Summary: After Oceanic 815 crashes on a remote island, you struggle to adjust to survival life while keeping to yourself. Sawyer, sarcastic and impossible to ignore, keeps inserting himself into your orbit.
and Emily... this is the second part to my fic. I'm basically self-indulging at this point because this isn't exactly a highly requested topic ...that's all.
part 1
Three days later, the island still felt temporary. Like maybe tomorrow someone would wake you up and explain all of this had been a mistake. Instead, people were building routines. Jack organized water. Kate disappeared into the jungle with Sayid half the time. Hurley tried keeping everyone sane. Charlie followed Claire around like an overeager puppy.
And Sawyer—
Sawyer acted like the entire island belonged to him already. You were currently watching him lose an argument with Sun over mangoes.
“You can’t just claim all the fruit,” you called from your spot near the fire.
Sawyer pointed at you immediately. “Traitor.”
Sun smiled sweetly while taking the mango from his hands anyway.
“You snooze, you lose,” you said.
“I was bein’ generous.”
“You were hoarding.”
“That’s a strong accusation from somebody currently eatin’ my peanuts.”
You glanced down guiltily at the packet in your lap. Sawyer smirked.
“Caught red-handed, sweetheart.”
“You literally stole these from the plane.”
“Which makes them mine.”
“That’s not how ownership works.”
“Says who?”
“Society?”
“We ain’t got one anymore.”
You opened your mouth to answer, then closed it again. Sawyer grinned triumphantly.
“Thought so.”
You threw a peanut at him. He caught it effortlessly.
“Violence now? Damn, sweetheart. We movin’ fast.”
Heat rushed to your face while Sun quietly laughed beside you. Sawyer looked unbearably pleased with himself. Again.
The tent situation happened because of the rain. The beach became mud overnight, and half the shelters people had thrown together collapsed by morning. Everyone was miserable. Wet clothes hung everywhere. Tempers were shorter than usual. You spent most of the afternoon helping Claire reinforce tarps while thunder rolled overhead.
By sunset, you were exhausted and freezing. Kate approached carrying blankets.
“You still sleeping under that broken tarp?”
“It’s not broken, it’s just slightly damaged” you argued weakly.
Kate gave you a look. Before you could continue defending your terrible shelter choices, Sawyer walked over carrying pieces of bamboo.
“Sweetheart.”
“What?”
“My tent survived.”
You blinked. “Congratulations?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m offerin’ you half, genius.”
Your stomach betrayed you immediately.
“Oh.”
Sawyer leaned closer slightly. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You’re making it weird.”
“I ain’t even started yet.”
Kate looked suspiciously entertained by all of this.
“I can sleep somewhere else,” you said quickly.
“Where?”
“…somewhere.”
“That’s a solid plan.”
You glared at him. Sawyer sighed dramatically.
“Look, sweetheart. It’s rainin’, your tarp’s fallin’ apart, and if I gotta hear you sneezin’ all night I may walk into the ocean.”
“I do not sneeze that much.”
“You absolutely do.”
Kate hid a smile behind her water bottle.
You crossed your arms. “Fine.”
Sawyer’s eyebrows lifted. “Fine?”
“Fine.”
“Well hell,” he said. “Thought I’d have to charm you more.”
“You’re not charming.”
“Hurts my feelings.”
“You don’t have feelings.”
“Now that’s just cold.”
But his eyes stayed on you a second too long after that. And suddenly the rain didn’t feel nearly as cold anymore.
His tent was better than expected, not good, but better.
It sat slightly farther from the main camp beneath thick trees, pieced together from tarps, rope, and stubbornness. Inside smelled faintly like smoke and saltwater.
“There,” Sawyer said proudly. “Five-star accommodations.”
You crouched slightly entering it.
“This barely qualifies as architecture.”
“And yet you’re impressed.”
“I’m concerned.”
Sawyer dropped blankets onto the ground. “You complain a lot for somebody gettin’ free rent.”
“You flirt a lot for somebody who looks like he fistfights raccoons.”
He stared at you for half a second before laughing loudly.
“Okay,” he said. “That one was good.”
You smiled despite yourself while sitting down cross-legged. Rain hammered softly overhead.
Outside, distant voices echoed from camp. Charlie singing badly somewhere near the fire. Hurley complaining about wet socks. Inside the tent, things felt strangely quieter. Sawyer settled against one side, stretching his legs out.
“You always this shy around everybody?”
You looked up. “What?”
“With me, you talk.” He tilted his head slightly. “With everybody else you kinda disappear.”
You picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “I don’t know.”
“That ain’t an answer.”
“I just don’t like loud people.”
Sawyer grinned immediately. “Sweetheart, I got terrible news for you.”
You laughed softly.
Then quieter: “People are easier in small doses.”
For once, he didn’t joke immediately. Rain filled the silence for a few seconds. Then Sawyer spoke carefully, like the words surprised even him.
“You don’t gotta disappear around me.”
Your eyes lifted slowly toward his. That stupid smirk was gone again. Which somehow always felt more dangerous. You looked away first.
“Why are you nice sometimes?” you muttered.
Sawyer barked out a laugh. “There she is.”
“I’m serious.”
“Nah, you ain’t.”
“Yes I am.”
He watched you for a moment.
Then shrugged lightly. “Maybe I just like hearin’ you laugh.”
Your heartbeat stumbled hard enough to annoy you. You grabbed a blanket immediately to avoid looking at him. Sawyer noticed. Obviously.
“You blush way too easy.”
“Oh my God.”
“It’s kinda adorable.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet here you are. In my tent. Voluntarily.”
You threw a leaf at his face. Later that night, the storm got worse. Wind shook the tent hard enough to wake you. For one terrifying second, you forgot where you were completely. Then lightning flashed outside.
Island.
Plane crash.
Right.
You sat up abruptly. Across from you, Sawyer was already awake.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Easy.”
Another crack of thunder rolled overhead. You hated thunder. Always had. Sawyer noticed the way your shoulders tensed immediately.
“You scared of storms?”
“No.”
Lightning flashed again. You physically flinched.
Sawyer snorted softly. “Convincing.”
“I just don’t like surprises.”
“Thunder literally warns you first.”
You glared sleepily at him. He shifted slightly closer, back against the tent wall.
“C’mere.”
“What?”
“You’re one lightning strike away from diggin’ a hole through the floor.”
“I’m fine.”
“Mhm.”
Another loud crack split the sky. Without thinking, your hand grabbed his arm. The second you realized it, you tried pulling away instantly. Sawyer caught your wrist gently before you could. Neither of you spoke for a second. Rain poured outside. Inside the tiny tent, the air suddenly felt too warm.
Sawyer looked down at your hand on his arm. Then at you.
