they fucked up almost every character, itâs like they forgot what they had written in the past seasons and just decided to rewrite whatever actual personality the characters USED to have
donât get me wrong i know cassie was pretty shitty but she had depth, now she has nothing but sex appeal and crash outs tf?
plssss plsss write something like mean!steve x reader whose being all bratty and then says something that reallyyyyy hits home and heâs all sexy and like âdonât talk to me like thatâ and she realizes heâs serious and then she gets in trouble for it later⊠obvi smutty plsss
18+ MDNI mean!steve x brat!reader | angst | hurt and comfort(the smut is the comfort yall) | smut
this has been in my inbox for a few weeks and i've been working on it since then, but finally finished.
summary: ever since vecna, steve is a little protective when he doesn't know where you're at
warnings: reader lowkey mean too, porn with a tiny plot, spanking, steve is sort of... controlling(term used lightly)... but because he is traumatized :(, steve hits a wall, overstimulation, face riding, steve doesnt allow reader to touch him (for sexy reasons), also this is me shamelessly being a pudgy tummy steve lover tyvm đââïž
a/n: sorry might have overdone it with the spanking...
don't speak to me like that
The door closes behind you too softly.
Thatâs the first thing you notice, the quiet click instead of a slam, like the house itself is holding its breath for what's about to come. Youâre still warm from the car, from laughter and music and Robinâs voice shouting over Eddieâs awful cassette, but the second you step inside, the air changes. Cooler. Still. Heavy in a way that presses against your ribs.
Steve is already there.
Heâs standing in the living room, not sitting, not pretending to be relaxed. Jacket still on. Keys on the table where they donât belong, like he dropped them without thinking. The overhead light casts a tired shadow across his face, catching on the dark circles under his eyes, the faint crease between his brows that never quite went away after everything that happened.
He looks⊠done.
Not angry yet. Just exhausted in that brittle way that makes anger inevitable.
âThere you are,â he says.
Not hey. Not you okay? Just that. Flat. Tight.
Your stomach twists, instinctive. You hadnât told him. It was supposed to be quickâwork ran late, Robin suggested drinks, one thing bled into another. A last-minute decision you didnât think would matter.
You slip your shoes off, slower than necessary. âHi,â you say, light, like this is normal. Like you didnât already brace yourself the moment you turned the key.
His eyes flick over you, sharp and assessing. The faint flush in your cheeks. The looseness in your posture. He knows.
âWho dropped you off?â he asks.
âRobin. Eddie.â You lean back against the doorframe, folding your arms, casual on purpose. The wood is cool through your jacket. âBefore you start... yes, I was safe. Yes, I had fun. No, I didnât die.â
His jaw tightens. You see it happen, the muscle jumping like something trying to claw its way out.
âYou didnât tell me you were going out,â he says.
You shrug. âIt wasnât planned.â
âThatâs not the point.â
You laugh, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. Too sharp. Too careless. âOh my god, listen to yourself. You sound like youâre in charge or something.â
Steve closes his eyes for half a second.
When he opens them again, he exhales slowly through his nose. That breathâthe careful one. The one he takes when heâs trying to keep himself in check, when the memories crowd too close and everything feels like it could go wrong if he lets go for even a moment.
âIâm not saying Iâm in charge,â he says. âIâm saying you donât get to disappear without telling me.â
You tilt your head, studying him. The way his shoulders are set like armor. The way his hair falls into his eyes because he hasnât bothered fixing it. He looks older like this. Tired. Worn thin.
âDisappearing?â you echo. âSteve, please. I went for drinks, not into another dimension.â
His eyes snap to yours. Sharp. Bright. âWatch it.â
You push off the doorframe and step closer, invading his space because part of you resents how small he makes the world feel sometimes. Because youâre tipsy enough to be bold, and tired enough not to care.
âOr what?â you ask, voice sweet, almost lazy. âYou gonna give me another lecture? Tell me how irresponsible I am for having a life?â
His jaw clenches hard enough that it aches just looking at it.
âYou think this is cute,â he says. âYou think pushing me makes you untouchable.â
You shrug, a small lift of your shoulders. âI mean⊠hasnât it so far?â
The silence that follows is thick, pressing against your ears.
Steve turns away from you and starts pacing. Back and forth across the living room, boots heavy against the floor, hand dragging through his hair like heâs trying to pull himself back into control.
âI got home from work,â he says, voice tight, âand you werenât here. No note. No call. Nothing.â
You scoff. âI didnât know I needed permission to grab a drink after work.â
His head snaps up. âThatâs not what Iâm saying.â
âItâs what you mean,â you fire back. âYou always do this. You act like if youâre not watching everything, something bad will happen.â
He stops pacing. The stillness is sudden, sharp.
âThatâs unfair,â he says.
You shrug, bored, leaning back into sarcasm because itâs easier than admitting thereâs truth tangled up in it. âIs it? Because sometimes it feels like you need me to be in danger. Like you donât know what to do with yourself otherwise.â
His jaw tightens. âCareful.â
That word should stop you. It should be enough.
It isnât.
âYou know what I think?â you say, the words coming faster now, slick with bravado and something meaner underneath. âI think if I stopped needing you. If I stopped letting you play hero, you wouldnât even know who you are.â
The room goes utterly still.
Steve looks at you like youâve reached inside him and twisted something raw.
You feel it thenâa sharp, fleeting pulse of regretâbut you push past it, reckless and cruel in the way only people who love each other can be.
âBecause without someone to save,â you add lightly, like itâs a joke, âyouâre just a guy who peaked early and doesnât know what to do with himself.â
Steve moves before you can take it back.
One moment heâs across the room, the next heâs in front of you, forcing you back until your shoulders meet the wall. He doesnât touch you, but the space he claims is absolute. His presence presses in, heavy and overwhelming, all coiled tension and restrained fury.
âYou really donât know when to stop,â he says quietly.
Your heart stutters. You force a smirk that doesnât reach your eyes. âI stop when I want.â
Thatâs when he snaps.
His hand slams into the wall beside your head, close enough that the sound cracks through you, close enough that you flinch despite yourself. He doesnât hurt you. He doesnât need to.
His voice drops, low and rough, stripped of humor, stripped of restraint.
âDonât talk to me like that.â
You see it before you feel it.
The way Steveâs face hardens, not into anger exactly, but into something more restrained. Something pulled tight by years of fear he never learned how to put down. The overhead light carves shadows beneath his eyes, turning them dark, almost bottomless, the blue swallowed by something heavier. His lashes cast sharp lines against his cheeks when he looks down at you, jaw clenched so hard it looks like it might crack.
His breathing isnât steady.
Thatâs what gives him away.
Each inhale drags in too deep, each exhale pushed out like heâs forcing himself not to say something worse. His throat works when he swallows, the muscle in his neck pulsing once, twiceâcontrol, control, control.
You realize, distantly, that youâre drunker than you thought.
Because instead of shrinking back, instead of feeling properly scared, heat curls low in your stomach. A dangerous, traitorous thrill. His anger looks good on him. Terrible and magnetic and yours.
You canât help the tiny smirk that pulls at your mouth.
You look up at him through your lashes, deliberately slow, letting them fan your cheeks as you blinkâwide-eyed, innocent. You tilt your head just slightly, like you donât understand why heâs upset. Like youâre not enjoying this.
His jaw tightens further.
Your mouth opens automatically, another comment, another challenge, but you freeze.
Because heâs not joking.
His eyes are dark now. Focused. Not amused. Not entertained.
âYouâve been pushing all night,â he says, every word deliberate, carved out instead of spoken. âTesting me. Seeing how far you can go.â
Your throat bobs as you swallow.
âAnd now youâre gonna stand there,â he adds, leaning in just enough that his breath brushes your face, âand tell me you didnât mean to cross a line.â
You canât.
Because you did.
Steve straightens abruptly, stepping back like heâs physically pulling himself away from the edge. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching, jaw still tight, eyes briefly closing like heâs counting down from something dangerous.
âHereâs whatâs gonna happen,â he says. âYouâre gonna stop acting like nothing has consequences.â
When he looks at you again, itâs slow. Deliberate. Calculated.
âAnd later,â he adds, voice dropping, âweâre gonna talk about this attitude.â
Your stomach flipsânot fear, not exactly. Anticipation laced with dread.
He grabs his keys and heads for the door, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder.
âNext time,â he says quietly, âthink before you open that mouth.â
The door closes behind him.
Itâs much later when he finally comes home.
You havenât moved from the couch. The TV hums softly, some mindless late-night rerun playing to no one. You havenât really been watching, just staring, replaying the look on his face over and over, your buzz long since dulled into something heavier.
The door opens.
Steve steps inside, quieter this time. He doesnât smell like a bar. No alcohol. Just him, and faintly, unmistakably, cigarette smoke.
Your chest tightens. The WSQK rooftop. His place to think. Or brood. Or fail at calming down.
It didnât work.
You know that the moment his eyes find you.
You roll your eyes and huff, loud and deliberate. From the corner of your vision, you catch the way his mouth twitches, an incredulous little chuckle as he shakes his head.
âUnbelievable,â he mutters.
He shrugs off his jacket, movements controlled, almost ritualistic. Rolls up his sleeves, exposing forearms still corded with tension. Loosens the tie at his throat like itâs choking him. Only then does he look at you again.
You snap your gaze back to the TV.
âStill acting like a brat, I see,â Steve says coldly.
You tuck your knees into your chest and turn the volume up.
He crosses the room in two long strides.
The remote disappears from your hand. The screen goes black.
âHeyââ you start, scolding, but the word dies in your throat when you look up.
Steve is towering over you.
Arms crossed. Muscles flexing beneath his shirt. Moonlight spills through the window, painting his face in cool blue shadows, sharpening his cheekbones, darkening his eyes until they look almost black.
âItâs time to talk about how disrespectful you were earlier,â he says.
You stand slowly, chin lifting. âOh please, Steve. Youâre not exactly scary.â
His mouth curves, but not into a smile, something sharper. Wicked. His eyes flash, dark and decisive.
In a heartbeat, the distance between you is gone.
You gasp as the world tilts, your breath knocking out of you as he scoops you up with ease, strength unmistakable, inescapable. He throws you over his shoulder.
âSteve! Put me downâoh!â
Your protest cuts off as his grip tightens, and a sharp crack against the exposed flesh of your ass from Steve's hand.
His voice drops close and dangerous, promise heavy in every syllable.
âNot tonight,â he says.
You bite your lip from the excitement coiling inside you. The anticipation of whatever punishment Steve has in store for you. The possibilites are endless, and it nearly has you melting. You can't help but grind yourself on his chest, feeling the way his nails digs into your skin. How his muscles feel against the pressure under your sleep shorts.
Steve kicks open your shared bedroom, kicking a basket out of the way that you were supposed to empty two days ago. He tosses you on the bed, a soft bounce from the force.
You brush back the hair that fell in your face, bracing yourself up by your elbows, looking at him with your wide lecherous gaze.
He's not looking at you as he unbuttons his dress shirt. "Take off your clothes," he demands. Peeling off his shirt, tossing it somewhere in the room.
You listen, but with malicious competence. You started with your fuzzy socks, tugging them off slowly, smirking when you heard the clinking of his belt pause.
You then slowly untied your sleep shorts, though the ribbon was crumpbled from being washed because you have it perfectly tied to only having to slip them on anytime you wear them. The ribbon was knotted and frayed. In reality, all you really needed to do was tug them down, but the scoff from Steve's lips felt like fire under your ribs.
You looked up and saw Steve pushing his slacks down, kicking them elewhere, the bulge under his boxers tenting. His jaw ticked watching you purposefully take your time, shimmying them down your legs.
You really could have been completely bare in seconds but you were enjoying seeing his jaw grind, and his shoulders pull taut. Because you knew, as soon as you touched him, he would be a puddle. That all his tension and anger would be over in seconds, and you would be the one back in charge.
Steve rolled his eyes as you took your time hoisting your sleep shirt over your head. He had had enough. He crawled on the bed, scowling, ripping the shirt off. You smiled sweetly at him, your hand moving toward your favorite part, the pudge of his stomach, but he quickly grabbed your wrist, shaking his head.
"Nope. You're not allowed to touch me tonight," Steve orders.
"But baby..." you coo, pouting.
He mimicked your puckered bottom lip, blinking, his voice gentle and condescending at the same time. "Should have thought of that before you ran your mouth, honey."
You let out a laugh, raising your brows. "You won't be able to finish if I don't touch you."
Steve's smiles crookedly, petting your hair like he's supposed to be comforting you. He then plants a chaste kiss on your lips, making you sigh. It's so soft, and you think maybe he has forgiven you.
You were wrong. He pushes you all the way down, his hands cuffing your wrists to your sides as his mouth attacks your neck, sucking, biting, marking what's his. He nips your collarbone as he moves south, your back arches from the wet sounds of his tongue, and the heat of his mouth on your skin.
He looks up, "Can I trust you to listen if I let go of your hands?"
You nod.
He pulls back, his hand cupping your face, your lips puckering out, making you look right at him.
"Words, honey. I know you like to talk so anytime I ask you something, you're going to use them. Okay?"
"O...okay," you pant as his tongue found your hardened nipple.
He asks again. "Are you going to touch me if I let go?"
"N- shit!" Steve presses himself into you, his cock, still hidden under his underwear, grazing your thigh. "No," you breathe out shakily.
"No, what?" He pushes.
"No... Steve."
Steve let's go your wrists, wedging his knee between your thighs so he can sturdy himself. He hovers you, his mouth still sucking on the flesh of your breasts, both hands fondling them with such delicate care.
The tension in his shoulders doesnât disappear; it rearranges itself, settling into something solid and grounded. When he lifts his head, placing another rough kiss on your mouth, the light catches his face just right, and it knocks the breath from your lungs in a way that has nothing to do with desire alone.
Steve Harrington has always been beautiful. Thatâs never been in question. But like this, when he's focused, unyielding, deliberate, itâs different.
His hair is a mess, falling into his eyes in soft waves that make him look younger than he is, gentler than the edge in his voice suggests. His lashes are dark and thick, casting shadows against his cheeks when he looks down at you, and his mouth, usually quick with a grin, a joke, a deflection, is set firm now. Determined. Certain.
Thereâs care in it.
Thatâs what hits you hardest.
Not the strength. Not the authority. But the way his hands, even when theyâre holding you still, are careful. Like he knows exactly how much pressure to use. Like heâs paying attention to every breath you take, every shift of your body beneath him.
Steve plants wet smacking kisses down past your naval, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. But before he takes them off, he burrows his face right in the center of your clothed cunt. He takes a deep inahle, his mouth sucking the pool of wetness that drenches the soft cotton.
You buck your hips, trying to grind your pussy into his face, but he smacks the plush of your thigh. He shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. That's not how it works."
Then he tears the delicate fabric down your legs, immediately spreading your legs wide. "You know, you never have to be mean to me to get my attention, sweetheart. It's like you were wanting to pick a fight so I'd do this."
Steve sucks his teeth. "I mean, how long were you aching for me to fuck you?"
You try to squeeze your thighs, to relieve the pressure of your swollen clit. Steve is quick to push them back, making you whine. "Honey, that was a question."
"All day," you admit. "Been thinking about you all day since I saw you making coffee shirtless this morning."
Your eyes dance over his bare chest.
His chest is broad and solid, not sculpted to perfection but real, warm, lived-in. A dusting of dark hair spreads across his skin, thicker at the center, trailing downward in a way that makes your breath catch. Itâs soft-looking, not roughâsomething meant to be pressed into, not admired from a distance.
Your gaze follows the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.
Thereâs a plushness to him that you love, a softness that doesnât take away from his strength but deepens it. The faint curve of his stomach, your favorite part, the part you always reach for without thinking, moves when he exhales, warm and inviting. Itâs the kind of body that feels safe. Like it could hold you there indefinitely, like nothing sharp or cruel could exist while youâre tucked against it.
Steve finally rids of his boxers, his thick swollen cock slapping his stomach. It's dripping of pre-cum, and everytime it makes you wonder how the hell he hasn't killed you with it yet. How the hell it even manages to fit.
You think your misery is over, that he's finally going to fuck you.
"Get up." He says.
You listen, scrambling to your knees, mouth ready to take him, but you frown when he crawls back on the bed, then flops on his back. You don't have time to ask before he's pulling you on top of his chest, your bare dripping pussy dragging over the coarse hairs as he pulls you closer and closer.
"You're going to sit on my face, okay?" He says.
You've only sat on his face one time before, and he had to beg you to do it then. You were always scared it was too much, that you'd suffocate him. There was no begging this time. It was an order.
You gulp, nodding, then remembering. "Yes, Steve."
He smiles, kissing the inside of your thigh, before hoisting you over his face. His hot breath fans your pussy, the warmth sticking to your wetness, before he slams you down.
An immediate, husky groan vibrates through you as he puts his tongue to work against your clit. His fingernails dig in your thighs, pushing himself further into you. You try to grind yourself against his mouth but he holds you tighter, preventing you from any form of friction.
You feel your body weakening, hands against the wall, crying out in pleasure. You wish you could grip his hair, but you knew he would swat your hand away. You find the courage to look down, meeting his gaze.
And his eyesâ
God.
Theyâre darker like this. Not the sharp rich hazel that watches doors and windows and exits, not the one always counting threats.
These are heavy-lidded, unfocused at the edges, glossy with drink and heat and something dangerously close to trust. They follow you when you move, slow and intent, like heâs trying to memorize the way you look hovering over him.
Thereâs no fight in them right now.
Just want. Just openness.
His lashes flutter when you shift, breath hitching softly in his chest, and for a moment he looks almost dazed, like the world has narrowed down to this exact angle. His tongue quickens slightly, you feel his lips curved with the ghost of a smile he hasnât realized heâs wearing.
He palms your ass, pulling and tugging at the flesh that's sure to leave a mark as soon as he starts lightly smacking it. You bite your lip, listening to his throaty moans, mixed with the soft cracks of his palm against your ass, mixed with the way you're high-pitched moans release from your mouth. It's mixed with schlick sounds of him licking, slurping, and ocassionally teeth grazing your clit. It's mixed with the creak of the mattress underneath you two.
His tongue has not entered inside you once, but he still manages to pull an orgasm out of you.
"Steve oh my god, Steve." You shout. You shake. You burn from the heat pouring out of you.
But Steve doesn't stop, he's still licking and sucking. He' shifts you barely, so that this time his tongue can enter your aching pussy. He's swilling your sweet finish, tongue swiping your walls.
"Baby, I... I can't..." you plead, feeling him ask for more, rocking your hips over his mouth, his nose pressing on your clit, the added pressure making you gasp.
Steve moves you so he can speak. "Yes you can, baby. I know how desperate you are to be fucked today. You can give me another. Can't you? That's a question."
"No... Steve... holy fuck." Tears prickle your eyes from his mouth sucking your clit again.
It's the quick flicks of his tongue and him rocking you against him that makes you spill out another shaky wanton moan. Your head bows forward, eyes narrowed as he looks up at you. This time he doesn't revel your undoing, instead he tosses you on your back, rolling on top of you.
His lips are swollen and wet. The proof of your orgasm dribbles his chin.
His mouth greedily finds yours. "I'm gonna fuck you now, okay?" he pants, snaking between you two, gripping himself, pumping to get ready to slip inside you.
You bat your eyes, biting your lip. You aren't sure if you can take it, your insides are jelly, and your pussy is sore. "Okay," you whisper, despite yourself.
As Steve lines himself up to enter, you speak again. "Stevie, I'm sorry for what I said."
Then, you do what you've wanted to do this entire time, your palms falls on his chest, and wanders down to his stomach, fingers ghosting the freckles, flesh, and hair. Your hand splays on the pudge, scratching it gently, tugging the thatch of dark fleece.
Steve's eyes are wide, and he whimpers, "Fuck... baby... no I told you not to touch me... shit." A ruined sound comes out the back of his throat.
You watch in satisfaction as his cock pulses and twitches in his hand. He quickly puts the tip in, one long thrust, and his own acute moan breaks free before he's pulling it back out, thick ropes falling on your bare stomach. It's warm and slick against you.
His shoulders are slouched, chest heaving, collecting himself before his eyes catches yours. He swallows, throat working, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before finding your gaze again, softer now. Almost shy.
One of his hands lifts, hesitating then settles at your waist like heâs reminding himself heâs allowed to touch. "I take care of you when you mouth off, and now I'll have to take care of you because you don't listen."
You tilt your head, knowingly, eyes flashing daringly. "Oh no. I'm so scared."
Moments later, because of pure stamina, or pure anger, or maybe because he just really fucking loves you and forgives you. Steve has you bent over, face smushed in pillows, handsâ so you don't break the rules a second timeâ pinned above your head, so he can fuck the rest of your attitude out.
hear me out steve x reader but like she actually matches his sass and they're like clocking the shit out of each other and there's actual chemistry and sexual tension
i'm actually so tired of x shy!reader its not even funny đ someone put steve in his place already goddamn
slacker ౚৠâïœĄË steve harrington x reader
âË đđ synopsis: steve harrington is the most infuriating coworker on the planet: arrogant, lazy, and constantly finding new ways to get under your skin. the constant bickering finally snaps one slow shift, and you both decide the only way to shut each other up is to fuck the attitude right out of one another.
itâs midway through a dead wednesday shift at family video, the afternoon sun slanting through the blinds and turning the place into a greenhouse. the acâs been wheezing all day, barely keeping up, and the air feels thick and humid. thereâs one customer browsing comedies in the back, but otherwise itâs just you and steve harrington, trapped together for another agonizing three hours.
youâre behind the counter sorting late fees, jaw tight from the heat and from him. steveâs over by the new releases, âorganizingâ in that lazy way he doesâreally just flipping tapes around to kill time while sneaking glances at you.
"oh my god, can you, like, actually do your job please, steve?" you call over to him, absolutely exasperated.
"all the new releases get thrown around anyways, jesus." he mutters back.
âfine, whatever,â you groan, not looking up. âthat whole row of returns is still out of order.â
he doesnât even turn around, just keeps sliding a tape into place with exaggerated care.
âpretty sure itâs totally fine. unlike your attitude today.â he mumbles that last part, sighing.
âmy attitude, harrington?" you laugh, your eyebrow raised.
"yea thatâs definitely the problem.â you scoff.
steve finally faces you, leaning back against the shelf with that infuriating half-smirk.
"y'know, you're being extra bitchy right now," he laughs
"like even more than usual."
he knew exactly how to get under your skin.
âjesus, you're so irritating, harrington.â you groan, throwing a tape down a little harder than necessary.
âi'm actually beyond tired of carrying the shift while you stand around looking pretty.â
his smirk widens, eyes narrowing. âoh, so you think iâm pretty?â
you roll your eyes.
âdonât fish for compliments, harrington. itâs, like, totally pathetic.â
he pushes off the shelf, sauntering over until heâs on the other side of the counter, close enough that you can smell his cologne cutting through the stale air.
"kinda seems like you canât stop looking at me."
you meet his gaze head-on, biting your cheek to avoid smiling.
âmaybe because you're always in the way, asshole."
the customer in the back finally checks outâsome middle-aged guy renting die hard for, like, the third time this month. you ring him up in silence, steve watching from the side with his arms crossed, that smug look still plastered on his face. you study him, like, really take a good look at him.
you hate the way the fabric of his shirt pulls tight around his biceps. you hate the way his perfect lips curve into that infuriating, smug smile. you hate the way his brown eyes drag slowly over you, like he already knows that beneath all the bickering, you want him the same way he wants you.
the bell above the door jingles as the guy leaves. you flip the sign to closed a full hour early because, fuck it, no oneâs coming in this heat anyway. lights dim in the back rows. just the hum of the air conditioning and the two of you.
"alrighty," you grab your keys from under the counter.
âiâm out. lock up if you want, or donât. get fired for all i care.â you shrug, laughing to yourself.
you try to brush past him, towards the door. he doesnât move out of your way.
âwow, headed out already?â he says, voice low, stepping into your path.
âweâve still got closing stuff to do, slacker.â
you stop short, close enough now to feel the heat rolling off him.
âmove, steve.â you say, stifling a smile. you can't help but laugh at him trying to weaponize your own logic against you.
âmake me.â he deadpans.
the words hang there, heavy. his eyes are darker than usual, locked on yours, daring. you hate how your pulse jumps.
"i'm not doing this with you, harrington." you sigh.
âc'mon, youâve been riding my ass all day,â he says, quieter, stepping closer until your backâs almost against the counter.
âwhatâs it gonna take for us to get along?â
you donât back down, tilting your chin up, pretending to ponder his question. âwell, maybe if you werenât such a total airhead-â
he cuts you off, hand reaching out to grip your waist, yanking you closer. âkeep talking,â he murmurs, mouth inches from yours. âsee where it gets you.â
your mouth opens slightly, but the smug remark you were about to rattle off doesn't come. you should shove him. you should leave.
instead, you grab a fistful of his hair and crash your mouth into his. itâs immediateâteeth and heat and frustration. he groans into it, hands sliding down to grip your ass, lifting you onto the counter in one rough motion. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, groaning at the way you can feel him pressed flush against you.
"didn't expect you to be so easy,â he grins against your lips, biting your bottom one until you gasp. his hands shove under your shirt, palms hot on bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.
âwell, i could tell you'd be.â you shoot back, breathless,
"you're already fucking hard," you scoff, hands sliding beneath his shirt.
"dont act like you don't want this just as badly" he mutters against your lips, which shuts you up pretty quickly.
he yanks his shirt over his head and lets it fall to the floor. you run your hands across the soft hair on his chest, moving your head to his neck, nipping at his skin roughly, thumb brushing his collarbone. he groans, hips grinding against you.
he drops to his knees between your legs without warning, yanking your jeans open, hooking his thick fingers into the waistband of your underwear and dragging them down with your pants.
"all that fucking mouth," he mutters, voice rough, âand youâre soaked for me already.â
âshut up andââ the words die in a moan as his mouth finds you, he moves his tongue against you, firmer, nose bumping your pussy as his tongue circles your clit sloppily, fast and perfect. your head thunks back against the shelf behind the counter, hands fisting his hair tighter.
he pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny, eyes dark.
"you taste as good as you talk shit." he mutters, laughing softly.
he grips your hips roughly, pulling you closer, burying his face fully. he presses two pliant fingers into you as he sucks at you roughly.
his fingers curl inside you, knuckles deep, stretching your walls with messy thrusts; shallow at first, then deeper as he feels you clench around them. feeling the soft hum of his groans against your dripping pussy is driving you absolutely insane.
"please, just fuck me." you practically whimper, folding so easily.
steve freezes, mouth still on you, breath hot and stuttering. he pulls back slow, a string of spit connecting his mouth to you.
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring up at you like he canât believe what he just heard.
âwow,â he says, voice rough but laced with that cocky edge, standing up between your legs. a grin tugs at his lips.
you flush, shoving his shoulder weakly. âshut up, harrington.â
âno, no, hold on,â he laughs, breathless, hands sliding up your thighs as he moves closer. âi can't believe those words just came out of your fucking mouth,â
"steve,â you groan, pulling him against you by his belt loops, legs wrapping around his waist again.
âyou really want me to, huh?â he teases, forehead pressing to yours, eyes on yours.
âhurry up, harrington.â you mutter, your fingers on his lower stomach, fingertips grazing lower, running along the seam of his jeans.
you bite his lipâhard this timeâand he hisses, grin widening.
âjesus, fine,â he mutters, fumbling with his belt. eyes locked on yours the whole time, watching your face like heâs memorizing it. you help, impatient, shoving his jeans down just enough.
you glance downâyou canât help itâand your breath catches. heâs hard, and way bigger than you expected, the sight making your mouth go dry and your core clench around nothing.
âchrist, steve,â you mutter before you can stop yourself, eyes flicking back up to his face.
he notices, of courseâthat smug little grin turning downright triumphant. âyeah? like what you see?â
you roll your eyes, but your cheeks are burning. âdonât let it go to your head.â
âtoo late,â he says, voice low, lining up with your slick entrance. heâs pressing against youâhot, hard, eyes locked on yours the whole time,
he thrusts into you so roughlyâone deep stroke that makes you both curse. the counterâs edge digs into your thighs but you donât care.
he sets a brutal pace immediately, hips snapping, one hand in your hair pulling your head back so he can bite your neck.
"you like that?" he pants against your skin. you can only whine in response, already breathless.
"huh?" he asks mockingly "this what youâve been bitching for?"
"fuck," you whine
"please, harder" you groan, nails scraping down his back. you meet every thrust, clenching around him on purpose just to hear him groan. he slides a hand between you, fingers rough on your clit, rubbing fast circles. your head tips back, his name falling out of your mouth.
"fucking slut," he mutters.
you slap him hard across the face, moving your hips more roughly into his.
"fuck," he moans, driving into you harder, deeper.
âfigures you're into thatâ you laugh.
itâs messy, desperateâteeth bumping when you kiss, hands grabbing wherever they land. he hitches one of your legs higher around his waist, angle shifting, and a sharp moan spills out of your mouth as he hits that spot deep inside you with every thrust.
âfuckâright thereââ you gasp, nails digging harder into his back.
âyeah?â he pants, forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded.
you nod frantically, hips rolling up to meet him. âdonât stop,â you moan, your breathing shaky. he doesnâtâpace turning relentless, the counter creaking louder with every slam. youâre both sweating, and you can smell the saltiness of damp skin mixed with his cologne. his back is slick against your hands, the air thick with the sound of skin on skin and breathless curses.
âfuck, i'm so close,â you manage, squeezing around him deliberately. his hands dig into your hips as he pushes into you so hard he has to pin you down to keep you still.
he grabs your wrist and presses your hand down flat against your lower stomach, right where you can feel the hard ridge of him moving inside you with every thrust.
"feel how fucking deep i am?" he mutters breathlessly, voice rough and wrecked, hips snapping harder like heâs trying to prove it.
"i'm practically fucking ruining you."
you moan, loud and broken, fingers splaying over the spot, feeling him bulge and drag with every brutal stroke. itâs obsceneâhow full you are, how heâs hitting so deep it almost hurts in the best way.
"fuck,â you gasp. you clench around him again on purpose, and he curses low, pace faltering for a second.
âgod, youâre so fucking tightâ he groans, forehead dropping to yours, sweat dripping from his hair onto your skin. âdo that again and iâll cum,â
you squeeze yourself around him, laughing breathlessly when he hisses and slams into you harder, like punishment. his hand leaves your stomach, slides up to grip your throatânot squeezing, just holding, thumb pressing lightly under your jaw.
âyouâre such a fucking pain,â he pants, his eyes are low, locked on yours
âfuck you,â you whine, but your legs tighten around him, pulling him deeper.
âyeah, thatâs what i thought,â he mutters, smirking even as his rhythm stutters. his other hand digs into your hip, pinning you as he drives in relentless, the wet slap of skin echoing loud in the empty store.
youâre both closeâteetering. you can feel it in the way heâs swelling inside you, the way his breaths are coming shorter, ragged.
âcome on,â he mutters, voice cracking, thumb brushing your lip roughly. âwant you to come firstâneed to feel it.â
youâre right there, wound so tight it hurts. you clench around him one last time, deliberate and mean, and thatâs itâhe loses it completely.
âfuckââ he groans, hips snapping erratic, slamming deep. the feeling of him throbbing, the pressure on that spot, sends you over. you come hard, crying out his name like itâs ripped out of you.
he follows right after, burying himself to the hilt with a low, spilling himself, hot inside you, hips jerking through it. his forehead drops to yours, both of you shaking, sweat-slick and breathless.
for a second itâs just panting. he stays inside you, arms braced on the counter like heâs afraid his legs will give out.
âguess you can finally admit why you were being so mean to me" he says, grinning stupidly. âi knew you wanted this.â
you shove his shoulder weakly, still catching your breath. âdonât ruin it by opening your mouth again, harrington.â
he laughsâshort, and softâand finally pulls out of you, helping you down from the counter with hands that linger on your hips a beat too long. your legs are shaky; he steadies you without thinking, thumb brushing your skin almost tenderly.
âruin it?â he echoes, pulling up his boxers, then his jeans. âyou were the one begging.â he laughs softly, buckling his belt.
you roll your eyes, getting your pants back on. âkeep dreaming. i was just shutting you up.â
âyeah, sure, totally.â he says, smirking as he grabs his shirt off the floor. âthatâs why you came so hard you almost tore my back open." he spits back, laughing harder now. you try to stifle your laugh as you button your jeans clumsily.
you practically scoff. âyou wish you were that good.â he catches your eyes before you can pull away, tugging you closer. his voice drops, still cocky but quieter.
âi was, and you know it.â you glare, but thereâs no real annoyance leftâjust heat, and something softer creeping in. he brushes a stray hair off your forehead, fingers lingering.
âtomorrow,â you say, grabbing your keys, "youâre buying me lunch. to make up for absolutely defiling my workspace.â
âonly if you admit iâm the best youâve ever had.â
you shove his chest. âdream on, harrington.â he catches your wrist, pulls you in for one more quick, filthy kissâthen softer, almost sweet.
"fine,â he says against your mouth. âbut i'm not fucking doing the new releases again tomorrow.â
you roll your eyes, but youâre smiling as you grab your keys. âdeal, idiot.â
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: touch-starved doesnât even begin to cover it. steve harrington is affection-starved. love-starved. heâs been handing out pieces of his heart for years, getting nothing but scraps back. now, he clings like glueâalways leaning, always touching, like his body craves closeness and he never learned how to pull back. and it wouldâve all been fine⊠if this wasn't supposed to be just a casual thing. if he hadnât said I love you, with his whole heart, mid-fuck.
warnings: 18+ mdni, fwb to lovers, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), touchstarved!steve, i'd call him subby in this but he's rlly just pathetically in love, unexpected L-bomb, domestic fluff, light angst, happy ending
a/n: everyoneâs moved on from that s1 scene where steve asks nancy âyou donât love me?â but Iâm still there. anyway. hereâs 5k words of painfully touch-starved steve.
So, like.
This isnât a real thing.
Thatâs the important part. The crux. The root of it all.
