twenty ⭑ indigenous ⭑ canadian ⭑ scorpio ⭑ she/her ⭑ sleep token ⭑ certified music lover ⭑ steve harrington ⭑ bisexual⭑ joe keery ⭑ spotify ⭑ pinterest ⭑ letterboxd ⭑ jamie campbell bower ⭑ hugh dancy ⭑ ellie williams ⭑ will graham ⭑ dr. pepper ⭑ gator tillman⭑ aerion targaryen ⭑ joel miller ⭑ dilfs ⭑ shawn hatosy ⭑ solavellan ⭑
songs on repeat ۶ৎ
figure you out - djo
the climb (not that one) - finn wolfhard
oneida - tyler childers
august underground - ethel cain
don't let me down - the beatles
wolf - first aid kit
high water - sleep token
stop crying your heart out - oasis
pet - a perfect circle
open my heart - sweet boy
visions of gideon - sufjan stevens
heart of gold - neil young
movies and shows on repeat ۶ৎ
stranger things ⭑ twilight ⭑ beautiful boy ⭑ hannibal nbc ⭑ the walking dead ⭑ jennifer's body ⭑ hotd ⭑ death note ⭑ iwtv (1994) ⭑ house md ⭑ shameless ⭑ the bear ⭑ heartbreak high ⭑ boyz n the hood ⭑ baby ⭑ the umbrella academy ⭑ i love you, man ⭑ bones and all ⭑ supernatural ⭑ the last of us ⭑ fleabag ⭑ skins ⭑ brokeback mountain ⭑ criminal minds ⭑ dead poets society ⭑ akotsk
video games i can't stop playing۶ৎ
the last of us ⭑ re2 ⭑ silent hill 2 ⭑ bg3 ⭑ dai ⭑ dav ⭑ fortnite ⭑ dbd ⭑ batman: arkham orgins ⭑ batman: arkham knight ⭑ gta ⭑ rdr2 ⭑ elden ring ⭑ skyrim ⭑ uncharted 4 ⭑ death stranding ⭑ outlast trials
Summary: Steve swings by your apartment after a fight, seeking comfort and safety. While you clean his wounds, he finally confesses what he should've told you when you first found out he was spiderman.
tags/warnings: fem!reader, steve revealed his identity, coworkers in the daily bugle, smut, porn with feelings, fluff, teasing, flirting, praising, p in v, switching, MDNI
author's note: i just love spiderman so much and i adored spiderman brand new day so i wanted to make a little mix with scenes from andrew's and tom's spiderman movies. enjoyyyyy and feedback is always welcome :)
wordcount: 3961
It was a hot summer night in New York city. Almost 1 am a I couldn’t sleep due to the heat and even if the fan was on and I just got out of the shower, I swear I was sweating again. So i kinda gave up, laid on the couch and started zapping through the channels.
I ended up watching some shitty romcom, because everything else was just infomercial, gambling channels and late night shows. I would fall asleep sooner or later so I didn’t care too much about the plot .
After twenty minutes or so I started feeling sleepy again but I decided to stay in the couch because, if I went to bed right now? I would wake myself again.
When i could feel my eyes closing, my phone buzzed. Great, perfect timing.
“Oh, god.” I yawned “Fucking buzzing”
I unlocked my phone and saw some alerts. Pinterest recommending me a new board, Robin Buckley sending me her fortieth reel of the day, a few likes on my spiderman articles. Then I saw Steve's texts.
🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷
Steve: Hey, I know it’s late but
Steve: can I swing by?
Steve: You’ll understand when you see me😅
🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷
I rubbed my eyes and checked twice. It was Steve Harrington, my coworker at the daily bugle. He was the photographer and I was the journalist, same floor and same office.
When JJJ assigned us to investigate about his number one enemy, spiderman, we started talking and got along quickly. That lead us to be friends.
Outdoor cinema in brooklyn, long night walks around manhattan, hanging out in my apartment, eating in our favourite restaurants in china town and shopping in soho even if we couldn’t afford it, but Steve always ended up buying me things that I mentioned in our conversations, like a necklace of my favourite flower. A black dahlia.
These friendly hangouts slowly turned into small touches of our hands when we walked side by side, looking at each other more than once when we were at the office or just small flirting jokes between us. But nothing went further than that.
I also felt myself getting closer to him since I started to suspect that he was spiderman, call me crazy, but he was so obvious. His photos of spiderman were so good, he acted as if spiderman was his closest friend and also he tended to disappear when the chaos flooded the streets of the city.
Yeah, weird.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
In one of those nights where we were walking along the brooklyn bridge and talking about our usual stuff, he finally confessed what I’ve been suspecting.
“There’s this thing I’ve been wanting to talk you about, for a while” he stopped walking and looked at his hands
“Yeah?”
“So, uh. I-“
“I’m spiderman” I finished the phrase for him
Steve blinked “Uh. What?”
“That’s what you were gonna say. That you’re spiderman”
“No” He frowned “I’m not spiderman”
“I mean. I’ve been watching you for like a while now and it’s kind of obvious”
“Wait, were you only watching me because you thought i was spiderman?”
“Yeah. What else I’ll be watching you?”
“It doesn’t matter” His face fell softly as he let out a sigh “Okay, I’m spiderman”
“Wait. Really?” I raised my eyebrow “You’re not messing with me, right?”
“You were the one who guessed it”
“Shit!” I was actually freaking out “But, steve, I was only like sixty percent sure!”
He rolled his eyes “so does this mean i just confessed being spiderman for nothing?
I bumped his arm playfully “Oh you idiot! You perfectly know I would’ve figured it out eventually. Sooner or later. I always do” I smirked, planning “Sooooo, can I ask questions now?”
He sighed and pinched his nose “And here we gooo”
“did you meet the avengers? oh! and are your webs like, homemade or…ugh wait, gross”
Steve groaned “I should’ve kept my mouth closed” but he immediately smiled and looked at me “Im joking. I trust you, that’s why i decided to tell you”
I returned the smile and squeezed his hand “I wont tell anyone”
His fingers returned the squeeze “I know”
🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷
Back in my apartment, I unlocked my phone and text Steve
Me: window is open, like always
Me: do I need to prepare bandages or something?
Steve: please🙏
Me:🙄
Me: do me a favour and stop texting while swinging
Steve: Yes ma’am🫡
Me: good spider
Steve: 😊
Steve: almost there
🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷 --- 🕷
After his aunt May died, Steve made an habit of coming to my house after a fight or every time he felt like he needed someone, he said that he didn’t felt alone with me and felt safer. He was carrying too much responsibility on his shoulders and I became a lifeline for him.
I was staring at the ceiling while laying on the couch when I finally heard the window open.
“Come in wall crawler” I chuckled while I sat up to take a better look at him
Steve was wearing his suit but without his mask, letting me see his side profile while he entered.
“A late night mission huh?” I smiled, until i finally saw his whole face
His nose was bleeding, with a cut on the bridge. The left side of his face was covered in blood, and his lip was swollen and split. But Steve still gave me a sleepy smile “Yeah, the usual”
I quickly got up from the couch “Oh god Steve!”
Steve sighed and landed on my sofa “Just some bruises. Nothing to worry about”
I sat on the edge beside him “Steve you’re bleeding!” I carefully grabbed his cheek.
He winced with a small whimper “The bad guy got me good” He smiled
I sighed “Let me grab the kit”
I reached for the kit that I had prepared on the table when he texted me. He leaned his head back as he pressed his lips together and ran a hand through his already messy hair.
I sat back down with him. “Okay, just let me-” I looked down at his suit. Completely ripped with what looked like claws. “Fuck… Steve”
“Hey, it’s okay” He cupped my face and moved the hair out of my face. “No big deal”
I looked at him, really worried, because he used to have small things like some cuts on his face or just bruises around his body, but this? This was serious, and of course a human wasn’t capable of doing that.
“Let me take off my suit, okay?” He calmed me down “You’ll see is not that bad”
He gently lifted his body as he started to pull off his suit. He looked in pain while doing it, but he didn’t let me help him
When the spiderman suit was finally on the floor, I could finally see two big wounds that covered his whole chest. I freezed for a moment
Steve let out a breath, like he was trying to laugh it off “Im gonna have some cool scars”
I opened the kit as i pulled out the cotton and antiseptic “Stop joking about this, Harrington”
He incorporated himself slowly while his hands rested on his tights, near my body “Im fine”
“Stop saying that” I carefully pressed the cotton on the wound. Steve whimpered again “Shit, im sorry” I pulled back a little
“It’s okay” he muttered “Just, take it easy”
I nodded and continued more carefully this time. “You have to be more careful Steve”
He smiled again “It was my first time with a lizard”
I stopped and slowly lifted my eyes to look at him “a what?”
“You know, just some doctor who wanted his arm back so he did this experiment and made a serum to be able to grow limbs back in humans, but he messed up and mutated into a lizard” He explained “Oh, and now he wants everyone to be a lizard”
“Oh wow. That sounds”
“So fun right?“ He joked “Imagine all of us being lizards. I would be lizardman instead of spiderman”
“You’re literally bleeding and you’re imagining us as green creatures?” I said raising an eyebrow
Steve leaned his head back against the sofa, returning his gaze to my ceiling now. “I can do both. It’s a skill that came with this great power, as well as great responsibility too”
I let out a short laugh before I could stop myself as I placed the bandage carefully around his chest. My fingers lingered softly on him before I pulled away like he actually burned my hand “There, spideyboy” I said “try to fight humans next time, okay? Not weird shit”
Steve finally raised his head and looked down at the bandage, then at me with his characteristic grin “Does a guy made of sand count as human?”
I gave him a light smack on the arm “Harrington!” I said slowly, shaking my head “next time, just. I don’t know. Normal criminals, bank robbers, helping grannies with directions. Anything that doesn’t involve sand monsters or lizard doctors, okay?”
Steve tilted his head as he sat carefully and leaned forward toward me. “So you’re saying you don’t like playing doctor on me?” He pointed at the bandage with his hand, still grinning.
“Relax spiderboy” I smiled, pushing him back down to lie carefully “I’m saying that you’re too comfortable with getting beat up” I sighed and stand up, taking a step away from the couch. “You can stay here tonight.”
But he was quicker and before I could take another step, he shot a web around my waist and pulled me right back down onto the couch beside him.
“Come on,” he said, still holding onto the web. “Stay here with me.”
I rolled my eyes and looked down at him “Steve, you know we barely fit on this thing right?
He shifted carefully and slowly, making some room for me. A space that didn’t exist, obviously “Look at this, even the lizard can fit here”
“Your legs are literally hanging off the edge. What do you mean plenty of space, harrington?”
Steve tugged softly on the web still on my waist “Im injured, you can’t abandon me”
I snorted “Your little puppy pleadings won’t work on me” I actually tried to look nonchalant, but he could already tell he was winning because his big brown eyes always worked on me
Without saying a word, he pushed himself up, ignoring the way his face tightened for a split second from the pain. He inched closer until there was barely any space left between us.
I smiled as i bit the inside of my cheek "what now, spidey?"
But Steve didn't answer, instead, his eyes stayed fixed on mine. So close I could feel his breath against my face.
I frowned, instinctively leaning back "Uhm, okay" I let out a nervous laugh "did that doctor poisoned you? Was there, like, lizard serum in his claws or something?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Remember that day" he said with almost a whisper "I told you I was spiderman?”
I nodded slowly “mhm…..why?”
"I actually wanted to tell you that I like you"
My brain and mouth stopped working for a moment because what I was supposed to say after that?! I just stared at him for a couple of seconds before replying
“You sure that lizard didn’t throw you against a wall or something like that?” I said while grabbing his head and looking for any sign he'd hit his head “Because a concussion is something serious”
Steve laughed softly and grabbed my hands away off his hair “you were the one telling me to stop joking a couple of minutes ago so come on, take this seriously” he looked me right in the eyes “I know you don't like talking about this”
“Okay wow, sorry for checking your head and worry about you”
Steve was still holding my hands, but his grip was softer “That’s not what I meant” he lowered his voice
I copied him and dropped my voice too “Then what did you mean”
“That you always change the subject when something gets real” his thumbs brushed my knuckle, unconsciously
I opened my mouth twice before any words actually came out "I-" I let out a breathless laugh "You really picked the worst possible moment to confess."
A smile tugged at the corner of Steve's mouth "I know"
"You've literally got two big wounds on your chest and your face is so fucked up"
“And my hair’s still perfect” He kept smiling
I rubbed a hand over my face, shaking my head "God, you're making this really difficult Harrington"
His expression softened "I don't want to make it difficult”
"Then why confess now?"
"Because being spiderman is something where i risk my life constantly. I mean, even if Im a superhero, I could still die…you know?"
The words settled between us, heavy enough to wipe the smile off my face.
"I spent weeks trying to figure out the right moment to tell you" he admitted with a small smile "but turns out there isn't one” He winced a little as he moved "so If I keep waiting for the perfect time, I'll probably end up fighting another villain or a big gross symbiont before it ever comes"
I couldn’t speak, i felt as if my body shut down and if my mouth couldn’t open or say anything
Steve looked at me in silence, i guess he was searching for an answer until he laughed nervously “it’s okay”
"Steve"
"You don’t need to say anything" he finally let go of my hands and leaned back putting some distance between us
My fingers wrapped gently around his wrist “Don’t pull away, please. I didn’t say no either” so steve closed the distance between us again and I couldn’t help but look at his lips briefly
Steve of course noticed “I really want to kiss you right now” he admitted quietly
I smiled “It’s a terrible idea Harrington”
He chuckled as his hand ghosted softly over my cheek until he finally cupped it “well probably”
“you better not wince or complain”
“I’ll try” he said with his usual grin and closed the distance between our faces, finally our lips touching in a soft kiss. Steve was careful and gentle with it, he even smiled into the kiss and made me smile too
His hand found my waist, trying to pull me closer but i didn’t want to hurt his wounds so we pulled apart while Steve laughed but immediately winced and his hand went to his ribs “Shit….”
I rolled my eyes but kept the smile on my lips “I warned you”
“So what?” he groaned, smiling too “it was worth it”
I shook my head with a laugh “okay enough, you need to rest”
But steve pulled me closer, and I let him. My fingers finding the back of his neck “Steve” I whispered against his lips”
“hm?” as he chased my lips for another kiss
“easy, bug boy”
Steve grinned “What did you call me?”
“You heard it perfectly”
“Yeah but I think i might need to hear that again” he murmured as he kissed me again
This time, the kiss was somehow bolder and less gently. A quiet hum escaped from his mouth when he deepened the kiss, my fingers tangling in his hair as i pulled him closer.
Steve’s hands crawled under my shirt, making me gasp against his lips, as if I approved what he was doing. Then he stopped the kiss and looked at me with his lips parted while his hands worked on lifting my shirt, always keeping the eye contact.
“Steve, we can’t do this” I whispered “you can’t barely move”
“Then I won’t move” his fingers still lingering on my skin “I’ll be a good boy” he said while his hands finally slid up under my shirt as he kisses my shoulder and lifted carefully the fabric. He kinda blushed when he looked at my body “so so pretty” he said, giving me a soft peck on the tip of my nose.
I smiled and bit my lip as i crawled on top him, placing my hands on his shoulders and making sure his wounds were safe “good?”
Steve’s eyes darkened as he placed his hands on my tighs to steady me “never been better” a breathless laugh scaped his mouth, his thumb tracing small circles on my legs “come here” he searched for my lips and i leaned into him. The kiss was slow and deep, his hands finding my jaw and waist as he he let out a needy hum “is okay if i?” his fingers tracing softly the gem of my pants until reaching to the zipper.
I nodded and kissed him again, eagerly as he managed to take off my jeans shifting beneath me to reach better, but he whimpered softly of pain amid my lips. I broke the kiss and looked at him “Steve!” but his hands just hold me tighter, making impossible to pull back.
“Don’t, don’t move” Steve panted “just give me a second. Im fine” he gave me his usual stubborn smile
“You said you were gonna be a good boy, so stay still and let me take care of you” I whispered as i finally finished taking off my pants. Steve was staring up at me, his mouth slightly opened and his breath slowed “what?” I chuckled, teasing him.
“Nothing. Im being good” he replied, his hands digging softly in my bare thighs. The heat of his palm sending a shiver straight to my lower stomach “Im staying still. See?”
“Jerk” I said smiling. My hands back on him, tracing softly his chest and wounds till reaching where his happy trail started. His jaw tensed and I noticed how his stomach got rigid under my touch as I reached to the edge of his briefs “sooo?”
His cheeks were warm as he nodded “Fuck. Yes. I mean, go on”
He was already hard when i got rid of his underwear, the air hitting his bare skin as he let out a small groan “You’re more dangerous than the criminals i fight” Steve tried to give me his cocky smile but he couldn’t, too distracted with my fingers tracing his hip bone.
“You want me to keep going or not?”
“Yes god, yes i do” his voice completely wrecked and knuckles turning white as he kept gripping my thighs
My hand slid lower, wrapping his length as his hips twitched upwards in a desperate and unconsciously way. making me chuckle
“okay okay, sorry. Didn’t mean to move”
“mhm, you’re doing great harrington” i murmured, my free hand pulling aside my panties as i aligned myself with him
Steve’s hands moved quickly from my tighs to my waist, he was trembling slightly “please. im strong but not that strong when it comes to you” he blurted out before his usual proud could stop his words
I sinked down, finally filling the space between Steve and I. He let out a loud groan as his head fell back and his fingers dug deeply into my waist, his body was rigid for a moment because of the sudden overwhelming sensation, letting me set the rhythm “god you’re perfect” he whimpered this time, his voice rough and needy.
I started moving so so slowly, a little slide that made us both moan “mhm. still wanting to be a good boy?” I looked down at Steve, glossy lips and eyes that looked as if he were a little puppy
“ah. fuck, yes i am. Im Trying so hard” he nodded immediately, panting as i kept riding him annoyingly slow “but you’re moving like that on purpose, absolute brat”
“well. Mayb i am” I whispered, shifting my angle to hit the spot that made his eyes roll back. His hips snapped up to meet mine “Fuck. Steve” I lowered my head and rested it on his shoulder, biting it because of how much that sudden thrust affected me “bad steve”
Steve groaned as he lifted me slowly until my back touched the couch “yeah, bad spidey” he chuckled, his teeth now ghosting my neck as his settled the pace now. Urgent, deep and desperate.
I didn’t even had time to call him an idiot because of this new position and how little careful he was being with his wound, because he took my breath away and a involuntary gasp escaped my lips “Steve” my hands flying to his muscled back as he went deeper.
“I know baby, i know” he moaned, not slowing down. His hands cupped the back of my tighs, lifting them to find that sweet angle against him “but i had enough torture for today pretty girl”
I laughed, my fingers digging into his muscles as the friction increased, building that heat in my core “you can fight tough guys but you can’t bear me? mhm” I whined playfully while my back arched
“he groaned, his head falling burying into the crook of my chest, kissing softly my cleavage “ Steve tightened his grip, his whole body trembling as he hold back his own release as he felt me tightening around his dick “mhm fuck, look at me. Open your eyes”
I blinked and opened my eyes with my vision slightly blurred.Steve was looking down at me, he was undone and his perfect hair was now a mess, the sweat dampening his forehead “Yeah right there, good girl” he whimpered as his pace fell into a series of deep pushes.
That made my head spin “god steve, im so close” my finger clutching his shoulders as the overwhelming feeling finally came. I arched into him, a breathless cry left my lips while my eyes got full of tears “yes, steve”
This was what Steve needed, a huge groan teared from his troath as his eyes darkened. He thrusted one last time, his dick pulsing and spilling inside me mixing with my cum. His head dropped into my shoulder “Fuck baby” his fingers fingers stayed in my hips “I definitely opened a wound”
I laughed as i wrapped my arms around his neck “I told you to stay still”
“It was worth it to spill my webs inside you. Wait that sounded nasty” he laughed too
“omg you dirty spider” i rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide the smile as i carefully pushed him away. Steve let out a tiny whimper as the loss of contact, but of cours, he immediately wrapped his arm around my waist to pull me back against him “let me check you idiot”
The skin around his wounds was slightly purple and the bandages were definitely going to fall off. I fixed the mess and Steve hissed with a pout “hey! easy” he complained but no bite behind it, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my bare shoulder
“Easy? oh wow, spiderman needs to learn how to follow the rules” I kissed right over his injuries “you’re a lucky spider that heals fast”
“Im lucky i have you” he mumbled, pulling me closer and burying his face into my hair “even if i get called idiot every five minutes”
“because im right, harrington. Im always right, tiger” i whispered, smiling into his chest as my eyes closed softly getting me into sleep
“yes you are. And tiger? yeah sure, go get ‘em tiger” he mutters smiling, kissing the top of my head one last time as his eyes closed too.
The living room finally falling into silence, just the sound of new york city at the background. Because for once, spiderman was resting without caring about what happened on the streets.
It started over something stupid. The kind of thing that shouldn’t have mattered, but you’d decided it did. Dabi had told you—calm, flat, that particular brand of quiet that meant he was already done entertaining the conversation—to stay put while he handled a job. Simple. Clear. You’d agreed, mostly because arguing in the moment felt like more energy than it was worth.
Then he’d been gone longer than you’d liked, and the quiet of the apartment had started to itch under your skin. So you left. Just for a little while. Just to stretch your legs and remind yourself that you weren’t actually on a leash. You told yourself it was fine. He wasn’t your keeper.
You came back to find him already there, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting the whole time. Blue eyes half-lidded, burnt skin catching the low light, arms crossed. He didn’t look surprised. He looked bored. And that somehow made it worse.
“What took you so long?” you asked, because attacking first was easier than admitting you’d fucked up.
Dabi’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Funny. I was about to ask the same thing.”
You rolled your eyes and kicked off your shoes, already turning toward the couch like the conversation was over. “Whatever. I needed air. You’re not my—”
“Finish that sentence.”
The words cut clean through the room. You froze mid-step, then forced yourself to keep moving, dropping onto the cushions with more force than necessary. “You’re not the boss of me.”
Silence stretched. Then the soft scuff of his boots on the floor as he pushed off the wall. He didn’t rush. He never rushed when he was like this. Just walked over, slow and deliberate, until he was standing in front of you. Close enough that you had to tip your head back to look at him.
“Say that again,” he said, voice low and almost gentle. Dangerous.
You held his gaze out of pure stubbornness. “You’re not the boss of me.”
Dabi hummed, like he was considering it. Then he reached down, hooked two fingers under your chin, and tilted your face up further. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth—almost affectionate—before he pressed it there, firm enough to quiet any more words.
“Cute,” he murmured. “You really thought walking out was gonna make a point.”
You tried to jerk your chin away. He didn’t let you.
“I told you to stay. You didn’t. Now you’re mouthing off like you think there’s gonna be zero consequences.” His eyes flicked over your face, assessing, cold. “That the game we’re playing tonight? You act like a spoiled little brat and hope I’ll just let it slide?”
Heat crawled up your neck. You hated how easily he could strip the bravado off you just by standing there. Hated that some part of you had been waiting for exactly this—the weight of his attention, the quiet threat in the way he looked at you.
“I can do what I want,” you muttered against his thumb.
Dabi’s laugh was quiet and mean. “Yeah? Let’s test that.”
He let go of your chin only to step back half a pace. The sudden absence of his hand left your skin cold. He looked down at you like you were something already half-owned and still stupid enough to pretend otherwise.
“Get on the floor.”
You glared up at him. “Fuck you.”
His head tilted. “Try again.”
