in which. the idol you work behind the scenes for, who also happens to be your boyfriend, is performing tonight - but something is clearly wrong.
genre. fluff, angst (?)
aus. established relationship au, idol au, bts au
rating. 13+, sfw
words. 1.05k
content/warnings. jungkook kind of faints, anxiety, dizziness, overworking
note. this has been sitting in my drafts for a while. thought i should share it with y’all since this one’s actually kind of realistic): have a good read my babies. ♡
tap. tap. tap.
the heel of your boot hasn’t stopped bouncing against the concrete for the past hour.
you’re backstage. technically on duty, technically coordinating logistics for the post show breakdown. but your eyes haven’t left the stage once.
he’s up there, drowning in lights and screams and pressure, and he’s not okay.
you can see it in the way he moves. it’s subtle, but you know him. the slight missteps in choreography, the way his hand keeps twitching by his side when it should be relaxed. the way his chest rises too quickly even in moments of stillness. the sheen of sweat coating his face. not the usual kind, but the cold, sick kind. like his body is trying to fight something off and failing.
your boyfriend is currently performing for thousands of people, and he looks like he’s one gesture away from losing his fucking consciousness on stage.
and you can’t do a damn thing about it.
you warned him before the show. when he came up to you ten minutes before call time, pale and quiet, and told you his chest felt tight and his breathing was off.
you told him to sit it out. just once. just this one performance.
he looked at you with that stubborn fire in his eyes. told you how there’s “no way he’s letting everyone down.”
fucking hell.
you love him, but sometimes you want to shake him until he learns to love himself half as fiercely as he loves his goddamn job.
“five minutes till wrap!” someone yells behind you. one of the audio techs.
your fingers are halfway to your mouth, biting at your nails… a habit you’d kicked years ago but came clawing back the second he stepped on stage tonight.
you’re so far past nervous it’s not even a word anymore. you’re fucking terrified. because you’ve seen idols collapse. you’ve helped catch them, wipe blood off their faces, call ambulances in the middle of chaos. it’s not glamorous. it’s not romantic. it’s horrifying.
and right now, you’re watching the person you love edge closer to that line every goddamn second.
he hits the last note of the final song and drops into the ending pose. the crowd erupts.
you don’t care.
you’re already stepping forward, motioning to the crew behind you.
“get the towels, the fans, everything. as soon as they’re down, we need cooling stations ready.”
someone nods and takes off running. another follows.
your eyes snap back to the stage when you hear his voice through the microphone. his goodbye speech.
it’s short, too short for jungkook. no jokes, no long winded thank yous. just a few sentences and a forced smile plastered on his face. his voice is hoarse. shaky. his grip on the mic is loose.
and then..
he drops.
not all the way, not unconscious. just to one knee. like his legs gave out and he’s trying to play it off as part of the exit.
your stomach sinks so fast you feel sick.
you take a step forward, ready to run, when a hand grabs your wrist.
“he’s okay,” one of the makeup staff mouths, eyes wide. “he’ll be okay.”
if your heart weren’t threatening to detonate inside your chest, you’d scold yourself for brushing her off with barely a flicker of acknowledgment.
but you don’t even notice.
your mind is too consumed by desperate pleas for jungkook to reach the back of the stage without collapsing. without the crew being forced to surge forward with first aid.
jungkook forces himself up. stumbles. jimin’s hand steadies him for a fleeting moment before the seven of them bow towards the huge crowd together, fingers interlaced.
but the way jimin clings to jungkook, and the sharp look hoseok casts his way makes it clear - they need to get off that stage right now, before it’s too late.
every second stretches into eternity for you.
one by one, the boys slip from the glare of the lights, descending the steps that lead backstage where the entire team waits.
namjoon passes you first. then seokjin, yoongi, taehyung, hoseok.
and then, finally, you see him.
god.
the sight of jungkook leaning heavily against jimin as though he’s the only thing keeping him conscious nearly unravels you.
he’s barely standing.
you rush toward them before anyone else can, faster than thought. faster than light. before you can speak, before you can even acknowledge jimin and how fucking exhausted he looks next to him, your boyfriend collapses into your arms as if by instinct. as if it’s the only place he can rest.
“fuck,” you breathe, arms wrapping around his waist as he sags against you. “baby - ”
he’s burning up. drenched in sweat. breathing ragged into your neck.
he doesn’t answer. just grips the back of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. groans.
“someone help me!” you shout. “get him water, cooling pads - anything!”
people rush in, for both jimin and you. three staff members carefully lift jungkook from your arms and ease him onto the couch in the center of the dim room. you’re immediately beside him, ignoring protocol, ignoring boundaries, ignoring everything but him.
you press a damp towel to his forehead. someone else brings an oxygen mask to his parted lips. the chaos around you, the shuffling of staff, the frantic voices of the other members only makes your pulse pound harder. jungkook lies slumped on the rough sofa in front of you, his eyes refusing to open, his skin so alarmingly pale it sends fear tearing through you.
your hands cradle his burning, damp face, desperate to coax any reaction from him as you gently tilt his face toward yours. some staff members hold fans and water bottles around him. some watch the two of you like a deer caught in headlights.
“jungkook,” you call.
no response.
“jungkook, look at me.”
he groans, eyes fluttering open just enough to look around in a daze, until his gaze finally locks on yours.
you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.
“move,” you snap at the crowd of well meaning staff hovering too close. “back up. give him space.”
they back off. most of them, at least. you don’t care if they’re annoyed. let them talk. he’s the only thing that matters right now.
he drags his tongue across his dry, colorless lips, eyes half lidded and heavy with exhaustion as they remain on yours. his sweaty, inked palm comes to rest over your hand where it cups his cheek.
his lips part. “i’m okay,” he whispers. barely. but it’s enough.
you close your eyes for a second and press your forehead against his.
“you idiot,” you whisper, voice cracking. “how could you do this to yourself? you scared the shit out of me.”
he lets out a weak, breathy chuckle.
“m’sorry.”
you swallow down everything you want to scream at him and just breathe. your fingers rake through his hair, pushing the soaked strands back from his forehead. his hand finds yours once again and rests it against his chest like he needs to feel you there.
he tugs gently, silently urging you closer, and you obey.
his head falls to your chest, arms looping around your waist, and you hold him like he’s the only thing grounding you to the earth.
his breathing evens out slowly. the tremble in his hands stops.
you close your eyes and press your lips to the top of his head, arms wrapped around him as the chaos of post show cleanup continues around you.
and for the first time all night, you let yourself breathe.
the one where you convince your boyfriend to try that stupid tiktok trend - eating sushi off his bicep - only for the sushi not to be the rawest thing caught on camera that night.
pairing: jungkook x fem!reader
genre: established relationship au, porn with plot, smut, fluff (mdni!)
word count: 8,089
warnings/tags: 18+, explicit smut, unprotected sex, creampie!, multiple orgasms (like... three), dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, recording/filming (the phone is basically a third character), food play (sushi on nipples, sushi on biceps, sushi everywhere), oral sex (f. and m. receiving), breast play (he fucks her tits and it's messy), clit stimulation (so much blowing on it, rubbing, tonguing), fingering, grinding and dry humping, squirting (she literally gushes everywhere), cum play (eating sushi mixed with cum, sucking her own fluids off him), hair pulling/fisting, lip biting, hickies/marking, second person pov, rich miami aesthetic, tiktok trends gone wrong (or right), that lip ring doing damage, "i fucking love you" ending, soft aftercare
a/n: I was in the process of writing chapter 3 for my jungkook series "purple tears I cry," and a certain sushi scene made me think of this that I just had to write a whole separate oneshot smut for it. this is genuinely nasty, please read at your own risk! hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think of it... don't forget to reblog <3
The Miami humidity clings to your skin the moment you step out of the Uber, but the restaurant's AC hits like a wall of relief, crisp and expensive-smelling, all yuzu and polished wood and money. Nobu. Of course he chose Nobu. You catch your reflection in the dark glass doors, your teal dress catching the neon glow from the street, the silk clinging to the curve of your hips in a way that makes Jungkook's hand tighten at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you who you belong to tonight.
Your hair is up, mostly, a messy twist that took you forty minutes to make look effortless, two strands curling against your collarbones like they have a mind of their own. Your skin glows, sun-kissed and dewy, and you feel his eyes on you, always on you, as the hostess leads you to the corner booth. You make sure to sway your hips a little more than necessary because you know he's watching, know his gaze is fixed on the way the silk shifts over your ass.
He's wearing a white button-up - one that should look innocent, corporate, boring, except he's left the first five buttons undone, and the fabric gapes open to reveal the hard plane of his chest, the ink that spills over his shoulder and disappears beneath the cotton. His lip ring catches the low light when he smiles at you, silver glinting against his mouth, and something low in your stomach tightens because you know exactly how that metal feels against your throat, your breastbone, the inside of your thigh. You know how it feels when he drags it down your stomach, when he looks up at you with those dark eyes while he tongues you open.
You slide into the booth and immediately pull out your phone, propping it against your water glass, angling it just so. The red recording light blinks to life. Jungkook raises an eyebrow but says nothing, just settles across from you, his knee brushing yours under the table, his foot hooking around your ankle to pull you closer.
"Documenting the experience?" he asks, his voice low, rough, the kind of voice that makes you think of hotel sheets and sweat and the way he sounds when he's inside you.
"Memories," you say, but your eyes drop to his mouth, to the silver ring there, and you know he sees it, knows exactly what you're thinking. You adjust the phone slightly, making sure the frame catches both of you, the candlelight, the way his shirt falls open when he leans back.
The server arrives with menus you don't need because you already know what you want, what you always want here. But Jungkook takes his time, asks questions about the omakase, the wine pairings, his voice smooth and deliberate while his shoe slides up your calf beneath the table, pushing the silk of your dress higher, higher, until it brushes the back of your knee and you have to bite your lip to keep from making a sound.
"Spicy tuna," you manage, your voice breathier than you intended, and Jungkook's eyes darken because he knows, he always knows what he's doing to you.
"Two orders," he says to the server, not looking away from you. "And sake. The good stuff."
The sake arrives in a ceramic flask, and he pours for you, his fingers brushing yours as you take the cup, and you make sure to let your tongue linger on the rim when you drink, watching his jaw tighten, watching his gaze drop to your mouth. You set the cup down and lean forward, the neckline of your dress gaping just enough, and you see his eyes flick down, see his throat work as he swallows.
"You're playing with me," he murmurs, and his shoe presses harder against your leg, insistent.
"Maybe you're playing with me," you counter, and you kick off your heel under the table, let your bare foot find his thigh, slide up, up, until you're pressing against the hard outline of him through his trousers, and he hisses, his hand gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white.
"Careful," he warns, but his hips shift, pressing into your touch, and you smile, sweet and dangerous.
"Or what?"
The spicy tuna arrives like art, ruby-red and glistening, arranged on black slate with edible flowers you won't eat. You take the first piece with your fingers because fuck the chopsticks, and Jungkook's gaze tracks the movement, watches your lips close around the fish, the rice, the wasabi that burns just enough. You moan, deliberately, because you know what it does to him, and his jaw tightens, that muscle jumping beneath the skin, his hand disappearing beneath the table where you know he's adjusting himself.
"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked already, ruined, and you haven't even started.
"So good," you say, and you take another, and another, each time making sure to lick your fingers after, slow, obscene, your eyes locked on his. You can see the flush spreading up his neck, can see the way his chest rises and falls faster than it should, the open shirt showing too much skin, the tattoo peeking out, and you want to trace it with your tongue, want to mess up his hair and ruin his composure right here in this restaurant full of people who think they're being subtle about watching you.
You lean back, your foot still working him beneath the table, and you reach for your phone, checking the angle, making sure it's still recording. You tilt it slightly to catch more of him, the candlelight catching the silver in his lip, the way his eyes look black with want.
"Say hi to the camera," you tease, and he does, his voice rough, his smile sharp and predatory.
"Hi, camera," he says, and then, lower, just for you, "Can't wait to see what you do with this footage later."
You take another piece of tuna and hold it out across the table, an offering, a test. He leans forward, never breaking eye contact, and takes it from your fingers with his teeth, his tongue brushing your fingertips, hot and wet, and you feel it everywhere, feel it between your legs where you're already aching, already soaked through your underwear.
"Jungkook," you breathe, and he catches your wrist, holds it, sucks your fingers into his mouth one by one, cleaning them, his tongue swirling around each digit while the restaurant noise fades to nothing and there's only him, only this, only the wet heat of his mouth and the promise of what comes after.
"You're killing me," he murmurs against your palm, his lips brushing the sensitive skin at your wrist, and you shiver, your foot still pressed against his hard length, feeling him throb even through the fabric.
"Good," you whisper. "Suffer."
You eat slowly, deliberately, drawing out every bite, every sip of sake, every moment of his foot tracing patterns on your calf, his knee pressing between your thighs under the table. You talk about nothing, everything, your voice light while your body screams for him, while you watch the sweat bead at his hairline, watch him shift in his seat, uncomfortable and hard and yours.
By the time you're full, stuffed, the silk of your dress feels tighter across your ribs, and you lean back with a groan, hand on your stomach, your foot finally retreating from his lap. He exhales, shaky, and adjusts himself again, not subtle, not caring who sees, and you love him like this, undone, desperate, ready to drag you out of here and fuck you in the Uber if he has to.
"I can't," you say, patting your stomach. "I'm gonna burst."
Jungkook smirks, that dangerous smirk that means trouble, that means you're in for it the second you get back to the hotel. "Shame. I like watching you eat."
"Pervert."
"Your pervert."
You flag down the server, ask for a takeout box, and Jungkook pays without looking at the check, just slides his card across the table like the amount doesn't matter, because it doesn't, not to him, not to either of you tonight. You pocket your phone, the recording still running, capturing everything, capturing the way he stands and offers you his hand, the way he pulls you against him in the elevator, his mouth at your ear.
"You're going to pay for that," he whispers, and you shiver, feel his hand slide down to grip your ass, squeezing hard.
"Promise?"
The hotel suite is all white and marble and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, dark now, just a black expanse beyond the glass. You kick off your heels, your feet sinking into carpet that probably costs more than your first car, and you collapse onto the sectional, pulling out your phone, scrolling through the footage while he pours himself a drink at the mini bar, his back to you, the white shirt pulling across his shoulders, the tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve.
TikTok. Endless, brainless TikTok to wind down.
A couple on a beach. A dance trend you don't care about. A recipe for something with feta cheese.
Then: a girl, pretty, blonde, sitting cross-legged on a bed in what looks like a generic hotel room. Her boyfriend beside her, shirtless, flexing his bicep. The girl grins at the camera, then at him, and unwraps a sushi roll, places it on the hard curve of his muscle, and leans down to take it with her teeth. The comments are screaming. The views are in the millions.
You stare at the screen.
You stare at the takeout box on the coffee table.
You stare at Jungkook, who's pouring himself a drink, his back to you, the white shirt still open, showing too much skin, the lip ring catching the light when he turns his head.
Enlightenment.
You set your phone down. Stand. Cross the room on bare feet, silent, predatory. He hears you, turns, glass halfway to his lips, and you pluck it from his hand, set it on the marble counter with a clink that sounds like a promise.
"Take your shirt off," you say.
His eyebrow arches, that lip ring catching the light again. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." You reach for the takeout box, open it, the spicy tuna still perfect, still glistening, and you can feel him watching you, confused and curious and already getting hard because he always gets hard when you use that tone, that minx tone, the one that means you're about to ruin him.
He sets the glass down. Undoes the remaining buttons slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving yours. The shirt falls open, then off, and he's bare in front of you, all golden skin and ink and muscle that makes your mouth water. You step closer, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, and you press your palm to his chest, right over his heart, feeling it thud against your hand.
You set your phone down on the marble counter, angling it just so, the red recording light blinking like a heartbeat in the dim room. You want this captured, want the lens to swallow every moment of what comes next, want to watch it later and feel the heat crawl up your neck all over again. Jungkook's eyes flick to the device, understanding dawning dark and dangerous in his gaze, and when he looks back at you, something has shifted. The playful tension from the restaurant has evaporated, replaced by something heavier, hungrier, something that makes your breath catch in your throat.
You lean in, your hair falling forward, those two dark strands brushing his shoulder like silk curtains framing the moment. You don't go for the sushi yet. You press your mouth to his throat first, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make him groan deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your lips. His hand comes up to tangle in your updo, disheveling it further, fingers tightening in your hair until your scalp sings with the sting of it. You lick the salt from his skin, taste the cologne at his pulse point, the musk of him underneath, and you feel him shudder beneath your mouth, feel the sushi roll shift against your cheek as he breathes ragged and wrecked.
"You're insane," he murmurs, but his voice is already ruined, gravel and velvet, and you smile against his neck, teeth grazing his tendon, feeling his cock twitch against your hip through his trousers.
"Wait until you see what comes after the appetizer," you whisper, and finally, finally, you turn your head and take the sushi between your teeth, your eyes locked on his, watching him watch you, watching the way your lips close around the rice and fish, the way your throat works as you swallow, and the sound he makes is animal, guttural, something torn from deep in his chest that makes your thighs clench together with nothing but air between them.
He moves before you can even taste the wasabi. His hands find your waist and he's lifting you, setting you down on the cool marble counter like you weigh nothing, like you're something to be arranged, positioned, consumed. The stone bites against your bare thighs where your dress rides up, and you gasp, but the sound is swallowed by his mouth crashing against yours, the metal of his lip ring pressing hard into your flesh, cold and burning all at once. He tastes like sake and want and the promise of destruction, and you open for him, let him take, let him plunder your mouth with a desperation that makes your head spin.
"Look at you," he breathes against your jaw, his teeth dragging down your throat, sharp and claiming. "Look at you, playing with fire, recording this, thinking you're in control."
His hands find the thin straps of your teal dress, silk whispering against your skin like a secret. He doesn't rush. He takes his time, sliding the straps down your shoulders with agonizing slowness, his eyes tracking every inch of exposed flesh, his pupils blown wide and black with desire. The silk catches on your nipples for a heartbeat, clinging, teasing, and then it falls, smooth as water, pooling at your waist, and you're bare for him, your breasts heavy and full, nipples tight and aching in the cool hotel air, no barrier between his gaze and your skin.
