rated R for mature content, mdni. tw: he’s disgusting.
Thinking about pervy!choso who has the thick, blushing head of his cock smearing all slanted against the spot on the couch in which you’d been sitting in just thirty minutes earlier.
pervy!choso who can’t even begin to explain why it drives him so utterly insane to get off on anything you’ve made the slightest contact with.
pervy!choso who even collects things you touch sometimes because he’s a freak like that. Water bottles you’ve tried to recycle, blankets you’ve folded, glass cups your lips have grazed, forks that have felt the slick of your tongue, the shoelaces to those one pair of sneakers you can’t seem to find anymore-, yeah… you get the idea.
pervy!choso who unintentionally inconveniences you because of this little collecting habit of his. He knows he should stop at some point and get a hold of himself, but how’s he supposed to do that when he watches the way your tongue lathers around spoons to gather the remnants of whatever you’d been eating?
pervy!choso has even crated this only little thing in his head called a indirect-cumshot. Which is, yes, exactly what you think it is. Well, if you’re thinking that it’s like an indirect-kiss but y’know… with cum instead.
Yeah, remember the mug you used to drink your coffee out of earlier this morning? Choso came in that the night before. It’s been thoroughly washed, of course. But in his head—it’s still an indirect cumshot of sorts.
pervy!choso who naturally has a collection of your clothes hidden in various areas. He sleeps with a pair of your panties right under his pillow for the sole purpose of waking up the next morning, managing to capture your scent into his nose like some kinda mutt, and then jerking off until his wrist cramps up and his dick hurts.
pervy!choso who knows that you know he’s a perv. He’s not very discreet about it, nor is he quiet whenever he’s busy cumming to anything and everything involving you.
You hear him panting your name out at night sometimes, heard him “accidentally” call some chick he had over by your name while she was riding him—that poor girl—and even walked on him with his cock in his hand and a series of text threads between you ‘n him displayed up on his laptop.
Fuckin’ freak.
pervy!choso who awkwardly positions himself on parts of the apartment you share just to properly satisfy himself. What exactly does this entail? Oh, y’know, him sitting the wrong way on a chair you sat in for twenty minutes, grinding his bare cock against the smooth wood and soon letting his cum paint out across your seat!
pervy!choso who accidentally came mid-conversation with you.
You were yapping about some show he agreed to watch with you and you thought you were going crazy when you noticed how much his hips were moving under the not-so-thick blanket he buried himself beneath, but… then he was grunting. And then his face was made up. And his ears had got red. And he could barely make eye contact with you.
Moments later and he excused himself off to the bathroom, tugging his pants down and scoffing at the way his seed has plastered itself all throughout his boxers just from listening to you talk.
pervy!choso who knew he had a real problem after that. It was one thing to jerk off to you rather often, but to not even be able to have a conversation-, no, to not even be able to listen to you was insane!
pervy!choso who comes to vent to you about it one night—confessing and apologizing about all his habits with the biggest pout on his face. Telling you how he, “can’t control it” sometimes, and that he might be “a bit” infatuated with you.
pervy!choso who’s heart skips a beat when you reveal you’re no better than he is! You pulled out a dildo of yours that… weirdly resembled his cock?
pervy!choso was left to bat his lashes in disbelief. There’s no way you, his sweet sweet roommate was just as much of a perv as he was—if not worse?!
The dildo you’d shown to him not only resembled his cock, but captured the very essence of it down to the slimmest vein trickling down near his balls.
What the fuck.
pervy!choso who starts drooling uncontrollably when you go on to explain to him that you’ve been using the pillows he sleeps on to get off for months now. You told him that you’d made sure the pillows and their cases were washed before his head ever hit them again but, fairly enough, he didn’t give a shit about that.
Hell, he wishes you’d left the evidence of your acts all over his stuff—just to he could rub his face into it later and get a proper smell of you while he humped his cock against his sheets.
pervy!choso who realizes he’s drooling from more than one place halfway through your perverted confessions, his body unconsciously inching closer and closer to you until you’re both practically sharing breaths and every word of sin that’s exiting your lips is being caressed right into his greedy ones.
pervy!choso who, rightfully, cums a good minute ‘n a half into the first kiss you two share. His hands could barely explore your body without shaking and the sounds that left his throat were just nasty. Someone would’ve thought the two of you were fucking already!
pervy!choso who gets shy when you push him down and tell him to show you his cock—what if you don’t like it? What if this is the part where you regain your moral senses and admit that you’re both horrible people who’ve done disgusting things in thought of the other?
pervy!choso who is pleasantly surprised when you get impatient and tug his dick out for yourself, his lashes fluttering whilst his lips quiver open to say something to you. He wanted to warn you about how much he cums, but your hand was already curling around his cream-smothered cock.
pervy!choso who thinks he dies when he first feels your mouth on him, your tongue darting out to taste the mess he’s made of himself, and your eyes almost appreciatively set up on his.
pervy!choso who can’t even move because of how good your lips feel wrapped around his cock. He wants to burry his fingers in your hair, push your pretty head down, fuck himself up into your throat, and more but… he can’t move for some reason.
pervy!choso who chokes when his wide tip knocks into the deepest nook of your mouth, hearing a loud sluuuurp! before he’s gasping and suddenly—you’re not in between his legs anymore..?
Oh.
That’s right. It was just another one of his daydreams.
None of that actually happened, he never confessed his acts of filth to you and you never said anything about you being just as much of a perv.
No, in reality, he’s been staring at you like a true weirdo for the past few minutes—unintentionally making weird ass noises here ‘n there because of how wrapped up in his fantasy he was.
Then you make eye contact with him all of a sudden, popping your lips off of a bright red popsicle and tilting your head, “Did you want some?”
“Huh?” He gapes.
You gesture the popsicle his way and smile all innocently, “You’re drooling and you’ve been watching me eat this for like five minutes now.”
“Y-Yeah.”
You scoff, “Yeah, what? Yeah, you want a taste? Or, yeah, you’re admitting to staring at me?”
“Both,” Then he leans forward and lightly takes your wrist into his hand, holding eye contact with you as his mouth parts. Tongue rolling out all wet with drool, “Feed it t’me, please?”
He hardly has a moment to react before you’re gliding the popsicle in between his lips, watching how his tongue eagerly laps at every inch of it before he sucks on it firmly.
…Then he accidentally moans.
Your brows shoot up and he pulls his mouth off the popsicle. Chuckling at him, “Did you just-“
“Sorry, mommy.”
“What?” You choke.
“What?”
Choso wishes this was a dream too but, based on the way you’re staring at him right now…
Yeahhhh, he might be fucked!
the full oneshot inspired by this drabble is here || perm choso tags (1/2):
in which, JASON TODD has got a big, fat crush on the neighborhood's bookstore owner; so it's not a surpise when he ends up inside of her, right?
‧₊˚✩彡
includes: jason todd x fem!reader, bookstore-owner!reader, mature content (17+), tw / cw: depictions of blood loss, stab wound, stitches, ... making out, thigh-humping, 'the knee thing,' begging, panty-ripping, oral (f. recieving), fingering, biting, marking, being bent over, mirror-sex, drooling, dirty-talk, sub!reader, creampie, 6.9k words.
‧₊˚✩彡
kinktober masterlist.
FOR ONCE, gotham was sunny. warm rays shone down through the large, floor to ceiling windows of your bookshop-- air tinged with scents like crisp autumn wind and faintly stale coffee. a few individuals traversed between each row of books, fingers running idly down the spine of the few that caught their eyes. it was calming. natural. a welcomed escape from the harsh reality that existed for many outside of the parameters of your humble store; an environment where worries melted off of the shoulders of even the most damned, and where the innocent could flourish.
from the register, you fiddled with a pen-- twirling it absentmindedly between your pointer and middle fingers. the motion was relaxed; practiced, and exuding only contentment.
however, the sound of your shop's door-bell chimed softly as a new civilian entered; and your movements paused, irises tracking down the face of the potential customer. to your slight surprise, (and something deep within your gut eerily similar to relief, or perhaps even giddy), recognition washed over you.
"jason," you called out softly, waving a hand towards one of your regular customers.
greenish-grey eyes flicked upwards to meet yours, and the man echoed your name. it sounded heavy on his tongue-- but not with angst; with care. "i'm back already," he grinned, wooden floorboards creaking with age as he stepped closer to the check-out where you remained.
a smile bloomed across your face. "missed me that much?" you questioned, teasing. "it's barely been a week."
jason shrugged noncommittally, hands raising playfully in surrender, though his freckled cheeks tinged a faint shade of red. "y'know you can't keep me away,"
the sound of your laughter combined, and floated its way to the ceiling of your bookstore. it clung to the wooden beams spanning the roof; seeping into the oak, willing itself into the history of the building.
when the laughter died down, you jutted your chin to the side-- motioning the back of your store. "a new shipment of second-hand books just arrived from metropolis; you know where to find 'em,"
jason saluted, "aye, aye captain," before making his way towards his desired items. the man would be kept occupied for a good little while with the boxes upon boxes of books you hadn't bothered to sort through yet; and you smiled quietly to yourself.
it was easy to recall the first time you had met jason; even easier to lose track of when your friendship had blurred into this slow, thumping heart-beat of comfort and familiarity. he came in at the beginning of each week, would purchase a handful of books, and would return the following week to do the same thing. after a few repeated cycles of this, you and him had begun to chit-chat beyond his payments-- and just like that, you had become acquainted with the large, handsome man.
beyond that, though, you didn't know much about him. as his fingers would dust across yours at the register, your eyes would linger on the collection of scars littered across his skin; but you never pushed. you understood that, while you looked forward to jason's arrival at your store like clock-work, the privacy of his life remained his.
the affairs he found himself tangled within outside of the haven you offered to gothamites alike was none of your business; all you could hope was that jason remained safe in whatever trials he thrust himself into.
especially now-- that thought crossed your mind as he approached a mere ten minutes later, with four books in his hands. dropping them on the counter-top, his cheeks dimpled. "i'm shocked i was able to pick only four, that new shipment is loaded with good shit."
you grinned, totaling the sticker-prices of the books into your register. "the four book only policy doesn't apply to you," you whispered, leaning forward ever so slightly, "take as many as you'd like." the scent of his cologne-- something earthy and inviting-- floated its way into your nose. you shivered.
jason's eyes widened softly, a dark eyebrow arching upwards. "willing to bend the rules just for me? i'm flattered," glancing towards jason's face, you wished for nothing more than to burn the image of his grin into your memory permanently.
"yeah, well," your eyes rolled, fingers typing away at your cash register, "you're a returning customer-- and i'm not worried you'll resell my shit for a lower price."
the sound of jason's laugh sounded nothing short of mesmerizing. "shouldn't judge a book by its cover," he said easily, "i'll put you out of business."
it was your turn to laugh softly as you reached beneath the front-desk, grabbing a re-usable bag for jason's books. the man took out his wallet, and dropped a twenty and a ten on the counter. "please," you scoffed, handing him his books, "the only way you'll put me out of business is by buying all of my fuckin' stock."
"that's right," jason agreed, nodding. black wisps of hair fell into his eyes, and he ran a sturdy hand through his locks. "i'll be back before you know it, pretty."
✩✩✩
night howled against the windows of your book-store, and the silence of after-hours was terribly loud. your keys jangled and clanked against your hip as you made your rounds-- making sure all the doors and windows were secured and locked. up and down each aisle you traversed, the smell of homey paper sticking to your skin as if the library was trying to fuse itself to you.
all the books were where they were supposed to be, and every possible place someone could break into was reinforced properly. you sighed, fingers clutching tightly onto the fabric of your leather coat. despite the familiarity and warmth your shop offered during the day-- there was something uncomfortable about it once night fell onto the city of gotham.
chuckling to yourself, you recalled the previous owner of the building nervously mentioning ghosts living within the walls.
how childish, you thought to yourself, unlocking the register to empty its contents, who believes in ghosts anyways? certainly not me--
a loud series of bangs on the back entrance of your store rattled the entire building, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood in urgency.
you remained in place silently, and in shock, for a few moments; save for a small lamp near the front desk, the rest of the lights in your bookstore were off-- who on earth wanted to be let into a seemingly closed bookstore?
when the banging continued, almost growing desperate, you had closed your eyes-- "fuck," you muttered, reaching into a cabinet within the front desk that held a baseball bat.
(living in gotham, you could have never been too careful.)
it took a few falsely-confident steps to make it to the back of your store, and the metal door that was the entrance from the alley-way at its behind. you swallowed, the pounding of someone's fist unrelenting against the cool metal. you considered yelling, alerting the potential threat to your prescence, but figured you'd lose the upper-hand-- so without much thought, you swung open the door, raising the baseball-bat as if to attack the perpetrator-- until exactly who it was startled you.
"red hood?" you gaped, fingers clutching tightly onto the bat as the vigilante's mask glimmered a cherry red underneath the subtle lighting of the moon. you were no stranger to gotham's silent heros; especially not as someone running a small-business that happened to remain open about an hour past dusk. seeing one in-person, much less face-to-face, was daunting; especially since you knew-- or at least, had heard-- what this one was capable of. shit, you thought idly, did he see me j-walk last night?
red hood raised his hands; or, well, one hand-- the other remained glued to his side, and upon further inspection, he seemed to be leaning heavily to the opposite side of his injury. when he spoke, his helmet had muffled his voice-- and the voice changer you assumed he had implemented, crackled and popped. if he had said anything else-- you were certain you would not have been able to distinguish it underneath the fuzz of his helmet's voice changer-- but you immediately recognized that the man was saying your name.
something ran down your spine, and your face contorted into a mixture of fear and confusion. "what the fuck?" you frowned, fingers itching at the wood of your baseball bat.
you soon realized, however, how useless the weapon was-- red hood pushed past you, barely brushing your figure, and into your book-store. you yelped in surprise, twisting your body to watch the vigilante as he traced, without error (as if he was familiar with the store layout), your bathroom. while you couldn't see him from where you stood anymore, you were able to watch light spill onto the wooden floor of your store-- a harsh, fluorescent glow lighting up the small bathroom.
exhaling deeply through your nose, you entered your store again and closed the back entrance to the door tightly-- locking the deadbolts, preventing anyone from entering or exiting. "hey!" you called out hurriedly, making your way towards where red hood was, "i'd appreciate it if you would tell me what the fuck you're doing in my book-store,"
red hood, very clearly, had made himself comfortable in the bathroom; his own jacket had been discarded and sat messily on the floor, and his black compression shirt was pulled up to just underneath his left pec-- a nasty wound, most likely from a knife, seeped blood onto his pants and onto the tiles of the bathroom floor. you heard the man hiss as he pressed a wad of damp paper-towel to the injury, and you cringed away harshly.
"fuck," you winced, a phantom pain shooting directly into the side of your mid-section.
red blurred your vision softly as red hood turned his head towards you. "do you have a first-aid kit?"
without answering, you moved into the tiny bathroom-- opening a cabinet on the wall to pull out exactly what he was looking for. you placed it onto the small counter-top, and popped it open; red hood immediately reaching for thread and a needle.
"hey," you stopped him, grabbing onto his gloved wrist, "there's a walk-in clinic right down the road-- i can drive you there, it'll take like five seconds--"
"no," red hood answered almost immediately, gently tearing his hand from your grip to continue rifling through your first-aid kit.
"no?" you questioned, eyebrows raising. "what do you mean no? you're bleeding out--"
"i'll be fine." he answered shortly, bringing a spool of thread to his mouth to tear a long string with his teeth. "and i came here for a reason," his voice changer crackled as he spoke.
confusion etched its way deeper onto your face. "what?"
red hood sighed, and the glimmer of his mask caught your eye as his head turned towards you; his stare was harsh, despite the fact that you couldn't even see his face. "you were the closest person i could come to," he answered awkwardly, one hand still holding the paper-towel to his wound, "closest person i know."
you opened your mouth to speak, simply baffled by what he meant; but his next actions stole the words right from your throat.
with his free hand, he dropped the medical supplies onto the counter-top, before gripping his helmet and tearing it off of his head; his vision remained glued to the floor as he shook his hair out, recognizable black locks falling onto his forehead.
"jason?" you gaped. "holy shit," you practically laughed-- because what were the odds the person you had seen less than seven hours ago was one of gotham's most well-known vigilantes. the humour in the situation, though, died out quickly-- as you watched his irises examine his wound closer now, slight panic arising in both of your throats.
moving without a second thought, your palms found jason's biceps, leading him to sit on the counter-top. "sit. let me do it," you said quickly, gesturing to the thread and needle.
jason gave a long exhale, resting his body-weight against the counter with little refusal; "you don't need to do this," he argued weakly.
you rolled your eyes, gently prying the paper-towels from his wound; luckily, with some of the blood cleaned up, was less serious than you had first assumed. "i want to."
"you didn't want to before i took the helmet off," jason laughed softly. the movement made him wince.
"that was because i assumed i didn't know you," you murmurred, tongue-sticking out of the corner of your mouth in deep concentration, "i couldn't have been responsible should anything have happened to a stranger. but now that i do know you, why not put the first-aid course i took four years ago to the test?"
though you didn't bother looking up, you could practically feel jason's face scrunching up. "so i'm your guinea pig?"
you offered the slightest of nods.
"i'm fucked."
"hey," you protested, "i patched up a kid with a scraped knee like last week. you're in great hands,"
"not quite the same thing as a minor stab wound, but still reassuring, i guess,"
jason felt you poke into a non-injured section of his torso gently with the needle, only to laugh. something spurred to life within your ribs.
✩✩✩
after about ten minutes of stitching, you finally finished-- tying off the last suture, your fingertips grazed his abdomen. they lingered, as if his body was pulling you in-- like something couldn't keep you from stepping away. jason's breath hitched.
you cleared you throat, reeling your hands back towards your body, remaining medical supplies tossed haphazardly onto the counter. "sorry," you breathed.
jason's hands brushed over the newly bandaged wound, examining carefully, before greenish-grey irises met yours in the small cracked mirror of your tiny bathroom. "don't be." he said simply, holding your gaze.
you had so many questions. they were burning at your throat, clawing at your tongue-- fighting you, willing themselves to be released. but the longer your eyes stayed trained on each-other's within the shitty little mirror, the less they wanted to escape.
it was odd; you had had this idea of jason, in the back of your mind-- every-time he stepped through your bookstore's doors, you wondered what kind of life he led. perhaps he was a teacher, or maybe a fire-fighter, you had day-dreamed once; he seemed like the kind of man that knew the real grit that covered every surface within gotham, and he seemed like the kind of man who wanted to erase it all. you had been right, in a way; because wasn't that what red hood stood for? nonetheless, the vigilante's identity had made your fingers quiver against his skin as you tended to his wound, and you knew jason was pointedly ignoring the tremor in your palms as you patched him up. you considered the fact that, he too, most likely knew it wasn't from who the version of himself he had hidden from you, but rather the one you thought you knew all too well.
the silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. no, it was charged. the air between the two of you practically vibrated with what was once fear, now morphed into understanding, anxiousness; a yearning of sorts. it wasn't quite fear, but it was not quite relief either. now you had seen jason for what he truly was, and that was a scary thing to have admitted on both of your ends. you swallowed, eyes tracing downwards on jason's form in the mirror-- down the bridge of his nose, down to his lips (where they lingered for longer than what you wanted), and down to his jaw. examining him so closely, you could see the way his pulse jumped in his throat.
your reflection looked back at you—wide-eyed, flushed, and unsteady. naked, in some sort of sense. jason’s gaze dropped from the mirror to you, slow and deliberate, and you realized with a start that he wasn’t the only one feeling bare.
"why did you come here?" you asked, words so quiet on your lips you were certain jason had not heard you. when he answered, something spiked lowly in your gut.
"i told you," jason whispered back, "you were the closest person i trust."
"you trust me?"
"more than i'd like to admit." jason dragged a calloused hand through his hair. a nervous tick. "do you trust me?"
"yes." the answer was immediate, and the lack of hesitation made the corner of jason's eyes crinkle with the slightest hint of amusement.
the sound of his laugh sent sparks up your spine. "you shouldn't."
tilting your head to look at him, one of your eyebrows arched upwards. "you haven't shot me or anything yet, so i think i'm okay,"
jason laughed again. the sound was low, from the back of his throat. shamefully, your cunt throbbed. "you never know,"
"right," you agreed, "i think i'll take that risk."
jason watched your eyes flicker down to his lips, and took that as a sign-- crashing his mouth onto yours, he kissed you like his life depended on it.
there was nothing sweet about it, nothing gentle; nothing like the man jason was when he let his guard down around you, nothing like the man you thought you knew. his hands fumbled clumsily along your body, as if he didn't know what to do with them, until one of them cupped the back of your head and the other found your hip. using his strength, he kept you glued to his body; crooking your head to the side, you deepened the kiss.
jason groaned into your mouth once he felt your tongue drag against the fat of his bottom lip. he opened wider to allow you access into his mouth, and you grinned. it was messy-- spit dribbled down both of your faces, and your fingers had found themselves at jason's scalp-- pulling, tugging, willing him as close to you as he could get. the sounds of your breathing, laboured, shallow-- coupled with the wet noises coming from your kissing was obscene, and it echoed within the tiny bathroom of yours.
you began to suck on jason's tongue, and another pretty noise fell from his throat. using his hips, he shoved you backwards and onto the edge of the counter-top-- your ass digging into it's end. you whined, once you understood what he doing; jason used one of his knees to separate your legs, before he shoved his thigh right between your own.
the heat of your cunt, even through your jeans, was embarrassing. having jason's leg pushed up against your pussy, barely moving, barely giving you what you wanted-- he broke the kiss, voice raw and lips plump. "'s this okay?" he asked.
to his surprise, you laughed. "if it wasn't, i would have slapped you like.. five minutes ago,"
the man shrugged, bringing one of his hands to the side of your cheek-- his thumb idly playing with your bottom lip. "i was just making sure," he swallowed, "i didn't know if you wanted this."
"i mean," you started, eyes locking on the way his thumb lingered near the entrance of your mouth, "i would have preferred it if it didn't happen because you were stabbed."
jason nodded, corners of his mouth lifting upwards in the ghost of a smile, although there was little humor in his voice as he spoke, "me too."
"yeah?" you asked, voice teasing.
jason's voice was not teasing. "yeah."
something in your gut swirled, and you couldn't help but grind your hips-- your aching cunt-- down onto jason's thigh. he hummed, content at your action, finally shoving his thumb past your lips and into your mouth. he felt your tongue swirl around the pad of his thumb, lazily sucking as if you just needed something inside of your mouth.
when he spoke again, jason's voice had gone impossibly low. "i've always thought you were so gorgeous," jason began, "always thought you were way too pretty and too smart to be running a cute lil' shop like this, in this fuckin' city,"
without much thought, you nodded at his words-- the feeling of the seam of your jeans rubbing against his flexed thigh and knee, and onto your clit, far too intoxicating.
"i've been wanting to ask you out for forever, but every-time, i chickened out," he confessed, pushing his thumb deeper into your mouth, "that's it baby, grind that pussy onto my leg-- jus' like that,"
the sweetness of his confession combined with the filth of his praise made you moan around his digit-- hips quickening along his leg.
"i've thought about taking you out, maybe to see a nice lil' movie. maybe then-- oh, i know, feel's good, huh?-- maybe then we'd get dinner, there's a real nice place near china town i think you'd like,"
jason's words were becoming mush within your mind; nonetheless, they spurred you on, your clit pulsing and pussy sopping beneath the fabric of your ruined jeans and panties.
"then," he started, leaning forward to pepper kisses along your jaw, leading all the way to the shell of your ear, "then i'd take you home, and i'd make love to you so good, you'd never be able to fuck anyone else."
you moaned whorishly at his words, spit dribbling down your chin as his thigh brushed against your cunt again and again and again-- pleasure becoming all-consuming, and lust fogging every rational thought in your mind. "jason," you gasped out, words muffled by the man's thumb still in your mouth, "please." you begged.
"please what, sweetheart?" he questioned, pulling his finger from your mouth to let you speak, "tell me what you want."
all that consumed your mind was jason-- so that's exactly what you said. "you," you exasperated, fingers digging into his shoulders, "please i need you."
"mm," the sound of jason humming vibrated against your skin, his lips searing marks down your throat all the way to your collarbone. "keep begging, pretty girl. maybe then i'll give you what you want,"
grinding your cunt back and forth on his leg, your eyes welled up with tears of frustration; god, you needed him so badly. "jay," it fell from your lips in a gasp as jason began sucking harshly on your pulse-point, "please. please, anything you give me i- i'll take it, your fingers, your mouth, your dick--"
"m'giving you my thigh to grind on right now," you felt him smile against your skin, "isn't that enough?"
"more," you practically sobbed, other incoherent words flying from your throat at an embarrassing rate. back and forth and back again, humping jason's leg like a dog in heat. "please, jason."
pulling off of your neck with a pop, jason's lips glistened with saliva; the way he ran his tongue against the plump fat of his bottom lip, you'd think he was still able to taste you. "alright," he conceded finally, hooking two fingers into the waistband of your jeans to shrug them down your hips. when they had fallen to the floor, the man wasted no time in holding you tightly by the waist and propping you up onto the counter-top. the granite was cold against your bare bottom; you shivered.
before you could question what he was going to do next, jason sunk to his knees. it was tender, the way he studied the ruined fabric of your panties-- now on display right in front of his face. soft irises flicked upwards to meet yours, and your cunt throbbed with need. "please." jason paid your final plea no mind, lips connected to the plush of your thighs with a mission.
he kissed and he sucked and his bit-- teeth sinking into your leg just enough to make you moan, but not enough to hurt. darting his tongue outwards to soothe the blooming mark along your skin, he'd brush forward-- closer to your pussy-- to leave another violent hickey.
you began to squirm on the counter-top; hips involuntarily bucking towards jason's face-- seeking out any pleasure you could find. it was pathetic-- and if you hadn't been so drunk on fore-play, perhaps you would have cared about being so desperate in front of the man you liked. but the way your pussy was leaking down onto the granite, and the way your nipples had stiffened despite no attention being allotted to either of them-- you didn't give a fuck.
"patience," jason murmured, sucking deeply on your left thigh.
"i don't have much of it left."
at your snarky remark, jason's teeth bit into you-- the tiniest bit harder than his previous nips. you yelped, and he smiled against your skin.
opening your mouth to say something-- maybe beg, maybe cry, maybe snap-- jason cut you off when he reached two large hands forwards to grasp the edges of your panties. you face scrunched up, as if to say why not just pull them to the side? before a loud rip bounced off the walls of your bathroom.
within jason's hands-- the remains of your panties looked measley and useless; torn into two, jason tossed them onto the floor haphazardly.
"hey!" you gasped.
jason shrugged. "what? did you want me to keep them on you? not give you what you want?"
your face flushed, heat crawling up your neck. "well no,"
"exactly." jason leaned forward, lips pursing, and blew a cold gust of air onto your clit.
you couldn't fight the loud whine that escaped you at his actions, and jason's laugh rumbled deeply; his eyes danced upwards to your face again, and he made no effort to break the eye-contact as he pressed his mouth to your cunt.
the man licked a long stripe, flattening his tongue along your folds, slowly from your hole to your clit. you moaned, back arching away from the counter. 'jason!" you cried, fists clenching at the edge of the counter-top as he repeated his actions at a faster pace.
he moaned in response, reveling in the taste of you on his tongue, before his lips latched onto your clit. he sucked and sucked and sucked-- the sensation maddening. "i know," he cooed against your pussy, "you taste as good as you feel, baby,"
his tongue was unrelenting against your cunt-- jason lapping at your slick like a starved man. when he tilted his head downwards to lick and prod at your entrance-- the bridge of his nose brushed against your clit, and your hips stuttered along his face. "oh, jay," you moaned, body running hot at his actions.
jason's hands left your hips momentarily, reaching closer to your thighs-- only to hike them along his shoulders and back, inadvertently driving your cunt closer to his face. at the newfound angle, you both moaned in sync.
"god--" your breath hitched, "deeper, jason, c'mon,"
jason wasted no time in listening to your orders-- sticking his tongue past your sopping hole to tongue-fuck you with vigor. in and out and in again, his tongue practically curled and massaged your insides.
the man only pulled back for a second, to spit onto your aching cunt, before diving right back in. his tongue flattened against your folds again, his hands finding your hips. "this feel good, baby?" he asked.
you nodded, sweat beading at your temple.
jason's movements ceased, though his tongue remained connected to your pussy. "then fuck yourself on my tongue-- make yourself feel good, sweetheart,"
jason did not have to tell you twice-- your hips immediately began rocking along the man's appendage, the friction causing your lower stomach to coil with pressure.
you were, shamefully, lifting yourself off of the counter to grind against the vigilante's face now-- your own contorted and washed over by a myriad of pleasure and ecstasy. "jay," you moaned loudly, "please, i wanna cum,"
at your confession, jason's movements restarted again-- this time, with a renewed sense of purpose. he moaned into your cunt, vibrations only adding to the ever-growing sensation of your orgasm within your lower belly. "yeah?" he asked, voice muffled by your pussy.
