langdon telling reader all the cool procedures he got to do at work while she rides him...
"— so I realigned his spine," he laughs breathlessly, shakes hair out of his eyes and squeezes at the fat of your hips while you ride him. "his spine, baby. without neuro."
"that's so hot,” you gasp into his mouth, “you’re so hot.”
“had his head in my hands and then i j-just—snap,” his laugh is more delicious this time, and then it gets cut off by a moan when you squeeze around his cock. “fuck, sweetheart, you feel so fuckin’ good.”
“better than a spine realignment?” you smile n bite his lip while he chuckles.
“i don’t know if I’d go that fa—” the rest of his sentence is muffled by a pillow over his face while you gasp in faux outrage through a fit of giggles :’)
bobby franklin x reader [mdni] — your boyfriend splashes out on a new camcorder and insists on testing it out on you.
“State your name for the record.”
“You know my name, Bobby.”
“The camera doesn’t.”
Said camera has barely left Bobby’s hands since he’d brought it home two days ago, much to your chagrin. It had taken the entirety of those two days—when you weren’t at work, anyway—for him to convince you to be his muse on your day off. You weren’t even sure what you were signing up for.
Now you sit cross-legged on the bed with one of Bobby’s shirts hanging from your frame, sweating in the summer heat. The fan in the corner rattles noisily, doing little to combat the warmth, and the heat of your annoyance at a camcorder being shoved in your face isn’t exactly helping.
You roll your eyes at him, unimpressed. “The camera isn’t a person. I'm not introducing myself.”
“Well—“ He kisses his teeth, ready to argue his case.
“If you’re just using this as an excuse to roleplay, I want no part of it,” you interject, arms folding stubbornly over your chest.
Bobby zooms the camera in on your deadpan face. “Subject displays signs of hostility—“
“Turn that thing off.”
The warning in your voice only seems to amuse him. The viewfinder hides his expression, but you imagine him grinning, which only exasperates you further.
“Hostility increases—“
“Bobby.”
“Fine. Fine,” he relents—not by turning the camera off, obviously, because that would have required him to possess even a shred of self-restraint, and he’s thoroughly enjoying pestering you right now. Instead, he zooms back out and lowers the camera enough for you to see his face. “This image quality is insane.”
Despite yourself, you feel a little endeared by his enthusiasm. “Well, it better be. That thing is worth, like, a month’s rent.”
The number still makes you feel vaguely ill. The conversation where you’d discovered exactly how much his new equipment cost had almost given you a heart attack. Bobby, however, appears completely unbothered. In fact, judging by the distant look in his eyes, he probably hasn’t heard a single word you’ve just said.
He’s more focused on staring at the tiny flip-out screen again, adjusting the focus ring, watching you reluctantly unfold your arms again.
“Though to be fair,” he says, “you make it easy.”
Your frown deepens. “That’s a terrible line.”
“Line?” He replies absently.
“That.” You gesture vaguely towards him. “Whatever that was. You make it easy.”
A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “It wasn’t a line.”
“It absolutely was.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You called me pretty.”
“I did not,” he denies.
You sit upright. “So now we’re lying?”
Bobby laughs. “I said the image quality was good.”
“Because of me. Therefore you implied I was pretty.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Liar!”
The grin spreading across his face makes your stomach flip unhelpfully. You considered yourself immune to his charms by now, but his boyish grin and the way he’s admiring you through his camcorder makes you want to swoon. Which is exactly why you immediately scowl at him.
“Stop looking so pleased with yourself.”
“I can’t help it,” Bobby says.
You huff an amused breath despite yourself. The sound seems to encourage him, and he adjusts something on the side of the camcorder and squints through the viewfinder.
“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully to himself.
Naturally, such a sound is immediately enough to warrant suspicion. “What?”
“I need the subject to move around. Test how it picks up motion.”
“So now I’m just ‘the subject?’” You raise a challenging brow at him, and he immediately backtracks.
“I need my hot supermodel girlfriend to move around,” he corrects.
You roll your eyes, but it does make something stir in your chest despite its sheer ridiculousness. Bobby lowers the camera again and you catch the mischievous look on his face.
“Maybe you should model.”
“No,” you deny instantly.
“You’re not even going to think about it?” He says, a whine catching in his voice.
“I don’t need to. I don’t want a video of me stripping, or whatever the hell you want, sitting around our apartment. I babysit my niece here twice a week.”
“Okay, and? It’s not like she knows how to work one of these. She barely knows how to brush her own teeth.”
“It’s— it’s the principle,” you insist, cheeks burning. You wouldn’t consider yourself a shy woman, far from it, but the idea of there being a physical record of you attempting to seduce your boyfriend is offputting. “I’m not a slut.”
He groans and throws his head back. “No, you’re not,” he agrees as patiently as he can. He’s using the same voice he uses to console your aforementioned niece, which isn’t exactly helping his case. “You’re very loyal, in fact. Dedicated, too. It’d be really nice if you could show me that dedication—“
“Gross.” You stick your tongue out. “Don’t make it weirder than it has to be.”
“Fine. Fine.” He raises his free hand in surrender. “I’m not making it weird.”
A silence falls over the both of you, and you worry at your bottom lip in consideration. It just goes to show how much you adore him, because you should be sticking with your gut answer and telling him to fuck off. Alas…
“You promise you won’t show anyone?”
Bobby perks up instantly. “Promise. Scout’s honour.” The boyish salute that follows makes your shoulders ease up a little, and you briefly question why you’d even consider stripping for such a childish individual.
“Fine. But just a little. To… test your motion, or whatever.”
“What?” He blinks stupidly, before realising that’s the excuse he’d used just a moment ago. A sheepish grin tugs at his mouth. “Oh, right. Exactly. Just a little is fine.”
You swallow, shifting slightly on the bed. The frame creaks, and you can’t help but think the moment feels incredibly unsexy. You’re sweating in the sweltering heat, and it’s probably picking up the whirring sound of the fan, and—
Now you’re just psyching yourself out. It’s fine. It’s just Bobby.
“Okay, so… what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t think I’d get this far.”
“Bobby.”
“Just do what feels right.” He waves a vague hand. “Take your shirt off, or something.”
Such a request should make you sputter with indignance, but it’s no surprise coming from the man who seemingly spent upwards of eight hundred dollars on a camcorder just to record his girlfriend in their shitty apartment. You force some more confidence into your posture, shoulders squaring as you look down at your shirt. Slowly, your fingers drift down to the hem, curling around it.