“You know,” he murmured, voice rougher now, “for somebody always pretendin’ not to like me, you touch me a lot.”
Your face burned immediately.
“I wasn’t—”
“I know.”
But he still hadn’t let go of your wrist. Your pulse was going embarrassingly fast now. Sawyer’s thumb brushed lightly against your skin once. Accidentally. Maybe. Definitely not helping.
“You nervous?”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
You should’ve pulled away then. Probably. Instead you stayed there, sitting too close while thunder shook the sky around you.
Sawyer’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Then back up. The teasing expression faded slowly from his face. And suddenly the moment felt real enough to make your chest hurt.
“You gonna kiss me or keep lookin’ at me like that?” you blurted nervously.
Sawyer blinked once.
Then laughed softly under his breath. “Well damn.”
“I can’t believe I just said that.”
“No, no,” he said quickly, moving closer. “Let’s not ruin a good thing.”
You covered your face instantly. “I’m actually going to die.”
Sawyer gently pulled your hands away.
“Hey.”
You looked at him reluctantly. His grin had softened into something smaller now. Realer.
“C’mere, sweetheart.”
Then he kissed you. And it wasn’t dramatic. No fireworks. No cinematic nonsense. Just warm and careful and a little hesitant at first, like even Sawyer wasn’t fully sure what to do with softness. His hand rested lightly against your jaw. Yours curled into the front of his shirt before you even realized.
When he kissed you again, slower this time, your stomach flipped so hard it felt unfair. Then thunder cracked loudly overhead. You startled violently. Sawyer laughed against your mouth.
“Oh, that’s insultin’.”
You shoved his shoulder weakly while laughing too.
“Shut up.”
“Thought I was doin’ pretty good there.”
“You were okay.”
“Okay?” He looked genuinely offended. “That was at least a nine outta ten.”
“You grade your kisses?”
“Absolutely.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling helplessly now. Sawyer looked at you quietly for a second after that. Long enough to make your chest tighten again.
Then, softer: “You should get some sleep.”
“You too.”
“Might be hard now.”
Your face heated instantly.
Sawyer smirked lazily. “There’s the blush again.”
You threw the blanket over your head immediately while he laughed quietly beside you. Outside, the storm kept raging. But inside the tent, curled beneath shared blankets while Sawyer’s shoulder stayed warm against yours and the island suddenly felt a little less lonely.
Summary: Jack sticks you and Sawyer on hatch duty together to annoy you both, but being trapped in the bunker night after night turns all the arguing into tension neither of you can ignore anymore.
Warnings: sexual tension, forced proximity, flirting, kissing, implied smut/fade to black, hatch/bunker setting, slight enemies to lovers
Words ~800
and Emily… I’m just in the mood for Sawyer right now …that’s all
The bunker feels different at night.
During the day, there’s always noise bleeding through the walls — voices from the kitchen, footsteps down the hallway, Locke talking about the button like it’s religion instead of a computer command. But after midnight, everything settles. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, the air conditioner rattles every few minutes, and the countdown clock becomes the loudest thing in the room.
You’re supposed to be reading.
There’s a book open in your lap, but you haven’t turned the page in at least ten minutes because Sawyer is stretched out on the couch across from you, lazily flipping through an old magazine while pretending not to stare.
“You know,” he says eventually, voice rough with exhaustion, “most people blink every once in a while when they’re thinkin’ too hard.”
You glance up. “Most people don’t spend every night in an underground bunker with you.”
“Mm.” His mouth twitches. “So you have been thinkin’ about me.”
You groan quietly and drop your head back against the couch cushion. “Do you ever stop flirting?”
“Do you ever stop pretendin’ you don’t like it?”
That gets a look out of you, which only makes him grin wider.
At first, being assigned to hatch duty with Sawyer felt unbearable. You were almost convinced Jack paired the two of you together specifically to irritate you both, he suddenly decided you and Sawyer should be responsible for overnight shifts in the bunker. Most of your time down there ended up being spent bickering over who had to get up and enter the numbers, which only made it feel more intentional.
But then the days started blurring together.
One night became three. Three became every night. Somewhere between Apollo bars and the endless repetition of 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42, you got used to him being there.
Too used to it.
You got used to the sound of his voice drifting through the bunker while you cooked. Used to him handing you things before you asked for them. Used to the way he’d sit too close beside you on the couch like the bunker wasn’t already small enough.
And the worst part is that you never move away.
The timer beeps softly in the background.
15:00.
Sawyer doesn’t even look at it. He just keeps watching you over the top of the magazine, blue eyes heavy with that lazy kind of amusement he always wears around you.
“You’re starin’ again, sweetheart.”
“I’m literally not.”
“Sure.”
You toss the nearest pillow at him. He catches it easily, laughing under his breath before pulling it into his lap.
“You’re real violent when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Then c’mere and prove it.”
Your stomach flips in the most humiliating way possible. Sawyer notices immediately. Of course he does.
The smugness fades just slightly as he watches you, and suddenly the air in the bunker feels too warm, too close. He leans forward, forearms braced against his knees, eyes dragging slowly over your face like he’s trying to figure something out.
“You know what your problem is?” he says quietly.
You narrow your eyes. “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“You keep lookin’ at me like you want somethin’, then gettin’ mad when I notice.”
Your breath catches before you can stop it. And there it is again — that look on his face whenever he realizes he’s hit something real. The timer beeps.
10:00.
Neither of you move.
Sawyer stands first, slow and unhurried, then crosses the small space between the couches until he’s directly in front of you. Close enough that your knees brush his when he stops.
“Tell me to back off,” he murmurs.
You should.
You know you should.
Instead, you tilt your head up slightly and say, “You’d never listen.”
He laughs softly at that, but it dies quickly when your hand catches the front of his shirt without thinking. For a second, Sawyer just looks at you.
Not teasing. Not cocky. Just looking at you with this strange intensity that makes your chest feel tight.
Then his hand slides along your jaw, rough fingertips catching beneath your chin as he leans down and kisses you.
It’s not rushed the way you expected it to be.
It’s slow at first, almost careful, like he’s giving you time to change your mind, but the second you kiss him back, something in him snaps. His other hand settles at your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half-standing just to stay near him, and suddenly all the tension that’s been building between you for days crashes at once.
The timer starts blaring.
Neither of you pull away immediately.
Sawyer kisses you once more — quick and heated — before resting his forehead against yours with a breathless laugh.
“Well,” he mutters, “that’s real inconvenient timing.”
You can’t help laughing too, still gripping his shirt while he reaches blindly toward the computer behind you.
4 8 15 16 23 42.
Execute.
The alarm cuts off.
The silence afterward feels heavier somehow.
Sawyer looks back at you slowly, one hand still resting against your waist.
