spoke. “No, no… I was just looking at you. Truly looking at you. You’re beautiful, do you know that?” He said and you felt the warmth in your stomach; a slightest of guilt and shame about how you noticed him. More than just your son’s baseball coach.

He must have read the answer on your face, because he just ripped the condom open and slowly protected his length with it. You watched with focused eyes, feeling yourself clench when Steve grabbed himself in his hand, and teased your clit with his tip.

Your muscles twitched when he pressed to your entrance, finally, a slight burning sensation followed his pushing in.

His eyes lifted to your face to see how you were managing when the bulbous tip of his cock pushed deeper; parting your walls to fit him, stretching your heat. Your arms wrapped around his neck to bring his upper body closer to yours; needing his warmth and presence through the burning sensation between your legs.

“Are you alright? I’m hurting you?” He finished by asking when your eyebrows furrowed. It was just a moment to pass, you told yourself and so, you shook your head. “I’m good, just give me a moment? It’s been time since I—” You didn’t conclude but he must have understood, his becoming face surprised. 

There was no judgement from him, just a softness appearing in his eyes before one his hands moved to brush hair away from your forehead. Your legs moved to wrap around his waist, fingers running through his hair gently when he gave a tentative roll of his hips against yours; your back arched slightly from the mattress and you whined.

It was enough for Steve to get the fact that you were ready and he pushed himself deeper inside you, enough to be good but not enough to hurt. 

He didn’t say anything as he rolled his hips once more, hands on each side of your face to hold himself up. His cock was stretching and rubbing onto every ridge of your walls, tip hitting your g-spot each time he pulled in and out; overstimulating you from the start. You couldn’t help yourself even if you wanted to; the moans and whines echoed inside his bedroom, filling it with a cacophony of pleasure noises. 

Steve, too, moaned. Into your ears, against the skin of your neck when he kissed it, nose nuzzling your cheek. He moaned your name, not just Mrs. Evan.

His eyes, though closed most of the time, peeked at you through his eyelashes just to see what pretty expressions you had on. His length buried itself inside your warmth before pulling out until just his tip was still in; his pace unhurried but deep.

“You feel so good, so warm and so… God.” He spoke quietly, and it felt like praise instead of dirty-talk. He didn’t give you time to reply, to tell him that he was the one making you feel good, because his lips pressed against yours for another kiss. You replied; slowly and softly, nose hitting his own, saliva mixing with his.

He felt like another dimension altogether; like Heaven with a taste of sin.

One of his hands brushed against the fabric of the pillow, fingertips mapping your skin, the way your stretch marks decorated your body before it ended up between your thighs. His thumb circled around your clit, slipping with the wetness there, teasing all the nerves it had. You moaned against his mouth, tugging on his hair to make him understand how good you felt at that moment. 

He took his time but his hips never stopped slotting against yours like they were made to be; his cock molding your walls to fit him, tip hitting your g-spot even more when he changed the angle. You cried out, breaking the kiss just to take a deep breath—it felt too much and not enough at the same time. Your walls clenched around him, squeezing and hugging his cock with your heat, and Steve gasped, his free hand coming to grab your hip.

Only then, his pace fastened; he hit deeper, quicker, his balls slapping against your ass which the noises echoed in the room. His thumb rubbed tight circles onto your clit. “Steve, God… I’m so close, please…” You begged, back arching and head rolling onto the pillow; feeling the knot in your stomach just pleading to be undone.

Your legs shook from each side of his hips, squirming, while your hands tried to get a grip onto Steve’s biceps.

“I know, I can feel it, you’re squeezing me so tight now; fuck.” He cursed lowly, eyes looking down at how his cock was stretching your cunt and he groaned at the feeling around his length. How warm, how tight, how inviting you were being. 

You came first; violently, crying out and shaking. Your head rolled onto the pillow, lips parting wide and stars in your eyes. Your muscles twitched and contracted, a long moan escaping your mouth as Steve just kept rubbing onto your clit to bring the pleasure longer.

But his hand moved away when it was his time to come; hips jerking, muscles contracting too which almost made him fall down onto you. He gasped loudly, eyes rolling to the ceiling.

Labored breathing was the only sound inside the bedroom for a while, you both were too busy relaxing to talk. “God…” Steve ended up saying, slowly pulling out from your warmth.

He was sweaty, brown strands sticking to his forehead and lips dry. You pulled yourself up against the headboard and smiled at him. “Yes, that was really something else, darling,” he smiled back after those words, standing up from the bed just to tie the condom and throw it in his bin. You watched with careful eyes; telling yourself that this was exactly how things must be done. 

He exited the room for a second, naked with a worm but not seeming to care much. A glass of water and some biscuits were in his hands when he came back, still smiling like it was probably his best day on earth. 

“Here, I thought you’d need that. And uh… I know your son is at his dad’s this weekend so maybe… you want to stay the night?” He asked, sitting down next to you, grabbing the blankets to cover both of your bodies; but making sure you were more covered than him so you wouldn’t get cold.

You drank from the glass, moved the biscuits onto the bedside table before looking at Steve’s face. “I think… I should be able to stay, yes.”

Later, lying beside him, rain still tapping softly against the windows, you traced idle patterns along his arm.

“Tomorrow will be better, darling, I’m sure,” you murmured. He turned, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Maybe it also makes it all worth it.” You smiled, eyes closing, telling yourself that you deserved all of this. Outside, the storm passed, leaving puddles on the ground that kids will be able to play with.

The Phoenix girls were out for drinks.

Well, not exactly out. The five of you lounged in your shared apartment with Courtney, or everyone knew as Inivisigal, wearing your most comfortable pajamas while snacking on junk food and bottles of cold cider.

The plan had been set from last week from a clean streak of dispatch work. Your Dispatcher, Robert Robertson, finally managed to get a hang of his gig and was able to efficiently guide your calls without any struggles. Although there were still mishaps here and there, a little brawl between the guys over their lack of synergy and one too many close calls, Z-team still came out unscathed and successful.

Now, the boys were out on their own thing. Most likely bar hopping in all villain spots on all sides of Torrance. You have no doubt in mind they dragged Robert into their shenanigans, and if they can manage to get him wasted by the end of the night, you owe them a lot of money.

Meanwhile, the girls were here in your apartment.

It's funny to think that all of you, former villains, gathered here today for a casual sleepover. The last sleepover you had was like—What? Ten years ago when you were in middle school.

It didn't take long for you to convince Visi to have them come here and spend the night. You figured, why not? It could be fun to be the host of this sleepover. Plus, the girls all brought their own food and drinks to share.

Malevola brought the cold ciders, opening a portal while carrying two trays. Her pajamas consisted of her usual tank top, and loose flannel pajama pants—comfy, yet efficient.

Prism brought all sorts of snacks, ranging from cheese crackers, twinkies, and spicy chips. You didn't ask where she got those, but you knew damn well a vending machine from the office would be mysteriously empty the next time you clock in.

And Coupé brought board games. Three to be exact, much to everyone's surprise. Not only was she a book enthusiast, you discovered she was fond of collecting board games as well.

After three hours of chaos, cheating, competitiveness, all three games were played and now you five were on the exciting part of the sleepover.

Gossip. Tea. Juice. Beef.

You name it.

SDN never ran out of it.