You glance up at him for reassurance, met with an eager nod. Stifling a sigh, you drag it up slowly, revealing inch by inch of warm skin. “Like this?”
“Just like that,” Bobby breathes, voice lower now.
Encouraged by that, you pull it up further, dragging it up past your bra. Bobby wets his lips at the sight—your breasts spilling over the cups, soft and enticing. Up up up it goes until you’re pulling it over your head, letting it fall to the floor in front of you.
You want to shift uncomfortably, clamp your thighs together, cover yourself with your arms. It’s not like he’s never seen it before. It’s just unnerving with the camcorder directed at you. But you force yourself to stare directly at it, spreading your thighs slightly to give him a proper view of your panties.
“Fuck, yeah,” he murmurs. “Touch yourself.”
“What?” You say, alarmed.
“Not—“ He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Not there. Sorry. Just… your tits, or something.”
Your shoulders sag with relief. That’s a little too much for now, but you’re content enough to give him at least some form of show. Your fingers skate back up your stomach, goosebumps prickling beneath them. Then you cup your breasts over your bra, watching his reaction through half-lidded eyes.
“You’re so pretty, babe,” he says, and the approval goes straight between your legs. “Doing so well.”
You reward him by hooking your fingers under one of your bra straps, inching it down. His breath catches audibly—selfishly, you hope the camera caught that reaction—and he shifts a little on his feet. The thought of him getting visibly aroused by your display emboldens you further.
The other strap follows, and you palm at yourself over the cups a little more. “I would have worn a better set if I knew we were doing this.”
“I like this bra,” he says, only half hearing you, zeroed in on the sight of you squeezing at yourself.
You release them and he almost groans in disappointment. Before the sound can escape, you reach behind you, unclasping the bra and letting it fall away. His eyes widen cartoonishly, and you bite your lip to mask a smile, trying to remain as sultry as possible.
“Shit, can I touch you?” Bobby takes a step forward. Your eyes flick down to his jeans. They’re tight, but you think you can make out the forming bulge beneath the denim.
“Can’t touch ‘the subject,’” you quip.
Hands skim along your chest again, and he seems enraptured as you grope yourself. You’re surprised he hasn’t caved already, but his restraint is admirable as he nods sagely in agreement. Still, you hear him groan under his breath when you focus on a nipple. It stiffens under the touch, already sensitive enough to make you bite the inside of your cheek.
“Is this enough movement?” You ask, rolling your nipple between your fingers while your other hand palms at the flesh of your other breast. You’re hardly moving, so the answer is definitely no, but he indulges you with another one of those enthusiastic nods. You're certain you could sit entirely still with your bra off and he'd tell you it was enough for his little 'motion test.'
“Yeah. Looks, um—“ His gaze moves to the viewfinder, which he realises he hasn’t actually looked through since you took your shirt off. He can only hope the camera was pointed at you properly. “Looks great.”
“The movement, or me?”
“The movement,” he says, laughing at the indignance that crosses your face. “You look more than great. You look perfect.” Heat crawls up your cheeks, but he’s not done. “Which is exactly why I really can’t keep my hands to myself right now, and I don’t think you should waste your day off sitting in bed alone when we could be having sex.”
You bark out a laugh as he switches it off, setting it on the dresser and advancing towards you. “Well, that’s an improvement from your last line.”
He stands between your parted legs, ducking his head to give you a quick kiss. “For the record, it wasn’t a line,” he insists as you reach for his belt.
“Liar,” you mutter against his mouth.
The smile he gives you when he pulls back is so hopelessly smitten that your own laughter softens with something warmer. He ruins it by breaking the silence with:
“Maybe we should invest in a tripod. Then we could really record something sexy—“
when you first crash landed into art's life, all he had to give you to wear were his t-shirts and boxers and khakis. although he loves seeing you traipse around in his clothes that are entirely ill-fitting on you, he feels bad that you didn't have anything of your own.
so he takes you to the mall.
now, you don't quite understand the fashion customs of the humans, but you definitely understand bright colors and fun patterns and all the textures of the soft, flowy fabrics and how they look and feel on your adapted body. you decide you love skirts, the different ways they lay and flow about your legs. tights fascinate you, changing the colors of your skin. and the shoes! you could spend all day trying on all the different shoes and walking up and down the aisles like a catwalk.
art patiently waits for you outside the dressing room at each store, watching you create insane amalgamations of color and cut on your body, but the way you grin and twirl in front of the mirror each time makes him keep his mouth shut. as long as you're happy. and you are ecstatic.
he nearly combusts when you drag him into the victoria's secret, having to hide his raging boner beneath the pile of shopping bags every time you come out to show off another glittery set of lingerie. when you first walk into the store, he complains about the steep prices, but by the time you walk out, you're carrying a bag full of matching sets and silky pajamas.
of course, he buys you some pretzels to munch on as you walk around, your big, sparkling eyes taking in all of your surroundings. The brightly lit signs, the kiosks of sunglasses and cheap toys (every kiosk worker manages to totally enthrall you), and the children laughing and climbing on the playground in the middle of it all.
┆ VICTORIOUS : A CHRONICLE OF HUNGER GAMES VICTORS PAST AND PRESENT
⸝⸝ by Victor Chambliss
Index by District ⫶ ⌞8⌝
WOOF HARTLY ⫶ Victor of the 19th Hunger Games
Woof originated from Dyehouse Drag, the infamous sector of the textile district where it is said one “dyes to die.” Braving a dangerous industry and a toxic environment for his whole life, he wasn’t planning on passing up the opportunity to escape. Thanks to his upbringing, he was familiar navigating a rusting maze such as the dilapidated former prison selected as the arena for the 19th Games. He won his Games through evading his competitors entirely for the first days until a muttation known as The Warden forced the remaining tributes into a final battle in the yard. Woof managed to successfully come out on top by bludgeoning three tributes with a rusted metal pipe.
By all accounts, he has lived a rather solitary life since the 19th Games, never marrying and socializing little. Being the first and only Victor from his district for 23 years, he was the only mentor for District 8 tributes until the 42nd Games thereafter, and has been known to have a rather gruff personality.
INDIGO SINGER ⫶ Victor of the 42nd Hunger Games
Indigo is most notable for winning his Games with only one hand, having lost his left hand to a factory machine malfunction at age 11. The arena of the 42nd Games consisted of a labyrinth of sewer-like tunnels underneath the ground, and Indigo used this to advantage by constantly staying on the move. After locating the Career pack, he followed behind them at a safe enough distance so that they would never come across him. At night, he would occasionally pick off their supplies to keep himself fed. In one of the final days, when there were as few as three Careers left, he slit their throats as they slept. He survived off of their remaining supplies for two more days until the final two tributes, the pair from Seven, were killed by a pack of rat-like muttations after accidentally wandering into their den.