The silence that followed was heavy. His expression didn’t change, but the air around him did—colder, sharper, like the temperature had dropped just for you. You held his stare for another stubborn second, pride burning hot under your skin, before the weight of that look forced the fight out of you. You shoved yourself off the couch and dropped to your knees on the hard floor. The impact stung. You kept your chin up anyway, still glaring.
Dabi stepped closer. Then he lifted one boot and planted it squarely in front of you.
“Now ride it.”
You stared at the boot. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” He pressed the boot forward until it nudged against the front of your clothes, right between your thighs. “You’re gonna stay on your knees like the disobedient little slut you are and ride my boot until I decide you’ve earned anything else. And you’re gonna thank me for every second of it.”
Embarrassment and want twisted together so tightly you couldn’t tell them apart. You hesitated just long enough for his eyes to narrow in warning—then shifted forward on your knees, settling the heat of yourself against the firm leather. The pressure was immediate and overwhelming. A soft, helpless sound escaped before you could swallow it.
Dabi watched, unimpressed. “There she is. All that attitude and you’re already soaking through your clothes for this.”
You started slow, experimental rolls of your hips, chasing the friction. Every movement dragged the rough sole against you through fabric, sending sharp little sparks up your spine. He didn’t help. Didn’t rock his foot or offer more pressure. Just stood over you, looking down like you were something pathetic and entertaining.
“Faster,” he ordered. “You wanted attention so bad you walked out the door. So earn it. Show me how badly you want it.”
Your rhythm stuttered, then quickened. The wet heat between your legs made every slide more intense, more humiliating. You could feel how obvious it was—how soaked you already were—and the knowledge only made you grind harder. Soft, broken sounds kept slipping out. You bit your lip to muffle them.
Dabi clicked his tongue. “Don’t you dare. I want to hear what my boot does to a brat who can’t follow orders.”
You let the next moan fall free. His eyes darkened with something mean and pleased.
“That’s it. Look at you. On your knees, humping my shoe like a bitch in heat because you couldn’t stand being told no.” He leaned down slightly, voice dropping into something almost intimate and twice as cruel. “You don’t come until I say. Understand? You hold it. You wait. Like you should’ve waited when I told you to stay put.”
You nodded quickly, hips still moving, chasing the building pressure. It was already too much—too good—and the edge was rushing up faster than you could control. Your thighs started to tremble. A desperate little noise caught in your throat.
“I’m close—”
“Not yet.” His boot pressed up harder, meeting your next grind, making it even worse. “You hold it. You asked for this by walking out. Now you wait until I decide you’ve earned it.”
But your body wasn’t listening. The friction, the weight, the way he was looking at you like you were already beneath him—it all crashed together too fast. Your hips jerked hard against the sole, and before you could stop it, the orgasm tore through you. Sharp. Overwhelming. Completely unauthorized. You cried out, thighs clamping around his boot as you came hard, grinding through the waves even as panic mixed with the pleasure. Your forehead dropped forward, breath ragged, body still twitching.
The second it started to fade, the silence in the room felt heavier than the boot still pressed against you.
Dabi didn’t move. He just looked down at you, expression cold and flat.
“Did I say you could come?”
Your breath was still ragged. “I— I couldn’t stop—”
“Wrong answer.” He lifted his boot away slowly, deliberately, like he was removing something you’d never deserved in the first place. The sudden loss of pressure made you whimper. “I told you to wait. You didn’t. Just like you didn’t stay when I told you to stay.” He says, pushing you down onto all fours as he kneels behind you.
One hand was heavy between your shoulder blades, pinning your chest low to the ground keeping your ass up in the air, while the other yanked your pants and underwear down in two rough motions, baring you completely.
Cool air hit your exposed skin. He nudged the inside of your ankle with the side of his still-booted foot, forcing your knees farther apart until you were spread open and completely on display for him.
“Stay like that,” he ordered. “And the next time you think about walking out when I tell you to stay… remember exactly how this feels.”
His free hand came down in a sharp, stinging smack across your ass. Hard. Deliberate. The sound cracked through the apartment. You jerked, biting back a sound, and he immediately delivered a second that made your eyes sting.
“Count them,” he said, voice cold. “And thank me for each one. If you miss a number, if you forget the thanks, or if you drop that attitude even once, we start over from one. Clear?”
You swallowed hard, cheek pressed to the floor, body still thrumming from the orgasm you weren’t supposed to have and the fresh heat blooming across your skin.
“O-one… thank you.”
Another firm strike, harder than the last.
“Two… thank you.”
He kept going—steady, unhurried, making sure every impact sank in deep. He didn’t rush. He didn’t comfort. He just marked you, one measured spank after another, until your voice was rough and your thighs were trembling and the sting had turned into a deep, throbbing heat that made everything worse. By the time he stopped, your skin was hot and sensitive, and you were breathing like you’d run.
Dabi’s hand smoothed over the marks he’d left, almost thoughtful. Almost. Then he dug his fingers in just enough to make you flinch.
“Good,” he murmured. “That’s more like it. Quiet. Obedient. Exactly how you should’ve been.” He leaned down, close enough that his breath brushed your ear, voice dropping into something quiet and vicious. “Next time I tell you to stay put, you’re gonna stay put. Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” you whispered, voice rough.
His grip tightened on the back of your neck. “That’s yes sir to you.”
You swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Better.”
He didn’t let you up. Instead he kept you on your hands and knees, one hand still heavy between your shoulders while the other worked open his pants. You heard the sound of him freeing himself, then felt the blunt, hot press of his cock against you—already hard, already smearing against the wet mess you’d made earlier.
“You don’t get to come again until I say,” he reminded you, voice low and flat. “You already stole one. The next one belongs to me. Clear?”
“Yes, sir—”
He pushed in without warning, one long, ruthless stroke that forced the air out of your lungs. The stretch burned in the best way, especially with the lingering sting across your ass. You cried out, fingers scrabbling against the floor, and he only pressed you down harder.
He set a deep, punishing rhythm almost immediately, hips snapping against the marks he’d left, every thrust shoving you forward on your hands and knees. The wet sound of it filled the apartment. You were still soaked from earlier, and he used it without mercy.
After a few hard thrusts he pulled almost all the way out, spat into his palm, and stroked himself once before shoving back in, working the slick deeper with every roll of his hips. The filth of it made your stomach twist with fresh heat. He did it again a minute later—spit, stroke, thrust—until the slide of him inside you was filthy and perfect.
Then he reached around, two fingers still wet with spit, and pressed them to your lips.
“Open.”
You did. He pushed his fingers into your mouth, making you taste the salt of his skin and the faint bitterness of his spit. You sucked without being told, and he gave a low, approving sound that was more mockery than praise.
“Good girl. Keep that mouth useful.”
He fucked you harder after that, his hand sliding up to wrap loosely around the back of your neck from behind. Not crushing—just resting there, fingers flexed in a clear warning.
He leaned over you, still buried deep, and spat once more into his free hand before reaching to smear it across your clit, rubbing tight, mean circles while he kept thrusting.
“Look at you, baby...” He thrust harder.
You tried to hold back. You really did.
“Dabi— please— I need—”
“Beg properly.”
“Please let me come— please, sir, I’ll be good."
He considered it for a long, cruel moment while he kept fucking you, kept rubbing your clit with spit-slick fingers, kept squeezing your throat just enough to make every breath feel like a privilege. Then he leaned down, lips near your ear.
“Come.”
The permission shattered whatever control you had left. You came hard, clenching around him, vision whiting out at the edges while his hand stayed firm on your throat and his cock kept driving into you through every wave. He didn’t stop. He fucked you straight through it, chasing his own release with the same cold focus he’d used the entire time.
When he got close he shifted. One strong arm hooked around your throat from behind—bicep tight against your windpipe, forearm braced across your chest—and he hauled you up in one smooth pull until your back was flush against the front of his body. Your knees left the floor. You were held entirely by the arm around your throat and the cock still buried deep inside you. He fucked up into you hard, using the leverage of the chokehold to keep you pinned against him as he came with a low, rough sound, pulsing deep while the pressure around your neck made stars burst behind your eyes.
He held you there through every aftershock, arm still locked around your throat, breathing evenly against your ear like he hadn’t just ruined you. Only when he was finished did he slowly lower you back down to your hands and knees, letting the arm loosen but not fully release until he was ready.
He pulled out slowly, watching the mess he’d left drip down your thighs. One hand came down to rest on the back of your neck again—not choking this time, just holding you in place.
“Next time I tell you to stay,” he started quietly, “you stay. Next time I tell you not to come, you don’t. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” you managed, voice wrecked.
He gave the back of your neck a final, almost proprietary squeeze, then stepped back.
“That's my good girl."
You stayed on your hands and knees in the middle of the living-room floor, ass marked, thighs wet, throat still tingling from his arm, the taste of his fingers still on your tongue.
Yeah. You were definitely going to test him again.
A/N: It has been a hot minute since I posted, and this is genuinely ahh 🥀💔 But I recently fell back into my MHA hyperfixation, so what better way to celebrate than writing some smut? (Got some Shigaraki drabbles coming soon, hopefully!)
Synopsis ❆ You and Shoto are each others firsts, and you finally ask him to have sex with you.
❆ Word Count: 2k words
❆ Content: comfort / fluff + SMUT - mdni ! established relationship. some banter. clear consent ! soft kissing. slight marking / hickeys. pet names (love & baby). breast play. nervousness/hesitation + reassurance. closed missionary. “my love” during sex. orgasms. p in v (protected) sex. soft smut, cause Shoto is an angel !! little bit of build up before the smut hehe.
❆ A/N: This is my first time writing smut gang since I’ve never done it myself so don’t come for me 😭 and please feel free to give some helpful feedback for the future 🙏 ALSO!!! this fic is for the lovely @ieatworms14 they talked about virgin Shoto x reader a while back and I took the creative liberty to write a lil something for them 😊 btw thank you to my bestie @takenbacktoedenn who put up with my bs while doing some research for this fic and answering my weird sex questions 😭 (I also kinda rushed the ending cause I didn’t know what else to write I’m sorry) ANYWAYS ENJOY <3
NOT PROOF READ
The day had taken a toll on you both. Tired from training, Shoto had collapsed onto his bed, while you were curled slightly on his right side with your head resting on his chest. The calm beat of his heart played softly in your ear as his chest rose and fell with each breath he took.
You looked up at him, his eyes were barely open. “Hey, babe?” you said softly as he brought his eyes to you. He looked like he could fall asleep at any moment.
“Yes, my love?” He replied slowly, hand cupping your cheek. “I was just wondering, and we don’t have to do it tonight but..” You trailed off as you leaned into his touch.
“What is it?” he said tilting his head, “What do you want to do?” he added, blinking slowly. “It’s nothing. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, I can tell you’re tired.” You say, a little defeated.
“Hey” He says, sitting up, pulling you higher up on his chest. “Whatever you wanna do, I will do it in a heartbeat.” He whispers, voice and eyes no longer displaying any ounce that he was just falling asleep moments ago. His sudden change in tone and the feel of his hands on your back make you more eager than you thought.
“Ok.. well..” You shift under him, sitting yourself up so now you're straddling him. The look on his face tells you he doesn’t mind though, as long as you're comfortable he loves how close you feel to him. “I wanted to know if you’d have sex with me tonight.” You say avoiding his gaze as you plant your hands next to his legs.
He stiffens as he rests his hands on your lower back, mouth agape a little. “Oh.” he mutters, taken aback. “Is- is that okay?” You stutter bringing your eyes back to scan his face for any sign that he might be uncomfortable, which you learned to do over the course of your relationship. “Yeah, just a bit surprised. I thought you wanted to go for dinner.” He added slowly rubbing your back, you huff a small laugh and scoot closer, now sitting directly on his crotch.
His eyes dart down for a moment before flicking back up to yours, his cheeks faintly turning pink. “can we?” you say, bringing your arms behind his neck. “I’ve never.. Had.. sex.. before..” He pauses gripping your hips. “With anyone..” He adds. “You're my first.. Significant other..” He replies sheepishly, looking at you with nervous eyes as if what he said would deter you. Your hands caress his neck in a soothing manner.
“I know.” You say gently. “You're my first too, baby.” You add. “Well..” He starts. “How do I know what I’m doing is right?” he says. That look of worry still planted on his face. “We can.. Go slow..” You reply, moving the hair by his scar. “And learn together..” Giving it a small lingering kiss, something you only ever do to reassure him.
He smiles at you as he brings his lips to yours. Shoto had kissed you plenty of times before but this one was different, this one carried desire. Bringing his hands to the back of your neck, you trail your fingers down his stomach tracing his abs beneath his shirt. “Can I take this off?” You breathe between the kiss, fingers under the hem of his shirt. He gives a brief nod and you make quick work with his shirt tossing it to the side, removing yours as well.
Your gaze lingers on his chest. You had seen him shirtless before, but something about the situation unfolding right now made him look even better. His eyes are glossed over as his gaze lands on the tender flesh hidden beneath your bra. “Can you please take that off?” He asks, voice slightly strained as you feel him getting hard underneath you. You reach behind yourself, unclasping your bra letting it fall forward slowly, setting it aside.
He breathes quietly as you feel the heat rising in your chest. He leans forward bringing his hands towards you cupping your breasts gently. You let out a shaky sigh you didn’t know you were holding in as his mouth meets your flesh, trailing kisses from your collarbone slowly down to where his hands were cupped.
“Let me know.. if I’m doing something you don’t like.” He says between kisses, stopping for a moment to roll your hardened nipple between his fingers. A small moan escaping your lips. “And please.. Let me hear your voice.” He encouraged, continuing to plant kisses on your breasts.
You stifle a whimper as your head falls back, hands gripping his shoulders. You never knew how sensitive your breasts were, as no one had ever touched them like this. Shoto noticed, so he gave one of your nipples a small pinch before taking it into his mouth. “Sho..” you moaned, bringing your head down to kiss his hair, muffling your moans into his head.
A strange feeling began to arise in your tummy, almost as if there were butterflies inside it. You whimpered, pressing your forehead to his as you unknowingily grinded your hips down onto his hardened member.
You felt him groan as he left your breast, a trail of saliva connected to him and your nipple. The sight made you feel even needier. “S- sorry..” you pant. “It’s just that.. That I..” You add trying to gather your thoughts. “You what love?” He says, his hands now moved to cup your face.
You thought he was the nervous one when all this started, but the way you are now, just a kiss away from going over the edge and the way he's looking at you now with such a lustful stare tells you that he knows what you need. He’s just waiting to hear you ask for it out loud.
“I need to.. Feel you.. In me..” You whimper out, voice laced with need. You didn’t want to rush anything, in fact you planned to take it slow. However, being intimate with him like this made you desperate and you needed to have more.
He smiled as he kissed you, “Okay baby. Whatever you need.” He whispered into your lips, carefully turning you around and laying you on his pillows. He helped remove your bottoms and underwear, tossing them onto the floor as you slowly spread your legs apart.
Your heart was beating like crazy. “Fuck..” Shoto gasped under his breath as he took in the sight of you laid out for him. Your pussy was soaking wet, getting all riled up just from him sucking on your tits.
You were getting tired of his staring. “Please Sho.. I need you..” You begged, noticing the bulge in his pants growing more and more impatient with every second that passed not being with you.
Shoto reached into his pocket clutching something in his hand before shrugging his pants and boxers off, tossing them onto the floor with the rest of your clothes. His cock was flushed a deep red, clearly impatient as he stroked it once with his freehand. A strained groan escaped his throat as he revealed the item in his palm.
“A condom.. When did you get that?” You panted, of course that was needed for this. You had this on your mind for a while now but never thought to get any. “I’ve had it for a while.” He says ripping the package open and carefully sliding it on his cock.
“Just in case” He adds crawling over to you, forearms resting beside your head. You huff a laugh as he settles closer, face inches from yours as he lines himself up against your entrance.
He hesitates, staring down at you both with flushed cheeks. “Sho..?” you say, drawing your attention back to his face looking for signs of discomfort. “You ok?” you ask, momentarily taken down from the high he brought you to, to make sure he was alright.
“Yeah.. Just.. don’t wanna hurt you..” he breathes out, briefly stuck in place just hovering above your entrance. “Hey.. you're not gonna hurt me baby..” you say, wrapping your arms behind his neck pulling him forward a little and pressing your forehead to his, kissing his scar in the process.
The action led to his tip being pressed directly against your clit, you both let out a small whimper as he gives a small “ok” and slowly pushes himself in. Even though it’s only his head you moan out and end up gripping his shoulders, he takes it as a sign to push in more, going halfway inside you.
“Ah- wait Sho..” you gasp plopping your head back down on the pillows. “Are you ok?” he asks, immediately stopping. “Are you hurt?” he adds, beginning to pull out. “No! I’m.. I’m fine..” You say, grabbing onto his lower back. He looks at you puzzled, “I- I just need to.. Adjust..” you say breathless, squirming a little to get comfortable with him inside you. He grunts a little at your movements but puts his feelings aside and gives your neck kisses, gently sucking to leave small hickeys.
You smile a sigh of relief with his hair brushing your chin softly. “Ok.. you can move now..” You say, bringing your hands back to his shoulders as he keeps kissing your neck. Slowly he begins to push all the way inside you now, stopping his kisses to let out a small groan.
He lifts himself up, lifting your hips up a little with him as he pulls out a little and pushes all the way back in again. He picks up a steady rhythm moving in and out as he bottoms out.
What begins as a little sting, quickly dissolves into pleasure beyond your comprehension, you grip his shoulders as he rocks into you with such precision you could have sworn he was lying when he told you he’d never had sex before.
“Sho.. please more..” you gasp out into his ear, wrapping your legs around his waist in an attempt to bring him closer. He moans into you as he brings his arms behind your back, hugging you closer to him. “Please.. say my name again..” he huffs, bringing his face to meet yours.
“Shoto.. Fuck-“ you breathe out as he begins to increase his speed, not so fast that you get hurt, but enough that leaves you seeing stars, hitting that perfect spot inside of you, bringing you to that same high you were at minutes ago.
He could feel himself stretching out your tight walls that you’d occasionally clench, sending him over the edge as he moans your name.
Hiding himself in the crook of your neck, he sucks on your skin attempting to stifle his sounds. You both stay this way for a few more seconds, Shoto hiding his face and kissing your neck, and you gasping his name into the air, legs still around his waist, toes curling.
Soon enough you felt that same sensation in your lower stomach. “Shoto- I’m.. gonna-” “It’s ok.. Me too..” He replies, his thrusts getting messy and slow.
Your orgasm finally spills you over the edge as you clamp down on him and dig your nails into his shoulders with a cry of his name. He stills inside you with a stifled whimper, still buried in your neck as he cums inside you. The barrier of the condom protecting anything from getting out.
You both lay there for a minute panting, before Shoto lifts himself out of the crook of your neck and brings his hand to cup your cheek before kissing you on the lips.
“That was nice.” He says meeting your eyes with his as he pulls out with a small sigh, getting up to throw out the condom and put his boxers back on.
“Thanks” you say breathless, as he brings you your underwear helping you put them on, he lays down next to you on the bed, spooning you into him, playing with your hair.
“Thank you, for being mine.” He whispered into you as you felt yourself being overtaken by sleep. The thought of Shoto safely holding onto you had you know his trust was as deep as his love for you.
divider by: @cafekitsune & @finnegancosmos & @anitalerina
word count: 15.5k
synopsis: In the cold of Winterfell, a southern princess learns that duty is not always a cage—and that sometimes, the heart’s desires align with the good of the realm.
a/n: I definitely went a little overboard with this one—this might be the longest one-shot I’ve written to date. Also, yes, I refer to reader as a lioness and imply her to be more Lannister than Baratheon, even though she is technically a Baratheon by name. We’re just rolling with it because thematically it fit much better for this story.
warnings: Arranged Marriage, Joffrey being Joffrey, Cersei.
The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.
Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.
Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.
At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.
You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror.
But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.
You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.
As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.
He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.
You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.
The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.
You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.
It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.
You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.
“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.
Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.
Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side.
One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.
Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.
But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.
Robb Stark.
Named after your father’s namesake.
He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.
He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.
His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.
And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.
Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different.
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.
It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him.
For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.
You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.
The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.
You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.
Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.
You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.
It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.
“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”
A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”
Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.
You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.
Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.
Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.
“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.
You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.
Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.
The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.
Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”
Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.
Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish.
“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.
When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.
Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold.
You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants. And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.
As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.
Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.
No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.
The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.
Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.
Steel striking wood.
You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.
There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.
The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.
“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”
He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.
“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”
Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”
Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.
“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”
He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”
Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten.
“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.
He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.
“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”
You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”
That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.
“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”
“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”
Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”
You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”
Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.
You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”
When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”
You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”
Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.
“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness.
You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”
Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”
Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.
“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.
At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”
Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.
“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”
Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."
You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”
Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.
“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.
You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”
He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”
“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”
Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him.
When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”
Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.
Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”
You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”
The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”
Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”
You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.
“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”
The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.
Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”
That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”
Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”
When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”
He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”
You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”
Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.
“Jon.”
Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.
“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”
You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”
Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”
He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”
With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.
Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.
He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.
Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”
Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”
Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”
Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”
Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.
Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”
Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”
Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.
“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”
Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”
Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”
“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”
Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.
Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”
That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”
“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”
Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes.
By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.
Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.
Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?
Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?
No one knew which way the coin would fall.
As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.
“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”
“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”
You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.
You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.
At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.
It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.
Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.
You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.
“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”
His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.
“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”
He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”
Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”
Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”
Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.
Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”
Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”
A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.
Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”
Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.
You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.
At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.
Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.
Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.
You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.
You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.
It was harsh—but it was honest.
And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.
When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.
You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.
“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.
“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.
You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”
“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”
You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”
The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.
A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.
“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”
“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”
You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”
The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.
“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”
“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.
Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”
You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”
“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.
Your expression softened, your gaze thoughtful as it lingered on him. “Then I suppose they’re also the kind that make sure your names are passed down through the history books,” you murmured.
He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in your voice. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something gentler, fragile and new. Robb was still watching you when you finally rose, brushing the frost from your skirts. Greywind gave a soft whine in protest as your hand left his fur, his small tail sweeping the snow.
“Well, Greywind,” you said, your tone light and warm as your gaze flicked between wolf and man. “It was lovely to meet you both.”
You turned to go, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Robb’s eyes followed the sweep of your cloak, deep crimson against the white—like fire cutting through frost. Something in him stirred before he could stop it.
“You don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice careful as if not to startle you away. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I often come to the Godswood to think.” He paused, his mouth twitching faintly. “I didn’t expect that you—or your family—might visit this place.”
You gave a soft huff of laughter, your breath curling white in the cold air. “I doubt my mother would step foot in this place unless the gods themselves demanded it.”
Robb’s lips twitched, amusement flickering there for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I imagine the Old Gods wouldn’t care much for southern prayers.”
You glanced over your shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips. “Or southern pride,” you added, voice light but tinged with truth.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t waver from you. “There’s much being said about us,” he finally brought up after a pause. “More than either of us asked for.”
“I noticed,” you murmured, your gaze lowering to the snow-dusted ground. “Apparently I’m the North’s next great insult—or its salvation, depending on who’s gossiping.”
He hesitated, as though weighing whether to press further. “And what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now.
You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s no matter what I think,” you said evenly. “If my father and yours decide on our betrothal, then I will do my duty.”
He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once—slowly, as if he understood more than he cared to admit. “My father would say duty is the only thing that keeps us honourable.”
You straightened. “And my mother would say it’s the only thing that keeps us useful,” you replied, your tone steady but tinged with quiet bitterness. “Either way, there’s little choice in what we would want.”
Robb tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And what is it you want, Princess?”
The question caught you off guard. Such a simple thing—and yet, no one had ever asked it before. Not your father, who spoke of alliances and bloodlines as though you were part of his crown’s ledger. Not your mother, who viewed choice as an illusion beneath the weight of duty. Never anyone who cared for you beyond what you represented.