He stares. The silence stretches, thick and electric, and you feel beautiful, powerful, laid out like a feast on this marble altar. His throat works, his hand coming up to cup you, weigh you, his thumb dragging across your nipple so slowly you whimper, arching into his touch.
"No bra," he observes, his voice rough, almost reverent. "You were planning this. Walking around that restaurant with nothing under this dress, teasing me, letting me wonder."
"I wanted you to wonder," you admit, your voice breathless, broken. "I wanted you to think about it all night."
"Evil," he murmurs, and then he's bending his head, his mouth closing over your nipple, hot and wet and devastating, and you cry out, your hands flying to his hair, gripping tight as he sucks, as his tongue circles and flicks and drives you mindless. He moves to the other breast, giving it the same worship, the same relentless attention, and you're squirming on the counter, your hips rolling, seeking friction, seeking him.
He pulls back with a wet sound that makes you blush even as you moan for more. His eyes are dark, predatory, the playful boyfriend from the restaurant gone, replaced by something that looks at you like you're prey, like you're his to ruin.
"Bed," he commands, his voice leaving no room for negotiation, no room for anything but obedience. "Now. On your back."
You slide off the counter, your legs shaky, the silk of your dress catching on your hips as you move. You cross to the bed, each step feeling like you're walking through honey, through heat, your body thrumming with anticipation. You climb onto the white sheets, the fabric cool against your heated skin, and you lie back, your breasts falling to the sides, heavy and aching, your hair spilling across the pillows in waves.
He follows you, stalking across the room with a predator's grace, all bare chest and ink and the hard outline of his cock straining against his trousers. He stops at the foot of the bed, his eyes raking over you, devouring you, and then he reaches for your phone still sitting on the counter, brings it with him, sets it on the nightstand angled perfectly to capture everything, the red light blinking like a third heartbeat in the room.
"Keep it recording," he says, not a request but a decree. "I want you to watch this later. I want you to see what you look like when you're being fucked properly."
He undoes his belt with slow, deliberate movements, the leather hissing as he pulls it free, the metal clinking as he drops it to the floor. His trousers follow, and his underwear, and then he's naked, glorious, his cock thick and heavy and curving up toward his stomach, the tip already wet with arousal, the veins along the shaft prominent and pulsing. You can't help but stare, can't help but lick your lips at the sight of him, at the thought of taking him inside you, anywhere, everywhere.
He climbs onto the bed, crawling up your body like a storm rolling in, all dark intent and coiled power. He doesn't touch you where you want him most, not yet. Instead, he straddles your chest, his knees settling on either side of your ribs, his hands bracing on the headboard above you, caging you in, trapping you beneath him. You can smell him, musk and sweat and something uniquely Jungkook, can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the weight of him hovering above you.
"Look at you," he breathes, his hand coming down to grip himself, to stroke once, twice, the sight obscene and mesmerizing. "Look at these perfect tits. Do you know how many times I've thought about this? About fucking them? About painting you with my cum?"
You whimper, arching up, and he takes that as invitation, as permission. He leans forward, guiding himself down, the hot, heavy weight of his cock settling into the valley between your breasts, skin against skin, velvet over steel. He groans, long and low, his head falling back, the column of his throat working as he begins to move.
He starts slow, rocking his hips, sliding himself through your cleavage, the friction making him hiss, making his abs tighten and flex with each thrust. You press your breasts together, creating a tighter channel for him, and he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, his pace quickening, his hips snapping faster, harder. The head of his cock peeks out from between your breasts with each forward thrust, glistening and flushed, and you crane your neck, wanting to taste, wanting to lick the salt from his skin, but he pulls back just enough to deny you, a wicked smile playing at his lips.
"Greedy," he pants, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm, his control fraying at the edges. "So fucking greedy for it. You want this? Want me to cum all over you? Mark you?"
"Yes," you gasp, your own arousal spiraling tight and hot between your legs, the sight of him using you, losing himself in your body, driving you wild. "Yes, please, Jungkook, please-"
He breaks. His hips stutter, his hand gripping the headboard so tight his knuckles go white, and he comes with a shout that sounds torn from his soul, thick ropes of cum spilling across your chest, your throat, marking you, claiming you in the most primal way. He keeps thrusting through it, milking himself, his cock twitching against your skin, until he's spent, until he's trembling above you, his chest heaving, sweat gleaming on his inked shoulders.
The silence that follows is broken only by your ragged breathing, by the wet sounds of him still sliding against your cum-slicked skin. He looks down at you, at the mess he's made of you, and his eyes flash with something dark and satisfied, something possessive.
"Beautiful," he whispers, his hand coming down to smear the evidence of his pleasure across your breasts, your nipples, making you glisten with him. "So fucking beautiful."
He reaches over to the takeout box still sitting on the counter, forgotten until now, and retrieves another piece of spicy tuna, the fish still cool, still perfect. He brings it to your chest, and you watch, breathless, as he places it carefully on top of your nipple, the sushi resting there like an offering, like sacrilege.
He bends his head, his eyes locked on yours, and takes the sushi between his teeth, his tongue dragging across your nipple as he does, hot and wet and filthy, sucking the fish and your flesh together, the combination of sensations making you cry out, making your back arch off the bed. He chews slowly, savoring, his hand coming up to palm your other breast, his thumb circling your nipple, spreading his own release across your skin in obscene patterns.
When he swallows, he surges up, his mouth crashing against yours with a ferocity that steals your breath, his tongue thrusting deep, sharing the taste of tuna and salt and him, his teeth catching your lower lip, the metal of his piercing dragging against your sensitive flesh. He kisses you like he's starving, like he wants to consume you whole, like the camera isn't even there, like the world has narrowed down to just this, just you, just the wet heat of his mouth and the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress.
"Mine," he growls against your lips, the word vibrating through your chest, through your bones. "Say it."
"Yours," you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging crescents into his inked skin. "I'm yours, Jungkook, I'm-"
He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper, harder, his hand sliding down your body, beneath the silk of your dress still pooled at your waist, finding where you're wet and aching and ready, and you know this is only the beginning, know that the night is long and the camera is still rolling and he's nowhere near finished with you.
He pulls back from the kiss with a wet, filthy sound that echoes in the quiet room, his eyes dark and glittering with intent. His hand is still between your legs, his fingers spreading your wetness in slow, teasing circles, and you arch into his touch, desperate, needy, your hips rolling to chase more friction.
"Give me the phone," he commands, his voice rough as gravel, as velvet, as something dangerous wrapped in silk.
You reach for it with trembling fingers, the device still warm from where it sat recording, and you hand it to him, your breath catching as he takes it, as he adjusts the angle, as he points the lens down at you like he's directing a film where you're the only star.
"Look at you," he murmurs, the camera capturing everything, capturing the flush spreading down your chest, the way your breasts rise and fall with each ragged breath, the sheen of sweat and his release still glistening on your skin. "Look at this fucking body. Do you see what I see? Do you see how perfect you are?"
He shifts back on his knees, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and he hooks his fingers in the silk of your dress still pooled at your waist. He pulls slowly, agonizingly slowly, the fabric sliding down your hips, your thighs, leaving you completely bare, completely exposed to the lens, to his gaze, to the hungry darkness in his eyes.
"Spread your legs," he orders, and you do, your knees falling open, your thighs trembling as the cool hotel air hits your heated core. You feel exposed, vulnerable, the camera recording every inch of you, the way your pussy glistens with arousal, swollen and pink and aching for him. He zooms in, the lens close enough to capture the details, the way you pulse with need, the way your thighs are already shaking with anticipation.
"Beautiful," he breathes, the word almost reverent, almost profane. "Look at this pretty pussy. So wet for me. So fucking ready."
He sets the phone down on the mattress, angled up at you both, the red light blinking steady and watchful. But then he's reaching for your hand, pulling you up, placing the device in your trembling grip.
"Hold it," he instructs, his voice dropping lower, filthier, his eyes locked on yours with a command that brooks no argument. "Record me. Don't you dare stop filming, understand? I want you to capture every second of this. I want you to watch later and see exactly what you do to me."
You nod, your throat too tight to speak, and you angle the camera down, your fingers shaking as you focus the lens on him, on where he's settling between your thighs like he belongs there, like he's coming home.
He looks up at you through his lashes, that silver lip ring catching the light, and he knows, he always knows what that piece of metal does to you. He runs his tongue over it slowly, deliberately, letting you watch the way it moves, the way it glints, and your breath hitches because you can feel it already, can imagine the cool metal against your overheated flesh.
"You like this?" he asks, his voice a purr, a promise, a threat. "You like watching me? Like knowing I'm about to wreck you with this mouth?"
"Yes," you whimper, the camera trembling in your grip as you hold it steady, as you capture every moment.
He starts at your knee, his mouth hovering, his breath hot against your skin. He blows, a gentle stream of air that makes you gasp, makes your leg jerk in his grip. He holds you steady, his fingers digging into your thigh, and he drags his lips up, up, not touching, just breathing, just letting you feel the ghost of him, the promise of him.
He reaches the crease where your thigh meets your hip and he pauses, his eyes flicking up to the camera, to you, holding your gaze as he blows again, right there, right where you're throbbing, where you're aching, where you're dripping for him.
"Please," you beg, your voice breaking, the camera shaking in your hand. "Please, Jungkook, please touch me-"
"Shh," he soothes, his breath washing over your clit, hot and cool and devastating. "I've got you. Be patient, pretty girl. Be good."
He blows again, directly on your clit this time, the sensation shocking, electric, making you cry out, your hips bucking off the mattress. He holds you down with one hand on your stomach, pinning you, controlling you, and he leans closer, closer, until you can feel his breath fluttering against your most sensitive flesh, until you're trembling, until you're sobbing with need.
"Look at the camera," he commands, his voice vibrating against your thigh. "Don't look at me. Look at the lens. Show them how pretty you are when you're desperate."
You force your eyes up, staring into the small black circle of the phone's camera, your vision blurred with tears, your mouth open, your chest heaving. You look wrecked, you know you do, you can see your reflection in the dark screen, can see the way your hair is tangled and wild, the way your lips are swollen and red, the way your body is flushed pink with arousal.
"Good girl," he praises, and then he finally, finally, touches you.
His tongue drags through your folds in one long, slow stroke, hot and wet and perfect, and you scream, the sound tearing from your throat, your hips bucking against his mouth. He groans against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and he does it again, and again, lapping at you like he's starving, like he wants to taste every drop of your arousal, like he could spend hours here, drowning in you.
He focuses on your clit, circling it with the flat of his tongue, then the tip, then flicking it, relentless, merciless, driving you higher and higher until you're panting, until you're chanting his name like a prayer, like a curse, until your thighs are trembling on either side of his head.
"So fucking loud," he murmurs against you, the words muffled, filthy. "Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking hotel hear what I'm doing to you."
He pulls back just enough to speak, his chin glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark and wild. "Keep recording. Don't you dare stop."
You nod frantically, your hand cramping around the phone, but you hold it steady, you keep the lens focused on him, on where he's watching you with predatory intensity.
He slides one finger inside you, slow and deliberate, curling it to find that spot that makes your vision white out, and you moan, long and loud, unable to help yourself. He adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, and he starts to pump them in and out, his wrist twisting, his knuckles dragging against your walls in a way that makes you see stars.
"More," you gasp, your head falling back, but he clicks his tongue, sharp and reprimanding.
"Eyes on the camera," he reminds you, his voice stern, commanding. "Look at me through the lens. Show me that pretty face."
You force your head up, your neck trembling with the effort, and you stare into the camera, your eyes wide and glassy, your mouth open as you pant. He adds a third finger, the stretch burning so perfectly you sob, your hips rolling to meet his thrusts, and he starts rubbing your clit with his other hand, circling it in tight, relentless patterns while his fingers work inside you, while he crooks them to hit that spot, that perfect spot, over and over and over.
"You're taking three fingers so well," he praises, his voice dripping with filth, with pride. "Look at you, stuffed full, dripping down my hand. You love this, don't you? Love being watched, love being used, love being my little porn star."
"Yes," you cry out, the camera shaking as your orgasm builds, coiling tight and hot in your belly. "Yes, yes, Jungkook, please, I'm gonna-"
"Not yet," he cuts you off, his fingers stilling, his hand pulling away from your clit, leaving you hovering on the edge, desperate and whining. "Not until I say. Keep holding that camera. Keep recording. I want to see your face when you cum all over my tongue."
He dives back in, his mouth replacing his fingers, his tongue thrusting inside you, fucking you with wet heat while his thumb presses hard against your clit, rubbing in furious circles. The dual sensation is too much, overwhelming, devastating, and you're screaming now, loud and unrestrained, your voice raw as you chant his name, as you beg, as you plead for release.
"Jungkook, please, please, I can't, I need to-"
"Cum," he commands, the word vibrating against your core. "Cum for me now. Let me taste it. Let me drink you down."
He sucks your clit into his mouth, the metal of his lip ring pressing hard against the sensitive bud, and you break. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, like a storm, like something violent and beautiful and earth-shattering. Your back arches off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head, your hand spasming around the phone as you cry out, loud and broken and his, completely his.
He doesn't stop. He keeps licking, keeps sucking, drawing out your pleasure until you're shaking, until you're sobbing, until you're pushing at his shoulders because it's too much, too sensitive, too everything.
He finally pulls back with a wet, obscene sound, his chin dripping with your release, his eyes dark and satisfied and wild. He looks at the camera, looks directly into the lens where you're still recording, still capturing every filthy moment, and he licks his lips, slow and deliberate, savoring your taste.
"Delicious," he murmurs, the word dripping with innuendo, with promise. "My favorite meal."
He crawls up your body, his skin hot against yours, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that tastes like you, like him, like everything dirty and perfect and yours. The camera is still recording, still capturing, still blinking its red light in the dark room, and you know, you know this is a night you'll be watching back for years, a night that will never stop making you blush, making you ache, making you want.
"Good girl," he whispers against your lips, his hand tangling in your hair, his body heavy and warm above you. "You did so well. You held it the whole time."
He takes the phone from your trembling grip, checks the recording, a smug, satisfied smile playing at his lips. "Perfect angle. Look at you, pretty thing. Look how beautiful you are when you cum."
He shows you the screen, and you watch yourself, watch your face contort with pleasure, watch your body arch and shake, and you feel the heat crawl up your neck even as you feel yourself getting wet again, already wanting more, already wanting everything he has to give.
He pulls you up, his hands rough at your waist, flipping you until you're straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands braced on his inked chest. The sweat-slick slide of your skin against his is electric, devastating, and you can feel him hard and thick beneath you, pressing against your thigh, leaving wet trails of pre-cum against your skin.
"Come here," he growls, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling you down until your mouths crash together, teeth clicking, tongues tangling in a messy, desperate dance. He tastes like you, like sake, like the lingering spice of tuna and salt and sex, and you moan into his mouth, your hips rolling instinctively, grinding your soaked core against his rigid length.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, his hips bucking up to meet you, the friction making you both gasp. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good."
You reach for the takeout box still within arm's reach, your fingers trembling as you unwrap another piece of spicy tuna, the fish cool and glistening in the dim light. You break the kiss, sitting back on your heels, and his eyes track your movements, dark and questioning, until you lean forward and place the sushi directly on his nipple, the pink flesh peeking through the dark ink of his chest tattoo.
"Christ," he hisses, his head falling back against the pillows, his throat working as you bend down, your hair creating a curtain around you both.
You take the sushi between your teeth first, biting down, the flavor bursting across your tongue, but then you keep going, your mouth closing over his nipple, sucking hard, laving it with your tongue, the combination of cool fish and hot skin making him arch off the bed, his hand flying to your head, gripping tight.
"Oh fuck," he groans, long and low, the sound vibrating through his chest into your mouth. "Oh fuck, baby, fuck-"
You suck harder, your teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, and he cries out, his hips jerking up, his cock sliding through your folds, bumping against your clit with each thrust of his hips. You release his nipple with a wet pop, looking up at him through your lashes, your lips swollen and glistening.
"You like that?" you purr, your voice dripping with filth, with power. "Like me eating off you? Like being my plate, my meal?"
"Yes," he pants, his eyes blown wide, his chest heaving. "Fuck yes, anything, everything-"
You start grinding in earnest, rolling your hips, sliding your soaked pussy along the length of his cock without letting him inside, teasing, torturing, your clit dragging against his rigid shaft with every movement. The friction is delicious, maddening, and you're both moaning, the sounds filling the room, raw and unfiltered.
"Oh fuck, baby," he chants, his hands gripping your waist, your hips, guiding your movements, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Oh fuck, just like that, just like that-"
You lean down, your breasts pressing against his chest, your mouth at his ear. "Feel how wet I am?" you whisper, your voice a dirty secret. "Feel how much I need you? I've been dripping for you all night, Jungkook. All fucking night."
"Shit," he groans, his hips stuttering, losing their rhythm. "Shit, you're gonna make me cum like this, make me-"
He reaches for the phone, his hand trembling as he angles it up at you, capturing the way you move above him, the way your body undulates like a wave, like something primal and ancient and devastatingly beautiful.
"Look at this," he murmurs, his voice wrecked, his eyes flicking between the screen and your face. "Look at you, grinding on me like a little slut, so desperate for it. You want this cock, baby? Want me to fill you up?"
"Yes," you whine, your movements becoming erratic, desperate. "Please, please, I need it, need you inside-"
He drops the phone to the mattress, the camera still recording, still capturing everything, and he grips your hips hard, lifting you, positioning you above him. You reach between your bodies, your hand wrapping around his thick length, guiding him to your entrance, and you sink down slowly, inch by inch, your head falling back, your mouth open in a silent scream as he stretches you, fills you, completes you.
"Fuck," you gasp, your hands braced on his chest, your nails digging crescents into his skin. "Oh fuck, Jungkook, you're so big, so-"
"Move," he commands, his voice guttural, his hands guiding your hips. "Ride me, baby. Show me how good you are."
You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, feeling every inch of him drag against your walls, hitting places that make your vision blur. He keeps one hand on your hip, guiding you, controlling the pace, while the other reaches for your breast, palming the heavy weight, his thumb dragging across your nipple.
"The sushi wasn't the rawest thing tonight," he breathes, his eyes locked on yours, dark and possessive. "This is. You and me, like this, nothing between us. Just raw, filthy fucking."