The problem.
Itâs the reason you havenât slept in your own bed in over a week. The reason thereâs a stupid little bruise on your neck (seriously, who even gives hickeys anymore?) and the reason you know exactly how Steve Harrington takes his coffee (three sugars, no cream, no shame).
Itâs not real.
Because if it were real, then⊠that would be something.
And you donât do âsomething.â You donât like âsomething.â
Because âsomethingâ has weight. Teeth. Expectations.
And Steve? Well.
Steve isâ
Heâs lonely.
Thatâs what this is.
No, seriously. Thatâs the whole thing.
You didnât clock it at first. Thought maybe he was just hot and bored. Smooth in that lazy, practiced way that makes everything feel like a dare. He flirts like heâs handing out candy. Smiles like itâs a reflex. Â
But itâs not boredom.
Steve Harrington is lonely.
The kind of lonely that clings to skin like summer sweat.
The kind that seeps in slowâafter years of being everybodyâs something and then, suddenly, nobodyâs anything.
The kind that turns touch into a transaction. That turns you into a distraction.
He speaks in half-jokes and full smiles. Loose shoulders, quick grins. Charm so polished it starts to sound like an echoâhollow, if you know what to listen for.
But when he touches youâgod, when he touches youâ
Itâs like heâs trying to memorize it. Like heâs scared he wonât get another chance.
And somehow, thatâs what keeps bringing you back.
Not the sex. Thoughâyeah, okay. The sex is good. Annoyingly good.
The kind that makes you forget your name. That has you laughing one second and gasping the next. The kind where he holds your hand through it and whispers ridiculous, tender shit into your neck. Nonsense, really. Things no one should find hot, and yet⊠you do.
But thatâs not why you stay.
Itâs not the sex.
Itâs what happens after.
Itâs the way he presses a hand to your lower back when you shift beneath the covers, like heâs making sure youâre still there. Itâs the way he gets up first, hair a mess, pulling on flannel pajama pants that hang low on his hips while he makes you scrambled eggs. Â
Burnt edges. Drenched in pepper.
You wrinkle your nose and grumble about having breakfast at 2 PM. Â
He slides the plate toward you with a smug little, âYouâll eat what I give you and you'll like it.â
You always grin.
âYouâre lucky Iâm easy,â you tell him, mouth full.
He shrugs, sips his coffee (three sugars, no shame), and says, âYeah. I am.â
You think thatâs a joke. Maybe. Hopefully.
You donât ask.
You donât ask a lot of things.
Like why he waits to kiss you until your hands are under his shirt. Or why he pulls you in like he wants to keep you there, and then lets you go as soon as the sun comes up. Why his eyes go distant when he thinks youâre not looking.
You tell yourself he just needs the connection. That youâre just a body. A placeholder. A habit.
But he gets so quiet sometimes. After.
That strange, suspended kind of quiet, when the sweatâs dried and the roomâs gone still. When his arm is still slung over your waist and his gaze is locked on the ceiling like it's got answers he doesnât.
Not asleep. Never asleep.
Just still. Â Â
Like heâs bracing for impact.
Onceâjust onceâyou asked, âYou good?â
And he said, âYeah.â
But he said it in that voice. The soft one. The one he uses when heâs lying.
You couldâve pressed. But you didnât.
Because this isnât a real thing.
Itâs just comfort.
Borrowed heat. Mutual use. Skin and breath and the occasional earth-shattering orgasm.
Thatâs it.
Until one night, he says something.
And it changes everything.
âŠ
Steve Harrington is a leaner.
You noticed that before anything ever happened between you.
Before the late nights. Before toothbrushes and t-shirts that werenât yours. Back when he was just a name, a familiar face at parties with warm drinks and bad music. The guy with the hair and the reputation.
One night, you ended up on the same couch.
By accident. Well, mostly.
Youâd had one too many drinks and slumped into the cushions like your bones had melted. Someone handed you a bottle of water and asked, âYou okay?â
That someone was Steve.
He didnât say much else. Just sat next to you, a respectful distance away, not even close enough for your knees to brush.
You said something dumb. He laughed. Asked a follow-up question.
And thatâs when you noticed it.
The lean.
Steve Harrington leans like itâs instinct. Like gravity doesnât pull him down, it pulls him toward. Like his body craves closeness and he never learned how to resist it. Â
But then when your hand brushed his thigh while reaching for a bowl of chipsâ
He froze.
Just for a second. A flicker. A sharp inhale. A blink-and-youâll-miss-it kind of thing.
But you didnât miss it.
You noticed. Â Â
âŠ
It started stupid. You tell yourself that a lot.
Especially when youâre staring at yourself in his bathroom, brushing your teeth with the toothbrush he bought you, trying to figure out what the hell youâre doing.
It was stupid. An accident, really.
He called one night. Said, "I canât sleep."
You said, "That sucks."
Then: "Can I come over?"
And: "Sure."
Just sex. That was the deal. No strings, no expectations.
There were rules, in the beginning.
No cuddling. No staying over.
No kissing unless clothes were already off.
That one lasted exactly one round.
Because on the second night, he kissed you first. Before either of you had taken off a single layer. Like kissing was the point, not the sex.
And afterward? He held you. Just an arm across your waist, skin warm, breath steady. Like you were his favorite teddy bear. Or a security blanket that talks back.
And he didnât ask you to stay, but when you fell asleep there, he was already awake by the time you opened your eyes. Lying there. Watching you.
Like he hadnât slept at all.
It was fine. Totally fine.
âJust friends,â youâd said.
And he nodded. âYeah. Totally.â
But his fingers were laced through yours when he said it. Â Â
âŠ
Sometimes he says things you donât know how to hear.
Like that weekend after finals. Both of you a little drunk. Loose-limbed and grinning for no reason. Buzzed on cheap beer and end-of-term freedom, on the promise of summer stretching out like a dare. You were parked outside your place, engine off, windows fogging in the humidity. Music low, the kind of old-school ballad Steve pretends to hate but knows every word to.
You kissed him over the console of his Beemer. Messy, open-mouthed, like the world was ending and tongues were currencyâa last-ditch effort to spend everything before it was too late. He laughed into your mouth, and you felt it everywhere.
Then, soft and slurred:
âMissed you this week.â
You smiled. Didnât answer.
He kissed your neck like he could hide into it.
You didnât ask what he meant. Didnât ask if he meant your mouth or your body or just the convenience of you.
You just climbed into his lap.
Straddled him.
Ground down on him like you were trying to forget how soft heâd sounded. How scared.
And he let you.
Because Steve Harrington always lets you.
âŠ
Tonight, itâs raining.
You show up at his door soaked to the bone, hoodie dripping, pajama pants clinging to your legs. Thereâs water in your eyelashes, in your socks, probably in your dignity.
Steve opens the door like heâs been waiting. Like he knew.
âJesus, get in here,â he mutters, tugging you inside by the wrist. âYouâre soaked.â
He peels off your jacket, pushes your hood down. His knuckles brush your cheek. Â
His hands feel warm. Or maybe cold. You canât tell anymore with him.
âŠ
He makes soup.
Chicken noodle, way too much pepper.
You sit on the counter in dry clothes that smell like him while he stirs in silence; barefoot, bedhead, wearing sleep pants and an old Hawkins basketball tee with a hole in the collar. Â Â
He hands you the bowl and watches you blow on the steam.
Then he puts on a movie neither of you ends up watching.
He sits close, arms touching from shoulder to elbow.
Itâs nothing.
Except, with Steve, nothing always feels like everything.
Because he doesnât move away.
He leans.
âŠ
Touch-starved doesnât even begin to cover it.
Steve Harrington is affection-starved. Love-starved. Heâs been handing his heart out to people for years and getting scraps in return.
He was the king of a kingdom that left him stranded in his own tower.
Now, he wields proximity like armor. Like glue. Stick close, so maybe they wonât leave.
You sit next to him, he leans. You stand near him, his fingers brush yours. You yawn, and suddenly heâs cradling your head, smoothing your hair like youâre going through something traumatic.
Youâre not.
Youâre yawning.
And it would be funny, if it wasnât all so completely, irreparably fucked.
âŠ
The rain's louder now.
Not quite a storm, but loud enough that it fills the room with its own kind of hush. Soft and constant, like white noise between thoughts.
Steve leans back against the couch, head tilted, throat exposed. The light from the TV paints him in soft blues and grays.
You look at him too long. Then say, quietly:
âYou donât let people touch you much.â
He blinks. âWhat?â
âI mean, you do,â you say, glancing at his hands. âBut not really.â
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. âOkay, detective. Whatâs that mean?â
You shift, pulling your knees up. Â
âIt meansâŠâ you pause. âThat you act like itâs natural. Like touchingâs easy for you. But itâs not.â
His eyes drift away. His throat bobs.
Then, a low chuckle. Pained and impressed in the same breath. âJesus. You should be a therapist or something.â
âSo Iâm right?â
He goes quiet for a bit. Just tugs the blanket higher over your knees.
âPeople think Iâm good at it,â he says eventually. âBeing⊠I donât know, flirty.â
âYou are,â you say, like it's a fact. And it is.
He laughs, soft and empty. âYeah. Well. Iâve had a lot of practice.âÂ
He starts picking at a loose thread. Doesnât look at you.
âBut thatâs all it is. Practice. I think⊠I think I just got good at pretending.â
A pause.
âMy parents werenât really... around. You know? And when they were, it was all rules. Appearances. Be polite. Be perfect. Donât embarrass the family.â Â
You stare at your lap. âThat sucks.â
He stiffens a little. âIâm not saying it for pity.â
âI know,â you bump your knee against his. âAnd donât worry, youâre not getting any.â
He snorts, soft and real.
But then his hand stirs in his lap, tightening around the blanket, white-knuckled. Itâs subtle. A detail most people wouldnât notice.
But you do.
You always notice.
So you reach out. Slip your fingers between his like youâve done it a hundred times before. Laced together, palm to palm, thumb brushing over the tense tendons in his wrist.
He freezes. Just for a second.
Then his hand twitches. Loosens. Curls back around yours.
He holds on.
âŠÂ Â
Steve Harrington has always been golden.
Golden boy. Golden skin. Golden smile. The kind of person who walks into a room and soaks up all the oxygen without even trying. The kind people fall for in flashes, bright and fast and dizzying.
They love parts of him. The hair, the grin, the effortless charm. The storybook confidence that makes everyone else fade to grayscale. But if they looked closerâand most donâtâthey might notice a flicker of something else. Something dimmer. Something tired.
You notice.
You always notice.
You see the way his smile stutters, the half-second where it slips before he wrestles it back into place. The way he shrugs off compliments like they sting. Laughs off praise like it doesn't fester in his chest long after itâs said. Like he doesnât believe a word of it, even when itâs true.
Heâs used to it, you think. Being loved for the surface. Wanted for being golden.
Never seen for whatâs underneath.
But thatâs not the Steve you want.
You want this Steveâsleepy-eyed, soft-voiced, weirdly-good-at-playing-with-your-hair Steve.
The one in faded sweatpants and mismatched socks, slurping soup too loudly and pretending your knee against his isnât the most intimate thing thatâs happened to him all week.Â
The one who sings along to bad radio ballads in the car and gets quiet when you ask him about childhood birthdays. The one who never learned how to ask for loveâonly how to give too much of it away.
You want the mess. The ache. The scared little boy behind the golden grin.
You want to know what song he hums when heâs doing his laundry. What memory makes him smile when no oneâs watching. Â
The parts of him that arenât polished, the cracks that run through the gold. The ones he tucks away because he's convinced no one could ever love them.
You want the parts he hides.
âŠ
You donât remember how your shirt came off.
One minute you were doubled over laughingâsome dumb line from the movie, something even dumber from Steveâand then heâs just there.
Mouth hot on your neck. Hands everywhere. Greedy and reverent in the same stroke, in the way only Steve Harrington can be.
He kisses down your throat, mumbling something against your skin. Something that sounds like, âYouâre so beautiful,â voice so full it cracks a little.
Your fingers sink into his hair.
âSteve,â you breathe. âYouâre shaking.â Â
He lifts his head. Eyes wide and round and glassy.
âI justâŠâ He swallows. âWanna make you feel good. Let me?â
You nod, throat tight.
Youâd let him do anything.
âŠ
He eats you out like he missed you.
Like this is the only way he knows how to say it.
Youâre sprawled across his couch, thighs over his shoulders, his arms hooked under your hips. Holding you open as he devours you. Sloppy, desperate, like he missed this, missed you, even though you were here just two nights ago. He groans into you like this is worship, and maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.
âFuck,â he moans, voice wrecked. âYou taste so good. So wet for me.â
Your fingers twist harder in his hair. He moans at that too; loves it when you tug him closer.
"Steveâ"
âYeah, baby,â he mumbles, mouth full. âI got you.â
You arch into him, thighs clamped tight around his head.
âIâfuck, Iâm gonnaâ" Â
He groans like heâs the one coming. Eats you through it, grinding his hips into the carpet, riding it out with you. Stays through the twitching and the aftershocks, still licking, like he canât bear to stop, canât bear to let you go.
And even when youâre spent, legs trembling, chest heaving, he doesnât move away.
Kisses your thighs. Your stomach. Your breasts.
Soft, wet little marks. Greedy, but not in the way that takes. In the way that keeps.
You breathe through the haze, arm flung over your eyes because it stings too much sometimes, looking at him.
âYou wanna fuck me now?â
âŠ
He fucks you like a confession. Â
Slow. Deep. Forehead to forehead. Breathing into your mouth. Nose bumping with each stroke, his breath hitching every time you moan.
Like heâs making love, even though thatâs not what this is.
The room is quiet except for the slick sounds of skin on skin, and the soft hush of your name as he passes it from his lips over to yours.
âSo good,â he breathes. âSo fucking perfect.â
You curl your fingers around the back of his neck, pull him closer.
âI think about you all the time,â he whispers, hips rolling into you. âAll the time. Can'tâcanât stop.â
You tense, just slightly. Barely a hitch in your breath.
He doesnât notice. Or maybe he does, and just barrels forward anyway, words spilling faster than he can catch them. Heâs shaking again.
âCanât get you out of my head. Fuck, youâre all I think about, Iââ
And thenâ
He says it.
The thing.
The one thing you canât undo. Â
âI love you.â
âŠ
Everything stills.
Steve stills. You still.Â
He pulls back, blinking fast. Searching your face, fingers twitching against your waist.
You canât breathe.Â
âSteveâŠâ
You say it like it hurts. Like itâs an apology. Like you didnât mean to hear it, and he didnât mean to say it.
He sees it, whateverâs written on your face. Sees it and folds in on himself.
His mouth twists, words souring on his tongue.
âSorry,â he whispers. âI didnât meanââ
You kiss him before he can finish.
Messy. Desperate. Mouth open, teeth clashing. Like youâre trying to shove the words back down his throat. Like if you just kiss him hard enough, theyâll sink back into him and never make it out.
He kisses you back, fast and clumsy. Picks up his pace again, thrusts turning erratic, rhythm gone. He comes like thatâhands gripping too tight, teeth in your shoulder, breathing like heâs drowning.
He doesnât say it again. Â
Not out loud.
âŠ
You told him once, weeks agoâmaybe during the eighth or ninth time, when things were still light enough to float. You were lying in his bed, naked on blue linen, post-coital and quiet. You were staring at the ceiling. He was tracing circles on your arm.
âIâve never said it,â you murmured.
He turned, frowning. âWhat do you mean, never?â
âLike⊠out loud. To anyone.â
âNot even to, like, a boyfriend?â
You snorted. Gave him a look. He just frowned deeper.
âI mean, itâs just words, right?â you shrugged. âDoesnât really mean shit. Not unless you show it.â
He was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded, like he was filing it away.
âYeah,â he said softly. âI guess.â Â Â
âŠ
The scariest part isnât that he said it.
Itâs how little changes after.
He pulls out. Kisses your forehead. Disappears for a towel, water, wipes, the whole post-sex routine. He wraps you in a blanket, like always.
He sits on the edge of the couch, shirtless and quiet. Still catching his breath.
But he wonât look at you.
Youâre staring at the ceiling now. Body still buzzing, your mind a blur. Your chest feels raw, like youâve swallowed glass and itâs still cutting on the way down.
Finally, you speak.
âYouâre an idiot.â
His head turns, brows knit. âWhat?â
You sit up a little. âYouâre an idiot. You canât just say that mid-fuck and expect me not to spiral.â
He laughs, caught off guard. Itâs soft. A little broken.
âI didnât mean to,â he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. âJust⊠came out.â
âYeah. I noticed.â
He starts fidgeting with the blanket again.
âI can take it back, if you want.â
You pause. Â
A long, slow beat.
Then you shake your head.
âNo. Donât.â
âŠ
Heâs sitting on the bed when you come out of the shower.
Hair damp, skin flushed from the heat, a line of steam following you out the bathroom. Youâre toweling off the ends of your hair, not really expecting conversation. Heâs quietâbent forward, elbows on his knees, bare foot tapping a slow rhythm into the floorboards. Â
Then, without looking up, he says:
âDo you want to stay over?â
You almost drop the towel. Frozen mid-motion, terrycloth bunched in your hands.
Itâs not the first time heâs asked that. Not really.
There was one night, early on, when you came over to his place, still a little nervous about the whole thing. Heâd made you come three times, then followed you out of bed, shirtless and flushed, and said:
âYou could, uh⊠stay. If you want. Itâs late. I donâtâsleep great. And I justâŠâ Heâd swallowed it. âForget it. Never mind.â Â
Youâd made it exactly two steps before turning around. Â
But that was then.
Now, five months in, youâve never needed the words. Your toothbrush is in his medicine cabinet. Your hoodie is slung over the back of his desk chair. You spend most nights here anywayâfalling asleep during half-watched movies and waking up tangled in limbs you no longer bother to count.
So the fact that he asksânow, of all nightsâmakes you pause.
âSure,â You say quietly, then walk past him to grab the lotion off his nightstand like it's nothing. Â
He doesnât smile, not really. But his shoulders soften. His eyes go from holding tension to holding you.
He looks tired. Relieved in a way that makes your chest ache.
You slip under the covers, the way you always do. He follows. And for a beat, everything feels normal. Familiar. Easy.
Heâs warm. He always is.
Your body knows the choreographyâroll away, let him pull you in, slot your legs together until heâs all but spooning you. But tonight, for reasons you canât name, you end up facing him instead. On your side. Eyes open. Nose to nose.
Close enough to feel the soft rise of his chest. To smell his shampoo. The expensive one you always make fun of, the one you pretend not to use.
Close enough to catch the exhale when he speaks.
âCan Iâ?â he stops.
You wait.
He licks his lips, gaze darting down to the space between you.
âCan I hold your hand?â
Your stomach drops, fluttering like a trapped bird.
Because what kind of person asks to hold your hand after theyâve had their hands everywhere else?
And why does that make you feel more vulnerable than anything heâs ever done?
You say, âSure,â because you donât know what else to say.
And then you do it. You reach out, he meets you halfwayâfingers slotting between yours like they were made to be there.
His thumb skates slowly over your knuckles. His hand is warm, a little rough in places. Callused in a way that reminds you heâs probably fought for thingsâfor peopleâbefore. Real things. Hard things. Love-shaped things.
Eventually, he shifts closer. Not pulling you into him. Just⊠aligning. Until your knees touch. Until your breaths sync.
Heâs so close you can count the gold flecks in his eyes.Â
Then, quietly:
âI meant it. What I said.â
You donât answer right away.
Because something in your chest lurches and twists and stretches like itâs never been moved before. Like itâs being made into something new.Â
âI know,â you say eventually, voice soft as worn cotton.
He swallows. Starts again, then stops. Thereâs a crack in his voice when he says:
âYou donât have to say it back. I know itâs not fair. That I said it like that. I justââ He looks down. Shrinks in on himself a little. âI couldnât not.â
You reach out before he can spiral. Fingers to his jaw, steady and slow.
He flinches instinctively, then stills beneath your touch.
And god, he looks so young like this. Eyes glassy. Lips bitten raw. Desperate crease between his brows like heâs bracing for impact.
âSteve,â you whisper, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. âIâm not mad.â
He searches your face like it might change mid-sentence.
âI just⊠I need time. Thatâs all.â
He nods. Once. Then again.
âOkay,â he says, and it sounds like breathing for the first time in days. âOkay.â
He squeezes your hand, like a question.
You squeeze back, like an answer.
âŠ
You donât plan it.
Thereâs no perfect moment. No grand confession. No string quartet swelling in the background, or a slow-motion kiss in the rain.
Thereâs just a Tuesday.
Or maybe a Wednesday.
One of those in-between days that doesnât really exist. Gray sky. Light drizzle. Everything muted and quiet, just a little smudged around the edges.
When you open your door, Steveâs already there.
Curled into the corner of your couch in fuzzy socks, eating dry cereal out of the box and watching a rerun of something heâs already seen three times. His hairâs damp. Probably showered at your place again because its closer to the gym, or maybe he just likes your shampoo better than his.
You donât even ask anymore.
He grins when he sees you. Tosses a Cheerio in his mouth and says, âHow was hell?â
You toe off your shoes and shrug. âCorporateâs an absolute dream. Only cried twice in the break room today.â
He opens his arms without a word. âCâmere.â
You go.
He pulls you in without pretense, folding you into his chest like heâs been waiting all day just to do it. You melt into it, cheek pressed to his collarbone. He smells like your body wash. It does something to your ribs. Cracks them open. Lets the light in.
You sit like that for a while. Not talking. Not needing to.
Eventually, he gently nudges you off him.
âIâm making tea,â he says. âDonât move.â
You do, of course. You follow him.
He's humming something tuneless, drumming his fingers on the counter while the kettle boils. And when it whistles, he moves automatically, like heâs done it a hundred times. Two mugs. Two tea bags. Your chipped dinosaur mug and his plain blue one. He insists itâs âjust a mugâ even though he always reaches for it first.
He doesnât have to ask. He knows. Honey in both. Lemon in yours. He moves with the kind of ease that only comes from repetition. From caring.
He hands it to you without looking. You take it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic bleeding into your palms.
And for some reason, thatâs what does it.
Not the cuddling. Not the hand-holding. Not the sex, or the sleepovers, or the toothbrush he bought without asking
Justâthis.
This moment. This man. This stupid kitchen and this cup of tea made exactly how you like it.
It hits you like a low tide: gentle, inevitable, impossible to ignore.
Youâre still holding the mug when you say it. Still standing in the half-lit kitchen in your sad little apartment with the flickering stove light and the perpetually leaking faucet and the love of your life stirring a teabag like itâs the most serious task in the universe.
Soft. Barely above the whistle of the kettle.
âI love you.â
His spoon stops mid-stir.
He doesnât move for a second. Doesnât look up.
You think maybe he didnât hear you. Maybe you should repeat it. Louder. Clearer.
But thenâhe smiles.Â
Not the charming one. Not the grin he uses when for baristas or strangers or people who donât know any better.
This oneâs smaller. Like it snuck up on him.
He sets the spoon down carefully.
âYeah?â he asks, still not turning around.
You nod. Â
Then, braver: âYeah.â
He lets out a breath like heâs been holding it in his lungs since February.
And without looking at youâlike looking might make it collapseâhe just says:
âOkay.â
Then, a beat later, with a kind of awe:
âI love you too.â
You step closer. Lean your head against his back, arms circling his waist just to feel him. He goes still under your touch, the way he does when something matters a little too much.
Then he relaxes. Covers your hands with his. Holds you there.
And the thing is, nothing else changes.
You still drink your tea. Still argue over who gets the remote. Still end up half-asleep on the couch with pretzel crumbs all over the upholstery and Steve mumbling nonsense into your shoulder.
But later, when he takes you to bed, he says it again.
Not in the heat of it. Not as a plea. Just a soft, quiet:
âI love you.â
You donât panic.
You donât question it.
You just say it back. Steadier, this time.
âI love you.â
He grins against your mouth. âAbout time.â
You roll your eyes.
He kisses your nose.
âŠ
âI justâIâm sorry, but I really think this one tastes the same as the other one.â
Steveâs in an argument with the beekeeper lady at the farmerâs market. About honey.
She gasps like heâs insulted her bloodline, then launches into a spiel about how wildflower honey tastes completely different from clover honeyâsomething about the blossoms and the weather and the bees' mood.
You, standing ten feet away with an armful of Honeycrisps, donât even try to save him. You just lean against a crate of pumpkins and watch the disaster unfold. Â
This is your Saturday now.
Groceries and small-town drama. Coffee stops and joint laundry loads and dumb little errands that somehow feel like sacred rituals because heâs there.
He jogs back to you a minute later, holding a jar of orange blossom honey.
He's grinning like an idiot. âShe loved me.â
âShe called you âboy.ââ
âExactly. Affectionate.â
You bump his hip. âYouâre a menace.â
âAnd you love that about me.â
You glance at him, lips twitching.
You do.
You really do.
âŠ
Itâs been eight months.
Eight months of toothbrushes side-by-side. Of his socks in your drawer and your hair ties in his bathroom.
Of grocery lists that say things like âSteveâs weird granolaâ and âthat cinnamon roll candle" you've been dying to try.
Of falling asleep on the couch and waking up in bed because he carried you. Of him saying âmorning, baby" in that morning-after voice then smirking when yours is too hoarse to respond.
Of fights that donât break things, just bend them. Of learning how to disagree without flinching. How to apologize without pride.
Of knowing itâs safe now. Not perfect, not painless, but safe.
âŠ
One night, heâs reading beside you in bed.
Trying to, at least.
The bookâs open in his lap, but heâs clearly dozing off mid-paragraph. Lips parted, breath steady.
Youâre on your side, just watching him.
You donât let yourself stare too often, but heâs so soft like this. Soft in a way he only is at home. With you.
Thereâs a scar on his collarbone youâve never asked about.
You probably could. Heâd tell you.
You think you will, someday.
But right now, you're happy just tracing it with your fingertip. He stirs, nuzzling your shoulder like heâs chasing warmth in his sleep.
And then, half-conscious, he murmurs:
âYouâre it for me.â
You go still. Heart in your throat.
And thenâjust as simply, just as truthfullyâyou say:
âYou are too.â
He hums at that. Smiles against your skin.
Wraps an arm around your waist and lets the world fade out.
âŠ
In the morning, youâll make him coffee the way he likes it: three sugars, no cream, no shame.
Heâll kiss your shoulder while you pour it, thank you with a sleepy voice and wandering hands.
Youâll sit on the couch, eat burnt toast, and laugh at some dumb segment on the morning news.
Heâll offer to fix your car. Again.
Youâll roll your eyes and say no. Again.
Heâll grin.
He'll drive you to work.
And just like that, the day will begin. Â
Like it did today.
Like it will tomorrow.
Like it will every day after.
a/n: when I tell you I took a super long nap yesterday and then stayed awake the whole night... this is what came crawling out of my brain at 4 am... wrote this in like 3 hrs so i'm sorry if this is all over the place đ„Č
i always love hearing your thoughts abt my silly little stories! feel free to reblog/comment/come find me in my inbox :)
update: this fic sort of has a sequel now! from steve's pov this time :)))
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: itâs the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the burger king crown starts hanging heavy. (sailor hat, in his case.) heir to the hawkins high hierarchy, ruler of keggers and hallways alike, steve harrington used to be untouchable. now? he's shaking under your hands, bleeding from battles no trophy could ever commemorate. you've stitched together plenty of broken people beforeâbut never one that left a scar in you, too.
warnings: 18+ mdni, piv sex, oral (m!receiving), touch/praise-starved!steve, hurt/comfort, blood, injury, mutual friends/enemies-ish to lovers, hair washing, massaging, praise kink, body worship, sexual tension, forced proximity of sorts, reader isnât fond of steve at first, mostly S4 canon but fix-it, angst, domestic fluff, found family, happy ending
a/n: another steve harrington character study dressed as a fic, what the hell else is new? | playlist âŹ.á
They donât take him to the hospital. They bring him to you.
Which is, objectively, stupid. Â Â
But apparently, hospitals ask questions. And youâpart-time party medic, occasional dispenser of prescription-only painkillers (for legitimate anxiety and migraines, thank you very much)âyou donât.
Youâre halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. Youâre braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.
Until the knocking starts.
Correction: pounding.
Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesnât-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.
You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.
But when you open the door, itâs not a solicitor.
Itâs Robin.
Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheekâs streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid. Â
You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.
âDonât freak out,â she blurts, before you even ask.
Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.
The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Dennyâs for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousinâs âemotional support ferretâ from a petting zoo in Muncie.
This time? Sheâs brought a car with her.
A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.
Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.
A boy.
Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead.Â
You squint.
âWho the fuck is that?â
âŠ
Steve Harrington.
Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.
You donât know him. Not really.
Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didnât pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.
But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.
Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.
Poof. King Steve: dethroned.
Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.
You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.
You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on âgas leaksâ again.
And Robin Buckley had Steve.   Â
Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.
He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker.Â
You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvaldâs.
Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.
He smiled. You didnât smile back.
You didnât care. Â
Itâs the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)
But now, heâs here.
Dying on your lawn.
Ruining your Friday.
âŠ
Up close, he looks worse.
Biblically bad.
Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.
His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. Thereâs ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that youâre really, really hoping is just dirt.
His eyes flutter.
Then, absurdly, he smiles.
âH-hey. Heard you know first aid?â
You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.
âYeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.â
He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.
Then promptly goes limp.
âŠ
âItâs called compensated shock,â you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. âHe looked okay âcause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now itâs wearing off.â
Robinâs on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.
âOh my god, yeah,â she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. ââshit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.â
You pause mid-haul. âSkull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?â
Robin makes a face. âYeah, but not for us, gross. Thatâd be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connorâsââ
âRobin.â
âRight! Sorry! Panic talking!â
Steve groans from where youâve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robinâs volume than the probable internal bleeding.
You ignore him. âWhy were you actually at Skull Rock?â
âUhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.â
You level her with a look.
She claps her hands. âAnyway! You can fix him, right? Youâre, like, certified!â
You glance down at Steve.
His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.
âYeah,â you say quietly. âMaybe.â
âŠ
You do fix him.
Because youâre a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming.Â
And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.
Like heâs sorry.
Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.
You hate that.
You also kind of hate how he looks like thisâhot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.
You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.
And something inside you goes still.Â
These are... bite marks.
Not scrapes. Not scratches.
Bites.
His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.
Except: youâve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.
âJesus christ,â you whisper.
You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, andâoh, now heâs got a belt in his mouth.
Robin jams it there. âFor the pain,â she says, helpful as ever.
Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die.Â
Youâre still staring at the worst bite, wondering if itâs actually moving, when you ask, voice low:
âSomeone want to tell me what the fuck did this?â
Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like sheâd rather choke on it herself than answer.
âUh⊠bats?â She offers weakly. Â
You blink. âBats.â
âLike. Big ones? Really big?â
You stare at her. Then at Steve. Â
You donât believe her.
But also⊠you kind of do.   Â
Because whatever this thing was, it didnât just attack.
It fed.
âŠ
âOkay, but likeââ Robinâs pacing like sheâs trying to wear a hole in your rug. âHe was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Upâuhâthe woods, and I was driving him back and he justâŠâ
She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.
âSo, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Orââ
âRobin?â you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. âThereâs towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.â
âRight. On it.â
She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.
You turn back to Steve.
His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but itâs there.
âHarrington. You with me?â
His hand twitches once, thumb up.
âŠ
He doesnât scream.
You wish he would.
Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, itâs supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.
But Steve just⊠takes it.
His jawâs locked tight enough to bend steelâno belt, miracle he doesnât shatter a molarâand his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like itâs chained there.
You kind of hate him for it.
Because you know this type.
Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like itâs a penance.
Youâve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.
Itâs not bravery. Itâs habit.
A mask.Â
And Steve Harrington? Heâs been wearing his so long, itâs practically fused to the bone.
Still, Robin squeezes his hand like sheâs coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because sheâs still pretending sheâs never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.
You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.
Steve joltsâfull-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale. Â
Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.
âShit. S-sorry.â
You donât answer.
You canât.
âŠ
It takes two hours.
Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.
It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.
Now, heâs bandaged. Shirtless under your exâs old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.
Of course he does.
In the kitchen, Robinâs hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color. Â
As soon as sheâs done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.
âTalk.â
Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.
ââŠDemobats.â She mutters.
 âIâm sorry?â
âDemobats,â she repeats, like thatâs a word people just know. âFrom this place called the⊠Upside Down.â
You wait. Thereâs no punchline.
ââŠYouâre serious.â
She nods.
And then it all spills out.
Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christâs sake.
You lose the thread somewhere around âtelepathic hive mind overlord.â
But you donât interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of thingsâloud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cuesâbut sheâs not a liar.
And thereâs a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.
âSo,â you say slowly, âthat job at the mallâŠâ
âYeah. Secret Russian lab.â
âAnd you were tortured?â
 âI mean, mostly Steve?â She winces. âBut, uh. Yeah.â
âJesus christ, Robin.â
âI know,â she groans, dragging both hands down her face. âI know it sounds crazy. I didnât want to drag you into this, okay? But I thoughtâhe looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldnât exactly walk into the ER and say âHi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.ââ
She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. âYou donât believe me.â
You snort. âNo. I do. And I think you shouldâve called me sooner.â
âWell, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like⊠blinking wrong. Then I panicked.â
You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didnât scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like heâs stuck in a loop he canât wake from.
Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. âLook, I know heâs not exactly your favorite person, but⊠thank you. Really.â
You roll your eyes. âHe was bleeding out, Robs.â
She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.
You scowl.
âGo. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.â A beat. ââŠYou want something to eat?â
Robin doesnât answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.
You stiffen. Then sigh.
âLove you,â she mumbles into your shoulder.
You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.
âYou owe me, Buckley. Big time.â
⊠Â
Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.
You stay on the couch next to Steve.
Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, youâll notice.
You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft âmotherfuckerâ every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.
You stay up.
Because someone has to.
âŠ
Itâs almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.
Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures youâve memorized so well theyâre practically sewn into your DNA.
But then his lips part.
Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.
