ur mom jokes are still funny

gee / nonbinary / swiftie / 22

[flixpii]

DOWNHILL TO THE SHACK 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒

remmick x fem!reader one-shot.

your daddy sticks the strange new farmhand in the small house by the barn, figuring it’s safer to keep a man like that close. it isn’t. remmick spends his nights watching you, and when you finally sneak down in your nightgown to “set him straight,” he bends you over his table and fucks the fight right out of you. (wc: 22k). ao3 link

゛notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ i was mad horny everytime i opened the doc to work on this… this is def one of my fav fics that i have written, and i’m ngl and say i won’t write anything else with this dynamic bc it’s too juicy. beta read by my offline irl bbg (i’m trying to get her to make an acc 😔)

゛ contents ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ morally dubious behavior. virginity taking. peeping tom behavior / voyeurism (he’s a creep). m!masturbation. size kink. vaginal fingering. very light choking. groping. manhandling. breeding kink if you squint. messy sex. cum play. light overstimulation. rough sex. table sex. unprotected p in v. power imbalance. period-typical misogyny. small talks of purity culture. predator / prey vibes. praise w a little degradation. possessiveness. mdni 18+

Night eases down over the fields slow as molasses, settling in the furrows and fence lines until everything looks dipped in ink. 

The porch sits right on the edge of it, a little island of yellow lantern light with you cross-legged in your chair, enamel bowl in your lap, fingers slick with bean juice. Crickets grind away in the ditch, frogs answer from somewhere near the pond, and the heat that pressed on your skin all day finally lets go a little, turning soft and damp and heavy instead of mean.

Your daddy, Joe, stands out by the road with a cigarette, just that small orange coal drifting up and down whenever he draws on it.

He’s mostly shadow, hat brim pulled low, shoulders a dark cutout against the pale strip of dirt lane. The smoke hangs around him in thin gray strands, catching the lantern glow before the breeze worries it apart.

The wagon makes itself known before you see it.  A tired rattle carrying over the fields long and low, iron and wood complaining in a way that could belong to any old rig on any old night. 

The mule steps out of the dark first, ears flicking, hooves whispering in the dust, harness creaking, then the wagon-bed, then the man riding it, the whole shape of him hunched against the evening like the road’s been sitting on his back.

He climbs down slow, not careless, one boot testing the ground, then the other. He isn’t tall; not one of those long, scarecrow boys you see come through town sometimes. He’s put together closer to the earth than that, thick through the shoulders and arms, weight settled in the meat of him instead of stretched out. 

Shirt pulls across his chest where the fabric has been asked to hold too much too often, sleeves rolled to his forearms, muscle and old work written in the dust and veins there. Suspenders run straight over his torso, holding everything decent, but there’s something loose under the neatness, a restless set to the way he carries himself, like he’s got more energy than his frame knows what to do with.

His hat sits low enough to shade most of his face until he steps up nearer and the porch light reaches for him.

“Evenin’, Sir,” he says, voice a slow scrape, low and worn, like it’s been dragged over gravel and cigarettes for years. 

The vowels don’t belong to your county, not exactly, but he leans into them like he’s been practicing, trying to make them fit the dirt under his boots.

“Evenin’,” Joe, flicks ash toward the ditch without turning. “You Remmick?”

“Yes, sir.”

He takes off his hat then, presses it to his chest in a gesture that seems to be humble, and in that little bow you see the line of him clear. 

Hair dark and close-cropped, stubborn where it’s tried to wave up and been tamed with water and a hand. Jaw rough with stubble that looks more forgotten than stylish. 

There’s a hardness around his mouth, something that could tilt into a grin or a snarl with not much provocation either way.

When he straightens and lifts his eyes, they cut toward the porch, and you feel it right away when they land on you, as sure as if somebody laid a hand on your bare ankle.

A limp green bean hangs between your fingers, ends torn and wet.

His gaze drifts, following your calves where your skirt’s ridden up, running along the slope of your shins and the span of your knees pressed together, sliding up the line of your apron and the thin open V between your collar buttons where the night air pushes in against your skin. 

He looks like he’s reading you, not just seeing you, taking his time over every line.

You go still, sharp-aware of every place your dress touches your body and every place it doesn’t.

The bean pieces drop into the bowl as you lower your eyes to the boards. The porch wood is dark and warped from years of feet, knot-holes winking like little eyes in the dim.

You fix on those, on the small wet snaps and soft taps of beans piling against enamel. Anything that is not the feeling of a stranger’s stare walking up and down you like a man checking fence.

“Baby,” your father says, voice flat, cigarette smoke curling out on the word. “Say evenin’.”

You wipe your hands on your apron and stand, bare feet quiet on the boards. “Evenin’,” you say, polite as sunday, letting the rest of what you feel sink down where it won’t show on your face.

Remmick smiles like he hears it anyway. It isn’t wide or warm. Just a slow tug at one corner of his mouth, a small, crooked tilt that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Evenin’, miss,” he answers, and there’s a drag in that word miss, the s held just long enough to make it catch.

Miss, when he could have asked for your name, when any decent man might have. Your father hasn’t offered it yet, so you keep it closed up in your mouth.

“Girl oughta be in bed this hour,” Joe mutters, eyes on the yard, not on you. “Ain’t no call for her to be sittin’ out like some boy on watch. Night’s for men workin’, not for women gawkin’.”

The words land on your shoulders like an old coat, familiar weight, old smell.  You bite down on what you want to say and feel it burn on the way down.

“I’m finishin’ the beans,” you tell him instead, hands tightening on the bowl till the rim bites into your palms. You don’t bother trying to explain that the dark sits easier on your skin than the hard white noon does, that the night gives you a little space to stretch.

You can feel Remmick watching you still, not with that sloppy hunger you’ve seen from boys in town, all elbows and gawking.

This is like he’s comparing what he sees to something he’s held in his head a long time. 

“Don’t reckon there’s any harm in her gettin’ some air, Sir,” he says after a moment, pitched low, as if he’s offering reason and not meddling. “So long as she stays where you can see her.” He tips his head, and his eyes make another lazy path over you, unashamed. “World’s rough for a girl on her own.”

Your daddy snorts, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “You just worry ‘bout them fields, son. I didn’t hire you to advise on my girl.”

The almost-smile on Remmick’s mouth doesn’t quite leave. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll give all my attention to what you’re payin’ me for.”

He keeps his words aimed at your father, but his gaze is not that obedient. It flicks back to you when he says attention, and there’s weight in it, promise, something that makes your skin prickle fine all over. Something in you bristles right back, lifts its head like a barn cat whose tail’s been stepped on.

You draw a breath and set the bowl against your hip. “Where you want him sleepin’?” you ask your father, eyes fixed out over the yard so you don’t have to meet either man’s stare straight on.

“In the old place.” Joe jerks his chin toward the smaller farmhouse slumped beyond the well—a squat little shape where the lamplight doesn’t reach, half-eaten by shadow. “Closer to the barn. Got a bed and a stove. Man don’t need more than that.”

Remmick turns to look at it, and the lantern light catches his eyes in a strange way, making them flash for an instant like there’s something slick behind them.

The little house sits there like it’s been waiting, windows dark, door shut up tight, roofline sagged just enough to look suspicious.

“That’ll do,” he says. “I’m a night sort myself. Easier workin’ when the sun’s gone and the air ain’t tryin’ to boil you clear through. Less trouble all around.”

He says it easy, like it’s about sweat and shade and nothing else, but you hear the way he shapes night in his mouth, the soft way he lets it roll off his tongue, and something in your belly curls up smaller and sharper.

“Heard you don’t care much for daylight,” Joe says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Remmick’s jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like it wants to answer on its own. He glances at you, quick and bright, before he looks down at his boots. “Sun don’t care much for me,” he finally drawls. “Burns me to char if I let it. Always been that way. Doctor said I got delicate skin.”

The word sits wrong in your ear as soon as it’s out, delicate, dangling over this stocky man with forearms roped up in tendon and dirt ground into his knuckles, hands that look like they were made to break things, not handle them gentle. 

It slips out of you before you can catch it, quiet and skeptical. “Delicate,” you repeat, eyes finding his without meaning to.

He catches that and settles into it like a cat into a warm spot. “You don’t think so, miss?” he asks, voice a touch softer now, gaze steady and unblinking.

You ought to let it pass. Ought to dip your head and let the men talk over you, let delicate lie between them like some joke you weren’t meant to get. 

Instead you hold his stare in the lantern glow, take your time looking back the same way he did to you, tracing the faint hollows under his eyes, the line of his nose, the mouth that looks used to biting down on words and maybe on other things too.

“No, sir,” you say finally, after a beat that stretches long. “You don’t look delicate at all.”

Something shifts behind his eyes at that, something pleased and sharp that makes your heart knock once, hard, against your ribs. The corner of his mouth tugs just a shade higher.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to live up to what you see,” he murmurs. “Would be a shame to disappoint you.”

Your daddy grinds his cigarette out under his heel, done with this line of talk. “You can unload what you got, then I’ll show you the place,” he says. “Got work waiting for nobody. You ain’t too tired from sittin’ on a wagon all day, are you?”

Remmick rolls one shoulder, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The stretch shifts his shirt over his back, pulls the fabric across solid muscle there.

You feel your breath snag for half a second and hate that it does.

“Wagon ain’t heavy,” he says. “I’ll get settled quick, then you can put me to whatever needs doin’.”

Joe nods and starts toward the dim outline of that little house, his boots crunching through the loose gravel near the well. The lantern light falls behind him with each step until he’s just another moving patch of dark.

Remmick lingers at the foot of the porch. He settles his hat back on his head, brim bringing his eyes into shadow again, but you can still feel them.

“You finish them beans,” he tells you, voice gone softer, aimed up at you like a secret. “Man works better with a full belly.”

There’s nothing in the words you could point to and call wrong, nothing on the surface you could carry to your father and hold up like proof.

Still, the way his gaze drifts down and back up as he says them leaves something slick and uneasy under your ribs. Heat crawls up your neck, hot in a way that has nothing to do with the air.

“I’ll see to what’s mine,” you say, gripping the bowl till your fingers ache. “Same as you should see to yours.”

His laugh is low, a rough little sound that lives in his chest and doesn’t quite make it to his teeth. He dips his head a fraction, like you’ve handed him a dare instead of brushing him off. “Oh, I intend to,” he replies. “You can count on it.”

Then he turns and walks after your father, stride easy, body moving with a loose sort of purpose. His shadow stretches out along the yard behind him, tossed strange and long by the lantern, then swallowed up as he and Joe move past the well. 

The small farmhouse waits ahead, black windows staring, door a darker cut in the wall. It looks, for one breath, like it’s swallowing the two men whole.

You stand there with the lantern hissing softly at your elbow and watch the dark take them. 

When the yard settles again, when their footsteps fade and the crickets creep back up to full volume, the space between the barn and the house does not feel the same. It’s as if something else has stepped into it and sat down, something you cannot see but can sense just the same, like a pressure change before a storm.

You sit again, bowl back in your lap, fingers finding another handful of beans by habit alone. The wet snap of them breaking sounds too loud in the hush, echoing in the hollow boards under your feet. 

Every few seconds, your eyes drag toward that low silhouette out past the well, toward the little house that is not empty anymore.

You tell yourself you’re only minding where your father put a stranger. 

The first night after he arrives, he walks the fence line while you wash dishes.

You hear his boots dragging through the loose gravel near the yard, then the softer sound of steps in the grass. 

The screen door hangs open to let the air move, lantern burning low over the sink. Your arms are wet to the elbow, suds creeping up your forearms as you scrub at a pan that’s older than you are. 

Out past your own reflection in the dark window, you catch a small shape of motion—the swing of a lantern out near the barn, then the shorter, solid outline of him moving along the fence, checking posts, rattling wire. 

He doesn’t look up at the house that you can tell, doesn’t lift the light toward you, just keeps on with that steady pace, head bent. 

Still, your shoulders hunch like you’ve been caught at something you haven’t done. The glass fogs a little with the breath you don’t remember letting out.

You tell yourself it’s good your father found a man willing to walk the property at night. That’s what you tell yourself as you rinse plates and stack them, as the little yellow circle of his lantern slides back and forth along the edge of your sight.

The second night you have to bring him his supper, because your father ‘forgets.’

It’s late by the time the last of the pots are scraped and put away, your back aching from standing, hair pasted to your neck. Joe leans back in his chair, radio humming low on the table, and says without looking up, “That boy eat?”

You still your hands on the dishrag. “Ain’t seen him at the table.”

“Damn it,” He grumbles, more at himself than you. “Told him come in if he heard me holler and I ain’t never thought to holler. Fix him a plate and take it down. Man don’t work right hungry.”

You swallow whatever you were about to say about whose job it is to feed farmhands, scrape together a plate from what’s left—two biscuits gone hard at the edges, a ladle of beans, a piece of ham with more bone than meat—and cover it with a clean cloth. 

The air outside hits your damp skin and feels cooler than it ought to. The night smells like dirt and hay and whatever’s blooming along the ditch. 

The smaller farmhouse sits out near the barn with a faint thread of light leaking around the edges of its curtain, not bright enough to spill onto the yard. You walk out there, skirt brushing your ankles, plate balanced careful in both hands.

You knock, knuckles soft on the wood. For a second there’s nothing, then the faint scrape of a chair, the hush of someone crossing a small room. 

The door opens only halfway. He fills the gap, shoulder and chest just there, heat and sweat.

“Evenin’,” he says, voice a little rough, like he hasn’t used it since sundown. “You lost?”

You hold the plate out, not stepping any closer than you have to. “Daddy forgot to call you in. Told me to bring your supper.”

His eyes go to your hands first, to the way your fingers wrap the rim of the plate, then to the food, then back up. 

He doesn’t reach right away; he lets the moment stretch, his gaze traveling from your wrists up your arms, lingering on the damp on your skin, on the few stray strands that have worked loose at your temple and stuck there. 

“That’s mighty kind,” he says at last, taking the plate so slow his fingers brush yours. 

They’re not as rough as you expected, just warm and solid, the pads of them catching against your knuckles. “Hope he didn’t drag you out here from your bed on account of me.”

“I wasn’t in bed,” you answer, because lying feels worse than telling him anything true. “Kitchen don’t clean itself.”

He makes a small noise at that, somewhere between agreement and amusement. “No, ma’am. World’d fall apart if it weren’t for everything women do men don’t think about. Least he can do is call me in for a plate now and then instead of sending you.”

You don’t like that it sounds almost gentle, that there’s no clear edge you can grab onto and call wrong.

You nod once and start to turn away, wanting the room behind that door to stay his business and not have to wonder what’s in it.

“Miss?” he says, and you stop even though you don’t want to. “You tell your daddy I’m obliged. To him and to you.”

You keep your eyes on the yard. “He’ll hear you tomorrow.”

“Maybe I like the thought of you carryin’ my thanks,” he says, voice dipping lower.

You don’t answer to that. You walk back toward the big house with your empty hands and you feel his eyes between your shoulder blades all the way to the porch steps.

Another night you pass him by accident at the pump.

You come around the corner of the house with a pail in each hand, too focused on not sloshing well water onto your skirt to notice him right off. 

He’s just there suddenly in the lantern’s edge, sleeves rolled high, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair damp with sweat or water; you can’t tell which. 

The pump squeaks once as he lets go of the handle. Moonlight catches the wet on his forearms, the curve of muscle there, the scar that runs pale along his left wrist like a rope burn that never faded.

You stop short, pails swinging. “Didn’t know you were usin’ it,” you say. “I’ll wait.”

He tips his head, that same little crooked half-smile thinking about showing up. “You scared I’m gonna dirty the water, standin’ too near?” His accent is thicker tonight, as if he’s tired of smoothing them for everybody’s sake.

“I ain’t scared,” you say. Your voice comes out flatter than you mean it to, which only makes him watch you harder. “Just got taught not to crowd folk when they’re at work.”

“And here I thought you were just bein’ polite,” he murmurs. He steps back from the pump, gives you room to pass. “Go on, then. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Joe’s girl haulin’ from the ditch ‘cause I hogged the handle.”

You move past him, the damp of his skin ghosting near your elbow, the smell of iron and sweat and something like tobacco clinging to him. You set a pail under the spout and work the handle, arm moving in a practiced rhythm.

The pump groans, then warm water shudders up from below, splashing cold over your fingers when you misjudge the first rush.

His gaze sits on your hands again, on the bare forearms you didn’t bother covering because it’s night and there’s no sun to scold you. “You do all that yourself?” he asks. “Water, cookin’, everything inside?”

“Me and Mama,” you say, though your mother’s cough has been bad enough lately you both know it’s more you than her. “Daddy’s got the fields.”

“And now he’s got me,” Remmick says, watching your arm work. “Guess I’m supposed to make life easier ‘round here.”

“Then do it,” you answer, a little sharper than you meant. The second pail fills and you swing it away, careful not to splash your toes. “Don’t stand around talkin’ about it.”

For a heartbeat there’s quiet. Then he laughs, low and delighted. “There she is,” he says under his breath, as if he’s been waiting on that bite. 

When you glance over, he isn’t offended. He looks satisfied, eyes bright, lean mouth curled up. “You keep snappin’ at me like that, miss, I might start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

“Or you might start thinkin’ wrong,” you shoot back, lifting both buckets. The weight drags at your shoulders, but you’d sooner drop in the yard than ask him to carry them.

He doesn't offer, just watches you walk away, and you can feel that as keenly as the pull of the water on your arms.

There are other little moments like that, small as splinters. Like, when you cross paths in the barn one evening when you go to check on a cow that lowed funny through your window. 

He’s already there when you reach the threshold, one hand on the animal’s neck, murmuring something soft and nonsense in her ear. 

She calms under his touch, sides heaving slow, eyes rolling less. The lantern hangs from a nail overhead, throwing golden light over the dust in the air, over his shoulders, over the cow’s hide. 

He glances up when he senses you, and for a blink his irises flash almost too light, as if the lantern’s in them and not above him. Then they’re ordinary again, a color you could name if you got close enough, and he’s saying, “She just didn’t like the thunder,” even though the sky’s been clear all day.

You lean on the stall rail, arms folded, watching his hand move in slow strokes along the cow’s neck. 

The steadiness of him with animals makes something twist in you, something like reluctant respect and something like fear, because if he can soothe two thousand pounds of nervous flesh with a voice and a touch, what could he do to yours if he ever decided to try.

On another night you fix a tear in one of his work shirts at the kitchen table because your father plops it there and says, “Stupid fool’s gonna walk around with his arm hangin’ out if someone don’t thread a needle.” 

You mutter that Remmick has two hands and surely they can manage a seam, but you fetch your sewing basket anyway. 

The fabric smells faintly of him, sweat and field and that odd metallic thread that’s been nagging at the back of your senses since he arrived. 

You push the needle through worn cotton and wonder how a man gets a rip that clean across the bicep, by snagging it on barbed wire or nail head, without a single bloodstain around the torn edge.

He shows up to collect it before you take it down yourself. Don’t know how he knows it’s ready, but he’s at the door not long after you knot the last stitch, hat in hand like he’s paying a call.

Your father’s gone out back to piss or smoke or both, your mother’s dozing in her chair, so it’s just you in the quiet kitchen with your fingers still sore from the work.

“You didn’t have to,” he says when you hand the folded shirt over. “Could’ve walked around indecent a day or two, see if anyone complained.”

“My father would,” you say. “Don’t like loose things on his land.”

He takes the shirt with his good arm, the other rolling his shoulder like it aches. The lantern throws his eyes into little warm coins. 

Some nights you only see him from a distance.

Through your bedroom window when you should be sleeping, you catch the sway of his lantern again and again, marking his rounds. In the moonlight, his stride is compact, efficient, not showy. 

He moves like someone who’s spent a long time walking alone, someone who knows better than to waste steps. He never seems to stumble, never misjudges a rut or loose stone.

You watch him slip between the barn and the smaller house, in and out of shadow, and you tell yourself you’re just making sure he’s where he should be, that you are only doing what your father would want.

You notice, too, the nights when the light in his window stays on longer than makes sense. Long after your father’s snores have settled and your mama’s breath has evened into sleep, after you’ve lain there staring at the ceiling until your eyes burn, that far-off square of yellow will still be sitting out there at the edge of your sight. 

Sometimes you think you see the shadow of him cross it, head bowed, shoulders hunched, moving back and forth in a tight little path, but when you squint it’s gone.

Once, you step out onto the porch for air and catch him already looking.

You don’t see him at first; you just feel that prickling awareness that has become his signature in your body. 

Then your eyes find him where he’s paused near the barn, one hand on the fence post, the other hanging loose at his side. No lantern this time, just moonlight on his face, flattening all the hard parts, making his eyes look too bright and his mouth too soft. 

He doesn’t look away when you notice him. He doesn’t call out or tip his hat in greeting. He just stands there in the dark, steady as another post, and lets you decide whether to step back inside or stay where the night can see both of you.

You stay a breath longer than you should, chest tight, heartbeat stepping up loud between your ears. Then you reach for the door, fingers curling around splintered wood, and it feels, for a strange second, like you’re the one retreating and he’s the one who lives here.

By the time a week has worked itself around, his presence has braided into the place.

The horse knows him, ears twitching toward his voice before dawn. The dogs have quit barking when his boots scrape the yard at dusk. Your father has stopped watching him like he might bolt and started calling for him when something heavy needs lifting. 

The small farmhouse doesn’t look so empty now; you’ve grown used to the idea of a man’s breath in there, a man’s boots by the door, a man’s shadow on the curtain.

You’re the one still wary, nerves still stretched thin every time you feel his eyes, even if nobody else in the house seems to notice how often that is. 

You catch him in little reflections—a sliver of him in the pump’s metal, in the window glass, in any surface that throws back light—and he’s always looking your way. 

Not always outright, not always rude, but always aware of you. Always clocking where you are in the yard, whether your sleeves are rolled, whether your hem rides high on your calf or hangs proper at your ankle.

You tell yourself it’s just because there’s not much else worth watching out here.

You don’t quite believe it.

Clouds bruise up toward the horizon, swallowing the moon a few bites at a time. You’re at the kitchen table with mending in your lap when you hear it—one sharp, panicked bawl from the barn that cuts straight through the hum of crickets and the low murmur of your father’s radio.

You’re on your feet before you think about it, thimble still shoved on your finger, needle stuck tight in a loop of thread. 

Your father says something about “damned horses spookin’ at their own shadows” but doesn’t move from his chair.

His back’s been bad all day; he’s been walking like every step hurts. Mama’s dozing, her breath a thin whistle. 

So you grab the lantern from its hook, light blooming up in a hot bloom that stings your eyes, and head out barefoot into the yard.

The grass is cool against your soles, damp from the thick air. The little farmhouse where Remmick sleeps has a strip of light at the curtain-bottom, but you don’t see him outside. The barn looms ahead, big and dark, door standing half-open like a mouth. Another low, fretful sound comes from inside, not as sharp as the first but enough to hurry you along.

“Easy now,” you call as you slip in, lantern held high. “Hush yourself, girl, I’m comin’.”

The barn swallows the outside sounds. In here it’s hay and dust and the soft shuffling of hooves, the rustle of wings up in the rafters. 

Your mare stamps once, snorting, eyes rolling white when the lantern light hits her. You cross the packed dirt quick, set the lantern on a hook so you’ve got both hands, and reach for her halter, stroking her long face.

“It’s just the weather actin’ strange,” you murmur, words more for yourself than her. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you.”

She settles a little under your voice, but her muscles are still tight, skin twitching under your palm.

You’re so focused on her that you don’t hear him until he’s already in the doorway.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

His voice slides through the gloom, low and rough. 

You jerk a little, head snapping toward the barn entrance. He’s just inside the threshold, lantern in his hand turned down low, throwing more shadow than light. Sleeves rolled, suspenders hooked proper tonight, hair damp at the temples like he’s just come in from a hard walk. 

“Lord,” you mutter, heart kicking hard. “You move too quiet. Thought you were a ghost.”

He lets out a short huff of a laugh. “Not yet.” The lantern swings by his knee as he steps inside, setting the hay shadows dancing. “Heard her fussin’. Figured I’d check before she took it into her head to kick through a stall.”

“She just spooked,” you say. “Storm brewin’ somewhere.”

He comes up nearer, close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat along his throat, the bead of something darker at the cuff of his shirt where it brushes his wrist. 

His gaze does a quick, automatic sweep of the stall—manger, bucket, the mare’s flanks, your hand on her halter—and then it hooks on you, like it always does, like there’s a string between his eyes and your skin.

“You shouldn’t come out here by yourself at night,” he says, quiet, not rebuking exactly but not gentle either. “Barn full of spooked stock, any one of ’em could knock you right off your feet. Ain’t proper for a girl to be runnin’ around after dark alone.”

“That girl’s got ears,” you answer, voice tight, stroking the mare’s neck to hide your own nerves. “She can hear you fussin’ without talkin’ over her head.”

His mouth does that little tilt again, amused. “Reckon she can,” he says. “Reckon she don’t listen half as good as she ought, neither.”

You’re just shaping a sharp reply when it happens.

Something cracks outside, a dry, sharp sound—maybe a limb breaking, maybe a board settling wrong, maybe thunder grumbling way off where the clouds are thickest. 

It doesn’t matter what it is. The mare flinches hard, shoulder slamming sideways. The stall rail shudders under the hit, and you’re standing too close, lantern throwing crazy shadows as the world jolts.

Your first instinct is to get out of the way. You jump back, skirts swishing, hand flying off the halter. You pivot toward the stall opening and catch—not air, not clear space, but the edge of an old nail head that’s been working itself loose from the post for years.

The sound of fabric tearing is loud as a gunshot in the barn.

It rips from just below your hip down the side of your thigh, a long, rude run that opens your dress like a mouth. 

Cool air hits bare skin where cotton should be.

You gasp, more from the exposure than pain, and slap your hand down, fingers clutching at the split to keep it from gaping wider.

For a heartbeat you stand frozen, lantern light swinging, breath shallow, your leg half-bared through the torn seam.

You don’t have a slip on under this dress, not a proper one. It’s too hot. You’ve got plain cotton drawers and a whole lot of skin, and you know without looking that the tear has gone high, high enough that if you weren’t grabbing it shut he’d be seeing places no man has any business looking at on you.

“You all right?” Remmick’s closer before you register him moving, his boots whispering over packed dirt. His lantern clanks against a beam as he hangs it up. He reaches for you by pure reflex, hands coming to your arms, steadying you where you’ve stumbled.

“I’m fine,” you snap, too quick, humiliation burning your face, neck, chest. “Let go.”

You twist away from his grip, turning your hip, trying to angle the torn side away from him. 

The dress shifts anyway, hem dragging through straw, and there’s a flash of thigh where your fingers don’t quite cover everything. You feel the rush of blood under your skin like you’ve been slapped.

His eyes drop before you can stop them.

It’s an instinct with him just like yours, hungry and automatic. His gaze hits the split, the glimpse of your leg, and sticks. Time slows down around that look. You see it happen, see the way his pupils widen, see the quick, sharp inhale he tries to hide.

“Jesus,” he breathes, almost soundless.

You yank the torn fabric tighter, the motion making the rip strain up higher, edge brushing the curve where your thigh meets your hip. Your whole body feels like a lantern flame, exposed and flickering. “Don’t you look,” you hiss, low and furious. “Turn around.”

One of his hands lifts, like he might actually offer to cover the tear for you, fingers curling as if they want to fit over the place you’re guarding. He stops himself, hand hovering for an awful second near your hip, close enough that you feel the heat of him even through the thin cotton. 

“Ain’t my fault you went tearin’ yourself open on every nail in the county,” he says, tone trying for light and landing somewhere rougher. 

His eyes drag up slow, from your knuckles clenched in the fabric, up the bare strip of thigh he already saw, up the shape of your waist and the heave of your chest. “Maybe you should let me look and make sure you didn’t cut that pretty skin to ribbons.”

The way he says pretty makes your stomach flip and your teeth set.

“I ain’t cut,” you spit. “And I sure as hell don’t need you inspectin’ me.”

He should look ashamed. Though, he doesn’t. There’s color high in his cheeks now, not from heat, not from work. His mouth’s gone a little slack, like he’s holding back words. His gaze keeps sneaking back to the place your hand guards, greedy, any time you aren’t staring right at him.

“If you say so,” he murmurs finally. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

You hear the echo of his earlier lie in that word, delicate, and decide if you stay here another minute you might do something you can’t take back, like slap him or cry or both.

You shift your grip to catch more fabric, bunching the torn side up in your fist so nothing shows. It makes walking harder; you’re hobbling, half-skipping, desperate not to let the skirt fall. “You see to the mare,” you manage, chin up, eyes burning. “I’ll fix my dress.”

He steps back enough to let you pass. As you squeeze by him in the narrow space, your shoulder brushes his chest, your bare calf bumps the hard line of his boot. 

“Careful,” he says, voice quiet, right by your ear. “Would be a shame if the rest of that dress gave up and left you standin’ in nothin’ at all.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You duck your head and hurry out, every step measured so the torn seam doesn’t pull, one hand clamped between your thighs, lantern bumping at your knee. 

The night air on your exposed skin feels wrong, every stray breeze finding its way up under the rip.

You keep your eyes fixed on the glow of the house, on the square of the kitchen window, on anything that is not the barn behind you.

You slam the kitchen door with more force than you mean to, startling your mama awake, mumble something about a nail catching you and make straight for your room. You don’t light your own lamp; you don’t want to see what he saw. You stand there in the dark with your back to the door and your dress torn open under your hand, heart hammering, ears roaring, shame and something hotter and uglier twisting up together in your belly.

Down by the south fence, in the smaller farmhouse, Remmick sits on the edge of his narrow bed with the easy, humming satisfaction of a man who’s been saving something up.

He lit the lamp as soon as he stepped in, not out of any real need for light but because he likes the way it throws shadows, likes the way it paints dim gold over bare wood and gives him something soft to look at while his mind runs back over the evening. 

The room is small and warm from his own body heat, close enough that every breath feels shared with the walls. Old wood, dust, a curl of tobacco from the roll-up he finished outside, and under it all the ghost of you clinging to his clothes—soap and starch and sweat—make a thick little stew in the air.

He shrugged out of his shirt as soon as the door shut, tossing it over the chair without bothering to check if the seam you mended had held. 

The rip in the fabric is nothing next to the rip in your dress that he can’t stop savoring. He works the buttons of his trousers loose without hurry, fingers moving with the contented patience of a man about to sit down to a meal he’s been smelling all day.

He doesn’t try not to think of you. That would be a waste of a perfectly good night.

He leans back against the wall, boots kicked off, pants open at the fly, and lets the picture come as easy as breath. 

You in the barn with your hand clapped between your thighs, dress split wide, that slick little strip of thigh flashing when the cloth slipped. The way your eyes flared when you realized he’d seen, outrage and mortification and something bright under both. The sound of your voice when you told him not to look, like you already knew he was going to anyway.

“Hell,” he mutters, half laughing under his breath as his cock swells heavy against the thin barrier of his briefs. “Ain’t nothin’ on this earth I’d rather think on.”

His palm drifts down over his belly, fingers tracing a slow path to the bulge at his groin. Even that light touch makes him suck in air through his teeth. 

He presses his hand over the outline of himself, feeling the hot, solid weight of his cock straining upward, and a low, pleased sound curls up out of his chest. He palms it once, a lazy roll, enjoying the way it kicks against his fingers like it’s eager too, then he slides his hand inside.

Warm cotton gives way to hot skin. He wraps his fist around the thick base of himself and exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the barn, relief and hunger tangled up in it. His cock sits heavy in his grip, veins standing up, the head already wet where precum has gathered from how long he’s been walking around hard on the memory of you.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb smearing that slickness over the swollen tip. “Worked up over one little tear. You’d laugh yourself sick if you saw me now, wouldn’t you?”

The thought of you seeing him like this, spread out on his narrow bed with his trousers open and his cock standing full in his hand, only makes him harder. 

He drags his fist down slow, savoring the drag from head to base, then back up again, the friction sharp and sweet all at once. The first few strokes are measured, a man settling into a rhythm he plans to enjoy, not something hurried and guilty he has to choke down.

He lets his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping shut so he can see you better behind his lids. 

Not the church version, not the good girl with the hem tugged just so and the buttons done up high. 

The barn version. Lantern light sliding over your bare thigh, the tremble in your fingers when you clutched at the rip, that split second when your hand wasn’t fast enough and he got the clean, unearned look he’s been replaying ever since.

“Shit,” he breathes, hand tightening, the slide of skin on skin picking up a little speed. 

He drags his fist down again, slower, getting a feel for every inch, for the way his cock swells harder in his grip with each pass. Arousal slicks his thumb, gathers at the crest of the head, and he spreads it with an easy, greedy little twist, working it around until the slide turns wet and smooth. 

His hips lift into his own hand without much prompting, body eager after nights of walking around with you on his tongue and in his teeth and under his nails.

“Bare leg,” he mutters, watching his hand move now, eyes half-lidded, lashes throwing shadows on his cheeks. “Goin’ about your business like you ain’t got that tucked up under your skirt. Like I ain’t seen it now.”

He remembers exactly how the tear opened, how the cotton gave and the seam surrendered, how your thigh flashed in the jumpy lantern light. 

That first raw glimpse lives in his chest like a hot coal. Skin smooth and soft-looking, the curve of muscle under it, the sweet thickness where it met your hip. 

He remembers your drawers too, plain white cotton clinging to you, riding that line between demure and lewd when the fabric shifted wrong.

His hand moves faster at that, instincts catching up with memory. He curls his fingers a little tighter, pulling from the heavy base up to the slick crown, milking a fresh bead of precum up with each stroke. 

“Bet you went home and stitched that dress up neat as a Sunday virtue,” he says, voice roughened by breath. “Head bowed, lips bit, pretendin’ that leg ain’t still there underneath, smooth as cream and just as soft. Bet you can’t stop thinkin’ about me seein’ it neither.”

He can picture you at your little table, lamp burning, needle in hand, fingers trembling just enough to make the thread snag. Your face hot, your mouth set, your thighs pressed together under the cloth as you sew shame into every stitch. He imagines you tugging that seam tight, that same hand that clutched the torn fabric now working the needle, every pull a memory of his eyes on you.

His free hand slides down his belly, fingers pressing over the flexing muscles there, holding them tight as he fucks up into his own fist. The bed creaks under him, wood complaining, but he doesn’t slow. He spreads his legs wider on the mattress, giving himself more room to move, and the extra slack lets his strokes lengthen, his hips roll, everything turning into a slow rhythm.

“You know what I see when I close my eyes?” he asks the ceiling quietly, dragging his thumb across the slit. “Not that pretty little mouth tellin’ me not to look. I see that hand of yours slip. I see that dress fall open just a little more.”

The picture in his mind sharpens: you, back against a stall post, hand too busy clutching at rough wood to hold your skirts closed, light catching on the full line of your thigh as the rip edges skid higher. 

He imagines the flap of cloth falling aside, full view of your leg from knee to hip, drawers pulled tight over the mound between your thighs, a faint darker patch where heat and sweat have gathered.

His cock throbs in his grip at that. He grits his teeth, pushes his palm down hard, and his hips jerk, chasing the pressure.

“Yeah,” he growls softly. “That’s it. Dress up around your waist, showin’ all that sweet flesh. You holdin’ on to that wood like it’s gonna save you, eyes full of righteous fury while your body’s tellin’ on you.”

His fingers slip lower on the stroke, pausing to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm, feeling the tight, heavy pull there. The sensation punches another sound out of him. He goes back to his cock with renewed urgency, arm working harder now, hand pumping.

He lets himself wander further than any real moment has gone. Lets the memory of that tear turn into something else, something he can taste.

He imagines stepping in close before you can bolt, one hand catching your wrist, the other gathering your torn skirt up and out of his way. Imagines your gasp, that little sharp intake he already knows, your bare thigh hitting his hip as he pins you to the stall. Your panties stretched tight over the soft swell of your cunt, his fingers pushing up against the dampening cloth, feeling how hot you are through the barrier.

“Pretend you don’t want it,” he murmurs, throat rasping. “Try to act like you ain’t gettin’ wet for me while you fuss.”

The words sound vulgar and right in his mouth. His cock swells at it, the head aching now, sensitive with every pass. He squeezes at the top, thumb pressing just under the crown, and his whole body shudders, pleasure rushing up his spine.

“Be a good girl,” he hears himself whispering to the woman in his head, the one pressed to barn wood with her dress in tatters. “Spread ’em for me, let me see what you’re hidin’.”

His hand flies now, finding a quick, dirty rhythm. His breath comes rough, each inhale catching, each exhale spilling out in curses and half-formed praises.

“You’d flush right up to your hairline,” he pants, head rolling against the wall. “Act all offended while your thighs tremble and that pretty thing between ’em throbs. Might even cry a little, wouldn’t you? All sweet and scared and soaked.”

The image of you crying—eyes bright, lashes wet, lips bitten—while your body betrays you sends him right to the edge. His balls draw up tight, cock jumping in his fist, veins standing out under his skin. Heat coils at the base of his spine, that familiar pull gathering everything in, ready to snap.

He spits into his hand for more slick, doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth. The added wetness turns his strokes into something obscene, the sound echoing in the small room. His forearm snaps, muscles burning, chasing the crest bearing down on him.

“Come on then,” he grits. “Show me.”

He imagines hooking a finger under the edge of your drawers and pulling the cotton aside. Imagines the first sight of you bare between your thighs, folds swollen, maybe already glistening, all that heat finally out in the lantern light instead of tucked away in shadows and good manners.

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice breaking, hips jerking harder into his fist. “Knew you’d be pretty there. Knew you’d be soft.”

The wave hits with no ceremony; it slams through him like a mule kick. His whole body locks, stomach clenching, heels digging into the thin mattress, head thumping dully against the wall. 

A groan tears out of him, rough and strangled, half-swallowed behind clenched teeth. His cock jerks in his hand, once, twice, then again, spilling hot over his fingers and across his stomach in thick, pulsing ropes.

He rides it out, hand still working, strokes shortening but not stopping, milking every last drop. Cum coats his knuckles, drips over his fist, slicking his grip until his palm slips on the softening length. 

“Fuck,” he breathes when he can breathe again, voice low and wrecked.

His strokes slow, then ease off altogether, fingers loosening their grip. 

For a moment he just sits there, chest rising and falling, wrist slick and heavy, cock giving a few last, half-hearted twitches in his hand. Sweat cools on his forehead, a bead sliding down along his temple.

He looks down at the mess on his belly, streaks shining in the lamplight, dripping off the side of his hand. There’s no disgust in the way he examines it; if anything, there’s pride. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, lazy and satisfied.

“Look what you pulled out of me, and you weren’t even here,” he murmurs, more pleased than ashamed. 