You moan, your movements speeding up, your hips snapping down harder, taking him deeper, until he's hitting your cervix with each thrust, the stretch bordering on pain but feeling so perfect you can't stop. He grabs the phone again, angling it up at you, capturing your face contorted with pleasure, your breasts bouncing with each movement, the place where your bodies join, wet and obscene.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, his voice reverent and filthy all at once. "Look at you, taking me so well. My perfect girl."
He flips you suddenly, his strength shocking, his movements fluid and predatory. You're on your back before you can process the shift, him settling between your thighs, his cock still buried deep inside you, his hands bracing on either side of your head.
"Recording," he commands, pressing the phone into your trembling hand. "Don't stop. I want you to see this. Want you to watch later and see exactly how I fuck you."
You hold it up, the lens focused on where your bodies meet, and he pulls out slowly, agonizingly slowly, until just the tip remains inside you, glistening with your combined arousal. He hovers there, teasing, and you whimper, your hips bucking up, seeking more.
"Quiet," he orders, his voice sharp. "Be quiet and listen. Listen to how wet you are for me."
He thrusts back in, hard and deep, and the sound is obscene, wet and filthy, your arousal squelching around him, the slap of skin against skin filling the room. You bite your lip to keep from screaming, your hand shaking as you hold the camera steady, capturing the way he pulls out and thrusts back in, over and over, the rhythm building, the sounds growing louder, wetter, more desperate.
He pulls out completely, his cock slapping against your stomach, wet and heavy, and he drags the head through your folds, bumping against your clit, circling it, teasing it with short, sharp jabs that make you cry out despite your best efforts to stay quiet.
"Please," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please, Jungkook, please fuck me, please-"
He lines himself up and thrusts back in, but this time he doesn't stop, doesn't slow, doesn't tease. He starts pounding into you, hard and fast and merciless, his hips snapping forward with a force that moves you up the bed, your head hitting the headboard with each thrust. He's fucking you like he hates you, like he loves you, like he wants to crawl inside your skin and never leave.
"Scream," he commands, his voice ragged, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, just reminding you who you belong to. "Let me hear you. Let the fucking city hear what I'm doing to you."
You scream. You can't help it, the pleasure is too intense, too overwhelming, building and coiling tight in your belly, your orgasm approaching like a freight train. He's recording your face, the camera capturing your mouth open in a silent scream, your eyes rolled back, tears streaming down your temples into your hair.
"That's it," he pants, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. "That's it, baby, cum for me, cum on my cock, let me feel you-"
You break. Your orgasm crashes through you, violent and beautiful, your pussy clamping down on him, milking him, and he groans, long and loud, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, hot and thick and endless. But as you come, as your body convulses around him, something else happens, something wet and shocking, and you're squirting, actually squirting, your release gushing out around his cock, mixing with his cum, creating a mess of fluids that soaks the sheets, his thighs, drips down your ass.
"Holy shit," he breathes, his eyes wide and wild, the camera still recording, capturing the obscene flood of liquid, the way it glistens on his skin, the way your body continues to shake and convulse. "Holy fucking shit, baby, look at you, look at this-"
He pulls out slowly, his cock still half-hard, dripping with your combined release, and he holds it up, angling the camera to capture the mess, the way his cum mixed with your arousal drips from his shaft, thick and white and obscene.
"Suck it," he commands, his voice rough, his hand tangling in your hair. "Suck your cum off my cock. Clean me up, kitten."
You scramble down, your body still trembling from aftershocks, and you take him into your mouth, tasting yourself, tasting him, the mixture salty and musky and filthy. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard, your tongue swirling around his sensitive head, and he groans, his hand tightening in your hair.
"Fuck, yes," he pants. "My balls, kitten, suck my balls."
You pull back, your hand wrapping around his shaft, and you duck down, taking one testicle into your mouth, then the other, rolling them on your tongue, sucking gently while your hand works his length. He pulls your hair, guiding you, his hips bucking slightly, and then you pull back, kitten licking him, small, teasing laps at the head of his cock, your eyes looking up at him through your lashes, innocent and filthy all at once.
"Perfect kitten," he breathes, his voice wrecked, his eyes dark with renewed desire. "My perfect little kitten. Look at you, so eager, so good for me."
He starts fucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head, his hips snapping forward, pushing his cock deep into your throat, and you relax, let him use you, let him take what he needs. He's relentless, his stamina shocking, and you can feel him swelling, feel him getting close again.
"I'm gonna cum," he warns, his voice strained. "Gonna cum again, baby, gonna-"
He thrusts deep and holds there, his cock pulsing, and he spills down your throat, hot and thick, more than you thought possible, more than should be human. You swallow, your throat working, your eyes watering, and when he finally pulls out, spent and trembling, you collapse back onto the pillows, laughing, the sound breathless and beautiful and disbelieving.
"I can't believe you had all that cum inside you," you marvel, your voice hoarse, your lips swollen and glistening. "That was... that was the third time?"
He collapses beside you, his chest heaving, his skin flushed and sweaty and marked by your nails, your teeth, your possession. He pulls you into his arms, his hand cradling your head against his chest, and you can hear his heart hammering, feel the rumble of his laughter.
"For you," he murmurs, pressing kisses to your hair. "Only for you, pretty girl. You drain me completely. You ruin me."
The phone is still recording somewhere on the bed, still capturing the aftermath, the sweat-slick mess of your bodies, the way you curl into each other like survivors of some beautiful storm. But for now, you just breathe, just exist in this moment of shattered, perfect aftermath, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest, his hand stroking lazy circles on your back.
He doesn't ask. He just moves, shifting off the bed with a grace that seems impossible for someone who just spent himself three times over. You hear water running in the bathroom, the sound of a cloth being wrung out, and then he's back, kneeling between your thighs with a warm, wet towel in his hand.
He cleans you slowly, carefully, his touch reverent where it had been ruthless before. He wipes away the mess of your combined release, the sweat, the evidence of everything you did together, and his eyes follow the path of the cloth with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He presses kisses to your inner thigh, your hip, your stomach, each one soft and lingering, worshipping you in a different language than the one he used when he was inside you.
When he's finished, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls up your body, his weight settling over you again, but different now, protective, cocooning. He finds your mouth, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that tastes like salt and love and exhaustion. He bites your bottom lip, catching it between his teeth, pulling slightly until you whimper, and then he releases you with a laugh, low and warm and vibrating against your skin.
"Beautiful," he whispers, his forehead resting against yours, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw like he's memorizing you, like he's trying to commit every inch to memory. "You're so fucking beautiful. Do you know that? Do you know what you do to me?"
You smile, your hand coming up to tangle in his hair, still damp with sweat. "Show me," you whisper back.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you, his eyes dark and endless and full of something that makes your breath catch. He cups your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing over your swollen lips, and when he speaks, his voice is rough, stripped bare, nothing but truth.
"I fucking love you," he says. "I love you so much it scares me."
The words hang in the air between you, heavy and real and perfect, and you pull him down, kiss him deep and slow, pouring everything you can't say into the movement of your lips against his.
The camera is still recording somewhere, still blinking its red light in the dark, but neither of you reach for it. Some moments are just for you. Just for this. Just for the two of you, tangled in white sheets in a Miami hotel room, sweating and spent and in love, the rawest thing either of you have ever known.
when steve had first suggested a threesome to you, you were hesitant. having to share your perfect boyfriend with someone else? having him touching someone else, making them feel good right in front of you? you’re not very big on sharing. but when he tells you he had been talking to one of your friends about it, the same girl you used to touch yourself to the thought of before you had met steve, and they both wanted to make it all about you? well, you couldn’t say no to that. now you’re stuck between them, her hands are on your thighs, keeping them pried apart as she buries her face in your cunt, lapping at your soaked folds while you’re settled back against steve’s chest, feeling his bulge hidden away by his boxers pressing against your ass. his big hands are squeezing at your tits while you throw your head back on his shoulder in pleasure, moaning at the feeling of them both touching you all over. “fuck…” you whimper as she lifts your legs onto her shoulders to dive in deeper, her tongue prodding your leaky hole and licking up your arousal. steve kisses up and down your neck and shoulders, leaving saliva and blooming marks in his wake. “that feels good, doesn’t it baby? you gonna tell her how good she’s making you feel?” he coaxes you and you nod, eyes squeezing shut as you roll your hips against your friend’s face. steve pinches your nipples with his large hands and you moan. “feels… so- uhh- so good.” and once she makes you cum all over her face, they’re switching positions. steve’s in front of you now and finally naked, positioning his cock at your entrance like he’s done many times before, but this time with an audience. “you can take one more, can’t you?” you’ve already come on your friend’s fingers, then steve’s fingers, then his face, then her face, and now steve’s dick was pushing inside of you to hopefully bring you to a fifth orgasm of the night. you moan the deeper he pushes himself inside, fingers digging into steve’s shoulders and letting your back arch instinctively. your friend curls up on the bed beside you, taking one of your hands and guiding it between her thighs to her own dripping wet pussy. she shows you how to finger her while steve pounds into you, filling you so deep. your friend cums around your fingers, moaning your name, and steve cums inside of you the same moment your body shudders with your own orgasm. your friend helps you up, settling you onto her thigh. “time for just you and me to make each other feel good.” she whispers, her hands tracing up your bare body. “what about steve?” you ask, looking over at your boyfriend as he collapses back on the pillows, chest heaving while your friend licks a stripe up your neck. “he can watch.” and you’re absolutely ruined by the time they’re both done with you.
𓏲 ✉️ྀི ׂ 𝓲𝐧 𝔀𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 . . . steve loved watching you, so you give him his own private show !
𝓪𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 𝔀𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𑄹 fem!reader. kissing. flirting. voyeurism. female masturbation. female orgasm. swearing. dirty talk. talking you through it. praise. suggestive ending. 2.8k words. ꣖ adult content. mdni ꣓
droplets of sweat had gathered on the nape of your neck, pooling in the valley between your breasts, as you danced in the middle of the crowded room. the music was loud, almost too loud, but there was an undeniable electricity in the air. not from the atmosphere or the array of eyes on you from people you had never met. not even the alcohol that coursed through your system, but only between you and him.
him, steve harrington, the only person whose attention truly mattered.
you could feel his deep, lust-filled gaze boring into you from across the room, watching you so intently you were sure you were going to combust. he stood leaning up against the wall in the far corner, one arm raised to steady himself while the other held a cup to his lips. he adorned a recycled halloween costume as robin remained by his side, talking about who knows what, but despite the little nod here and there, all he could focus on was you.
steve loved watching you. he loved watching the way your body moved to the music. he loved watching the way you would meet his gaze, the slightest glint of a smirk tugging at your lips before continuing to pretend that he wasn't even there. he specifically loved watching the way your skirt would hitch up your thighs the same way it would whenever you went into his work.
he was sure he was the reason behind it. no, he knew he was the reason behind it. that you would purposely pull your skirt higher just for him, and even more so when you would bend over in the aisles pretending to look for something on the bottom shelf. being well aware that he was the only one that could see you.
he knew what you were doing - that you knew what you were doing - stringing him along and playing hard to get. you were challenging him. you weren't giving in to him like every other girl that looked his way recently.
you were making him work for it - for you.
except tonight he had other plans.
tonight, he was finally going to get what he wanted.
at least, so he thought.
"listen, i know it was my idea to crash this party, but it's kinda lame," eddie joins you, disrupting your dancing and slowing down your movements. "y'wanna find the others and get out of here?"
eddie was right. the party itself was lame. the only thing giving you any sort of entertainment was the free alcohol and the look on steve's face - steve who had now disappeared from where he stood only a moment ago as you peer over your friend's shoulder.
the munson boy waits for you to answer, your attention now absent from the conversation as you scanned the room rapidly but there was no sign of steve anywhere. he repeats his question, but it's not until he snaps his impatient fingers in your face that you finally return to him.
"c'mon, let's find steve and robin and we'll go back to mine. can finally show you that new riff i learnt on the guitar." he imitates playing his sweetheart, hair bouncing in an unruly mess, as more bystanders begin to stare.
you laugh, giving him a slight nudge, "okay, munson. i'll search upstairs, you search downstairs."
the two of you pan off in different directions, you heading for the staircase by the front door as he began in the kitchen. as you pushed your way through the crowd, weaving yourself to the entryway, you spot robin at the bottom of them, but still no sign of steve.
you call her name, but your voice falls on deaf ears over the music. she twirls around, hands fidgeting with the hem of her shirt when she finally spots you and a relieved smile bestows upon her lips.
"we're gonna go back to eddie's. where's steve?" you raise your voice, leaning towards her ear so that she could hear you.
"he went upstairs. something about needing a moment away from the music,” she gestures upstairs where there were far less people. "i'll go get him."
she turns to head up the stairs but your hand catches her arm before she can so much as put her foot on the bottom step, "it's okay, i'll get him. you go find eddie and we'll meet you at his van."
robin nods, though there seems to be a knowing look in her eyes, a hint of a smirk as if there were some obvious secret only you didn't know about, and she traipses off toward the kitchen in search of eddie.
once alone, you take one look up the large staircase and let out a deep breath. this was it, this was the moment you were finally going to tell steve that if he truly wanted you so bad, it was about time he did something about it.
with each step, your heart seems to beat a little bit faster. the top of the stairs growing further away and when you finally get to them, there are only a couple of small groups of people scattered along the balustrade. you weave your way through the crowd once more to find the bathroom and just as you're about to knock, it opens before your hand can graze the wood with your knuckles.
steve stands on the other side, eyes widening when he sees you, but the sight of him causes the breath in your throat to catch. his dishevelled hair, deep pink lips and dark eyes entrapped by a red tinge - he was truly a sight for sore eyes.
"y/n," your name falls off the tip of his tongue like sweet honey, sending an immediate wave of bumps across your skin. "are you okay?" he looks almost concerned, brows furrowing when it takes you a moment to answer.
"uh, yeah. we're going to ditch the party and, um, and..." you pause for a beat, words turning to a jumbled mess inside your head and all the confidence you had tried to bestill had disappeared. "... um, head back to eddie's. we're going to head back to eddie's." you repeat it a second time for safe measure.
he nods, slowly, his eyes purposely falling to your lips as he exhales and leans back against the doorframe, "yeah. i mean, we could do that..." his words are even slower, pulling you in with each syllable. "or... we could talk about what's really going on here?"
this was it - this was the moment he finally did something about it.
"i have no idea what you're talking about." you lift your right shoulder into a shrug, pursing your lips before gazing up at him through your lashes.
his lips part as he leans in closer, his face so close you could feel his alcohol-saturated breath on your cheek. "so, i'm just imagining you pulling up that pretty little skirt of yours on purpose, huh?"
you almost gasp, throat tightening with need. need for him. "apparently... though, it's nice to know you've been thinking about me."
the devilish grin on your face now infuriates him because, once again, you were in control.
a breathy chuckle leaves his lips, fingers raking through his hair, "what am i going to do with you?"
"i don't know. what are you going to do with me?" a moment of realisation passes through his eyes. you want him to do something about it, want him to finally give in to the urges. all this time, he had been waiting, and now, here you were, allowing him to have what had been torturing him.
while his head races with a million thoughts, in reality, only seconds had passed by, but those few seconds were more than enough to build a wall of tension. his gaze falls to your lips once more, and in a heated movement of passion, he finally takes the leap and presses his to them.
soft moans reverberate through his neck, daring to carry you away as your fingers curl through his hair. you press yourself against him, almost knocking him over, but he answers your neediness and pulls you into the bathroom to close the door and lock it.
all the tension, flirty looks and suggestive gestures that had been building up over the past few months had finally started to unravel in a matter of seconds. igniting you both so much so that you were sure to catch fire.
the kisses seem to last forever, despite feeling rushed, and when he starts to trail his lips down the side of your neck, you're left a hot mess as you try to regain your breath. your core was already aching for attention, throbbing within your underwear, as his hands ran rampant all over your body.
he glides his tongue across your skin, hair tickling your face as he begins to suck lightly, "you've no idea what you've done to me. how badly i've wanted this." he mumbles against you, sparking thought in your mind, and at this, you gently push him away and slide yourself back on the counter.
"is that so?" you breathe heavily. "tell me about it."
there's a glint of confusion in his eyes, brows slightly furrowing, as he stands between your legs. you had so much power over him and you planned to keep it that way.
if you gave in to him so easily, all the long months you had spent teasing and hinting at him would've been for nothing. he needed to know that you weren't going to give yourself up to him just because he wanted it - he needed to earn you.
"d'you really want me, harrington?" your words are low, breathy, sending shivers down his spine as he gazes into your eyes.
"fuck," he nods, the word shakily falling from his lips and he swallows hard. "i want you so bad."
your lips quirk up once again, heart beating so fast it was thrumming in your ears. you lean forward, lips barely grazing his, and whisper, "tell me what you want... while you watch me touch myself." before planting your teeth around his bottom lip and tugging on it.
"w-what?" there's a hitch in his voice as you feel yourself growing wet within the confines of your underwear. he's stunned. eyes wide and jaw taut.
"tell me what you want, and i'm yours, but... touch me, and you lose." your words are barely above a whisper but they're enough to send shivers down his body.
his breath catches in his throat, letting out a small gasp, as his dewy brown eyes bore into you once again. only this time, there was determination clouding them. he wanted you. he wanted you so bad, and he was going to do everything he could to get you - to finally feel you.
he opens his mouth to speak but stops when you lean back against the mirror, hitching your skirt up and spreading your legs before him. revealing the black lace underwear you had worn in anticipation. the same pair that he had only ever caught glimpses of.
"what's the matter, harrington? you like watching me... don't you?" you ask, coyly, batting your lashes.
he groans, lulling his head back to reveal his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows once more. you lift a finger to touch the tip of his chin, letting it trail down his chest before landing between your legs. he watches your hand as if his life depended on it.
you slowly trace the edges of your underwear where your core was barely covered. lips poking out around the thin material, gathering up your wetness when your finger starts to rub small circles over the top of them.
"are you wet?" steve asks, and you nod, brows arching from the touch already.
he shuffles nervously on his feet, pulling at the material around his crotch to give himself more growing space, but his eyes never leave you. not for a second. and they only double in size when you finally move your panties to the side, confirming your answer - your sweetness glistening under the dim bathroom glow.
"holy f-fuck, y/n," he retorts with astonishment, almost falling to his knees at the sight of you before him. "you're killing me here."