âDonât⊠donât let âem go back.â
Itâs barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.
You donât know who âtheyâ are, but you know exactly what he means.
Youâve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesnât.
And goddammit.
Goddammit, you didnât want this.
Didnât want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didnât want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly.Â
Didnât want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.
But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. Heâs curled in on himself like heâs bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow. Â
Without thinking, you lean forward.
Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.
âSteve,â you whisper.
No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.
Your throat tightens.
You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.
His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.
âYouâre okay. Youâre safe.â
And slowlyâlike thawing ice, like a held breath finally let goâhe stops shaking.
You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains.
âŠ
Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.
She meant hearts. You meant bones.
Youâre starting to think maybe she was right.
âŠ
You wake to yelling.
Not normal yellingâwhisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering thatâs somehow louder than regular voices.
ââŠcanât just walk out, Steve!â
âItâs not that bad, justâgive me a secondââ
Thereâs the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.
âOh my god, what is wrong with you?!â
âIâm fine,â Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.
âAnd where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.â
âJustâIâll go back and change, and then weâllââ
âNope. Absolutely not. You canât even see straight, Harrington.â
âYes, I can.â
âReally? Okay. How many fingers?â
âWhy do you always do that?â
âBecause it works!â
You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.
âDo I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.â
Instant silence.
When you peel your arm back, Steveâs frozen midâescape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.
âHey,â he says, like he didnât just almost eat your tile. âYouâre up.â
âUnfortunately.â
Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. âPlease, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.â
You sit up, and immediately regret every decision youâve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.
You squint at Steve. âSit down.â
âIâm good.â
âYouâre not.â
âI just need toââ
âNow, Harrington.â
You donât raise your voice. You donât have to. Itâs the tone youâve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can âtotally drive, man.â
Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.
Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like itâs the only thing keeping him vertical.
You scrub a hand over your face. âCoffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?â
âŠ
The coffee is yesterdayâs.
Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.
You pour three cups anyway.
Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.
Robinâs already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Loverâs Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.
Well, you already got that part last night, but Robinâs repeating it, and youâre starting to think maybe itâs not for you this time.
Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beatsâjaw tic here, hard blink thereâbut doesnât interrupt.
You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:
âSo, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?â
He shrugs, eyes on his mug. âDidnât really have time to think about it.â
âClearly.â Â Â Â Â
He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.
âThank you. For last night.â
You raise a brow. âDidnât really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why thereâs a dead body on my couch.âÂ
He huffs a weak laugh.
âBy the way,â you add, sipping again, âdo your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?â
Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.
âOh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.â
Sheâs already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.
âCan youâ?â she gasps, eyes wide.
âYeah, yeah. Iâll cover.â
âThankyouthankyouthankyou!â She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.
Gives his face a little shake.
âIf I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?â
You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. âRobinâ"
âGot it?â
He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. âWhatever.â
She releases him, then points at you. âYouâre in charge. Donât let him do anything heroic.â
âOh no,â you deadpan. âHowever shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?â
Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.
âWaitââ Steve squints after her. âAre youâRobin! You canât just take my car! Youâre not evenââ
Slam!
ââlicensed.â
You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.
Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room. Â
He clears his throat. âSorry about your, uh⊠couch. And the carpet.â
You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.
It hurts worse looking at him.
Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like heâs trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like theyâre about to apologizing for breathing your air.
You blink.
Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.
âHarrington.â
âYeah?â
âStop apologizing for almost dying. Itâs weird.â Â
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.
You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.
âAnd for the record,â you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, âyouâre not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. Youâre fine.â Â
He blinks, brow furrowing. âWhatâs⊠that supposed to mean?â
You shrug. âWouldnât you like to know.â
It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.
You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.
And if youâre smiling tooâwell, he doesnât have to know.
âŠ
You try to make pancakes.
Try being the operative word.
Thereâs flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.
Steveâs still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.
Itâs distracting.
Itâs fucking annoying, is what it is.
Pancakes arenât hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesnât know how to deal with it. Â Â
âHowâs it going?â he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.
You donât turn around. âFine.â
A beat.
âYou sure?â
You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.
Behind you, thereâs the scrape of a chair.
âI said Iâm fine,â you warn.
He ignores that.
Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.
âHere,â he murmurs.
Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.
Then: flip.
One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.
You blink at it, betrayed.
âI was handling it.â
âSure,â he says, lips twitching. âLooked like it.â
He flips another. Doesnât even look this time.
You narrow your eyes. âOkay. How are you doing that?âÂ
He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like heâs lived here his whole life. âCook for myself a lot.â
You pause. Thereâs something in the way he says itâoff-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.
He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. âWell, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.â
You glance over, arching a brow. âWow. Is that line always so subtle?â
He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.
âI donât know. You tell me.â
And fuck, it lands.
It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.
You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.
And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like itâs being murdered.
You lunge for it like a lifeline.
Itâs probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.
âHello? âŠYou WHAT?â
Robin groans on the other end. âYeah. Possibly until college.â
âRobin, you canâtââ You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like heâs not standing two feet away. ââyou canât be fucking grounded right now.â
âI know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now sheâs got Toby posted outside my room. Heâs just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. Itâs gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you⊠are you okay to stay with him for a bit? Heâs trying to pretend heâs fine, but heâs definitely not.â  Â
You glance back.
Steveâs standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it wonât count as touching if heâs polite about it.  Â
You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.
He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?
You raise your brows like, Try me.
You sigh into the receiver: âYeah. I got him.â
âUgh, youâre the best. Just donât let himâohh, crap, I gotta gâ"
Click.
Steve doesnât turn when you pad back into the kitchen.
âShe grounded?â
âYep. Possibly until retirement.â You pause. âYou donât need to call your folks?â
He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. âTheyâre out of town.â
Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.
You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. Youâd punch someone for a bite.
In your head, you run through the math.
Ten days. Minimum.
Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.
God help you. Itâs gonna be a long week.
âŠ
Breakfast is awkward.
No other word for it.
Steve eats like heâs on a timer. You eat like youâre trying not to notice.
Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.
Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.
When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.
âHey, do you⊠you mind if I use your bathroom?â He gestures vaguely to his face. âJust need to clean up a bit.â Â
His hair is still matted. Thereâs soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the bloodâs dried and half-wiped away.
You nod, mid-sip. âSure. First door on the left. Just donât get the bandages wet.â
âGot it,â he nods, starts to riseâthen stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.
âActually, uhâŠâ His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. âCan you give me a hand with this? I canât reallyâŠâ
He doesnât finish the sentence. Doesnât need to.
The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.
You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word. Â Â
He doesnât meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.
The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.
Your knuckles graze his stomach, andâ
Jesus.
Heâs warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.
You get the hoodie off.
His chest is bare.
And now youâre standing close. Way, way too close.
His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.
You both freeze.
Thereâs a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out. Â
Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest. Â Â
You donât.
You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.
âTowels are under the sink," you mumble. "Iâll get you some new clothes.â
Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.
Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. âThanks.â
He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.
You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat.
âŠ
Thereâs an old joke your friends like to make.
That youâre a sadist.
That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.
But in truth, theyâve got it backwards.
Youâre not a sadist.
No. What you are is a fucking masochist.
Because thereâs no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldnât. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.
Why youâre standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldnât mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.
You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.
But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.
Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular burstsâon, off, on again.
You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.
Something twists low in your stomach.
You roll your eyes at yourselfâbecause god, youâre patheticâand raise a fist.
A light knock.
âYou good?â
A pause, then:
âUh, yeah. Just⊠hang on.â
Thereâs a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.
And Steveâ
Well.
Heâs wet.
And shirtless. And pink.
Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hairâThe Hairâis half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.
Your gaze follows it.
The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way youâre absolutely not thinking about.
He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.
âI, uh⊠canât really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, butââ He winces, fingers grazing his sides. âThe stitches are kind of a hard no.âÂ
Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.
You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.
Instead, you say:
âSit.âÂ
He blinks. ââŠWhat?â
âOn the floor. Back against the tub.â
Thereâs a pause. His brows draw together like heâs trying to figure out the punchline. Â
You donât blink.
He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. âNo, itâs okay, I canââ
âSteve.â
It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.
His first name, in your voice.Â
Youâve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldnât reach.
But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.
He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.
Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.
One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud. Â
You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.
âLean your head back.â
He shifts, uneasy. âSeriously, you donât have toââ
âI know.â You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. âJust tilt."
Thereâs a long pause.
Then he does.
His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.
The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.
âToo hot?â
He blinks, breath shallow. âNo. Sâfine.â
So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead.Â
Itâs just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.
Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.
And thatâs when it happens.
The shift.
Steve Harringtonâking of easy charm, Mr. Everythingâs Fineâgoes completely still.
Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.
No, he goes rigid.
His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.
And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.
A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.
You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. âBeen a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?â
His response is delayed, a low rasp. âUh huh. Long time.â
Then, after a beat:
âUsed to be my momâs thing. When I was a kid.â
Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says itâjaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.
You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.
âThat mustâve been nice,â you say quietly.
He doesnât answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.
So you keep going.
Rinse. Lather. Repeat.  Â
And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.
His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.
Then, he leans.
Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.
Like a plant bending toward light.
You wonder, not for the first time, how long itâs been since someone touched him like this. How long heâs gone without care, without softness.
And maybe thatâs why this hurts so much.
Because youâd had him pegged, hadnât you?
The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladiesâ man, heartbreaker.
King Steve.
But this? This isnât him.
This is the After.                                                                                      Â
The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that arenât his, time and time again. Like heâs got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.
The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.
This is someone whoâs forgotten how to be held.
And right now, heâs under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like heâs starved for it.
And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night. Â
You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.
But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like heâs bracing for it to end.
And each time you returnâthumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neckâhe breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.
You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.
And then a quiet thought hits you. Â Â
A hunch, really.
You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.
You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat.Â
Strangled. Thatâs what Robin said. Â
You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.
Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.
But you donât let up.
You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.
Thereâs a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.
He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.
âToo hard?â you ask quietly.
His voice comes cracked. âN-no. Justâitâs fine. You donât have toâŠâ
The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. Youâre not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when itâs been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone. Â
And god, heâs full of it. All the signs. All the tells.
He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesnât let out.
And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.
At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.
That thick, molten part of your brainâthe masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say noâflares hot.
It wants to lean in.
Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.
Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.
To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing heâs swallowed with something soft.
God, youâre losing it.
You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.
Then, from the corner of your eye, you see itâhis hands shifting in his lap.
Cross. Adjust.
You glance down without thinking.
And oh.
Oh.
The sweatpants donât hide much. Not like this. Not with how heâs sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasnât meant to. Theyâre pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the waterâs seeped through.
And beneath that?
Yeah.
Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.
You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.
His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.
His eyes flutter open.
And the look he gives youâŠ
Itâs quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.
Softer than longing. Sharper than want.
It's something that aches.
You donât know what to do with it.
So you just keep your hands in his hair.
And you rinse. Â
âŠ
You rinse long after the conditionerâs gone.
After his breath has evened out and the waterâs cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.
The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isnât yours.
When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.
Blot, pat, smooth. The towelâs too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.
His eyes are still on you.
âThanks,â he says, quiet. Â
You nod, not trusting your voice.
The steamâs thinning now, but the air still clings.
Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.
His breath brushes your cheek.
Youâre too close.
Itâs too much.
You could kiss him.Â
God help you, you could.
Just one lean forward. Thatâs all it would take. His mouth is right thereâslightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where heâs been biting down.
And the look on his face isnât just gratitude. Not just relief.
Thatâs want.
And worse? Itâs yours too. Itâs in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. Itâs in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.
You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.
âOkay,â you say, voice tight. âYouâre good.â
Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.
His throat bobs. âCool. Yeah. Thanks.â
You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You donât look at him when you speak next. âYou should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.â
He nods, a little too slow.
You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.
Then you turn.
And you walk out.
You donât need to look back to know heâs still watching you go.
...
It starts the way summer storms do.Â
Not with thunder. Not with rain.
With pressure.
The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.
Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.
The moment before it tips.Â
Itâs here now. In this room.
In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.
The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.
The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.
His voice breaks the quiet.
âHey, how long âtil the stitches come out again?â
âTen days.â
âHm. I like this show.â
âKnight Rider?â
âYeah. Itâs cool.â
âNo. Itâs dumb.â
âWhat? Câmon, the car talks.â
âExactly.â A beat. âHow do the stitches feel?â
âUh, good. Yeah. Theyâre fine.â
âYou hungry?â
âNo, you?â
âNo.â
And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.
Storm pressure. Â
It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.
You canât.
The blanketâs too warm.
Heâs too close.
And heâs watching you. You donât have to look to know. Â
ââŠYouâre doing it again.â
âHm?â
You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. âLooking at me like that.â
His lips part. âLike what?â
Your eyes drop to his mouth.
His pinky brushes yours.
And just like that, the storm breaks.
âŠ
Steve leans in first.
The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and youâre the only place left to fall.
Only this time, you donât let him do it alone.
You meet him halfway.
His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.
And then your lips meet.
A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.
Thereâs no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, itâs the cautious warmth of shared breath, the nextâ
Itâs the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape. Â
Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.
You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.
His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way heâs been chewing on them all night.
Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.
Steve goes still. âGod, youâreâŠâ He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.
You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.
âGood?â you breathe against his mouth. Â
âYeah,â he rasps. âFuck. Yeah. You?â
You nod, catching your breath.
But he doesnât stop looking at you
And thereâs something about the way his gaze lingersâsoft, searchingâlike heâs waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesnât know how to say out loud.
But you know.
You just⊠know.
The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.
So you give him what he doesnât know how to ask for.
Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. Itâs pounding. So is yours.
âYou feel so good, Steve,â you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. âYouâre so good. So fucking good.â
He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.
Still, you donât stop.Â
You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.
âJesus,â he breathes.Â
You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.
âFeel that?â you murmur. âThatâs for you. All for you.â
He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.
âShit, babyâŠâ he breathes.  Â
And that wordâ
Itâs soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.
You donât think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.
Still, thereâs that tremble in his voice.
Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him thatâs always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.
You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. Youâre watching him insteadâflushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like youâre something heâs trying to memorize.
And it guts you. The honesty of it.
How easy it is to see now.    Â
That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes heâs doing it. Who says baby like itâs the only word he knows for want.Â
Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.
You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.
His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips andâ
You blink. Your mouth goes dry.
Because heâsâ
Wow. Okay.
Noted.
Itâs not just the sizeâthough, yeah, thatâs definitely part of it. Itâs the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.
You swallow hard.
âWhat?â He stirs, uncertain. âIs somethingâŠ?â
You look up at him, eyes wide. Â Â
âJesus, SteveâŠâ you breathe. âJust. Holy shit.â
His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his faceâuntil he sees your expression.
And there it is.
That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.
âOh,â he says, trying to play it off. âYeah?â
You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. âDonât get cocky.â
He raises a brow. Â
You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.
He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.
âShut up,â you mutter.
âDidnât say anything,â he says, still smiling.
You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.
He quiets instantly.
Because your hands are on him now.
You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until heâs twitching under your mouth.
âYouâre so pretty like this,â you whisper. âYou donât even know, do you?â
He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.
You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.
âYou can touch me,â you murmur. Â Â Â Â Â
His fingers curl, tentative. âYou sure?â
You nod. âI want you to. Want you to feel this.â
Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.
Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut. Â
âJesus,â he hisses. âOkay. Okay.â
You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this. Â
Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.
And Steve unravels beautifully.
You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control heâs trying so hard to hold on to.
Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.
Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.
âFuck,â he whispers. âBaby, your mouthâshitââ
His voice keeps catching like he doesnât quite believe it. You get the sense he hasnât been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.
So you double down.
You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him. Â
You keep going until heâs pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.
âShit, shitââ he pants. âIâm notânot gonna last if you keepâ"
You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.
âItâs okay,â you smile, breath warm against his skin. âDonât have to. Just want you to feel good.â
He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:
âWait, can Iâcan I get you off first?âÂ
You pause, stunned. Â
You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. âYou donât have toââ
âI want to,â he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. âPlease. Let me?â
You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one youâre learning to name without words.
Then, finally, you nod.
âOkay.â
You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesnât matter where.
What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.
You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.
The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until heâs fully seated.
Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.
Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.
âShit, are youâ?â
âIâm okay,â you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. âJust⊠gimme a sec. Youâre kind of a lot, Harrington.â Â
He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.
And when you start to moveâlifting your hips, rolling them back downâyou feel him everywhere.
âGod,â you pant, âyou feel so good.â
You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.
âCan feel you so deepâfuckââ Â
The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.
And the more you give himâYou feel so good, Fucking me so well, Low how you feel inside meâhe melts a little more beneath you.
âShit, right thereââ you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.
âCome for me,â he whispers, voice rough. âPlease. Want to feel you.â
His fingers circle faster. Â
And your body breaks.
You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.   Â
He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.
âThatâs it,â he pants. âThatâs it, baby, Iâve got youâfuckââ
Youâre still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.
You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.
âJust like that,â you whisper. âYouâre perfect like this, Steve. So good.â
His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he canât stand the space between.
And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.
And in the hush that follows, you murmur things youâve never said aloud. Not to anyone.
Things too raw for daylight.
Things meant only for him.
âŠ
You never ask him to stay.
Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like itâs an inside joke youâve shared forever.
Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because thatâs how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like theyâve been kissing too. Â
He never asks. You never offer.
âŠ
You learn the little things first.
That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks youâre not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.
And sometimes, you catch him staring again.
Only now, you donât look away. Â
Youâll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. Heâll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what heâs doing.
âSeriously, Harrington,â you mutter, eyes on the page. âTake a picture.â
He doesnât blink. âIâm good. Like this view better."
You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.
Then he moves.
Three steps. Thatâs all it takes.
Three steps until your backâs against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like itâs a promise heâs been dying to keep.
âYouâre annoying,â you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.
He grins into your skin. âYeah? You gonna kick me out, then?â
You donât.
You kind of never do.
âŠ
The days bleed together after that. Â
A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you donât know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.
He doesnât explain. You donât ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.
He doesnât let go the whole ride back.
A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. Youâre ranting about canned tomatoes; heâs trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when youâre not looking.
You scowl at checkout. He grins.
âYouâre gonna thank me later,â he says.
You do.
First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.
Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs.
âŠ
Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.
It starts to feel owned. Â
You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while itâs still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.
He says, âOw,â even when it doesnât hurt. You say, âAsshole,â even when itâs not true.
On the fourth night, you both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, scrubbing blood out of the couch cushions with baking soda and half-assed prayers.
Heâs watching you. Again. Â Â
You glance up. "What?"
He shrugs, smiling a little. âNothing.â
âSteve.â
âI justâŠâ He hesitates. Looks down. âI like this.â
You raise a brow. âCleaning your blood out of my furniture?â
He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.
âYeah,â he says.
But itâs not what he means.
You both know that.
âŠ
The sex changes, too.
In the mornings, itâs quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.
But at night? Heâs something else entirely.
He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like youâre his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hipsâholding you open, holding you still, driving into you like heâs trying to memorize the shape of you forever.
And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation.Â
He knows you now.
Knows what makes you beg, what makes you break. Where to bite, where to suck, where to press until your voice is raw and your nails leave crescent moons down his spine.
One night, he pins your wrists above your head, breath ragged.
âSay it,â he murmurs, grinding deep. âTell me who makes you feel like this.â
You break on his name.
He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesnât stop until your thighs are shaking.
And afterward, he stays.
Inside you. Around you.
He never pulls away first.
âŠ
Not all nights are easy.
Some nights, you wake alone.
You find him in the kitchen, framed by the glow of the open fridge. The light catches the tired slope of his shoulders, the untouched glass of water going warm in his hand. Â Â Â
You donât ask. Just step in behind him, press your cheek between his shoulder blades, and wrap your arms tight around his waist.
He breathes out. Sets the glass down. Closes the fridge.
When he turns, he doesnât speak. Just lets you hold him.
Lets you guide him back to bed.
âŠ
Your mornings are different now. Â
You wake in shirts that smell like him. Brush your teeth while he showers, fog curling across the mirror. He laughs at something stupid from behind the curtain, and you laugh back, still half-asleep.
It all happens so slowly you almost miss it.
The toothbrush that isnât yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because youâve learned to walk around them.
Heâs etched himself into your life in the smallest of ways. Fit through the cracks with warm hands and boyish grins and quiet looks in the daylight.
Like maybe he was meant to be here all along.
âŠ
Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count.Â
Because every morning, you tell yourself heâll probably leave soon.
And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he wonât.
âŠ
Like tonight.
Youâre wrapped around each other, skin still damp with heat, covers shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed. His hand rests on your back, fingers splayed. Yours curls against his chest, cheek pressed to the slow, steady rhythm behind his ribs.
It would be so easy to stay here.
To let the quiet stretch. To pretend the heaviness in your chest is just exhaustion, not the weight you've been carrying since the night you dragged his bleeding body across your living room. Since you sat awake beside him, watching every shallow breath, waiting for the next one to come.
But the questionâs been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.
âWhyâd you do it?â
He doesnât answer right away, and you wonder if heâs already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheekâa careful, deliberate breath.
ââŠDo what?â Â
âThe lake,â you murmur. âYou jumped in first. Why?â
Heâs quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
âI donât know,â he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. âSomeone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didnât really have to think about it.â
And you believe him. Itâs the part that hurts the most.
That he didnât have to think. That throwing himself in came as naturally as breathing.
Because somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington decided that his pain was worth less than everyone else's.
You shift closer, hooking your chin on his shoulder. His thumb draws slow, thoughtful circles against your spine.
âSteve,â you say quietly. âYou know itâs not about being a hero, right? You donât have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.â
His hand stills.
âIâm not.â Â
âNot what?â
âA hero. Iâm not.â He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. âI was⊠just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didnât care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it justâit never felt like enough. Still doesnât.â
You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.
âSo what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?â
He almost smiles. âKinda. Yeah.â
Then, quieter:
âI donât know, itâs like, if Iâm not the one stepping up, then⊠whatâs the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?â
Your heart aches. Because god, how long has he carried that? How many times has he thrown himself in just to keep from drowning?
You see it then, the fracture that runs through him. Spiderwebbed across everything he is, everything he was. A wound so old itâs fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned. Â
The weight he carries isnât something he puts on; itâs something that grew with him.
Years of being told he wasnât enough. Not smart enough. Not serious enough. Just the boy with the car, the smile, the house too big for how small it made him feel.Â
That kind of doubt doesnât heal. It burrows deep.
Sinks its teeth in. Festers. Â Â
Until guilt turns into remorse,
Remorse turns into habit,
And habit drags on as penance.
So he made himself useful.
Built his worth out of protection. Of stepping up, stepping in, taking the hit before anyone else could.
Diving first. Bleeding first.
Hurt first. Hurt worst. Hurt instead.
Thatâs where his value lives. Not in being loved, but in being needed.
You lift yourself up until you're eye to eye, cupping his face, thumbs brushing the tops of his cheeks. Â
âYouâre for you, Steve.âÂ
He blinks, brows knitting.
âYou donât have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. Thatâs not something you have to prove.â
His eyes search yours, like heâs trying to make sense of the words.
Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. He cups the back of your neck, drawing you in. His exhale against your lips sounds like a weight being untethered.
You stay like that for a while, breathing together, fingers laced at his chest.
Eventually, he sleeps.
You donât.
You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts. Â
You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.
You stay up. Â
Because someone has to.
âŠ
You get used to the quiet.
Used to Steve padding around the house in socks, humming half a tune under his breath.
To the way he opens every cupboard before finding the cereal thatâs been in the same spot for days.
To the way he claims half your couch, half your bed, half your toothpaste.
You get used to someone elseâs heartbeat in your space.
So when the knocking startsâthree sharp raps that rattle the woodâit takes you both by surprise.
Steveâs already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.
Youâve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.
âGuess whoâs officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and lookâI brought backup!â
Robin barrels in first, followed by two figures: a curly-haired kid drowning in a bright yellow baseball cap, and behind him, a taller shape in black denim and leather. Eddie Munson, wearing that same smug grin you remember vaguely from high school.
Youâve heard about them, of courseâSteveâs strange little apocalypse crewâbut hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.
âHeâs alive!â Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.
âTook you long enough,â he mutters into her shoulder.
âUh, excuse me. Your fault,â she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. âGrounded, remember?â Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. âSo? How much trouble was he?â  Â
You glance over at Steve. Heâs already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like heâs daring you to say something first. Thereâs a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.
You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. âNot much. He folds my laundry now.â
Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.
âWell, shit,â he drawls. âSteve Harrington, domesticated. Didnât think Iâd live to see the day.â
Steve rolls his eyes. âYou guys are hilarious.â
But his ears are pink by the time you close the door.
âŠ
After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchenâs a mess of crumbs and chatter.
Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddieâs straddling a chair backwards, drumming on the counter. Dustin paces, orchestrating what sounds like a full-scale military operation using a butter knife and a salt shaker.Â
ââIâm saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.â
Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like heâs catching every third word.
Youâre at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable humâuntil Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.
âSo⊠heâs okay to come back now, right?
You glance over your shoulder.
Steveâs got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen lightâpale and raised, still tender from where you pulled out the last stitch two days ago. Robin wrinkles her nose, groaning about how she's lost her appetite.
You turn back to Dustin. âI mean, no fever, no infection. Doesnât seem to be actively dying. So yeah, Iâd say heâs good.â
Dustin beams. âAwesome.â
You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:
âActually⊠I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.â
The room goes still.
Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.
Steveâs voice breaks the quiet.
âNo.â
You turn, incredulous. âExcuse me?â
âNo way,â he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry youâve come to recognize. âYouâre not going.â
You blink at him like, Seriously?
He raises his brows like, Try me.Â
You sigh, turning off the water. âI wouldnât be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?â You shoot him a pointed look.
He ignores it, jaw working like heâs gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.
âWait, thatâs actually kind of genius,â he mutters thoughtfully. âYou could be our medic. LikeâEddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!â
You frown. âOur what now?â
âD&D thing,â Eddie smirks. âHealing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.â
You laugh softly. âSure. Okay. Cleric.â
But Steve isnât laughing.
âWait, justâhang on,â he steps forward, catching your wrist. âCan I talk to you for a second?â
âŠ
The hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by the slant of light spilling in from the kitchen.
You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him pace three slow steps before stopping, running both hands through his hair.     Â
He doesnât look at you. Doesnât speak.
You wait.
Finally, quietly: âYou canât come with us.â
You narrow your eyes. âYouâre not the boss of me.â
âI mean it.â His voice is low. Firm. But itâs not angry. Not that sharp, flinty tone you remember from high school, when he used to wield confidence like armor. No, this is something else.
Fear.
You tilt your head, voice softening. âSteveâŠâ
He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. âYou heard what itâs like down there. You saw what happened last time.â
âI did. Thatâs why Iâve decided to go.â
His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. âAnd you didnât think to talk to me about it before?â
âWhy? So you could freak out and tell me no?â
âIâm notââ He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. âI just canât ask you to risk that. Itâs not fair.â
âYouâre not asking,â you say quietly. âIâm offering.âÂ
For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like heâs searching for somethingâsome argument, some loophole thatâll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he wonât have to admit what this really is.
But when he speaks, his voice isnât tense anymore. It just trembles. Â
âI canâtâI canât lose you in there. You get that? I canât. I justâŠâ His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.
â...I just got you.â
The quiet stretches. You gaze at him, heart heavy.
His shoulders are tense when you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch in yours, like heâs ready to pull awayâbut he doesnât. He never does.
âSteve,â you start gently. âI know youâre scared. I am too. But I canât just sit here and wait while you...â you take a breath, squeezing his hand. âIf thereâs a chance I can help, Iâm taking it.â Â Â
He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skinâonce, twice, like heâs trying to memorize the feel of it. The fight drains out of him with a sigh that sounds too big for his chest.
He steps forward wordlessly, and pulls you into his arms. His chin drops to the top of your head. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart start to slow.
âFine,â he murmurs. âBut youâre staying up here. Radio only. And youâre not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?â
You smile into his shirt. âDeal.â
âŠ
Itâs almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.
The sunlightâs lazy this time of day, all thick and golden, caught in the slow spin of dust motes above the coffee table. The air smells like coffee and the lavender candle you lit this morning. Youâre curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.
âJesus,â comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. âHow long was I out?â
You smile, already watching. âCouple hours.â Â
He squints at the light. âYou let me nap that long?â
âYou needed it.â
Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hairâs flattened on one side and sticking up in the back. You reach out and comb your fingers through the mess. It fluffs up worse for it, but he sighs and leans into your hand anyway.
He trades the throw pillow for your stomach, draping a heavy arm across your waist. You rest your palm on his shoulder, thumb tracing the ridge of his collarbone.
The house hums around you: the low buzz of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, the soft creak of settling wood. Itâs a silence that no longer feels hollow.
You let it breathe. Â
Itâs been three weeks.
Three weeks since you stood on the other side of a collapsing gate, heart in your throat, waiting for their silhouettes to break through the mist.Â
Three weeks since the air finally stilled, the ground stopped shaking, and the last portal sealed itself shut behind Eddie, behind Robin, behind all of them.
Three weeks since you checked every pulse, cleaned every wound, counted every head, and realized, miraculously, that no one was missing.
That everyone made it out. Alive. Together.
Three weeks since Steve stumbled out of the wreckage and into your arms and didnât let go.
The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between. Â Â
And Steve hasnât left. Not once.
You're not sure when it stopped being temporary. When duffel bags became dresser drawers, when his shaving cream started living on your bathroom counter, next to the ceramic dish that holds your rings. When the dent in your couch, the dip in your pillow, stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like home.
He still has his edges, the instinct to fix, to shield, to throw himself in front of the next disaster before it happens. But youâve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.
And heâs learning to let you.
Youâre halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.
âHey,â he murmurs. âYou okay?â
You hum. âJust thinking.â
âUh oh,â he teases, voice still scratchy with sleep.
You smile, ruffling his hair. He groans and nips playfully at your stomach. When your laughter settles, you say it, quietly:
âI was just⊠thinking about what you said.â
He stills, blinking up at you. âYeah? Whatâd I say now?â
âAt the gate.â
Thatâs all you have to say. You both remember.
The roar, the smoke, the sting of blood and dirt. The ground giving out beneath you when he finally made it outâonly to tell you he had to go back. One last time. To help the others out. To step into the jaws of a place that wanted to claim him for good.
I know! I know! JustâI need to tell you something. No, I know, just listenâ
You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his handsâsteady, impossibly steadyâas he caught your face. His voice cracking on the words:
I love you. I need you to know that, okay? I love you.
You stare at the book laying on your chest, swallowing hard. âI never said it back.â
Steve looks at you for a long moment.
Then, softly: âYeah, you did.â
âWhen?â
He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.
âNot out loud. But you did.â
You think back.
To the tremor in your hands as you let his fingers slip away. The hitch in your breath when the walkie crackled with his voice. To how tightly you held on when he staggered out with the others, bruised and shaking and breathing, and realized you could finally breathe too.
Every heartbeat since has felt like a promise.
Maybe words wouldâve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.
Your fingers find his jaw.
âStill,â you whisper. âI want to say it now.â
He tilts his head, waiting.
And you do.
Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like theyâd been waiting inside you all along.
And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it.
âŠ
The house is still too small. The front door still sticks when it rains. The couch still carries the faint stain from that first night.
But itâs home.
More than it ever was. More than it ever couldâve been without him.
The proof is everywhere: his Ray-Bans next to your keys, a battered boombox on your plant windowsill, the Polaroid Robin took where heâs smiling at you instead of the camera.
Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest wonât stay kind.
But on those nights, he finds you. He always will.
And somewhere between the grocery runs and movie marathons, between loud songs in the kitchen and quiet kisses before bed, it stopped feeling like borrowed time.
Itâs just time, now.
Yours.
Together.
âŠ
Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.
She meant hearts. You meant bones.
Maybe she was right. Â
But maybe thatâs not such a bad thing.
You've named it something else now, anyway.
âŠ
epilogue
You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.
Youâve got prep to do for night.
Steve moves in behind you, hair still rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans his hip against the counter, flipping through the Playerâs Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like heâs cramming for a test.
âI swear,â he mutters, squinting, âyou need a math degree to play this game.â
You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Msâfuel for the chaos to come. âYouâll live.â
âNot if Eddie's dragon eats me.â
âWell, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.â
He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until heâs flush against you. His hips trap you against the counter, chest warm against your back. He leans into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your ear.
âYou know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?â
Before you can roll your eyes, he catches you by the hips and spins you around, grin breaking wide and easy. You love how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.
Soon, the party will be hereâarms full of sodas, dice clattering in boxes, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The house will fill with laughter, with the easy rhythm of shared lives.
But for now, itâs just him.
Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light.
And the sun keeps pouring in. Â Â
âĄÂ Serves: the kind of want that only happens between two people who never should have let themselves give in
Summary:Â Tammyâs Christmas party was supposed to be loud, forgettable, and over by midnight. It isnât.
Bad decisions stack up fast when itâs cold outside, hands are warm, and the person beside you is the last one you should have wanted.
Bakerâs Note: This request not only inspired this piece, but opened my eyes to the appeal of Steve Ă Hargrove!Reader so... more is definitely coming âĄ
Allergies:Â 18+ / MDNI! explicit sexual content, consensual power dynamics (slightly sub Steve), virgin reader (not heavily discussed), male orgasm (clothed / no penetration), thigh riding, alcohol consumption (no intoxicated consent).
Word Count:Â 3.3k
Pairs Well With: Steve Harrington Ă HargroveTwin!Reader
The thing about Tammyâs annual Christmas party is that itâs never subtle.
The house is already too warm, the music too loud, the punch too strong. Someoneâs taped tinsel to the ceiling fan again. Someone else is dancing on the coffee table like itâs their job.
Steve Harrington has had exactly three drinks too many and not nearly enough reason to be making good decisions.
âDonât,â Robin says, already sighing.
Steve doesnât even pretend not to hear her.
Because across the roomâhalf-hidden by blinking lights and bodies that keep shiftingâyou look up, and something low and immediate curls in his gut.