"m-mhm!"
two of jason's fingers poked at your hole as his mouth re-attached to your clit-- and sunk in with ease. "shit, baby," he peeled himself off of you to mumble, "so fuckin' soaked for me-- this pussy's squeezing my fingers so good,"
you nodded, before your head lolled backwards as jason began sucking on your clit, his fingers curling and uncurling against your g-spot rapidly. there was no rhythm, no pattern; just jason chasing your orgasm as if it was his own.
the sound of your pussy squelching around his fingers was nothing short of obscene; your bathroom mirror was fogging up, and you hips tilted to meet the thrusts of jason's hand within you. greenish-grey irises blinked upwards to meet your own, and the intimacy your eye-contact sent you over the edge.
"jason," you gasped, jaw going slack, "m'cumming,"
jason smiled against your pussy, tongue and fingers working in tandem to keep you riding the high of your orgasm-- even as it dripped down his wrist and his chin.
your cunt pulsed and throbbed and squeezed like there was no tomorrow-- hips stuttering and shaking along jason's face, legs wrapping around his head in an effort to shut.
"i know," he praised, voice warm and low, dripping with arousal, as he continued to drag out your orgasm. "bet you feel so good, this wet fuckin' pussy painting my face," he whispered, delivering a final lick to your cunt, looong and slow, before he pulled away. "don't you, pretty?"
you nodded, chest heaving greatly. the aftershocks of your orgasm rocked your core, sending shivers from the tip of your spine all the way to your toes.
you couldn't remember the last time a man made you cum that hard. you can't remember the last time you made yourself cum that hard.
"well," he said, standing, "imagine how good my dick will feel."
you whined softly, bracing your hands along jason's chest when he finally stood in-between your legs. leaning forward, you connected your lips. the taste of your cunt on his lips was intoxicating.
lazily, jason kissed you back-- your tongues hadn't hesitated to be stuck down each other's throats, and your nails dragged down jason's torso. only when your fingertips met the bandages you had put on his wound earlier, did you stop.
"oh," you said lightly, "maybe we shouldn't; i don't want you to get even more hurt--"
jason cut you off with a roll of his eyes, his lips dancing across the bottom half of your face with ease. "baby," he mumbled between kisses, "a little cut won't stop me from makin' you feel good,"
"a little cut?" you laughed, slightly in shock. "you were stabbed."
"and? i'm a grown man, i can handle it."
his palms found your waist again, picking you up only to lower you onto the floor. when your feet met the tiles of the bathroom, he spun you around so you were facing the mirror. "don't come crawlin' back to me when your stitches are fucked, then, 'cause i won't redo them."
jason chuckled against your neck, his breath warm as you heard his belt buckle come un-done. "liar," he whispered. something flipped within your core. "we both know that if it'll end with me paying this," he reached a hand forward and around, to give your bare cunt several taps, "pretty pussy any attention, you won't say shit."
...
you hated that he was right. especially now knowing he could give you an orgasm that made you see god.
you rolled your eyes, your silence saying everything you couldn't. jason laughed again, before reaching into his boxers to pull out his throbbing cock.
"you made me so hard," he whispered along the shell of your ear. "see?"
his question, though, was not meant for you to literally see-- no, at his words, jason pressed his aching dick to your cunt, grinding his length along your folds at an infuriatingly slow pace.
you moaned. couldn't help it-- not at the sensation of every vein, every ridge, every bump along his cock skating over your pussy. "yeah," you nodded, bottom lip getting caught in between your teeth, "put it in me."
jason stilled for a moment at your words, before one of his hands flew from you hip and to the back of your neck-- pressing you firmly onto the counter-top. your torso was flush to the granite, and jason successfully had you bent. "i thought we established that you could beg better than that," his voice was low. serious. "with some manners."
shame flooded your system-- but the sensation of your pussy practically drooling onto jason's cock was far too enamouring for you to ignore. "please," you exhaled, "please, baby, put your cock in me-- i need it so badly,"
"that's better," jason hummed, beginning to grind his tip against your clit again. the sound of a low moan from the back of his throat fell onto your ears, and instinctively, you arched backwards and into the man.
"jay, please," you sobbed. jason's hand had travelled from the back of your neck to your head-- keeping you pressed securely to the counter-top. your irises met his, and your entire body tingled with need.
"please what? say what you want." he mocked, hips slowing as he continued to grind against your weeping pussy.
"please--!" you were growing desperate beyond coherent words. "please, jason, please just fuck me."
in the mirror, you watched jason grin. his cheeks dimpled and your stomach flipped. "atta girl," he lined himself up with your hole with ease, before slooowly pressing into you.
you both moaned as his cock began to fill you out-- inch by inch, the further he moved within your pussy, the more you both became drunk on one another.
your jaw had gone slack against the counter, cheek pressed to the cool surface by jason's sturdy hand as he finally bottomed out inside of you. his balls gently rocked against your clit, and he held you there-- unmoving, save for the occasional twitch of his cock.
"holy shit," he breathed out your name heavily, voice coated in a seductive euphoria. "you feel-- god, you feel like you were made for me,"
you whined at his words, arousal dripping onto his length crudely as the visceral need for jason to move enveloped you. "mhm," you hummed dumbly, "made for this fat fuckin' cock,"
the man moaned at your words, hips finally beginning to pace against your ass. it was steady, after a few thrusts-- his cock stretching your pussy out.
"yes," you cried, hands bracing the edge of the counter-top as his tip began to abuse your g-spot. "feels s'good, jay,"
"oh, i know, princess," he gasped, each plap, plap, plap! of his hips meeting your ass becoming more obscene than the last. your cunt pulsed as it surrounded his cock, sucking him in-- holding him, keeping you both impossibly close.
jason grunted and moaned loudly, in tandem with your cries of pleasure, and it spurred you on. without thinking, you began to back yourself up onto him-- meeting each thrust with a bounce of your ass on his cock.
to your surprise, jason's hand snaked its way between your throat and the counter, choking gently, before he yanked you upwards. his thrusts didn't stop-- in fact, his pace only quickened, cock moving in and out and in again at a brutal pace. "no," he said sharply, forcing your jaw upwards to make you look at him through the mirror's reflection, "let me do it. let me fuck you how i want, how you deserve to be fucked,"
your pussy was dripping-- soaking jason's cock as you observed in the mirror (through clouded, tear filled eyes), as he fucked you.
"see?" he questioned, grasp tightening ever so slightly around your throat, "such a good girl when you let me fuck you like this-- when you watch yourself take this cock,"
"yes, jay," you moaned, hands still gripping the counter. every single syllable that fell from his mouth went straight to your pussy, which fluttered whorishly around jason's dick as if it was the only thing it needed.
you had said other things, too; you babbled mindlessly as his dick drove in and out of you, punishing your aching and needy pussy. your feet kicked upwards as jason pushed your hips along the counter's edge, the weight of his hips slamming into your ass keeping you folded.
"haah," he moaned, grinding his cock impossibly deeper into your cunt. "shoulda done this sooner," he said, "shoulda stuffed this pretty little pussy so deep such a long time ago, i've been needin' it so bad,"
his words went straight to your cunt, and it squelched loudly around him in response. wordlessly, you were begging for more.
"oh, what's that? you been-- shiit-- needing it too, sweet girl?" he questioned, cock pistoning your pussy passionately.
"yes--! yes, yesyesyes, i needed this so badly," you agree, far too cock-drunk on the man to say anything else. your toes and fingertips tingled, pleasure bleeding into every sensation you had.
"now you've got it, s'okay, i'll take-- fuck-- i'll take care of you," jason tried his best, really, to keep his sentences together-- but the way your cunt was strangling his cock was starting to get the better of him.
his thrusts grew erratic-- out of time, sloppy-- as he bit down onto your shoulder, eyes still on yours in the mirror.
"i'm goin' to cum," you announced, his teeth sinking into your body only spurring on your second orgasm of the night. "i-- oh god, jason, i'm not going to be able to hold it--"
"then don't," he breathed out, his hand leaving your throat to travel to your clothed chest. despite the fabric of your shirt, jason still groped and molded your tits; he moaned into your neck, giving your right breast a hearty squeeze. "cum all over this fuckin' cock, baby,"
at his words, you obeyed. the corners of your vision went spotty as you head tilted backwards onto jason's shoulder-- your orgasm causing your entire body to twitch. your legs vibrated, and cunt spasmed along jason's dick-- to which you felt him throb inside of you in response.
"c-can i fill you up? inside?" he asked suddenly, thrusts impossibly random as he chased his own orgasm.
you were nodding your head before you could even think about it-- your pussy still beating intensely at his actions, clit pulsating and dripping with need. "holy shit-- yeah, jay, cum inside me,"
jason groaned again-- teeth biting into your shoulder and remaining there as he started to cum. hot, thick ropes, spurting into your pussy-- being stuffed deeper and deeper and deeper with every half-thrust that followed. the moans of the man seeped into your skin, jason drooling all over your body as he continued to pump himself deep inside of your womb.
the sensation of his cock inside you quickly became overstimulating-- but there wasn't anything you could do except moan as jason continued to fuck into you. "jay--!"
"fuck-- i know, sweet girl, i just-- haah-- just let me milk every last drop," and you were certain, as well, that jason was becoming overwhelmed in your pussy as well; hisses followed his moans now, and only when hot tears streamed down your cheeks, did jason pull out. you fell forward and onto the counter-top, the cold surface a harsh contrast to the heat that radiated off of both of your bodies in waves.
jason's body bent in half as he copied you-- except his chest was flush to your back. sweat dripped from his hairline and temple, and you felt a sloppy, warm kiss being pressed to the nape of your neck.
"mm," he hummed, eyes fluttering shut.
you mirrored him, the fluorescent lighting of your bookstore’s bathroom suddenly far too harsh against everything you were feeling. “jason?”
he grunted in response, the sound low and amused at the croak in your voice.
“if you liked me, you could’ve just said so,” you muttered. “no need to get yourself stabbed over it.”
his laughter vibrated softly against your skin. “you think I got stabbed because I couldn’t figure out how to confess to you?”
“the last book you bought from me was Romeo and Juliet,” you reminded him.
that earned a louder laugh, though he offered no defense. the sound was warm, almost boyish — and for a moment, it made you forget the blood still drying on his ribs; made you forget that his cum was seeping out of you.
“hey,” he murmured after a pause, “at least I didn’t die for it. been there, done that. wouldn’t recommend.”
you frowned, half-confused, half-concerned — but before you could ask, he leaned in, the smell of gunpowder and cologne and something entirely him pressing close.
“Thus with a kiss…” he whispered against your forehead, his lips ghosting over your skin, “I will not die again.”
for a heartbeat, neither of you moved. the line hung between you — tragic words rewritten into something fragile and defiant, something that belonged to him. to you.
and as his breath lingered against your temple, you realized there was far more to jason todd than the man who haunted your bookstore shelves. there was a story still being written — and somehow, you’d just found yourself in the middle of it.
PLUVOiA 25’ ® - masterlist
loren's thots: heyyy... how yall doing......... lmfao sorry this took a minute the universe threw an evil evil situationship at me w a man whos 6 ( S I X !!) whole yrs older than me.... god i love older men...... anyways its been consuming my mind and uh anything to do w sex has made me terribly emotional as a result but I POWERED THRU for yall i hope u like it.. n ya ik it wasnt the next one planned for kinktober no i didnt skip the eve and kyle pieces i js wanted to write for someone that i think yall would eat upppp so.. i love u all and omg freakin talk to me? omg cobwebs in my inbox damnnnn....
Synopsis: Tutoring Steve Harrington was supposed to be simple. It wasn’t supposed to involve late nights, soft confessions, or his protectiveness turning sharp when Billy Hargrove starts paying you the wrong kind of attention.
Tags: angst with a happy ending, Steve Harrington character study, protective Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove unwanted attention, tutoring AU, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, emotional intimacy, jealousy, self-sacrifice,
Detention smelled like old pencil shavings, floor polish, and the faint, tragic sweetness of someone’s contraband bubblegum.
You sat near the front because you always sat near the front. It wasn’t some noble commitment to education so much as it was a commitment to being left alone. The back of the classroom was loud, chairs scraping, whispers turning into laughs, the occasional thwack of a paper football. The front was quieter, safer. Predictable.
Mr. Hargreaves, History teacher, moustache like a warning sign, stood at the chalkboard with the kind of posture that said he’d seen every brand of teenage nonsense and had decided, years ago, to hate it all equally.
Behind you, the back row was a full-time circus.
Steve Harrington’s voice was the easiest to pick out. It wasn’t the loudest, exactly, but it carried like he was used to rooms tilting toward him. He had that effortless, lazy confidence that made people listen even when he wasn’t saying anything worth listening to.
“Dude,” Tommy H. whispered, too loud to qualify as whispering, “you think Hargreaves can smell fear?”
Steve snorted. “Yeah, and your fear smells like Aqua Net and regret.”
A couple of boys laughed. One of the girls, one of the ones who always had a fresh lip gloss and a fresh opinion, giggled like Steve had handed her something personally.
You kept your eyes on your notebook. Not that you were taking notes. It was detention, not class. But giving your hands something to do was easier than giving them away to nerves.
Your only real interaction with Steve Harrington to date had been… well.
Not interaction, exactly. More like… accidents.
Like the time you’d looked up from your locker and caught him watching you from across the hallway, leaning against the trophy case with a basketball under his arm like he’d been born glued to it. His eyes had met yours, hazel and bright and a little too sharp, and you’d broken the contact immediately, heat rising up your neck like you’d been caught doing something wrong.
Or the time in class when you’d turned a page and found him looking at you over his shoulder, chin propped on his palm like he was bored by the entire concept of the world. You’d blinked, and he’d smirked, as if the eye contact was a joke you didn’t understand. You’d stared resolutely at the textbook until your eyes went dry.
It wasn’t that you were shy, exactly. You could speak up when you needed to. You could tell off a boy who thought “quiet” meant “weak.” You could stand between a kid and a bully without your knees giving out.
But Steve Harrington was… Steve Harrington.
He wasn't just popular; he was a gravitational anomaly. His presence didn’t just draw attention—it warped the very social fabric of a room, bending conversations, glances, and intentions toward him like light around a star. People like you didn't orbit celestial bodies like that. You stayed in your own quiet, predictable lane, on your own sensible path, where the gravity was weaker but the footing was sure.
Mr. Hargreaves, a man whose patience had been weathered thin by decades of adolescent indifference, slapped a dog-eared attendance sheet onto his desk with a sound like a gunshot. “All right,” he announced, his voice a dry monotone that cut through the low buzz of whispered conversations. “Since some of you have mistaken detention for a social hour, we’re going to be productive. Shockingly.”
A synchronized groan of protest rolled through the back row, a chorus of discontent.
“Mr. Harrington,” Hargreaves said, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork.
The legs of Steve’s chair gave a protesting squeak as he shifted. “Yeah?” His tone was all easygoing recognition, as if he’d been called upon to settle a bet, not reprimanded.
“You can start,” the teacher continued, finally lifting his gaze, “by not speaking unless spoken to.”
A ripple of muted snickers traveled through the room. Steve’s own laugh was a low, warm rumble, utterly unbothered, as if he’d just been paid a charming compliment. “Sorry,” he said, the word dripping with a performative remorse that suggested he was anything but. “I’ll try. It’s a medical condition, honestly. Terminal charisma. The doctors are baffled.”
Mr. Hargreaves finally looked up fully. His eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, landed on Steve with the dull, heavy pressure of a thumb pressing down on an insect. “Your medical condition can write me a two-page reflection on the importance of respecting classroom environments. Single-spaced.”
Steve leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxed insolence, stretching his arms behind his head as if detention were a beachside lounge chair. “Two pages? Wow. You’re really worried about my emotional development, huh. That’s… touching.”
“Three pages,” Mr. Hargreaves corrected instantly, his voice devoid of all humor.
The class erupted in a collective, drawn-out ‘Ooooh’ of vicarious schadenfreude.
Steve placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of wounded nobility. “Cruel and unusual punishment. You know, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. I might have to call my lawyer.”
“And yet,” Hargreaves said, turning back to his desk, “here we are.”
He picked up a precarious stack of worksheets and tapped them sharply against the wood, aligning them into a punishingly neat pile. “Now. Since we’re already in the business of consequences, I’m going to address another pressing issue.” His gaze, flat and assessing, swept the room. It lingered for a discomfiting second on various faces, and your stomach tightened involuntarily. You hated being looked at in groups, it felt like being drafted into a team you never tried out for, suddenly responsible for the collective reputation of ‘students.’
“Midterms are in three weeks,” Mr. Hargreaves declared, as if announcing a plague. “Some of you are doing fine. Some of you are… decidedly not.” His eyes flicked like a whip toward the back row once more. “And because I would like to avoid the soul-crushing monotony of summer school paperwork, I’m implementing a peer tutoring system.”
The groans this time were louder, a symphony of despair.
“Tutoring?” someone muttered, the word soaked in disgust.
Steve’s voice, smooth and carrying, floated forward like a perfectly folded paper airplane. “This feels like communism, sir. Sharing the wealth of knowledge and all that. Very collectivist.”
“Sit up, Harrington.”
Steve made an exaggerated, slow-motion show of straightening his spine, his movements fluid with mocking precision. “Yes, sir. Posture is the foundation of learning, sir.”
Mr. Hargreaves ignored him, plowing onward. “I have a list. High-performing students will be paired with those who are struggling. This is not optional. This is not a debate. This is me choosing peace for myself in June. You are welcome.”
You held your breath, though you weren't sure why. You were, unfortunately and undeniably, a high-performing student. It wasn't a badge you wore with pride; it was a quiet, persistent fact of your existence, like your eye color or your heartbeat. Work diligently, get good grades, go home. It was a system designed to keep your life manageable, your future predictable. You could already feel the subtle ripple in the room, the collective shift of eyes darting toward the known academic achievers, as if they had just been declared communal property.
Mr. Hargreaves lifted a sheet of paper and began reading names in his dry, administrative drone.
“Karen Richards, you’re with Mark Ellison.”
A boy near the middle of the room slumped dramatically in his seat, as if sentenced to hard labor.
“Diane Cooper, Jeff Williams.”
Somebody in the back muttered, “Good luck, Jeff,” and was instantly shushed by a neighbor.
He read a few more pairs. The reactions were a spectrum of human resignation: some looked vaguely smug, some utterly defeated, some simply wished for the floor to open up and end their misery.
You kept your face a careful, neutral mask, but your fingers tightened around your pen, leaving slight indents in your skin.
Then—
“__________…”
Your heart performed a clumsy, sideways stutter in your chest.
The teacher paused, adjusting his glasses as he found the matching name. “…Steve Harrington.”
For one full, suspended second, the room went utterly quiet. It was the kind of silence that is thick with stunned potential, the silence that precedes an eruption, when something is so perfectly, ironically funny that everyone is collectively deciding if they’re allowed to laugh.
Then the dam broke.
Laughter burst out, sharp and uncontained, bouncing off the cinderblock walls. It wasn't malicious, necessarily; it was the sound of cosmic irony being acknowledged at top volume.
Steve turned in his seat immediately, the motion fluid and attention-commanding. He craned his neck, his eyes scanning the rows until they landed squarely on you. You felt the weight of his gaze like a physical spotlight, hot and inescapable, even before you reluctantly looked up from the safe harbor of your notebook.
You forced yourself to meet his eyes. It was a tactical error.
Steve Harrington’s expression was a masterclass in controlled reaction. Amusement and genuine surprise blended seamlessly, lifting his brows and curving his mouth. It was the look of a king who has just been handed an intriguing, unexpected puzzle, a gift he hadn’t known to ask for, but was immediately pleased to receive. His lips tilted into a slow, spreading grin that seemed to hold a private joke meant just for the two of you.
You stared back, your own face deliberately flat, a fortress of neutrality. You refused, absolutely refused, to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. You would not blush, you would not smile nervously, you would not look away.
His grin only widened, the spark in his eyes intensifying. Your silent defiance wasn't a rebuff; it was entertainment. A challenge. It made the whole situation more interesting.
Mr. Hargreaves slammed a meaty hand on his desk. “Enough! If you have something to say, say it quietly or write it down. In your three-page reflection, Harrington.”
Steve’s grin didn’t falter. He turned back around with a leisurely, unhurried confidence that spoke of a lifetime never spent worrying about whether he was liked. He simply was, and the world adjusted accordingly.
You looked back down at the clean, blue lines of your notebook, your vision momentarily swimming. You concentrated on the steady, silent mantra in your mind, pretending with every fiber of your being that your pulse wasn't hammering a wild, dramatic rhythm against your ribs.
Great. The word echoed in your skull, bleak and flat. Just… phenomenally, spectacularly great.
The rest of detention limped by, a slow, excruciating punishment measured not in minutes but in the agonizing, audible ticks of the wall clock above Mr. Hargreaves’ desk. Each tick was a tiny hammer on the silence, each tock a confirmation of your sentence. The room hummed with low, whispered commentary, a current of gossip you couldn't quite tune out. You heard your name, now permanently twinned with his, passed between classmates like a piece of contraband candy, sweet, scandalous, and meant to be savored. A voice, sharp and acidic, cut through the haze behind you: “Harrington’s gonna flirt his way to a B, easy.” Another, laced with a grudging admiration, answered, “Man can flirt his way to whatever he wants. That’s his whole thing.”
You didn’t turn. You didn’t flinch. You kept your eyes fixed on a random chip in the laminate of your desk, your posture rigid. Your job wasn’t to react. Your job was to be invisible until the clock ran out.
When the bell finally, mercifully, released its shrill cry and Mr. Hargreaves dismissed everyone with a weary, defeated wave, you moved with a speed born of pure self-preservation. You gathered your notebooks and pens in a frantic, silent flurry, shoving them into your bag, hoping to dissolve into the hallway’s chaotic stream before the inevitable could happen.
“Hey.”
His voice. Not from across the room, but close. Beside you. It was a low, warm sound that seemed to bypass your ears and vibrate directly in your chest.
You froze, your fingers stalling on the zipper of your bag. Slowly, as if moving through syrup, you turned.
Steve Harrington had somehow transformed the mundane act of loitering in a classroom doorway into a deliberate, effortless composition. He leaned one shoulder against the frame, his body a study in casual angles. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans, and his letterman jacket hung open, the rich red leather a stark contrast to the drab beige of the walls. He looked like he’d been placed there by a director, a perfect, living snapshot of charismatic nonchalance. There was a faint, bruise-colored shadow beneath his left eye, not dramatic, but enough to sand away a layer of his polished perfection, making him look less like an icon and more like a person who might walk into a door or take an errant elbow during gym. It made him real, and that was somehow more disarming.
He smiled at you, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that suggested you were both participants in a delightful, shared secret.
You did not smile back. Not out of intentional rudeness, but out of a profound mistrust of your own facial expressions. Your face had a history of betraying you, of flushing at inopportune moments, of eyes widening with unguarded surprise. You kept it carefully, painfully neutral.
“What?” you asked, aiming for a tone of detached curiosity and landing somewhere near flat annoyance.
Steve’s brows lifted a fraction, a flicker of genuine surprise, or perhaps appreciation, that you hadn’t immediately softened under his gaze. “We’re, uh…” He gestured lazily with his chin toward the crumpled paper still clutched in Mr. Hargreaves’ hand. “Apparently a team now. Academically speaking.”
“I heard,” you said, the words clipped and final.
He laughed, a soft, breathy sound. “Okay. Ouch.”
You blinked. “What?”
“That was cold,” he clarified, his grin tilting into something crooked, almost self-deprecating. “I’m Steve, by the way. In case you’ve been living under a very quiet, studious rock.”
You knew his name. The entire ecosystem of Hawkins High knew his name. It was a fundamental fact, like the location of the gym or the taste of cafeteria pizza. But you refused to grant him the satisfaction of the acknowledgment.
“I know who you are,” you stated, turning back to your bag to give your hands a purpose. “We’re in the same class. Have been for two years.”
He made a dramatic, wounded face, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wow. So you have noticed me. I’m flattered. Truly.”
You stared at him, your gaze level and unimpressed. “Is this… how you talk to everyone?”
Steve’s eyes, a warm, intelligent brown, crinkled at the corners. “Depends,” he said, as if considering a complex equation.
“On what?”
“On whether they look like they’re about to throw a textbook at my head.”
“I’m not about to throw a textbook,” you said, finally swinging your bag onto your shoulder. The weight was a comfort. “I’m just trying to leave.”
“Right.” He pushed off the doorframe with a graceful, unhurried motion, stepping aside and sweeping a hand out in a mock-gallant gesture, as if opening a stage curtain for the leading lady. “After you.”
You hesitated for a fraction of a second, a silent war between pride and prudence, before walking past him. The air in the doorway seemed charged, buzzing with his proximity. To your mild horror, he fell into step beside you as you entered the hallway, matching your pace with an easy, infuriating familiarity. It felt less like an invitation and more like an annexation, as if he’d decided your personal space was now communal property.
He was too good at this. At taking up space without asking.
“That pairing,” Steve announced, as if continuing a conversation you’d been having, “is a mistake. Just so we’re clear.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Why? Because you’re above needing help?”
“No,” he said quickly, then seemed to catch himself, his expression shifting into one of careless amusement. He shrugged, the movement emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders under the leather jacket. “I mean—yeah, sure. Because I’m perfect and brilliant and definitely not failing Mr. Hargreaves’ history class. Obviously.”
The sheer, bald-faced audacity of his lie, delivered with such cheerful conviction, was almost impressive. Against your will, the corner of your mouth twitched. It was a tiny, treacherous movement, a mere ghost of a smile, but you fought it down, clenching your jaw.
Steve noticed. Of course he did. His eyes brightened instantly, like a hunter spotting movement in the brush. A spark of pure, triumphant delight flashed within them.
“I’m serious,” you said, clearing your throat to erase any trace of amusement. The sound was too loud in the emptying hall. “If you don’t show up to our sessions, I’m going to tell Mr. Hargreaves. Immediately.”
Steve placed a hand over his heart again, his expression one of profound betrayal. “You’d narc on me? To Hargreaves? That’s cold-blooded.”
“It’s not ‘narcing,’” you corrected, your voice firm. “It’s reporting a failure to participate in a mandatory academic program. It’s consequences.”
“God,” he sighed, the sound long-suffering and theatrical. “You say that like a grown-up. With a briefcase and everything.”
“I am a grown-up,” you retorted, then instantly wished you could snatch the words back from the air. They sounded childish even to your own ears.
Steve’s grin widened, a predator sensing weakness. “You’re a grown-up?” he repeated, his voice dripping with mock awe. “In high school? Wow. That’s… a rare specimen. Should I be calling you ‘ma’am’?”
You stopped at your locker, a sanctuary of cold, painted metal. He stopped too, leaning his shoulder against the locker next to yours as if he had a standing reservation there. The hallway around you was draining of life, the sounds of slamming lockers and retreating footsteps growing fainter, leaving you in a bubble of unsettling quiet.
You spun your combination lock with practiced, furious speed, a code you could do in your sleep.
Steve watched your hands.
Not in a way that felt intrusive or creepy, but with a focused, open curiosity. It was as if he’d never seen someone open a locker before and found the mundane ritual fascinating. As if by observing the small, ordinary mechanics of your life, the twist of your wrist, the click of the lock, the way you neatly arranged your books, he could decipher the larger, more complicated puzzle of you.
It made your skin feel hyper-sensitive, as if every nerve ending was standing at attention.
“So,” Steve said, breaking the silence you were desperately trying to cultivate, “when do we embark on this… noble academic journey?”
You opened your locker door, using it as a shield between you. “When are you free?”
Steve blinked, as if the question itself was a novelty. “Me? I’m always free.” He said it like it was a point of pride, a testament to his desirable social flexibility.
You turned your head slowly to look at him over the edge of the locker door. “That’s not something to brag about, Harrington. It suggests a profound lack of commitment.”
He barked a laugh, sharp and surprised. “Okay. Fair. That’s… a solid point.”
You grabbed the strap of your bag and slammed your locker shut with more force than necessary. The metallic bang was satisfyingly final. “I’m free after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In the library.”
Steve’s expression flickered. For a split second, the mask of easygoing charm slipped. His eyes darted away, his brow furrowing just slightly. It was a look of rapid, internal calculation, not about his schedule, but about what it meant to have this obligation, this structure, imposed upon a life that was famously unstructured. It was the brief, vulnerable glimpse of a boy realizing he might have to show up, physically and mentally, for something he couldn’t charm his way through.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the crack was sealed over. He smoothed his features back into an approximation of his usual grin.
“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he repeated, nodding as if confirming a business meeting. “Cool. Cool, cool. I can do that. I can be… scholarly. I have the posture for it.” He straightened up, affecting a comically rigid, intellectual pose.
“Great,” you said, already starting to walk away. “Library. Four o’clock. Bring your textbook. And a pen. That can write.”
Steve made a face like you’d just asked him to bring a live, venomous snake. “Textbook. Right. Totally. The big green one with the… depressing pictures.”
You were walking, and he was following again, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your determined, faster ones.