If your program was a mess, you were surprised to find out the others were just as crazy as your group. If not, way more hectic. Those guys were just better at hiding their drama than all of you.

The talk continued for another hour, until the topic gradually shifted into something else.

“Alright!” Prism raised her bottle to the air, sitting on the floor in her black tank and pink shorts. “It’s time for the juiciest part. Ladies, villainesses, hot bad bitches in the house! It's time for the mandatory game of fuck, marry, kill. Phoenix Program edition!”

Malevola sat up instantly. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Coupé hummed, her silky black pajama set gleaming against the lamplight. “Very well, I'd say kill for almost all of you. But I'm kinda tipsy, so we'll see if I changed my mind.”

You chuckled, elbowing Vis beside you on the couch. “You're so gonna get exposed, Vis.”

The dark-haired woman narrowed her eyes at you. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Taking a sip of your cider, you tossed her a knowing wink. “Sure you don't.”

Coupé looked at you. “Night, be a dear and pass me those cookies.”

Smiling, you tossed her the pack of cookies laying beside you. “Catch.”

Your villain name, Midnight, was a lazy attempt to sound cool and edgy because of your powers. Being able to blend in and disappear into shadows gives you an advantage of infiltrating the most secured hideouts, banks, and buildings. In the shadows, you were undetected. Not only that, controlling someone else's shadow was the fun part of it—sort of manipulating them like a puppeteer forcing their puppet to dance.

Or in your case, do unspeakable things.

Prism stood up, resting a hand on her hip.

“Rules are simple. Wanna fuck ‘em? Jerk the bottle. Marry? Raise those bitches! Kill ‘em off? Take a sip. Clear, ladies?”

“Crystal,” You smiled at her. “Who's up first?”

“First contender!” Prism snapped her finger, grinning widely. “He's hot. He's fiery. All flames and skin-tight V-neck glory. Flambae!”

Immediately, you took a small swig from your bottle. “Hard pass. Bastard still owes me ten bucks to this day. And he burned my sandwich.”

Beside you, Vis copied your action. “I bet he doesn't even know where or what a clit is, but insists he does. Anyone else have a feeling he's gay?”

On the floor, Malevola shrugged and shamelessly jerked the bottle. “Eh, what if he is? But you'd have to give me at least ten shots before I tap that ass.”

Coupé stayed silent for a while, then took a slow sip of her cider. “Too intense. I'm worried he'd accidentally burn me during sex.”

Unsurprisingly, Prism jerked her bottle. Then, with a wave of her hand, she simpered.

“Ain't that the fun part, girl? Who doesn't want a little heat in the climax? I know I do!”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at your roommate. “You ever experienced that before? Go ghost when you're about to come?”

She blinked at you, her eyes widening in realization, before punching your arm.

“Fucking shut up, Night.”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

“You're a fucking bitch.”

“You love me.”

Prism opened her arm to the side in a dramatic flourish. “Second contender! Half genius, half pervert. All batty freak. Sonar!”

Malevola snorted, jerking her bottle again. “Been there, done that.”

Coupé, to your surprise, did the same motion hesitantly. “His disposition makes me curious.”

Prism shook her head, sipping her cider. “I'mma have to pass that. No judgement to you though, ladies!”

You laughed, already done with your sip. “Same here. But really, do you think he squeaks when he's close?”

Another snort escaped from Malevola, her golden scleras glinting. “He definitely does.”

Laughing, you slapped the couch repeatedly. “I fucking knew it!”

Your roommate groaned, another swig was down her throat. “Hey, I'm a freak. But not that much. Kinda scares me he'll turn batshit crazy in the middle of fucking. Hah, get it?”

“But that makes it all more exciting,” The demon countered, shivering in delight. “Plus, it was just a one time thing. He helped me realize I liked women more after that.”

The rest of the round went by in a blur.

Punch Up: Coupé jerked her bottle, the rest of you took a sip. He was sort of like an uncle of the group, and you cannot see him in any other way.

Golem: All bottles raised. The guy was a sweetheart, very marriage material.

Robert: All of you took a sip, but you did give Vis a side glance when she silently (and slowly) took a suspicious sip of her cider—to which she glared at you to keep quiet.

Prism even included all of you, and you were surprised when they all jerked their bottle once your name was mentioned. The scene made you double over in laughter, while Vis pretended to take a sip before raising it into the air.

“Aw, you'd marry me?” You batted your lashes at her.

She gave you an unimpressed look, though there was a ghost of a smile on her lips. “You cook better than me. You'd be the perfect trophy wife.”

“Okay, fuck you.”

All of you laughed, before Prism took the floor again.

“For the final contender,” Her voice lowered, holding her bottle as if it were a mic. “He's new. He's nervous. But most importantly, he's wet. Our very own walking bidet. Waterboy!”

Oh, fuck.

Silence filled the room.

Not even a snort from Malevola, or a hum from Coupé. Meanwhile, you raised an eyebrow at all of them when they proceeded to drink in unison.

Your jaw dropped, bewildered. “Aw, what? He's cute, though. None of you are interested?”

Both Malevola and Coupé shrugged, while Vis and Prism grimaced.

“Well, he's cute.” The latter coughed, sounding completely otherwise. “Except for the fact he pukes the same water he cleans our office with. Yeah, hard pass.”

Pouting, you leaned back on the couch. “I think that's charming. Seriously? You don't think he's adorable?”

Coupé shot you a look of suspicion and curiosity. “Do you have opposing beliefs, then?”

Vis snickered, rolling her eyes. “Oh, you don't know? Night wants to fuck him.”

Gasps resounded from the three women, who all snapped their heads to look at you in question.

Well, there goes my secret. So much for not revealing anything, Vis.

Sighing, you held up your hands. “Guilty as charged. You know what they say about the tall, skinny ones? Yeah, I'm willing to bet he's one of those who's secretly has a–”

“Okay, pause.” Prism shook her hands around, before she pointed at you with her bottle. “You?”

“Me.”

“Would fuck him?”

“Yes.”

“Waterboy? The former janitor? The guy who squirts water from his mouth? That guy?”

“Yes,” You groaned, half in frustration and half in amusement. “I would. No hesitation. No shots. Just me, him, in my bed. Or his. Okay, maybe not his. He lives with his grandma. Not planning to traumatize the old woman.”

Then, the three of them turned to your roommate for more answers.

Vis sighed, very much exasperated being a victim of your hopeless crush. “Hey, I have no fucking clue too. As far as I know, Night likes someone she can order around and likes it back. I already kink shamed her on that.”

You clutched your chest, feigning hurt. “Hey, I didn't shame you when you had that dream with–”

She quickly slapped a hand on your mouth, muffling your voice as you tried to free yourself.

Malevola produced a low whistle, seeming impressed and disturbed at the same time. “Well, to each their own. Have you fucked him yet?”

Finally tearing yourself from her hold, you leaned your head back against the couch.

“Nope.”

“Are you planning to?”

“Yup.”

“When?”

“Dunno. Haven't found the right time yet.”

Prism huffed out a laugh, her dark teal shades catching the light as she appraised you.

“Oh, girl. You can do that whenever you want. You're one hot bitch! Seriously, I heard the others talkin’ ‘bout you and that ass. Saw them lookin’ too. Waterboy will fold if you come up to him with that thang shakin’.”