Your breath misted in the cold as you turned your gaze toward the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly in the wind. “I’m not sure I’d know how to answer that,” you admitted after a moment. “I’ve spent my life doing what’s expected of me. Perhaps what I want…”—you hesitated, voice softening—“…is a chance to know what freedom might be like. To make a choice for myself—not because it’s required, but because it’s mine.”
Robb was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “You’d fit the North better than you think.”
You glanced back at him, one brow arching, uncertain if he was teasing. “Would I?”
“Aye,” he said, and there was no jest in it. “You value freedom, and you speak plainly. You’d find honesty here, even if it’s cold and rough-edged. And I think you’d hold your own against it.”
Something unguarded flickered in your eyes as you looked at him. You hadn’t expected kindness from him—not the sort that saw beyond your name. “You and your family are kinder than I expected, Lord Stark.”
A small smile touched his lips. “And you,” he said quietly, “are not what I expected at all, Princess.”
You looked back toward the pool of still water, its glassy surface reflecting the red of the Weirwood leaves. Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “Do you think your father will agree to it?”
Robb was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your question settling in the still air between you. His gaze drifted toward the heart tree, its carved face solemn and knowing. “I think he’ll do what he believes is right for the realm,” he said at last. “As will the King. The rest of us will learn to live with their choices.”
You met his eyes again, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the crown, the politics, the heavy chains of your parents’ expectations. In that stillness, you could almost imagine another life. One where you weren’t a Baratheon princess bartered like gold, but a woman who chose her own path. A woman who could stay here, in this quiet northern stronghold, where the air was pure and the people were honest.
You could almost see it—a future with Robb Stark. You’d be lucky, you thought, to be his wife. He wasn’t much older than you, and unlike the courtiers you’d grown up around, there was nothing false in him. He was kind, and honest, and strong in the quiet way that made others listen. If the betrothal fell through, you knew your next match would likely be some aging lord looking to get his hands on a young Highborn wife, grasping for status through your name.
“I should return before someone notices I’ve vanished,” you said at last, drawing your cloak around your shoulders. “If my mother realizes I’ve been out here, she’ll lecture me about the impropriety of frolicking out in the wild.”
Robb’s expression softened. “I won’t keep you, then.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But you’re welcome here, whenever you need quiet. The Godswood belongs to no one.”
You paused at that, turning back to him. The smallest smile curved your lips, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”
“Robb,” he corrected. “I’m not Lord Stark yet—and I think we’re past the point of formalities.”
You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you, before nodding. “I’ll see you later, Robb.”
It was the first time you’d said his name without title. The sound of it on your sweet lips, felt like a spark in his heart, a warmth that lingered long after you turned and walked away.
Days passed, and with each one, Robb found it harder to ignore what Jon had said that night in the training yard.
You weren’t like the rest of your family. There was no sharp vanity in your tone, no hunger for control in your gaze. You carried yourself with quiet poise, yes—but it wasn’t born from arrogance. It was the kind taught through years of lesson. The kind a person learned when they’d been watched all their life, weighed and measured against what they could offer.
He saw it in the way you walked through Winterfell’s courtyards, shoulders straight but eyes watchful, politely enduring the stares and whispers that trailed after you. He saw it when you stopped to help and speak with the servants, asking—not out of idle curiosity, but genuine interest—about life in the North, about the work and the weather and the long winters to come. And when you bent to greet a stablehand’s hound, unbothered by the mud on its fur, Robb found himself watching longer than he should have.
There was kindness in you—a gentleness he hadn’t expected from a lioness raised among vipers. But there was something else, too. A restlessness. A spirit that longed to stretch its wings, to break free of gilded walls and southern expectations you’d grown up with. You looked at the North not with disdain, but with wonder. This was a world you had been raised to look down upon, yet you seemed intent on understanding it.
The decision of your marriage still lingered in the air like the heavy promise of a storm. The King and his father had yet to speak it aloud, though everyone knew it was coming.
Sansa, for her part, had taken to her chambers most evenings, whispering fervently to her mother about her destiny to be beside Prince Joffrey. Robb had passed their door more than once, catching the sound of her pleading voice—soft, desperate—begging Catelyn to convince their father to agree to the match.
Robb tried not to listen. Tried harder not to imagine the kind of life his sister would have beneath that boy’s thumb. He’d seen Joffrey’s nature, clearer than most. Beneath the polished manners and perfect smile lay something rotten. He was spoiled, vain, cruel in ways that made Robb’s skin crawl. He treated the servants as though they were less than human, mocking them when they stumbled, taking pleasure in their punishments when he thought no one else was watching.
The thought of Sansa bound to him—chained to that kind of arrogance and cruelty—made Robb’s stomach twist. No. He would rather sacrifice his own happiness, his own future, than see her endure that fate.
And though he would never say it aloud, the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: if someone had to be bound to the lions, he would rather it be him than his sister.
The truth was… the more time he spent near you, the less that sacrifice felt like one.
He had begun to seek your company without meaning to. Somehow, you always seemed to find your way to the Godswood or the courtyard, and more often than not, Greywind was padding loyally at your side. You had taken to feeding the wolf treats when you thought no one was watching—though Robb had noticed, more than once.
He pretended not to notice the first few times, content just to watch from a distance. You would look around before crouching down in the snow, your crimson silks brushed pale white at the hems, your voice gentle and cooing as you murmured to the growing pup as if he were a child. Greywind, though already larger than most hounds, behaved with startling gentleness around you—ears low, tail wagging, his enormous head nudging against your arm in quiet affection.
You smuggled bits of bread or dried meat from the kitchens, unbothered by the dirt or the snow that clung to your gloves. Each time, Greywind would take the food delicately from your palm, his golden eyes softening before he devoured it, tail thumping against the frozen ground.
Robb decided to approach you finally and the way you startled at being seen nearly made him laugh.
“Does my lord intend to scold me?” you’d asked, voice carefully measured, though your cheeks were pink with embarrassment.
He’d shaken his head, a small smile curving his lips. “Hardly. Greywind seems to like you more than he does most of my kin. I’d be a fool to interfere.”
You’d relaxed then, your shoulders easing as you looked down at the wolf nuzzling your hand, his great head pressing insistently into your palm.
Robb leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you toss a small scrap of meat into the air for Greywind to catch. The wolf snapped it up easily, rumbling in satisfaction. Robb wasn’t entirely sure when it had begun—these moments, these quiet meetings—but he realized he had come to anticipate them.
He told himself it was curiosity. That he only wished to understand the woman who might one day be his wife. But the truth was simpler—and far more dangerous.
You had begun to occupy the corners of his mind in ways he couldn’t quite name.
You laughed softly as Greywind pawed at your cloak, demanding another treat, and Robb found himself smiling despite the strange tightness that bloomed in his chest. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined when the King had first spoken your name that night at the feast. There was no hauteur in you, no cold detachment born of noble breeding. You were earnest, curious—so very alive.
He’d heard the whispers, of course. That you were a lioness raised in gold, your mother’s beauty and your father’s temper wound into one. But he had seen no cruelty in you, no vanity. Only a quiet grace—and a loneliness that, to his surprise, mirrored his own.
“You know,” you began, brushing snow from your gloves, a hint of playfulness threading through your voice, “you seem to be making a habit of finding me in the cold.”
“Or perhaps,” Robb countered easily, “you’re making a habit of keeping company with my wolf.”
You smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose we’re both guilty.”
Greywind trotted between you then, tail wagging, as though satisfied with the truce. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured toward the path that lead to the Godswood. “Walk with me?” he asked, a trace of warmth softening his tone. “Before he decides to eat your hand next.”
You laughed—soft and breathy—before straightening and accepting his arm. Your personal guard fell into step a few paces behind, close enough to preserve propriety but far enough to grant you both the illusion of privacy.
“Does it ever stop snowing here?” you asked after a moment, genuine curiosity lacing your tone.
He grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting boyishly. “Not long enough for us to forget what it feels like.”
You smiled in return—small, unguarded—and for a fleeting heartbeat, it made Robb forget himself.
You brushed a light dusting of snow from your sleeve, still smiling faintly. “I enjoy it here,” you admitted. “The cold is… refreshing.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Robb said, amusement colouring his voice. “Most southerners start complaining before they’ve been here a day.”
“I’ve done enough complaining for a lifetime,” you replied softly. “It doesn’t change much.”
Robb turned his head slightly, studying you. Though your voice remained light, there was something in your eyes—a quiet, familiar sorrow you rarely let show. “You don’t seem the sort who sits idle,” he said carefully. “If you wanted something changed, I think you’d find a way.”
You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth curving in faint amusement. “You think too highly of me, my lord. My father can move armies with a word. I, however, can’t even choose my own husband.”
The words hung between you, sharper than you meant them to be. Robb’s smile faltered slightly. “If our fathers do decide it,” he said after a pause, his voice low and measured, “I’d hope you’d never feel caged here.”
You tilted your head toward him, curiosity softening your features. “You’d let me speak freely? Do as I wish? Hunt, ride, even argue?”
He grinned, the boyish spark returning to his eyes. “Only if you promise not to best me at any of those.”
That earned him another laugh—brighter this time—and the sound carried through the Godswood, breaking the quiet like sunlight through clouds. Even Greywind perked up, trotting ahead before circling back to brush against your skirts, his tail sweeping the snow.
“You’ve a charming wolf,” you teased, reaching down to scratch his head as he leaned eagerly into your touch. “I think he’s taken a liking to me.”
Robb’s smile deepened before he could stop himself. “I’m beginning to think,” he said quietly, “he has a good choice.”
You looked up at him, surprised, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The words hung between you, fragile and too honest.
Robb cleared his throat and turned away toward the heart tree, his cheeks colouring deeper beneath the cold. “He doesn’t warm to strangers easily, I mean.”
“Of course,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed your amusement. “I’ll take it as a compliment nonetheless.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. You walked side by side beneath the red canopy of the Godswood, your cloaks brushing with each step, the snow falling in soft, lazy flakes around you.
Finally, you broke the quiet. “Do you ever grow tired of this place?” you asked. “Of duty? Of… being what’s expected?”
He thought for a long while before he answered, his voice low. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But the North doesn’t change for us. It’s not meant to be easy.”
You smiled faintly at that, your gaze sweeping over the snow-dusted branches before landing on the faces carved in the tree. “I think that’s what I like most about this place. In King’s Landing, everything is handed to us with a single word. Here, everyone needs to help to earn their keep, otherwise they answer to the unforgiving winter.”
Robb nodded, thoughtful. “That’s true enough. Up here, a man’s worth is in his work, not his name.”
“And in the South,” you murmured, “it’s the opposite. A man’s name can make him a saint or a monster before he ever opens his mouth.”
Robb’s gaze lingered on you, studying the way your expression shifted as you spoke — not bitter, only weary. “You don’t sound proud of the place you come from.”
You hesitated. “Pride’s a dangerous thing in the capital,” you said at last. “It makes fools of even the clever ones.”
Robb’s steps slowed, his eyes tracing the curve of the heart tree’s pale trunk. “And yet,” he said, voice quieter now, “you don’t strike me as a fool.”
You gave a small laugh. “Then perhaps I’ve fooled you into believing that.” you said lightly.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I don’t think so. You see too clearly for it. You… question things that most highborn don’t.”
You turned to look at him then—truly look—and found that he was already watching you. The torchlight from the path flickered across his face, catching in his eyes and making them seem even lighter, like a storm breaking at sea.
Something in your chest tightened. You’d spent your life surrounded by men who wanted to possess or impress you, to see only what they wished to believe. But this—this was different. Robb Stark looked at you as though he were trying to understand you.
“Most people see what they want to see,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “You, however, seem to see past that.”
Robb swallowed, the movement subtle, his eyes steady on yours. “Perhaps, I just take the time to look,” he said quietly.
The air between you shifted, the silence thickening like the hush before snowfall. There was something disarming in the way he said it—earnest and unguarded. It slipped past your defences before you could stop it.
“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s dangerous to look too closely at people. You might not like what you find.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think I’d rather see the truth than live blind to it.”
You looked away then, your gaze drifting to the Weirwood’s bleeding face. The red sap glistened like tears frozen mid-fall. “Truth is rarely kind,” you said softly.
“No,” he replied, his voice low and even. “But neither is the North. We endure both just the same.”
For a time, neither of you spoke. Your steps slowed until you stood before the great heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the cold wind. The face carved into its bark watched over you. You stared at it in silence. It was strange, haunting, but somehow… comforting.
“The Old Gods are different from the Seven,” you murmured, studying the weathered lines of the carving. “They don’t promise mercy.”
Robb nodded once. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But they don’t lie either.”
You turned to him, catching the flicker of reverence in his expression as he looked up at the tree. In that moment, he seemed bound to this place in a way you could only envy. “You have faith in them,” you said, your voice softer now.
“I have faith in what endures,” he replied. “The Old Gods don’t demand our prayers. They aren’t cruel or kind. They just watch. Judge us by what we do. We live and die beneath their eyes.”
You considered that, your breath clouding in the air. “Perhaps that’s why your people are so honest,” you said quietly. “You live with eyes always watching.”
He looked at you then, and for the briefest moment, his gaze felt like one of those eyes— seeing far more than you wanted to reveal. You felt warmth bloom under your skin despite the chill.
You dropped your gaze first, brushing a stray snowflake from your glove. “Perhaps I should start praying to them,” you murmured. “The gods in the south have never listened.”
Robb’s voice softened, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “If you do, be careful what you ask for. The Old Gods don’t always give what we want—but they give what we need.”
For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the wind threading through the red leaves above you. Then, in a voice barely louder than the whisper of snow, you asked, “If the gods do will it—this betrothal—would you… resent it?”
Robb was quiet, his breath misting in the cold air as he turned toward you. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, honest. “No,” he said, almost gently. “I don’t think I would.” He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Would you?”
You swallowed, your heart beating far too fast. “I think…” Your voice faltered, softer now, meant only for him. “Perhaps our union wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.”
You took a step closer—closer than propriety would ever allow—but your guard stood a few paces off, mercifully distracted. The world around, you and Robb seemed to vanish.
You looked up at him, meeting his eyes—grey and steady as winter skies. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, only that suddenly you could feel his breath on your lips, the warmth of it sharp against the chill. Your heart pounded, the space between you shrinking until there was almost nothing left.
And then—
Something struck the side of your head with a sharp thud.
You gasped, stumbling back as snow splattered across your cloak. Robb’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, you were too stunned to speak.
Then a young girl’s voice rang out, “Got you, Robb!”
“My lady!” your guard exclaimed, rushing to your side. “Are you hurt?”
You stood frozen for a heartbeat, snow sliding down your cheek and into the collar of your cloak. The chill hit you, sharp enough to draw a startled laugh from your lips—a breathless, unguarded sound that startled even your guard. You lifted a gloved hand to wipe the melting snow away, still half laughing.
“I’m quite alright, ser,” you said, waving him back. “No need to defend me from such a fearsome assault.”
Robb, meanwhile, had already spun toward the voice, a mix of horror and exasperation crossing his features. His cheeks were red—whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.
“Bloody hells, Arya!” he shouted. “You got the princess!”
From behind a snow-covered tree, a small head of tangled brown hair appeared, her wide eyes flicking between you and her brother as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her grin. “I was aiming for you!” Arya protested, brushing snow off her gloves.
Robb shot her a look caught somewhere between disbelief and scolding. “And missed by half a godsdamned courtyard!”
Arya only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Then her attention turned toward you, and her grin faltered. “Are you—are you all right, princess? I didn’t mean—”
You interrupted her with a laugh, brushing melting flakes from your cloak. “It’s quite all right,” you said, still breathless with amusement. “I’ve survived far worse than snow, I promise you.”
Arya blinked, startled by your good humour. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirmed with a smile, crouching just enough to scoop up a small handful of snow. You shaped it deftly between your gloves, your tone turning playfully curious. “Though I am curious, what exactly is this game?”
Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“
But before he could finish, you let the snowball fly. It struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into a spray of white powder that clung to his cloak and furs.
You lowered your hands delicately, schooling your face into mock innocence. “Did I do it right?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.
Arya’s mouth dropped open—and then she burst into delighted laughter.
“Did you see that!” she crowed, spinning to where Jon was standing a few paces behind his sister, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She got him!” Arya grinned, looking back to Robb. “You should’ve seen your face!”
Robb wiped the snow from his chest, a mock glare darkening his features as he turned toward you. “You—” he sputtered, disbelief warring with amusement, “you threw that at me?”
You lifted your chin, maintaining your imitation of innocence. “Well,” you said easily, “it was meant for you originally, wasn’t it?”
Jon chuckled. “Seems fair to me, brother.”
“Fair?” Robb scoffed, though he was already crouching, his gloved hands gathering snow with a practiced ease that should have warned you. A mischievous grin—far too much like Arya’s—curved his lips. “I call that an act of war.”
You gasped, taking a hasty step back, your eyes widening. “You wouldn’t dare—”
But he did.
The snowball left his hand in a perfect arc and struck your shoulder with a soft, satisfying thwack. Cold flakes burst across your cloak, sliding down your arm as you let out a shocked laugh.
“You—!” you began, your voice caught between outrage and laughter, brushing snow from your shoulder as he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Arya whooped from somewhere behind him, already ducking for cover. “Get her, Robb!”
That was all the encouragement you needed. You bent swiftly, scooping up a handful of snow of your own, the grin breaking across your face nothing short of wicked. “You’ve declared war, my lord,” you said, shaping the snow between your palms. “Don’t think I’ll yield easily.”
In a matter of seconds, the solemn Godswood had transformed into a battleground—snowballs flying, laughter echoing through the air. Arya and Jon took sides without hesitation—Arya with Robb, Jon with you—each barking orders like rival commanders on the field.
Your poor guard stood frozen at the edge of the clearing torn between his duty and self-preservation. He looked utterly bewildered, his hand halfway to his sword as if expecting real danger. He ducked as another snowball hurtled his way—Arya’s, if you had to guess—and let out a startled yelp when it exploded across his chest.
You were laughing so hard you could hardly breathe, snow tangled in your hair, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. The world felt lighter—freer—than it ever had before. And through the laughter, the flying snow, and the chaos, Robb’s eyes found yours again—bright, warm, and utterly alive.
For that fleeting moment, it didn’t matter who you were or what fate awaited you.
Greywind barked, bounding between you, snapping playfully at the flying snow as though torn between sides. The four of you spilled from the Godswood into the courtyard, boots crunching over the frost. The few onlookers who happened to pass froze where they stood, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the royal princess and the heirs of Winterfell engaged in a full snow-fight.
At one point, Arya came darting after you, laughter bubbling from her lips as she took aim. You turned to flee—just in time to duck. The snowball soared past you in a perfect arc—right toward the open archway of the courtyard steps, where Sansa and Joffrey had just stepped outside.
Sansa shrieked as the snow splattered across her auburn curls, while Joffrey froze mid-step, flakes clinging to his ornate collar. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Sansa was already brushing the snow from her hair, her cheeks burning red with fury and embarrassment.
“Arya!” she cried, her voice shrill and scandalized. “What’s wrong with you?!”
Joffrey rounded on Arya, his face twisted in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he spat, stepping forward. “You dare to attack the prince?”
The playfulness drained from the air as quickly as the colour from Arya’s face.
She stumbled back, torn between defiance and panic. “It—it was an accident!” she stammered. “I didn’t even see you there! I was aiming for Y/N!”
Joffrey’s eyes cut toward you, his expression souring further. “Aiming for her?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You dared to throw snow at a princess?”
Arya blinked, realizing too late what she’d just said. “I—”
But Joffrey was already advancing, his hand twitching at his side, his words venomous. “You filthy little savage,” he spat. “Do you have no respect for your betters? I should make you beg for forgiveness—on your knees.”
Before Robb or Jon could react, you were already moving—swift and steady, the remnants of laughter still dying in your throat as you stepped between them.
“That’s enough,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from you.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing across his face. “Enough?” he repeated, the word spat like venom. “You mean to defend her? She hit me!”
“She’s a child,” you interrupted coolly, your tone calm but edged in steel. You stood tall, unflinching despite the prince’s fury. “And we were playing. You’ve been struck by snow, not steel. I think you’ll live.”
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Sansa’s eyes went wide with horror. “Y/N—it was her fault!” she blurted, desperate to smooth the tension.
“Princess,” You corrected, “Do not think you can speak to me so familiarly,” you said, your voice dropping, cold as the northern winter. The sharpness of it startled even you. A little of your mother’s ice—your father’s command—cut through the air as you turned your glare on both of them. “She is your sister. And she has done nothing to warrant your insults or your temper.”
Sansa flinched, her face colouring as she bowed her head. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“She attacked us!” Joffrey snapped, indignant fury twisting his features. “It’s an insult!”
You arched a brow, every inch the queen you were born to be. “If you cannot tell the difference between an insult and a game, then perhaps you are the one who should be sent to the nursery.”
His face turned crimson. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, stepping closer. “I am your prince!”
You didn’t move. “And yet you act like a spoiled child,” you stated calmly. “Titles don’t make men, Joffrey. Actions do.”
He froze, his pride striking like a wounded animal. The sneer crept back onto his lips, his voice thick with spite. “You forget your place, sister. I’ll not be shamed before these northern savages—”
“Enough!” The single word cut through his rant like a blade. “You will hold your tongue,” you said, your composure trembling on the edge of fury. “Or I swear by every god—old and new—you’ll prove yourself as much a fool as people already whisper you are.”
Joffrey’s face went red, then pale, the edges of his mouth curling in silent outrage. “You—”
And that was when his hand moved.
He didn’t think—he simply reacted, his pride goading him further. The sound of his glove cutting through the air was sharp as a whip as he raised his hand to strike you.
But Robb was faster.
He caught Joffrey’s wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around it with unyielding strength. The motion was so swift, so instinctive, that even the prince seemed stunned by it. Robb’s grip tightened—not enough to harm, but enough to make Joffrey wince.
“You’ll lower your hand,” Robb said, his voice low and edged with danger. “Before you do something very, very stupid.”
Joffrey glared up at him, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Unhand me,” he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. “You’ve no right—”
Robb’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening as his voice cut through the cold air. “You’re standing in my home,” he said evenly, each word heavy with command. “And in my home, you will not lay a hand on a woman—” His voice dropped an octave, a warning growl. “My woman.”
The words had your heart stuttering in your chest. You’d danced around the prospect of marriage, nearly kissed beneath the red leaves of the Godswood, but you’d never let yourself believe he wanted you, not truly. Not beyond duty.
Yet now there was no denying it.
Joffrey froze, his outrage faltering beneath the weight of something colder—fear, maybe, or the realization that Robb Stark was not a man he could cow with titles or threats. Robb was everything Joffrey wasn’t: grounded, unyielding, and very much in control. A man defending what was his.
The courtyard had gone utterly still. The only sound was Greywind’s low, guttural growl rumbling through the air from where he stood protectively by your side. The Direwolf’s hackles stood high, his teeth flashing white as he took a single step forward, golden eyes locked on the prince.
“Call off your beast,” Joffrey spat, his voice cracking, his earlier confidence bleeding into panic.
You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing Robb’s as you met the prince’s glare head-on. “Then perhaps you should return inside, Joffrey,” you said, your tone calm but laced with quiet authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”
Joffrey’s mouth twisted, fury flashing in his eyes. For a heartbeat, you thought he might try again—but then his pride faltered beneath the combined weight of Robb’s unflinching stare and Greywind’s low, rumbling growl.
He yanked his arm free, his movements jerky, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, each word dripping venom.