"tell me more," you press the tips of your fingers to your tongue, collecting the saliva that had gathered, and gently start moving them across your sweet little bundle of nerves.
"you're so fucking pretty, baby. i bet you're so warm too. i bet your pretty little pussy is so fucking warm," his words caress your ears as your movement starts to speed up, building up the sensation in your core. "i want you so bad. i want to feel you wrapped around my cock. every fucking inch of you."
a small chuckle falls from your lips, as you now press your middle finger into your hole. moaning at the feeling and slowly you begin to fuck yourself, all while steve's eyes remain trained on you. catching a glimpse of you fingering yourself but focusing on your facial expressions and the way you're making your own mouth fall open with ecstasy.
"fuck your little hole, baby," he says, almost demandingly, which again makes you want to prove that you were still in control. so you add another finger. "fucking hell, i want to taste you so bad."
"mmm-yeah? you wanna taste me, harrington? you wanna know what my pretty little pussy tastes like?" your words are slightly muffled, as you continue to penetrate yourself. fingers gliding in and out of your goodness with ease, hitting just the right spot as the top of your palm rubs your clit, causing your hips to buck up a little.
his hand involuntarily falls to his crotch, he didn't think you noticed. but it was a little hard not to when he begins palming himself through his pants as his eyes burned with so much desire. desire for you.
you can feel the coil within your core on the verge of breaking, ready to snap as you near your end. the pleasure of it all becoming too much, as your hips buck more rapidly, face contorting and mouth falling agape. you grab onto steve's jacket with your free hand, gripping the material and bringing him closer.
"f-fuck, i'm gonna cum," your breathing is unsteady, all over the place as you get closer, wrapping your arm around steve's head to grab a fistful of his hair. “make me cum, harrington.”
“show me how you cum, baby. show me how pretty you look when you let it all go. you do that and i’m gonna fill you up so good,” his voice is low as he presses his head to yours. “you want me to bury my cock in you, don’t you?”
"mmm- fuck yeah," your moan is cut off by steve's mouth as he presses his lips to yours once more. immediately gliding his tongue across them for permission and you give it to him, letting his tongue enter.
and just like that, you're overcome with stimulation. a wave of sensation coursing through you but steve doesn't pull away, instead, he muffles your cries with kisses as he takes in the sight of you. completely vulnerable as you chase your high. chest rising and falling at a dramatic pace as your hips twitch and buck, eyes glazed over and brows arched. to hear the sweet noises you made, muffled or not.
it was a sight he had only seen once, but, oh boy, did he want to see it again.
"oh, fuck," you sigh, words split by your panting as you try to regain your breath. you still hadn't stopped fingering yourself, only slowed down the movements as your creamy goodness collected along them.
"i'm that good of a kisser, huh?" steve chuckles, staring down at you still slowly pumping your digits into yourself, eyes unwavering from the wetness that covered them.
"whatever makes you sleep better at night," you smirk, finally pulling your fingers from your pussy at the same time someone knocks on the door. "i guess that's our cue to go. eddie and robin will be waiting for us."
you both slide off the counter, your underwear slipping down to your feet as you quickly wash your hands. but rather than pulling them back on when you’re done, you gather them and scrunch them into a ball.
"what are you doing?" steve asks, confused when you pull the pocket of his jacket open and slip them inside.
"think of it as a parting gift," you smile, patting it closed then lean up to place a soft kiss in his lips, "plus, it's easier access for later."
𝓵𝐨𝐨𝐤𝓲𝐧𝐠 𝓯𝐨𝐫 𝓶𝐨𝐫𝐞 .ᐣ library taglist form guidelines
Could u do that reader and Steve are like best best friends buuuuuttttttt Steve gets a new girlfriend and shes just really mean to reader?? I love angst lollll. The rest is up to youuuu!!
Thanks cutieee
"Not his first choice"
⋆⭒˚.⋆ Steve Harrington x reader ⋆⭒˚.⋆
english is not my language please be kind and sorry if i wrote wrong :) requests are open if you want!
summary: steve’s girlfriend drives a wedge between you and him, and his failure to defend you leads to a painful fallout and broken friendship.
Steve had always said you were his person, not in the romantic way everyone assumed, not in the “Steve Harrington secretly in love with his best friend” way Robin constantly teased him about. It was simpler than that, bigger, maybe.
You were just… you. The first person he called after a nightmare, the passenger princess in his BMW, the one who knew he liked his fries dipped in milkshakes and that he still got nervous before parent-teacher conferences for the kids even though he’d never admit it out loud.
So when Steve got a girlfriend, you tried really hard to be happy for him. At first, you were.
Her name was Amanda, pretty in the polished, intimidating kind of way. She wore expensive perfume and always looked like she’d stepped out of a catalog. Steve smiled more around her, he laughed easier and you loved Steve enough to want that for him. Even if something in your chest twisted every time he canceled plans.
“Sorry,” he’d said over the phone one friday night, voice muffled. “Amanda wants to go to the mall for the weekend.”
You stared at the pizza sitting on your counter and the two tickets to the horror movie marathon tucked under your wallet.
“Oh,” you answered quietly. “Yeah. Sure.”
“You’re not mad, right?”
“No,” you lied instantly. “Of course not.”
But then it kept happening. Movie nights forgotten, late-night calls unanswered, inside jokes fading into silence because Amanda would wrinkle her nose and ask, “Do you two always act this codependent?”
You laughed the first time she said it. Steve didn’t and that should’ve been your warning.
It got worse slowly, cruelly, like Amanda enjoyed seeing how far she could push before someone snapped.
“You’re still hanging around?” she asked one evening when you showed up at Family Video with coffees for Steve and Robin. Robin immediately looked uncomfortable, instead Steve glanced up from behind the counter. “Hey! You came.”
Amanda leaned against the display beside him, manicured nails tapping against her crossed arms. “That’s… sweet.” Something about the way she said it made heat crawl up your neck.
“I was in the area.”
“Mhm.” She looked you up and down. “Steve said you kind of just pop up everywhere.”
Robin coughed awkwardly, Steve frowned slightly. “Amanda…”
“What?” she laughed. “I’m kidding.”
But she never sounded like she was kidding.
Every comment had teeth.
You’re surprisingly pretty in good lighting.
Steve says you hate dating. I can see why.
Aw, matching bracelets? That’s adorable. Middle school vibes.
And Steve… God. Steve never really defended you, not properly, sometimes he’d mumble, “Amanda, stop.”
Sometimes he’d give you this apologetic look like please don’t make this difficult, and because you loved him, you swallowed every hurt feeling down until they sat heavy in your stomach like stones.
The breaking point came at Nancy’s party, you almost didn’t go. Steve had invited you three separate times, insisting he wanted you there.
“It won’t be fun if you’re not there,” he’d complained over the phone.
So you went and for a little while, things felt normal. You and Steve ended up on the kitchen floor at one point laughing so hard soda nearly came out of your nose because he’d attempted to dance and immediately slipped into a wall.
“There she is,” Robin said dramatically, pointing at the two of you. “The soulmates reunite.”
Steve grinned at you, a big and warm and familiar grin
Then Amanda appeared, her smile dropped immediately “Oh my god,” she muttered. “Seriously?”
Steve blinked. “What?”
“She’s attached to your hip.”
The room quieted just enough for embarrassment to flood through you.
“Amanda,” Steve warned softly.
“No, because I’m actually tired of pretending this isn’t weird.” She looked directly at you. “Do you not have your own life?”
Your face burned, Steve stood up quickly. “Okay, enough.” but Amanda kept going “You’re obsessed with him. Everyone sees it.” She laughed harshly. “It’s honestly pathetic.”
The kitchen went silent, Robin looked horrified and Steve hesitated, just for a second, but that second was enough. Enough for something inside you to crack straight down the middle.
You looked at him waiting for him to say something, to finally choose you, to finally tell her to stop. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly instead. “Amanda, maybe let’s just calm down…”
Calm down, not leave her alone, not don't talk to my best friend like that. Just calm down.
You suddenly felt stupid suddenly so unbelievably stupid.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Steve looked at you immediately. “Hey…”
“No, it’s okay.” Your voice shook despite your effort to steady it. “I get it.”
“You don’t…”
“No, I do.”
Your eyes burned, you hated crying in front of people. Hated it, but Steve looked more worried about the scene than about you. That hurt worst of all.
You laughed shakily, stepping backward toward the hallway. “I think maybe I stayed too long.”
“Don’t do this,” Steve said quietly.
The words sliced right through you. Don’t do this. Like you were the problem.
Amanda crossed her arms triumphantly and Steve let her. You nodded slowly, throat too tight to breathe properly. “Yeah. Okay.”
Then you left.
Steve called twelve times that night, you ignored every single one.
By morning, your phone was full of voicemails.
“Please answer.”
“Can we just talk?”
“You know she didn’t mean it like that.”
That one made you cry the hardest, because deep down? You knew she did.
And worse of all Steve knew too.
You didn’t answer Steve’s calls, not the twelve from last night, not the seven more in the morning, not even Robin’s, which you knew meant she’d either been bribed, threatened, or emotionally blackmailed into mediating.
Your phone kept lighting up on your desk like it couldn’t understand that something had already ended. It wasn’t even dramatic at first, that was the worst part, nothing had exploded, no final fight where everything was said cleanly and loudly and finally. No clear ending you could wrap your brain around and file away under this is over, move on.
Just… a slow shift, like a room you’d lived in your whole life had started shrinking while you weren’t looking and Steve had been in the middle of it the entire time, acting like nothing was changing.
By the third day, you stopped going outside unless you absolutely had to.
By the fourth, you started flinching every time a car pulled up outside your place, half-expecting his BMW to be sitting there like it used to be when he’d show up uninvited with snacks and a stupid grin and say, “Get in. We’re doing nothing today.”
On the fifth day, you finally went back to Family Video.
You told yourself it was normal, that you just needed a rental, that you weren’t avoiding anything, that Steve Harrington working there did not suddenly make every part of your life complicated. But the moment you stepped inside, the bell above the door chimed and everything inside you tightened.
Robin saw you first, her expression softened immediately, like she’d been bracing for this exact moment all week.
“Hey,” she said carefully.
“Hey,” you replied, too fast, too casual.
Steve was behind the counter, he looked like he hadn’t slept properly since the party. Hair messier than usual, eyes flicking up the second he heard your voice like his body had been waiting for it even if he hadn’t admitted it out loud. For a second, just a second, his face lit up. Then it faltered because Amanda wasn’t just standing beside him anymore.
She was there, leaning into his space like she belonged in it and the way she looked at you said she absolutely remembered everything she’d done.
“Well,” Amanda said brightly, voice sharp underneath the sweetness, “look who finally decided to reappear.”
Robin shifted uncomfortably, Steve straightened quickly. “Hey, you didn’t…uh…call.”
You blinked. That was what he led with.
Not are you okay?Not I’m sorry.Not I should’ve said something.
Just… logistics.
“I didn’t know I needed an appointment,” you said quietly.
Amanda laughed. “Oh my god, she’s funny.”
Steve shot her a look. “Amanda.”
“What?” she said innocently. “I’m just saying. She always acts like she lives here.”
The word acts hit harder than it should’ve. You swallowed, stepping closer to the counter but not all the way in, like there was an invisible line now you weren’t supposed to cross.
“I just came for a tape,” you said. “I’ll be quick.”
Steve looked like he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened, then closed again like he couldn’t find the right version of himself to speak with. Robin watched all of it like she was holding her breath. Amanda, meanwhile, leaned on Steve’s arm “So,” she said, voice light, “are we still doing dinner with my parents tonight?”
Steve blinked. “Oh…yeah. Right.”
Something in your chest tightened again, of course. He forgot things with you constantly now but not this, not her.
You nodded slowly, like that information made sense. Like it didn’t sting “Cool,” you said then you turned toward the shelves. You picked a movie you didn’t even care about, your hands were shaking slightly when you brought it to the counter.
Robin started to take it, but Steve stepped forward first “Let me,” he said quickly.
Your eyes met his for half a second, that used to be enough to feel like home, now it just felt like standing in a doorway that had been rebuilt while you weren’t looking.
He scanned the tape without looking at you for too long, Amanda watched from behind him like she was waiting for something to happen, like she was hoping something would.
“You okay?” Steve asked quietly, sliding the tape toward you.
There it was again. Not I’m sorry. Not I miss you.Just… Are you okay?
As if everything that had happened was still neutral enough to be a simple yes or no answer.
You forced a small nod. “Yeah.”
Steve didn’t look convinced.
Amanda sighed dramatically. “Can we go? I’m starving.”
Steve hesitated, just for a moment, then he nodded “Yeah,” he said.
And that was it, that was the moment something inside you finally stopped hoping.
You didn’t see Steve for a week after that, not because he didn’t try but because you stopped opening the door, stopped picking up, stopped letting yourself get halfway to forgiveness just because he sounded sad on voicemail.
Then, one evening, Robin showed up, no warning, no joke, no usual chaotic energy. Just Robin, standing on your porch like she’d been assigned a mission she didn’t fully agree with but was doing anyway.
You opened the door slowly, she studied you for a second. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” you muttered.
She exhaled. “Can I come in?”
You stepped aside. Inside, she didn’t sit right away. She paced once, then turned toward you like she was choosing her words carefully “I’m gonna say something and you’re not gonna like it,” she started.
“That’s usually your whole brand.”
That got a faint smile out of her, but it didn’t last “Steve’s not okay,” she said.
You stared at her, a long silence stretched between you, then you laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Okay.”
Robin frowned. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Because what were you supposed to say to that?
That Steve Harrington, the guy who used to drag you into gas station parking lots at 2 a.m. because you “looked sad in a way that required snacks”, was not okay? You knew that, you just also knew something else now.
“It’s not just about him,” Robin added quietly.
Your gaze flicked up.
She exhaled. “Amanda’s been… yeah. I don’t like her. At all, but Steve keeps acting like if he ignores it long enough, it’ll fix itself.” That landed differently. Because that part? That part you knew too well.
Robin stepped closer. “He misses you.”
You swallowed hard. “He has her.”
Robin gave you a look like she was trying not to say something harsher. “Yeah, and that’s clearly working out great for everyone.”
Finally, she said, softer, “He didn’t defend you.”
It wasn’t a question, It wasn’t even an accusation, just truth.
Your throat tightened “I know,” you said.
And that was the problem, you did know, you always had.
Steve showed up the next night, you didn’t open the door. He knocked again. Then again. Finally, his voice came through the wood, quieter this time “Please.”
That alone almost broke you, you hated that it still affected you.
“Just…just talk to me. I’m not leaving.”
You leaned your forehead against the door, on the other side, he did the same without knowing you were there. “I messed up,” he said “I know that now. I should’ve said something at the party. I should’ve shut it down. I should’ve…” he exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself, “I don’t know, I should’ve been better.”
Your eyes burned.
“I didn’t mean for it to get like that,” he continued. “With her. With everything. I just… I thought I could balance it.”
A bitter laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it, balance it, like you were something he could put on the same scale as a relationship that clearly didn’t like you.
“I miss you,” he said finally, quieter.
That one hit harder, because it sounded real, not rehearsed, not convenient, not like he was trying to fix a problem he didn’t want to lose sleep over.
Just… Steve.
“I don’t know how to do this without you,” he admitted.
Your chest tightened painfully, and for a second, you almost opened the door. Almost. But then you remembered Amanda’s smile at the party, the silence in the kitchen, Steve not saying your name loud enough to matter and you realized something that made your hands stop shaking. He didn’t know how to do life without you but he had been doing just fine letting you feel alone inside it.
You stepped back from the door “Steve,” you said softly.
He went quiet instantly.
“I can’t be the person you come back to when things get uncomfortable.”
“…I know,” he said, but it sounded like he didn’t.
You closed your eyes “I love you,” you added, voice breaking slightly. “But I can’t do this version of it.”
On the other side of the door, he didn’t respond right away, when he did, his voice was rough “I’ll fix it.”
You shook your head even though he couldn’t see it “That’s not how this works.”
“…Do you hate me?” he asked quieter than ever
That question hurt in a different way, because the answer was no.
“I don’t,” you said honestly. “I just can’t keep getting hurt where I’m supposed to feel safe.”
He didn’t speak for a long time after that, when he finally did, it was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” you said and you meant it, but sorry didn’t rewind things. Sorry didn’t make him choose differently when it mattered, didn’t undo the moment he stood there and let you feel small in a room you used to belong in.
His footsteps lingered outside for a while after that, then they left and this time, your phone didn’t light up right away. It stayed dark, like even it understood something was over.
Steve Harrington x fem!reader (inspired by Nicole from 09 based on a request)
Word count: 8,526
Summary: After getting kicked out of the house by your own mother, you apply for a job at Family Video, where you meet Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley. It begins as something temporary but slowly turns into something deeper as you form a reluctant bond with them -especially Steve- forcing you to confront feelings that you've spent your whole life trying to avoid.
Warnings: (slight) angst. unstable living situation for reader. reader has emotional avoidance problems but other than that it's just fluff.
— — — — — —
The first thing you noticed standing in front of Family Video was that it looked like the kind of place where dreams quickly went to die quietly under fluorescent lights.
The second thing you noticed was that the girl behind the counter looked mean enough to actually be interesting.
The third thing you noticed was the guy beside her, who looked like he’d been pulled straight out of some stupid teen movie with his ridiculous hair and tired eyes and a name tag that read ‘STEVE’ in block letters like that was supposed to mean something to you.
You stood at the front counter holding a wrinkled job application and trying not to think about where you were going to sleep that night if this didn’t work.
The current situation you were in was because your mom had kicked you out. You figured your big mouth had something to do with it, but whatever—you didn’t think she’d go through with kicking you out.
The girl behind the counter looked up first. “Can I help you?” she said, in a tone that suggested she absolutely did not want to.
You lifted the paper a little, almost as if you thought you were too good for it. “Job application.”
Her gaze flicked over you once, slow and assessing. Boots, ripped tights, oversized black sweater, rings, chipped nail polish, expression halfway between bored and homicidal. Not many girls in Hawkins dressed like you did—but then again, most of them were boring.
Her mouth twitched. “Oh,” she said. “You’ll fit right in.”
Steve looked over from the stack of tapes he was holding. “Robin.”