“But that's the problem,” You raised your hand, gesturing wildly in the air. “I can't talk to him. I mean, I can. Tried a bunch of times. But he just walks away! Doesn't even look at me. Doesn't wanna be in the same vicinity as I am. He talks to you, guys. But to me, it's like I'm holding a gun in my hand and he fucking dips. What gives, huh?”

No one answered you, causing your cheeks to heat in embarrassment from the lengthy ramble.

For a while, you just wanted to be swallowed up by the floor and disappear forever. You almost did. The shadows can reclaim you into the darkness, so you can slip away from their sight and vanish until the next morning.

When you lifted your head, you saw all of them wearing the same expression.

Amusement. Disbelief. And one obvious “What the fuck?” look from your roommate.

It was Prism who broke the tension, hiding a massive smile behind her manicured hands.

“Oh, honey.” Her tone dripped with faux concern and pity. “You're as blind as a mouse, it's honestly cute.”

Blinking, you stared at her in confusion. “What the fuck do you mean?”

Coupé sighed softly. “Do you wonder why he acts so differently around you?”

“Yeah, like, all the time.”

“And you never wondered why he does?”

“I just told you.”

“You didn't wonder enough, it seemed.”

You were about to defend yourself, when Malevola cut in. “Respectfully, I agree with Coupé. The guy is definitely into you, Night. Why else would he actively try to avoid you?”

“Maybe he hates me?” You stated the obvious, rolling your eyes. “Maybe I've done something to give him the ick. Or maybe I'm not his type at all.”

“Bitch, you're everyone's type.” Prism rolled her eyes back at you. “And trust me, girl. You're not the only one who wanna hit! So make your fucking move. You only live once, so go fuck him while you have the chance!”

The rest of them said their agreement, even your roommate gave you a thumbs up as she finished her drink.

Somehow, that comforted you.

Until Malevola decided to ruin the peace.

“Make a tape while you're at it.”

You flipped her off, the heat in your cheeks returning.

At the side, Prism shrugged. “Ain’t gonna lie, I'd watch that.”

You flipped her off as well.

────────────── ★ ───────────────

A week has passed since that night, and you still haven't done anything to make a move.

Like his name itself, Waterboy was one slippery fucker who always left the room before you could even step foot inside. Whenever you had missions together, somehow Robert mysteriously started to pair you up more often, you did most of the talking while he nodded and followed your commands silently—all the while responding immediately to Robert as soon as he talked in his earpiece.

When you tried to strike small talk with him, he'd keep his answers short and curt. Stammering still, but never longer than five words. He avoided looking at you in the eye, stood at least five feet away, and flinched whenever you congratulated him with a simple pat on his arm.

Yeah, you were starting to think he really disliked your guts for some reason.

Well, whatever. Can't please anyone.

You sipped on your spiked punch, hanging at the far back of the office while everyone mingled and celebrated.

Blonde Blazer decided to throw a small celebratory party at your floor level after a month of continuous successful dispatch calls. Chase had his team joined in, as well as the other dispatchers and their respective program members. Beef was freely walking around the place, often getting cuddled by a few people. All the cubicles have been cleared to the side, making space for the table filled with snacks and drinks. Couches at every corner, laughter resounding in every group.

Robert hung around Blonde Blazer, of course he would, and you couldn't help but smile at your roommate’s barely concealed scowl. Even when she tried to hide it, Invisigal was more expressive than she realized. And right now, Blonde Blazer should be fucking buried six feet deep with how how lethal her glare looked.

“You know you can do that discreetly,” You voiced out, elbowing her. “Like don't stare directly at them. Do it every minute or so. They're definitely gonna notice.”

Vis finally tore her eyes from the pair, but the glare was now directed towards you. “Don't you have a wet hose to crack, Boogeyman?”

Snickering, you lightly punched her arm. “Oh, fuck off. I can't crack what I can't fucking touch. The guy's too slippery for me to even hold.”

She made a noise of disgust. “Maybe that's another power of his. Avoiding people who disappear into the shadows. Specifically just those kinds.”

“So, just me?”

“Who else?”

“That kinda breaks my heart, Vis.”

Your roommate flashed you a teasing grin, something glinted in her eyes. “I could get him for you if you want.”

As much as you wanted to accept the help, you really wanted to do this on your own. God knows how many times you tried to befriend the man. You can't even talk to him in the break room without him stammering intensely or sprinting away muttering some sort of excuse. At the start of the party, you greeted everyone on the floor including him. But of course, all you received was a crooked smile and hasty nod before he darted towards Robert.

Any attempts that followed always ended horribly. The Phoenix girls could see you trying and failing every time, even Blonde Blazer caught on. At the end of the hour, you decided to give up. You may be a former villain, but you won’t stoop that low chasing a man around for his attention.

You released a sigh, shaking your head at the offer. “Thanks, Vis. But at this point, I don't wanna fuck him anymore. Well, I still do. But I just wanna know why he doesn't want to do anything with me.”

She spared you a brief look of pity, until something caught her attention past you.

You heard her gasp, felt her finger poke your side, before she whispered low in your ear.

“Don't look but he's giving you these eyes.”

Refraining from looking over your shoulder, you focused on her. “Who? What eyes?”

The dark-haired woman whispered even lower. “Who else? Your future water bed. He has these fuck me eyes when I caught him staring at you. Gross.”

“Stop feeding my delusions,” You stepped back, fixing her an unamused look. “It's bad enough I wanna believe you, and maybe you've had too many of those drinks.”

Vis groaned, throwing her empty red cup to a bin next to her. “But seriously, he’s still giving you those fuck me eyes.”

A battle raged within you, desire clashing with logic.

Whether to turn and see for yourself or rationalize with yourself that he must be looking at someone else. Plus, you knew Vis and her jokes. It’s not the first time she baited you into something like this. At this point, you were too frustrated to fall for it. Weeks, almost a month since he joined, and your stupid little crush worsened every time she gave you an inkling of hope.

Part of you was desperate to look over, but you knew damn well you’re not about to chase the man again. Especially someone who’d run away the minute you show up. So, you chose to sip your drink and set your gaze forward.

“That’s it,” You huffed, glaring at Flambae in particular. He was in your line of sight, pretty convenient to do so. “I’m done chasing after him.”

Your roommate raised an eyebrow, amused and catching on. “You got a plan?”

Flashing her an impish smirk, you winked. “Let’s see how long it takes for him to do something if I ignore him this time.”

She slapped your butt as you made your way back to the center. “You got this!”

With the plan in mind, you regrouped with the party and focused on having fun rather than moping in a corner.

You hung around Prism and Malevola, who were recording themselves in the popstar’s phone while singing. You even participated in beer pong with the guys, playing against Sonar who flipped you off every time you made him drink a cup. Next up was Golem, who was surprisingly good and made you down more cups than you can count. Punch Up was in an arm wrestling contest with another hero, while Coupé watched from the side with her own drink in hand.

And to get her riled up, you casually flirted with Robert while smiling in Vis’ direction, which made her march right up and steal him away after you walked off laughing. You finally talked to Flambae, who handed you your two-week due ten bucks, and you stuck with him ever since.

The party has calmed, and the rest were invested in their own conversations.