âSteve,â Robin says flatly. âThatâs Billy Hargroveâs twin.â
He knows.
Thatâs the problem.
You look nothing like your brother. No sharp edges. No restless violence. Just quiet confidence and something unreadable in your eyes that makes Steveâs pulse kick hard in his throat. Youâre leaning back against the counter, drink loose in your hand, eyes tracking the room like youâre aware of exactly whoâs watching you.
Including him.
Steve drains the rest of his cup.
âWell,â he says, already stepping away, âit is Christmas.â
By the time he reaches you, heâs smiling like this is a bad joke he fully intends to finish. The easy one. The dangerous one. The version of himself that never learned when to walk away.
âHey,â he says, stopping close. Too close. Close enough that the heat between you feels deliberate. âTell me this partyâs overwhelming, and Iâll pretend I planned to rescue you.â
Your eyes flick to his mouth before you look back up at him.
Not shy.
Not impressed.
But definitely interested.
You tilt your head. âAnd if I say Iâm fine?â
Steveâs smile slows. Turns hungry around the edges.
âThen,â he says quietly, âIâll have to come up with a better excuse to keep talking to you.â
The air between you feels tight. Charged. Like the room just shrank around the two of you.
And just like that, Steve Harrington knows exactly how this is going to go.
Itâs a terrible idea.
Itâs going to get him into trouble.
And heâs already decided he wants you enough not to care.
You donât smile right away.
You take a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up again, like youâre weighing something.
âThat sounds like a you problem,â you say lightly.
Steve huffs a laugh, quick and surprised. He shifts his weight closer without thinking, then stills like heâs just realized how close he is.
âYeah,â he says. âI get those sometimes.â
The music surges behind you, someone shouting along to the chorus. A body bumps Steveâs shoulder hard enough to jostle him forward.
This time, he doesnât step back.
He glances over your shoulder, then back at you, jaw tight with decision.
âCome on,â he says, already turning, like heâs assuming youâll follow. âLetâs get out of the way before one of us spills something.â
âOh? Youâre so sure Iâd come?â you ask, mild and curious.
He pauses.
Not long. Just enough to glance back at you properly this time.
âIâm not,â he says. Then, honest and a little rough around the edges, âJust hoping.â
Something in your chest loosens at that.
You step after him.Â
He doesnât grab your hand. Just moves ahead of you through the crowd, close enough that you have to stay near him or lose him. Every so often he glances back, checking. Making sure.
When the front door swings open, cold air rushes in, sharp and clean, and Steve pauses just outside it, finally turning to face you again.
âYou good?â he asks.
You nod.âYeah.â
Steve holds your gaze for half a second longer than necessary, like heâs checking something he already knows the answer to.
âOkay,â he says. âThenââ
He gestures vaguely toward the street, the night, anywhere but back inside.
You donât ask where.
You just step past him instead, down the front steps, the cold biting through the thin soles of your shoes. He follows close, jacket brushing your arm as he reaches for his keys.
The street is quieter than the party, the air sharp and clean, Christmas lights glowing in windows up and down the block.
Steveâs car is parked crooked at the curb.
He stops short, keys already in his hand before he hesitates, like the thought catches up to him a second too late.
âI shouldnât drive,â he says, more to himself than you.
You hold your palm out. âIâm sober.â
He looks at you. Really looks at you.
Then, after a beat that feels heavier than it should, he drops the keys into your hand.
The car unlocks with a soft click.
Steve slides into the passenger seat and immediately looks like he regrets it, one hand braced against the door, the other settling awkwardly in his lap like he doesnât quite know what to do with it now that heâs not in control.
You start the engine.
The interior warms slowly, the radio murmuring something festive and completely wrong. Steve doesnât touch it. Doesnât look at you either.
Streetlights pass in quiet intervals, pale gold flashing across the dashboard. He watches them like heâs anchoring himself to something outside the car.
Youâre aware of him anyway.
The angle of his knee toward yours.
The tension in his shoulders.
The silence stretchesâsurprisingly not awkward.
âYouâre quiet,â you say, eyes still on the road.
He exhales slowly. âYeah. Trying to behave.â
That makes you glance at him.
âIs that hard for you?â
A breath that almost sounds like a laugh leaves him. âRight now? Yeah.â
Your knee brushes his as you shift.
Barely anything.
Steve stills completely.
At the stop sign, his gaze drops to your hands on the wheelâsteady, confident, completely at ease in his space.
âChrist,â he mutters.
You glance over. âWhat?â
He shakes his head once. âNothing. Justâkeep going.â
You do.
And somewhere between the quiet streets and the hum of the engine, Steve Harrington realises heâs already lostânot because of what might happen next, but because heâs sitting in the passenger seat of his own car, watching you like youâre the most dangerous thing heâs ever willingly let this close.
The car slows as you turn onto his street. One light glows in the front window.
You ease into the driveway. Shift into park.
Neither of you moves.
âThis is usually where I say something smart,â he says quietly.
You wait.
He huffs a breath. âYeah. Iâve got nothing.â
You meet his gaze.
He nods once. âOkay. Thenââ
He steps out into the cold, pauses, then looks back at you like heâs giving you one last chance.
You donât take it.
You follow him up the steps, the door opening into warmth and quiet and the unmistakable sense that whatever happens next was never going to be casual.
The door closes behind you with a soft, final click.
The quiet is immediate. Heavy. Too loud in its own way.
Steve turns like he means to say somethingâanythingâbut whatever it is gets stuck somewhere between his chest and his mouth.
Youâre standing too close.
Close enough to feel the warmth of him, the lingering cold on his jacket, the way he hasnât quite decided where to put his hands.
You glance around, suddenly aware of the space. The hallway. The coats. The fact that youâre here.
âUh,â he starts, then stops. Huffs a breath. âI canââ
You look up at him.
Itâs the same look he clocked across the room. Quiet. Curious. Unreadable. Like youâre waiting to see what heâll do if you donât give him an out.
Steve swears under his breath.
âFuck it.â
He moves before he can overthink itâone hand coming up to your face, warm and sure, thumb brushing your jaw like heâs been wanting to do it all night.
He leans in and kisses you, firm and decisive and just a little reckless, like heâs afraid if he hesitates heâll lose his nerve.
For a split second, itâs awkward. Your noses bump. He pulls back just enough to adjust, breath uneven, and then heâs kissing you againâslower this time, deeper, like heâs finally figured out where he fits.
His other hand finds your waist, anchoring you there. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just holding on.
The tension finally snaps.
And suddenly the quiet doesnât feel so loud anymore.
You make a small, breathless noise when he presses you back against the wall, coats swinging on their hooks beside you, something between surprise and surrender, and Steveâs grip tightens instantly.
His fingers dig into your hip, his other hand sliding up to tangle in your hair, angling your head just so.
Thereâs no hesitation now, no second-guessing; he kisses you like heâs memorising the shape of your mouth, like heâs trying to prove something to himself. And when you arch into him, your hands finally finding their way under his jacket to clutch at his shirt, he groans against your lips, ragged and low.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look, eyes dark and pupils blown wide. Your lips are parted, your breaths coming fast, and something about the way youâre watching him, like youâre just as wrecked as he is, sends a jolt of possessive heat straight through him. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, rough and unsteady.
âFuck,â he mutters, more to himself than to you, before dragging you into another kiss, this one messier, hungrier.
You gasp when his teeth graze your lower lip, and the sound goes straight to his dick. Heâs not gentle. Canât be, not when youâre melting against him like this, not when every shaky exhale you make only spurs him on.
His hands roam, mapping the dip of your waist, the curve of your ass, and when you whimper, just a soft, broken thing, he feels it like a punch to the gut.
âYou,â he starts, voice rough, but the words die when you rock against him, hips rolling in a way thatâs unmistakable.
Steveâs thoughts stutter to a halt. You want him. Not just tolerating this, not just going along with it. Youâre as far gone as he is. The realisation hits him sharp and sudden, and the air between you tightens. He doesnât think. Just moves.
His mouth finds your throat, your collarbone, biting just hard enough to make you shudder, and when you let out another one of those quiet, desperate sounds, he knows heâs fucking done for.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, not pushing him away, pulling him closer, and thatâs all it takes.
He palms the curve of your ass, squeezing tight enough to drag a sharp gasp from you, and then heâs lifting you effortlessly against the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist instantly, ankles locking behind him like they were made to fit there.
The friction is immediate, brutal, and for a second, Steve sees stars. âJesus Christ,â he grits out, forehead pressed to yours like heâs trying to hold onto his sanity. But you donât let him. You roll your hips again, deliberate and slow, and he chokes on a groan.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers the keys digging into his thigh, the coats swaying dangerously close to knocking over a lamp, but none of it matters.
Not when youâre arching into him like this, all soft curves and sharp edges, mouth parted and eyes half-lidded. Steve mouths at your jaw, breath hot and uneven.
âBedroom,â he murmurs, half-question, half-demand, but youâre already nodding, already dragging him forward like you canât bear the thought of breaking contact even for a second. And fuck if that doesnât undo him completely.
He kisses you again, deep and filthy, and for the first time in years, Steve doesnât think about whatâs right. Doesnât think about anything at all.
You guide him backward through the hallway, clumsy and laughing when you trip over a misplaced shoe, but his hands never leave your skin. Palming your waist, tracing the dip of your spine, like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he stops touching you.
Itâs only when you push him onto the bed that he realises heâs let you take control without a fight. The thought should piss him off. Instead, it makes his pulse jump, watching you climb into his lap with that same shy, hungry look thatâs been driving him crazy all night.
His belt buckle clinks as you undo it, fingers surprisingly steady despite the way your breath hitches when he drags his thumbs over your nipples through your shirt.
Steveâs brain short-circuits when you lean down to whisper against his mouth, âTell me what you want,â because holy shit, you sound wrecked already, but thereâs an edge to it, a challenge.
He swallows hard, hands tightening on your hips. âYou,â he rasps, and itâs the easiest truth heâs ever told.
The moment you admit youâve never done this before, murmured against his shoulder when he nips at your pulse point, Steve freezes. Just for a second. Just long enough for the implications to ricochet through him: Billyâs twin, untouched, trusting him.
The protective urge flares hot and sudden, warring with the primal part of him that wants to pin you down and take you apart. But then you roll your hips against his, deliberate and slow, and fuck, desire wins.
He exhales sharply through his nose, hands sliding up to cradle your face. âLook at me,â he orders, voice rough.
When you do, eyes dark, lips swollen, he kisses you like heâs trying to imprint himself on you. Slower now, but deeper, more focused, mapping the way you gasp when he sucks on your tongue, memorising the way your fingers dig into his shoulders when he palms between your legs.
Steve groans when you rock against his hand, soaking through your panties. âChrist,â he mutters, dragging his mouth down your throat. He should stop. Should be gentle.
But then you arch into him with a whimper thatâs pure sin, and all coherent thought evaporates.
His teeth find your collarbone as he hooks a finger under the lace at your hips. âGonna make you feel so good,â he vows, not a promise, a threat.
The moment your nails rake down his back, he realises heâs the one being wrecked. You donât beg. Donât demand. Just guide his touch with subtle shifts of your hips, your breath hitching when he gets it right, and fuck, Steveâs never been this desperate to please someone in his life.
Your silence is maddening.
He needs to hear you break. Needs it like oxygen. But the more you withhold, the more unraveled he becomes, chasing your quiet gasps like a man starved.
His control slips another notch when you suddenly push him back onto his back. Dark amusement flickers in your eyes as you straddle his thigh, shy but untamed, watching him squirm under your gaze.
Steveâs throat goes dry. He should flip you over, take charge. But the way you grind against him, slow and deliberate, has his hips jerking involuntarily. Controlâs never been this fucking sweet.
When you finally speak, just his name, whispered like a prayer, it destroys him. His hands tighten on your waist as his hips buck up involuntarily, ragged and unrestrained.
It settles heavy and unavoidable in his chest â heâd let you ruin him for this. For the way you undo him without even trying. Steve doesnât care whoâs in charge anymore, just as long as itâs you.
His control shatters further when you press his wrists into the mattress, fingers tangled in the sheets. The restraint should piss him off. Instead, it drags a broken moan from his throat, his hips stuttering beneath you.
Heâs never been this wrecked, this desperate, not for anyone. But when you lean down to murmur, âStop thinking,â against his mouth, he canât fucking breathe.
You rock against him, slow and torturous, until his muscles lock and his fingers claw at the mattress. The tension coils tight, too tight, and then snaps. Steveâs vision whites out as he comes with a choked curse, hips jerking helplessly beneath you.
The aftermath is worse. Youâre still riding his thigh, watching him unravel in slow motion, completely undone. And fuck, he canât even find the words to tell you how bad heâs got it. Not when you look at him like that, like you know exactly what youâve done.
His breath comes in ragged bursts, his skin tight with embarrassment, but before he can stutter out an apology, your fingers tangle in his hair and drag his mouth back up to yours.
The kiss is filthy, all teeth and tongue, and Steveâs too wrecked to fight it. The damp fabric of his jeans sticks to his skin, uncomfortable and undeniable, but you donât give him a second to dwell on it.
Your hips grind down against his thigh again, slow and deliberate, and fuck, he can already feel himself stirring again.
Steve groans into your mouth, half-mortified, half-feral. âJesus Christ,â he rasps, hands sliding up your thighs.
âYouâre gonna kill me.â But you just smirk, shy and wicked, and rock against him harder until heâs arching off the bed with a choked gasp.
The realisation lands slow and devastating: youâre not done with him yet. And fuck if that doesnât send another jolt of heat straight through him.
His fingers dig into your hips as you lean back, stripping off your shirt with a slow, teasing twist that leaves him breathless. The lamplight catches the curve of your waist, the flush creeping down your chest, and Steveâs mouth goes dry.
He should say something smooth, something clever, but all that comes out is a ragged, âFuck, look at you,â before heâs dragging you down for another kiss, desperate and messy.
You let him flip you this time, but the second his weight settles over you, your nails scrape down his back, sharp enough to make him hiss. Steve freezes, pulse hammering, and when you bite your lip like that, all innocence and sin, he knows heâs screwed.
âYou,â he starts, voice wrecked, but you cut him off with a roll of your hips that steals his breath. The sheets are tangled, the air thick with the scent of sweat and want, and somewhere in the haze, Steve realises heâs never been this gone for anyone.
Your fingers trace the scar on his shoulder, Billyâs doing, though neither of you say it. For a heartbeat, the past flickers between you. But then you drag him down, mouth hot against his ear, and whisper, âStop thinking,â you reiterate, this time like a command, like a prayer.
Steve shudders, exhales ragged, and suddenly itâs just this. Your thighs bracketing his hips, his hands fumbling with the clasp of your bra, the way you gasp when his thumb brushes your nipple.
The air is thick with the sound of rustling fabric and uneven breaths, and when you finally arch beneath him, skin to skin, he lets out a groan so raw it surprises even him.
The lamp casts shadows across your body, dips and curves heâs only imagined until now, and Steve hesitates, suddenly unsure. But you grab his wrist, press his palm to your chest, and the way your heartbeat thunders under his touch obliterates every thought.Â
He kisses you like heâs drowning, hands roaming, mapping every shudder, every hitch in your breath. When you jerk against him, gasping, he doesnât tease, just watches, mesmerised, as your back bows off the bed, your fingers clutching at his hair.
âSteve,â you choke out, and the way his name fractures on your lips sends a jolt of possessive pride through him. Heâs never seen anything more beautiful.
It hits him all at once: he is ruined. Not just tonight. Not just for now. Completely. Irrevocably. And when you drag his mouth back to yours, slow and filthy, he doesnât fight it.
Lets you taste the truth on his tongue.
Lets you ruin him right back.
Served when you know this isnât the last time.
âĄÂ Seasonal special from the Hawkins Midwinter Recipe Book
let's hear it for the boy! || steve harrington x reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 10.9k
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Best Friend!Reader
Warnings: SMUT (solo masturbation, dry humping, f!receiving oral, handjob, premature ejaculation, p in v sex), language, sexual references, Steve is very oblivious, Steve can't get it up (unless it's for you), porn WITH plot, slow-ish burn
Summary: set before s4. steve has a problem. he can't cum unless he's thinking about you. except you're his friend and he definitely doesn't have any romantic feelings towards you. at least, that's what he tells himself.
âSeriously? Katie Frey doesnât do it for you?â You asked, sitting atop the counter at Family Video. Steve shrugged, embarrassment welling up in his chest at your words, and the general topic of conversation.
âI was as surprised as you are now,â he said, twirling a company branded pen between his fingers and hoping the fidgeting would take his mind off of how absolutely mortified he was. âBecause, like, Katie is hot.â
âAbsolutely. Smokinâ hot.â Your voice was muffled around a twizzler, framed by perfectly made-up lips.
He made a face at your interruption, staring at you with narrowed eyes until you mimed zipping your mouth shut.
âAnd like, sheâs got these great tits. Huge.â Really huge, fucking perfect tits. Not that he was a perv about it, but it was hard not to notice them. âAnd sheâs pretty. And, you know, we were going at it at her apartment after our date and I swear I was into it. ButâŠâ He stopped twirling the pen so he could bury his face into his hands, mumbling the end of the sentence. âI couldnât⊠cum, you know? I had to just fake it.â
âFake it? Were you convincing?â you asked, brows furrowed. He peered up at you through the spaces between his fingers, at the quirk of a smile on your lips. âMaybe you should show me. Iâm a visual learner.â
He threw the pen at you and groaned in frustration. âYouâre an asshole, you know that right? This is serious.â
You did your best to adjust your expression and be empathetic. âOkay, well that didnât happen with Sheryl, did it?â He shook his head. âMaybe youâre still stuck on Sheryl.â
He shrugged, letting himself relax a little. âEh, not really. She was fun, but clingy.â
You sighed, leaning forward like a scientist observing him under a microscope. âOther than like⊠the finale, was the sex good?â
âYes! And the date was perfectly fine too.â He sat up straighter, crossing his arms across his chest. He was telling the truth⊠mostly. It wasnât bad, it wasnât amazing. It was just⊠fine. He gave you a half-smile. âThanks for letting me talk to you about this. Robin would be all weird about it.â
You smiled teasingly. âOh, Robin wouldâve bailed the moment you said the word cum.â You altered your voice into a shockingly accurate impression of your friend. ââEw, Steve! I donât want to hear about the details of hetero sex. I faked mono during sex-ed for a reason.â
âShe wouldâve agreed about Katieâs tits, though,â Steve insisted. âSheâd pretend to be mortified that Iâm objecting women or whatever, but sheâd agree.â
You laughed and shook your head at his words, and he felt a tiny tug in his chestâ some sort of like, stirring, big feeling.
He didnât get it. The two of you had been friends since Freshman year, when you moved next door to Carol and she dragged you to every hangout, big and small. He always sort of figured that Carol was trying to set you up with him, but neither of you ever made a move.
He wasnât sure why he felt that uncomfortable ache in his chest when you smiled lately. There had never been any feelings there in all the time heâd known you, right? Sure, he thought you were hotâ thatâs why he had to give you dating advice all the timeâbut that was different.
"Maybe you just need to find the right girl, or something,â you said earnestly. âLike⊠maybe your dream girl is right in front of you, and even if your brain doesnât know it, your body does.â
You tucked your permed hair behind your ear and it made his stomach drop like he was on a roller coaster. And he was confused about how such a tiny sensation could feel so overwhelming when he heard the bells above the door ring.
The girl approached the counter with big brown eyes and hair that looked a little fried by bleach and perm solution. He did love curls, though.
âI called this morning,â she said, her voice low and sultry. He liked sultry. âSome guy named Keith set aside Footloose for me? Should be under Rebecca Martin, or Becky, maybe.â
Steve smiled and turned on the charm.
Becky wasnât the hottest thing to moan during sex, but Steve Harrington wasnât a quitter. Heâd just⊠avoid names in general.
Steve was a gentleman. Theyâd gone to dinner a few nights prior, and heâd been polite and kissed her at the front door. It had gone well enough to tell Robin about, which was saying something. He liked her sense of humor, she was sweet, and her perfume was so nice that it was practically addicting.
The second date wasnât as formal. Movie at his place, stealing his parentsâ fancy wine out of the cabinet like a high schooler. It started innocently enough that he wasnât even sure if he should go any further, keep things cool, really see this one through this time.
But, Jesus Christ, did she have other plans. Pretty, pink manicured nails traced along his thigh, dimpling the fabric of his jeans, which were already tight enough. She played coyâ eyes on the movie, a satisfied smirk on her lips as her hand paused just below where he wanted it. He squirmed, just slightly, feeling his dick stir with interest. She batted big doe-eyes at him and furrowed her brows in a very practiced manner.
âSomething wrong?â She asked, and he could see the amusement in her gaze as her hand wandered up, cupping the bulge that was swelling in the front of his jeans. She sprung into action after he captured her lips in a hungry kiss, making quick work of the button and zipper so she could wiggle her hand beneath his boxers.
Her hand was deliciously soft, and he liked the soft gasp of surprise that escaped her when she took him into her hand and gave a testing stroke. It was dry, and a little uncomfortable until she spat into her hand and started over. It felt good. She felt good.
âDo you wanna go to your room?â Her words were damp against the column of his throat, no doubt leaving pink stains from her lipstick.
âYeah,â he said softly. âYeah. I want to.â
ââ
His cheeks were burning as he watched Becky redress, hurriedly tugging her panties up her legs. Her annoyance and disappointment was blatant in her features, and it made his chest ache with mortification.
âThat doesnâtââ He shook his head. That doesnât usually happen sounded like a stupid excuse, especially considering that his last hookup had ended similarly. This time had been worse. âI donât know why that happened.â
She shrugged, shimmying into her denim skirt. âItâs whatever, Steve.â
âNo, no I mean it,â he said, trying to fight the frown on his lips, trying to seem at least a little⊠casual about it all. Heâd gone down on her until she came apart right on his tongue, then he took his time to get her stretched out and ready for him until she couldnât take anymore and begged for him.
He wanted to fuck her, he wanted to feel her around him, warm and tight and pliant, blinking prettily up at him while she moaned and gasped. So why wouldnât his body let him do it?
What the fuck?
âItâs fine, really. Donât worry about it.â As soon as he heard the pity in her voice, he nearly wanted to die. âIâm only in town to visit my aunt anyway.â
âThis really never happens to me,â he insisted. The look on her faceâ the subtle mix of disbelief and scornâ made him feel like he was a bug under her shoe.
He didnât bother redressing more than just tugging on his boxers as she left, and he was grateful she at least let him walk her to the door after the worldâs most disastrous hookup attempt.
He groaned in annoyance as he closed the door behind him, running his hands through his mussed-up hair. He was at the phone before he even realized where he was walking, dialing the number through sheer muscle memory.
âHello?â Your voice crackled along the line, sounding sleepy. What time was it?
âHey,â Steve said, leaning against the wall where the phone was mounted. He didnât need to worry about calling directly from his personal line when his parents werenât home. Besides, he was sweating, smelled like sex, and there was something comfortable about the cool, empty room downstairs. âAm I bothering you?â
âNuh-uh,â you hummed, and he heard something shuffle on your side of the phone. âJust painting my nails. Whatâs up? I thought you were busy with Becky tonight?â
His heart thumped uncomfortably and he wished he hadnât called. âYeah, uh, she left.â
âOh,â you replied, and he could picture the look of soft concern you would be wearing. âYou sound disappointed. Did it not go well?â
Steve scratched at his chest, the hair there still a bit tacky with sweat. âPermission to overshare?â
You paused. âHmâŠâ Another beat. âUh, I guess so. Why not?â
You were quiet as Steve recounted the experience with you, right down to the horrific realization that he couldnât stay hard and their night had to be cut short. He waited as soon as he explained Becky's departure, waiting for you to laugh or tease him.
âThatâs tough, but it happens, Steve,â you said softly. âMaybe your heart wasnât in it.â
He groaned again, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. âI donât care if my heart was in it. I wanted my dick to be in it.â He paused. âThat wasnât on purpose, but you know what I mean. My heart has never been a problem before.â
âWell, stress can impact performance,â you explained. âEspecially if youâre psyching yourself out about whether or not youâre going to get off. Permission for me to overshare?â
He sighed and ran a hand through his mussed hair. âYeah, yeah, whatever. Permission granted.â
âLast year when they hired me at The Gap at the mall and made me a manager for no reason, I was so fucking stressed out that I couldnât get myself off for weeks. Like, I tried everything. You know what finally helped?â
Steve swallowed. Hard. âW-what?â
âI turned off my brain for a few hours. I just let my hands wander a bit, figured out what felt good, and explored that for a while before moving on to the next spot. Eventually, I made myself cum without even realizing what I was doing.â You paused, and he heard a nervous laugh slip past your lips. âUm, that's just, like, a suggestion.â
The mental image was enough to make his cock twitch beneath the thin material of his boxers. He swallowed, trying to block out the images of you; naked, hand between your thighs, writhing in pleasure. His length throbbed again, because despite his best efforts, the image didnât go away.
âIâm just trying to explain that itâs super common to have issues getting off, and itâs not weird!â You said, the silence clearly making you antsy. âDid that help at all?â
âMhmm,â he hummed. âRobin would say this is a sign from the universe that I should just be single for a while.â
âMaybe.â You paused. âGive yourself some time, alright? Youâve been through a lot, Steve. Stuff like that is bound to catch up sooner or later.â
You were waiting for him by your next shift, sneaking past Robin to pull him aside. âDid you try it?â You asked, blinking up at him.
âWhat?â He furrowed his brows until you mimed jerking off and his cheeks fucking burned. âOh, no. I wasnât up for it.â He groaned. âI didnât mean it like that either.â
âI know, I know,â you assured, a pretty smile on your lips. âSo, do you think that Beckyâs notâŠâ
âYeah, I donât think Iâll be seeing her again, which blows.â
You shrugged. âScrew that. You can find someone way better, alright?â He wanted to roll his eyes as you grabbed his shoulders in your hands, making him look right at you. When he tried to look away, you repeated yourself. âAlright?â
He sighed. âYeah, yeah, alright.â He wriggled out of your grip. âCan you just hand me the returns cart so I can shelve them?â You shrugged and passed him the cart, eager to offload your tasks if he was willing to take them.
He needed a distraction. Because you were wearing a black miniskirt with your dumb family video vest, and a fucking Star Wars shirt he wouldâve found dorky if you werenât perfectly endearing.
You were giggling and smiling, fighting with Robin over a copy of some movie you both were dying to see before the other. He sighed as he shelved a copy of A Christmas Story, wondering why someone wouldâve rented that in August.
He got the cart shelved, helped a nice old lady find a Hitchcock movie sheâd liked when her late husband showed her, and even reorganized the snack counter before he finally came upon a hitch in his day.
âSteve!â Your voice was barely a whisper, coming from Keithâs office. He looked around at the store, where Robin was sitting unfazed at the main counter, and slipped past the door.
Oh fuck. You were bent over Keithâs desk, legs sprawled awkwardly, tugging hopelessly at where your shirt was caught on a screw pinning it and you to the wall. He couldnât even fathom how youâd gotten into that positionâ maybe reaching for something that had fallen behind the bulky desk?
Worst of all, that stupid mini skirt. Bent over the desk, he saw the baby blue cotton of your panties. His mouth went dry. Heâd forgotten why heâd walked into the room in the first place.
âSteve! My shirt is stuck on one of the screws,â you explained, squirming slightly with impatience. âI got this when Empire came out, itâs irreplaceable. Just pull the desk out so I can move.â
It took a few seconds for his brain to comprehend what was asked of him. âYeah. Yeah, I can do that. Easy-peasy.â He grimaced. Why the fuck did he say that?
âSteve, hurry.â He tried not to look back at your ass as he approached the desk, giving it a slight tug so you were no longer pinned. You stumbled a bit before standing and tugging your skirt down, giving him a sheepish smile. âJesus, that was so stupid. I dropped my time card clocking in from my break. Thanks Steve.â
With the desk pulled out, you grabbed it easily and waved it in front of his face. He gave a weak heh as you patted his shoulder and sauntered back out.
He leaned against the wall, relishing in how cold it was against his weirdly hot body. He wasnât dumb. He knew you were attractive. He thought you were fucking stunning. But you were his friend, not someone he was trying to fuck around with.
Imagine his surprise when he found himself already half-hard just from barely even a glimpse of your panties when he couldnât even get it up for the girls he was actually trying to sleep with.
âGod fucking damn it,â he muttered, adjusting himself as best as he could before stepping out of the office. As soon as he hit the floor, Robin grabbed his arm and tugged him towards a box of new releases.
âHey, Stevie, do you mind putting out the pornos? I would but⊠you know. I donât really want to.â
Better and better. âYeah, what would Gloria Steinem think if she knew you saw a VHS sleeve that showed tits?â He raised a brow and took the new box, boasting salacious titles likeâ Slutty Slumber Party and Cock Fight III.
She pinched his cheek with a grin and patted his back. âYouâre the best, Steve.â He rolled his eyes. He knew that already.
You caught up to him before he could pass the privacy curtain that partitioned the triple X section from the rest of the store, peering down into the box.
âLet me help you put these out,â you offered, already scooping up as many titles as you could carry from the box. It was his worst nightmare come to lifeâ an inconvenient boner, his cute friend, and a million sets of tits and dicks everywhere the eye could see.
It was blissfully quiet as he focused intensely on alphabetizing the titles. You helped him do stuff all the time, no need for him to make it weird just because you were shelving movies like Hot Groupie Fuckfest 2.
âMaybe you should sneak one of these home,â you finally said, turning the title in your hand towards him. âIt could help.â
âI donât need tapes to get off,â he insisted, maybe a little too defensively. âI like magazines better anyway. Classier.â He swore internally, realizing he had revealed something extremely private that he hadnât shared with anyone.
You shrugged and continued shelving. âMagazines are cool,â you replied, rather awkwardly, like you were walking on eggshells. âVery classy.â
âNothing is wrong with me,â he finally said. His mortification had gotten the best of him and the words just came out. âIâm fine.â
âOkayâŠâ you replied, a furrow between your brows. âI never said you werenât, Steve. Iâm justââ
âTrying to helpâ I know butâŠâ he groaned, raking a hand through his hair. âLetâs drop it, alright?â You nodded in agreement and he sighed, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
The two of you stood there for a moment before you nodded back to the crate. âOkay, weâve got, like, three dozen more to stock, so letâs just get it done.â
He hated that heâd upset you, or offended you, or made you feel any way towards him other than perfectly happy. But what was he supposed to do? The entire ordeal was utterly humiliating.
And you seemed totally unbothered as you read the back cover of some girl on girl flick, interest in your eyes. Were you into that stuff? Was that what you liked thinking about? Why was he even concerned about what you think about?
You shelved the movie and moved onâ grabbing your next pile, one that took you across the room to the shelf of more taboo, kinky stuff. He stared as you got onto your knees, bending over to stock the bottom shelf. And there he wasâ greeted by another tiny flash of your panties under the fluorescent lights just before you tugged your skirt down.
His cock stirred with interest, toeing the line between half-hard and impossible to ignore. Jesus. Were you doing it on purpose?
âHm? Doing what?â you asked, glancing over your shoulder. âBecause if you mean stocking the weird shit on the bottom shelf, thatâs a yes. No one wants to walk in and be eye-level with Fist Fest II.â
There was something about your smile thenâ sweet, like you had no idea the torment you were putting him through. He wanted to cry. âIâll be right back.â
Robin ignored him as he practically darted past her and into the back rooms. He didnât even bother clocking out for his break before he ducked into the employeeâs only bathroom and locked the door behind himself.
He wasnât an animal. Typically, he had self control. But a week of being unable to get off combined with your obliviousness as to what you were doing to him had him ready to jump out of his skin.
He fumbled with his belt, the metal clinking echoed off of the tile walls as he practically ripped it off. He made quick work of the button and zipper of his fly, practically moaning with relief at the lack of restriction. He spat into his hand before he shoved it into his briefs, crying out in relief before he thought better of it and bit onto his fist to keep quiet.
This, he realized as he grew frustrated with the lack of mobility and pulled his dick out at work, was a new low for him. Teeth cut into the meat of his palm as he fucked his hand in earnest, muffled moans coming out strangled and desperate. There wasnât time for teasing, for drawing it out like he usually did when he was alone. It felt like his body was a rubber band, stretched and poised to snap.
And, god help him, he was thinking about you. Of you bent over Keithâs desk, legs gangly and awkward, ass in the air, wriggling to try to free yourself before caving and asking him for help. Steve was a gentleman. He only spared one look of shock before averting his eyes. But fantasies didnât hurt anyone.
Fantasies about you doing it on purposeâ arching your back and wiggling your hips invitingly because you wanted him to see you like that. In another world, where you wanted him and he wanted you, he wouldâve relished in that scenario. Of you teasing and entrapping him in some game of cat and mouse. Of fucking you over the stupid squeaky desk and covering your mouth so Robin didnât hear. Biting into your shoulder to keep himself quiet.
He came thinking about you, a guttural, desperate moan cutting into the air despite his best efforts to stay quiet. He hadnât realized how much heâd needed a release until he was coming down, his hand sticky and warm, cum painting the tile in front of him.
âJesus fuckingâ goddamn it.â His voice wavered, most of his energy sapped. He felt pathetic as he stuffed his softening length back in his briefs and tugged his pants up, wincing at the sensitivity. And he felt even more pathetic as he grabbed paper towels from the dispenser and cleaned up his spend from the bathroom wall at his fucking workplace.
A sudden loud knock sounded on the door, nearly making him yelp. âAre you okay in there, dingus?â Robin asked, her genuine concern masked by the sarcasm that dripped from her tone. âYou ran past like you needed to shit, or something, so I wanted to check.â
He sunk onto the gross bathroom floor and banged his head against the wall. Dying, he decided, would have been less painful than whatever this was.
It had been days, and he had yet to cum unless you were at the top of mind. It had to be a coincidence, like heâd Pavlov-ed himself into only getting hard if he thought about you.
No. That wasnât exactly true. He could get hard, he just couldnât cum unless he thought about you. There was a big difference, and it meant he wasnât totally broken after all. It meant he could fix it.