He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him as he stormed toward the keep, boots crunching furiously in the snow. Sansa scrambled after him, her face pale and stricken. “Joffrey, wait—please, he didn’t mean—” Her voice faded into the cold as the great doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the courtyard in breathless silence.
The courtyard seemed to exhale all at once. You stood there, heart still pounding, the wind tugging at your cloak.
Robb hadn’t moved either. His hand was still half-raised from where he’d stopped Joffrey, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath his furs. His gaze shifted from the closed doors to you, softening the instant your eyes met.
The world around you was cold, but his voice, when it came, was not.
“Are you all right?” Robb asked quietly. The edge of command that had cut through his tone moments ago was gone, replaced by something gentler—concern, threaded with the faint tremor of leftover anger.
You swallowed, willing your pulse to steady, and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you. But I’ve grown up dealing with Joffrey’s tantrums.”
The words came out lighter than you felt, but Robb’s expression didn’t ease. His brow furrowed, his gaze searching your face as if to make certain you spoke the truth.
“No one should have to,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t have to grow used to that kind of behaviour.”
You gave a faint, humourless smile. “You’ll find that my brother believes the world bends to his will. He’s never been told otherwise. My mother turns a blind eye, my father laughs it off. He was born thinking he could do no wrong.”
Robb’s jaw tightened. “Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle slipped past your lips—a soft, incredulous sound. “Careful, my lord. If the king hears you’ve manhandled his heir, there might be a war before dinner.”
Robb huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The corner of his mouth curved, but before either of you could say more, a small voice broke through the quiet.
“I… I didn’t mean to.”
You turned to find Arya standing a few paces away, Jon protectively beside her. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, her brown eyes wide with guilt. The defiance that had burned so brightly during the snowball fight was gone—what stood before you now was a child afraid she’d started something terrible.
“Hush now, Arya,” you said softly, your tone gentling as you crossed the snow toward her. “There’s no need to fret.”
You knelt so that your eyes met hers, your cloak pooling around you in the snow. “My brother has always been quick to anger,” you murmured, offering her a reassuring smile. The girl’s lip trembled, her gloved hands still clutching a half-formed snowball she’d long forgotten to throw. “It wasn’t your fault. You were only playing, and he—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He doesn’t yet understand the difference between pride and respect.”
Arya frowned, her brows knitting together. “But he almost struck you,” she said in a small voice, glancing between you and Robb. “Because you wouldn’t let him punish me.”
You met her gaze steadily, your tone quiet but firm. “Because you did nothing wrong,” you said.
The simplicity of your words made Arya blink, her wide eyes searching your face. “You’re not like the other southerners,” she said at last, almost accusingly.
A small laugh escaped you. “Is that a compliment?”
Arya’s mouth curved into a tentative grin. “Maybe.”
You reached out and tapped the tip of her nose lightly, dislodging a flake of snow. “Then I’ll take it as one.”
Robb watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as he saw Arya’s tension dissolve beneath your words. When you rose to your feet, brushing the snow from your skirts, he found himself smiling without meaning to. His gaze drifted to his brother, who was sending him a knowing look. Jon was right. You didn’t belong to the same world as Joffrey.
As you turned to look at him, a faint smile still lingering on your lips, Robb felt something settle deep in his chest—steady and certain. He didn’t know what the King would decide, nor what his father would say when the time came. But for the first time since the betrothal had been spoken of, he knew what he wanted.
He wanted you to stay.
Not out of duty. Not out of command. But because he’d begun to believe the gods themselves had sent you north—not to bind two houses, but to give him something he hadn’t known he was looking for.
And perhaps, if the gods were listening, they would give him that chance.
The day had come grey and cold, a thin veil of snow drifting lazily through the air. Winterfell’s great hall, usually alive with the hum of conversation and clatter of dishes, was subdued—its vast stone walls echoing only with the low murmur of men awaiting the will of kings and lords.
Robb stood a few paces behind his father, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, every muscle in his body drawn taut. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat composed and still, though the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her calm. Beside her, Sansa’s expression was bright but anxious, her fingers twisting the silken folds of her gown in her lap.
Across the hall, the King’s court stood in stark contrast—southern finery gleaming beneath the gray light. Your father slouched in his chair, broad and imposing even in his half-sober state. His laughter, usually loud enough to fill any room, had quieted into a gruff patience he seldom possessed.
Beside him, your mother sat like a statue carved from cold marble. Her green eyes gleamed with restrained disdain. She looked every inch the queen, every inch the lioness who would rather be anywhere else than here in the wolf’s den.
And behind her, you stood.
Your head was bowed in perfect decorum, but Robb noticed the subtle tremor in your hands where they clutched your cloak. You looked small beneath the vaulted ceiling, framed by the grey stone and the banners of House Stark.
Robert’s booming voice filled the hall, breaking the quiet. “Well, Ned,” He said, leaning forward with a weary grin, “we’ve danced around it long enough. You know why I came—to bind our houses once and for all. Lions and wolves, standing together. I’ll not have it wait another day.”
Lord Stark’s expression was calm, thoughtful. “Aye, Your Grace. But the choice must serve both houses—and the children themselves. This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”
Cersei’s lips curved in a thin, cutting smile. “The realm has little patience for northern hesitation, Lord Stark,” she said coolly. “The match must be worthy of the crown.”
Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Gods, woman, enough of your prattle.” His attention swung back to Ned, his heavy voice echoing off the stone. “We’ve two fine children from each house. My son Joffrey, and daughter Y/N. Your son Robb, and daughter Sansa. Either match would serve well enough—but which one, that’s the question.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch.
Robb felt Sansa’s gaze flick toward their father—wide, pleading, hopeful. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her gown. She had dreamed of this match since the day the royal party had arrived, and though Robb wanted to look away, he couldn’t.
His father’s voice broke the stillness. “My daughter Sansa is of age to wed the prince, should it please the crown,” he said, the words falling with measured restraint. “It would be a great honour.”
Robb’s stomach twisted. He could feel every word land like a blow. The image rose unbidden in his mind—Sansa’s soft smile turned toward Joffrey, the way her cheeks flushed when he looked her way. She saw a golden prince; Robb saw the cruelty that gleamed behind those same golden eyes. The thought of his sister bound to that… boy made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.
But worse still was the image that followed—one he hadn’t meant to summon, one that struck deeper.
He imagined a life without you.
You, standing beside some nameless lord in King’s Landing, your fire dimmed beneath the weight of courtly duty. You, smiling that polite, practiced smile that never reached your eyes. You, turning from him in the Godswood for the last time.
The thought clawed at him, sharp and cold as the northern wind. He had told himself it was folly to think of you—to imagine a future that might never be—but now, as the King’s words echoed through the hall, the possibility of losing you settled in his chest like a stone.
You were duty, yes. But you were also more.
And for the first time, Robb Stark found himself praying—not to the Old Gods for strength or guidance, He prayed that fate would be kind.
He drew a slow breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression composed even as his heart hammered in his chest.
Across the hall, Robert leaned back in his chair, his heavy crown tilting slightly as he studied the two families before him. “Aye,” he said after a long pause, nodding once. “A fine match indeed.”
But then his gaze shifted—first to you, then to Robb.
He lingered on the sight of you, head bowed in quiet poise, the faint tremor of unease in the way your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. And then his eyes flicked to Robb—rigid, jaw clenched, blue-grey eyes stayed fixed on you.
Robert recognized that look. He’d worn it once himself—long ago, for Lyanna Stark.
His brows drew together, voice lowering into something more thoughtful. “And yet…” he murmured. “There’s sense in matching the North with my daughter, too.”
Your head snapped up, hope flickering across your face as your gaze darted between your father and Robb.
Meanwhile, your mother’s head turned sharply toward your father, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Your Grace—” she began, her voice tight with warning.
But Robert ignored her. His eyes were on Ned, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Tell me, old friend,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “What does your boy think of the matter?”
The hall went still.
Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward his son. “He will obey his duty,” he said at last, his voice even. “Whatever is decided.”
Robert barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “A true Stark answer!” he said, raising his cup in mock salute. “But I didn’t ask for duty, Ned. I asked for thought.”
All eyes turned to Robb.
The hall seemed to narrow around him, every sound fading until all he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, he looked toward his father, seeking steadiness in the familiar lines of his face—but his gaze didn’t linger there.
It found you.
Your gaze met his, uncertain but searching. The flicker of hope shifting something in his chest shifted.
And before he could stop himself, he spoke. “I would marry her.”
The words rang out clear and steady, but his heart hammered behind them. He barely saw the flicker of shock that crossed Ned’s face or the sharp intake of breath from his mother. His eyes were only on you—your parted lips, the way your breath caught, the hesitant, hopeful smile that followed.
A low murmur rippled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Cersei’s expression hardened, the colour draining from her cheeks, while Sansa made a small, strangled sound beside her mother — disbelief and hurt mingling in her wide blue eyes.
Robert’s brows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “You would, would you?” he rumbled, leaning back in his chair, half in jest and half in curiosity.
Robb nodded once, never taking his eyes off you as he addressed your father. His voice was calm but resolute. “Aye, I would,” he said. “We remember those who stand with honour, and she has done that since the day she rode through our gates. She’s shown nothing but grace and courage since she arrived. The North could ask for no finer lady—” he hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment before he finished, softer, “—I could ask for no finer lady. If it please Your Grace, and with my father’s blessing, I would be proud to call her my wife.”
Your eyes widened slightly, a faint breath slipping from your lips. You could feel every gaze on you, but all you could see was him as he stood tall and unflinching in the centre of the hall, the firelight catching the auburn in his hair and tracing the proud lines of his face. His voice had stilled a room full of royalty and lords, yet his eyes were fixed only on you—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.
“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said at last, a booming laugh rolling from his chest, breaking the tension like thunder. “You’ve raised yourself a proper lord.” He turned his grin toward Robb, still chuckling. “You sound more like your father than you know.”
Then his gaze shifted to you. “Well, girl? You’ve heard the lad. Would you have the wolf for a husband?”
Your lips parted, your breath trembling in your throat. You had been promised, paraded, spoken of your entire life but never once had anyone spoken for you like this. Never once had you felt as though the choice might truly be your own.
And now, for the first time in your life, you knew exactly what you wanted.
You drew a slow breath, steadying the frantic beat of your heart. “If it please Your Grace,” you said softly, your voice clear despite the thundering in your chest, “then I would.”
The hall erupted — some gasping, some murmuring, a few already clapping — but all of it faded into a distant hum. Robb’s eyes found yours again, and this time, you smiled — small, genuine, and full of something neither of you dared name.
Robert leaned forward, grin wide beneath his beard. “Ned?” he prompted.
For a long moment, Lord Stark said nothing. His gaze rested on his son, studying him—not as a father scrutinizing a boy, but as a man weighing the measure of another and his gaze seemed to soften with pride at what he saw.
Finally, he inclined his head toward the King. “I think the matter is decided, Your Grace.”
Robert roared with laughter, the sound booming off the stone walls. “Good! It’s settled then! The lioness of the South and the wolf of the North!” He lifted his cup high, wine sloshing over the rim. “May the gods damn well bless this union—and grant them strength enough not to tear each other apart!”
The crowd broke into applause, the tension snapping like a bowstring. But amid the noise and the celebration, not all faces shared in the joy.
Cersei rose sharply, her chair scraping against the floor, fury flashing in her green eyes. “You cannot be serious,” she hissed, her words cutting through the laughter. Her gaze burned into Robert’s, venom barely restrained.
“Silence, woman!” Robert bellowed, turning on her with a thunderous glare. “You’ll not sour this moment with your scheming tongue. The matter’s settled.”
Cersei’s lips pressed into a bloodless line as she sat, the gold of her crown catching the firelight like a warning.
And you—your breath trembled, your pulse a storm beneath your skin—but when Robb’s gaze met yours again, something steady flickered there.
A strange, unexpected calm.
Because in that moment, for the first time since the betrothal had been mentioned, you didn’t feel like a pawn in your father’s game.
You felt seen. Not as a daughter of the throne, not as a prize to be bartered, but as yourself.
And across the hall, Robb Stark’s hand curled at his side. For him, too, the weight of duty—the burden of blood, of family, of expectation—suddenly didn’t feel quite so heavy.
summary: after months of silence, a late-night breakdown leaves you stranded with the one person you tried hardest to forget. steve is the last person you want to see, but when everything finally falls apart, he may be the only one who knows how to hold you through it
wc: 13.9k :)
warnings: 18+ pwp, oral (f receiving), edging, praise, overstimulation, p in v sex, steve harrington talking you through it, post-sex crying; severe angst, PTSD, survivor’s guilt, panic attacks, trauma-induced flashbacks, reckless driving, references to death, isolation, depression, poor self-care, crying—so much crying—MAJOR hurt/comfort, steve believing he failed everyone
You know that driving is a bad idea. You know it before you even leave the house. You know it as you pull the front door shut behind you, as you cross the stretch of drive without even bothering to lock it. You know it as you fit the key in the ignition with fingers that feel numb, when the engine stutters to life and the dashboard lights up, emphasising your shaking wrists.
There are nights when movement is the only thing that keeps you together. If you stay in the same place after an episode, the walls begin to lean inward. The silence becomes cavernous, with every sound the house makes becoming abnormal. The pipes in the walls or the rain on the roof, what were once ordinary noises, now made you want to scream.
You get into your car, slamming the door behind you a little too quickly. In the rearview mirror, you watch your home begin to fade. Your home. The one you spent months saving for, elated when you finally had the deposit, then the keys—late shifts and turned-down dinners transformed into freedom. It felt safe in the beginning. A front door you could lock and windows you could curtain. But three years ago, it all came crashing down.
It barely felt like home after everything that happened inside it, not after nights spent washing away blood in the kitchen sink, watching the water turn pink and then clear. Any sense of security vanished after you heard chimes in the hallway, learning just how thin the distance between one world and another could be.
Your hands are damp against the steering wheel, squeaking against the leather as you tighten them, knuckles paling. The road ahead is almost empty, a narrow strip of grey unspooling beneath headlights, bordered on either side by trees that seem to crowd closer whenever you look away.
You drag in a breath through your nose, letting it out as it catches against your chest.
Fuck.
You try again, forcing the air down until your lungs ache with it. Your stomach continues to churn, a relentless turning that makes you feel hollow and sick.
It never really stops anymore, but you tell yourself the driving helps. Not enough, but more than other things might. The road allows you to focus on something simple. It forces you to steady your hands and keep your feet in place as you press the pedals. Anything to just keep moving forward.
The others had moved forward, each in their own way. Nancy and Jonathan went first. Robin followed. Then the kids, one after the other, though none of them were really kids by then. Dustin. Will. Even Hopper and Joyce, who had once seemed as much a part of Hawkins as the cracked roads and the water tower. You understood their choices, you'd be stupid not to, but it didn't make it hurt any less.
Then there was Eddie. Sometimes, beneath all the hurt, you found yourself jealous of him. At least he would never have to live with the pain of his absence every day.
Max and Lucas are still close enough to visit, but they have each other. Somehow, against all reason, they managed to take the wreckage and build something from it. They had been broken open and come through holding tighter. Perhaps not stronger, but certainly less alone than you were.
You turn the radio up a notch. The song distorts through the old speakers, the bass rattling as it smothers the edge of a memory before it can properly form.
You cannot let yourself think about any of it tonight. Not when every road leads back to the same place, and every place still carries some trace of him.
The road widens as you turn onto the highway, tyres drifting over the change in tarmac, and Hawkins begins to fade until there is nothing left of it but a low orange haze against the sky.
You should feel better at the distance. Out here, there are no triggers for you to dwell on. Only open land, black beneath the night, the fields spreading on either side of you until they seem to have no end at all.
The grip you have on the wheel eases slightly as the song on the radio reaches its chorus, loud enough to fill the car, and you almost manage to disappear into it. The rhythmic beating of some old Talking Heads song, uplifting as the keyboard goes faster and—
The music begins to break.
It is so slight at first that you wonder whether you imagined it. A faint crackle of Byrne's voice as a thread of interference scratches through the familiar melody. Your fingers tighten as the sound comes again.
The song wavers, dragged thin by static, before returning for half a breath. Then it vanishes entirely beneath a rush of white noise.
Cold passes through you.
No.
You risk a glance down at the green numbers that remain lit on the dash, dial exactly where it is supposed to be. Your hand leaves the wheel long enough to just strike one of the buttons, another station spitting the same static back at you.
You press another. And then another. All yielding the same nothing.
No, no, no.
Your fingertips slip against the dial as you turn it too quickly, sweeping through frequencies, but every station is gone.
You cannot do this in silence. Music was the one thing—it was what—it was the only thing—you had to—
You need to calm down.
It had been years. It had been years. But the thought has no weight. Years mean nothing. Years did not scrub the past clean. Years were not forever.
The static sharpens again as you try to keep the car steady. You take a glance over at the fields beyond the windscreen, only to discover that they are no longer fields.
They are grey and rotting beneath a sky that flickers red. Ash drifts through the air and vines writhe over the road, and somewhere beyond the reach of your headlights, something opens its mouth.
You blink as your eyes begin to fill.
Not now.
The road returns, barely, but your lungs refuse to follow. A shape moves at the edge of your vision. It is small and low to the ground, its boned body darting from the darkness beside the road, too fast for you to understand.
Not again.
Please, not again.
You swear you hear a screech, something wet with teeth. There is the smell of rot and blood so thick that it coats the back of your throat.
You can't do this again, not while you're all alone. There is nothing left in you that could survive it. Whatever part of you had kept moving felt insufficient, used up in tunnels and left in scraps in the forest.
The shape reaches the road as headlights flare in your rearview mirror. The car behind you appears all at once, too close and violently bright. White light floods the glass, swallowing your reflection, and for an instant you cannot see anything except the glare.
The static screams as you lurch forward, wrenching the wheel. Tyres shriek across the road. Your shoulder slams against the door as the car swerves, the beam of your headlights tearing across the field. The shape that leaps has legs that flash in front of the bonnet, forcing you to slam on the breaks.
Your car leaves the road with a violent jolt, gravel hammering the underside. Your seatbelt locks across your chest and throws you back, then forward, your hands losing the wheel as the car lurches into the lay-by. Something moves beyond the glass and you recoil on instict, pressing yourself against the seat.
A young deer scrambles up the bank, its legs thin. It pauses at the edge of the field, one white tail flicking through the darkness as it disappears between the hedges on the other side of the road.
It was a deer. It was only a deer.
It's gone now.
The radio clears with a soft snap as the song returns halfway through a verse, as though nothing has happened. All you can do is stare at the road.
Your hands are raised in front of you, shaking so badly you cannot make them close. You can't move them at all. Your arms begin to tremble next, then your shoulders, the fear moving through you, wave upon punishing wave.
You fucking idiot.
Frustrated air claws at your throat as you try to swallow. The car seems too small, the roof pressing lower and lower with every breath. Heat gathers beneath your back as your skin remains cold. Your stomach twists so sharply you think you might be sick.
Please let it be over.
You can't do it again.
The pressure builds behind your eyes until the road blurs. You squeeze them shut, but that is worse. The darkness fills at once with red lightning and snapping jaws, with hands slipping from yours, with his face streaked in blood as he tells you to run.
Your eyes fly open. A sound tears out of you.
It's not quite a sob. It's too strangled for that, caught between your clenched teeth, raw with the effort of having held it there for months. It hurts as it leaves you, folding forward over the wheel, one hand pressed hard against your mouth as though you might force the rest of it back inside.
How on earth did you let it get this bad?
How many nights will it take to just stop? The mornings when you cannot even look in the mirror, scared to see what might be facing you. How long have you been telling yourself that this is temporary, that tomorrow will surely be easier, that one day you will wake without needing to remind yourself you don't have to run anymore?
Your chest heaves as you struggle to undo the seatbelt, desperate for some kind of respite.
You do not know. You do not know when it will stop. You do not know if it ever will. You don't know if you can take it.
A car pulls in behind you, but you barely hear it over the blood rushing in your ears. There is only the vague wash of tyres, another engine idling somewhere beyond your own, but the sound does not mean anything. It belongs to the world outside, and you have slipped too far from it to care. A door opens and footsteps move somewhere in the distance. You keep your forehead pressed against the steering wheel.
Perhaps you should be afraid. A woman alone on an empty road in the middle of the night, too shaken to even lift her head. There was a time when the thought would have sent your hand beneath the seat, fingers searching for the knife you still keep there. There was a time when you knew how to be afraid usefully, but it was pointless now.
The stranger could take whatever they wanted, for there was nothing left. All survival instincts annihilated under your breathing and the tears slipping hot between your hand and your mouth.
You were pathetic.
The footsteps stop beside you as the shadow falls over the glass. There is a small tap on the window, but you do not have it in yourself to look up.
Please. Just leave.
Another tap follows, a little louder this time, though still not enough to startle you. Whoever it is says something, their voice blurred by the window and the thud of your pulse. You cannot make out the words.
The voice comes again. This time, it says your name. You force your head to rise.
No.
You recognise the figure on the other side of the glass.
Not again.
Five months. Five whole months have passed since you last saw him properly. Five months since you stood in the foyer of his house, one hand wrapped around his front door, a letter left on his hall table for him to discover when the sun would rise.
He looks almost exactly as you remember him. His hair is slightly longer than it had been, the brown falling loose at his forehead, disturbed by the wind. His jacket hangs over a faded polo shirt. One of his palms is against the roof of your car as he bends towards the window. His eyes find yours, and whatever he had expected to see disappears from his expression.
His face twists, his mouth parting. His gaze moves over you quickly, taking in the tears, your shaking hands, the terror on your face. It is the same expression you have seen many times. It is the one he wore when he was scared, when he wasn't sure how to fix it; to make it better.
“Hey—” You can barely hear him through the glass. He leans closer, trying to see you properly. “Hey, can you—”
His eyes drop towards the door lock. He is trying to keep his voice calm; you can see the effort of it in the tension of his jaw.
“Can—can you open the door?” he asks. “Can you do that for me?”
All you can do is stare at him numbly through the thin layer of glass separating you both. He is the last person you want to see.
You have spent months arranging your life around his absence. Avoiding the roads near his house, letting the telephone ring until it stopped. Never walking the main road when the sky was light.
You could not see him, for seeing him meant remembering. His clothes covered in blood that was not always his, or his body curled around yours while the world shook. His mouth against your temple in the dark, promising that tomorrow would come when neither of you knew it would.
Seeing him meant remembering the nights you had gone to him because sleep was impossible. The way he always opened the door before you could even attempt to knock twice. The way neither of you called it love because there was no room for love at the end of the world. Only urgency and warmth, the desperate relief of finding each other alive again.
You turn your face away. You can't' do this here. You can't have whatever conversation has been waiting between you while your car sits half-buried in gravel. You cannot let him see you like this.
“Shit.” The word reaches you faintly.
Steve pulls at the handle. It gives beneath his hand but catches against the lock, and the failure seems to frighten him more. He knocks again.
“I’m—” He glances behind him, towards the empty road, then back. “I’m gonna need you to open the door, okay?” His voice carries an attempt at steadiness. “Please—just open the door.”
It takes more effort than it should. Your fingers feel distant, clumsy as they move. Steve watches every inch through the glass, barely blinking.
You could still drive away, pull back onto the road, leave him standing in the dirt and preserve whatever small part of yourself he has not already seen. But your thumb follows his instructions as it presses down, the lock giving with a click.
Steve has the door open before you can reconsider, cold air enters the car. His hands catch the metal and guide it carefully outward, stopping it before it can swing back. He is immediately crouching beside you.
His eyes sweep over your face, your throat, your arms, down towards your legs, searching for some visible wound he can understand.