“Do I have to bring anything else?” he asked, his tone light, teasing. “Like… an apple? For you? Teachers love apples. It’s a known thing.”
“I’m not your teacher,” you said, not breaking stride.
“Yeah,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur beside you, “but you’re gonna be telling me what to do, right? That’s kind of the same thing.”
You stopped so abruptly your bag swung forward on your shoulder. Turning to face him, you crossed your arms over your chest. “I’m going to help you understand the material. You are going to do the work. There’s a difference.”
Steve held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, but his eyes were still laughing. “Okay, okay. Relax. I’m just saying, this is kind of a power dynamic. You have the knowledge. I have the… charming personality. It’s a partnership.”
You stared at him, your face a masterpiece of deadpan delivery.
Steve stared back, his grin still firmly in place, but his eyes had changed. They were no longer just amused; they were searching, scanning your face for a crack, a clue, a way in.
And it struck you then, sharp and sudden as a paper cut: he was performing. Not just for you, but for himself. The jokes, the charm, the exaggerated nonchalance, it was a deflector shield. If he kept everything light, kept everything a game, he wouldn’t have to admit, even to himself, that he might be nervous. That he might be in over his head. You’d seen that behavior before, in people who were scared of being seen as vulnerable. You’d just never seen it crafted so skillfully, worn so comfortably, by Steve Harrington.
“You don’t have to make jokes,” you said, your voice quieter now, losing its defensive edge.
His grin faltered, just a millimeter. A flicker of uncertainty in the brown depths of his eyes. “I’m not making jokes.”
“Yes,” you said softly, holding his gaze. “You are.”
He recovered with a shrug, but the motion was stiffer now, less fluid. The performance was becoming work. “It’s what I do,” he said, a simple statement of fact that felt, for the first time, like a confession.
“And why do you do it?” you asked. The question was out before you could censor it, born of a curiosity that had now sharpened into something more pointed.
Steve’s eyes sharpened, the playful light in them hardening into something more alert, more guarded. It was the look of someone who’d just felt another person step onto a private, well-trodden path. His mouth opened, undoubtedly to fire back another quip, another deflection, and then he hesitated.
There it was again. That tiny, revealing crack in the foundation.
You knew you shouldn’t have pushed. You didn’t know him. This wasn’t your business. But something about the dissonance, the arrogant posture clashing with that fleeting glimpse of the boy working the levers behind the curtain, had hooked you. It made him… curiously human.
Steve exhaled a long, controlled breath through his nose, then leaned back against the lockers again, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. It was a pose meant to reclaim territory, to re-establish cool. “You always interrogate your tutoring clients?” he asked, his tone aiming for lightness but landing somewhere closer to wary.
“Only when they’re being deliberately distracting,” you said.
Steve’s eyebrows lifted. “Distracting,” he repeated, as if tasting the word.
“Mm-hmm.”
He smiled again, but this one was different. It was slower. More thoughtful. Less an automatic reflex and more a conscious choice.
He tilted his head, the movement considering, and studied you with an open, unabashed curiosity that had entirely replaced the lazy confidence he’d been wearing all afternoon. It was as if he’d decided the charming barrage hadn’t worked, and now he was switching tactics to simple, direct observation.
“So,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, almost intimate rumble in the quiet hallway. A small, challenging smile played on his lips. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m doing everything wrong?”
The question carried just enough challenge to make your spine straighten. His voice was smooth, casual—but his eyes weren’t joking. They stayed on you, steady, like he was bracing for something.
Then you met his eyes.
“No,” you said evenly. “This is the part where you decide whether you’re actually going to try.”
For a heartbeat, Steve looked caught off guard.
The grin that followed was slower, brighter, like you’d just nudged him into a game he hadn’t realised he wanted to play.
“Wow,” he said. “Direct. I respect that.”
He spread his hands, easy and open, the picture of confidence. “I try plenty. I just… prefer to do it my own way.”
“Your own way isn’t working,” you said, not unkindly.
Something flickered across his face—too quick to be a full expression. Not anger. Not offence. More like recognition.
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Tuesday. Four o’clock. Library.”
Steve nodded, but his attention lingered like he hadn’t quite moved on yet.
“Tuesday,” he echoed.
You took a step away.
“Hey.”
You stopped, not turning around right away. “Yeah?”
The hallway had emptied almost completely. When you finally looked back, Steve’s posture had changed. He still looked like Steve Harrington, confident, charming, infuriatingly put-together, but there was something more careful in his eyes now, like he was choosing his words instead of tossing them out.
“Don’t,” he said, then paused, exhaling softly. “Don’t go easy on me.”
It wasn’t delivered with a grin. There was no joke hiding behind it. Just honesty, bare and a little exposed.
You studied him for a second, then nodded once. “I won’t.”
The relief that crossed his face was subtle, but it was there. He watched you like your answer mattered more than he wanted it to.
You turned and walked away before the moment could stretch into something fragile.
And when you glanced back, just once, you saw him still leaning against the lockers, gaze fixed on the space you’d left behind, brow faintly furrowed.
By the third tutoring session, Steve Harrington stopped pretending he didn’t care.
He still acted like he didn’t—leaning back in his chair, tapping his pencil against the table, sighing dramatically whenever you asked him to actually read something—but the effort underneath it all was unmistakable.
You noticed because you noticed things.
The library became your first routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays, four o’clock sharp. You always arrived early, spreading your notes out neatly, lining up your pens by colour because it helped you think. Steve arrived late the first time—five minutes, then ten—but by the second week, he started showing up on time. Not early. Never early. But on time, hair still damp from a rushed shower, jacket half-zipped like he’d thrown it on mid-stride.
“Wow,” he said one afternoon, dropping into the chair across from you. “You always this organised, or are you trying to intimidate me?”
You didn’t look up from your notes. “If my handwriting intimidates you, we have bigger problems.”
He laughed, a warm, easy sound that carried a little too far in the quiet library. The librarian shot him a warning look over her glasses.
Steve leaned closer to you, lowering his voice theatrically. “See? You’re already getting me in trouble.”
You slid his textbook toward him. “Page eighty-six.”
He stared at it like it might bite. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”
That alone made you glance up.
“Dangerous, I know,” he added quickly. “But I think my brain just… doesn’t like history.”
“That’s not how brains work,” you said.
“Mine does.” He tapped his temple. “Selective listening.”
You raised an eyebrow. He grinned, unbothered.
“Read,” you said.
He groaned, but he did it. Slowly. Haltingly. He stumbled over dates and names, but when you corrected him, he repeated them back, careful this time. You caught the way his shoulders tensed whenever he got something wrong, and the way he relaxed when you nodded instead of sighing.
He pretended not to notice your reactions.
You pretended not to notice his effort.
After the library came empty classrooms. When the weather turned colder and the library started closing earlier, you commandeered a spare room down the hall from the science wing. It smelled faintly of chalk dust and disinfectant, and the windows rattled when the wind picked up.
Steve liked it better there.
“No judgemental librarians,” he said, spinning a chair backward and straddling it like he belonged in the space. “Feels more… authentic.”
“You mean louder,” you said.
“Exactly.”
He still joked constantly. Still found ways to lean too close when he asked questions, to stretch his legs into your space like he was testing boundaries. You didn’t clock it as flirting—just Steve being Steve. You chalked it up to his inability to sit still, to the way he filled rooms without trying.
But you noticed other things.
Like how he started bringing the right notebook without being reminded. How he underlined things you’d mentioned before. How he stopped rolling his eyes when you corrected him—and started nodding instead, jaw set in concentration.
One day the suggestion came out of Steve’s mouth like it hadn’t been rehearsed.
“Okay, hear me out.”
You glanced up from your notes, pen hovering mid-word. “That sentence never leads anywhere good.”
Steve leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs like he trusted the floor more than he should’ve. “I’m just saying. The library closes early today. And that classroom smells like someone’s been microwaving regret in there.”
“That’s science wing,” you said. “It’s supposed to smell like that.”
He grimaced. “Yeah, well. My brain doesn’t work under chemical warfare.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were already packing up your notebook. “Then we’ll meet earlier tomorrow.”
“Or,” Steve said quickly, dropping the chair legs back to the floor with a soft thud, “we could just… go somewhere else.”
You paused. “Where?”
He shrugged, too casual. “My place is a disaster. Like, medically concerning. So that’s out.”
You waited.
Steve shifted in his seat, eyes darting briefly to the window, then back to you. “What about yours?”
The question hung there, light but deliberate.
You frowned slightly. “My parents are out late.”
“That’s… fine,” he said quickly, then added, “I mean, if that’s fine. Totally fine if it’s not. I’m not trying to, you know, invade your personal sanctuary or whatever.”
You studied him for a second. He looked oddly earnest, like he was trying very hard not to mess something up.
“It’s quiet,” you said slowly. “And small.”
Steve brightened. “Perfect. I thrive in small, quiet environments.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Okay,” he admitted. “But I want to thrive.”
You sighed, already resigned. “Fine. But we’re actually studying.”
“Absolutely.” He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honour.”
You didn’t believe him. But you grabbed your bag anyway.
Your house was dark when you unlocked the door, the kind of quiet that settled in once everyone else had left for the evening. You flicked on the hall light and kicked your shoes off by the mat.
“Whoa,” Steve said softly, stepping inside like the place might echo. “This is… nice.”
“It’s just a house,” you said, locking the door behind him.
“Yeah, but.” He shrugged, lowering his voice instinctively. “It feels… calm.”
You led him toward the kitchen, the warm overhead light spilling across the worn wooden table. You set your bag down in its usual place, books following, pen placed neatly on top like a marker.
Steve didn’t follow right away.
You glanced back to find him hovering in the hallway, suddenly very aware of himself. His eyes drifted over the closed doors, the framed photos on the walls, the quiet hum of a lived-in home. Family photos on the fridge. A mug drying by the sink. The faint, comforting smell of dinner lingering in the air.
“Hey,” you said. “You coming?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly, tearing his gaze away. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he tilted his head, lips twitching. “So, uh… do I get the full tour, or is that a second-date privilege?”
You paused. “There is no date.”
“Right, right,” he said easily. “Strictly academic.” He gestured vaguely down the hall. “Still. Just curious. Like, purely hypothetical, are we talking secret rock band poster phase? Or aggressively neat bedroom?”
You stared at him.
His grin widened. “Because if there’s embarrassing childhood decor, I feel like that’s important information.”
“No,” you said flatly. “You are not peeking into my room.”
Steve immediately raised his hands. “Whoa. Okay. Boundary respected. I wasn’t gonna peek peek.”
“That sounded exactly like peeking.”
“I was thinking more like… accidental glimpse,” he said. “I trip, door’s open—boom. Knowledge.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t smile.
He laughed under his breath and shook his head. “Kidding. I’m kidding. Mostly.”
“Kitchen,” you said, turning away. “Now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, mock-serious as he finally followed you. “Wow. Invite a guy into your home and immediately start bossing him around.”
You pulled out a chair. “Sit.”
He did, still smiling, but quieter now, like the joke had served its purpose and could be put away.
The kitchen felt smaller with him in it. More personal. Steve took it all in without comment, like he was suddenly aware he’d crossed into something private.
“This is… really you,” he said after a moment.
You glanced at him. “It’s a kitchen.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “But still.”
You slid his textbook across the table. “Same chapter.”
He eyed it. “You’re ruthless.”
“I warned you.”
He flipped the book open, then looked up again. “Your parents really cool with this?”
“With studying?” you asked.
“With me,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself. “I have a reputation.”
You met his gaze evenly. “So do I.”
That caught him off guard.
For a second, the grin faded, not completely, but enough to reveal something real underneath. Then it returned, gentler.
“Okay,” he said. “Fair.”
For a while, it was just pages turning and pencil scratching. Steve fidgeted, tapping his foot against the table leg, humming under his breath until you shot him a look and he zipped his lips theatrically.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “Habit.”
“You don’t have to whisper,” you said.
“Feels like I should.”
At one point, he leaned closer to look at your notes, his arm brushing yours. You stiffened instinctively, not from fear, just awareness.
“Sorry,” he said immediately, pulling back. “Too close?”
“It’s fine,” you said, even though your heartbeat had kicked up a notch.
He nodded, like he was filing that information away.
After a while, he pushed his book aside and stretched, arms lifting over his head. “Okay. I officially hate the Founding Fathers.”
“They hate you too,” you said.
He laughed, loud and unguarded, then winced and glanced toward the hallway. “Right. Quiet house.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“Hey,” Steve said suddenly, more serious. “Thanks. For this. I know you didn’t have to.”
You looked at him sitting at your kitchen table, elbows resting where your family ate dinner every night, hair falling into his eyes like he hadn’t bothered to fix it this time.
“It’s just studying,” you said.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But still.”
The house hummed softly around you, refrigerator clicking on and off, the clock ticking above the sink.
“You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “I thought this was gonna be weird.”
“And?” you asked.
“And it’s not,” he said. “It’s just… nice.”
You nodded. You’d been thinking the same thing.
“Okay,” you said, tapping the table lightly. “Back to work.”
He groaned but picked up his pencil. “You’re really not going easy on me.”
You met his eyes. “I told you I wouldn’t.”
He smiled, small, genuine, and bent back over the page.
And if he stayed a little longer than necessary that night, if he lingered in the doorway when it was time to leave, neither of you said anything about it.
The house didn’t seem to mind.
And neither did he.
He was different here, less performative. Still funny, still charming, but quieter. More present. He joked under his breath instead of projecting to an audience. When he laughed, it was softer, like he wasn’t expecting anyone else to hear.
And then there were the moments you weren’t supposed to see.
The first time was in the hallway outside the classroom. You’d forgotten your notebook and gone back to grab it, only to find Steve crouched down in front of a freshman whose locker had jammed.
“Okay, no, don’t yank it,” Steve said, calm but firm. “You’re just gonna make it mad.”
The kid looked on the verge of tears. “I’m gonna be late.”
“You’re fine.” Steve twisted the handle gently, then gave it a sharp tap with his palm. The locker popped open. “See? Easy.”
The kid stared at him like he’d just witnessed magic. “Thanks.”
Steve ruffled his hair without thinking. “Yeah, yeah. Go.”
When Steve straightened and saw you watching, he froze for half a second.
Then he smirked. “What? Community service hours.”
You didn’t say anything. You just smiled, small and genuine.
The smirk faltered.
Another time, one of his friends—Tommy, you thought—made a crude comment about a girl passing by. You were close enough to hear it, close enough to see Steve’s reaction.
He didn’t laugh.
Instead, he said, “Dude. Knock it off.”
Tommy scoffed. “Relax.”
“I’m serious,” Steve said, voice sharper now. “It’s not funny.”
Tommy rolled his eyes and walked off.
Steve noticed you again then, standing a few feet away with your books clutched to your chest. He shrugged like it hadn’t mattered.
“Guy’s an idiot,” he said lightly.
You nodded. You remembered.
Steve covered these moments with humour like it was instinct. Like kindness embarrassed him more than cruelty ever had. Whenever you looked at him too long, like you might be piecing something together, he cracked a joke. Whenever you thanked him, he waved it off.
“You’re gonna make me sound like a saint,” he said once, when you thanked him for walking you to your car after a late session.
“I said thank you,” you replied. “Not ‘I worship you.’”
“Slippery slope,” he said. “First it’s gratitude, next thing you know, I’m babysitting the entire town.”
You frowned. “Babysitting?”
He grimaced like he’d said something accidentally. “Just—forget it. Long story.”
You didn’t push. You just stored it away.
Because that was how you cared. Quietly. By noticing. By remembering.
And Steve, whether he realised it or not, started watching you the same way.
Not openly. Not boldly. But in the pauses. In the way his eyes flicked to you when he got something right, like he was checking your reaction. In the way he straightened when you praised him, like your approval weighed more than his friends’ laughter.
One afternoon, you corrected a date he’d written down wrong.
“Actually,” you said gently, tapping the page, “it’s 1776, not 1786.”
Steve stared at the paper. Then at you.
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. That makes more sense.”
He erased it carefully and rewrote the number, slower this time.
When he looked up, you were still watching, not judging, just attentive.
Something in his expression shifted. Not big. Not dramatic. Just… thoughtful.
“Hey,” he said, quieter than usual.
“Yes?”
“Do you—” He stopped, then shook his head with a laugh. “Never mind.”
You waited anyway.
He glanced at you again, then away. “You’re really good at this.”
“Tutoring?”
“No,” he said. “Not making people feel stupid.”
The words landed heavier than he’d intended. You could tell by the way he swallowed after.
You softened your voice without thinking. “You’re not stupid.”
He scoffed. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” you said. “You just learn differently.”
Steve studied you like he was trying to decide whether to believe that.
Then he smiled, small, unguarded, gone too quickly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Guess I do.”
When you packed up that day, he lingered, pretending to fiddle with his notebook while you slid your pens back into place.
“Hey,” he said casually. “Same time Thursday?”
“Yes,” you said.
“Cool. Cool.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, then paused. “Thanks. For, uh. Not giving up on me.”
You looked at him, really looked at him, and realised something quietly important.
Steve Harrington was trying.
And he didn’t even know how much that mattered to you yet.
You watched him walk away down the hallway, joking loudly with a passing friend, the mask sliding back into place like muscle memory.
The first thing you noticed was the car.
It cut into the student parking lot like a challenge, engine loud, music spilling out with the confidence of someone who expected to be watched. Heads turned automatically. Conversations dipped, then picked back up in whispers as the Camaro rolled to a stop.
You slowed only long enough to register the driver’s door opening.
Billy Hargrove stepped out like the world was already his.
Tall. Broad shoulders. A faded denim jacket thrown over a sleeveless shirt despite the chill, collar tugged up like the weather was something that happened to other people. Dark hair perfectly messy in a way that felt practiced rather than accidental. He paused by the car, scanning the lot slowly, deliberately, like he was deciding what belonged to him and what didn’t.
A group of girls near the curb started whispering immediately. A couple of guys straightened, suddenly aware of their posture. Someone behind you muttered, “Who the hell is that?”
You didn’t stop. New kids showed up all the time. Loud ones, quiet ones, kids who lasted a week before Hawkins swallowed them whole and moved on.
Billy didn’t look like someone who got swallowed.
You pushed through the school doors and let the noise of the hallway take over. Lockers slammed. Shoes squeaked. The smell of cheap cologne and cafeteria food hung heavy in the air. You found your locker, spun the combination, and focused on the familiar click-click-click, grounding, reliable.
Then the hallway shifted.
Not dramatically. Subtly. Like a current passing through a crowd.
People stepped aside without being asked.
You glanced up just in time to see Billy walking down the hall like he’d been there for years. His gaze flicked from face to face with lazy interest. A couple of teachers watched him with immediate suspicion. He didn’t care.
He stopped near the trophy case, said something to a group of guys, Tommy, among them, that made them laugh a little too eagerly.
You turned back to your locker. Not your circus. Not your—
“Hey.”
The voice was closer than it should’ve been.
You shut your locker harder than necessary.
The metal clang echoed down the hallway, sharp and final. You kept your eyes forward, expression carefully neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of catching you off guard.
It worked.
Billy noticed anyway.
He stepped into your space like he’d already decided this conversation was happening. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just one smooth, confident movement.
“Afternoon,” he said, voice low and lazy.
You turned only enough to acknowledge him, nothing more. “I’m busy.”
Billy smiled like that was exactly the answer he’d hoped for. He took one step closer, just one, but it was enough to make the air feel smaller, heavier. The scent of cigarettes clung to him, sharp and stale beneath whatever cologne he’d layered on top.
“Maybe I do,” he said.
Your jaw tightened.
“Then you should find someone else,” you replied evenly.
Billy’s eyes dragged over you again, slower this time, like he was waiting for you to flinch. You didn’t. You met his gaze just long enough to make it clear you weren’t impressed, then shifted your bag strap higher on your shoulder.
That seemed to amuse him more than anything else.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
You hesitated, not out of fear, but because you didn’t owe him anything. The hallway had gone quieter around you, people pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.
You gave him only your first name.
Billy repeated it like he was tasting it. “Pretty.”
You didn’t respond.
The silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Intentional.
Billy chuckled under his breath. “I like that,” he said. “Most people don’t make me work this hard.”
“That’s not my problem,” you said.
His smile sharpened. “We’ll see.”
You stepped around him before he could block you, brushing past with deliberate confidence. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t need to.
You could feel his attention cling anyway, heavy, lingering, like a hand at your wrist even after you’d pulled away.
And as you walked down the hall, spine straight and expression calm, you had the unsettling sense that Billy Hargrove didn’t see resistance as a warning.
He saw it as an invitation.
You ducked into the girls’ bathroom two minutes later, more irritated than rattled. The door swung shut behind you with a hollow thud, muffling the noise of the hallway. You exhaled, leaning briefly against the counter as you ran cold water over your hands.
Stupid. You hadn’t done anything wrong.
“__________.”
You startled, spinning toward the door.
Steve Harrington stood just inside the bathroom, one hand braced against the doorframe like he’d followed you in without thinking and only realised where he was once he’d already crossed the line. His hair was a mess like he’d dragged a hand through it too many times. His expression was tight—jaw clenched, eyes sharp with something dangerously close to panic.
“What were you doing with him?” he demanded.
Your irritation flared instantly.
“What?” you snapped. “Excuse me?”
Steve took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Billy. What was that?”
“I was existing,” you said flatly. “He came up to me.”
Steve scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t just come up to people.”
“And yet,” you said, gesturing between you, “here we are.”
Steve stopped short, chest rising as he tried to rein himself in. “You shouldn’t talk to him.”
The words hit wrong. Too sharp. Too familiar.
“And you don’t get to tell me that,” you shot back.
“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer again. “There’s something—he’s not—he’s bad news.”
You crossed your arms. “Then say that. Don’t corner me in a bathroom and act like I did something wrong.”
Steve’s mouth opened, then shut again. You could see it, the conflict, the frustration, the words he wasn’t saying stacking up behind his eyes.
“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he said finally.
Your chest tightened. Not with gratitude. With anger.
“By deciding for me?” you asked quietly. “By not trusting me enough to explain?”
Steve’s shoulders sagged just a fraction, like the fight drained out of him all at once. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand,” you said. “Because right now it feels like you’re mad at me instead of him.”
Silence settled between you, heavy and unresolved.
Steve looked away first.
“Just… stay away from him,” he muttered. “Please.”
The please almost softened you. Almost.
You stepped past him, opening the bathroom door. “I don’t like being talked to like I’m stupid,” you said over your shoulder. “Especially not by you.”
The door swung shut between you.
Steve stayed where he was, staring at it like he’d just lost something important, and hadn’t realised how easily that could happen.
By lunchtime, the rumours had already started.
You were halfway through eating when a folded flyer slid onto the table in front of you.
You looked up to find Carol standing there, perfectly lip-glossed and already bored. She dropped another flyer onto the table beside you, then another onto the table behind you.
“House party,” she said, like it explained everything. “Harrington’s place. Friday.”
You glanced down at the paper. Someone had taken the time to draw flames around the words HARRINGTON HOUSE in aggressive marker.
“No parents,” Carol added. “Obviously.”
She drifted away before you could answer.
You stared at the flyer for a moment longer than necessary, then folded it in half and slid it into your bag. You didn’t go to house parties. You never had. Too loud. Too many people. Too many expectations.
“Please tell me you’re not throwing that away.”
Steve dropped into the seat across from you like gravity had personally invited him. He looked… distracted. Less polished than usual. Like his mind was somewhere else and his body had followed out of habit.
“I wasn’t,” you said. “I was ignoring it.”
Steve winced. “Worse.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, leaning forward, lowering his voice like this was confidential, “this party is kind of… important.”
“Important how?” you asked.
“Well.” He gestured vaguely around the cafeteria. “King Steve has an image to maintain.”
You snorted despite yourself.
“There it is,” he said, brightening. “That sound. That’s why you should come.”
You shook your head. “I don’t do house parties.”
Steve’s smile softened, turning almost sheepish. “You don’t do them yet.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Okay, look,” he said, dropping the theatrics. “I’ll make it better. You can stick with me. I’ll keep people from bothering you. You can leave whenever you want. I’ll even—” he grimaced “—turn the music down if it gets too bad.”
“You would never,” you said.
“I would,” he insisted. “Once. For you.”
You studied him. He was watching your face closely, like this mattered more than he wanted to admit.
“I don’t belong there,” you said quietly.
Steve frowned. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” you replied. “Those parties aren’t for people like me.”
Steve leaned back in his chair, jaw tightening. Then he leaned forward again, elbows on the table, eyes steady on yours.
“They are if I want you there.”
The words slipped out before he could dress them up as a joke.
He blinked. Cleared his throat. “I mean—uh. It’d be less boring.”
You tilted your head. “You don’t look bored lately.”
Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. Funny how that works.”
There was a beat. Just long enough to feel something settle between you.
“Please,” he added, softer now. “Just… come for a bit. For me.”
You exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the strap of your bag where the invitation waited.
“I’ll think about it,” you said.
Steve grinned like he’d just won something anyway. “That’s all I ask.”
As he stood to leave, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“And, uh,” he added casually, “if anyone gives you trouble? You tell me.”
You smiled faintly. “You always like playing hero?”
Steve hesitated.
“Only when it matters,” he said.
The promise of the party hits you long before the door even swings open, a deep, subcutaneous thrum of bass that leaks through the solid wood and the old Harrington siding. It rattles the porch planks beneath your feet, traveling up through the soles of your shoes to vibrate in the hollow of your chest, a second heartbeat that’s too loud, too eager. You freeze on the threshold, fingers instinctively plucking at the hem of your top—a nervous, futile gesture, as if you could rearrange your very decision to come. For one last, fleeting second, the fantasy of retreat flickers: you could turn around, walk back to the quiet of your car, and pretend this reckless yes was never uttered.
But it’s too late now. The decision has been made, and the house is waiting.
You push inside, and the wall of sound doesn’t just greet you, it swallows you. It’s a physical, smothering thing. The roar of a hundred overlapping conversations, shrieks of laughter sharp enough to cut, the thudding backbeat of a song swallowed by the crowd. Bodies are packed in a hot, shifting mosaic of denim and bright fabric, leaving you to navigate through a labyrinth of elbows and shoulders. The air is thick and hazy, carrying the sour-sweet tang of spilled beer, the chemical bite of cheap vodka, and beneath it all, the warm, damp smell of too many people in a closed space. Someone jostles your shoulder hard, moving past without a glance or an apology. From across the room, a voice you barely recognize shouts a variation of your name, the syllables wrong, turning you into someone else entirely.
You swallow, the motion dry and difficult, and adjust the collar of your jacket for the third time since entering. A sudden, piercing self-consciousness descends. You are a map of vulnerabilities: your hands feel awkward and oversized, your posture a confessed sin, the very rhythm of your breath seems out of sync with the room. Everyone else melts into the chaos with a practiced ease, a belonging that looks as natural as breathing. You feel transparent, a sketch among finished paintings.
Then—
Steve sees you.
He’s a fixed point in the swirling chaos, across the crowded living room, a red cup held loosely in his hand. He’s mid-laugh, a bright, easy smile directed at a guy clapping him on the back. And then his gaze, sweeping the room, snags. On you. The smile doesn’t vanish, but it falters, softens, reshapes itself into something quieter and infinitely more focused. It’s not a dramatic, movie-style double-take. It’s a subtle shift, a gentle zoom lens effect. The noise around him seems to mute, the people blur into vague, colorful shapes. For a second, pure, unguarded relief flashes in his eyes, a quick, bright spark he doesn’t manage to bank in time.
He moves without hesitation. Excusing himself with a nod, he begins weaving through the press of bodies, his path urgent and direct. He doesn’t saunter; he aims for you. When he finally reaches you, slightly breathless as if he’d sprinted the last few feet, his grin is wide and a little winded.
“You came,” he says, his voice pitched low, a secret meant only for your ear. The words aren’t a tease or a casual greeting. They are a statement of genuine, gratified surprise.
You manage a nod, your own voice fighting its way through the lump in your throat. “I said I’d think about it.”
Steve huffs a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, well. I was hoping thinking would work in my favour.”
The connection feels fragile, a bubble of calm in the storm. But the party is a living thing, and it asserts its claim. A heavy hand claps down on Steve’s shoulder, making him wince.
“Harrington! Stop hogging the new recruit. Beer pong throne’s waiting, and we need a king.”
Steve rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, the party king weariness settling on his features. “Of course it is.” His attention snaps back to you, swift and serious. “Don’t move. I’ll be back before you can blink.”
“That’s optimistic,” you murmur, already feeling the crowd pressing in.
He points a finger at you, the gesture playful but his eyes earnest. “Stay. Right. There.”
And then he is absorbed again, his back disappearing into the vibrant, swallowing mass.
You let out a slow, controlled exhale, the brief anchor gone. Almost immediately, the vacuum is filled. A red cup is thrust into your free hand.
“Drink!” commands a girl with smudged eyeliner and a brilliant smile, her words a shout against the music.
You stare down at the cloudy, suspicious liquid. Hesitation is a luxury here, and it’s spotted instantly.
From beside her, another girl with crossed arms snorts, her voice dripping with derisive amusement. “She’s probably too much of a pussy to drink it.”