“What?” the girl said. “Look at her. I love her outfit.”
You smirk at Robin. “Most people with actual taste, do.”
Robin grinned like you’d handed her a present.
Steve sighed, the sigh of a man who had clearly spent too much time dealing with Robin and was apparently now going to spend too much time dealing with you too.
“Okay,” he said, setting the tapes down and stepping forward. “Um. Hi. We’re technically accepting applications, but Keith usually handles—”
“Who’s Keith?” you interrupted.
He hesitated. “Our manager.”
“Does he suck”
Robin let out a laugh she tried to cover with a cough.
Steve looked mildly offended on behalf of a man he probably didn’t even like. “He’s… a lot”
“So he sucks,” you said.
Robin pointed at you. “I like her. Can we keep her?”
Steve looked at the application in your hand like it might save him from this conversation. “You can leave that here.”
You didn’t move.
Steve blinked confusedly, “Or…?”
“Or,” you said, “you can tell me if I actually have a chance, because I’d rather not waste my emotional energy pretending capitalism is fair.”
Robin made a choking noise.
Steve just stared at you for a second. “You really came in here prepared to make an impression, didn’t you?”
“Is it working?”
His mouth twitched before he seemed to catch himself. “I don’t know yet.”
You put the application on the counter. “I can alphabetize, I can deal with rude people, I can lie convincingly. What more do you want?”
Robin nodded solemnly. “Essential job skills.”
Steve picked up the piece of paper again and glanced down at it. “Well… you don’t have much experience.”
“I have life experience?” you said. “That should count for something.”
Robin leaned her elbows on the counter. “Translate that from dramatic to English.”
“It means I can work a cash register and survive customer service without snapping anyone’s neck.”
Steve looked back at the application. “You put ‘emotionally resilient’ under special skills.”
“You say that like it’s not valuable.”
He looked up. “I’m saying it's unusual.”
“You’ve clearly never met me.”
That got a real laugh out of Robin. Even Steve smiled a little at that, quick and almost unwilling like his face had done it before his brain could stop it.
It annoyed you immediately. Pretty people should not also be unexpectedly charming. It was bad for society. And you would never admit it but you seemed to be enjoying the company of these two interesting individuals already.
“So,” Steve said, clearing his throat and trying to pull himself back into whatever role he thought he was playing, “why do you want to work here?” he added, as if he really took his job seriously.
You gave him a long look.
He waited.
Robin looked between the two of you, already entertained.
“Because,” you said flatly, “I need money.” You really tried (for like a second) to come up with a better answer but that required too much brain power.
Steve blinked. “Right.”
“And because,” you continued, “if I have to spend another day sitting around thinking about my life, I’m going to lose my mind, and at least here I’d be getting paid minimum wage to do it.”
Robin nodded. “Well, that’s the most honest answer we’ve ever gotten.”
Steve rubbed a hand over the back of his neck awkwardly. “Most people usually say something like, ‘I love movies.’”
“I do love movies,” you said. “Just not enough to lie in a job interview.”
Robin looked delighted. “Please hire her.”
Steve sighed again, longer this time. “I’m not the one who decides.”
“So who does?”
“Keith.”
“And when is he here?”
Steve checked the clock. “Tommorow.”
You stared at the clock too. Then at him. Then back at the clock.
You did not have until tomorrow.
You folded your arms. “Can you put in a good word for me?”
Robin answered before Steve could. “He could, and I certainly will.”
Steve shot her a look.
You looked at him directly. “Could you?”
Something in his face shifted a little. It was tiny, but you caught it–some flicker of recognition that this wasn’t just you being weird or difficult or dramatic. That you were asking because you actually needed the job.
He glanced down at the application again. Then he nodded once. “Yeah. I can.”
You gave a short nod back. “Cool.” almost like it didn’t matter to you, but the slight sparkle in your eyes was saying that it did.
Robin tilted her head. “That’s it? No grateful tears?”
“I save those for special occasions.”
Steve huffed a laugh.
You hated that too.
“Thanks,” you said, and because sincerity always felt like skinning yourself alive, you added, “Don’t make me regret trusting your hair.”
Robin giggled.
Steve stared. “My hair?”
“It’s doing a lot,” you said.
Robin leaned over the counter, stage-whispering, “She means it’s nice.”
“I know what she means,” Steve muttered.
“Do you?”
You turned and headed for the door before either of them could answer that.
Behind you, Robin said, loud enough to hear, “She’s definitely coming back.”
And Steve, quieter, “Yeah, I know.”
— — — — — —
You did come back.
Mostly because you had nowhere else to go.
The next afternoon the sky hung low and gray over Hawkins, and the cold had settled into your bones so deep you thought maybe it was permanent now. You’d spent the night on a friend-of-a-friend’s couch that smelled like mildew and regret, and by the time you got back to Family Video, your mood had somehow gotten worse.
Steve was behind the counter again, sorting returned tapes into stacks.
Robin was on the floor by the drama section, reorganizing shelves with all the energy of someone personally offended by her job.
The bell jingled when you walked in.
Robin looked up first. “Look who came crawling back to our beautiful palace of dying media.”
“I’m here for the rejection,” you said.
Steve looked up quickly. “You didn’t get rejected.”
You paused.
Robin stood up with one hand on a shelf. “Keith looked at your application for about eight seconds, said, ‘She seems unstable,’ and Steve told him you were efficient and had customer service instincts.”
You looked at Steve.
Steve went red almost immediately. “That’s not exactly how—”
Robin bulldozed right over him. “Then Keith said, ‘Fine, whatever, as long as she shows up on time and doesn’t steal.’”
You stared at Steve for another second. “You vouched for me?”
He shrugged awkwardly, like he hadn’t done anything worth noticing. “You needed the job.”
That landed harder than it should have.
So naturally, you made it worse.
“Wow,” you said. “You’re either a really nice person or deeply stupid.”
Robin clapped once. “There she is.”
Steve just looked resigned. “You can start today if you want.”
You laughed once, short and disbelieving. “That desperate, huh?”
“Yes,” both of them said at the same time.
Robin pointed toward the back. “There’s a hideous uniform vest with your name not on it.”
“Perfect,” you said.
When you passed Steve on your way around the counter, you stopped just long enough to say quietly, “Thanks.”
He looked at you, surprised.
You didn’t wait for him to answer.
The vest was uglier than expected. You came out wearing it over your black sweater and stared down at yourself in disgust.
“This is humiliating,” you said. “This dumb green vest makes me look like I'm about to sell girl scout cookies.” you added in despair.
Robin looked you up and down. “I think you look more like you’re about to sell cigarettes behind a gas station.”
“Thanks. That really helps.”
Steve was trying not to smile.
“Are you laughing at me?” you asked.
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m really not.”
“You have a guilty face.”
Robin leaned against the counter. “He does.”
Steve looked between you both. “Can we maybe get through one shift without—”
“No,” you and Robin said together.
Robin grinned. “See? We’re already bonding.”
He looked like he wanted to quit. It made the rest of your shift almost enjoyable.
Almost.
The job itself was easy enough. Return tapes. Check due dates. Ring people up. Pretend not to judge them for renting slashers and softcore garbage with titles so embarrassing you could feel the shame through the plastic case.
You were good at the job immediately, which annoyed Steve because it meant you got cocky fast.
A woman with a screaming kid dropped three tapes on the counter. “Can we make this quick?”
You smiled without warmth. “I’ll do my worst.”
Steve, beside you, inhaled sharply.
The woman frowned. “Excuse me?”
You tilted your head. “Sorry. Retail Tourette’s.”
Robin made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a strangled laugh from the return cart.
Steve leaned in through clenched teeth. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why? She was rude.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to be weird.”
“I’m always weird. That’s not customer-specific.”
The woman snatched her tapes and left muttering.
Steve watched her go in horror. “You are going to get us murdered.”
You started counting change into the register. “But not fired.”
“How are you this calm?”
“I’ve had a terrible week. This isn’t even making the top five.”
That shut him up for half a second.
Then, softer, “You okay?”
You slammed the register drawer closed.
“Never better.”
Robin caught the look on Steve’s face and looked away almost instantly, like she was giving you the dignity of not reacting. Which, unfortunately, only made you more aware that they’d both noticed.
You busied yourself with the stack of returns.
A minute later, Steve reached over and quietly moved the next pile closer to you so you wouldn’t have to cross the counter for them.
You pretended not to notice. Which was harder than it should’ve been.
— — — — — —
By the end of the week, you had settled into a rhythm.
You worked evenings mostly. Robin worked a lot of the same shifts, which meant she’d decided within about forty-eight hours that the two of you were friends.
You tried telling her that wasn’t how friendship worked.
She told you she didn’t care.
Steve, meanwhile, had developed the exhausted expression of a man trapped between two women who enjoyed making his life harder for fun.
It was a good look on him.
“You know,” Robin said one night as she leaned over the counter beside you, “for someone who acts like she hates everyone, you’re weirdly protective.”
You looked up from restocking candy. “About what?”
She jerked her chin toward the front windows where Steve was locking his car and hurrying in through the cold.
“Him.”
You snorted. “Please. He’s a golden retriever with car keys.”
“Exactly,” Robin said. “You keep glaring at people when they’re rude to him.”
“I glare at people all the time.”
“You glared extra.”
“There are grades to my glaring now?”
“There are with you.”
Steve came in rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Why are you both staring at me like that?”
Robin smiled brightly. “No reason.”
You shoved the candy box at him. “These are expired.”
He took it automatically. “What?”
“These. The licorice.”
He looked at the date. “Oh.”
“You run a tight ship, Harrington.”
He rolled his eyes. “I don’t run anything.”
“You run from your feelings,” Robin said.
Steve groaned. “Okay, I just got here.”
You leaned your elbows on the counter. “And already under attack. Tragic.”
He pointed at you. “You’re the problem.”
“You’re welcome.”
Part of you was still stuck on Robin’s words. Protective of Steve? Please. That was a joke. No—yeah, no. That couldn’t be right. You weren’t protective. You just had a low tolerance for idiots, and Hawkins seemed to be full of people who suddenly forgot how to act the second Steve opened his mouth. There was a difference. A very obvious difference.
Steve looked like he wanted to say something back, then stopped, smiling despite himself.
It was stupid how often he did that now—smile at you like you were funny instead of annoying. Like he expected you to say something impossible and was already halfway amused before you opened your mouth.
It made you feel unsteady in a way you did not appreciate.
You did not need to be getting attached to anything in Hawkins, Indiana.
Not the job. Not Robin. Not Steve with his dumb hair and unexpectedly decent heart.
Especially not Steve.
People like him were dangerous in a very specific way. Not because they were cruel. Because they were kind.
Cruelty was easy. You knew what to do with cruelty.
Kindness was a trap. It made people stupid—made them slow, soft, easy to read. It was a weakness, and you weren’t dumb enough to fall for it.
— — — — — —
A week after you started, Robin found you in the break room sitting cross-legged on the floor with a vending machine coffee and a classified ads page spread across your lap.
She took one look at you and said, “You’re hunting apartments.”
“Rooms, mostly.”
She dropped into the chair across from you backwards, arms folded over the back. “Any luck?”
You laughed into the coffee cup. “Unless I suddenly develop a stable income, glowing references, and a love for mildew, not really.”
Robin was quiet for a second.
Then: “You can stay with me for a few nights if you need.”
You looked up too fast.
She lifted one shoulder. “My place is tiny and my mom asks too many questions, but it’d be better than sleeping somewhere sketchy.”
Something sharp and helpless twisted low in your ribs.
You hated people being nice to you when they had no reason to be.
It made you want to bite.
Instead you looked back down at the paper. “I’m fine.”
Robin made a face. “That answer’s getting old.”
“So am I.”
“You’re, like, twenty.”
“Exactly. Ancient.”
She let that go, which you appreciated.
Then she pointed at the ads. “That one’s a scam.”
You glanced over. “How do you know?”
“It says ‘bohemian atmosphere.’ That means no heat and a landlord who owns wind chimes.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Robin grinned. “See? I’m useful.”
“Debatable.”
She stood up as the bell at the front rang. “Come on, Y/n. Your kingdom needs you.”
“Please,” you said, getting up. “If this is a kingdom, it’s hanging by a thread.”
Robin froze halfway to the door. “You know. Because of the sarcasm and emotional repression and vaguely alarming energy.”
You stared at her.
Then you folded the ads and shoved them into your bag. “I hate how accurate that is.”
“I know,” she said smugly.
At the counter, Steve looked between the two of you. “Why do I feel like I missed something important?”
Robin leaned toward him. “She laughed.”
Steve’s brows shot up. “Seriously?”
You walked past both of them. “I’m going to start stealing from the register.”
Steve fell into step beside you while Robin helped the customer. “Hey.”
You glanced at him. “Hey what?”
His voice lowered. “You really okay?”
There it was again.
No performance in it. No pity. Just concern, plain and steady.
You looked away first. “You ask that a lot.”
“That’s because you never answer.”
“Maybe take the hint.”
He didn’t say anything.
So you glanced back at him, expression flattening. “Or what, you think if you ask enough times I’m suddenly gonna crack and give you something real?” you said, voice sharper now. “That’s not how this works.”
Your arms crossed, nails digging slightly into your sleeve. “I’m fine. That’s the answer. If you don’t like it, that’s kinda your problem, not mine.”
Then, colder—
“Stop acting like it’s your job to fix me, Harrington. It’s not.”
Instead of backing off, he leaned one hip against the counter beside you, folding his arms.
“You know,” he said, “for somebody who says she doesn’t want help, you kind of have a thing for staying after close until Robin and I leave.”
You stared straight ahead. “Maybe I just like the ambience.”
He smiled. “Family Video has ambience now?”
“Oh, sure. Sad lights. plastic carpet. existential dread.”
“That last one might just be you.”
“Rude.”
He shrugged. “True.”
You looked at him then, and he was close enough that you noticed stupid little things you hadn’t let yourself focus on before. Faint freckles across his nose. A tiny nick near his jaw like he’d cut himself shaving. The way his tie was always slightly crooked by the end of a shift. The fact that his eyes went softer when he looked at you like he was trying not to push too hard.
You hated that you noticed any of it.
“I’m managing,” you said finally.
His expression changed just enough to say he knew that wasn’t the same thing as okay.
But he let you have it.
“For now,” he said.
“For now,” you echoed.
— — — — — —
The first time Steve saw where you’d really been sleeping, it happened by accident.
Or not by accident, exactly.
More like because he was nosy and kind and you were too tired to keep dodging the truth.
It was past midnight and freezing hard enough that your fingers hurt even through your gloves. The shift had run late because Keith had made everyone stay to redo inventory, and by the time you left, Robin had already gone and Steve had insisted on walking you “partway.”
You told him he sounded like a dad from a sitcom.
He said you sounded ungrateful.
You said you were ungrateful.
He said, “I know.”
Now you were three blocks from Family Video, cutting through a side street behind a row of closed shops, when Steve stopped walking.
“Why are we here?”
You kept going. “Shortcut.”
“To where?”
You didn’t answer.
He followed anyway, footsteps crunching on old salt and gravel until you reached the alley behind an abandoned storefront where a side door recessed just enough to break the wind. Your backpack was tucked into the corner behind a dumpster, hidden badly but hidden enough.
Steve went very still.
You felt it before you looked at him.
When you did, his face had gone blank in that dangerous way people’s faces did when they were trying too hard not to show emotion all at once.
“You’re kidding,” he said.
You shoved your hands into your coat pockets. “I said I was managing.”
“This is not managing.”
“It’s temporary.”
“How long?”
You looked away.
That was answer enough.
“Oh my God,” he said softly, like he wasn’t talking to you so much as to the universe itself. Then louder: “How long?”
“A little while, but it’s not always like this. Some days I find an old friend's couch to sleep on but turns out kindness is a favor you have to always return.”
“A little while is not a length of time.”
“Why do you care?”
The second it came out, you wanted to take it back.
Not because it wasn’t mean. Because it sounded wounded.
Steve stared at you, incredulous. “Why do I care?”
You folded in on yourself slightly, chin tucked against the cold. “Forget it.”
“No.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “No, I’m not forgetting it. You’ve been sleeping in an alley?”
“It’s not always this alley.”
“That is not better!”
You flinched, and his whole face changed instantly.
He lowered his voice. “Hey. Sorry. I’m not—”
You laughed once, brittle and humorless. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you act like this is fixable.”
“It is fixable.”
“Not for me.”
He took a step closer. “Why not?”
Because nothing ever stayed fixed.
Because every place you landed eventually turned temporary.
Because depending on people always came with a price and you were already so tired of paying for things with pieces of yourself.
You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself and said the easiest version instead.
“Because I don’t need rescuing.”
He looked at you for a long moment. “Good,” he said quietly. “Because that’s not what this is.”
You frowned.
He gestured back toward the street. “You’re not staying here tonight.”
You gave a dry laugh. “And where exactly am I going?”
He held your gaze.
You froze. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Steve—”
“You can take my bed.”
You stared at him. “Absolutely not.”
“I have a couch.”
“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”
“Then take the couch.”
“This is insane.”
“It’s warm.”
You shook your head hard. “No.”
He stepped closer again, not enough to crowd you, just enough that you couldn’t pretend he was detached from this anymore.
“You asked me why I care,” he said. “I care because I know what it’s like when people think you’re doing fine just because you’re joking about it.”
That knocked the breath out of you a little.
He kept going, voice low and steady.
“And I care because you show up to work exhausted and freezing and pretending you’re okay, and Robin and I both know you’re not. And I care because you should not be sleeping in an alley behind a building that probably has tetanus in the walls.”
Despite everything, you let out an ugly little laugh.
His mouth twitched.
Then he said, softer, “Come home with me.”
Home.
The word sat wrong in your chest.
You looked away so he wouldn’t see how much it hit.
“I’m not,” you said carefully, “good at staying places.”
He didn’t answer right away.
When he did, his voice was so quiet you almost missed it.
“Then don’t think of it like staying.”
You looked back at him.
“Think of it,” he said, “like getting through tonight.”
That was the problem with Steve Harrington.
He never pushed exactly where you expected him to. He didn’t ask for promises. Didn’t ask for gratitude. Didn’t ask for softness you didn’t know how to give. He just stood there in the freezing dark looking at you like you were a person worth helping and waited.
You hated how much that undid you.