Steve has always known what to do with injuries. He knew which cuts needed stitches and which only looked worse than they were. How to distract you while he cleaned blood from your skin, and how to press his palm against a wound and keep his voice level even when his own hands were shaking.
Pain was easier when it could be located, and this leaves him helpless.
His hands hover near you. One lifts towards your shoulder, falters and drops. Those hands had once known every part of you without asking. The roughness of his palms, the precise pressure of every finger.
“What happened?” He asks, eyes still assessing. “Are—are you hurt?”
You shake your head, but it is too small a movement. He does not seem convinced.
“Did you hit something?” His eyes move across the windscreen, searching for cracks. “Are you bleeding?”
“No.” The word scrapes its way out of you.
"Then what—" His face tightens at the sound of your voice. “What are you doing out here?”
You look past him. The road stretches in your mirror, empty except for his poorly angled car, headlights still burning. He must have stopped quickly. One wheel sits partly on the road, and the driver’s door has been left open.
Steve, who lectures everyone else about road safety. Who once spent twenty minutes explaining to Dustin why hazard lights existed.
“I thought—” Your voice fails. "I thought I saw—”
The words snag. You turn towards him, body twisting sideways in the seat. You cannot finish. The grief comes suddenly, ripping through the last weak seam holding you together. You raise both hands as if you can cover it, pressing them over your mouth, over your eyes, but the sob breaks loose anyway.
Your body pitches forward and Steve catches you.
He has no choice. One moment he is crouched beside the car, and the next you are falling into him, your forehead striking his shoulder, your hands caught uselessly between you. You feel the shock move through him as he goes rigid. After weeks of silence, and this is how you touch him again.
He wastes no time as instinct overtakes him. One arm closes around your back, the other comes up behind your head, his hand settling carefully against your hair as he draws you into him. He lets you bury your face against his neck.
The sobs turn ugly there. They shake through your entire body, dragging breath and sound from places you thought had gone numb. You clutch at the front of his jacket because there is nothing else to hold. The fabric gathers in your fists. Beneath it, his chest rises too stiffly.
He is frightened. You can feel it in the hard beat of his heart.
“Hey,” he murmurs, the way he used to in the minutes after terror, when the danger had passed but neither of you believed it yet. “It’s all right, okay? You're alright.”
You shake your head against him. It is not. You want to tell him that. You want to tell him that nothing is all right. Nothing's alright, and you don't know how to fix it.
“It’s all right,” he says again as he tightens his arms. “I got you.” His hand moves slowly over your hair. “You’re alright. I got you, angel.”
Damn him.
It's surely a slip of the tongue, but it hurts all the same. It was something he used to call you in the dark, half-teasing at first, the name softened by sleep or pressed into your skin between kisses. It became something else as time went on. Something he said when he was scared, when your hands were unsteady, when he needed you to look at him and believe, or try to, that he could get you out of this.
You needed to leave before it could get any worse.
You force yourself upright, and Steve loosens his hold immediately, though his hands remain close as you draw away. You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand, not that it makes a difference. Your cheeks are still wet, your skin still raw beneath your fingers. You can feel him watching you, but you cannot make yourself meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I—” You swallow. “I’m sorry. I—I have to get home.”
You scrub at the tears beneath your eyes as if they are the only evidence that needs removing. Perhaps you can still close this door, start the car and fold this night away somewhere you will never have to examine it.
“Hey, no. It’s—uh—it's all right.” Steve's voice is careful again, each word laid down gently between you. “We’ll get you home.”
You nod without looking at him and reach for the seatbelt. Your fingers slide over the material, trying to clip it back into place.
“Whoa, whoa, hey—” His hand lifts. “What—what are you doing?”
“I’m sorry.” You turn towards the wheel, reaching for the keys. “I just saw a deer. That’s all—it was nothing. I’m—I'm sorry you had to see this,” you say. “I should get home.”
Steve stiffens. “There's no way I’m letting you drive like this.”
“Steve, I’m fine.” You grit out as you try to regain some semblance of composure. “I—I just need to get back.”
Just need to get out of here.
“You cannot seriously think I'm gonna let you get behind the wheel right now.”
Steve Harrington, still appointed caretaker of everyone left breathing. Still arriving after the disaster with an earnest crease between his brows.
You look at him. Gravel presses into the knees of his jeans as the wind moves through his hair, lifting it from his forehead, and for a second he looks so painfully familiar that the last few months collapse.
You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. He must see something.
“Please,” he says as you hold his gaze. “Let me help. I won’t be able to sleep unless I know you’re home safe.” His mouth twists faintly, not quite a smile. “I mean... it's not like I can call and check, anyway.”
He looks away when he says it. He has never been very good at cruelty, not since high school—or so you have been told. He looks down at the floor, jaw working as though he regrets saying even that much.
Shame rises beneath your skin, and you are too exhausted to fight it. The fear has hollowed you out, and the expression on his face takes what remains. You glance down at the keys hanging from the ignition. Steve follows your hand as it closes around them, switching off the engine and pulling them free.
He does not speak, stepping back just enough to give you some room, happy that you are not going to bolt. You turn in the seat and place one foot out on the gravel, but your legs feel unreliable beneath you. His hands are there before you can fall, one closing around your forearm. He steadies you as he has done before, drawing you upright without pulling you too close, retreating once he is sure you won't fall.
The night settles properly over you now, working its way through your thin clothes and catching the dampness that remains at the nape of your neck. You instinctively fold your arms around yourself as you begin to walk. You only make it a few paces before something warm drops over your shoulders, Steve's jacket settling around you, heavy with the heat of his body, stopping you in your tracks.
"Steve," you begin. “You don’t—”
“I know.” He adjusts the collar around your neck before you can shrug it off. Then your hand rises towards it in protest, his palm comes down gently on your shoulder, keeping it firmly in place. “Leave it,” he murmurs, leading you away from your car.
The material smells like him. Clean soap, the faint trace of cologne he never uses sparingly. Your fingers curl into the front of it before you can stop them.
He moves as you do, matching your steps with his own. His body stays between you and the road, steering you towards the passenger side of his car. He moves ahead to open it for you. One hand above your head so you do not strike it against the door frame and keeps the other near your elbow as you lower yourself into the seat.
He waits until both your feet are inside before drawing the door. He pauses with one hand still resting along the top of it, looking down at you through the open space.
There is so much in the unspoken space, the place both of you are too scared to touch. You don't speak, choosing to pull his jacket closer around yourself. He tries not to notice it as he closes the door softly, jogging to the opposite side of the car, one hand running through his hair as he slides in, glancing at you before continuing.
“All right?” He tries softly.
It is such a ridiculous question that the answer could take hours, but you know what he means for now. He is asking if you can breathe, if you are here with him, if he can start driving, if you are comfortable enough to let him do this.
You offer him a weak nod, which will have to be enough of an answer. His gaze lingers as though he does not fully believe you.
He waits while you adjust yourself in the seat, until your hands have stopped searching for somewhere to rest and settle instead inside the sleeves. Only then does he put the car into gear, checking the road twice before pulling away. The headlights sweep across your abandoned car as he spins his around, illuminating it briefly before it disappears behind you.
He drives carefully. Both hands remain fixed at ten and two, his eyes trained on the dark road. His shoulders are stiff beneath his shirt as you try not to stare. It takes force to draw your eyes away, opting to look at the fields that slide past the passenger window beyond the glass.
You can feel he wants to say something, he draws in breath too large, then decides not to use it. Twice, his mouth opens as if he has chosen where he might begin before he changes his mind.
You do nothing to help him, wanting this journey to pass in complete silence. For him to take you back to your house, watch you walk through the door and drive away believing he has done his duty. You can worry about how to pick up your car tomorrow. You just want to return to what you have both been doing for the past few months. Steve can go back to whatever life he has made without you, and you can place one more day between you and the past.
He glances at you. The movement is brief, but you catch it in the window’s reflection.
“So, uh," he begins. "What were you doing out here so late?”
His voice is too gentle and you feel irritation stir beneath your exhaustion. You do not want to be handled by him.
"I went for a drive.” The answer is partly true.
“No, I—” he shifts one hand against the wheel. “I got that. I meant what were you doing on the side of the road?”
“I saw a deer.”
“A deer?"
“Yes, Steve.” He waits and you can feel the next question sitting in the silence. You press your cheek against the cool glass, not letting him ask. “It came out of the field. I swerved. That’s all.”
Steve makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat.
You turn your head slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.”
It most certainly is not nothing. You study his profile. His brow is furrowed, the muscles in his jaw moving as he stares at the road. He has always been terrible at concealing what he feels. Steve may lie with his mouth when he thinks it will protect someone, but the rest of him refuses to participate.
“Steve, I’m fine,” you say before he can try. “Honestly. Stop worrying.”
“Yeah,” he answers. “No. All right. You're 'fine.'”
The false agreement is almost insulting.
“What is that supposed to mean?” You ask as you turn towards him.
He exhales through his nose. “That doesn’t explain why you were driving around in the middle of the night.”
You do not have the energy to answer all of his questions right now.
“What if I wanted to?”
“That’s not what I—”
“What if I just wanted to enjoy a drive at night?” You pull his jacket tighter around you, more armour now than comfort. “Is that illegal?”
“No?” His voice rises slightly before he reins it back in. “No, I’m just saying—”
“You’re always just saying.” You turn back towards the window, pulse beginning to climb again. “You don’t have to worry about what I’m doing, okay? The deer just scared me. I would have been fine in a few minutes.”
“Right.” He says plainly, not helping with the dull ache that was beginning to form between your temples. "Sure, you would be."
“You can stop doing that.” You tell him sharply.
“Doing what?”
“Repeating everything I say like I’m stupid.” You huff.
“I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“Then stop talking to me like you do.”
He laughs. “Believe me, that’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Steve’s eyes remain on the road, but the careful restraint is slipping. You see it in the colour rising along his neck.
“I’m just trying to understand what happened.”
“I told you what happened.”
“I know what you told me.” You can see him losing his patience. You almost want him too. At least if you fight, it can end here. “If that’s what you say happened,” he continues, each word clipped now, “then that’s what we’ll go with.”
Your teeth grit together. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Steve looks back at the road. At first, you think he will retreat.
“Yeah,” he says as his grip tightens around the wheel. “Actually, yeah. I am.”
The bluntness of it empties the air from the car. You turn away with a scoff, pressing yourself deeper into the seat. “Whatever. Believe what you want.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
“You forget,” a small smile plays at his lips, though there is no pleasure in it. “I’ve spent enough time with you to know when you’re lying.”
How dare—
The statement drips with the presumed intimacy you have spent months trying to erase. Who was he to say what you feel now? How can he say that with such certainty?
“Well, you don’t know me as well as you think.”
Steve’s expression flickers. The hurt is there and gone so quickly that you might have missed it if you had not once made a study of his face.
“No,” he says quietly. “I guess I don’t.”
The anger drains from his voice, leaving something worse behind. You decide to stare ahead, allowing the country to give way to the edges of town, scattered houses that sit dark and sleeping as you get closer to home. The knowledge brings relief. Just a few more minutes until you can be out of his car, til you can leave him, shut the door and put the past back where it belongs.
You decide to steer this pointless conversation away from you, anything to get his attention elsewhere.
“What were you doing out so late, then, Harrington?” You make the surname sound accusing, as though he is the one who has been caught somewhere he should not be.
“I was visiting Henderson," he answers calmly.
“At college?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s doing okay?” You cannot help but ask. You have not seen the boy in far too long, even longer than Steve. You can only hope he is doing better than you are, whatever that might mean.
“He’s doing good.” Steve’s voice softens despite himself. “Annoying as ever. Thinks because he’s taken half a semester of engineering classes, he can explain my own car to me. I left late. Thought I’d make it back tonight.”
You nod. The town gathers around you, houses becoming more frequent, the orange wash of streetlamps replacing the emptiness of the fields. Steve turns onto a road you both know.
“That’s nice,” you say. “At least you weren’t following me or something.”
You intend it as a joke. Perhaps a poor one, but a joke nonetheless.
“Don’t worry,” he says, sadness creeping through his tone. “You made sure I couldn’t do that.”
Steve turns onto your familiar road. You recognise the shape of your house before it emerges fully from the darkness. The porch light is still burning. You left it that way when you fled, though you cannot remember deciding to. He pulls into the drive and the engine idles for a moment, filling the car with a low vibration. Steve switches it off, though you can tell it is reluctant. The silence becomes immediate, so you reach for the door handle.
“Hey—”
You pretend not to hear him. Your fingers close around the latch.
“Wait.”
The plea in his voice catches you, but press on. You push the door open as Steve turns in his seat.
“Can you just—”
“What do you want?” You ask, frustrated.
His expression falls at the harshness of your voice. He looks at you, the dim light from the dashboard catches the tiredness beneath his eyes.
“What do I want?” he repeats, shaking his head in disbelief. "I mean—are we seriously not even going to talk?"
“We've been talking.” You tell him plainly, ready to be done with it.
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
Your hand remains on the open door. "There is nothing to talk about, Steve."
There is no need to add words to the months of silence. No need to explain the final night you shared a bed. The morning after, when Steve reached for your hand beneath the covers and found nothing but empty sheets in your place.
"I have a few things I want to say," he quips, hurt.
“Then say it to someone else.” You shut him down. "I'm tired, I've had a long night. I just want to go to bed. I don't need you turning this into a thing. I mean—It’s not like we were in a relationship or anything.”
You know it is a low blow before the sentence is even finished. You know because Steve stops moving entirely, as though the words have knocked the air from his lungs. His lips part, but nothing comes out. He just stares at you, completely stunned.
His eyes search your face, looking for anything that might undo what you have just said. A crack in your expression or some kind of falter. Any sign that you did not mean it. That you will take it back before it has the chance to settle between you.
He should have just kept driving.
You immediately get out of the car, unable to stay any longer. His jacket is still on your shoulders, but you don't stop to remove it. You shove the door shut as you hurry toward the house.
Please. Just go home.
He doesn't grant you that mercy. You hear the open and slam of the door as you force yourself to walk faster. The keys you fish out of your pocket shake in your hands as you miss the lock, metal scraping against the plate.
Shit.
“Wait!”
You find the lock again. The key finally turns.
“Please, just wait—”
You shove the door open and step inside, one hand already reaching to pull it closed behind you. But he is faster, catching it before it can shut, fingers curling around the edge. The door stops inches from the frame.
He pushes it open just far enough as you stand on one side of the threshold. The porch light falls across his face, and you see the full extent of what you have done. The anger is still there, but beneath it is something so wounded that you have to fight the instinct to reach for him.
“You can't—” he tries, but the words break as they exit. “You can't, just—” He drags a hand over his face. “I know you don’t want to talk to me. I know that. You made it pretty clear. You left—and—and I tried to understand, but you gave me nothing. You gave me nothing.”
“Steve, I can’t—”
“No.” His head lifts sharply. “No—I can’t.” He pushes the door wider and steps across the threshold. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, anger and humiliation pulling him apart. “I can’t keep sitting there trying to figure out what I did. Because I had to have done something, right? There has to be something. People don’t just—”
He stops, presses his lips together.
“We couldn’t have gone through that—though everything—and then you couldn’t have spent all those nights with me, and then just—” His breath catches. “I couldn’t have imagined all of it.”
You stare at him. There is no answer you can give that will not require an excavation. No explanation that does not ask you to kneel in the dirt and begin pulling up every ugly thing you buried there. You had been a coward. You know that now, perhaps knew it even then, standing with a letter trembling between your fingers.
But you had also been trying to survive.
You had believed distance could cauterise what tenderness kept reopening. You had believed that if you stopped waking beside him, stopped feeling his sleeping breath against the back of your neck, stopped watching the morning gather slowly over his face, then the past might loosen its grip on you. That there would be no blood beneath his fingernails in the half-light. No bruises blooming over his ribs. No seconds upon waking when his body beside yours felt dead before it moved.
“Maybe it wasn’t real for you,” Steve says as he looks down at the floor between you. “And I get that. I mean, we weren’t exactly friends before everything happened. We barely spoke until you and Eddie got involved—”
“Steve, stop it. Right now.”
You cannot hear Eddie’s name in this house. You cannot have him summoned into the hallway casually, not when you have spent years trying to keep him confined to the places where only you can touch. He remains in the photographs hidden at the back of your drawer, in the cemetery across town, in the darkness at night in which he is always almost within reach.
“I’m sorry,” He always says it like that, as though the apology has been waiting for years. "I’m sorry, and I know I should’ve done more.”
You close your eyes.
Please don't.
“I should’ve stayed with them. I should’ve known it wasn’t safe leaving just him and Dustin there. I told him not to be a hero, I told him, but I should’ve—” His voice roughens. “I should’ve made him come with us. I should’ve been there.”
You have heard this speech before. In fragments at first, when neither of you could sleep and the night made confession seem less dangerous. Then in full, one winter morning when you found him sitting on the kitchen counter with his back against the cabinets, staring at nothing.
He should have been faster. Smarter. He should have understood what your best friend intended. He should have been in two places at once. He should never have allowed anyone beyond the reach of his already battered hands.
“Steve, it isn’t because of Eddie.”
His face twists. “How can it not be?” The question comes out through his teeth. “How can it not be when you loved him? When he was your friend and I couldn’t help him? When Dustin came back alone?”
“There was nothing you could have done.”
“There’s always something.”
“No, there isn’t.” Your voice cracks with the effort of keeping it low. “Sometimes there is nothing. Sometimes something terrible happens and there is no decision you could have made that would turn it into something else.”
His eyes shine beneath the porch light. “You don’t believe that.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“But you do.” He takes another step into the hallway. “You have to.”
“I don’t!”
“I know you see him.”
The words stop you. He looks frightened by what he has said, but he has begun now and cannot seem to stop.
“Every time we were together,” he continues. “I—I know you see him. Every time you looked at me after. Every time I touched you and—and you went quiet. Every time you woke up and couldn't even look at me. I knew—” You shake your head, but the movement lacks conviction. “You hated that I was there... and he wasn't.”
You can feel all of the emotions you worked so hard to bury begin their ugly crawl. You didn't want to have this conversation here—you didn't want to have it anywhere—but it is too late to turn back now.
“I do. I do hate it,” you say, the admission hanging heavy. “I hate that he doesn’t get any of this. That he didn’t get to leave Hawkins. That he never got to become anything except the worst thing this town decided he was and the way he died trying to prove them wrong.” Steve’s face begins to fall, words he knew were true but tried so hard to ignore. “But that isn’t why I left you.”
“Then why?”
You look away.
The hallway appears painfully ordinary. A glass sits on the small table beside the telephone and there is dust on the skirting board. All these minute domestic failures seem obscene when measured against the question he is asking you.
“I can’t give you what you want,” you say.
“And what do you think I want?”
“I don’t know. Something better than this.”
He lets out a disbelieving breath.
He doesn't get it. How could he?
“I can barely function, Steve. I can hardly make it through a day without feeling like something is waiting for me to let my guard down. I don’t sleep. I can’t sit in silence. Half the time I don’t know whether what I’m seeing is real until it’s already over.” You wipe at your face, furious to discover more tears there. “I can’t be whatever you need me to be. I can’t even be what I need me to be.”
“And you think I can?” The laugh that leaves him is startlingly empty. “You think this was easy for me?”
You look at him. Because yes, some shameful part of you had believed it was easier for him.
Steve had always known how to continue. He counted heads. Checked doors. Drove everyone home. He learned who needed to be distracted and who needed to be left alone.
He had suffered. You had never doubted that. But suffering seemed to sit differently on him. It did not immobilise him as it did with you. He carried it as he carried everything else, awkwardly perhaps, with more determination than grace, but without ever setting it down where someone else might trip over it.
You had envied him for that.
“You seemed like you were coping,” you offer.
“Coping,” he repeats. He gives another laugh and shakes his head. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”
He releases the door at last. It remains open behind him, the night visible in the narrow space between wood and frame.
“I got up because people needed me to get up,” he says. “That’s all. Dustin needed rides. Robin needed somebody to call when she couldn’t sleep. Max had appointments. Lucas needed someone to tell him he was allowed to leave the hospital for an hour without the world ending.” His eyes fall briefly to the jacket around your shoulders. “I had people around me. I had things I could do for them. That's what got me out of bed.”
“I—” You try again, swallowing hard. Now it was your turn to be speechless.
Steve looks at you with an unbearably tender expression. He comes closer, and you do not retreat, though every instinct you have cultivated over the past five months demands it.
“When everyone left,” he says, “all I had was you.” The words land without accusation. “I needed—I needed to know you were okay. I needed to see you eat something. I needed to know you'd made it home. And it—it wasn't just when everything was bad. It wasn't just when you couldn't sleep.” His voice lowers. “You were... you were who I woke up with.”
Steve’s gaze moves over your face as though there are years written there and he is trying to read every one of them.
“You were there in the morning,” he continues. “After all of it. When the sun came up and nothing had happened for eight whole hours... you were still there. You made coffee in that awful machine my parents bought and—and complained that I never had any real food. You left your books all over my room. You stole my shirts and acted like you didn't. I just—I kept thinking that, maybe... we were going to be okay.”
He lifts one shoulder helplessly.
“I thought... if you could keep doing it, then maybe I could too, y'know? I thought I could get better because you were getting better. Or... or I thought you were.” His voice falters. “And if I woke up and you were on the other side of the bed, then maybe... maybe the world hadn’t ended after all.”
The tears come too quickly for you to hide them.
You think of Steve’s house after you left. The vast, immaculate rooms on the edge of town. The swimming pool shining beneath the moon. His parents’ bedroom kept clean for people who were never there to disturb it. The telephone ringing into empty space.
You imagine him finding the letter on the hall table.
You had placed it there because you could not bear to leave it beside him in bed, could not bear the thought of waking him or seeing his face alter as he read it. So you had dressed quietly in the dark, collected only what you could carry and abandoned everything else in his drawers.
You had believed you were leaving before you could become another weight he had to drag behind him.
“I—I didn’t know,” you say. It sounds useless now, a child’s defence. A hand held over a wound too deep to cover. “I didn’t know, Steve.”
He says nothing.
“I thought—I thought I was doing us both a favour. Every time I looked at you, I remembered. Every time I woke up beside you, I had to check... I had to check that you were still breathing.” Your voice breaks entirely. “I thought I was making it worse. I thought I was just making it worse for both of us.” You swallow, but it does nothing to stop the words from falling apart. “I thought... I thought all we were doing was keeping each other there. Keeping each other trapped—”
“And leaving helped?” Steve closes the remaining space between you. “Is it helping you? Is it gone now?”
He asks desperately, needing to know the answer. All you can do is look up at him and allow the tears to stream freely down your face, slipping along your jaw and gathering beneath your chin. You slowly shake your head, finally ready to admit something true tonight.
No. They are not gone.
The memories of everything have grown in the dark, lost all proportion. They come whenever they please. They slip beneath doors, climb through the radio, wait in the reflection of dark windows.
“No,” you breathe.
His face changes, frustration going first. Then the last of the pride that brought him through your doorway. What remains is the same aching concern he wore beside your car, stripped now of uncertainty.
He raises a hand slowly. You could move away; he gives you more than enough time to do it. His palm settles against your cheek. The contact is so familiar that your eyes close at once. His thumb moves beneath your eye, catching a tear before it can fall.
“I just want them to stop...” you say, the words barely making it out.
“I know.”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know, angel.”
His other hand comes to your face. He holds you as though you are something fragile and frightened, his fingers resting lightly behind your ears. You breathe the same narrow pocket of air. His nose brushes yours. You feel the tremor he tries to contain when your hands rise and close around his wrists, not wanting your touch to disappear again.