“Now,” he says softly, eyes dropping to your mouth again, “where were we?”
And this time, when he kisses you, neither of you remembers the clock anymore.
Summary: After a plane crash leaves a group of survivors stranded on a remote, unfamiliar island, they struggle to build order while facing growing uncertainty about where they are and what else might be there. Among them, you and Steve Harrington keep crossing paths.
Warnings: Contains references to plane crash aftermath, survival situations, injury and panic, mild violence, and emotional distress. Slow-burn.
Words ~1300
And Emily... the plot-holes in Lost really make it difficult to make a consistent story, but I'm trying my best. Hope you enjoy it! ...that's all
part 1, part 2, part 3
The green canopy of the island didn’t just block out the sun; it swallowed it.
By mid-morning, the beach was nothing more than a distant memory of open space and crashing waves. Here, deep in the interior, the air was stagnant and thick with the scent of rotting vegetation and crushed ferns. Every step required effort, the mud pulling at your shoes like it was trying to drag you under.
"Remind me why we let the kid with the legal pad dictate our afternoon?" Eddie muttered from the back of the line, using a thick tree branch to swat away a massive, prehistoric-looking spiderweb.
"Because Dustin is right," Nancy said, not breaking her stride. She was leading the line, a heavy metal rod from the plane’s landing gear balanced on her shoulder like a rifle. "We can’t just sit on the sand waiting for something to come out of the trees. We need high ground. We need to know what we’re dealing with."
You walked a few paces behind her, your eyes constantly scanning the dense thicket. Right behind you was Steve. He hadn't left your shadow since you entered the tree line. He carried a heavy, jagged piece of metal wreckage, his knuckles white around the improvised weapon.
"Hey," Steve murmured, stepping closer so his shoulder brushed yours. "You doing okay?"
"I'm fine," you said, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "Just waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"Yeah, well, if any shoes drop, they have to go through me first," he said, trying to flash his signature, easygoing smile. But it didn't reach his eyes. The easygoing guy from the beach was gone; this Steve was entirely on edge, his gaze darting to every rustling leaf.
"Steve," you said softly, pausing briefly so he had to look at you. "We're a team out here. You don't have to carry the whole world on your back."
He stared at you for a second, the mask slipping just enough for you to see the raw anxiety underneath. He opened his mouth to reply, but Dustin’s voice cut through the humid air.
"Guys! Stop. Look at this."
The group huddled around Dustin, who was kneeling at the base of a massive banyan tree. The trunk looked like it had been violently twisted, the thick, ancient bark splintered and scorched black.
"Is that from lightning?" Jonathan asked, kneeling beside him.
"No," Dustin said, his voice dropping into a tense whisper. "Look at the direction of the splinters. Lightning strikes from above. This bark was ripped outward. From the ground up. And look at the path."
He pointed ahead. A straight line of destruction cut through the jungle. Saplings were snapped in half, heavy vines were torn down, and the earth was plowed up in a jagged trench. Whatever had done this hadn't walked through the jungle; it had torn through it.
"Okay, nope. That is a hard veto from me," Eddie said, taking a step backward. "I say we turn back to our lovely, highly flammable beach structures."
"We're already halfway to the ridge," Nancy argued, though her voice lacked its usual absolute certainty. "If we turn back now, we learn nothing."
"Nancy, look at the trees," Steve stepped forward, positioning himself firmly between the trail of destruction and the rest of the group. "This isn't an animal. Animals don't do... whatever the hell this is. We're turning around."
"Steve—"
"No, Wheeler, I'm serious!" Steve’s voice cracked with a rare, fierce authority. "I am not risking anyone's life for a better view of the ocean. We go back. Now."
Before Nancy could argue, the jungle went entirely silent.
The persistent hum of insects stopped. The birds overhead vanished. Even the wind dying down felt unnatural, leaving a heavy, suffocating pressure in the air.
Then came the sound.
It started as a low, mechanical clicking—like a massive, invisible film projector spinning out of control. The ground beneath your feet began to vibrate, a rhythmic, pulsing thrum that rattled the teeth in your jaw.
"What is that?" Robin whispered, her voice trembling as she grabbed your arm. "That doesn't sound like nature. That sounds like... like machinery."
"Get behind me," Steve ordered, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out, his hand finding your wrist and pulling you firmly behind him.
The clicking grew louder, accelerating into a deafening roar. Fifty yards ahead, the dense jungle canopy began to violently shake. Trees didn't just bend; they snapped like toothpicks, exploding outward into showers of splinters and leaves.
And then, it poured out of the treeline.
It wasn't an animal. It wasn't a monster made of flesh and bone.
It was a swirling, undulating cloud of pitch-black smoke.
It poured through the trees like ink in water, expanding and contracting with an eerie, terrifying intelligence. As it moved, flashes of faint, internal lightning crackled within its core, illuminating the dense, shadowy mass. It didn't drift with the wind; it drove forward, defying gravity, leaving a trail of scorched earth in its wake.
"Run!" Steve yelled.
But your boots felt glued to the mud. The sheer, incomprehensible scale of the entity froze you in place. The smoke billowed upward, towering over the group, casting a literal shadow of night over the afternoon jungle.
Suddenly, a tendril of the black smoke whipped forward, moving with lightning speed. It didn't strike to kill. It stopped mere inches from your face, hovering in the air like a living, breathing creature.
The air instantly turned freezing cold. The mechanical clicking sound filled your ears, so loud it felt like it was inside your head. Inside the swirling vortex of the smoke, images seemed to flicker—fractured, distorted shapes that looked like flashes of memories you couldn't quite grasp. It was testing you. Scanning you.
Steve didn't hesitate. With a feral shout, he lunged forward, swinging the heavy piece of metal wreckage directly through the tendril of smoke.
The weapon passed right through the vapor, hitting nothing but air, but the sudden defiance caught the entity's attention. The smoke recoiled violently, swirling upward into a massive, towering column. It let out a deafening, metallic shriek that echoed across the entire island, a sound that felt like a warning.
With a sudden, explosive burst of speed, the cloud surged backward, retreating into the deep jungle as quickly as it had arrived. The trees violently shook one last time, and then, the mechanical clicking faded into a distant echo.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Dustin was on the ground, breathing heavily. Eddie looked like he was about to throw up, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he leaned against a tree. Nancy was frozen, her metal rod still raised, her eyes wide with a profound, uncharacteristic fear.
Steve didn't look at any of them. The moment the smoke vanished, he dropped his weapon into the mud, turned around, and grabbed you by the shoulders. His hands were shaking, his chest heaving as he searched your face.
"Are you okay? Did it touch you? Are you hurt?" His voice was frantic, completely stripped of any pretense or bravado.