Finally you exhaled hard through your nose. “If I say yes, I get to complain the whole time.”
A little relief broke across his face. “That’s fine.”
“And if your house smells weird, I’m leaving.”
“It doesn’t smell weird.”
“That sounded defensive.”
“It was.”
You picked up your bag from behind the dumpster and slung it over your shoulder. “This is a terrible idea.”
He took your backpack before you could protest, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Probably,” he said.
Together you walked back out of the alley.
— — — — — —
Steve’s house was larger than you expected and emptier too.
Not empty in the sense that there was no furniture. Empty in the sense that no one seemed to really live in it, like the walls had been built around absence and everything else had just learned to work around it.
The kitchen was clean in that accidental way of houses where only one person half-used it. A jacket was thrown over the dining chair. There were two mugs in the sink and a bowl on the counter and silence sitting in all the corners like it belonged there.
You stood just inside the door while Steve set your bag down.
“Well,” you said. “You weren’t lying.”
“About what?”
“The smell.”
He looked offended. “I told you.”
“It smells like rich people and sadness.”
He shut the door behind you. “That is wildly specific.”
You shrugged out of your coat. “I’m observant.”
He took the coat too, draping it over the back of a chair. “You can shower if you want.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Are you saying I look dirty?”
He stared at you. “That is somehow the exact opposite of what I meant.”
“Good. Because I was about to get vicious.”
“I’m learning that.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly awkward again. “I just meant—there are clean towels. And I have extra clothes. If you want.”
You looked around once more, uncomfortable with how careful he was being.
“How many girls have you brought home like this, Harrington?”
He rolled his eyes instantly, which for some reason made you relax a fraction.
“None, actually.”
“Wow. I feel special.”
“You are not making this easier.”
“I’m not trying to.”
He pointed down the hall. “Bathroom’s there. My room’s at the end if you want the bed.”
“I said I’m not taking your bed.”
“And I said I don’t care.”
“Well I do.”
He folded his arms. “You are impossible.”
You considered that. “Fair.”
He disappeared for a minute and came back with a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. “Take these before you freeze to death out of spite.”
You took them slowly. They smelled faintly like detergent and whatever cologne he used and something warmer underneath that was probably just him.
Dangerous.
“You say the sweetest things,” you muttered.
His smile was brief, tired, real. “Go shower.”
This time you did.
The water was almost painfully hot, and by the time you got out you felt wrung out in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. Wearing Steve’s clothes made the whole situation feel more real somehow, the sleeves too long and the T-shirt soft with age.
When you came back down the hall, he was in the kitchen making grilled cheese.
You stopped in the doorway. “Is that for me?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “One’s for me too, if that makes you feel less weird about it.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Okay.”
You leaned against the frame. “You feed all your strays?”
He flipped the sandwich in the pan. “Only the mean ones.”
You watched him for a moment in the soft yellow kitchen light, hair damp from his own quick shower, T-shirt clinging slightly at the shoulders, face relaxed in a way you almost never saw at work.
He looked younger like this.
And lonelier.
That made something in you go still.
“You live here alone?” you asked.
He nodded. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“My parents are around sometimes.” He said it lightly, which told you everything.
You looked around again with different eyes.
“Oh,” you said.
He slid a plate toward you on the counter. “Yeah.”
You sat.
For a while, the only sound was the scrape of ceramic and the low hum of the refrigerator.
Then Steve said, without looking up, “You don’t have to tell me what happened.”
You tore your sandwich in half. “Good.”
“But,” he added, “you also don’t have to act like I’m asking for something if I check whether you’re okay.”
You chewed slowly, buying time.
“That’s annoyingly reasonable,” you said at last.
“I know.”
You looked down at your plate. “My mom’s boyfriend thinks I’m a bad influence.”
Steve frowned. “On who?”
“My mom, apparently.”
He stared. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Most bad things don’t.”
You picked at the crust of the sandwich with your thumbnail.
“She said I was difficult,” you continued. “Which I am. Then he said I should leave if I hated it there so much. And she didn’t stop him.”
The last line came out flatter than you meant it to.
Silence stretched between you.
Then Steve said, very carefully, “I’m sorry.”
You laughed once under your breath. “You didn’t do it.”
“No,” he said. “But I’m still sorry.”
That was worse, somehow.
You stood too fast and took your plate to the sink. “I’m tired.”
He didn’t call you on the escape.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
When you turned back, he was already making up the couch with a blanket and pillow.
You looked at it, then at him.
“Steve.”
“What?”
“I’ll take the couch.”
He didn’t even look up. “No.”
“Why are you like this?”
He finally glanced at you. “Like what?”
“Insufferably decent.”
He smiled a little at that. “Get some sleep.”
You stood there for another second, unsure what to do with the strange ache in your chest.
Then you looked away first.
“Goodnight,” you muttered.
And from the hallway, as you headed toward his room, you heard him answer softly:
“Night.”
— — — — — —
You didn’t mean to stay.
That was the first lie.
The second was that you had a plan.
Because if you were being honest—and you usually weren’t—your plan had been to leave before things got comfortable. Before you learned the way the floor creaked outside Steve’s room or how long it took the shower water to heat up or where he kept the extra blankets.
Before it felt like something you could lose.
But morning came, and you didn’t leave.
And then another.
And another.
The first morning you stayed, you told yourself it was just because you were tired.
The second, it was because it was cold.
By the third, you stopped explaining it.
You woke up to sunlight cutting through the blinds and the quiet hum of the house. For a second, you didn’t know where you were, and panic flared sharp and fast in your chest.
Then you saw the unfamiliar ceiling, the soft gray walls, the pile of your clothes folded neatly on the chair across from the bed.
Steve’s room.
Right.
You sat up slowly, rubbing your face, trying to shake off the feeling that you’d overstayed something unspoken.
The house was quiet when you stepped into the hallway.
Too quiet.
You padded into the kitchen and found a note again, this one stuck under a mug:
‘Work till 3. Don’t skip eating. Seriously. — S’
You stared at it, then at the kitchen around you.
The same quiet.
The same absence.
But now there was something else layered over it—something warmer. Subtle. Easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.
Someone trying.
You crumpled the note in your hand, then smoothed it back out again before you could think about why.
— — — — — —
By the time you got to Family Video that afternoon, Robin was already behind the counter, flipping through a magazine with the intensity of someone deeply bored.
She looked up the second the bell rang.
“There she is,” she said. “Our resident mystery.”
You dropped your bag behind the counter. “Miss me?”
“Obviously,” she said. “Steve’s been pacing all day.”
“I have not,” Steve called from the back.
Robin didn’t even turn. “He has.”
You smirked. “Aw. That’s kind of pathetic.”
Steve walked out from the back room with a stack of tapes, already rolling his eyes. “You’re one to talk. You disappeared for half the day.”
“I was asleep.”
“For half the day?”
You shrugged. “I had a long week.”
Robin leaned forward. “Where’ve you been staying?”
You froze for half a second.
Too quick for most people to notice.
Not quick enough for Robin.
“Somewhere,” you said.
Steve’s eyes flicked to you, sharp and searching, but he didn’t say anything.
Robin narrowed her eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
She opened her mouth to push, then stopped. Something in your face must’ve given you away.
Instead, she leaned back and said lightly, “Fine. Be mysterious. It’s annoying, but it’s kind of your brand now.”
You exhaled, tension easing just a little.
Steve set the tapes down. “You’re late.”
“I know.”
“You missed inventory.”
“I know.”
“You owe me.”
You blinked at him. “For what?”
“For covering your half.”
You tilted your head. “You covered my half?”
He hesitated. “Yeah.”
You stared at him.
“…why?”
He shrugged, like it was obvious. “Because you weren’t here.”
That was it. No big speech. No expectation.
Just simple.
You looked away first.
“Don’t make it a habit,” you muttered.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Robin pointed between you both. “This is getting weird.”
“You’re weird,” you shot back.
“Yeah,” she said, “but I own it.”
Work that day felt… different.
Not bad.
Just off.
Like something had shifted slightly out of place and you couldn’t quite figure out what.
You caught yourself watching Steve more.
Not intentionally.
Just… noticing.
The way he greeted customers like he actually cared if they came back. The way he fixed shelves even when they weren’t that messy. The way he checked the clock every so often, like he was waiting for something—or someone.
It was unsettling.
You didn’t like being noticed.
You liked it even less when you realized you were noticing him back.
— — — — — —
“Okay,” Robin said at one point, slamming a tape down on the counter. “I have a question.”
You didn’t look up. “That’s never good.”
“How long do you think you could survive in the wilderness?”
You snorted. “Define survive.”
“Like… no modern comforts. No people. Just you and nature.”
You considered it for a moment. “A week.”
Steve looked over. “That’s it?”
“I’d get bored.”
“You’d starve.”
“I’d steal food.”
“From who? The trees?”
You shrugged. “I’d figure it out.”
Robin pointed at Steve. “You’d die first.”
He frowned. “What? No, I wouldn’t.”
“You absolutely would,” you said. “You’d try to help something and get attacked.”
“I would not—”
“You’d see, like, a baby deer or something and go ‘aw’ and then get mauled by its mom.”
Robin clapped. “Exactly!”
Steve looked personally offended. “I am not that stupid.”
You leaned on the counter. “You let me live in your house.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“…okay, that’s fair.”
Robin wheezed.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Steve caught it.
You saw it happen—the exact moment he noticed.
His expression changed just slightly, like something soft had slipped through the cracks.
You looked away immediately.
It got worse after that.
Not in a bad way.
In a… noticeable way.
You stayed later after shifts.
You didn’t even pretend you had somewhere else to be anymore.
Steve stopped asking.
Robin definitely noticed.
“Oh my god,” she said one night as she leaned across the counter toward you. “You live with him, don’t you?”
You choked on your soda. “I do not.”
“You totally do.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why are you always there?”
You pointed at Steve, who was reorganizing tapes. “Ask him.”
Robin turned. “Steve. Do you and her live together?”
Steve froze.
Slowly turned around.
“…what?”
“She’s always at your house,” Robin said.
You threw your hands up. “Why are you like this?”
Steve looked between you both, clearly trying to process what was happening.
“She’s not—she’s just—”
“Temporarily crashing,” you cut in quickly.
Robin raised a brow. “That sounds suspiciously like living together.”
“It’s not.”
“How long has she been ‘crashing’?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
“…a few days.”
Robin stared.
Then she leaned back and said, “Oh, this is way worse than I thought.”
Steve groaned. “Robin.”
“No, I’m serious,” she said. “You two are already acting like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” you warned.
“Like an old married couple,” she finished anyway.
You grabbed a tape and threw it at her.
She caught it, laughing.
Steve just stood there, smiling to himself.
Which, unfortunately, made you feel… something. Something warm. Something you didn’t trust.
Your expression hardened almost immediately, like you could shut it down before it spread. You looked away with a quiet scoff, jaw tightening. “God,” you muttered under your breath, like the feeling itself was embarrassing.
Yeah. No.
You weren’t doing that.
Warm turned into weakness real fast, and you weren’t about to let something as stupid as a smile get under your skin. Not his. Not anyone’s.
You shoved it down, sharp and final, like it never existed in the first place.
Better to kill it early than let it turn into something you’d have to rip out later.
— — — — — —
That night, you got back to Steve’s house earlier than usual.
He came in about twenty minutes later, dropping his keys on the table.
“You beat me here.”
“I walk faster.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“I absolutely do.”
He smiled a little, then paused.
“You okay?”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re obsessed with that question.”
“Maybe because the answer keeps changing.”
You leaned against the counter. “I’m fine.”
He studied you for a second longer than usual.
Then nodded. “Okay.”
You watched him move around the kitchen, grabbing a glass, filling it with water, doing all the small, normal things that somehow felt unfamiliar and grounding at the same time.
“You don’t have to keep letting me stay here,” you said suddenly.
He didn’t even look up. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You’re not obligated.”
“I know.”
You frowned. “You’re really not going to argue with me?”
He finally looked at you.
“I’m not letting you stay because I feel obligated,” he said.
“Then why?”
He held your gaze.
“Because I want to.”
That hit harder than anything else he’d said so far.
You looked away first.
“…that’s weird,” you muttered.
He smiled a little. “You’re weird.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
The nights got easier. Which was the problem.
You stopped hovering near the door like you might leave at any second.
Stopped keeping your bag packed. Stopped counting how long you’d been there. Instead, you found yourself doing small things without thinking.
Washing dishes. Straightening the couch. Leaving your jacket draped over a chair like you’d see it again.
It felt natural. Dangerously natural.
One night, you were sitting on the floor watching some terrible movie while Steve leaned back against the couch behind you.
Robin had come over earlier, taken one look at the two of you, and said, “I’m not even going to comment anymore,” before stealing snacks and leaving.
Now it was just you and Steve. The TV flickered, casting soft light across the room.
You didn’t realize how close you were sitting until he shifted slightly and your shoulder brushed his knee.
You stilled.
He stilled.
Neither of you moved away.
For a second, everything felt… quiet.
Not the empty quiet you were used to.
A different kind.
Full.
You cleared your throat. “This movie sucks.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Why are we watching it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You picked it.”
“You picked it.”
You turned to look at him. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re definitely lying.”
He smiled.
You looked at his mouth for a second too long.
Then you turned back to the TV.
“Whatever.”
But neither of you moved.
Later, when the movie ended, you didn’t get up right away.
You stayed where you were, leaning back slightly now, just enough that you could feel the warmth of him behind you.
Not touching.
But close.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Yeah?”
“You’re still here.”
You huffed a soft laugh. “You noticed?”
“I did.”
You stared at the dark screen.
“…don’t get used to it.”
There was a pause.
Then:
“Too late.”
Your chest tightened.
You didn’t respond.
That night, you lay in his bed staring at the ceiling long after the house went quiet.
Your mind wouldn’t shut off.
It kept circling the same thought.
You’re staying.
Not just physically.
Emotionally.
And that was the problem.
Because staying meant caring.
And caring meant—
You squeezed your eyes shut.
No.
You weren’t doing that.
Not again.
The next morning, you woke up to the sound of Steve in the kitchen.
For a second, you stayed still, listening.
The quiet movements. The soft clink of dishes. The low hum of something on the stove.
Normal.
It sounded normal.
You hated how much you wanted it.
When you walked in, he glanced up.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
He slid a plate toward you.
“You cooked?” you asked.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t burn the house down.”
He rolled his eyes. “Eat.”
You sat.
Took a bite.
Paused.
“…this is actually good.”
He looked smug. “I know.”
You watched him for a second.
Then said, quieter, “You don’t have to keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This,” you gestured vaguely. “All of it.”
He leaned back against the counter.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
You frowned. “Why?”
He met your eyes.
“Because I care about you.”
The words landed softly. But they hit like something heavy.
You stared at him.
For once, you didn’t have a sarcastic response ready.
Didn’t have a deflection.
Didn’t have a joke.
Just… silence.
Your chest felt tight.
Too tight.
You stood up too quickly, pushing the chair back.
“I’m going to be late for work,” you said.
You grabbed your jacket.
Your bag.
Anything to move.
“Hey,” he said.
You didn’t stop.
“Hey.”
You paused at the door.
Didn’t turn around.
“…don’t,” you said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say things like that.”
There was a beat.
Then, quietly:
“I’m not going to pretend I don’t.”
Outside, the air hit cold and sharp.
You walked fast.
Faster than you needed to.
Like you were trying to outrun something.
But the problem was—
It wasn’t behind you.
It was inside you.
And no matter how fast you moved, it stayed.
— — — — — —
After that moment you decided to avoid Steve, because avoiding Steve at work should’ve been easy.
It wasn’t.
You kept your distance anyway.
Short answers. No eye contact. Constant movement. If you stopped, if you paused, you could feel it creeping back in. All that warmth, that stupid, dangerous feeling you’d spent your whole life learning how to shut down.
So you didn’t stop.
“Can you hand me that?” Steve asked at one point, nodding toward a stack of tapes right next to you.
You slid them over without looking at him. “They’re literally right there.”
“I know, I just—”
“You have hands.”
Robin, from the other end of the counter, made a quiet “yikes” noise.
Steve didn’t respond.
That was worse.
By the end of the shift, he’d stopped trying.
Which was what you wanted.
Which felt like absolute garbage.
— — — — — —
You left early.
Didn’t say goodbye.
Didn’t wait.
By the time Steve got home, the house was too quiet. Not the usual quiet.
Different.
Wrong.
He frowned slightly, stepping inside. “Hello?”
Nothing.
Then—movement.
His room.
He walked down the hall, slower now, something in his chest already tightening before he even saw it. You were on the floor. Bag open. Stuff everywhere. Folding. Packing. Not looking at him.
His stomach dropped. “…what are you doing?”
You didn’t answer right away. Just zipped a side pocket a little too hard.
“That’s not—” he tried again, voice rougher now, “—that’s not you reorganizing.”
You stood, finally looking at him. “I’m leaving.”
The words landed flat. Final. Practiced. Like you’d already said them a hundred times in your head.
Steve just stared at you. “…what?”
You slung your bag over your shoulder, avoiding his eyes now. “It’s been a few days. I’ve overstayed. This was temporary.”
“Since when?”
“Since always, Steve.” you scoffed.
“That’s not what this felt like.”
You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem.”
He stepped into the room now. “Where are you gonna go?”
You shrugged, too fast. “I’ll figure it out.”
“No,” he said, sharper. “No, that’s not an answer.”
You rolled your eyes, defensive snapping back into place. “Why do you care? You said it yourself—I’m ‘emotionally resilient,’ right? I’ll survive.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
It gets quiet for a moment. Then—
“Don’t do this.”
Your jaw tightened. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re leaving.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then you forced a shrug. “Because I can.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s enough of one.”
Steve shook his head, stepping closer. “No, it’s not. Not when you’ve been—” he stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “Not when you’ve been here. With me.”
You looked away. “Exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not stupid, Steve.”
He frowned. “No one said you were.”
“It means I know how this goes.”
Silence.
Then, lower—
“Things get comfortable. People get used to each other. And then something changes and it all goes to hell.”
Your grip tightened on your bag strap. “I’m just skipping that part.”
Steve stared at you, something almost frustrated flickering in his eyes. “You don’t get to decide how this ends before it even starts.”
You laughed, sharp and defensive. “That’s literally the only part I do get to decide.”
