katsuki has spent months lying about bruises, broken windows, and web fluid in the laundry. unfortunately for him, the suit looks good enough that forgiveness might have to wait until morning. (or— spider-man is sleeping on the couch, but first you make him model the suit.)
SPIDER-MAN!BAKUGOU KATSUKI X FEM!READER | spider-man au, established relationship, kidfic (kind of), dad!bakugou, post secret identity reveal, domestic fluff, light angst, katsuki is a liar but he is trying, suggestive, sexual tension, objectification as a love language, implied breeding kink (they talk abt making another one).
word count: 3.2k
hi from marcel: hi um please accept this humble offering sorry for being a fucking deadbeat omg
you wait until aiya has been asleep for twenty-seven minutes.
not twenty. not fifteen. twenty-seven, because fifteen is still a gamble and twenty is when she likes to trick you into thinking she’s down properly before making one offended little noise through the baby monitor and dragging you both back into the nursery like tiny, gummy royalty.
the apartment is dim after that. not silent, because nowhere with a baby is ever silent anymore. there’s the low hum of the monitor on your nightstand, the occasional shift of the washing machine somewhere down the hall, the distant traffic sliding wet over the street outside. katsuki’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth, shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, hair flattened from the shower in a way that makes him look younger and grumpier than he has any right to.
you’re sitting on the bed, cross-legged, watching him through the open door.
he catches your eye in the mirror and immediately narrows his.
toothbrush still in his mouth, he says, “what.”
you smile.
his suspicion doubles. “don’t smile like that.”
“like what?”
“like you’re about to ask for some weird shit.”
“put the suit on.”
he stops brushing.
you can actually see the words register. they move across his face in stages: confusion, disbelief, offense, and then the horrible, dawning realization that you are dead serious.
he spits into the sink. “no.”
“you didn't even think about it.”
“you said put the suit on.”
“yeah.”
“so, no.”
“katsuki.”
“absolutely fuckin’ not.”
you tilt your head at him, still smiling sweetly, and it is cheap. it is shameless. it works anyway, because his shoulders tense like he’s bracing himself for impact.
“baby,” you say.
he points the toothbrush at you. “don’t.”
“i just want to see it.”
“you’ve seen it.”
“not on purpose.”
“you saw it yesterday.”
“you were bleeding yesterday.”
“yeah, and?”
“and i was busy being mad.”
“you’re always busy bein’ mad lately.”
“because you’re spider-man.”
“keep your voice down,” he hisses, glancing toward the hallway like aiya— in her six month old glory— is going to rise from her crib and report him to the authorities.
you grin wider. “put the suit on.”
“why?”
you blink at him.
he stares back.
a second passes.
another.
then his mouth drops open just slightly, like he has finally, belatedly, realised that the woman who had his child is, in fact, still capable of wanting him so badly it becomes everyone’s problem.
“no,” he says again, weaker this time.
“yes.”
“it’s not—” he drags a hand down his face. “it’s not for that.”
“i know.”
“it’s work gear.”
“i know.”
“it’s dirty.”
“is it dirty right now?”
“no.”
“then put it on.”
“you’re fuckin’ unbelievable.”
“please?”
he groans like you’ve asked him to jump into traffic. which is rich, honestly, considering his usual hobby.
but he goes.
because he is impossible and stubborn and a liar and currently still on thin ice with you, but he is also whipped down to the marrow. you hear him open the narrow cupboard in the hallway. the quiet scrape of the false back he thought you didn’t notice after you found out. a zipper. fabric. muttering.
“stupid,” he says from the hall.
“love you.”
you settle back against the pillows, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh too loudly and wake the baby. the monitor crackles once, just static, and both of you freeze out of habit.
nothing.
then katsuki appears in the doorway.
and you forget every single thing you were about to say.
because it is one thing to know.
it is another thing entirely to see him standing there in your bedroom, mask off, hair a mess from tugging it on, the suit sealed up to his throat and clinging to every brutal, familiar line of him.
it’s not shiny. not exactly. more matte, more practical, dark red and black with webbing worked into the fabric, reinforced at the shoulders and ribs. there are seams you never would’ve noticed on the news. small armored panels along his forearms. the faint outline of hidden web cartridges at his wrists. a tear near his thigh that’s been repaired messily by hand, probably his, because he never lets anyone touch his things unless they’re you or aiya, and even then he complains the whole time.
your eyes drop.
his hands immediately move in front of his crotch.
“nope.”
you blink back up at him. “what are you doing?”
“what’re you doin’?”
“looking.”
“yeah. stop.”
“no.”
“baby.”
“move your hands, boy.”
his face goes red so fast it’s actually beautiful.
“fuck off.”
“katsuki.”
“no.”
you sit up straighter, interest sharpening. “are you embarrassed?”
“i’m annoyed.”
“you’re covering yourself.”
“because you’re lookin’ at me like that!”
“like i love you?”
“like you wanna eat me.”
“also love.”
“not helpin’.”
you crawl to the edge of the bed on your knees, and his gaze dips before he can stop it. you’re only in one of his old shirts and underwear, hair still loose from your shower, skin warm from the lamp beside the bed. you know exactly what you look like. you know he knows. he swallows like he hates that you know.
“turn around,” you say.
“jesus christ.”
“turn.”
“no.”
“i had your baby.”
he glares. “you can’t use that for everythin’.”
“watch me.”
“that’s manipulation.”
“that’s motherhood.”
he shuts his eyes for a second, jaw working, then turns around with the stiff, humiliated dignity of a man being led to execution.
you make a sound.
you really don’t mean to.
it’s small. barely anything. just a little breath punched out of you because the suit is tight over his back and tighter over his thighs, and his ass is, frankly, a public safety hazard.
his head snaps around. “don’t.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you made a noise.”
“i have lungs.”
“you have problems.”
“yes. one of them is standing in my room dressed like japan’s sluttiest arachnid.”
he turns back so fast you almost laugh. “never say that again.”
“spider-suki.”
“no.”
“spider-man.”
“no.”
“daddy long legs.”
“fuck no.”
he’s trying so hard to be irritated that it wraps all the way around into adorable. his hands are back in front of himself, shoulders hunched, mouth in that pout he pretends is a scowl. and the worst part is, you know him too well. you can see the exact second embarrassment gives way to want. the way his breathing changes. the way his eyes keep catching on your mouth. the way he shifts his weight like he thinks it’ll hide what the suit is already starting to make painfully obvious.
you smile.
his eyes narrow. “don’t.”
“move your hands.”
“no.”
“let me see.”
“it looks stupid.”
“i’ll be the judge of that.”
“i don’t usually have a fuckin’ boner in the suit.”
“i’m not laughing.”
you press your lips together.
he points at you immediately. “don’t laugh.”
“you are. i should web your mouth shut.”
you light up. “can you?”
“wrong thing to say to you. forget i said it.”
“move your hands.”
“you’re evil.”
“yeah.”
he does.
not all at once. not confidently. he drags his hands away like he’s physically suffering for it, eyes cutting to the ceiling, cheeks red, mouth pulled into a miserable little line.
and you look.
because of course you do.
because that is your boyfriend. the father of your child. the man who washes bottles at two in the morning and warms your cold hands under his shirt and comes home bruised and lies badly and loves you so hard he almost ruins it trying to keep you safe.
and he is standing in front of you in a suit that leaves very little to the imagination.
your throat goes dry.
“oh,” you say softly.
he groans. “see? stupid.”
“not the word i was going to use.”
“don’t get poetic about my dick. i will leave.”
“no, you won’t.”
he doesn’t.
you reach for him, and he comes closer immediately, helpless as gravity. one step. then another. until he’s standing between your knees at the edge of the bed, still tense, still trying to hold on to the last scraps of dignity while you run your fingers over his waist.
the material is warm from his body.
that surprises you.
you thought it would feel colder. more removed from him somehow. like a costume. like a wall between what he does out there and what he is in here.
but it isn’t.
under your hands, it’s just katsuki.
your katsuki.
the hard plane of his stomach under your palm. the hitch in his breath when your fingers press into the seam at his hip. the little twitch in his jaw when you look up at him through your lashes.
“i should’ve known,” you murmur.
the teasing leaves his face. “what?”
you slide both hands around him, palms flattening against his back, feeling him stiffen at the tenderness of it. “i know your body too well.”
his gaze drops to you.
you trace one of the repaired seams near his ribs. “this one. you came home with a bruise here and told me you fell at the gym.”
“i did fall.”
“off a building?”
he says nothing. you touch his shoulder. “and here. you said you pulled something boxing.”
“kind of did.”
“fighting crime is not boxing.”
“close enough.”
“you’re so stupid.”
his mouth softens. “yeah.”
“and i’m still mad.”
“i know.”
“furious, actually.”
“i know.”
“but also...” your fingers hook into the suit at his waist. “you look really good.”
his eyes flick away like he can’t bear that.
which is absurd, because katsuki is not shy. he is loud in every room he enters. he argues with microwaves. he threatens furniture when he stubs his toe. he walks around shirtless in summer like he was built specifically to ruin your life and feels smug when he catches you looking.
but this is different.
this is the secret part of him.
this is the body you know wrapped in the life he hid.
so when your hands keep moving, slower now, reverent despite yourself, his mouth opens on a breath that doesn’t become words.
“baby,” he says eventually, very low.
“hm?”
“you gotta stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“why?”
“because i’m tryin’ to be good.”
the room seems to shrink around you.
the baby monitor hums on the nightstand. somewhere outside, a car passes over wet pavement. the whole city keeps moving, completely unaware that spider-man is standing in your bedroom, asking for mercy from the mother of his child.
you lean forward and press your mouth to his stomach through the suit.
his hand flies to the back of your head.
not pushing. not holding you there.
just touching. like he has to anchor himself to you by touch alone.
“fuck,” he whispers.
you look up. “take it off.”
his thumb drags once over your hair. “thought you wanted it on.”
“i wanted to look.”
“yeah?”
“now i’m done looking.”
that does it.
something in him changes. not loud. not sudden. just a shift, like a lock turning.
his hand slides from your hair to your jaw, tipping your face up. his eyes are dark and soft and still a little scared around the edges, because this is new. not you wanting him. not him wanting you. that part is old as breathing.
this is you wanting all of him now that you know.
the liar. the hero. the idiot on the couch. the man in the suit. the father who catches aiya before she falls, sometimes before she even starts to tip.
“say it proper,” he murmurs.
you smile. “i want you.”
he kisses you.
it is not gentle for long. it starts that way, maybe. a brush, a question, his mouth warm and mint-clean from the bathroom. but then your fingers pull at the sealed edge of the suit and his control snaps with an almost audible thing, his hand bracing on the mattress beside your thigh, the other cupping your face as he bends over you.
you pull him closer until he has to climb onto the bed, one knee sinking into the sheets, the suit creaking softly with the movement.
“zipper’s in the back.”
then he stops.
you blink up at him. “what?”
you stare.
he stares back, already humiliated. then you burst into the quietest, most violent laugh of your life.
“don’t,” he hisses.
you clap a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking.
“it’s not funny.”
“spider-man can’t get naked.”
“i can get naked.”
“not alone, apparently.”
“it’s a security design.”
“you need mommy to unzip you?”
his eyes flash. “careful.”
your laugh cuts off into something else.
he notices. of course he notices. his head tilts, just a little, interest sharpening like a blade.
“oh?” he says.
“shut up.”
“that do somethin’ for you?”
“you’re literally stuck in your superhero onesie.”
“and you’re still wet about it.”
you kick at him. he catches your ankle easily, grinning now, finally getting some of his footing back.
“turn around.”
“bossy.”
“turn around before aiya wakes up and ruins your life.”
that gets him moving.
he sits on the edge of the bed with his back to you, and you kneel behind him. the suit is even better up close, which is unfair. there are tiny scratches in the black patterning, a place near the nape that’s been torn and resewn, the faint smell of clean fabric and him. you find the hidden zipper between his shoulder blades and drag it down slowly.
too slowly, apparently, because his head drops forward.
“baby.”
“what?”
“don’t tease.”
you press a kiss to the back of his neck.
he goes quiet.
for all his strength, he is so easy there. so vulnerable when you touch the places he cannot watch you touch. your mouth at his neck, your hands on his shoulders, peeling the suit down inch by inch until his skin is bare under your palms.
you stop at the edge of a bruise blooming yellow near his ribs.
your chest tightens.