Flambae was unexpectedly a pretty good conversationalist. At least, when he wasn’t brooding and being an asshole. You supposed the beer helped with it. Nevertheless, you found yourself enjoying your talk with him. You got to learn where he came from, why he became a villain, why he decided to join SDN.

In turn, you shared some parts of your own story.

In the middle of your conversation, Flambae nudged your arm.

“So, what’s up with you and waterbitch?” He asked, laying his arms behind the couch. “You two have a thing going on?”

Sputtering, you stared at him with wide eyes. “Fuck, you noticed?”

The Flame villain scoffed in amusement, shaking his head. “Anyone with a pair of good eyes would notice. You’ve been running after him since the start of the party. Wanna fuck him that badly, huh?”

“You automatically assume I wanna fuck him?” You tilted your head, he only gave you a deadpanned stare. “Okay, fine. Well, you’re not innocent yourself. I see the way you stare at Rob’s ass when he’s not looking.”

Flambae spat out his drink, coughing and putting his chest in shock. “Woah, woah, woah. Hey! I don’t do that shit. I don’t wanna fuck him. He’s fucking Mecha Man. He burnt my eyebrows. And my pride! I'm banned from Crypto Night because of him, that was my favorite place to drink! Honestly, why do people think that I–”

While he was busy defending himself, you didn’t miss his accent thickening and the prominent hue coating the tips of his ears. And you knew damn well it wasn’t because of the beer. The more words he spat out, the more his voice softened.

It got to the point he realized he was rambling, causing him to snap his mouth shut and glare at you.

“You think this is funny?’

“I wasn’t even laughing.”

“I could see you smiling.”

“Not laughing.”

He clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “Whatever. You’re fucking crazy.”

That brought a laugh out of you, punching his arm lightly. “Aw, come on. I think it’s cute! I mean, you’re certainly not the only one with a crush on him. Blazer’s been batting her lashes, Vis hovers around him. Some people in other programs are interested. You gonna make a move, fireboy?”

A grimace invaded his features, his gaze briefly flickering towards Robert’s direction.

“How about you?” He deflected the question, regarding you now with a quirk of his half-burnt eyebrow. “Not to feed your delusional ass, but the sprinkler’s been staring at you this whole time. Kinda freaks me out.”

Your heart stuttered, but you forced yourself to remain impassive.

Sighing, you waved him off dismissively.

“Don't even start. Vis already said that earlier, and I'm not in the mood to–”

Flambae leaned towards you, his upper body almost covering yours while he neared his face beside your ear. To anyone, it would seem he was kissing you. You could feel his scruff grazing your cheek, and you involuntarily shivered at the sensation.

“Why not make him jealous?” His rough voice made your breath hitch. “I can see the bastard from here. He's shaking in his fucking wetsuit.”

You maintained a steady voice, though it was too weak. “What else?”

The Flame hero hummed, low and gruff, you pressed your thighs together. Fuck, it's been a long time since you had anyone this close. You might need to jerk the bottle next time you have a sleepover with the girls.

“Fuck me,” You heard him chuckle, you almost considered to. “Never knew he could glare like that. If he can shoot lasers from those goggles, I'd be fucking dead.”

Then, he slowly removed himself from you.

The air in your lungs finally escaped, coming out in light pants as you stared at him in bewilderment.

All you could see was a smug smirk, mischief glinting in his amber irises, and a wink from Flambae.

“Good luck, bitch.”

You offered him a small smile, nodding your thanks, before you stood up from the couch and walked away.

You could feel eyes on you while you sauntered towards the comfort rooms.

When you finally looked over your shoulder, you met gazes with the very man who tried to avoid them. But this time, he stared right back. You didn't miss the way he gulped, the way he clutched his cup tighter to his chest, and how his eyes widened when he realized you caught him looking.

Smirking, you tossed him a wink, before melting into the shadows in a smoky wisp.

────────────── ★ ───────────────

You hummed softly to yourself, fixing your hair and adjusting your clothes as you assessed your appearance in the mirror.

It was already past nine, the party started two hours ago, but there were more people coming in from different programs. You decided this was the best time to take a breather from them, and hopefully, your plan would finally work.

You really hoped he took the bait.

After fixing everything, you smiled in satisfaction and made your way out the comfort room.

Just when you opened the door, a tall figure jumped back in shock on the other side. You knew those yellow and blue colors, and lanky limbs anywhere.

Looking up, you locked gazes again with the object of your attraction.

Waterboy blinked, as if surprised to see you coming out of the women's restroom. His cheeks reddened, clearing his throat repeatedly as he tried to regain his footing. A loud squelch squished under his feet, his wetsuit caught a few trails of water from the light behind you.

He coughed again, shifting his eyes aside.

“Ah, sorry about that! I didn't know it was the women's rest– restroom. I was about to knock on the door. Sorry, didn't see the– uh, sign there.”

Knock on the women's restroom?

You raised an eyebrow, smiling softly at his adorable stammers. “No worries, Waterboy. It’s kinda dark in this hall. Honestly, I’d make the same mistake.”

The Water hero nodded, still not looking at you.

His thumbs twiddled together, and you caught him whispering something under his breath. Something that sounded like your alias, a few unintelligible lines, before he finally released a long breath and straightened himself.

“I was wondering,” The goggled hero inhaled, peering down at you in concern. “If you were okay? You didn't talk to– I mean, you looked like you were having fun– lots of fun out there. But you suddenly left.”

Leaning against the doorway, you smirked at him. “Why? Missed me already?”

“Yes,” He responded quickly, before he realized what he said. “I mean no– No, the others miss you. They were looking for you– where you went. I was sent here to– to look. And yeah! Here you. . . are.”

“Here I am,” You pushed yourself off the doorway, taking slow steps towards him. “So, need me for something?”

He stumbled backwards, you only followed.

“Were they looking for me?”

His back met the wall, and you stopped when you were standing right in front of him.

“Or were you?”

A shaky exhale escaped him, instinctively searching for an exit from your presence.

But you were tired of him running away.

So, you blocked his path with an arm to the wall and leaned up to his face real close. The blush tinting his cheeks deepened. His breathing became more labored, coming out in nervous pants. You searched his expression for any sign of discomfort. It was evident, yes, but the way his pupils dilated didn't miss your attention.

“Tell me something,” Your voice lowered, lashes fluttering. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

He exhaled again, whimpering softly. “I wasn't trying to. I just thought that– that you were. . . intimidating.”

Seriously?

Scoffing, you glared at him. “Intimidating? I've tried to befriend you multiple times, Waterboy. What exactly in me do you find intimidating?”

For a moment, he didn't answer you.

Instead, his eyes dropped to your lips.

You saw him losing focus momentarily, lashes fluttering, posture slouching. He didn't realize that he was slowly inching down, until your noses almost brushed. Until his breath, tainted with the same juice punch you drank, tangled with yours. Until there was only a breadth of space between your lips—only then he paused at the realization.

But before he could pull away, jet black smoke emitted from your palm. When you clenched your hand, his whole body froze. His body tried to resist your power, struggling against your shadow hold.

Your glare sharpened, your power preventing him from physically moving. Oh, he thought he could get away that easily? Oh, fat chance. He won't escape this time.

Not when you finally had him in your grasp.

“Answer me,” Your voice dripped in both a sensual lilt and a dangerous threat. “Or I won't let you leave.”