The words land like a lit match on dry tinder. Your jaw tightens, a hot flush of defiance rising in your chest. Without another thought—without thinking at all—you lift the cup to your lips and throw the contents back in a few swift, burning gulps.
Fire races down your throat, exploding in your stomach, harsh and medicinal. You cough, eyes swimming with involuntary tears. The girls around you erupt in a chorus of approving shouts.
“Holy shit! Okay then!”
“Damn, she went for it!”
You hand the empty cup back, your pulse hammering not just from the alcohol’s immediate, scorching shock, but from the sudden, chemical unraveling of your coiled nerves. A dangerous looseness seeps into your limbs. A simulated boldness.
The music shifts, a faster song with a driving, insistent rhythm taking over. Hands reach for you, pulling you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room. You give in, letting the beat move you, operating on instinct rather than confidence. The strobe light fractures the scene into snapshots, laughing faces, thrown-back heads, glinting cans. For a few minutes, the self-consciousness dissolves. You are just a body in motion, anonymous in the dark.
Almost.
You feel it before you see it, a pressure, a pinpoint of cold awareness on the back of your neck. A stare that doesn’t flicker or wander. Too steady. Too intent.
Your dancing slows. You glance, almost against your will, toward the shadowy margins of the room.
And your stomach plummets.
Billy Hargrove is propped against the archway to the kitchen like a lion at rest, owning the shade. His denim jacket hangs open, his muscular arms are crossed over his chest, and a cigarette dangles, forgotten, from his fingers, a long curl of smoke rising toward the ceiling. His eyes are not just on you; they are locked on you. Blue, intense, and utterly unapologetic.
He doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. Doesn’t offer a smirk or a nod of acknowledgment. Just holds the gaze, cool and assessing, as if dissecting every hesitant step you took onto the dance floor.
A cold ripple, antithetical to the room’s heat, cascades over your skin. You try to turn back to the music, to shake off the chill, but the feeling metastasizes. It’s a primal signal, a deep-seated knowledge that the predator has sighted the herd, and you are the one who has strayed. The air in the room turns gluey and suffocating. The laughter sounds suddenly shrill, the bodies too close, pressing in.
You have to get out.
Abandoning the dance floor, you push through the thicket of people, a new and frantic urgency in your movements. The back door, fresh air, solitude, just five minutes to let your heart settle back into its proper rhythm.
You stumble onto the relative quiet of the back porch, the cool night air a shock against your flushed skin. You drag in a deep, trembling breath, gripping the wooden railing.
The creak of the door behind you is soft, but it echoes like a gunshot in the sudden quiet. Slow, deliberate footsteps follow you out onto the porch.
The voice that cuts through the cool night air is a low, smooth drawl, designed to crawl under your skin. It carries no urgency, only a taunting, predatory amusement.
“Running away already?”
You don’t turn. Your fingers tighten on the rough wood of the porch railing, the splinters biting into your palms. “I needed air,” you say, the words clipped, aiming for a neutrality you don’t feel.
“Uh-huh.” The soft scuff of his boots on the weathered boards tells you he’s moved closer. The scent hits you anew, not just the ghost of tobacco, but the fresh, acrid bite of a recently lit cigarette, mixed with leather, cheap beer, and something purely, unsettlingly male. “Didn’t peg you for the party type,” he continues, his voice a rumble just over your shoulder.
A brittle, humorless laugh escapes you, fueled by the liquid courage still simmering in your blood. It makes your tongue reckless. “Didn’t think you were a mind reader, Hargrove.”
You can hear the shift in his silence, a pleased, intrigued pause. When you finally steel yourself to glance his way, Billy is grinning. It’s a slow, deliberate unfurling of expression, all white teeth and calculated charm. His head tilts, eyes raking over you with renewed interest.
“There it is,” he murmurs, as if he’s uncovered a secret. “You’re more fun like this.”
“Like what?” you challenge, turning fully to face him now, crossing your arms against the chill and his gaze. “Not ignoring you?”
He gives a loose, one-shouldered shrug, the denim of his jacket pulling taut. “Not pretending you don’t want the attention.” His eyes hold yours, blue and unblinking, issuing a challenge of their own.
Your pulse, already unsteady, kicks into a frantic drum against your ribs. “You don’t get to decide what I want,” you fire back, the words hotter than you intended.
Billy’s grin doesn’t falter. He closes the remaining distance between you in one fluid, invasive step. The night seems to shrink around him. Before you can react, his fingers brush against your forearm, a touch that is deceptively light, yet it brands your skin through your sleeve. It lingers, a hairsbreadth too long, a silent test of boundaries.
You freeze, a half-second of stunned inaction that feels like a lifetime. It’s all the opening he needs to read as consent.
And suddenly,
“Hey.”
Steve’s voice slices through the tension, sharp and clear as shattered glass. It isn’t loud, but it carries a command that instantly redraws the lines on the porch.
He’s there, framed in the golden light spilling from the kitchen door, his body a tense line. His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek, and his eyes, usually so warm and easy, are laser-focused, zeroing in instantly on the point where Billy’s fingers still ghost your skin. The distant thump of the bass becomes irrelevant. The world narrows to this triangle of charged silence.
“Back off,” Steve says. The words are simple, flat, and utterly devoid of their usual friendly cadence.
Billy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t remove his hand. He merely turns his head, the smirk on his face deepening into something smug and victorious. “Relax, Harrington. We’re just talking. No laws against that.”
Steve moves then. He doesn’t ask permission; he doesn’t even look at you to gauge your reaction. He simply steps forward, inserting his body squarely between you and Billy, a human shield made of simmering anger and frayed loyalty. “You don’t touch people who don’t want it,” he grinds out, his shoulders squaring.
Billy’s smile turns razor-edged. “She didn’t say that.” He lets the implication hang, his gaze sliding past Steve to pin you again. “Did you?”
Heat, shameful and fierce, floods up your spine, burning the tips of your ears. The objectification, the presumption, the sheer audacity of being spoken for, it combusts inside you.
“I can handle myself,” you snap, the words exploding into the space between them.
The effect is immediate. Both heads swivel toward you. Steve’s expression fractures, the protective anger melting into pure, wounded surprise, then into something that looks painfully like hurt. It’s as if you’ve shoved him away after he took a blow meant for you.
Billy’s eyes, in stark contrast, gleam with dark, appreciative delight. He’s found the spark he was looking for.
“I don’t need you jumping in,” you continue, your voice finding a steadiness that your trembling hands betray. You look at Steve, then at Billy, refusing to cede ground to either. “Either of you.”
Steve’s throat works as he swallows. “I was just—” he starts, his voice softer, confused.
“I know,” you cut him off, not unkindly but firmly. The hurt in his eyes makes your chest ache, but the principle is a fire you can’t snuff out. “But I didn’t ask.”
A thick, uncomfortable silence descends, broken only by the ragged sigh of the wind in the trees. You have dismantled their confrontation and made it about something else entirely.
Billy is the first to break it. A low, appreciative chuckle escapes him. “Damn,” he breathes, shaking his head slowly. “I like you even more now.”
Steve shoots him a look of pure, unadulterated venom, a promise of violence held in check by sheer will.
It’s your cue to exit. You take a deliberate step back, then another, reclaiming the territory of your own personal space. “I’m going back inside,” you announce, your tone leaving no room for debate.
Billy lifts his hands, palms out, in a gesture of mocking surrender. “Your call, sweetheart.”
You don’t wait for Steve. You don’t offer him a conciliatory glance. You turn on your heel and push through the door, letting the wall of sound and heat wash over you once more.
But as you disappear into the throbbing heart of the party, you can feel it, the weight of a gaze anchored to your back. It’s Steve’s. Heavy with confusion, with a fear he hasn’t yet named, and with that stubborn, protective instinct that is already, irrevocably, tipping into something deeper, more complicated, and far more dangerous.
And for the first time that chaotic night, a crystal-clear thought pierces through the alcohol and the noise: coming to the Harrington house wasn't the risky choice. The real danger was never the party itself, but the unpredictable currents of want and defiance it would unleash, currents that have already begun to pull you all toward a reckoning.
Either way, the night is far from over. You move through the crowd, a new, brittle energy crackling under your skin, and without breaking stride, you pluck a freshly filled red cup from a passing tray. The first sip is less a taste and more a decision, to feel everything, or to feel nothing at all. You drain it, and let the burn chart a new course through the chaos.
You don't slow down after that second cup, but you don't rush either. You move through the crowd with a new, liquid rhythm, a current pulling you deeper into the warm, noisy heart of the party. You take another cup from a passing tray, vodka, you think, something clear and vicious, and you drink it not as a challenge, but as a choice. The burn is an old acquaintance now, traveling a familiar path to settle like a low, persistent flame in your chest. It melts the last icy shards of adrenaline, turning the nervous hum under your skin into a gentle, manageable buzz.
The music transforms. It’s no longer an assault; it’s a current you can ride. The bass lines feel like they’re moving through you, not just around you. Your limbs are lighter, your thoughts less carefully corralled. They drift closer to the surface, shimmering and less afraid.
You talk more. To a guy wearing a faded band tee about a song you only half-know. To a girl who compliments your shoes. The words come easier, your laughter rings out louder at a joke that’s only mildly funny. You dance again, not with abandon, not yet, but with a reclaiming of your own physical space. You are present in your body, moving through the strobe-lit dark, feeling less like a specimen under observation and more like a participant in the night's strange, collective dream.
And then you feel it. A shift in the atmospheric pressure of the room.
Not Billy’s predatory, pinprick focus. This is different.
Steve.
You don’t have to scan the room to know he’s there. There’s a gravity to his attention now, a pull you’ve only just begun to calibrate. It’s steadier than the thumping bass, a fixed point in the swirling chaos. When you finally turn your head, he’s leaning against the doorframe that leads toward the darkened stairs, a half-full cup dangling forgotten from his fingertips.
He isn’t smiling his easy, party-host smile. He isn’t scowling with protective anger either. He’s just… watching. His gaze is so intensely focused on you that it makes your stomach perform a slow, dizzying flip. It isn’t jealousy, not precisely. It’s a concern held in such taut check that it vibrates with its own energy. He’s standing monumentally still, as if any movement might startle you, or might betray the depth of his own unease.
When your eyes finally meet across the humid air, something visible unlocks in him. A tension you hadn’t fully registered releases from his shoulders. He pushes off the wall, not with his usual confident swagger, but with a deliberate purpose. He meets you halfway, carving a path through the dancers until he’s close enough that he doesn’t have to shout, but not so close as to crowd you.
“You okay?” he asks.
Two words, simple and unadorned. They are quiet, careful, and they land with more weight than any dramatic interrogation could.
You blink, your head tilting slightly as the world tilts with it. The vodka lets you see him from a new, unfiltered angle—the genuine worry etched in the faint lines around his eyes, the way he’s holding his own body with a stiffness that speaks of withheld action.
“I’m fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, actually considering the question. The buzz in your veins is warm, the knot in your chest is gone. “Actually… yeah. I am.”
Steve’s brows knit together. His eyes perform a quick, professional scan of your face, checking your pupils, the looseness of your smile, the way you’re gripping your cup a little too tightly. It’s the look of someone who has seen one too many bad nights unfold.
“You’ve had a bit,” he observes, his voice gentle, devoid of accusation but full of implication.
You snort, a short, sharp sound. “Is that Harrington math or actual concern?”
He winces, just a flicker. Not because you’re wrong, but because the two are so entangled in him he can’t separate them. “I’m not judging,” he says quickly, taking a half-step back as if to prove it. “I just—”
“You just worry,” you cut in. The words aren’t unkind, but they aren’t soft either. They are an observation laid bare. “A lot.”
Steve exhales a long breath through his nose, his hand coming up to rub the tense muscles at the back of his neck. “Someone has to,” he says, and it sounds like a mantra he’s worn thin.
You laugh again, but this time it’s hollow, a dry sound in your throat. “Do they?”
His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You take a small, deliberate sip, letting the silence stretch for a beat. The alcohol grants you a perilous, clarifying honesty. “It means,” you say, choosing each word as if placing a stone on a scale, “that you keep acting like things happen to me instead of around me. Like I’m not in the room making my own choices, even the stupid ones.”
Steve’s mouth opens, then closes on a rebuttal that doesn’t come.
“That’s not fair,” he finally manages, but it lacks conviction.
“Isn’t it?” you press, the warmth in your chest fueling your resolve. “You stepped in back there like I was scenery. Like the conversation was between you and him, and I was just the subject.”
“He touched you,” Steve snaps, the words cracking like a whip. He immediately lowers his voice, a flush of frustration coloring his cheeks. “He crossed a line.”
“I know he did,” you say, holding his gaze steadily. “And I was handling it.”
Steve’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering. “After,” he says, the single word heavy with meaning. After you froze. After he’d already made his point.
It lands. The truth of it settles in your chest, a cold, uncomfortable weight beneath the warmth of the vodka. The party noise, the laughter, the shrieks, the pounding music, swells around you like a turbulent sea, but in the eye of the storm between you and Steve, there is a profound, insulated silence.
“I didn’t ask you to,” you say, your voice dropping to match the quiet.
Steve looks at you then, and the defensiveness, the anger, it all drains away, leaving something raw and exposed. Just… hurt. “I wasn’t trying to be the hero,” he says, the words soft and earnest. “I just didn’t want you dealing with that alone.”
Your voice softens despite the armor you’re trying to hold onto. “I wasn’t alone.”
He flinches.
It’s not a dramatic motion. Just a slight recoil, as if the words were a physical tap on a fresh bruise. Enough to tell you everything.
“That’s not what it felt like,” he whispers, and the admission seems to cost him.
You study him in the fractured light. The deep crease between his brows, the way his hand flexes nervously around his cup, the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his posture. The "King of Hawkins High" is nowhere to be seen.
“You don’t get to decide when I need help,” you say finally. The statement comes out clear and steady, sharper than you intended, a line drawn in the sand.
Steve’s eyes flicker with a vulnerable, wounded light. “I wasn’t deciding,” he insists, but the certainty is crumbling. “I was just… trying to keep you safe.”
You shake your head slowly, sadly. “You don’t keep people safe by stepping over them, Steve. You keep them safe by standing with them.”
The sentence hangs in the air between you, dangerous and irrevocably true.
Steve swallows hard. “You think I was stepping over you.”
“I think,” you say, measuring the words with deliberate care, “that you didn’t trust me to handle it. And that feels worse than whatever Billy was doing.”
“That’s not—” he begins, but you lift a hand, stopping him.
“And before you say it,” you continue, a little breathless now from the emotion, “I know you meant well. I do. I see it. But intent doesn’t erase how it feels.”
Steve goes utterly quiet.
For a long, suspended moment, he just looks at you. It’s not the look of someone formulating a counter-argument. It’s the look of someone genuinely listening, of pieces being rearranged behind his eyes. He’s recalibrating. He’s seeing the delicate, often invisible line between protection and control, and realizing, with dawning horror, that his instincts have been leading him to toe it without his conscious consent.
“You’re different,” he says softly, almost to himself.
You huff a small, tired laugh. “I’ve always been like this. You’re just actually paying attention now.”
That earns you a faint, wry smile, but it doesn’t reach the concern still clouding his eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, the question even quieter now, stripped bare.
“Yes,” you affirm. “And if I’m not… I’ll tell you. You have to trust that I will.”
Steve nods, slow and deliberate, as if he’s agreeing to a much larger, more important treaty. “Okay.”
Neither of you moves. The charged silence stretches, filled with unspoken apologies and new understandings.
“KING! We need you back on the throne, man! Game’s falling apart without you!” a voice booms from across the room, followed by a chorus of agreeing shouts.
Steve doesn’t even glance in their direction. His eyes stay locked on yours.
“I’m busy,” he calls back, his voice flat, firm, and utterly unmistakable.
A beat of surprised silence rolls through his immediate crowd, followed by a few confused laughs and muttered questions. The party, for a second, recalibrates around his absence.
You just blink at him, surprised. Steve shifts his weight, suddenly looking less sure of himself now that he’s commanded the room’s attention only to dismiss it. Up close, in this fragile pocket of privacy you’ve carved out, he looks younger. Less polished, more real. The veneer is gone.
“I, uh—” He clears his throat, his eyes darting past you for a half-second before returning, full of a nervous resolve. “I was gonna head out soon anyway.”
It’s a lie. A generous, face-saving revision of the night’s script. You both know the party is his domain, and leaving it early is an abdication.
He rubs the back of his neck again, the gesture familiar and endearing in its anxiety. “I just wanted to check if you… if you wanted a ride home. Later. Whenever.”
You study him, the warm buzz in your veins making his earnestness feel profound, softening the hard edges of the night. “You’re leaving your own party?”
He huffs a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve thrown enough of these to know the exact moment they stop being fun and start just being… loud.”
There’s something new in the way he looks at you now. It’s not the protective, possessive gaze from the porch. It’s careful. Concerned. Deeply present.
“And,” he adds, his voice lowering into a space meant only for you, “I don’t really love the idea of you walking home alone like this.”
“Like what?” you tease gently, a small smile touching your lips.
He mirrors it, a small, fond quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Like someone who just confidently out-drank half the varsity basketball team.”
You laugh, and the sound is genuine, lighter than anything you’ve felt all night. It feels like a release.
“I’m fine,” you assure him. “But… yeah. I’d like that. A ride.”
Relief, pure and unguarded, flickers across his face before he can compose his features. “Yeah?” he asks, as if he needs the confirmation to believe it.
“Yeah.”
Steve nods, a little too quickly, then immediately backpedals, the old uncertainty resurfacing. “No pressure,” he stammers. “I mean, if you want to stay longer, or if someone else is giving you a lift, or—”
“Steve,” you interrupt, your voice soft but firm.
He stops, his ramble cut short.
“I said yes.”
That, finally, seems to settle him. The tension fully leaves his shoulders, replaced by a simple, hopeful resolve. “Okay,” he says, and this time his smile reaches his eyes, real and unguarded. “Okay. Let me just grab my keys and my jacket.”
He takes a step away, then pauses, turning back. His expression is solemn, sincere. “Thanks for coming tonight. Seriously.”
You tilt your head, a playful glint in your eye. “You literally begged.”
He laughs, a warm, rich sound. “Still. It meant something.”
The drive home is quieter than you’d anticipated, not with the weight of unsaid things, but with a soft, shared exhaustion. It’s a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. Steve pulls the BMW away from the chaotic curb, the thumping bass of the Harrington house shrinking into a distant, rhythmic pulse, then dissolving entirely into the still Hawkins night. After a moment, his hand reaches out, not toward you, but toward the radio. He twists the dial with practiced familiarity, bypassing the stations playing party hits until he finds one crackling with static at the edges, bleeding a slow, melancholy guitar riff into the car’s interior. It’s a song from another decade, meant for open windows and long, contemplative roads.
Neither of you comments on it. The choice hangs in the air, understood.
Streetlights become a metronome, sliding past the windows in golden intervals. Each one illuminates Steve’s profile in a fleeting, cinematic flash: the strong line of his nose, the curve of his lower lip, his hands resting steady and capable on the wheel. The tightness has left his jaw; the party-host mask is gone, shed somewhere on the Harrington driveway. What’s left is just Steve, a little tired, a little sobered, beautifully real in the dashboard’s glow. The hum of the engine, the whisper of tires on asphalt, the faint radio melody, they blend into a lullaby for the overstimulated soul.
Your head lolls back against the plush headrest, eyelids heavy. The alcohol has completed its transformation from a sharp stimulant into a warm, woolly haze. It cradles your bones, makes your limbs feel deliciously detached and weightless. In the periphery, you sense Steve’s glance, a quick, sidelong sweep to check on you. You catch him in the act and offer a faint, sleepy smile. He looks away instantly, feigning deep interest in the empty road ahead, but you see the way the corner of his mouth lifts in a reluctant, pleased echo.
When the car finally glides to a stop outside your dark house, he cuts the engine but leaves the radio playing, a thin, gentle thread of sound connecting you. It feels like an acknowledgment that stepping out of this capsule, back into the real world, requires a moment of preparation.
“Home,” Steve says, his voice soft, almost reverent in the new quiet.
You nod, the movement slow. Your hand finds the door handle, the chrome cool under your palm. The second your feet meet the solid earth of your front walk, the world executes a slow, graceful tilt. The ground seems to swell gently toward you.
“Oh—”
The sound is out before you can stop it, a soft, surprised exhale. You haven’t even begun to stumble when you hear the decisive thunk of his car door. Steve is already there, having moved with a quiet urgency, rounding the front of the BMW. His hands come up, hovering near your elbows, a portrait of restrained readiness.
“Hey—hey,” he says, his voice low and calm. “You good?”
“I’m fine, Steve,” you insist, laughing a breathless, embarrassed laugh as you force your spine straight. You make a shooing motion with your hand. “Promise. Go back to the car.”
He hesitates, his brow furrowed in clear disbelief, but he takes a measured step back, granting you the space to prove it.
You manage five steps. The walkway is familiar, but tonight the pavement has developed a subtle, malicious camber. Your foot catches on the raised edge of a flagstone. With a small, helpless gasp, you pitch forward, the world tipping past the point of no return.
“Nope.”
The word is uttered with flat, undeniable finality. In two long, sure strides, Steve is at your side. His arm slides around your waist—not tentatively, but with a firm, confident warmth that stops your fall mid-arc. You let out a soft oof, your hands coming up to brace against the solid wall of his chest. You can feel the soft cotton of his shirt, the steady beat of his heart beneath.
“Okay, okay,” you concede, laughing into his shoulder, your cheeks burning with a mix of intoxication and chagrin. “That one didn’t count.”
Steve exhales a laugh that is mostly relief, shaking his head as he adjusts his hold. “Yeah, no way. I’m invoking best-friend—or, okay, driver—privileges.”
His movement is seamless. He guides your arm up and over his shoulders, his own arm locking securely around your waist, taking your weight without a hint of strain. It feels instinctive, practiced in the way only true caretaking can be. It feels, impossibly, like you belong right there.
You lean into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder more than you strictly need to. The scent of his cologne, faint beneath the smell of night air and party, is calming.
“_______,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a hushed, conspiratorial tone as he steers you toward the front door. “We have to be quiet. Your parents are definitely sleeping.”
You nod, suddenly and immensely serious. “Yes, sir,” you whisper back, the words overly precise. Then the absurdity of it hits you, and a giggle escapes, muffled against his shirt.
Steve bites his lip, trying to stern his expression, but the smile breaks through, lighting up his eyes in the dark.
The old porch wood groans a quiet protest under your combined weight. He stops, holding you steady as you fumble in your pocket for your keys. His hand at your waist gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze. When the lock finally clicks and the door swings inward, the profound silence of the sleeping house envelops you, cool and still.
You step across the threshold carefully, Steve’s support unwavering until you are firmly planted on the entryway rug.
“There,” you announce softly, giving his arm a pat. “See? Made it. Told you.”
He doesn’t release you immediately. He watches you for a beat longer, his eyes tracing your face in the dim light from the street. They are warm, fond, and still etched with a trace of that stubborn, endearing worry. Finally, he nods.
“Text me when you’re in bed,” he instructs quietly, his voice a soft rumble in the hall.
You tilt your head, your own eyes heavy-lidded but sparkling with mischief. “You gonna tuck me in, too, Harrington?”
Steve lets out a short, choked laugh, shaking his head as he follows you into the hallway, his steps silent on the carpet. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“Mm,” you hum, swaying gently toward the wall. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Yeah,” he says, his hand shooting out to steady you by the elbow, guiding you back to center. “Shockingly, I’m a believer now.”
He ushers you gently into your room, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound so soft it seems to absorb into the walls. Steve pauses just inside, his gaze doing a slow, involuntary sweep of the space.
Your room is… a map of you.
The soft, buttery light from a small ceramic lamp on the nightstand. Band posters and art prints tacked up with careful precision, but not obsessively aligned. A worn, beloved stuffed rabbit peeking out from under a pile of pillows, as if hiding from judgment. Your desk is a curated chaos, a mosaic of ticket stubs tucked into the frame of a mirror, a chipped mug bursting with colorful pens, a precarious stack of well-loved paperback novels, their corners dog-eared to mark your progress. It’s a space that is neither aggressively girly nor austerely minimalist. It’s warm. It’s layered. It’s you.
Steve swallows, a sudden, strange tightness in his throat.
You, meanwhile, are blissfully unaware of his quiet audit. You’ve beelined for the bed, executing a move that is part graceful collapse, part tactical maneuver. You kick off your shoes and fall face-first onto the comforter with a deep, soul-satisfying sigh, immediately wrapping your arms around a pillow and nuzzling into it.
“Wow,” Steve murmurs, amusement thick in his voice. “Out like a light.”
“M’not asleep,” you mumble, the words smothered by cotton and down. “Just… resting my eyes. Strategically.”
He smiles, a private, tender thing, and sits carefully on the very edge of the mattress. It dips slightly under his weight, a gentle valley forming between you. You feel the shift in the universe, a slight, sleepy roll toward the new gravitational center he creates.
“Hey,” you murmur after a moment, your voice slurred and soft as worn velvet. “Thanks for tonight.”
Steve glances down at the crown of your head. “For driving you home? That’s a pretty low bar for gratitude.”
You turn your face just enough to peer at him with one heavy-lidded eye. “No. For the fun. And for not… staying mad at me.”
“I wasn’t mad,” he corrects gently, his hand resting on the comforter near your shoulder. “I was worried. There’s a difference.”
“Still,” you sigh, already drifting back toward the pull of sleep. “Thank you.”
He’s quiet, letting the silence breathe. Then, lightly, he adds, “Anytime. Though, for the record, maybe we pace the drinks next time? Just a thought.”
You make a vague, dismissive noise that vibrates through the pillow. “You’re such a mom, Steve.”
He snorts. “Yeah. I know.”
Then, softer, the bravado gone: “Seriously, though. I’m glad you came.”
The words land differently this time. They bypass the haze, shimmering with a sincerity that makes your sleepy heart give a sluggish, thick thump.
Before he can say anything else, you move. It’s a slow, dreamlike reach—your hand rising, fingers seeking. They find his hair, the strands soft and slightly mussed. You hum, a contented sound deep in your throat, and run your fingers through it once, twice, in a slow, rhythmic, utterly intimate caress. It’s an action of pure, unthinking affection, as natural as breathing.
Steve freezes.
Your touch is a brand of warmth. It’s gentle. It’s trusting. It unravels something tightly wound inside him.
With a final, sighing breath, you let your hand fall back to the bed, palm upturned. Your breathing deepens, evens out, sleep claiming you utterly and without preamble.
Steve doesn’t move for a long minute. He just sits there, anchored to the spot by the weight of the moment, watching you.
Watching the slow, steady rise and fall of your shoulders. The way all the guardedness, all the sharp wit and defiant pride, melts from your face, leaving only a peaceful, unlined openness. How devastatingly beautiful you are like this, not put together, not performing, but simply existing. Real and vulnerable and his to protect, if only for this silent moment.
He feels it then, an irrevocable shift deep within his chest. A locking into place. A settling of dust he didn’t even know was unsettled.
With movements as careful as if he were handling something infinitely precious, he stands. He pulls the blanket up from where it’s tangled at your feet, draping it over you with a tenderness that aches. He smooths it down, tucking the edges loosely around your shoulders. He hesitates, his hand hovering near your cheek. Then, with the backs of his fingers, he brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch so feather-light it’s almost a prayer.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, the word barely a breath.
You don’t hear him. You are far away in dreams.
But he lingers in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light, for much longer than is reasonable. He watches the gentle rhythm of your sleep, memorizing the scene, letting the terrifying, wonderful truth wash over him completely, without dilution or denial.
Somewhere between the deafening noise of the party and the profound quiet of this room, between a challenge issued on a porch and a touch granted in trust, Steve Harrington has fallen.
He’s fallen hard, and he’s fallen for you.
Monday arrives not with an alarm, but with the slow, throbbing ache of a consequence you’d briefly managed to forget. It settles behind your eyes, a dull pound that syncs with your heartbeat. Your mouth tastes like stale cotton and regret, and your head is filled with a fuzzy, static-filled fog. But cutting through the haze are crystalline shards of memory, replaying on a loop: the solid, steadying pressure of Steve’s arm around your waist, the conspiratorial hush of his voice in your dark hallway, the way the mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of your bed, an intrusion that felt like a belonging. The space between you had been rewritten that night, the rules erased and redrawn in something far softer, and infinitely more dangerous.
By the time you push through the heavy front doors of Hawkins High, you’ve crafted a plan. You will be a ghost of normalcy. You will move through the halls as if the party was a collective dream, a shared hallucination no one will be gauche enough to mention. You will be bland, uninteresting, and above all, untouchable.
It is an excellent, foolproof plan.
It lasts approximately seven minutes.
The first sign isn’t a shout or a pointed finger. It’s a low-grade hum, a change in the social atmosphere. It’s in the way conversations seem to stutter and dip as you pass, not into silence, but into a lower, more intentional register. It’s the flicker of eyes—not staring, but tilting, tracking your progress with a newfound, speculative interest. A junior from your chemistry class, a girl you’ve never spoken to, catches your eye in the crowded hall and offers a slow, approving nod. “Hey,” she says, her tone implying a shared secret. You’ve been voted into a club without your consent.