“katsuki.”
“old one.”
“how old?”
“couple days.”
“you didn’t tell me.”
“didn’t tell you a lotta shit.”
“that is not charming honesty.”
“wasn’t tryin’ to be.”
you kiss the bruise anyway. soft. once.
his breath catches.
“you’re still on the couch after this,” you whisper against his skin.
he huffs. “figured.”
“for a week.”
“three days.”
“five.”
“four.”
“six for negotiating.”
he turns his head, glaring over his shoulder. “that’s not how that works.”
“it is in my house.”
“our house.”
“my house until i forgive you.”
his mouth twitches. “mean ass woman.”
“lying ass spider.”
he twists suddenly, pulling you forward with one arm, and you squeak before remembering to be quiet. the two of you freeze, eyes shooting to the baby monitor.
static. nothing else.
katsuki whispers, “you’re gonna wake her up.”
“you just manhandled me.”
“me?”
“yeah, you.”
“quietly.”
“you’re so annoying.”
“you love me.”
“maybe a little.”
he kisses you again, smiling into it this time, and the suit gets lost somewhere around his waist, then his thighs, then the floor. there’s a clumsy, stifled struggle with one ankle that nearly makes you laugh again until he bites your shoulder through his own shirt and mutters, “one sound and i’m puttin’ it back on.”
“threatening me with a good time.”
“you’re insane.”
“you knew that before.”
“knew it before i knocked you up, too.”
heat blooms low in your stomach. his eyes catch it.
your hand tightens around his bicep. “should do it again.”
for a second, the whole room goes still.
not because he doesn’t understand.
because he does.
because aiya is asleep down the hall, and your body remembers her. the ache, the weight, the long nights, the softness of her head under your chin, the impossible terror of loving something that small. it remembers katsuki kneeling beside the bed with a newborn tucked against his bare chest, whispering promises to both of you like he could scare the world into behaving if he growled hard enough.
his hand spreads over your stomach.
careful. reverent.
“yeah?” he says, voice rough.
you nod.
he bends until his forehead rests against yours. “you sure?”
“i’m sure.”
“not just because you’re freakin’ out over the suit?”
“that is a factor.”
he snorts.
you smile, sliding your arms around his neck. “but no. not just that.”
his thumb strokes once, slow, over your stomach.
“aiya’s gonna be pissed.”
“aiya’s six months old.”
“she’s possessive.”
“she gets that from you.”
“damn right.”
you kiss him before he can say anything else stupid, and he follows you down into the bed with an instinct that feels older than the secret, older than the suit, older than the hurt still waiting for both of you in the morning.
for now, he is warm and heavy over you, bare skin against bare skin, one hand braced carefully near your head like he still thinks he might crush you after all these years. you pull him closer anyway. you always do.
“couch tomorrow,” you whisper against his mouth.
“yeah, yeah.”
“and we’re still talking.”
“yeah.”
“and you’re teaching me how the web thingy works.”
“absolutely not.”
“katsuki.”
“fine.”
“and i’m putting the suit on once.”
his head lifts.
you blink innocently.
“no,” he says.
“yes.”
“no.”
“it’s only fair.”
“you wearin’ that suit is how we end up with an army of brats.”
you gasp. “so you agree.”
“i agree you’re awful.”
the baby monitor crackles.
both of you freeze again, half tangled, half laughing, entirely caught.
aiya sighs.
katsuki lowers his forehead to your shoulder in silent, desperate prayer.
you bite your lip so hard you almost hurt yourself.
after a long moment, he whispers, “still asleep.”
“spider-sense?”
“dad sense.”
you soften before you can stop yourself. he feels it. lifts his head. the grin is gone now, replaced with something quieter. something open and tired and so painfully full of love that you almost hate him for making you feel it while you’re still furious.
“i’m sorry,” he says.
no defence. no excuse.
just that.you touch his cheek.
“i know.”
“i’ll tell you everythin’.”
“you better.”
“everythin’.”
you hold him there, fingers sliding into his hair, the city outside wet and glowing and alive around you. somewhere in it, there are rooftops he knows better than streets. alleys where he has bled alone. people he has saved without you knowing. versions of him you are only just beginning to meet.
but this version is yours.
in your bed. in your arms. warm, embarrassed, breathing hard against your throat.
“katsuki?”
“hm?”
“make another baby with me.”
he goes still for one heartbeat.
then his mouth finds yours again, and this time there is nothing funny about it.
/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ⠀.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⌖ ₊ minors do not interact, u will be blocked.
cw: gunz, sb teaching u and not keeping his hands off you, some explicit content. not proofread ahhh. wc: 2.4k~
— ᨳଓ⋆˚࿔.
he’d driven you out to a private forest clearing, with a lake nearby. a little spot he knew. the two of you sat with the roof of his vintage black classic down, the breeze brushing through the trees and against your hair.
beside you in the driver’s seat, ben licked the edge of a small, cherry-flavored rolling paper. he focused on securing the joint he was fashioning for the two of you. he was nearly finished, already packed the weed in snug. you couldn’t help but smirk at his posture: his back hunched over as he zeroed in on his task. his aviator sunglasses rested atop his head, pushing his hair back and out of the way, nearly a headband. the lenses reflected the sun. a meteor could strike and he wouldn’t notice until he was done.
feeling bored, you tapped your nails against the door armrest. you looked around at the trees. you sat up to see the lake in the near distance, the sun glistening off the ripples. you poked the fuzzy dice hanging from his rear view mirror. you rummaged through his glove compartment…
… and your brows shot up upon seeing a black pistol buried under documents and condoms.
you glanced over to see if he’d caught you snooping. his brows were still furrowed as he rolled the joint over the steering wheel. utterly enraptured by his weed. you smirked, feeling suddenly mischievous. with great care, you gently retrieved the firearm.
“put it down.” his voice rang beside you.
you tensed, suddenly feeling like a scolded child, then smiled faintly. you didn’t put it down. you treated it delicately, of course, purposely avoiding the trigger as you examined it. the metal was cool and heavy in your hand. “why is it in here?”
“needs to be,” he said simply. then, he took the gun from you, grabbing it by the barrel. he set it muzzle down in the empty cup holder between you before focusing his attention back to the blunt.
you tilted your head, unsatisfied, and stated matter-of-factly, “you’re indestructible.”
“you’re not.”
you raised a brow again, intrigued. “so it’s for me.”
“for assholes.”
“my hero.”
ben looked over at you then, sizing you up, half impressed, half perpetually annoyed.
“have you ever even been this close to a roscoe?”
you looked through your lashes. “… once or twice.”
that got his attention. he lowered the unfinished joint in his lap, looking you over again, his keen green eyes following a steady path down your figure. ben paused for a long moment, as if he was assessing you.
“when?”
“fourth of july.”
“what’d you shoot?” he sounded nearly fascinated. never in a million years would ben have guessed you did something like that. you were always such a sissy.
“the ground,” you confessed timidly.
the sharp sound of his laughter broke the peacefulness of nature surrounding you. his shoulders bounced, he tipped his head back against the headrest, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. he licked his lips and muttered something like jesus christ as he settled down, shaking his head and bringing the joint back up to work on again.
“you’re a card.” he stated. he gave the joint a final lick, pressing the paper down flush with the pads of his thumbs. he inspected it carefully before tucking it in his shirt pocket. he pushed his aviators back down, wearing them properly, hiding his eyes. “get out.”
you blinked, watching him open his door, grab the pistol, and step out of the car all in one motion. after a moment of hesitation, you followed.
he beckoned you over with a finger, his gun in his back pocket. ben’s hand snaked around your waist when you were close enough and he leaned against the hood of his car. he thumbed your hip and raised his hand, moving it to follow the horizon.
your eyes followed. the lake’s shore lapped at the dirt a few respectable paces away, the water slightly murky. surrounding you, conifers and hardwood cast sparse shadows. their leaves occasionally swayed with the soft breeze, and the unmistakable smell of sap comforted you in a strange way.
his voice recaptured your attention. “pick a tree.”
you looked over at him, a surge of disbelief passing through you. he really trusted you enough to do this?
you shook your head. “i don’t wanna shoot a tree.”
ben rolled his eyes. “hippie,” he muttered, reaching into another pocket of his. he pulled out his cherry rolling papers and ripped two out- then crumpled them into little balls. you blinked in surprise at the sacrifice of two perfectly good rolling papers.
“put these in your ears,” he commanded. and so you did. the sounds of the lake’s waves, the chirping of the birds, the swish of tree branches brushing against each other muffled.
without warning, he grabbed your waist in both hands, and yanked you in front of him. with his chest flush against your back, he wrapped an arm around your middle and fished his pistol out of his pocket. he brought it out to show off.
you knew not to reach for it. he turned it in his hands. his chin brushing against the back of your head. “this bitch’s no joke, you hear me, doll?”
you nodded. he grunted in approval, then flipped the gun back, left side up. he flicked the safety off, keeping the nose pointed to the ground.
gently, ben’s hand smoothed across your stomach, to your hip, and up your side. he trailed his palm over your forearm and down to your hand. being this close to him, you could hear each little inhale and exhale of his. you could feel his breath brush against your ear. you fought the urge to shiver, especially when his hand found yours. he lifted it and guided it to hold the grip of the gun, adjusting your fingers to stay clear of the trigger.
his hand wrapped firmly around yours, keeping your fingers temporarily disabled, the gun still pointed to the dirt. he squeezed your hand, and you felt something click beneath your palm. your heart raced.
“that was the grip safety,” he said, his voice calm. you nodded once, relaxing.
his other hand gestured in front of you, to a dead tree stump about sixty feet away, maybe four feet tall. it sat unimposing at the opposite shore of the lake, gray and peeling bark, surrounded by its living kin.
“see that stump?”
you nodded.
“aim for that.”
“… okay.”
his grip around your hand on the gun remained. you felt the grainy surface of the grip on your skin. his other hand moved, guiding your left hand to the gun in the same fashion he did the other. ben hummed in approval as he fixed your hands over the grip.
wordlessly, he guided your arms up, the gun still snug inside your fingers. he straightened your arms outright, then maneuvered your right index finger to rest gently on the trigger guard.
“don’t move your finger yet,” he said, his voice in your ear. you swallowed.
his hands left yours, leaving the breeze to brush over them, the coldness emphasizing the loss. he ran his hands slowly up your wrists, to the sensitive skin of the inside of your elbows, and he stopped to hold your biceps. he kept his feet planted firmly outside yours, his broad chest flush against your back.
you pressed your thighs together, his touch molding, and you avoided exhaling too shakily. though, you were almost certain he could hear your pounding heart. just the thought of his awareness made your cheeks flush.
“now…” he let go of one of your arms, his chin by your ear. he gently tapped the small, triangular-shaped bump on top of the pistol once, the one closest to your eye; then the bump further away, on the very tip of the barrel.
“sights. front and rear. as you can see, front is a post, rear is a notch. you line ‘em up both horizontally and vertically, at the center of that stump… and you’ve got your aim.”
you squeezed one eye shut to line the sights up, doing your best to center them as he instructed on the awaiting stump. he shifted, leaning over to look at your face, assessing briefly. he smiled faintly.
“now, i know that might feel right, sweets, but it’s better to keep both those pretty eyes open.”
his voice was cogent. you quickly reopened your eye, exhaling. you could hear the faintest of chuckles leave him.
he licked his lips and slid his hands up back to yours on the gun. one held both of yours in place securely, and the other reached to grab his gun by the barrel, between the sights. he slid the slide back, exposing the metal barrel underneath, and it made a clicking noise that made your brows furrow. he let it go, covering the barrel once again.
“she’s cocked. don’t you move a muscle till i tell you to.”
he found his place behind you again, his chest against you. he squeezed your shoulders gently before he smoothed his rough hands down your upper back, over the ridge of your bra, down to the dip of your waist. you blinked slowly, your eyes darting momentarily to the ground, then back up. you knew you needed to focus, not let his carnal touch divert your attention.
he ran his thumbs back and forth over your waist. his hands were warm and unmoving, and you couldn’t help but notice he kept your ass pressed firm against his hips, the print of his dick faint but felt. it made your breath hitch, but you remained planted against him. and when you heard a rough, faint groan leave his lips right in your ear? you wanted to ditch this whole shooting lesson.
when he spoke again, his voice was considerably softened. but it still made your heart skip. it pulled you back into what this was supposed to be. “you can put your finger on the trigger now, but do not put pressure on it.”
you swallowed again, nodding, regrouping, and you moved your finger carefully off the guard and onto the cool trigger. it was a strange sense of power. one pull and a killing stone would come out at 800 feet per second.