Indigo cannot be described as a social butterfly, and is known to be rather quiet and withdrawn. As opposed to his predecessor’s isolation thanks to his rough exterior, Indigo has been described as rather introspective. 8 years after he was crowned victor, Indigo married his husband, Archie Taylor, a former loom worker and volunteer medic.
CECELIA DARNING ⫶ Victor of the 61st Hunger Games
Cecelia was born to the foreman of a factory in Luxborough that manufactures lace to pretty delicate garments all over Panem. Relatively speaking, she had a rather comfortable life in District Eight. In the 61st Hunger Games, known as “the Great Canyon”, Cecelia joined forces with the tributes from Districts Nine and Ten in the hopes of helping to protect her young district partner. The group survived by camping in hidden caves along the base of the canyon, venturing out only to hunt or collect water from the ravine river. Most notably, she inadvertently revealed their location to the pair of tributes from Two by leaving a trail of wet footprints after collecting water from the river. She was out of the cave when they arrived, and though she had the opportunity to lead the Careers away from their hiding spot, she chose to escape herself, leading to the slaughter of her comrades. She survived the rest of the games by locating similar caves along the ravine, slowly making her way up the walls of the canyon. On the final day, she and the remaining tributes came face to face with a group of muttations modeled after vultures. They were chased and torn at all the way up to the edge of the ravine and over the treacherous cliffs. Cecelia managed to survive the attack by clinging to a bush at the edge of the canyon.
Despite her reputation earned during her Games for leading to the death of her makeshift “family,” she has since been known as a rather family-oriented woman. She married her husband, Dart Temple, 4 years after the 61st Games, and now has three young children: Claudia, Elmer, and Poplin. She naturally took to the fibre arts in her time between raising her children, particularly the craft of bobbin weaving to create delicate lace just like that produced in her father’s factory.
ALICE BADGLEY ⫶ Victor of the 69th Hunger Games
A victor we have all come to know and love, Alice began with humble beginnings on Weaver’s Way, the sector of Eight dedicated to the creation of textiles. It is said that because of the constant whir and clack of the industrial looms producing such constant noise, hearing loss is a common plight of those who live amongst Weaver’s Way. Alice offered her neighbors a reprieve from such grating noise with the melodies of her sweet voice and the baby grand piano she fondly recalls her father lugging all the way from Luxborough and to their tenement just for her.
She credits the arena of the 69th Games, an abandoned urban wasteland, much resembling parts of her own home, for her success. After the death of her district partner, she most notably teamed up with the male tribute from Four. She gained his trust and loyalty by sweetly singing to the young girl from his district in her final moments after the facade of a building collapsed upon her in an earthquake that shook the arena. The pair made it to the finale together, but when facing a brutal battle with the two remaining Careers he abandoned, he lost his life protecting Alice. In the end, she managed to bludgeon the injured boy from One to death with a brick, a savage moment of victory for the songbird.
After the 69th Games, she was signed to Capitol FM, kickstarting the music career we all know her best for. Her debut album Looking Glass shot her to fame and seated her amongst the favorite Victors of all time. She has not married, however relationship rumors have swirled surrounding her and fellow artists as well as fellow victors. Read more about Alice in Chapter 6, Darlings: Victors Who Have Won Our Hearts.
june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be good june will be
♡ Steve touches you as if he can press the truth directly into your skin.
Warnings : 18+ / MDNI! • Enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst (blood/injuries, fear of losing someone), smoking (cigarette), smut (unprotected sex, fingering, semi-public ie outside), emotional vulnerability, protective Steve Harrington, praise kink(?) with themes of trauma, self-worth, and comfort throughout
Pairing : Steve Harrington x impossible girl!Henderson!reader
Word count: 7.3k
Summary: After yet another failed crawl leaves you trapped beneath collapsing concrete, Steve Harrington finally snaps. Forcing you to confront what you really mean to him.
Chef’s Note: yes, the glasses stay on. Send any tips to this customer @roseswebcorner (Order in comments) ♡
The 1,000 followers menu
Rain spits against the windows of the station, turning the parking lot outside into a smear of neon reflections and black asphalt. The ‘WSQK’ sign buzzes red against the storm, flickering ominously over puddles and the van which Steve had abandoned at an angle near the curb, one wheel half up on the pavement.
Wind rattles the broken gutter overhead, and through the rain-streaked glass you can just about make him out, standing beneath the awning. Barely sheltered.
Head tipped back against the brick. White t-shirt damp beneath his cord jacket where the rain had soaked through. Hair curling at the edges, pushed back off his forehead evidently from running his hands through it. His wire-framed glasses catch the red every few seconds, briefly obscuring the exhausted look underneath them before the light flickers away.
Steve.
Steve with blood drying across his knuckles.
Steve with a cigarette between his fingers despite the fact he told the others he’d quit months ago.
You push open the station door and step out into the damp night air, the storm immediately swallowing you whole. Instinctively wrapping your jacket tighter around yourself.
He spares you the briefest of glances when you step out, closing the door behind you. His eyes catch yours; sharp for half a second before he drops his gaze back to the cigarette between his fingers, jaw tight behind the slow curl of smoke.
You cross the narrow space between you and lean against the wall opposite him, back against damp brick. Rainwater drips steadily from the edge of the awning between you, hitting the pavement in uneven taps.
Neither of you speak. Steve just takes another drag; choosing to focus on that and not the fact that you followed him out here.
“You know those things kill you, right?” you say eventually, voice so uneven you're not sure you sound like yourself.
He lets out a humorless huff through his nose. “Think I’m aware.”
The stick glows orange between his fingers. You just watch his hand.
Swollen knuckles.
Split skin.
A faint smear of blood slowly drying near his wrist.
Without really thinking about it, only really to distract yourself from the way your stomach twists, you reach forward and pluck the cigarette from between his fingers.
Steve’s eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t move to stop you.
You take a drag before you can think it through, the smoke burning harsh down your throat. For a while no words pass between you. Just the cigarette.
Until eventually you realise you haven’t stopped staring at his hand.
The way his fingers keep clenching and unclenching at his side. The almost imperceptible wince every now and then that he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.
“You should probably clean that up.”
His jaw flexes.
“Yeah?” he says flatly. “You think?” The way he looks at you when he says it—tired, angry, something rawer underneath —makes you swallow harshly.