You ignore it. You perfect the art of looking straight ahead, of seeing nothing. You make it to your locker, a metal sanctuary in the chaos.
And then you see the second sign.
A folded square of notebook paper, neon yellow and obnoxious, is shoved into the air vent slits of your locker door. It isn’t tucked discreetly; it’s jammed in there, a flag planted on stolen land.
Your hand freezes on the combination lock. It’s just paper. It’s stupid. But a cold, intuitive dread pools in your stomach. You pull it free, the paper rough against your fingertips. Unfolding it feels like disarming a bomb.
The message is short, written in a slashing, aggressive script that digs into the paper, each letter leaning forward as if trying to escape the page:
Nice party. You clean up well.
No name. No signature needed.
The handwriting is a violence in itself, jagged, impatient, all hard angles and implied threat. It doesn’t feel like a note; it feels like a trespass.
A hot, sharp irritation, clean and bright, slices through your morning fog. You don’t blush; you burn with a quiet, furious indignity. How dare he. How dare Billy Hargrove infiltrate your Monday, your locker, your peace? He doesn’t get to litter the edges of your life with his presence. Without a second thought, you crumple the note into a tight, angry ball and shove it deep into your bag, as if burying evidence.
“Morning.”
The voice, so close, makes you jump. You slam your locker shut with a metallic clang that echoes too loudly in the hall.
Steve stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the neighboring lockers. His hair is still damp from a shower, dark waves falling across his forehead, and his leather jacket hangs open over a faded tee. He looks like he sprinted to make the bell, but his eyes are clear, alert, and already fixed on you. They perform that same familiar, worrying scan, over your face, your posture, searching for cracks. When he finds none, a visible relief softens his features.
Then his gaze drops, snagging on your hand, still clenched in a white-knuckled fist around the strap of your bag.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, the casual greeting vanishing. His voice is immediate, intense.
You blink, forcing neutrality. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t even entertain the lie. His head tilts, a familiar, stubborn concern etching lines between his brows. “Something’s wrong,” he states, taking a step closer. The hallway noise seems to fade around him. “Did he—”
“Did who?” you cut in, though you both know.
Steve’s jaw hardens, a clean, tight line. A muscle feathers along the ridge of it, a tiny tremor of restrained energy. “Billy,” he says, and the name is a stone dropped into the still water between you. Spoken in that low, graveled register he reserves for warnings and middle-of-the-night truths, it sends a cold, unwelcome current straight through your system.
“No,” you say, the word coming too quickly, too defensively. “Nothing happened.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, a minor release of immediate tension, but the sharpness doesn’t leave his eyes. They remain fixed on you, bright and unblinking, the eyes of a goalkeeper in a permanent state of anticipation, braced for a shot he is convinced, in his bones, is coming. “Are you sure?” he presses, the question not one of doubt in you, but of deep, ingrained suspicion of the world’s inherent threat.
You inhale slowly, drawing the school’s recycled air deep into your lungs, using the count of four to steady the erratic tempo of your pulse. “Yes.”
He studies you in a silence that feels both intimate and agonizing. You can see the calculation behind his gaze, the silent war between what he wants to say and what he feels he must do. It’s a familiar conflict now, etched in the slight furrow of his brow. Then he delivers it, not as a suggestion between equals, not as a shared strategy, but as a verdict handed down from a bench you never agreed to. His voice drops into that firm, unmistakably protective register that leaves no room for debate.
“Stay away from him today.”
It’s the tone that does it. Not the sentiment, which might have been offered as concern, but the unyielding finality of it. The unspoken premise that his assessment of risk is absolute, and his authority to manage it, unquestionable.
“Steve.” Your voice is quiet, a single syllable woven with warning and disappointment.
He mistakes it for a request for emphasis. “I’m serious.”
“I heard you,” you say, each word measured and even, a calm surface over roiling water. “I’m asking why.”
He pauses.
The hesitation is brief, a stutter in the rhythm of the hallway’s chaos, but it yawns into a chasm between you. In that silent gap, you see everything: the ghost of past confrontations in his eyes, the weight of unspoken rules, the shadow of a game he’s been playing on a field you can’t even see. Explaining would mean drawing back a curtain on a stage where he has been both actor and stagehand, and he isn’t ready for you to see the machinery.
His mouth opens, forming the ghost of a word, then closes on nothing. His fingers flex at his sides, empty hands curling and uncurling as if grasping for an answer that keeps slipping away.
“You don’t need a reason,” he says finally, and the words sound hollow even to him, a defensive mantra that has worn thin.
You stare at him, the cold from the crumpled note in your bag seeming to seep into your very bones. “I do, actually.”
Steve exhales a tight, frustrated breath through his nose, the sound of a man trying to leash his own fear. “Look—he’s not—” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening again, a visible wall going up. “He’s bad news, okay? The kind that leaves a mark. Just… trust me.”
There it is.
The refrain. The emotional shortcut he falls back on when the path of true communication seems too treacherous.
Trust me.
But trust is not a blindfold to be willingly worn. It is a bridge, and it is built, painstakingly, with the bricks of shared context and the mortar of mutual understanding. He is asking you to cross a chasm while refusing to show you the plans, to assure you the foundation is solid while hiding the cracks he sees from his side.
Your chest tightens into a familiar, aching knot. “You keep saying that.”
His brows knit together, frustration and a flicker of desperation darkening his features. “Because it’s true.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you snap, the heat rising before you quell it, lowering your voice as a cluster of freshmen giggle past. “It just means you want me to listen without understanding. To follow your lead without knowing the destination or the danger. It’s not a reason; it’s a request for obedience.”
Steve’s expression fractures. First, a flash of genuine, wounded hurt, as if you’ve questioned not his judgment, but his very character. Then, almost instantly, something defensive and weary slams into place, the practiced mask of the protector locking down. “I’m trying to keep you safe,” he says, the words ground out like a worn prayer, a mantra that has become both his purpose and his prison.
“You said that already,” you reply, and your voice softens despite the sting, because you can see the cost. The exhaustion is a tangible presence in the shadows beneath his eyes, in the slight slump of his usually proud shoulders. This self-appointed role of guardian is a weight he carries alone, and it is bending him. “And I told you, you don’t get to decide what ‘safe’ looks like for me. You don’t get to build the cage, however well-intentioned, and call it shelter. A cage denies the sky, Steve. Even a gilded one.”
His jaw clenches so tightly you fear he might crack a tooth. He looks away, his breath hitching in a ragged, suppressed sound, visibly wrestling with a torrent of words—fear, anger, pleading—that he knows would only make things worse.
When he looks back, the rawness is gone, replaced by a strained, deliberate calm. His voice is lower, steadier, but it carries the distinct chill of controlled desperation.
“Fine,” he says, the word quiet and utterly resigned. “Then just… don’t engage with him. Please.”
It is not an order this time. It is a boundary drawn with a trembling hand. A plea, stripped of all authority, naked in its vulnerability.
You search his face, looking past the worry for the truth that must be fueling it. “That’s still not an explanation, Steve. It’s just a different phrasing of the same request.”
“I know,” he admits, the confession bursting out of him, too fast and full of self-directed anger. “And I hate that. I hate how it sounds. I hate standing here sounding like I’m telling you what to do.”
“Then tell me,” you urge, your voice dropping to a whisper, a final lifeline thrown across the growing divide.
Steve hesitates.
And in that suspended, breathless moment, everything becomes devastatingly clear. The truth is not absent. It is present, a living, breathing thing he is consciously, actively, holding back. There is a specific reason. A history. An incident. A knowledge he possesses and is choosing, with full awareness, to withhold.
His hands curl into loose fists at his sides, then release, a physical echo of his internal struggle. He opens his mouth—you see the shape of a confession, the first syllable almost forming—and then he consciously, decisively, shuts it down. The words are swallowed back, locked away.
“I can’t,” he finally says.
The raw, unvarnished honesty of it lands with a force that steals your breath. It is not a evasion. It is a surrender. An admission of a limit he cannot, or will not, cross.
You nod slowly, the movement stiff and formal, an acknowledgment of a door being firmly closed in your face. “So you don’t trust me,” you state, the words a bleak conclusion, not an accusation.
“That’s not—” He lurches forward a half-step, genuine panic flashing in his eyes, erasing the practiced calm. “That’s not what this is. It’s the opposite.”
“Then what is it?” you ask, your voice achingly quiet, giving him one last, clear chance.
Steve swallows, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that feels almost physical. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a hushed, urgent whisper meant for you alone in the echoing hallway. “It’s me… trying to keep one last, ugly thing from touching you. To be a buffer between you and something rotten. And if you knew—if you had the full, unfiltered picture—you might make a choice. A brave, stubborn, you kind of choice. And I wouldn’t be able to stop it. I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”
The words aren’t cruel. They are worse. They are fear and fierce, possessive care twisted into a single, suffocating knot. A confession that his need to protect has completely outpaced his ability to truly partner.
The ache in your chest sharpens into a precise, heartbreaking pain. “So you trust me with your past,” you say, your voice miraculously steady even as it threatens to fracture. “With your failures. With the quiet confessions at my kitchen table. With the vulnerability of being in my room when the world was shut out.” You list the intimacies like sacred, earned treasures. “But you don’t trust me with this reality. Not with the truth of what’s happening right now, right here, to us.”
He looks at you as if you’ve reached inside his chest and laid bare his most fragile, guarded secret. “_______—” Your name is a broken sound, a plea and an apology.
You shake your head once, a small, definitive motion that silences him. “I don’t need every classified file, Steve. I don’t need to dissect every shadow. I just need to know that you see me standing beside you, not behind you. That you’re not deciding for me what I am, or am not, strong enough to face.”
His eyes shine, glassy with unshed tears he would never let fall here. His jaw works, a muscle ticking furiously as he battles the torrent of emotion fighting for release.
He says nothing.
And in that profound, chosen silence, you receive the only answer that matters.
You take a deliberate step back, physically creating a foot of space where, just moments before, there had been the aching potential for closeness. The air between you turns cold and still.
“I can’t keep doing this,” you say, the words soft, final, and infinitely weary. “Feeling like I’m trusted with the curated pieces of you, the fun companion, the comforting presence, but not with the raw truth that affects us both. It makes everything else feel… conditional. Like a loan of your trust.”
“Please,” Steve breathes, the word stripped of all pride, raw and exposed. It hangs in the space between you, a single thread holding a great weight.
You pause, feeling the pull of that thread, the ache to simply turn back and accept the partial version of things because the alternative is this cold distance.
But you don’t.
“When you’re ready to be honest,” you say, your voice firm yet not unkind, carrying the echo of the care you still feel, “really, fully honest… I’ll be ready to listen.”
Then you turn, and you walk away.
You don’t run. You don’t storm off in a performance of righteous anger. You simply leave, because to stay any longer would be to silently ratify a version of love that demands ignorance as its price, a partnership where one person holds the map and the other is simply told to follow.
Behind you, Steve does not follow.
He doesn’t call your name. He doesn’t rush to close the gap. He remains rooted in the spot, a statue of conflicted intention.
And that absolute stillness, that resigned letting-go, hurts almost more than a heated pursuit ever could.
Billy Hargrove is wrong all day.
Not loud-wrong. Not aggressive-wrong. Not the familiar, swaggering menace you’ve learned how to clock and avoid with practiced ease. This isn’t the Billy who takes up space on purpose, who makes noise because noise means control.
He’s quiet.
Too quiet.
In first period, he sits without slouching, spine unnaturally straight, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact that never comes. His hands are folded flat on the desk, fingers perfectly still, as if he’s been instructed to keep them that way and is terrified of breaking a rule he doesn’t fully understand.
It’s unsettling. Billy never sits like that.
When the teacher calls on him, there’s a delay, just long enough to make the room shift uncomfortably. He looks at her too long before answering, eyes fixed and unblinking, like he’s processing the concept of authority rather than responding to it. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm. Flat. Almost polite.
That might be the worst part.
A group of students laughs behind him at something stupid and inconsequential. Billy’s head turns toward the sound, slow and precise, like a radar dish swiveling to lock onto a signal. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t react. He just watches until the laughter fades, then turns back to face the front of the room.
You feel it in your spine.
Every time you shift in your seat, his gaze follows.
Not openly. Not obviously. It’s subtle enough that you almost convince yourself you’re imagining it, until you glance up and catch his eyes already on you. They don’t flick away when you notice. They don’t sharpen or soften.
They just… stay.
There’s no appraisal there. No hunger. No challenge.
Just attention.
Like you’re a variable in an equation he hasn’t solved yet.
By second period, the unease has sunk beneath your skin. You keep your head down, focus on your notes, tell yourself you’re being paranoid. Billy is many things, but quiet isn’t a crime.
Still, you can feel him.
Waiting.
Across the hallway between classes, Billy stands alone near the lockers, not leaning, not posturing. Students move around him without acknowledging his presence, like their instincts are telling them to give him space even if they don’t know why.
You don’t look at him.
You can feel the moment he notices you’ve passed.
Steve does too.
You catch him watching Billy from across the hall, his usual easy posture gone rigid. His jaw tightens in that familiar way, like he’s biting back something he doesn’t want to say out loud. His eyes track Billy’s movements with a sharpness that makes your stomach drop.
You leave school unsettled, nerves humming beneath your skin, but you tell yourself you’re overreacting. You’re tired. You’re still angry. You don’t want to give Steve the satisfaction of being right about something he won’t explain.
You stop at Starcourt on the way home because you need something ordinary.
Groceries. Toothpaste. A carton of milk you don’t technically need. Something small and practical to anchor yourself to the world you understand. The mall is busy without being crowded, families drifting between stores, teenagers loitering with sodas in hand, the low, constant hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like the mall itself is breathing.
Normal. Safe. Predictable.
You let yourself believe it.
You move through the aisles on autopilot, fingers brushing familiar packaging, the cold air of the freezer section raising goosebumps on your arms. Muzak crackles faintly through the speakers. Somewhere, a child laughs. Somewhere else, a cashier argues about coupons.
The world is blissfully unaware of the tight knot lodged beneath your ribs.
By the time you exit the mall, the sky has begun to bruise. Purple bleeding into orange, dusk settling like a held breath. The parking lot stretches wide and open, asphalt still warm from the day, rows of cars catching the dying light in dull flashes.
You adjust the bags in your hands and head for your car.
You’re halfway there when the air changes.
It’s subtle. A pressure shift. The feeling you get when someone stands too close behind you—but sharper. Focused. Like a fingertip pressing between your shoulder blades.
From the long, navy-blue shadow between two parked trucks, Billy Hargrove steps into the last of the dusk’s glow.
He doesn’t emerge; he unfolds. He moves with a languid, terrifying certainty, as if he’s been a part of the landscape the entire time, a statue waiting for the light to hit him just right so he could step down from his plinth. As if he’d been waiting, perfectly still, for the exact moment the universe would deliver you into this empty pocket of the world, alone.
The performative costume is gone. No worn denim jacket, no cigarette prop. Just a simple, cheap white t-shirt, stretched drum-tight across the hard plane of his chest and shoulders. The fabric pulls taut over the coiled power of his arms, whispering of muscle held in a state of permanent, aggressive tension. He looks contained, but not calm. He looks like a spring compressed to its absolute limit, every line of his body straining against some unseen, internal leash. His eyes, reflecting the bruised sky, hold none of the mall’s indifference. They are fixed, intent, and utterly, terrifyingly present. He has not happened upon you. He has arrived.
“You really do like to play games, don’t you?”
The voice slides into the space behind you like a blade, cold, sharp, and intimately invasive. It doesn’t just reach your ears; it slithers down your spine.
You freeze.
Your heart doesn’t just beat faster; it slams against your ribcage once, a single, violent contraction so powerful it feels like it punches the air straight from your lungs. The plastic grocery bags grow impossibly heavy, their handles like biting wires in your clenched fists.
Your pulse spikes, a frantic drum against your throat. “Billy. I don’t want to talk to you.”
He smiles.
It’s a slow, careful peeling back of lips. Utterly empty. A mockery of warmth that dies long before it reaches his eyes, which remain flat, watchful, and chillingly intent.
“Why do you play so hard to get, ______?” he asks, his voice a low, almost gentle croon that somehow makes the words more vile.
Every instinct in your body screams a single, primal command: RUN. You take an involuntary step back, your shoes scuffing loudly against the gritty asphalt. “What—”
“Couldn’t you just submit,” he continues, stepping forward in perfect time with your retreat. His voice lowers, thickens, something wet and furious curling underneath the honeyed tone, “like all the others? Would make things so much easier for you.”
Your stomach twists violently, a wave of nausea rising with the bile of fear. “That’s not—” you stammer, backing away again, the plastic bags slipping in your sweaty grip.
Billy moves. It’s not a rush. Not a lunge. It’s a sudden, efficient annihilation of the space between you, too fast for your eyes to properly track. One moment he’s several feet away; the next, his hand snaps out with the speed of a striking snake.
His fingers clamp around your wrist.
The grip is crushing, absolute. It’s not the hold of a person; it’s the bite of a mechanical vice. A sharp, sickening pain radiates from the bones. The grocery bags tear from your other hand, hitting the pavement with a crash. A can of soup rolls away with a lonely, metallic clatter.
You gasp, the sound thin and desperate.
His skin is cold. Not just cool from the evening air. It is a deep, unnatural cold, as if he’s been standing in a shadow that leaches all warmth from the world.
“You don’t get to say no,” he hisses, the gentle pretense evaporating. His breath smells of stale smoke and something else, something metallic and wrong.
And then his face changes. Not dramatically. Not into some storybook monster.
It shifts in small, profoundly wrong ways. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the icy blue of his irises until his eyes are almost entirely black, depthless pools. His jaw jerks sideways in a quick, spastic twitch, once, twice, as if something inside the shell of him is yanking on the strings, struggling to fit behind the mask of skin and bone. The expression is one of intense, internal conflict, but the hand on your wrist only tightens further, until white-hot bolts of pain shoot in jagged lines up your arm.
You scream.
It’s a raw, unfiltered sound of pure terror. Adrenaline, sharp and clarifying, tears through the panic. You shove at the solid wall of his chest with both hands, twisting your body with all your strength, your foot kicking out blindly. For one miraculous second, you manage to wrench your wrist free from that icy, iron grip.
You duck on instinct. His fist swings through the space where your head had been.
It doesn’t whistle through air; it crushes it.
The blow connects with the driver’s side door of a parked sedan.
The sound is a sickening, catastrophic CRUNCH of buckling metal and shattering safety glass. The door panel caves inward, a grotesque dimple of ruined steel. The car’s alarm erupts in a frantic, whooping wail, strobe lights flashing across the asphalt.
You stare, blood freezing in your veins.
That should have shattered every bone in his hand. That should have been impossible.
Not human.
The thought detonates in your mind, and with it, a panic that is hot, dizzying, and total. It vaporizes all thought, leaving only the ancient, mammalian imperative to flee.
You run.
Your shoes slip on the pavement as you bolt, veering wildly between the rows of cars. Your lungs burn, clawing for air that doesn’t seem to reach them. Your heart hammers so violently it blurs your vision, turning the world into a shaky, impressionist painting of color and shadow.
Behind you, Billy laughs.
It’s not loud. Not gleeful. It’s a low, wet, broken sound—a chuckle that seems to come not from his throat, but from somewhere deeper, darker. It’s the sound of something that finds your terror amusing.
Fingers, cold and strong, snag the back of your jacket. They yank with violent, effortless force, pulling you completely off your feet. You are a doll in his grip. You hit the ground hard, the impact jolting through your teeth. The rough asphalt shreds the skin of your palms as you try to break your fall. The pain is bright, sharp, and grounding.
You roll, instinct taking over, your foot lashing out in a blind, frantic kick. Your heel connects solidly with his kneecap.
He barely stumbles. It’s like kicking a brick wall.
A ragged, sob-like gasp tears from your throat. You scramble backward on your elbows and heels, putting precious inches between you, just in time to see his open hand slam down, palm flat, where your head had been.
CRACK.
The sound is horribly final. A spiderweb of fractures erupts in the asphalt beneath his hand.
Your vision tunnels, darkness pressing in at the edges. The world shrinks to this patch of broken ground, the wailing car alarm, and him.
Your scrabbling hand finds purchase on something long, cold, and heavy—a tire iron, abandoned near a car’s flat tire. Your fingers close around the gritty metal. Without thought, without hope, you swing it with every ounce of desperate strength you have left.
It connects with his shoulder with a solid, sickening THWACK that vibrates up your arm, rattling your very bones.
Billy… barely reacts.
He turns toward you slowly, deliberately, his head tilting to one side at an angle that is just a few degrees past natural. His black, depthless eyes rake over you, your heaving chest, your bleeding hands, the useless weapon in your grip, with something akin to clinical curiosity. There is no anger, no pain. Just a chilling, fascinated assessment.
He looks like a scientist observing a trapped insect that has, against all odds, managed to sting him. He looks like he’s calculating, with detached interest, exactly how much force it will take to finally, definitively, end your resistance.
“GET AWAY FROM HER!”
The shout doesn’t just cut through the air, it splits the night open like an axe through rotted wood. It’s raw, ragged, and forged from pure, undiluted terror.
Steve Harrington crashes into Billy Hargrove not like a man, but like a force of nature. He comes from the side, a blur of motion and desperation, his shoulder driving into Billy’s chest with the full, reckless weight of his body. The impact is a visceral, punishing thud that echoes off the cars, knocking the air from both of them in a synchronized, choked gasp. Billy, caught off guard for the first time all evening, is driven backward, his boots scraping twin streaks of protest across the asphalt, surprise, real, human surprise, flashing across his distorted features.
Steve doesn’t pause. He doesn’t check his own injuries. The momentum of the collision is just a prelude. He uses it, stepping into the space he’s carved out, his body pivoting to plant itself as an immovable object between you and the threat. His arms fly out to the sides, not in a heroic pose, but in a primal, instinctive spread—a human shield making itself as wide as possible. His stance is wide, knees bent, every muscle corded. He is a wall. He is a barricade. He is the only thing that matters.
“Run!” The command is ripped from his throat, hurled over his shoulder at you. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a plea and an order fused together. “NOW!”
Your legs are stone. Rooted. Paralyzed.
Billy regains his footing, the surprise melting into something molten and vicious. A low, guttural snarl tears from his lips, his face contorting, lips peeling back from teeth that seem too white in the fading light.
“Wrong choice,” he growls, the words dripping with a promise of pain.
And then he moves.
He hits Steve.
It’s not a punch; it’s a demolition. Billy’s fist connects with Steve’s jaw with a sickening, wet crack of bone on bone. The sound is horribly intimate, echoing in the vast, empty lot. Steve’s head snaps sideways. A spray of saliva and blood catches the dull gleam of a distant security light. He doesn’t cry out; he just goes down, his body folding under the force, skidding across the rough asphalt with a sound like tearing cloth.
Something flies from his grip, clattering and spinning across the pavement.
The bat.
Your eyes track it dumbly as it rolls in a wobbly arc, coming to a stop near your feet, its familiar, nail-studded wood looking absurdly ordinary against the oil-stained ground.
Billy is on him instantly.
The speed is inhuman. He doesn’t pounce; he flows onto Steve, a tide of relentless violence. His fists rise and fall in brutal, piston-like arcs. Each impact lands with a dreadful, meaty finality. Thud. Thud. THUD. Steve, dazed but fighting, tries to roll, tries to curl into a protective ball, his arms coming up to guard his head. But Billy doesn’t tire. He doesn’t need to breathe. It’s as if some external, malignant force is lending strength to every blow, making gravity his ally.
You scream Steve’s name.
The sound is torn from a place deeper than your lungs, raw and guttural, shredding your throat. You scramble to your feet, your legs trembling violently. Your heart is a frantic, caged bird trying to beat its way out of your chest, the pulse thundering in your ears so loudly it drowns out the car alarm. Your vision tunnels, the edges blurring into a swimming darkness, the world collapsing to the horrifying diorama of violence on the ground.
Steve is losing. Badly.
He blocks what he can, his forearms taking brutal punishment, already darkening with welts and cuts. What he can’t block, he absorbs. A fist slips past his guard, connecting with a sickening crunch against his ribs. He arches off the ground, a pained groan escaping his bloodied lips. Another blow splits the skin above his eyebrow, and blood, shockingly bright and red, blooms instantly, streaming down into his eye, painting half his face in a grotesque mask.
Still, he fights back.
Every movement is wild, desperate, fueled by a stubborn, unkillable fire. He swings a weak, looping punch that glances off Billy’s arm. He tries to buck him off. It’s futile, but the message in every ragged breath, every pained gasp, every defiant snarl, is screaming the same thing, over and over:
Not her. Not her. Not her.
“STOP!” you scream again, your voice breaking into a sob, the word dissolving into the night air, useless as confetti against a hurricane.
Billy seems to grow larger, his muscles bunching under the white cotton with an unnatural, rippling tension. He rears back, his fist lifting high, cocking for a blow that has no purpose but annihilation. It’s a killing strike, aimed at the vulnerable curve of Steve’s temple.
Thought evaporates.
Instinct takes over—an instinct older than fear, fiercer than panic.
Your hands, scraped and bleeding, find the cold, rough wood of the bat on the ground. Your fingers close around the grip, sticky with Steve’s blood. It feels impossibly heavy, a log of deadweight. But also solid. Real. A tooth of the real world in this nightmare.
A terrifying, feral clarity descends. The dizzying fear sharpens into a single, white-hot point of purpose.
You lurch forward, your body moving without your mind’s permission.
You swing.
You put everything into it, the terror of the note, the chill of his grip, the sound of crushing metal, the sight of Steve’s blood. You put every ounce of your weight, every shred of your fury, every desperate atom of your love into the arc.
The bat cuts through the air with a terrible, whistling sound.
It connects.
The impact is not a thud, but a hollow, resonant CRACK, like splitting a dense, frozen log. The vibration judders up your arms, rattling your teeth.
Billy’s head jerks sideways with a violent, whip-like snap. His body goes rigid for a split, suspended second. His black, endless eyes, wide with a shock that isn’t pain, but profound, outraged interruption, find yours. In that fleeting moment, you see a bottomless fury, a universe of wrongness focused solely on you.
Then the connection between his will and his body seems to sever.
He collapses.
It isn’t a graceful fall. It’s a total, boneless slump. He hits the asphalt like a sack of wet cement, limbs splayed at awkward, unnatural angles, his face turned toward the bruised sky.
Silence.
It crashes down, heavier and more profound than any noise. The only sounds are your own ragged, sobbing breaths, the fading echo of the car alarm, and a low, pained groan from Steve.
The world rushes back in a dizzying, nauseating wave, the cold air, the smell of gasoline and blood, the distant hum of the mall. You stand there, the bat now a dead weight in your trembling hands, staring at the two bodies on the ground: one still, one struggling to move.
The silence is deafening. It rings in your ears, a high-pitched tone of pure, undiluted shock.
Your arms tremble violently, a post-storm quake that travels from your shoulders to your fingertips. The bat slips from your numb, blood-slicked grasp and hits the asphalt with a dull, hollow clang that seems to echo the finality of the moment.
“Steve—” you gasp, the sound tearing from a raw throat as you drop to your knees beside him, the rough pavement biting through your jeans.
He’s breathing. Shallow, wet, rattling breaths, but they are there. His eyes flutter beneath bruised lids, struggling to focus on your face through the mask of blood streaking from his temple down his cheek, a vivid red river against his pale skin.
“Hey,” he rasps, the word barely a whisper, a thread of sound spun from pain and sheer will. His gaze, clouded with concussion, finally finds yours. “You… okay?”
The question—absurd, selfless, utterly Steve shatters what little composure you have left. A choked sob escapes you, tears welling hot and immediate, blurring his broken form.
“You absolute idiot,” you weep, the words mangled by emotion. Your hands flutter uselessly over him, finally pressing against the solid, trembling plane of his shoulder. “You’re bleeding everywhere. You could’ve—he could’ve killed you.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, so faint you have to lean in to hear. A ghost of a smile, more a twitch of his split lip, touches his mouth despite the agony etched in every line of his face. “Worth it.”
Getting him to your car is an ordeal etched in fire and fear. You half-drag, half-carry his dead weight, every step sending white-hot pulses of agony through your screaming muscles and bruised spine. Steve sags into you, his arm a heavy, unsteady bar over your shoulders, his body shaking not just from injury, but from the sheer, draining effort of remaining conscious. Each shallow, ragged breath he takes ghosts warm and uneven against the side of your neck, a terrifying metronome counting the seconds he remains with you.
“You’re okay,” you whisper into his hair, the mantra as much for yourself as for him. Your voice is a thin, desperate thread in the vast, silent parking lot. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, just hold on.”
Your shoes, slick with a grimy mixture of spilled soda, oil, and his blood, slip on the pavement. You stumble, his weight almost pulling you both down. Your fingers clutch desperately at the bloodied leather of his jacket, bunching the material in your fists as you adjust your grip, your muscles shrieking in protest, your heart a wild, frantic drum against your ribs threatening to break free.