“atta girl. don’t pull yet. take your time, give yourself at least half a minute to aim. then you fire.”
you held the gun pointed where you wanted, taking slow, shuddering breaths, heeding his words. he trusted your judgment, the good head on your shoulders. you’re not so reckless to fire when you’re not confident. and you’re listening so well to each of his instructions.
you lined up the sights, acquiring yourself a good shot, but damn if his closeness didn’t make you blush. as if sensing your temperament at the moment, ben nuzzled his half hard cock against your ass with a slow exhale, causing you to gasp faintly.
your chest sank, about to lower the gun. but he spoke again, this time whispering gravelly. “now… shoot when you want. it’s gonna recoil, and it’s gonna recoil pretty fuckin hard, so be prepared for that.”
he lowered his hands from your waist to grip your hips. the feeling made you breathe uneven, just one short breath that didn’t escape his notice. he smiled, but for once didn’t point it out. not now. he held you tight, not letting you move even an inch away. having your precious self this close was too good to not take advantage of. just feeling your body heat seep into his sent blood straight down. he breathed heavy through his nose, right in your ear, and he gave your hips a gentle squeeze.
you pulled, and a loud bang- one you didn’t anticipate to be so booming because of the rolling papers- rang out when you applied pressure to the trigger. and not even half a second later, the sound of the bullet hitting the stump met your ears. just as he said, the recoil shoved you back. right into him.
tree branches shook as birds fled from them, and you gasped loud. his arm came around you immediately, and ben snatched the gun from your hands harshly by the barrel, quickly flicking something on it down with a click. you heard his laughter in your ear, your heart pounding.
“ha-ha! fuck, baby, you hear that? you hit that shit dead fuckin’ center. that’s my girl.”
he tucked the gun away, adjusting you forcefully to face him. his grin was unmoving, plastered on his face shamelessly. he gave you a shake as he laughed, and after getting your bearings, you finally sighed in relief. you smiled coyly, your hand bracing against his chest. and when you saw your stunned reflection in his sunglasses lenses, you finally laughed alongside him.
“i hit it?”
“did you hit it? yeah, you fuckin’ hit it,” he rubbed your arm, ruffling your clothes. he pointed to the stump. “see for yourself.”
you looked over, narrowing your eyes to see better. sure enough, near the center of the trunk, a hole from the bullet was marked. you picked the balled up rolling papers out of your ears. you let out a disbelieving laugh, grinning, feeling a twinge of pride for yourself. you just shot a gun and hit your target.
you were pulled out of your thoughts by a large hand smacking your ass, the slap causing you to freeze. his laugh deepened by your ear, his arm around you caging. he adjusted you in front of him, practically manhandling you, your hair catching in the wind.
your face fell at the proximity. your chest pressed flush against his made eye contact difficult. but ben hooked his finger under your chin, his other hand sliding down to grip your ass and pull you even closer. that’s when you registered it. him, the hard bulge of his cock straining against his jeans, pressing into your hip. your eyes widened.
“my little sharpshooter,” he said fondly. he leaned in to kiss you roughly, his teeth knocking against yours. it was as brief as it was aggressive, and it left you breathless and squirming.
he grinned, plucking the joint he rolled out of his shirt pocket, taking it between his lips. his other hand found your ass again, and with half lidded eyes, ben rutted his cock against you, just once. enough to make you gasp.
“now, why don’t you be a good girl and bend over this hood for me?”
a/n: can u tell i’ve missed the shooting range. if sb was my instructor id never miss a lesson. ugh this is soooooo dialogue heavy i don’t usually write like this i hope it lands well. as i said in a previous post, fighting through my feeling of un-motivation. this was fun to write tho. more content to come, ily guys~~~
(A MODERN AU. SLOW BURN, ENEMIES TO LOVERS FT. LINECOOK!STEVE X FEM!READER. 3.2K)
THE MENU
The streets were close to dead at such an hour.
The glow of the traffic light outside of your bedroom window made your walls look scarlet and the summer air that leaked in through the open crack was too warm for five am.
But it was July and it was early and there were clothes scattered over your floor, a shoe by the door, your bra hanging over the back of your desk chair. The sheets were twisted into a gingham green lump at the end of your bed, there was a pillow slumped into your nightstand, nudging precariously against a half drunk glass of water.
The town outside was still sleeping, the AC unit was whirring, your head was aching and there was a man in your bed.
You tried not to audibly groan as your feet found the floor. The body asleep next to you was lying on his front, his face buried into one of your pillows, his arms wrapped around it like it tried to run away in the night. He was tanned and dotted with freckles, a summer scene across the skin on his back, broad and taut with muscle. You frowned as you looked over your shoulder at him, trying to place a name, a face, any memory of the last few hours.
The only things that came to mind were bare skin and a lot of touching. Teeth and lips and hands and calloused fingers that dug into your hips as you rode him. You rubbed your face, clearing the sleep from your eyes, the tequila and the taste of sex from your lips.
You tried really hard to walk quietly to your bathroom, padding softly across the wooden floors, avoiding the sweater that lay there and the board that you knew squeaked like it held a disease in its whorls and knots. The bathroom door shut with a squeak and a click and you held your breath, forehead braced against the cool wood but you heard nothing, no sheets rustling, no feet on the floorboards.
Your reflection stared back at you from above the sink with disdain and disappointment and you weren't in a position to disagree with her. Your hair was a mess and there was leftover lipstick on your neck of all places, like you’d gifted it to someone who’d pressed it right back onto your skin. There was the beginning of a hickey on your chest, purple and pink and blooming under the bright fluorescent light that hummed above you.
The shower started with a groan and a hiss, the pressure battering the floor of the tub and you shed what little clothes you had on before clambering into it, skin prickling at the chill before it rocketed to almost too hot. You hit the temperature dial with an annoyed indifference, hiding under the cool spray until your hair stuck to your head and it didn't hurt as much as it did when you first opened your eyes.
You thought back to the night before, eyes closed, your stomach starting to turn with tequila and vodka and cheap beer. You remembered the sticky floors of the new bar you’d been dragged to, nothing more than a basement room filled with sweaty bodies and with brick walls covered in band posters and beer mats from places around the world. There were more people than tables and an oversized disco ball turned slowly overhead, entirely out of place as some indie sleaze song leaked out from the speakers in every corner.
You’d danced with your friends, nothing more than your hips moving in the crush of bodies, skin on skin as you tried to take shots without it spilling over your fingers. You remembered licking raspberry syrup from your thumb, your eyes on a guy who stood across the room from you, his brows raised when you grinned.
You remembered a song passing, maybe two, before he came over. There hadn’t been any bravado, no cheesy lines, no faux nonchalance. He’d bent down to your ear, a large warm hand hovering over the small of your back as he leaned into you. Someone had bumped him, his lips brushing your ear and he’d told you that you were pretty.
You’d grinned, shyness disappearing under the taste of tequila and when he’d asked you to dance you’d handed your empty glass to your friend and took his hand. It got blurry then, his hips against your ass as he moved to the music, moved against you. His hands, warm and big, laying on your hips, fingers settling into the crease of your upper thigh until you were too warm and the only answer was to pull him outside for some air.
He’d tasted like beer when he kissed you, your back against the rough brick outside of the bar. But his hand had cupped the back of your head to save it from becoming sore and that alone had you arching into him, his free hand around the back of your thigh as you hitched your leg to his hip. There must’ve been a taxi ride to yours and there was a fuzzy memory of your couch, the man pressed into it as you shed your shirt and straddled him, his lips dancing across your throat, your sternum.
You stayed under the spray until the water turned too cold and your head felt less like someone had jumped on it. Your hair was clean and your face had been scrubbed, your toes minty fresh as you spat leftover toothpaste down the tub drain and when you got out, wrapped in a too small towel, your bed was empty.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
You didn’t think too much of the man. You tried not to. But when you’d finally gotten dressed and shuffled along the sidewalk in the town that’s finally waking up, you found yourself thinking about the night before more often than you wanted to.
You told yourself it was a good thing he left when he did. The perfect way to avoid the awkward morning after, the stilted conversation of if they wanted coffee and exchanging numbers no one was ever really planning on calling.
Right?
Right.
The subway was packed, uncomfortable and sticky hot, like honey on your skin. There was a woman pressed too close to your side, both of you clinging on to the same handrail, her gum snapping too sharp and obnoxious by your ear. There was a kid crying about a broken toy two carriage’s down and every time the doors opened, the shrill noise of it all cut you in two. You were way more hungover than you’d let yourself believe, hiding shamelessly behind a pair of oversized sunglasses that turned the bright morning sun and the flickering overhead fluorescents into a shade of grey that was much more manageable.
It suited your mood. It dulled the flavour of tequila that sat at the back of your tongue. But it didn’t dampen the memories of last night that were coming back to you, persistently stronger and less blurry than before.
You could remember getting out of the cab, the air still heavy and hot despite the early morning hour, the only way a night could be in Chicago during summer. There were memories of you dragging the boy behind you, your hand clasped in his as you fumbled at the door of your apartment building, pressing the wrong numbers for your key code, eyes fluttering closed as the stranger pushed his nose to your neck, his lips following the path he made. Then there was the stairwell, blessedly empty, the air much cooler and the brick wall rough as you were pressed against it on the first landing. More kissing, the dirty kind with all tongues and teeth, breaths panted into open mouths, hands tugging at the fronts of belts, sneaking under skirts, fingers pressed to cotton and lace.
The train jerked on the tracks and you stumbled, so unlike yourself and the thoughts of your late night guest gave way to the packed train once more. You didn’t think about him between your legs, you didn’t think about your hands in his hair - brown and messy and almost too long - and you definitely didn’t think about the way he moaned as loud as you did when you came on his tongue.
Elbows pressed into your sides as you pushed your way off the carriage, the train doors beeping, humid subway air giving way to something only a little fresher as you climbed the concrete steps and out into the street. Chicago was louder here, closer to The Loop now, you had to dodge others on the sidewalk, everyone with some form of earphones in, their heads down, their eyes low. Trucks were parked too close to the sidewalk, men with cigarettes hanging out their mouths yelled at each other as they passed crates of vegetables and fruit to each other, corner store owners filling their shelves and somehow, the streets smelled like freshly baked bread, roasted coffee and sewers all at the same time.
It did nothing to help your hangover. Neither did the ache in your hips that had you remembering how you’d been pressed into your mattress only hours before, skin slapping skin, gasps and moans floating in the air.
Your face burned with it.
It only cooled when you made a sharp left, narrowly avoiding a young couple trying to manipulate a too large couch from the back of a moving van into their narrow doorway. The alleyway turned the sky duller, the sun hidden from view as you walked between the two tall buildings, avoiding leftover puddles and rat traps before you raised your fist to an old fire door and knocked.
Knock was perhaps too polite. You let your palm slam down on the rust covered surface, the tiny pane of glass that acted as a window rattling at your efforts. The sound reverberated through the alley, loud enough to piss off the neighbours in the apartments above you and someone leaned out their window, half asleep and swearing viciously.
But the door was kicked open and the smell of cinnamon and bacon greeted you. The air was hotter than ever, the hum of the ovens adding to the warmth and the too loud sound of the back kitchen. Everything was silver and white and coated in a fine layer of icing sugar and flour and god, ew, a little bit of fryer grease. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker was blasting music that was too loud but it still didn’t drown out the drone of the extractor fans, the bubble and pop of the bagels in an enormous vat of boiling water.
The Gate was something of a hole in the wall, not quite a cafe, not quite a restaurant and not a place you usually saw tourists. It was on the right line of cheap, a little rough around the edges but the food was the best you could find this side of the Chicago River. It was all brick walls and a huge glass front, neon lights shining out of it every hour of the day and night. Chipped green and white tiles on the floor, wobbly legged tables and chairs that didn’t quite match anymore, The Gate was owned by a man called Jim Hopper but it was run by the rest of the staff he’d hired.