Steve takes the cigarette back from you, shoulders tenser than you’ve ever seen them. Then, quieter but just as sharp, he adds, “Maybe you should stop giving me reasons to punch things.”
“There it is.” You knew that was coming. The blame. Is it warranted? Probably. Do you want to hear it? No.
You tilt your head back against the brick, forcing your voice to be lighter than you feel, forcing yourself to say your next words. “That wasn’t my fault.”
His head lifts slowly, eyes finding yours before skirting over you just as slowly. Rain-dark hair plastered messily around your face. Mud streaked across the knees of your jeans from where you hit the ground. The tiny cut near your cheekbone you hadn’t bothered cleaning.
Something sharp flashes across his face so quickly it looks physical.
He grits his next words out. “You ran in there alone.”
Your jaw tightens instantly. “I had it handled.”
Steve actually laughs out that. Cutting. Slightly mocking. “You did, did you?”
A flashlight beam disappearing around the corner before he could grab your hand. Your voice crackling through the radio—I’ll be fine, just cover the other side—
Then static.
You flinch. You don’t need reminding.
The floor giving out beneath your feet. Rust and concrete collapsing inward. Your shoulder slamming hard enough into the wall to make your vision spark white.
You force yourself to shrug anyway. “But I got out.”
“Because of me.” Steve steps forward as he says it, the words sharper and louder than everything else he’s said tonight before he visibly catches himself.
His voice lowers again, words scrapped raw. “You got out because I got to you in time.”
His eyes lock onto yours and don’t move. Don’t even blink.
And for a second neither do you. Like you're in a trance.
Rain continues to hammer down around you. Neon red flickers across the sharp line of his jaw, catches against the lenses of his glasses, turns his soaked white t-shirt pink for half a heartbeat before fading again.
You look away first.
Your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. Steve’s breathing hard now, not from exertion but from whatever ugly thing he’s been trying to hold down since you all came back up.
“You know what I heard?” he asks.
You don’t answer. He doesn’t give you time to.
“You telling me to shut up, a loud crash—” His voice catches suddenly, wavering around the next part like he physically hates saying it out loud. “You scream.”
His eyes lock back onto yours, he swallows, hard, before continuing. “And then nothing.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because, yes, you remember it too.
The static swallowing your voice mid-sentence. The sick drop in your stomach when the tunnel floor gave out beneath you. The impact. Dust choking the air so thick you could barely breathe around it.
And then silence.
Deafening. All-consuming. Terrifying.
Steve drags a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every little move he makes. “Do you have any idea what that was like?”
You hate this.
Hate the way he’s looking at you. Hate remembering the panic clawing up your throat beneath all that concrete. Hate remembering how helpless you felt down there. Hate the fact he saw you like that.
So you default to the only thing you know how to do in a moment like this: deflection.
“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”
Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not the fucking point, Henderson.”
You cross your arms tighter over your chest like a shield; voice raising to match his. “Then what is?”
For a second he just stares at you like he can’t actually believe you’re asking. As if he genuinely cannot comprehend how you don’t get this. And in your rational brain, maybe you do. A little. But understanding something and letting yourself feel it are two very different things.
He just laughs, again. This time it’s softer. Not quite so mocking anymore.
In fact it sounds a little wrecked.
Actually, it sounds completely and utterly wrecked.
“I found you trapped under concrete,” he says, rough and low, every word a struggle for him to say. “And you were still trying to joke with me.”
Your stomach twists, you feel your hands grow clammy and shake by your side because suddenly you’re back there.
Steve dropping to his knees beside you so hard the impact echoed through the building. Blood already running over his knuckles from the door he’d punched and kicked through to reach you. His hands shaking while he shoved broken debris away from your leg.
And you, dizzy and hurting and terrified in a way you didn’t want to name, still forcing out:
“Took you long enough, Harrington.”
Steve had looked at you like the joke physically hurt him.
And now, eyes glassy behind rain-speckled lenses, cheeks flushed, his jaw flexes the exact same way.
“You looked at me like-like it was no big deal—“
You swallow harshly, cutting him off. “It wasn’t—”
“How can you say that?” His voice cracks this time. Barely, but you hear it.
“Jesus Christ, do you think I wanted to not be able to fucking answer Dustin when he’s screaming down the radio that you’re not answering? Cause I didn’t know why you weren’t. Cause you had decided to go off alone. Again.”
Rain rattles violently against the metal awning overhead. Steve looks away suddenly, dragging a hand over his mouth before shaking his head once.
“Do you think I wanted to be the one to tell him that you—” His voice catches hard enough that he has to stop. “That you…”
He can’t say it.
You realise with a horrible twisting ache that he physically cannot force the words out. Like saying them aloud might make them real. Might drag you right back beneath the rubble where he found you.
The storm presses in around you both, so loud now that it almost feels intrusive. Like the night itself is listening.
Steve stares out into the rain, chest rising hard beneath the damp white t-shirt, cigarette long forgotten.
You don’t know what to do with this version of him.
Steve annoyed? Easy.
Steve sarcastic? Easy. Typical.
Steve looking at you like losing you would’ve broken him? That hurts.
In a way you don't understand. In a way that makes your chest actually ache.
“He would’ve been okay,” you say quietly, and you almost believe yourself.
But Steve’s head snaps toward you so fast you instantly regret it. “What?”
You shrug even though the motion feels stiff. Defensive. False. “Dustin. He would’ve been okay.” You nod as you say it; like that will make it true.
For a second Steve just stares at you.
Then something furious flashes across his face.
“No,” he says immediately. “No, he wouldn’t have.”
You open your mouth to say-to say—you don’t know. You don’t know what to say, what to do, where to look.
“No.” Steve shakes his head once, sharp and disbelieving. “No.”
You look away on instinct—the look in his eyes, the rawness of his voice suddenly all too much. You try to make yourself smaller somehow. Fold inward. Retreat back behind the walls that usually keep people out before he can force his way through them.
But he won't let you. Not anymore. Not after today.
He’s moving before you can.
One second there’s space between you. And then the next there isn’t.
Rain clings to his lashes. His glasses sit crooked from where he shoved a hand through his hair moments earlier. His chest rises hard beneath his soaked t-shirt as he steps into your space like he physically cannot stand this distance anymore..
And then before you can even blink his hand is grasping your jaw. Firm. Unwavering. His fingers curl against your skin and drag your face back up until your eyes are on him. Only on him.
No chance to run. No chance to hide from this. From him.
“Harringto—”
Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. Too thin. Too breathless. Like you’re begging for something you can’t even name. For him to stop. For him not to stop. For him not to make you stand here and let him see you like this.