"I'm okay," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. You reached up, placing your hands over his trembling ones, trying to anchor him. "I'm okay, Steve."
He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours for a brief, desperate second. The heat of his breath was the only real thing in a world that had just stopped making sense.
"We're going back to the beach," Steve said, opening his eyes and looking over his shoulder at the rest of the terrified group. His voice left absolutely no room for debate. "We're going back right now, and we are never coming back into these trees."
Nobody argued. As the group began a hurried, panicked retreat back toward the shore, Steve kept his hand locked tightly in yours, his grip firm and unyielding.
The beach was no longer just a temporary camp. It was a fortress. And as you glanced back at the dark, whispering jungle, you knew the wall between survival and the unknown had just completely vanished.
Summary: After a plane crash leaves a group of survivors stranded on a remote, unfamiliar island, they struggle to build order while facing growing uncertainty about where they are and what else might be there. Among them, you and Steve Harrington keep crossing paths.
Warnings: Contains references to plane crash aftermath, survival situations, injury and panic, mild violence, and emotional distress. Slow-burn.
Words ~1200
And Emily... this is the second part to 'Every man for himself'! ...that's all
part 1, part 2, part 3
When the rain finally stopped just before dawn, it left the air thick, heavy, and smelling of damp earth and salt. You woke up with your shoulder pressed against Steve’s, the fabric of his jacket damp but his skin warm where it met yours.
For a few seconds, the crushing weight of the island was absent. There was only the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Then, Steve stirred, blinking against the sharp, sudden glare of the morning sun cutting through the gap in the tarp. He looked down at you, his usual perfectly styled hair a chaotic, birds-nest disaster, and a slow, remarkably genuine smile touched his mouth.
"Morning," he muttered, his voice rough with sleep. "You, uh... you still think I'm annoying?"
"Immensely," you whispered, though you didn't move away.
He huffed a quiet laugh, his hand trailing down your arm to briefly squeeze your fingers before the reality of the camp began to intrude. Outside, the muffled sounds of shifting wreckage and raised voices signaled that the rest of the survivors were waking up to assess the storm's damage.
Steve cleared his throat, sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck. The easy, vulnerable version of him from the night before seemed to tuck itself away, replaced by the familiar, guarded mask of confidence. "Right. Better see who needs saving."
The beach was a mess. The storm had dragged a portion of their salvaged plane wreckage closer to the tide line, and half the makeshift clotheslines had been ripped down.
Nancy Wheeler was already in the center of the chaos, her hair tied back, aggressively wringing out a wet blanket. When she saw you and Steve walk out of the shelter together, her eyes flicked between the two of you, sharp and analytical. She didn't say anything, but the tight line of her mouth spoke volumes.
"Harrington!" Dustin’s voice cut through the air before Nancy could speak. He came skidding across the wet sand, clutching a legal pad wrapped in a plastic bag. "Where have you been? We have a situation. A literal geographical crisis."
"Good morning to you too, Henderson," Steve sighed, putting a hand on his hip. "What's broken now?"
"The map," Dustin said, pulling Lucas and Max into the huddle as they approached. "Lucas and Max found a ridge about a mile into the tree line yesterday before the rain. From up there, the coastline doesn't curve right. This isn't a normal island. It’s too narrow. And that sound last night? The low rumbling?"
"Thunder," Steve said firmly, though his eyes darted toward the dark green canopy of the jungle. "It was just thunder, Dustin."
"Thunder doesn't have a rhythm, Steve!" Dustin shot back, exasperated.
"Look, let's just focus on fixing the camp first," Steve countered, his voice rising slightly into that familiar, authoritative tone he used when he was trying to keep the younger kids from panicking. "Nancy needs help with the rations, and the fire is completely dead. Go help Jonathan find dry wood."
Dustin threw his hands up in mock defeat but dragged Lucas and Max away toward the treeline anyway.
Steve watched them go, his jaw tight. You stepped up beside him, keeping your voice low so the others wouldn't hear. "You don't think it was thunder either."
Steve didn't look at you. His fingers twitched against his sides. "Doesn't matter what I think. If they start thinking there's something out there in the trees, they’re going to lose their minds. I’m just keeping them moving."
By afternoon, the tension in the camp was palpable. The shared trauma of the crash was wearing off, replaced by the grating, exhausting reality of survival.
You were down by the water’s edge, rinsing out empty plastic bottles to collect fresh rainwater, when Eddie Munson sauntered over. He looked worse for wear, his denim vest damp and his rings clicking together as he fidgeted.
"Quite the cozy setup you and big boy Harrington have going on," Eddie said, leaning against a piece of twisted fuselage. There was no malice in his voice, just his usual theatrical amusement. "Brave companion you’ve chosen. He’s very pretty. Not sure how many wilderness survival skills are locked up in that hairdo, though."
"He built the shelter that kept us dry last night," you pointed out, capping a bottle.
"Fair point," Eddie conceded, glancing back toward the jungle. His smile faded, turning into something sharper, more uneasy. "But between you and me? I don't think a tarp is going to cut it if whatever is making those noises decides to come down to the beach. I’ve got a bad feeling we’re playing a game where the rules haven’t been explained to us yet."
Before you could reply, a sharp shout echoed from the tree line.
"Steve! Steve!"
It was Robin’s voice, sharp and frantic.
You dropped the bottle into the sand and ran. Steve was already sprinting past you, his boots kicking up wet sand as he headed toward the edge of the jungle.
You, Steve, and Nancy broke through the brush at the same time. Robin was standing near a dense thicket of ferns, her face pale, pointing at the muddy ground. Dustin and Jonathan were right behind her, staring down in silence.
Printed deeply into the wet, dark earth was a track. It wasn't human, and it certainly wasn't any regular island fauna. The impression was wide, deeply grooved, and split into elongated, jagged edges that looked entirely unnatural.
"See?" Dustin whispered, his voice trembling but carrying an eerie I-told-you-so weight. "That's not an animal, Steve."
Nancy knelt down, her fingers hovering just above the mud. "The rain stopped a few hours ago. This track is fresh. Whatever made it was standing right here, watching the camp."
A cold dread settled heavily in your stomach. The island didn't just feel like a locked door anymore; it felt like a cage.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, bleeding red shadows across the beach, the camp felt entirely different. The illusion of safety was gone.
Steve was standing by the edge of the water, staring out at the darkening ocean, a heavy piece of salvaged metal pipe resting against his leg. He looked smaller against the backdrop of the massive, empty sea, the weight of everyone's safety visibly bowing his shoulders.
You walked down the sand and stood next to him, letting your arm brush against his.
"We need a watch rotation tonight," Steve said quietly, not looking up. "I’ll take the first one. And the last one."
"You can't do it all, Steve."