A group of people who were all in the middle of that age bracket between teenagers and adults, a bunch of somewhat misfits who were collectively in the stage of life where no one knew what the fuck they were doing and smoke breaks took precedence over bussing tables.
A guy called Eddie manned one of the grills you passed by, a cig tucked behind his ear and his dark curls pulled high into a bun atop his head. A sketch pad of tattoos peeked out from his chef whites and he merely lifted a spatula at you in greeting, a pair of headphones covering his ears as he flipped pancakes on the griddle and blocked out the pop song that came from the speaker by the prep zone.
There were Robin and Argyle, both sitting haphazardly on stools that had been dragged from the bar, peeling a variety of vegetables as they both shared details of the night before, both nursing the same kind of hangover you suffered from. The front of house looked quiet, no other staff at work just yet. The doors were still closed and the neon sign on the front flickered a garish pink as it told the rest of the city The Gate was still closed for now. The small bar in the corner was wiped clean, no sticky leftover gin or rum staining the wooden worktop and the various glass bottles on the glass shelves behind it were glinting in the morning light. There were crystals on the windowsills, more hanging in the corners of the room from wicker baskets and mosaic pots, all of them holding bundles of green, leafy plants. They scattered rainbows of all sizes around the restaurant, painted little rectangular sponges of colours on the tables, the brick walls, your arms and the tiled floor.
You sighed as you hung up your bag, swapping it for an apron that you tied around your waist. Breakfast shift was never your favourite, but you hoped that everyone decided the day was too warm and everyone was too hungover to bother venturing out this early. You looked at the clock, twelve minutes to seven. Seventy two minutes until the doors and you still didn’t deem that enough time to feel human.
You stuffed a new order pad into your apron pocket, reminding yourself to hunt for a pen as soon as you managed to snag some pancakes or a bagel from the kitchen first. Jim said he didn’t believe in technology, not to the point of tablets replacing a good old pad and pen for taking orders, but you were pretty certain that the man was just fucking cheap.
Minutes passed as you stood in the middle of the tables, your head tipped back as you closed your eyes and took a breath. And another. And another. Kaleidoscopes of colours painted your cheeks, your eyelids and you could hear the speaker from the kitchen playing faintly through the closed door. Suddenly it was five hours ago and you were on the edge of a dance floor you’d never been on before, a body pressed against the back of your own as you both swayed and rocked to the music. The cab drive to yours became clearer now, your head tipped against the window as you let your dance partner kiss down your neck, his hand skating up the fabric of your skirt as he gripped your hip. You remembered the cab driver's eyes in the rear view mirror, the sharp cough he let out when you grabbed your new friend’s jaw in your hand and licked into his mouth.
“Get ‘em while they’re hot.” The clatter of a plate and Eddie’s too loud voice broke you from your thoughts.
Cheeks burning and heart thumping a little too wildly, you spun, eyes flying open as you found a stack of pancakes waiting on the bartop for you. They’re dusted with sugar and dripping with maple syrup, a handful of freshly washed berries on the side. You moaned, the man who shared your bed momentarily forgotten about, and you contemplated giving Eddie a fat kiss on the cheek.
“You’re an angel,” you told him instead, forgoing cutlery as you bit straight into a pancake, eyes fluttering at the sweetness and warmth. “A real life angel.”
The chef snorted, already walking back into the kitchen. “Call my high school principal and tell him that, would ya?”
You managed two whole bites before the phone rang and Robin answered it, her voice bored and tired and muffled under the noise of music and hissing grills. Then the door flew open and she handed the receiver to you, eyes rolling. She pinched a strawberry and poked at your bare skin, where your blooming hickey bruised the space between the top of your shirt and your exposed collar bones.
You batted at her hand, frowning when she smirks and your lips were sticky with maple syrup when you tried to form a professional greeting. “Good morning, thanks for calling The Gate, this is— oh, it’s you.”
Hopper scoffed on the other end of the line. “Hello to you too, kid. Listen, there’s a new start coming today for the linecook position. Should be ‘round seven thirty and he’s more than qualified so just get him some spare whites and show him where the trash goes. Eddie’ll handle the rest.”
Your hangover pulsed in annoyance. “Can’t Joyce get him sorted?” You speared another raspberry and popped it into your mouth, eyes rolling when your boss sighed in return.
“Joyce is on vacation. With me. We told you this on Monday, you never lis— look, just get the guy sorted alright? He’s a good kid, he’s not gonna cause any hassle.”
“Whatever, sure,” you mumbled. You needed to find some tylenol, your eyes felt like they were going to fall out of their sockets. “Enjoy Cabo, or wherever it is you guys are.”
“We’re in Colorado, but close enough,” Hopper grunted. “Just don’t burn the place down, alright? See you in two weeks.”
You were frowning when the dial tone buzzed in your ear. It was three minutes past seven and you were left with a sticky, sugary mess on your empty plate and thirty three tables to set before the doors opened. And a new start to get set up.
You found a tylenol in Nancy’s open locker and a set of new chef whites in Hopper’s abandoned office. You set them by the side of the bar before you gathered cutlery and new napkins, splitting them with Robin as you both wove in and out of tables and booths, the kitchen getting noisier as Argyle and Eddie started prepping for lunch. The glass cabinets by the cash desk were filled finally with fresh pastries, the front of house smelled like freshly squeezed oranges and you had made yourself busy by misting an oversized fern when someone knocked on the front door.
There was a man standing behind the glass. He was tall and dressed in denim jeans that had faded knees, a white T-shirt with rolled sleeves and he had a pair of black Ray-Ban’s perched on his nose. Despite that, you recognised him. His hair looked ruffled, like someone had been pulling on it all night, dishevelled and messy in a way that would’ve made your mother’s cheeks burn. Any mother’s, actually.
Fuck.
No? No.
You unlocked the door and the click of it was too loud, too jarring. You stared at the stranger who didn’t seem all that strange and your stomach turned as you recognised the sweater he had clutched in his right hand. A forest green thing with a yellow patch on the chest. You knew that sweater. It had been on your bedroom floor when you’d made your quiet escape to the bathroom.
Fuck.
You looked at the man and he looked at you, the customer service smile he’d plastered on his face wilting at the same time his extended hand did, the professional greeting slipping from every fibre of him.
“You.”
He grappled with words for a beat, his face faltering and even behind his sunglasses, you could see the panic. All he said was: “Me?”
SUMMARY Soldier Boy and you are America's most famous couple - little does the public know that it's all an act. However, when your pretend lover embarrasses you on live TV, you make sure you make him pay... and get yours in the process.
CWs Smut. Hate sex (rough sex, a little bit of anal fingering, non-negotiated choking, electrostimulation). Super powered sex (super strength, electrokinsesis). Period/SB-typical homophobia & misogyny. Just all around not a healthy relatioship. 1960's (roughly). Lots of mentions of Rock Hudson (rip, king). Mixed POV.
5.8k words
AN Title is from the Mountain Goats' "No children".
The Boys masterlist
“And it was so good to see you step in during those riots last week,” the interviewer says, hair immacutely parted, nodding along as the studio crowd claps approvingly. Soldier Boy raises his hand, so humble.
“Mikey, I’ve said it before,” he says, “protecting the American public isn’t just my job, it’s… it’s what I live for.” More applause. “Against domestic threats and more… foreign ones.” More applause, a whistle. Yeah!, someone calls.
“And we are all so grateful,” the interviewer says, looks at his note cards, not because he needs to but because this is how he moves on to the next topic. When he raises his head again, there’s a coquette little smile on his lips.
“Speaking of domestic,” he continues, throwing a look at the camera that tells the audience they’re in for a fun time. “How are things at home?” Murmuring from the crowd - they’re held on the precipice, eating it up. Yes, this they want to know. Yes, this they want to see.
Soldier Boy chuckles, perfectly charming. Turns his body a little more toward the camera. Broad shoulders. Thick hair, but not too thick. Handsome face. Probably a big dick.
“Oh, whatever could you be talking about?” he asks with a little wag of his chin, and that gives the audience leave, they chuckle, slap their knees, oh, get a load of this guy!, lapping it up, their tongues hanging out their mouths.
“Why, America’s sweetheart, of course,” the interviewer answers, shoots a look at the audience, right? That’s what we want to know!, and they nod, slap their knees some more. “The Vixen.”
Oh’s and Ah’s from them now. Yes, the Vixen. They’re all imagining her. Women want to be her, men want to fuck her. Marilyn Who? one headline read. Blasphemous, but they’re licking their fingers.
“Oh, my girl?” Soldier Boy asks, but he’s joking along with the audience, teasing them, stringing them along. Has them curling their toes like they’re getting it real good. “Oh, my girl’s doing just fine.” The interviewer laughs.
“Gave you a patriotic welcome home, did she?” he asks, and the crowd loses it, yes, yes, did she? Did she!?
And Soldier Boy leans back, relaxed, grinning. They can practically see her there, kneeling between his legs. Good, patriotic gal. A real keeper.
“Pal,” he says, “I had her singing the national anthem.”
Laughter from the crowd.
“You goddamn motherfucker!”
The glass explodes where it hits the wall just left of and above Ben’s head. He barely reacts, feels some of the shards rain down on his shoulder, but then just raises his own glass, scotch, takes a sip. Sucks on his teeth when he lowers it again.
“You done?” he asks, watching you pace up and down on the other side of the room. You’re clearly not, and he knows that - in fact, you’re only just revving up. He looks at your legs, visible, not visible, visible, under the long silk robe you’re wearing, the fabric fluttering with every step, and if you weren’t being such a humongous bitch right now he’d sure find some appreciation for them.
Actually, scratch that. They’re nice sticks. Even with the bitchiness.
“One thing I fucking asked for,” you say, and he grimaces at the shrillness of your voice. He rolls his shoulders, takes another sip. “One thing, and that was to make me not look like a fucking sex object in front of those people.”
You turn for another round, naked toes sinking into the orange rug that you personally selected for the apartment. Ben hates it. In fact, he says he hates all the colors of your apartment. Hates the music you listen to, because this guy is still caught in the fucking 30’s, hasn’t realized that a few decades have passed. Old dirty man with an old dirty mind.
“And you do this, this… bullshit!” you yell, now reaching for the newspaper lying on the low glass table, the one that puts your embarrassment on paper. The one that shows a grinning Soldier Boy, and the least subtle article on two super heroes fucking that you have ever had the displeasure of reading.
You drop it again, reach for the pack of cigarettes lying next to the ashtray. It’s filled to the brim, because you’ve been goddamn chain smoking since last night, when the interview aired. Sat here, Martini in your hand, joint rolled and ready, watching your super star boyfriend give his first interview since the two of you have made your relationship public. Some fucking relationship it is.
You sat there, legs crossed, buzzing and excited, horned the fuck up because America’s biggest talk show was going to cover you - your existence, your life. And what the fuck came out of it? Another couple million men thinking about you only in the context of shoving their dick inside one of your holes.
You wish you had another glass to throw.
Ben isn’t as worried. He doesn’t like repeating himself, but he does it for your sake, because maybe you can learn a lesson from him.
“They all wanna fuck you anyway,” he says, voice booming but not threatening, because he’s not quite there yet. “That’s how they remember you. But now, you’re on the front page, and yesterday you weren’t. So rein it the fuck in.”
You drop your lighter on the table with a loud clatter, take a sharp drag, blow out the smoke. Point the cigarette at him, perfectly manicured fingers shaking.
“Is that why you’re so famous?” you say, your voice trembling with barely controlled rage. “Cause they all wanna stick it in your ass?”
And this is the first time he bothers to make a point today. Lowers his chin. Glares at you.
“Careful,” he says.
It’s a tone that usually gets a room of influential men to shut the fuck up and do whatever he wants. The thought that he could take their heads and make them pop like a melon dropped from a second floor window has something to do with that. But he likes to think it’s because they respect him too. If any of them want to fuck him, that’s none of his business, and they better not fucking let him know cause it won’t be melons being dropped from the second floor then.
He leans forward with a sigh appropriate for someone his age. Puts the glass down, reaches for the joint you never touched, cause you needed something stronger to calm you down yesterday evening. Kept calling his agent, called Vought, called them all, over and over, screamed at assistants to fucking get this limp dick motherfucker on the phone! He lights the joint, flame close to his face for a moment. He could probably use you to light it - you’re steaming enough.