“Not if it’s not just you anymore!”
That made you flinch. You covered it quickly. “It is just me.”
“No, it’s not,” he said, softer now but somehow more intense. “Not if I’m standing right here asking you to stay.”
Your chest tightened. Dangerously.
“Don’t,” you said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this harder.”
“I’m not the one packing a bag and running.”
“I’m not running.”
“You are.”
You stepped closer now, anger flaring because it was easier than anything else. “I’m leaving before this turns into something I have to fix later.”
“Or,” he shot back, “you’re leaving because you’re scared of it meaning something now.”
That hit. Hard.
You went still.
Then your expression flattened, colder than before.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I am.”
That shut him up.
For half a second.
Then—
“Good,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“Good,” he repeated. “Because I’m scared too.”
You stared at him, thrown off. “You don’t get to—”
“I like you.”
There it was.
Again.
Clear. Certain. No hesitation this time.
You swallowed, looking away immediately. “Steve—”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “You don’t get to brush that off. Not this time.”
Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to. “I’m not brushing it off, I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being defensive.”
“I’m being smart.”
“You’re being scared.”
You let out a frustrated breath. “Same difference.”
“It’s not.”
“It is when it ends the same way.”
Silence stretched between you.
Then, quieter—
“You deserve someone better.”
The words felt familiar. Safe. A way out.
Steve didn’t take it. “I don’t want someone better.”
You frowned. “That’s a terrible mindset.”
“I want you.”
Your chest tightened again.
Worse this time.
You shook your head, backing up slightly. “You’re gonna regret that.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But that’s my decision, not yours.”
You ran a hand through your hair, pacing once like you needed space that wasn’t there. “I’m not easy, Steve.”
“I know.”
“I’m not nice.”
“I know.”
“I leave.”
“I know.”
You stopped.
Looked at him. “Then why are you still doing this?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Because you haven’t left yet.”
Your breath caught. Because he was right. Your bag was still on your shoulder. But your feet hadn’t moved. Not toward the door. Not away from him.
“I don’t know how to stay,” you admitted, voice quieter now. Rough. Real.
He nodded, stepping closer—but slow, careful, like you might bolt.
“Then don’t think about staying,” he said softly. “Just… don’t leave.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. There was no pressure there. No expectation. Just… him and his cute face.
Waiting.
You exhaled shakily. “That’s not a real solution.”
“It is for tonight.”
That again.
That stupid, simple logic that kept undoing you.
You laughed under your breath, but it sounded weaker now. “You’re really bad at letting people self-destruct.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s a flaw.”
A pause.
Then—
“Stay.”
Not a demand. Not even really a question. Just… an ask.
Your grip on your bag loosened. Just a little.
“…you’re really not gonna let me make this easy, are you?” you muttered.
“No.”
You looked at him for a long second. Then down at the bag. Then back at him.
“…I hate you a little,” you said quietly.
He smiled, soft. “I know.”
And that—
That did it.
Because he didn’t argue. Didn’t take it personally. Just accepted it. Like he understood what you actually meant. He understood you.
Your shoulders dropped slightly. The fight drained out of you in pieces. Slow. Reluctant.
“…this is a bad idea,” you said.
“Probably.”
“I’m still gonna leave eventually.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m gonna be difficult about it.”
“I expect nothing less.”
A beat.
Then—
You let the bag slip off your shoulder.
It hit the floor with a soft thud.
Neither of you looked away.
“Okay,” you said, barely above a whisper.
Relief flickered across his face—quick, but real.
“Okay,” he echoed.
Silence settled between you again. But it wasn’t heavy this time.
Just… quiet.
Full.
Your eyes dropped to his mouth for half a second. That was a mistake. Because when you looked back up—
He was already looking at you the same way.
You froze. “Steve—”
“Yeah?”
You hesitated.
Then, quieter. “…if this messes everything up—”
“It won’t,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know I don’t care.”
That…That was it.
You stepped forward before you could think better of it. Grabbed the front of his shirt. And kissed him.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.
It was a little desperate. A little messy. Like you were trying to prove something—to him, to yourself, to whatever part of you kept insisting this was a bad idea.
He froze for half a second. Then kissed you back.
Warmer. Steadier.
One hand coming up to your jaw like he was grounding you instead of pulling you in. That made your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to deal with. So you pulled back first.
Of course you did.
Breathing uneven. Eyes a little too bright. “…that didn’t happen,” you said quickly.
He blinked. “That definitely happened.”
You shook your head. “Nope.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, still close. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m consistent.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“But I’m still here.”
His expression softened again. “Yeah,” he said. “You are.”
You glanced at your bag on the floor. Then back at him. “…don’t make me regret this, Harrington.”
He smiled, just a little. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You rolled your eyes. But you didn’t pick the bag back up.
stevie accidentally coming inside and you have him make it up to you by eating his own cum out of you!
um this was... such a fun concept, i liked writing this too much, now i shall go bathe in holy water
MDNI//SMUT- [unsafe] vaginal sex, spit, come eating, face sitting
“Steve—Steve—Steve—oh my, oh my fucking god, Steve—”
He’s behind you, hands on your hips, pounding into your pussy. Your shoulders are pressed against your bed, ass up in the air as he fucks you, and you reach down your body between your legs to let your fingers slip against your swollen, throbbing clit.
“Oh, fuck,” Steve says, as soon as you do, and you know why: You just tightened the fuck up around him, your cunt squeezing down on his cock as his hips slap into you. “Fuck, you’re so—so—oh, fuck—”
You feel it as soon as his voice cracks on the last ‘fuck’—his hips stuttering against you, his cock twitching inside you, his come spreading against your walls, filling you up as he rests his weight on you, cock buried deep in your cunt, each shot of come adding to the mess inside you.
“Did you just finish?” you ask, breathless, your fingers still slipping over your clit, even though Steve has stilled inside you, grinding his hips into you as he, very obviously, rides out his orgasm.
“Yeah, I—sorry,” he says, bending himself at the waist too, draping his front over yours, his sweaty chest sticking to your back as he scatters kisses all over your shoulderblades. “You just—” he heaves a sigh, wrapping an arm around your waist to hug you like it’s an apology. “You get real tight when you touch yourself like that.”
You squirm a little underneath him, because you feel too wet and too sensitive and you still haven’t come. He pulls his hips back a little, and you feel his come start to dribble out of you and down onto your fingers, your palm.
“Well,” you say, turning a little to look back at him as he pushes himself off of you. “You know the rule.”
You watch as the smirk flits over his face, because he loves this as much as you do.
“Yes ma’am,” he says, straightening up, pulling out of you, tapping the head of his cock against your gaped slit a couple times, just for fun, watching you tighten up around nothing, more of his release oozing out of you as you do, and then he flops down onto the bed beside you, looking over at you with a grin on his face.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you did this on purpose.”
Steve lifts a hand, holds up three fingers, and shakes his head. “No ma’am, scouts honor.”
“Stop calling me ma’am, you weirdo,” you say, but there’s no malice in it. You push yourself up to your knees, move so you’re straddling his chest, and then without any further conversation or fanfare, lower your come-covered pussy to his mouth.
He wastes no time either, parting his lips against you and licking into your folds, tonguing your slit and moaning as he tastes himself on you, in you. His hands come up to grope at your ass, pulling you further onto him, holding you down, wanting his face buried in your pussy. Your grasp at the headboard, holding onto it for support as Steve laps noisily at you, his mouth sucking and slurping his own spend from inside of you, swallowing his release and your arousal both, eyes fluttering closed at the taste of you both combined.
“Steve,” you resume moaning his name, one hand slipping from the headboard as you press it to your clit again, rubbing at the sensitive bead as Steve eats your pussy with abandon, like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing, ever. His tongue slides into you, your slit slippery with his come and your own fluids, and you shudder as you feel it drip out of you into his waiting mouth.
“Taste so—fucking good,” he manages to utter from between your pussy lips.
“I’m—close,” you tell him, and the wet sounds of his mouth on you resume, the feeling of his lips sucking at your folds, drawing them into his mouth, making you quiver on top of him. “Steve, babe, I’m—”
“Mhm,” he encourages you, tongue moving against you as he squeezes your ass, fingers pressing divots into you as he holds you down, and you grind your cunt down against him.
Your fingers slip over your clit at the perfect angle—finally, you found it again—and you keep doing it, pressing a little harder, moving them a little faster, and then, your body curls up on itself, your other hand leaving the headboard to curl into Steve’s mop of hair, holding tight to him as you tremble on top of him, your cunt squeezing down around nothing but his tongue, still inside of you, fucking into you as best he can while you’re so tight, and you tear your fingers away from your clit because suddenly, suddenly it’s all too much, it’s all way, way too much and you pull up and off of him, falling back and landing roughing on his chest, wetting his chest with your pussy, dripping come and saliva onto his front.
“Mm,” Steve says, and you glance up at him, still breathless. His lips are pursed, and he points at his mouth and then at yours. You slide yourself back, whimpering as his softening cock slicks through your folds, but you end straddling his thighs as he sits up. His hands land on your arms, pulling you close, and he takes your mouth in a searing kiss, lips pressing to yours. You part them, already suspecting what he’s angling for, and once you do, his part too, tongue slipping between your lips, pushing the mouthful of his come and yours into your mouth. You take it in, not pulling away, just kissing him back; you pass it back and forth, swapping spit and come until finally, you let it slide down your throat, the mouthful making you moan against Steve’s lips as the taste of both of you lingers on your tongue, the scent of sex still hanging in the air too.
“Love that rule,” he mutters, and you lean against him, wrapping your arms around him, laughing quietly as you kiss his neck.
⋆˚꩜｡pairings: min yoongi x choreographer!fem!reader (no usage of y/n)
⋆˚꩜｡summary: when bts' album 'arirang' drops, yoongi brings back his talk show 'suchwita'. to celebrate their comeback after 4 years, he decides to invite one of bts' choreographers since their debut, as his first guest. this awaited episode causes fans to speculate that maybe min yoongi and you are something more than coworkers.
⋆˚꩜｡tags: reader is 2 years older than yoongi (YYYEESSS NOONA READERRRR), reader has a low alcohol tolerance, shy yoongi hehehe, YOONGI WITH GLASSES AND SHORT HAIR, drinking duhh (its suchwita cmon), alot of teasing nd flirting, min-ceo of hajima-yoongi, fake screenshots at the end, might be cringe bc of some of the korean words i added in here
⋆˚꩜｡w/c: 6k (20 minutes)
⋆˚꩜｡a/n: lol stream arirang ive been dreaming about writing this ever since this album came out and im finally writing about it 🥹🖤
the camera points to the suchwita set, visually the same save for the higher budget for props. the table is empty, its own host nowhere to be seen. through the screen, the audience is confused.
until they hear him.
"ah, suchwita," yoongi steps into frame with his tablet of information and sits on his designated chair. the crew from behind the cameras applaud loudly, causing the host to widen his eyes before hiding his face behind the tablet.
"yah, hajima, hajima!" yoongi swats at the camera and the crew erupts in laughter. his accent coming out roughly as he waves off the crew. his professional expression returns to finally start off his show again.
"it's been so long, did you miss me?" yoongi smiles towards his specific camera, "because I know i've missed being here. by the time this comes out, bts' new album 'arirang' will be released, so please give it a lot of love, because we all worked very hard on it." he unfolds the tablet to hold itself up on the table.
"now, before we introduce our first guest after bts' comeback, i'd like to say how this person has helped to shape bts to what it is now, and has been a constant ever since our debut."
"yah, just introduce me already!" a blurry shot of your figure can be seen covering your face in embarrassment at the amount of praise you're getting. yoongi laughs, hand on his stomach before turning back to his tablet.
"okay, okay," he scrolls up to glance at your information, "today's guest," yoongi smiles as he reads your name, his eyes flicking up to meet yours momentarily before focusing back on the tablet.
“a well-known global choreographer who has been one of the main choreographers for bts ever since their debut." yoongi gasps dramatically as if he were reading this information for the first time.
flashes of your practice videos show up on the screen; one of you teaching bts the choreography for the chorus of mic drop, then one of you guiding an american singer, then a picture of you together with bts during their final practice before their military service, suspiciously close to yoongi.
yoongi's eyes glance over your small note and he chuckles before even properly reading it.
“i've been wanting to be on suchwita ever since yoongi wanted to do it, but he said that me booking a table before the rest of his members would seem like favouritism.” he laughs again before standing up and inviting you to enter the frame.
smoothing out your outfit with your hand and holding your bag full of drinks with the other, you entered with an amused smile, walking over to your seat that's across from yoongi. you set your bag down, but you and yoongi stay standing.
without a second thought, you walk over to hug yoongi, which he happily reciprocates. yoongi momentarily stops himself a little before smiling at you as the two of you pull away.
videos of the boy group learning choreography from you pop up again, this time its a video of you laughing at the maknae line's antics as they crowd around the hyung line and spin around them as the hyungs take five.
the two of you pull apart and take your respective seats, “yoongi-ah, it's about time you have me on this show.”
yoongi smiles, “noona,” he tests the word. you chuckle slightly, a little caught off guard, “your appearance on suchwita has been held off for quite a while.”
“gee, I wonder why,” you rolled your eyes playfully, earning that gummy smile from yoongi again that you adore.
“you've been quite busy since our military service, isn't that right?” he crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. you nod with a smile, “yeah, i've gained a name internationally and during your guys’ temporary absence, i've had the pleasure of choreographing for other famous names in the industry,” you cross your legs as you explained with a proud smile, nervously adjusting your hair as you did so.
as you speak, the screen displays names of the artists that you've worked with, both in korea and overseas as well. the list of names is quite long, despite you only being away from bts for only a few years.
“ah, so you forgot about us? you have a different favourite group now?” yoongi leans his head on his hand, a smug smile on his face as you scoff, almost offended.
"please, you know no one could ever replace you guys for me. you're just too unforgettable." you chuckle softly, causing yoongi to cough, awkwardly looking away at your comment.
"right, so—" yoongi clears his throat to prepare for his next few sentences, "i'd just like to thank you for everything you've done for bts. people don't know this but you've been with us for very long and were always there every step of the way, even coming to our shows and polishing our choreographies for stage rehearsals."
"people also don't know that you've also helped with some of our solo career choreographies," he continued, which causes you to smile.
"um— just yours, actually."
yoongi freezes a little before smiling, looking at the floor for a little before looking back at you, "right, just mine."
pictures of you and yoongi pop up on the screen as he says this; one of you on stage telling him where to stand, one of the two of you in the studio, and another studio picture but it's one of you, watching as yoongi rehearsed the choreography in front of you.
"what im trying to say is, we all looked up to you because you're very hardworking. even for our new songs coming out, you've been working very hard on those too."
your ears turn a slight shade of red, and you notice yoongi's do too. "aish, min yoongi!" you stand up abruptly, turning to the crew, "yah, the show hasn't even started and already he's flustering me! and i haven't even had anything to drink yet!"
"hey! noona, sit down!" yoongi laughs, covering his face with his hands. you cross your arms and begrudgingly sit back down, "...can i introduce my drink now?"
yoongi turns to the camera, "yes, you can. we brought back my favourite part of suchwita, where guests bring their own drinks, usually alcohol. per noona's demand, we have some korean fried chicken to eat with your drink choice," yoongi says as the camera cuts to the table full of food from your favourite korean fried chicken place.
with help from yoongi, you both made quick work to unpack the two bottles of soju, a bottle of beer, a whole eight pack of yakult and two chilsung ciders.
"so, i brought all the things to make a yogurt soju," you smiled at the ingredients, cracking open the cold chilsung ciders as yoongi unwrapped the packs of yakult.
"yogurt soju is actually the first drink i shared with yoongi. I made it for him, that and somaek (soju+beer), which is why I also brought some beer just in case you wanted somaek instead." you smiled sheepishly as you unscrewed the soju bottles.
"why did you bring so much? you know that you're a lightweight, noona," yoongi practically complains, sighing frustratedly. you shrugged with a dorky smile, "oh, c'mon, i only brought enough for me to get tipsy at most."
yoongi rolls his eyes with a smile, remembering when you two shared a yogurt soju.
—
at first, you were super shy, not even really bothering to speak to them unless you were spoken to and to just teach them the dance and move on with your day. you had just started working with them, so you couldn't expect much.
until one day, hobi came up to you to compliment your dance and teaching style, saying your instructions were straightforward and simple enough for everyone to get it.
jungkook was quick to agree, and suddenly all of them were crowded around you, calling you 'noona' without hesitation.
slowly and surely, you began getting comfortable with everyone. gathering input from jimin and hobi, sometimes driving jungkook to school together with the hyungs and during promotions, you'd stick around to chat with the boys that hadn't taken pictures yet.
"yoongi-ah!" the 23 year old you called out to the freshly 21 year old yoongi. you had only been with the boys for about a year at this point, still trying to see if you could land a permanent job as their choreographer.
it was the weekend, and you had invited the hyung line over for drinks. during a conversation with yoongi, you had come to realise that the two of you hadn't drank together before, which was weird since the two of you had begun to get close.
"yes?" yoongi practically ran over as soon as you called his name, and you passed him the yogurt soju, "you up for a drink?"
"oh— um..." he shyly scratches the back of his neck and you clocked his sentence immediately. although yoongi was 21 in korean age, he still didn't have that much time to drink since he had to balance his idol life too, which made his tolerance pretty low, "ah, right! don't worry, there's like barely any soju in here. but you don't have to drink it if you don't want to, no pressure." you smiled softly, and yoongi's heart skips a beat.
he glances at namjoon, who seems to be just taking shots of soju with jin, while hobi simply nurses a beer. you, on the other hand, have another yogurt soju on the table for yourself.
with a little hesitation, he takes the drink from your hands and takes a sip, and you're right, it just tastes like yakult and chilsung. and it's pretty good.
throughout the rest of the night, yoongi tries to add a little more alcohol each time, trying not to overdo it. he even tried soju and beer together, since that was what you had moved onto drinking.
and ever since then, he never turned down any of your invitations to drink together.
—
"here, noona, let me help you make yours," yoongi stands up to help you, and you shake your head, "ah, no. it's okay, you don't have to—" your attempts to reach over to stop yoongi end when he gently grips your wrist, "yah, just let me do it."
you sigh, knowing that there's no changing his mind. you roll your eyes with a smile, "how's it like coming back to suchwita? must be surreal right?"