"I'm fine," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He finally turned to look at you, and the sheer exhaustion in his eyes made your heart ache. "I have to be fine. Look at them. They're just kids. Even Nancy, even Jonathan... we're all just guessing. If I don't pretend I know what I'm doing, everybody panics."
You reached out, your hand slipping into his, your fingers interlocking. It was a silent reassurance, a reminder that he didn't have to carry the facade when it was just the two of you.
Steve looked down at your joined hands. The rigid tension in his shoulders melted away, just a fraction. He pulled you a little closer, his thumb tracing the back of your hand.
"I meant what I said last night," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. "About taking care of each other first."
"I know," you replied softly.
"If things go sideways..." He swallowed hard, glancing back toward the dark, whispering wall of the jungle where the shadows were growing longer by the minute. "Stay close to me. Promise."
Summary: After a plane crash leaves a group of survivors stranded on a remote, unfamiliar island, they struggle to build order while facing growing uncertainty about where they are and what else might be there. Among them, you and Steve Harrington keep crossing paths.
Warnings: Contains references to plane crash aftermath, survival situations, injury and panic, mild violence, and emotional distress. Slow-burn.
Words ~1300
And Emily… this is a crossover between Stranger Things and Lost. The Lost setting and survival premise are used as the main structure of the story, while the characters, relationships, and dialogue are based on Stranger Things. You don’t need to have seen Lost to follow along, don’t worry …that’s all.
part 1, part 2, part 3
The island did not feel like something that wanted to be found.
By the third day, everyone had stopped looking at the ocean with hope and started looking at it like it was a locked door.
People split what was left of the plane’s supplies. Those who knew how to take charge started trying to impose order on something that refused to be orderly. Nancy Wheeler organized first aid with a seriousness that made it hard for anyone to argue with her. Jonathan Byers kept quietly hauling wreckage away from the shoreline. Robin Buckley somehow became the person everyone asked about everything technical, even when she openly admitted she was guessing. Eddie Munson loudly declared that if they were going to die on a mysterious island, they should at least make it interesting.
Steve Harrington existed somewhere in the middle of all of it, drifting between groups like he belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.
You didn’t really notice him at first.
Not in the beginning.
In the first couple of days, everyone was too busy being alive to notice anything else.
It was only on the third day that things started to slow down enough for patterns to form.
You were sitting near the edge of the camp trying to tie together strips of fabric into something resembling a bag when a shadow fell over your hands.
“That knot is going to fail immediately,” Steve said.
You didn’t look up. “It’s holding right now.”
“Right now is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.”
You finally glanced at him. He was crouched down like he had been there the whole time, watching you with an expression that suggested he had already decided he was involved in your problem whether you wanted him or not.
“I can fix it,” he added.
“I don’t need it fixed.”
“You do if you don’t want it falling apart in five minutes.”
You hesitated, then let go of the fabric.
Steve took it without ceremony and started reworking the knot with an ease that annoyed you more than you wanted to admit.
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched anyway.
Around the camp, life was beginning to organize itself into loose clusters.
A group gathered near the fire every evening, trying to make sense of what had happened and what came next. Lucas and Max had started mapping the jungle edge with sticks and stones. Dustin followed Steve around constantly, like Steve had accidentally become the most interesting person on the island.
And Steve, for reasons you couldn’t quite place, kept ending up near you.
Not in a way that felt deliberate at first.
Just… consistent.
He would hand you things you didn’t ask for. He would sit close enough that conversations became shared whether you intended them to or not. He would appear at the exact moment something became frustrating and say something irritatingly useful.
On the fifth day, the camp argued about shelter.
It started because rain was expected.
Eddie declared that rain meant they were “entering a tragic second act.” Robin told him to stop narrating their misery. Nancy insisted everyone needed proper protection from the weather. Jonathan quietly agreed with her without making eye contact with anyone.
Steve showed up carrying tarps he had clearly taken from somewhere nobody had officially agreed on.
“I’ve got it handled,” he announced.
Robin narrowed her eyes. “That sentence makes me uncomfortable.”
Steve ignored her and looked at you instead.
“You’re coming with me.”
It wasn’t phrased like a question.
You hesitated only briefly before standing.
The shelter he led you to was barely standing. The structure leaned unevenly, and the wind kept pulling at one corner like it was testing how easy it would be to collapse.
“You made this?” you asked.
“I prefer the term ‘started it.’”
“That’s worse.”
“Not if you’re optimistic.”
You crouched beside him anyway.
At first, you expected him to keep talking, that was what Steve did best. He filled silence with confidence and jokes and opinions nobody asked for.
But he didn’t.
He worked instead.
He showed you where the structure needed reinforcing, how to anchor it against the sand, how to stop the wind from turning it into something useless. His hands were steady in a way his personality wasn’t.
“You’re quieter when you focus,” you said after a while.
Steve paused briefly. “Yeah. Don’t tell anyone. It ruins my brand.”
“You have a brand?”
“Unfortunately.”
Despite everything, the shelter improved. Not perfectly, but enough.
When you finally stepped back, Steve looked at it like he had just won an argument with nature itself.
“See?” he said. “Fixed.”
“You didn’t do it alone.”
“I know,” he said, glancing at you. “That’s why it worked.”
The words lingered longer than they should have.
That night, the rain came hard and fast.
Most of the camp retreated into whatever shelter they could find. The jungle beyond the beach disappeared behind a wall of water and sound.
You ended up inside the repaired shelter because it was the closest dry place when the storm started.
Steve came in right after you, shaking water from his hair and muttering something under his breath about weather having personal issues with him.
The space was small. Too small for two people who weren’t used to being that close.
“You’re invading my personal space,” you said.
Steve glanced at you. “There is no personal space on a mysterious island. Only shared suffering.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
Rain hammered against the tarp above you. The wind pushed at the structure, but it held. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence felt different from the rest of the island. Less like absence and more like pause.
Steve leaned back against the support beam and exhaled.
“You think we’re going to get rescued?” you asked quietly.
He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, he was honest in a way that didn’t match his usual confidence.
“I think we’re still figuring out if we can take care of each other first,” he said. “The rest comes after.”
You looked at him then. Really looked at him.
Not the sarcasm or the confidence or the performance he wore most of the time, but the person underneath it who was sitting here in the rain anyway.
Outside, something moved in the jungle. A distant sound rolled across the island, low and unfamiliar. Neither of you reacted to it immediately.
Instead, Steve shifted slightly closer, not quite touching you yet, but close enough that the space between you stopped feeling neutral.
“You’re not as annoying as I expected,” you said.
Steve let out a quiet laugh. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me since we crashed.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“I’m taking it as one.”