“No. You’re not listening to me.” His thumb presses sharply against your jaw as frustration bleeds through every word. “You keep saying this shit like people would just get over it. Like losing you wouldn't-wouldn't mean anything.”
Your pulse stumbles hard against your ribs.
“You think Dustin would’ve been okay?” he says incredulously.
“You think your brother wouldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering if he could’ve stopped you from running in there alone? That if he had done even the slightest thing differently that you would still be here. Going over and over and over it in his head wondering where he fucked up?”
“You keep acting like you’re expendable,” he says, voice cracking around the last word. “As if it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t come back.”
You try to pull away instinctively, discomfort clawing up your throat too fast, but Steve’s grip tightens slightly before immediately softening again when he realises it.
Not letting you go. Not letting you disappear.
“And me?” It’s not only his voice that has broken but his expression, as he struggles to speak. “You think I would’ve been fucking okay?”
He’s staring at you like he needs you to understand this. Like it matters more than his pride. More than winning any argument. More than whatever this thing between you has become.
It's almost like he’s trying to show you something in his words, in his face, in the desperation in his voice. Something he’s been trying to show you for a long time now and you just keep refusing to see.
If he can just make you see it—really see it—maybe he can stop you from slipping through his fingers next time.
Your breath catches painfully in your throat. Because the worst part is—
Some part of you thinks you do see it.
That maybe you always have.
And that is infinitely more terrifying than pretending you don’t.
“Why?” you croak out before coughing lightly and trying again. “Why?”
The question seems to knock the air out of him for a second. His brows pull together hard as he almost spits out “What?”
“Why would you care?” You mean for it to sound sharp. Defensive. Detached.
Instead it comes out small. Confused.
Steve, for all his frustration and anger, just stares at you.
It’s still raining heavily, wind now pushing cold mist beneath the awning, but all you can feel is the warmth of his body standing so close to yours.
Then he laughs once under his breath. But it's devoid of any humour.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, swiping the hand not cupping your jaw down his face and through his hair, shaking his head. “You really don’t know.”
Immediately your defenses slam back into place. “Know what?” you say quickly, trying for sarcasm mixed with anger and missing completely. “All I do is annoy you.”
“We fight constantly,” you cut in, words tumbling out faster now because if you stop talking you might actually have to hear what he’s trying to say—what he’s been trying to say for years now. “I drag you into insane bullshit, I nearly got myself killed tonight, I got you injured, I make your life harder basically every time I—”
Suddenly you’re cut off.
Not by more words.
But by a forceful pressure.
Specifically, Steve's mouth on yours.
He crashes into you. Moving like he's been holding this in for years—like if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll drown in the weight of it. Like he cannot stand hearing one more terrible thing leave your mouth.
It's not soft. Not careful.
It’s desperate and angry and messy, his lips pressing hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into your jaw to keep you there.
You gasp against him, and he takes full advantage, slanting his mouth over yours again, teeth scraping, breaths mingling sharp with the almost addictive combination of nicotine and rain.
You stumble back a step, shoulders hitting the wall, but he doesn’t let you retreat. He uses his body instead of his words to cage you in, one hand still gripping your jaw, the other braced against the wall beside your head. His glasses dig into your cheekbone, the frames cold where they press against your skin, but you don’t pull away. You are not sure you could.
You finally snap out of the shock of it, and in that moment all you want is him closer than humanly possible. Your hands fist in the damp cotton of his shirt, dragging him closer with a desperation that surprises even you. .
Steve lets out a ragged moan against your mouth, the sound muffled by the sharp press of teeth and lips—half frustration, half surrender—before he mutters a broken, "Fuck," against your skin.
It’s all hands and teeth and the dizzying press of bodies.
His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to the scrape of his stubble.
You gasp at the feeling, and he fully takes the opportunity given to him to deepen the kiss, tongue hot and insistent, like he’s trying to rewrite every argument, every sharp word, every moment you’ve spent at each other’s throats.
All in this one kiss.
“You think I don’t care?” he murmurs against your mouth before kissing you again immediately. “Jesus Christ.”
Another kiss.
Another sharp inhale.
His lips drag against yours slower this time, but no less desperate.
“I punched through a fucking door for you,” he says hoarsely, words breaking apart between kisses. “When I heard you scream—” His voice catches roughly. “When I saw you trapped down there alone I-I couldn't breathe.”
Your chest aches so hard it feels unbearable.
“Not till I knew you were okay.” His hands are still shaking even as they hold onto you.
Steve kisses you again before you can speak, like he already knows you’ll try to argue your way out of this too.
He’s not wrong.
“No,” he mutters against your lips, thumb trembling where it rests beneath your jaw. “No, you don’t get to do that anymore.”
Steve touches you like he can press the truth directly into your skin; then you might finally believe him. “You matter to me,” he breathes against your mouth.
And then, quieter. Rougher. “So fucking much.”
Another kiss, slower now, but somehow just as devastating.
“More than you’ll ever know,” he says hoarsely against your lips. “More than you ever could.”
Your throat tightens dangerously. And for the first time all night, maybe ever, you don’t call him Harrington.
.“Steve…”
The name leaves you like something fragile, like it physically hurts you to let him hear it.
Hearing his name said by you, like that—soft, fractured, stripped bare—destroys whatever last shred of restraint he’d been clinging to.
Steve’s breath stutters against your lips, his grip tightening in your hair reflexively. The sound of his name in your voice—not Harrington, not king Steve, not something thrown at him in anger or challenge–does something violent to his chest.
He doesn’t just kiss you this time—he devours you.
He drags you impossibly closer, his teeth catching your lower lip hard, his tongue sweeping in long before you can recover. There’s absolutely nothing gentle about it—this is Steve memorising your mouth like it's proof you’re real.
That he didn't lose you before he ever got the chance to have you.
“Been trying not to do this for so long,” he admits roughly against your mouth
Surprisingly, that brings a smile to your face—a real one, small and disbelieving but there—and you feel the tension in your chest loosen just enough to breathe. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming in your veins, or the way Steve’s hands are trembling where they’re tangled in your hair, but suddenly you can’t help it.
You tilt your head back to break the kiss, lips brushing his as you murmur, “You’re telling me Steve Harrington, King Steve, has been pining after Henderson’s big sister? All this time?”
Steve freezes.
For a second, he just stares at you, rain dripping from his lashes, mouth slightly parted like he can’t decide whether to strangle you or kiss you again. Then his grip tightens in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.