The most inconvenient thing about it was the fact that he had to jerk off before any shifts with you or heâd have to repeat that first bathroom session, which was something he really, really wanted to leave in the past.
There was a possibility that there was something to the situation at handâ that the reason for his bodyâs reaction to you was beyond just physical. But that was dumb, and every time that tiny voice in his brain told him to consider it, Steve just shook it off.
His phone rang at his bedside and he sighed, tossing the book heâd been trying to read for the past hour with no avail.
âYeah?â He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He really needed some glasses, huh?
âHey, Steve, itâs me.â Your voice was like music over the phone, and he sat up quickly, like you were there to witness his lazy, slouchy morning. âI was just calling to ask if you could cover my shift this afternoon. I know itâs a big ask since itâs so last minute, but I can totally pay you back double sometime.â
He scratched the back of his neck. Fucking Keith was on the schedule tonight, and they hated each other. Then again, it wasnât like he had any plans. He couldn't risk another failed hookup, or word might get around that he was a limp dick loser. âMhmm. Shouldnât be too bad,â he lied.
You sighed with relief on the other end. âYouâre a lifesaver, Steve. I thought I was gonna have to cancel my date.â
His heart stuttered for a few moments before he recovered and tried to act casual about it. âDate? I didnât even know you wereâŠâ He trailed off, unsure of how to even finish that sentence. His voice was higher than usual, so he cleared his throat to brush it off.
You laughed. âYeah, I know itâs been a while. I figured I should stop waiting around for something to fall into my lap and just put myself out there, or something. You know, just⊠casually, nothing too serious.â
Oh. He didnât have the right to feel disappointed, and yet⊠He wanted to tell you not to go, to stay home like normal, and keep things like they were already. He didnât want to imagine you with some random Hawkins asshole right now, especially when he couldnât think of a single person in city limits who might be worthy of your time.
It was crazy. Heâd set you up on plenty of dates and coached you through even more. He didnât have any reason to feel weird about it now.
âSteve? Did I lose you?â You asked softly. âI know youâre still dealing with⊠you know, everything. I donât have to talk about it if you donât want me to. God, hearing you talk about getting laid while I was having a dry spell used to make me want to rip my hair out.â
âItâs fine,â he insisted. âGo have a good date, and donât let him have all the fun, alright?â
You laughed, and he could picture you wrinkling your nose the way you always did when he said something dumb. âI would never. Thanks again, Steve.â
You were giddy at work the next morning, a pretty glow about you, an unusual chipper attitude that you shared with every single guest. You werenât even being particularly snarky with him or Robin.
âGood night?â He asked, despite not really wanting to know. God, it was like there were two halves of himself constantly working against the other.
You smiled brightly, and he almost winced. âIt was so good. I think you know himâ Andy from Varsity baseball in â84. He graduated a year earlier than us and goes to Purdue. Heâs living at home while heâs doing an internship for some financial firm.â
âWhat happened to just being casual?â Steve asked, brows furrowing as he looked at you.
You laughed in lieu of a response and grabbed the box of merchandise for the latest new releases. He stood there dumbly until Keith knocked into his shoulder.
âBack to work, Harrington,â he said in that stupid, asshole voice of his. âThese returns arenât going to shelve themselves.â
ââ
âYouâre glowering.â Robin whispered into his ear a few days later, so close it made him jump out of his frustrated stupor and back into reality.
âIâm not, I'm just focused,â he insisted, even though his eyes were burning holes into the back of Andyâs head. He hit stop on the tape he had successfully rewound and put it back into the case, then back into the cart for shelving.
It was the sort of monotonous task that gave him time to ruminate. And to glower.
Why was Andy even there? Just to distract you from work and charm his way into your pants? Again? Youâd been shelving the same tape of The Outsiders for twenty minutes, at least.
God, he sounded like Keith. Wasnât that terrifying?
âDo you remember him from high school?â Steve finally asked, sparing a glance back at Robin. She shrugged, and he whipped his gaze back to the two of you. His hand was on your hip, dangerously close to grabbing your ass. Classless, asshole college guy. âYeah, I figured. He graduated in â84. Third baseman.â
Robin snorted. âI bet.â
âCute. Very charming, Robin,â Steve sighed, shaking his head. He stopped the tape and slipped the cover back on. âWhatever. He just doesnât seem her type, thatâs all.â
Robin rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand before he could reach for the next tape. âSteve. Andy is exactly her type. Sweet guy, athletic, charmingâŠâ She raised her brows, like she was trying to make a point. But to Steve, the only point she seemed to be making was that Andy was the total package and he was a loser.
âIâm not glowering,â he repeated, if only to prove it to himself. âIâm just trying to finish up the rewinds since weâre down an employee.â He gave a lazy gesture towards the front of the store, where you and Andy were making eyes at each other.
Not jealous. Not jealous at all. Just⊠sexually frustrated. That was an easy fix.
His Rolodex was filled with girls who heâd fooled around with. When he got home, he flipped through the remaining names, each eliciting vague memories.
Deanna was hot⊠she had a weird laugh though. Not like you. Your laugh was a nice, warm sound. He liked your laugh more than anything. As a friend. Of course.
Maybe Kelly? She was sweet, pretty. Not as pretty as you were, obviously, but who was?
He tried calling a few, but most of them wanted nothing to do with a guy whoâd forgotten to call for a few months. After his third rejection, he gave up entirely. He didnât really have it in him to lead another girl on, anyway.
Maybe there was something there he should acknowledge. That itching, stirring feeling of want that had started to fester months ago. Gnawing at the edges of each interaction he had with you. Maybe it had always been there and his dumb body was making him do something about it, just like youâd said.
He was in a mood for the next week. He hadnât felt this pent up since after graduation, when he had to wear a sailor uniform and perform a public humiliation ritual for minimum wage.
You sidled up to him at the register at closing, where he was getting a sick sort of satisfaction in checking on all of the late charges about to hit the overdue rentals.
You were dressed like you were going to go on a date laterâ with one of your favorite tops and that goddamn mini skirt. Even worse, you were smiling a pretty smile like you wanted something, which made the itch of irritation claw at his tongue. âIâm not taking another one of your shifts so that you can go out with Andy,â he said sternly, with a narrowed glance at you.
Your brows raised and you gave him a look that told him he was being an asshole, which he already knew. âOkay, one, I wasnât going to ask you to take one of my shifts, and two, who pissed in your cereal this morning?â
He just huffed. âSorry, long day.â Long month. âIâm being a dick.â
You smiled and nodded. âYeah, you are⊠but I forgive you.â You brushed your hair back and leaned imperceptibly closer. It probably wasnât on purpose, but your arm pushed against his and you were so warm, and you smelled like the Avon perfume your mom always bought you. âLetâs hang out tonight. I feel like I only ever see you at work lately. Iâll rent us a movie, grab some dinner on the way⊠itâll be just like old times.â
The realistic part of his brain told him it was a bad idea. Heâd been plagued with graphic, explicit images of you playing in his head at the worst of times. He wasnât sure he could trust himself to be normal about hanging out at your place.
Which was absolutely ridiculous. It would be the thousandth time heâd been over, but the odds of him getting an inconvenient, persistent boner around you were frustratingly high.
But his alternative was going home to sulk alone and sink deeper into his funk, so he nodded. âYeah, sounds fun.â It would be fine. He could persevere.
ââ
Your basement had always been his favorite place to hang out. Unlike his own parents who wanted input into every facet of his young life, your parents let you do whatever the hell you wanted to the space, as long as they could store their treadmill and your momâs Tupperware stock.
It was lit with old Christmas lights and covered in tchotchkes that you had found in garage sales. Old quilts, your grandmaâs macrame, needlepoint throw pillows. It was like an estate sale had crawled inside to die, and he loved it.
The couch had an uncomfortable spring that always dug into his thighs, you picked a really dumb movie, and you had slightly burned the popcorn on the stove, but he couldnât complain. Maybe he did need this.
âSo⊠are you still seeing Andy?â He asked when the movie hit a lull. It wasnât that he wasnât paying attention, it was just hard to focus.
You laughed, shaking your head. You were sprawled across the ugly floral couch, legs in his lap, curled up facing the TV. âEw, no,â you said with an eye roll. âHe was fun at first, but I was just kind of using him, you know?â
Did he know? Probably not, but he nodded like he understood anyway. He took another handful of the mildly-burnt popcorn and watched you out of his periphery (which was, admittedly, not what it used to be).
He tried to focus on the movie some more, but it was you that broke the silence next. You shifted your legs a bit to get comfortable before he felt your gaze on him. âSo, howâs your problem?â You asked.
His cheeks felt hot, like his entire head had been shoved under the heat lamp in Dustinâs turtleâs tank. âOh,â he cleared his throat. âFine, I guess. I donât know, actually. I havenât been on any dates since Becky, soâŠâ
âReally? Why not?â You asked, brows knit.
His expression was incredulous. Why not? Oh, nothing too badâ just that I canât get hard lately unless Iâm fantasizing about you. âWhy do you think? This is totally reputation killing stuff here. Iâll be lucky if the entire female population of Hawkins doesnât think my dick doesnât work.â
You shifted closer, but your legs were still heavy in his lap, which he was growing increasingly conscious of. âWhat about when youâre alone?â
His heart started to hammer as thoughts flooded his brain of the session heâd had in the shower that morning, which had been, in part, fueled by a quick perusal of his photo album from last summer and the handful of pictures of you in a remarkably high cut swimsuit.
âUhâŠâ His voice was higher than usual, and he tried to bring it back down to Earth before continuing. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, glancing only briefly at your lips before forcing himself to look back up at your eyes. âNormal. Itâs normal.â
âSo, if that's normal, what do you think about when youâre alone?â
His throat feels tight as he tries to think of something to say other than you, you, you, you. You in your stupid granny pajamas, you in the backseat of his car, you bending over to shelve DVDs⊠you had burrowed into his mind and totally corrupted it. He squints, like heâs considering anything else. âUm⊠normal things. Just⊠normal stuff, you know?â
You sighed out a soft huh, and there was something in your gaze that made his stomach flip. It was an expression heâd never seen you wear so plainly, especially not towards him. Pure, hungry desire, so obvious that he had to have been imagining it. âSteve,â you whispered.
He closed his eyes, swallowing. âMhmm? Yeah?â
âYouâre hard right now.â
He glanced down as you shifted your legs again and had to swallow a pathetic moan at the tiniest amount of friction. And, well, he was obviously, undeniably hard in his jeans.
âOh, thatâs just⊠yâknow, from me remembering all of the totally normal stuff that Iââ
The rest of his lame excuse was swallowed by the warm press of your lips against his. Lapped away as your tongue slipped into his mouth and took every rational thought away with it. It was slow and sweet, like you were trying your best to savor every second of it. Jesus, had you always been that good of a kisser?
When you pulled back, with spit-glossed lips and met his gaze, he felt so turned on that his head started to swim. He couldnât find words for how he was feeling, for how heâd been feeling, so he offered a meager, âYouâre really good at that.â
You rolled your eyes and laughed, and his heart did that thing again, which felt more embarrassing than the obvious bulge straining in his Levi's. For once, his bodyâs ability (or lack thereof) to function was the least of his worries.
âI donât know how much more obvious I can possibly make it,â you said softly. âIâm really into you.â
His brows furrowed. For a second, he thought he might have slipped in the shower, died, and woken up in a very forgiving afterlife. âWhat? Since when?â
You swallowed and chewed your lip sheepishly for a moment. âUm, on and off since Iâve known you, but, like, very much on since graduation.â
It was like a fog had lifted over his memories. The lingering touches and flirty eyes across the rooms. The late nights on the phone, where it felt like talking to Steve was the only place you wanted to be. And, frankly, it had been all he wanted to do too.
Maybe he had been a total idiot this whole time. A dense, oblivious dumb ass who had been ignoring his dream girl because she was one of his best friends first.
Then his brows knit deeper, forming two parallel furrows between your brows. âBut you were just dating Andy.â
You groaned and rolled your eyes. âI was trying to make you jealous, which obviously worked since Robin told me that she caught you pouting.â
Robin. âI didnât pout,â he insisted, but he knew that lying was futile. He had just⊠glared in Andyâs general direction. âOkay, fine. If that was on purpose, Iâm guessing your panty flashing was too.â
That seemed to make you pause. Your head tilted, brows furrowing. âIâm sorry, my what?â
He blanched, embarrassed. âYou know, the time you wore this same skirt, and you got stuck on Keithâs desk. You were messing with me, obviously.â
He could see the gears turning in your mind as you thought back to when youâd gotten stuck on the desk. As soon as the grin split across your features, he wanted to melt right into the shitty couch cushions and die next to the fucked-up spring. âYou think Iâd risk my Empire shirt just to turn you on?â You questioned, frankly offended at the insinuation. When his face went pink with embarrassment, you looked positively giddy. âOh my god, Harrington you pervââ
He had you pinned on your back before you could fully form the insult, planting kisses to your neck. âYouâre so evil,â he mumbled into your throat, lips grazing, soft and wet against your fluttering pulse. Each kiss made you squirm beneath him, which wasnât doing much to help him cool down. âYouâve been driving me crazy, like youâve got some sort of witchy spell on me.â
You giggled, and the sound went straight into the warm, gooey center of himself. âDid it turn you on?â You gasped softly. He groaned as you hooked one of your legs around his thigh and pulled him closer against you, so he was grinding directly against your core.
Did it turn him on? It had led to one of the most humiliating moments of his life, of which there had been many. It was embarrassing, but the sound of your laughter was like a drug to him, so heâd throw himself into the fire for your amusement. âIt turned me on so much that I had to jerk off in the employee bathrooms,â he mumbled against your throat.
That was a dumb thing to admit. A dumb, gross, creepy thing to tell one of your best friends. Your oldest friend! Stupid, stupid Steveâ
âThatâs the sweetest thing Iâve ever heard,â you said finally. One of your hands came up and he shivered as he felt your nails combing through his hair. âBut you could have just told me, dummy. We couldâve run out to my car so I could take care of it for you.â
Just the thought made his hips buck against yours, seeking sweet, sweet friction between your thighs. âDonât say things like that,â he groaned. âIf you talk like that itâll fucking kill me, I swear.â
He pulled back, just to see the sharp, wet glint of your teeth as you smiled up at him. You drove him crazy. Before, it was just in the normal ways, like when you made him give you a ride into the city and didnât give him gas money, or when you drank too much at a party and puked on his new sneakers.
This was new. He felt stricken by some new form of hysteria, where something as tiny as the smallest twitch in your brows made him feel overcome with intense need. Jesus, heâd never been so pent up in his life. He felt the soft pressure of your leg tugging him close again, then the slow roll of your hips against his.
"Fuck," he panted. It was embarrassing, frankly, how gone he already was. He leaned down, capturing your lips with his again, and relished in the slow drag of your tongue against his.
He'd never loved a kiss so much in his life. With you beneath him, grinding up against him and moaning against his lips. The way your tongue felt tangling with his. He got too lost in itâ in the kiss, in your bodies pressing together. After a while, the kissing got lost and it was just the two of you, panting into each others mouths as you slowly ground against each other.
You pulled back firstâ lips kiss-swollen and slick. It took everything in him not to kiss you again.
âSoâŠâ You murmured, peering up at him. When you bit your lip sheepishly, he wanted to bury his face in your throat and groan. He watched, hypnotized, as your tongue slipped out and wet your lips. âEverything definitely feels like it's working like normal.â
He nearly whined as your other hand moved down and palmed him through his jeans. Your fingers pressed against his button, working it undone. He groaned as your hand wriggled past his waistband to grope him through his briefs.
It all felt so good, too good. Your thumb brushed over the damp fabric clinging to his weeping tip and he swore he saw stars. "Ah, just⊠just waitâ" He choked out.
You froze, brow quirked. He could feel his cock twitching in your palm, and tried to think about horrible, disgusting things to keep from coming too soon. Demodogs, Russian torture, Tommy Hagan's gym locker, mopping random kids' puke off of the Scoops Ahoy tile. "What? Is it happening again?"
"No, no, the opposite," he panted. His eyes squeezed shut and he tried to control himself as best as he could, given the circumstances. You showed him a little bit of mercy and slipped you hand free, which he was immensely grateful for.
"So I beat the curse, huh?" You asked with a coy smile. "Becky Martin and Katie Frey can totally suck it."
Steve laughed, despite everything. "Jesus, you are the curse," he said, meeting your gaze. "For the past month, I could only get off if I was thinking about you." He swallowed, feeling vulnerable with you looking up at him. "Like I said⊠witchy spell."
He sat back as you pushed at his shoulders, encouraging him to sit back against the cushions. His eyes widened as you shifted into his lap, the weight of you warm and comfortable there. When he glanced down at where you sat on his lap, where your skirt rode up your thighs, he got a head rush. "You knowâŠ" You trailed off, looping your arms around his neck. "Usually, I'd never sleep with a guy who said I'm a curse."
He groaned as you tugged at the hair at the base of his neck, forcing him to tilt his head back and expose his throat. He laughed weakly, eyes half lidded as he looked at you. "Usually," he echoed.
You nodded and leaned closer, so he could feel the warm buzz of your proximity. Like every cell in his body was vibrating with the desire to just press against you. "Well, someone needs to fix that attitude of yours. You've been really bitchy for the past few weeks." He scoffed at your words, but couldn't fight the smile on his lips.
You sat back on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the toned expanse of his torso. He hummed contentedly as your fingers combed through his chest hair, just exploring the newly exposed skin.
Your hands trailed down, following the trail of dark hair on his tummy that disappeared into his briefs. He swallowed hard as you wrapped your hand around his cock, warm and tight. He wanted to see though. He wanted to look at the way your manicured hand fit around him, so he tugged his pants down and moaned at the sight.
"You must really want this," you murmured, lips twitching up in what he could only recognize as pure triumph. "You're dripping." The pad of your thumb swept over his tip, gathering slick precum to make the glide of your hand smooth.
It didn't take much. Actually, it took a mortifyingly small amount of attention. Your hand just felt so good wrapped around him, and it was the very thing he'd been fantasizing about for the past month. You, in his lap, with your hand around his pulsing cock and your lips on his throat. It couldn't have been more than three pumps of your hand, not even enough time to get a good rhythm, and he was crying out with pretty moans and shooting thick ropes of cum all over his abdomen.
His chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon as you worked him through it. "Fuck," he panted. "Nnghâ You've gottaâ Ah, fuckâ 's too much." You relented, like a benevolent god, and released him from your grip, so his dick twitched and softened against his stomach.
"Is that how you sounded when you faked it for Katie?" You teased.
"Oh, fuck off," he panted, a smile splitting his features.
When his mind cleared enough to have a little bit of shame, he realized how embarrassing it was that he'd finished so fast. Maybe you were into him for other things, but he didn't want to risk losing you now. So as he hastily tugged his pants back up, he stumbled through an explanation. "I'm not usually, like⊠I mean⊠I do have stamina, typically."
"I actually think it's really sweet, Steve. It's like a compliment." He was going to argue more, then you licked the cum from your fingers to clean it up and he nearly blacked out at the sight. He couldn't wait a second more, he had to have his hands on you.
"Alright, your turn," he said, and before you could say anything, he had you pinned beneath him on the couch again. He worked the buttons of your shirt quickly, until it fell open at your sides. He sat up, just to take in the sight.
"You're so goddamn pretty," he practically groaned. With your shirt undone, he relished in the sight of your tits cupped by white lace. "I don't even wanna take it off."
"Steve," you gasped as his mouth moved down your throat and sternum, until he was planting wet, hot kisses onto the plush of your breasts. He moaned against your chest, propping himself with one arm so he could grope at your tit with his free hand. You keened, arching into the attention, and he relished in your neediness. "I think you should take it off."
Your wish was his command. Not that it was such a difficult ask. He made quick work of the clasp and let you shrug it off and onto the floor. He sat back and really had to fight the urge to whistle at the sight. "Goddamn," he murmured, letting his hands roam up your body and cup your breasts.
You rolled your eyes, but he could see the tiniest bit of bashfulness in your eyes. In the back of his mind, it was kind of weird. Not bad weird, just⊠different. You were the person he went with to the hair salon and watched the Bulls with. It felt odd to have you pinned beneath him, moaning softly as he squeezed the plush of your tits and teased your nipples.
To your credit, you let him take his time. You let his hands wander and explore at his own pace. Your breath hitched as his hands dipped lower, until he was hiking up the fabric of your mini skirt to reveal your panties. Baby blue.
"Oh, fuck you," he groaned, meeting your gaze. "It was on purpose, you liar."
You grinned, and the smug expression you wore made him feel like his chest was going to implode. "I don't know what you're talking about, Steve. Do you really think I'd play mind games to torment you when you're pent up and needy?"
Yes, actually. He huffed and shifted down your body. He felt right at home with your thighs bracketing his head. He pressed a kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.
The pastel of your panties betrayed just how affected you were, much to his amusement. He ran a thumb over the damp patch at your center and felt your thighs tense on either side of him. "You must really want this," he said with a grin, echoing your previous teasing.
"Jesus, of course I do," you said, breath shuddering as he thumbed at your clit through the sodden fabric. "You're, like, my dream guy, and you're about to go down on me."
Your dream guy. Steve's pulse thrummed as he took it in. You were incredible, way too good for a Hawkins loser who spent his shifts renting video tapes. To be fair, you were also spending your days shelving video tapes, but he always felt like that was a brief stop in your life that you'd move on from.
But if you thought he was good enough to be your dream guy, maybe there was something worthwhile left in him after all.
He kissed your clit through your panties almost reverently. His tongue laved over the fabric and he groaned at the taste of you saturating the cotton. God, you were like heaven. He could have stayed like that for hoursâ just tasting you through your panties. Each lap over your center just soaking the fabric more, until it clung to the shape of your lips like a second skin.
It wasn't enough though, and he was too lost in his desire to be particularly patient. He wanted his tongue on you, in you, licking up every drop of your juices until he made you spill more onto his tongue. He sat up and tugged your panties down, then quickly repositioned himself between your legs with your thighs over his shoulders.
Steve's tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he took in the sight of your pussy. Slick with arousal, twitching with anticipation. He ran his thumb up the seam of you, spreading you open. He relished in the cute twitch of your clit as blew a puff of cool air over your heated, sensitive skin.
"You're really pretty," he murmured. "So wet for me. And so goddamn responsive." He grinned up at you from between your thighs, relishing in the way your tits heaved with each shuddery breath.
His tongue lapped at your center, tasting just how badly you've wanted him. You writhed beneath him, thighs tensing to clamp around his head before he finally just held them apart. He started to taste you in earnest then, lapping up your juices, stroking the bud of your clit with the flat of his tongue.
You tasted so good, practically gushing onto his tongue as he feasted on you. His tongue pressed against your entrance, just barely dipping in so he could feel the way you clenched around the intrusion.
"Fuck, Steve," you panted. Your hips bucked, practically grinding against his mouth. He moaned against you, nuzzling his nose against your clit. "That'sâ ah, fuckâ that's really good."
He smiled against your pussy, giving a few more slow, wet kisses before he sat up. In the dim light of the basement, you could see where his face was slick and shiny with your spit and juices. "Gonna stretch you out a little for me, okay?"
You nodded, propping yourself on your elbows to see him better. He pressed another sweet kiss to your clit before he eased his middle finger into you. If he hadn't already fully recovered from his first orgasm, just the feeling of your walls clenching around his finger would have done it for him.
It took a minute for him to learn your body. Where to touch, what spots inside made your legs shake. You took two fingers easily, squirming as he pressed his fingers against a sensitive, spongy spot. Your eyes rolled back and his head thumped against the arm of the sofa, which made him grin.
"Right there, huh?" He teased. He applied a little more pressure and felt you gush around his fingers. Yeah, right there. He wrapped his lips around your your sensitive clit and sucked until your thighs trembled on either side of him.
"Steve!" You gasped, back arching. Your voice was high and breathy, he'd never heard you so desperate before. He knew you were closeâ he could feel your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers. "Oh, fuck. Jesus christ, like thatâ Just like thatâ"
When you finally came around his fingers and on his tongue, he had never heard such a perfect sound before. Soft, keening moans and pretty cries of his name. Your clit twitched against his tongue, and when your sweet moans finally turned into overstimulated whimpers, he relented.
You panted, chest heaving breathlessly as you came down from your high. You propped yourself up on your elbows and giggled as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Holy shit," you gasped.
He grinned, crawling up your body to plant a slow, sweet kiss on your lips. He could feel you smiling into the kiss, until his teeth knocked with yours and he had to pull back with a sheepish laugh. "Think you can give me another one?"
You raised a brow. "I can, but do you think you can?"
He laughed. Jesus, he'd been hard since he'd gotten his hands on your tits. "I definitely can."
Your gaze was on him as he stripped the rest of his clothes offâ kicking his socks, jeans and briefs into a messy pile on the floor. For the first time in a long string of hookups, Steve Harrington felt self-conscious under your scrutiny.
"You're staring," he said weakly, feeling heat flood his cheeks. Usually, the second he was undressed he had a partner ready to jump his bones, but you just took in the sight of him.
"Only because you're really hot. You're forgetting that this is the culmination of every teenage fantasy I've ever had," you finally said, shifting to sit up. He hummed contentedly as you ran your hands up his chest then traced over his broad shoulders
"How did this next part go in those fantasies, huh?" He asked.
With a tiny grin, you pushed him back onto the couch, which creaked under his weight. "Well, usually," you began, straddling his hips. "They start like this."
Oh. Steve swallowed, peering up at you with wide eyes. Your hands splayed over his chest, fingers dimpling the muscle of his pecs. He groaned as you gave a slow rock of your hips, gliding your cunt along his length.
You were so wet and warm on top of him, and the precum dribbling from his tip only added to the sticky mess. All he could do was watch, totally slack-jawed as you ground your hips against his.
Well, he could also reach up and play with your tits. So he did. His heart thrummed at the soft and pretty sound that fell past your lips as he tugged and pinched your nipples.
You didn't wait any longer, not that he would have made you. There was something so sexy about the way you took controlâ taking his cock in your hand so you could line him up with your entrance and begin to slowly sink onto him. His hands quickly moved down to your hips, squeezing tight as you took inch after inch.
Jesus, you were taking it like a champ. With your head tossed back and your pussy clenching around his cock, he knew you really fucking loved it. He wanted you to love every bit of it.
"That's it," Steve goaded, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Just a little more, honey. You've got it."
You moaned, lips parted as you sunk down. Warm, wet, tight until you were fully seated. A furrow formed between your brows as you stilled, accommodating to the size of him. "Fuck," you breathed, fingers tensing on his chest.
He wanted to squirm, to buck his hips deeper, to force you to finally move. But he could behave, he could let you have this. You gave a slow roll of your hips and he groaned, squeezing your hips tighter. "You doing okay?"
A cocky smile broke across your lips, and when you laughed he felt your walls squeeze around him. "I'm doing great," you said, punctuation your words with another slow grind. "I'm just trying to make sure you can last long enough to enjoy it."
His cheeks went hot with embarrassment and arousal, the smirk faded into mild offense. "Don't be cute. I'm fine."
"Yeah?" You began to move faster, your thighs colliding with his with each bounce onto him. You took him as deep as you could, then rose up until he was just about to slip out of you, only to slam back down. In, out, in, out, in, out. "Is this what you've been thinking about every time you jerked off?"
Had he thought of this? And then some. Steve had learned that he could be very creative when he needed to be. "Something like it," He managed, eyes squeezing shut as you gave a particularly sinful swivel of your hips.
He groaned, head falling back, neck bared as you rode him within an inch of his life. At least, that's what it felt like. Pretty moans and soft ah, ah, ahs slipped past your lips like his cock was punching them out of you. He moved his hands, grabbing your ass like he had any semblance of control over what you were doing to him.
Who the fuck taught you to ride dick like this? And should he thank them or murder them?
"Fuck, Steve," you panted. "Should've known you'd feel this good. No wonder you have a fucking harem around you."
He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about another girl ever again. In one steady motion, he had you pinned to the couch. From beneath him, he relished in the way your eyes went wide with surprise. He didn't just feel good, he was good. He wanted you to know how good he was for you, how good he could make you feel.
"You feel goddamn perfect," he groaned. As soon as the compliment passed his lips, he felt you squeeze around him, pussy fluttering as he drove into you again and again. "So wet and tight, so pretty. Can't believe I've wasted my time when you've been right here."
Steve moved his mouth to your throat, licking and sucking and biting at all of the soft skin there. He wanted to leave a mark. He wanted Andy to show up to Family Video the next day so he could beg for a second chance, only to see you'd already moved on.
But he couldn't focus too much on vindictive pettiness when you were so beautiful beneath him, with your eyes wide and full of so much want. Had he ever felt so wanted before? So needed? Your legs wrapped around him, heels digging in to drive him deeper.
His thrusts slowed, until he was buried deep inside of you and grinding nice and slow, rubbing against the soft, sensitive spots inside of you that made you drip around his cock.
It was then that he pulled back, meeting your gaze as he ground into you. Your eyes fluttered, rolling until he saw the whites of them. "Jesus Christ," you gasped. "Fuck, Steve, just like that. Feels s'good."
He grinned, preening at your praise. He propped himself up on one arm, then snaked the other between your bodies, so he could rub at your clit. The second his thumb rubbed over the slick bundle of nerves, your walls squeezed around him so tight he could hardly move.
You cried out prettily, nails cutting into the meat of his back. "Just a little more, yeah?" He cooed. He moved his thumb a little faster, feeling the way your clit twitched against the pressure.
"Fuckâ" You gasped. "Steve, god, don't stop, pleaseâ"
He could feel that the band was going to snap. Your gasping breaths and whiny moans were as much of an indicator as the fluttery way your walls clamped down on him.
Steve wasn't much better off. He could sense his impending orgasm like the buzz of lightning about to strike. A tightly wound spring, a dam about to burst. But, god, he wanted to feel you cum first. "C'mon, I've got you, sweetheart. Just give it to me."
It was a goddamn miracle that you came when you didâ crying out nice and pretty as you clenched around him like a vise. The sound of his name falling from your lips, with your body enveloping him like you were made to⊠it was everything he'd been craving for the past month. Probably longer, if he was honest with himself.
He barely managed to work you through your orgasm before it all became too much. He pulled out and spilled onto your tummy with a guttural moan.
"Fuck," he panted, collapsing onto you. He should have been disgusted about the warm slickness of his cum sandwiched between your bodies, but he was so sated that he couldn't bring himself to care. "Was it okay for you?"
Steve propped himself up on his elbow so he could look at you. God, you were pretty. You'd always been pretty, but right now you looked so perfect.
You bit your lip and nodded. "Yeah, it was great," you replied. "Really great, actually. I guess it was okay for you too, considering I'm glazed with your cum right now."
He laughed sheepishly and rolled his eyes. "Shut up."
The two of you dressed in comfortable silence, mopping yourselves clean of fluids and sweat with a few towels sitting on top of the washing machine⊠that promptly went right back in for another clean.
You hopped on top of the machine when it was running, peering over at where Steve stood. "Penny for your thoughts?" You asked. He glanced over and his heart thrummed. Even in shitty lounge wear with your hair pulled back in a banana clip, you looked like a supermodel.
"Just thinking about work tomorrow," he confessed. Your brows knit in confusion as you looked at him. Work? Now? "I don't know how we're going to share a shift without me going absolutely crazy and wanting to get my hands on you. Especially now that I know that I can."
You grinned, and Jesus, he wanted to just jump your bones again. "Well, it's just you and me on the schedule tomorrow," you reminded him. "Maybe we close at lunch so you can help me with restocks? Just to make sure your problem is completely solved. I don't want you relapsing."
He knew there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd ever have a problem getting hard again. Not with you around, looking like the finest goddamn thing to ever set foot in Hawkins, Indiana. "Might as well," he said. "Just to be sure."
thank you so much for reading! i can't believe this has been in the works since 2023 and i FINALLY found the motivation to finish it!! i really hope you enjoyed, i had so much fun with this plotline :) let me know what you think!!
author's note. âż a drabble because this picture made me spiral.
word count. ⚟ idk but itâs short
â ËïœĄâàšà§Ë
the loveseat was low to the point where Philâs hands could reach your knees and calves, his arms snaked around your legs like you were there next victim. He looked up at you, your lipstick faded on his lips from when you messed around in the back of the cab on the way home from dinnerâit seemed he loved it too much to take it off. He looked up at you with greedy eyes, but it could never overshadow the veneration that resided within them.
He looked up at you and still you couldnât help but feel coy in his grasp. It was inexplicable how he could turn you into such a shy thing when you were anything butâhe knew that.
âShyâs not really your thing baby,â He rasped, no longer looking up at you as his head moved closer to the apex of your thighs, his hand slithering up your legs, heightening the hem of your dress. Your hands moved through his soft, sandy strands of hair, pulling back so he was facing you once again.
âThere she is,â he smiled and you could see his canines that flashed whenever he was just a bit arrogant. âTell me what you want baby.â
âI want your mouth,â you sighed with a smile, pushing his head back into you, where it was going before you pulled it away to begin with, between your thighs.
âYeah?â He asked, the vibrations of his voice going straight to your core. âWhat else do you want?â
He pulled down your panties as you thought about your answer. You thought carefully considering how well it would be taken into considerationâbecause you always got what you wished for.
âTell me,â he breathed, swiping a finger through your slit to find out just how wet you really were. âIs is nice and slow or are you making me sweat for it.â You were soaked, his fingers shiny with you.
âI donât know.â You answered honestly. âBut it feels so good I forget everything else. My own name even.â
âThat good, huh?â Your breath hitches as his fingers begin to with your clit. âmhm,â you hum, in agreement but you canât help the fact it comes out like a moan.
âCan I tell you what I want?â
You nod, looking down out him with a smile. âTell me, Phil.â
âI want you to spread your legs so you can sit on my face. And I want to hear every sound you make because you canât think of anything else to say, because youâve forgotten how to do anything else but moan my name.â
SUMMARY: This is part 3, and the final part, of the first Shut off my brain! This is like right before season 3, so Bellamy has been going out more on scouting missions for Clarke with everyone, but told Pike to restrict you from going on them due to your injury, which obviously caused some tension. So you confront him, and you guys both say things you regret, and that leads to more than you both expected.