The rain softened, shifting from a roar to a steady, rhythmic thrum. You didn’t notice who closed the distance first. It might have been him leaning in, or it might have been you tired of the space between you.
But suddenly, his hand came up, his knuckles gently brushing against your jawline, hesitating just long enough to give you the chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
When you kissed him, it wasn’t dramatic or rushed. It wasn’t anything like the chaos outside the shelter.
It was real in a way nothing else on the island had managed to be yet.
When you finally pulled back, Steve didn’t move away. His forehead rested against yours, his breath hitched.
“Well,” he said softly, like he was trying to remember how speaking worked. “That’s one way to keep warm.”
A soft, breathless laugh huffed out of you, more a sigh of relief than anything else. Steve’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a quiet, tired smile replacing the usual act as he let his shoulder rest against yours.
And for the first time since the island, the uncertainty didn’t feel quite as heavy as it had before.
Summary: After Oceanic 815 crashes on a remote island, you struggle to adjust to survival life while keeping to yourself. Sawyer, sarcastic and impossible to ignore, keeps inserting himself into your orbit.
Warnings: Survival setting, plane crash aftermath, danger/injury, flirting, kissing/making out (in a second part probably), forced proximity.
Words ~1600
and Emily... I don't think he's a very requested character, but Lost has been one of my longest obsessions and I can't seem to find any fics. If you haven't watched it go watch it and come back ...that's all.
part 2
The first thing you noticed about the island was that everything smelled alive. Wet earth. Salt. Smoke. Rain sitting heavy in the leaves.
The second thing you noticed was that everybody looked at each other like strangers trapped in an elevator. Which, technically, you guessed they were.
You sat near the edge of the beach with your knees pulled to your chest, trying not to think too hard about the fact that Oceanic 815 had broken apart in the sky less than twenty-four hours ago. Your hair was tangled from seawater and drying crookedly around your shoulders. Sand clung to your calves. Every muscle in your body hurt.
People moved around camp in uneven circles. Some cried. Some carried luggage around like that somehow mattered anymore. Some stared at the ocean like it owed them answers.
You mostly stayed quiet.
You’d spoken when spoken to. Helped where you could. Handed out bottles of water once Michael and Jin had brought some back from the wreckage. But mostly you kept to yourself because there were too many people and too many loud voices and every time someone shouted your chest tightened.
A few yards away, a dark-haired man argued with another survivor over sunscreen. Sunscreen. You stared at him for a second in disbelief.
“Unbelievable,” a voice drawled beside you.
You jumped.
A man lowered himself into the sand nearby without invitation, close enough for you to smell smoke and sweat on his shirt. Blond hair. Scruffy jaw. Blue eyes sharp as glass.
He nodded toward the arguing pair. “World falls outta the sky and people still worried about SPF.”
You let out a tiny laugh before you could stop yourself. His eyes flicked to you immediately, like he’d won something.
“Well there we go,” he said. “Thought maybe you didn’t talk.”
“I talk.”
“Mhm. Barely.”
You looked away quickly.
He leaned back on his elbows, studying you with shameless curiosity. “You got a name, sweetheart?”
You told him.
He repeated it slowly, testing it. “I’m Sawyer.”
You’d already heard of him. Not because he’d introduced himself to many people, but because he had somehow managed to annoy almost everyone within a few hours of surviving a plane crash.
Charlie called him a jackass under his breath earlier. Kate rolled her eyes every time he spoke. Hurley seemed weirdly entertained by him.
You glanced sideways. “You flirt with everybody?”
Sawyer smirked instantly. “Only the pretty ones.”
Heat rushed into your face so fast it annoyed you.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Well ain’t that adorable,” he murmured.
You pressed your lips together, staring at the waves.
“You always this shy?”
“I just met you.”
“And yet here we are, sharing a moment.”
“We’re not sharing a moment.”
“Feels like a moment.”
You laughed again despite yourself. Sawyer looked absurdly pleased. Before either of you could say anything else, Jack’s voice cut across the beach.
“We need more people gathering firewood!”
Several survivors reluctantly looked up.
Jack stood near the tents, exhausted but somehow still holding everyone together through sheer force of will. Kate beside him. Boone carrying supplies. Sun quietly helping Claire sit down nearby.
Then, before you could answer, Sawyer pushed himself to his feet and held a hand toward you.
“C’mon, sweetheart.”
Your stomach did a strange little flip but you ignored it.
“I’m not carrying wood with you.”
“Ain’t askin’. I’m tellin’.”
“You always this bossy?”
“No. You’re getting special treatment.”
You stared at him for a second before reluctantly taking his hand. His grip was warm and rough. And annoyingly gentle.
The jungle terrified you. Everybody else seemed fascinated by it, but all you could think about was how loud it was. Insects buzzing. Leaves rustling. Things moving where you couldn’t see them.
You stayed close behind Sawyer and Sayid as they gathered branches.
Sayid glanced back at you kindly. “You alright?”
“Yeah.”
“She don’t like the spooky trees,” Sawyer answered for you.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, you didn’t have to.”
You shot him a glare and he grinned. Sayid hid a smile and continued walking. A distant crashing sound echoed somewhere deeper in the jungle.
You froze instantly. Sawyer noticed before anyone else did.
“Easy,” he said quietly.
“What was that?”
“Probably just an animal.”
“That sounded big.”
“In Texas we call that Tuesday.”
You looked horrified enough that he laughed.
“I’m kiddin’, sweetheart.”
“You’re not funny.”
“But you keep smilin’.”
You immediately stopped smiling. Sawyer’s grin widened.
The three of you returned to camp near sunset carrying uneven bundles of wood. Sweat stuck your shirt to your back, and your arms ached. Hurley jogged over first.
“Dude, thank God. People are getting super weird without food.”
Sawyer tossed down the wood. “You sayin’ they weren’t weird before?”
Hurley pointed at a woman crying over a broken suitcase. “Fair point.”
Before you could answer, Claire approached looking exhausted, one hand resting on her stomach.
“Does anyone know where Jack is?”
“Near the fuselage,” you said quickly. “I saw him a few minutes ago.”
“Thanks.”
She smiled gratefully before walking off. You watched her go with concern.
“She shouldn’t be moving around this much,” you murmured.
Sawyer looked at you for a moment differently then. Less teasing.
“You always worry this much about people?”
You shrugged. “Someone should.”
For once, he didn’t have a sarcastic response ready.
Night on the island felt unreal. The fire crackled while darkness swallowed everything beyond the beach. Some people talked quietly. Others slept directly in the sand. Somewhere nearby, Charlie played a soft tune on his guitar while Claire listened.
You sat alone near the shoreline hugging your knees again. The stars looked too bright. Sawyer appeared beside you like he’d been doing it for years.
“You got a habit of sneakin’ off.”