You didn’t expect a small sound from him to answer, like a whine almost. But fuck, did it spark a wild thought in your mind. You wondered what else you could pull out of him. What kinds of other noises. It was one of the reasons that drew you to him—to find out if he'd be the type to beg and cry for more.

When you tightened your fist, he made another noise from the back of his throat.

“Well?”

“It's– It's because I. . .”

“Go on, baby.”

“S-Shit,” He exhaled, then gasped. “Sorry, I didn't mean to curse. I-I mean– I don't curse. Much. I don't curse much. It's just– That was unexpected.”

Your smirk resurfaced, gaze gleaming. “You like me calling you baby?”

His cheeks deepened in color. “Y-Yes.”

“You like me controlling you?”

“Yes.”

“You wanna get out of here?”

He nodded, as if under a hypnotic trance.

One word escaped him—a single syllable—whispered so softly you almost didn't hear it over the distant music playing from the end of the hall.

“Please.”

Your teasing smirk turned into a victorious grin, immediately releasing your hold over his shadow. When he stumbled forward, your palm caught his cheek—moist and smooth—and your lips grazed the shell of his ear.

“Good boy.”

And the whimper he produced brought a dark chuckle out of you.

────────────── ★ ───────────────

“Oh, fuck.”

You tossed your head back, one hand gripping the edge of the desk. The other threaded against damp brunette strands between your legs. A ravenous tongue devoured your slick cunt, needy moans vibrating your core, causing you to shudder in delight.

Waterboy was far from perfect, but the way his enthusiasm showed through his hunger made up for the lack of experience. And fuck, he ate you out like a starved man who never had the chance to eat anything in his life.

“Fuck,” You groaned, pushing your hips out core more, to which he greedily accepted. “Fuck, that's it. Good boy.”

He moaned, shameless and loud, eyes rolling to the back of his head from the praise.

How did your night escalate to this exactly?

Well, one moment you were leading him to an empty room—God knows whose office it was—and the next, you were pulling him inside and locking the door behind him. Before he could protest, your lips covered his in a searing kiss. Starved and frustrated. After a month of running around, you were done playing these games.

You needed to have him.

Now.

And so, you walked backwards.

He chased after your mouth, gloved hands weakly clutching your hips as you both stumbled in the dark.

When something bumped against your behind, you didn't hesitate to sit on the desk and pull him closer. He settled there, thin hips between your thighs, still kissing you with equal desperation and need. It was a little clumsy, you could tell he didn't have a lot of experience with this sort of stuff.

So, you took the lead and slipped your tongue past his lips.

The gasp he let out allowed you to mold your tongue against his, guiding him to a deeper kiss.

He sighed shakily, whimpering into your mouth as the rush from earlier turned languid. He copied your movements, tilting his head and opening his mouth a little wider. Like you expected, he was a verbal kisser. Moaned into the kiss, whined when you pulled away just a little, and sighed when you tug on his bottom lip. You knew he learned quickly, obeyed without complaints, and that knowledge would be used to your advantage and his pleasure.

You parted briefly, kissing his cheek. “Ever kissed anyone like this before?”

Waterboy shook his head, and that made your heart ache for him. “No. I've never– Never been lucky with anyone. Because, y'know, I'm not that– um, ideal for them.”

You cupped his cheeks, gently stroking his high cheekbones, before you turned his face to look at yours.

“No girlfriend?”

“None– No. No one.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Still no– none.”

The only source of light was the silver streak of moonlight coming from the window behind you, but it was enough for you to see the hesitance and insecurity displayed on his features. If no one wanted him like you do, that meant you could have him all to yourself. You could show him so many things he missed out on. Spoil him real good, and shower him with the endless amount of affection he deserved.

“Too bad for them,” Your voice lowered into a sly quip, lips brushing along his ear. He shivered, and you laughed. “I'll have you all to myself. I'll take real good care of you.”

Your fingers played with the zipper at his collar, lightly tugging it down until his neck was exposed.

Then, you trailed your kisses along his jaw.

Starting under his ear, where his pulse raced, and down his jawline. You heard him gulp, feel his throat moving, and you didn't hesitate to kiss him there. Slow, purposeful, teasing. Your tongue darted out, flat on his Adam's apple, licking a long stripe up underneath his chin before nipping on the flushed skin.

Meanwhile, your deft fingers came up behind his head, nails lightly scratching his scalp.

His breath stuttered, hips rutting against your clothed center. “Oh, f-fu– That feels so– Good. Feels so good.”

You nipped the skin above his pulse, leaving your mark on him. “You like this, baby?”

He nodded, shivering. “Yes, please. M-More.”

More?

Your smirk widened, tugging on his damp strands until his head was tipped back. A high-pitched whine tore from his throat, helplessly bucking into you.

“You want more?”

“Yes. Please. I want– need more.”

“Then, you better earn it.”

You released your hold on him, and he immediately snapped his gaze to stare at you incredulously. Disappointment and hurt swam in his eyes, your heart melted at the sight of him looking so pathetic like that. Oh, he thought you were done with him? After making you chase after his sorry ass all those weeks? You needed to make things clear—he needed to earn it.

With a devilish grin, you caressed his cheek. “Oh, don't be sad, baby. I'm not done with you yet.”

Hope replaced the disappointment, glimmering bright behind his goggles. “Really? Oh. Then, uh, what do you want to– to do now?”

The hand of his cheek trailed up, settling on his head, before you applied enough force for him to bow slightly.

Like you expected, he seemed to understand the action and proceeded to sink to his knees. When he finally knelt, you gazed down at him in amusement and dark satisfaction. Fuck, he looked absolutely good on his knees like that. Between your legs. Wearing that adorable confusion on his sweet face. You could just eat him right up at that moment.

His eyes snapped up to meet yours, round in disbelief. “You want me to do– to please you? Here? In– In the office?”

“I said you wanted to earn more, right?” Your hand trailed down your stomach, and relished the sight of his jaw dropping. “Start with here.”

The rest that followed was a blur.

Your pants were taken off within a minute, alongside your underwear. You vaguely remembered him parting your knees. Kissing your inner thighs. Sighing into your skin. A long tongue licking up towards your exposed cunt. A cool breath pressing against your folds. You remembered him looking up at you, pleading and asking for permission. You nodded once, only once, before he dove in and stole the air from your lungs.

And now, here you were.

With him ravaging you like he's going to die if he didn't.

Waterboy didn't relent. Didn't even pause to take a breather or to rest his tongue. It must've been aching now. Still, he continued his pursuit to earn more. More praises. More access. More rewards from you. And who were you to deny such a sweet boy?

“Circle your tongue on that area,” You coached him, and he obeyed with a slow swirl of his tongue around your clit. “Shit. Fuck. That's it, baby. Doing so good for me.”

The praise fueled him even more, tugging you closer to the edge of the desk as he repeated the motion fervently.

In no time, your breathing picked up.

“Fuck. Don't stop, baby. Keep going.”

He nodded, eager to please, pressing himself even deeper into you. His hands, freed from his gloves, glided over your hips and thighs. There was a little moisture from them, damp from his power, but somehow it triggered another shiver down your spine from the cool sensation.