He wipes his hand across his stomach, smearing instead of cleaning, fingers drawing idle patterns through the stickiness before he drags them off onto a wadded-up shirt at his side. 

The cotton takes the worst of it, darkening where it soaks, but he doesn’t fuss about the rest. Let it dry on his skin. Let it sit there as a reminder.

He tucks himself back into his briefs, though he doesn’t bother fastening his trousers all the way, leaving the fly gaping a little for air. 

His body feels loose and heavy now, bones sunk deep into the thin mattress. The edge is blunted, that sharp hunger dulled to a warm, low thrum, but it’s not gone.

He leans his head back and lets his eyes drift half-closed, the lamp still burning low. 

In the quiet, he can almost hear you tossing under your own quilt up the rise, feel the echo of your indignation, imagine the way your fingers might trace absent circles over the mended seam of your dress while you tell yourself you hate him.

He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, savoring that thought as much as any touch.

“Gonna see it torn again,” he says softly, not quite a promise, not quite a threat. 

The lamp flickers, a tiny flame fighting sleep. Outside, crickets scream and something small scurries through the grass. 

The little house settles around him with soft creaks and sighs. He closes his eyes fully at last, the picture of your bare thigh and your furious face smoothing together into one sweet, ripe ache he’s already wondering how soon he can taste again.

Most nights Remmick does his rounds like he’s supposed to, lantern swinging at his knee, gate latches checked, fence wire plucked and listened to like strings. 

But once he knows the map of the place in his bones, once he has counted every post and measured every path, his feet start wandering off the straight lines your daddy would like him to walk. 

He learns where the shadows fall thickest under the pecan tree by the side yard, where the dark under the eaves hides a man from anyone glancing out through lamplight. 

He learns just how far back he can stand and still see into the kitchen window when you’re up late, sleeves rolled, forearms wet to the elbow, talking to your mama while you scrub a pan. 

He learns that when you think everybody’s settled, you lean your hip against the counter and tilt your head a little while you dry your hands, and that little shift of weight does things to your dress you’d never let it do in town.

He finds out you like the back porch at night even more than you like it at dusk. That when the work is done and your parents are loud in their sleep, you slip out with a glass or a cup and sit with your legs stretched, ankles crossed, toes tracing idle circles on the board beneath them. 

From the fence line he can see the shine of lamplight on your bare shins when your hem rides up, can see the loose, tired way you soften back into the chair. 

He watches you tilt your face toward the dark yard like you’re asking it questions it hasn’t answered yet, listens to the little sounds you make—half-sighs, half-hums—that never show up when anyone else is awake. 

He leans on a post with a cigarette hanging from his fingers and looks until he’s had his fill, no hurry in him, nothing but a lazy, steady satisfaction in knowing you have no idea.

He learns your bedroom window, too. Where it sits in relation to the oak, how far up the slope he has to stand to see its square of light. 

The first time he notices the curtain isn’t quite shut, it’s by accident; he’s walking back late, boots slow on the path, when a slice of movement catches his eye. 

Curtain gapping, lamp turned low, you moving around your room in that soft circle people make before bed. 

He stops in the shadow of the tree without even thinking, shoulder to rough bark, the leaves above him murmuring in a wind that doesn’t get down into the yard. 

From there he can see you in fragments—an arm as you reach up to unbutton, a brief glimpse of the side of your neck, the line of your shoulder as fabric slips. 

He tells himself he’ll move when you’re done, that he’s only making sure you got in safe. He stays until the lamp goes out.

The night he sees you in the bath, there’s not even that thin excuse.

It’s late enough the frogs have worn down to a sleepy chorus and the crickets sound drunk. A low, warm fog sits over the fields, pressing scents in close: damp earth, animals settled in their pens, soap drifting thin from the open kitchen window where somebody forgot to latch it right. 

He’s finished his rounds early, all the work of the night sitting behind him instead of ahead, and he feels that restless itch under his skin again, that soft, prowling urge that has nothing to do with fences and everything to do with you.

The house is a square of softer dark against the sky, only a couple of windows holding light. 

He knows which is which now without having to think about it. Kitchen, front room, your parents’ room. The little back room off the side where the big galvanized tub sits when somebody’s been lucky enough to haul enough water. 

Tonight it’s that one glowing gentle behind its thin cotton curtain, lantern hanging somewhere just out of sight, making the fabric look like a pale, breathing thing.

He circles wide, slipping along the edge of the yard where the grass meets the packed dirt of the lane, where the shadows from the trees throw him one more thin cloak. 

The bath window is low, glass fogged a little from steam. The curtain is drawn but not all the way, left a thumb’s width open on one side—enough for light to leak out in a narrow spill. Enough, if a man stepped in close and angled himself just right, to see inside.

He comes up under the sill, breath slow, boots quiet, and lays his palm flat against the siding to steady himself. The boards are cool and rough under his fingers. He leans his shoulder into them and tilts his head, lining his eye up with that careless little gap.

Heat hits him first, a wet, sweet breath rolling out into the night. The lantern inside throws shadows high on the wall, flickering over the curve of the tub, over the length of you in it.

You’re sunk down in the water with your knees bent, one leg drawn up just enough for him to see the shape of it under the surface, the other stretched straighter, foot braced on the far side. 

The water glows around you, gone cloudy with soap, clinging in beads to your skin where it’s out of the tub. 

Your shoulders show above the rim, bare and slick, drops running down in slow trails. 

Steam curls off your chest, off the slopes of your breasts where they rise from the water, soft and heavy, nipples pebbled tight from the heat or the air or both. The lamplight loves them, catching on every curve, laying little gold crowns on each peak.

Your head is tipped back against the rolled towel you’ve wedged between neck and tin, eyes closed, lips parted just enough for breath. One arm drifts along the tub’s edge, fingers dragging lazy patterns through the thin scum of soap there, the other resting across your stomach.

He watches your ribs move with each inhale, the slight swell and fall of your belly under your palm.

You're so unaware of him that it feels almost holy.

He drinks it in like it’s what he came here for all along, no flinch in him, no apology. His gaze roams where it will. 

From the line of your throat down to the hollow between your collarbones, where a small puddle has gathered and overflowed in slow rivulets; down over the slick, shining hills of your breasts, the way they shift just a little with every breath, the way the waterline cuts across them. Lower, to where the curve of your stomach disappears under the opaque water, hinting at more, promising everything.

You shift, lifting one arm to drag the washcloth over your shoulder. The washcloth trails over the round of your shoulder, down the outside of your arm, across the swell of your breast, nipple tightening even more when the rough cloth skims past.

You don’t seem to notice the way your own body responds; you’re too busy chasing day-dirt away, lifting your arm to scrub your neck, tilting your head to give yourself better reach.

From his vantage, he sees everything. His hand tightens on the siding, knuckles going white, that buzzing hunger flaring up bright and hot behind his eyes.

He stares, not making a sound.

You work the cloth down your arm and set it aside, then slide both hands into the water, scooping and pouring over yourself. 

You lift your leg a little, knee rising higher, water spilling off in sheets, showing him the smooth length of your thigh all the way to the place where it vanishes back under the cloudy surface. The muscles there flex as you shift, your toes stretching, calf defined a moment before settling again. 

For a brief second, the water thins enough he can see the shadowed shape where your thighs meet, softened by the haze but there, real and mouth-watering.

His eyes go dark on it, pupils swallowing light. He leans in a fraction more, cheek almost touching the glass, breath fogging the edge of the pane where it meets the frame. 

Every small move you make sends little waves across your body, playing light over the parts he can see, hinting at the parts he can’t.

You sigh, the sound faint through the wall but clear. Your head tips a little to the side, cheek turning toward the window without quite facing it. 

One hand skims over your sternum, following the center line of your body until it disappears under the water. 

Your fingers paddle lazily there for a moment, moving along your own stomach, over the soft give of your lower belly. 

He imagines exactly where they’re drifting, what warm, slick places they’re brushing, even if you’re not thinking of it like that. Your face gives nothing away but relief, a tired little slackness, the expression of someone finally easing aches out of their bones.

“You ain’t got a clue,” he breathes, lips ghosting the words against the flaking clapboard. There’s satisfaction in it, not cruelty. “Bathin’ like Eve in a picture book with the curtain open and the devil on the outside lookin’ in.”

His hand, the one not braced on the wall, shifts restlessly by his side, brushing the front of his trousers. 

He doesn’t touch himself proper, not yet; this is looking time. He wants to be empty enough of the last time to fill up on this one entire. 

His fingers flex anyway, his palm pressing for a moment against the growing bulge, acknowledging it. His cock swells quick and eager, remembering the barn, welcoming the new fodder.

You lean forward to reach the soap, and the angle changes. 

For a breathless few seconds he gets the long line of your back, the way it curves from nape to waist, the hollow above your hips, the dimples that show when you move just so. Water slides off you in glittering trails, trickling down along your spine, pooling in the small of your back before spilling lower. 

As you sit back again, that same water slips over the round of your ass where it breaks the surface, catching the light along the curve, then vanishes under the cloudy bath.

He closes his eyes briefly, just to fix it, then opens them again. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.

You lather your hands, work the soap into your skin, fingers massaging into your shoulders, down along your collarbones. 

The more you scrub, the slipperier you become, water beading and running, foam clinging in thin streaks before melting away. 

When you finally slide your hands under the water, scrubbing lower, your elbows move in a rhythm that makes something low and obscene curl in his gut. 

He knows you’re only washing, just doing what needs doing, but to him it looks like a preview, looks like a rehearsal of things you haven’t yet learned to want.

He watches until the waterline creeps lower on the lantern as the bath cools and you sink down, chasing warmth. Watches as you finally let yourself relax fully, shoulders sliding under, just your face above the surface, eyes closed, breaths slow and even.

Only when you sit forward and reach for the towel hanging on the peg beside the tub does he ease back from the window. 

He knows if he lingers another second, if he sees you stand, water sheeting off every inch as you step out, he’ll plant roots under this sill and never leave. 

There will be other nights, he tells himself.

He peels himself off the wall, body humming, and slips back into the darker yard, breath still measured, strides easy. 

By the time he’s at the edge of the light, he has his lantern in hand again, held low, the picture of a man just passing through on his way to some small piece of work.

He doesn’t feel a lick of shame. What would be the use of it, when the memory of you in that tub is already lodged in his body like a polished stone, something he can roll under his tongue whenever he chooses. 

You’ll go to bed clean and soft, thinking maybe about chores and storms and the seam you mended this morning. 

He’ll go back to his little house with your wet skin behind his eyes and no confusion about what he plans to do with it.

The day’s been long, the kind that starts with a rooster and ends with your back feeling twice your age. 

By the time supper’s put away and the kitchen wiped down, your father’s in his chair with his boots off, socks so full of holes you don’t know why he bothers wearing them, radio mumbling low out of the corner. Your mother’s gone to bed early with a headache, door cracked just enough that you can hear her cough now and again.

You’re halfway through folding the dish towels when you remember.

Mama’s good jar of salve.

You can see it plain in your mind’s eye: small tin with the blue lid, the one she guards like treasure. 

She sent you looking for it just after dinner, when she noticed the raw place on your father’s wrist from rope burn and the darkening bruise on your own hip from where the stall rail caught you days ago. 

You’d gone to fetch more wood for the stove first, meaning to get the salve on your way back, and somehow it slipped right out of your head, chased off by smoke and scolding and the rush to get biscuits off the fire before they burned.

Your father’s already grumbled twice about the barn nail and told you if you’d been paying mind you wouldn’t have torn your dress, wouldn’t have bruises, wouldn’t have needed fussing. 

You can hear him in the morning if he finds that wrist still angry and your hip still tender. Can hear that disappointed click of his tongue.

You’d seen him hand the tin to Remmick earlier in the week, mumbling something about “keep this on hand, boy, in case you tear yourself up,” and watched the new hand tuck it into the pocket of his coat before heading down to the little farmhouse.

“That’s where it is,” you murmur, more to the quiet kitchen than to anyone. A little knot between your brows loosens when you place it. “Down there.”

You glance at the clock. It’s late enough the newsman’s gone off the air, early enough the world hasn’t quite tipped into the dead hours where the dark feels thickest. 

Outside the window, the yard is quiet, the barn a heavy shadow, the smaller house beyond it just a darker square against the field.

“Where’s that boy?” Your father mutters around his cigarette, not really expecting an answer. “Ain’t heard him come in for coffee. He out checkin’ fence or sleepin’ on my dime?”

“Out, I reckon,” you say, folding the last towel with a sharp little snap.

Truth is, you haven’t heard his boots either. You haven’t seen his lantern bob by the window. It’s been a soft, blank stretch of night, no sign of him.

You tell yourself that means he’s at the far end of the pasture or walking the ditch line. Exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“I’ll fetch Mama’s salve,” you add, already untying your apron, tucking it over the back of a chair. “She’ll want it first thing in the mornin’.”

Joe nods, smoke curling out of his nose. “Don’t you linger,” he says, not looking up. “Get what you need and bring your tail back in this house. I don’t want you down there visitin’ like it’s social hour.”

You bite back the urge to say you’d sooner visit the pig pen. “Yes, sir,” is what comes out instead.

The night air catches you on the porch, damp and soft, smelling of cooling dirt and a hint of something sweet blooming out by the fence. 

You step down barefoot, skirts whispering around your calves, the boards’ splinters familiar against your soles. The big house’s light spills just to the bottom of the steps, then gives up, letting the yard roll out into dark.

The little farmhouse sits a ways off, past the well, past the worn track where the wagon turns. All its windows are black. No orange seam under the curtain, no silhouette rising and falling against the glass. The barn is quiet too, doors thrown shut, only a thin line of moon-silver along the roof.

You latch onto the sight of that dark little house like proof. He’s not there. He’s out somewhere with a lantern and a bad attitude. 

You’ll be in and out before he knows you’ve even left your room.

You wrap that thought around yourself like a shawl and start across the yard.

The grass is cool and a little slick with dew under your feet, clinging between your toes. Crickets saw at the edges of things, frogs mutter down in the low spots. The well’s stone lip rises out of the ground like something old and patient; you ghost past it, keeping your eyes on the squat shadow of the farmhouse.

Up close, it looks smaller, somehow meaner. The door is shut, the porch bare save for his boots lined up neat off to one side. You take in that detail with a little flick of relief—boots off means man in bed, not loose in the yard—before another thought slides in behind it: or just inside.

You hesitate only a heartbeat.

The want to not get scolded in the morning, the want to have Mama’s salve where she can lay hands on it, outweighs the whisper of sense telling you this is foolish.

You lay your palm on the door and push.

It gives with a small, tired creak, the smell of the place rolling over you in a warm wave: wood, straw, tobacco, sweat, and that faint metallic thread you’ve started to think of as his alone. There’s a lamp turned low on the table just inside, wick pinched till the flame is barely more than a coal in a glass throat, enough to lay out the shapes of things and nothing more.

“Remmick?” you call, voice barely above a whisper, more habit than hope. When nothing answers—not a word, not a shift of boards—you let your breath out slow and step over the threshold.

The door eases halfway shut behind you, not latched. You don’t bother with it; you don’t plan to be here long enough to worry about what’s open and what isn’t. 

The room is small and spare, just like your daddy said it was. Bed against one wall, blanket rumpled from someone sitting, if not lying. Chair with a coat thrown over the back, shirt draped careless on top. Table with the lamp, a chipped cup, a folded knife. A shelf holding a few tin plates, a jar of coffee, the heel of a loaf.

You move quick but careful, eyes trying not to linger on the smaller things that say a man’s been living here—his belt coiled on the chair seat, his hat hanging from the peg, the empty space on the floor where his boots were. 

You head straight for the coat, remembering your father’s hand dropping the salve tin into its pocket.

You pinch the fabric between your fingers, easing it aside, but the weight you expect to tug at the hem isn’t there. The coat hangs light. You pat the pockets; they’re empty, save for a wadded rag and a stray button.

“Damn,” you breathe, annoyed, under your breath.

Maybe he moved it. Maybe he took it out so the tin wouldn’t fall and get lost when he shrugged the coat on.

You cast your eyes around the room, searching high shelves, low boxes, any place someone might set a small, important thing.

The table catches your attention next. You circle it, gaze skimming over the knife, the cup, the lamp. 

There, near the edge, half in shadow—a squat little tin no bigger than your palm, blue lid dulled with age.

You smile in spite of yourself and reach for it. “Got you,” you murmur, closing your fingers around the cool metal.

You pop the lid just enough to see the salve inside, pale and thick, smelling faintly of herbs and camphor, then press it back down with a soft click. The job’s done. Simple as that.

You turn, already thinking about the path back to the house, about slipping this into Mama’s hand and letting yourself be proud she won’t have to wonder where it is in the morning.

You don’t make it two steps.

There he is.

Standing in the doorway that leads to the small back room, shoulder braced against the frame like he’s been leaning there a while, like he grew right up out of the wood.

He’s shirtless, skin slicked faint with sweat, the rise and fall of his chest slow and easy. Suspenders hang loose against his hips, clipped to his trousers but fallen off his shoulders, framing the cut of his torso in dark lines. 

The lamp’s low light paints him in gold and shadow both, dipping into the hollow between his collarbones, skating over the plane of his stomach, catching on the trail of hair that runs down from his navel into the waistband of his pants. 

His arms cross over his chest, veins standing faint along the backs of his hands where they rest against his biceps.

His feet are bare. His eyes are not gentle.

“Find what you was lookin’ for?” he asks, voice soft, too soft, the scrape of it wrapping around the words like a touch.

Your heart gives one wild jump, slamming up against your ribs hard enough to hurt, then starts to run. 

You hadn’t heard him come in. Hadn’t heard the back door, hadn’t heard the floor protest, hadn’t heard anything but your own little fussing search and the tiny pop of the salve lid.

For a foolish second you think about hiding the tin, tucking it behind your back like a child caught in a pantry. You don’t. There’s nowhere to put it he wouldn’t see, and you refuse to give him the pleasure of watching you scramble.

Instead you hold it up just enough that he can see the blue lid glint in the lamplight. “My mama’s salve,” you say, surprised at how even your voice comes out. “Daddy gave it to you. He forgot where he put it. I came to fetch it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the tin for more than a passing glance. His attention stays on you, heavy as a hand between your shoulder blades. He rakes his gaze from your face down to the salve, then lower, slow as a man looking over a field he’s about to plow.

You suddenly know exactly how your dress is sitting—where the fabric pulls across your chest from turning too quick, where the skirt clings to your thighs from the damp in the grass, where your collar gapes just a breath more than it should because you didn’t bother with the top button in the heat. Your skin prickles under each place you picture his eyes touching.

“You always just walk yourself into a man’s house without knockin’?” he asks after a beat, one brow ticking up.

“This ain’t a house,” you reply, chin lifting a shade. “It’s a shack my father stuck you in so you’d be closer to the barn.”

Something like amusement flickers across his mouth. “Still mine for now,” he says. “Door was shut, wasn’t it?”

“You left the lamp on,” you shoot back. “Anybody with decent sense would take that as invitation in case of emergency.”

He uncrosses his arms then, letting them drop to his sides. The motion makes muscles jump in his chest, the lines of his shoulders shifting under skin. “And what’s the emergency, miss?” he asks. “That your mama’s medicine was sittin’ ten yards farther than you like it?”

His tone isn’t mocking. It isn’t kind either. It’s something in between, something testing. Like he’s poking at you with words just to feel where you’re soft.

You swallow, the salve tin suddenly heavy in your hand. “I said why I came,” you answer. “I’ll be goin’ now.”

You move to head toward the front door, the one you came in, but the room is small, and he doesn’t move. One pace brings you close enough to smell him. Another pace would put you near enough to brush him if you misjudged your route.

He shifts his weight to fill the doorway more fully, one hand lifting to rest on the frame to the side of him. It leaves his ribs bare, that patch of hair under his arm catching the lamplight. There’s a faint scar along his flank, pale against the warmth of his skin, old and ugly, like something tore him open once and he lived anyway.

“Seems a shame,” he says, looking at you. “You comin’ all this way just to snatch up a tin and run.”

Your pulse hammers harder. “It ain’t far.”

“For you,” he agrees. “For me it’s a long, lonely walk most nights. I might be grateful for a little company.”

“You got company,” you say, words a little sharper than you intend. “You got every cow, every dog, every fence post on this land. You don’t need me.”

He lets that roll over him like water off a duck’s back. “Maybe I’m tired of talkin’ to things that can’t talk back,” he murmurs. His eyes flick down to the salve again, then to your hand, to your wrist where your pulse beats visible in the hollow. “You tore yourself up any today, or you just borrowin’ this for show?”

“Bruise on my hip,” you admit before you can remind yourself you owe him nothing. The words come out stiff. “Ain’t your concern.”

“Everythin’ that happens on this farm’s my concern when it means workers showin’ up busted in the mornin’,” he says. “You do work, don’t you? Or are you just here to keep the place pretty.”

Heat flashes through you, quick and mean. “You've seen me work,” you say. “You've seen me at that pump, at that stove, out in the yard. Don’t you stand there half-dressed and ask if I do my share.”

His mouth twitches at half-dressed. He doesn’t bother to hide the way his gaze drops, quick, down the front of himself and back up, as if to say he knows exactly how much he’s wearing and how much you’re seeing. It’s deliberate, that small, shameless acknowledgement of his own body.

“Believe me,” he says, voice dropping lower, “I’ve seen you.”

The words land between you, heavy and thick. They mean more than they say. Every peek he’s stolen presses into the space they open up: your bare leg in the barn, your shoulders shining in the bath, your tired posture on the back porch, one strap slipping careless down your arm before you hitched it back up.

You don’t know about most of that. What you do know is enough to make your throat go dry.

“I ain’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” you say, trying to wrestle the conversation back onto some ground that feels steadier. “My father told you that when you got here. Told me too.”

His eyes gleam at the mention of your father, some dark amusement sparking there. “He told me to show you respect,” he says. “And I have. Haven’t laid a hand on you that you didn’t walk too close to yourself.”

Your mind trips over the memory of his fingers catching your arm in the barn, steadying you when your mare spooked. The way his hand hovered near your torn dress, heat just shy of your hip. The way he stood in the yard with his eyes on your mouth and called you miss like it was something he wanted to lick.

You draw yourself up as tall as you can manage in the little room, salve tin tight in your grip, refusing to yield the step he’s trying to take without moving his feet. “Then you’ll move,” you say, voice low but steady. “So I can go on home and keep livin’ my life with all that respect you’re so proud of.”

For a moment, you think he might laugh in your face. His lips part, teeth catching on his bottom lip, eyes glinting.

Instead he just looks at you.

It’s worse than if he’d laughed. He looks like a man deciding how honest he feels like being tonight. Like he’s weighing whether to keep playing at politeness or lay something sharper on the table between you.

The lamplight flickers, shadow jumping along his jaw as he tilts his head. “You walk out that door,” he says finally, nodding toward the porch, “and I’ll let you. I ain’t gonna drag you nowhere you don’t step first.”

Relief and something colder flick through you at the same time. “Good,” you start to say, but he isn’t done.

“But,” he adds, and that one little word lands heavy, “you come walkin’ into my place after dark again, all alone, dressed like that, lookin’ at me like you don’t know whether you wanna slap me or cry on me—well.” His gaze drops to your mouth and back. “That’s you steppin’. And I’ll take it as such.”

Your heart stutters, one hard misstep in its rhythm. “You overestimate yourself,” you snap, even as your fingers twitch on the tin.

He smiles then, slow and wolfish, the expression finally reaching his eyes in a way you haven’t seen yet. 

“We’ll see,” he says.

For a long, tight second, nobody moves. The walls feel closer, the air thicker, the lamplight too intimate. You hear the frogs outside, the creak of the house settling, the little wet sound of your own swallow. His bare chest rises and falls, steady, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then he steps to the side.

The doorway opens up behind him, a narrow slice of night visible over his bare shoulder. It’s more space than you expected him to yield, less than you’d like.

You duck past, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest, the heat pouring off him making your skin prickle. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, on the line of your throat, on the way you have to hitch your skirt just a little to keep from tripping as you step over the threshold.

“Goodnight, miss,” he says softly, right by your ear, breath warm as it ghosts over your neck. “You be careful now. Dark’s full of things you don’t know about.”

You don’t trust your voice not to shake, so you don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it. You just walk, bare feet hitting the packed earth hard, fingers biting into the salve tin so tight the metal cuts a little crescent into your palm.

Rough wood presses into your hips, edge digging a little where your nightgown’s ridden up, breath catching in short, shallow pulls because he’s got one big hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there, and the other is on your ass, fingers clawed into the thin cotton, bunching it up and away from your thighs. 

The lamp in the corner throws a low, mean light over the kitchen, just enough to show you the knot in the tabletop and the chipped plate someone left on the shelf, just enough to catch the shadow of his arm when it moves.

You came down here hot with it. Anger, mostly. 

At him for looking at you how he does, for crowding doorways and talking low in your ear. At yourself for feeling anything besides disgust when he does it. 

For weeks that feeling has sat under your skin like a burr under a saddle, rubbing everything raw—every brush of his eyes, every sly comment, every late-night glimpse of his lantern out in the yard when you should’ve been sleeping. 

Tonight it tipped over. Tonight you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling and saw his bare chest in that little house instead, heard his voice saying we’ll see, felt your own body answer in a way that wouldn’t quit.

So you got up after the house went quiet, barefoot on the boards, heart in your throat. 

You didn’t bring a lamp. You told yourself you were just going to tell him off, to say plain that you didn’t want him looking, didn’t want him speaking to you sideways, didn’t want the innuendo and the smirks and the way he made you feel peeled without ever laying a proper hand on you. 

That was the story you wrapped yourself in as you crossed the yard, nightgown clinging to your knees.

He opened the door before you could knock, like he’d been standing right on the other side with his palm on the handle, listening.

You remember the way his eyes moved over you, slow, no shirt, just those loose trousers hanging low on his hips, lamp behind him making his shoulders look broad and his face unreadable. 

You remember his mouth forming your name, quiet and satisfied, like he’d been waiting to say it like this. 

You remember the way all that anger and want surged up together in your chest, wild and tangled, and how you said something too sharp, voice shaking, about him needing to keep his eyes to himself if he wanted to stay on your daddy’s land.

Now here you are with his hand on your back, pressing, holding you down exactly where you came—over his small scarred table in his small farmhouse kitchen—your own fingers gripping the edge in a white-knuckled clutch.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” he drawls above you, breath warm near your ear, words rolling over your spine. “That what you told me?”

You glare at the knot in the wood like it did you personal harm. 

Your face is hot, your body even hotter, a slow, heavy throb deep between your thighs that started halfway across the yard and hasn’t done a thing but grow. 

“I ain’t visitin’,” you say, the words a little muffled by the way he’s got you folded. “I came to talk sense into you.”

His laugh is low and pleased, hand on your back sliding a little, fingers spreading, thumb settling along your spine. He presses down just enough to remind you who’s holding you where you are. 

“Is that what you call it,” he says, “showin’ up in your bed things after dark, sneakin’ through my door with your hands empty and your eyes wide? Talkin’ sense?”

His other hand cups your ass through the thin fabric, palm wide over you, squeezing like he’s testing a piece of fruit at the market. 

The nightgown has twisted up, hem caught high over your hips, leaving the bottom curve of you bare to his touch, only the cotton of your drawers between his fingers and your skin. 

Heat floods that spot, a sharp, shameful pulse that makes your breath catch.

“You been walkin’ around twitchy as a cat for days,” he goes on, hand kneading, thumb digging into the give of your flesh there. “Snappin’ at me, snappin’ at your daddy, gettin’ that look on your face every time you see me like you don’t know whether to spit or spit somethin’ else.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, mortified at how true it feels in your bones. 

You shift your hips, trying to wriggle away from that hand, and all it does is grind you back against his palm, soft cotton dragging over the swell of you, catching on the seam that runs right over the place you’re trying not to think about.

He makes a sound at that, low in his throat, rough and appreciative. “Yeah. There she is,” he says, words coming a little thicker now. “All that fire. You walked your own self down here, girl. Nobody dragged you.”

“I came to tell you to stop,” you manage, though the way your voice climbs at the end takes the bite out of it. His fingers curl, grab a little handful of your ass cheek through the cloth, and you feel the ache spike hotter. “Stop lookin’. Stop talkin’ like that. Stop—stop–”

“Stop makin’ you feel all twisted up?” he supplies, not unkind, just plain. 

His hand on your back softens, spreads, rubbing along your spine like he’s soothing a spooked animal even as the other keeps kneading at you. 

“Stop remindin’ you there’s more to be had in this world than hymns and beans and mendin’?”

You suck a breath in through your teeth. “You ain’t the only man alive,” you snap. “You ain’t special.”

His grip tightens, a hard squeeze that makes you gasp. “No,” he agrees easily. “But I’m the only one you marched down here to cuss out in your bare feet and nightclothes, so I’d say I’m doin’ something right.”

You hate how your body answers that, how something low in you liquefies at the thought of it, at the truth you don’t want to name. You hate the way your thighs press together of their own accord, seeking pressure, seeking relief, even as you hold yourself rigid under his hand.

He feels it. His palm slides down, fingers curling under the heavy curve of you, thumb dragging along the crease where your ass meets the top of your thigh. 

You’re hyper-aware of every inch, every callus on his skin, every place the old wood digs into your hips. When his hand moves inward, fingers bumping close to the center of you, you flinch.

“Don’t—” you start, panic and want knitting together, but the word thins out when his touch presses just a little firmer over the damp cotton there.

“You’re soaked,” he says softly, no mockery in it, just raw, hungry wonder. “Walked through my door mad as sin, all full of pretty speeches, and your cunt’s already cryin’ for somethin’ to hold on to.”

Shame scorches up your neck. “Don’t call it that,” you choke, mortified, the word hitting you deep and low and making everything worse.

He hums, thumb tracing a slow circle over that swell, pressing right where the cloth is clinging. The pressure is perfect, unbearable. 

“What you want me to call it, then?” he asks, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. 

“Your virtue? Your purity? That sweet spot between your legs that ain’t nobody touched?” His thumb moves again, firmer, and your hips jolt against your will. “’Cause I see it all over you, darlin’. You came here wantin’ me to stop, but your body came here wantin’ somethin’ else entirely.”

You shake your head, even as your toes curl, even as your lungs drag in another sharp breath that tastes like him and the lamp smoke and the hot, close air of this little house. 

“You’re—you’re foul,” you say, but it comes out thin, breathy. “You been lookin’ at me, watchin’ me, talkin’ to me like—”

“Like I know what to do with you,” he cuts in, a hint of impatience threading through his heat. “And I do. You think I don’t see what’s eatin’ at you every time you glance down at my hands, or my mouth, or lower?”

His fingers slide along the seam of your drawers, finding the little ridge where cloth meets cloth and pressing right there. 

It sends a jolt through you big enough you can’t muffle the small sound that drops out of your throat. 

His hand on your back pushes down, keeping you bent, letting you grind into that touch without rising off the table.

“Listen here,” he says, voice roughening, patience fraying. “You came. You’re here. You can tell me to stop and I will. I ain’t gonna take what you don’t hand me. But don’t stand there in my house, drippin’ on my floor, and try to lie about what you’re feelin’.”

The room seems to shrink around those words. 

You know he’s right. You also know how far you are from where you were supposed to be, from the girl who said she’d never let a man like him get close, from the girl who swore she’d keep herself intact till some tidy, respectable husband came along with a ring and a house and his hat in his hands.

You think about those men. Faces you’ve seen in church, in town, men who look at you when they think you’re not noticing with a hunger they don’t know what to do with. Men who’d apologize if their fingers brushed your wrist too long.

Then you think about this man, bare-chested behind you, hard and unashamed, his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the other on you like you’re his to handle. 

You think about his eyes in the barn, on your torn dress. About the words he said in this very room, about stepping. About how you’ve been walking around with your jaw clenched and your thighs pressed together ever since.

“Tell me the truth,” he says, thumb pressing a little harder, his other fingers spread wide over the swell of you. “You want me to let go of you and send you back up that hill with your temper, you say it. I’ll move. You can go pray extra loud come Sunday.”

The lamp crackles softly, a tiny sound in the heavy dark.

“And if I don’t?” you hear yourself ask, voice small but steady. “If I say I don’t want you to move?”

His hand stills on your back for one beat, then both of them tighten—one pressing you down, one grabbing a handful of your ass like he’s staking a claim. A breath leaves him in a long, shuddery exhale that ghosts hot over your neck.

“Then I’m gonna take real good care of what you brought me,” he says, tone gone hoarse and thick, the restraint in it the only thing keeping you from shaking. “Gonna give you somethin’ to think about next time you lay awake in that bed of yours. Gonna fuck you on this table till you don’t remember what you came down here mad about.”

The word fuck lands hard in you, a punch and a promise all at once. 

You grip the edge of the wood like it’s all that’s keeping you upright, though you’re already bent, already braced.

“Say it,” he murmurs, leaning in until his chest brushes your back, bare skin hot where it touches the thin cotton. 

The admission sits in your throat like a hot stone. It feels enormous. It feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I want—” The word catches, but his thumb flicks over you again, sharp and sure, and your hips roll without permission, a little helpless grind that betrays every fight you’ve been waging with yourself. “I want you,” you gasp, shame and relief crashing together. “I want you to—to do somethin’ about it.”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a groan, almost a laugh, almost a curse, his body crowding you tighter, his weight a solid wall of heat at your back. “That’s my girl,” he says, and the possession in it makes your knees wobble, makes that core of you clench hard around nothing.

His hand leaves your back long enough to grab a fistful of your nightgown at the hem, yanking it up in one rough motion that leaves it bunched around your waist. 

Cool air hits your drawers, the bare backs of your thighs, the soft part just under your cheeks, and then his palm is there, skin to skin at last, cupping you hard. 

His fingers dig in, thumbs pressing outward, spreading you slightly, mapping the give.

“You’re shakin’,” he says, sounding pleased. “Ain’t even touched you proper yet.”

“You’re takin’ your time,” you manage, though the words shake too.

He chuckles, low. “First time’s never good when a man rushes,” he answers, matter-of-fact. “And I know you ain’t had nobody in you yet, feelin’ the way you do under my hand.”

Before you can answer, his fingers hook into the waistband of your drawers and tug. The fabric resists for a second, elastic biting into soft flesh, then slides down, dragging over your hips, over the swell of your ass, down the backs of your thighs until they tangle around your knees. 

He leaves them there, trapping your legs just enough you can’t kick or close up, just enough that you’re open and vulnerable and aware of it.

Cool air kisses you everywhere the cloth just left. 

You feel filthy, bare from waist to mid-thigh, bent over his table with your nightgown rucked up, your cunt exposed to the room, to him. It makes your head swim.

Then his hand is back, and there is no room for anything else.

He cups you from behind, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds, and you hear a sharp breath hitch out of him. “Oh, hell,” he says, reverent.

You make a broken, helpless sound that doesn’t sound like it belongs to you. 

No one’s ever been there before, not like this, not with fingers spreading you, rubbing through you, middle finger catching on that aching bud you’ve only ever touched in the dark with guilty hands. 

The sensation is lightning-bright, stabbing up your spine.

“Easy,” he murmurs, palm flattening across your low back again, his body curving over yours, caging you. “I got you. Gonna make it good for you before I stretch you around me. Don’t want you too scared to enjoy your first fuck.”

The way he says first fuck, like he’s staking a flag there, like he’s carving his name into it, makes something fierce flicker through you, a strange pride knotting up with the fear. 

You push back against his hand without meaning to, chasing more.

He feels it. “That’s it,” he encourages, fingers pressing deeper between your lips now. “Ask for what you want with that pretty body. Tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere,” you pant, honesty ripped out of you on a wave. “It hurts everywhere.”

He laughs, breath hot against your neck, mouth close enough you feel the shape of it. “That ain’t hurt, girl,” he says. “That’s need.” 

His fingers finally find your entrance, slick and hot and clutching, and he presses the pad of one inside, just the tip, testing. Your whole body clenches around that intrusion.

“You relax for me,” he tells you, tone sliding into something commanding. “Breathe.”

You suck in air, lungs burning. 

He slides the finger in a little further, thick and probing, opening you. 

The stretch is sharp, uncomfortable, but there’s an undercurrent of relief in it. He works it in and out slowly, letting you get used to the feel, letting your body learn the shape of him.

“That’s good,” he murmurs when he feels you soften around him, the praise lighting up something small and hungry in your chest. “See? You take my finger just fine. Gonna take my cock too when I’m done with you.”

He adds a second finger before you can brace, and this time the stretch makes you gasp loud, muscles clamping down. It burns, a deep, insistent ache, like you’re being pried open.

“Shh,” he soothes, his index finding that little bundle of nerves again, circling steady, sending sparks to chase the hurt. “I know. I know. We gotta loosen you up some or you’ll split yourself on me.”

The blunt truth of it makes you squeeze your eyes shut, face hot against your forearm. 

You can feel him behind you, solid, his chest glued to your back, his arm moving between your legs. When you manage to breathe past the initial shock, the burn eases, replaced by a full, pressurized feeling that fills your head with nothing but sensation.

He moves his fingers, slow at first, pumping them in and out of you in short strokes, stretching, coaxing. 

Your body starts to answer despite itself, hips rocking back in tiny motions, seeking that deep, sweet drag. 

Every thrust brushes against something inside you that makes your legs tremble, makes your breath hitch. 

“Listen to that,” he says, voice thick, and it takes you a second to realize he means the wet sound loud in the little kitchen as his fingers work in and out of you. “You hear yourself takin’ me in? That’s you wantin’ it.”

It’s filthy and true and you can’t deny it. 

There's a coil tightening low in your belly, every nerve in your body funneling to where his hand is. Your grip on the table edge goes slippery with sweat.

“Remmick,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re asking for, only that you’re strung too tight.

“There you go,” he groans, fingers driving a little deeper, curling just right.

It hits without much warning. One second you’re climbing, the next you’re over the edge, everything snapping. 

Your body seizes around his fingers, clenching so hard it almost hurts, that coil unspooling in a rush of pleasure so intense it blanks your mind.

A breathless moan tears up your throat. Your thighs shake, knees nearly buckling, if it weren’t for his hand on your back and the table under your palms you’d be on the floor.

“That’s it,” he groans, riding you through it, fingers still working, still moving until you’re whimpering, too sensitive, twitching with each little aftershock. 

You sag against the table when it finally lets you go, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your neck. He eases his fingers out of you slow, gentle for the first time since you walked in, his hand sliding up to rest on your hip. You can feel his other hand at your back again, rubbing small circles, keeping you grounded.

“First one’s always a little wild,” he says, sounding almost fond. “You doin’ all right?”