“You’re fucking impossible,” he grits out, but there’s no anger left in it—just exasperation, fondness, something raw and aching beneath the words.
The grin tugging at your mouth only widens. “You need to work on your moves.”
Steve blinks at you, mouth not even an inch away from yours.. “Excuse you?”
“You heard me,” you murmur, lips still brushing his. “That’s a little bit embarrassing, don’t ya think? And not for days, or weeks—years.”
Steve lets out a disbelieving laugh.
“You made me your enemy when really you just wanted to have me.”
Steve goes absolutely, completely, still.
For one glorious second Steve Harrington actually looks completely and utterly, beautifully speechless.
The wind changes direction causing the rain to hit the both of you. Rainwater slides down the side of his face as he stares at you, jaw flexing hard—actively trying not to react to that sentence the way he wants to.
You can practically feel the moment his patience snaps—his fingers twitch, his jaw sets, and his gaze narrows. “You,” he grits out, thumb tapping your chin, voice rough, “are pushing your luck.”
You grin up at him, tilting your head to make his grip shift. “Am I?”
His thumb presses into the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up further. “Yeah. You are.”
There’s a beat of silence—then you hum, deliberately slow, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up. “I don’t think I am.”
Steve exhales sharply against your lips, the heat of his breath mingling with the chill of the rain still dripping down his face. His fingers twitch where they’re tangled in your hair, grip tightening just enough to make it hurt. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters, voice rough—half protest, half plea.
You meet his gaze, eyes innocent—unaffected—rainwater catching on your lashes. “Then stop.”
His jaw flexes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
His thumb drags slowly along your jawline, pressing just shy of painful when it catches on the curve of your chin. Then it traces your jawline, slow and deliberate, before his fingers drop lower. Curling into the damp fabric of your shirt, then dragging downward until they catch on the waistband of your jeans.
His gaze locks onto yours, challenge burning behind rain-speckled lenses. "You wouldn't care?" he murmurs, voice rougher than the storm overhead.
You tilt your head, feigning indifference even as your pulse kicks violently against your ribs. "Mm?"
He flicks the button open, fingers hovering over the zip. "So if I just—"
His gaze is locked onto yours, daring you to stop this. Daring you to stop him.
The zipper rasps open under his touch, cold air biting at exposed skin as his hand slides in. His fingers trace the dip of your hipbone, rough and warm against the bite of the wind.
"You wouldn’t care if I went back inside?" he murmurs, voice scraping low.
Your breath hitches. You should push him away. Should say something sharp, something defensive but all you can manage is a shaky exhale as his fingers dip lower, skimming the edge of your underwear.
Steve watches you with a focus that borders on predatory. His fingers pause, testing, waiting for you to bolt or shove him back. When you don’t, his lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but something darker. Something hungrier.
"Guess that answers that," he mutters, and then his hand is sliding fully into your pants, palm hot against your stomach.
Steve’s fingers slide beneath your underwear with a precision that shouldn’t be possible given how badly his hands were shaking moments ago. His fingers dip lower, finding you already wet—impossibly so—despite the cold, despite the argument, despite everything.
His breath hitches against your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you.
You gasp, sharp and involuntary, your hands scrambling for purchase against his rain-damp jacket as your legs threaten to give out entirely.
Steve doesn’t give you the chance to collapse.
His free hand slides around your hip, fingers digging into the curve of your ass, hauling you up against him like you weigh nothing. Your thigh instinctively hooks around his waist as he pins you against the brick wall.
All the while he doesn’t stop, his fingers working you with a rhythm that borders on punishing, his palm grinding against your clit with every upward stroke.
You bite down on a moan, forehead dropping against his shoulder, nails raking down the front of his jacket, his neck—really anywhere you can reach. .
The angle is awkward: the wall digging into you, his glasses still digging into your cheekbone, but none of it matters. Not when his thumb circles once—hard—and your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking against his hand.
“Fuck—Steve—” The name tears out of you, ragged and broken, as his fingers curl just right, pressing deep.
Your gaze catches briefly on the split skin across his knuckles where his hand grips your hip. “Careful,” you breathe instinctively. “Your hand—”
Steve lets out a rough, disbelieving laugh against your throat, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder like the concern physically hurts him. “Don’t care,” he mutters.
Before sinking his teeth into the curve of your neck hard; claiming the space between your pulse and your collarbone. Then his tongue follows, slow and hot, soothing the sting in a way that makes your knees threaten to buckle again.
All the while, his fingers don’t stop moving inside you; dragging a choked, alien noise from your lips.
“Still think I don’t care?” he mutters against your skin. His thumb circles your clit again, deliberate, relentless, and you choke on absolutely nothing.
You don’t get a chance to answer—not that you could even form words right now—because Steve’s mouth is back on yours. Fingers working you faster, rougher, until your breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps against his mouth.
He continues, this time his breath fans your ear, “Still think I hate you?” he repeats.
You whine–it’s high, desperate and pathetic—in the back of your throat. His palm grinds against your clit; everything is too much and not enough all at once.
“Honey—” Steve’s voice cracks around the word, rough with something that isn’t just frustration anymore. “I could never hate you.” His fingers curl inside you, pressing deep enough to punch out another pathetic whine.
“You annoy the absolute shit out of me,” he admits hoarsely. “You drive me insane. You never listen to me, you throw yourself into danger without a single thought about yourself, and every time you do I just wanna grab you and shake some sense into you.”
His thumb strokes your cheek almost unconsciously as he says it. The softest he has ever touched you–by far.
“But hate you?” Steve lets out a breathless laugh, the idea utterly ridiculous to him. “Jesus Christ.” He cuts himself off with a ragged exhale, forehead dropping against yours as his thumb circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes.
“You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t think properly.”
Your stomach flips violently.
“You argue with me about everything.”
“I do not—”
“You’re literally about to,” he says immediately, kissing the corner of your mouth when you glare at him.
It pulls the smallest unwilling laugh from you but you still can’t help but roll your eyes.
Steve’s expression softens at the sound instantly. And then more seriously, even more sincerely:
“I know what kind of mood you’re in by how hard you slam a door. I know when you’re lying by the scrunch of your nose.” His jaw tightens slightly.
“I knew you were in trouble tonight before anyone else even realised something was wrong.”
Your chest aches.
Steve swallows hard, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to make you understand something impossible. “You’re not forgettable,” he says quietly.
The words hit harder than they should.
His thumb brushes your cheek almost absently, tenderness bleeding through every movement now.