The memory hits you then, unbidden and cruel in its contrast.
The way he carried you once, just days ago, yet a lifetime away. So slow, so careful, as if you were made of the most delicate glass. One arm a firm, secure band around your back, the other cradling the bend of your knees, his voice a low, soothing rumble in the dark hallway telling you it was okay to lean on him, that he had you. You’d laughed then, hazy with drink and trust, letting your head loll against his shoulder, believing completely in his strength.
The irony of it burns now, acrid and sharp.
This time, it is you who holds him together. Your arms, now trembling with a different kind of weakness, are the only thing keeping him from crumbling to the ground.
You reach your car, fumbling for your keys with fingers that feel thick and foreign. They slip twice, clattering against the door handle, before you finally manage to fit the key into the lock. The click is deafeningly loud. Getting him into the passenger seat is a clumsy, frantic ballet of bracing and easing. You cradle his head, guiding it carefully against the headrest, murmuring his name over and over like a protective incantation.
"Steve. Steve. Almost there."
Blood smears across the pale upholstery in stark, Rorschach blooms. It coats your hands, drying sticky and dark under your nails. It is on everything, a brutal, undeniable testament.
He groans as you buckle the seatbelt across his chest, his eyes fluttering open. For a second, through the haze of pain, his gaze finds yours and holds, a startling, lucid connection.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice a hoarse scrape. A feeble attempt at a smile touches his ruined mouth. “You did good.”
Your throat closes completely, a solid wall of grief and love and terror. Fresh tears spill over, hot and silent.
“Don’t,” you beg, your voice breaking into pieces. “Just—don’t talk. Please.”
You slide into the driver’s seat on legs that feel like water. The leather is cold beneath your trembling palms. Your hands clamp around the steering wheel, knuckles bleaching white as you force yourself to take one deep breath, then another, fighting the dizzying tide of shock.
The only sound in the car is Steve’s breathing, shallow, uneven, a fragile rhythm in the dark.
And then it hits you.
Not like the fear, a lightning strike of adrenaline. Not like the panic, a cold flood.
This comes slower. Heavier. A deep, settling ache that displaces the shock.
He knew.
The realization unfolds with dreadful clarity. The way he found you, not by chance, not searching frantically, but with direct, horrifying purpose. As if he’d been anticipating this exact horror all along, a shadow he’d been trying to outrun or intercept. The way he didn’t hesitate for a single second, not when he saw Billy, not when he put his own body between you and those fists. He stepped into the violence as if it were a script he’d already read, a price he’d already agreed to pay.
Steve knew something was fundamentally, terribly wrong with Billy Hargrove.
And suddenly, the heated argument in the hallway plays back in your mind with a new, devastating soundtrack. His tight jaw, his clipped warnings, the raw desperation woven through every stay away from him, it wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about a lack of trust in you.
It was fear.
A bone-deep, history-informed terror he didn’t know how to articulate without unleashing the very monster he was trying to shield you from.
Your grip on the steering wheel loosens, just a fraction, as the fight drains out of you, replaced by a profound, sorrowful understanding.
He hadn’t been trying to build a cage around you.
He’d been trying, clumsily and imperfectly, with the only tools his battered heart knew how to use, to keep you out of reach of a darkness he recognized.
You survived.
Not just because you were brave enough to swing a bat.
But because Steve Harrington showed up anyway.
Because he’d been watching, waiting, a silent guardian orbiting your periphery, ready at a moment’s notice to throw himself into the grinding gears of that darkness if it meant you could walk away.
Your chest tightens, a complex knot of emotion burning behind your eyes as you glance at him slumped in the seat beside you. Blood is drying in a cruel corona at his temple. One hand lies curled weakly in his lap, already swelling. He looks young. Broken. Beautifully, terribly human.
The secret he kept didn’t almost get you killed.
The secret he kept is the precise, awful reason you are both still breathing.
And that realization doesn’t erase the hurt of his silence, it sharpens it, hones it into something quieter, more intimate, and infinitely more painful.
Because if Steve had found a way to trust you with the terrifying, ugly truth…
Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting beside you now, bleeding and broken, paying for that silence with his own flesh and blood.
You turn the key. The engine sputters to life, a mundane sound in the aftermath of chaos.
As you pull the car out of the Starcourt parking lot, leaving the scene of the violence swallowed by the night, one truth settles in your chest, heavy and undeniable as a stone:
You’re not angry that he tried to protect you.
You’re shattered that he ever felt he had to do it alone.
The hospital is quieter than you expect. Not silent, it’s a space that never truly sleeps, but subdued, a world muffled in soft noise and dimmed concern. Machines hum a low, continuous hymn from other rooms. Rubber-soled shoes squeak with purposeful gentleness somewhere down the polished linoleum hall. Behind a drawn floral curtain, a nurse murmurs steady, practiced reassurances in a voice meant to soothe. Even the fluorescent lights, usually so harsh and revealing, have been dialed down to a muted, almost apologetic glow, as if they, too, understand that this hour demands something softer than truth.
Steve lies in the narrow bed, a landscape of white sheets and bleached cotton. His left arm is a careful sculpture of gauze and tape, resting atop the blanket. A thin, stark bandage cuts across his temple, a white flag against the purple swelling beneath. His chest rises and falls in a steady, medicated rhythm now, thank God, thank everything, but the sight of him so still, so deliberately still, makes a quiet, persistent ache settle deep in your throat.
You perch on the stiff, unforgiving plastic chair beside his bed, the only anchor in the sterile sea of the room. You don’t leave.
You should be exhausted. A bone-deep, system-failure kind of tired. And you are. Your clothes carry the acrid scent of asphalt fear and sharp hospital antiseptic. Your hands, scrubbed raw at the sink until they tingled, still feel phantom-sticky, no matter how hard you’ve washed. But every time your heavy eyelids start to drift shut, every time you consider resting your head back against the cold wall, your gaze snaps back to him—to the steady pulse in his throat, to the faint twitch of his fingers, as if your vigil alone is the thread keeping him tethered here. So you sit.
You watch the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital gown. You listen to the metronomic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, a sound that has become both lifeline and lament. You replay the fractured day on a loop in your mind, the note, the argument, the parking lot, the crack of the bat, until the memories lose their sharp edges and blur into a single, prolonged smear of terror and adrenaline.
At some point deep in the night, a nurse with kind eyes and a quiet step enters to check his vitals. She smiles softly at you, her clipboard held like a shield against her chest.
“You can grab some coffee from the vending machine down the hall, sweetie,” she offers, her voice a gentle nudge. “He’s stable. Sleeping soundly. You don’t have to stay glued to that chair.”
“I’m okay,” you reply, the words coming a little too quickly, too tightly.
Her eyes, wise and weary, flick between your face and Steve’s still form, then back to you. Her smile deepens, becoming something knowing and warm. “Girlfriend?”
You blink, thrown. “Oh— no. I mean, we’re not—”
She chuckles softly, a sound like rustling pages. “Honey, you’ve been holding his hand for the last three hours. Pretty convincingly.”
You look down, startled.
You hadn’t even realized.
Somehow, while you were lost in the watchful silence, your fingers had woven themselves between his. Your palm rests against the back of his bandaged hand, your knuckles brushing the familiar, vulnerable curve of his palm. The contact feels as natural as breathing, as essential as the IV drip feeding into his other arm. Like your hand belongs exactly there.
A slow, warm flush climbs your cheeks. “I’m just… staying,” you murmur, lamely.
“Well,” she says, her tone softening into something approaching reverence, “he’s lucky to have you.”
She slips out as quietly as she came, the door clicking shut with a hushed finality.
You don’t let go.
Steve wakes just before dawn.
It’s not a dramatic awakening. No gasps, no jolting upright. It’s subtle, a slight hitch in his previously even breathing, a faint, pained furrow appearing between his brows. But you notice instantly. Your body jolts upright in the chair, the legs scraping a jarringly loud protest against the floor.
“Steve?” you whisper, your voice gravelly from disuse and emotion.
His eyelashes flutter, dark against his pale skin. His dry, cracked lips part. “Ow,” he croaks, the single syllable rough and genuine.
A wave of relief so potent it’s dizzying crashes through you. A sound escapes you—half a laugh, half a sob, entirely unguarded. “Hi,” you manage, your own voice trembling. “Welcome back.”
He squints at the speckled acoustic tiles of the ceiling, processing, then turns his head slowly, carefully, on the pillow. His eyes, clouded with pain and medication, drift, struggle to focus—and then land on your face.
And they soften. All the tension, all the guardedness he usually carries, melts away, leaving something open and unbearably tender.
“Oh,” he murmurs, the word filled with a quiet, wondrous realization. “You stayed.”
Your throat constricts painfully. “Of course I did.”
He swallows with visible effort, his jaw working. “Good,” he rasps, a ghost of his old smirk touching his mouth. “‘Cause I was gonna be real mad if you didn’t.”
You snort, the familiar, fond irritation bubbling up despite everything. “You got beaten half to death in a parking lot, and that’s your priority?”
“Hey,” he says weakly, but his eyes are shining. “Consistency matters.”
You shake your head, a real smile breaking through the fatigue and fear, even as fresh tears burn behind your eyes.
For a long moment, you just look at each other in the pre-dawn grey of the room. The unspoken things hang heavy in the air between you, weightier than any monitor or IV stand.
Then Steve exhales, a long, careful, deliberate breath, as if he’s gathering courage from the very bottom of his lungs.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. So quietly.
The apology isn’t rushed. It isn’t defensive or wrapped in a joke. It is simple, stark, and utterly honest.
“I should’ve told you,” he continues, his gaze unwavering. “I knew something was wrong. I knew he wasn’t… himself. Not for a while. And I still didn’t tell you.” His voice cracks, just a hairline fracture of sound that speaks volumes. “I thought I could handle it alone. I thought if I just kept you far enough away, I could keep you safe without ever having to scare you with the… the realness of it.”
You hold his gaze, letting him speak, letting the truth he’d hoarded finally find air.
“And?” you prompt gently.
“And I was wrong,” he admits. No excuses. No deflection. Just the raw, humble admission. “I should’ve trusted you. I should’ve given you the choice. I was so afraid of you choosing to walk toward the danger that I didn’t realize I was already pushing you away.”
Your fingers, still laced with his, tighten gently. An anchor. A forgiveness.
“I don’t forgive you because you jumped in front of me,” you say, your voice soft but clear in the quiet room. “I forgive you because you’re sitting here right now, bleeding through your bandages, and you’re owning it. All of it.”
Steve lets out a shaky breath that sounds like the beginning of a release. “Yeah. Well. Growth. Apparently I’m doing that now. It’s… uncomfortable.”
You smile, a real one that reaches your eyes. “Terrifying.”
He huffs a pained laugh, then grows serious again, his thumb moving in a faint, unconscious stroke across your knuckle. “I didn’t tell you because… I didn’t want to be the guy who only matters when things get bad. The crisis guy. The fighter. I wanted you to like me when I was just… me. When I wasn’t bleeding or bruised or playing hero.”
Your chest aches with the sweetness and the sorrow of it.
“I liked you at my kitchen table,” you tell him, the memory vivid and warm. “With your stupid, nervous pencil tapping and your fake, overconfident grin.”
He groans faintly, a blush tinting the skin above his bandage. “God, I knew you clocked that.”
“You joke when you’re scared,” you continue, building the portrait of him you’ve been assembling in your heart. “You try to protect people when you don’t know how to just ask them to be careful. And you care so damn much it makes you reckless. It makes you walk into parking lots against things you don’t understand.”
Steve watches you, his eyes wide and soft, as if you’re reading from a book of his own secret history.
“I fell for you anyway,” you finish, the confession hanging softly in the space between you. “Maybe even because of it.”
Silence stretches, but it’s a comfortable, understanding quiet, filled with the hum of healing.
Then Steve smiles—not the dazzling, performative King of Hawkins grin, not the defensive jock’s smirk—but something smaller, softer, and completely unguarded. It transforms his battered face.
“You flirting with me right now,” he asks, his voice a gentle, hopeful rasp, “or are you?”
You laugh, the sound warm and real and free, and you lean closer, bridging the space the chair had created. “You finally noticed.”
He squeezes your hand, the grip weak but full of intention. “Guess I’m a slow learner.”
Outside the narrow hospital window, the world begins to lighten. Pale, tentative gold spills across the white sheets, gilding the edges of the blanket, washing over his tired face and your clasped hands. Steve watches the sunrise for a moment, a quiet peace settling over his features. Then he looks back at you, his eyes clear and certain.
“I’m still gonna want to protect you,” he says, the vow simple and true. “It’s in my wiring. But I’m gonna ask first. And I’m gonna listen. And I’m gonna trust you to stand next to me, not behind me. To be my partner in the weird, scary stuff. Not my… not my problem to solve.”
Your heart feels full, not with giddy lightness, but with a steady, chosen weight. Like you’ve both been looking for solid ground and have finally found it, together.
“Good,” you say, your own voice firm with promise. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Steve’s smile deepens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It’s the smile of a boy who has finally put down a burden he was never meant to carry alone.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his gaze holding yours with a promise as sure as the rising sun. “Me neither.”
aang, in all his avatar glory, is not above tongue-fucking his cum right back into your quivering, convulsing pussy. his wide, stupefied eyes glow white as he licks and scoops and sucks with relentless obsession, lithe tongue sweeping across your folds with striking precision only a master of the four elements could possess. powerful arms pin your thighs against the mattress while roughened hands palm over your lower stomach, cradling the skin above your uterus with something almost reverent in their touch.
“it has to take. . .” he’s mumbling to himself, practically incoherent, but you can still hear the raw desperation threaded through his guttural chanting. “has to, has to, has to—!”
“a-aang, mmph! what’s wrong? did something happen on your trip—?” you whimper through the haze of overstimulation, hands scrambling against his coiled shoulders as you search for something to ground yourself with. he’s been at it for hours, ever since he returned from his home air temple. had stormed into your shared bedroom with the doors rattling against the walls behind him, barely a greeting leaving his mouth before he was climbing over you, frantic hands shoving the hefty layers of his robes and beads from his body like they’ve suddenly become unbearable.
in mere seconds he had you striped and flat on your back.
then on all fours.
and then on your side and everything else in between.
the room is in absolute shambles— feathers spilling from torn pillows and swirling through the air in frantic, whirling currents. the bed barely remains intact beneath you, headboard split apart and canopy hanging in splintered ruin, all of it unable to withstand the force of him as the elements hum beneath his tortured skin.
“aang, honey, are you— hah!— okay? talk to me, baby. please.”
what new revelation could he have possibly had for him to suddenly fold you into a million different positions?
and you tried to run, to tap out after the nth round, but did you really think you could escape the hold of an avatar in his avatar state? a handsome, beefy, six-foot-five, one-hundred-something kilogram man so utterly desperate to revive an entire bloodline, yet far too in love to want to do it with anyone else but you?
aang’s voice comes out rough, wrecked with pathetic want. “need to get you pregnant,” he finally admits, lips never leaving your twitching clit. “need it right fucking now.”
his sharp, unfamiliar words send a shiver down your spine.
he begrudgingly sits up, one hand keeping you spread for him while the other drags down his chiseled abs, ghosting over the twin downward arrows that curl just above his v–line. he fists his burly cock in slow, measured strokes as he readies another thick load, bright eyes trailing from your flushed face to your heaving breasts, tongue-in-cheek.
your heart jumps. you know that look. “aang, i know how much reviving air bending means to you, the duty you have to your people—” you start in an attempt to soothe.
because when he gets like this you tend to wobble for weeks.
he cuts you off with a dry, humorless chuckle. “you think that’s what this is about?” he tilts his head, eyes narrowing.
you could only gulp in response.
then, he’s rising above you, broad, muscular shoulders boxing you in as he settles between your thighs. the heavy heat of his dick presses against your sensitive, aching entrance, his incandescent gaze dragging over your face like he’s trying to memorize every expression, every shaky inhale.
as if he was mapping out your features to store in the forefront of his mind. to painfully revisit over and over again.
the realization that had struck him back at the temple as he looked at every mural, every worn painting and towering statue of the air nomads. they all looked like his people. familiar faces, familiar smiles, familiar powers.
but none of them resembled you.
none carried the curve of your lashes or the little furrow in your brow when you worried. none had your laugh, the unique slope of your nose, your warmth, your favor for sour over sweet, your gentleness for children and particular bugs. none exuded your enchanting presence, whether you could bend or not. and suddenly, the grief that sat in his chest for years changed shape entirely. because what would be the point of preserving the world he lost if, in doing so, he lost every trace of the person he loved most within it?
“this—this isn’t about me reviving airbenders or a duty to save my dying culture. this isn’t about avatar sonam or tagah or monk gyatso or anything that has to do with bending. this is about you and me and me wanting to start a family with you,” he states with that heavy, solid avatar voice of his. firm and sure, thumb brushing along your jaw, “this is about me making sure that a part of you will always exist in a world where the avatar exists. that your lips, your eyes, your soul. . . live on for eternity. so that every time i look into this world through the eyes of the new avatar, i can still see you. see you in our grandchildren, in our great-great grandchildren, in the people that will come to exist because we loved each other. . . to know that you’ll always be in my life someway, somehow.”
“aang. . .”
“i realize now that there will come a day when airbending returns, whether in our lifetime or long after we’re gone.” he presses his forehead against yours, tone softer despite the ache in his words. “i know that i’ll get to see that vision through the eyes of the avatars who will come after me. and if i keep chasing impossible answers, impossible resolves— if i keep throwing myself at a future i can’t force into existence— i’ll lose you in the process. i’ll waste the little time we’re given together. with our friends. with our children. the thought of losing you to time. . .”
it killed him.
you feel it. the shift in him. the sincerity behind every broken word, every trembling breath. the sheer despair that claws through him at the thought of you leaving nothing behind of yourself, of the love the two of you share. the regret he’d forever live with if he only prioritized the revival of air-bending or the kids that would inherit it. and the fact that he still hasn’t left the avatar state only makes it worse, every emotion stripped raw and vulnerable beneath glowing eyes and tattoos and shaking hands.
“so i vow now that i will never neglect your life or your culture for the sake of mine. whether we have airbending children or not. . . that is up to the universe.”
his hands cup your cheeks gently as he leans in, drawing you into a slow, sloppy kiss. you could only gasp softly when his tongue slips past your lips, kissing you like he’s trying to seal his fate with yours.
he slowly pulls away, thick fingers easing you open as he makes room for himself. “i can live without other airbenders. i can make due with the acolyte family we’ve founded. what i cannot live without is you. what i cannot imagine not ingrained in this world beyond my lifetime is you.”
aang smiles for the first time tonight, like the image in his mind was far more beautiful than anything he could’ve ever imagined. he sinks inside, massive and overwhelming, drawing a raspy breath from your lungs at the sheer stretch of him. still, you pull him closer, wanting nothing more than to feel the slow, heavy drag of him inside you.
“so for now,” he whispers, breath warm against your lips as he begins moving slowly, in and out, “all i want is a child with you. one that embodies everything that you are. one that will carry on your memory, your curiosity, your strength, your traits.” gone was the glow of the avatar state, the white fading slowly from his eyes until they were simply his again, fixed on yours with a tenderness so deep it was almost unbearable. “so i’m begging you. . . give me a baby that looks just like you.”
you cry out helplessly as he buries his face into your throat, holding you impossibly close. every stroke is long and deliberate, driven far less by hunger and more by an emotion too large for words. the slick of your arousal coats his balls as you helplessly grind against him, cunt fluttering around the girthiness of his base. you could feel all the veins that line him, tracing your walls as he fucked you like he needed you to breathe.
you blink back the tears threatening to spill. “b-but i do want our baby to be like you. i do want to help you—”
he shakes his head fervently, fingers tightening around you like he’s afraid you still don’t understand. “no. no,” he rasps, “i don’t want this to be some duty you carry for me. i want this because it’s us. because it’s the life we chose together. no obligations. no sacrifices.”
you feel the dampness at the corner of his eyes as he clings to you, hands roaming your body in a worship-like trance, as though he was reassuring himself that you were real and here and present and his. to have and to hold and to sink himself into when the world is in chaos.
“please,” he croaks hoarsely into your neck, voice cracking around the word, and the raw vulnerability in it makes your chest ache more than anything else ever could. “say you’ll give me a baby, sweetheart. say you’ll give me this one thing. even if they come without air-bending.”
a broken sound leaves your throat as you cling to his shoulders, nodding desperately against him, back arching into his warmth. “yes,” you breathe out shakily, fingers curling around his nape. “yes, yes, yes. of course, i will.”
the words—your defining proclamation—undo him entirely. he groans into the curve of your neck, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, every breath hot, cold, then hot again against your skin. he cums in thick, long spurts, coating your insides pearly white as you cream on his cock, legs caging him in. his tattoos begin to faintly glow once more as he shivers, hips still pumping his seed into you, forehead pressed beneath your jaw, as though he can’t bear even an inch of distance between you.
when he finally pulls back, his eyes have returned to their natural state, shining with something far softer than desire.
devotion, perhaps. a need to always keep you safe. to give you—and your children—a world that offers everything and takes nothing in return.
“i love you,” he murmurs softly, brushing the damp strands of your hair from your face. he rests his forehead against yours again, eyes slipping closed as his heart, for once, is at ease. “thank you.”
your lips tremble into a tired smile, fingers curling weakly around his head. “you never have to thank me for loving you.”
though your words alone could never truly capture the depth of everything you’ve given him.
calling leon by his middle name. he loves it… maybe a little too much (18+)
“leon— mmhm, fuck!”
the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoed in the room, along with your moans and his grunts. he’d been back from whatever mission he was on, a week ago. and he’d missed your pussy, and you deeply, which he was showing you enthusiastically.
“so tight f’me, baby,” he grunts, his voice low and breathless, hips pounding into you relentlessly. “missed you so— hah... so much.”
you could only wantonly moan in response with the way he had you spread under him, legs propped up on his broad and muscular shoulders, copious amounts of slick leaking from around his cock, trickling down your ass and into the bedsheet, ruining them.
you wrapped your hands around his strong forearms, digging your nails and leaving behind bloody half crescent indents, and if it was possible, it turned him on even more.
he let out a deep, throaty groan. fuck, you couldn’t get any better. “yes, baby. that’s it, mark me up.”
he moved faster now, almost at a punishing pace, eliciting a few tears out of your eyes.
“baby… scott— you’re too fast! ah… slow down,” you whine, almost crying out, nails still digging onto his forearm.
the moment his brain registers what you just said, he freezes. literally. his hips stutter mid-thrust, the rhythm faltering altogether and then, he stops. “what’d you just say?” he asks, observing your face, watching a tear roll down from your eyes to your temple.
you breathe deeply, easing your body, and loosening your grip on his forearms. “what?”
you look at him, eyes locked with his. why did he stop? you just asked him to slow down, didn’t you? “i just… wanted you to slow down… you were going too hard.”
“no, not that. what did you call me?” he asks, his voice was soft, body at ease now, not strained. just propped up above you on his forearm.
oh. you had called him by his middle name. scott. you would’ve been worried about him being displeased if it was not for his cock twitching traitorously inside you. “scott. it slipped. my bad,” you say, smiling coquettishly.
leon smiled back, almost boyishly. he reached up and gently grabbed you by the thighs, pulling back just enough to dislodge your legs from his shoulders and letting them fall back on the bed, eyes never leaving yours.
“well, don’t let me stop you,” he says softly, propping himself back on his forearms that rested besides your shoulders. you noticed his face was flushed when he leaned closer, that silly smile never leaving his face.
“leon scott kennedy, are you blushing?” you giggle in amusement.
he groans softly, burrowing his face into the curve of your neck, breathing in your scent. you giggle again, one hand coming up to play with his hair.
“did you like it when i called you scott?”
he lifts up his head, just slightly, to look back into your eyes. “…a little.” when you kept looking at him, he surrendered. “‘kay, yeah. i did. that was hot—you are hot. fuck, i missed you.”
not even a millisecond later, his lips were on yours, tasting and coaxing you open. and then, a soft thrust, which had you grip his biceps. his whole body was weighing down on you, every inch of his skin pressed against yours.
“scott,” you whimpered in his ears, voice soft and gentle, as he kept thrusting into you shallowly.
“christ, you’re going to be the death of me, love,” he grunted out, increasing his pace. “dont stop.”
it didn’t take too long for you to come apart under him, pussy clenching and fluttering around his cock as your orgasm crashed over you. soon enough, he followed with a choked grunt, emptying himself inside you, filling you up to the brim.
after you had caught your breath, you couldn’t help but giggle again. “now i know just what to say to get you blushing like a schoolgirl.”
leon huffed out a breathless laugh, looking at you with amusement. “not if i make you scream it all night long. think you can handle a second round, hmm?”
she’s a teacher, works with the young kids. they’re extra rowdy this time of year, antsy because it's almost time for break, but still in the throes of mid year assessments.
she spends half the day projecting her voice to catch their attention and the other half correcting their behavior. she comes home every day and puts on the kettle, before going to the shower, turning the water as hot as it can go, washing away the day.
it’s when she’s lying down for bed that night that she feels it. the little scratching in the back of her throat, dry like her pharynx has turned to sandpaper. She takes a few sips of water, hoping for it to just be some minor dehydration, only to be severely disappointed when it in fact does not go away.
she tries to get ahead of it, making another tea before bed, having a bit of medicine, and a vitamin c packet. but when she wakes up the next morning it’s gotten worse, she feels it all the time now, not just when she’s swallowing. it’s more of an inconvenience than anything, since it’s a saturday and she has nowhere to be, no kids or parents to talk to, but it’s still frustrating.
simon comes home that night, duffel bag on his shoulder, tac vest stuffed inside, his body covered in a thin layer of grime, dried sweat, mostly. she’s already asleep when he peers into their shared bedroom, buried beneath the blankets. he doesn’t wake her yet, going to take a quick shower before coming back to her.
he climbs into bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, creaking slightly as his sore body melts into the soft blankets, thick with the familiar scent of her lotion. the disturbance makes her eyes flutter open with a soft jolt before they focus on him.
“Simon!” she says excitedly, but her voice is raspy, clipped, like she’s in pain. she sits up to fling her arms around his neck and he wraps his arms around her, burying his face into her hair.
“yer sick.” he says into her hair as his hand rubs up and down her back, lifting her shirt so he can feel her skin.
“‘m not,” she rasps into his neck “just a sore throat, no fever.”
he hums softly in reply, and presses the back of his hand against her forehead, checking for himself. no fever. he presses a kiss into her hair, long and steady, his hands engulfing the dips and mounds of her sides and hips.
"you hurt anywhere?" she asks, voice scratchy. he shakes his head, "just fine, lovie." he affirms softly, his voice rasping as well, but differently than hers. "wha's got you soundin' like tha?" he asks questioningly as he shifts so he's laying back, propped up against the pillows, pulling her on top of him.
"exams week at school," she says dryly, a tired smile her lips. "can't keep the kids still for more than a second, and my class this year is huge, Si." she begins to ramble, pausing every few seconds to swallow or clear her throat. he loves this part of their routine, when he comes off a deployment mandate she rants about her day, and he gets to hear all about how she's spent her time, all the things she's excited to too together now that he's back. but it was a particularly shit op, one that left him with more than a few bruises and a hunger for his girl that he's normally able to tamp down.
"I mean it, twenty-six little demons, screaming all day long, begging me for the fancy bandaids and to sharpen their already sharpened pencils, pretending they can't see the board when it's time for math-" she's in the middle of saying when he tugs her down again, listening to her talk while he attaches his lips to her neck.
"Gonna wear your voice out," he murmurs against the column of her throat, squeezing her hips, the fabric of her sleep shorts bunching under his fingers.
"You asked me to talk." she says, smiling as her hands thread in the cropped blonde strands on his head. "Know what I said," he says, his tongue coming out to flatten against the junction her neck and shoulder, melting into a kiss. "Was talkin' about me, love." he murmurs as his lips travel up to her ear, gently kissing around it before taking the little piece of cartilage between his teeth.
it's only then that she becomes aware of how he's subtly been trying to rock her hips back and forth, his grip on them flexing. she know's he'd never interrupt her while she's so wrapped up in updating him, and if she wasn't beginning to feel that same heat licking down the base of her spine, driving her hips forward, she'd make a joke about his chivalry. "That so?" she asks with amusement as she slackens a bit in his hold, letting herself be dragged back and forth a bit more.
"Mhm," he hums lazily as his hand slips under her shirt, fingers grasping at the side of her stomach, beneath her ribs. "And do you plan on taking care of me when I've got to call out sick on Monday with a sore throat?" She asks with amusement, head tilting upward so he can press his face into the skin she's exposed for him. "Mhm," he gruffs as his hands begin to peel up her shirt. "Should call out for Tuesday, too."