“I like quiet.”
“Quiet’s overrated.”
“You’re overrated.”
He barked out a laugh.
“That one took effort, didn’t it?”
You rolled your eyes. For a little while, neither of you spoke. Ocean waves crashed gently nearby. Sawyer lit a cigarette, then paused halfway.
“You mind?”
“A little.”
He stared at the cigarette. Then, surprisingly, tucked it away again. Your eyebrows lifted.
“Well now,” he drawled. “Look at that. Personal growth.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You studied him carefully in the firelight. Underneath all the sarcasm and smirking, he looked tired. Not physically. Something deeper.
“You act like you don’t care about anybody,” you said softly.
Sawyer glanced sideways at you. “That right?”
“But you helped carry that man earlier after the crash.”
“So did everybody.”
“You gave that little boy your blanket last night.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“You keep tabs on everybody, sweetheart?”
You ignored the nickname this time.
“And you pretend to be worse than you are.”
Sawyer stared at the ocean for a long moment. Then he smirked again, but weaker now.
“Careful. Keep talkin’ like that and I might start likin’ you.”
Your pulse stumbled embarrassingly hard. Thankfully, before he could notice, Boone suddenly shouted from camp.
“Kate found more supplies!”
People immediately rushed toward the commotion. Sawyer groaned dramatically and stood.
“And there goes the peace.”
You stayed seated.
“Aren’t you going?”
“Nah.”
He looked down at you.
“You trust people too easy.”
“What?”
“Everybody here starts runnin’ the second somebody says supplies. Food. Water. Medicine.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “People get ugly real fast when they’re scared.”
You looked toward camp where survivors already argued over ownership.
Then back at him.
“You sound like you’ve seen that before.”
Sawyer’s expression shuttered instantly.
“Get some sleep.”
And just like that, he walked away.
The next day, while helping Kate organize medicine near the fuselage, you sliced your palm on exposed metal. You hissed sharply.
“Hold still,” Kate said immediately.
“It’s fine—”
“It’s bleeding everywhere.”
Sawyer appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
“Well hell, plane crash wasn’t enough excitement for you?”
“It’s a cut.”
“Lemme see.”
Before you could protest, he took your wrist carefully. His hands were warm despite the rain. You suddenly became hyperaware of Kate standing right there. Sawyer inspected your palm with surprising focus.
“That’s deep.”
“I’ll live.”
Kate handed him cloth and alcohol. “Here.”
“You trust him to do this?” you asked nervously.
Sawyer smirked lazily. “Aw, she trusts me.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“Too late now.”
You winced as alcohol hit the cut. Sawyer’s grip tightened slightly, steadying your hand.
“Easy,” he murmured.
The teasing was gone again. You hated that those moments affected you more than the flirting. Kate watched both of you with a knowing expression that made you immediately look away.
When Sawyer finished wrapping your hand, he held it a second longer than necessary.
“There,” he said quietly.
“Thanks.”
“Careful with those sharp objects, sweetheart. Island already ugly enough without you bleedin’ all over it.”
Your face heated instantly. Kate outright smiled this time. Sawyer looked delighted.
That night, the rain finally stopped. The sky cleared enough for stars to spill across the darkness again. Camp had settled quieter now. Not calm exactly. Just tired. You sat near the fire beside Charlie while he softly played guitar.
“That bloke fancies you, by the way,” Charlie said casually.
You nearly choked. “What?”
Charlie nodded toward Sawyer across the beach arguing with Sayid.
“He flirts with everyone,” you said quickly.
“Not like that.”
You looked down immediately.
Charlie grinned. “You fancy him back?”
“No.”
“That was fast.”
“I barely know him.”
“Mmhm.”
You threw a shell at him lightly while he laughed. Across the beach, Sawyer glanced over at the sound.
Summary: You and Finn are cast as love interests in a film that requires you to film an intimate scene together. You meet in his hotel room to rehearse scenes, trying to make them feel more natural and less uncomfortable. You admit you don’t know what you’re doing, and he very eagerly helps with that.
Warnings: MDNI. Coworkers to friends to lovers, kissing, fingering (f receiving), Finn comes in his pants, smut, inexperienced reader.
Words ~1900
and Emily… this is my first fic, I don’t think it’s very good, but I guess we all have to start somewhere …that’s all.
You felt the pressure as soon as you got out of the cab. You’re in the outskirts of London, about to meet the person you’ll be sharing the next few months with.
When you found out you had been cast for the role, you couldn’t believe it. Like, who would have thought a girl without practically any experience would end up in a movie with well-known actors?
Your thoughts were interrupted when a woman waved at you from the entrance of the building.
“Hi! You must be our new addition, right? I’m Kelly. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
You hesitated for half a second before following her inside, dragging your suitcase behind you.
The building was bigger than you expected, with glass walls, long corridors, and people moving quickly with headsets and clipboards, like they all knew exactly where they were supposed to be. You suddenly felt very aware of your hands, your posture, your existence.
Kelly walked fast, but not in a way that felt unfriendly. More like she’d done this a hundred times and had learned how to guide nervous people without making it worse.
“So,” she said as you passed a row of doors labeled with taped-up signs and production notes, “you’re playing the lead’s love interest.”
Your throat tightened slightly. “Yeah.”
She smiled at you over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’s nice. A bit quiet at first, but nice.”
Nice. You weren’t sure if that helped or made it worse.
They stopped in front of a door marked CASTING / REHEARSAL ROOM 3.
“This is where you’ll do most of your chemistry reads and rehearsals,” Kelly said, pushing it open.
The room was warmer than the hallway, softly lit, almost deceptively calm. A couch, a few chairs, a camera setup in the corner.
And then you saw him.
He was sitting on the edge of the couch, script in hand, head slightly tilted down like he was reading something for the tenth time even though it was probably already memorized. When he looked up, it was immediate, attention snapping to you like he’d been waiting for the door to open.
Kelly glanced between you two. “Finn, this is—”
“I know,” he said, standing up too quickly, then pausing like he’d realized that might’ve been too fast. “Hi.”
You suddenly forgot your own name for a second.
“Hi,” you managed.
There was a beat of silence.
Not awkward exactly.
Just… loaded with the fact that this was it. The person you’d be pretending to be in love with for months.
Kelly, thankfully oblivious, clapped her hands once. “Great. I’ll leave you two to it. Start with the first scene, okay? Just read through it, get comfortable.”
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut.
You stood there.
He stood there.
Finn lifted the script slightly. “So… first scene.”
“Yeah,” you said. “First scene.”
After a few weeks of filming together, the awkwardness wasn’t really there anymore.