You nod, or try to. Your head feels full of cotton, floaty and heavy all at once. “I—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re more than fine,” he says, and there’s a smile in it. “You’re perfect.” He shifts behind you, and that’s when you feel it, really feel it—his cock pressed up against the back of your thigh through the fabric of his trousers. 

He’s been hard this whole time, you realize dimly, all that while he was working you open. The blunt head drags over your skin when he adjusts, the thickness of him obvious even through cloth.

Your stomach flips, fear and anticipation knotting together. “You’re really—”

“Oh, I’m really.” He sounds almost amused. “You wanted me to take you on this table, remember?” 

His hand leaves your back and you hear the soft, familiar sound of a belt coming loose, a buckle clinking, the rasp of leather through belt loops. Then buttons, quick and practiced, fabric shifting.

You suck in a breath, every sense straining.

A moment later, something hot and slick—not his fingers this time—nudges against your entrance. He slides the head of his cock through your slick folds slowly, up and down, coating himself in you, bumping your clit on the downstroke, making you twitch.

“Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You feel that? How you’re grabbin’ at me already and I ain’t even in?”

You do feel it, and it’s terrifying. Your body recognizes him as something it’s meant to hold, meant to take, even as your mind stumbles over the size of him, over what this means.

“I—wait,” you say, panic flaring for a second, the reality of it looming. “Remmick, I’m—”

“I know,” he says, and for once there’s no teasing in it. “You listen to me. It’s gonna burn at first, then it’s gonna feel like you never should’ve gone without it this long. You trust me?”

You hesitate. He feels it in the way your muscles tense around the head of him. His hand comes up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat from behind, thumb tipping your chin just a little. The touch sends a different kind of shiver through you, sharp and grounding.

“I ain’t gonna break you,” he says quietly, close to your ear. “I want you comin’ back to this just as bad as I want you right now.” His hips roll just enough that the blunt tip presses hard against your opening. 

The hand at your throat, the tone in his voice, the memory of his fingers and the way your body just came apart on them thirty seconds ago—they all crash together, and you find yourself nodding before you know you’re doing it.

“Go,” you whisper, the word trembling, but there.

He makes a sound then that’s half-growl, half-groan, all man. His grip on your throat tightens just a hair, his other hand clamping down on your hip.

“That’s my girl,” he says again, rough with need. “Hold on.”

The head of him breaches you with more resistance than his fingers ever met. 

Your body tries to clamp down, to keep him out, muscles fighting the stretch. He doesn’t slam in, but he doesn’t baby you either. He works himself in slow, steady pressure, teeth gritted, hips driving forward inch by thick inch.

The burn is real. It’s sharp, like you’re being split open from the inside. You gasp, nails scraping at the wood, whole body bowing. For a second it’s too much.

“Breathe,” he grunts through his own strain, hand at your throat sliding up to your jaw, thumb pressing at your cheek. “Breathe through it. You’re takin’ me. Look at you. You’re takin’ me.”

He isn’t wrong. Beneath the pain, there’s this breathless awe—at the size of him, at the way your own body yields, at the feel of being filled in a way you never have before. 

You force yourself to inhale, exhale, again, again. Your muscles flutter around him, protesting, then slowly easing.

When the broadest part of his head passes the tight ring of your entrance, the rest slides in easier, still stretching, still burning, but less violently. 

He sinks deeper, stopping only when his hips are flush with your ass, his pelvis pressed to your backside, balls snugged up against your cunt. You can feel him everywhere, heavy and solid in your core, pulsing faintly.

“Christ,” he rasps, the words hot against your neck. “I can barely think straight. Sweet girl, you just swallowed every inch of me.”

You exhale shakily, overwhelmed. Full doesn’t begin to cover it. You feel stuffed, stretched to the point of coming apart, and yet under the ache, something else is already starting—a low, thick pleasure that moves like honey, spreading outward from where you’re joined.

He holds still for a long moment, breathing hard into your hair, chest rising and falling against your back. His hand at your hip rubs little circles, the one at your jaw softening its grip.

“You tell me when it stops hurtin’ so sharp,” he says. “I ain’t in no rush, even if my cock’s yellin’ otherwise.”

You try to focus. The worst of the burn ebbs, leaving a throbbing soreness, but the sense of him—deep, impossible, yours—is starting to bloom into something almost good.

“Move,” you whisper, surprising yourself. “Just a little.”

He laughs, breath short. “Greedy already,” he says. “Alright.”

He pulls back, just an inch, maybe two, dragging that thick length along your walls. The friction is intense, raw and tender and electric all at once. Then he pushes in again, slower, watching for any flinch. 

Your fingers dig into the table, but you don’t cry out, don’t tell him to stop. Your body clutches at him on the way out, sucks at him on the way back in.

He does it again. And again. Each shallow thrust smooths the hurt a little more, replaces it with deeper sensation. The initial sting fades into a deep, stretching fullness that makes your knees weak, that makes heat lick up your spine in waves.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand sliding from your jaw back down to your throat, wrapping around it more firmly this time, not cutting your air, just pinning you, reminding you where you are and who’s holding you. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

He lengthens his strokes, pulling back farther, pushing in harder. The wet slap of his hips meeting your ass starts up, quiet at first, then louder, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the still night. 

Every push drives him deeper, nudging at something inside you that makes your breath jump, that sends little shocks through your belly, like he’s bumping the edge of something tender and secret and his.

Your body has learned the shape of him, stretching you from the inside. 

You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way the fat head spears through the tight clutch of you and then disappears into that deep, hot place that was empty your whole life and now is nothing but him.

His hand at your throat tightens, just a little. Not enough to cut your air, but enough to make each breath a thing you have to pull for, chest heaving against the table edge. His palm is broad and warm, thumb resting under your jaw, fingers curved along the side of your neck. 

Every time his hips snap forward, that grip reminds you he’s there; it pins you in your own skin so you can’t float away from what’s happening, can’t pretend it’s anything but what it is: you getting fucked open on a man’s cock in his kitchen like you were meant for it.

Then his hand drops. It slides down the column of your throat, over the dip of your collarbone, fingers spreading wide as they drag lower, rough palm grazing the top swell of your breast through the thin cotton. 

He cups you from behind, big hand wrapping around the weight of it, lifting, squeezing. The nightgown bunches under his fingers as he kneads, thumb rolling over your nipple until it stiffens hard, the fabric rasping just enough to make you whine.

“There,” he mutters, voice gone thick, like he has to taste every part of you. “Knew these’d feel good in my hand.”

He squeezes once more, harder, the pressure sending a sharp line of sensation straight down to where he’s buried in you, your nipple trapped between his thumb and the heat of his palm. 

Your back arches, pushing more of your tit into his grip even as his cock grinds deeper. 

For a second you’re caught between the drag inside and the rough, greedy hold on your breast, pleasure ricocheting between the two.

Then his hand is moving again, leaving your aching nipple peaked under the cotton, skimming back up over your breastbone, returning to your throat like it owns the place. His fingers curl back into their collar around your neck, thumb settling under your jaw, holding you where he wants you while his hips keep driving.

“Listen to you,” he groans, and you realize he doesn’t just mean your voice—wrecked and breaking on every inhale—but the wet, filthy noise your body’s making, the slick drag of his cock pulling out of you, the obscene squelch when he pushes back in, the slap of his balls hitting the curve of your cunt. “You hear that? That’s this pussy lovin’ every inch I’m givin’ her.”

The word makes your stomach flutter and your cunt clench down around him so tight he curses, hips stuttering. 

There’s no room for modesty now; everything between your legs is wide awake and telling on you. 

Every time he pulls back, your inner muscles chase after him, hugging, clinging, like you’re frightened of losing that fullness, like your body’s praying he’ll push right back in—and he does, like he’s answering a call.

He adjusts his stance, feet shifting on the rough floor, and angle changes. The next thrust lands different, deeper, the thick head of him driving up and forward to grind against a spot inside you that makes your vision white out around the edges for a beat. 

You jolt, a strangled noise ripping out of you, fingers scraping along the tabletop as your whole body goes tense.

“There it is,” he pants, catching that reaction, chasing it. 

He does it again on purpose, hips rolling instead of just snapping, driving that same path, making sure he hits that spot with the crown every time. 

“You feel that? Right there? That’s what you been needin’, girl. That ache way up high you ain’t never had a name for.”

He's right on it now, relentless. 

Each stroke is a steady assault, steady enough your body starts to learn the pattern, tension building with every collision. The soreness from taking him the first time smooths into a deep, hot throb that wraps around the pleasure, one feeding the other. 

Your toes curl, your thighs tremble, your stomach ripples around the intrusion like you’re trying to swallow him even deeper.

He slides the hand from your hip back around your front, into the slick heat between your thighs, and finds your clit like he’s been doing it all his life. 

His fingers are slick with your own mess, rough pads moving in tight, ruthless circles over that swollen bud. It sends lightning directly up your spine, straight to the base of your skull. 

You choke on a sound that isn’t quite a word and jerk against his hand; his arm around your throat holds you in place.

“Goddamn, you’re twitchy,” he groans, grinding his hips down so the bone of him presses your ass, so his cock bruises into that soft spot inside while his fingers roll your clit. “You gonna fall apart on me again? You gonna let me feel you squeeze all over my cock proper this time?”

Your answer is a breathless, broken, “Please,” your voice ragged, half sob, half prayer. 

The table shudders under the force of his thrusts now, the legs complaining in small creaks that match the rhythm of his hips. The lamp flame jumps in its glass, throwing wild shadows against the wall—a tangle of your bent body and his frame hunched over you, shoulders rolling as he works inside you like he’s plowing up hard ground.

Spit slicks your lips; you realize at some point your mouth fell open and just forgot how to close, breath dragging in ragged, wet pulls. 

You couldn’t be bothered to care if you tried; everything is narrowed to the hot place his cock is sawing through and the bright, brutal pulses from his fingers on your clit.

He can feel you climbing, feel your body drawing in tight around him, feel your channel starting to flutter. He growls, low and guttural, the sound pressed against the back of your neck. “That’s it. That’s it, squeeze me.”

His hand at your throat tightens a hair more, narrowing the world to his breathing and yours, the rush of blood in your ears, the drag of wood under your palms. 

The smallest bit of pressure makes every sensation hit harder; your body goes light and heavy at the same time, limbs tingling, cock-deep pull inside you the only thing that feels solid.

He pistons into you now with a steadier, punishing rhythm, cock dragging from the fat base at your entrance all the way to that deep end that makes your belly flip, then back again. 

Your ass jiggles from each impact, flesh rippling under his grip. His fingers at your clit don’t falter.

You can hear yourself now, high and ruined, begging without even knowing what for. “Don’t stop—don’t—Remmick, don’t—oh—oh God—”

“Mhm, use my name,” he hisses, hips crashing into yours, the wet slap echoing off the close walls. “You say it when you can’t hold yourself together no more.”

He leans forward, the sweat on his skin slick against the thin cotton of your nightgown bunched at your waist. 

His mouth finds the side of your neck, teeth scraping over the delicate skin there, then biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. He sucks, draws blood closer to the surface in a hot sting that only makes your cunt flutter harder around him.

Between the choke of his hand, the sharp pinch of his teeth, the relentless grind of his cock, and the ruthless attention on your clit, you don’t stand a chance.

The orgasm slams into you hard enough your knees buckle, your body trying to curl in on itself while he holds you stretched over the table. 

Everything constricts at once—your throat around his hand, your belly around the deep ache, your cunt around his cock. You clamp down on him with startling force, walls seizing, milking, clutching like you’re trying to suck him straight out of his skin.

You cry out. There’s no pretty word for it. Sound rips out of you high and raw, your voice cracking on his name. 

Your vision goes fuzzy with white at the edges, the kitchen shrinking to the rough wood under your hands and the thick, unyielding length splitting you and the brutal roll of pleasure ripping through you in waves.

“Fuck—fuck,” he grunts at your ear, the feeling of you spasming around him cutting through every ounce of control he has left. “That’s it, that’s it, girl, grip me—Jesus—”

He doesn’t stop moving, not really; he grinds through it, forcing his cock to keep sliding, short, deep thrusts, using the vice of your orgasm to wring everything he can from you. 

You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling so hard your feet skid a little on the floor, toes digging uselessly for purchase. 

Another rush of slick gushes around him, soaking his cock, dripping down over his balls, sliding warm along the inside of your thighs.

Your body keeps clenching in pulses, the pleasure cresting and breaking over and over until it tips toward something sharp, too much. You whimper, the sound small and shredded. His hand leaves your clit finally, stroking shaking skin instead, but his hips don’t stop.

The rhythm goes ragged, less measured, more frantic. His thrusts turn into short, hard ruts, like his body’s the one begging now. His fingers flex around your throat, then loosen just a little, thumb stroking your jaw instead as his breathing unravels.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, voice pitched low and rough. “You want that? You want me shootin’ deep in you, huh? Want to feel me leakin’ out you all the way back up to that house?”

The words, filthy as they are, punch right through your oversensitivity and light up something molten in your gut. 

Your sore, flooded cunt tightens around him involuntarily at the thought of carrying him inside you, his spend rolling down your thighs later when you climb into your own bed. 

You can’t shape the answer into full words; what comes out is some strangled mess that sounds like y-yes and a choke.

“Yeah, you do,” he snarls like he heard it. “You greedy little thing, comin’ down here pretendin’ you just wanna talk when your cunt’s hungry as hell.”

He drives in hard, once, twice, three more times, each thrust bottoming him out, pelvis grinding against the round of your ass. 

The slap of his hips is loud now, sloppy, wetter, your combined mess making the impact slick.

Then his whole body locks.

His stomach clenches tight against your back, jaw clamped against the side of your neck. A sound tears out of him, not quite human, something between a growl and a groan. His cock jerks inside you, swelling even thicker for a heart-stopping second, and then you feel it—hot, heavy spurts of him spilling deep, pounding against your cervix, flooding that space that’s been empty your entire life with a hot, liquid fullness.

He curses low and hoarse on each pulse, hips rocking in tiny, helpless movements as he empties himself, his own climax dragged out by the way your slick, oversensitive walls keep squeezing and fluttering around him. Every time your cunt milks him, another rope of cum kicks out of him, painting you inside.

“God—damn—” he grits, shuddering, one hand sliding from your throat to slap down next to your own on the table, fingers splayed wide, knuckles white on the wood. “You feel that? Feel me givin’ it to you?”

You do. You feel all of it. Every pulse, every twitch, every deep throb of him lodged inside, filling you, staking a claim. Your whole body feels stuffed, weighty, like he’s poured something molten into your bones.

The shakes take him then. You feel them where his chest is plastered to your back, quivers running through him in waves as his orgasm tapers off. 

His cock softens a little inside you but doesn’t slip free; your swollen entrance and the spent thickness of him keep you plugged together. Each small movement sends a slow, slick ache radiating outward.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

He slumps more of his weight onto you without meaning to, and you sag under it, cheek pressed to the tabletop, breaths coming in harsh, uneven pulls. 

Sweat has glued your nightgown to your ribs where it’s still covering your upper body; where it’s bunched around your waist, the fabric clings damp to your skin with a mixture of your own wetness and his.

Eventually, he finds his voice, though it’s wrecked, scraped raw at the edges. “Jesus,” he mutters, words ghosting hot over the shell of your ear. 

For the first time since he pushed into you, he eases his hips back.

You gasp, a little shocked moan slipping out as his softening cock drags along your raw walls. 

When his head slips past your entrance, your muscles clench on instinct, reluctant to let him go, but gravity wins. He slides free, leaving you empty in a way that feels sharp, unfinished, even with his cum already starting to seep down, warm, from inside you.

Something thick and wet trickles out immediately, a slow, viscous roll that slides over your swollen folds and down the curve of your inner thigh. You feel it clearly, a hot trail in the cooler air of the kitchen. The knowledge of what it is, whose it is, makes your face burn and your belly tighten all over again.

He sees it too.

“Look at that,” he says softly, voice full of rough, satisfied awe. 

His hand leaves yours and slides down, palm cupping the underside of your ass, thumb catching one of those white streaks, spreading it lazily over your sensitive skin. You flinch, a little gasp escaping before you can stop it.

“Too much?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit, breath still stuttering. 

He makes a pleased sound at that, thumb dragging one last lazy stripe through the mess before he rubs his hand off on his own thigh. 

He straightens slowly, the absence of his weight making you sway for a second. His hands, empty now, come to your waist, smoothing down the bunched nightgown. He tugs it back into place over your hips, hiding what he’s done as best cloth can hide it.

Then he crouches a little, fingers catching the waistband of your drawers. They’re still tangled around your knees, sticky with your slick. 

He coaxes them up, guiding the cotton over your tender flesh, covering your cunt, trapping his spend where it is. 

The pull of the fabric against your oversensitive skin makes you hiss and bite your lip, but it also feels lewd and intimate in a different way—his cum pressed up against you, soaked into the cloth that sits right over your entrance.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, sealing you up like that. It shows in the way his thumb lingers a second too long at the gusset, pressing lightly, as if to make sure the material is snug, as if to feel one more time that he’s right there even with clothes between you.

“Gonna be walkin’ home with your panties stickin’ to you and a piece of me tryin’ to leak right back out,” he murmurs, voice a dark purr. “You’ll be thinkin’ of me every step.”

You make a weak noise, somewhere between a protest and something softer. Your legs feel unsteady when he finally helps you pull them fully into place, when he urges you upright with hands at your waist. 

When you stand, it’s like your bones have gone wrong—heavy at the hips, light at the knees, a deep, interior throb that makes you aware of your own body in a way you’ve never been.

He turns you gently, so your hip leans back into the edge of the table instead of your chest, so you’re facing him. His hair is damp and rumpled, a curl fallen low over his forehead, chest and stomach slick with sweat. 

His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the mussed nightgown, the bite marks blossoming at your throat and shoulder where his teeth worried your skin, the slackness of your mouth, the glassy shine to your eyes. 

Confidence sits easy on him; he looks like a man who’s put in a long night’s work and is proud of the job he’s done.

“You’re gonna cuss me tomorrow,” he says, voice low and a little smug. “When you sit down. When you walk. But you ain’t gonna regret it.”

You swallow, throat thick, his words settling warm and heavy between your ribs.

“No,” you admit, even quieter than before, and there’s no sense lying now. “I don’t… regret it.”

His mouth curves. “Good.”

You look away, suddenly aware of the time, of the silence of the big house up the hill, of how your mama and daddy are sleeping through something that’s gone and rearranged their daughter from the inside out.

“I need to go,” you say, voice small but steadying. “Before my father wakes up for water, or Mama starts callin’ and finds my bed empty.”

His hands fall from your waist, though not without one last, slow sweep along the curve of you, like he’s committing it to memory. 

“Go on,” he says. “Before I talk you into layin’ down on that bed in there and not leavin’ till the rooster screams.”

Your body responds to the image with an exhausted throb, a clench around nothing. 

You push off the table and take a careful step. Your thighs rub, slick, the damp cotton of your drawers pulling against you; you feel a fresh little leak of him inside you, a warm ooze that soaks into the fabric and clings. It makes you stutter a little, the soreness set deep in your core.

Remmick watches the way you move, jaw flexing, something like pride and hunger both tightening his face. 

He reaches for his trousers, tucking himself away, but he doesn’t bother with a shirt yet, doesn’t bother pretending he’s anything but what he is: the man who just fucked you on his kitchen table and filled you til you’re walking crooked.

You make it to the door on legs that still shake. Your fingers land on the frame as you pull it open, the cool breath of the night spilling in. 

Before you step out, you glance back. His eyes are on you, unreadable now, dark and steady in the lamplight.

“You come down here again,” he says, voice quiet, sure, “don’t pretend you’re just here for salve or scoldin’. You knock on my door after dark, I know what you’re askin’ for.”

You hold his gaze, the soreness between your thighs, the fullness inside you, the ache in your muscles all speaking louder than any denial you could muster. 

His eyes follow you out into the dark, low and pleased, and as you cross the yard barefoot, nightgown brushing your knees, his cum warm and sticky between your legs, you know he’s standing there in that doorway shirtless, watching you go with no shame at all, already planning just how he’ll take you the next time you come scratching at his door.

remmick 🏷️ @nigelology @cosmicpro @jakecockley @saintlucretia @justalittlefreaksblog @madkingcrowley @sonnensche1n @saaficat0311-blog @shewants7 @scannainscanrula @heyylolitaheyy @skankhvnt42 @ceobuggy @carriemill @valvalvalval-val @nlnny @soggynuggies0 @bleedingsunlight @theabhartachsbride @h3r3t1c @mysticvi @damnbamb @hexqueensupreme @vamp-fuxker @iamheretoread1234 @z0mb13xxxx

[thecreelhouse]

always ready to be left out in the cold

Paring: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? You’re almost certain you’d rather freeze to death. Almost.

WC: 18k+

Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steve’s trauma. reader’s trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.

A/N: Said I wasn’t gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if you’re sick of the van fics, but here’s one more 😅 title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine

‎♪ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armor’s heavy, never suited me at all / but it’s the devil I know ♬

This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.

Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.

Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.

Leaving you- alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.

Yeah, lucky you.

This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.

You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.

It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.

And that's never your call to make.

Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."

"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.

He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.

Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"

"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."

"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.

"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"

"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."

"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."

"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."

"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"

"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."

Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."

"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"

"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.

Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."

There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.

Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.

Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?

It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.

Until you just… left. 

 Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.

No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.

You'd drift in, drift out.

Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.

In, out.

All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.

So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.

Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.

When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.

What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?

What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?

What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?

If you stayed… would it have been worth it?

The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.

It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.

That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.

No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.

Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.

Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?

Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.

You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.

Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.

Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.

That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.

Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.

The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.

That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.

You can only tread water for so long, though.

"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"

Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.

"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."

And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.

"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"

"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."

His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.

Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.

What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?

Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.

Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.

"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."

He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."

"God, you're such a bitch."

"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."

"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"

"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"

"Stop!"

"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"

"I meant the van, asshole!"

Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.

Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.

You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.

"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"

Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.

His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"

You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.

Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.

"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.

"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"

He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."

Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.

She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"

You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.

"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"

Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."

"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.

In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.

Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."

"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."

So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.

Fantastic.

"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."

Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.

"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"

"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"

Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"

Hopper.

Oh, boy.

Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.

Well, can't say you didn't try.

Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."

You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.

"Okay, where are you exactly?"

The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.

You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.

Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."

"Language."

"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.

"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."

So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.

Way off.

"I- I don't know."

A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.

"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"

Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.

There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."

Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling the flu.

You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.

"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."

You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."

Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."

"I didn't lose the fucking—"

The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.

"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"

"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."

Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.

Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.

"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."

Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.

"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."

There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.

Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.

He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".

"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."

Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."

Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."

Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."

That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.

Together.

Alone.

"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"

A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.

"Yeah, kid. I got it."

In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.

It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.

Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.

"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"

"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"

Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?

"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."

Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"

"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."

"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.

"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.

There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.

Unless…

There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.

You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.

"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."

But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"

"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."

"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."

"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"

His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.

"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"

"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."

"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."

He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"

Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"

"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"

You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"

"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"

"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."

"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"

"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."

"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."

"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.

Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.

The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.

If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.

Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.

The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.

Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.

Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.

Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.

He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.

And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.

So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.

He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.

By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.

Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?

What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.

To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.

To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.

The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.

The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.

He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.

Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.

You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.

Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.

It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.

Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?

In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.

There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.

"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.

You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.

"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.

When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.

"Ow… S'loud," you groan.

"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.

"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.

It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.

Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.

Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.

"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.

Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.

And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.

Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.

Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.

"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.

He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.

Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."

"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."

"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."

The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.

Yeah, you're worse than he thought.

"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"

"M'yeah, s'kay."

If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.

Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.

Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.

He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"

"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."

"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.

He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.

"Okay, c'mon, boots first."

Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.

Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.

And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.

He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.

You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.

"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."

There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.

At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.

"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.

"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.

"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."

He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.

"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."

If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.

"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."

You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.

"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"

That's a dumb fucking question.

"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."

When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.

About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.

"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."

"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.

"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."

Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.

Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.

But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.

Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"

"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.

You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."

He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.

What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.

Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.

"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."

He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?

That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.

Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.

Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.

He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.

That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.

The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?

God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?

Whatever.

It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.

The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.

Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.

That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.

Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—

"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"

Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.

Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."

Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.

Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.

He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.

"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.

He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.

"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."

Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."

The words ache with more desperation than he intends.

"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.

"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.

"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"

He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"

"Fu- fucking cold."

"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."

You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."

"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."

You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.

Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.

Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.

Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.

"Be n- n- nice!"

"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"

"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"

The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.

Like a fucking fool.

"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."

The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.

"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."

"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"

You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"

"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"

"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.

He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."

"You could h- have some f'ya' want."

"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."

"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."

"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.

You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."

He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."

Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.

"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.

You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.

"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."

Oh, if only you knew.

"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"

"Make wh- what weird?"

Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.

The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."

"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."

"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.

The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.

"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."

"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."

You sound mortified.

"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"

"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"

He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?

"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."

"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."

He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.

There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.

Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.

Talk about something else. Anything.

"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.

"Hm? Wi- with what?"

"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."

"We still ended up in a ditch—"

"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."

You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.

"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."

Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."

"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."

Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.

"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."

"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.

"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."

It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.

"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."

He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.

"… What?"

Because since when do you care about letting him down?

"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."

Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.

"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."

And look where that got the two of you.

Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.

You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."

"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."

"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."

"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."

The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."

We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.

"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."

An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.

Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.

"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."

It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…

Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.

And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.

"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"

"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"

"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."

Scared is an understatement.

He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.

He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.

He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.

And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—

Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.

Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.

Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.

Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.

And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.

Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.

Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.

If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.

And you.

You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—

It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.

He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.

Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.

So much wasted time—

"Steve?"

Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.

Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"

"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"

A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."

"Oh my god, Steve."

"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."

"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.

"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."

Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.

"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.

"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."

"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."

Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.

"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."

A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.

The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.

"Fuck, shit, fuck—"

Yeah. He's hard.

He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.

Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."

"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"

Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."

Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.

"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"

Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."

He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?

"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."

"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"

"Not to death."

"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."

"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"

"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"

"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"

He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.

"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."

"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"

"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."

"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.

No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.

"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."

"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"

He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.

Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.

Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.

Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."

Not like this one's much easier to talk about.

Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.

"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"

"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."

You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.

It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.

"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"

When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.

"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."

For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.

"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."

It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?

There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.

The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.

"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."

Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.

Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.

You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.

He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.

The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.

"Shit, Steve…"

He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.

He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.

"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"

"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.

If, you know, you were into that.

His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.

The two of you just have to survive this night first.

"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."

You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.

Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.

"Finish. The. Sentence."

You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.

"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"

"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."

Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.

"Bet you were this wet before you left."

Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."

"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."

"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."

Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.

"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."

"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.

"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."

Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."

The smug expression falters, "Too much?"

"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."

Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."

Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.

He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.

Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."

"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."

"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."

You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."

"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"

"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."

He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.

And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.

The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.

Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.

"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."

Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.

"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"

Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.

"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."

The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.

"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"

The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.

"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"

Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.

"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"

You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.

This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.

Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.

And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.

He's missed you. So, so much.

The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.

"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.

"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"

Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.

"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."

Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.

"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.

"I- I want it."

"Want… what?"

Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."

"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."

"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.

Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.

Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.

"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."

As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.

You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.

"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"

Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."

He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.

"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."

Steve blinks as the words sink in.

Oh.

"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."

"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"

He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.

"One step at a time, okay?"

He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.

Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.

Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.

"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.

Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.

"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.

In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."

Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.

Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.

"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"

You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.

Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.

Oh, no.

"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"

Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"

"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"

"Steve."

"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.

"Were you— oh my god."

"What?!"

A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.

The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."

He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.

Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"

"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."

"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"

"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."

Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.

You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.

It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.

A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.

Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.

It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.

By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.

Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.

He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.

Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.

"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"

The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.

"S'okay?"

"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.

"But?"

Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.

Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.

He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.

"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"

"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."

Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.

As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.

You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.

Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.

"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.

"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'

Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."

And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.

"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."

"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."

"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."

Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.

"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"

Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.

With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.

"You done talking logistics yet?"

Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.

That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.

No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.

"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."

"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.

Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in. 

Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.

Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.

What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.

Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.

It tightens.

Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.

"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.

The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.

"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."

Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.

But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.

Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.

That plucks at his heartstrings, too.

"Steve?"

Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.

"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."

Baby.

Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.

Wait, did you say he was crying?

"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."

"Steve—"

"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."

"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."

"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."

Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.

"St—"

He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.

You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"

"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."

And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.

You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"

He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.

"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"

"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.

You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.

"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."

Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"

"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."

Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"

It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.

His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.

And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.

No one's like you. No one could even compare.

"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."

"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."

Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.

"Steve," you whine.

"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."

You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."

"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."

"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"

"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."

You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."

"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"

"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."

"Please… what?"

"Steve, I s- swear to god—"

"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."

"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.

He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.

"Such a what?"

"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"

Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.

"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.

 The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same. 

"I… Yours?"

 Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.

"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"

Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.

"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.

He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.

"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"

"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you. 

"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."

"Y- you."

Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.

"I'm right here."

Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.

The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.

And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.

"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.

It's only fair to match his energy.

"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."

He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.

No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.

"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."

Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.

Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.

God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.

"Fuck, you're unreal."

You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.

Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck

"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.

"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"

He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.

Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.

Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.

Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.

That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.

"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.

All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.

"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."

Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."

"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."

Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.

The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.

"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."

And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.

There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.

"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."

"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"

Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"

"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.

Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.

It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.

"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."

"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"

"Okay."

"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."

This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.

"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."

He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."

"Steve."

The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will. 

And he will, too.

[urhoneycombwitch]

canines ii

Steve Harrington x Reader at the feet of the apocalypse, sometimes cravings turn darker. needier. or : you and Steve indulge in some drug habits.

part one: canines

cw: ST5 mild spoilers, hairwashing, intimacy, stalking/following behaviors, guard dog Steve, obsessiveness, freak4freak dynamic, very brief footstuff, brief depictions of a panic attack, gn!Reader, R has breasts + a vagina, R is implied plussized/fat, oral sedative ingestion (R), mentions of roofies, intoxication kink, dub con, stoplight system, pet names, unprotected PiV,  multiple orgasms (R), oral fixation, Fingers In Mouth, weirdos in love, smut, mdni

*while there is clear consent and safety measures put in place between characters here, this is labeled dubcon due to the nature of intoxication kink. please do not read if you feel this is not your cup of tea*

wc: 6.6k

Steve’s never felt more in love than when you’ve got your hands in his hair.

The tap of your kitchen sink trickles a steady stream as you sluice water over his strands, as your fingers follow the curve of his skull to wash away the last of the conditioner. 

He feels sort of floaty. Like the dining chair below, the dishtowel rolled under his neck to keep the cold of the porcelain out, even the fabric of his polo- don’t exist. 

It’s just the steady pressure of your fingertips. Combing through the forest of his wet hair. Pushing behind his ears, rubbing circles at his temples, trailing down to the muscle at the top of his spine. 

“Gettin’ more than I paid for,” Steve says, relishing in your touch but still not used to the time you invest in this ritual. In him. 

“Funny.” The flat of your pinky rests at the front of his hairline to block the final stream of water from getting in his eyes. “Almost done. Gonna fix you up with the best discount hair gel I could find, and let this air dry.”

Steve’s eyes slip shut again when the edge of another dish towel comes into his periphery. You tenderly wipe the stray drips of water from his forehead and cheeks, then use it to squeeze the excess from his hair.

“Thank you, baby,” Steve murmurs. Meaning it. His hand lifts to where your hip rests near his shoulder, seeking out the warmth of your plush thigh, feeling the inner seam of your jeans.

“Of course.” You dip down to plant a kiss above the open collar of his shirt, just under the thin gold chain around his neck. “You take care of me, I take care of you.”

He blinks open. Tries to gauge if there’s a double meaning in those words- but all he sees in your face, illuminated by the daylight streaming through the kitchen window, is a soft smile.

“Sit up,” you instruct, adjusting the towel with his movement to keep it tucked behind his ears. 

Steve turns his face to give your hip a kiss through the denim. You let your hand linger over his jaw before leaving to grab a comb from the bathroom.

This is the closest you’ve come to naming what Steve’s been doing. It’s been a month since you ‘caught’ him, and while Steve has gotten better at seamless observance, you haven’t brought it up since that night.

Almost like you know he needs the focus. Almost like you enjoy being watched. 

Steve has learned the subtle differences between when you know you’re being observed by him, and when you have no idea. There’s a change in your posture, a slight lilt to your expressions, a proud tip to your chin when you see him seeing you. 

While Steve’s gotten better at hiding, at blending into the shadows, he’ll still make himself known sometimes. 

When he knows you’re having a rough day, he parks the Beemer more obviously. Closer or with better visibility to where he’d normally set up. His reward is the loosening of your shoulders, an ease to your steps when you cross the parking lot to take your lunch break. 

Sometimes, the glint of your teeth across the street- though you never look directly at him. Like there’s this veil of tension, of secrecy, that’s only fun because the two of you are in it together. 

More often than not, though, you move through the world business as usual (as much as anyone can in these trying military regime times), completely unaware that you’re being tailed. 

Stalked. Watched. Whatever. 

Steve still hasn’t come up with a word that properly encapsulates the behavior. 

He’s followed you into buildings. The library, once, the grocery store three times now. What Steve has learned about himself through this is it’s not necessarily the thrill of a chase, of not getting caught, that motivates his path. 

Besides the obvious- your protection, running a personal security detail- Steve’s greatest gift from these followings is getting to see you in a natural state. 

No one else cares to look as close as him. As detailed and precise, as in love and awed as he is by you.

Steve knows the rhythms and patterns of your voice, your arms, your mouth, pulling cereal boxes from shelves and books from corner stacks. He knows the expressions of your face so intimately; even more than that, he’s learned how to read you with ease from any angle. 

Steve is endlessly fascinated with the way you are. He’s making an art out of the study. 

The ways you move. The private smiles and bobs of your head to music unheard. How you walk, how you step- he could pick the sound of your footfalls out of a lineup of a hundred, at this point.

The other day he’d knelt on the carpet just to kiss your feet. The sound of your boots on the linoleum of Bradley’s Big Buy was still ringing in his ears, and Steve wanted to consume the sound. 

His lips traced every fine bone that ran through the top of your feet, touched the knuckle of every toe, felt underneath for the gentle curve of your arches. A marvel.

He could’ve stayed there for an hour, just committing the feel to memory- but after a minute you were squirming in his grasp at your ankles, giggling at him, a tad weirded out but saying nothing more about it. 

You’d pulled him up by the collar, still trembling with amusement but huffing- “My lips are up here, pal-” and Steve gave into the rest of you as easy as his own breath. 

This new hobby- this new way of living- has been a welcome distraction from the tipped-axis world the two of you have been subjected to of late. A way to channel his energy, his frustrations, his fears about the immediate future. You take the worry away without even trying.

There are some days where neither of you can escape reality. When it comes dragging itself to your doorsteps like a shot beast in the dark- hungry. Licking its chops at the possibility of destruction. Ready for a fight. 

Steve’s having one of those days. 

An all-consuming dread is filling up his lungs. It’s currently hard to concentrate on anything, let alone the sound of Jonathan’s reedy tone trying to piece together the batshit Turnbow plan.

The overheads are buzzing, and too bright- Steve digs his fingers into either side of his elbows. Arms crossed over the chest of his sweater, rising quicker with shortened breaths. 

“-and if you could follow behind in your car, that’d be great.”

Steve tunes in as he watches Jon’s hand gesture to where you sit on the other side of the table. Lips pulled into a grim line, but nodding confidently as you’re called up to bat- “Yeah, of course. Whatever you guys need.”

You’re still wearing your work apron. Steve had picked you up halfway through a shift, because who gave a fuck about your manager anymore- the world might be over soon. And you’d want to be a part of the planning meeting for the apocalypse.

Logically, Steve knows that he can’t keep you from this. That you are just as much a part of the family, a part of this covert team to combat Hawkins’ dark underbelly, as the rest of them. 

He’d rather have you in his sight than out of it. If he’s forced to pick a silver lining, in this impossibly fucked up scenario. 

Steve knows all this. But still, seeing Byers give you a posting in the war so casually- it makes a vein in his temple throb. 

And then Steve’s standing, shoving out from his chair with a wooden screech on concrete flooring, and everyone’s eyes turn to the head of the table but he is already in motion. 

Steve doesn’t look at Robin, or you, and especially not at Henderson, before he’s snapping up the stairs and sliding the basement shelf door closed behind himself.

Steve bursts through The Squawk’s main doors into the cool evening air and thunks a closed fist at the spot between his ribs, coughing- there’s a wave of grief and panic threatening to cut off his airway. 

A cricket chorus and the crunch of his sneakers on gravel are the only sounds as Steve paces the brick wall behind the building, trying to breathe through the overwhelm of his thoughts.

This could all go so wrong. You’re gonna lose everyone you love. You won’t be able to save them. 

Steve’s fingers thread into the roots of his hair, tugging harshly. He wishes for a cigarette. For warmth to curl around the tight pinch of his lungs, for the sharp breaths like a shovel point to his chest to stop-

“Honey, hey.”

The sound of your voice wraps around Steve, slowing the dizzying swirl in his head. He hadn’t even heard you approaching- one moment you weren’t there and he was spiraling in this vast emptiness alone, and the next, your hands are sliding over his to encourage their grip to loosen. Suffusing him with familiarity and calm.

“It’s okay. Take a breath for me, okay?” You’re speaking low, soothingly. 

Steve reaches for you blindly, eyes squeezed shut. His nose crushes to the curve of your neck, and you hold him without hesitation.

“S’okay, Stevie. I’ve got you.” Your hand tracks a soothing path across his shoulderblades. The other lifts to rest heavy at the back of his neck. 

Steve clings to you. Takes deep lungfuls of your smell, drinks in your touch and affection. 

You’re swaying lightly from side to side, still petting him as you whisper- “It’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

Steve relaxes further into your hold, arms crossed around your back as he joins your movement. Shuddering out on a sigh, “Okay.”

It’s not that he believes it will truly be okay, but Steve wants to be done with this feeling of impending doom. He wants to take you back home and watch Cheers with the sound on low. Pasta simmering on the stove. Your head on his shoulder. 

“Just want to take care of me, hmm?” You murmur. Understanding. The fingers of your right hand sinking into the longer strands of freshly-washed curls at the nape of Steve's neck. 

His arms tighten, and he groans in affirmation. Steve wants to sink his teeth into you and never let go. 

Your hand at his hair pulls lightly with purpose; his head lifts to meet your gaze. The sweetness in your eyes has simmered away, leaving only a burning intensity.

Steve’s stomach flips when you ask,  “Just need to take care of me?”

He nods, once. Your grip in his hair loosens. 

“Go wait for me in the car.”

Steve does as he’s told. Doesn’t even try to tail you back into the building, turns on his heel and obeys without question.

He slides into the driver’s seat of the Beemer and keeps his eyes up, trained on the front doors. Taps a finger with ill-concealed impatience on the steering wheel as the minutes tick by.