“I don’t know why the fuck you keep insisting on embarassing me,” you hiss, take another drag, some of the ash of the cigarette dropping down on the carpet below. You don’t even look at it. Six months ago you were giving handjobs to help with the rent and sharing a one bedroom apartment with three other girls. Now, you’re the second most famous supe in the country. Sure got to your head quickly, Ben thinks. He tosses the lighter back onto the table. Clattering, again.
“You’re doing a fine job at that yourself,” he replies, leans back, gets comfortable, sinks deeper into the cushions, legs spread, smoke curling out of his nostrils. “Everyone wanted to meet you at the afterparty. Hudson asked about you. Had to tell him you were at home with the monthlies.” He takes another drag, looks up at you through the smoke.
You’ve stopped moving and shouting, so there’s that. But something about the way you’re standing, cigarette burning down between your fingers, face slack, the only movement the rising and falling of your chest - well, something about it is like the calm before the storm.
“You told Rock fucking Hudson,” you say, voice eerily calm, “that I was on the fucking rag?”
You lean forward, and, naively, Ben thinks for a second it’s to put out the cigarette. What happens instead is that you grab the ashtray and fling it at him too.
You miss, and that’s probably a good thing, because if you didn’t, he might have ripped your head off. As it stands, it scatters to the ground, ash going everywhere, staining the carpet even more, just another bill to send to Vought to pay for you.
It’s enough to catapult Ben off the sofa though. He drags the joint from between his lips.
“Calm the fuck down!” he bellows but you just throw up your hands, turn, walk a few steps from him, then put your head in one hand, groan.
“What am I doing?” you mutter to yourself. “What the fuck am I doing? It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Soldier Boy drops his head back, sighs. He rounds the table, walks over to you.
“Come on,” he says, joint between his fingers. “Take a hit, calm down.” Your shoulders are rising and falling, and he sure as shit hopes you’re not crying. He doesn’t do well with crying women. Pisses him off. He stops just behind you.
“Hey!” he says, cause you better fucking look at him when he’s talking to you. He’s got about two minutes of patience left in him. He only came over here cause the Legend told him he better get his ass in gear, set this right. He had a sweet little piece of ass lined up too, and now here he is, with you in fucking hysterics. He was hoping to at least get a blowjob out of this - if you ask him, you should be nothing but grateful. Sure, his rating has skyrocketed even more since the two of you have gone public - something about a single man at his age makes people uncomfortable. But still. You shouldn’t forget who you owe this new lifestyle to.
You turn around, arms crossed in front of your chest, the robe moved to the side a little, revealing the top of your breasts. Ben rests his eyes there before dragging them away, up to your face. Streaks of mascara on your cheeks from your tears. He’s not fooled though. He knows enough about this business not to trust them. He holds the joint out to you, like a goddamn peace pipe. Maybe he can still turn this around. It would make the Legend and the Vought board happy, plus, who knows - maybe he can still get it wet after all. He wouldn’t mind.
“You’re making this into a bigger thing than it is,” he says, lowering his head a little in a way that usually gets everyone to forgive him. That or the threat of violence. Both work. “You think you can be America’s sweetheart and not have everyone wanna bend you over? Not how it works, doll. Take the win. Don’t get tied up in your big feelings about it.”
And he thinks he sees it, reasonability on your face, and could it be? Could he have actually managed to calm you down? He extends the joint again to seal the deal.
The slap isn’t painful, but it is surprising. It hurts your hand more than it does his cheek, probably, and who knows, maybe your hand will actually fall off because you just struck God.
His head doesn’t snap to the side, but he does blink, a surprised expression on his face, sending a nasty, electric thrill through you. He’s looking past you, then his eyes wander to your face. You raise your chin, lips trembling, but he doesn’t miss the little twitch at the corners of your mouth.
“Fuck you,” you say, but you’re not doing a good job now at seeming actually pissed. You know it, know the way you’re clenching your cunt isn’t from anger. Or not just from anger.
“You’re into this,” Soldier Boy says, eyes narrowing. “You like being pissed off. Gets you all drippy, doesn’t it?” Your chest rises and falls and when his gaze drops there, he can see your hardened nipples through the silk fabric of your robe.
“Fuck you,” you repeat through clenched teeth, not giving him an inch, but that’s alright.
He’s about to give you ten.
He reaches his free hand out, but you slap it away. Not that you actually could, but he lets you. He puts the joint between his lips, reaches out with that hand instead and you slap it away too, take a step back. You look up at him through your lashes, something animalistic yet calculated in your gaze. You take another step back, and this time he follows, feels himself growing hard in the tight confines of his suit. He’s wearing it cause you’ve complimented him on it, said you liked the way he looks in it. Well, you’re gonna get it now. He’ll fuck you in that suit, and you will enjoy it.
He sees you’re going to bolt a second before you do, and while his every honed instinct tells him to reach out, grab you, make sure you can’t move away from him, he suppresses it. Because he knows exactly what you need.
You start running, naked feet on carpet, robe flying, and he gives you a headstart the length of the blink of an eye. Then he’s after you.
The joint drops onto the carpet where he stood just a second ago. It singes the orange, then burns out.
You make it to the other side of the living room, close to the open kitchen you never use - said cooking is for housewives and poor people, and you’re neither now. You’re rounding the couch - some designer thing you yapped on about, while he barely listened - that faces the fireplace when he reaches you, shoves you so you need to get your hands out, catch yourself on the back of it. He’s crowding against you a second later.
His hands shoot to his waist, one press of his fingers and his belt drops to the floor, unzips his pants in record time. Practice, and you’re just pushing yourself up to stand, so the moment he’s done he pushes you down again with his left hand, fingers splayed, his other hand grabbing his dick and stroking it.
“I know what you need, sweetheart,” he grunts as he feels you struggle against his hold, whole body tensing. “You need some dick for that frustration, don’t you? All pent up, huh?”
He pivots his hips forward, fucks into his fist. Times each word with a thrust.
“Just a – nice – thorough – dicki—”
“Jesus!” you interrupt him, turn your head. He can only see the side of your face, but your lids are low, lips parted. “Stop talking and put it in already.”
Ben snarls, moves his hand to drag away the thin robe. It reveals your peach of an ass, no underwear so he knows this is what you were secretly hoping for all along, and he grabs your hip, pulls you back. Presses the head of his dick against your pussy hole - which is warm and needy, pulsing wet. Doesn’t push in, just rubs along you. He can feel you twitch.
“I decide when you get fucked,” he says, breath coming faster, and he sees you close your eyes, eyebrows pulling together. You push your ass back, trying to find him, his head grazing your entrance and slipping in about half an inch before he pulls back and you whine. “Shh, shh. You need it bad, don’t you?”
He hasn’t gotten you to say it yet. Hasn’t gotten you to say you want him, or need him. He likes hearing it, and he’s hoping he’ll crack you yet - your stubbornness has got him wondering why he ever agreed to this goddamn charade. He knows there’s something here that works. He just can’t figure out what.
He drives the thought away by sliding his dick into you. Slow, torturously slow, but he sees your hand fist the fabric of the couch where you’re holding on to it, sees the arch of your back. Vought’s to thank for that, the thick meat that can keep going and going, though he’d never admit it. He feels the tight, wanting squeeze of you, and suddenly he doesn’t give a shit.
You make a cracked little sound and before he’s fully seated in you, he rams that last inch home. You moan and he grabs the robe, collects the fabric in his fist, pulling tight, keeping you in place. Then he pulls back before thrusting back into you.
“This got you all wound up?” he asks, pulling out and setting a deep, punchy rhythm. It makes you drop your head forward, arch your back further so the impact sends little ripples of flesh through the meat of your ass cheeks. He grins at that. “Did you sit here yesterday, hoping to get yourself off to watching me on TV? Didn’t do the trick, did it?”
You make a general pleasurable sound, but don’t answer him, and that is threatening to really get a rise out of him. He knows you’re liking this, knows you enjoy it, but he can’t quite get the upper hand. Or hasn’t yet.
The reason is he talks too much. He could fuck like a god if he bothered to, but nothing pulls you back from the edge of a mind-breaking orgasm like that self-important drivel. Chasing you for those few steps got your heart pumping, not because of the distance but because you know he could rip you apart if he wanted, and Vought would pay for the dry cleaning with a smile and a thank you. But you’ve yet to actually see any of that danger he likes to pretend he carries.
Maybe today you’ll finally tickle it out of him.
Because he’s right. You did sit in front of that TV yesterday, pleasantly buzzed, ready to rub yourself raw. Ended up only screaming yourself raw, and not for any of the good reasons. Now he’s here, and you have made one decision: if you’re gonna play America’s number one sex kitten, then you’re at least gonna get something out of it. And if money, fame and a good dicking down is what that something is, you’re okay with that.
He keeps thrusting into you, but there’s little poetry to it. That’s okay though. You have a few tricks up your own sleeve.
One of your hands wander off the back of the couch to between your legs. Gently runs over your front and stomach, fingertips teasing yourself, and when you get to your pussy, you give your clit a little zap.
“Woah!” he says, another half thrust before he stills.
“Don’t fucking stop now, you imbecile,” you pant. “Keep going!”
He doesn’t for a second. He knows your powers - conducting electricity, as well as creating it to a certain voltage. Not a glamorous power by any means, and it’s become secondary to your celebrity persona. The Vixen - even Soldier Boy can’t resist-or her! was all that gave any hint as to your powers for your first photoshoot with your new lover. Him smirking down at you while you looked at the camera, arm wrapped around his, one eyebrow raised, a knowing grin and a short skirt. No one ever asked about it. That’s okay. It’ll have its moment to shine today.
Soldier Boy moves, just a little, careful, and it would be laughable if it wasn’t so annoying. You push back against him, making him sink deeper into you again, and then he finally grabs your hips, starts fucking you again, gingerly, until–
“Do it again,” he grunts. “That tickled my balls.”
Even though your back is turned to him, you bite down on your lower lip to hide your grin. Twinkle your fingers an inch or so over your clit, and just as you feel him confidently pick up his pace again, you zap yourself - and him - again in the process.
One of his hands shoots to your shoulder immediately, fingers pressing into your skin.
“Oh, fuck!” he grunts, pushes you hard against him with an obscene slap and the moan that escapes you is genuine and real. “Fucking hell, where’ve you been hiding this?”
Instead of answering, you do it again. A high moan cracks from your throat - the way it travels through your nerves all over your body, into the meat of your thighs, up to your ass, the slight fizzle of it that dances around your nipples. Soldier Boy panting behind you. But it’s you that’s surprised when one of his hands comes down on your ass with a slap.
“Fucker,” you press out, and he squeezes the cheek in response. You feel his hand inching inside. Another zap, and he grunts loudly, that nice deep voice that you loved listening to on the radio. You know what he sees, know what he’s thinking, and not just from his thumb suddenly pressing against the tight muscle of your asshole.
You have. That one time you were really short on rent, and your landlord offered you a deal. You thought of Rock Hudson the entire time.
Funny how life sometimes comes full circle.
You look over your shoulder, barely able to look Soldier Boy in the eyes. Bite your lip again and let it slip out between your teeth slowly.
“No,” you breathe, in that voice you use for whenever you talk to an interviewer or want to get out of a speeding ticket. “Don’t put it in there, please, it’s too big.”
And it’s so fucking over the top, and it’s so fake, and he could fall for it, just like all the others have. Instead he grins, snorts, then slaps your ass again, before pressing his thumb against you harder. You moan loudly as he sinks in, your ass cheek now fully within his grasp.
“You’re funny,” he says. “Never fucked someone who’s funny.”
And fuck you he does.
He goes harder now, but it’s not just that. It’s like he means it. You’re not connecting as people or falling in love or any of that bullshit, but it feels a little bit more like you’re on the same team.
You zap him again, your fingers now actually touching your clit, rubbing it quickly, and maybe it’s his finger serving as an earthwire, but he groans loudly, movement stuttering for a moment. Another zap, and it pushes you over the edge.
You come, entire body tensed, teeth pressed together. Not caring about pretty or sweet or feminine for once, but just about the fireworks going off behind your eyelids and between your legs. You know it sets off a low sizzle all over your body, and Soldier Boy must feel it, because he keeps fucking you, faster, ass cheek squeezed to the point of pain, and then suddenly he gets loud, really loud, as his thrusts become shallow.