WARNINGS: SMUT!! f!reader. Marking, scratching, biting, Multiple orgasms, PinV smex, fingering r-rec (for like a few seconds), slight size kink again, hair pulling, a tiny lil age-gap (18 and 23, language and arguing, anti-feminist thoughts, but now also words!... ANGST, slightly public smexy time. LMK if I missed something. ALSO, they a lil unserious. MDNI!!!
A/N: This is for the few people who requested a part 3!!! Where they go all the way, so I really really hope this lives up to their expectations!
This will be written from first-person POV, just because it's easier for me that way! Takes place between seasons 2 and 3, closer to season 3 now. AGAIN MDNI 18++!!! NO PLOT fr... Also, not proofread, lmk if there are any mistakes. Feel free to leave requests through comments because my asks aren't working properly! And know I love love love LOVE reading comments! This is PART 3. Though I still fully believe Part 1 was the best lol!
Itâs been a week since the last patrol.
A week of watching Bellamy disappear into the trees without so much as glancing my way. A week of waking up before dawn to stand by Pikeâs tent, waiting for my name to be called. And a week of pretending it doesnât sting every time it isnât.
I know why. Pike didnât come up with the restriction himself. He doesnât care enough to keep track of old injuries or whether my limp flares on uneven ground. This was Bellamy. Iâd bet my entire ration stash on it. He thinks heâs protecting me.
But all it feels like is erasure.
Like I survived Mount Weather just to be benched. Like Iâm some fragile thing that needs shelving while the world keeps burning. And maybe I could stomach it if Bellamy had the guts to say it to my face. But he doesnât. He just avoids me, eyes forward, mouth shut, and leaves me standing behind every time. And it fucking hurts. I know it shouldn't; we're not an item or anything of the sort, he shouldn't care about me or my feelings, but it hurts that he doesn't.
So today, when I see him coming back from the east ridge, sweat on his brow and rifle slung lazily across his back, I donât wait. I donât let the moment pass. I grab it by the throat.
I follow him behind the storage unit, the same place we fought over late rotations and had heated arguments, and I shove my hands against his back, pushing him forward, hard.
He stumbles a step, catches himself with a grunt, then turns, slow and calculated, like he already knows itâs me. Like he was waiting.
âWhat the hell is your problem?â I snap, stepping into his space before he can put distance between us. âYou think I wouldnât figure it out? That Pike just happened to forget about me? Cut the crap, Bellamy.â
His eyes darken. âYou shouldnât be out there.â
âDonât pretend this is about safety.â
âIt is.â His voice sharpens. âYouâre still limping.â
âSo what? Half of us are limping.â I jab a finger at his chest. âYou donât get to decide who gets to fight and who gets to rot in camp.â
âIâm trying to keep you alive,â he growls.
âAnd I didnât ask you to.â
His jaw locks, arms crossed tight like heâs trying to hold himself together with sheer force of will.
âI didnât ask you to save me in Mount Weather. I didnât ask you to touch me behind the mess hall. And I sure as hell didnât ask you to forget about me the second your boots hit dirt outside that gate."
âI didnât forget.â His voice is low now. Rough. Dangerous.
I laugh, sharp, humourless and pretty damn bitter. âCouldâve fooled me.â
His eyes snap to mine. âYou think this is easy for me?â
âOh, poor you.â I shove him again, this time harder. He doesnât move, like a solid damn rock. âMust be so hard, pretending like that night didnât happen. Pretending like Iâm just another grunt while you run off to play hero with Clarke.â
That does it.
His hand shoots out, grabs my wrists, and yanks me forward until Iâm flush against his chest. I turn my head away from his face, squeezing my eyes shut.
âYou have no idea whatâs been happening out there,â he snarls.
âEvery dayâs a goddamn gamble. Supplies, weather, Grounder patrols. One wrong move and someone doesnât come back. You think I want that to be you?â
âI think you donât trust me,â I whisper.
âI donâtââ he starts, then stops.
His grip softens, and he lets go and pushes me back gently. I glare right at him, I can see the grime on his jaw, the tiny flecks of blood dried along his collar.
âYou think Iâm weak,â I murmur. âThatâs what this is really about.â
âNo,â he says. "That's not what I said!"
"No, but it's what you meant, right?" I ask.
His eyes narrow, dark and burning. And for a second, he doesnât say anything. Just stares at me like Iâve said the one thing heâs not allowed to admit.
Then he scowls.
âYou want the truth?â he says, voice low, bitter. âFine.â
He takes a step forward. I donât back up.
âYouâre not weak,â he bites out. âBut out there? Limping, barely able to keep up, no backup, no cover â yeah. Youâre a liability.â
I flinch. He sees it. And for a second, he almost looks sorry.
But he barrels on anyway.
âYou think this is about trust? About what I think you can handle? I know what you can handle.â His eyes drag down my body, hot and slow, cruel. âIâve felt it.â
My stomach turns.
âOut there, youâre a risk,â he says. âBut here?â He steps even closer. âHere, youâre useful.â
Something sharp and ugly twists in my chest. âUseful.â
âYou wanted honesty.â
His voice is poison now, dipped in something darker. His mouth is right by my ear as he murmurs, âYouâre better on your knees than with a gun in your hands. At least that way, nobody dies.â
The words hit harder than any slap.
My hand twitches at my side, and I want to hit him. Scream at him. Collapse.
Instead, I just stare.
Because underneath that venom, underneath the smirk heâs forcing onto his face, I see it. The war in his eyes. The panic in the edge of his voice. Heâs trying to make me hate him. To drive me away.
And it almost works.
âWow,â I whisper. âThere it is.â
âYou think that makes you strong?â I ask, my voice low. Shaking. âTearing me down like that? Telling yourself I was just another body to get you through the night?â
His mouth is a hard line. âI didnât say you were justââ
âYou said enough.â My voice cracks. âYou said what you meant.â
âWas it just sex?â I whisper.
He doesn't answer.
âSay it,â I demand, louder now. âSay it meant nothing.â
Still, nothing. His jaw ticks, throat working like itâs caught on the words.
âBecause if you say that, if you say it meant nothing, Iâll walk away. Iâll leave you to your guilt and your missions and your perfect little soldier mask, and I wonât come back. So go ahead, Bellamy. Prove it.â
He looks at me.
And for the first time in days, I see him. The cracks beneath the anger. The desperation gnawing at the edges of his resolve. He opens his mouth.
But he closes it again, his eyebrows furrowing.
And then his hands are on me.
He grabs me by the hips, spinning me so fast I gasp, and my back hits the storage unit wall with a dull thud. His mouth crashes into mine, not gentle, not careful, claiming. His fingers dig into my waist, pinning me like heâs afraid Iâll vanish if he lets go.
I kiss him back like Iâm starving.
Like Iâve been waiting for this fight to end just so we could get here, this breaking point, this unravelling. Our mouths clash, bruising, gasping, teeth knocking. Thereâs no finesse, no sweetness. Just need.
His hand fists in my hair, tugging my head back to bare my throat, and he mouths along my jaw like heâs trying to mark me. I dig my nails into his shoulders, dragging his jacket down, needing to feel him, skin, heat, anything.
âSay it,â I pant between kisses. âSay it meant something.â
He pulls back just long enough to whisper, hoarse and needy, âIt fucking destroyed me.â
He presses his forehead to my chest and pants for a moment, his hands still far tighter than necessary as they slide to my hips again, but so careful to avoid the drilling site, like he knows where it is even with clothes covering it... Like he cares.
Bellamyâs breath is ragged, heavy against my skin, and his hands slide higher, tracing the curve of my waist with a possessive hunger. Thereâs no hesitation now, only that desperate need thatâs been simmering under the surface for weeks, threatening to explode.
He drags my jacket open and pulls my shirt off over my head, letting them both fall away to bare my skin to the chilly air, but his hands stay warm and commanding as they reach my pants and unbutton them, pulling them off over my boots, somehow.
His mouth crashes down again, this time on my collarbone, biting hard enough to leave a mark but careful not to break skin. I arch into him, my hands fly to his own shirt, and pulling it up over his head with ruffles his curls slightly, which is cute, but obviously I don't say that, especially not while I'm distracted by running my smaller hands over his hard chest and torso down to his belt that I fumble with once more just like before, and it makes me laugh softly, breathily.
Bellamyâs eyes flick down to my fingers fumbling with his belt buckle, the slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, half amused, half exasperated. The tension between us softens just a fraction, and I catch a rare glimpse of the guy behind the hardened guard.
âYou struggling?â he asks, voice low but teasing.
I meet his gaze, cheeks flushing despite myself. âMaybe a little.â
He leans in closer, breath warm against my skin, and his hand covers mine, steadying the movement. His fingers are rough but gentle as they work the buckle free, the heat from his touch seeping through the fabric.
Thereâs a moment suspended between us, no words, just the quiet rustle of clothes and the steady rhythm of our breathing, as I unbutton his pants and push them down to his knees, but I don't touch his boxers, just as he hasn't touched my panties.
His breath hitches, low and rough, as the cool air hits his skin beneath the fabric of his pants. His eyes darken with a mix of hunger and something raw, like heâs barely holding himself together. I reach out, fingers grazing the taut muscles of his thigh before teasingly dragging a nail along the pale line where his boxers end and his skin begins.
He growls softly, teeth grazing the shell of my ear. âYouâre taunting me,â he rasps.
I smirk against his skin, voice teasing but breathless. âAm I?â
His teeth catch the sensitive spot just below my ear on my neck, a quick, sharp nip that makes me shiver and laugh softly. âYouâre bity,â I murmur.
Bellamyâs lips twitch into a grin. âOnly for you.â
I pull back slightly, and I meet his eyes with my own. His pretty brown eyes that aren't all walled up like before.
"You mean that?" I ask faintly.
His gaze softens, fierce and unwavering. âYeah,â he breathes, voice rough but honest. âOnly you.â
The heat between us pulses stronger, a silent promise in that look, needy, unfiltered, and desperate.
I let my hands rest on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palms. For a moment, everything else fades, the weight of the past weeks, the fights, the distance. Just him. Just us.
Bellamyâs fingers curl around my waist, pulling me closer until thereâs no space left between our bodies. His breath fans over my lips, slow and deliberate, and I tilt my head up, my lips brushing against his as my breath quickens and I nod frantically.
"Okay, fuck me... Fuck me, now." I pant.
Bellamy's hands slide down to the waistband of my panties as he tries to hide his grin at my words, his touch gentle but charged with urgent heat. His fingers hook beneath the fabric, teasing the edge, then slowly pulling them down, inch by inch, until they slip over my hips and fall to the ground. The cool air grazes my bare skin, making me shiver.
He pauses for a moment, eyes locked on mine, searching, asking without words. I give a barely perceptible nod, but he shakes his head slowly.
"Come on, don't be like that. Use your words, pretty girl." He mutters, and I roll my eyes.
"I already told you to! You're just trying to get me to beg." I reply.
Bellamyâs grin deepens, amused and a little wicked. âMaybe I am,â he admits, his voice low and rough. âBut I like hearing it anyway.â
I huff, âFine.â I swallow hard, heart hammering. âPlease, Bellamy. I want you... Hard. Right now.â
That gets a dark spark in his eyes. But of course, he wastes more time.
He lays me down on the ground and reaches between my legs, pressing two thick fingers into me, and curling them upwards expertly. My eyebrows furrow, and my jaw drops as I let my head fall back in a soft moan.
âSay my name,â he asks playfully.
I gasp, voice trembling. âBellamy.â
âThatâs it,â he pants, âJust like that.â
His fingers move with a slow, relentless precision that makes my skin flush and my breath catch. The pressure builds deep inside, igniting a fire thatâs been smouldering for weeks, and I arch into him, desperate for more.
Bellamyâs eyes never leave mine, even as mine flutter closed, his are dark, intense, and raw with need as he slides his fingers deeper, curling and pressing just right, drawing soft, ragged sounds from my throat.
His hand cups my hip, thumb brushing along the curve with a possessive touch that sends a shiver through me. The carefulness is still there, always avoiding the spot that aches, balancing roughness and tenderness like heâs learning my body all over again.
When he pulls his fingers free, slick and warm, the ache left behind is exquisite.
Without breaking eye contact, he slowly lines himself up, the weight of him pressing against me, grounding me, making the world outside disappear.
Then he pushes inside, hard and deep, and I cry out, breathless and overwhelmed. My arms fly up, one covering my eyes, and my other hand covering my mouth to muffle the sounds.
"Move your fucking hands." He growls.
I hesitate for just a moment, then pull my arms away, eyes wide and raw, blinking back tears from the sharp rush of sensation. His eyes bore into mine, demanding, fierce, unyielding. The world narrows down to the sound of our ragged breaths and the pounding of my heart.
Bellamy doesnât wait, he starts moving, slow at first, deliberate, like heâs testing the waters, then building, each thrust deeper, harder, claiming more of me. The roughness of his words contrasts with the carefulness in his touch, the way he shifts his weight just so, avoiding the tender spot on my hip but never letting go of me.
I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out, but my body betrays me, arching, trembling with the waves of pleasure and pain mixing in sharp, delicious chaos.
His mouth finds mine again, desperate and demanding, capturing my groan with his teeth. His hands grip my hips tightly, fingers digging into flesh, holding me as if I might disappear.
âGod, youâre perfect,â he rasps against my mouth.
His grip tightens on my hips, fingers digging in like heâs claiming every inch of me, hard and possessive. The heat radiating from his body feels like it could burn through steel, and I realize just how much bigger he is; his broad shoulders, thick arms, the way his chest presses down on mine, swallowing me whole.
He drags a rough hand up the side of my neck, tugging my hair hard enough to make me gasp, but not enough to hurt, just that sharp edge of control that makes my pulse race.
My nails rake down his back, desperate and wild, leaving marks I hope will stay, as if I'm protesting against the weight of his dominance. He growls low in his throat, biting fiercely along my collarbone, teeth sinking just enough to sting, making me shiver and moan out loud, no longer able to hold back.
The pounding of his hips and the roughness in his voice echo through me, stoking that fire. Iâm loudâtoo loudâmy cries bouncing off the walls, raw and unfiltered, a challenge and a surrender all at once.
My body shudders beneath him, every thrust pounding deep, relentless. Iâm screaming his name so loud it feels like the whole world could hear. âBellamyâfuckâharder!â My voice cracks with desperation, a wild mix of need and frustration, like Iâm begging and asking all at once.
âYouâre all mine,â he moans lowly, eyes dark with fire as he snaps his hips harder, gripping my waist like heâs holding on to keep from losing himself. His teeth scrape my skin as he nips my shoulder sharply, marking me like Iâm his territory, and I arch into him, biting down on my own lip again to keep from crying out even louder.
I canât help the thoughts flashing through my mind, the ones that make me feel guilty and a little ashamed. How ridiculous it is that Iâm here, losing myself in the rawness of him, while part of me still resents the way he owns this moment. âDamn it,â I think bitterly, âwhy does it have to feel so good when itâs so damn unfair? Iâm supposed to be tough, independent⊠but here, with him, Iâm just a mess.â
My nails dig deeper into his back, scraping down his spine, and he shudders beneath my touch, a low growl vibrating in his throat. âYouâre loud,â he says between thrusts, voice rough but amused.
âCanât help it,â I gasp, arching up, breath ragged. âYouâreâfuckingâtoo much.â
He grins against my skin, biting again, this time softer, almost like a tease. âYou want me to stop?â
âNo fucking way,â I snap, voice cracking, âDonât you dare.â
He laughs low and dark, fucking harder, and Iâm drowning in the chaos of it, loud, wild, and utterly lost in him.
My body tightens around him, the coil snapping, and a shudder rips through me like wildfire. Iâm crying out, louder than before, voice breaking, breath shattering into ragged gasps as waves of heat and release crash over me. His hand flies to my mouth, muffling the cry.
Then, Bellamyâs hips stutter, his hands gripping me tighter, grounding me as I tremble beneath him. Then his breath hitches, a soft, broken soundâpart moan, part whimperâthat tugs at something deep inside me. His grip on my hip tightens, trembling just slightly as he pulls me impossibly closer, letting his other hand slide off my mouth and brace his body next to my head.
Bellamyâs body stiffens against mine, muscles trembling as the tension finally breaks loose. His breath comes out ragged, punctuated by soft, desperate moans that barely escape his lips. I feel every shudder, every pulse through his hips as he slows, his grip faltering just enough to let me know how much heâs holding on.
He buries his face in the crook of my neck. The warmth of his breath fans over my skin, shaky and uneven. I reach up, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close, grounding him just as much as he grounds me.
He stays pressed to me for a long, breathless moment after, his heartbeat pounding against my ribs, slow and steady now, like heâs finally come home.
âFuck,â he rasps against my skin, voice rough and tender all at once. âYouâre⊠everything.â
I lay there beneath him for a moment longer. "Oh my God, we have to stop doing this publicly. Everyone totally heard." I whisper in embarrassment.
Bellamy lifts his head, hair mussed and damp against my neck, and pulls back just enough to look down at me with that crooked grin I know so well.
âYou think anyone heard me?â he teases, voice low and amused. His fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, thumb lingering against my cheek. âPlease. You were practically a one-woman alarm system.â
Heat floods my cheeks as I roll my eyes. âShut up,â I mumble, but I canât keep the smile off my lips.
He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. âDonât worry,â he murmurs, tone soft. âIf they heard anything, let them know it was worth it.â
I tuck my fingers into his hair again, pulling him closer again despite myself. âI didn't mean to be that loud... Youâre such an ass.â
His laugh rumbles against my skin. âOnly for you, pretty girl.â He holds me there a moment longer, the world outside forgotten, before reluctantly shifting to stand. I wrap my legs around his waist, grabbing at him to keep him from going anywhere.
He groans playfully under his breath. âAlright, alright. Letâs get you up before somebody really does come looking.â
I nudge him with my hip. âBathroom first.â
He nods, sliding out of my leg lock and turning as he pulls up his boxers and pants, rebuckling his belt, before bending down for his shirt as I sit up and grab my panties.
I gasp as I take in the mostly faint scratch marks I left on his back, only a few beads with blood, not much at all, but I'm shocked.
Bellamy notices me staring and smirks, shifting his weight so I get a better look at the marks over his own broad shoulder. âYouâre proud of those, huh?â he teases, voice low and amused.
I bite my lip, trying to hide the flush creeping up my neck. âMaybe a little. You were so⊠rough.â
He chuckles, running a hand over the red lines like theyâre trophies. âThatâs the point.â
I reach out, fingertips tracing one of the scratches gently, watching him watch me. âI didnât mean to draw blood,â I admit softly.
His grin softens, and he shakes his head. âYou donât have to apologise for being loud, or for marking my back. Hell, I like it.â He steps closer, handing me my shirt. âIt means youâre real. That weâre real. Besides, I can cover these, you can't cover these." He says, while brushing my hair aside and running a hand over my neck.
My eyes widen, and I turn to look in a reflective surface while putting my shirt on. My jaw, neck, shoulder and collarbone are covered in red hickies. I spin and face him.
"Bellamy!" I shout in a hushed manner at him.
Bellamyâs grin deepens, amusement sparkling in his eyes as he crosses his arms, clearly proud of his handiwork. âWhat? Theyâre badges of honor,â he says with a shrug, voice low and teasing.
I roll my eyes but canât suppress the smile tugging at my lips. âYeah, well, you better hope Raven doesnât see these. She still thinks I'm the most innocent person she's ever met.â
He steps closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. âYou? Really? Let her think what she wants. Those are just for you.â
I meet his gaze, heart still pounding from everything we just shared. âYouâre impossible,â I mutter, shaking my head.
He leans in, brushing his lips over my temple. âAnd youâre worth every impossible moment.â
I wrap my arms around him, holding him tight. I know it caught him off guard by the way he tenses and freezes up. But I can't keep running around and dodging each other like this.
For a second, he doesnât move, doesnât say a word. Then, slow and deliberate, his hands come up to rest on my waist.
And suddenly, I don't mind that he's barred me from patrols. Because now I know he cares.
Shut Off His Brain pt 2 || Bellamy Blake smut 18++++
Summary: This is part 2 of the first part: "Shut Off My Brain". This is a bit more into the gap between seasons 2 and 3, where Bellamy starts aligning with Pike's interests more. Bellamy just feels too much, still. He is overwhelmed all the time and just angry, and Pike gives him ways to channel that anger. Ever since the interaction between you two, there's been nothing. Not even the banter. And some sick part of you feels the need to give back; to show how grateful you are for what he did for you, even though you know it wasn't really about you.
WARNINGS: SMUT!! f!reader. Marking, scratching, Multiple orgasms, slight and accidental overstimulation, slight size kink again (hand v head related), oral (m-rec), hair pulling, a tiny lil age-gap (18 and 23, language, anti-feminist thoughts once more!... VERY VERY ANGST, slightly public smexy. Dub-con do to the overstimulation, and a sort of forced 2nd orgasm. LMK if I missed something. MDNI!!!
A/N: This is for the few people who requested a part 2 where she goes down on him, even though the first one was meant to be a one-shot. I hope this lived up to their expectations!
This will be written from first-person POV, just because it's easier for me that way! Takes place between seasons 2 and 3. AGAIN MDNI 18++!!! NO PLOT... Also, not proofread, lmk if there are any mistakes. Leave requests if you want through comments or DMs, cuz they're open! And know I love reading comments! This is PART 2.
Itâs been twenty-four days since we said anything that wasnât absolutely necessary.
And even then, it was a grunt. A hand signal. The nod you give someone in passing when youâre not sure if the silence between you is mutual or just⊠permanent.
I donât know what I expected after that night behind the mess hall.
Not tenderness. Not anything romantic. I wasnât stupid. I knew what it was: a breaking point. A brief detour into something physical and raw and necessary, for both of us. A moment carved out of grief and adrenaline, and not wanting to feel like ghosts anymore.
But I thought maybe the banter would survive.
That sharp, snide rhythm weâd fallen into, that thing weâd been doing since day one. He rolled his eyes. Me challenging him back. Both of us pretended we hated it when really, it was the only thing that kept us sane.
But thatâs gone now, too.
Replaced by nothing.
Worse than nothing: indifference.
He doesnât look at me when we pass each other in the hallway between rotations. He doesnât say my name when he calls out assignments during patrol. He doesnât linger near the gate when Iâm finishing up first shift. Not anymore.
And maybe Iâd be able to ignore it if he wasnât everywhere lately.
Always beside Pike. Always tense. Always angry.
I donât recognise him like this.
But I know grief. I know guilt. I know the weight of needing something to blame when the nightmares start to feel too much like memories.
So I donât judge him.
I just watched him disappear... One layer at a time.
And some sick part of me still wants to say thank you.
To give something back.
Even though I know â I know â it was never really about me.
But it still saved me.
And Iâm not sure what that makes me now... Grateful, guilty, or just desperate for the version of him that once held my shaking legs over his shoulders like it was the only way to stay alive.
I volunteer for patrol.
Not because Iâm the best for it. Not anymore. My body still twinges in weird ways since Mount Weather, the dull ache in my left hip that never fully went away. It flares when Iâve walked too far, stood too long.
But I do it anyway.
Because being useful means being seen.
And being seen, maybe, means being remembered.
Bellamyâs already out there when Iâm assigned. Radio clipped to his shoulder, gun slung over his back. Heâs standing with two other guards, nodding along to Pikeâs morning debrief like heâs memorising gospel.
He doesnât notice me right away.
Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesnât react anymore.
The two guards split off together, leaving Bellamy and me on the other side.
I fall into step behind him when we head out toward the tree line, sweeping east. Thereâs nothing particularly dangerous out this way, just perimeter checks and clearing brush for supply routes. The kind of work that numbs your brain.
Which is probably why he volunteers for it so often.
I walk behind him for maybe half a mile before my hip starts to burn.
That slow, sharp throb I recognise now, like someoneâs carving me out from the inside. I grit my teeth and keep walking, adjusting my stride slightly, pretending itâs nothing.
Bellamy doesnât look back.
He used to.
Used to notice when Iâd lag behind, or shift my weight mid-step. Used to scan my face and snap, âYou good?â like it annoyed him to care, but he did anyway.
Not anymore.
Now, he walks like heâs alone.
Like all of us are just scenery.
By the time we reach the clearing, Iâm sweating â not from heat, but pain. My hipâs tight, like itâs locked up. I lean slightly against a tree, pretending to check my gear, blinking hard as I try to breathe through it.
Thatâs when he speaks. First time in days.
âYou volunteering for this now?â
Not warm. Not mean. Just flat.
I glance up at him. Heâs not looking at me, just scanning the tree line like it might jump out and shoot first.
âYeah,â I say. âWanted to be useful.â
âMm.â Thatâs all I get.
I should stop. Should rest. Should say something to make him look at me like he did before, when my body wasnât broken and my mouth wasnât quiet and he needed someone to touch just to stay human.
Instead, I ask:
âDo you even remember it?â
That gets him. He stills, shoulder muscles tensing beneath his jacket.
âWhat?â
âThat night.â
I donât clarify. I donât have to. He knows.
His jaw clenches. He still doesnât turn.
âIt was nothing.â
I swallow. My pulse is loud in my ears.
âIt wasnât nothing to me.â
That makes him turn.
And it hurts. Because I see it in his eyes; the regret, the anger, the want, all slammed behind that thick wall heâs built up brick by fucking brick becuase of stupid Pike. His gaze flicks over me once, quick. My face, my shirt, my legs where theyâre braced just slightly from the ache.
âThen thatâs your problem,â he says, voice low, hard.
I should walk away. Should limp back to camp and pretend like I didnât just bare my soul to a guy who canât even slow down long enough to ask if Iâm limping.
But I donât.
Instead, I take a step toward him.
And another.
And then I drop to my knees in the dirt.
His eyes flare.
âWhat the hell are youââ
âShut up.â I snap at him, not even recognising myself.
My voice is sharp, sharper than itâs ever been with him, even when we were fighting. My hands go to his belt, fumbling, adrenaline buzzing through the pain in my hip, overriding everything but this; this need to give something back.
Because he gave me peace that night.
Even if he didnât mean to.
Even if he wants to forget it now.
I shouldnât be doing this.
Not like thisânot when it feels like a transaction, like Iâm trading a piece of myself for a second of his attention. My hands pause, hovering at his belt, and for one dizzy moment, I wonder if Iâm trying to earn something that was never mine to begin with. This isnât how I want him to remember me. But maybe being remembered at all is better than being invisible.
His hands twitch at his sides, but he doesnât stop me.
Doesnât move.
Doesnât say a word.
Just watches, breathing shallow, jaw locked tight like heâs trying to contain a war behind his teeth.
My fingers fumble with the buckle at first, my hands arenât steady, not from nerves, not really. From rage, from pain, from the ache in my hip and the ache in my chest and the fact that I donât know how to talk to him anymore without breaking something between us. So I do this instead.
My fingers tremble slightly as they trace the edge of his waistband, the rough fabric against my skin. The warmth radiating from his hips is immediate, grounding me even as everything inside feels like itâs unravelling. I inch my hand lower, pressing against the curve of his body just beneath the waistband, careful not to rush, as if moving too fast would shatter whatever fragile thread still holds us here.
He doesnât move, not flinching, not pulling away. His breath is shallow, caught somewhere between restraint and something raw, simmering beneath the surface. The tension in his jaw tightens further, as if heâs biting back a storm he refuses to let loose. His gaze is locked on mine, sharp and unblinking, but thereâs no anger there now, only something heavier, something guarded.
I slide my fingers slowly, hesitating just a moment as if asking silent permission without words. The faint pulse beneath my touch beats steady, a reminder that despite everything, heâs still real. Still here.
The ache in my hip throbs, a dull fire that pulls at my focus, but I push it aside. Thisâthis actâis something I have to do. Not out of desire. Not out of passion. But out of something deeper: gratitude. Respect. The desperate need to give back what he unknowingly gave me when the world fell apart.
My fingers slip beneath his waistband, and I feel the coarse hair at the base of his stomach, the skin beneath warm and firm. I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I ease his zipper down, the metallic teeth parting with a soft hiss in the quiet woods.
His breath hitches when I slip my hand inside his boxers, fingers brushing against the thick heat of him. He's already mostly hard, his cock straining against the fabric, a damp patch darkening the cotton. I look up at him, needing to see his face, wanting to gauge his reaction.
Bellamy's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide and consuming the brown, his gaze intense and unwavering. His jaw is still clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek, but his lips are parted slightly, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He looks like he's in pain, but also like he's trying desperately to hold himself back from something, his body coiled tight with restraint.
The morning sun flits off his face in a perfect way that makes him look ethereal. His olive skin glows, and his pretty freckles stand out against the grime on his cheek.
I look back down and I pull his boxers down to where his jeans are at his knees. I grab his dick in my smaller palm and I move hesitantly. Despite my boldness, I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
I drag my thumb over his tip, smearing the pre-cum that had just begun to leak down the underside. And as I do so, Bellamy can't help but let out a low, guttural groan. It's the first sound he's made since I dropped to my knees in front of him, and it sends a shiver down my spine. His hips twitch forward slightly, as if involuntarily seeking more of my touch.
I wrap my fingers around his hard length, feeling it throb in my grip. The skin is so soft and smooth, yet firm beneath. I start to stroke him slowly, working my hand up and down his shaft.
As I stroke Bellamy's hard cock, I watch his face closely for reactions. His eyes flutter shut briefly as he bites down hard on another groan, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. A vein pulses along the underside of his shaft as it grows even harder in my grasp, the tip turning a deeper shade of red.
I lean in closer, my breath hot against his skin as I keep stroking. Slowly, tentatively, I flick my tongue out to taste him, tracing the ridge beneath the swollen head of his cock. I then just take him into my mouth as far as I possibly can, and his big hands fly to the back of my head, fisting in my longer hair, making it messy.
I feel Bellamy's fingers tighten in my hair as I take him deeper, his grip bordering on painful. A shudder runs through his body and I can feel the heat of him, the strength, the barely restrained power. It makes my core clench, a rush of wetness flooding my panties at the raw, primal reaction he can't fully suppress.
I relax my throat, taking him even deeper until my nose is pressed against the coarse hair at the base of his stomach. I hold myself there, looking up at him through my lashes, his hard cock throbbing against my tongue. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His thick brows are furrowed together, and a very soft and faint suppressed whine escapes his slightly parted lips that he then licks.
Bellamy's grip on my hair loosens slightly as I hold him deep in my throat, his fingertips brushing against my scalp almost gently now. A shuddering breath escapes him, and I can feel his heart pounding beneath my fingertips where they press against his stomach.
"Fuck..." he grits out, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. His hips twitch slightly, not quite thrusting but not quite still, as if fighting the urge to fuck my face. The muscles in his stomach and thighs are coiled tight, his whole body drawn taut like a bowstring about to snap. I gently scrape my blunt nails along his V-line, trying to see if the muscles would relax.
A shudder runs through him at the contact, goosebumps erupting across his skin. His grip in my hair tightens for a moment before loosening again, as if he's struggling to control himself.
"Quit that..." he breathes out. His chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths, and I can see the pulse jumping in his neck, his heart racing from arousal and restraint.
I pull back and I take a deep breath, my face flushing.
I pull back just enough to catch my breath before diving back in, taking Bellamy's thick cock deep into my throat once more. This time, I start to bob my head, finding a rhythm as I suck him off with increasing enthusiasm. I swirl my tongue around his sensitive tip, lapping up the pre-cum that leaks steadily now, the salty taste making my mouth water.
My hands grip his waist, feeling the muscles flex and tense as his hips start to rock slightly, fucking my face with shallow thrusts. I can tell he's trying to hold back, not wanting to be too rough, but I doubt I'd mind if he did. I want it to be good for him, not me.
His hips stutter as I suck, the erratic, shallow thrusts betraying the storm of need heâs holding at bay. I match his rhythm, smoothening it, taking him deeper, letting my tongue swirl beneath the head with calculated pressure. With each bob, I glide my hand up to the base of his shaft, wrapping my fingers around him to ease the tension in his muscles.
He groans, low and ragged, tilting his head back so his gaze finds the sky above the tree canopy. His lashes flutter against his cheekbones as he battles with himself, each breath faster. I press my tongue in small, slow circles to the underside of his cock, right at the sensitive spot where shaft meets head, and his fingers tighten in my hair until pain bleeds in where pleasure floods out.
âFuck,â he rasps, one hand falling from my hair to grip the back of my neck, guiding me deeper before roughly pulling me up so only the head remains in my mouth.
The moment shatters him. His free hand clenches into my shirt, bunching the fabric at my collar, and he drags me all the way back down onto him, taking my entire length as if desperate for every inch. I gasp around him, warm saliva coating his shaft as I fight the squeeze at my throat; tears spring to my eyes from the pressure and the intensity of his need.
Bellamy's grip on the back of my neck tightens, almost painfully so, as he starts to lose control. His hips piston forward erratically, fucking my face with abandon now, chasing his rapidly approaching release. I can feel the pressure building in my throat, the need for air burning in my lungs, but I don't pull away. I want this, want him to take what he needs.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." he pants harshly, his voice ragged and desperate. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum..."
The pitch and neediness of his voice make me clench my thighs together and my mind reel. He sounds so perfect like this. So open. I just want it to stay this way...
With a guttural, almost feral groan, Bellamy slams my head down one last time and holds me there as his cock pulses and jerks. Hot, thick ropes of cum erupt from the tip, flooding my throat as he finds his release. I swallow desperately, trying to keep up as spurt after spurt of his seed coats my mouth and throat, the taste of him exploding over my tongue.
His grip on my neck is bruising, fingers digging into my skin as his hips spasm and twitch, riding out the intense waves of his climax. His hands shake and loosen, and that's when I continue doing my work.
I bob my head again, tip to hilt, and while I'm at the tip, I use my hands on the rest of the shaft as I move my tongue against his slit.