Steve feels less like a security guard and more like a dog. At least his breathing has returned to normal. 

Waiting for you gives him purpose, something to look forward to. It’s good for his system. 

Then you’re pushing out of the front doors with your saddlebag in tow, apron slung over one shoulder. 

“Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” you tell him, stowing your stuff in the footwell of your seat in lieu of an explanation. “Take me back to your place, handsome.”

“Dork,” Steve accuses, flush with affection. He picks up your hand and pulls the back of it to his mouth for a kiss. Then he starts the engine.

___

The Harrington house has always felt cold, to Steve. Even with its state-of-the-art HVAC system. 

No matter how much he cranks the heat in the winter months to spite his parents from afar via electric bill, the house still hosts a vast unwelcoming emptiness. Silent, unused rooms full of plastic-covered furniture, every mantelpiece and picture frame coated in fine layers of dust.

Steve sticks to his room and the kitchen as much as possible; most of his days are spent out of the house and most nights have him sleeping at your place, anyways, so there’s not much cause for him to take up any more space than necessary here.

The basement living area is different, though.

It’s cozy even with the concrete walls and flooring, inviting despite the lack of windows. You and Steve had spent a whole afternoon uncovering the spare furniture stored down here and rearranging them into a snug hangout spot.

There’s an overstuffed couch and a beanbag chair facing the TV, a coffee table hosting various ephemera from your shared life. Two floor lamps cast the whole space in warm gold. 

It’s Steve’s favorite spot in the whole house- especially when you’re there to share it with him.

You drop your bag to the rug and kneel beside the coffee table, rummaging through side pockets while Steve takes both of your coats to sling over the spare chair in the corner. 

He sits in the middle of the couch, cushions reforming around his weight as he leans back, knees widening and sock feet staggered on the rug below. “What’s that?”

There’s a small syringe now sitting on the table. It’s thin, plastic capped at the end, a clear liquid resting behind the tiny black measuring lines. 

Instead of answering, you rise from the floor to toe off your boots. Then you’re settling yourself in Steve’s lap, a knee dipping into the cushion at either side of his hip. 

Steve lets his head tip to the couchback. Swallows once when your fingertips brush a gentle, calculating line down his throat. There’s something unreadable in your expression. 

“You were really upset,” you start. Cautious but curious. Testing the waters for something. Your hands rest on Steve’s chest through the fabric of his cream sweater. 

He takes another deep breath to show off his stability, then lifts his own hands to curl around your wrists, thumbs seeking out pulse points. “Yeah. Still am. Trying not to think about it, though.”

“Are you gonna get a migraine?”

Steve shakes his head, feeling the top of his spine roll over the hard backing. “Nah, I’ll be okay. Thanks for checking on me, sweetheart.”

You’ve got an uncanny ability to sense when Steve’s head trauma comes knocking. Often you’re the first to catch it, even before Steve himself knows what’s coming. Like you can sniff the air for signs of an oncoming storm.

But for now, it’s the truth- there’s no pain on Steve’s horizon tonight. He already feels so much better, so much calmer, now that it’s just the two of you. Now that your weight is settled in his lap just like he always craves.

He pulls your wrist to his mouth and presses his lips to the heart beat that flickers beneath delicate layers of skin. “What’s up with the meds?”

You don’t look over your shoulder at the syringe on the table. Instead your focus stays on Steve's face, assessing with quiet intensity as you say- “It’s a half-dose of Hawkins Memorial’s finest knockout drug.”

Steve drags his thumb back and forth against your wrist, confused. “…like the same kind we’re supposed to be using on the Turnbows tomorrow?”

You nod. Fingers bunching around the fabric at his chest. “Yeah. There were extras, and I asked Nancy for some. Told her I was buffing out my med kit to prep for any injuries.”

Steve lifts a brow, questioning, and your eyes roll briefly to the ceiling, batting away his incredulity- “There’s a ton left over, you should be grateful Robin’s a bit of a klepto. And as we both know- Nancy isn’t gunshy.”

Steve isn’t sure what exactly this implies about Nancy’s knowledge of the drug usage in question but he doesn’t really have time to chase this thought because you’re leaning forward to press your nose to the side of his, and everything in his brain goes quiet.

Your breath fans over his cheek as you whisper, “It’s a half dose, so I won’t be totally out of it. Just, sort of- looser.”

Steve blinks. Lashes brushing your skin. Your heartbeat beneath his touch steady and sure. “You- you want to- want me to-?”

“Only if you want.” You must think Steve’s stuttering is from nerves or fear because you lift from his face to look at him again, teeth worrying at your bottom lip before you assure- “We don’t have to. I just thought- I think it could be a win-win. You get to have me like no one else does and we both forget about the current fucked up state of things. For awhile.”

Steve has to make a conscious effort to not dig his nails into the tender skin of your wrists. There’s a manic rush of blood north and south in his body, flushing along his cheeks and chest, stirring his cock behind the confines of his jeans zipper.

“Fuck,” he chokes out. Eyes flicking between both of yours. “You really- you really trust me this much?”

You sigh through your nose, a sound of almost-humor, a smile tugging at your lips before you’re dipping down again for a kiss. “Sure do. Need you, bad. Two peas in a pod, right?”

Steve shifts under you. He feels like a scent hound that’s been given a scrap of bloodied fabric- directive, drive, purpose. It all churns together, realignment on a cosmic and chemical scale, as if his atoms are shifting to mirror yours. 

Your motives, your feelings, they’re felt so acutely in Steve’s own body- it’s not just that he hangs on your every word, it’s that your words become his, the overlap so seamless and complete that not even light can get through the cracks.

This won’t be the same as protecting you against the world. But if it’s the closest he’ll get, Steve wants to savor every second of the gift. Of the things you want to do with him. 

“I know you’ll take good care of me,” you whisper now, stroking the side of his jaw, kissing after your hand moves. “My sweet boy. Always so good at it.”

Even through this surging, mounting need, Steve is careful. Goes slow, like he can afford to take time, like nothing outside of these walls even matters. 

“I’m going to get you some water,” he says, voice steady but far away even to his own ears. “Don’t- don’t take it ‘til I’m back. I wanna watch.”

He’s upstairs for less than two minutes, zipping around the kitchen, pulling two glasses from the cupboards and filling them both- one with filtered water, the other with apple juice, crisp and cold from the fridge.

You’ve dressed down to just your bra and undies by the time Steve gets back. Your jeans and blouse are folded in a neat pile on the coffee table as he sets the glasses down.

“Thought I’d expedite the process.” You shrug, smirking when you catch Steve’s eyes zeroing in on your chest.

He clicks his tongue. Shakes his head. Wipes the condensation from his fingers on the leg of his jeans and takes the cushion next to yours. “You know I like doing that myself. Brought you a chaser, in case the flavor is weird.”

“Sweet of you.” You reach for the glass of juice, and the syringe, holding them slightly out, bending your knees that brush Steve’s and tucking your feet beneath yourself. 

Steve looks at the shape of your thigh, smooth and soft, a plush layer of fat folded under the elastic. Stomach on display and waiting for his hands, his teeth-

Instead of touching you, Steve reaches for the syringe. You let him take it. He turns the thin cylinder between his fingers, watching the liquid tremble. “What will you say if you want to stop?”

“Red.”

He uncaps the syringe and tosses the plastic lid to the table. There’s a tiny drop suspended from the tip. “And if you want to slow down, or pause?”

“Yellow.” You’re quiet and serious. Fingertips pressed into the rim of the cup. Eyes lifting as Steve brings the end of the syringe towards your lips.

“And now?” Steve asks, voice husked with desire and everything that hangs in the balance. Your tongue lolls out and forward, drawing the edge of the plastic into your mouth- Steve almost flinches at the sight. 

The glimpse of cavernous flesh, the wet muscle of your tongue, the slip of cheek as the syringe slots against the bottom row of your teeth. 

Steve’s thumb rests on the plunger, and he prompts you again- “Color?”

“Green,” you reply. Teeth clicking. 

Steve presses the plunger all the way down. He watches as you swallow the whole dose, and feels the burn of it slipping down his own throat in phantom tandem. Coating his esophagus, making a sticky nest of his insides.

You make no complaints about the flavor, taking a sip of apple juice to wash it down and winking at Steve over the rim of the cup. “All yours, pretty boy.”

Steve’s body thrums with the truth of it- all his- and takes the cup from your hand. “Lie down.”

He stretches over you and your hands loop around his neck, a familiar rhythm to the way you slot into each other, against one another. Steve’s hunger for you has never waned but somehow, tonight of all nights, he feels fucking ravenous. 

The kissing is pure want, concentrated need, consumption. He kisses to feel the roof of your mouth and its ridges on his tongue; kisses to steal your breath and mold it to his own, until the peaks and valleys are so matched there’s no way to distinguish whose lungs fill first.

Time is as slippery as your mouths meeting so it could be five, ten, a hundred minutes by the time Steve begins to feel the drugs take effect. It’s your lips that alert him first; they’re looser and less responsive, almost drooping against his. Your fingers at his neck twitch. 

“Feel okay?” Steve asks, raising his head to look.

It’s devastating. You’re glassy-eyed, smiling serenely, a tremble of a laugh shaking against Steve’s ribs from where your torsos are pressed together. The scratch of your peaked nipples felt through the fabric of your bra against Steve’s chest. “Mmm. Good. Feels good.”

“Good,” Steve repeats, pressing kisses to your collarbone, the tops of your breasts where they spill from their cups, hands coming up to curl around your shoulders. “That’s good, honey. You tell me if anything-”

“Steve.” There’s no urgency in your voice, only raw yearning. “Steve- please. Want you.”

“I know.” Steve presses his forehead to your chest, breathing deeply, collecting himself before he continues down your body. “I know, sweetheart. Want me here?”

He kisses your stomach, and the soft skin just above the waistband of your panties. Your hands have fallen from his neck and roll on the ends of your wrists, arms going lax against the cushions as if you’re having trouble controlling them. 

Steve rests his chin on your tummy, hooking under the elastic with a pointer finger on either side. “Want me here, too?”

“Steve,” you say again. Sounding dazed. Eyes fluttering towards the ceiling. “Need you. Please.”

He shushes you, softly, murmuring comfort as he pulls the fabric from your hips and down your legs. There’s a wet patch in the crotch and Steve makes a mental note to steal this pair, later- but doesn’t bother beyond giving a blind toss in the direction of the coffee table.

Steve has always preferred to drink straight from the source. You’re dripping, spilling sweet honeyed wetness onto his tongue and down your thighs, seeping onto the couch fabric like it’s pouring from a part of you that can’t hold back. 

Steve sinks his tongue all the way inside, feels the subtle clench of your walls and the answering throb of his confined cock in response. He eats you out with fervor, with worship, messy and loud, the sound of your slick the only thing in the room besides the stilted moans coming from your lips. 

Steve burrows in further. Budges his frame up to the backs of your thighs and moves your heavy limbs for you, legs over his shoulders, ankles resting to his midback as he licks all the way up to your clit. 

He seals tight around the jeweled heartbeat of you and sucks, hard, brows drawing together in concentration and singular focus. Steve feels the jolt of your abdomen underneath his palm, the uncoordinated flex of your thighs around his head.

He hums his encouragement, ears perking up when you make a noise he’s never heard before- a long, sonorous moan, cresting and falling in his name. 

“Ohhhh. Fuck, Steve-”

A moment late you’re coming, and Steve pulls you through the waves of it with his mouth, tongue flicking against the pulsing beat of your clit, fingers digging into his hold at your thigh and stomach.

Usually there’s an accompaniment of muscle spasms and expletives that compose your orgasms, a symphony of signals that tune Steve in to a job well done- except this time, the sedatives seem to have eroded your speech and motor skills completely.

It’s got Steve panting at the inside of your thigh, stroking at any stretch of skin he can reach, comforting and just a tad condescending as he asks- “Color, baby?”

Your eyes are closed, the picture of bliss as your stomach shudders a sigh beneath his palm. “Green, baby.”

You sound muzzy around the edges of your speech. It’s doing awful things to Steve’s self-restraint. 

He kisses beneath your navel and it's all the warning you get before the two middle fingers of his right hand slide into you. They fit perfectly along the channel of your cunt and you take them easy, like a dream, like Steve knew you would. 

Steve sinks himself in further and curls up, aiming for that tender gush of a spot against the front of your walls. There’s so much slick coating his fingers, beginning to pool in his palm; Steve lowers again to your clit and adds a third finger, then works his wrist in time with the precise suction of his mouth. 

This time when you come he feels the squeeze of your cunt around his digits, and he tastes the sudden flow of extra wetness pouring across his knuckles. 

Steve’s moaning, shaking his head back and forth to prolong the spiral of your pleasure. When he finally draws back for breath, the entire lower half of his face is drenched in a mixture of your slick and his spit. 

“Fuck, sweetheart. Did so good for me.” Steve presses a line of wet kisses to your inner thighs, then shifts backwards until he’s wiggled out from under the welcome weight of your legs, shifting them gently to lay stretched flat on the couch.

He makes quick work of his clothes, pulling his shirt over his head and shoving his jeans and briefs to the ground, not half as careful as you with your clothes. The head of his cock is a dark red-purple, precum pearling at the tip and bobbing under its own heft as Steve climbs atop you again. 

Your right hand flits to life, moving as if through syrup to rest on Steve’s pec. The edges of your mouth form strangely around your words. “I… Steve. Pl- please.”

Steve aligns his pelvis with yours and drags the hard length of his cock through the wetness. He cages you in between his elbows and puts one whole palm over the top of your head, cockhead resting at your entrance.

Your thumb coasts over the hair at his chest. Unable to move it yourself, you sigh in contentment when Steve reaches back to sling your knee over his waist. “Stevie. Love you. Please.”

The nickname almost breaks his composure; Steve has to duck into the side of your neck to swear. His torso presses into yours but he keeps his hips tilted slightly back, still just the head of him waiting to enter. 

“Shit, honey, I know, I know, Stevie’s gonna give it to you- just, just gotta- gotta make sure you’re ready for me- gotta go slow…”

Steve’s glad he has his ear near your mouth so he can hear every little noise in perfect detail as he begins sinking into you. The head of his cock breaches past your entrance and he feeds himself to you, inch by inch, listening for any minute sounds of discomfort, panting quietly into your shoulder as your walls flex around his length.

“So tight, sweetheart.” He’s halfway to home, still cradling the top of your head in his palm. “Feels so good.”

Finally he slides all the way in, and you make another noise, one that sounds like the end of your air supply, a whining exhale. 

Steve inhales and lifts his head from the crook of your neck to watch your expression, stabilizing his weight into his elbows.

Your eyes are half-shut and unfocused, rolling backwards with every thrust forward of his hips. As Steve works you further open in measured strokes your brow pinches with pleasure, with want, with need-

Steve wants to give and give and give. He wants to hand you everything of himself, wants to keep going until you’ve wrung the last drop, pulled in the last atom, until he has nothing left to offer. 

Steve begins pistoning his hips in earnest, still watching your face with careful intensity, watching as the top of your head bumps into his waiting hand with each smack of his pelvis into yours.

There’s a softness in your jaw that has it dropping open. Unable to hinge it closed against the rising tide of pleasure, your lips attempt a formation of words that don’t come.

And then Steve realizes you’re looking for something to have, and he readjusts smoothly, offering the middle fingertips of his left hand to the pad of your tongue. 

There’s a flicker of recognition in your eyes as you suck them into the cavern of your mouth, past the second knuckle; Steve groans at being held by you in more than one place at the same time. 

He pets at your soft palette with his fingers and there’s a shimmering line of drool that leaks from the side of your lips, finding a home in the webbing of his hand. His cock kicks at the lewd, wet sucking noise that you make when you attempt to swallow his digits further into yourself, nostrils flaring with desire. 

Steve feels the precipice of orgasm looming, everything pulling tight; he doesn’t give in to the rigidity of his limbs and instead focuses his attention on making it good for you, on bullying that spot that makes your legs weak even when you aren’t under the influence. 

Your left hand hangs limp over the side of the couch and Steve reaches to ease it up, settling your loose hold around his own wrist that rests on your chin. 

“Squeeze twice if you need me to stop, okay?” Steve says, hoarsely. He thinks you try to nod, but he isn’t sure. “I know- I know, honey, it’s hard to think right now, but- need to make sure you’re safe. Need you to- can you try it? Squeeze twice for me.”

It’s weak but you manage it, twice in a row, nails digging insistently in like you’re trying to prove yourself. Your eyes close at Steve’s praise.- 

“That’s it.” He swallows back another moan. “So good. Fuck. Gonna- gonna give you another one, baby. One more.”

Steve slides between the crush of your bodies to sink the heel of his hand into the spot just above your pubic bone, against the soft give of your lower stomach. Your cunt chokes around him, his hips snapping forward automatically into the tight clutch of your muscle. 

Around Steve’s fingers in your mouth there’s a buzzing vibration of a moan. A tear leaks from the corner of your eye, and Steve dips to lap the salt of it into his own mouth, tongue leaving a wet trail before he comes back up just in time to encourage you over the edge.

“That’s so good, baby- just take it- like- like that, yes-! Fuck, fuck-”

Your canines sink into his fingers as you come, stomach clenching under the press of his hand- there’s an extra flood of wetness that coats the base of Steve’s cock as he slams into you, drawing out the feeling until his hips judder and still for a final time.

Steve comes hard, burying whimpers into the side of your neck. There’s a turned-over emptiness in his core by the time his cock spurts the last of its warmth into you, a sort of buzz and soreness to all the muscles that have expended so much energy.

He pulls his fingers from your mouth and uses the dryest part of his knuckle to wipe the spit from your cheek. There’s a sheen of sweat over your skin, and Steve feels the prickle of heat at his own hairline and every point of contact with your body. 

“Feel okay?” He asks, breathless with care and the sudden halt of inertia. “How’s that color doin’?”

You don’t answer in words, instead going to great efforts to wrap your arms around Steve’s neck, pulling him in close. He goes easy for you, bundling you into his arms and kissing behind your ear.  

“Green,” comes your murmur. “Green for good. Need you. So much.”

“Honey.” Steve kisses you, again and again, the bloom of love and purpose and want cracking a fissure in his chest. “Shit. Need you. Love you, so much.”

The normal routine of afterglow is interrupted by the fact that your limbs aren’t totally recovered yet, still clunky and confusing to your system. 

Steve graciously tries to hide his amusement but can’t help chuckling at the whine of protest you give when he begins to separate from you, moving to pull out- 

“It’s okay.” He cups your cheek and kisses away the frown at your brow. “Just gonna clean us up a little, okay?”

Although the desire to stay inside you and cuddle until the morning arrives is overwhelmingly tempting, Steve is sensitive to the fact that you’ll both wake up much happier if you’re clean. 

He starts the arduous process of helping you sit up, then adjusting your feet to the floor, then standing- he ends up taking most of your weight across his shoulders and half-supporting, half-carrying you up the short basement steps and the longer stairway to his room. 

Steve gets you situated on his bed with a pillow under your head and dips into the attached bathroom. He gives himself a cursory wipedown; under his arms where the sweat has gathered, over the stickiness accumulated in his pubic hair. He dampens two fresh washcloths and snags the bottle of your facial lotion stowed in the medicine cabinet.

You’re stretched out exactly like he’d left you- arms folded over your bare stomach, ankles crossed, blinking foggily up at the ceiling as you’re gradually coming back to life. When Steve sits at your side, your eyes slide to focus on him.

“Sweaty.” Your nose wrinkles. Fingers wiggling like you want to do something about it. 

“Sure are, angel.” Steve smiles, so fond he feels his heart might give out. “Can I help you with that?”

Steve makes a benediction out of your comfort. He manipulates your arms, shoulders, legs to where he needs them, lifting you in parts from the duvet so he can run the warm washcloth over your skin. He washes you gently, reverently, taking time to make sure that there’s no residue left, careful between your thighs, unhooking your bra to ease the damp band of sweat from your chest, too. 

He uses the second washcloth for your face. Tracks of tears, drool, and sweat are lifted from your skin with each pass of the cloth; and when you’re glowing with cleanliness he dots lotion on your cheeks and forehead to work in with light circles of his fingertips. 

Satisfied, Steve trails the end of his pinky down your nose and kisses the tip of it. He’s grateful there’s still a glass of water on his bedside table leftover from last night- it may not be cool in temperature anymore but he can’t bear the thought of leaving your side, even if it’s just down stairs for a fresh glass. He’s glad you’re seemingly just as clingy.

You sip water with his help, one of his hands supporting the base of your neck to help tilt you forward. And then, finally, he’s peeling back the sheets to snuggle you both underneath. 

Steve wraps himself around your body and you welcome the touch, making a happy noise that reverberates, that makes Steve pull you in even closer.

Your hands, still uncoordinated but no less loving, stroke over the fine hair across Steve’s forearms. “You- you liked doing this, right?” 

Steve kisses your neck, then your hairline. He swears he can smell the hormones radiating from that spot behind your ear. “Loved doing this.”

And it’s the truth. You gave Steve all of your trust- outright, with aching intimacy- and in turn, he stepped up to the plate. Batted a thousand. Sports metaphors are kind of failing him right now but he’ll keep trying (though he doesn’t feel particularly equipped) to come up with words for all the things this has meant to him.

“You’d wanna do it again?” You ask, sounding hopeful and sweet. 

“Yeah, totally.” Steve squeezes another hug into you, then amends- “Well. Maybe when the world isn’t about to end.”

“Mmm.” You sigh in agreement, and then, haltingly, searching for the words even as sleep and runoff sedatives threaten their existence- “Maybe at a stupid party, or something. Pretend I got. Roofied. Then you could swoop in. Take care of me. My hero.”

Peas in a damn pod, Steve thinks, fending off the erection that tries to form at this suggestion through sheer force of will. He pulls you tighter against himself and you preen like a cat bedding down for the night with her favorite cushion. 

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Steve breathes, exhaustion heavy at his limbs. A rest that he knows will be peaceful and nightmare-free is just moments away. “Be whatever you want.”

“Just you,” comes your response, and in the next breath you give into the river of sleep. 

You stay tangled in each other’s embrace throughout the night. 

When dawn breaks over the horizon, Steve feels, for the first time in a long time, strong and fearless enough to greet it. 

afterword: thanks a ton for reading! here's my mlist for Steve if you want more. love u !! <3

[urhoneycombwitch]

20. Shower sex with Steve pleeeeaaaassee 💦💦

combining the power of @stevenose August writing challenge + this anon prompt to bring you this blurb!!! do not look too hard at the writing it was v quick okay thanks!!!!

August 3rd word: 'metal'

cw: shower sex, oral (R receiving), R has a vagina, R is implied fat/plussized, is referred to once as ‘girl’, multiple spanks, cum eating, Steve on his knees 🧎

___

The rushing water through the pipes of the upstairs bathroom provide a solid wall of white noise, as does the shower head itself. There’s steam billowing up in misty drifts, pressing against and over the glass shower wall, surrounding you and Steve in a warm haze.

There’s the edge of the metal shower handle beginning to press into your left ass cheek, too, but Steve’s tongue is so far in your cunt you can’t think of much else.

He’s kneeling on the nonslip tile, one of your legs over the broad expanse of his freckled shoulders, big hands firm on either side of your hips. 

There’s a convenient built-in shelving feature on the wall behind your back, allowing you to lean your weight into your hands while your hips roll mindlessly against Steve’s mouth. 

Steve’s groaning. The echo of it fills the space just as much as the steam- interrupted every so often by his hand leaving your hip to stroke his cock- a wet, frantic sound before he’s back on and in you again.

Steve curls his tongue, stroking the textured wall of your pussy, making your knee seize and mold to his ear; his hand moves again, this time to smack sharply at your ass.

You interpret this correctly, chest heaving, tilting your pelvis and arching to rest just your upper back on the shower wall so Steve can get in deeper.

And he does- nose pressed tight to your aching clit, moaning and sending the vibrations spasming through to your core. Your pussy tightens in response, clenching around the thick muscle of his seeking tongue.

The shower head is aimed directly at your back, cascading down the length of you- there’s a fine layer of mist across Steve’s body, chestnut hair a shade or two darker from the runoff. 

You were briefly worried about the possibility of his drowning, but based on the way his nails are digging into your hips, pulling you closer and attempting suffocation, you think he might die happy.

“Steve,” you sigh out, the word getting swallowed up by all the other noises- namely, the slick one of his fists around his cock, again. “Feels so good…”

You lean more of your weight into your left hand, still anchored by a knee over Steve’s shoulder, to sink the fingers of your right hand into the roots of his dampening locks. The angle of his mouth is perfect, and you aim to keep him there, stealing a glance down as you do-

Steve looks like an angel, of course. Tawny skin stretched bare, all for you, brows knit together in exultation and concentration, eyes closed and lashes sweeping at the inside of your thighs. 

The crown of your head drops back to the wall when Steve starts fucking his tongue in and out of you, in quick, short movements, aided by your hand glued to his skull. 

The whole time, he’s making this sick, needy, low-pitched groaning noise, one that has you gasping, stuttering out his name in warning- 

“St-Steve, gonna- fuck, fuck, baby, like that-”

There’s another sharp smack to your ass before his hand comes to rest on your tummy, a loving stroke over it before his thumb dips down, works its way to your clit. 

As if his nose wasn’t enough. This way, he can rub tight circles in tandem with his tonguefucking, and focus his mouth’s attention solely on your spasming cunt.

Another noise is ripped from your lungs, this time, louder than all the water and white noise- it’s pure pleasure, a high, keening thing that makes Steve lightheaded. If his mouth wasn’t so full, he’d be talking you through it and singing your praises.

He lets his hands speak for him. Increases the pressure on your clit, works over in fast little movements, and leaves half-moon nail marks in the plush fat of your ass as he drags you closer, as you cum on his tongue.

 The orgasm pushes another long noise from your lungs, a mix of moan and whine, breathy and sweet- it ends in a sharp gasp, and Steve’s pulling his head from between your thighs, ever attentive.

“S’too much?” His speech is slurred, partially from pussy-drunkenness and partially from the mouthful of your slick and cum he’s storing. 

“No, no, so good, baby, just the metal- thing.” You gesture vaguely behind yourself, weak from coming, but Steve’s already rising to his feet.

He swallows, swipes the back of his hand blissfully across his mouth before going in for a kiss. “Sorry, honey, should’a had you in a different spot, just couldn’t wait.”

“I don’t mind.”

Steve’s smile curls at the side of your neck as he snuggles in, humming pleased when your arms encircle his shoulders. “That’s my girl. Let’s shower off and get you warmed up- want your knees comfy on that mattress for when you sit on my face 'fore bedtime."

[spderjmz]

what love looks like 𑣲⋆ s. harrington

- the kids know what love is because they've seen it through you and steve. based of this request

- cw: family trauma, minimum mentiones of fights and the hargrove men and papa (yuck.) found family vibes

2k+ words

For a group of six kids, they really had terrible odds when it came to love. Almost unfair odds, really.

Only Lucas had grown up watching a love story survive.

Not perfect, but real. His parents still danced together in the kitchen sometimes. Still looked at each other like partners instead of burdens. Still chose each other every day in a way the others had never really seen before.

The rest of them learned early that love left. That it screamed and hurt, or disappeares.

Max Mayfield still missed California sometimes.

Not because Hawkins was awful, at least not anymore. Hawkins had become home in its own strange, haunted way.

But California had been before.

Before Neil Hargrove. Before fear becoming something that lived permanently in her chest. Before she learned to listen for footsteps and slamming doors and changing tones.

There had been a time where her mom laughed more. Where dinner didn’t feel tense. Where love hadn’t looked dangerous.

The Hargrove men ruined that.

Billy inherited Neil’s rage like it was something carved into his bones, and Max grew up watching what happened when love became ownership instead of care. It permanently altered the way she viewed family. Because in Max’s experience, love was something that eventually turned mean.

Will Byers lost two fathers.

The first one emotionally long before he physically disappeared.

Lonnie Byers had never understood him. Never protected him. Will spent most of his childhood trying to take up as little space as possible around his own dad.

Then came Bob.

Sweet, gentle Bob Newby who made their house feel warm again for a little while.

Bob who smiled easily, listened, tried. Bob who made Joyce laugh in a way Will hadn’t heard in years.

And then Bob died too.

So eventually Will stopped believing father figures stayed.

Now the closest thing he had to one was Jonathan. His exhausted older brother trying to become a man too quickly because life demanded it from him.

Dustin Henderson remembered his dad more than people expected him to.

People assumed he was too young, but Dustin remembered everything.

He remembered sitting on his father’s shoulders at the fair when he was five. Remembered family movie nights. And worst of all he remembered the leaving.

The suitcase by the door and his mother crying quietly in the kitchen for weeks afterward. The way the house suddenly became smaller and emptier all at once.

Dustin learned young that people could promise forever and still walk away.

Mike Wheeler grew up in a house filled with passive silence. His parents weren’t explosive.

Sometimes he thought that was worse. Every conversation between them sounding tired.

Karen Wheeler fought out of frustration, desperate for someone to actually see her, while Ted Wheeler responded like a man waiting for the argument to end so he could go back to his recliner and television.

There was no cruelty loud enough to point at. Just indifference.

And Mike learned that marriage could become two people surviving beside each other instead of loving each other.

And then there was Eleven.

El had been raised by a man who called himself Papa while treating children like experiments.

Love, to her, had always come with conditions.

Obedience. Isolation. Pain. Performance.

Dr. Brenner taught her that affection was something earned through usefulness. That protection meant control. That caring for someone meant owning them.

Even after finding Hopper, even after finally having a home, pieces of that fear stayed lodged inside her. And Hopper loved hard—sometimes too hard.

His protectiveness wrapped around El so tightly it sometimes felt difficult to breathe inside it.

She understood why. But understanding didn’t stop the suffocation.

Given everything they’d lived through, you would think the kids would grow up cynical. That they’d decide marriage was pointless. Because what was the point? You either lost the people you loved or they abandoned you. Or they hurt you until loving them felt unbearable.

So why bother?

Why give someone the power to destroy you?

Except… love did have a point.

And somehow, impossibly, the thing that taught them that was you and Steve.

Not because your relationship was perfect. But because it was healthy. And none of them had ever truly seen that before.

Lucas realized it first.

Or at least he realized it the clearest.

It happened after a fight with Max. A bad one.

Not screaming—Max rarely screamed when she was genuinely hurt. That was the problem. She just shut down. Went cold. Looked at him like she was already preparing herself to leave before he could leave first.

Lucas hated that look.

So he showed up at Steve’s house one evening while Steve was outside cleaning pool leaves.

Steve glanced up. “You look miserable.”

“I need girl advice.”

Steve dropped the skimmer immediately. “Oh, this is serious.”

Lucas rolled his eyes but sat on the edge of the pool anyway.

“I messed up.”

“What’d you do?”

“I forgot something important.”

Steve winced. “Anniversary?”

“Worse.”

Steve looked horrified. “How is there worse than anniversary?”

“Something about her mom.”

“Oh,” Steve said immediately, expression softening. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”

Lucas sighed heavily. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Steve sat beside him quietly for a second. “You don’t fix it by defending yourself.”

Lucas frowned. “What?”

“You listen first. Like really listen. Don’t argue about intention when she’s trying to explain impact, you know,” Steve mentioned with shrug, like it was common sense to him.

Lucas stared at him.

Because no adult man had ever said something like that to him before.

Steve let out a sigh seeing as he wasn't following. “Sometimes people don’t need you to be right. They need you to care that they’re hurting.”

“And Y/N taught you that?”

Steve snorted. “Repeatedly.”

Lucas laughed despite himself.

Then Steve nudged his shoulder.

“If you love her, act like it when things are hard too. Anybody can love someone when it’s easy.”

Lucas carried that sentence with him for years.

Max had realized accidentally.

One evening she’d gone downstairs looking for water while staying over at your place.

Then she heard your voices in the kitchen.

Immediately she froze.

Instinct.

Years of listening carefully for danger.

You and Steve were arguing quietly about bills.

Max’s stomach tightened automatically, already bracing herself for sharp words and blame and the kind of tension that made your chest feel too tight. Something she understood too well.

Instead she heard you say softly, “you don’t have to carry everything by yourself, Steve.”

Steve exhaled shakily. “I know, I just— I like taking care of you.”

“And who takes care of you?”

Silence.

Then quieter, “you do.”

Max stood there in the hallway for a long time afterward. Because nobody had ever spoken like that in her house.

Not gently.

Not during a fight.

Not with concern instead of cruelty.

It genuinely unsettled her at first—the realization that conflict didn’t have to become violence.

That loving someone could mean trying to understand them instead of win against them.

Will noticed it in the smallest ways. Of course he did. Will noticed everything.

One rainy afternoon, the kids were all crowded inside Steve’s house after plans got ruined by a storm. Thunder rattled the windows while Dustin complained dramatically about boredom.

You weren’t there yet. Still at work. But Steve glanced outside once and immediately stood up.

Will watched him quietly.

Steve grabbed blankets from the hallway closet, tossed popcorn in the microwave, then started setting up the VCR in the living room.

Dustin blinked. “What’re you doing?”

“Movie night.”

“You hate rainy movie nights.”

“I do not.”

“You literally said they make you sleepy and depressed.”

Steve ignored him.

Then Will understood.

You loved rain.

Loved movies during storms specifically. Said rain made everything feel softer somehow.

Steve remembered without you even being there.

Will watched him dim the lights before casually saying you had rough shift today. And something in Will’s chest ached unexpectedly. Because Steve paid attention.

Not performatively, but naturally.

Like caring about you had become instinct.

Will had spent most of his life watching people miss each other completely. But you and Steve saw each other constantly.

Mike realized it late at night.

The Wheeler basement was loud that evening, everyone spread around after another near-disaster.

Eventually exhaustion took over.

At some point during the movie, you fell asleep curled against Steve on the couch.

Mike barely noticed until the credits rolled and Steve carefully shifted underneath you.

Not annoyed.

Just gentle.

He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stirred slightly.

Steve immediately whispered in your ear. “Go back to sleep, baby. I got you.”

And you did.

Trusted him enough to instantly relax again.

Mike watched Steve carry you upstairs slowly so he wouldn’t wake you.

And suddenly he thought about his own parents. About how his mom would’ve loudly shaken Ted awake instead. About how Ted would complain. About how affection in his house always seemed inconvenient.

But Steve looked at caring for you like it was an honor.

That realization stayed with Mike long after everyone else fell asleep.

El always knew. She was observant like that.

Always watching. Always learning.

And there was no way she couldn’t notice the calmness surrounding you and Steve when the rest of the world constantly felt like it was moving too fast.

One afternoon she and Max had wanted to go to the arcade alone.

Steve immediately said no.

“Absolutely not.”

El crossed her arms instantly. “Why?”

“Because last time you two disappeared for six hours and nearly got arrested.”

“That was one time.”

“Yeah, it was one very long two month ago.”

You tried not to laugh while making coffee.

El expected the conversation to become a fight.

That’s what she knew. That's what Hopper would do.

Instead Steve crouched slightly to meet her eye level.

“I know you’re smart,” he said gently. “That’s not the issue.”

“Then why no?”

“Because something bad happens to you guys constantly and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

El frowned slightly.

Steve sighed. “I’m not trying to control you, El. I just… worry.”

You stepped beside him carefully.

“He wants you safe,” you explained softly. “He's not trying to limit you”

El looked between you both.

No anger or manipulation behind your words.

Just pure honesty.

Finally Steve added “if I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight at all.”

That made El smile a little. And for maybe the first time in her life, protectiveness didn’t feel suffocating.

It felt like love.

Without realizing it, you and Steve became something sacred to the kids.

A safe place.

The place they escaped to after bad nights at home. The people they called when things hurt too much. The proof that love could survive softness.

That it could be patient and kind.

The kids even started measuring relationships by you two without even meaning to.

One afternoon at lunch Lucas said casually that “if my future relationship isn’t like Steve and Y/N’s, I don’t want it.”

Max immediately threw a tater tot at his forehead.

But she didn’t disagree.

None of them did.

By summer, the Harrington pool unofficially became theirs again.

One Saturday afternoon the kids invited themselves over without warning. Not that you minded. Or weren't used to it.

You stepped outside carrying lemonade only to find complete chaos.

Dustin doing cannonballs (after being banned from backflips). Lucas and Max arguing over the singular pool floatie they had yet to pop. Mike was pretending not to splash El while very obviously splashing El. Will floating peacefully near the deep end with his eyes closed.

And Steve.

Steve standing in the middle of it all laughing so hard he could barely breathe after Dustin slid off the floatie Lucas finally managed steal from Max.

You leaned against the patio doorway watching them.

Your people.

Your strange little family stitched together through trauma and monsters and survival.

Steve looked over eventually, smiling immediately when he saw you.

That smile never changed after all these years. Still soft and certain.

“Babe,” he called. “Tell Dustin he’s banned from doing backflips.”

“I landed it!”

“You landed near it,” Steve argued.

It seemed as the world had finally decided to be gentle with all of you for once. As the sun dipped lower the kids laughed louder.

Somewhere between the pool water, the fading sunlight, and the warmth of everyone gathered together, the kids finally understood something they’d spent years trying to learn:

Love was never the thing that ruined people.

The absence of it was.

likes, reblogs, and comments are much appreciated <3

[levanswrites]

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: steve makes it home, but not all of him comes back at once. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, drugged and concussed steve, blood/injury, mentions of torture and trauma, brief non-descriptive vomiting, non-sexual undressing, fluff, post-s3 torture scene (4.4k) 𝐚/𝐧: i’ll be fine and then remember out of nowhere they tied up a 19-year-old, drugged him, and tortured him. anyway. im sorry abt this one. had to cope somehow.

.   *　✦　　.　 ˚　✦　 .

“Woah, babe... that... that mailbox just waved at me.”

You glance over at the perfectly normal, completely unmoving mailbox at the end of your driveway.

“Yeah?” you say carefully, digging through your pocket for the house key, trying to keep his arm balanced around your shoulders. “Did it say hi too, or just the wave?”

Steve considers this very seriously.

His forehead rests against your temple while he thinks, brows furrowed in sluggish concentration. His breath fans across your neck in warm, uneven puffs, tinged with something coppery that makes your stomach turn.

“…just waved,” he decides after a long pause.

“Wow,” you murmur. “Rude.”

He huffs out a soft laugh into your hair—and for a second, it sounds just like him. Like the Steve you know.

Then his knees buckle.

“Woah, hey—!” You catch him hard, the impact jarring up your spine as he sags into you. Your grip tightens around his middle, fingers digging into the damp cotton of his shirt.

“Stay with me,” you say, sharper now, breath coming quick as you fumble the key toward the lock. “Steve, just... just hang on, okay? We’re right here.”

He makes a vague sound in agreement, head lolling against your shoulder.   