“I can’t fix it,” he whispers, the same apologetic tone creeping into his voice. “I know... I know I can’t. But I can make it quiet.” His eyes search yours. “Just for a little while—I can make it go away. Just for a little while.”
There is desperation in him now, but not carelessness. His body has drawn close to yours, every breath pressing him nearer, yet he waits. Even now, with the months of hurt between you and your face cradled in his hands, he is trying to be good.
“You don’t have to say yes,” he says quickly. “You don’t owe me anything. I just—” His voice falters. “I want to make it better.”
Of course he does.
Because that is what Steve Harrington has always done. He takes every terrible thing that cannot be repaired and offers his hands to it anyway.
You are tired. So fucking tired.
You can blame this on delirium, on the desperate wish to lose yourself in something, or someone, other than your own mind. Steve is safe. He has seen you at your worst, and he can give you this, if only for a moment, if only for tonight. You want him to make you forget, to keep the darkness at bay until the morning sun can do the rest.
You turn your face slightly and press your mouth to the centre of his palm and Steve stops breathing. The gesture is so small, but it seems to travel through him. His fingers curl carefully along your jaw. When he looks at you again, he appears almost afraid to hope.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
You shake your head.
“Say it.”
“Don’t stop.”
Steve kisses you.
His mouth touches yours with such softness. It is tentative, the kiss of someone returning to a place he no longer believes he is permitted to enter. His lips move once against yours, waiting for you to decide whether this is memory or choice.
You lean into him, and the sound he makes is completely ruined.
His hands slip from your face to the sides of your neck, holding you there as he kisses you again. This time you feel the ache inside it. You open your mouth beneath his, and he shudders.
He draws you closer with an arm around your waist, cautious only for it to disintegrate, before restraint begins to fail him. His hand spreads over your back, gathering the jacket and the clothes beneath it as though he cannot quite believe there is a body inside them as you clutch at his shirt.
The kiss deepens, grief turning slowly into hunger. It is not clean, for nothing between you has ever been. His mouth tastes faintly of coffee and something sweet, painfully familiar after so long. You remember kissing him in his kitchen while water boiled dry on the stove. In the back seat of his car, after the funeral none of you thought was fair. Against the wall of his bedroom because sleep had become impossible and wanting him was easier than being afraid and alone.
Steve’s hand moves into your hair, then your back, drawing you against him until there is no space left for memory to stand between you. He breaks away only when neither of you can breathe.
“Do you want—”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?” he asks against your mouth.
You answer by kissing him again, all composure leaving him as he becomes frantic. He backs you further into the hallway, kicking the door shut behind him without looking. The latch catches, sealing out the night.
His hands move over you with desperation, pulling his jacket from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. You reach for him, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, finding the warm skin of his stomach. He folds around you at the touch.
“I’m sorry,” you begin to whisper.
Steve kisses the apology from your mouth before you can finish it. His forehead presses briefly against yours, his breathing uneven.
“Not tonight,” he murmurs. “You can tell me tomorrow, alright?”
You nod against him, his hand closing around your own.
He walks you backwards, deeper into the house, refusing to surrender an inch of space between your bodies. You follow without looking, guided by the familiar shape of him. You turn instinctively towards the living room, but he gently coaxes you back.
His head shakes. “Nuh-uh.”
You blink up at him. “What?”
“Not here.”
You glance past him towards the sofa, its cushions still bearing the impression of all the nights you have spent folded into one corner.
“I thought—”
“I know.” He whispers. “I don’t want you here.” His thumb moves, barely touching skin. You look up at him in confusion. “I want you upstairs,” he says. His eyes hold yours, nervous despite the certainty in his voice. “Where I had you first.”
Where he can take care of you properly.
You remember another night, years ago. You had sat on the edge of your bed while he cleaned a cut along your shoulder, both of you pretending not to notice how his hands trembled whenever they touched you. Later, when the lights went out and the house began to groan around you, he had climbed beneath the covers without being asked.
You nod, allowing him to turn you toward the stairs. He goes ahead, climbing backwards for the first few steps before straightening. His hand remains locked around yours, arm reaching behind. At the landing, he looks back, and you barely make it across the threshold of your bedroom before he turns and reaches for you.
The kiss lands against the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw. His hands move over your shoulders and down your arms, only to return immediately to your face. He kisses you again before you can breathe, his teeth catching gently at your lower lip. He touches you as though trying to memorise what he once believed he knew. The shape of your waist beneath his palms. The slope of your neck. The place beneath your ear that makes your breath catch. Every few seconds, his eyes open, checking that you remain in front of him.
He is frightened you will slip through his hands again.
“Steve—” you whisper.
“I know.”
He does not know what you were going to say. Neither do you.
“I missed you,” he says against your jaw. “I missed you.”
He presses his face into the side of your neck as though ashamed of it, arms closing around you as you curl your fingers into his hair. The room seems to sway around you. He catches your face between his hands before you can turn away, kissing you with more urgency. You stumble backwards together until the edge of the bed strikes behind your knees.
Only then does he seem to notice the room. The bed is unmade, sheets still twisted. Clothes lie across the floor with books stacked beside the mattress, a plate sits on the desk opposite, beside a cup ring darkening the wood.
“Sorry,” you begin as humiliation begins to rise. “I haven’t really—It’s a mess, I should’ve—”
“I don’t care," he says it without even looking around. “I’ll take care of it.”
He'll take care of you.
You catch at the front of his shirt, pulling him close before the grief can become speech, and he lets you. He lowers you carefully onto the bed, the mattress gives beneath your weight. He follows only far enough to remain above you, one knee pressed into the sheets, his arms braced on either side of your body.
His fingers find the hem of your shirt. He draws the fabric upwards slowly, giving you time to change your mind at every inch. When your arms rise, he guides them through, careful of your wrists, careful of your hair. The shirt falls somewhere beside the bed, but he does not watch it go. The rest soon follows as his knuckles skim your skin. He bends to press his mouth against the newly uncovered part of you.
His attention returns to you immediately.
He kisses down your body with the same patience he once used. Mouth warm against the slope of your collarbone, trailing to the soft give of your breast. He lingers there, tongue tracing a lazy circle around one nipple until it tightens, then the other, as if he has all the time in the world. Heat rises under every place he touches. You feel it climb in waves, skin flushing darker the lower he goes.
His hands slide along your ribs, over the dip of your waist, settling at your hips to hold you steady while his mouth continues its unhurried path. He knows every inch of you. The place just above your navel that makes your stomach jump and the sensitive skin along the crease of your thigh. He takes his time with all of it, drawing out the journey until the wait itself becomes its own kind of ache. The only trouble is that he is waiting too. You can feel the tension in the way he breathes against you, the faint tremor in the hands that keep you open for him.
When he finally settles between your legs, he does not rush. He lowers himself, close enough that the soft fan of his breath ghosts over your cunt. Goosebumps rise immediately, which his eyes follow with reverence, dark and intent as he leans in.
The first touch of his tongue is almost nothing—barely there, a slow drag that makes your hips twitch. He does it again, gentler still, as if he is relearning the shape of you by taste alone. Light, careful strokes that never quite give you enough pressure.
He wants you to feel every second of it. Wants the sensation to build so slowly that your thoughts have nowhere to go except here, to the wet heat of his mouth and the hold of his steady hands.
He is gentle the entire time, never greedy. He draws it out on purpose, getting lost in the slow work of you, in the way your breathing changes and your thighs begin to tremble around his shoulders. It is torturous in the sweetest way. Every time the pleasure starts to sharpen, he eases off, returning to those light, almost teasing licks that keep you right on the edge of needing more.
He brings you close once, tongue circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your back arch, pulling away the moment your thighs tighten. You make a broken sound, one he wants to hear again. He continues, even slower, until the heat pools and your mind starts to fuzz at the edges.
He's going to kill you softly.
This is his plan. Emptying your head on purpose, erasing every memory until there is nothing left but him.
When you reach down and twist your fingers into his hair, trying to pull him back against, he groans so happily it vibrates straight through you. The sound is pure pleasure. He hisses against your cunt when you tug harder, hips shifting restlessly against the sheets.
“Steve—” The name leaves you as a groan, every nerve lit.
“I know, baby—” His voice is low and unsteady. “I know—I got you.”
And you believe him.
He pulls you to the edge a third time, tongue working as he makes your vision blur, then eases off again just before you can fall. Frustration sparks and you want to kick out, to force him closer, but his hands hold you firmly in place—thumbs stroking the soft insides of your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
He knows what he is doing. He has always been good at this—at giving, at offering you exactly what you need, even when you can't ask for it yourself.
“Please, Steve—I can’t—”
“Yes you can.” He looks up at you, mouth wet, eyes soft. “Just a little longer for me, yeah? You can take a little more.”
He knows you can.
Your eyes meet his. The tears on your lashes are no longer from sadness. They are from the overwhelming pleasure, by someone who knows your body better than you do. He looks satisfied by the sight. He lowers his head again.
This time, there is purpose in it. Every flick of his tongue is aimed exactly where he knows you need it most. He works you in relentless strokes that build and build until the pleasure turns almost unbearable. You grip his hair harder, but the tug only spurs him on. A hungry groan vibrates against your clit and the sensation tips you over completely.
You come with a broken cry, thighs shaking around his head, body arching hard off the mattress. He stays with you through every pulse of it, gentling the pressure just enough to keep the pleasure rolling. He doesn't stop, leaving open-mouthed kisses against your core until the last aftershock fades and you are left boneless.
You need him. You need him immediately.
You are pawing at him the moment he begins to slide up your body, hands clumsy and desperate after the teasing of not just you, but himself. Every nerve still sparks. You catch the hem of his shirt and tug hard, needing the barrier gone, needing his skin against your own.
“Easy, angel—easy—” The soft coo lands against your temple as he helps you strip the fabric over his head. “You’ve got me, alright? I’m here.”
He shrugs the rest of the way free, then works open his jeans and underwear before crawling back over you, warm and solid.
“Steve—” The name leaves you broken. You are overwhelmed, eyes stinging again already. “I’m sorry. I never should have—”
“Shhh.” He settles his weight carefully, one hand slipping between your bodies to stroke through the slick heat of you. Your hips twitch helplessly into the touch. “I know. I told you—you can tell me tomorrow. Or the day after that. Whenever you want. I’m not going anywhere.”
The words almost undo you as tears press hot behind your eyes. He takes himself in hand then, the thick head of his cock dragging slowly through your folds, coating himself in how ready you already are. Your legs come up around his waist on instinct, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, trying to pull him closer. He catches your shaking hands before they can dig too hard into his shoulders. One he pins gently beside your head, fingers interlacing with yours, while the other stays braced by your hip. Then he kisses you, bringing you back to the moment, back to him.
He pushes into you with aching care, and both of you hiss at the first thick stretch. The sound is almost pained. His forehead drops hard to your shoulder, breath coming in uneven pulls as he fights the tremor running through his arms. Everything is too much, all the months collapsing into this moment. He holds still, buried deep, shaking with the effort of not moving.
It is you who breaks first.
“Steve—please. I need you to move.”
He nods shakily against your skin and begins to rock into you. Soft as he always is. Every thrust gentle, eyes now locked on your face. He watches for every flicker of expression, every shift of breath, terrified of getting it wrong, of not being good enough, of watching you leave him again the moment this is over.
The fear sits right alongside the love in his gaze—raw, open, and almost unbearable to look at.
Steve has always been a talker. In bed it only gets worse. The words spill out of him like he cannot keep them inside any longer.
“Missed you,” he rambles, voice rough. “Fuck—I missed you, so much—”
His hips roll a little harder, a little deeper, and the new angle steals whatever reply you might have managed. You want to tell him you missed him too, that leaving was the worst mistake you ever made, that you should have asked, should have spoken, should have stayed. All of it dies on your tongue when his free hand slips between your bodies and finds your clit, stroking in tight circles timed with every gentle thrust.
“Never leaving you again, angel.” The words come out almost like a whine. “Can’t do it again. Won’t—” His rhythm falters for a second, then steadies. “Shit—can’t let you go. Gonna be here when you wake up—gonna be here all the time—”
He keeps talking, voice urgent against your cheek, against your mouth. The promises pour out of him, every one of them an act of service, every one of them the only way he knows how.
“Gonna make you better, alright? Gonna—gonna treat you good. Have you like this all the time. No thoughts. None of it. Just—fuck, just let me make it alright—please. I swear. I swear I’m gonna make it alright.”
Tears gather and spill. The pressure builds too fast, every nerve still raw from earlier. You feel the crest rising and so does he.
“Steve—I’m gonna—”
“I know, angel.” His voice cracks. “I can feel it. Give it to me. I can take it—give it to me, I got you—”
You break with a soft, wrecked cry, body tightening hard around him as the orgasm rolls through you in long, shuddering waves. Tears slip freely down your temples. Steve follows almost immediately, a broken sound punched out of him as he buries himself deep and comes, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours while the last of the pleasure drains out of both of you.
He remains above you, breath still mingling with your own, hands still interlocked. The room slowly begins to take form around you both, softer than before, distant with far less edges than it had when you first woke up.
You know you need to talk to him, to tell him that you heard everything, that it was not just the heat of the moment. That you want this too, whatever it may look like. You want to wake and find him breathing beside you, even if you still have to check. Leaving him was never proof that he wasn't enough, it only proved that you were too frightened to stay.
“Steve,” you manage. He lifts his head at once. His eyes search yours, still glassy and uncertain, as though he expects the name to become an apology or a goodbye.
“I—”
You don't know how to begin. You are tired, exhausted, every strained muscle and sleepless night weighing down on you. You want to be determined, to form a coherent sentence and give him something in return after everything you have taken, but his expression softens before you can attempt the words again.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to tell you.” Your voice has gone thick. “I want—”
“I know, ” he brushes the damp hair from your temple, though something frightened still flickers behind his tenderness. “You can tell me tomorrow, you can tell me everything.”
You know what he is doing: preparing for you to stop, to put an end to all of this. He is nervous; you can see it in his eyes. You want to speak to him, to tell him that tomorrow is what you want—that you want every ordinary and difficult thing waiting beyond this bed.
“I’m not going anywhere, angel.” He lowers himself beside you and draws you carefully against his chest, pulling the covers over both of you. “Go to sleep. I got you.”
He doesn't want to take any chances. Not for tonight. Not when he has you like this.
You fight it for another few seconds, cheek resting over the steady beat of his heart. There is so much you owe him, so much that cannot remain unsaid. But his hand moves slowly along your back, the same path over and over, and for the first time in months the silence does not contain teeth.
Your last conscious thought is that he is warm. The next is not a thought at all, only warm arms tightening when your body finally goes loose against him, holding you the moment exhaustion takes you completely.
When morning does finally come, it comes carefully. It gathers along the edges of the curtains, light reaching the foot of the bed and climbing up, heating the bare skin of your ankle.
You wake without knowing you have fully woken, surrounded only by warmth and the softness of the mattress beneath you. Your eyes open slowly.
The ceiling comes gradually into focus, you blink at it, waiting for the usual violence of consciousness to take hold, but nothing comes. Your heart does not wake before the rest of you, already racing from something your mind has not yet remembered. There is no cry trapped behind your teeth, no sweat cooling beneath your clothes.
You are simply awake.
The realisation is so unfamiliar that you remain still, breathing slowly. Last night returns in pieces, but gently. Steve crouched beside your car, his jacket settling over your shoulders. His hands around your face, mouth against yours. The weight of him above you, then beside you. You remember falling asleep to the sound of his heart.
Your hand moves across the mattress before you think to stop it, only finding the opposite side of the bed cold. The pillow is empty, the indentation left by him already beginning to lift, the sheet has been drawn back carefully.
You sit up, allowing the covers to fall from your shoulder and gather around your waist. You look towards the bathroom, but the door stands open and the room is dark.
“Steve?”
Your voice is so rough with sleep, it barely crosses the room.
No answer.
Surely he wouldn't...
No, no, he wouldn't. Steve would never leave without saying something, especially not after what transpired the night before, not after he promised he would be there when you woke.
Your feet hit the floor a little too quickly, still filled with sleep. The room tilts faintly as you stand too fast, nearly catching yourself against the mattress as you drag your eyes across the floor. An abandoned T-shirt lies half beneath the chair. You snatch it up and pull it over your head, barely checking which way it faces. A pair of shorts, you step into them awkwardly, hopping once as the fabric catches around your ankle.
Your face feels swollen from crying and sleep, your body carrying the tender evidence of the night before. You did not want to wake alone.
You told him that. You had told him you did not want to be alone anymore.
The bedroom door strikes the wall when you push it open. You cross the landing quickly, one hand skimming the bannister as you take the stairs too fast. Your bare feet slap against the wood. On the last step, your heel slips and you catch the rail with a sharp breath, shoulder jolting, but you keep moving.
The hallway is empty, and—shit—so is the living room.
You pass the kitchen in a hurry, all adrenaline falling out of your body as you see him, standing at the counter with his back half-turned towards you.
Morning light pours through the window above the sink, laying itself over his skin. He is wearing only his underwear from last night. His hair is flattened on one side from sleep and pushed away from his face on the other, likely by impatient fingers. Two mugs wait beside one another beneath the coffee machine. It sputters noisily between them, struggling awake.
He turns at the commotion behind him. His gaze moves over your face, then down your body.
“Hey,” he says, the word is careful.
You grip the edge of the doorframe. Your heart is still beating too quickly, but it has begun to understand what your eyes already know.
“Hey,” you manage.
Neither of you moves. There is still so much between you that the morning has made visible. Last night allowed you to speak in fragments, in touch and apology, in promises that could be blamed on exhaustion. Daylight offers no such mercy as it illuminates you both fully. He glances towards the coffee machine.
“I was gonna bring it up,” he says. “To you—in bed, I mean.” He clears his throat and adjusts one of the mugs despite it already sitting perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to wake you. You were—” His eyes return to you. “You were sleeping.”
You release the doorframe. “Uh, thank you.”
A tentative smile pulls at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Of course.”
You cross the kitchen slowly, and he turns back towards the machine, giving you room rather than reaching for you. He does not seem to know what he is permitted to do now. Last night, he touched you as though his hands had been made for the purpose, but now he is unsure.
You come to stand beside him. His bare torso reveals the broad plane of his stomach and the pale, uneven scar crossing it. It curves viciously over his side, disappearing beneath the waistband of his underwear, the skin raised in places where something had once torn through him. You had watched the wound close slowly, watched him pretend the bandages did not hurt when they were changed. But last night had been darkness and urgency, your eyes too full of tears to study anything for long.
You cannot understand how he carries it so casually. How he can stand barefoot in your kitchen, waiting for a temperamental coffee machine, with the evidence of another world written permanently across his body.
Your gaze lingers. His hand stills on the coffee pot. When you look up, his expression has changed, guarded in the way people become when they are waiting for pity.
“Sorry,” you say quickly.
“For what?”
“I was staring.”
He glances down at the scar as though he has forgotten it is there.
“Oh.” He gives a small shrug, but his shoulders remain tense. “Don’t worry about it.”
Your fingers curl against the edge of the counter. “Does it still hurt?”
“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”
“It doesn’t?” You can barely believe it.
“No.” He draws the word out slightly, considering. “I mean, sometimes when it gets cold. Or if I move weird. But no, not really.”
You nod. Not anymore.
There are things that stop hurting. Not because they disappear, but because the body learns where to place them. Scar tissue forms, then the nerves quieten. The wound becomes something that can be touched without reopening. You wonder whether that will ever be true of you.
Steve’s eyes remain on your face, but he does not ask what you are thinking. The coffee machine clicks, startlingly loud in the still kitchen. He turns towards it with gratitude.
“So,” he says, reaching for the pot, “we should probably get your car today.”
The words are casual, but you hear the question hidden beneath them. Whether there will be a today, whether last night will allow it.
“Oh.” You glance towards the window. “Um. Yeah. Sure.”
“We don’t have to,” he adds immediately. “I mean, if you don’t feel up to it. It’s not going anywhere.” He begins filling the first mug. “Well, hopefully it’s not going anywhere. That would be—yeah, no it's not going anywhere.”
Despite yourself, your mouth softens. “No, I probably should.”
“Right. Yeah.” He nods too quickly. “Okay. We can do that.”
He pours the second cup. You watch him add a little milk to yours without asking. He stirs it and passes the mug to you, careful that your fingers do not have to touch his unless you choose it. You let them brush deliberately against his.
“Thanks,” you say. You lift the mug towards your mouth. It is too hot to drink, but you hold it there anyway, allowing the steam to warm your face.
The kitchen looks different. The plate that had been left on the desk upstairs now sits washed in the drying rack. The glass beside the telephone is gone and the counters have been wiped, the crumbs and unopened letters gathered into neater piles. A bin bag rests by the back door, tied at the top. Hell, even the old towel hanging from the oven has been folded evenly over the handle.
There he goes again. Useful to a fault.
He is trying not to frighten you. Worse, he is trying not to give you a reason to send him away.
You did this. You taught him this. That your tenderness could vanish between one night and the next. That he could fall asleep with you in his arms and wake with nothing. He looks towards you, then away when he realises you are watching.
“I can take a look at your car when we get there,” he says. “Make sure you didn’t mess up the alignment or anything. Not that you did. I mean, the road looked pretty rough, so—”
“Steve.”
He stops as his fingers tighten slightly around his mug. You could apologise again. There are hundreds of apologies waiting, each one inadequate in a slightly different way. But apologies belong to what has already happened. What he needs from you is something that reaches forward.
“We can get my car today,” you say.
“Yeah?” His brow furrows faintly. “Alright.”
“And then—” You look into your coffee, watching the surface tremble with your unsteady hands. “Is your house still empty?”
His expression goes blank with surprise.
“Uh. Yeah.” He shifts his weight. “Should be. My parents are still in Chicago. Or Dallas. They might be in Dallas now, actually. My mom left a message, but she talked for, like, ten minutes without saying where they were.” A nervous breath becomes a laugh. “Why?”
You run your thumb around the rim of the mug.
“I don’t know.” The words feel too large to look at him while you say them. “I don’t really feel like staying here tonight. I think I want to get out of here for a little while,” you continue. “Just for a few days. Maybe longer. I don’t know yet.”
You finally raise your eyes. Hope appears on his face so quickly that he cannot conceal it. It is immediately followed by caution, as though he is afraid any visible happiness might frighten you into taking the offer back.
“You can stay at mine,” he says. “I mean, if that’s what you want. You can take the guest room, or my room, and I can sleep somewhere else. The couch is fine. I’ve slept on it before. It’s not—well, it’s terrible, actually, but I can handle it.” He sets his mug down, words beginning to tumble as they always do when he is nervous. “You don’t have to decide how long. We can just get your car and pack some stuff, and then if you want to come back here tomorrow, I’ll bring you back. Or if you want to stay—”
“Steve.”
He falls quiet again. You have never known anyone who could make devotion look so much like nervousness.
He swallows. “You can stay as long as you need.”
There is more he does not say. Stay until you can sleep, until the silence is ordinary again. Stay after that, too.
You look down at the coffee warming your hands. Ready to give in.
“I don’t want to live alone anymore,” you say.
The words are quieter than you intended. They do not contain everything, but you hope he understands what you are trying to give him. That you want to continue beyond last night. That you are still afraid, perhaps, but no longer afraid of him.
“You don’t have to,” he tells you gently. “You’ll always have me. You know that.”
And you do. You know it in the way he stands barefoot in your kitchen, waiting for permission to remain. In every frightened, earnest promise he has ever offered you.
The distance between you becomes unbearable. You set your mug down and reach for him.