❝S(CREAM) ON THIS D!CK?!❞— ghostface! gojo x male reader
ꗃ Summary: Behind the facade of his academic triumph, influence, enigmatic aura and luxury, he never seemed to get what he really wants, not until you. His ocean-blue eyes seems to glimmer behind those black frames everytime you're on his sight, almost desperate, even beneath the mask that he carry ever so carelessly by night fall, he reeks of obsession and desire as blood drips on his fingertips, his gaze always lingered, it never faltered until that one phone call.
ⓘ Warnings: porn with plot, slight slow burn(?), college au! nerdjo, nerd reader, murder, blood and violence mentioned, pillow prince reader, light knife play (if you squint), obsessive and mean gojo, mocking, dumbification, masturbation, drooling, full nelson, belly bulge, creampie, bare back, overstimulation, cumflation, rimming, fingering, dick riding, choking, breeding, manhandling, size difference, blow job, deep throat, doggy-style, power imbalance, you get folded like a pretzel, not proofread, grammar because english is not my first language, this is a bit long.
University has been very difficult for you, hectic even, though not necessarily through academics, you've been a consistent honor student back in your home land, always joining some extra-curriculum activities, organizations and even climbing to the higher ranks, medals hanged heavily at your neck, gold and silver. though maybe it's just you're still adapting to your new environment.
It's not like your parents pressured you to be that way, to be an academic weapon, in fact they are very supportive, asking how your day went, they even ask to help you with your homework, and you merely gave them a look, like they've spilled your matcha latte in your chem textbooks, one might say that you're studious, intellectual, more likely a nerd in their lame and miniscule minds.
Well who could blame them? It's not like they pay your bills for you to care enough.
Glancing at your phone, 2:03 am, your message box was empty, it always had been empty, it's either your professor asking you for the class itinerary or the delivery guy who always asks for a tip every time you order chinese takeout on a friday night.
Surprisingly enough, you got a few friends to rely on even with your individualist syndrome, your message box might be empty but your curated ig account isn't, like your own little museum, you never showed your appearance but people assumed that you're quite attractive because of your style. They often see your friends, Yuji, Nobara and Megumi, they're sophomores while you're a junior, it is your third year in college, so just one year gap, but they insist on calling you their own old man.
You were a sophomore when you got into your dorm, you never had a roommate, well more likely because there's a rumored ghost haunting the hallways and bathrooms, It's not like you don't believe in ghosts, you actually like watching paranormal documentaries after the exams, but it's because you like the peaceful and quiet nights when you can study unbothered, doing the chores on your own accord, cooking meals with no one to share with.
It might seem lonely to be by yourself, but at least you got your cat, no?
You flinched, as you felt a furry and fluffy creature snuggled against your foot.
“Kiki. . are you hungry?”
You asked the white furball reaching for it, your hands slipping under its short arms, putting kiki on your lap and scratching its head and chin, it mewled softly leaning to your touch.
“I guess you are. . .”
-
You hated calculus, no, you loathed it.
Let's just say that mathematics wasn't your strong suit. . . You literally just crawled your way in to pass that subject, you even tried to avoid it but it was inevitable, you never had a blink of sleep when you tried to study Multivariable calculus, and all of that shit show, your eyes almost bulged out of your skull sockets and it's already the fourth can of coffee you've inhaled.
You'd rather memorize all parts of every single organ in your body and its functions than adding, subtracting two vectors.
-
Now at some cafe.
“[Name], are you still breathing. . ?” Nobara asked in half concern while putting on her lip-gloss.
“Doubt it! I mean just look at him he looks like he just went to his own funeral!!” Yuji grimaced as he tried to shake you for your soul to somehow wake up again.
“Well aren't you harsh?” Megumi sat down next to you, with a matcha latte on his hand, sliding it in front of you.
“I'm actually cooked.” You then gently grasp Yuji's hands gripping your shoulders and pulling it off you with a forlorn look on your face.
“Cooked? Babe, you're charred at this point, you can't just keep avoiding your core subject y'know? It's a general education requirement, what if you can't graduate because of it.” Nobara deadpanned, her words stung but it was facts.
“You're talking as if you didn't fail general mathematics in highschool, consecutively. ” You bantered as you felt a hand, fingers with acrylics on it, gripping your scalp, ouch.
“HOW DARE—?! I'm just concerned about you and that's what you're going to repay me?” Nobara spouted while she continues to torture you.
“How about you get a tutor, [Name]?” Yuji meekly suggested, while he takes a little sip of your matcha latte.
“[Name]'s pride is higher than the mount everest itself, y'know, he can't just stumble on faculty and inquire for a tutor that's just crazy—” Megumi scoffed, not until you actually consider it.
“Yuji. . .that's actually smart of you.” You gave your friend a small grin as you ruffled his soft pink locks.
“WAAH.. [Name] complimented me! It's a miracle—”
“Ugh. enough of this studying shit already, sem-break is actually coming how about we actually do something fun, and you! why don't you come with us just this once? You've done nothing but to rot inside of your dorm!” Nobara irked as she pulled her brown strands in distress, pointing at you.
“Why would I? Y'know I don't like socializing..” You grumbled leaning down to sip on your matcha latte.
“Oh for god's sake! It's Halloween you dumbass and we're having a party, I hope that calculus notebooks of yours haunt you.” Nobara rolled her eyes to sass, jested as she checked her phone if her costume is arriving on 29th.
You choked on your drink, and your friends just snickered at you. What a lovely friends you have.
-
His ocean-blue eyes glimmered behind the black frames he was wearing, he eyes then glanced to his wrist, pulling the white sleeves of his button up, revealing a silver rolex, 6:09 pm.
The library has always been empty and quiet, not because it was in the rules to be quiet, but because people rarely come there to study, most of them just borrow books and go on their merry way to go back to their dorms or home.
Gojo Satoru liked the vibes of this particular library mainly because the books here are more scholarly and detailed, just his type, the smell of coffee and old paper, vellichor is what would he call. And especially because this library is fully air-conditioned and it has free wifi if you kindly ask the elderly who supervised the whole library.
He does visit the university library to return books but it just doesn't just piqued his interest especially when it's packed of performative students who just lounge there for attention, for his attention.
Well wouldn't? He might be a studious monster but it doesn't mean that he's not packed under that model student facade.
There's been this trend around the universities all around the country that's actually quite concerning for him. Like what do you mean people wanted a tall, handsome and nerdy boyfriend who never felt a touch of a woman all of his life for? And why does it have to be him? Well too bad they can't approach him.
His name and candid pictures is all over the internet for some reason and they've immortalized him into their degenerate fantasies.
He turned off his phone before he even went to a crashout, he then rubbed his eyelids, pushing his glasses upwards. His gaze then reverted back on to his laptop, looking at the date, 10/15/25. . . Should I do it. . . ?
He then heard rustling just in front of him, a few meters away from him, fixing his posture, to see who it is.
“Oh. . It's him, again.”
He always sees you in the library but he never saw you on campus, he knows that you guys went to the same university because of the ID lace you've been wearing, and you're always studying.. just like him, though you never acknowledged him inside the library nor tried to bother him in any way, though your presence always has been comforting for him, making him feel that he wasn't alone in this big ass library.
Whenever you guys somehow make eye contact with each other, you never gave him a scowl nor a smile, just your eyes making contact with his own made a connection, a silent conversation, Gojo felt something inside of him that he never felt before, he tried to brush it off like anyone else. Ignoring the part that his ears are tinted with pink and felt the blood rush onto his cheeks, his eyebrows knitted.
“Is this what having a crush is like. . .? How troublesome.”
He then continues to finish his reports, looking all constipated.
-
Let's just say that Gojo Satoru is a well-known figure all around the university, he dominated the ranks, consecutively, and his family name is widely known for it's excellence and luxuries, though he's been gifted intellectually ever since he was in his pre-school, crushing anyone's dreams and passion in one snap, the true definition of talent beats hardwork, many people despised him for that but some admired him, well not that Gojo cares for that anyways.
It was autumn, the sea of every shade of orange and brown maple leaves flooded the streets followed by the cold breeze making them dance, with kids in their thick coats, bonnets and little mittens running down the road, chasing each other.
He was walking down the hallway, basking in sunlight, almost illuminating his tall figure, fixing his black spectacles, he was wearing a black trench coat that reached below his knees, black turtleneck, grey slacks, and there hanged his ID lace, the shadow of the trees swaying gently in the wind matched the atmosphere, noticing the horde of students in front of the bulletin board where the preliminary ranks are announced, he then observed some of the students expressions contorted into a shocked, broken and somehow relieve faces.
“They're blocking the way. . .” Gojo irked as his veins almost popped on his forehead, he doesn't have a choice but to just look at the bulletin board himself where he can look for his rank this time, some of the students noticed his presence with a shocked expression and decided to step away, giving him a path and everyone else did.
His eyes scanned for his name, finding it on top, Rank 1. Satoru Gojo, with 99.45%, and followed by Aoi Todo being on Rank 2. with 97.56%, he felt the burning stares almost poking through his back, he heard some of the murmurs being “He didn't get a hundred this time, huh?” “Are you serious? You couldn't even get passed 70% you imbecile?!”
Gojo merely deadpanned, though they're right, he's expecting it to be 99.87% or just flat 100% this semester, General biology really did do him dirty this time, he gripped the handle of his black prada satchel rather tightly.
He then noticed a presence beside him, eyes widening slightly, it was you, he felt his heart thump, you must've been here to look at your rank as well, considering at the side you're in you must be his junior, looking at the direction you're looking at he saw your rank.
Rank 1. [Name] [Last name], with 99.47%
“Holy shit.” Gojo's eyes widened once again, his eyes slightly shimmering staring back at your figure.
“Stupid calculus. . .—” You murmured, eyes almost burning the paper in front of you, you then hear the tall person beside you.
“Wanna be study buddies together?” Gojo said in the most monotonous way as possible, as if he didn't just dropped a bomb on you and everyone else who's present, shoving his hands deep inside his pockets, ignoring the warm sensation coiling into his core and the audience behind you two.
“Pardon . . ?” Your jaw agape, confused? puzzled? confuzzled? You don't even know if that's a word at this point.
-
“So. . . you're meant to tell me that we should tutor each other, because your weak point is Biology and my weak point is Calculus?” You said as you try to calm yourself down, by the fact that the most popular nerd in the campus just drags you to some expensive cafe downtown to talk about academics. were you in some sort of lucid dream?
“Wrong, I said that your strong suit is Biology and my strong suit Calculus and by that we should help each other to be on top” Gojo gave a smile while slicing his strawberry shortcake with a knife.
“You literally just twisted my words and still proved my point, and besides how can we do that? We're not in the same year nor curriculum.” You then stabbed the blueberry cheesecake in half with a fork and shoved it in your mouth. fuck this shit is so good.
“Cute, but I did consider that and thought about that already, do you really think that I'll just decide and not think of the possible effects? I'm hurt.” Gojo pouted, chewing on his lips like a bullied child, fiddling his fingers together.
“You're a child. . . I didn't expect you to be this way y'know? You just have this certain aura about you that would make people not approach you at all but here you are begging me to be your study mate.” You said bluntly then sipping on your chocolate milkshake.
“Is that what you really think of me? Well I guess that's fair, though I just didn't like people leeching off me for their own benefits, but I'm guessing that you knew that already knowing how smart you are, aren't you?” Gojo said steadily, gaze dripping to your form, memorizing the every curve of you.
“Of course? I'm sure it's not that hard to conclude, no? Unless you're that pathetic, Being smart is nothing without empathy after all, so yes I would love to be your tutor.” You finished with a satisfied expression, putting down your fork on the plate.
“You just know what to say every time, did you rehearse this by any chance?” Gojo's heart kept on beating loudly as if he was alive again, leaning his head down to hide his growing smile and the healthy pink tint on his cheeks, it's so nice to get to talk to someone once again, he thought to himself.
“ I'm afraid I did not. . .”
-
“Satoru. . . Did you hit your head on your way home? What do you mean you want to live in the dorms?!” Geto screamed at the man as if he killed somebody. . . again.
“What's the big deal? It's not like I'm going to move away forever, just for a while y'know, I need tutoring for biology and shit.” Gojo grumbled slipping off his shoes and throwing the socks in the laundry bucket.
“Well it's not like I'm opposed to it or something, it's just so sudden. . . and weirdly enough for tutoring purposes? You all of people needed tutoring? Are you still the Satoru Gojo that I knew? The honor stud—” Geto was silenced by a pillow colliding on his face. “HEY—?!”
“Oh, shut your trap, will you? I literally have to beg my way just to make him agree y'know?” Gojo complained, lying down on the soft mattress of the couch.
“Begging? You? Damn you are down bad aren't you? Is your new boy-toy that hot?” Geto flopped down the couch beside Gojo, as he turned on the television.
“He's not just hot y'know, he's incredibly smart and kind too . . .” Gojo buried his face on the pillow screaming into it.
“You got yourself a crush, huh. Young love these days. . .” Geto sighed, holding the remote directly at the big ass screen in front of them.
“Ugh. You're such a bummer, Suguru. . .” Gojo sat up, gaze staring at the screen, reading it silently.
Scream, 1996.
“Hey, Suguru. Wanna dress up as Ghostface again? I mean it's almost Halloween.” Gojo asked Geto beside him.
“Eh, Him again? I think I will change my costume this year's halloween y'know? Like Count Dracula or something.” Geto answered his friend making his way to the kitchen to get some snacks.
“Well suit yourself, I guess.”
-
“WHAT?!” all of your friends chorused, cramped inside your dormitory, it's not that cramped actually, you're just dramatic.
“Oh, will you guys shut up about it already?” You grimaced as you tried to focus on the math tutorial online to not embarrass yourself once your tutoring starts, clicking the play button on your laptop on top of your study desk, notebooks and textbooks scattered everywhere.
“What do you mean by shutting it already, huh?! You punk. The Gojo Satoru just asked you to be his tutor?! That's fucking insane.” Nobara pinched your cheeks and pulled it with a scary look at her face, you tried to pull it off only for her to pinched it even more causing you to winced. Her nails are weapons, I'm telling y'all.
“That's actually so lit, [Name]!! I mean you are the smartest student in the Junior department after all and he's the smartest in the senior department.” Yuji said with a proud look on his face because he's your friend and you're his friend.
“For once, I agree with Itadori.” Megumi said while playing with Kiki on top of your bed as the cat merely snuggled to Megumi's side.
“Hey! What's that supposed to mean, huh?!” Yuji abruptly stood up to throw a pillow at Megumi.
“ H-HEY NO PILLOW FIGHT— HEY THAT'S MY TROPHY YOU DUMBASS?! PUT IT DOWNNN—”
-
After class, you found yourself in the teacher's faculty room, the air-conditioning hitting your face gently, a cold shiver running down your spine, Professor Tsukaba personally called for you via message.
“Mr. [Last Name], thank you for the immediate attendance, I would like to inform you about the issues with your dormitory and I would like to congratulate you for ranking first.” Ms. Tsukaba merely spinned her chair with a small smile gracing her lips.
“Issues? I'm afraid, I don't know what you're talking about. . .though thank you Professor Tsukaba.” You pondered, but you don't exactly remember what you did wrong or what happened to have an issue.
“Oh, Do not worry dear, it's not that kind of issue. It's just that the University's (RA) noticed that you don't have a roommate just this week and we decided to settle it, luckily someone in the senior department is willing to be your roommate, since it's his first time in the dormitory.” She explained to you while finishing her lesson plan.
Your body stiffened at the moment that you actually forgot to breathe, a roommate?!
“Ah. . Is that so, I understand. Though can I please know who it is?” You meekly asked the lady.
“I'm afraid I cannot, I made a promise with that child, to not tell you who he is if you ever asked for it.” Ms. Tsukaba apologized with a sorry face.
“No, it's completely alright, Professor. When is he arriving?” You dismissed but asked again.
“Tomorrow night, Dear.” The lady answered your question before sipping her tea.
ALREADY?!
“ Thank you, Professor. I will take my leave now.” You plead your goodbye, as you bow to her.
“No need to be so formal with me, [Name]. I am not going to feed you math equations this time.” Ms. Tsukaba jested with a teasing tone.
“Ma'am, it's not funny at all. . .” You grimaced.
“Y'know I'm joking.”
You then made your way outside the faculty, the warm sun rays welcoming you through the glass window, the sunset after classes always had mesmerized you while you pondered.
“I guess I need to do a general cleaning, huh. How troublesome.”
-
You slipped the last book into your shelf, the books categorized as what kind of genre or type they are, you even changed the sheets of the unused bed beside you, cleaned the dust on the empty study table, changed the curtains, vacuumed and mopped the floor, you even scrubbed the bathroom clean, cleaning your medals and trophies you received since you're a freshman inside the glass cabinet, of course you have more than that but you left all of your highschool memorabilias and awards at your parent's home.
You flopped down to your bed, checking your phone for the time, 7:12 pm. Swiping up to see if your order has been shipped, it's just Halloween decorations after all, you're still thinking of what your costume is going to be, you did see that some of the dorm rooms had started to decorate their doors and little pathways.
It's still unreal to you that you're going to have a roommate now but you can't bend the rules after all, whoever your roommate's going to be you prayed that they're somewhat kind or chill, you messaged your little friend group about it and they absolutely went batshit about it.
You stood up to look at your appearance in the mirror, damn I look like shit. You then reached for your towel in the rack and got the clothes inside your closet, your roommate might be on their way now and you're looking like shit? No way.
You make your way inside the bathroom and shower.
-
Gojo kept on looking at his watch every damn 5 seconds while he drives with Geto beside him who's looking at him like he's gone mad.
“Will you please calm your ass down? You're not even late. You insisted on living in a dormitory now face the repercussions.” Geto said with a tired face, “If Shoko was here right now she'd be frying you.”
“I am calm! I'm just nervous because it's my first time y'know. . !” Gojo bantered as he parked near the university.
“Oh, don't bullshit me with that, Satoru. I know you too well.” Geto just watched his friend get his luggage inside the trunk in the mirror.
“Yeah, yeah Mr. Know-it-all. Bye for now, don't miss me too much, 'kay?” Gojo said with a smug smile while waving his goodbyes.
“Last time I checked you are the Mr. Know-it-all here, you nerdy hunk. Just don't die.” Geto said while waving back to his friend, starting the car once again.
Gojo went inside the dormitory building to see some of the students in their sleeping wear and some of them in casual, looking at him with a bamboozled expression, he looked for the room 436 with a luggage on his side, wearing a black chrome hearts hoodie with white sweatpants.
He eventually found it on the fourth floor, where the rooms are weirdly quiet, is it not occupied? Well I guess no neighbors then.
He stopped in front of the door, twisting the knob to know if it was locked, it's not. Walking himself inside the room, it was quite spacious, with two windows, two beds and two tables. How cute, it was really made for roommates, have you been living alone like this for months? Isn't that lonely. He also saw your glass cabinet full of trophies and certificates stacked together with your name on it, medals displayed. Yeah. You're his type. He bit his lips, smirking a little.
Gojo also noticed a bolster bed beside your bed with two small bowls, he then felt a creature snuggled beside his leg, a white ragdoll cat, with cerulean-blue eyes that could rival his, letting out a small mewl.
“Well aren't you cute? Besides the fact that you look just like me. . .”
Gojo then made his way to your side, where all your things are organized and located, you're so neat with your things, leaving his luggage by his bed, with a cat following him.
He noticed the small things that screamed too much of you, you're so cute. He also noticed the pictures you displayed, pink haired dude, black haired boy and a brunette girl, it must be your friends.
Gojo heard the knob twisting by the bathroom area, he perked at the familiar figure that emerged from it.
“Long time, no see. How have you've bee—” He then felt his breath hitching by the sight of you, clad in a loose white shirt and dark grey sweat shorts, and a white towel hanging in your neck, droplets of water dripped down your hair strands, also dripping down your thighs and smooth legs. Fuck.
“So it was you after all? I had a hunch but I didn't expect it to be true. . .” You then tried to dry your hair with your towel then you remembered that you have a hair blower in your drawer. “ I've been fine, make yourself at home, you can unpack your things sooner or later if you want, Kiki seems to like you.” You said walking past his frozen figure.
“Its name is Kiki? How adorable, considering that it looks a bit like me, no?” Gojo swallowed his saliva back, and jested, flopping down his bed.
“Now that you mentioned it, Kiki does look like a bit like you because of color, he's also a boy if you're wondering.” You then turn the blower on mild heat to dry your hair, putting the blower slightly higher making your shirt hitched a bit upwards revealing the side of your waist. he wanted to grab it so bad.
“Y-yeah. . . Thanks.” He then looked away covering the half of his face with his hand, fearing that his face might erupt into multiple shades of red. Why must you tease me this way.
-
It has been a week since Gojo moved in with you.
He already got his pc setup with triple monitors settled on his very own desk, his xbox, nintendo switch and even his vr set is already displayed, his multiple textbooks and books are already stacked and settled on the shelf, and not to mention his hyperfixation of Digimon is already there. Gojo's greed sickens me.
You also find him weird.
There are a few times when you catch him just blatantly staring at you then looking away, you can't just ignore the feeling of that eyes memorizing the every crevice of you, no? Watching the every fiber of your being, There are also these scenarios where he will almost touch you in any way but it's almost like he's restraining himself to do so, holding himself back, you can't seem to grasp it.
You will see him all day on his desk studying, well you aren't surprised by it in any way it's just that you notice him skipping his meals trying to memorize and solve things in his notebook, for a smart person he sure is dumb enough to neglect himself.
“Hey. . . Have you eaten? You've been at your desk since 7:06 am, it's already 4:30 pm.” You asked while flopping down to his bed, tilting your head to see his face.
“Aw, I didn't know that you care for me, [Name], for you to keep track of my time at that.” Gojo perked at your sudden appearance next to him, with a dainty smile gracing his lips.
To be fair, Gojo isn't used to being cared for, especially a stranger who only knew him and he knew for weeks, usually it's just Suguru and Shoko who checks up on him, because his parents weren't present when he turned five years old for business overseas and familial reasons, leaving him emotionally unavailable and mentally constipated, then he felt that warm sensation coiling inside of him once again everytime you're so close to him, the hairs on his neck starts to stand up.
“Why yes? This is my first time having a roommate y'know, I can't just have you neglecting yourself, not on my sight.” You bantered at him, putting your arms up to stretch your back.
“That's true or maybe you're just too kind for your own good, do you treat everyone like this, [Name]?” Gojo said with a honeyed tone at first then gritted his teeth by the end of it.
“Not really, I'm quite picky.” You stood up making your way to the mini kitchen you guys have, as you answered him frankly.
“Oh? I guess I'm a lucky one, then?” Gojo's irises glimmered at your form, with a small smile on his lips.
“I guess you are.” You craned your head to look at him and said.
“You aren't really making me win that easy, huh?” Gojo let out a breathy laugh, returning to his screen, hiding his growing smile once again.
“Y'know how I am. . . ” You merely finished grabbing the matcha powder in the cupboard.
-
Your eyes felt heavy, feeling the incoming yawn in your throat you stretched your back, arms up, you've been on your laptop for almost 8 hours now, finishing some of the powerpoint presentations and group reports, a few ones in microsoft excel and some quizzes in kahoot! that made your head want to explode, but you still have a week till the deadline, pushing the power off button the laptop can finally rest and so are you, standing up to make your way in the bathroom, giving your roommate glances who's also chained to his desk, with the textbooks he borrowed from you scattered around his desk, high quality headphones that hanged on his neck, the light of his monitors illuminating his figure, making a certain glow that made him look ethereal.
You washed your face, then brushed your teeth, coming out of the bathroom to see Kiki already waiting for you. Food. Yeah.
You immediately went into the kitchen cabinet to find Kiki's kibbles and his favorite wet food, mixing it together, then poured it into his food bowl.
Yawning once again, then flopping down to the soft cushions of your bed, you almost melted into your mattress, the sheets were cold because of the air-conditioning, and the fabric conditioner smelled so nice, but you can't seem to fall asleep, looking at your roommate who's still glued to his seat, you then rested your chin on your hand, staring at Gojo, his face, I mean who wouldn't especially when he's not wearing his glasses.
Gojo typed the last paragraph, precisely, though he already felt the exhaustion punching him right in the head, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses, until he felt someone staring at him, it was you, staring at him, making eye contact with you.
“Uhm, Do you need anything. . . ?” Gojo asked while fixing his glasses.
You perked up at the sudden question, your mind almost went blank, what should you say? Shit. Well you don't have anything to say anyway because you're just literally looking at his face. Though If I say that it'd be embarrassing, no it's humiliating.
“Well not really. . ? I was just wondering why a good-looking guy like you wears glasses, now that I mention this, I noticed these past few days that you get around just fine even without your glasses, I assumed that your eyes aren't that bad.” You rambled while scratching your cheek, but you just made yourself more humiliated.
Gojo's eyes widened yet softened at your words, no one really asked him that before.
“To be honest, you're quite right, though I already wear glasses since I was in the fourth grade and I am not used to it when I don't have it, I feel like I'm blind or something. . .thanks by the way.” He answered returning back to his monitors, attempting to hide his reddening cheeks.
“I see, well good night then.” You smiled at him as you settled down in your bed, nestled under your snoopy blanket.
“Good night.”
Gojo wasn't the type to lose his mind when it comes to deadlines and the mountain of reviewers that he needs to study on a random thursday night, he's usually so laid-back and composed when it comes to this to this stuff, because he always studies until it's breaking dawn, the sunrise always greeting him like an old friend.
But this time he's not so sure anymore, his skin didn't feel right on his bones, sweat slick on his back, unfocused and distracted, and it's all your fault, the every thought inside his head somehow is being interconnected with you.
Eventually he did get used to it, but it wasn't easy, he really likes it when you teach him, you're actually educating rather than making him feel dumb for not knowing or understanding it, and you're so patient with it too. The way you explained so intricately yet he can pick it up quickly is so important to him. and by that he decided that you're going to be his. No matter what.
He also decided that you're not just his flimsy crush anymore, something ignited inside of him that he can't somehow control, but he's not opposed to it either and then so this kind of occurrence only happens when you're not around.
Whenever he's in the shower he can't help but to get a boner when he remembers your fleeting touch on his broad shoulders, the way you ruffle his white locks whenever he gets the correct answer to your questions, the way your breathing tickles his ears when you gossip with him about your day or when you walked in the room only wearing an unbuttoned white button-up shirt that revealed your soft and smooth stomach with some muscle on it and a black boxer shorts that almost destroyed his last drop of sanity. Fuck he's so into you and you're too oblivious for you're own good.
He bit his lip, eyebrows knitted together, whimpering, pumping his dick up and down, slick covering his shaft, precum oozing out the slit, he imagined you blowing his dick and shooting it down your throat as you gagged on it, tears brimming.
Fuck. He can't wait to tutor you.
-
“Satoru. . . Will you get your ass here already? I need help with decorating the door over here.” You called for him, while holding the Happy Halloween cutouts and webs, you already displayed the jack-o'-lanterns and the whole skeleton sitting on the chair with a coffee mug in its hand, resembling what you're going to be in the future or something.
“Hey! Just because I gave you the permission to call me by my first name doesn't mean that you can abuse it.” Gojo grumbled coming out of the bathroom with his hair slick back from being wet, wearing a black compression shirt and grey joggers.
“Stop being a baby and stick this on the door. ” You rolled your eyes and said while reaching it to Gojo.
“But I'm your baby aren't I?” Gojo finds a way to twist your words against you once again and decides to tease you, leaning his face close to you, with a sly expression.
You smacked his shoulder in return.
“OUCH— Hey! That's not nice” Gojo cried, rubbing the spot that you've smacked, while pouting.
“Well, news flash, I don't intend to be nice.” You said, while walking inside the dorm leaving the weeping Gojo outside, unbeknownst to the reddening of your cheeks and neck.
“For a short-term roommates they sure act like a married couple.” Mai spoke while puffing out smoke in her cigarette, looking at the situation unfolding in front of them.
“This building has been inhabited with gay people or something.” Maki bantered while fixing her cap.
“You're talking as if you didn't just eye fucked Nobara back in the bar.” Mai jested, teasing her twin sister.
“H-HEY?! That's not true, Take that back! and will you stop smoking when I'm around? You've been hanging out with Leiri-senpai haven't you?!” Maki's eyes widened, face blooming into 50 shades of red, pointing to her devil-spawned twin sister.
“Nye nye nye, I can't hear youuu—” Mai said throwing the used cigarettes to the nearby trash can as Maki chased her down the stairs.
-
“Satoru, why's your face like that. . . ?” You noticed then asked in concern.
“What do you mean?” Gojo asked back in return, with a clueless expression.
“You look like you're about to kill someone with that look.” You deadpanned.
“Really? I apologize, I'm just not used to many people coming here to study or lounging, it's usually peaceful.” Gojo reasoned out, as his gaze never left the people packed in the central area of the library, he recognized those ID laces, his veins almost popped in his neck and forehead, knuckle turning white from his grip, when he catches one of them ogling at you.
Fucking. Sukuna Ryomen with his signature smirk. Asshole. He's definitely trying to piss him off. Yeah I'm going to kill that bastard if he even tries to touch you.
“Is that so? Well, don't mind them, I'm sure they meant no harm.” You replied gently.