“Mm... m’kay,” he mumbles.  

You finally jam the key in, shove the door open with your hip.

“I got you. Just watch the step—Steve, watch the—”  

His sneaker catches on the edge of the rug and he pitches forward, dead weight.

You lurch with him, heart jumping into your throat, barely managing to haul him back before he faceplants into the welcome mat. He makes a quiet, confused noise as you pull him upright.

The distance from the door to the couch is nothing. A straight line. Ten seconds, maybe.

It takes close to a full minute.

Steve’s face sinks right back into your neck as you half-drag him toward the living room. He keeps stopping every few steps, gaze snagging on random things like he’s discovering them for the first time: the standing lamp, the coat rack by the wall, the crooked photo of you two at the lake this summer.

“Babe,” he murmurs at one point, voice soft with wonder, pointing vaguely toward the end of the hallway. “There’s… wha... why’re you over there?”

“I’m right here, baby,” you say gently, tugging him forward again. “That’s a mirror.”

“...Oh.”

By the time you reach the couch, your arms are shaking.

Steve collapses into it with a breathy oof, body folding in on itself before going slack. His limbs fall wherever they land—one leg hanging off the cushions, head tipped back, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls.

For a moment he just sits there. Blinking slowly at the ceiling, breathing through his mouth.  

You drop into a crouch in front of him.  

“Steve?” you whisper.

“Mm.”    

The uniform makes it worse.

Bright navy and white stripes, grotesquely cheerful against the splatters of blood that have seeped into the collar, smeared across his side like someone tried to wipe their hands on him.

You start moving before you can think better of it.

Sliding your hands up his arms, across his shoulders, down to his thighs, his calves. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for, just checking for something hidden, something worse, eyes frantically cataloguing every faint scratch you can find on his exposed skin.

Steve makes a quiet noise in his throat when you touch him. Not quite pained—more like confusion, like the sensation is arriving late.

His hand lifts, slow and uncoordinated, missing yours the first time. He tries again, fumbling clumsily until it lands over your fingers.

The second he finds you, he holds on. Threads his fingers between yours, his grip weak but insistent when he squeezes.

You’re about to squeeze back when your eyes catch on something else.

His wrists.

Deep impressions ring both of them, angry red marks already bruising dark at the edges. The skin is rubbed raw, split and abraded in places where he must’ve fought against whatever they used to hold him down.

I don’t know, they took him—woah, dingus look at that! Oh my god, that’s amaazing... huh? Oh, right, right, um... I think they like... took him to another room? But... I don’t know what they did to him.  

You swallow hard against the rising bile, brushing your thumb lightly over one of the marks.

Steve doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Steve, baby,” you say quietly, still inspecting his wrists. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Nothing.

“Steve?”

Your head snaps up, panic cutting sharp through your chest.

He’s looking at you.

Staring, actually—eyes locked onto your face with a strange, heavy focus that doesn’t quite stick, like he’s trying to see you through water, like every second you’re slipping just out of reach.

His hair hangs in damp strands over his face, clinging to his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

“Hey,” you whisper, lifting your free hand to push his hair back.

Your fingers barely graze his skin before he flinches.

And you finally see it.

Up close, it’s so much worse than it looked under the neon glare of the Starcourt parking lot.

Steve’s eye is nearly swollen shut.

The lid is puffed up and dark, deep purples and sickly reds bleeding into his cheekbone. His nose is streaked with dried blood, rust-colored trails cracking against his skin. His lower lip is split wide open, a jagged cut that hasn’t fully sealed.  

You watch, horrified, as he presses his tongue against it, absentmindedly pressing the tip of it against the inside of his cheek. It slides beneath the swollen flesh, prodding the ragged edge.  

“No, baby, don’t… don’t do that,” you murmur quickly, your hand moving on instinct to catch his chin.

The moment your fingers touch him, he freezes completely. His body relaxes, almost unnervingly pliant, and his expression goes slack.

Your hand trembles when you pull it back.

You don’t let yourself think about happened in that room.

All you have are fragments. Dustin Henderson’s explanation outside of Starcourt had been rushed and breathless, a mess of words that mostly made no sense to you—Russians, secret codes, an underground government lab.

Torture. 

It hadn’t sounded real then.

It does now.

The evidence is sitting right in front of you, breathing unevenly on your couch.

Your gaze drops back to his wrists.

“Hey, Stevie?” you ask, voice thin. “Do you know where you are?”

“Mm?”   

“Where are you right now?”

He frowns slowly. His eyes stay on you for another long second, then drift, sliding across the room in a dazed, unfocused sweep.

Whatever drugs they forced into him—truth serum, Dustin had said—it’s still in his system.

You can see it in his pupils—so dilated that the hazel in his eyes is barely visible, just a thin ring of gold swallowed by glossy black. The whites are bloodshot, veins spidering outward.

“...your house,” he murmurs quietly.

Your lungs finally let go of the breath you’ve been holding.

“Okay. Good. That’s good.” You swallow, throat dry. “And what day is it?”

That one takes longer.

You see it, the delay. His lips parting, eyes losing you again as they drift somewhere over your shoulder.

“Mmm… don’t know.”

Your chest tightens.

“Can you try? Just take a guess?”

He squints. Looks down at the coffee table, following the swirls in the wood grain.

“...Wednesday?”

It’s Monday.

“Okay,” you nod immediately, trying to keep your voice from pitching higher. “That’s okay. Um... what about the month?”

He blinks slowly.

“Steve?”

“...July.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, squeezing his hand, clutching to the answer like a lifeline. “Yeah, that’s right. That's good. And tell me what year?”

Something in him changes at that, a sudden restless energy cutting through the drugged haze. 

His nose scrunches, shoulders twitching uncomfortably against the couch. He drops his gaze down to his hands, to where his fingers are still tangled with yours.

“I don’t…” His voice fades, head tilting in a slow, helpless shake. “…sorry.”

Your grip tightens instantly, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“No, it’s okay. You’re okay, baby. You’re okay.”

You say it like it’s true.

Inside, everything is screaming.

You have no idea what you’re doing.

Nothing but half-remembered warnings from health class, scenes from movies, TV shows, something about concussions and checking someone's pupils, not letting them sleep.

But what if this is something worse?

What if there’s something happening inside his head right now—bleeding, swelling—and you’re just sitting here, holding his hand?

You tried to take him to the hospital. God, you tried.  

He could barely keep his eyes open in the car, forehead knocking softly against the window every time the road curved, but whenever you said the word hospital, he shook his head.

Stubborn as always, even half-conscious.

“Steve—"

“No.”

“Steve, you need—"

“No... no hoss...pital.”

And after what you learned tonight—after everything about Russians and government labs under small-town malls—you understood him enough to hesitate.

But now it’s just you.

And the quiet, suffocating thought that you’re not enough.

What if you miss something?

What if he gets worse and you can’t help him?

What if— 

A sharp, sudden huff cuts through your spiraling thoughts.

Your head jerks up just in time to see him fold forward, arms lifting clumsily, not quite making it.

You catch him immediately.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Your hands slide up to his shoulders, steadying him before he can pitch all the way down. “You okay? You feel sick again?”

Steve shakes his head.

Looks so distraught, all of a sudden.

The emotion sits strangely on his face, tangled up with the swelling and the fuzzy stupor still dulling his expression. 

He drags his tongue across his split lip, swallows hard.

“Can you... can you hug me?”

He’s nineteen.

You forget that sometimes.

He turned nineteen less than two weeks ago.

You remember the pancakes you made that morning—burnt on one side, stacked too high with a slow-motion avalanche of whipped cream. The surprise party at the lake, Dustin nearly dropping the cake twice before it made it to the table.

The way Steve groaned when you made him close his eyes and make a wish.

Babe, you know I’m way too old for this, right?

Still, he blew out every last candle. Tore open every gift, read every letter. 

And later that night, when it was just the two of you tangled under sheets and summer heat, he told you something you never forgot.   

“Mm… ten years, maybe?”

“What?”

“Yeah, I mean... my parents traveled a lot over the summer, so. Just stopped having ‘em, I guess.”

Stopped celebrating his birthday, he meant.

Your arms are around him before the memory can finish forming.

You pull him in carefully, one hand cradling the back of his head, angling him so he's not putting pressure on his bruised eye.

He crumples into you with a quiet sigh, forehead bumping against your collarbone before he buries his face in the curve of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, damp where it catches.

For a minute, you just hold him.

Feeling the frantic, unrelenting thud of his heart against your ribs, so fast it makes your own chest ache. You tighten your arms around him, pressing him closer, like you can slow it down that way.  

His voice comes after a long silence, words muffled and heavy.

“…they kept... kept asking questions.”

Your fingers still in his hair, then move again, smoothing back damp strands from his forehead.

“Yeah?”

He nods, dragging his bruised cheek across your shoulder. 

“Same... same ones. Over and over. Didn’t matter what we said. Just... again, again.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, a quiet, nauseating realization washing through you. Maybe your incessant questioning—Where are you? What day is it?— just dragged him right back there.

You feel him shiver into your shoulder, a weak laugh ghosting against your collarbone.

“Hey... you know wha... you know what was weird?”

“What?”

His fingers move against your back, tracing shapes you can’t see.

“They said we were gonna die down there.”

Your throat goes tight.

“And I…” he huffs, another brittle laugh shaking through him. “I just like... kept talking, you know? So they’d look at me ‘n not... not Robin. Saying whatever. Dumb stuff. I work at Scoops! Ice cream... Scoops... Scoops Ahoy.”

He sniffs, tilting his face into your neck. You feel his brows furrow against your skin.

“They got really pissed. Said if we didn’t answer, that was it. Nobody’d find us. Nobody’d even… know we were there.”

He sighs, his weight sinking heavier into you.

“I kept thinking about you,” he whispers.

Your hand stills in his hair.  

“I kept thinking… if I didn’t come back, you’d—” He falters, jaw tightening where it presses into you. “You’d notice. Right?”

The inside of your cheek stings where you bite down. You nod, pressing your lips into his hair so he won’t hear the tremor in your voice.

“Of course I’d notice, Steve,” you whisper.   

He nods, swallowing hard enough you feel it against your collarbone.

“I didn’t... didn’t tell you,” he mumbles, words muffled into the curve of your neck.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t tell you,” he repeats.

A cold thread slips down your spine.

“Tell me what, Stevie?” you murmur, pulling back slightly, trying to see his face.

You feel it before you understand it.

The shift.

The warmth you were holding stiffens under your arms. Muscles locking up all at once, shoulders going rigid.

“Steve?”

It goes from nought to ninety in less than a breath.

One moment he’s heavy, pliant in your arms; the next, his whole body convulses. Tremors wrack him violently, shoving against your chest, jostling you both. Each wave builds, stronger than the last.

“Hey, hey, it’s—it’s okay—” You rush, voice thinning with panic as your hands scramble along his back, trying to grip him, steady him. “I’ve got you, you’re okay—"

His arms clamp around you like steel, brittle fingers digging into your back. His chest jerks with shallow gasps, each inhale too quick to carry air.

“I d-didn’t tell you,” he chokes out, words splintering between breaths. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

“Steve, baby, it’s okay,” you whisper, sweeping your hand slow and firm along his back, even as your own chest feels like it’s caving in. “Hey, hey, just breathe for me, okay? You’re home, you’re safe.”

He shakes his head, breath hitching against your shoulder.

“No... no, I—” His voice catches in his throat, scraped raw. “I never said it. I never... I never told you. We never...”   

And in the long, ragged, suffocating pause that arrives after, you hear what he’s been trying to say.

What he means.

Two months.

That’s all it’s been.

Barely enough time to learn the shape of each other’s lives, and yet... it’s never felt that way. 

It’s always felt older.

Like you didn’t meet him so much as find him again. Orbiting the same point for years, lifetimes, just waiting to collide.

You used to joke about it. Past lives, red strings. Soulmates, if you were feeling dramatic.

And in those two months—in all the ways you’ve come to learn him—this boy who loves loudly without knowing it, who gives pieces of himself away in quiet, constant gestures, who shows up, who stays, who cares harder than anyone else ever has—

After two months of learning what it means to be adored by someone like him—

There was always something buried just under the surface, left unsaid.

They’ve lived inside you for weeks now. You carried it with you everywhere, pressed close like a second heartbeat.  

Three words you’ve never said out loud.

“I didn’t say it,” he whispers, hoarse, broken. “I didn’t.”

And whatever he’d been holding onto all night—whatever thin, fraying thread kept him upright for Robin, for the kids, through the mall, the parking lot, the drive home, brushing off every what happened? are you okay?—

It finally gives.

Slips clean through his fingers like sand underwater. Gone all at once, nothing left to brace against.  

“I was just... I was so scared.”

You fold him into your chest, arms pressing him closer as a tear slides down your cheek and catches in the damp strands of his hair.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know, baby. I know.”

It isn’t true.

You don’t know.

You weren’t there.

Didn’t see the way they looked at him, didn’t hear their threats.

Didn’t feel what he felt, tied to that chair, not knowing if the next second was going to be the one that ended everything.

Not knowing if nineteen was it.

You don’t know.

But what else can you say?

...  

It’s strange, how life keeps moving after a moment like that.

How something so monumental can implode in your chest while the rest of the world spins on, indifferent.

Your room looks the same—the half-made bed, his jacket draped over your chair from the last time he was here—but nothing feels the same. Your hands tremble, and you flex your fingers, pressing your nails into your palm to ground yourself before you pull open the drawer. You let your fingers trail over the familiar textures of his shirts, his sweatpants—pieces of him he leaves behind on purpose. They still smell like him, even after washing.

You take a shaky breath and turn back.

He doesn’t argue when you kneel in front of him.

Just watches you, sat quietly on the edge of the bed, legs parted to make space as your fingers start loosening the laces of his sneakers. 

You ease them off one at a time, then move to his socks, brushing your thumbs over the warm, soft skin of his ankles. Lingering there, trying to imprint the memory of a touch that doesn’t involve pain.

You glance up at him, hands sliding over to his waistband.

“Gonna get these off, okay?”

He nods, planting his palms into the mattress so he can lift his hips, fingers splayed to brace himself. Your chest tightens at the way his face pinches—just for a second, there and gone, like he’s trying not to let you see. 

You ease his shorts down over his thighs, then his briefs.  

His shirt is the last thing to come off.

He hesitates a little when you reach for the hem, and the moment you lift the fabric, you understand why.

Even in the dim light, there’s no hiding it.

Dark bruises bloom across his sides, wrapping around his stomach. There’s one just under his ribs that’s so deep it’s nearly black at the center, the skin tight and swollen in a way that turns your gut ice-cold.

That's not from a fist.

For a heartbeat, you see him there.   

Head slumped forward, taking blow after blow while he tries to breathe through the blood filling his mouth. You force it down, swallowing the rush of panic before it can break free.

Steve follows your gaze, blinking down at himself.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Yeah, that’s uh… looks worse than it is.”

His speech is clearer now. No longer thick or slurred like it was before. Up close, you see that the glassiness in his eyes has started to lift too, his pupils returning to normal.

But what’s left behind isn’t easy.

His brows are pulled tight, expression pinched from bracing against the pressure building in his skull. He’s clenching and unclenching his jaw to fight off the waves of nausea, worsening with each passing second of clarity. 

You know that he’s lying—that it doesn’t look worse than it is—but you don’t argue.

Instead, you reach for his hands, gently lifting his arms, pulling his shirt over his head. You discard the bloodied uniform to the floor before helping him into a fresh shirt, sliding it over his bruised frame with care.

You reach for his sweats next, guiding him one leg at a time, your hand braced at his shin to keep him steady as you draw the fabric up over his thighs.

You’re adjusting the waistband over his hips when he suddenly goes still.

“You okay?”

He stiffens, jaw working. “Mm—I need the—”  

You drag the trash can over just in time.

He folds forward with a weak gag, body curling in on itself as far as his ribs will allow.

There’s not much left in his stomach. The retching is brief, mostly dry, but it still wrings him out. Leaves him shaking, breath catching in uneven pulls.

You press your hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing slow, firm circles until it passes, until he leans back with a shallow breath.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, lips parted, face gone pale under all the bruising.

You shake your head, reaching for the warm washcloth you’d set aside earlier.

"It's okay. Don't apologize."

You press the cloth gently to his lips, slow, careful strokes as you wipe the corner of his mouth, the faint smear of blood under his nose, along the line of his jaw and down the column of his neck. It comes back faintly pink each time.

Your thumb follows after, catching where the cloth missed.

Then you pause at his mouth.

The cut on his bottom lip is so deep, the edges of it raw, pulled tight every time he speaks. You tilt his chin slightly, angling his face toward the light.

You’re still frowning at it, wondering whether you should clean it now or let him rest, when he says it.

And it’s not what you thought it would feel like, the first time.

It’s supposed to feel bigger than this, isn’t it? Fireworks in the chest, thunder in the ribs. Something that cracks the world open a little—shake the ground under your feet and pull the stars a little close so they can witness it too.   

Instead, it happens in your bedroom at two in the morning, the coppery smell of dried blood clinging to your fingers, sticky under your nails, catching at the back of your throat

“I love you.”

His voice is low, scraped hoarse with exhaustion, yet steady in a way it hasn’t been all night.

It’s almost painful, how much rushes up all at once.

All the times you didn’t say it.

All the almosts. 

All the places it lived instead.

In the center console of his car, watching him belt out the wrong lyrics at the top of his lungs, just to catch your laugh from the passenger seat.

In the sticky vinyl booth of that diner off the highway, knees knocking under the table while you plucked the cherries off his milkshake and debated the dumbest lines from the movie you just watched.

In the space between your pillows, lying on your sides in the dark, sharing half-formed plans and distant, candy-colored versions of the future—nothing guaranteed except for the easy assumption that you’d share it with one another.

It was always there.

Perched on the tip of your tongue, waiting—in the quiet beat after a joke, a kiss.

In all the moments where you’d look at him and just know.

Know with a certainty so sharp it scared you sometimes.

That this boy—this ridiculous, funny, soft-hearted, endlessly giving boy—was it.

You’d always told yourself there was time.

Tomorrow. Next week.

Later.  

Some other night with candlelight and rose petals, when it made sense, when it could be perfect, worthy of the way it feels to love and be loved by him.  

But maybe the truth of it lives here, like this.

Stripped bare, intimate in a way no grand declaration ever could be.

“I…” Your voice catches, and you swallow before trying again. “I love you too.”

Your vision fills with a sudden haze, and you blink quickly, forcing yourself to look away.  

Steve’s eyes droop at that, brows furrowing softly as he shuffles closer.

“Baby… c’mon, don’t…” He raises his hand, brushing his thumb under your eye to catch the second tear before it falls. He lingers there, cradling your cheek in the warmth of his palm. “Don’t cry. Please?”

“I’m not, I’m not,” you sniff, half-laughing, hastily wiping at your face with the back of your hand.

He studies you a long moment, blinking unevenly, before the faintest smile curls his lips. “Does my face look that bad?”

A startled laugh slips past you. You shake your head, pressing a weak palm against his shoulder. “You’re such an idiot.”

His grin softens into a gentle, half-lidded smile, eyes warm and heavy as he lets his gaze settle on you.  

“’M gonna say it every day,” he murmurs quietly.  

Your chest aches at the promise.

You wish he didn’t have to think about it like that.

That he didn’t have to worry. That he didn’t have to carry the weight of those three words on his chest while tied to that chair—wrists raw, blood in his mouth and fluorescent lights burning into his skull—wondering if he’d ever get to say them aloud.

That the last thing on his mind wasn’t the absence of something so small.

Something you already knew.

You’ve always known.

“Steve…” you whisper.

“I know,” he whispers back, nodding slowly, eyes thick with exhaustion but bright with that familiar resolve. “I know you know. I just…” He rubs his thumb gently across your cheek. “I’m still gonna say it.”

You watch him for a moment, taking in the quiet conviction in his gaze, the stubborn tilt of his head. Stubborn in the ways that matter most—clinging to small, sacred truths even after staring death in the face.

You nod, because that’s who he is.

And because you’ll listen every time like it’s the first.

“Okay,” you whisper.

You lean in carefully, tilting your head to avoid the split in his lip, and press a soft, lingering kiss to the unbroken corner of his mouth.

“I love you too.”

[djowrites]

JUST A GIRL AT HIS SHOWS ♬⋆.˚🎸⋆⭒˚.🎤

joe keery x reader

summary: you and joe keep your relationship private, but fans catch sweet moments of you supporting him at shows and walking together, always close. the internet quickly falls in love with how soft and clearly in love you both are.

warnings: fluff, fluff & more fluff

word count: over 1k

authors note: loveddd writing this, even though it's not my best, joe has been killing lollapalooza so wanted to write something along the lines of that, also south american crowds are everything !!

find my masterlist ⤷ here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

you and joe have always kept things quiet.

not secret, never secret, but soft around the edges, tucked safely into the spaces between public moments. there are no big announcements, no red carpet hand holding, no carefully staged photos. just the two of you living your life, loving each other in the in-between.

the people who know, know.

and the people who don’t usually just assume you’re a friend, a bandmate’s girlfriend, someone from the crew. it makes things easier that way. it lets you walk beside him without the weight of expectation pressing down on your shoulders.

still, sometimes the world catches a glimpse.

and when it does, it can’t look away.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the first time it really happens is at the first argentinian show of the hectic south america leg.

the air is warm and electric, buzzing with anticipation, the kind of night where the sky feels too big and the crowd feels endless. you’re standing just off to the side of the stage, tucked behind a line of equipment cases, wearing one of joe’s hoodies that hangs slightly too big on your frame.

you always stand there.

not in the spotlight, not front and center, just close enough that he can find you when he needs to.

the music starts, loud and alive, vibrating through the ground beneath your sneakers. the crowd roars as joe steps up to the microphone, guitar slung over his shoulder, curls bouncing as he moves.

he looks different on stage.

brighter. looser. completely in his element.

but even then, even in the middle of thousands of people screaming his name, he still searches for you.

it’s instinct now.

halfway through the first song, his eyes scan the side of the stage, quick and automatic, and then they land on you.

the change is immediate.

his shoulders relax just a little. his mouth curves into the smallest smile, barely noticeable to anyone else, but you see it. you always see it.

you press your hand to your chest, warmth blooming there.

you mouth the words to the song, swaying gently, completely lost in the sound of him.

later, during a slower song, he steps back from the mic for a moment, fingers moving over the strings, and his gaze drifts toward you again. this time he holds it, just for a second longer than usual.

the lights hit him just right, casting a soft glow around his silhouette.

and you can almost hear his voice in your head.

you’re here.

you’re okay.

i can do this.

you give him a small thumbs up, smiling.

he laughs quietly into the microphone, shaking his head like you just told him a private joke.

the crowd cheers, thinking it’s part of the performance.

but it’s just you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

after the show, you meet him backstage, weaving through cables and crew members and the lingering hum of adrenaline.

he spots you instantly.

“there you are,” he says, breathless, hair damp with sweat.

“there you are,” you echo, grinning.

he walks straight toward you and wraps his arms around your waist without hesitation, pulling you into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you press your face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him — warm, salty, alive.

“you were amazing,” you murmur.

he huffs a small laugh against your hair.

“i messed up the bridge in the third song.”

“no one noticed.”

“you noticed.”

“i notice everything.”

he squeezes you tighter, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head.

someone nearby snaps a photo.

neither of you realize it at the time.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the next morning, the internet is buzzing.

it starts small, a blurry picture posted on social media. joe, still in his stage clothes, arms wrapped around a girl in an oversized hoodie backstage.

you.

no one knows your name.

but they notice the way he’s holding you.

close. protective. soft.

the captions start rolling in.

'who is she?'

'the way he’s hugging her though'

'that’s not just a friend hug'

'he looks so happy'

you find the photo while scrolling lazily in bed, joe still half-asleep beside you, one arm draped across your waist.

you nudge him gently.

“hey.”

he groans.

“what time is it?”

“late enough for you to see this.”

he squints at your phone as you hold it up.

his face flushes immediately.

“oh,” he says.

“oh,” you repeat.

he rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed.

“they caught us.”

you glance at him, amused.

“we weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“i know,” he says softly.

his arm tightens around you.

“i just… i like that it’s ours, you know?”

you turn your head to look at him properly.

his hair is messy from sleep, his expression gentle and a little vulnerable.

“it is ours,” you promise.

he studies your face for a moment, searching.

“you’re okay with people seeing stuff like this?”

you smile.

“i’m okay with people seeing how much you love me.”

his cheeks turn pink.

he hides his face in your shoulder.

“you’re impossible.”

you laugh, running your fingers through his curls.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

a few days later, you’re in more cities in south america together, traveling between shows.

the cities blur into a kaleidoscope of colours, bright markets, tree-lined streets, music drifting from open windows. the air is warmer, heavier, filled with the smell of food and sunlight.

this time, there are more cameras.

more fans.

more curious eyes.

but somehow, it still feels private.

you’re walking through a quiet park in the late afternoon, golden light filtering through the leaves overhead. joe’s arm is draped around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side as you wander along the path.

his thumb traces lazy circles against your arm.

you lean into him automatically.

“this place is beautiful,” you say softly.

“yeah,” he agrees.

then he glances down at you, smiling.

“but you look prettier.”

you groan.

“that was terrible.”

“i meant it.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

a few people pass by, whispering excitedly, phones subtly lifted.

you don’t notice.

joe does.

his arm tightens slightly around you, protective without being obvious.

he presses a kiss to your temple.

“you tired?” he asks.

“a little.”

“bench?”

you nod.

he guides you toward a wooden bench tucked beneath a tall tree, the shade cool and comforting. you sit close together, knees brushing, shoulders touching.

for a while, neither of you says anything.

you just exist.

watching children run across the grass. listening to distant laughter. feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing beside you.

after a moment, he reaches for your hand.

your fingers lace together naturally.

he lifts your hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss against your knuckles.

the gesture is quiet.

intimate.

so full of love it makes your chest ache.

somewhere nearby, a camera clicks.

again, you don’t notice.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

that evening, the photos start spreading.

joe walking through a park with his arm wrapped around a girl, holding her close.

joe sitting on a bench, kissing her hand.

joe leaning his forehead against hers while she laughs at something he said.

the internet loses its mind.

'they look so in love'

'whoever she is, he adores her'

'the way he keeps her close'

'this is the softest thing i’ve ever seen'

mi’m not even jealous, i’m just emotional'

you’re curled up in the hotel bed later that night, scrolling through the posts with wide eyes.

“joe,” you whisper.

he looks up from tying his shoes.

“what?”

you hold up your phone.

he walks over and sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he reads.

his ears turn pink almost immediately.

“wow,” he says.

“wow,” you echo.

there’s a long pause.

then he sighs softly, running a hand through his hair.

“they think we’re cute.”

you laugh.

“we are cute.”

he nudges your shoulder.

“don’t get cocky.”

you grin.

he keeps scrolling, expression growing more thoughtful.

“they’re being nice,” he murmurs.

“yeah.”

he sets the phone down and turns toward you, studying your face.

“you still okay with this?”

you nod without hesitation.

“i am.”

he searches your eyes.

“really?”

you reach up and cup his cheek, thumb brushing along his jaw.

“joe, they’re just seeing what’s already there.”

his brows knit slightly.

“what do you mean?”

you smile gently.

“they’re seeing how much we love each other.”

his expression softens instantly.

his hand slides over yours, holding it against his face.

“i do love you,” he says quietly.

“i know.”

he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.

for a moment, the world goes still.

no cameras.

no internet.

no noise.

just the two of you breathing the same air.

then he presses a slow, tender kiss to your lips.

the kind that lingers.

the kind that says everything words can’t.

when he pulls back, he smiles softly, eyes warm and full of affection.

“come here,” he murmurs.

he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest, holding you close like you’re the safest place he knows.

you melt into him instantly, cheek pressed against his shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

outside, somewhere in the world, people are still posting photos.

still swooning.

still whispering about how sweet you look together.

but inside that quiet hotel room, none of it matters.

because this — his arms around you, your fingers tangled in his shirt, the soft brush of his lips against your hair — is the only thing that’s real.

and the only thing you’ll ever need.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

thank you for reading !!! 🪽

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

HE'S A GENTLEMAN | steve harrington

And if they call me a slut You know it might be worth it for once

Steve Harrington doesn't care what people think of you.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 2.9k contains: angst, eventual fluff, friends to lovers, established relationship, misogyny, misogynist slurs, slut shaming, mention of previous bullying, explicit language, references to sex and sexual acts, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

author's note: day 7 of the 2k followers special! final day 🥺the request for a fic inspired by 'slut!' came from @aecd27 a couple of months back—thank you for the suggestion!

to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page

The word ‘slut’ has followed you since you were sixteen years old.

It had begun with a rumour. You were pretty sure you knew who had started it. You were almost positive that it was Sarah Mackenzie who had told Charlie Sharpe that you had lost your virginity to some guy at the trailer park. You knew it was her because you had accidentally thrown a ball in her face during volleyball practice and given her a nosebleed. She had clearly taken it very personally. Because despite the fact that the rumour was completely unfounded and not at all true, Charlie had believed it anyway. Not only had he believed it but he had told his friends who told their friends who told—well, everyone.

The word had been graffitied in obnoxiously pink paint over your locker before lunch the next day. 

You didn’t really understand what the big deal was. Firstly because, the rumour wasn’t true and even if it was, the double standards felt painfully obvious. Guys at your school would talk quite openly about sex. They’d brag about it even, going into great detail about whoever they had hooked up with at a house party that weekend. But no, somehow being known as a slut was far worse than being a guy who jumped from girl to girl like they were disposable.

You thought the rumour would die eventually. That people would move on. But they didn’t.

Because another rumour—again, untrue—came only two weeks later. About a different guy. One who had a girlfriend. Apparently you had given him a blowjob behind the bike sheds. You hadn’t but that didn’t matter. You weren’t sure if Sarah was also behind the rumour but you wouldn’t have been surprised. People started to whisper about you as you walked by. Not only were you a slut, but also a homewrecker. You pretended as though you didn’t care. Like the word ‘slut’ hadn’t crept beneath your very skin and refused to leave.

The word had followed you through all of your junior year and into your senior year. You became numb to it at some point, rolling your eyes instead of bursting into tears. Guys treated you differently, girls were wary of you.

Had your best friend Robin Buckley not been by your side during your later high school years—you may have lost your mind. Whispers followed you wherever you went. You avoided guys like the plague. You didn’t want to draw any more attention to yourself, plus the guys who were interested in you were only really interested in you for one thing. You told yourself that you only had a few more months until you graduated and you could finally leave this small minded town where people still believed a rumour from when you were sixteen.

But then the earthquake happened and Hawkins was put under a strict quarantine. No one could leave. You graduated without knowing when you would be able to go to Smith College with Robin. And you were stuck with those same damn labels hanging over your head.

It had become very apparent to you that Robin was trying to set you up with her friend Steve. She had been dropping hint after not so subtle hint. It was amusing and even you could admit—Steve Harrington was incredibly attractive, funny and on the occasions that you had hung out with him (through Robin), you couldn’t deny that fluttering feeling you got in the pit of your stomach when he’d walk into the room. 

And maybe—just maybe—you were beginning to come around to the idea.

”C’mon,” Robin practically pleads as she flops down onto your bed dramatically. “Steve’s great! Really. Not a creep. Not a murderer. He thinks you’re pretty, he—”

You blink several times, turning to look at Robin with raised brow and a face that was starting to feel a little hot.

”He said that?” You ask her, trying to appear casual but the hopeful tone of your voice sounded anything but. 

“He did,” Robin confirms in a sing-song voice, a bright smile on her face. “His exact words were ‘she’s really, really pretty’. He also that you were smart and kind and—”

”Okay, okay,” you interject, your face now burning as you throw a sweatshirt at Robin to shut her up—which was something you hadn’t been able to master in over ten years of friendship. “I get it.”

Robin sits up, her blue eyes bright and hopeful. “So, will you do it? Please? Will you give him a chance? Just one? Please?”

You mull it over, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth before you look back at Robin. 

Having been your best friend for as long as she has, Robin already knew exactly why you were hesitating.

”You know he doesn’t care about what people say about you, right?” Robin asks you quietly, fixing you with a rarely seen serious expression. “He knows it isn’t true and even if it had been true—he still wouldn’t care.”

You knew—deep down—that she was right. You knew a guy like Steve—kind, caring, incredibly considerate—genuiely did not care what people said about you. You knew he wasn’t the kind of judge nor was he the type of guy who tied your worth to how many people you had or hadn’t slept with. But it didn’t stop you from caring. It didn’t stop your stomach from turning uncomfortably.

“He doesn’t care,” Robin repeats gently. “Trust me.”

And because she was your best friend, you did. And you went on a date with Steve Harrington the very next day.

And unfortunately for you—it had been the perfect first date. 

You didn’t even wait for a second date to kiss him.

And Steve Harrington quietly eased his way into your life like he had always been there.

“You two are sickening,” Robin tells you both fondly as you sit beside Steve in the booth at Sally’s diner, his arm slung around your shoulders while you trace your fingertip over his hand gently. You had only been dating a few weeks and you were at the point in your relationship where you were almost constantly touching one another. Robin had thought it was sweet at first, seemingly pleased that her match making had been successful but now? Now she thought you were both incredibly annoying.

”Oh, you love it really Buckley,” Steve grins, pressing a kiss to your cheek before he leans over to grab his mug of coffee. 

“I do not,” Robin counters with a roll of her eyes. “You two are disgusting. I practically have the word ‘third wheel’ tattooed on my forehead.”

Steve snorts into his coffee while you manage a faint smile. 

You were half paying attention to the conversation because the table directly behind Robin had grabbed your attention.

It wasn’t very often you saw people who had been to high school with you, mostly because you tended to keep to yourself but you would recognise those faces anywhere. Because they had been some of the ones behind the whispers. Because they had been the reason why high school had been so fucking awful for you. 

You try to act natural, try to keep up with the conversation that was flowing between Robin and Steve but your heart was beating fast—too fast. Your hands felt clammy and there was a faint ringing in your ears. You squeeze Steve’s hand once to help ground yourself before you get to your feet. 

“M‘just—I’m just going to go to the bathroom,” you tell both Robin and Steve. 

“Wait, are you ok—”

You don’t let Robin finish her sentence. Instead, you make a beeline to the diner’s bathroom, making sure not to pass by the table full of Hawkins High alumni.

The diner’s bathroom was empty and you breathed out a sigh of relief, resting your palms against the cool countertop and allowing yourself a few moments to calm down. You had to remind yourself that you were no longer in high school. That the rumours about you hadn’t even been true, that anyone who still cared about them now were childish and not worth your time. But what you had come to realise was that, though you had become numb to it, though you had rolled your eyes when people whispered about you—you still cared. You really fucking cared and you wished you didn’t.

You feel your traitorous eyes sting, just a little and you curse yourself for being so sensitive. You keep trying to tell yourself that it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t true. That you were more than what people thought you were. 

You take another deep breath, turning on the tap so you could splash some cold water on your face. But just as you cup your hands under the running water—the bathroom door opens. Your stomach drops and you feel a sense of panic that seems to seep into every nerve in your body and without even looking up, you know exactly who had just walked in. 

Lucy—or maybe it was Lily, you weren’t too sure—says your name in a sweet greeting that felt laced with poison.

“Hey! I haven’t seen you in such a long time! How have you been?” she asks, smiling kindly at you and you weren’t entirely sure whether or not she was being genuinely kind or simply pretending. It was hard to be sure since Lucy had been the girlfriend of the guy whose dick you had apparently sucked behind the bike shed all those years ago. They had broken up shortly after and she had blamed you for it. And then, she had gleefully joined in with all the slut shaming you had experienced.

But now Lucy was smiling at you like it was all forgotten and it was—a little confusing.

You blink, unsure whether or not it was some sort of trap. You try to think of a response, of something—anything—to say but your mind has gone blank. Your fingers curl against the countertop. The tap continues to run.

Lucy’s smile falters, just a little, when you say nothing. She sighs and stands at the basin beside yours, looking at your reflection in the mirror and smiling once again.

“I know you, um, probably don’t want to talk to me after everything I said about you back in high school,” she begins, choosing her words carefully. “But I—I just wanted you to know that—that I think about it a lot and I’m—I’m really sorry.”

You hadn’t been expecting that. Your eyes widen and you look back at her, shock apparently evident on your face as she laughs nervously.

“I know, I know sorry isn’t enough and it won’t ever be enough for those things I said. But—I was a teenager, you know and I was stupid and angry and I projected all my anger onto you instead of Paul and I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Oh,” you say finally because you didn’t know what else to say. You certainly weren’t going to forgive her because quite frankly, you didn’t want to but you appreciated her apologising all the same. It was better than the ones who pretended like it had never happened. “Well um, thank you. I—”

“—I mean, I should not have taken it out on you. I should have taken it out on Paul instead because he was the one who cheated—”

“—he didn’t cheat though,” you interject before you could stop yourself. “We never did anything. Someone made it up. I didn’t—”

Lucy laughs and the sound makes your gut churn uncomfortably.

“—oh c’mon,” she says, smiling as though this was some kind of joke. “I know you slept around a little in high school, it’s cool! It’s water under the bridge now—”

“—but I didn’t,” you say, your hands beginning to shake as you turn to look at her properly. “I was a virgin until, like senior prom—”

The way she laughs even harder at that makes your face burn with shame.

“I find that very hard to believe,” Lucy simpers.

You open your mouth to respond—or snap at her, or burst into tears, you weren’t sure yet—when the bathroom door slams open.

And when you turn, you see Steve Harrington standing in the doorway.

“This is the ladies,” Lucy tells him. “You can’t be in here—”

“Don’t care,” Steve interjects, his eyes focused solely on you as he closes the door behind him.

You blink a few times to try and stop the tears that were threatening to fall before Steve notices. But it was too late—because of course Steve noticed.

He’s at your side in seconds, palms resting on your shoulders and squeezing gently.

“You okay?” He asks. “You were gone for a while and Robin said—”

He stops himself and glances over at Lucy before looking back at you and you understand immediately what Robin had told him. You understand why it had been Steve who had come to check on you and not Robin.

“We were just catching up!” Lucy explains brightly. “We um, we knew each other in high school, didn’t we?”

Your eyes flicker down to the bathroom floor and you simply hum in acknowledgement.

Both Steve’s hands squeeze your shoulder once, twice—and it’s enough to make you look at him. You find that he’s looking at you with those honeyed brown eyes that make your body feel warm. Make your shoulders relax and your breathing even.

“Oh,” Lucy says in sudden understanding, stepping away from you and Steve as she steps towards the door. “I didn’t realise you two were—um, but that makes sense, I guess.”

You watch her leave, wishing that you didn’t understand what she meant by that. But you did. You understood that she wasn’t surprised that former ‘King Steve’ had ended up with Hawkins High’s resident slut.