“You walk into a room and people look for you when you leave it.” His voice roughens slightly. “You’re loud and difficult and stubborn as hell and somehow you still make everything feel…” He breaks off with a frustrated breathless laugh, shaking his head once. “Fuck.”
Your pulse stumbles beneath his hand.
Steve presses his forehead against yours again before finishing quietly:
“You’re everything.”
Your breath catches to the point where you think you might stop breathing.
He closes his eyes briefly as if he didn’t mean to say that part out loud. But when he looks at you again, he doesn’t take it back. He doubles down.
“And I need- I need you to believe that.”
“I tried not to—” He cuts himself off with another rough laugh. “I really fucking tried not to do this.”
“But then you smile at me,” he says softly, almost accusingly. “Or you say my name and suddenly I’m done for.”
You stare at him speechless.
Steve brushes his nose against yours gently before kissing you again, nowhere near as frantic this time but somehow all the more intimate for it.
“So no,” he murmurs against your lips. “I don’t hate you.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“I think-” he pauses, taking a deep breath, his fingers slowing, “I think-I’ve been in love with you for a really, really long time.”
You whine—high-pitched and completely broken—as Steve’s fingers thrust just right, pressing deep, and suddenly the world fractures.
Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping tight around him, nails biting into the damp fabric of his jacket as pleasure crashes over you in waves so sharp you actually can’t breathe.
And Steve? Steve doesn’t let you ride it out in peace. His mouth finds yours again, kissing you through the aftershocks. His tongue licks into your mouth just as his thumb circles your oversensitive clit, dragging a sob from you that he swallows greedily.
"That's it," Steve murmurs against your temple, lips brushing damp skin as your hands scramble clumsily over his shoulders. "Good girl."
The praise sends yet another shudder through you, legs still trembling from the aftershocks. You're barely lucid, fingers twisting in his soaked shirt as you press impossibly closer with a whine—high and needy, the sound muffled against his collarbone where your mouth rests.
"Steve—" Your voice cracks around his name, raw from earlier shouts now reduced to breathless pleading. "Please—"
"What, baby?" His fingers stroke gently through slick heat, coaxing another weak jerk of your hips. Rainwater drips from his hair onto your flushed cheeks when he leans down. "What do you need?"
You can't answer—not coherently at least—just rut against his hand with a broken noise, oversensitive but desperate for more after he just gave you the best orgasm of your life.
His chuckle is dark, warm against your ear as his free hand slides up to your jaw, cradling it. “Gonna need you to say it baby.”
The words shouldn’t wreck you the way they do. They absolutely shouldn’t send heat coiling low in your stomach all over again—but they do.
They absolutely do, and Steve absolutely knows it. You can see it in the way his eyes darken behind his glasses, in the way his thumb presses just under your chin, tilting your face up slowly.
“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”
You swallow hard, your throat working around nothing, because god, this is torture.
The way his fingers are still inside you, curled just enough to tease but not enough to give you what you need. The way his breath fans over your lips, warm and uneven, like he’s barely holding himself together. The way his glasses are fogged beyond repair, rainwater clinging to his lashes, his hair a mess from where you’ve dragged your hands through it god knows how many times.
You hate the way you sound—whining, desperate, voice cracking around his name like some lovesick idiot—but god, you don’t care. Not now. Maybe later.
"Steve," you murmur again, hands fisting desperately in the soaked fabric of his shirt, vying to drag him closer even though there’s not an ounce of space left between you.
He hums, considering, like he’s weighing whether to give in—and for one stupid, hopeful second, you think he will. But then he pulls his fingers out of you with a slow, deliberate drag that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively— chasing the loss, the sudden emptiness—only for his free hand to press flat against your stomach, holding you firmly against the wall.
He lifts his fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them in a slow, obscene lick that elicits a moan from your throat before you can stop it.
You could kill him. You will kill him. Later. After.
His gaze locks onto yours, dark and unreadable behind rain-speckled lenses, as he cleans every last trace of you off his fingers with agonising precision.
Your face burns, your thighs twitch, and somewhere in the back of your mind you know you should be embarrassed—should really shove him away or snap something sarcastic—but all you manage is a weak, "Fuck."
Annoyingly causing Steve’s mouth to lift into a smug little smile.
“Want you,” you whisper helplessly, forehead knocking lightly against his shoulder. “Idiot.”
"That’s not very nice, now is it, baby?" Steve murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
You huff, fucking hell–what more does he want for you?
His thumb presses into the delicate skin beneath your jaw, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. ”Calling me an idiot," he continues, voice dropping lower, "after I just let you come?"
His other hand slides up your side, slow and deliberate, until his palm rests over your hammering heartbeat. "You’re such a brat," he mutters against your lips, breath uneven. "Always have been."
Steve exhales sharply before he relents. His hands dropping to his belt in rough, jerky movements. The buckle clinks too loud, his fingers fumbling slightly with the button of his jeans before he finally shoves them down just far enough to free himself.
He doesn’t give you what you want, though, not quite yet. Instead, he presses the hot, heavy length of himself against your thigh, rocking forward just enough to make you gasp at the contact, the friction maddeningly light.
"Say it," he murmurs, lips brushing yours as his fingers tighten on your hip—not guiding, not forcing, just there, holding you in place while his cock twitches against your skin. "Say you believe me."
You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, hips jerking involuntarily against nothing, desperate for more. For him.
Steve doesn’t let you. His forehead knocks clumsily against yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts between kisses that are more teeth than anything else..
"Say you’ll think twice next time," he growls, dragging his mouth down your jaw to nip at your pulse point. His hips roll forward again, the head of his cock catching against your clit for one devastating second before he pulls back, leaving you gasping. "Say it."
You whine, nails scraping down the skin of his neck as you try to pull him closer, but Steve resists, his grip ironclad.
His laugh is dark, uneven, his lips curling against your throat while you buck against him fruitlessly. "Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Not until you—fuck—"
His words cut off abruptly when your teeth sink into his shoulder, his hips stuttering forward instinctively before he wrenches himself back with a muttered curse.
His grip tightens in your hair, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. "You think this is a joke?" he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip.
"You think I don’t fucking mean it when I say I can’t lose you?"
You arch toward him instinctively, but Steve doesn’t budge. Just watches you with that same unreadable expression.
"Tell me you believe me," he whispers, voice rough with something that isn’t just want anymore. "Tell me you know how much I—" He cuts himself off abruptly, fingers flexing against your hip like he’s physically restraining himself from finishing that sentence.
But it’s the look in his eyes that finally undoes you.
Not the way his hands shake where they grip your hips, not the ragged edge of his voice when he says your name—no, it’s the raw, unfiltered fear behind those rain-speckled glasses. .