Bellamy's eyes widen in shock and disbelief as I continue my ministrations, despite his sensitivity after climaxing. A strangled gasp escapes him, his back arching as I take him deep once more.
"That-- fuck! It's too much!" he cries out, voice strained and wrecked. His hands fly to my shoulders, pushing at me in a futile attempt to create distance, but I ignore his halfhearted protest. I can feel him weakening, his grip losing strength as the overstimulation takes hold.
I swirl my tongue around his too-sensitive tip, lapping. I feel his cock already starting to harden and throb again as I continue my relentless assault. I bob my head faster, taking him to the hilt over and over, my tongue never stopping its torturous movements. Bellamy's body shakes, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his skin as he writhes beneath my mouth and my smaller hands that are digging into his hips.
"Hey, I can't... It's too much..." he chokes out, voice breaking. I can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in all of his muscles, his balls drawing up, ready to erupt again. He's teetering along the edge, and I can feel Bellamy's shaft pulsing wildly against my tongue as his second climax hits him with breathtaking intensity. His eyes squeeze shut, and he throws his head back, a guttural moan tearing from his throat.
"Fuck!" he moans, his voice loud but not overly so. His hips jerk erratically as he starts to cum again, completely untouched since his first release mere moments ago. Jets of hot, more watery seed spurt from his cock, the taste of him flooding my mouth as I continue my relentless suckling.
Bellamy's hands scrabble at my shoulders, pushing me back and off as he finishes twitching, his hands shaking as he stands there, looking down at me. I move towards him again, and his eyebrows raise, and he shakes his head.
I cock my head softly, and I just grab his boxers, pulling them up for him as he continues to pant slightly.
âEasy,â I whisper. âWeâre finished,â I mumble... And it wasn't just in reguards to the blowjob... I know him, and I know he won't keep this going. It won't work.
Bellamy's chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, his skin glistening with sweat. He looks down at me with a mix of awe and disbelief, still coming down from the intense high of his back-to-back orgasms. I can see the confusion in his eyes as I gently pull his boxers up, covering his spent and sensitive cock. He pants, running a hand through his hair.
He takes a step back, needing space to collect himself as he pulls up his jeans and buttons them, before fixing his belt. I stand up and brush my knees off, leaning against a tree to take the pressure off my leg.
Bellamy watches the way I shift my weight, the subtle wince I try to hide as my hip throbs again, dull and constant from the old marrow wound. I glance away, pretending to focus on brushing pine needles off my pants, but I feel his eyes on me like heat.
He says nothing for a moment, just stands there, shirt wrinkled, belt still hanging undone, mouth parted slightly like heâs still trying to figure out how to breathe.
Then, finally, quietly:
âYou didnât have to do that.â
I scoff under my breath, tilting my head just enough to meet his gaze.
âI know.â
Silence stretches between us again, but itâs different now, thick, not with tension, but with something heavier. Not guilt exactly. Not regret. Something else neither of us knows how to name.
Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest, jaw tightening, gaze flicking from my face to my leg and back again. âYouâre limping.â
I nod once, no sarcasm this time. âThat happens when someone drills a hole in your hip.â
His expression flickers; this time it's guilt, probably. He was the one who pulled me off that table in Mount Weather. The one who got me out. The one who wouldnât look me in the eye afterwards.
âYou should be resting.â
I let out a short breath. âYeah, well⊠Iâm not.â
He hesitates, like he wants to argue, then lets it go. Maybe he knows better than to try. Maybe heâs too exhausted to fight me the way we used to. Or maybe, for once, weâve run out of reasons to be enemies.
I push off the tree with a grunt, straightening up as best I can. âWe should head back. Theyâll be wondering where we are.â
He nods slowly, buckling his belt, making methodical movements. When heâs done, he doesnât look at me, just turns toward camp, takes a few steps.
Then he pauses.
âHey.â
I stop mid-step, glancing back.
He still doesnât face me, âYou didnât do it for me, right?â
My throat tightens. I should tell the truth. Or I should make a joke and deflect and pretend like Iâm still the girl who gave as good as she got.
But I donât.
I just say, quietly, âNo. I did it for me.â I lie... I did do it for him because as much as I wanted it to be about respect and gratitude and giving back and all of that... I also wanted him to see me again.
His shoulders shift, tension easing. Like that answer makes everything easier. Or harder. I canât tell.
Then he starts walking again, and I follow behind, keeping just enough distance to pretend none of it meant anything.
Because it did. It always will. And thatâs what terrifies me.
Summary: After Mount Weather and after Clarke left, Bellamy just feels too much. He is overwhelmed all the time and just angry. He wants to shut it all off, every feeling. You are someone he's never clicked with, never gotten along with. There's always banter and fights between you two because you see right through his hardened exterior. You piss him off, but you also make him feel known.
WARNINGS: SMUT?! Rivals? f!reader. Biting, marking, Multiple orgasms, overstimulation, crying, praise, slight size kink (hand-related), fingering (f-rec), oral (f-rec), hair pulling, maybe slightly dubcon, a tiny lil age-gap (18 and 23, language, anti-feminist thoughts... ANGST, slightly public smexy. LMK if I missed something. MDNI!!!
A/N: This will be written from first-person POV, just because it's easier for me that way! Takes place between seasons 2 and 3. AGAIN MDNI 18++!!! NO PLOT... Also, not proof read, lmk if there are any mistakes. Leave requests if you want, and know I love reading comments!
Itâs been six days since we killed nearly everyone in Mount Weather.
Six days since the screaming stopped, not in my head, but in the halls. Since we opened the vents and watched radiation do what we couldnât bear to finish with guns. Since the last innocent face, a child, maybe eight, clawed at the glass of a locked door before slumping forward.
I still see her sometimes. Right before I fall asleep. Right before I wake up.
Camp Jahaâs quieter now. Not calm. Not peaceful. Just... quieter. Grief has a sound. Itâs the clatter of half-empty meal trays and conversations that trail off mid-sentence. Itâs the way no one plays cards anymore. No one dares laugh. Itâs all hush-hush tension, like if we speak too loudly, the ghosts will come running.
The pain in my hip hasnât gone away. Itâs dull and constant, like a pressure inside the bone, an ache that flares every time I sit too long or turn too fast. I donât limp, not anymore. Itâs there. A reminder. That they drilled into me, stole from me. And still, I made it out.
Some didnât.
Fox, one of my closest friends, didn't make it... Most did, though, thanks to, or because of Clarke, who just abandoned us without a word, and him.
Across the field, I spot him, Bellamy.
Heâs leaning against the fence, speaking low to the last night guard before shift change. The lightâs catching the angles of his face, casting hard shadows under his eyes. He looks older. Tired. Like someone carved out pieces of him at Mount Weather and left the rest unfinished.
People treat him like heâs two things at once now: a hero and a weapon. They nod when he walks by but never too long. Like looking too close might get you cut. Or draw his attention.
Because Bellamy was the one who did it. He pulled the lever. Just like Clarke, but she left, escaping all the looks he's now burdened with.
Bellamy got our people out.
But he also killed everyone else.
And somehow, I still canât decide if I admire him⊠or hate him.
Itâs easier to stick with the second one.
Weâve never gotten along. Not since the Ark. I was too loud, too opinionated, too by-the-book for someone like him, a boy used to slipping through cracks and making his own rules. He called me âPrincessâ once, like Clarke, but with more venom in it. I called him a thug. He called me dead weight. I told him he should try using his brain for once instead of his fists.
Thatâs how itâs always been: jabs, sarcasm, the occasional shouting match in front of a dozen exhausted faces too tired to care.
But lately, we donât argue. Not really. We just⊠stare.
Across fires. Across fields. Across the gap between âwe made it outâ and âweâll never be the same.â
He turns now, maybe sensing Iâm watching, and for a second our eyes meet.
Just a second.
He talks for around an hour more, while everyone goes to the dorms for curfew. I don't go... I know I should, but I don't want to get up yet. I'm sitting behind the little food area building, my back to the gate. There are no guards on this side because it faces the lake.
I'm hugging my knees and staring at the fire now, most of the camp is obscured from where I'm sitting, besides the sliver I can see of the front gate where Bellamy just was.
My eyes widen slightly when I see him walking over to me.
I didn't even hear him come.
One second, Iâm sitting by the dying fire, arms wrapped around my knees, pretending Iâm warm. The next, I feel it; that weight he carries, the storm cloud of him pressing into the room like it always does. He doesn't say anything. He never does lately. Just looks at me like heâs daring me to speak.
So I donât.
I just glance up, meet his eyes, and hold the silence.
His knuckles are red. Bruised, maybe. Mud crusted along his boots. I want to ask where heâs been, what he did, what he had to do, as he always puts it. But he wonât answer. He never does.
Instead, he just watches me like Iâm the only thing left in the world that isnât already ruined. Or just the only person left who doesn't look at him like a martyr.
And then?
He walks straight up to me. Drops to his knees. Doesnât say a word.
I blink, caught between fight and flight, but my body doesnât move. I donât stop him when his hands find my hips. I donât stop him when his forehead presses to my belly like heâs praying, or punishing himself.
His voice comes out like gravel, low and tight:
âDonât say anything.â
Thatâs when I realize.
Heâs not here for me. Heâs not doing this to win. He doesnât want control, or victory, or to break me like he usually does with his words and smirks and eyes that know exactly where to look. This isnât about hate. Not tonight.
Itâs about silence.
About forgetting.
About shutting it all off; the guilt, the dead faces, the screaming that never stops unless someone touches you like youâre still alive.
He needs this.
He needs me.
So I open my legs.
Not with seduction. Not with softness.
Just⊠offering.
I feel like a woman possessed. Bellamy had always made me feel like... Less than the feminist I knew myself to be, though it pains me to think it, it's true.
He slots between my wide thighs, his head still on my belly and massive hands still on my hips, he squeezes slightly, taking a deep breath, his ribs expanding, causing my thighs to open wider.
My hands hover uncertainly above his head. I don't want to ruin this moment for him by touching him, but I also don't want to be awkward like this.
Eventually, instinct wins over hesitation. I let my fingers settle gently in his hair, not pulling, not guiding, just there. Present.
His breath hitches like I surprised him.
But he doesnât pull away.
Instead, he exhales slowly, deliberately, the air of someone trying to let go of something too heavy to carry anymore.
Then he lifts his head and finally looks at me.
Not my face, not yet. He looks at my thighs, my hips, the softness of me, the parts Iâve never felt powerful for having. He looks at me like Iâm not a weakness. Like Iâm something holy.
And when his eyes meet mine, thereâs nothing smug in them.
No challenge. No war.
Just need.
Raw and stripped and unspoken.
âI can stop,â he says. Voice rough. Controlled. Trying.
It undoes me; that offer. That sliver of gentleness from someone like him.
I shake my head.
âNo. Donât.â
My voice is quiet. Not pleading. Not commanding. Just real.
And he listens.
He slides his hands to my front, pulling my belt undone, and unbuttoning my cargos, pulling them down, and I lift my hips to help him in getting them off, my hands falling to my sides again.
He pulls them off quickly, getting stuck on my shoes, which he then pulls off without unlacing and tosses aside like he does with my pants.
It should be awkward, the stumble, the grunt of frustration, the way one boot thuds louder than the other on the floor, but it isnât.
Not right now.
Right now, itâs just real. No performance. No pretense.
He comes back up, palms skimming the outsides of my thighs as he settles between them again. His hands are big, warm, and a little rough. They pause at the waistband of my underwear, his thumbs hooking just beneath the elastic, waiting.
Not asking permission, he already did that.
Just waiting.
Like he needs a second.
His eyebrows furrow in thought, but I don't say anything, he'd asked me not to, before I just answered a question, and he hadn't asked me anything, so I just stay silent.
I didnât misunderstand what this is.
Itâs not sacred. Itâs not tender. Itâs not some life-changing, soul-bonding moment.
Itâs just necessary.
He needs something to do with his hands. With the wreckage inside his head.
And apparently, this is what he chose.
Me.
So I stay still, my breathing shallow but steady, as he drags my underwear down my legs. He doesnât do it slowly to savour anything; thereâs no indulgence here. Just a kind of practised efficiency, like heâs focusing on the mechanics, on getting through it. And when theyâre off, he shifts back up between my thighs like a man returning to work.
I should feel exposed.
Instead, I feel used. Not in a bad way. Not like a thing.
Like a means.
A function.
A distraction.
And in some twisted way⊠it helps. Knowing this isnât about me. That I donât have to be soft or sexy or perform some fantasy. I just have to exist. Be warm, be willing, be here.
His hands return to my hips, squeezing once, grounding himself, and he specifically avoids my drilling site, too. He'd been there when they were taking my marrow; he saved me. He didn't accept my thank you, just got me uncuffed and up, then he handed me off to Miller... but his caution with it now just makes me melt a little.
He slides his hand to my front, my stomach, and gently pushes me to lean back a bit. I plant my hands behind me as I lean back on the log I'm seated on.
Then he lowers his mouth to me like itâs not even a decision; just instinct.
The first swipe of his tongue is rougher than I expected, not cruel, not careless, just focused; it makes my hips twitch back. His nose presses against my skin as he leans forward, chasing me, his breath hot and uneven. He then hikes my legs up over his shoulders, causing the log to slide up to my lower back.
His shoulders are tense under my legs, solid, shaking just barely with something heavy. His hands grip the outside of my thighs like he needs something to hold onto, and it's tight, bruisingly so, but I don't mind.
His mouth opens on me again, tongue dragging from bottom to top, deliberate, broad pressure, and I canât stop the noise I make; a short, ragged moan that feels like itâs pulled straight out of my lungs.
He makes a sound too; a low groan, muffled and half-growled, like he felt it too. Like he likes the way I sound. The way I taste. His tongue flicks now, firm and fast, then slows to circle, testing how I move, how I react, until I swear my legs are shaking and my hands are gripping the log behind me like I might fall off the earth if I donât anchor myself.
God, heâs good at this.
Not perfect; not pornographic. Heâs real. Messy. So much tongue. No talking. No smirking. Just this maddening, rhythmic pressure that builds and builds until my thighs are clenching around his neck.
He doesnât mind.
He growls again â actually growls â like he wants me to do it, like the tension in my body gives him something to fight against. He shifts closer, hips pressing into the dirt, arms curling tighter around my legs so I canât go anywhere.
Heâs making me take it.
And I do.
I let my head fall back and my mouth drop open, breathing hard, little gasps breaking free every time his tongue flicks just right: fast-fast-slow, then again, until Iâm panting, full-body trembling, heat blooming in my belly like itâs about to detonate.
âFuck, Bellamyââ I gasp it out without thinking, voice shaking, breath catching. One of my hands flies to his hair, and threads through his curls, pulling at the roots slightly out of pleasure.
His fingers dig in tighter, tongue working faster now â like he wants it, like he needs me to come as badly as I need to do it.
And I do.
Hard.
It rushes up before I can brace for it; sudden, all-consuming, a white-hot crack through the centre of me that makes me arch, makes me cry out, makes me clamp around his neck like I donât want to let him go.
He doesnât stop.
Not even when Iâm gasping, twitching, pushing back from overstimulation. He licks through it, groaning low against me, like heâs the one coming, like this, my body, my pleasure, is giving him something he hasnât had since Mount Weather: peace.
He doesnât stop.
Even when I twitch. Even when my thighs try to close around his face like my bodyâs begging for a break.
He keeps going, tongue slower now, then fast again, licking through the aftershocks like theyâre fuel. His fingers bite harder into my thighs, holding me in place like I might float away if he lets go. I try to shift, to breathe, to say something, anything, but my lungs donât cooperate. Neither does my mouth.
Only my body speaks, and itâs saying yes, over and over again. Shaking. Shivering. So fucking open it hurts.
âBellamyââ
Itâs barely a whisper. A gasp of warning or plea, I donât even know which.
But it only makes him groan again, louder this time, almost desperate. The sound vibrates against me, and my hips buck without permission. My whole body jumps, overstimulated and strung out, nerves lit like frayed wire.
And he still doesnât stop.
Heâs grinding his mouth against me now, messier, wetter, rawer; like heâs losing rhythm and doesnât care. Like this is no longer about control, it's about need.
His tongue moves in sloppy, relentless circles, then drags hard and flat over the spot that makes me jerk. I whimper. I try to pull back, itâs too much, and he chases me again, palms sliding to my hips, hauling me closer, back down onto his mouth like he canât stand the idea of being without it. Without me.
âOh my godâfuckââ
I cry out, voice cracked and high and shameless now, because itâs happening again. Too soon. Too fast. And he wants it.
His tongue doesnât let up, not even when I start to shake. Not even when I can barely breathe. I try to close my legs around his head again, not to stop him, just to hold onto something, and he groans so loudly it shoots straight through my spine.
The pressure inside me coils and tightens and snaps again, a second orgasm crashing down so violently my vision whites out for a second. My back arches hard, I fall back onto my elbows which presses my cunt further into his face, my hands fumble against his hair, grabbing and pulling as my body writhes, overstimulated and fucked senseless by nothing but his mouth.
âShitâpleaseââ I donât even know what Iâm begging for. Mercy?
But he doesnât give me that.
Because Bellamy Blake doesnât do halfway.
He licks me through the second wave like he needs to finish something. Like if I donât fall apart again, something inside him might stay broken.
My hips twitch with each stroke now, muscles locking up, but he shifts, one of his hands leaving my thigh just long enough to slide down, between my legs, and when two of his fingers press inside me, I shatter.
I scream; itâs not cute, itâs not clean, itâs raw and ragged and completely fucking helpless. My body convulses around his fingers, my clit pulsing against his mouth, and I feel wetness dripping down my thighs, onto his face, his wrist, the earth.
He groans again, filthy and needy, tongue still moving, fingers thrusting slow and deep, curling just right, like he knows my body better than I do. Like he's memorized it in another life.
The third orgasm tears through me, all white-hot static and blinding sensation. No control. Just release. Far too fast after my second, I didn't think it was possible; back-to-back orgasms.
My hands fall away from his hair.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Iâm limp. Boneless. Wrung out.
And still â still â he doesnât stop.
His fingers pull out gently, but his tongue? His mouth? It stays. His lips wrap around me again, and he starts to suck softly, too softly, and the sensation is shattering.
I jolt like Iâve been shocked, hips bucking weakly, a choked sob catching in my throat.
âBellamyââ I gasp it like a warning. Like a prayer. Like a plea.
But he just groans, deep, desperate, and drags his tongue over me again, slow and purposeful. My whole body spasms.
Iâm too raw. Too sensitive. Too fucking gone.
âN-NoâfuckâBellamy, pleaseââ
I try to squirm, but I canât. Heâs got me locked in place, hands tightening around my hips as he presses his mouth to me harder, tongue flattening, flicking, devouring. And heâs moaning now, constantly, like he lives off the way Iâm shaking and breaking under him.
âOh my god â I canât â I c-canâtââ
Iâm crying. I donât know when it started â maybe when he kept going after the third. Maybe when my body started flinching with every pass of his tongue. But Iâm crying now, jaw slack, legs trembling violently over his shoulders as he licks and sucks and feasts like nothing matters but this.
âItâs too muchâfuckâitâs too much, Bellamyââ
I hear myself. Hear the pitch of my voice spiral into something half-hysterical, broken open and messy, tears streaking down my temples now, sliding into my hairline. My thighs are shaking uncontrollably, twitching like Iâm short-circuiting.
And still, he groans. Still, he eats. Still, he presses harder, tongue focused on that exact spot that makes me cry out, not because I want it, but because my body doesnât know how not to respond.
âPlease â p-please, I canât â I canât againââ
I donât even sound like me anymore.
Just raw noise.
Just wet, whimpering ruin.
And then it hits again, the edge, already there, already rising like a wave about to drown me.
âBellamyâ!â
I sob it this time, full-on, hands reaching blindly for him, for anything, gripping at his curls like theyâre a lifeline, like if I pull hard enough, heâll stop, or maybe heâll never stop. I donât know what I want anymore.
My hips convulse against him and I scream, loud and sharp, as the fourth orgasm tears through me like a lightning strike. My legs kick, whole body spasming violently, helplessly, my cunt pulsing hard against his mouth like Iâm about to fucking pass out.
Iâm crying so hard I can barely breathe now. My body wonât stop shaking. My chest heaves, and broken, garbled words fall out between sobs:
âI canât â please, Bellamy â oh my god, I canât â too much â too f-fucking much â pleaseââ
And then â finally â finally, he eases off.
His mouth slows. His tongue softens.
One last kiss to my clit, and he rests his head against my thigh, panting like heâs the one who just fell apart. His chest rises and falls against the dirt, shoulders trembling.
He doesnât say anything.
Neither do I.
I canât.
Iâm sobbing quietly now, not from pain. Not even from pleasure.
Just release.
Just the overwhelmingness of it all.
Heâs still between my legs, forehead pressed to my skin, and my hands are still in his hair, fingers twitching, clenching without meaning to, like I donât want him to go.
Because despite everything, I donât.
He turns his head, as if heâs going to start again.
Panic flutters in my chest, soft and breathless, and I shake my head immediately, fingers tightening in his hair, pushing him back gently.
âDonâtââ I whisper, voice cracked, almost hoarse.
He freezes. Looks up at me. Just looks.
Not annoyed. Not confused. Just⊠present.
I expect him to pull away completely, to leave, maybe. But instead, he shifts slightly and lowers his mouth again, not to where Iâm raw and trembling, not to whatâs already ruined, but to the inside of my thigh.
His lips brush once, barely there.
Then again, slower.
Then teeth.
I flinch.
Not because it hurts.
But because it doesnât, not enough to stop him. Not enough to stop the flood of heat it sends, pooling low in my gut again, exhausted and helpless as I am.
He bites again, a little higher this time, the sharp press of his teeth followed by the wet heat of his tongue soothing it. Then he sucks. Harder. Longer. Enough to bruise.
I feel the mark bloom under his mouth, the shape of him seared into my skin. A pulse of ache that belongs to him now, and god, it shouldnât feel this good, this necessary, but it does.
He groans softly against my leg, not performative, not for show.
Just⊠because.
He drags his mouth higher and bites again. And again.
A trail of them, up the inside of my thigh. Dark, wet heat. His face a little rough, his breath ragged, his tongue chasing each mark like he wants to taste his own work.
âBellamyââ I whisper, too broken to mean it as anything but his name. Not a protest.
His hand slides up to my waist, firm, anchoring, and he bites again, just under the crease of my hip, where the skin is softer. His teeth sink in, and I gasp, not from pain, just the sensation.
And then he speaks.
Low. Quiet. Barely more than a breath, like it slips out without permission.
âGood fucking girl.â
It hits me like a slap.
Not praise meant to coax or convince, but a truth pulled from his chest like a growl. It costs him to say it. Like he means it more than he should.
I close my eyes.
Breathe in the scent of earth and sweat and sex and him.
He presses one last kiss to the curve of my thigh; the softest one yet.
Then rests his forehead there again, as if he canât bring himself to leave. As if Iâm the only quiet place left in the world.
We stay that way for what must be an hour.
I donât know for sure. Time doesnât feel real anymore. Just the ache in my body and the heat of him, still between my legs, forehead resting on the inside of my thigh like heâs guarding something.
Like if he moves, the world starts again.
But eventually, my head dips. Jerks back up. Then dips again. Falling asleep and snapping awake again.
And thatâs all it takes.
He lifts his head slowly, looks up at me, not with a smirk, not with pity, just with that unreadable, shadowed stare heâs so good at hiding behind now. Then he shifts forward, gently guiding my panties back into place with a care that almost breaks me again.
I flinch slightly at the contact, not from pain, just from how tender it is. Like heâs dressing something sacred. Not because it is. But because itâs already been through enough.
Then come the pants.
He lifts my hips like I weigh nothing, and right now, I might. I feel hollowed out. Light-headed and boneless and undone. He doesnât ask me to move. He just pulls my cargos up with slow, steady movements, pausing briefly at my drilling site, eyes flicking down.
Not touching it.
Just⊠noticing.
Then he lets the waistband settle low on my hips, leaving it open. No buttons. No belt. Just the shape of me, back in place, barely.
He exhales through his nose, then shifts to my feet.
My shoes are still tossed somewhere behind him, half-laced and muddy. He picks one up, turns it over in his hand like heâs grounding himself with the weight of it, then crouches and starts untying the laces.
Slow. Thoughtful.
One knee in the dirt, like some fucked-up echo of devotion.
He slides the boot over my foot and tightens the laces gently, then does the same to the other. Not rushing. Not fumbling. Just⊠doing it right. Like he canât give me sleep, or comfort, or anything that really matters... but he can give me this.
He sits back on his heels afterwards, arms resting loosely on his knees, head ducked like heâs trying to catch his breath without showing it.
I stare down at him, blinking through the leftover haze. My mouth opens once, twice, but no words come out. I don't know what the right thing is. Maybe there isnât one.
Eventually, his eyes lift to meet mine.
And for the first time in an hour, he speaks.
Not gruff. Not demanding. Just quiet.
âYou good?â
Itâs a stupid question.
But somehow, itâs perfect.
âYeah,â
I sit up slowly, palms digging into the log behind me as I push to my feet.
When I sway slightly on my feet, he tenses. Doesnât reach, just tightens his jaw, just shifts like he might, if I asked.
I donât.
Instead, I stand there for a second, the air cold between my thighs even with the fabric back in place, the waistband of my pants still open, loose and crooked like Iâm halfway between undone and pretending I never was.
He stands a beat later.
Not rushed. Not reluctant. Just⊠upright. Big and solid and quiet in that Bellamy Blake kind of way; like the earth moves around him, not the other way around.
He dusts off his knees absently, not looking at me right away. When he finally does, itâs sideways, calculating.
âYou need water?â he asks. Like itâs the most casual thing in the world.
Like he didnât just bury his face between my legs until I broke open and sobbed into his hair.
I almost laugh.
"Uh, no..." I answer finally, my eyebrows furrowing at the situation. "Just gonna go to bed... It's past curfew."
He nods once. Sharp. Like a soldier. Like a man slipping the mask back on after letting it fall for just a minute too long.
âRight,â he says. âYeah.â
He doesnât move at first. Just stands there, watching me with that unreadable expression, not cold, but closed. Like something slammed shut behind his eyes, the second I mentioned sleep. The second I reminded us both of what this place is. What are we?
He drags a hand through his hair, his curls messier now, wild from my fingers. Doesnât fix them. Doesnât apologize. Just turns slightly, like heâs about to walk back toward the guardsâ post.
But then he pauses.
Looks over his shoulder.
And says, low, barely above a whisper:
âTextiles wingâs warmer. Third floor, far end. Fewer people.â
It takes me a second to understand what heâs saying.
Heâs not giving me an order. Not asking to come with me. Not inviting himself in.
Heâs just⊠making sure I sleep.
That I sleep warm.
And maybe, in his language' in the language of fighters and fuckups and boys who carry too much guilt to ever say what they feel, maybe thatâs a kind of care. Maybe itâs the closest Iâll ever get.
I nod.
Small. Barely a movement.
âThanks.â
He doesnât respond. Just turns again, walking off toward the outer perimeter, head ducked, hands fisted in his jacket pockets.
ă € Ë ÛȘËđČïčsynopsisïčventing to bellamy about your boyfriend, one thing leads to another.
ă € Ë㠀㠀 Ë cwïč bellamy blake x reader, smut, some plot, cheating
ïč â noteïč hey⊠its been a while
wcïč 1.7k
Â Ë ÛȘËđČ moodïč song
The stars are just barely visible through the cloudy sky when you find him, your best friend Bellamy, he was slouched on the edge of the dropship, forearms resting on his knees, hair wild from the wind. He always looked like this at night. Tired, guarded, lost in thought.
You dont say anything at first, you simply climb up beside him, knees pulled to your chest and arms wrapped tight around them like you're trying to hold yourself together.
You don't need to speak, he just glances over, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching into a small welcome.
"Rough day?" He asks softly.
"Rough week," you exhale.
Bellamy nods like he already knew. Maybe he did. He always seemed to know.
You let the silence hang in the air for a while, the sound of the camp filling it for you. Theres a tightening in your chest tonight, you felt it behind your ribs that no amount of deep breathing or forced smiles had seemed to fix.
"It's not even the camp," you mumble, eyes fixated on the dirt below, "Not the grounders, not the rations, it's-"
"Your boyfriend," Bellamy finishes for you, it wasn't a question, it was just the truth.
You nodded slowly, almost embarrassed he knew.
"I feel like I'm always trying," you admit, voice low, "Like I'm giving and giving, and there's just nothing coming back. No effort, no... closeness. Not really. Not where it counts."
His jaw tightens and you notice it, you always notice everything about him, even when you don't want to.
"He hasnt touched me in weeks," you confess quietly, it sounded almost muffled, "And when he does, its like he's not even there, like I'm some chore."
The second it leaves your mouth, you feel heat crawling up your neck and to your cheeks. You weren't sure why you said that much, you weren't supposed to dump it all like this, especially not the parts about... that. The part that felt too raw, too private, too *intimate*.
You cringe inwardly, heart pounding as you stare down at the ground below you.
Bellamy isn't judging you. You know he's not, he hasn't looked away or given that awkward little laugh people do when they're uncomfortable. He's just sitting there, listening and being him.
Still, your stomach was in knots, its not like you talk about this stuff with anyone, not even your friends, not even your boyfriend. And now you've spiled it like a girl desperate for attention. Youre not even sure what you want from Bellamy. Comfort? Advice?
Bellamy shifted a little, his arm brushing against yours, "Youre not an obligation," he says, voice deeper now, "Not to the right person."
His words hit you harder than you expected.
"I feel stupid for even saying it out loud," you admit.
"Youre not stupid," he says sharply, eyes on you now, not just a small glance, but really looking, "Hes the idiot, you shouldn't feel like this. You shouldn't feel unloved."
Your chest tightens, and you dont realize your hands are trembling until he reaches for one, his calloused fingers brushing over your knuckles. You should pull away, you should excuse yourself, but you dont.
You feel it then, the ache that's been building all week, maybe longer. The desperate need to feel wanted, seen, held.
His eyes glance down to your lips, and that's it, that's all it takes. His lips crash into yours like its been killing him not to. Its not soft. Its not careful. Its needy, all heat and desperation. Like he's been starving and you're the first thing he's allowed himself to taste.
You gasp and his hand slips behind your neck, pulling you closer and deeper as your fingers twist into his jacket, clutching him like you're afraid he'll stop.
There's nothing shy about what youre doing, his lips are warm and hungry.
You make a small sound as his other hand finds your waist, gripping you tight, pulling you flush against him. There's no space left between your bodies, no room for second thoughts.
When you finally break apart, just barely, breathing hard and lips tingling, his forehead rests against yours.
"I've wanted to do that," he pants, "for so long"
Your head tips back instinctively as his mouth trails down your jaw, then your throat, lips parted and breath hot, he's kissing like he's worshipping you. You feel his teeth just barely graze the sensitive spit below your ear, and your stomach flips, heat rushing low in your belly so fast it makes your legs feel weak.
"Tell me to stop," he mumbled against your skin, his voice is deep, unsteady, "If you don't want this, if this isn't what you-"
"I do," you breathe, too fast, too desperate, "I want this, I want you."
His groan is soft but deep, full of his restraint snapping, and you feel it in the way he lays your back flush against the dropship floor.
Your fingers slip under his shirt, following the firm lines of his stomach, the warmth of his skin under your palms. You've never touched him like this before. His breath catches when your hands drag over his ribs, and you feel him tremble, just slightly, like you're undoing him.
"I've thought about this," he says against your collarbone, voice barely above a whisper, "So many times."
You shiver against him, "Yeah?"
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, his lips red and his expression filled with raw need.
"I didnt think id ever get to touch you like this," he murmurs. "Didnt think you'd ever look at me like that."
You reach up and cup his face, "I always looked at you like that," you whisper.
And when he kisses you again, he does it in a wake like he means to ruin you for anyone else.
You can feel him, hard against your thigh, every bit of his restraint unraveling with each grind of his hips. His hand slips under your shirt, knuckles going slowly over your stomach until he pushes it up and over your head.
"Fuck," he whispers, eyes roaming over you, "Youre so fucking beautiful,"
Heat blooms in your chest, youre not used to being looked at like this, not worshipped, not wanted in a raw way.
He dips his head and licks over your chest, tongue swirling over your nipple until it stiffens, then the other, sucking softly, teasing you while his hand trails down your body, lower and slowly. Your back arches into him instinctively, chasing more, needing more.
"Bellamy-" You gasp, nails scraping his shoulder.
"I've got you," he breathes, fingers finally slipping to unbutton your pants, tugging them down along with your panties in one smooth motion before his mouth trails kisses down your stomach to the one place he wants to be.
Youre already so wet for him, thighs trembling just from anticipation.
"Please," you whisper, and that's all it takes.
He leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh first, kisses that trail closer and closer until finally, finally, his mouth is on you.
His tongue parts you gently at first, tasting, exploring, and then he groans, deep and almost feral, gripping your thighs and pulling you closer to his mouth like he can't get enough.
Your head rolls back against the cool metal floor, "Shit- Bellamy-"
He eats you like he's starving, like youre the only thing that's ever tasted good.
His tongue circles your clit, licking rhythmically while his fingers slide inside you, one, then two, curling just right.
The wet sound is erotic, and you're already close, your body coiled so tight you feel like you might snap.
When you come, it hits like a wave, washing through you with a cry that echoes off the wall. Your legs tremble and Bellamy doesn't stop until you're gasping and twitching, body limp and shaking under his hands.
He leans up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, pupils blown wide, breath ragged.
"You good?" he asks, but it's barely controlled.
You nod, dazed, reaching for him like your body knows exactly what it wants next.
You undo his pants with shaking fingers, and he watches you like he's in a trance, like this moment isn't real.
When you finally push them down, freeing him, you feel a thrill flow through you. He is big, thick, and already leaking, and when you wrap your hand around him, he hisses through his teeth.
"Condom," he manages, though it sounds like its killing him to say.