It contrasted the simmering heat coursing in your veins, blood running hot at the impending peak of your climax. Your thighs began to tremble, but his hands were there to soothe the tremors. The sounds he made were absolutely obscene—the lewd slurps, the needy whines, the tiny little mumbles of please and more.

The shadows in the room shifted, some flaring out like flames from the walls. Dark tendrils manifested beneath him, dancing and caressing his body in light touches. Your power didn't seem to bother him, already seeing it beforehand during your synergy battles. He only grew more persistent, bringing one hand to stroke your entrance before two lithe fingers entered you in deliberate, shy curls.

Your back arched, gasping into the air. “Ah, shit. Fuck, fuck– m’so close.”

His fingers reached that spot within you, repetitively brushing against the area as he dragged them out and pushed back in. He switched to sucking on your clit, causing you to squirm against his mouth and on the desk. The darkness behind your eyelids exploded into a hot white flash. Your toes curled, your chest rose and fell at the surge of your release. Even when your thighs clamped around his head, he still didn't falter.

If anything, he moaned loudly.

Your climax washed over your body in intense waves, and Waterboy drew the tides longer the more he greedily drank from you. After the light vanishes behind your eyelids, fluttering them open to adjust in the darkness, you let your thighs fall away from his head. Your arm almost gave out behind you, but you forced yourself upright.

“Fuck,” It was the only word you could think of, mind still trapped in a foggy daze. “Oh, fuck.”

Between your legs, you felt him finally part from your soaked cunt. He was breathing hard, fast, like he had run a marathon from the office and back. His fingers slipped out of you, drawing another moan out your lips, and you heard him suck on the slick release with a relieved whine.

Your gaze dropped to him, surprised to find his eyes already pinned on you.

Is he crying?

You brought the hand on his hand to cup his cheek, and he immediately leaned against your touch.

“Was I– was that okay?” Waterboy stared at you, half-lidded and teary-eyed, and a tired smile broke out of your features.

Your thumb swept across his glistening bottom lip, before pushing it into his mouth. The whimper he released was needy, sucking on your thumb without breaking eye contact.

“You did perfect,” You praised, still out of breath. “So perfect, baby. You even pulled a trick up your sleeve in the end. Where d’you learn that?”

Waterboy flushed deeper, caught. “Oh, uh. . . Well, I just thought of it during– I just wanted to do it. Try it. See if it works.”

You gave him a knowing smirk, chuckling at his embarrassment. “Did a little research, huh?”

He nodded, avoiding your stare. “You could say that.”

Cute.

Once the feeling returned to your legs, you patted his cheek.

“Up.”

He quickly rose to his feet, a little out of balance, but he towered over you easily. Even sitting on a desk, his looming height shadowed yours. If he didn't hunch most of the time, he would appear much taller than he was. You'd love to help him with that confidence issue, his potential was too great to ignore.

You grabbed his collar and pulled him down for another kiss as a reward for his effort.

With the practice earlier, Waterboy was able to match you in equal fervor. Still clumsy, but so much better. His hands were moist—from his sweat or power, you didn't care which one—gripping your hips as you began to unzip the front of his wetsuit.

But he quickly stopped you before you could.

“My power is not– I can't control it well. Especially when I'm– We should just leave it like this.”

“Hey, it’s fine. You don’t need to worry.”

“But you could get we– soaked.”

Raising an eyebrow, you smirked at him. “Aren’t I already?”

You saw his throat bob at your crude joke. “I suppose that’s– Yeah, that makes sense. I guess we could. . .”

“Shhh,” You pressed a finger to his lips, slipping off of the desk. “I said I’ll take good care of you. Don’t worry your pretty little head. Okay, baby?”

Waterboy nodded, dazed from the small compliment. “You– You think I’m pretty?”

You kissed his cheek, “I think you're cute, pretty boy.”

Without warning, you shoved him aside to an empty chair.

He flopped down, letting out a surprised yelp. Whoever's chair this belonged to, you hoped they wouldn't mind a little mess next time they clock in. But you don’t it would be a problem, not when you have someone who can clean up after you guys are done.

You didn't give him a chance to speak, quickly straddling him down with your legs beside his and your cunt directly against the prominent bulge beneath his wetsuit. Fuck, judging by the hardness of it, you could tell he was definitely hiding a lot more inches to him. Just imagining it brought an ache between your legs, and you wanted to skip this to the main course.

However, it wasn't fair that only he got to have a taste.

Now, it’s time to have yours.

“You said you find me intimidating?” Your fingers returned to his zipper. “I'd really like to know why. Is it because you hated me?”

He shook his head furiously. “N-No– No! I don't hate you. I never ha–hated you.”

You tugged it open, slowly, your gaze following the tab as it descended to reveal unblemished skin.

Stopping just below his belly button, your fingers glided upwards, his stomach tensing underneath your touch. Random patterns were drawn, fingertips dancing along soft dips and flat muscles—no battle scars, and no unhealed wounds—untouched in more ways than one.

“So, what was it? You liked having me chase you around? Wanted me to look like a fucking idiot with a schoolgirl crush?”

Again, Waterboy shook his head. “That's– That's not it– not what it was. I-I’m sorry if it seemed like that–”

You silenced him with another kiss, both hands now on his chest. He did nothing but accept it, whimpering into your mouth, leaning back against the chair as you pushed deeper, rougher, hungrier.

He didn't push you away, instead he did something you'd never expect.

His hands fell to your thighs, before he shyly rolled his hips up to grind to meet yours.

In a small voice, he whispered. “I liked you– like you. I was just scared the others were– they put you up with this. But– haaa, I like you too.”

Fuck.

Momentarily losing focus, you grinded back on him. Your clit caught the end of his zipper, tearing a ragged mouth from you. He took that as a sign to be a little bolder. He still let you lead the kiss, control the pace how you liked, while meeting every roll with his own small thrusts. But as much as you wanted to give in, you still had a plan to follow.

So, you wrapped your hand around his throat and tore yourself away from him. His breath hitched, dilated eyes round in disbelief. His chest quickly rose and fell, throat moving under your palm. But what caught your attention the most was the feeling of him twitching beneath you. Just as you thought, he liked this shit just as much as you did.

Grinning, you squeezed his throat harder.

And his eyes rolled back, rutting against you more desperately.

“More,” He exhaled shakily, whining louder now. “Please. I'll be good– So good. Just want more. Please.”

Oh, poor thing's so touch-starved.

Not that you minded. This was exactly why you had your eye on him.

Sweet, charming, pathetic Waterboy.

Letting go of his throat, you only caught a glimpse of the disappointment on his face before you were sliding off of him and down to your knees.

His gaze followed you, widening even more if that was possible. “O-Oh, mother of– Are you going to– What are you going to do?”

Your attention flitted between his stunned expression and back down to the visible strain on his wetsuit. Fuck, he was long. Even through the layers, you could almost see the length of him. You already knew this was going to be both a treat and a challenge for the both of you.

“Just want to return the favor.”

You tugged his zipper, dragging it slowly over his crotch until it stopped at the end. Of course, his underwear was speedos. Blue ones, no less—practical, yet still ridiculous.

“Fu– Favor?” His words stuttered, a hiss fell past his lips at the contact of your hand on him. “Ah, that’s– Okay. Yeah, you can reta– return the favor.”