“Yeah, I'm sure. . .” Gojo said lowly.
-
“Little red riding hood? Really. You're making me dress into some dumb and naive girl? I am quite offended.” You grimaced at Nobara who's dressed up into Clawdeen Wolf from monster high, reaching the costume to you.
“Not my fault that it's the one that you've got in the spinning wheel, be grateful that I'm going to do your make-up!” Nobara rolled her eyes once again, throwing the clothes to your face.
“I'm sure you'll look great, [Name]!!” Yuji tried to cheer you up who's dressed up as the Frankenstein from Hotel Transylvania.
“How come you guys got the good ones while I didn't?!” You complained while pointing fingers at your friends.
“Our fate is aligning with our wants, I guess.” Megumi said while adjusting the scissors in his fingers, dressed up as Edward Scissorhands.
“How unfair.” You sulked while putting on the costume in Nobara's bathroom, the costume consists of white tailored button-up with high collar, long sleeves with ruffles, dark red vest with gold buttons with a matching corset, burgundy trousers that end around the knees, white tights with a rose and vines design, chestnut colored lace-up knee high boots and a dark red cape with a hood and a ribbon, you slipped on the boots and it's just your size. How did Nobara know. . . ?
Anyways, you finished the laces that you need to tie and took your phone to message Gojo to tell him that if he's done dressing then he could go early, don't forget to feed Kiki and lock the door, then turn it off.
You walked out of the bathroom with a scowl, earning a squeal from Nobara who's been waiting for you, Yuji who's just clapping and Megumi who's sitting uncomfortable with his costume, he can't exactly function that well with a big ass diy scissors in his fingers.
“That's more like it you dumbass, now let's do your make-up!!” Nobara mischievously smiled and ran to her walk in closet to grab her make-up box.
You checked your phone to see Gojo's white heart reaction, and a little message that he's already on his way to the campus on the notifications, you smiled softly at the small endearment, he also told you that he's dressed up as Ghostface which actually intrigued you because you haven't watched Scream yet.
“Hey. What are you smiling at? Get your ass here before we get late.” Nobara grimaced, holding a foundation and make-up blender.
Well. You can't escape now, this is your first time joining a party in a public event, especially halloween, mostly you just rot on the couch and just play whatever halloween special movies you see in the recommendation in netflix, eat popcorn then call it a night.
“Yeah, yeah.” You sat on the chair in front of the vanity mirror while Nobara tries not to rip your face off.
“Hey, y'all the class gc just announced something.” Yuji scrolled to his phone.
“What did they say?” Megumi said while muching on some skittles.
“They said that some of the students from the university just crashed into the campus grounds, trick or treating, some of our schoolmates didn't like that and almost started chaos but the university deputy let it slide because it is a halloween party and anybody could join and announced some of the rules and precautions if somebody ever did cause a problem.” Yuji explained with his knitted eyebrows.
“The fuck? Just how shameless could they be to do that? Crashing into another university's party, for what? Couldn't they just do a party on their own campus?” Nobara irked with an angry expression that it almost scared you, while applying light eye shadow on your eyelids.
“I bet they have hidden motives, ain't no way they're just going on our campus to go trick or treating, don't they?” Megumi bantered.
“Yeah, they didn't do this on last year's halloween.” Yuji followed while fixing his red neck tie. Damn this costume is hot.
“Well enough of that, look at our little red riding hood! Isn't he so cute.” Nobara teased while applying the lip gloss on your lips as a finishing touch.
“Will you stop that? You're actually scaring me.” You grimace while Nobara just ignores you as she does a retouch on her face, looking at yourself in the mirror, you actually find it pleasant.
“Looking good, [Name]!!” Yuji complimented you while helping Megumi stand up, as he also agrees.
“Thank you, Yuji.” You smiled while fixing your hair beneath the hood.
“Y'all, let's get going it's almost 6pm.” Nobara reminded while getting her purse.
-
Walking down the streets, you noticed that the streetlights are finally waking, illuminating surroundings, the road is full of kids in their little costumes and jack-o'-lantern baskets filled with candies, it was boisterous yet fun.
What could go wrong, right?
When your little friend group finally reached the University's entrance, it was decorated with Halloween decorations, spooky.
You can hear people chattering inside some are even playing loud music. If you can recall the song, it was called the Goo Goo Muck.
“Looking rather dainty aren't you, Mr. [Last Name]?” Ms. Tsukaba approached you with a fruit punch on her hand and a small smile, dressed up as Unohana from Bleach. Holy shit.
“Professor?! You attend a gathering like this?” Your jaw slacked when you saw your well respected science professor at a Halloween party.
“Why yes? I conclude that this is your first time attending, because I always greet my students if I see them.” Ms. Tsukaba spoke in a well mannered way yet slightly teasing.
“You don't need to rub it in my face, Professor. . .” You sulked once again, while your friends are holding their laugh in their hands while Megumi suffers from holding his breath.
“Y'know I'm joking, dear.” She lamented while patting you in the shoulder.
-
You sat down on some bench while your friends left you to meet up with their other friends, you felt a little lonely but you remembered that you have a roommate, fishing for your phone inside your pockets, you immediately opened your message box to send a message to Gojo, asking where is he as you try to describe what part of campus you're at.
“What's a pretty little thing like you doing all alone over here?”
You flinched at the sudden voice, it was rough yet steady, you looked up to see a man, he has pink hair that was slicked back, burgundy irises that turns into red when light touches it, muscular body that dips down to his slender waist and he's dressed up as the Joker with markings tattooed on his face, and so you thought, he looks just like Yuji. Could it be?
“Do I know you. . . ?” You meekly asked, since you guys are in the secluded area where there's not many people around.
“Aw, sweetheart, don't be that way, I just wanna be friends with ya.” flopping down next to you, one arm on top of the backrest, fleeting touches right on your shoulder, legs slightly spreading, bumping with yours, head leading too close to your shoulder. “The name's Sukuna, darlin', can I know yours?” He said coyly, gaze boring into your figure.
“[Name]. . .” You answered, nervously sliding away from the seat, you sense the intentions of the man beside you, yes. He is fucking hot, you'll admit that, but you barely know him so—
“A fitting name for such a delicate thing, now why are you trying to back away from me?” Sukuna spoke, grinning at your answer, noticing the shifting of your body and the way you're fixing your cape, he finally saw an opening, your hips, he slithered his hand, fingertips almost touching it until, black figure swoop you into his arms.
“Do you not know to fuck off?”
Your eyes widened by the sudden action, cape swaying in the wind, knocking your hood off, you recognized that voice and it sounded pissed off, by instinct you engulf your arms around the man's neck, legs securing his waist.
Gojo lifted up his ghostface mask to the side of his head, he's not wearing his glasses this time, with a deep scowl in his face, gaze that sharp as knives, his irises are almost glowing at this point, you also noticed his jaw ticked, vein prominent on his neck, holding you by the waist by his bulging arms, you don't know what is it but those eyes can hold such storm, menacing and malevolent.
“Is that how you greet your old peers, Gojo? Oh and look I met your little bunny.” Sukuna merely whistled at the swift move, smiling even wider at the sight, teasing, pointing at you.
“Too bad I never considered you as one, you dumbfuck.” Gojo spouts, hands gripping you even tighter. You eyed him, you certainly haven't seen him this worked up and full out cursing someone out, then you whispered into his ear.
“Satoru. . . Let's just go.” Oh how he loves it when he hears his name rolled perfectly out of your lips, he almost purred right there. Patience Satoru. Patience.
“You better take care of that one, or he might disappear.” Sukuna spoke as he lit up the cigarette and put it in his mouth to puff out smoke, looking at two, retreating back to the party, with a growing smirk, leaning his head back. Fuck, that cute little thing is just my type.
While walking, Gojo still hasn't let go of you, and refuses to.
“So mind telling me who he is?” You asked curiously while playing with his hair.
“He's my highschool classmate, and he's a pain in the ass, especially to me.” Gojo pouted and grumbled, tucking his chin on your shoulder, cuddling you at this point.
“Based on his looks, he's a bully isn't he and he bullied you?” You said lean your head on his shoulder while patting his back like you're consoling a child.
“I think so? But I don't really consider it as that, he just loves pestering and messing with me to the point that we almost killed each other.” Gojo narrated while walking down the dimly lit road, damn you did try to run away from the crowd that hard that you really went this far.
“What a child. Do you think he's into me or something?” You absentmindedly said then he just squeezed you a bit tighter right after you said that, you then slap his arm. “Hey! that hurt.” looking at his expression, he's biting his lips with a scowl once again.
“Mhm. . . I think so, But! There's no way I'm letting that happen, I found you first.” Gojo grumbled then declared, making you cringe.
“Anyways, enough of that fucker, did you like my gift though?” Gojo's mood just changed in seconds, Is he bipolar or something? then he asked while tugging the hem of your costume.
“So it was you who bought this?! that's why it fits me so well, are my friends part of this? Oh for god's sake of course they are.” You pull his white locks in anger.
“OUCH—”
-
After the party, and multiple shot fruit punch did really punch you in the face considering that you have a fucking massive headache right now, they didn't tell you that the third batch of fruit punch was alcoholic, good thing that Yuji was there to inform you right after your second glass, now you're in Gojo's car, he said something about staying in his villa to stay for the night but you can't even decide or function properly because of the current state you're in, your head is pounding and your legs hurt, so you just agreed.
Waking up to someone moving you, in a bridal style, you rubbed your eyes to see properly, oh it was Satoru, he's finally wearing his glasses this time.
You noticed the surroundings, you were in some kind of estate, large gates and a pool.
“Satoru, Is this your house?” You asked groggily, leaning to him even more, your head's still pounding after all.
“Yes pretty, this is my home.” Gojo murmured softly into your ears, you only hummed in return. “It's beautiful.”
“Thank you, pretty.”
“Since when did you start calling me that?”
“Since now.”
Going inside, the breeze of the air-conditioning immediately invades your skin, as Gojo settles you down the couch, and it's the softest couch you've laid upon, he went upstairs then comes down with a stack of clothes in his hands.“Hey, you can use the bathroom by the way, wash your face, and change, I just need to take care of something.” Gojo reached the stack of his clothes to you then ruffled your hair. this side of you is so so cute.
“Mhmm. . . Thank you, take care.” You hummed in agreement once again and took the clothes, watching your roommate's form go outside the door.
You reach for your phone to check the time, 9:16 pm, you open to check your message box, pressing your friend group's gc, messaging them if they can go and check Kiki in the dorms, fortunately Yuji's still online and replied that he'll go. Nice.
Damn my legs are fucked up, you thought as you navigate your way in the bathroom in this big ass house you're at, changing into the clothes that you were given and tossing the costume set inside the laundry basket, and it's a bit big for you, well it was Gojo's clothes after all.
He gave you an oversized grey shirt and hello kitty pajamas, you then proceed to wash your face with whatever soap Gojo got in his bathroom, surprisingly he does use the stuff you were also using, coming out the bathroom room, the cold wind made you shiver, damn this place is so fucking cold.
You flop down the couch to observe the spacious place, the interior design was amazing, it fits Gojo's aesthetic just right. Now you remembered, you didn't ask where he was going, you immediately took your phone and messaged him but he didn't answer, how odd, he always answers immediately. Maybe he's busy. You turn it off.
Eventually you got bored since you're not sleepy anymore. Satoru wouldn't mind if you watched a movie on his large ass television, yes? Yeah he wouldn't. you reached for the remote, pressing the Netflix button.
Should you rewatch Halloween once again? Or maybe Friday the 13th?
And so you did both.
It's been two hours since you've been watching, and Gojo still hasn't answered your messages you even tried to call him though it seems like his phone is off and it's actually making you worried.
Then you flinched when you heard it ring, grabbing it to see Sato— wait, this isn't Satoru's contact number, it must've been a wrong press, you just ignored it until it ended, you felt yourself quite famished so you went to the pantry to find some snack, pretzels? Chips? Popcorn? Yeah.
You placed the popcorn bag inside the microwave until your phone rings once again. You finally answered it.
“Hello?” You asked, putting your hand in your hip.
“Hello. Who is this?” The man spoke rather confused, his voice is deep and gravelly, it almost sends shivers down your core.
“Erm. Who're you trying to reach?” You asked once, maybe this is some kind of prank because it's halloween, but wouldn't it be more fitting if it's in april? How peculiar.
“What number is this?” The man asked, and it almost irked you.
“Again, what number are you trying to reach? Mister whoever you are, I don't have time for some kind of prank—” You answered agitated. Then the man answers “I don't know.” You thought that you'll pop a vein first then those popcorn in the microwave.
“Well, I think you have the wrong number.” You replied, a finger almost hovering on the end button. “Do I?” The man behind the phone coyly said.
“Yeah, It happens. Take it easy.” Your eyes flickering to the microwave, you press the end button, hanging up and put it on top of the counter, reaching for the buttons of the microwave, then it rings again. Are you fucking kidding me?
Since you're petty, you answered it again. Hearing the man's voice once again.
“I'm sorry, I guess I dialed the wrong number.”
“So why'd you dial it again?” Your voice almost raising by being annoyed.
“To apologize.”
“You're forgiven, now leave me alone.” You scoffed.
“Wait, wait! Don't hang up on me.” The man almost sounded desperate.
“What now?” You asked, rolling your eyes.
“I wanna talk to you for a second.”
“Sorry to break it to you but I'm busy. And besides I'm sure there's thousand of numbers for you to prank or something.” You sassed to the complete stranger who has an incredibly hot fucking voice but he was disrupting your movie time while waiting for your roommate, you then hanged up.
You finally turned on the microwave and cook the popcorn, fucking finally, watching it spin around inside, once it's done, you opened it and poured it inside a porcelain bowl, you wondered why Gojo decided to live in dormitory when he lives like this.
Flopping down the couch, you reach for the remote, until you hear your phone rings once again. Oh it's the same number. How fun.
“Hello?” You deadpanned.
“Why don't you wanna talk to me?” The man desperately asked, almost sad.
“Hey, actually. Who is this? You're actually creeping me out.” You told him truthfully as you placed the bowl on the glass coffee table, lying down the couch now.
“You tell me your name and I'll tell you mine.”
“Are you serious? If you are, I don't think so.” You replied, you felt your headache coming up again, reaching out for the popcorn and munching it.
“What's that noise?” He asked.
“Popcorn.” You answered shortly.
“You're eating popcorn?”
“Obviously.” You stated, with knitted eyebrows.
“I only eat popcorn at the movies.” He ignored your immediate reply of stating the obvious and continued to yap.
“Well I am getting ready to watch a movie right now, if you care enough.” You answered while eating.
“Really? What movie?”
“Just some scary movies.” You blatantly said.
“You like scary movies?”
“Yeah, but mostly paranormal documentaries.” You answered truthfully, even though he's a complete stranger he seems chill, and so you think.
“What's your favorite scary movie?”
“I actually haven't thought of that.” You pondered.
“You have to have a favorite, what comes to your pretty little mind?” The man's honeyed voice just happened to hypnotize you or something.
“Erm, Halloween? Y'know the one with the guy in white mask that walks around and stalks babysitters?” You answered absentmindedly yet concise, thinking that if you answer him he will finally shut up.
“Yeah. . .”
“What's yours?” It's your turn to ask.
“Guess.”
“Erm. Nightmare on Elm Street?” You just think of a random halloween movie and said it.
“Is that the one where the guy had knives for fingers?”
“Yeah, I think his name is Freddy Krueger or something.” Your memory wasn't that vivid, it's mostly the functions of the excretory system you try to memorize, not the killers in some movies.
“Freddy, yeah, that's right, I liked that movie. It was scary.” The man merely agrees.
“Well, the first one was, but the rest sucked—” You finally remembered the rest of the movie.
“So, you got a boyfriend?” The man asked.
“Why? You wanna ask me out on a date? Seriously.” Your eyes widened by the sudden question but still remained composed even when this man is literally wasting your time.
“Maybe. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Mmmm, no.” You denied, the audacity of this man is quite insane.
“You never told me your name.” The man asked.
“Why do you want to know my name, so badly?” You answered once again with your remaining patience, then it happens.
“'Cause I want to know who I'm looking at.”
What the fuck.
Your blood ran cold. The atmosphere suddenly changed, are you trembling? You don't know, you became wary.
“W-what did you just say?” You murmured, as you sat up looking at every direction, but he can still hear you.
“I want to know who I'm talking to.” The man continues to talk.
“That's not what you said.” You bantered, trying to hold yourself together, you need to call Satoru, or whoever it is who's online, you close the blinds, windows and the doors, but remembered that this wasn't your house, you aren't that familiar with it.
“What do you think I said? Hello?”
You turned quiet, trying to think. Fuck, you're so scared, you're actually trembling.
“Look, I think we should call it a night, yes?” You asked the man once again, your heart is beating so fast.
“Wait! I thought we're gonna go out together.”
“Uhm, no. I don't think so.” You tried to stay calm, pressing the end button.
“No! Don't hang up on me—”
You scrambled to your feet, it still hurts but you still went upstairs, finding your way to Satoru's room. Then it rings.
Fuck.
“Yes?” Your voice growing loud.
“I told you to not hang up on me.” The man's voice turned lowly, threateningly.
“What do you want from me. Leave me alone.” You spoke rather harsh.
“To talk.”
“Well, dial someone else, okay?” You said trembling.
“Listen. . . Just don't hang up on me and you'll be fine, understand?” His voice becoming more sinister.
“Is this some kind of joke?” You asked, you're terrified.
“More of a game, really, can you handle that?” He bantered.
“Listen, I'm two seconds away from calling the police—”
“Oh please, honey. They'd never make it in time. We're out in the middle of nowhere.”
Your stomach dropped because y'know to yourself that it was true, the police have always been late, your eyes felt hot, the hairs on your arms and legs started to stand up.
“What do you want from me?!” You screamed at your phone, tears almost brimming down your cheeks.
“To see what your insides look like.”
-
His ocean-blue irises almost dimmed, as blood dripped down his sharp knife, seeing his reflection of it.
There laid Sukuna's body, with multiple stabs in his stomach and head, his organs almost flooding out, gutted like a fish, gouged eye balls, and severed hand, the hand that touched you, there's splotches of blood everywhere, he spat into the dead man's corpse.
“Fuck around and find out, I guess.”
He adjusted his glasses to see you properly, in the monitor, oh how adorable you are, he was already inside the house, specifically the security room where every single angle of the house can be seen, he's watching your every move, he used Sukuna's phone and inserted your number to call you.
He watched you tremble, and cry, like a bunny lost in the woods waiting for the big bad wolf to devour him. Fuck he's hard, watching you go straight up into his bedroom, you just fell right into his trap.
Gojo then took off his bloodied black latex and settled it on top of the control counter, disinfecting the bloodied knife with alcohol, slipping his mask on, once again. Let's play.
It's been awhile since he put on his infamous mask, feeling the adrenaline rush into his system and this time he's more eager, more carnal.
Walking out the door, with feather like footsteps, he lived inside these walls almost half of his life, he already memorized the every corner of his home, even in complete darkness, how smart of you to turn off the lights but he's always two steps ahead of you.
-
You don't know what the fuck happened but it all happened in a flash, you heard the door being shut then a clink being the lock, then your heart pounding inside your ribs. You tried to escape but the knife in his hand just sealed your fate.
Now you're kneeling on the floor with your mouth being fucked, hard.
The masked man's cock has a thick vein that disappears below its head, arched against his sculpted stomach that dips down to his navel, trimmed white pubes. Fuck. Satoru?
You couldn't see properly because of the dark surroundings, hearing a clap, the lights suddenly turned on, revealing the masked man sitting at the chair, legs spreading, surprisingly enough, it's the same mask that your roommate was wearing, you trembled as the cold surface of the sharp knife pricked the skin of your neck, sliding down to your chest, but not enough to scar you.
You felt your eyes widened at the sudden realization, tears brimming, choking on it while the creamy precum drips on your tongue down to your tight throat, whimpering as hands gripped your hair to pushing it deeper, you drooled, eyes rolling back to your skull, feeling the tip of the knife pressing against your throat.
“Well, aren't you a smart boy? Finally figured it out, hm?” Gojo murmured, pushing his mask aside, revealing his face, his white and silky locks falling perfectly to his forehead, with his black frames looking down at you as you look up to him with those pleading eyes, mouth full of his dick. Fuuckk.
“Can't talk with your mouth full, huh? Too bad.” He said with smirking, slamming it down, repeatedly with his hips, hard, the crown of his bulbous tip abusing the end of your throat, he watches as drool and his hot cum pooling in your lips.
The mix of saliva and his semen frothed, coating his shaft with a creamy ring, dripping down your chin, choking on his thick load. You can only moan and breathe to your nose Fuck you felt your own dick getting hard. You wanna touch it so badly.
He then threw the knife at the floor.
“Swallow it, and don't waste a single drop.” He then pulled his cock out of your mouth, creating a thick white string, you tried to swallow it all.
“Toruu. . . you're so mean.” You groggily said, throat raw, cock drunk.
“Aww, baby. Too mean for you?” Gojo cooed while caressing your head, untangling your knotted strands, swooping you up into his lap, you felt his rock hard cock slipped past your hole with slick, eliciting a moan from you.
“We aren't finished yet, pretty.”
-
“Fuck. You look so fucking good with my clothes on, baby.” Gojo moaned, his glasses were still on which made your stomach flutter for some reason you don't understand, while his tongue was deep inside your raw and slick hole, licking the stripe of your ass, holding your shaking thighs with both of his hands in a vice grip, you trembled while you tried to muffle your sounds.
Inserting his fingers on, scissoring your gummy insides, back arching when he spotted your prostate, repeatedly poking it with his thick and long fingers, squelching, you tried to stop his hand but he barely budged, maintaining eye contact with yours.
“Nghh— Ngh—. . .Toru, pleaseee—” You choked a sob.
Gojo merely hummed, pushing his thick fingers in and out of your warm, tight hole, knuckle deep, making you throw your head back, writhing.
“Look at you clenching on my fingers like a cheap whore.” He leaned down into your ear.
You bucked your hips into his fingers on instinct. You've gone non verbal at this point, you couldn't even think straight anymore.
“Where did my smart boy go? Dick so good it melted your brain, is that it?” Gojo teased spoke lowly, coating his shaft with lube, still wet and slick from throat fucking you, he stared at your form laid bare below him, with shirt on, the moonlight shined down at you from the window, body so fuckable and lips so kissable, You're so perfect.
“What would your friends say if they saw you getting dicked down like this, hmm? The smartest student at the junior department getting bred by his senior? fuck, such a slut.”
Gojo snarled, as he leaned into your lips, slipping his pink tongue inside your mouth, sucking on your tongue, sloppily while he grips your neck, nose bumping together, he stared at you, with your blurry eyes from tears, you kept on drooling like a dumb boy you are.
“Oh. . You're really getting it tonight.” He said, taking off his glass and slipping it to you, he made you wear it.
“You look so good honey, my glasses fits you so well.” He purred, while lifting both your legs up to your head, knees bumping in your shoulders, holding it together, locked and tight, and in a snap before you could even react he slipped his thick cock inside making a loud squelch, a loud sultry moan escaped from your lips, guttural from your throat, it almost sent you to blackout, seeing stars, a single tear dripped down your cheek.
“NGHH—! too. . deeep—!!”
“Hmm? Too deep for you, bunny?” He angled his hips, tongue darting out his lips, focused, hitting the bundle of nerves inside dead on, lube and slick almost bubbling from the repeated thrusting, the sound of skin slapping making obscene delicious noises, squelching.
Pulling it out slooowly— then slamming it back in, fast and deep, his shaft now glistening from the slick and creamy sheen of cum, Gojo merely smirked, pressing the bulge forming in your soft tummy making you scream, seeing the dumb expression in your face, tongue lolling, drooling.
“Fwuuck! sooo— b-big— Nghh. . .”
The glasses in your face are now crooked from the impact, pinning you down the mattress, sweat and drool covered your face, your chest heaves.
Fuck you're so hot.
Plap! Plap! Plap!
Gojo kept on pounding you until he reached his orgasm, whimpering, shooting hot loads of cum in your creamy hole, thick white strings painted your insides, you can't feel your legs and back anymore, your neck was full of hickeys from Satoru's nipping and sucking. He's so fucking starved.
“Been wanting to fuck you for so long now, do you think you can just tease me and get away with it.” Gojo said while scooping some of his cum inside your hole with his fingers and shoving it in your mouth, you almost choke, you held on to his wrist while maintaining eye contact with me.
“Walking around our dorm half naked and you're expecting to keep my hands to myself?” Gojo knitted his eyebrows together, while he licks your stomach up to your chest, suckling to your perky nipples, you chewed on your swollen lips from kissing, Gojo's lips quirking into a sly smirk, his canines peaking out, while licking and pinching your nipples.
“Wondering if you can produce milk if I just suck it enough.” He said while he watches your face contorted into a blushingly mess.
“W-what kind nonsense are you trying to say now— Nghh—” You managed to let out almost mad, but not until Gojo rammed in his veiny cock in the snap of his hips like a warning, making you squeal.
“T'aww. . . Since when did you get to speak. Dumb boy.” He said dangerously, his irises glinted, sharp and calculated, mocking you, you whined.
“Dumb boys don't get to speak until he's told to, yes?” Gojo gave you a close eyed smile, menacingly, now manhandling you, bending you over as you tried to crouch on all fours but your legs and arms are too weak to even stand, so Gojo grabbed a nearby pillow and settled it on your chest and face.
“And dumb boys take what they can take.” Gojo trailed, admiring his view, fuck, the arch of your back just made him even more rock hard, it's pulsing at this point, from the vein, he held the of flesh of your hips, almost bruising it, then slammed his cock inside in a heartbeat, repeatedly, in and out, it filled you immediately.
Your moans are muffled by the pillow, eyes rolling at the back of your head, tears streaming down your cheeks, staining Satoru's glasses, as you hugged it tightly, you twitched, legs shaking, you felt him in your tummy, the bulbous tip almost poking out below your bellybutton.
“Fuuck—! If I only knew that you'd be this breedable then I would've fucked you in that library in the first place.” Gojo whined, catching his breath, kneading the globes of your ass, watching your hole clench, winking at him, then your mind went blank.
Your back is killing you, and your legs feel like they're going to snap off if you even try to stand and walk. Curse Satoru and his stupid breeding kink, who would've thought that the model student of the campus is such a kinky motherfucker.
-
You don't wanna think anymore, you want to just pass out at this point, I mean who watches scary movies while having an intercourse?! Just what kind of mind does this sex machine have? you missed Kiki.
Now you're riding Gojo's dick in the living room where you neglected the bowl of popcorn, when Gojo decided to fuck with you, rather literally, while watching Scream, 1996. Now that you realized it, the scenarios in that particular movie just mirrored the conversation you guys had in that phone call which genuinely concerned you, and this is your first time watching the movie.
You thought as the tip of his big dick pressed against your already abused prostate, you choked a delicious moan, while the man thrusts his hips, piercing his thick shaft inside you, skin slapping.
“NGH—! T-toruuu—”
“Tired already?” Gojo teased you, asking as if he didn't destroyed you in bed, while caressing your sides, giving your shoulders kisses, you felt the vein in your forehead irked. The audacity of this fucker.
You pull yourself up then slam it back down, catching Gojo off guard, eliciting a moan from him, and a loud squelch. Take that you bitch. Hmph.
“Fuck, baby since when did you learn that, hmm?” Gojo's irises glinted and asked lowly, slithering his bulging arms beneath your knees, lifting it up to your shoulder, legs almost touching your pretty little head.
Gojo then stood up, your back pressed against his hard, toned abs and soft pillowy pectorals, his warm breath tickling your ear, placing sloppy kisses on your neck.
Pulling his thick cock out, leaving his bulbous tip in your rim, then pounding it deep inside of you in an instant, creating the most delicious sound. It almost knocked the air out of you.
“Baby. . . You should've known better to not rile me up.” He whispered into your ear.
“Fuuuck— just look how deep I am inside of you.”
He pressed down the bulge below your bellybutton, you threw your head back to his broad shoulder, gripping hard on his bicep, whimpering and moaning, twitching and shaking.
He kept on fucking you, in long and deep strokes, pushing it deeper with every single thrust, shaping your insides into his size.
He's so fucking big, and your hole is so used and raw, you almost feel bloated from the amount of cum he pounded inside of you, thick spurts of hot creamy sheen of cum just never ends. Is he that pent up?
He keep murmuring in your ears that if he knocked you up hard enough, that'll make you pregnant, full of his kids.
He kept on kissing the every part of your being, your neck, shoulders, jaw and your temple, as if it was enough to compensate with the damages that he made.
Once you recover you'll definitely beat the shit out of him.
ꗃ Author's note: Haii y'all!! Belated Happy Halloween!! Tysm for all of the support and being patient, I will definitely do a part 2, though I will probably edit some of the it when I have time, unfortunately I have exams tomorrow and I really needed to publish this before I abandon this in my drafts and left it to rot, and to the ones who saw this getting posted unfinished, no you did not saw that, you're actually hallucinating. and please ignore the typos if you ever saw it lmao. ^^