“You okay?” Steve asks the moment you two were alone, his hands moving down your arms—causing a trail of goosebumps along your skin in their way—before he takes your hands and squeezes them gently. “Robin told me she was the girl who—”

“—she didn’t believe me,” you tell him quietly. “I tried to tell her that nothing ever happened between me and her boyfriend and sh—she didn’t believe me.”

“Baby, I’m—”

“—but you believe me, right?” You ask before you could stop yourself. You couldn’t help it. You hate yourself a little for second guessing him but the doubt was creeping in. And that word that still lived beneath your skin was starting to itch.

But the way Steve looks at you—almost offended that you would even ask such a question—tells you everything before he even opens his mouth.

“Without a doubt,” Steve vehemently states, his jaw tense but his touch remaining soft. “Of course I believe you, baby. I’m sorry that you even had to ask that question.”

You nod, letting out a breath that you hadn’t realised that you had been holding before your hands tentatively reach towards the front of his shirt. Just to hold him.

Steve’s eyes soften as he looks at you. He lifts one of his hands to cup your face gently, his touch so gentle and so Steve that you couldn’t help but look at him.

“Hey,” he says in a voice so soft and gentle that it smoothes over you like a calming balm. “I’m sorry she didn’t believe you, baby. I really am. It’s fucking bullshit nobody believed you back then and it’s bullshit they don’t believe you know. But you know, what? You know the truth. Robin knows the truth. I know the truth. The people who love you, who care for you, know the truth. Everyone else? Fuck ‘em.”

You let out a small, watery laugh, looking at Steve as you try fighting back a smile.

“There she is,” Steve murmurs, both hands now cupping your face gently as he wipes away some of the tears that had escaped without your permission. “Keep smilin’ like that, baby. And don’t let anyone try and take that beautiful smile away from you again, you hear me?” 

You sniffle before you nod, managing a weak smile. “I hear you,” you whisper back. “Thank you, Steve.”

“That’s Stevie to you,” Steve says, smiling back at you before he leans in to place a fierce kiss to your forehead. “Only you.”

You pull away enough to look at him with a skeptical look on your face. “But Robin calls you that too.”

“Yeah but—as a joke,” Steve explains, thumb still brushing over your cheek gently. “She doesn’t have my expressed permission to call me that, only you do.”

“That makes me feel special,” you say, unable to stop yourself from smiling now.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, his eyes dropping down to your lips. “You’re pretty fucking special.”

It was you who leaned in first, your fingers curling into his shirt as you pressed your lips against his. Steve almost instantly smiles against your lips before he melts into the kiss. His arms encircling your waist as your lips move against each other in a dance that was beginning to feel familiar. You barely even remember you were in a bathroom in a diner as Steve tugs you even closer by your belt loops.

You could have stayed there for much, much longer, if the bathroom door hadn't banged open again.

“Ugh! Seriously you two?”

You pull apart from Steve at the sound of Robin’s voice. Your face feels hot and Steve’s ears are red—though, his swollen lips twitch as if he’s trying not to smile.

“Can’t help it,” Steve grins, his arms still around you and a dopey sort of smile spreading across his face. “Your match making skills are just too good, Buckley.”

And as you lean your head against Steve’s shoulder—you couldn’t help but agree.

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mooney rambles: can’t believe the 2k special week is actually over! i was so worried i wasn’t going to stick to it but somehow i did! once again—thank you for 2k followers, i’m already on 2.8k (nearly 2.9k wtf) and i’m like 🥹🥹 thank you for the support, it means the world because i fucking love writing and i hope i never stop loving it

[bells-bookshelf]

there’s only me and you - steve harrington

a year after an earthquake splits hawkins in four, you’re having a hard time with the new normal. good thing you have steve on your side.

a/n: this one’s for all the girlies having a rough go of it lately <3 I see you and it will get better! set one year after the events of season 4 (March 1987) and a week before the very first crawl attempt. in my head this is the same reader from new beginning but you don’t have to read that fic before this one!! hope you enjoy <333

cw: slight angst - rehashing everyone’s s4 trauma, mentions of eddie’s death and dustin’s subsequent grief and general ~end of the world~ vibes but genuinely so fluffy for the most part

-

it’s the spring of 1987 in Hawkins, Indiana. the past year has been one of the hardest you’ve had to endure. nancy and jonathan danced around each other, trust seemingly non existent between the two. you watched as nancy pulled into herself, away from him and almost everyone else. her dream of being a journalist on hold, still stuck in a town she was itching to leave behind.

jonathan didn’t hang around you as much, opting to drop by when nancy was around and only stay a short while before leaving.

el doubled down on her training with hopper and joyce, so you saw her less and less too. although you understood, you were tired of only seeing everyone when it came time to plan out these crawls that were supposed to start in a week. you missed the random movie nights, late afternoon swims at lover’s lake, the kids stopping by during your shifts at the hawk. you even found yourself missing your old job at the hawk before the theater was half destroyed in the “earthquake”.

Lucas spent most of his time with max, watching over her and playing kate bush on loop for hours, hoping he’d see a glimpse of life.

and maybe worst of all, you all had lost eddie, and a part of dustin died with him. you watched him become a shell of the person he was, grief chipping away at his innocence and kind, gentle demeanor bit by bit.

steve got the brunt of dustin’s fallout. always wanting to fix things, make it better for people, he missed that things can crumble if you try to hold onto them too hard. with both yours and steve’s parents opting to leave town after the events of last spring, you had practically moved into the harrington home.

it felt magical at the start: shared breakfasts, getting groceries together, dinner by the pool. and it still was in so many ways. but the looming threat of vecna’s return and overbearing military presence, coupled with rarely seeing the people who had become your family was starting to wear on you.

it came to a head one evening when steve came home late from a shift at the squawk and all but collapsed on the couch next to you, a hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

you crawled over to him from your spot, curling into his side. he wrapped his other arm around you reflexively, his hand still firmly on his nose, eyes closed.

“hey baby,” he murmured. “missed you.”

you smiled, wrapping an arm around his middle and trying to pull yourself impossibly closer.

“missed you more. how was work?”

“ugh, the usual. I love her but robin’s adding more sound effects and tapes to keep things… I dunno, realistic, or something. it feels impossible to remember it all and then she gets all pissy at me when I miss my queues. but there’s like, a hundred of em! and dustin still won’t fucking talk to me, and jonathan’s still acting so weird any time he’s near me,” steve sighs loudly. he finally drops his hand from his nose and looks down at you. his features soften immediately. “im sorry baby, didn’t mean to vent.”

you shake your head. “no, you’re fine. it’s been so exhausting lately. it feels like we’re all just treading water.”

he nods, then leans down to give you a quick kiss. “we’re gonna get out of this,” he says.

you look at him for a moment. he looks so grown up for being 21 years old. tears prick your eyes and you sniffle before you can stop yourself. steve jumps into action, closing his arms around you in a hug.

“hey, hey, shhh. what’s wrong, honey?”

you take a few moments to come back to yourself. you sniffle. “i-it’s just, lately i’ve really been missing how things were before last year. i-i miss hanging out with everyone without talking about vecna, and i miss when dustin wanted to be our friend, and i miss our saturdays where we’d just get up and run errands and have a nice dinner together,” your voice is quiet, like admitting you don’t completely like the new arrangement and routine is a taboo thought.

“i know we’re going to figure it out, but i could really just use some normal days sprinkled in,” you add.

steve kisses the top of your head and rocks you in his arms for a moment. “well, tomorrow’s saturday,” he says.

you push yourself out of his hug just slightly so you can look at him. “b-but don’t you have to work? or go over crawl plans with nancy and jonathan?”

steve just shrugs. “we’ve been working on this stuff for months. it can wait a day. besides,” his mouth tugs into a signature steve harrington smile, “my girl needs me.”

you feel your cheeks blush at his words as you grab the lapels of his windbreaker to pull him in for a proper kiss. you both smile as you break apart. “thank you, steve.”

he just leans back into your lips in return.

-

you wake up the next morning to an empty bed. frowning slightly at the loss of morning cuddles from steve, you’re hit with the smell of fresh coffee drifting into your room. you sit up slowly, stretching and pulling on your favorite crewneck of steve’s and padding down the stairs.

your heart swells at the sight. steve has his back to you as he pours your favorite creamer into a coffee cup. there are eggs and pancakes on the dining table, and a bowl of what look like fresh strawberries.

“well hey handsome,” you giggle.

steve turns to you, your designated mug in his hands. “good morning, gorgeous girl,” he smiles as he hands you the mug, gingerly guiding you to the table with a hand on the small of your back. he pushes your chair in for you and kisses your cheek as he rounds the table to sit across from you.

“you, wow- you didn’t have to do all of this, stevie,” you say through a mouthful of pancake.

he chuckles. “like you said, honey, it’s been a long time since we had a normal day. why not pull out all the stops?”

you nod slowly, taking a sip of coffee that warms you from the inside out. you peer out to the backyard. it’s a sunny day.

“steve?”

“yeah, baby?”

“can we go grocery shopping and then have a picnic in the backyard with the food we buy?”

steve doesn’t just smile, he beams at you, all teeth for a moment, his eyes crinkling. when you first started staying at his house more, you learned one of the things the two of you had in common was how much you hated getting groceries.

to stop yourselves from ordering from the same pizza place every other night, you came up with the idea to splurge on a few nice cheeses and meats, maybe one loaf of fancy bread, too, and have a little picnic in the backyard or by the fireplace if it was cold, as a reward. it was one of the first times steve could see his future so clearly in front of him, after all of this was over and it was just the two of you, making the most of the little things. he can’t remember the last time the two of you went grocery shopping together. maybe november?

he pulls himself back into the present. “you took the thought out of my head, honey.”

-

grocery shopping goes by all too quickly, with steve riding the cart down empty aisles, making you laugh so loud you get looks from people in neighboring aisles.

you notice that the bakery is open today on the way home, excitedly ooh-ing at the sign from the car. before you know it, steve’s making a u-turn and pulling into the parking lot.

“oh, steve, that’s okay. we don’t have to-“

“nuh-uh honey, you want a pastry, you get a pastry. let’s go pick one out yeah?” and like always, you just can’t bring yourself to say no to those eyes. you smile, leaning over the console to kiss him before exiting the car. you and steve end up picking up two fruit tarts and two croissants that you add to the picnic.

steve holds your hand over the center console the whole way back to his house, each swipe of his thumb over your palm sending butterflies into your ribcage.

later, on the gingham blanket in the backyard, you bite into the fruit tarte, eyes widening as the berry flavors explode over your taste buds. “mmm! ‘tevie you gotta try this,” you say, thrusting the tarte towards him mid-bite. he leans forward and bites a piece off himself, eyes rolling back comically.

“I think I could eat like 700 of those,” he says, nodding vigorously.

you giggle, leaning over to wipe some crumbs off of the corner of his mouth. he grabs your wrist before you can pull your hand back, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. his eyes soften before turning serious.

“I’m sorry things have been so insane lately, babe. thank you for staying with me through all of this. and i mean the demodogs, starcourt, all of it. i love you, so much,” he says, kissing the inside of your wrist again.

your eyes water and you can’t help the shake in your voice as you lean over to press your forehead against his. “‘course, steve. i love you, and you’ll have me as long as you want me.”

he groans, leaning in for a kiss. he deepens it as he pushes you flat against the blanket, his tongue gently sliding over your top lip. he pulls away, eyes dark. “you can’t just say stuff like that so.. so.. naturally. drives me insane, honey.”

you lean up to peck his lips again. “but i mean it.”

he smiles down at you. “i know you do.”

-

you and steve spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the house. you handle the laundry, clean the bathroom, and change the bedsheets while steve wipes down the counters, vacuums, and fixes the broken window in one of the guest bedrooms.

you cook dinner side by side; chicken parmesan and noodles, the meal you had on your first date at enzo’s two summers ago. you eat in front of the tv, blankets piled high.

you curl into steve and start dozing off an hour later, empty plates abandoned on the coffee table. steve slips out from your grasp to take care of the dishes, careful to not distrub you.

you wake up to steve lifting you up into his arms and carrying you upstairs. you make a soft noise and curl closer into his chest, making his heart swell at the way you trust him completely.

he sets you down in the bathroom, handing you your brush, toothpaste on it and everything. “brush,” he says. “I’ll get the bed ready.”

you come out of the bathroom a few moments later, eyes already drooping. steve’s in bed already, the lamp light dim. he glances up from the magazine he’s flipping through and gives you a soft smile. “there she is.”

you smile back at him and whisper “hey stevie,” before climbing in next to him. it’s a warmer night so he’s left the windows open, the breeze a welcome change. you curl up into his chest and he wastes no time covering you with the duvet and wrapping his arms around you, reaching over you to turn off the lamp.

you lean back in the darkness, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “thank you for today, stevie. best day ever,” you mumbled, fading into sleep fast.

you felt the chuckle in Steve’s chest more than you heard it. he kissed your head. “of course, sweet girl… you know somethin’?” his voice is gentle, delicate.

“hmm?”

“one day, all of this is gonna end. we’ll kick vecna’s ass, the military will get the hell outta hawkins, and we’re gonna get to live our lives. you’re gonna go to college, and I’ll visit you every weekend. might even get a job closer to the city so I can afford my own place. and then, after you graduate, we can get a house of our own. like this one, or a little smaller, since we don’t really need all this space yet. and we can go grocery shopping and have picnics and have the gang over for dinners once a month. i promise you honey, we’re gonna get through this,” his voice cracks a little on the last few words, and you’re shedding a tear or two yourself. you reach up to stroke his cheek, smiling at him in the dim moonlit room.

“i can’t wait, stevie. it’s always gonna be you and me. i love you so much.”

“love you forever, honey.”

the two of you drift off to sleep, wrapped in each other. and for a moment, the chaos stills, the sound of military patrol on the street fades, and the looming threat of the upside down quiets.

it’s you and steve. a team of your own inside the found family you’ve created, and the little, magical ball of hope you both hold onto to pull you through this.

and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

[purrsonline]

MDNI 18+ — >///<

thinking about sweetie pie boyfriend! steve harrington to drive by the cars. oh my lordddd 80s man. smooth synthesizers in my ears. those big brown puppy dog eyes. pretty like a girl steve harrington i love you.

listening to the song and my mouth is foaming and frothing at the thought of him being the most whipped boyfriend ever. the boyfriend ever who would just be absolutely infatuated with you and want to be touching you in some way at all the times. a single session of head scratches from you and he was all melty, gooey mush.

the boyfriend ever that remembers to keep his glove compartment stocked with snacks just for you because he knows you’ll get hungry and you loveee to eat sweet treats. (bonus points if you’re the only one who’s allowed to eat in the car since he doesn’t trust anyone else to not spill.)

sweetie pie boyfriend!steve would totally end up knowing what you’re asking for before the words even leave your mouth. the subconscious flick of your eyes onto whatever object you needed and he’s already halfway to grabbing it. even if you didn’t notice your own eyes wandering, he did. because he was looking at you the whole time, knew what you needed, knew how to fulfill your needs without being told.

bonus points and actually clears the entire game if he’s incredibly into worship. likeee i’m thinking about him being sooo much taller than you, but somehow finding sanctuary beneath you. looking up at you like you’re something of a god and willing to give you anything and everything.

you’re treated with such care. each touch is painstaking, yet assured. years of inter-dimensional monster hunting made him a little more rugged, tough in all the right places. but that changes nothing in how gently he handles you. he’s just so sickeningly sweet, that sometimes you wish he’d be anything but that. roughen you up a little too. he’s hesitant on the idea of that, but steve’s always eager to please.

and mayhaps i’m being shy but definitelyy heavy on him being vocal. he’s no stranger to showering you in compliments, ones that showed he paid attention to the little details. but ohhh my lord, in bed the comments are CRAZYYY. there’s never a moment of silence the second that your hands are on him. you’d felt pretty before, but you’ve never felt so sexy until him. and getting that big, strong man to whimper at the sight of you open and vulnerable for him. oh, you’re definitely gonna be getting random flashbacks the day after.

Goodnight world, helloooo steve harrington 😛😛😛

[werewolfoffeverswamp]

sometimes i feel i have to restrain myself bc i think reblogging someones art with tags along the lines of I LIKED IT SO MUCH I KILLED MYSELF is not always gonna fly. but im always thinking about it

[vamptales]

early mornings | kurt kunkle x reader

summary: kurt wakes up from a dream about you, and he can’t help but act on his desires.

warnings: somnophilia!! do not read if you are uncomfortable with that sort of theme. everything is consented to beforehand. whiny and pathetic kurt, vaginal fingering, brief masturbation (m), oral (f receiving), somewhat of nipple play, unprotected sex, creampie.

wc: 5k

a/n: this was a request, i hope it’s okay :) reblogs/replies/likes are appreciated and requests are open!!

The birds were just beginning to chirp outside of the window, the morning sun barely beginning to rise. Through the cracks in the blinds of Kurt’s bedroom, the morning rays had slowly begun to peek through.

Everything was still in the room, peaceful and calm. Aside from Kurt’s thoughts. His mind was racing, as you lay next to him sound asleep. He woke up from a certain kind of dream about you, images of you riding him with your tits bouncing in his face as you had a hand wrapped around his throat. The way you called him a good boy, singing out praise as you took what you needed from him. His cock was straining in his sweatpants since he woke up, the amount of precum he leaked during his dream making a wet spot form on the front of the material.

He let out a small whine, his hips shifting as he tried to fall back asleep. He was so turned on, his mind so consumed with thoughts of you and how badly he wanted you. He turned his head to the side of the bed you were on, laying on your side facing him with your pretty lips slightly parted in just an oversized t-shirt and your underwear. His eyes studied you for a few moments with a look of admiration and need hidden in his eyes.

Kurt rolled onto his side and reached out to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, his hand shaky from the way he was holding back against his urges. “Fuck..” He muttered under his breath, reaching down with his other hand to palm at his aching cock as it tented in his sweatpants.

A shaky exhale came from him at the feeling, Kurt’s eyes slipping shut for a few seconds. He bit down on his lower lip, picturing it was your hand on him instead. You always made him feel so good, the way you flicked your wrist just the right way as you stroked his thick cock. He loved how you paid extra attention to his sensitive tip, your pretty pink lips wrapped around it in such a sinful way as you gently sucked and swirled your tongue around it. The way you always kept your eyes locked on him nearly sent him into cardiac arrest every single time. You were so good to him, and he was utterly obsessed with you in every way possible.

Another whine escaped his chapped lips, his breathing growing heavier as his need for you grew stronger. It was getting increasingly harder for him to hold back, he felt filthy. Wrong. You were asleep, he shouldn’t be so turned on like he is and he shouldn’t be fighting back the urge to touch you and take what he needed right now. But the thought of stuffing you with his cock right now consumed his brain, in ways that were driving him crazy.

He moved his hand away from you and his other away from his cock as he turned onto his back again, inhaling deeply and exhaling through his mouth. He was trying so hard to clear his head, to calm himself down and just fall back asleep until it was actually a decent hour to wake up at and he wasn’t so riled up and turned on. But having a clear mind for a few moments only served to help him remember a few weeks prior, when you and him had a talk about boundaries and what sort of things you’d both be okay with.

The conversation came up due to how serious things were headed with the two of you, and due to how often you two were staying the night at each other’s houses now. You’d been together for just a year now, and while you’d had talks at the start of your relationship, this was different. It was deeper, more of the real things coming out with the two of you because of the milestone.

Something you had mentioned—with rosy tinted cheeks and a gaze that met the floor rather than Kurt’s eyes—was that being used in your sleep was something that interested you. The idea of feeling so wanted in that way sparked a certain kind of heat low in your belly, and made your entire body feel like it was on fire. You had a special sort of interest in feeling needed like that—just knowing that your partner couldn’t wait and needed to have you as quick as they could.

When you mentioned it, Kurt’s eyes lit up and his stomach turned as he pictured it in his head. His first instinct was an immediate yes, thinking how that was definitely something he wanted as well. He licked his lips as he thought it over, momentarily tuning you out as you went into more detail about it and the extent of your boundaries regarding it. You had to snap him out of his thoughts, as he shook his head and focused on you again to show he was paying attention.

At the time of, after the question really settled in, he asked you explicitly if you were sure that was okay—with an insane amount of nerves swarming his head and making his voice shaky and stuttery. You had told him yes, each time he asked for reassurance—which happened to be about three times before you huffed and shut him up with a soft kiss to ease his newfound anxiety from the conversation. And that was that.

As time went on, however, Kurt still hesitated. He was always so worried about upsetting you—his biggest fear was losing you and what the two of you had together. Time kept dragging, and he didn’t act on it—instead keeping to your usual way of doing things together.

But fuck, did he want it. Kurt turned his head to eye you down again, how you now shifted and were on your back with your shirt pulled taut over your chest from the movement—your pebbled nipples visible through the thin fabric. He cursed under his breath again, his heart pounding in his chest as he debated it over in his mind. You said you were okay with it, you gave him the green light. He knew you wouldn’t be upset with him, so why was he so nervous you would be instead?

Kurt had a mental debate for another solid minute, the sound of a soft sigh escaping your lips from next to him—as you shifted the slightest bit again—being what broke him out of it. He decided to go for it, after all.

He started first with his shaky hand reaching out toward you again, but instead of your hair—he went for your breast. His hand cupped your tit in his large hand, letting out a whine as he gently squeezed while his thumb swiped over your hardened nipple through the thin fabric covering it. He swallowed the built up saliva in his throat, his cock twitching in the confines of his sweatpants and boxers. He was so turned on that his cock was throbbing with the complete need to be deep inside of your pussy pounding into you.

He fondled your boob for a few moments—something he was always a fan of doing as he was obsessed with your boobs in every way—before he finally scooted himself a bit closer to you. The room was filled with his heavy breathing, the way he let out huffs of air from his nose as he slid his hand lower and carefully began to place it under your shirt.

His calloused hand slid up the smooth skin of your stomach, dragging the shirt up a bit as much as it could go while he went. He shut his eyes at the feeling of your soft skin under his rough palm, his hand cupping your tit fully now.

With a nervous look in his eyes, Kurt glanced up at your face again—making sure you weren’t stirring awake yet. He wanted to try and drag this out for as long as he could. He took his time gently playing with your nipples, growing more confident as the seconds passed with his hands on you.

Kurt’s hand slipped out of your shirt, while he did his best to lift your top up with a whine of frustration at how it was trapped with how you were laying. He wanted his mouth on you—your nipple between his lips as he sucked at it and drooled all over you. When your shirt wouldn’t budge, he gave up for now. Instead he scooted himself a bit closer again, nervously leaning down and beginning to mouth lightly at the exposed skin of your lower belly.

His teeth nipped at your stomach just next to your belly button, his tongue poking out next to drag it over your skin. He groaned to himself, lightly sucking a mark in his trace before he pulled back. Kurt paused when you moved again, your legs shifting position on the creaky mattress as you let out another soft sigh when you settled again. His wide eyes stayed on you for a few baited breaths, waiting with his heartbeat in his ears if you were going to wake up right now. Before he could even really get started.

When you remained asleep, he let go of the breath he was holding and shut his eyes to compose himself. Kurt swallowed thickly, his fingers dancing along the waistband of your underwear. He went over it in his head again, momentarily thinking if he should. If that was okay. The question barely left a taste on his tongue before he gave in to his desires, his slender fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties.

A groan instantly fell from his lips when his fingers met your folds—already a bit slick with arousal. He began to wonder if you were having any sort of dream about him as well, if sinful images of the two of you danced behind your eyelids as you slept so soundly next to him on his bed.

Kurt dragged his middle finger through your folds, dipping down to graze over your hole as he gathered the bit of arousal that was present. He trailed his finger back up again, before he carefully began to circle your clit. His ears perked up at the sound of a soft whimper escaping you, even in your sleep. He watched while your eyebrows twitched, disrupting your once peaceful features.

Kurt’s eyes were dark with a deep sense of desire, his veins thrumming with how needy he felt. The pad of his middle finger soft rubbed over your clit, while his free hand once again slipped down to grasp his cock through his sweatpants.

He hissed with pleasure, speeding up the circles he was rubbing your clit with. More wetness began to build, another whimper being made from you as Kurt’s ring finger joined his middle in his efforts of pleasuring you as you slept.

Momentarily, he paused what he was doing and pulled his hand out. He hooked his fingers under his own waistbands, tugging both his sweatpants and his boxers down together to free his hard cock. He sighed in relief, the cool air of the fan blowing lightly against his skin while he shivered.

Kurt was quick to return to what he was doing with you, though, his fingers eagerly slipping under the waistband of your panties again and clumsily finding your clit. His free hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself with the same speed he was rubbing you with. A needy moan fell from his parted lips, precum leaking from his tip and slipping down the side of his cock.

His cheeks were a deep shade of crimson, hearing the sound of your arousal begin to grow more audible in the otherwise quiet room with the wetter you got for him. Kurt slipped his fingers lower now, pushing his middle one into your tight hole. He hissed with the way your pussy was barely letting his finger in, your walls tight around his single finger as he eased it into you. He had his lip tucked between his teeth, his hips steadily lifting to fuck his hand while he began to finger you.

“Fuck, babe..” Kurt muttered, your pussy practically squeezing his finger. You were so wet for him like this, your cunt dripping before you even opened your eyes. He found this entire situation so hot, your body completely his to use how he wanted right now. He knew you could wake up at any moment, and he was so eager to hear your pretty moans and see the look of momentary confusion adorn your features as you pieced together what was happening between your legs. Fuck, he wanted to witness that so badly. He wanted you to wake up as he finger fucked you greedily, maybe even as he lapped at your pussy and tasted you how he so badly craved.

Once he felt you were ready for it, his ring finger slid in alongside his middle—the two fingers now quickly moving inside of your soaked cunt. His hand faltered on his cock, his body trembling with how turned on he was.

A moan finally came from you, Kurt’s lips breaking out into a smile. “Y–Yeah, that’s right..” He spoke quietly, feeling shy even if you were still asleep. “Knew you’d love this.” Kurt mumbled, his long fingers curling as his pace sped up.

Your body shifted again, more than it did beforehand, and he knew you must’ve been waking up finally. Kurt pulled his hand away from his cock, pausing with you as he pushed himself to sit up on his knees facing you. He resumed the movement of his fingers, now fully focused on your face as he curled them again while his palm slapped against your needy pussy. His free hand nudged your thigh closest to him, spreading your legs further apart so he could have better access to your pussy.

Kurt felt as your hole clenched around him, his eager eyes watching your features shift and your eyebrows furrow. He had a grin on his face, looking like a mess while he fingered you with sloppy excitement. His heart pounded in his chest when your eyes finally blinked open, your bleary gaze instantly landing on your boyfriend.

Your cheeks bloomed a deep shade of red, the realization setting in just how Kurt hoped it would. Your lips parted with another moan, your boyfriend letting out a tiny laugh at how his plan worked out. “Good morning.” He greeted you, sounding far too casual for how he was knuckle deep inside of you. “N–Needed you so badly.”

Your hazy brain couldn’t even come up with a response right away, feeling clouded with lust and residual feelings of sleep as your eyes slipped shut again and your back arched. “I–“ The words fell off into a gaspy whimper, Kurt’s face full of delight at the sound. It was no secret that he loved knowing he was making you feel good, he lived off of it. Any sort of sound of pleasure you made, or any praise you spoke, had him weak in the knees and his chest swelling with pride.

“F–Fuck..” You moaned, feeling like a complete pile of mush as Kurt’s palm continuously slapped against your pussy with a lewd wet sound and his fingers hit the perfect spot inside of you.

Kurt pulled his fingers out after a few seconds, the abruptness making you lift your head again with a look of betrayal in your tired stare. He didn’t give you time to question it though, his hands quickly tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them to the floor. His pupils dilated at the sight of your pretty pussy on display for him, folds dripping with the arousal he caused.

Before you knew it, he was laying on his stomach between your legs and his mouth was on you instantly. You gasped again, your hand reaching down to tangle in his hair as his mouth latched onto your puffy clit. His tongue flicked at it with a sense of familiarity—something he learned over time with your help and gentle guidance as he figured out how to go down on you.

Kurt moaned against you, eagerly sucking and lapping up your slick arousal that coated your folds. He breathed you in for a second, his eyes rolling back before his mouth was back on you properly again.

“Kurt, baby– Slow down–“ You tried to request, your words broken up with soft breaths as he ate you out like his life depended on it. You wondered how long he had been doing any of this for—how long his hands roamed your skin and his fingers fucked into you for before you woke up.

He was in a rush now that you were awake, going all in and devouring you in the best way. You moaned out his name, thighs pressing against the sides of his head and your hand tugging at his hair. Already, you felt like you were close. You could feel that familiar coil deep in your belly, winding tighter as Kurt brought you where you now so desperately needed to be.

Kurt pulled back for just a second, gathering saliva with his tongue before spitting onto your pussy. You gasped, feeling it land directly on your hole before his tongue began to fuck into you. His hands were gripping your thighs, the blunt feeling of his nails digging into your soft skin making your head spin and your stomach muscles tighten.

He was grinding his cock against the mattress, the friction making him moan against you as he grew more frantic with the movements of his hips. He was so wound up, desperately searching for release of his own. He had his eyes shut with full focus on you, the tight grip he had on your thighs leaving a subtle ache that you knew would leave bruises after all of this was done and over with.

Your hips began to shift now as well, grinding against his face as he followed the movements with his mouth. When Kurt ate you out, he was like a man starved. He was so nervous and shy with it at first, but after you helped him learn things and gave tips—he was a completely different person. He could make you see stars with his mouth on your clit or his tongue fucking into your needy hole. He loved to have his face buried between your thighs, and he was obsessed with feeling your thighs clench around his head. The taste and smell of you turned him into a crazed version of himself, and he had no sense of shame about it.

You began to let out a string of curse words, inching closer to your release as your body tensed up and your jaw dropped open. Your thighs began to shake, your hips stuttering against his face as Kurt’s mouth brought you to your orgasm. You came with a near squeak of his name, Kurt moaning into your drenched folds again as he drank up your release—while his own crashed over him as well.

He released thick ropes of cum against the mattress with a needy whimper muffled into your pussy, his own thighs were trembling with how hard he finished. He was breathing heavily against you, yet still so insistent on giving you his all.

His mouth didn't let up, until you tapped out with three taps to his hand on your thigh. Kurt pulled back with a pleased look on his face and your arousal coating his lips and chin, your thighs falling open and still trembling while you panted to catch your breath.

Kurt lifted his hand and wiped his mouth, his own breathing labored and matching yours. He gave you a few seconds before he cracked open the silence again. “Well..” He trailed off, his usual nerves mixed with his jittery pride he felt for himself.

A breathy laugh came from you, shaking your head. “Well, good fucking morning.” You breathed out, a grin of disbelief on your face as you tore your gaze away from the ceiling to meet his eyes. “Holy shit, Kurt.”

He grew shy under your tender gaze, blushing deeply as he scratched at the back of his neck. “Was it.. okay?” He asked nervously, and you gave him a dumbfounded look for a second before you tugged him up so he was hovering over you. His cock twitched at the action, still so sensitive as it slowly softened against your thigh.

“Okay? Baby, that was so good.” You replied, pulling Kurt in for a messy kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and the fact made you moan softly into the kiss. Once you pulled away, you kept your faces close together, “I thought you just weren’t into it like I was, I completely dropped the thought so I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

Kurt quickly shook his head at your confession, looking fully serious. As serious as he could be with his cock pressed to your thigh with no barriers of clothing—threatening to get hard again just from the conversation being held. “No, I’m– I’m so into it.” He replied, swallowing. “I wanna do it again.” He spilled his own confession, and your eyes lit up a bit at the words with an eager grin.

You pressed another kiss to his lips, “Next time maybe you can wake me up by fucking me?” You suggested, Kurt’s eyes nearly bulging out of his head. “You’d like that, hm, Kurtie?” You teased once you saw his reaction, looking almost feral as he nodded quickly in response.

“Yeah, I–“ He paused for a second, letting out a shaky breath. “I want that. Wanna do that so bad.” He looked shy above you, yet crazed at the same time as his eyes were widened with lingering arousal and his chin still glistening with your release that was missed when he wiped it. Your hand cupped his chin, swiping your thumb over it before pressing it to his lips.

Kurt parted them for you, allowing you to push your thumb into his mouth as he wrapped his lips around it. He ran his tongue over the pad, his eyes on yours as he lightly sucked. You cracked a small smile at him again, pulling your thumb free and cupping his cheek instead. “You’re such a good boy for me, Kurt.”

He whined softly, his cock stirring again from where it was still pressed to your thigh. He ducked his head, pressing it into your neck as he breathed you in. The familiar scent of your now slightly faded body wash, mixed with a subtle smell of the sweat that coated your skin as he pleasured you filled his senses. “Please, I want–“ He trailed off, shifting his hips forward to press his steadily hardening cock against you a bit firmer. “I need you.”

Kurt moved a bit, settling fully between your legs instead of having your thigh between his. His sensitive length pressed to your core—your thighs spreading further to fit him perfectly between them. His head lifted as he gave you a pleading look with glassy eyes, “Please?” He requested, as you nodded in response.

He smiled at the permission, sloppily kissing your lips. He was so frantic with it, nearly missing your mouth as he dove in with all teeth and tongue. You gasped at the sudden roughness from him, melting into the kiss with a breathy giggle. Kurt pulled back, supporting his weight with one arm as he reached down to wrap a hand around his cock.

Kurt let out a shuddery breath, stroking himself to full hardness as he groaned out. Your pussy clenched around nothing at the sound of it, hands roaming up his body mindlessly as Kurt brought his tip to your cunt.

Both of you were shaky, lost in your own world as the sun was steadily rising higher in the morning sky. The golden rays were peeking through the blinds even more now, casting shadows on Kurt’s face. When he moved a certain way, the sun caught his eyes and made them look so pretty with how the light bounced off of them in a golden shine. You were admiring him with a soft look of love, all while Kurt dragged his tip through your soaked folds.

A shaky sound left the two of you simultaneously—Kurt’s hazel eyes looking at you as you cupped his cheek. He pressed his tip to your hole, pushing in with a hitch of his breath and a gasp from you.

As Kurt sunk in, your hands moved to tangle in his hair. Your cunt was tight around him, squeezing him in a way that had him already feeling done for. He felt like he wasn’t going to last long—not with the way your needy pussy sucked him in so warm and wet around him.

His hips were flush to yours now, taking a few seconds to collect himself with heavy breathing. His breath fanned across your face, the two of you just breathing each other in for a few still moments. He knew if he moved too soon, he would finish after just a few pumps. He was trying so hard to contain himself enough, he wanted this to be good for you. He needed you so badly.

Your hips rolled against his as you grew impatient, making Kurt whine out. He took the hint and pulled almost all the way out before thrusting his cock back in deeply. He picked up a sloppy pace right away, lacking coordination but still fucking you in such a delicious way that made your toes curl and your hands tighten into fists in his messy hair.

He was loud with the sounds he made, pure desperation seeping from him as he fucked you. His skin slapped against yours, the two of you panting together. “Fuck.” Kurt whined, ducking his head as he tried to meet your lips.

The kiss lasted for just a second, Kurt having to pull away as his stomach was already tightening from how quickly the pleasure was building up. His cheeks were warm, his eyes shut and his bottom lip now tucked between his teeth while his head tilted back. You watched as he lost himself in you, your legs wrapping around his waist. The slight change in position caused his cock to hit inside of you deeper, a sudden moan falling from your lips at the feeling.

Kurt’s arms were shaking as he had his weight supported, his chest brushing yours—you so badly wished your shirt was off so you could feel his chest hair brushing your sensitive nipples. “I’m close, I– Shit.” He gasped out, feeling you slip a hand away from his hair to bring it down between your bodies.

Your fingers circled your throbbing clit, now searching for your own release as Kurt neared his. You wanted to finish with him, to coat his cock with your juices as he filled you with his warm cum.

“I’m close, I’m so close.” He whined, throbbing inside of you with the need to fill you. You tightened your legs around his waist, feeling so needy for him as much as he was for you.

“Please, Kurt, please.” You begged, your lips parted and your eyes threatening to shut. “I need it, baby. Please cum for me. Fill me up, baby, please.” Your words made him instantly groan, his face falling to your neck again as his hips stuttered and he began to finish inside of you. His warm cum shot into you, his hips losing their rhythm even more. Kurt let out a cry against your skin, your fingers gaining speed on your clit.

Your thighs began to tremble as you followed him in finishing, your cunt so tight around him as your body seized up. Your head was thrown back, feeling Kurt messily kiss your neck as he struggled to keep fucking you through it with how sensitive he was. A pathetic whine tumbled from his lips, finally slowing to a stop as he let his weight slump over top of you.

The only sounds in the room were the two of you panting, Kurt’s breathing labored and shaky. You pulled your hand away from your clit—both of you so tired and finally feeling fully satisfied. Birds were chirping outside, the neighborhood slowly waking up as it now neared seven in the morning. Kurt felt just about ready to sleep some more, his eyes drooping and a soft yawn taking over him for a second.

When he lifted his head as he finally came to, he moved his hips and slowly pulled out of you. The two of you winced at the feeling of slight overstimulation—both of you so sensitive from everything—as Kurt rolled over to plop on his back beside you again with a huff of exhaustion. You felt his cum slowly leaking from your used hole, your thighs clenching together with a blush on your cheeks.

Kurt looked at you as you sat up suddenly, scooting to the edge of the bed. He pouted, “Where are you going?” He asked, eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t want your little bubble popped so soon. He wanted to lay with you and enjoy the moment together, listening to the sound of your soft breathing and the birds waking up outside.

You smiled as you looked at him, “Shower. Come on.” You replied, turning to head to the bedroom door. Kurt whined, feeling too lazy to move. You turned back toward him again, grabbing the hem of your shirt and tugging it over your head.

His eyes instantly fell to your chest, shamelessly eyeing your boobs that were now on full display much like how he wanted them to be earlier on. “I’ll let you wash my boobs for me.” You offered, Kurt’s eyes snapping to yours with wild excitement. He was quick to shoot up from his bed, grabbing your hand and tugging you down the hallway with him as the sound of your laughter echoed off the walls.

[bells-bookshelf]

new beginning - steve harrington

you take the party to the pool on a hot summer day in hawkins. how were you to know this would tee you up for a swim lesson with the guy you’ve been crushing on since october?

lifeguard!steve x reader; fluff/v slight angst

a/n: hi friends! the writing bug has bitten me for the moment. here is a dreamy lil swim lesson to lovers with Steve for you while i work on chapter 5 of pick up the pieces. this is set between season 2 and 3, let’s pretend this is what happened before starcourt opened :) i loved writing for Steve and there will def be more Steve fics in the future! enjoy <3

cw: fear of drowning, swimming accident/pool accident (nobody is hurt), reader has had a near-death/very scary swimming incident that is described in her own words. nothing graphic but be advised!