He barely has time to turn before you kiss him. Your hands rise to his face, drawing him close as you pour every sweetness you cannot yet name into his mouth. Every apology. Every morning you want to share. Every promise that this time, when fear comes, you will not disappear before he wakes. He makes a startled sound against your lips, as his arms close around you.
The kiss is gentle, softened by morning. There is no desperation in it now, nothing to outrun. His thumb brushes along your cheek, wide awake. When you draw back, you keep your forehead against his.
“I want to be better,” you whisper. “I want to be better for you.”
Steve’s arms tighten. He pulls back just enough to look at you properly. “You don’t have to do that for me.”
“I want to.”
His eyes move over your face, warm and tender.
“I got time,” he says. “As much as you need.”
You laugh softly, the sound disappearing against his chest as you let him hold you.
Outside, the morning continues without asking anything of either of you. The coffee cools on the counter, and your car remains abandoned miles away. There are still rooms to clean and words to say and wounds that will not vanish simply because the sun has risen.
But Steve is smiling into your hair.
He asks whether you want pancakes before you leave, and you tell him yes. You sit on the counter while he makes them, your legs swinging, occasionally brushing against his hip as you let yourself laugh for the first time in months. His eyes shine with something hopeful, and little by little, the tension leaves his shoulders. He can see that you are trying, that you are no longer quite so afraid.
The bag you pack is far too full for only a few days, but he doesn't mention it. He simply carries it to the car for you, and later, he will carry it upstairs as well.
He will carry whatever he can, because now he knows you are willing to carry something for him, too.
a/n: first fic lets goo!!!
this has been sat in my google docs for weeks, idk if i am happy with the final result but i wanted to clear it out.
i plan to be writing more, when time permits. please let me know what you all think and if you want to req something, i am more than happy to give it a go if i think i can do it justice!
i plan to write for other characters, not just st, so keep your eyes open for me (but ofc steve will be here in the future). this is the first of hopefully many more.
hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think/want more of :))
synopsisJack and you have always been ying-and-yang and until a few months ago, the love of each others life. but when thing start shifting and you start drifting from Jack for the worse he doesn't know how to stop it, until he can stop it in the most brutal way possible (request) (7.9k words)
warnings this is heavy, heavy angst, it deals with mental health, not necessary suicide but also a not caring to live. reader has a dnr. so heavy angst with a HAPPY ending. language. typical hospital stuff. not accurate medical things. blood. stabbing mention, death. younger reader, age not specified.
authornote this is heavy angst but with a happy ending. i really liked the request and wanted to explore the idea of dnr's and stuff but if your sensitive to death please don't read (but nobody dies!)
the pitt masterlist! another jack fic!
It was a good day if you were working, Jack had decided that a long time ago.
It was the sort of rule he lived by. Like reading at least one hundred pages of a book a day kept him intelligent, his yoga in the morning kept him calm and limber. A shift working with you, was a good shift.
Most of the day shifters had gone home, but you were still at the nurses station, talking with Lena.
“Hey,” said Jack. It was the first word he'd said to you, un-able to do hand offs with you when Shen decided it was his turn to be at your side, throwing a testing grin in Jack’s direction. “Aren't you going? Here- take this for the road, you might need it.” He was all but forcing a granola bar in your hand. The special ones he reserved for you.
You took it. “Sorry to disappoint, Ellis had a concert she really wanted to go to, I said I'd cover. Beyonce.”
Jack leant over the counter at you, peering through squinted eyes. “Disappointment? I think you've just made my night.”
There was a blush on your cheeks as you looked away, studying the Pitt to find something to distract yourself with.
“You might regret that. We've got a lorry car collision, ETA ten minutes out,” you explained, dropping the granola bar into your scrub pocket. “I might just be your bad luck charm.”
Jack loved working with you. He loved getting your opinion on cases that didn't need a second opinion. He liked the quiet moments in the night shifts you covered where it was just the two of you and the night sky. He liked being able to make you blush, to make you laugh in the middle of the darkness.
Because there was a darkness lingering in you. The sort only the Pitt could latch onto a person.
He'd seen it in Robby.
He despised seeing it in you.
There were some nights you covered- because you were always the first to volunteer to do a double- you started with a sparkle in your eyes and ending the night in despair, dragging yourself home. You'd return hours later, not at all long enough to have had a good sleep.
Jack worried, but he liked having you around to keep an eye on you.
Jack shook his head. “Nah. The bad luck is this place. You're the good.”
You laughed, hesitantly.
Lena patted your arm, kindly, the way a mother did. “I'll go get the guy from trauma two moved.”
“You want some help?” you offered.
“No, sweetie, I got it.”
You looked around like you needed to make myself busy. Like you couldn't be alone with Jack. He'd seen it in the ED many times, even in the military, the need for people to stay busy instead of succumbing to a sort of numbness.
It had been him some years back before he managed to deal with his demons.
“Any interesting cases in the ED today?” Jack asked, following you around with his hands behind his back, restraining himself from guiding you through with a hand on your back.
“Well, we had a woman who didn't realise she was eight months pregnant who gave birth today. A priapism-”
Jack seethed. “Ouch.”
“- and a man with a toothbrush stuck up where the sun don't shine.”
“Double ouch,” he said, checking the side of you. “So you had quite an interesting day, huh?”
“You could say that,” you mumbled. “There's also a girl in five with Fancomi anemia. She came in four hours again and we're still waiting to hear from her parents. She has a half sister half way across the country that might be a bone marrow candidate that they've never tried.”
Jack nodded, listening and catching the far away look in your eyes. “You're doing everything for her,” said Jack. He didn't even have to ask to know you would be doing everything possible for the girl. Even if it meant exhausting yourself.
Jack nodded to himself, debating with himself if he wanted to know the answer to his next question. The devil and angel arguing on his shoulders. “A little birdie told me you had a date,” he said, the both of you knowing the little birdie was, in fact, Robby. “How'd it go?”
You sighed and stopped in the middle of the corridor.
He cut you off before you could start. “I'm just asking to check you're okay. That... that he was nice.”
You nodded slowly, not meeting his gaze as your hands rested at your hips. “He was- he was fine.”
Jack ignored the wince of pain as he crouched to get a look at you. “Just fine?”
If Jack couldn't have you, he loved you enough to just want you happy.
It was only four months ago you'd broken up with him, after seven months of beautiful moments. Of coming home to you in his sheets, making a coffee and waking you up to it. He wanted to steal every moment with you, choosing sleep when you went to work, spending the morning just watching you get ready. The lunch dates where he'd turn up to the ED, the place he could never escape, with a delicious home made lunch for you and sometimes extra for Robby who kicked up a fuss that he got nothing and had known Jack longer.
Jack missed the kisses in the night and the morning. He missed holding you when he had a night off. He missed when you'd think he was asleep and map his freckles, tracing I love you into his skin.
Because the tender moments were always there, yet gradually they began to hide themselves in the cover of night, when you thought he was sleeping.
Jack knew things weren't perfect. With both your schedules it was hard to balance but you tried to make it work. Then the light in your eyes started to fade and when you told him it isn’t working anymore, I love you, I'm sorry, he hadn't thought to keep your relationship alive. He'd just been fighting to keep you.
He was terrified he'd lose you.
Then what would he do?
He wouldn't survive it.
“Just fine?” he asked again.
“Don’t sound too pleased.”
“I’m not,” he denied but bit back a smile.
You looked up to him, shuddering a deep breath. “He was just... whatever.”
“Just a whatever kind of guy?”
“Why are you asking so much?” you asked, mildly annoyed.
Because he still loved you? Wasn't it painfully obvious? Weren't you just trying to act like you didn't know he was helpless for you to spare him embarrassment.
“Just, checking in on you.”
You looked down at your shoes, scuffing them on the floor. “It- he was nice but... I dunno, not what I wanted.”
Jack hummed. “No?” did you still want him? He'll be honest, he didn't think he'd hear about you going on a date. Least of all with some guy from Pedes. When you'd broke up with him he expected it had something to do with you wanting to focus on you. Rest up. The sort of stuff like that. Then he had to hear from Robby that you were going out for dinner.
There was only a small bite of anger before Jack felt sorry for himself.
“No,” you sighed.
There were deeper circles under your eyes than usual, sharp half moons dark in colour lingering there. Your eyes were dark and lifeless, scrubs hanging off you.
“Is there anything else going on?” he asked, tugging at your arm slightly to hide yourselves at a corner.
You looked up to him, lips pulled down in a frown as you shook your head. “Nope.”
His brows rose, eyes looking at you, pleading. “You can talk to me if there is, h-” the pet name he had no right to almost slipped from his lips. He gulped it down and felt it sting down his throat. “You can tell me.”
“We're...” you hesitated. “We're not together anymore, Jack. You don't have to do all this chivalry thing.”
“Can't help it,” Jack shrugged. “Not when it's you.”
Your hands wrung together and Jack looked down. There was flakes of dry skin on along your fingers. He knew the sanitiser in the ED could be harsh on your skin, but he also knew he'd replaced your hand moisturiser in your locker just two weeks ago and that you should have plenty. It was a nervous habit you had, to rub your hands together like so.
Jack remembered it from your first date. He’s used it as an excuse to reach over and take your hands.
“I'm just tired,” you mumbled.
Jack nodded, slow and listening. “That it?” he prodded gently.
He'd heard countless doctors slip those words out in answer to the everything okay type questions. He'd seen Robby break as the words chocked in his throat. You said them without emotion. Without even trying to prove your lie.
“Why don't you go home? Get some rest-”
“Ellis is-”
“- we'll manage,” he insisted. His hand had un-consciously started to move up and down your forearm in comfort.
You winced as you turned your head aside, thinking about it.
Jack didn't know how much he really wanted you to go home. He wanted you to rest, yes, but preferably in the family room with a blanket thrown over you where he could drop by and check in on you. Check you were okay.
Check you weren't doing something stupid.
He knew that not everyone felt like a ticking time bomb. That not everyone's mind would wonder as dark as his did sometimes.
But he feared you weren't far off.
“Go rest-”
At the same moment Jack spoke the ambulance doors were pushed open and two bodies were pushed through on gurneys, bloody and broken. Stats were yelled out and Jack was called for.
At the same time, Matteo popped out of five, calling for you.
“She's crashing!”
You rushed over, falling into the room with the young girl and Matteo.
With a heavy sigh, Jack followed the other path of emergency responders and doctors.
He and the team worked on them. A father and son involved in a lorry crash that ploughed right into the side. The kid was only seventeen with a broken leg and collapsed lung. The father was much better off. The boy would need surgery and Walsh was already down and wheeling him up.
It was all done in a quick blur of thirty minutes. He took care of it all clinically like ticking through a to do list, not looking to close at the kid to remember shades of hair or lines of the face.
By the time Jack was stepping out the trauma room, Crus at his side, you still had not returned to the floor of the ED.
“How does she seem to you?” Jack asked Crus, the two of them pulling off their gloves and gowns. He said your name in clarification.
“Hot!” said Crus with a shit-eating grin.
Jack glared at him. He should have known not to expect a serious answer from Henderson. Or at least he hoped that wasn't the serious answer.
“I don't know man, how do you want her to seem?” asked Crus.
“She seems tired. For a while now,” Jack noted.
“Aren't we all chasing sleep?” he asked him, leaving his side with a pat on his back.
Jack found himself at the nurses station, leaning over.
Lena's glasses slid down her nose, a chart in hand and her red hair messily pulled back. She ditched all efforts to seem busy however when he beckoned her over. “She's been in there the last thirty-five minutes,” she told him. “The little girl she'd been looking after crashed.”
“Nothing back?”
Lena shook her head.
Jack shook his head. “Shit.”
With a heavy heart he dragged himself to room five, already hearing the stillness of the monitor, the hard breathing and orders.
“Push another round of epi and charge to two hundred.”
The room smelt of septic cleaning products and the faint aroma of sweat. There was a faint burn smell from the defibrillators that had apparently already been charged and used.
Jack lingered in the doorway.
Your body was curved over the small girl, knees denting into the crappy hospital bed that hadn't been updated in years. Your hands were cupped over her chest, pumping down as Matteo pushed another round of epi. Catching Jack's eyes, he shook his head.
Jack tutted, quietly to himself. “Hold compressions, check for a rhythm.”
It took you a second but you stopped, looking to the monitor in hope.
There was nothing but a flat line.
Jack didn't tell you to resume compressions but you did anyway.
“Charge to three hundred,” you said to Matteo.
He was caught in the middle, looking toward Jack for confirmation.
Jack nodded and Matteo got the paddles, warming them and handing them to you.
Your grasped them in an all too familiar hold. “Clear!”
The small girls body lurched before flopping back on the bed. Everyone in the small room waited for a rhythm. There was nothing in answer.
Jack had no time to tell you not to carry on before you were. He took a slow step in, patting Matteo on the shoulder, in a silent gesture to have him leave.
The nurse gave a sad look before leaving, closing the door gently behind him.
There was Jack and you over the girls body.
He said your name, slowly.
You didn't react.
“Honey, come on,” said Jack. “She's gone.” He could see the tremble in your arms from the compressions you hadn't given up on.
One. Two. Three. Four.
“Her parents aren't even here,” you said. “They didn't even pick up their phone when Dana called. We-we left a message. They deserve to see their daughter one last time.”
Jack nodded. “They will.”
You glanced up at him. “Alive.”
He clocked his head to the side. “That's not gonna happen. It's been forty-five minutes. She's gone.”
Losing kids were the hardest. Losing anyone was hard but kids weren't supposed to be found in hospital beds, tubes poking out of them. If they had to be found in a hospital, they deserved loved ones around them. Not strangers in black and blue.
Jack knew you were trying to do the right thing. Sometimes there was no right thing to do.
“Come on.” Jack was slow in moving around the bed to your side. He gave you time to slow down, to feel the exhaustion in your arms. His own hovered over you. “Come on.”
You shuddered when his arms fell over you, holding you softly as you slumped back into him, falling from the bed on feet that weren't ready to catch you. His arms were; strong where you were weak.
“It's okay, it's okay,” he mumbled into your hair, peppering kisses there. “You did everything you could.”
Neither of you knew how long you stood there in his embrace. Somewhere between the consoling you and you slowly leaving his arms- like it was paining you physically to do so- Jack called the time of death so you wouldn't have to, pulling the plug on the monitor to kill the sound of dying.
When he turned back you were stuck at the door, eyes downcast as if you couldn't bring yourself to look at the small body he pulled the cover over.
He returned to your side, hand gentle on your arm. “Go take some time in the family room.”
You shook your head, a tear betraying your words. “I'm fine.”
Jack reached up and cupped your cheek in the palm of his hand. He looked at you like you were still his whole world. You were. To him. His thumb delicately wiped the tear away as your gaze reached his. “Ten minutes, please. For me.”
It took some time, some great mental calculations sparring inside of you but you nodded and Jack led you from the room, closing the door behind him.
His hand was a gentle breeze against the small of your back as he led you out, giving a gesture of a nod to Lena about the room. It was enough for her charge nurse bells to go off as she nodded and sent someone over.
“Take all the time you need, okay?” Jack whispered to you.
You nodded, stepping out his hold and slowly walking to the family room.
Jack waited and watched closely, marking every step you took to the room. He only let out a sigh when he saw you close the door behind you.
“Everything okay?” asked Lena as he slouched over the counter.
His face scrunched up as he fought his own pain. Pain for the little girl but a greater pain chocked at him as he closed his eyes and pictured the heartbreak marring your face, taking over your entire body. He sniffed back his own grief. “No. No, not really.”
Slowly he explained the situation to Lena. He re-encountered the break up that had took the night crew by shock. They were all so sure it was happy ever after for the two of you. When Jack had to slowly explain the break up (he lied and said it was mutual, it was very much not) there were distraught faces as if the night-crawlers were all going through a parental divorce. He told Lena he knew something was going on with you. He told her about the girl that had just died.
“And I just-” said Jack, chocking on a cry that threatened to escape the lodge in his throat. “Sometimes when I see her, it feels like I'm gonna be seeing her for the last time.”
“Hey,” Lena whispered and reached for his hand, squeezing it. “None of that. She'll be okay.”
Jack nodded, repeating the words to himself. “Yeah, she'll be okay. Keep an eye on here?”
“Already on it.”
By the time Jack next had the spare moment to check his watch he found thirty minutes had flickered by since he last saw you. When he passed by the family room you weren't there. Instead Caleb was, talking to a family.
Jack went in search of you, checking the board for your initials. He didn't see anything up on there, nothing that jolted his heart with the usual sparks.
“Shen!” he called in passing. “Have you seen her?”
“Er, no, sorry.”
Jack cursed. He was turning around the ED, spinning on his heel and looking around every corner for you. You weren't by the lockers, weren't out in the ambulance bay. Trauma one was empty and trauma two had a large team in there already, devoid of you.
His heart beat like a drum in his chest, growing louder and louder, the thud of the bass growing the more time went on and he couldn't find you. Had you gone home without a word? Were you hiding away somewhere else?
Jack was losing hope, running on anxiety when he pushed back the curtain to fourteen hard enough to almost tear the thing.
You looked up at him from your place on the stool next to your patient, a middle aged woman with an ankle not as it should be.
“You're here,” he said, breathless.
“Er, yeah?” you said with a small chuckle. “I'm just telling Mrs Greene here about the surgery to reset the bone in her foot.”
Jack nodded, looking from you to your patient.
He wasn't an idiot. Your eyes were scratched and red, cheeks flushed. Yet you'd tried to put yourself back together. You'd scraped back your hair in a neater pin up, had clearly splashed cold water on your face, maybe even dunked your face in a bowl of it. You sat with your hands in your lap, a leg kicked over the other, caving in on yourself.
As soon as you left the room, chart in hand, Jack was hot on your heels.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
You startled, looking at him. “Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?”
“You lost a patient,” Jack reminded you, a small frown pulling at his lips. “It's tough on all of us.”
You glanced down to the chart, lifting your shoulders. “We lose people all the time. It's the job.”
He surveyed you as you slid into a seat, logging into the computer in front of you. No eye contact, distractions pulling at you. Jack knew your tactics; they were everyone else's. Ignore the pain till it went away before mounting up and crashing down at the worst time possible. Heck, he was chair of the club.
“Sure,” he mused. “Doesn't make it any easier.”
You sighed, pulling your lips up into a strained smile. “Jack, seriously, I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me.”
Jack leant over the counter. “Well, you want to know a secret?”
“What?”
“I'm always worried about you.”
“I don't think it's much of a secret,” you said, moving your fingers quick over the keypad.
He wondered if your hands were steady. Or even if you were writing anything with meaning, or just trying to occupy yourself. “If you need to go home-”
“- I don't-”
“- take some time-”
“- I don't want to take time,” you huffed.
“You’re starting to sound like Robby.”
“Now that’s insulting,” you huffed. There was a moment were you fell silent, your body slumping under the weight of the argument. You dragged your hands down your face. “Jack, please.”
When you're a kid they teach you that manners are an important basis in the human condition. A show of respect. A nicety. They don't tell you the effects the simple words hold when used on the tongue of a loved one. When someone you love is begging you to leave them alone, even against your better judgement.
Jack never liked to hear you beg as it was.
He hung his head in surrender. “I'm staying close.”
“You'll be loitering.”
“Observing,” he corrected.
He loitered around you the rest of the night. He checked your name on the board every time he passed. When the parents of the young girl arrived five hours later Jack spoke to them, he didn't even tell you they had arrived but somehow you knew. A silent nod of thanks was passed. The sun started to rise and Jack had counted three coffee's, two over your usual. The granola bar he'd handed you was left abandoned at your station and before Jack could find you to make sure you eat the rest, Crus had taken it in one bite.
Six am was a blessing. The night hadn't been full of patients, no more than usual at least but it had been more stressful to Jack.
Every time you moved and he couldn't find you he was worried. Even if it only lasted a minute or two. It was the same blind panic he'd felt the day Robby left for his sabbatical, yet the relief when he saw you didn't last.
Jack had left to go to the bathroom in the morning. When he came back Robby was there, fleece pulled up and talking to you. He couldn't tell what was going on, only that Robby's hands were clasped together in a prayer like motion.
Then he saw you nod and Robby sigh before giving you a high five and leaving.
“What was that?” Jack asked, falling at your side.
“What?”
“What were you and Robby talking about?”
“Er,” you hesitated. “Langdon can't make it, there's something at home, I don't know his kids are sick or something, Abbey's away visiting family.”
Jack was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “So?”
“He's asked me to stick around for a bit, help him out-”
“You've just pulled a double,” Jack snapped.
“It's only a few hours,” you shrugged, as if you weren't the walking definition of sleep. “Beats going home.”
“I'll cover.”
“Then you'll be pulling a triple,” you pointed out. “I'm younger, more spry.”
His jaw pulled tight, hands falling on his hips. “I'll talk to Robby.”
“I've told him I'll do it,” you said, firmly. “I don't want to go home and sit with this, I'd rather be here.”
“For how long?” he asked. “You gonna stay here forever now? You can't run away from this.”
“I can't sit with it either,” you snapped back, heat rising up your neck. “I'm not like you, Jack. I can't leave the shift at the door and go home and just sleep it off. I need to... I need to do something.”
Jack stood and listened. He knew you all processed things differently. He knew that you were never good at staying still, always rising early in the mornings even if you weren't working, cooking before he'd even said he was hungry. Siting still and thinking didn't work for you.
You took a deep breath and squeezed your eyes shut. It took you a couple moments to drag your eyelids open. “I'm gonna go sleep through hand over. I'll see you soon, okay?”
Jack didn't bother saying anything as he watched you go.
Your place was taken up by Robby. He looked down the way you'd walked.
“You had no right to ask her to stay,” Jack argued.
Robby chuckled low in his throat. “You have no right to be mad that she said yes. She's not yours anymore, Jack.”
“She's exhausted!” he grit.
“Then she wouldn't have said yes.”
“She wouldn't have said no, either!”
Robby grit his teeth and backed up a step. “Brother, I know you care about her. I'm only asking a couple hours to figure things out. She's a grown up. She knows what she's doing. I don't think you do.”
Robby walked off then, leaving Jack to it.
The worst part was, Jack knew he was right. He had no idea what he was doing.
It was two days later and Jack wasn't even supposed to be in.
It was only three in the afternoon, he had at least three more hours of snooze time, lying back in his bed, counting the flecks of paint in his ceiling- if he hadn't been out on the SWAT team.
A bunch of boys- punks really- were holding hostages for a total of six thousand dollars and a PS5. Considering the wars and losing his leg and the shoot outs it was a relative easy thing to deal with. Still, when the larger one of the trio took a run at him and landed his shoulder square in the chest, pushing Jack to the floor, it still hurt.
He'd pulled up his shirt, caught a glimpse at the bruising and thought it better safe than sorry. Best to get it checked out by your hands.
Any excuse really to feel your hands touch him.
“Hey,” he greeted, walking through the ambulance doors.
It was like walking into a morgue.
Dana and Javadi were at the nurses station, both turned to look at him in shock. “Jack, honey, what are you doing here?” she asked without her usual smile.
Jack clocked his head aside. “I took a tumble, thought I could get a look at, you know.” He was hoping she'd catch just who he wanted examining him without saying your name.
Javadi gasped at her side, hands flying over her mouth. “Oh my god.”
Jack looked to her. “What?”
He glanced around the Pitt.
Princess and Perlah were in the corner, talking in Tagalog quietly while glancing at him. Others were looking at him but Robby wasn't. He wasn't around. He counted: neither Samira, Whitaker, Santos or McKay were there.
Nor were you.
Dana slowed around the counter, lifting an arm to him. “Why don't we get some coffee? I can take a look at you-”
But Jack had already found trauma two, where all the doctors he was looking for were.