Steve Harrington, who’s spent years pretending he doesn’t care about anything, looks at you like you’re the only thing left in the world that matters.
And something inside you finally breaks.
Your hands move before you can stop them.
You grab his face hard enough to push his crooked glasses further up his nose, fingers cold and shaking against rain-damp skin as you drag him down toward you.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice cracking badly enough that Steve immediately stills. “Hey.”
Your forehead presses against his.
And for the first time tonight, you stop trying to pull away from what he’s giving you.
You let yourself feel it.
The fear.
The relief.
Him.
Your eyes burn suddenly, embarrassingly, and you let out one sharp, frustrated breath that sounds dangerously close to a laugh.
“I’m here,” you whisper brokenly, trying to convince the both of you.
Steve makes a wrecked sound at that. His hands tighten on your hips almost painfully. “Yeah,” he breathes instantly, nodding quickly. “Yeah, you’re here.”
Your throat tightens so hard it hurts.
And suddenly, the words are there before you can stop them.
“I do.”
The confession slips out in a whisper, barely audible over the storm, but Steve goes utterly still.
His breath catches audibly, fingers twitching against your skin like he’s been shocked. For one terrifying second, you think he might pull away—might bolt like a spooked animal—but then his forehead drops against yours with a shuddering exhale.
“Say it again,” he rasps, voice cracking. His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing rainwater. “Please.”
“I do,” you whisper again, voice cracking. His breath stutters against your temple, his fingers trembling where they grip your thighs—like he’s afraid you’ll take it back.
Then he moves.
There’s no finesse to it, just raw emotion.
Just Steve’s hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he presses into you with a ragged groan that gets lost in the rain. The stretch burns briefly before giving way to a fullness that steals your breath.
The sound punched from your throat is half-sob, half-laugh, the words spilling again without thought: “I do.”
Steve’s hips jerk uncontrollably at that, his breath hitching like the confession is a physical blow, and then he’s moving in earnest. No rhythm, no ounce of control, just raw, shuddering need.
Every snap of his hips drives the words from you again, fractured and breathless: “I do—Steve—I do—” His name cracks on a moan as he angles deeper, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. His teeth finding your pulse point, biting down just shy of pain as his pace turns punishing, the wet slap of skin lost beneath the storm’s roar.
You’re babbling now, nonsensical; repeating it like a mantra between gasps, each thrust wringing the words out like he’s starving for them.
Steve’s grip tightens, his other hand splaying over your ribs like he’s counting each ragged inhale, each stuttered “I do” that spills from your lips.
The world fractures as pleasure crashes over you in waves so violent they steal your breath.
Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping around Steve’s hips, nails biting into his shoulders as you shatter with a sob he swallows greedily.
Steve follows with a groan so broken it barely sounds human, his forehead dropping against yours as his hips jerk erratically, his fingers tightening in your hair.
For one suspended moment, there’s nothing but the ragged sound of your breathing, the rain still hammering against the awning above you, Steve’s pulse thundering beneath your lips where they rest against his throat.
Then reality rushes back in all too quickly—the cold brick against your back, the damp fabric of your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin, Steve’s glasses digging into your cheekbone where they’ve been knocked askew.
He doesn’t pull away.
Neither do you.
Instead, his hands slide up your back, slow and unsteady, smoothing over the rumpled fabric of your jacket. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. Whispered so quiet you know he doesn't mean for you to hear it.
One hand rises to card through your tangled hair, fingers gentle where they work through the knots. “You’re okay.”
The words are less a statement than a plea, repeated like a prayer as his breathing gradually slows.
When you tilt your head back to look at him, his glasses are fogged beyond recognition, rainwater and sweat streaking down his flushed cheeks. He looks wrecked. Beautiful.
Your fingers rise to push his glasses up his nose, clumsy with exhaustion, and Steve catches your wrist before you can.
His thumb brushes over your racing pulse, his gaze dropping to your swollen lips, then lower—to the mark blooming on your collarbone, the rumpled state of your clothes. Something dark flickers in his eyes before he exhales sharply, forehead dropping to rest against yours again.
“‘M okay,” you murmur softly, fingers brushing back his rain-damp hair where it’s plastered to his forehead.
Steve exhales sharply—half laugh, half sob—his breath warm against your lips as his hands slide up to cradle your face. His thumbs trace the hollows beneath your eyes with a reverence that makes your chest ache.
“You’re not,” he counters, voice cracking, glasses still crooked, but you can still see the raw fear lingering in his gaze.
His fingers tighten fractionally, like he’s physically willing you to understand. “You were under a building, you idiot.” The words crack on the last syllable, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as his breathing stutters.
You can feel him shaking—fine tremors running through his arms where they cage you against the wall, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips when you touch his throat. It’s unnerving. Steve Harrington doesn’t tremble. Steve Harrington doesn’t falter.
But he is now.
Under your fingertips.
His glasses slip further down his nose when he tilts his head to press a kiss to your temple—clumsy, unpracticed, achingly tender. “Christ,” he mutters against your skin, voice thick. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Your chest aches at the honesty of it.
Steve Harrington—loud, stubborn, impossible Steve Harrington—standing here shaking in your arms because of you.
Your sworn enemy.
The bane of your existence.
The boy who could rile you up with nothing more than the arch of an eyebrow and one stupid smug look.
And yet here he is, holding you like losing you would’ve destroyed him.
Slowly, carefully, you reach up and straighten his glasses for him. It’s the smallest thing. Basic decency, really.
But it hits him anyway.
You see it happen in real time—the way his breath catches softly, the way his eyes lose some of that frantic edge as they search your face. As if he can’t quite believe you’re touching him so gently.
Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, softer now than you think you’ve ever seen it.
“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly.
This time when he kisses you, it isn’t desperate.
No teeth.
No frantic grasping.
No fear.
Just warmth.
His hands cradle your face carefully, thumbs brushing your cheeks while your fingers curl into the damp collar of his jacket. The kiss is slow enough that you can actually feel it this time—every soft press of his lips, every shaky exhale against your mouth, every lingering second of him choosing you.
Like coming home after being lost for a very long time.
And for once—
you don’t fight it.
You let yourself be held.
P.S. I do not recommend engaging in this type of behaviour after having a building collapse on you. Please seek medical attention first. Lots of love, the chef ♡
i have a whole hunger games world of ocs and headcanons that has been brewing on its lonesome in my google docs for years. the question is do i make a side blog to finally post about it
annaxmalina
kaledo-art
pixelskylines
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