“Fucking little–” he starts, but doesn’t finish what he’s saying - too busy pulling out, stroking himself as he sucks in air through his teeth and finishes on your ass. You’d laugh at that if weren’t shivering at it.
He pulls his finger from you, using the hand to steady himself on your hip instead. Pants, probably fucking basking over you, his dick resting heavy between your ass cheeks.
“You better not have come on my fucking robe,” you mutter. He groans.
“Shut your goddamn mouth,” he presses out, and there it is. That flame you thought he’d maybe fuck out of you. But it’s rekindling in your stomach.
You reach your hand back, since you can’t turn with him still over you. Press your palm flat against his stomach and then you gather everything you can come up with for one single surge and send it into him.
He does something like a yelp, twitches back. It creates enough room for you to turn around, face him. You can feel a devilish grin spread on your face as his come drips down your ass and onto the carpet.
“Done already, soldier?” you ask, voice . He’s already bobbing into hardness again and you can’t help but lick your lips at that.
“Doll,” he says, raising his chin. “Somebody oughta fuck that sass out of you.” You bare your teeth.
“Try me, motherfucker,” you snarl.
He grabs for you, or you grab for him - you’re not totally sure.
All you know is that he drags you down, and you go tumbling with him. You manage to roll on top of him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. He could probably drag you under him and fuck you dead without even breaking a sweat, but he lets you sit there on top of him. You press your hands against his chestplate, your robe having fallen open, his eyes on your tits.
You push up on your knees, reach between you two. Ben watches you, a hunger in his chest he usually knows to be satisfied by enough drink or pussy or a really bloody fight. But right then, right now, he’s starving. Insatiable. He’s not the type for introspection, and he sure as shit isn’t about to start when he watches himself disappear inside you again.
“Did Rock Hudson really ask about me?” you say, looking down at him. Soldier Boy grabs for your ass, presses you down against him, pussy swallowing up the rest of his pulsing dick and you hiss while grinding down at the same time.
“He did,” he replies, unable to hide the grin on his face. “Pretty sure he got a stiffy at the thought of me coming back here and dipping my dick in that red.”
You drop your head back, moan, and then finally begin rolling your hips, riding him. He’s fully hard again, balls plump and full and he breathes through his nose at the scorching heat between your legs, the incomparable vibrations of the electricity running through your skin that he can feel all the way into his skull, like biting down on a broken tooth, but the tooth is in his dick, and there’s something pleasurable about it.
You ride him fast and hard, like he’s a price race horse. He reaches his hands up, finds your tits, squeezes, fondles in a way that does nothing for you but everything for him. You grind on him in a way that has him stuttering a curse. He must be hitting you at the right angle, because he can see your eyelids flutter, unfettered noises leaving you.
“Yeah,” he pants, “fucking come on it.”
When you do, you arch your back again, sounds filling out the room, face a mask of pleasure and pain, but it’s the way your clenching on his dick is paired with the tremors of electric shocks you send out of you and into him that are what get him squeezing your tits harder, huffing like a drowning man through gritted teeth. He’s never felt anything like it.
“Keep going,” he presses out. “Keep fucking going with that little cu–”
Your hand finds his face, fingers briefly disoriented and searching until they press down on his mouth.
“Shut up,” you half moan, half chant. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Fucking bitch, Soldier Boy thinks. Fucking ungrateful little bitch.
His hands go up without him even meaning to, find your throat. One hand snakes over the back, one over the front and then he’s squeezing. He knows how to apply pressure, how to kill someone and how to make someone just think they’re being killed. But he’s never been a man for finesse. He’s always been a wrecking ball.
You feel the pressure, and you know this could go horribly wrong. Know that the strongest man on earth is pressing down on your windpipe. You’ve wondered before if he has to actively stop himself from constantly breaking things, destroying everything and everyone.
With the way your brain is quickly fogging up at the lack of oxygen, you don’t care though. Neither does Ben. Killing you wouldn’t be great publicity, but Vought would find a way to sweep it under the rug. Not that he wants that. Not that the way you’re squeezing around his dick, heavy waves of electricity tickling him everywhere isn’t the best fucking time he’s had in a long while. He thrusts up, hard, and he feels you twitch.
He keeps thrusting, his own teeth gritted. He knows he has to be careful or he’ll be fucking a corpse in a second, but he’s about to nut again and he knows this is gonna be a big one, so he’s not gonna stop now.
Your body convulses. Death throes, they call it. He squeezes harder, and now you’re twitching and he keeps fucking up into your sopping wet cunt. If he wasn’t going cross-eyed in that very second, he’d see a vein pulsing on your forehead. He’d hear you wheeze. He’d see your eyes roll up til there’s only white. When he feels his balls pull up where he’s squeezed into you, he lets go of your throat.
You can’t cry out, but you make some indescribable sound as you come too, and it’s the ceiling lamp that explodes first. It goes low, then bright, then bursts, just as Soldier Boy blows inside of you, and there’s a floor lamp nearby that follows immediately after. The TV at the other end of the room turns on, and so does the radio, both screeching like they’re coming too.
And Soldier Boy can feel it. Shit, he feels like he can see it. The electricity rolls out of you, into him. He doesn’t hurt a lot, barely ever. Can’t remember the last time, but the way you shoot into his every cell has him busting so hard he can feel his ears pop. It keeps going, his hips still pumping, spurting, and he nearly screams.
He’s never felt like this, and he’s just about done it all.
It seems to last forever, and yet it’s over within seconds. You’re still rolling your hips, milk him for everything he’s got but then you collapse forward, against his chest. You don’t need to be held or some shit like that, but, Christ on a cracker, if you aren’t happy he’s there will all that brawn to make it feel like the fall back to earth isn’t quite as far.
The room is quiet, now, only filled with the panting of both of you. You don’t know it yet, but there is an outline now beneath you of your two bodies where you singed the carpet. It’s fine. Vought will pay for it.
You finally press yourself up, more drop than climb off him, legs shaky. You let Soldier Boy drop out of you, and a lot of him comes with it, runs down your thighs and down into the carpet too. Your ass meets the ground and you reach your hand out, low table nearby, pack of Luckys there and a fat, golden lighter. You take one out of the pack, eyes still mostly closed, hands shaking, and stick it between your lips. You roll your head before lighting it.
“Now that,” you say, voice rough and cracked, and the makeup department will have to work overtime to cover the bruises that will soon bloom on your throat, you just know it, will be dabbing at it with concealer and concerned eyes, but no one will say shit. Meanwhile Soldier Boy can’t help but feel a little proud at that, that he’s fucked that sassy, nagging voice right out of you. “That’s how I would fuck Rock Hudons if I ever got the chance.”
Soldier Boy scoffs, then holds his hand out for the cigarette. You pass it to him and he sits up, scoots back against the couch. Takes a long drag.
Both of you are quiet. He passes the cigarette back to you, and you move how you’re sitting, wince at your sore cunt.
“For what it’s worth,” Soldier Boy finally says, and you look at him with dead eyes. “Pretty sure Rock Hudson is a fucking fairy. So you’re not exactly missing out.” He takes the cigarette back, wishes it was something stronger. When he notices you’re looking at him, he turns his head.
You’re frowning. He opens his mouth, is going to tell you that he’s pretty sure the guy tried to come on to him, suck his dick or something, but then he sees the tears glistening in your eyes. He sighs. He really thought he’d fucked them out of you.
“You really hate me, don’t you?” you ask, sniffle. He holds his breath for a second, then shakes his head.
“I don’t,” he says. “I just kinda don’t give a shit about you.” You turn your head away, nod slowly.
“Okay,” you say.
It’s not how you imagined it. You thought on the other end of it would be happiness, love. You thought that dumb, deep feeling inside of you would go away if only everyone just loved you.
“Then why do you treat me like that?” you ask, but the fight has left your voice. Ben sniffs. He oughta slap you green and blue for how you keep talking back at him, but he just sighs. Flicks some ash onto the carpet.
“None of us get what we deserve,” he says.
Aaw, goes the audience. We really thought they’d make it. We thought love was on the other end of this.
You look at the camera, shake your head.
“Not love,” you say, and then a cheeky little smile forms on your lips. “But something way, way better.”
He takes your hand as the two of you step onto the red carpet. The bulbs blind you, and you throw yourself against his chest, smile brightly, throw one arm up, so excited to be here. He wraps his arm around you, smiles, isn’t she such a catch?
You’re wearing a silver dress, the decollete shaped in the form of a lightning bolt. No one will get why, or ask what it means. Instead they’ll ask you what Soldier Boy is like in private. They’ll ask you what drink you serve him when he gets home. They’ll ask him if he’s planning on popping the question. They’ll ask you if you’ve thought of baby names already. They ask things, and ask, and ask, and you answer and wink and smile and giggle, and he answers and chuckles and winks and pats your side like you’re both in on the joke.
Among the photographers and interviewers there’s fans, actual fans. One girl faints when she sees him. Another girl jumps up and down when she sees you, tears streaming down her face. She goes home to a basement apartment and a violent husband. But she thinks maybe one day she can be like you.
He takes your hand. They cheer, they clap, they scream. They love you.
Isn’t that all you ever wanted?
Thank you for reading! ♡
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♡ 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) ♡
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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 ♡
Summary: Set in the “You Hit Me With Lightning” universe, these are a collection of one shots that take place before, during and after the series with each part marked accordingly. Some of them can probably stand alone from the series but definitely work better when you read the other parts! This series is more flexible and will have parts as I have inspiration for them, a lot of the chapters will also more than likely be closer to drabbles! Also! Feel free to suggest prompts or make requests for this series! I’d love to fill in the gaps of scenarios y’all want to see!
A/N: Thank you @vigilantexreader for the read through!!
Oneshot #2: Bridezilla
Masterlist, YHMWL Chapter 1
Proposing was one battle, the actual wedding was another.
And most days Adrian was feeling like the wedding was winning.
It was almost like a drowning sense as he navigated websites, phone calls, bills, just everything they needed to have a truly perfect wedding. He was afraid by the end of this would kill him. That the pressure would truly be too much, he’s never really cared about an event this way before so it was all very new to him.
The pressure was not from her, never from her. In fact she told Adrian at least 30 times that she would be happy if they got married at the courthouse or if he really wanted to do something they could just elope and get married on a beach somewhere. She even promised they could go see a manta ray within 24 hours of getting married. All this pressure Adrian was feeling was self inflicted.
Despite how tempting it was, Adrian wanted a big wedding. He wanted to wear a weird stuffy suit and watch her walk down the aisle in a beautiful white dress while he cried and leaned over to Chris, his best man, to tell him how happy he was. He wanted to have their first dance to a song she would most definitely pick and he’d just go with it because it meant they were dancing together. He wanted her to make their wedding cake, something strange but she’ll know he’ll love. He wanted her to shove cake in his face while he was careful with the piece he’d feed to her (he’d never mess with her makeup; he didn’t want to die).
He wanted it all and he needed it to be fucking perfect.
If he did this right, he’d only ever have to plan one wedding. If he did it wrong, well he worried it would be a bad omen for their marriage.
He poured himself over every wedding venue, caterer, planner, just anything to feel some inkling of control.
“You coming to bed, baby?” she murmured, her arms wrapped around her neck as she leaned over him. He hummed as he leaned back, his pencil tapping his notebook on his desk.
“Maybe in a bit,” he said, very noncommittal and she squeezed him tighter around his neck. “Agh! Too tight!” He complained and she loosened slightly but by her small giggle he had to assume it was intentional. Normally play fighting would get Adrian beyond excited, any other night he would throw her over his shoulder and march them into the bedroom, but tonight Adrian was too lost in his notes.
“You’re going to make yourself sick with all of these late nights,” she murmured, kissing his cheek. “Plus, I miss my space heater, it’s cold in there.”
“I know, I need to call the landlord again about the heating, I really think the noise it’s making isn’t normal-” he started, leaning to point at the utility closet.
“Adrian, the problem is solved, at least for tonight, if you just come to bed with me,” she repeated. “All this stuff can wait till tomorrow, please.”
“But would you prefer flower centerpieces, or something strange like lights in mason jars, or maybe want candles. My only concern with candles is I’m not sure my friends should be trusted near open flames,” he said, pulling out his phone to show her a few inspiration pictures he found on Pinterest, but she was quick to snatch his phone and place it back on his makeshift desk.
“Adrian, I’m going to repeat the same thing I’ve been saying the past three months; I’m fine with whatever you’d like for the wedding.”