Robby stilled, gloved hands and gown covered in blood. At his side Samira was much the same, behind him Whitaker too. “Jack! Get out!”
It took him a minute to realise why everyone was looking at him, why the ED had felt colder than usual. Why you'd been missing from the floor.
The blood surrounding everything was yours.
“Jack!” Robby yelled.
You were on the gurney too still, so un-natural for you. Had he not been complaining you wouldn't take a break just forty-eight hours ago?
Jack looked to each face that was frozen, wondering what to do. Whether they should work on saving you or work on getting rid of him.
Jack made their choice for them, throwing off his jacket and pulling on latex gloves over the sweat of his palms. “Talk to me!” he yelled to anyone in the room.
Robby gave one un-impressed shake of his head and a groan. “We found her in the bathrooms. Stab wounds to the left chest, two to the belly, right and left upper quadrants.”
Jack was over you know, looking down.
You were pale, eyes dark and closed and not opening as he pressed a hand to the top of your head, feeling around just to be able to touch and know you were there. It was a relief to know as much as it was a nightmare to see you. He inhaled but it was shaky.
“She- she was stabbed?” he asked.
“We think it was a patient,” said Santos from behind him. “Or-or a relative of a patient, we don't know.”
Jack shook his head, brows creasing. “Oh god.”
“Pule ox eighty-two!” called out Donnie.
Jack snatched the central line tray away from Robby, lying it out and doing it all himself. He looked at you and saw a patient. For the sake of your life he was looking at you and cutting you open like he didn't love you. “Call- call someone,” he said.
“What?” asked Whitaker.
“Robby,” said Jack. “Call- call her emergency contact. A friend. A family, I don't know just get her someone! She-she doesn't like patients being alone so for gods sake, call someone!”
Robby was adamant to argue. It was evident in the lines in his face and the frown on his lips but Jack heard the sharp tug of elastic and the sound of him giving up.
He remembered how distraught you'd been when the little girl had no family with her. You weren't going to die- you weren't. But Jack wanted someone you trusted to be with you.
“BP's ninety over fifty!”
“Okay, c'mon, c'mon, honey,” said Jack as he carefully and skilfully intubated you, the bag going on. “Don't do this to me.”
Robby had pulled over the computer, logging in and typing away.
“Pulse ox is dropping!”
“Belly is distended,” said Whitaker. “Probably an intra-abdominal bleed!”
“Get four more units of O-neg in here!” ordered Jack.
“Pressure's down to sixty!” yelled Samira.
“Oh... god,” Robby uttered, staring intently at the computer screen.
There was a harsh beeping screaming through the room and everyone looked.
“We've lost her pulse!”
By the time Mohan had finished announcing it Jack had already climbed up, compressing down on your chest.
“No. No,” he said, harshly. “You are not doing this to me. You're not! Push a round of epi!”
There was another beeping that would haunt Jack for the rest of his life.
“She's in V-fib!”
Jack grunted. “Charge to one hundred!”
“Stop!” Robby called out. His head was hung low between his shoulders, one hand held up. “Stop.”
Jack did not stop pushing down to your chest. Over you, Donnie did not stop pressing down on the bag. Nobody was stopping. “Robby, What the fuck do you think you're doing?” he snapped.
Robby was pale, his eyes down cast as he turned his body to the room but didn't have the strength to look at anyone. He rested a hand on his hip, the other stretched out to the cart with the computer to steady himself. “Her chart. She's DNR.”
Jack didn't hear him, not right away. Or he did but didn't want to. He knew the letters DNR. Sometimes a mercy for the elderly that had lived a long, good life and wanted to go out on their terms. For the terminally ill who didn't want to live the rest of their life in pain.
You were young. You were healthy. You were not dying.
“What?” said McKay.
“You're kidding,” said Denis.
Robby shook his head, spinning the computer to them.
“Doctor Mohan!” Jack called, a silent plea for her to take his place. With steady hands, she did and Jack stumbled down next to Robby.
He stared at your name, your birthday. Your file sat there staring at him, the DNR mocking all the love he held for you.
“She's DNR, Jack, I'm sorry,” said Robby, a hand on his shoulder. “We have to respect that.”
His fingers moved around the keyboard till he highlighted the DNR.
You'd signed a DNR. You'd never said anything. Why had you signed a DNR?
Jack moved around on the keypad and did the only reasonable thing. Everyone behind him waited with bated breath.
Jack dragged his finger to the bin icon and deleted your file.
Robby stared at him in shock.
Jack looked away from the now empty computer screen and didn't so much as glance at Robby as he returned to your side. “Charge to one hundred.”
A wave of shock rippled through the doctors and nurses as Jack marched back to your side. There was disbelief that you, someone so young, would ever be a DNR. That Jack- who they'd all argue was a little bit more responsible than their own Doctor Robby- would erase a file!
Jack looked around at them all. “Charge to one hundred, now!”
Santos and Whitaker were the first to jump to attention, charging and handing over the panels.
“Clear!”
The waiting room was colder, quieter and whiter than Jack was accustom to. He was used to working down in the Pitt, with its white walls and ghosts but there was always noise. Always monitors going off and names being called, usually there were wails or cries of relief.
In the waiting room there was nothing.
Only lines and lines of chairs, a fish tank that last time he'd counter had a dozen or so goldfish and a clock that ticked by every second you lay under the knife.
Every second ticked away and nobody came to fetch him, to update him.
Every second Jack was left alone to guess why you'd have a DNR order.
The door creaked open and the only other waiting woman and child in the room looked up. As did Jack.
Robby walked in, boots shuffling, lips tilting up into an apologetic smile as he raised a hand to the mother and daughter. He found Jack. “Anything?”
He shook his head. He learnt almost two hours ago not to trust his voice from shaking anymore.
Robby settled in the chair next to Jack, stretching out his legs. Not to impose but just to press his boot next to Jack's and assure him he was there. It was a small move but none the less appreciated. “The guy was only came in for a headache,” he explained quietly in the silence. “We were waiting on a psych consult from some erratic behaviour-”
“- he should've been restrained,” said Jack, through eyes that were heavy in tears. He knew that most patients came in erratic, that they didn't always have to be tied down but he still he remembered your blood all over the trauma room, your blood on everyone's gloves.
Jack had to get a change of scrubs from the lockers just to get out of his clothes stained in your blood but as he looked down at his boots he found a spec of your blood.
“The guy had no infection, we've no idea how he got the knife. He ran after the attack. Word is he's at Westbridge being treated for schizophrenia.”
“How long?” Jack asked, a shake in his voice as he angled his head down to Robby. He gulped. “How long do you think she was lying there, alone, bleeding to death before anyone found her?”
Robby's own inhale was shaky, his body wracked with it. “I don't know.”
Jack's breath shuddered. He hunched over himself, resting his elbows on his knees.
Had you been conscious? Aware of the fact litres of your blood were leaving without being able to call for help. Were you trying to call for help but un-able to find your voice? The thought had Jack's stomach churning.
“What if-”
“Don't-” warned Robby.
“What if she doesn't make it?”
“She will.”
Jack tried to imagine a world without you but he couldn't. He tried to picture walking into work and not finding your face, smiling or on the verge of collapse. He imagined not being able to text you just to say he was thinking about you and for you to just reply, don't. He couldn't imagine the last photo he'd have of you on his phone was the morning you broke up with him, when you were sleeping and he thought you looked so beautiful and at peace that he had to capture the moment.
He wanted to tell you there'd be no peace on the other side. Not if you left him.
“Two stab wounds to the belly,” Jack sniffed. “Could've been the spleen.”
Robby didn't try to sugar coat it. He only nodded and listened. “It could.”
“It could've got the heart, she was stabbed in the chest.”
“Maybe.”
They sat in silence.
Jack saw Robby watch the clock for an entire minute.
“Do you know why?” asked Robby. “Why she had a DNR?”
Jack winced at the memory. The stamp standing out to him. It was offensive to him, that you'd do such a thing. He rested back in his chair. “No. She.... she never said anything about it, not to me.”
Jack didn't need to ask what he might have meant. They knew it better than most.
Maybe it wasn't a want to die, but an indifference to live.
Yet, a DNR wasn't an indifference. It was a choice that if anything happened to you you'd never want to come back from it.
“I can't do it,” said Jack, looking down to his boots. He struggled to put the rest of it into words. “I can't... without her- I can't. And I want nothing more than for her to wake up. But... I'm so angry she's done this.”
There was grief, despair also behind that anger but the fury masked it.
“So am I,” said Robby. He was the closest thing to a mentor you had, someone to look out for you when Jack wasn't around. “When she wakes up-”
Jack shook his head. “We don't know that.”
Robby's body hunched over, focused on Jack. “When she gets out of that OR you get to argue with her first.”
Jack dared to hope in the silence that paraded between them. “You think she knows?” he asked. “That we brought her back?”
It seemed Robby didn't even have to think about it.
“She knows.”
There was another tick of the clock before the door opened again.
“Doctor Abbot.”
He shot up at the call of his name, pushing through the door with Robby following behind. Out in the hallway the lights radiated a ghostly white and Jack felt haunted already.
Garcia stood there, a mask lose around her neck.
“How-how is she?” he asked.
Garcia looked between them. “Recovering. There's a long road ahead of her, but she's stubborn. Far more stubborn than the two of you combined. She's going to make it.”
Jack let out a shudder of a breath of relief, his entire body curling. He felt the need to throw up all the words he'd wanted to say to you and hadn't. That coil in his stomach released and his last good leg trembled.
He felt Robby's hand on his shoulder and dully heard him and Garcia talk about what had gone on in the operating room but it was as if Jack was under water.
A score of surgeons started to wheel you out, pushing you into recovery.
Jack saw you in a new gown without blood, bandages around you. You were still asleep but that's all it was, a sleep. Your skin was still pale but there was the smallest bit of life in your cheeks. You moved so slow, or maybe that's how he was seeing you, trying to slow it down to memorise you.
When you disappeared Jack came back to with enough time to thank Garcia and rush off after you.
By the time you woke up Jack had gone through his mind a thousand times, trying to think of a way to approach the topic of you seemly wanting to die without coming off as angry and afraid as he felt.
You woke slowly with flutters of your eyes and your hand coming up to rub at the sleep only to be held down by the IV in your hand.
Jack jerked at the movement, claiming your hand and holding it in his, squeezing. “Hey. Hey, you're okay, it's okay,” he said, coaxing some comfort into you.
You turned to find him, eyes groggy as you blinked at him. Your lips parted, dry and chapped, just barely mumbling his name.
“Yeah, yeah, it's me,” he said with a watery smile as tears sprung to his eyes. “It's me, you're okay, you're safe.”
You glanced around the room in post-op. The blank walls with cards about various health hacks, at the monitors all around you, then down to yourself in a gown, the blanket that Jack had asked Robby to bring from his place gently tucked close to you. Selfishly, he'd wanted to keep just one thing when you left. You gulped. “What-what happened?”
Jack steadied himself. “You were- you were stabbed, one to the chest. Tw-two to the belly.”
You blinked, taking in the information. Slowly, your free hand rose and rubbed over your heart. “My-my chest-”
“Does it hurt?” asked Jack, ready to begrudgingly let go of your hand and rush to get someone.
You shook your head, closing your eyes and resting your head back in the cushions. “It... aches, a little.”
Jack knew the pain from other people winces. From the jutting of chests when they were shocked to the burn marks left there after. He'd seen your wince on hundreds of other patients, often described as a pain like being kicked in the chest.
He wondered if his heart breaking was a similar pain.
“Your- your heart stopped. We lost your pulse. We had to bring you back,” he said slowly, studying your face for any sign of grief. “We had to shock you.”
He waited.
You only slowly closed your eyes and opened them again. “Oh.” Your hand gave his a little squeeze.
Jack gulped down his troubles, shuffling closer and resting his arms on the bed, caressing your hand close to his chest. “We had to go against the DNR. Your DNR.”
You looked at him, a small knot of confusion between your brows before it quickly smoothed over. He watched you slowly avert your gaze, turning away to stare at the ceiling instead. You didn't cry- in rage or relief- you didn't say anything for a while leaving Jack to guess if you wanted him to bring you back.
“Why?” he asked, a crack in his voice. “Honey- why was there a DNR order on your file?” deep down he knew he should have been letting you rest, taking care of you and whispering soothing words but he couldn't see past the order on your file. He couldn't forget the way he watched your body lie still and bloody without breath and the dread that filled his chest when he found out you didn't want to be brought back.
You blinked a tear. “I don't know.”
Jack shuffled closer still, his knees digging into the bed. “Baby... honey, please. You-you can tell me,” he begged, holding the back of your hand to the stubble growing in stress. “Please, honey. I... I thought I was gonna lose you forever.”
His salty tears rolled onto the back of your hand and like it was acid, you cried, the sort that had your bottom lip jittering.
“I-I really don't know,” you uttered. “I guess I was young and-and stupid. I didn't want to die... didn't care much about living either. I just put there as a.... as....”
Jacks thumb slowly soothed your hand, resting it on his cheek as he listened. “As a what, honey?”
You glanced his way before your expression turned pain and you stared down at the blanket instead. “A failsafe. I didn't think anything would happen to me... but if I did I guessed it was life's way of telling me to be done.”
Jack took a deep breath that didn't reach deep in his lungs, it sat and burned. He knew it wasn't about him and he wasn't trying to make it so but he'd had a long time to think about life without you while waiting for you to come out of surgery.
Who else was he supposed to talk to if he didn't have you?
Who else was he supposed to laugh with if you weren't there?
Who else would take up all the love he had if you didn't have it?
“I did it ages ago, Jack, I swear, I forgot about it. Things were different, when-when I was with you. I just... I...”
He nodded, trying to hide his tears. He turned his head to wipe his cheek against his shoulder.
You squeezed his hand again.
“You didn't- you never said anything,” he mumbled.
You lips parted and hung open lamely. “I'm sorry.”
Jack shook his head again and looked at you with his best, un-stable, smile. “I just don't know what I would've done without you.”
Your finger tapped his hand, almost pityingly. “You'd have been okay.”
He scoffed. “Like fuck I would have,” he said, looking at you. “Do you realise how scared I was when I saw you in trauma? Do you realise what my life means without you? Nothing. Nothing, it means nothing.”
You frowned. “But I... I broke up with you?”
Jack shrugged. “So? You think I was gonna stay away long?”
You looked down at the blanket again, the one you'd picked up at a store- Jack couldn't even remember what store- he just remembered you'd seen it and said it would look good at home. At his. It was the first time you'd said his place as home and the first time he realised it could have been just that. “I dunno, I'm kind of a mess.”
Jack looked at you like you were the stars in the sky. “So am I, baby. That doesn't change anything.”
He thought to how sad you'd looked breaking up with him, like you didn't want to. All the extra shifts you'd been carrying, the silent pain. “You can't carry on like this. Being distracted, running from the pain. You have to... talk about it, face it.”
You swallowed, bitterly, as if even thinking about doing just that was the last thing you wanted to think about.
“If I hadn't been there today, I... I don't even want to think about what could've happened,” he admitted, quietly.
“How- how did you do it?” you asked. “Go about the DNR?”
Jack looked up sheepishly. “I deleted your file from the records.”
There was the smallest hint of a smirk on your lips.
“Gloria's not gonna like that,” you warned, pulling at his hand.
Jack chuckled to himself. “Gloria can kiss my ass.”
You laughed. It was small and pained but it was the first laugh from you Jack had heard in months.
He smiled at the sound.
“Jack?”
You pulled on his hand, beckoning him closer.
Jack hovered over you, checking where he could rest as to not hurt you. He rested his arm over yours, gently stroking back your hair while keeping your hand in his, resting it over your chest where the firm and promising beating of your heart lay.
“Thank you,” you said. “I don't... I don't think I'd want to have died. I know I act like it some times with... with all the work and the distance-”
Jack nodded along. It was a good start, a fresh one that he could build with you.
“But I want to be alive. With you.”
“Well that's good,” he said, tasting the own salt of his tears on his lips that were bitten down on in anxiety. “Because I want you to be alive. With or without me.”
You smiled up at him.
Jack stroked back your hair again. “But I'd prefer with.”
“So would I.”
Jack kissed you gently and slow, letting you set a pace of push him off. You did neither. Your lips puckered and were light against his but he grew solid then, an un-moving block at your side.
And you'd start again with each other, gentle and slow.
if you need help or related to the dark ideas in this fic, please talk to someone!
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This is NOT based on me bcuz I’m actually very smart and intelligent and smart
Tags: fem!reader, reader is kinda dumb but useful, reader just makes a lot of mistakes on missions, Tomura’s such a good leader 😻, smut, raw sex, dumbification, cryingggg, mix of condescending and real praise, reader calls him ‘boss’ a lot, kinda short, got lazy at the end
—
“I-I didn’t mean to, Boss— Ngh!”
“Hah…I know.”
God knows how many times Tomura’s had to deal with your fuck-ups. It’s always something with you- a loose wire you trip over, a slippery spot on a staircase, a missed shot, an overpowered enemy that targets you, a security alarm you hit, somehow ending up in the middle of someone else’s fight and messing everyone up.
It’s always something.
But…you’re useful, in your own way. Despite your many flaws, Tomura would never throw away someone who believes in the world he’s trying to create. And you getting discouraged and deserting the team is the last thing he needs. So, being the amazing leader that he is, he reassures you in the best way he knows how.
“Mm…Look at my smart girl…”
Of all the times you could ever be described as ‘smart’, right now is not one of those times. Tomura’s had you spread out on his cock for what must be hours at this point, making you cum over and over again until your head feels as empty as it seems to be sometimes.
He pumps into you slow now, your nipples and neck wet from his mouth, his calloused thumb almost petting over your clit, your legs thrown over his shoulders, and a lewd grin on his face as he looms over your trembling body. His free hand cups one of your cheeks, smearing away the fat tears that escape your eyes.
“‘M s-sorry— mm!- B-Boss—.” You stammer out, so genuinely apologetic it almost tugs on his heartstrings.
Tomura gives you a heavy grind of his hips, swabbing his leaking tip right over your cervix with a roll of your clit under his thumb. A shaky moan leaves your lips, and he revels in the way your dewey eyes roll back.
“I know you are…” He grumbles out, eyes boring into the pathetic look on your face even as he coos at you. “But it’s not your fault, is it?”
Well…it was, actually. Because your quirk wouldn’t have been very helpful on the mission earlier tonight, he’d tasked you with being on lookout. Easy enough, right? For anyone else, yeah, it would’ve been. But you got distracted by a fucking lost cat while some enemies snuck inside, and you didn’t call it in because you didn’t even know. Everything turned out alright in the end, but…everyone had some very harsh words for you.
Bottom lip trembling even more, you begin to try and string together enough words to explain coherently that it is your fault…but Tomura interrupts before you can even start with another rough grind of his hips. You whimper and cry under him, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders and chest.
“No…It’s e-everyone else, isn’t it?” He coos lowly, keeping you shut up as he drags his tip over your cervix over and over again. “They were— ngh— mean to you, weren’t they?”
More tears dribble down your cheeks, your muddled brain recalling all the insults from the others you endure after every mistake. It’s not like you can blame them, really, but you still nod dumbly at his questions.
Tomura only grins wider, chuckling lowly as you go along with everything he says. Dumber than usual…
Grabbing your jaw instead of caressing your cheek, he turns your head a little and leans down eeeeven closer, spreading you even wider. His voice is a low rumble in your ear as he starts thrusting into you slowly, listening to you whine as your sensitive pussy clenches and squelches around his cock.
“Callin’ you stupid…useless…ah-.” He recalls, knowing it’ll only make you cry more. “They think y-you’re just- mm- a waste of space, d-don’t they?”
Completely distracted by the rub of his cock sliding in and out of your sopping pussy, you only halfway comprehend his words…and it still works. You nod and sniffle and whimper, teary eyes peering up at him through wet eyelashes. It makes his cock throb inside you, the stupid fucking look on your face right now. Seriously, he wonders if there’s anything in that pretty head of yours right now.
“But I don’t think so.” Tomura purrs, savoring the way you shiver, your breath catching on a whimper as you look up at him with such pitiful vulnerability.
“Ah!…Y-you don’t-?” You question softly, your voice all trembling and slightly slurred with pleasure and tears.
Shaking his head, he fucks into you smoothly now, using your past orgasms as lube to work himself just a bit faster, aiming to keep you nice and stupid on his cock. “Hah…Why would I k-keep around someone- ngh- who I think isn’t helpful, h-huh?”
Struggling to understand his words while he fucks you on his cock, you moan and cry and stare up at him with those big, desperate eyes he loves so much. “Ngh- ah!-…B-Boss-!”
“That’s right-.” Tomura nearly growls, pumping into you harder until he’s almost ramming into you again. “Ngh-…Your Boss is k-keepin’ you around- ah-…T-too damn good to lose- mm- No matter what t-those idiots say-.”
Loud whimpers and moans spill from your lips now, shaky as he slams into the same sensitive spots he’s been hitting all night. Tomura snickers, but it turns into more of a groan as you squeeze around him. This is the exact moment he always wins— when you stop being able to focus on what happened, and start focusing your entire being on the feeling of his cock inside you. Letting go of your jaw, he watches your head bounce and loll with his thrusts, your face radiating only pleasure now as those nasty memories fade from your mind.
Grinning mockingly, Tomura coos at you again, already getting closer and closer to stuffing your stupid little pussy with his cum as a reward.
it was the effortless way the fabric moved with you, not hugging your curves like some desperate grasp, but floating just right, pleated edges brushing your thighs, inviting his curious eyes to follow every subtle shift. and god, you looked incredible in them.
his favorite part of the day would probably be when you finally settle onto his lap. especially after larry suddenly decides he wants to go home and smoke, throwing out some half-thought excuse before slipping out. he wastes no time setting his gameboy aside, attention lazily shifting entirely to you, the air still faintly curling with lazy swirls of smoke as if the room itself was settling into the moment with him. his mask long since discarded, he looks at you with a hesitant, almost pleading expression, his brows knitting together as his gaze flickers up to meet yours before dropping again. his fingers twitch slightly at his side, like he’s unsure what to do with them, and when he finally speaks, his voice comes out quieter than usual, soft, almost needy, as a small, breathy ‘please’ slips from his lips, carrying more need than he probably meant to show.
he beckons you over with a small adjustment of his posture and you waste no time moving, a small, fond giggle escaping you as you give in without hesitation, like his expression itself was all it ever took. the skirt pooled around your upper thighs, the soft cotton pressing against his jeans, warm and yielding. it felt nice. hell, it was intoxicating. the way your body molded to his without strain, the loose hem riding up to expose the smooth expanse of your skin. his hands would instinctively slide under the fabric, fingers tracing the edge where skirt met flesh, pulling you closer until you were fully seated.
and the scarred side of his face, rough, textured, brushed against your neck or shoulder when you leaned in, your skin so impossibly soft in contrast. it was a tactile revelation every time, the silkiness of you against his marred flesh sending shivers down his spine. he’d nuzzle closer, inhaling your scent, the gentleness of your body a balm to his hidden wounds. that softness made him want to keep you all to himself, to lose himself in the difference between your unblemished warmth and his own jagged edges.
even the accidental teases got to him. you never meant to, of course, just reaching for a Sanity Fall’s CD on his high shelf or bending to pet gizmo, the skirt lifting enough for a quick glimpse of those black cotton panties. it left him flustered every time, dick twitching in his pants, face heating under the mask as he averted his eyes too late. his mind would race with images of himself buried in between those thighs, but he’d play it cool, voice gentle when he muttered something casual, forcing himself to look away, all while his pulse hammered with restrained want.