-

Summer in Hawkins was always one of the best times of the year for you. No assignments to worry about, no school, and barely seeing your parents outside of dinner a few times a week, if that. 

The second week of June, 1985, is the hottest on record for the town, and it seems that most people have had the same idea and are flocking to the community pool. 

Being off shift from The Hawk today, you volunteer to take Mike, Lucas, Max, and Will so they can get some swim time in. 

With Nancy and Johnathan at their Post internship and Robin under her pressure from her parents to find work, you figure the kids would appreciate you chaperoning. Plus, Steve will probably be working. 

You’ve had the beginnings of a ginormous crush on him ever since he roped you into saving Hawkins from an army of demodogs nine months ago, but given his heartbreak over Nancy and the general need for a little normalcy in everyone’s lives, you’ve kept it tight to your chest. 

That’s how you end up with four pre-teens in your car, arguing over what activities they’re going to do first. 

“That’s ridiculous, we a hundred percent need to start with the water slide! We’re not gonna want to wait in the line after we’ve gotten in the pool!” Mike shouts as he tries to grab a bag of sour candy out of the tote you packed. 

Max slaps his hand away. “That’s for *after* we swim, genius. And the water slide is gross. Only babies want to go on it.”

You see Will groan in the passenger seat and wink at him. He smiles back. 

“Look, why don’t Mike and Lucas go to the slide first, and Max and Will can jump right into swimming? That shouldn’t be too hard for me to keep track of anyways,” you cut in. 

Lucas scoffs. “Yeah and that’ll give you enough time to stare at Harrington in the life guard deck. Ooooh look at me, Steve, I’m wearing a brand new bathing suit. Did you noti-“ he’s cut off by your flip flop hitting him in the face. “Hey!” He protests. 

“Not another word about Steve, or I turn this car around,” you huff, but your cheeks are hot at Lucas’s extremely accurate assessment. 

The rest of the car ride is pretty quiet. Mike and Lucas take off the second you shift into park in the pool lot, and Max and Lucas stay behind to help you grab out all of your things. 

Max nudges your arm as the three of you walk into the gated section and scan the area for seats. “He’s here,” she says, nodding towards Steve in the lifeguard chair.  He’s wearing a thin white tank and his pool-issued red shorts. 

His skin is tanner than usual from the hours spent at work. He has a cup of what like soda with him in the chair, condensation thick around the bottom. You watch the flex of his arm as he sits up a bit, bringing his whistle to his mouth as he watches some kids running on the deck. They stop before he can blow it, so he relaxes back into the chair. 

Max snaps you out of it. 

“You should just talk to him. He was pretty nice last year when he, um, helped us with the Billy of it all.” 

You sigh. “Yeah, maybe today’s the day. Thanks, Max.” 

She nods before taking Lucas’s hand to go over to the deep side of the pool. You set up your things two chairs to the right of the lifeguard deck, by the “4 feet” marker and just in Steve’s periphery. 

You lower yourself into the water, the cool relief immediate in the 90 degree heat. Your feet touch the ground and you’re comfortably able to hang onto the ledge and lower yourself into the water more if you need to to cool off. 

You glance towards the slide, then to the deep end of the pool, taking stock of all for of your kiddos for the day before allowing yourself a glance up at Steve to find him already looking over at you. You smile and wave, and he returns the action, making butterflies flutter in your stomach. 

You sit in at the edge for a bit, back to the ledge, taking in the day. Mike and Locas and have moved over from the slide to join Will and Max at the deep end. They’re playing some kind of game that you’re trying to make sense of when you see Will get capsized by Lucas and Max, who seem to be laughing in triumph. 

You’re about to shout at them to take it easy when Mike’s voice shouting your name cuts through the crowd. “HELP!! He’s not coming back up!!”

Panic surges through you. You haven’t told anyone you can’t swim, always sticking around the four foot mark at any pool where your feet solidly touch the ground. 

“Uh- I-,” Your eyes blown wide, you look towards Steve, who seems to be getting the sense that something’s wrong, and is looking towards you to see if you have it handled. Clearly not. “Steve, please help!” 

He’s on it in a second, blowing his whistle, yelling “Everybody outta the pool, NOW!” And diving in towards the kids. He’s reached them just as Will is dragging himself over the ledge to catch his breath, and you feel guilt and bike ride up your throat as you speed walk over to them. 

Steve’s asking Will if he’s okay, and before you can ask what happened, Mike shoves you so hard to fumble backwards. “What the hell?! Why didn’t you come help us??”

Your cheeks flame as you look at the four of them, and then at Steve, who’s hands are still on Will’s shoulders. “I.. I can’t..” you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

“You can’t swim? Why on earth would you bring us to the pool if you can’t even swim?” Max’s voice hurts you the most. 

Steve comes to your rescue. “Alright, okay, lay off her alright? Besides, it’s not her job to save you guys if you’re in trouble in the pool, it’s mine. Literally my entire job description. Go get dried off.”

The kids walk off towards your seat and you stand in front of Steve, mortified. “Thank you for helping them,” you said. 

“Like I said, it’s the job,” he says through an easy smile as he runs a hand through his soaked hair. “Do you, uh, really not know how to swim?” 

You look away in embarrassment. “Yeah. I mean, I was in swim lessons as a kid and stuff. But then, my family went on this trip to the dunes one year, and there was a rip current. I wasn’t paying attention and went out too far. The current it.. well I guess it pulled me under too fast. My dad had to come get me out. And ever since then I just, avoided swimming, and I don’t think I could do it efficiently enough to save anybody now.”

Steve puts his hand on your shoulder. “God, that’s terrifying. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

You nod. Chancing a look at him, expecting to see pity, but all you’re met with is concern in his hazel eyes. Before you can say anything he continues, “Hey, if you ever want to try your hand at it again, I could help teach you. Um, like, after hours. Totally private. No! Not in that way-“ he sighs. “Just, if you want.”

You can’t help the smile that crawls up your face. Is Steve …nervous? It’s now or never. “Actually, I think I would like to, um, try that is,” you say. 

Steve’s face shifts from nervousness to surprise to joy. “Oh! Great, yeah! Well I’m here every day, so. Are you free tomorrow? say, 7:00? It’ll just be the closers and they’re usually cleaning in the back anyways.”

“7:00 tomorrow sounds great,” you nod, looking back at the kids, who definitely have not left any snacks for you after what you did. “I should, um, get them all home and like, apologize a million times.”

Steve nods gesturing his arm out for you to lead the way. “For sure. See you tomorrow, y/n.” His smile melts your entire belly. 

“See ya,” you smile back, hoping your blush isn’t too obvious. 

-

The next day, you spend the afternoon downtown shopping for a new bathing suit. Something that’s in between genuinely wanting to try to learn how to swim again, and cute enough to maybe catch Steve’s eye. 

You settle on a one piece in your favorite color that has a nice cut out in the mid-back and wear a white coverup that you crocheted for yourself in the spring. You show up to the pool at 6:45, taking a dee breath before grabbing your tote bag and walking into the pool ground. The lifeguard on duty, Amber, looks up from the shack where she’s rinsing off the floater rentals. “Hi! We’re actually about to close, sorry about that,” she says with her best customer service smile. 

You smile back, and raise your hand in a small wave, a little awkward. “Oh, yeah, I’m just uh-“

You’re cut off by Steve jogging up out of the locker room behind amber. He’s wearing his red swim shorts again and this time he doesn’t have a shirt on. You take him in for a second, his muscles, the patch of hair on his chest that trails down to his stomach that probably trails down to- 

“Hey! Thanks for swinging by. Amber, we’re just doing a swim lesson during the last 45.” 

Amber nods and walks back to her station to finish cleaning, leaving you and Steve to it. Steve guides you to the shallow end of the pool and you kind a kickboard and pool noodle waiting for you. 

“Wow! So official, thanks for doing this Steve, seriously.” You kick yourself for blushing before he’s really said a full sentence to you. 

“Don’t mention it! I figured you know the basics already and it’s more about getting comfortable going in the deeper end, yeah?” At your nod, he continues. “Cool, so I was thinking we’d take the floaters and work our way to, say, 6 feet for today and just have you work on getting used to not having the floor under your feet. That sound okay?”

You take a shaky breath. “Yeah. I think I can handle that,” you smile. 

“Great! Well take your time and uh, I’ll meet you over here.”

You turn and set your bag on the closest chair, taking out your towel and taking off your cover up. You turn to head into the pool to find Steve looking at you. His eyes roam over your frame before he seems to snap back into himself, an easy smile working its way to his features. “I like that color on you,” he says. 

You duck your head a little, stepping into the cool water and making your way over to him. “Thanks. I just got this today, actually.”

He cocks his head to the side. “For me?”

You look away from him, unable to hold his level of eye contact, but your smile gives you away to Steve. “Uh, so, how should I start?” 

-

The first 20 minutes are spent by Steve just getting you comfortable and slowly inching you further away from the comfortable 4 foot deep area of the pool. He has you practice some easy strokes; front and back, using the kickboard. He keeps a hand hovering over your lower back or tummy depending on which way you’re facing, and he gently but firmly supports you each time you go to right yourself. 

Eventually, you feel your fear ebbing as Steve hands you a pool noodle and moves you towards the deeper end. “Okay, so just hang on to this the entire time, and you’ll be fine! We’re not going to do any drills back here today, just get you comfortable with not having anything under your feet, okay?”

You nod, smiling at him. “I still can’t believe you’re just treading water like it’s nothing. How are you not tired?”

He smirks, puffing his chest a little at your compliment. “Just a lot of practice, honey,” his voice goes a little quiet around the nickname, like he’s testing it out. 

You openly smile at it, feeling more confident now. “Hey Steve, I wanna try something.”

“Sure, this is your time, what can I do for you?”

“I… used to love floating on my back. It’s so peaceful to look at the sky and have the water blocking out the noise. Can I try that, but will you hold me? I mean, like, support me? It’s been a while and I don’t want to, you know, drown,” you laugh at your rambling. But Steve can see it’s based in fear. He gives you a sweet smile. 

“Yeah, of course you can. Here, hang on to the wall and I’ll get the noodle out of your way.” You do as he says. He puts the noodle away and floats back to you. 

“Okay. Push off the wall, I’ll have a hold on you the entire time. Even if you ask me to, I’m not letting go this first time.”

You nod, pushing away from the wall and into Steve’s arms. For a moment, he holds you while treading water, which you fail to understand the mechanics of, and then he helps you move into a back float. 

You look up at the sunset colors in the sky, the stars that have started peeking out. The water covers your ears and for a moment it’s just you, the summer evening sky, and Steve’s hands under your back. You look over at him, and he’s looking right back at you with so much endearment, it makes your head spin. 

You right yourself a little too fast, and Steve is a bit caught off guard. He overcorrects his support and pulls you towards him as you sit up in the water, bringing your faces about an inch apart. 

You look at his lips, and then his eyes, and then his lips again for a second. “S-sorry, I should’ve-“ 

You’re interrupted by his lips on yours in a careful kiss. He pulls away after a moment, looking at you with the cutest nervous smile. He’s holding you fully bridal style in the water now. “I hope I read that right,” he almost whispers. “But I promise I didn’t offer this lesson as an excuse to kiss you.”

You giggle. “You read it right. And I know you didn’t. But I would like for you to kiss me again.”

He obliges, the kiss a little deeper this time. His tongue swipes your bottom lip and you open up for him, letting him explore for a second as he pulls you closer to him. When you pull away, you’re both panting through smiles. 

“So, uh, if you’re not busy for the rest of the night, I’d love to take you out to dinner,” he says with a hopeful lilt to his words. 

You lean forward to rest your forehead against his, smiling wide. “Yeah, I’d love to get dinner with you, Steve.”

[snoopyharrington]

berries

content/warnings: girl dad!steve, kid stuff (obviously), meet cute, steve's having a rough day, fluff!

word count: 821

a/n: based on a concept sent from a lovely anon <3

Amelia Harrington is currently doing everything she can to pull her little hand out of her dad's and sprint down the grocery store aisle.

"Aim," Steve says warningly, grasping her chubby hand just a tiny bit tighter as he uses his other hand to continue pushing the cart. "We're almost done. Stick with me, kid."

Amelia whines frustratedly, a defeated pout on her face. Steve glances down at her and sighs. He stops walking and uses his free hand to loosen his tie, which suddenly feels all too tight for what was supposed to be a quick stop on his way home from picking Amelia up from pre-school.

"Do you want up?" he asks, giving her hand a small squeeze. He doesn't know how, but somehow, his three year old can have the attitude of a full blown teenager, and it only terrifies him even more for when those years actually come.

She whines again, this time louder, and tries to pull her hand from Steve's, whimpering when he won't let go.

"What do you want, Aim? You know the rule, you have to hold daddy's hand in the supermarket."

He's exhausted from the work day and not entirely in the mood to level with his daughter, especially when that rule in particular is pretty solid. It came after the one time he lost her because she'd scampered off to the bakery section, set on finding a giant cake to take home. When Steve finally found her chatting with one of the grocery store employees, he was less than thrilled.

"O's." Amelia mumbles grumpily. Steve nods curtly and mumbles O's to himself, simultaneously pushing the cart and pulling his stubborn girl along. "O's" is what she calls Cheerio's, and apparently, Cheerio's will fix everything in this moment.

When they finally make it to the cereal aisle, Amelia's all but dragging her little feet, her velcro strap sneakers scuffed with marks from situations very similar to this one.

"Berry O's." Amelia commands, putting her hand on her hip. Steve tries not to roll his eyes.

"I don't know if they have those, Aim."

"Berries."

"Alright."

He stands there, one arm crossed as he squints at the rows of cereal, for what feels like an ungodly period of time. Steve already had a headache thrumming behind his eyes and now he's certain it'll turn into a full-blown migraine by the time they finally get to the car.

"Do you guys... need help?"

Steve and Amelia both turn to you, who looks just as confused as you do concerned. This exhausted duo, a clear copy of the other, all wide, tired eyes and messy brown hair.

"Do you work here?" Steve asks, a sudden perk to his voice.

"Um... no, but I've walked past this aisle, like, three times and you haven't moved the entire time," you explain.

Steve mumbles out an oh, and Amelia's quick to take over the conversation with an enthusiastic request for berry O's.

"Berry O's?" you repeat, and she nods excitedly.

"Bumble bee!"

Steve sighs, "She calls Cheerio's O's. She's talking about the little guy on the box. The bee."

"Ohhhh," you nod. "Oh! You're looking for berry Cheerio's?"

"Yes!" Steve exclaims. Amelia goes to correct you. "Do they even make those?"

"Yeah, they're my favorite. I actually grabbed the last box," you say with a laugh, and Steve thinks he might just fall to his knees in the middle of the grocery store. You don't think twice about it when you turn to your own cart and retrieve the cereal box before handing it to him. "Here, you can have 'em. Looks like you could use them."

Amelia squeals. Steve's eyes widen.

"Seriously?"

You shrug your shoulders. "Why not?"

Amelia tries to grab the box from Steve's hand, attempting to rip it open, but he throws it in the cart before she can. She's mumbling to herself about "Mr. Bumble Bee", and you press your lips together so you don't smile too wide.

"Thank you so much." Steve says, glancing down at his own cart. "Um. Did you wanna, like, take something from me?"

You laugh and shake your head. "No, I'm good. Enjoy your berry O's, you two."

You wave goodbye to Amelia and flash Steve a smile before pushing your cart towards check-out. Steve watches as you walk away, his throat working with a swallow. He doesn't know why he feels so touched by such a small act of kindness — whether it's because he's had a particularly long day or if your smile just got to him, but he has a feeling he won't stop thinking about you for a long time.

"Pretty." Amelia suddenly says, swinging her and Steve's joined hands back and forth. Steve glances down at his mini me.

"What was that, bug?"

She looks up at him, all big eyes and chubby cheeks.

"Pretty." she repeats.

Steve smiles. "Yeah. Pretty."

[luveline]

Hi loveliest Jade! For baby blurbs, what about zombie au!Steve finding a book of romantic poetry and reading some to reader (maybe he gets a lil teary the lovesick fool) xx

Steve finds a book called One Hundred Love Sonnets in the pocket of his new stolen jacket. He pulls it out and squints at it, wishing he had the glasses that make you laugh so he could read the author’s name all smudged out at the bottom. 

He’d been expecting a pack of smokes. The brown leather jacket he wears is worn but clean, found laid out over the back of a chair in an abandoned bedroom. You’re scrounging through a dresser drawer sizing up boxers for him, and then some for you. He feels you press a pair to his hips from behind and laughs. 

“Personal space,” he says. 

“You’re my person and this is my space, dude.”

“Okay, dude,” he says, stepping backwards to knock your hands. 

You continue your searching, occasionally holding another pair of boxers up behind him until you move onto the pants, and Steve likes that you’re doing it, so he doesn’t move. He wacks the spine of the book against his hand a couple times before he cracks it open, already squinting hard to make out the words. 

He opens at random to Sonnet XVII, whatever that means. 

It begins, 

‘I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,   

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:   

I love you as one loves certain obscure things,   

secretly, between the shadow and the soul.’

Steve reads on in strange delight. This is totally his bag. 

He has come to appreciate books a hell of a lot more since TVs became mostly useless. He misses movies, maybe wishes he studied harder so he understood words like ‘propagate’ to mean more than when his grandma used to plant flowers on the foothill of her yard hoping they’d grow to the top naturally. He can guess the meaning, of course, and he reads over the poetry quietly, forgetting you for a moment, even as he thinks of you.

“Hey, listen to this,” he says, clearing his throat. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,   

I love you directly without problems or pride–’”

“Are you proposing?” you ask, flummoxed. 

Steve shushes you. “I’m reading to you.”

“Um…” You peer around his leg to see the book. “Where’d you get that?”

“In my jacket.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, finish it if you want, sorry. I’m listening,” you say.

Steve turns to look down at you, then stares at the book instead, caught by the image of you with your eyes as wide as they go, your mouth soft and parted, plush, the shape of your nose and your hands in your lap, waiting for him to talk, to read to you. He says the line again, then his voice goes to a slight husk. “‘I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love, except in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,’” —mortified, Steve clears his throat as subtly as he’s able to, thinking of every night and morning spent with your hand laid over his chest— “so close that your eyes close with my dreams.’”

He won’t cry. It’s not tears. But something in him feels embarrassingly wobbly at such a quick turn to emotion. Steve doesn’t love you without problems or pride, he is so prideful, and there are always problems, but he supposes if he got to the root of how much he loved you, he’d find it without complication. It’s not like he feels like he has much choice in things, it’s a desperate thing to need you, even if he wouldn’t change it. 

You toy with one of his shoelaces. “So close that your eyes close with my dreams,” you say, letting your voice list, your fingertips finding his ankle through his jeans. “Do you think he meant it literally, like they’re so in love she dreams his dreams, or that when she closes her eyes she thinks about what she has to do to– to get him the things he wants?” you ask. 

Steve blinks. “I think it’s that he loves her so much he sees her as another part of himself. Like they’re completely– they’re the same.”

You chance a sheepish glance up at him. “Like us, then,” you say, likely knowing how deeply corny it is to confess, but it doesn’t feel corny to Steve. It’s just affirmation that all his needs and wants are already fulfilled. “I like thinking my hand is your hand. Is that weird?”

Steve offers his hand to you and helps you stand. “Does it matter if it is? If we’re the same, then I said it. You used my mouth.”

“There’s a hundred of those in there?” you ask, nodding at the book's title. “If we get a pencil and underline everything that applies to us, is that totally lame?”

Your laugh makes Steve laugh. “Nope. Might need two pencils, though,” he says.

You slink your arms around him to force a hug. Steve squeezes you tight, resting his cheek contentedly against your temple. 

“And I already proposed, by the way,” he murmurs, rubbing his nose into your skin. “So I couldn’t have been doing it again.”

You make an excited huff of a laugh and wiggle a bit in his arms, apparently pleased with the reminder. “I don’t know, I wouldn’t mind it. Propose to me lots and lots.”

Your mumbling is a mixture of coy and shy that makes him close his eyes in bliss. Sure, why not? Multiple proposals. Maybe he’ll borrow a couple of lines from this Neruda guy, he sounds like he knows what he’s doing. 

[oohgeminii]

you seem pretty happy for a girl so single?

steve harrington x reader

|| desc - steve is well and truly in love with you, he always has been, but you couldn't seem less interested in his eyes. this leads him to think you must just be immune to his charm (impossible) or fine being single. truth is you're neither of those things, your simply oblivious, as is he too apparently.

val speaks - get it get it i did a spin on 'you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love' haa so funny basically just excited for this album 😋😋 enjoy babas !! ++ this is another steve fic without much of the actual stranger things plot (as in the upside down) bc i loved the one i did like that the other day he he

basically a childhood friends to lovers even tho they've secretly always been lovers slowburn w some cluelessness 😁

word count: 8.3k

the first thing anyone ever knew about steve harrington was that he was loud.

not loud in volume, though he could be, especially when he laughed so hard milk came out of his nose at age eight because you told him the punchline to a joke wrong on purpose, but loud in presence.

even as a little boy, steve had always seemed to fill every room he walked into, every backyard he ran through, every sidewalk he skidded his bike tires across. he was all scraped knees and crooked grins, wild hair that never sat flat no matter how much water he slapped on it, and a habit of speaking before he thought, then somehow charming his way out of whatever trouble that got him into.

and somehow, from the very beginning, wherever steve was, you were too.

your mothers liked to joke that before either of you could even walk, you’d already claimed each other. two little babies in matching sun hats sitting in paddling pools in neighbouring gardens, grabbing at each other’s hands with sticky fingers and refusing to settle unless you were side by side. apparently, steve used to cry when your parents took you inside for naps, little fists clenched, cheeks red, angry at the universe for daring to separate him from his favourite person.

some things never really changed.

you grew up attached at the hip in the kind of way people only are when history roots itself so deep between them that pulling apart would feel like tearing skin.

you learned to ride bikes together, both of you wobbling dangerously down your street while your dads shouted instructions that neither of you listened to.

steve crashed first, straight into a hedge, and you laughed so hard you tipped over too. he came out with leaves in his hair and a branch caught in his shirt collar, grinning like an idiot, and before he even checked his own scraped elbow, he was kneeling beside you asking if you were okay.

that was steve.

always checking for you first.

there were summers spent so thoroughly tangled together they blurred into one endless golden memory.

afternoons in his parents’ pool until your fingers wrinkled and your skin smelled permanently of chlorine, competitions to see who could hold their breath longest underwater, cannonball contests that ended with his mother yelling because water splashed onto her expensive outdoor furniture.

nights where you slept over so often that both houses stopped asking questions, your toothbrush permanently living in the bathroom connected to steve’s bedroom, one of his old shirts becoming your designated pyjama top.

you built blanket forts in his room and swore they were castles. you made secret handshakes that changed every month. you whispered under covers with flashlights when thunderstorms rolled in, talking about stupid things and serious things and everything in between.

you saw every side of each other.

the ugly sides too.

you saw steve cry the first time his dad called him a disappointment.

you saw him go quiet after, quieter than should’ve been possible for a boy like him, shoulders tense and eyes glassy as he sat on your bedroom floor staring at nothing.

you sat beside him and said nothing at all, just leaned your shoulder against his until he leaned back.

that became your thing.

when his parents fought, he came to your house.

when his father got cruel, he came to your house.

when business trips left that giant empty house colder than winter, he stayed at your house, eating dinner at your table and laughing with your parents like he belonged there, because he did.

your mother kissed the top of his head when he looked especially worn down, your father taught him how to fix things in the garage.

your home became the place he exhaled and you became the person he always looked for first.

always.

through bad haircuts and braces and acne and awkward limbs that grew too fast for your bodies to catch up, you stayed constant.

until high school came and suddenly, painfully, neither of you were awkward anymore.

you grew into yourself quietly, like spring unfolding. pretty in a way that didn’t scream for attention, but stole it anyway.

soft eyes that noticed everything. a laugh that was rarer now, but warm enough to make people chase it. intelligence that shone bright and effortless. kindness that lived in every small thing you did. helping someone pick up dropped books, remembering birthdays nobody else did, always offering your notes to the kids who missed class.

you were beautiful in the sort of way people didn’t fully understand until they looked twice.

steve understood immediately.

and steve, god, steve grew into himself like he’d been handcrafted for trouble.

broad shoulders. soft brown eyes hidden behind ridiculous lashes. hair that somehow always looked perfect. that stupid smile capable of making half the female population of hawkins forget their own names.

and steve knew it.

or at least, his ego did.

king steve, they called him.

captain of popularity.

girls hanging off his arm, boys desperate for his approval, parties every weekend. loud music, expensive beer stolen from his parents’ liquor cabinet, people packed into his house hoping to breathe the same air as him.

he played the part beautifully.

cocky grin, easy charm, careless laughter, pretty girls, empty conversations. but there were things everyone noticed that nobody understood.

how steve only went to parties if you were invited too, even when you almost never came. how he always looked around rooms like he was searching for someone. how if anybody talked badly about you, even as a joke, his entire face changed. how he got mean.

how no girl, no matter how gorgeous, ever lasted long.

how every relationship seemed flimsy compared to the quiet girl who sat beside him in class helping him pass english, who rolled her eyes at his jokes but smiled anyway, who knew where he kept spare house keys and which scar on his knee came from which childhood disaster.

what nobody knew was that steve harrington loved you so badly it ached.

it lived in him like breathing. natural, constant, unavoidable. it was in the way he memorised everything about you.

how you tucked your hair behind your ear when concentrating. how you chewed on pen caps while studying. how you always gave him the marshmallows from your hot chocolate because you hated them and he loved them. how your nose scrunched when you laughed for real. how you never noticed when boys stared because you were too busy living inside your own head.

it killed him a little, that obliviousness.

because steve flirted constantly.

he tested waters in stupid ways.

telling you about girls he hooked up with, watching your face for any crack in your expression.

there never was one.

just your soft, distracted little hums. sometimes a wrinkled nose if the girl sounded awful. sometimes advice.

advice.

jesus christ.

he’d stare at you, really stare, eyes warm and helpless and completely gone for you, and you’d blink back like he was just steve.

just your steve.

your best friend.

meanwhile, he was halfway to insanity.

what steve never saw were all the quiet ways you loved him back.

how you kept every note he’d ever scribbled you. how no boy ever compared, which was why you’d only dated twice and barely liked either of them. how every time he brought a girl around, something sharp and sour twisted in your chest. how you knew the exact shade of hazel his eyes turned in sunlight.

how you sometimes laid awake at night, staring at your ceiling, replaying the way he smiled at you that day or how his hand rested warm on your back guiding you through crowds.

how your mother’s teasing words looped endlessly in your head.

you and stevie were made for each other.

you’d laugh it off, call her crazy, then spend hours wondering if maybe she wasn’t. wondering if steve could ever look at you and see more.

wondering what it would feel like if he kissed you. wondering if kissing steve would ruin everything, or finally make sense of everything that already existed between you.

and every morning after, you’d wake up and slip right back into your place beside him like those thoughts had never happened at all.

best friends.

always.

completely blind to the fact that the boy beside you was one heartbeat away from loving you out loud.

and equally blind to the fact that you already loved him too.

-

life carried on the way it always had.

which was strange, really, considering there was this constant thing sitting between you and steve. neither of you touched it, neither of you spoke it aloud, but it lived there all the same. tucked into glances that lingered too long, into hugs that held just a second more than necessary, into the easy way your lives folded around each other like they were built to fit.

more days turned into more weeks, more weeks into more months, and everything stayed beautifully, painfully normal.

you still sat with him while he copied your homework answers in that messy handwriting of his, tongue poking slightly into his cheek in concentration like he was actually trying, even though half the time he was writing complete nonsense because he was too busy talking to focus.

you still spent lunches together. sometimes alone, sometimes with your few close friends, sometimes with whatever crowd steve had orbiting him that week, but even in a room full of people, his attention always drifted back to you.

always.

you were still the first number he called. still the person he showed up for without asking. still the person he looked for in every crowded room.

and he was still yours in all the ways that mattered, without ever actually being yours at all.

one night after dinner at your house, your mother insisting steve stay because she’d made too much food, as if she hadn’t been cooking with him in mind from the start, the two of you found yourselves in your bedroom, exactly where you always ended up.

lying on the floor.

side by side.

staring at the ceiling.

it was a strange little ritual you’d created years ago, one that somehow stuck. whenever something weighed heavy on either of you, whenever thoughts got too loud or life got too complicated, you ended up here. flat on your backs, shoulders nearly touching, eyes aimed upward like answers might be written in the cracks of your ceiling paint.

this was where the real conversations happened.

not the casual chatter, not gossip, not jokes, this was where truths lived. the ugly ones, the tender ones, the ones neither of you gave anybody else.

steve let out a long breath beside you, one hand resting on his stomach, the other tucked behind his head.

“he’s doing it again.”

you turned your head slightly toward him.

“your dad?”

he laughed once, humourless.

“who else?”

his jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“he’s on this whole thing about how i need to start learning the business now, so when he retires i can just… step in.” his voice hardened around the words. “like it’s some fucking honour.”

you stayed quiet.

you’d learned years ago that steve needed space to unravel before he needed comfort.

“he talks about it like he’s handing me a kingdom,” he muttered. “when really he’s handing me a prison sentence.”

your chest tightened.

because underneath the bitterness, underneath the anger, you heard what steve wasn’t saying.

he was scared, scared of becoming him. scared of looking in the mirror one day and seeing his father staring back.

steve scrubbed a hand over his face.

“i swear to god, i’d rather work in some shitty grocery store for the rest of my life than do what he does.”

that made you smile softly.

not because it was funny, though the dramatic way he said it was very steve, but because you knew him.

you knew this wasn’t about business being boring this was about morality. about goodness. about the way steve, despite all his pretending and ego and polished king-of-hawkins image, had the softest heart of anybody you knew.

he wanted to be kind, gentle. different. nothing like the man who’d raised him.

you reached your hand out between you, your pinky brushing lightly against his.

“what do you actually want?” you asked quietly.

“what?”

“after high school.” you looked back up at the ceiling. “college. life. what do you want, stevie?”

the room went quiet for a second, then two. then he laughed softly under his breath. not a happy laugh, the sad kind.

the self-deprecating kind.

“college?” he scoffed. “c’mon.”

you frowned instantly.

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“act like you’re stupid.”

he turned his head to look at you then, brown eyes soft in the dim lamp light.

“i’m not exactly ivy league material.”

“you’re smarter than you think.”

“i’m really not.”

“you are.”

there was firmness in your voice now, the kind that always made him listen.

“you just don’t try because somewhere along the line, somebody convinced you there was no point.”

his expression shifted. small, almost wounded, because you always saw right through him.

always.

you kept going, softer now.

“you’re smart, steve. genuinely smart. not even just academically, you read people better than anyone i know. you remember everything that matters. you’re creative. funny. emotionally intelligent, even if you pretend you aren’t.” you nudged his shoulder gently. “and if i have to spend the rest of my life reminding you of that, i will.”

steve stared at you and god, there was that look again. that look that made your stomach turn over.

warm, completely devastating. then, because he was steve, he ruined the moment on purpose.

“well,” he sighed dramatically, “in that case, i’ll just follow you wherever you go.”

you snorted.

“oh yeah?”

“absolutely.” he folded his hands over his chest. “be your little house wife.”

that made you laugh properly.

bright and sudden.

the kind of laugh that always made him smile like he’d won something.

“house wife?”

“yeah.”

“you?”

“i’d be incredible at it.”

“you can’t cook.”

“i can make toast.”

“you burn toast.”

“crispy toast.”

you laughed harder and soon he was laughing too, that big, warm laugh that filled your whole room.

then the laughter settled into something softer. comfortable quiet. and somewhere in that quiet, the strange truth of it hung there,

every version of the future either of you had ever imagined always included the other. always.

sometimes you were neighbours with houses connected by a garden gate. sometimes coworkers. sometimes roommates in a big city. sometimes pen pals, a ridiculous idea born from sixteen-year-old steve drunkenly declaring he was moving to italy after eating pasta he called religious.

you still teased him for that.

but every dream, every joke, every passing thought about what came next, included us.

never 'me'. never 'you'. always us.

neither of you spoke about the deeper version of that dream.

the one with shared mornings. shared beds. children with messy hair and stubborn attitudes. a home that belonged equally to both of you.

but somewhere, buried deep, you’d both imagined it.

more than once.

steve swallowed hard against that thought.

then casually, too casually, he asked,

“how come you’re still single?”

you turned your head.

“you’re single too.”

a slow smirk spread across his mouth.

“yeah, but i haven’t always been.”

you rolled your eyes.

“neither have i.”

“middle school boyfriends don’t count.”

you laughed.

“according to who?”

“according to me.”

you shook your head, smiling, then shrugged.

“i don’t know.”

and that answer sat strangely warm in steve’s chest.

because maybe, maybe you liked being single. maybe there was nobody. maybe it wasn’t that you didn’t want him specifically.

weirdly, that hurt less.

he smiled faintly, staring back up at the ceiling.

then you asked quietly,

“why haven’t you settled down with anyone?”

his chest tightened because there were a thousand truths he could say. because i’m in love with my best friend. because nobody feels like you. because every girl i kiss isn’t you.

instead, he shrugged.

“i don’t know.”

and selfishly, your heart liked that answer far more than the possibility of him loving somebody else.

silence settled again.

then steve spoke, voice quieter than before, serious,

“promise me something.”

“anything.”

he turned his head toward you.

there was vulnerability there, raw and boyish and achingly honest.

“don’t forget me.”

your brows pulled together instantly.

“steve-”

“i mean it.” he swallowed. “when all this ends. when college happens, life happens… if we end up in different places…” his voice got softer. “don’t forget about me.”

your whole chest ached because forgetting steve harrington would be like forgetting your own name.

impossible.

you reached across the floor and took his hand fully. fingers threading together like second nature. like instinct. like home.

you squeezed once.

“never” you whispered.

and steve squeezed back, holding your hand in the dark like it was something precious.

something worth keeping.

“promise?”

you smiled softly.

“i promise.”

neither of you realised then just how much that promise would come to mean.

-

by the time prom season rolled around, steve was losing his goddamn mind.

he sat at the edge of his bed one night, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the carpet while every thought in his head somehow circled back to you.

which, admittedly, wasn’t unusual. most roads in steve’s mind led to you, had for years.

but this was different, this was bigger.

this was prom.

the last school dance.

the final stupid, sweaty gymnasium decorated with cheap streamers and glitter and songs that would probably suck and punch that tasted vaguely like chemicals.

and steve wanted one thing.

just one.

you.

not in the way he’d had you before. showing up together because that’s what you always did, wandering in side by side because steve bringing you was as natural as breathing, dancing stupidly together in between him getting dragged off by friends and you laughing at him from the sidelines.

not as best friends.

not as what everyone already assumed you were.

he wanted to take you, really take you.

wanted to stand on your doorstep with flowers and nerves and sweaty palms. wanted to tell you you looked beautiful and mean it so hard it hurt. wanted to dance with his hands on your waist and know it meant something different.

wanted one night where he could pretend, or maybe, if he got lucky, not pretend at all.

so he came up with a plan.

a stupid plan. a deeply embarrassing plan. a plan that, in hindsight, made him want to throw himself directly into traffic.

he was going to make it obvious.

not say it, because apparently despite being steve harrington, king of confidence, he became a complete coward when it came to you, but obvious enough.

obvious enough that if you smiled a little wider than usual, blushed even slightly, acted flustered in any way he’d ask you.

simple. easy. foolproof.

except it was none of those things.

because monday morning, the second he pulled into your driveway, he already started acting insane.

normally, steve would pull up, lean dramatically on the horn once, and wait while you came out rolling your eyes.

his logic always being, your house is right there, you can hear the horn when i get in the car.

instead, that morning, he got out. walked to your front door. and knocked. actually knocked.

when you opened it, bag over your shoulder, hair still slightly messy from rushing around getting ready, he nearly forgot every coherent thought in his head.

you blinked at him then squinted suspiciously.

“…why are you at my door?”

he immediately panicked internally.

say something cool.

say something normal.

“felt like it.”

idiot.

your eyes narrowed further, mouth twitching like you were fighting a smile.

“okay…”

you kept looking at him funny all the way to the car, and honestly, fair enough.

but then he made it worse.

because when you reached the passenger side, he darted ahead and opened your door for you.

you stopped dead.

“what are you doing?”

steve leaned against the open door casually, like he wasn’t having a full body crisis.

“being nice?”

you laughed softly, confused and amused all at once.

“you are nice.”

“being nicer.”

you stared at him for a second then shook your head, smiling to yourself as you got in. that smile hit him like a truck.

holy shit.

was that wider than normal? was that flirty? was that polite?

what did that mean-

and thus began the longest week of steve harrington’s life.

because once he started, he couldn’t stop.

every class you didn’t share, he was waiting outside when the bell rang.

leaning against lockers trying to look casual, heart kicking up every time your face lit up when you saw him.

he carried your books.

your bag.

once, your stupid heavy history textbook that you always complained about.

he held doors open.

walked you to every class.

blew off tommy and half his friend group every lunch just to sit with you.

actually did his half of your joint assignment, not copied, not barely attempted, actually did it, and when you looked at him like he’d grown another head, he just shrugged like it was no big deal while internally screaming notice me.

he bought you lunch monday.

again on wednesday.

again on thursday.

sat in the library with you after school willingly.

willingly. the library.

for hours.

and every single thing you did made his brain short circuit.

because you just accepted it. completely. you didn’t question him much, didn’t pull away, didn’t act weird, didn’t reject any of it. you simply smiled that sweet little smile and let him fuss over you.

let him carry your things. let him buy your lunch. let him walk you around school like you were something precious.

and worst of all you looked happy about it. which should’ve been good. right? that should’ve been good.

except now steve was spiralling because what the hell did happy mean?

did you know what he was doing? were you oblivious? were you pitying him? were you just enjoying the attention?

meanwhile, you were living in your own version of insanity.

because steve had always made you feel special.

always.

from childhood to now, there had never been a moment where you doubted your place in his life.

but this?

this was different. this was soft, intentional. sweet in ways that made your stomach flip.

it felt suspiciously like being courted. like being wanted. like being his girl.

and god you liked it. liked it so much it scared you. so no, you didn’t question it. because if you asked, what if it stopped? what if he laughed and said he was just messing around? what if this tenderness disappeared?

so instead, you quietly soaked it in.

let yourself pretend just for a little while. let yourself imagine this was what loving steve openly might feel like.

which meant steve’s giant, ridiculous plan was failing spectacularly for one very simple reason-

the both of you were idiots.

by friday, steve was at breaking point.

he sat in his last class barely hearing a word the teacher said, knee bouncing under the desk.

what the hell was happening? surely by now, if you liked him, you would’ve said something. asked him what all this meant. given him something obvious back.

right?

unless you didn’t like him. unless you just thought he was being nice. unless this was normal to you because he’d always treated you well and you saw no difference.

jesus christ.

he’d spent an entire week acting like a lovesick freak and somehow ended up more confused than when he started.

the final bell rang and steve made a decision.

enough.

no more weird signals, no more spiralling, no more stupid plans.

he was asking you tonight.

flat out.

whatever happened, happened because he was absolutely not surviving another week of this.

what steve didn’t know was that at that exact same moment, sitting in class chewing the end of your pen and smiling stupidly to yourself remembering how he tucked your hair behind your ear at lunch you were thinking,

please don’t stop whatever this is.

please let me keep having this version of you.

even if it’s not real.

even if it’s only for a little while.