“But you still have to pick your own dress! It would be bad luck for me to see it beforehand!” Adrian said, twisting around as she laughed.
“Yes, I remember the caveat, but I’m serious. I’ve never really been one for weddings or like crowds of people. Our guest list is like 50 people and even that seems crazy to me. I’d be happy just going to the courthouse, Ade.”
“We only get one wedding though,” he murmured, his voice pitched down. She sighed and squeezed Adrian slightly before pulling away. Adrian’s body sunk in his seat, missing her touch and warmth immediately. Adrian turned his body slightly and watched her walk out of the room, stopping right before she hit the hallway to tap the wall a few times before giving in.
“Let’s do flowers, okay?” she said softly, still not looking at him. “Will you come to bed then?”
“Three more questions?” Adrian asked, rolling his chair over to her with his notebook.
“Two, go.”
“Can we decorate the Sebring to say just married for after the ceremony?” he asked, and she cringed. Adrian kept his eyes locked on her looking for any body language that could clue in her preferences.
“No cans, but just writing on the back window I will allow,” she conceded, and Adrian smiled at the win.
“Okay, second question - are you sure there’s nothing you’ve…dreamed of at your wedding? Something that I can make sure we have there?” he practically begged her as he wrapped his arms around her waist, slowly pulling her onto his lap and with poor coordination rolled them back over to his desk so she could see all of his notes. He was thankful that at the very least she was indulging him even if he could feel the frustration rolling off of her.
It was their agreement that she was okay with a wedding, but she didn’t want it to be stressful, and Adrian promised it wouldn’t because he was going to take care of all of it for them. She had given him a shy smile, one that set his heart on fire and his own grin splitting wide open. He wished today he had taken a picture of her smile to remind him why he was taking on all of this. He loved her with his entire being and he adored whenever she was vulnerable with him and if taking on the whole planning a wedding made her happy then Adrian would do it the best he could.
“Ade,” she murmured, looking over all his notes and binders with a careful hand.
“I just want to make sure you’re happy and I know you keep saying that you’ll be happy with whatever we end up doing, but I still want your input,” he whispered in her ear.
“Adrian, the reason I wouldn’t mind just having a courthouse wedding is because the only thing that is truly important to me for our wedding day is that I get to marry you. I mean I never really thought I’d get married and even now it’s still hard to believe, but we could do it in pajamas, we could do it in the rain, hell we could do it at Chris’ trailer and I would be happy because it’s you,” she said, leaning back against him, eyes on the ceiling.
“I never thought I’d get married either, that’s why we’re so perfect!” he announced, and she laughed leaning forward, but he kept her steady so she wouldn’t fall off of his lap.
“Sure, that’s why we’re perfect, but I know this is important to you so I’m really okay with whatever makes you happy Adrian,” she said as he pulled her back, she let out a breath as she leaned back against him.
“That’s really sweet,” he murmured. “But I already put the deposit on the venue so we can’t switch to Chris’ trailer unless we want to lose almost all of our budget.”
“I wasn’t…okay Adrian yes. The venue we already have is perfect,” she said, patting his arms. “Can we please go to bed?”
“Twelve more questions?”
“Adrian!”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” he murmured, kissing her cheek and she sighed.
“One more question,” she said gently and Adrian smiled even though she couldn’t see it.
“Are we still writing our own vows?” he asked, voice almost shy and he could practically hear her eye roll when she sighed.
“Yes, Ade. I’ve already got mine written,” she said, finally getting out of his arms. “Let’s go to bed.”
“Wait, your vows are already done?” he asked as he got up and followed her out of the room. She was already in her pajamas so Adrian just threw off his clothes and followed her into bed only wearing his underwear.
“They’re like 60% done, we’ve got like seven months left,” she said, not sounding very convinced as she climbed into the bed, Adrian following close behind her. She was quick to settle against him, head resting on his chest as he twisted their legs together, one of his hands coming to rub circles on her shoulder. He smiled as she sighed against him, pressing herself against him.
“What if we wing them?” He suggested, “really from the heart!” Adrian frowned as she immediately groaned and shook her head.
“Absolutely not, you still have to get yours cleared by Ads because the last thing I need is you to go up in front of everyone and talk about my tits or something insane like that,” she grumbled, and Adrian frowned.
“I mean your tits are worth mentioning,” he defended and she slapped his bare chest as he chuckled.
SYNOPSIS ᯓ★ After months of cold shoulder from your boyfriend, the relationship finally comes to an end when a Reddit post spiraled into your best friend’s orbit, and the poster? Your own boyfriend. The embarrassment and shame brought onto your name began tumbling when he thinks you will come back —like you always do, he quotes— to him. However, this time your best friend had a plan in mind to prove your snobbish ex-boyfriend wrong. To set you up with her friend . . . Who is also going through a messy break up scenario of his own.
PAIRING ᯓ★ nerd! gojo satoru x fem! reader
TAGS ᯓ★ does not follow the original jjk plot . suggestive content . no smut (it is implied that gojo and the reader had sex, but will not be described) . gojo and the reader are in their 20s . pokemon lover gojo . gojo is a middle school student teacher . cursing . mentions of sex . naoya cameo . romcom stuff . fake dating . mentions of cheating (not done by gojo or the reader) . shoko cameo . suguru cameo . loneliness . slow updates
TAGLIST 𐔌 149 / 50 , closed 𐦯 ᯓ★ . . .
NOTE ᯓ★ divider credits to @kthice & art credits to @dewbiscuits , logbook div made by me (raaaahh) ⟡ this is a rewritten version of my old CAITA, there will be a lot of changes in the plot because I didn’t like the original one when I reread it. Just a little reminder that this one will probably take longer, especially with my thesis and graduation coming up. Then I would actually have to find an actual full-time job and not internships (j#b, ew). Anyways, I really hope that everyone will like the new version of CAITA. Thank you for following the story up until this point sjkjkdjdkjs, enjoy!
૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ℘rologue ， chapter one ， chapter two ， chapter three ， chapter four ， chapter five ， chapter six ， chapter seven ， more to be added ♡
SYNOPSIS ᯓ★ After months of cold shoulder from your boyfriend, the relationship finally comes to an end when a Reddit post spiraled into your best friend’s orbit, and the poster? Your own boyfriend. The embarrassment and shame brought onto your name began tumbling when he thinks you will come back —like you always do, he quotes— to him. However, this time your best friend had a plan in mind to prove your snobbish ex-boyfriend wrong. To set you up with her friend . . . Who is also going through a messy break up scenario of his own.
PAIRING ᯓ★ nerd! gojo satoru x fem! reader
TAGS ᯓ★ does not follow the original jjk plot . suggestive content . no smut (it is implied that gojo and the reader had sex, but will not be described) . gojo and the reader are in their 20s . pokemon lover gojo . gojo is a middle school student teacher . cursing . mentions of sex . naoya cameo . romcom stuff . fake dating . mentions of cheating (not done by gojo or the reader) . shoko cameo . suguru cameo . loneliness . slow updates
Sunday rolled by in quickly like a slap to the face. Minus the fact that a client had clogged your phone with 3 missed calls, everything was going well.
“Yes, I understand, but our agreement was supposed to be next month—” you words were curelly cut off as you smiled at the barista, pointing at the menu while at the same time reaching for your wallet, “I understand that there is a change in time, but I can’t just finish it in a week of time. I haven’t colored the sketch, and rendering it would cost me time as well . . .”
Your client retaliated, arguing back, mentioning and implying twice that she paid for this and she needed the commission as soon as possible. The barista hands your receipt along with the money change in a fleeting motion, ushering you aside to serve the growing line behind you, “Yes, I understand that. But, even so, if I were to give it to you in a short amount of time, it wouldn’t be as perfect. We agreed next month for it.”
“Okay, I’m gonna bargain. 2 weeks. I don’t need it to be perfect, I just need it to be there,” she mutters out in annoyance —you were even more annoyed at the fact that she was being like this first thing in the morning, “hello? Are you listening?”
“Yes, I’m here,” you replied somberly, “two weeks is fine. I’ll get it done as best as I could—”
Your shoulder brushed against someone. No, crashed into someone and your body staggered back; the steaming coffee inside the takeaway cup swaggered slightly over the edge, pushing itself out onto the floor and . . . someone’s shirt, who just happened to be a familiar white haired male. Gojo Satoru, “Miss, I will give you a call back as soon as the project has an update. Two weeks is fine, thank you.”
You shoved your phone into your pocket, hand shooting out to fish the napkin from the counter, “I’m so sorry, Gojo, I didn’t see you,” the apology slipped out and you consistently tapped on the brown blotch on his light blue colored sweater, the liquid seeping into the napkin little by litte, “can I buy you something as an exchange for the spill?”
Satoru shook his head, “Don’t worry about it, it’s a small stain, it’ll come out.”
He bent down, putting his coffee cup on the floor as he wiped his own napkin over your spilled coffee. His fingers curled over his own files that had taken a slip out of his grip when he bumped into you, “Are you okay though?” He questiones, gesturing to the droplets of brown stained on your hand, “must’ve been hot.”
You shook your head, the pain didn’t even register as you were too busy coddling his sweater, “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, it didn’t even hurt . . .” A sigh made his brow raise, “What are you doing here though?” You didn’t mean it to come out as snarky as that —you were, actually, just curious of his appearance inside the café.
“Me? I drop by here a lot to grade my student’s papers,” he sways the file, “and for the coffee.”
You bobbed your head quietly, “Ah, yeah, the coffee here is good.”
Satoru was quiet for a brief second, but he broke it with another question, “May I get you another coffee since . . . yours is half-empty now,” he point out to the cup, the white exterior now dirtied from the coffee that stuck onto it, “I’d hate to have you go without another fresh cup. So, may I?”
“Half-full,” you correct, optimism.
“Same thing?” He scratched his cheek sheepishly, “Different point of view, respectable. What do you usually order? Americano?”
You shake your head, “Gosh, no. Not Americano. Maybe sometimes, I just got (coffee of your choice), but it’s okay, I seriously don’t mind drinking the half-full cup of coffee,” Satoru raised a brow, his palms pressed onto his hips and your shoulders sagged, “okay, maybe I do need a full cup of coffee.”
“And a full cup you will get, wait here.”
Satoru returned a few minutes later, crumpling the bill inside his palm. He nods at you, “You seemed to be in . . . a rush,” you raised both brows, nodding your head.
“Somewhat?” You answered, unsure, “I have a client and I’m working on her commission, it’s a big art so we agreed on next month, but she called me this morning asking for it to be made in a week. We compromised on two . . . Right as I bumped on you. So, yes, a rush is an understatement since there are a lot of things that I should be doing on that project.”
Satoru sat down on the chair, gesturing to the one across him, “Yeah, Shoko told me you draw. Are you into graphic too or do you mostly draw . . ?” the shake of your head answered him, “so, you’re a fanaratist kind of thing, yeah?”
You felt the insecurity began crashing in, ready to explain the entirety of what you do, “Maybe? I mean, you could put it that way. I have drawn fanarts before, and I have gotten commissions on it . . . So, yeah, but most of my older drawings are just a depiction of what I’m feeling and stuff. You know? Those kind of things.”
“You sound unsure.”
“Insecure, to be exact,” you laugh.
Satoru seemed surprised at your revelation, he cocked his head aside. And you sighed, “I mean . . . Rather than an income that’s fixed, I get money when people commission me. And people just see it as a side hustle, it’s exhausting,” you explained to him, shrugging. The words Naoya used to say all coming back at once, “I just can’t help but to think they’re right sometimes.”
“For someone who viewed a half-empty cup as half-full, you’re pretty pessimistic,” you rolled your eyes in annoyance, “you’re a backbone of a community you ever drawn, give yourself some credit. It’s cool, and drawing takes a lot of time, that’s even cooler.”
Your lips tugged up slightly, “You don’t think it’s weird?”
Satoru shook his head. “No.”
Naoya did. But, you shook your head, parroting him, “Nothing. What about you? Shoko told me you teach physics,” Satoru hums softly, showing what seems to be test papers towards you, “I’m not Einstein, what does that say?”
Satoru fixed his glasses, “Force, mass, and acceleration,” his thumb clicked on the top of his red pen, “it’s described by Newton’s Second Law of Motion. If you don’t know, it states that force is equal to the change in momentum per change in time. For a constant mass, force equals mass times acceleration’, that is written in matematical form as F equals ma. F is force, m is mass, and a is acceleration.” What?