You’d watch movies in each other’s hotel rooms when filming ran late—half paying attention, half just enjoying the company. Someone would always fall asleep before the ending credits. Coffee runs also became a shared ritual, usually early mornings where neither of you was fully awake.
When your assistant mentioned that scene was scheduled for tomorrow, something in your stomach tightened immediately.
You’d been avoiding thinking about it.
You stared at the message on your phone longer than you should have.
Finn didn’t know you were nervous. Or maybe he did, but you hadn’t said it out loud. You didn’t want to ruin the ease between you. Didn’t want to make it weird.
So you kept it to yourself.
Until the next day.
The hotel room was familiar now. His hoodie on the chair, your script on the table, the faint sound of traffic outside the window.
Finn looked up as you walked in. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you said, trying to sound normal.
He tilted his head slightly. “You okay?”
You hesitated.
“I’m fine,” you said automatically.
He didn’t buy it, but waited.
And you felt it building in your chest—the embarrassment, the nerves, the stupid feeling of being inexperienced in a room where you were supposed to know exactly what you were doing.
Your grip tightened on your script.
“I just…” you started, then stopped.
Finn didn’t push. He just watched you, like he was giving you space to land the sentence properly.
You swallowed. “I’m a bit nervous about tomorrow.”
There. Out.
Silence.
Then, softly: “Yeah?”
You nodded once, eyes briefly flicking away. “It’s just… I don’t have much experience with scenes like that. And I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
Finn didn’t laugh. Didn’t make it awkward.
He just nodded slowly, like it made perfect sense.
“Okay,” he said simply. “We can practice it if it’ll make you feel more comfortable.”
“Really?”
“Of course, we are friends.” he started flipping the pages of the script until he found the scene. “Come on, to the couch.”
You were surprised by his attitude. You expected him to be more professional about it, but instead, he seemed… excited?
When you were about to sit next to him, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you right onto his lap.
“Finn—” you started, but he cut you off with a kiss before murmuring, “That’s not my character’s name.”
He kissed you again, this time slower and and less rushed.
Your hands hovered for a moment like they didn’t know what to do with themselves, and then you gently pressed against his shoulder, just enough to create space.
He pulled back immediately.
“Sorry—” he started at the same time you said, “Wait—”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I probably skipped a few lines...”
“It’s okay,” you rushed out, words spilling before you could stop them. “It’s just that I’m not only nervous about filming the scene—it’s that I’ve never done anything like this in real life, so how am I supposed to know what to do in a situation like that? I’ve—”
He stopped you before you could spiral further.
“Don’t worry, just relax, I’ll help you, okay?”
“Okay…” you whispered.
You trusted him completely—too completely, maybe—which is why you didn’t immediately pull away when he guided you back onto the couch.
“For educational purposes, right?” he said while smirking before kissing you again.
The kiss starts slow, his hands settling on you waist and yours burying into his curls. He groans into your mouth and slips his leg between yours. You part your legs instinctively for him and feel the outline of his erection pressing against your core. His hands go up and down your sides and stop when he feels you pull at his shirt. He takes the hint and sits back on his knees to take it off. Seeing him shirtless gives you the confidence to take yours off too, reveling your bare breasts to him.
He stops to admire the view in front of him, making you a bit self conscious. And before you’re able to cover yourself, he grabs your wrists.
“No, don’t please, I just want too look at them for a bit longer” he begs. You stifle a laugh at his tone and move your hands to your sides.
“Can I…?” he asks.
“Mmm… yeah, sure” you answer hesitantly, not knowing exactly what he’s referring to.
He starts fondling one of your breasts while kissing the other. His lips leave dark marks and you arch your back at the feeling. He starts moving down while kissing your abdomen. He plays with the waistband of your shorts before he made his way up until he was face to face with you again.
“Can I take your shorts off?” He asked calmly.
You nodded with little hesitation and lifted your hips up so he could pull them off, leaving you in your panties.
“So beautiful…” he murmured and kissed your abdomen.
He presses a soft kiss right against your clit over your panties, before pressing his face against you and breathing in. You smell like heaven, a mix of your perfume and arousal that makes his hips rut against the sofa where he’s laying on his belly.
He pulls your panties to the side, taking a second to look at you.
“Wait—”
“Is everything okay? Is it too much—”
“No, no, it’s okay. I just think I’m not ready for that yet”
“Okay, then just my fingers? Is that alright?”
“Yeah, just your fingers”
“I’m just gonna put one in first, okay?” He whispers against your lips and you nod, desperate to feel them inside you. You’ll never tell him many times you’ve done this to yourself wishing that your own fingers were his.
“Oh” you moan when his finger slides inside. It feels much better than you imagined. He starts moving it while rubbing your clit. At your moans, he brings his middle finger up to your entrance before sinking both of them inside you. “There you go, feels much better right?” They slip in easily and starts moving the upwards. His thumb continues pressing on your clit, touching you in ways you could never manage on your own.
“Oh, Finn… Oh my god…” you get louder, your eyes shutting down in pleasure as you move your hips against his fingers. You feel the knot in your stomach tighten, just as he mumbles against your lips. “Come for me baby, just let go”
You let out a shaky moan, a breathless version of his name. Your pussy clenches around his fingers as you come, hand in his hair pulling and drawing a moan from him. He lets you ride the aftershocks of your orgasm before pulling out his fingers and licking them clean.
“You did so good for me baby”.
He watches your flushed face and messy hair as you try to regain your breath, the room settling into a quiet calm around you. After a moment, his hand drifts gently through your hair, careful.
“You okay?” he asks softly, voice stripped of all teasing.
You nod weakly, still catching your breath, and he smiles at that.
“Come here.”
He pulls you closer against his chest, letting you rest there while your heartbeat slowly evens out. His fingers trace absentminded patterns along your back, patient, unhurried.
“There you are,” he murmurs when you finally relax into him. “Breathe for me.”
You shift slightly against him once your breathing steadies, tilting your head up just enough to meet his gaze.
“Let me return the favor,” you murmur, still a little breathless.
A quiet laugh leaves him, warm and tired. He brushes his thumb across your cheek before shaking his head.
“There’s no need,” he says softly.
You frown faintly. “Are you sure?”
His smile turns almost bashful then, eyes flicking away for a second before settling back on you.
“I already finished,” he admits, voice low.
“Just from taking care of me?” He nods.
Heat rushes back into your face at the confession, and he chuckles quietly at your reaction, pulling you closer again before pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.
“So stop worrying about me,” he murmurs. “Just stay here for a bit.”
His fingers continue tracing absent patterns against your skin until your eyes begin to droop.
“Tired?” he murmurs.
“A little,” you admit, voice muffled against his chest.
He hums softly, pressing another kiss into your hair. “Then sleep.”
Just before sleep pulls you under, you feel his arms tighten slightly around you.