-

steve waited outside your last class.

again.

at this point, it had become routine. somewhere in his ridiculous attempt at flirting came a habit he’d accidentally fallen in love with.

there was just something about it.

the way your face always softened the second you spotted him leaning against the lockers. the little smile you never seemed able to hold back. the way you automatically walked toward him, like your feet knew where they belonged before your brain caught up.

it made something warm settle in his chest every single time.

so yes, even if his original reasons for waiting outside your classes had been pathetic and embarrassingly romantic, now he did it simply because he liked it.

liked being the person you looked for, liked walking beside you through crowded halls, liked carrying your books even when you insisted they “weren’t heavy.”

liked the feeling of everyone seeing you together.

he liked it far too much.

that friday, though, he was restless.

you noticed almost immediately.

the way his fingers tapped against his leg. the way his jaw kept tightening. the way he kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something, only to close it again.

still, you didn’t ask.

if there was one thing years of knowing steve harrington had taught you, it was that when he was ready to talk, he would.

until then, you let silence be comfortable.

and it always was with him.

the drive home was dipped in golden evening light, quiet except for the radio humming softly in the background and the occasional sound of steve drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel.

when he took a corner too fast his hand instinctively shot out, catching your thigh for a second to steady you.

warm, solid, gone too quickly.

neither of you said anything but your stomach flipped anyway.

when he pulled up between your houses, you reached for the door handle-

“wait.”

your hand froze.

you turned back.

steve looked terrified, actually terrified.

your heart immediately started hammering.

oh my god.

oh my god.

was he-

this was it. this had to be it.

the weird week, the sweet gestures, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he’d been hovering close like he couldn’t help himself-

this was him asking you to prom.

your whole body went warm.

steve swallowed hard. right. just say it.

say prom.

“do you wanna go prom-”

your breath caught.

his heart launched into his throat.

“-dress shopping with me?”

silence.

steve internally punched himself in the face.

coward. absolute coward.

you blinked.

then laughed softly, trying to ignore how quickly hope had risen and crashed in your chest.

“are you getting a dress this year too, stevie?”

he huffed a little laugh, looking down, shaking his head.

“no, i mean…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “y’know, i’ll drive us to the city. we can get all fancy and buy expensive shit we probably don’t need. get ice cream on the way home.”

he looked up at you then.

hopeful. boyish.

impossibly handsome.

you smiled, a real one.

“that sounds nice.”

his shoulders loosened instantly.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

you opened the door, stepping out, then turned back with a grin.

“it’s a date.”

and walked away.

steve sat frozen in his car.

date.

date?

did you mean date date?

or date as in phrase?

people said that all the time.

right?

right??

he smacked his forehead gently against the steering wheel.

meanwhile, halfway to your front door, you were spiralling too.

why would you say it’s a date? why would you say that?

that sounds romantic. that sounds intentional. he’s going to think you meant it romantically.

except he doesn’t like you.

probably.

so now you sound insane.

great.

perfect.

wonderful.

still, somehow, both of you went to bed smiling because stupid was easier when it felt this good.

-

nice and early the next morning, steve was at your door.

knocking.

again.

except this time when you opened it, you were very much not ready.

hair wild, sleep still heavy in your eyes, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder, soft pyjama shorts, bare legs and sleepy confusion.

steve forgot how breathing worked.

you frowned at him.

“why are you here?”

his brain completely short circuited.

“…shopping.”

you groaned.

“shit.”

you looked over your shoulder at the clock and winced.

“i overslept.”

steve finally recovered enough to shrug casually.

“i’ll wait.”

he walked past you like he belonged there, because he did, headed straight to your room, kicked off his shoes, and threw himself face down onto your bed.

dramatically, arms spread, muffled voice immediately rambling into your duvet.

“had the weirdest dream last night.”

you stood at your mirror trying to brush your hair while pulling on jeans.

“what?”

more muffled nonsense.

something about a shark. your third grade teacher. a ferrari. possibly italy.

you laughed.

“i understood none of that.”

he lifted his face slightly, cheek squished against your pillow.

“it made sense in dream logic.”

“sure.”

then face planted again, continuing to ramble while you got ready, his voice muffled into your blankets.

it was domestic in a way neither of you thought too hard about.

easy, dangerously easy.

soon enough, you were in the car headed toward the city.

the windows down, music loud. summer warmth creeping in. you stopped at a roadside place for breakfast sandwiches, then got back on the road. where steve immediately became unbearable.

“bite.”

you looked at him.

“…what?”

“feed me.”

“you have hands.”

“i’m driving. i need to concentrate.”

you stared.

he opened his mouth expectantly.

“bite.”

your eyes narrowed, he looked ridiculous.

you hated how cute it was.

with a sigh, you held the sandwich up for him. he leaned over dramatically, taking a huge bite, cheeks full like a chipmunk.

you laughed despite yourself.

“you’re such an idiot.”

secretly, steve loved the little annoyed crease between your brows. loved making you roll your eyes. loved that you always indulged him anyway.

shopping somehow started with your dress.

steve had expected torture. hours of standing around, fabric talk, waiting, boredom.

instead he got to watch you try on dresses, which was apparently heaven. every single dress had him losing his mind quietly.

blue. green. white. sparkly. simple. dramatic.

even the absolutely hideous monstrosity he tossed into your pile as a joke, some bright orange ruffled nightmare, looked unfairly cute because you came out striking poses and making ridiculous model faces until he laughed so hard he nearly cried.

“that one?” you asked, spinning.

“burn it.”

you grinned.

but then you stepped out wearing soft baby pink.

simple, elegant, gentle, completely you, and steve forgot how to speak.

you looked beautiful.

not pretty, not cute, beautiful. the kind that hurt to look at because it made wanting feel too big inside his chest.

you smiled shyly at your reflection.

“i kinda love this one.”

steve could only nod.

because if he opened his mouth, he’d probably propose.

when you disappeared back into the changing room after trying on the final dress, leaving the pink dress hanging outside, steve moved instantly.

straight to the register.

money down.

done.

easy.

when the cashier smiled warmly and said, “that’s sweet- paying for your girlfriend’s prom dress”

steve didn’t even think, didn’t correct her, just smiled softly.

“yeah.”

the word slipped out naturally like truth. he walked back holding the dress bag proudly. when you emerged and saw it, your face scrunched instantly.

“steve harrington-”

“don’t start.”

“i told you i was buying it-”

he shrugged, smiling.

“it’s our last prom, princess. gotta treat you right.”

princess. that stupid nickname. it hit you exactly where it always did.

that awful lovely feeling.

but you’d become very good at hiding it so you only rolled your eyes.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“and generous.”

“annoyingly generous.”

“you love me.”

you smiled softly.

“yeah.”

the quiet honesty of it made his chest tighten because you meant it one way and he heard it another.

then he grinned, standing.

“c’mon.”

you looped your arm through his without thinking.

“your turn.”

shopping for steve’s suit was, thankfully, much quicker.

mostly because he cared significantly less than you did.

he tried on maybe three jackets, two pairs of trousers, one shirt, then stood in front of the mirror shrugging like, yeah, this one’s fine, while you looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“fine?” you repeated.

steve adjusted the collar lazily. “yeah.”

“fine is your final prom outfit?”

he looked down at himself.

navy suit. clean lines, fitted enough to make his shoulders look unfairly broad. white shirt, sleeves rolled halfway while he changed ties.

hair slightly messy from pulling shirts over his head.

beautiful, unfortunately.

he shrugged again.

“looks good enough.”

you stared.

“good enough” you echoed flatly.

his grin only widened “mhm.”

but then, then he did something so stupidly sweet that your entire brain briefly stopped functioning.

the woman helping fit him asked what colour tie he wanted, before she could even list options, steve answered immediately.

“baby pink.”

you blinked.

he looked over at you casually.

“to match your dress.”

simple, matter-of-fact. like it was obvious. like there was never another option.

to match your dress.

your heart practically punched through your ribs because it was little things. always little things with steve. the details, the quiet thoughtfulness, the instinctive way he always included you in everything.

the way matching your dress mattered to him.

not because it was prom, not because it was fashion, but because it was yours.

you stood there smiling like an idiot while he tried on ties, your mind spiralling somewhere far, far away.

and honestly?

you barely paid attention to anything else after that.

just him.

his hands fixing his cuffs, his soft smile when he caught you staring, the way he kept glancing toward you for approval.

god.

you were in trouble. deep trouble.

when you guys got in the car both taking a deep breath, pausing before the long drive home, you stopped him.

“steve?”

his hand froze on the key.

“yeah?”

your heart hammered.

this was insane, absolutely insane but suddenly you couldn’t keep waiting, couldn’t keep wondering. couldn’t keep pretending every soft thing between you didn’t mean something.

so you looked at him and did exactly what he’d been trying to do all week.

“do you wanna go to prom with me?”

steve blinked.

once.

twice.

“…what?”

you smiled nervously.

“prom.”

he laughed softly, confused.

“we always go together.”

you swallowed then forced yourself to say it.

“i mean… properly with me, steve.”

his entire body went still, heart pounding so hard he could hear it.

“what?”

god.

he looked so confused, so beautiful.

and suddenly courage, reckless, terrifying courage, grabbed hold of you. you leaned forward and kissed him.

soft, quick.

the second your lips touched his, your whole body lit up like lightning.

then panic immediately followed.

oh god.

what did you just do?

you pulled back instantly, mouth already opening to explain, apologise, ramble, but steve’s hand came up, cupping your cheek.

warm, gentle, and he pulled you right back in.

kissed you properly.

like he’d been starving. like he knew exactly what your lips would feel like because he’d imagined it a thousand times, but somehow it was still better.

so much better.

you could actually feel him melt, his whole body softened into it and then, that little sound.

a quiet sigh against your mouth.

soft, content, completely helpless. it shot straight into your chest. your new favourite sound. absolutely.

when he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard, smiling in complete disbelief.

then he said-

“i hate you.”

your eyes flew open.

“…what?”

he laughed breathlessly.

“i have been waiting my whole life for you to show literally any sign that you liked me.” he pulled back enough to look at you, eyes wide with mock offence. “and the one week i actually decide to try and something about it, you beat me to it.”

you burst out laughing then he did too, forehead dropping back against yours. then suddenly he leaned back fully, staring at you like you were insane.

“no, seriously- what?”

you blinked.

“what?”

“why now?”

you shrugged, cheeks warm.

“i’ve always liked you, stevie.”

steve’s jaw actually dropped.

“what?”

you laughed.

“i’ve always liked you.”

“then why didn’t you say anything?!”

you gave him a look.

“why didn’t you?”

he stared at you like the answer was obvious.

“because you never acted like you wanted me back. ever.”

you frowned.

“maybe you’re oblivious.”

steve scoffed so hard it was almost offensive then gave you the most irritated look imaginable.

“i do not wanna hear you call anybody oblivious. you are the most oblivious person alive.”

you gasped.

“no i’m not.”

“yes, you are.”

“i’m cautious.”

“cautious of what?”

you went quieter then.

honest.

“reading too far into things.” your fingers picked at your sleeve. “you could’ve just been being nice, y’know? i didn’t wanna lose you.”

steve’s whole face softened instantly.

his hand found yours.

squeezed.

“in no world do you lose me, idiot.”

your eyes rolled automatically, mostly because if you looked at him too long you might cry.

then, lighter, you said,

“been waiting your whole life?” you smiled. “dramatic ass.”

he laughed then shook his head.

“no, i’m serious.”

“right.”

“i am.”

“okay, sure-”

before you could argue, he grabbed your face again and kissed you hard. full of grin and relief and years of built-up wanting.

when he pulled back, he was smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

“and yeah,” he murmured. “i’ll go to prom with you.”

he winked.

“it’s a date.”

you groaned, laughing.

“that line was awful.”

“worked the first time.”

you shoved his shoulder.

he caught your hand, kissed your knuckles and then finally started the car.

the drive home was spent sharing ice cream, stealing kisses at red lights, and smiling so much both your faces hurt.

and when he parked between your houses that evening for the first time going home next door didn’t feel like enough.

because now, finally, you knew exactly where home was.

and it was sitting in the driver’s seat, smiling at you like he’d found his whole world.

-

the week leading up to prom was, quite possibly, the happiest either of you had ever been.

which was saying something, considering you and steve had spent your whole lives making happiness out of ordinary things.

bike rides and late-night talks. pool days and movie nights. studying together, even when steve mostly just distracted you.

shared dinners. inside jokes.

the quiet comfort of simply existing side by side.

you had already built a life around each other long before romance ever entered the picture.

but now there was kissing. and, quite frankly, that improved everything.

the strange thing was, almost nothing about your relationship changed, and somehow, everything changed.

you still woke up most mornings to the sound of steve’s car horn, or, more recently, to the sound of him knocking on your front door because apparently now he liked seeing your sleepy face. you still rode to school together, still shared lunches, still studied in the library after classes, still spent evenings draped across each other’s bedroom floors talking about life until one of you fell asleep mid-conversation.

you were still you.

he was still steve.

best friends in every way that mattered.

except now, when he saw you, his face immediately softened into the most helpless smile. except now, his hand naturally found yours every chance it got. except now, when he dropped you off at home, you kissed him goodnight. except now, when he made you laugh, he looked at your mouth afterwards like he couldn’t help himself.

except now, he kissed you whenever the urge struck him, which was often.

very often.

because steve had apparently been suppressing years of affection, and now that he was allowed to touch you the way he’d always wanted he simply never stopped.

a kiss on your forehead when he saw you in the morning. a kiss on your cheek while waiting in line for lunch. a kiss against your temple while you studied.

a quick peck when he passed you in the hallway. a longer one when nobody was looking.

soft kisses, laughing kisses, hungry kisses that left you breathless, lazy kisses that happened just because you were standing close.

sometimes he’d stop mid-sentence, stare at you for a second, then kiss you like he’d just remembered he could.

when you’d laugh and ask what that was for, he’d just grin.

“been wanting to for years.”

as if that explained everything. as if that wasn’t enough to make your heart explode every single time.

steve, somehow, became even sweeter.

which you honestly hadn’t thought possible.

he was constantly touching you in little ways. fingers brushing yours, hand on the small of your back, absentmindedly tucking your hair behind your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder while reading over your work even though he wasn’t actually reading any of it.

he looked at you like you were his favourite thing on earth, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real.

truthfully, he couldn’t.

steve had spent years loving you quietly, years convincing himself he was okay with just having you however he could get you.

best friend. neighbour. constant companion.

he had told himself that was enough.

it hadn’t been, not really.

and now he got to kiss you. hold your hand. hear you call him yours in little casual ways that made his brain completely short circuit.

my stevie.

mine.

god.

he’d never been happier.

and you felt exactly the same.

you weren’t even officially dating yet. somehow, neither of you had actually labelled whatever this was, but it didn’t matter.

you were his.

he was yours.

everyone knew it.

that was enough.

for now.

then prom night arrived.

you spent the afternoon at your friend’s house with your three closest girlfriends, all of you crowded around mirrors with makeup scattered everywhere, hairspray thick in the air, music playing too loudly in the background while laughter bounced off the walls.

it was chaos, beautiful chaos.

and, naturally, your friends spent most of it teasing you mercilessly.

“finally,” one of them said dramatically while curling your hair. “do you understand how painful it’s been watching you two circle each other for years?”

another snorted from where she was doing eyeliner.

“literally years.”

“it was embarrassing,” the third added. “for everyone involved.”

you laughed, shaking your head.

“we were not that obvious.”

three deadpan looks met your reflection in the mirror.

then all together-

“you were.”

one of them groaned dramatically.

“he looked at you like you hung the moon.”

you covered your face.

“okay, stop.”

they only laughed harder but beneath the teasing was genuine relief. everyone who loved you had been waiting for this, waiting for you both to finally stop being idiots, waiting for the inevitable.

because to everyone else you and steve had always been a love story waiting to happen.

later, after hugs and promises to meet at prom, you headed home to get dressed.

and when you finally stepped into your baby pink dress, the same one steve secretly bought for you, you stared at yourself for a long moment.

soft curls framing your face, makeup gentle and glowing, the pink bringing warmth to your skin.

for once, nerves hit.

not because of prom.

because of steve.

because you wanted him to look at you and feel what you always felt when you looked at him.

then, a knock at the door.

your stomach flipped instantly.

you carefully made your way downstairs, hand lightly gripping the banister so you wouldn’t trip over your own feet and halfway down, you froze.

your mother had already opened the door.

steve was standing inside.

flowers in hand, pink flowers, the exact shade of your dress, suit fitted perfectly, tie matching you exactly like he’d planned, hair done but still somehow perfectly messy, looking so unfairly handsome it almost knocked the breath from your lungs.

then he looked up and froze. completely.

his whole body went still, flowers slackening slightly in his hand. mouth parting, eyes wide.

you nearly froze too but you also nearly missed a step, so survival instincts forced you forward.

when you reached him, smiling shyly, steve still looked stunned.

then softly, so softly,

“you look so beautiful."

his voice full of awe.

you felt your cheeks warm.

“you look handsome.”

that snapped him into a grin.

your mother immediately started gushing.

“oh, look at you two-”

your father, already prepared, handed her the old camera.

same tradition every dance, same photo spot every year.

except this year felt different, this year felt important.

steve’s hand settled naturally on your waist.

firm, warm, possessive in the gentlest way. you tucked into his side and both of you smiled brighter than you ever had before.

click.

perfect.

the second you stepped outside and the front door shut behind you steve kissed you. immediately. like he physically couldn’t help it.

you laughed softly against his mouth when he pulled away.

“what was that for?”

he shrugged, smiling.

“sorry. i feel like i have to all the time now.”

you blinked.

he looked adorably sheepish.

“i waited too long before.”

your whole chest melted.

you stood on your toes and kissed his cheek.

“good job i don’t mind.”

his smile widened impossibly.

the drive there was perfect. madonna played loudly, steve complained-

“this song again?”

-while secretly singing every word.

badly. using one hand as a fake microphone. you laughed until your stomach hurt and when he caught you looking at him with that soft smile he winked.

god.

you were doomed.

prom itself was… nice.

crowded, hot, loud. friends dragged you apart almost immediately, his crowd calling him over, yours pulling you in. reluctantly, you separated. but only briefly. because, like always, you found your way back to each other.

effortlessly, like magnets, just in time for the slow dance.

his hands found your waist, yours looped around his neck. you swayed together beneath dim lights, forehead resting lightly against his, smiling softly at nothing and everything.

it was perfect, too perfect, too short. because when the song ended, steve frowned.

“that’s bullshit.”

you laughed.

“what?”

“not enough dancing.”

before you could ask what he meant, he grabbed your hand and started pulling you through the crowd.

out the doors, into the parking lot.

you were laughing the whole time.

“stevie- what are you doing?”

he just laughed breathlessly.

“trust me.”

he dragged you to his car, opened the door, turned the radio on, shoved in a cassette, then david bowie filled the warm night air.

steve dramatically bowed.

held out his hand.

“may i have this dance?”

you laughed so hard your cheeks hurt then placed your hand in his.

under stars, in a mostly empty parking lot, next to his car, you slow danced.

giggling, stepping on each other’s feet, swaying dramatically, kissing halfway through because neither of you could help yourselves.

it was perfect. better than prom itself.

afterwards, breathless and smiling, you both looked toward the building, then at each other and silently agreed-

fuck prom.

ice cream was mandatory, then home.

summer air still warm enough that sitting in his back garden felt perfect.

until suddenly steve gasped, shot upright and ran to the pool, crouching beside it staring in dramatically.

you followed quickly.

“what? what?”

he waved urgently.

“come look.”

you leaned closer and he shoved you in. cold water swallowed you whole. when you surfaced gasping, steve was doubled over laughing.

that little bitch.

fine.

game on.

you frowned dramatically.

“ow- steve-”

his laughter stopped instantly.

“…what?”

you grabbed your arm.

“i think i hurt it-”

panic overtook his face.

“shit- how?”

he reached down and his hand out.

the sweetest idiot alive.

you grabbed it and yanked.

he crashed in beside you with a loud splash. when he surfaced, hair plastered down, face full of betrayal, you were laughing hysterically.

he looked annoyed for exactly two seconds before pulling you into him, arms wrapping around your waist holding you close in the water.

laughing softly now too.

then he kissed you.

forehead resting against yours after, smiling wide.

then quietly, like truth he’d been carrying forever,

“i love you.”

your eyes opened.

you smiled.

“i love you too.”

his face softened so completely it almost broke you.

then he hugged you hard like he never wanted to let go.

later, dripping wet, climbing out of the pool steve paused. looked at you seriously, then “that means you’re my girlfriend now, by the way.”

you smiled.

nodded.

“okay.”

he frowned jokingly.

“…okay?”

you blinked.

“what?”

he shoved wet hair back.

“i always thought you were perfectly happy being single.”

you smiled softly.

shrugged.

“maybe i was just waiting for you.”

he rolled his eyes immediately, tugging you into his side as he walked you both inside.

his lips pressed briefly to your temple.

then quietly, certainly, “you always had me.”

his arm tightened around you.

“always.”

-

@prettyfortucker @harringtondarling @katsallthetime @thichnhathanhh @keepdrlving @beth-mirrorball @powerpuffedbjtch @itzeeeee @ddenniiee-729 @teheblue @frozenpeanutbutterr @coldalpsmcu @b0nzey @xceafh @hearts4steve @swirledyouintoallmypoems @saintlaurentdiva @joekeerylice @blurrygir1 @songkangslvr @keerymylove @foreverserving @cciessuzi @livingblythedoli @toopypoopy @ellieluvercentral @evies4ngels @lattewirl @wolfiee10 @maevebloom @drunkedniallh @girlwithkaleidoscopeeyes777 @mabsters @i-got-the-cinema @batmanssssss @bluehexagon8 @magnificentcitadelcrest @pleasecallmeunhinged @purplequeen64-stuff @inherdiary77 @whispersoflost @yikesdrama @chronicstevelover @horanlover7 @ann-aatn @xoxocelestial @isatchl

[levanswrites]

only the lightest blues

pairing: steve harrington x reader summary: it’s 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 before—but 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 isn’t 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 ♬.ᐟ

They don’t take him to the hospital. They bring him to you.

Which is, objectively, stupid.   

But apparently, hospitals ask questions. And you—part-time party medic, occasional dispenser of prescription-only painkillers (for legitimate anxiety and migraines, thank you very much)—you don’t.

You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re 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-doesn’t-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, it’s not a solicitor.

It’s Robin.

Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.  

You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.

“Don’t freak out,” 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 Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.

This time? She’s 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. 

You squint.

“Who the fuck is that?” … Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.

You don’t 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 didn’t 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 “gas leaks” again.

And Robin Buckley had Steve.     

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. 

You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.

Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.

He smiled. You didn’t smile back.

You didn’t care.  

It’s 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, he’s here.

Dying on your lawn.

Ruining your Friday. … 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. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.

His eyes flutter.

Then, absurdly, he smiles.

“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”

You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.

“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”

He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.

Then promptly goes limp. … “It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”

Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.

“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”

You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”

Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d 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. Connor’s—”

“Robin.”

“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”

Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.

You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”

“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”

You level her with a look.

She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”

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.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.” … You do fix him.

Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming. 

And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.

Like he’s sorry.

Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.

You hate that.

You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, 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. 

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: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.

“Jesus christ,” you whisper.

You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.

Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.

Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die. 

You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”

Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.

“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.  

You blink. “Bats.”

“Like. Big ones? Really big?”

You stare at her. Then at Steve.  

You don’t believe her.

But also… you kind of do.    

Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.

It fed. … “Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”

She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.

“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”

“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”

“Right. On it.”

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 it’s there.

“Harrington. You with me?”

His hand twitches once, thumb up. … He doesn’t scream.

You wish he would.

Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.

But Steve just… takes it.

His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and 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 it’s 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 it’s a penance.

You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.

It’s not bravery. It’s habit.

A mask. 

And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.

Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s 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 jolts—full-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.  

Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.

“Shit. S-sorry.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t. … 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, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s 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, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.  

As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.

“Talk.”

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.

“…Demobats.” She mutters.

 “I’m sorry?”

“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”

You wait. There’s no punchline.

“…You’re serious.”

She nods.

And then it all spills out.

Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.

You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”

But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.

And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.

“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”

“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”

“And you were tortured?”

 “I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”

“Jesus christ, Robin.”

“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”

She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”

You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”

“Well, 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.”

You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.

Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”

You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”

She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.

You scowl.

“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”

Robin doesn’t 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.

“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.

“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.” …   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, you’ll notice.

You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” 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. … It’s 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 you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.

But then his lips part.

Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.

“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”

It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.

You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.

You’ve 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 doesn’t.

And goddammit.

Goddammit, you didn’t want this.

Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t 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. 

Didn’t 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. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.  

Without thinking, you lean forward.

Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.

“Steve,” 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.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.

You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people. She meant hearts. You meant bones. You’re starting to think maybe she was right. … You wake to yelling.

Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.

“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”

“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”

There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”

“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.

“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”

“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”

“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Because it works!”

You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.

“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”

Instant silence.

When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.

“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”

“Unfortunately.”

Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”

You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve 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. “Sit down.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not.”

“I just need to—”

“Now, Harrington.”

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”

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 it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.

You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?” … The coffee is yesterday’s.

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.

Robin’s 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 Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.

Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.

Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.

You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:

“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”

He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”

“Clearly.”     

He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.

“Thank you. For last night.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.” 

He huffs a weak laugh.

“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”

Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.

“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”

She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.

“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” 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.

“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”

You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"

“Got it?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”

Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.

“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”

Slam!

“—licensed.”

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.  

He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”

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 he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.

You blink.

Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.

“Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”  

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.

“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”  

He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

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 you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know. … You try to make pancakes.

Try being the operative word.

There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.

Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.

It’s distracting.

It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.

Pancakes aren’t 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 doesn’t know how to deal with it.   

“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.

You don’t turn around. “Fine.”

A beat.

“You sure?”

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, there’s the scrape of a chair.

“I said I’m fine,” 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.

“Here,” 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.

“I was handling it.”

“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”

He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?” 

He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”

You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.

You file that away, too.

“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”

“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”

He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”

You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”

He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

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 it’s being murdered.

You lunge for it like a lifeline.

It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.

“Hello? …You WHAT?”

Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”

“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”

“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”   

You glance back.

Steve’s 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 won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.    

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: “Yeah. I got him.”

“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"

Click.

Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.

“She grounded?”

“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”

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. You’d 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. It’s gonna be a long week. … Breakfast is awkward.

No other word for it.

Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re 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.

“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”  

His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.

You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”

“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.

“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t 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.   

He doesn’t 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, and—

Jesus.

He’s 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 you’re 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.

There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.  

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.   

You don’t.

You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”

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. “Thanks.”

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. … There’s an old joke your friends like to make.

That you’re 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, they’ve got it backwards.

You’re not a sadist.

No. What you are is a fucking masochist.

Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.

Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t 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 bursts—on, 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 yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.

A light knock.

“You good?”

A pause, then:

“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”

There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.

And Steve—

Well.

He’s wet.

And shirtless. And pink.

Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is 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 you’re absolutely not thinking about.

He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.

“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.” 

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:

“Sit.” 

He blinks. “…What?”

“On the floor. Back against the tub.”

There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.  

You don’t blink.

He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”

“Steve.”

It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.

His first name, in your voice. 

You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t 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.  

You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.

“Lean your head back.”

He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."

There’s 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.

“Too hot?”

He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”

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. 

It’s 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 that’s when it happens.

The shift.

Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes 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. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”

His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”

Then, after a beat:

“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”

Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.

You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.

“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.

So you keep going.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.    

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 it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.

And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.

Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?

The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.

King Steve.

But this? This isn’t him.

This is the After.                                                                                       

The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.

The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.

This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.

And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s 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.  

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 he’s bracing for it to end.

And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he 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.   

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. 

Strangled. That’s what Robin said.  

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 don’t let up.

You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.

There’s 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.

“Too hard?” you ask quietly.

His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”

The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.  

And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.

He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t 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 brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares 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 he’s swallowed with something soft.

God, you’re 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 it—his hands shifting in his lap.

Cross. Adjust.

You glance down without thinking.

And oh.

Oh.

The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s 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 you…

It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.

Softer than longing. Sharper than want.

It's something that aches.

You don’t know what to do with it.

So you just keep your hands in his hair.

And you rinse.   … You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.

After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.

The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.

When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.

Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s 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.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.  

You nod, not trusting your voice.

The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.

Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.

His breath brushes your cheek.

You’re too close.

It’s too much.

You could kiss him. 

God help you, you could.

Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.

And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.

That’s want.

And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s 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.

“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”

Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.

His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”

You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”

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 don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go. ... It starts the way summer storms do. 

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. 

It’s 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.

“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”

“Ten days.”

“Hm. I like this show.”

“Knight Rider?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

“No. It’s dumb.”

“What? C’mon, the car talks.”

“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”

“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”

“You hungry?”

“No, you?”

“No.”

And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.

Storm pressure.   

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 can’t.

The blanket’s too warm.

He’s too close.

And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.  

“…You’re doing it again.”

“Hm?”

You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”

His lips part. “Like what?”

Your eyes drop to his mouth.

His pinky brushes yours.

And just like that, the storm breaks. … Steve leans in first.

The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.

Only this time, you don’t 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.

There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—

It’s 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.  

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 he’s 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. “God, you’re…” 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.

“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.  

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”

You nod, catching your breath.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you

And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t 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 doesn’t know how to ask for.

Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.

“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”

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 don’t stop. 

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.

“Jesus,” he breathes. 

You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.

“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”

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.

“Shit, baby…” he breathes.   

And that word—

It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.

You don’t 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, there’s 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 that’s 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. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.

And it guts you. The honesty of it.

How easy it is to see now.     

That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want. 

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 and—

You blink. Your mouth goes dry.

Because he’s—

Wow. Okay.

Noted.

It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s 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.

“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”

You look up at him, eyes wide.   

“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”

His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.

And there it is.

That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.

“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”

You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow.  

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.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Didn’t say anything,” 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 he’s twitching under your mouth.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”

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.

“You can touch me,” you murmur.      

His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”

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.  

“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”

You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.  

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 he’s 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.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”

His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t 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.  

You keep going until he’s 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.

“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"

You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.

“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”

He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:

“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?” 

You pause, stunned.  

You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”

You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.

Then, finally, you nod.

“Okay.”

You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t 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 he’s fully seated.

Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.

Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.

“Shit, are you—?”

“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”  

He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.

And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.

“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”

You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.

“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”  

The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.

And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Love how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.

“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”

His fingers circle faster.  

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.     

He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.

“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”

You’re 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.

“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”

His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t 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 you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.

Things too raw for daylight.

Things meant only for him. … 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 it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.

Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s 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 they’ve been kissing too.  

He never asks. You never offer. … 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 you’re 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 don’t look away.  

You’ll 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. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”

He doesn’t blink. “I’m 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. That’s all it takes.

Three steps until your back’s 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 it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.

He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”

You don’t.

You kind of never do. … The days bleed together after that.  

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 don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.

He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.

A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.

You scowl at checkout. He grins.

“You’re gonna thank me later,” 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. … Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.

It starts to feel owned.  

You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while it’s still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.

He says, “Ow,” even when it doesn’t hurt. You say, “Asshole,” even when it’s 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.

He’s watching you. Again.   

You glance up. "What?"

He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing.”

“Steve.”

“I just…” He hesitates. Looks down. “I like this.”

You raise a brow. “Cleaning your blood out of my furniture?”

He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.

“Yeah,” he says.

But it’s not what he means.

You both know that. … The sex changes, too.

In the mornings, it’s quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.

But at night? He’s something else entirely.

He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hips—holding you open, holding you still, driving into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you forever.

And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation. 

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.

“Say it,” he murmurs, grinding deep. “Tell me who makes you feel like this.”

You break on his name.

He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking.

And afterward, he stays.

Inside you. Around you.

He never pulls away first. … 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.    

You don’t 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 doesn’t speak. Just lets you hold him.

Lets you guide him back to bed. … Your mornings are different now.  

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 isn’t yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because you’ve learned to walk around them.

He’s 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. … Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count. 

Because every morning, you tell yourself he’ll probably leave soon.

And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he won’t. … Like tonight.

You’re 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 question’s been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.

“Why’d you do it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheek—a careful, deliberate breath.

“…Do what?”  

“The lake,” you murmur. “You jumped in first. Why?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Someone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didn’t really have to think about it.”

And you believe him. It’s the part that hurts the most.

That he didn’t 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.

“Steve,” you say quietly. “You know it’s not about being a hero, right? You don’t have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.”

His hand stills.

“I’m not.”  

“Not what?”

“A hero. I’m not.” He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. “I was… just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didn’t care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it just—it never felt like enough. Still doesn’t.”

You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.

“So what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?”

He almost smiles. “Kinda. Yeah.”

Then, quieter:

“I don’t know, it’s like, if I’m not the one stepping up, then… what’s the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?”

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 it’s fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned.  

The weight he carries isn’t something he puts on; it’s something that grew with him.

Years of being told he wasn’t 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. 

That kind of doubt doesn’t heal. It burrows deep.

Sinks its teeth in. Festers.   

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.

That’s 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.  

“You’re for you, Steve.” 

He blinks, brows knitting.

“You don’t have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. That’s not something you have to prove.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s 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 don’t.

You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts.   

You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.

You stay up.  

Because someone has to. … 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 that’s 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 else’s heartbeat in your space.

So when the knocking starts—three sharp raps that rattle the wood—it takes you both by surprise.

Steve’s already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.

You’ve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.

“Guess who’s officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and look—I brought backup!”

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.

You’ve heard about them, of course—Steve’s strange little apocalypse crew—but hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.

“He’s alive!” Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters into her shoulder.

“Uh, excuse me. Your fault,” she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Grounded, remember?” Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So? How much trouble was he?”   

You glance over at Steve. He’s already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s daring you to say something first. There’s a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.

You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. “Not much. He folds my laundry now.”

Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.

“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Steve Harrington, domesticated. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”

But his ears are pink by the time you close the door. …

After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchen’s a mess of crumbs and chatter.

Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddie’s 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. 

“—I’m saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.”

Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like he’s catching every third word.

You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable hum—until Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.

“So… he’s okay to come back now, right?

You glance over your shoulder.

Steve’s got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen light—pale 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. “I mean, no fever, no infection. Doesn’t seem to be actively dying. So yeah, I’d say he’s good.”

Dustin beams. “Awesome.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:

“Actually… I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.”

The room goes still.

Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.

Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.

“No.”

You turn, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“No way,” he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry you’ve come to recognize. “You’re not going.”

You blink at him like, Seriously?

He raises his brows like, Try me. 

You sigh, turning off the water. “I wouldn’t be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?” You shoot him a pointed look.

He ignores it, jaw working like he’s gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.

“Wait, that’s actually kind of genius,” he mutters thoughtfully. “You could be our medic. Like—Eddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!”

You frown. “Our what now?”

“D&D thing,” Eddie smirks. “Healing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.”

You laugh softly. “Sure. Okay. Cleric.”

But Steve isn’t laughing.

“Wait, just—hang on,” he steps forward, catching your wrist. “Can I talk to you for a second?” … 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.      

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

You wait.

Finally, quietly: “You can’t come with us.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Firm. But it’s 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. “Steve…”

He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. “You heard what it’s like down there. You saw what happened last time.”

“I did. That’s why I’ve decided to go.”

His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about it before?”

“Why? So you could freak out and tell me no?”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just can’t ask you to risk that. It’s not fair.”

“You’re not asking,” you say quietly. “I’m offering.” 

For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like he’s searching for something—some argument, some loophole that’ll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he won’t have to admit what this really is.

But when he speaks, his voice isn’t tense anymore. It just trembles.  

“I can’t—I can’t lose you in there. You get that? I can’t. I just…” His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.

“...I just got you.”

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 he’s ready to pull away—but he doesn’t. He never does.

“Steve,” you start gently. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I can’t just sit here and wait while you...” you take a breath, squeezing his hand. “If there’s a chance I can help, I’m taking it.”   

He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin—once, twice, like he’s 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.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you’re staying up here. Radio only. And you’re not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?”

You smile into his shirt. “Deal.” … It’s almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.

The sunlight’s 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. You’re curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.

“Jesus,” comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. “How long was I out?”

You smile, already watching. “Couple hours.”  

He squints at the light. “You let me nap that long?”

“You needed it.”

Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hair’s 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. It’s a silence that no longer feels hollow.

You let it breathe.  

It’s 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. 

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 didn’t let go.

The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between.   

And Steve hasn’t 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 you’ve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.

And he’s learning to let you.

You’re halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You hum. “Just thinking.”

“Uh oh,” 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:

“I was just… thinking about what you said.”

He stills, blinking up at you. “Yeah? What’d I say now?”

“At the gate.”

That’s 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 out—only 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! Just—I need to tell you something. No, I know, just listen—

You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his hands—steady, impossibly steady—as 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. “I never said it back.”

Steve looks at you for a long moment.

Then, softly: “Yeah, you did.”

“When?”

He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.

“Not out loud. But you did.”

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 would’ve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.

Your fingers find his jaw.

“Still,” you whisper. “I want to say it now.”

He tilts his head, waiting.

And you do.

Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like they’d been waiting inside you all along.

And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it. … 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 it’s home.

More than it ever was. More than it ever could’ve 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 he’s smiling at you instead of the camera.

Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest won’t 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.

It’s just time, now.

Yours.

Together. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.

She meant hearts. You meant bones.

Maybe she was right.  

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

You've named it something else now, anyway. …

epilogue

You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.

You’ve 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 Player’s Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like he’s cramming for a test.

“I swear,” he mutters, squinting, “you need a math degree to play this game.”

You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Ms—fuel for the chaos to come. “You’ll live.”

“Not if Eddie's dragon eats me.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.”

He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until he’s 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.

“You know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?”

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 here—arms 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, it’s just him.

Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light. And the sun keeps pouring in.