You had an awkward smile, “Oh.”
Satoru slid a test paper towards you, scribbled with messy pencil writing and numbers, “Don’t mind the pencil, this is one of my student’s test. Let’s see this first question, this is quite easy if you understand the formula. So, the question is, how much force is needed to accelerate a sixty-six kilograms skier at two meter per seconds square. Do you remember the definition I told you before?”
“F equals ma.”
“Correct. So, if we are to count it right now with it, what number goes where?”
“F equals sixty-six times two?” You asked him.
He hums, “Which equals?”
The number in your mind began rolling over and over, all of a sudden multiplications seemed to be the hardest thing besides waiting for an art to render. You used your fingers, and after a few more seconds, you proudly exclaimed, “One hundred and thirty-two.”
“Hence?”
“F equals one hundred and thirty-two newtons,” you tapped on the paper excitedly, watching him pull his pen from one side to form a line, then another line, “Gojo-sensei is a big butt,” you read out from the paper, stifling your laugh.
“That’s Yuuji, he’s failing if you haven’t noticed,” Satoru chuckled, “but he’s an adorable kid that one. Okay, so, I just know that he got everything wrong, why don’t you try to solve the next one?”
“Unless we solve it together.”
Satoru skimmed through the paper, “Let’s go for this one,” this time, his pen pointed to a longer question, “A bowling ball rolled with a force of fifteen newton accelerates at a rate of three meter per second square, then a second ball rolled with the same force accelerates four meter per second square. What are the masses of the two balls?” He finishes.
You rubbed your head, “Wait, so we already know the force . . .”
Satoru scribbled something on the paper and turns it towards you once more.
“I teach my students this way all time. Newton’s Second Law Triangle. This helps you calculate it easily, the f equals ma formula only tells you that f equals ma, hence, most of my students get confused when the force has a number or if we have to find the acceleration,” he cleared his throat, “to make it clear, what we’re finding right now is . . .” he left the gap, staring at you.
“The mass,” you filled his gap.
He nods, using his index finger to cover the ‘M’ inside the triangle, “If you cover it this way, the F stands above the a, kind of like a fraction. So, M equals F over a. The equation of the first ball is fifteen over three, the acceleration. So, the mass of the first ball is?” His voice was encouraging.
“Five kilo. And the second one is fifteen over four, which makes it . . .” your fingers stretch out, “three point seventy-five kilo.”
“That is correct. However, this is for middle school students . . . let’s say, fourteen years. What if—” Satoru pulls out another file from his bag, pulling out a paper and handing it to you, “we try college level. This is easy if you can understand the formula. Let’s go with this one,” he smirks.
You dreaded studying. But, this sounded fun, so you didn’t pass up on it, “Bring it on.”
“Alright then. In archery, when an arrow is released, it can oscillate during flight. If we know the location of the center of mass of the arrow or G, and the shape of the arrow at an instand as it oscillates like the picture shows below, we can determine the location of the nodes. The nodes are the stationary points on the the arrow as it oscillates. Using a geometric argument which means no equations, determine the location of the nodes. Assume that the arrow oscillates in the horizontal plane, so that no external forces act on the arrow in the plane oscillation,” you have heard so many different languages, but not this partcular one.
The confusion laced on your face must have spoken enough and he laughs wholeheartedly, you cocked your head, “I am unsure of what language you just spoke, but good job, Gojo. Please, do explain.”
Satour hums, “There’s a formula used somehow, it represents Newton’s Second Law of Motion for a system or a rigid body. It is spoken as, the sum of the external forces equals mass times acceleration of the center of gravity (∑Fext = maG). Okay, don’t give up on me halfway. This is a long explanation,” he taps the paper, “the key information here is that no external forces are acting on the arrow in the plane of oscillation. Therefore, for purposes of solving this whole problem, we can treat the center of mass or gravity as stationary even though the arrow itslf is oscillating. This becomes evident by Newton’s Second Law, where like the formula that I told you of before.”
“The sum of the external forces equals mass times acceleration and something gravity,” your brows pinched.
“Of the center of gravity, close,” he smiles, “so, in the plane, the sum of the external forces equals mass times acceleration of the center of gravity equals zero. This means that the center of mass of the arrow G is either moving at a constant horizontal velocity in a straight line, or G is stationary. To simplify, we can treat the center of mass G as stationary since it will help us visualize everything. The first step is to draw a line L passing through G and aligned with the direction of motion of the arrow. This line is also the symmetry line of the arrow as is oscillates. Give me one second to draw,” the edge of the pen dabbed onto the paper.
“Then the second step is to reflect the arrow about this symmetry line. The nodes are the points of intersection of the arrow that is shown above with the reflected arrow, like . . . this. See, easy right?” He beams out.
You can’t help but to cringe back at the sight, “Yeah, I appreciate your explanation . . . But, I am clueless of what just happened. I think I’ll stick to the FMA triangle, yeah?” That elicits a chuckle from him.
“You’ll get there. Also, I’m one hundred percent sure your coffee is cold by now,” he just his chin out to the counter.
You stood up abruptly, “You’re right. And I should be going, oh my gosh. I am so sorry, I got too caught up in the whole physics lesson,” he waved his hand sheepishly, “thanks again, Gojo. Also, for the extra lessons. Needed that too. Think we could do this again sometimes? Only if you want to, I mean. No pressure,” sounds like a lot of pressure, you slapped yourself internally.
“I don’t mind teaching privately,” he jokes.
“Free of charge, I suppose?”
“Free of charge. Thank you for listening, (Last Name).”
You chuckled, “(Name) is fine.”
“Then, Satoru is fine,” you pucker your lips out, waving towards him, “safe trip home, see you sometimes.”
adrian would look so pretty with a blindfold :( cheeks red, hair messy, chest heaving, hips rutting, unable to see you and desperately begging to :(
eeeeEEEE adrian almost uses his safe word by the end of it. like- he cant fucking stand NOT looking at you, he's was basically wailing and crying every time you refused to take it off him 🤭 but he just looked so pretty, hair damp with sweat, eyes completely covered, nothing to distract you from his cute nose and pretty lips that beg to be bitten off
Summary: Set in the “You Hit Me With Lightning” universe, these are a collection of one shots that take place before, during and after the series with each part marked accordingly. Some of them can probably stand alone from the series but definitely work better when you read the other parts! This series is more flexible and will have parts as I have inspiration for them, a lot of the chapters will also more than likely be closer to drabbles! Also! Feel free to suggest prompts or make requests for this series! I’d love to fill in the gaps of scenarios y’all want to see!
Thank you @vigilantexreader for the edits!!
Masterlist, Chapter 1 of You Hit Me With Lightning
_
Adrian loved whenever she came to visit him at the Checkmate office. It was literally in his top three moments of things that were safe to share with friends. She would come in with a mean look on her face, her outfit stunning, and typically holding Adrian’s lunchbox that he definitely didn’t forget on purpose.
But lately, he was starting to hate it.
Not her coming to Checkmate, never that. Any moment to see her was worth it, even quick stolen moments Adrian adored. But it was getting harder as she got to know the rest of the office and wanted to talk to them sometimes instead of Adrian.
This week had been worse than normal because instead of beelining straight for his desk, she went to stop at another desk. And not just anyone’s desk. No, Adrian could (poorly) handle if it was Chris’ desk or Ads, fuck even John’s desk he could understand a little more. But no, it wasn’t any of them.
It was fucking Judomaster.
Adrian couldn’t believe it, first of all Adrian voted against Judomaster joining Checkmate and because second of all, Judomaster fucking sucked and his fiance most certainly did not suck.
But today she had even brought him snacks. Homemade spicy cheezits. She didn’t bring Adrian homemade spicy cheezits.
Even if he hated spicy food, it still was the thought that counted.
Sure, all Adrian got was a delicious homemade barbecue mac and cheese with apple slices without the skin and a homemade carmel dip. She also included two capri suns, because one was never enough, and a pack of the tropical gushers. All his favorites, but still! She wasn’t bringing in snacks for any of the others, just him and Judomaster. He tried to convince himself that he would be less jealous if she did it for everyone, but the truth was always circling Adrian’s thoughts - he craved her attention always, and any second it wasn’t on him it sent an ache through him that the others told him was normal and healthy to have. But he’d rather have her with him and no ache, he wasn't a huge fan of the ‘distances makes the heart grow fonder’ bullshit.
He even caught them talking the other day as he came out of the training room, his smile falling the moment he found the two. They both stopped talking and glared at Adrian till he slowly walked away, leaving them to gossip. It took her a whole 45 minutes to come back over to him, smiling as she walked over, and Adrian was quick to snatch her up.
But this was time number five of her going to talk to Judomaster instead of hanging out with him. He knew that chatting with someone was more exciting for her than watching him pretend to take notes in a meeting he wasn’t paying attention to.
He knew there was no harm in them chatting, but he couldn’t help but pout as he walked over to the breakroom, digging out a red gatorade from the fridge before slowly making his way to his desk, where she was thankfully, finally, already waiting for him. It felt like a breath of fresh air on his long boring day.
“You do know he is gay, right?” she said as Adrian watched her lean back in his chair, the sucker from Chris’ candy dish pressed against her cheek as Adrian hopped up on his desk letting his legs swing. She crossed her arms across her chest, looking up at him with a smirk. “We’re also engaged, if that matters.”
“Of course that matters,” he muttered, sighing as he shifted his weight slightly.
“Then why are you pouting so much, Ade?” she said softly in a way that made Adrian’s heart ache. Even if he was so upset with the lack of her attention, just the way she was looking at him now he wanted to throw it away and never talk about it. He wanted her smiling, or at the very least, not frowning at him. He hated seeing her hurt, especially if it was because of him, and him failing to hide how he was feeling. She didn’t deserve that weight.
“I just…I like when you come to visit me at work,” he muttered, looking at the ground to avoid her eyes.
“Yeah, you look thrilled right now,” she said dryly, and Adrian frowned as he looked at her.
“It’s just…listen it’s dumb, but I’m just a little bit jealous.”
“Sorry, can you repeat that?” she said, pulling at her ear, and Adrian narrowed his eyes at her. She softened at his frustration. “Baby, Rip is just a friend. I thought you liked that your friends liked me?”
“Judomaster is not a friend, he’s like at the very bottom of my list of all my co-workers here. He’s an asshole.”
“Baby, I’m an asshole,” she said, pointing to herself like it was the most obvious reasoning ever.
“You are not an asshole and that doesn’t even make sense!” he complained, and she smiled, standing up out of his chair. She wrapped her arms around his neck as she kissed his cheek gently and his hands came to rest on her waist.
“I am an asshole, but it’s not a bad thing, at least not in this sense. I enjoy being bitchy, and I know you don’t really like to gossip, so I gossip with Rip. It’s not because I would rather talk to him, but rather I understand that gossiping isn’t your cup of tea,” she said gently, one of her hands coming to cup his cheek as she nudged him to look at her.
“Promise that’s it?” he murmured, feeling warm from how close she was. He wondered vaguely if today would be the day he finally convinced her to have sex with him at work (currently top three on his list to try with her).
“I promise, Ade. Notice how you got a whole spread for lunch and he got some snacks. Some snacks that I have a not-spicy version of waiting for you back at our home,” she insisted, and Adrian’s face broke out in a smile.
“Really?”
“You think I’d go through the labor of homemade cheezits and not make sure I make you some for our movie night tonight? I’m hurt, honey,” she said, moving to grab her chest in a mock wound. Adrian beamed as he grabbed her and pulled her into a tight hug.
“Thank you,” he whispered in her ear. He felt her sigh as she wrapped herself back around him.
“Always, Adrian,” she murmured, “if you’d like I can gossip with you.”
“Is it going to make sense this time?”
“It would make fucking sense if you just listened and nodded and didn’t ask so many pointless questions!”
“It is not pointless to ask what everyone was wearing! I wanted to know how to picture everyone accurately in my head!” he complained, and she laughed, rolling her eyes, but did nothing to stop Adrian from kissing her.
Maybe he could get used to her and Judomaster being friends as long as she came over and made up for it with kisses.
vaporwave
pixelskylines
dededos
titsay
discoholicmusic
turnnoffyourmind