Due to his power, you were able to stroke him easily. Enough slickness, easier movements. He twitched in your hand, eyes glazing over in drunken lust. The head of his cock peaked from his waistband, flushed pink, and you couldn't wait to see all of him—all pretty, all begging, and all yours.

You flashed him a coy smirk, eyes glinting in dark delight. “Just sit there and look pretty for me. Okay, baby?”

Waterboy nodded, shifting his hips outwards. “Y-Yeah, I can. I will. Whatever you want.”

“Good boy,” You kissed his hard length. “Now, keep quiet. We don't want the others to hear.”

Your fingers hooked over his waistband, then in a single flourish you freed him. Your mouth parted, and he covered his face with both of his hands.

Fuck.

The girls were gonna have a field day because you were fucking right. Tall, skinny guys definitely pack more. He's long, you didn't need to think about the exact digits because fuck he was, with a slight upward curve and one prominent vein underlining the base. The tip of his cock was flushed pink, almost red if you squint hard enough, precum already leaking out. Oh, the poor boy was so deprived.

Wrapping a hand around him, he immediately throbbed in your touch. Warm, hard, and eager. You gave an experimental jerk, and a loud whimper escaped him, throbbing again as you started a slow work over his length.

“Just like I thought,” You hummed, low and teasing, fixing him with a dangerous look. “So fucking pretty.”

Waterboy peeked through his fingers, goggles slightly skewed. “Th–Thanks. Oh, fu-fuck–”

His sentence never finished, because your lips were on his tip. Kissing him softly. Letting your tongue drag over his slit. Tasting him, and just as you expected, clean and bittersweet. Oh, this was just getting better and better for you. Hopefully, it was the same for him, because you're planning to make him remember this night every time he passes this hall and sees this office.

Without waiting any further, you swirled your tongue around his tip and sucked.

His whole body jolted, almost flying off of the chair. But you held him down with your other hand on his hip. Fortunately, he seemed to get the message from your glare. A warning. If he moved again, you weren't afraid to use your shadows to restrain him. So, he grasped the armchairs instead, giving you a small nod and a pleading look.

Patting his hip, you kissed his tip again.

Before you flattened your tongue beneath him, and took him deep. Nice and slow. The reward you received blessed your ears with his ragged breathing, muffled cries, and broken syllables. His breathing turned heavy, as if he had just resurfaced from the ocean. You could see the sheen on his skin, not sweat, definitely his power.

You breathed through your nose, hollowing your cheeks, before sucking him back up. Then, you did it again. Take him in slow. Suck him back fast. Again and again, until your throat relaxed to the sensation and you were able to take more. And when he tried to talk, you moaned around him and let the words die in his throat.

Meanwhile, his body constantly twitched and flinched every time. Tiny whimpers became desperate mewls. Ragged breathing turned into shortened breaths. His hands were knuckle white, gripping the armchair so hard moisture started to gather.

Still, Waterboy kept his hips still. Even when you felt him squirming, he didn't move.

So, you let him go and decided to reward him.

Kissing his hip, marking on his skin, while your hand continued to work him faster.

“Doing so good for me, baby.”

“Sound so pretty.”

“Look at you, sweet boy. Taking this so well.”

“Might keep you all to myself.”

The flooded praises produced more sounds from him. All equally needy and broken. His breathing quickened, and in time, he was writhing on the chair. When your mouth returned to him, focusing on his tip while your hand didn't falter. You didn't stop even when he was sobbing, your mouth and hand worked in sync until he was gasping for air and one of his hands flew to his mouth to muffle himself.

By the way his noises grew behind his hand, and the way his cock throbbed in yours, it wouldn't be long until he reached his peak.

Waterboy sobbed, goggles too fogged to let you see the tears behind them. “A-Ah, wait. Oh, please. Please, don't sta– stop. Don't stop.”

“What if I do?”

“N-No! Please, don't–”

“You think you deserve to come?”

“But I’ve been go– I'm good. You sa– said I've been good.”

You hummed, kissing him again with mischief swimming in your gaze. “I changed my mind. Maybe I won't let you finish yet.”

Then, you stood up—leaving him aching and throbbing in his seat.

He stared at you, weak frustration evident on his flushed features, but he made no move to follow. Good, he learned fast. You walked backwards, returning to the desk earlier. While you slid on it, your gaze wandered over his body hungrily. From his heaving chest, his smooth stomach, down to his still hard and deeply red length glistening for attention.

You were tempted to walk right over and take him right there on the chair. Straddle him down, keep his mouth quiet, while you chase your pleasure and have him beg. But that would mean you'd do all the work.

No, he needed to work for it.

With a flick of your finger, you gestured for him to stand. “Come here.”

He shot up from his seat, stumbling towards you with lanky limbs and clumsy footing. You quickly removed his goggles, and felt the hot tears finally stream down his cheeks as you cupped his face. How could his skin feel so warm and cool at the same time? You didn't think much about it, bringing him down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss.

A high moan met your tongue, two trembling hands settled on your waist. He pushed himself into you, his stiff length rubbing on your inner thigh. Fingernails raked against a damp scalp. Chests pressed together. The kiss turned breathless and hurried. You didn't mind the clumsiness anymore, all you wanted was to make him lose himself into the pleasure—corrupt him in more ways than one.

When you parted, it was to whisper in his ear.

“Since you want to be good for me, go and work for it.”

He didn't say anything. The nod he gave you told you enough he knew what he was supposed to do. Wordlessly, he took himself in hand—groaning quietly as he pumped himself twice—before lining the head of his cock to your entrance. You shifted your hips, grinding back against him and cursing when his tip brushed your clit.

“Go on, baby.” You kissed his jaw, relishing the tiny whimper he made. “You can take it.”

Waterboy buried his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent. Then, with a shaky exhale, he pushed himself into you—slowly, carefully, finally.

“O-Oh, fuck.”

Your lungs constricted on itself, struggling to take in air from the fullness deliberately inching further and further into your walls. Your arms came up around his neck, clinging onto him, while he entered his remaining length. When he stopped, fully sheathed inside your walls, you both released a long, stuttering breath.

Fuck.

Holy fucking fuck.

You should've known he was dangerous. You should've not underestimated him. That fucking curve of his could make you come in that moment, and he hasn't even started to move. Already he reached that spot within you that no other person in the past has easily done. At least, not while they were keeping still. And here he was, restraining himself from moving too much, yet you were struggling not to clench around him.

If you did, he might come on the spot.

Hot tears dropped on your shoulder, his breathing was uneven and you feared he might collapse from the sensation.

“Can I?” Waterboy whispered, hugging you tighter. “Can I start– Can I move? Please, let me. Want to– Need to move, please.”

You nodded, equally dazed. “Go on, baby.”

He sobbed, whether from relief or pain, pulling his hips back before thrusting into you again.

“Thank you. Oh, tha–thank you.”

The first thrust tore a curse of you, the second made your head swim. The following ultimately erased all thoughts in your head. His rhythm was unsteady, unpracticed, but it made it all the more promising. It meant you could do this again so he could get the hang of it. Even when his thrusts were sloppy, you still found yourself enjoying it.

You supposed this was really for him, rather than yourself. Not out of pity, but because you wanted him to feel what he's been missing for all the months you've been chasing him. Now that he's got a taste of it, he'd be addicted for more. Until that addiction turns into a crave—and you'll give him everything he wants as long as he'll come running back to you.