You watch him grab his pants and dig in the pockets. He opens it and rolls it on with shaking hands, and then your back against the floor, legs around his waist, one his his hands placed under your thigh.
"I dont want to hurt you," he mumbles, forehead pressed to yours.
"You won't," you whisper, "I need you,"
He slides into you slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch, and god, he stretches you so perfectly it knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your nails dig into his back, and his lips find yours again as he starts to move, slow at first, hips rolling deep and steady, building a rhythm that sends heat curling through your spine all over again.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, hips snapping a little harder now, "So tight around me- shit-"
Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, again and again, and you realize you're clinging to him like he's the only real thing in the world.
It's not just sex, it's months of tension, of unspoken words, of all the ways you've needed to be held and seen and loved. His pace fastens, slamming into you now, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls, your moans tangled with his low groans.
Your second orgasm crashes through you even harder, you cling to him, crying out, legs locking around his hips as you pulse around him. Bellamy's thrusts grow erratic and messier, and he buries his face in your neck, breathing you in.
"Im gonna- fuck- I'm coming-"
And then he groans deep into your skin, burying himself inside you to the hilt as he comes hard, shuddering against you.
Silence settles, broken only by your ragged breathing, your sweat-lined bodies still locked together.
Bellamy lifts his head, looking at you like you just changed everything.
ââââââââBOYFRIEND!RAFE x ANXIOUS!READER
WARNINGS .áâprotected p in v, oral (f! receiving), established relationship, loss of virginity, reader and rafe being dorks, slow sex, these bitches do not shut up, reader is very insecure about her body and of course, has anxiety
NOTES .áâthis is representation for all my anxious and insecure girlies who giggle and blurt out random stuff when they're nervous (aka me)
You and Rafe were both on his bed making out, him laying underneath you as you straddled his waistâhis idea, of course, citing that it would be more comfortable for both of you that way. "You better just have something in your pocket," you jokingly mumbled against his lips, feeling something distinctly hard and suspiciously close to his dick pressing against you.
You had a tendency to make a lot of dumb jokes and laugh when you were nervous, blurting out whatever came to mind before you could decide against it, which was ironic since overthinking was a second nature to you. You were shy and got nervous a lot, especially around Rafe. He was your first boyfriend and the hottest guy you'd ever laid your eyes on, neither of which helping your nerves.
Rafe's hands slipped under your shirt to touch your bare skin, holding you firmly on his lap. "Wouldn't you like to know," his smirk was teasing as he pulled back from the kiss to peer up at you.
"Uh, yeah, that's kind of the whole point of asking," you also pulled back, sitting up as you smiled down at him. You liked it when Rafe went along with your stupid jokes, bantering with you to put you at ease. He never made you feel weird or awkward for using humor to cope with your anxiety.
"Well, if you must know, I'm packing heat," Rafe quipped with a mischievous grin, his grip on your hips tightening.
You gasped exageratedly, feigning shock. "You have a gun?" You knew very well what he meant, but when did that ever stop you from saying something stupid?
He snorted, his blue eyes shining with amusement. "Yeah, I have a gun in my pants because that makes so much sense," he replied sarcastically, finding your nervous humor endearing.
"Okay, Mr. Sassypants," you rolled your eyes playfully, your palms resting on his chest as a smile pulled at your lips.
"Mr. Sassypants?" Rafe repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You know, that's not a very nice thing to call your loving, patient, and amazingly sexy boyfriend."
"Well, I can't help that my loving, patient, and amazingly sexy boyfriend is such a diva," you grinned, feeling his chest rise and fall, his heart beating steadily under your fingertips.
"Diva?" He gasped in mock offense, his hands sliding up your sides. "I'll show you a diva." In one swift motion, he flipped your positions, pinning you beneath him.
You laughed, looking up at him with a smile despite the anxiety gnawing at you. He had a way of putting your mind at ease with just one look, and the soothing circles he was rubbing on your skin were definitely helping. He stared back at you, his gaze softening. He loved your smile and the way your eyes sparkled when you laughed. Truthfully, he loved everything about you, even your innate ability to make everything a tad bit awkward.
His eyes searched yours intently, searching for any signs that you wanted him to stop. Noticing his serious turn of demeanor and his intense gaze, you felt your cheeks heat up. "Oh, cmon, don't get all serious on me now," you rolled your eyes, trying to lighten the mood.
"Well, I take my role as your boyfriend very seriously," he grinned, leaning down to kiss your neck. "And, it wouldn't be very boyfriendly of me to let you go on without knowing the wonders of sex."
"Oh, right, of course, it would be for my benefit," you giggled, your heart racing at the idea of being intimate with him. You weren't exactly against the idea, but you were still a virgin, and the idea of being with someone like that was undoubtedly nerve-racking.
You could feel Rafe smile against your skin, his hands sliding farther up your sides. "Uh huh, always thinking of what's best for my girl."
"Wow, who knew you were so selfless?" You giggled, biting your lip as he nipped as your skin. Your fingers slotted into his hair as he continued to kiss and suck at your neck, his hot breath fanning against your heated skin.
"I'm a saint, what can I say?" He mumbled, his tone teasing. He was being careful, trying to reassure you without actually saying anything because he knew you'd prefer to keep things as lighthearted as possible to make you forget about how serious the moment actually was. He could tell you were nervous, and he was determined to make you as comfortable as possible.
"Uh huh, a saint," you smiled as he slowly, tentatively pushed your shirt up your body. He was giving you time to tell him to stop, maybe even slap him if you wanted to, but you didn't. As much as you felt like you were going to die on the spot at the idea of him seeing you naked, you trusted him, and you wanted this.
"I am but a humble servant of my sexy girlfriend," he pulled back from your neck to search your eyes again, pausing for a moment before your shirt revealed your bra. You gave him a small nod, and he smiled, tugging the shirt over your head as you leaned up a little and lifted your arms to help him. He threw the shirt aside, eyes roaming your skin, as if memorizing every detail. "God, you're beautiful," he breathed out.
"Shut up," you said bashfully, your heart beating faster under his intense gaze. There was a voice in the back of your head telling you that you weren't pretty enough for him, that he would hate how you looked, and that was why you preferred to fill the silence with easy jokes and stupid quips. It made it easier to silence that nagging part of you that thought you weren't good enough for him.
"No, I mean it," he insisted, his fingers slowly tracing the lace edging of your bra. "You're like, way too pretty to be real. I mean, look at you." There was a sincerity to his words that he couldn't fake, an edge of awe and pure unbridled devotion that made your head spin.
The way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, the way he touched you like he worshipped every inch of youâit was all overwhelming in the best possible way. It had you scrambling in your mind to say something, anything, even if that something was a dumb dick joke.
"I bet you're thinking about saying something stupid, aren't you?" he asked, a knowing smirk on his face as he leaned down to pepper kisses over your collarbones and down the swell of your cleavage.
"I never say anything stupid," you breathed out, as he kissed the skin that wasn't hidden behind your bra. It made your heart flutter that he knew you so well, but it also made you realize how awfully predictable you were.
"Uh huh and I'm the Queen of England," he retorted sarcastically, reaching up to slide one of your bra straps down your shoulder, kissing the bare sliver of skin that was revealed.
"Oh my God, you are?" You gasped, his remark loading you with the perfect ammunition to say something stupid. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, your highness."
"Mmm, flattery will get you everywhere," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as he continued to kiss and touch you, slipping your other strap off. He slowly unhooked your bra, his eyes meeting yours as he paused, asking for silent permission. You bit the inside of your cheek nervously before nodding.
He pulled your bra off almost instantly, his gaze sweeping over your bare chest. You felt so vulnerable beneath his gaze, resisting the urge to cover yourself. "Okay, your turn, pretty boy," you swiftly said, trying to ease your nerves and figuring you might be a little more comfortable if you weren't the only half-naked one.
"Yes, ma'am," He smirked, leaning back to pull his own shirt off, revealing his muscular chest. You couldn't help but stare, eyes roaming over his abs and the way his muscles flexed as he tossed his shirt aside. He settled back over you, his hands sliding up your sides. "Better?"
"You are annoyingly hot," you huffed, finding it completely unfair that someone as perfect as him could even exist, let alone be on top of you right now.
"Aw, you're just saying that because you want in my pants," he teased, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "But I can't blame you, I am pretty irresistible." He leaned down, swallowing the small gasp you let out at his touch as he captured your mouth in a deep, heated kiss.
"That's slander," you mumbled into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck and curling your fingers into his hair as you pulled him closer.
"Mmm, then sue me," he murmured against your lips before trailing kisses along your jaw and down your neck, slowly making his way to your chest.
Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of his soft lips on your skin. He was ridiculously skilled with his mouth, knowing exactly how and where to kiss you to drive you crazy. "Yknow what, maybe I will," you retorted breathlessly, your chest rising and falling a little faster.
"I think we can come to some sort of settlement out of court," He paused, his hot breath washing over your skin before he slowly, deliberately wrapped his lips around one of your peaks, swirling his tongue around it. "What do you think?"
Your lips parted at the feeling, intaking a sharp breath of air. "Uh, yeah, yknow that could work maybe," you grinned, your fingers gently tugging at his hair as he ravished your tits with attention.
"Mmm, I thought it might," he hummed with a cocky grin, switching to give equal attention to your other breast, your back arching ever so slightly, urging him closer. He smirked against your skin, making his way lower and leaving a trail of wet kisses in his wake. His hands slid down your sides to your hips, fingers curling around the waistband of your pants.
"Hey, wait, I don't want to be naked first," you protested, only half joking. You would rather die than be fully naked in front of him while he sits there with his clothes on.
"Oh, trust me, I have no intention of leaving my pants on any longer than necessary," He assured you with a mischievous grin, slowly unbuttoning your jeans, his knuckles brushing against your skin.
"Yeah, 'cause you're a freak," you grinned, moving on to the making fun of your boyfriend portion of the program in an attempt to soothe the pit of nausea in your stomach. You were kind of scared, not that you wanted to be lame and admit that.
"Hey, I resent that," He protested, but his tone conveyed the opposite message as he tugged your jeans and underwear down your legs in one smooth, expert motion, his gaze never leaving yours. "I'm just enthusiastic, that's all."
"Enthusiastically a whore," you snorted, letting your head fall back, staring at the ceiling. You'd really rather not see yourself naked right now, not with the amount of anxiety already coursing through your veins. You did not need a reminder of what Rafe was seeing.
"Whore?" He teased, his fingers dancing along your inner thighs. "I think you mean an amazing boyfriend who loves you and wants to make you feel good."
You hummed thoughtfully. "Uh, no, I'm pretty sure I mean whore," you grinned, reluctantly looking down at him despite yourself.
"Well, this whore is about to rock your world," He smirked, slowly trailing kisses up your inner thigh, gripping your hips. "Just relax and let me do all the work." His voice was low and seductive, his intentions clear.
"You're such an idiot," you laughed at his cheesy choice of words, a little nervous that the witty banter would have to be put on hold. He can't exactly respond to your sarcastic remarks with his mouth occupied.
He hummed, his breath hot against your core. Your breathing picked up, and you were unsure whether it was anticipation or if you were on the verge of a panic attack.
He slowly dragged his tongue along your slit, groaning at your taste on his tongue and the subsequent gasp that fell from your lips, making his painfully hard cock twitch in his jeans. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them further apart and opening you up to him. He had dreamed of this moment, imagined this exact scenario about a half a dozen times as he got himself off, and now that it was actually happening, he was going to relish every moment.
He began to eat you out like a man starved, his tongue delving deep inside your tight heat, familiarizing himself with every inch of you. His nose nudged at your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through you that pulled a low whine from your throat. Your fingers threaded into his hair, moaning at the unfamiliar pleasure.
His fingers replaced his tongue, his mouth moving up to the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucking it into his mouth, determined to send you over the edge. He pushed his fingers deep inside and curled them, finding that spot that made your back arch and your hips buck against his mouth.
"Rafe," his name left your lips a breathy whimper as your head fell back against his pillows. Rafe was no stranger to having women under him, writhing and moaning his name, but something about it being you made him crazy. It took all his self-control not to blow his load in his pants right there and then.
He redoubled his efforts, eager to make you cum, rubbing that sweet spot inside you with ruthless precision and sucking on your clit, his tongue swirling around your sensitive nub. Another moan fell from your lips, your grip on his hair bordering on painful as you felt your orgasm wash over you, your legs practically shaking at the intense pleasure.
He groaned as he felt you spasm around his fingers, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you tried to catch your breath. He slowly pulled away, grinning as he took in your dazed expression. He carefully slipped his fingers from your quivering hole, bringing them to his mouth. He couldn't help the moan that rumbled low in his throat as he tasted you on his tongue. God, you were perfect.
His eyes flicked up to yours as his tongue darted out to lick his lips clean. "Good, huh?" He asked, his tone smug. He knew it had been good, but he wanted to hear you say it.
"I'm gonna slap that stupid look off your face," you playfully rolled your eyes, your skin practically burning up with embarrassment.
"I think that would take our case from a civil lawsuit to a criminal assault charge," he grinned, calling back to your previous joke about taking him to court. He positioned himself over you again to press his lips against yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
"It's my first offense and a misdemeanor," you mumbled into the kiss, cupping his face. "Worst I'll get is a fine, so... totally worth it."
"Okay, smartass," he pulled away, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, gazing down at you lovingly.
"Just saying," you smiled softly up at him, his hair falling into his face and his blue eyes sparkling. He really loved you, and it was evident just from the way he looked at you. He'd never felt anything like it before. He loved you so much it terrified him.
But, of course, you had to ruin the moment of peace because shutting up was not something you were wired to do, especially not in the face of such charged silence. "Your little friend is poking me again," you blurted out the words before you could stop yourself. Little friend? You really couldn't have come up with anything else?
Rafe couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips as he rocked his hips against you, making you gasp softly. "He's just happy to see you." His eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned down at you, his fingers absently tracing along your side.
"Okay, well, can you tell him I don't really know him like that, so maybe he should calm down a little bit," you couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but you loved it, and you loved him. He understood you in a way you never thought you'd be understood by anyone.
"He says he's not planning on staying a stranger for much longer," he smirked, his hips rolling against yours.
"This is actually so stupid," you giggled, your hand covering your mouth as you laughed beneath him.
"Oh, now it's stupid?" He rolled his eyes, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. "You're the one who started it."
"Shut up," you smiled, leaning up to kiss him. "Okay, okay, you can... start now, I guess," you said awkwardly. There was only so long that you could stall with stupid dick jokes. Besides, you felt a little bad that he had been so patient and undoubtedly, extremely hard.
"About time," he murmured with faux annoyance, his voice low as he fiddled with his belt buckle and pulled it through the loops, tossing it aside before popping the button on his jeans and slowly unzipping them.
You sucked in a breath, trying to calm your nerves as the sound of him pulling his jeans off seemed to echo through the room. You wanted this. You knew you did, but you couldn't help the pit of fear in your stomach.
He paused, feeling your body tense beneath him as you took a deep breath, a sign he knew all too well. "Hey, look at me," he coaxed softly, cupping your face and stroking your cheek with his thumb. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do. We can wait if you're not ready. Just tell me to stop, and I will, no questions asked, no hard feelings. We can just forget all about it," he reassured you.
Your heart fluttered as you heard your boyfriend's words, meeting his gaze and seeing the sincerity behind his eyes. "No, I- I want to. I'm just... scared, yknow," you bit your lip nervously, mentally kicking yourself. You always seemed to be scared. There probably wasn't a single thing in the world that you weren't scared of.
"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay," he soothed, pressing gentle kisses to your face, your neck, your collarboneâanywhere he could reach. "There's nothing wrong with being scared. It's your first time. If you weren't scared, that would be a little concerning."
You laughed softly at his words. "You just make sure you wrap it up. I don't know where you've been," you joked. "Safe sex is great sex as the Lil Wayne once wisely said."
He chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "Lil Wayne, huh? I didn't know he moonlighted as a sex ed teacher." He reached into his bedside table, pulling out a foil packet and waving it in front of your face. "But don't worry, I'm always prepared."
"Jesus, that's a lot of condoms," you said, peering into his drawer and seeing way more condoms than you realistically thought one person would need. "You are a whore of massive proportions. Like, literally a menace to the female population."
"Oh, hush," he grinned, tearing open the packet and rolling the latex down over his length. "I bought them in bulk. You know, for... emergencies," He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, leaning back down to press kisses to your skin once more.
"Eugh," you giggled, your face scrunching up in disgust. "I genuinely do not want to know what a sex emergency is."
"Hey, a guy's gotta be prepared, okay?" He murmured against your neck, his breath warm. "Now, are you going to keep talking, or are you going to let me kiss you and calm you the hell down?"
"Yo, I am literally so calm," you rolled your eyes, lying through your teeth in the name of comedy and also not sounding like the total little loser virgin you were. "So calm and so chill. Literally have never been calmer or chiller in my life."
"Uh-huh," he hummed, clearly unconvinced as he pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, his fingers slowly trailing down your side, his touch gentle. "Because nothing says 'calm and chill' like sex jokes and rambling like you're on speed."
"Well, I can't help that I'm the funniest person alive," you argued, the realization dawning on you that you were naked, and he was naked, which meant there was only so many more sex jokes you could make before the sex actually commenced.
"You're not even in the top five funniest people I know," he teased, his fingers reaching your hip as he slowly pulled you closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours.
"Oh, you got jokes, huh?" You grinned, nervously giggling when you felt his tip nudge at your entrance. "You better take that back if you wanna get laid tonight."
"I think I'll stick with my original statement," he said, his voice low and husky as he pressed forward, the head of his dick pushing into you slowly as he rubbed soothing circles on your hip. "You're just not funny enough to make the cut, sweetheart."
You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth, wincing at the painful sensation. You grabbed his bicep for support, digging your nails into his arm. "Liar," you joked weakly, your chest heaving as you breathed through the intrusion.
"Shh, just breathe," he whispered against your neck, his voice low and soothing as he paused, letting you adjust to the foreign feeling. "You're doing so good, baby. You're taking it like a champ."
"Okay, don't call me champ while you're inside me," you grimaced, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted as you slowly adjusted to having him inside you.
"You okay, baby?" He asked softly, pushing the slightest bit further into you as he examined your reaction closely.
"Oh, yeah, just peachy," you said sarcastically. The pain was gradually starting to fade, making the whole thing more enjoyable by the second. Though, the pressure between your thighs was intense.
"Mhm, you're a real ray of sunshine," he chuckled softly, pushing the rest of the way into you, his body shuddering as he bottomed out. He was as deep as he could go, his hips flush against yours.
You gasped as he pressed all the way into you, your grip on his bicep tightening. "You're gonna look like you got mauled by a lion after this," you panted out, apologetic for the involuntary response.
"I'd wear that badge of honor proudly," he said, his voice thick with amusement as he slowly began to move, his hips rolling against yours in a gentle, soothing rhythm. "Now, shut up and let me make love to you."
"Don't say 'make love' either. That's so gross," you giggled softly, a breathy moan falling from your lips as he set a slow, pleasurable pace.
"Then what would you prefer I call it?" He murmured, his lips brushing against your ear as he continued his steady movements, the friction building between your bodies. "'Coitus'? 'Intercourse'? 'Fucking'?" He punctuated each word with a sharp thrust of his hips.
You moaned, your head falling back against the pillows and brows pinching in pleasure. Okay, you were definitely starting to see what all the fuss was about. "Let's just not refer to what's happening right now as anything at all."
"Mhm, I can work with that," he hummed, his pace picking up slightly as he felt you start to relax more, your body welcoming his thrusts. "Just focus on how good it feels, baby. Let me take care of you."
He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours and kissing you deeply as he continued to fuck you with a pace that demonstrated his love and devotion to you. He never thought he would be one for slow, romantic sex, but he didn't think he was into a lot of things before he met you. You had a way of making him discover things about himself he was completely clueless to.
As he kissed you, he slowly shifted his hips, changing the angle of his thrusts to hit that particularly sensitive spot inside you. He felt you tense up, a sharp gasp escaping your lips into the kiss, and he smiled against your mouth. "You like that, huh?"
"You're such an ass," you grinned, your fingers curling into his hair, back arching into him as his tip continued to hit that spongy spot inside you, the pressure low in your abdomen building.
"Maybe so, but you love it," he smirked against your mouth, his hands gripping your hips as he increased his pace, his hips snapping forward in a steady rhythm. "And you're gonna come for me again, baby. Aren't you?"
Your mouth fell open in pleasure, your breath hot against his lips. "uh huh," you nodded, your eyes fluttering shut. He was a cocky motherfucker, but he was hot and he put up with your shit, so it was only fair you put up with his in return.
"That's my girl," he purred, one hand sliding down to rub tight circles on your clit as he continued his relentless pace. "Come on, baby. Let me feel you. I want to watch you fall apart for me."
You gasped sharply at the added stimulation, his name leaving your lips in a whine as you tensed around him, sent over the edge for the second time.
He groaned as he felt your walls clench around him, the sensation of you practically choking his dick sending him into his own release. "Fuck, you feel so good," he panted, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself into the condom with a low moan of your name.
Your walls pulsed around him as you slowly came down from your high, relaxing into the mattress. Your chest heaved as you caught your breath, your whole body on fire and coated in a thin sheen of sweat.
He collapsed on top of you with a satisfied hum, peppering gentle kisses along your neck and collarbone as he softened inside you. "I love you, you know that?"
"Good 'cause otherwise this would be pretty awkward," you laughed breathlessly, gently raking your nails over his scalp soothingly. "But, seriously, I love you too," you added quietly after a beat of silence.
summary: season three â to signify the newly recognised alliance between the sky people and the grounders, a celebration is held within polisâ market square. a bonfire, alcohol, and the bawdy pulsation of drums is a sure-fire recipe for a stimulating night. add a watchful bellamy blake and his dancing muse into the mix, and, well⊠iâll show you the consequences of such a potent combination.
pairing: bellamy blake x fem!reader
warnings: alcohol consumption/intoxication, sensual dancing, jealousy, sexual desecration??, mild possessiveness, arguments, bellamy speaking in trigedaslang (giggling and kicking my feet), dialogue-heavy, manhandling, mild angst, smut, unprotected p in v (do not), reader is short because iâm short, deal with it <3
notes: i havenât recently been watching the 100 so the timeline and characterisation may be a little off. also, ik this took me a long ass time, but iâm gonna try and make sure the next two parts come out a little quicker <3 i love yâall!
word count: 2.5k
âPeople of Kongeda and Skaikru, tonight we gather as one, united by a common purpose and a shared future of alliance. Before us, this bonfire symbolises more than just a flame; it is a beacon of hope, an opportunity to cleanse old grudges and pain that has divided us for far too long.
âLet this fire signify a new beginning and serve as a reminder that unity is not our weakness, but our strength. Let it be known that from this day, we join not as enemies, but as allies, and anyone set upon spilling the blood of our allies is spilling the blood of us all. Let it be known: Jus drein, jus daun!â
âJus drein, jus daun!â
As much as Lexaâs words intended to inspire harmony, the crowd massed below the second-floor balcony of the dominating tower she resided on reacted in any way but. Fierce declarations of worship were cried out; large fists were pumped in celebration; and misty clouds of brew and saliva were sprayed into the tepid night air.
All was well, for the first time since we landed on Earth.
âHappy Unity Day,â I murmured to myself, taking a sip from the metal cup in my hand. I was standing on the outer edges of the unruly crowd of dark, rugged figures, who were surrounding an unlit wooden mountain and raving as it abruptly burst into vociferous flames.
The monstrous tepee of sticks was raging at the centre of Polisâ trading square, an open area bordered with stalls and operating food vendors that infused the air with a salivating meaty aroma. Glimmers of light chipped away into the familiar starry night above and an orange ambience was cast throughout the square, seeming to blaze beneath the skin of those who orbited the fire.
It was a somewhat perplexing scene: to be together as one people, celebratingratherthan being at war with one another.
A pensive mechanic stepped in beside me, eyeing the mixed crowd of Grounders and Sky People.
Raven folded her arms over her chest. âDonât you think the fact that the Ark originally had thirteen stations and the coalition now has thirteen clans is kind ofâŠâ
âUnsettling?â I finished for her. âYeah. Probably best not tell these guys the story of how Polaris got blown out of the sky. Donât want to give them any ideas.â
âPolaris⊠PolisâŠâ she continued contemplating. âThink thereâs anything equally unsettling about that?â
I looked at Raven. She looked back at me.
I sucked in a sharp breathââIâm not drunk enough for this conversationââand tipped the harsh contents of my cup down my throat. The liquid was molten in both its ferocity and colour and was infused with some potent earthly spice; it was a blow to the stomach upon consumption.
âIs that such a good idea?â Raven asked, judging me as my head craned back to capture the last few drops of throat-scorching goodness. âIâm all for pouring a glass when the occasion calls for it, but these people have stomachs lined with steelâwhat do you think yours is made of?â
I grimaced at the taste. âYou tell me. Youâre the genius.â
The roll of her eyes was deafening. âIâm just saying, theyâve probably spent decades perfecting their drinks to suit them, to match their tolerances. I mean, even that human fountain over there couldnât handle it.â She nodded towards a cluster of barrels where a titan of a man wearing armoured shoulder pads and breastplates was hunched over, violently emptying his stomach onto the cobbled ground.
I swallowed my own stomach at the sight.
âI just assumed you wanted to spend the night somewhat differently,â she said, a sweet undertone of provocation twisting her words.
My brows furrowed, and I turned to face her. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
Her lips twitched at the cornersânever a good sign.
The thing was, I knew exactly what she meant. Her unspoken words had already been circling my mind for days, weeks, months even, increasingly accumulating with both heat and fervour.
As ironic as it was, I think itâs fitting to compare my situation to that of a starâs formation.
There I was, a delinquent sitting stagnant in a cold nebula of misery in the Sky Box, parted from my family and friends, sent hurtling to Earth to die, only then to have my cold, miserable cloud intruded upon by a fiery presence, a head of tousled brown waves and a pair of rich, dark chocolate eyes.
An awakener. An activator.
This intruder began filling my head with his words, his laughter, his brooding stare. The weight of his presence began to grow; thoughts of him consumed me. From the most surprisingly vulnerable conversations to even the tensest arguments, he had a heat inside me swirling and it was sweltering to unfathomable heights. It showed no signs of stopping.
Ravenâs malevolent brown eyes were pointing plainly at something far behind me as if to answer my question. I knew what I would see even before turning around to look, but moronic as I was, I looked anyway.
Chin hovering over my shoulder, my eyes wandered through the scattered crowd of Grounders and Sky People alike that loitered the bonfireâs outskirts. There, sandwiched between Lincoln and an unoccupied trading stall, was a face that not only had my stomach contents lodged in my throat, but my heart as well.
Bellamy.
He was standing with his arms crossed, each one concealed beneath his distressed guard jacket. And although his stance screamed âDonât talk to me,â his face said otherwise. He and Lincoln were engaged in some high-spirited conversation, much unlike themselves (although the supply of drinks may have been to blame). Bellamy was speaking through one of his overconfident half-grins while alternating between gesturing to-and-fro with a single hand and tucking it back under his opposing bicep.
My chest was burning; the bonfire somehow mustâve seeped into my heart.
It should be stated here that when a nebula accumulates enough particles, it turns into a protostarânot a main sequence star like our sun, but something that holds the potential to be. At this point, the formation is at its most precarious. If a sufficient amount of mass is not acquired, the protostar will fail to stabilise and will cool into a brown dwarf, forever existing in the cold, lonely expansion of space as a reminder of what it could have been.
Bellamyâs head gravitated in my direction. Our eyes met through the asteroid belt of rugged figures between us. My breath caught in my throat, and I turned back around.
A reminder of what it could have been.
Sometimes I worry my insufficiency has damned me already.
âOh, my god.â I squeezed my eyes shut. âOh my god, Raven, why would you put me through that?â
âIn the hopes that youâll finally grow a pair and do something about it,â she replied, taking a sip of her drink to conceal her smirk.
âAbout what?â Now I was just being evasive.
She let out a frustrated huff and folded her arms over one another. Her countenance was a reflection of impatience: the raised eyebrows, the slight downward tilt of her head, the pursed lips. I almost laughed at her theatricality; then again, I almost cried because I didnât want the reason behind it to be true.
I wanted Bellamy Blake.
The confession was boiling inside me; it was burning the tip of my tongue, and I knew I had to let it out to cool. And if the words were never spoken to him, then they at least had to be expressed to someone else, even if I never admitted them in the exactness I felt, for the exact words would be so heinous, soâhedonistic, that if anyone were to hear them, Iâd be thrown into lock-up for the rest of my days.
âFine, I guess Iâm⊠attracted to Bellamy,â I spoke slowly, cringing at my own words. Ravenâs face immediately lit up like an overzealous Christmas tree, her smugly curved lips parting to no doubt release an incongruous stew of condemnation and encouragement, which I stopped before it could even start. âAnattraction that I am not going to act on, Raven; our friendship is rocky enough as it is. I mean,â I scoffed, âhave I even told how we first met? I held a pocketknife to his neck our second night on the ground because he threatened to pry off my wristband in my sleep. And he actually tried! You know that tiny scar he has on his cheek? That was from me!â
âYeah, sometimes I forget how much of a self-righteous dick he was for a while there,â Raven mused. Her face then screwed with confusion. âWait, how did you two even become friends? Because when I came down, you were at each otherâs throats every single day over one thing or another, and then out of nowhere, it was as if the slate had been wiped clean.â
Ah.
The day the slate had been wiped clean.
A thick blurriness blanketed my vision as my mind withdrew from the present. You know when you get run down with some kind of sickness and your mind gets all scrambled and foggy? Like a fever dream? Thatâs what that day seemed like to me. Too many unimaginable things had happened, too many emotions and losses were felt, and Iâd only shared them with one person before.
âYou still there?â
My gaze flickered to Raven momentarily. She was staring at me, half with impatience, half with concern. âJustââ I raised my hand slightly in front of me ââgive me a second.â
I inhaled. One, two, three. And I exhaled. Three, two, one.
A vulnerable creature of some sort nestled in my brain, softening the tone of my voice as I hesitantly began, âIt was the, uh, the day the Exodus Ship crashed. My dad was on it,â I said, my last words barely audible. âKnowing that he was gone was one thing, but watching the ship crash? That messed me up for a good while.â
Raven, taken aback, muttered her apologies. I just shook my head in return. I sucked in a sharp breath, forcing the memory into the cobwebbed corners of my mind, and then continued, âBellamy had found me in the woods that night. It wasnât exactly a pretty sight. I think that seeing me in such a vulnerable state forced him to set aside his asshole-ry for a while because he actually managed to⊠comfort me.â
I remembered the tone of his voice, so shockingly gentle yet hardened in his trademarked sort of way as he reassured me endlessly that I would be okay. I remembered the warmth of his body as I lay crumpled and sobbing in his lap on the forest floor, clinging onto his arm as if it kept me from plummeting into a bottomless pit. I remembered his hands, swiping away the thousands of tears that streaked my face, the hair from my eyes.
I remembered our brief conversation as we walked back to camp: âI wonât tell anyone. I promise,â he had said, to which I whispered, âThank you,â and after a short pause, he spoke again, âWe all need someone sometimes. I know we donât have the best history together but⊠I can be that someone if you ever need,â and then, once more, with an unwelcome flutter in my stomach, I whispered, âThank you.â
A small, bittersweet smile lifted my lips. My voice sounded distant to my ears as I continued speaking. âWe still nicked at each other here and there after thatâthat tension between us has never really disappearedâbut there was also this new mutual understanding. And somewhere from mutual understanding came a rough-around-the-edges friendship, and then friendship turned into something else.â I paused to recollect my thoughts. âWell, for me, at least.â
Between the moment I started speaking to the moment I stopped, my gaze had wandered sheepishly to the toes of my boots. I felt so exposed, like the outer layers of my being had been cracked open to reveal a part of my soul to a girl I hadnât even known existed until two months ago. Suddenly I remembered why I didnât drink often.
I stood awkwardly, waiting. The weight of my confession and vulnerability were looming above us.
Raven was quiet; she made no witty remark or tease. Her eyes had only softened with understanding, shifting back and forth as my words were mulled over in her brain. And it was only from her foreign silence that I realised what her next question could be: why donât you just tell him?
I began, âI donât want to ruinâ"
âYeah, yeah, I know,â she finally interrupted, shaking her head as if to dismiss my unspoken sentiment. âThe age-old âI donât want to ruin what we have right nowâ. But what exactly is that?â Her eyes once again interrogated mine. âBecause Iâll make it clear to you right now and say that what you two have is not just friendship. Come on. You and Bellamy?â She shifted her head to catch my drifting gaze. âAnyone with eyes can see something is there, but clearly, neither of you have a pair.â
Talk about tough love.
A harsh outflow of air exited my nose, and I pushed my hair back out of my face. Everything was much more complicated than I thought it was. Was I really as blind as Raven said? I would have already seen what she does if it were true, right? Did Bellamy really feel the same?
Am I drunk?
I glanced behind me once more, catching a glimpse of Bellamy tilting his head back to finish his drink, exposing the sculptured column of his neck. Heat flushed through my cheeks.
Christ. I couldnât let this one go. There wasnât a chance.
âWhat am I supposed to do?â I asked, still watching him.
An uproar of hoots and howls exploded throughout the square as the sound of drums and horns began to play, bringing my attention to the second-floor balcony of the Commanderâs Tower where the noise floated down from. Drums pulsed with bawdy rhythm; horns bellowed with lewd backbone; a woman purred tribal vocalisations.
Bodies began swaying in disharmonious synchronisation around the bonfire, in pairs, in groups, individually. What tethered them was the raunchiness of their movements and the subtle carnality of their interactions with one another. Iâd never seen anything like it; as I looked over at Raven and saw her similar intrigue, I knew she hadnât either.
That was my mistakeâto even acknowledge her in such a moment, especially after speaking about our previous topic. Her lips began stretching and stretching into a particularly wicked grin, and she turned to me. The devil was burning in her dark eyes.
Her answer to my question: âGive his eyes something to look at.â