He started picking up speed, desperately rolling his hips. All that left his mouth were the slurred and broken syllables of the words.

Please. Thank you. So good. More.

And occasionally, breathy curses.

You were right, he was even more vocal when he's into it. He kept on babbling the same words, sobbing louder on your shoulder.

His hands were everywhere. One on your waist, running up and down to your thigh. The other managed to slip inside your shirt, and underneath your bra. Yours were in his hair, tugging his head back to kiss him again to silence his noises.

Anyone can just walk down this hall and hear what's going on inside the office. As much as the thrill excited you, you weren't sure if it would be the same case to him. So, you kept his mouth busy while he eagerly returned the kiss—hot, messy, starved.

You were surprised he hasn't accidentally activated his power yet. Maybe he has more control over it than you previously thought. Or maybe the hero training with Blonde Blazer paid off. Good, you didn't plan on drowning from kissing him.

You transferred your kisses down his neck, leaving more marks so others can know who placed them there.

In return, he gasped and tilted his head to give you access.

“I’m g-gonna–” He let out a strangled sound, pace faltering for a moment. “Close. I'm so– Sorry. I'm sorry. It's too much–”

That was quick.

You hushed him, kissing the darkening bruises on his skin. “Let go, baby. It's okay. You earned it.”

“Can I? Where do I– do you want me?”

“Anywhere you want, hon.”

“Oh, fu– Ahh, really?”

“Okay,” Waterboy sniffled, and this time, he was the one who kissed you. “Thank you. Thank you.”

When you felt him throb violently inside you, you knew it wouldn't take long. You kissed him deeper, clenching around him and he moaned your name against your lips.

Your name.

Not Midnight.

The one you told all of them that night outside the Taco store after the bar brawl in Sardine.

You clenched around him again, feeling your own climax drawing nearer. “Again. Say my name again.”

He said it again—louder, needier—and your blood burned molten heat at the sound. Your name echoed around the room, you didn't care anymore if anyone heard outside the door. All you could focus on was him. The addictive drag of his length in and out of your walls. His tip continuously hit that sensitive spot. The pathetic sounds he made. The sobs of your name. And the unmistakable twitch of his cock.

Finally, after giving him one last squeeze, he slammed himself into you and spilled his release inside. At the same time, there was a cool gush of water streaming from his fingertips, soaking your skin and shirt.

You shivered, coming undone after him with a bite on his shoulder.

Suddenly, you felt like you were being drowned under harsh waves of pleasure. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. You couldn't swim away from it even if you tried. All you could feel was him, slick against your body, shivering just as the same. Hear him gasping for air, like he was drowning with you. Smell his scent, clear and distinct like the ocean.

When the waves finally calmed, you swam back to the surface and opened your eyes to see darkness.

The shadows in the room swirled like smoke, melting back into the corners as you attempted to gather your bearings.

Meanwhile, you felt the desk beneath you drenched in water. And something else.

Fuck, we really did that.

You couldn't help it, laughter tumbled out of your lips before you could stop it.

We broke so many rules.

The reality hit Waterboy as well like a splash, and he immediately pulled out of you with a soft curse.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry– So sorry! I didn't mean to come inside– in there. Here, I'll clean you up. I made a mess. Ju–Just wait here.”

After he clumsily redressed himself, he frantically searched for something around the room before darting away.

You only had a dazed grin on your face, blinking away the awe and disbelief.

Of all things, he's worried about coming inside me?

When he returned, there was a rag—you only hoped it was unused—in his gloved hand. He must've worn it immediately, as well as his goggles which he picked up from the floor. And for the next few minutes, he proceeded to wipe you down. Starting from the water on your skin, and to the mixed spend between your thighs. After that, he wiped the desk after you hopped off and redressed into your underwear and pants.

And fuck, were you stumbling?

Yeah, you were.

Waterboy can definitely make a girl wet and come.

“There, all finished!”

You glanced at the desk, grimacing at the evident traces of water and. . . Well, you just hoped whoever that desk belonged to wouldn't be too mad the next morning.

When the tall hero turned to face you, he gasped in shock when you pulled him down for another kiss. This time, it was softer. Gentler. Sweeter. The kind that melted the both of you into submission. Into acceptance. The rag dropped to the floor, and his hands were back on your waist. The sigh he released into your mouth was heavenly, and you tasted cloud nine.

After a while, you both parted and gazed into each other's eyes.

You grinned up at him, coy and playful. “Definitely an HR violation.”

The smile he gave you was boyish, crooked, and it made your heart flutter. “Definitely.”

Then, his lips were back on yours.

☆herm has always been a chubby chaser and i will 100% die on this hill. of course i believe he wouldnt actually care about a girl's body type as long as he finds her pretty, and still loving her in a long term relationship no matter how much her body may change, but i 10000% believe he's found himself ogling chubby ladies more often and he is definitely the lanky nerd who loves a plush woman stereotype

☆once he's comfortable enough with you, he'd be most obsessed with laying his head on your stomach. when you've got lots of alone time together you'd definitely have to wear a swimsuit because your entire midsection is getting pretty damp at the very least.

☆when he first joined SDN, he was already in awe of the heroes around him, but never staring at them as much as he stares at you- those wide thighs wrapped in a pencil skirt make him absolutely drip through his wetsuit. the way the meat on your bones bunches around your hips when you sit at your cubicle makes it so hard for him to be around you without drooling.

☆he loves that soft chest and struggles not to stare at your cleavage while you address him in the break room in a lower-cut shirt. he's already sweating water over you choosing to speak to him on your lunch hour, and the sight of you is not helping at all. cue him claiming he needs to use the restroom and hiding in the locker room with a bulge in his tight suit after looking for too long.

☆when you started dating him he felt a lot less guilty about his thoughts and began a routine of jerking off to the thought of how your tight skirts and button-up shirts hug your body, how he can basically see the outline of your stomach and exactly how your hips curve, and waited so patiently for the day you'd let him see your body bare.

☆any apprehension about getting naked for him if you may be insecure is met with him blurting out how hot he thinks you must look naked with a sheepish 'excuse me' stuttered out after.

☆LOVES STRETCH MARKS. loves them. almost to a point of fetish

☆if you're shy about putting all your weight on him, he BEGS for it. he wants you using his face as a seat and doesn't care how heavy that may be, he desperately wants a face full of ass.

"Herm, I can't, you'll suffocate under me!" You laughed, a bit nervously, to hide the insecure undertone- you were about to straddle his face after he begged and begged for it, his apparently incessant need for it coaxing you towards swallowing the shyness down and doing it.

It feels awkward, talking to him while your ass is hovering over his face, only having a view of his legs and the strained bulge under his suit. Your thighs are also dangerously close to cramping if you don't get out of this kneeling-slash-hovering position soon.

"Please?" He asks without a stutter, the quiet question just barely reaching your ears. "D-Don't care if I do suffocate."

Wet hands placed on each of your thighs encourage you further, and his words might make your heart swell just a bit too big.

"Okay, uh, if you really mean it..."

A surprised yelp squeaks out from you at sudden dominance from the damp ginger. He takes your answer as the green light to pull you all the way down onto his face, big nose tickling between your cheeks as he immediately starts lapping at your pussy.