"that and bts as a whole, actually," yoongi fills both of your cups with ice. you smile as he makes your drinks for you. he makes quick work to pour the soju about halfway into the cups, then some yakult, and then finally the chilsung to top it off.
"the promotions have been pretty hectic. actually, everything has been pretty hectic; if i were to be honest," he sighs in frustration, and you smile sadly.
"I don't know how you manage to keep up with such cramped schedules," you tilted your head towards him as yoongi hands you your drink.
"yeah, well," yoongi glances up from his drink to make eye contact with you, "I have people that help me get through it," he smiles, before looking away. and suddenly to him the fried chicken on the table looks very interesting.
"ah, really? these people sound special." you tease as you hold up your cup, waiting for yoongi to cheers you. he shyly meets your eyes, "sure are."
clink!
—
"so," yoongi starts off as he places a few pieces of chicken onto your own plate as you help to take off the top of the chicken radish container, "when you started working with us, you weren't really a talkative person, right?"
"yeah, that's right," you chuckled a little, crossing your legs as you adjusted your sitting position, "it was a little after your debut when i was hired, and i didn't know anyone."
"i really hated meeting new people. i still do, but that's not the point," you shrugged with a smile. yoongi laughs, as if a memory suddenly popped up in his head. you tilted your head with a grin, "why?"
"i remember that everyone was insanely intimidated by you; even jin hyung, and he's only a year younger than you," yoongi says before taking a bite of the chicken that you helped to put on his plate. you gasped, "no they weren't!"
"seriously! everyone," yoongi deadpanned to the camera, "during the first few weeks of our debut, noona would come into the big hit studio with a black cap and sweat suits every single practice. it was terrifying. it was our first time seeing such a professional."
"it wasn't that bad," you thought over it again while chewing on a piece of chicken, "...okay well, when you combine that and the 'only-giving-you-guys-instructions-and-not-talking', I can maybe see what you guys mean."
"like i said," yoongi smiled smugly, "terrifying."
you rolled your eyes playfully, "yeah, yeah."
—
clink!
and there goes two shots of straight soju. you hold the bottle up to read the flavour that you honestly didn't care to look at when you bought it, "oh, this flavour is pretty good, no?"
"can we continue with the interview questions now? or are you planning to inhale that whole bottle?" yoongi winces with his head tilted, causing you to chuckle, "right, sorry. continue."
"anyways," yoongi passes a piece of chicken towards you since he had noticed that your plate was empty, "i've always wanted to ask this question, actually."
"oh, really?" you tilted your head with a smile, "and what question is that?"
"do you ever get tired of seeing the same seven people?" yoongi crosses his arms, almost proud of the question that he had thought of. you laughed loudly, covering your mouth as you did so.
"wow, you really—do you want me to answer this honestly?" you raised an eyebrow as you took a bite of your chicken.
"of course, that's what this show is for!" yoongi looks around at the crew with his arms open. you smile at his actions, before humming in thought as you chose your next words.
"promise you won't be offended?" you held up your pinky towards him, wiggling your finger with a teasing grin. yoongi raises an eyebrow in speculation, glancing at the cameras as if to ask the audience 'you seeing this?'.
hesitantly, yoongi inches closer to the table and interlocks his pinky with yours, "yeah, yeah. promise."
you chuckle, "alright, to be completely honest," you look around at the crew, who seemed just as interested in your answer as yoongi is, "...after a few years into my job, sometimes—yeah, i was a little tired of your guy's bickering. you guys were all stubborn in your own ways."
"yah..." yoongi smirks at the camera, a little shocked that you actually provided an honest answer.
"but," you continued, catching the attention of everyone in the room, "it wasn't tiring because it was the same seven people."
"then?" yoongi asks with a slight confused frown. you smile a little, knowing what words you wanted to say next.
"it was because it was you seven," you chuckled, "anyone who deals with you guys knows how tiring it gets when all of you are in the same room."
the crew members laugh, some of them nodding intensely while the rest state that they agree with you. yoongi pouts a little at the sudden noise, facing the staff that all seemed to take your side.
"so you do get tired, is what you're saying?" yoongi asks as you refill his drink with a smile on your face.
"i didn't say that." yoongi tilts his head in confusion.
"you said sometimes."
"well, yeah. i get tired of the bickering," you reached for your yogurt soju, "not the people." you took a sip from your glass with a satisfied smile.
the staff members chuckle, some of them giving small wow's at your answer.
yoongi stays silent, a little shocked at your words. then, when he realises the cameras are still rolling, he clears his throat.
"that's...a good answer. everyone, we have a dangerous guest here." yoongi grins as he gains a couple of laughs from the crew behind the cameras. you smile a little, "thank you, yoon."
"oh," yoongi is a little flustered at the nickname you had so easily called him in front of the cameras. this is how yoongi could tell you were starting to get a little tipsy. the crew gives a couple of aww's, flustering yoongi even more.
"right let's um—let's continue with the questions."
—
"noona?" yoongi calls out. no answer. he tilts his head in confusion. he sighs.
yoongi then calls out your name softly, raising his hand in front of you, and that seems to do the trick.
"hm?" you blink rapidly out of your trance and realise that yoongi is waving his hand in front of you. shit, did you just zone out on camera? god, you didn't remember your tolerance being this low.
you smile sheepishly, "sorry, what did you say?" you scratched your neck, feeling a little awkward. yoongi just smiles and waves it off, "yah, don't be sorry. I was just asking you a question and i lost you a little there," he chuckled slightly.
"ah really? what was the question?" in your peripheral vision, you noticed some of the crew members moving around a lot, most likely trying to get comfortable.
"well, the question was—and this is a brutal one, but which bts member is the best dancer? and a bonus one, who do you love hanging out with the most?"
you practically went silent. your eyes widened as you looked to the cameras in disbelief, "what?" you laughed a little at the question.
"hey," yoongi raised his hands in mock surrender, "these questions were the only ones provided by the staff. just saying," he smiles, still interested in your answer.
you shook your head with a smile, "these questions are mean, yoon." yoongi laughs while taking a sip from his drink, "don't hate the player, hate the game."
at his comment, you groaned before trying to think of an answer. your mind went through all seven members before one of the staff members temporarily pauses the shoot.
"ah, sorry," one of the managers raises their hand behind the camera, which catches the attention of both you and yoongi, "but can we fix your guys' mics? it's cutting off a little bit."
you and yoongi share a glance of confusion before you nodded, "oh, yeah. of course, no worries." you stood up, lifting your top ever so slightly so that the staff could adjust your mic pack. yoongi did the same, both of you awkwardly facing your backs to the camera.
while looking around to admire the new set, yoongi aims an 'off-camera' question to you.
"do you wanna come with me to the music video shoot tomorrow?" he tilts his head towards you, but doesn't fully turn to you. you open your mouth to answer before you looked at him, amused.
"yoon, im your choreographer. i'll be there anyways." you smiled after watching yoongi process what you had just said and scratched his neck awkwardly, "oh...right."
"we can go together, though. i mean—i have to be there way earlier than you, but—"
"i don't mind. let's go together," yoongi smiles at you and you return it, before you switch to a small frown, "um, does fixing the mic pack usually take this long?"
you turn around and practically yelped, because the staff member that was fixing your mic pack had suddenly been replaced with jungkook, who had just let go of your microphone's wire with a laugh.
"noona!" jungkook exclaimed, opening his arms to engulf you in a hug. you pat his back a couple of times, still a little confused.
your eyes drift over to yoongi, who is currently trying to escape the grasp of taehyung and jimin while namjoon, jin and hobi are waving at you with big smiles.
"yah, hajima!" you heard yoongi shout out as he continued to fend off the two maknaes. you laugh a little before letting go of jungkook, "guys, that's enough."
jimin and taehyung pause before coming over to your side of the table to greet you. yoongi looks at everyone in confusion, "what are you guys doing here?"
"we're here to hang out with you guys!" jungkook smiles widely as namjoon comes over to give you a hug as well. yoongi simply frowns, "andwae."
"c'mon hyung," namjoon defends as he stands next to you, "it's your first suchwita shoot since the military! and noona is the special guest, we should all eat and drink together!"
yoongi glances at the staff, "is this why you guys ordered so much chicken?" a couple of cheeky nods from behind the camera caused him to sigh.
the staff members came out from behind the cameras to pass more bottles of alcohol to jin and hobi, who place the bottles on the table.
you smile at yoongi, "sounds fun, right?"
yoongi sighs defeatedly, "...fine, you guys can stay." the members cheered, each of them taking chairs to sit around the table.
—
on your side of the table was the maknae line, while namjoon, hobi and jin sat by yoongi.
"uwah, you guys even have your makeup done," you examined jimin, noticing the slightest bit of foundation.
"of course we have to look good for your suchwita debut, noona." jin teases with a grin, causing you to roll your eyes playfully.
"oh, what question were the two of you on?" hobi asks as he adjusts himself in his seat. the maknae line that are on your side of the table make quick work to give food and make drinks for the other six members.
"ah, right. the question full of evil intentions," you chuckled a little as you met yoongi's eyes after your comment. his eyes instantly crinkle, displaying his own defensive expression while smiling.
"aigo, it wasn't evil!" yoongi breaks the eye contact to face the camera so that they could see his frown. he sighs, "it was a question about who's the best dancer out of the seven of us."
once yoongi explained what the question was, all eyes were on you and all the boys (except for yoongi) exclaimed their own renditions of 'huh?!'.
"geurae? noona, it's me right?" jimin points to himself, leaning towards you with what can only be described as sparkles in his eyes. you open your mouth to answer but taehyung shoves jimin a little in offense, "aniya, it's me. she loves teaching me the most."
jungkook shakes his head furiously, "hah, as if!" the three continue to bicker and your eyes meet yoongi's mischievous ones, and you mouth 'see? evil.'
you stop the boys from going for each other's throats, chuckling a little, "i think all of you guys are great dancers," you paused a little.
"however...i think we all know that hobi is basically your guys' choreographer at this point, so that answers yoongi's question." you shrugged while the maknae line groaned. the hyung line simply chuckled and hobi shyly thanked you, not expecting such a straightforward answer.
"and what about the bonus question?" yoongi grinned, tilting his head as you glared playfully at him. the other members seemed to perk up again.
"bonus question?" namjoon asked, looking in between the both of you to try and get an answer. you sighed, "who i love hanging out with the most."
"yah, that's such an easy one!" hobi laughed as you said the question out loud. jin and jungkook shared a teasing glance.
"we all know the answer is suga-hyung!" jungkook chuckled, nudging you in the shoulder. you laughed nervously, covering your face with your hands as the rest of the boys agreed loudly.
yoongi winced at the camera before crossing his arms and chuckling to himself. his eyes rested on you, who is still embarrassed by the teasing from the other members.
slowly, you lifted your head up to face the staff, "we're cutting this part out, right?" a couple of unsure shrugs from behind the camera causes you to sigh before locking eyes with yoongi.
"i mean—" yoongi grins.
"no." you glared. "they're not wrong," yoongi finished, which had all of the members laughing, some of them clapping when yoongi admitted it. you sighed, shaking your head with a smile.
"okay, let's make it fair and rephrase the question," taehyung announced to the whole group, gaining a couple of confused looks, "noona, who do you love hanging out with the most besides suga-hyung?"
"ah, daebak." namjoon gives taehyung a thumbs up while the rest await your answer. you think about it for a moment before smiling a little.
"i'm actually close to all of you, so it's hard to pick just one member. but recently, i've been hanging out with jin more often." you glanced at jin who smiled softly, "ah, that's true."
the other members nodded, some of them going 'ahh' after hearing your answer.
"oh, noona. you're really good at this interview thing," jimin's eyes widened a little before he started snacking on the food on his plate. you smiled, "ah, it's nothing. i had a lot of experience from working overseas."
"yeah. noona's english is better than namjoon's at this point." hobi teased. you held your hands up defensively, "oh—i don't know about that."
"it's actually true. i've had a few conversations with her in english and she's way more fluent than i am." namjoon explained to the rest of the group, shocked at your fluency.
"ah, thank you, joonie. that means a lot," you nodded shyly. yoongi smiled softly at your response to namjoon's compliment.
"okay, before we wrap things up," yoongi straightened his back, turning on his host voice, "noona, would you like to say anything to the viewers watching?"
"oh! um..." you fidgeted with your fingers a little before looking directly into your camera, "give these boys a lot of support for their new album! they've been working very hard and they deserve it. stream 'arirang' on any music platform." you give your camera two thumbs up and a small smile.
yoongi chuckles a little at how adorable you look, before being nudged by namjoon, "let's toast one last drink together before we wrap up!"
everyone held up their glasses in the middle. "okay! uri maknae, give us something to toast to!" namjoon exclaimed, causing everyone to laugh.
"here's to the first comeback episode of suchwita, and to noona for making sure that all of us do our best for our tour!" jungkook practically yelled out his cheers, laughing while doing so.
"geonbae!" all of you clinked your glasses together and enjoyed the last on-camera drink of the shoot.
the director says 'cut!' and yoongi gets up from his seat to start thanking everyone for their hard work. you follow suit, thanking everyone for having you on set.
you and yoongi are the first to get your mics off, making small talk while doing so, before you walk up to the rest of the members, "hey, guys. me and yoon are gonna go home first. we'll see you guys tomorrow, yeah?"
"ah, noona! can i hangout at your place?" jungkook perks up and raises his hand, which you find endearing.
"what? why?" yoongi walks up next to you, leaning towards you slightly. jungkook shrugs with a slight pout, "just 'cause?"
"me too! i wanna hang out!" jimin hops next to jungkook with his hand up, imitating what jungkook was doing a couple moments ago. "i wanna hang out too!" taehyung appears on the other side of jungkook, his hand also raised.
jin, hobi and namjoon laugh, waving you and yoongi off as they all headed home and left the two of you to deal with the three younger members.
"you three wanna come over?" yoongi raises an eyebrow and the three of them nod in sync. you chuckle slightly before resting a hand on yoongi's shoulder, "guys, you have an early schedule tomorrow. you need rest."
"noona, hyung, jebal," jungkook pleads slightly while the other two put on their best puppy-eyed expressions. you and yoongi share a glance of hesitation before yoongi cracks first.
"fine," he sighs, "we'll make some dinner for you." you smiled amusingly at how quickly yoongi folded for the maknaes. the three celebrated and followed the two of you as you headed out to the car assigned for the both of you.
"i didn't expect you to give in that quickly." you mused, nudging yoongi's shoulder. he rolled his eyes playfully, "you would've said no. i'm not as strict as you are." yoongi wraps an arm around your shoulders as you reach the parking lot.
you gasp, hitting yoongi's chest, "i'm not strict!"
"sure you aren't."
—
a couple months later...
—
YouTube
[슈취타] EP.28 SUGA with _____
BANGTANTV
Comments (30k)
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user23: bye is this a soft launch because what did i just watch
heartsforjin: SHE CALLED HIM YOON?? HELLO??? ELEPHANT IN ROOM???
armyest2015: omg my heart... they love their noona so much
btsfan01: him forgetting they work together when he asked her to come with him... respectfully is this casual bc i dont think so...
borahae134340: the small acts of service in this video is so cute oh my god even if they aren't together they seem like such good friends they're so adorable
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—
the suchwita episode airs while yoongi is making the two of you dinner and you're in the living room, scrolling on your phone. one of the things that you had noticed is that your instagram had been blowing up, with armies tagging you in multiple reels of you and yoongi 'flirting' and more followers than you could keep up with.
how did the boys ever get used to this much attention? you thought as you chuckled a little, looking through the comments of the youtube video.
"what're you laughing at?" yoongi calls from the kitchen. his voice is a little drowned out since the two of you had been watching a series on the tv before he started cooking.
"the fans think you have a girlfriend again," you smiled smugly, looking through twitter for a little and laughing some more. yoongi walks out of the kitchen with a clay pot of kimchi stew and utensils for both of you.
"yeah? who is it this time?" he rolled his eyes playfully as he sets the pot and utensils on the living room table, where the two of you opted to eat dinner at. you paused the show on the tv before facing yoongi.
"me. the suchwita episode aired today," you showed yoongi your phone that displayed the youtube comments full of speculations of your relationship, "i think this one might stick a little longer, yoonie."
"oh, i forgot it was airing today," yoongi's eyes glance over a couple of the comments before he breaks out into a grin, "well, they wouldn't be wrong this time. now, would they?"
"hm. i guess not," you shrugged. out of the corner of your eye, you noticed tang had come over to see what was going on, before jumping onto your lap. you cooed at the black cat, "tangieee!" the cat trills in response, slowly closing his eyes as you pat his head.
yoongi's gaze softens before he heads back into the kitchen to get the two of you some bowls of rice, "can you read some of those comments?"
"yeah, sure," you directed your attention to your phone screen while continuing to give tang soft pets, "suga can't handle allat (he probably could...)" you laugh, the vibrations from your laughter prompting tang to start purring.
yoongi chuckles as he emerges from the kitchen again, "are all the comments about the armies thirsting over you?" he sets the bowls of rice on the table before sitting next to you, peering at the comments over your shoulder.
you scrolled down a little, glazing over some of the top comments, "some of them are pretty similar, i think i saw one that said 'he can't take all of us', or something like that," you turned your head towards yoongi who seemed offended.
"what? i totally could." he pouts a little, wrapping an arm around your shoulder while his other hand pets tang, who is half-asleep on your lap.
"mhm, sure you could," you pressed a kiss to yoongi's cheek, and yoongi is taken aback for a moment before he smiles softly, kissing your cheek in return.
you continued to scroll through the comments before you paused for a moment, "yoon?"
"mm?"
"were we a little too obvious? what if us revealing our connection starts bringing you guys hate again?" you leaned your head on your boyfriend's shoulder with a small frown. yoongi looked at you and reached over to turn off your phone.
"who cares what they think? we never explicitly stated we were together in the video. we were just teasing, it's up to the audience to interpret what they think and that's out of our control."
"and also," yoongi continued, "im positive armies wouldn't care that we were dating. if anything, they'd be supportive."
"really?" you got up to face yoongi, tang getting up to rest on the other side of you. yoongi raised an eyebrow, "of course. why not?"
you rolled your eyes playfully before returning to your place next to yoongi, "thanks yoon." yoongi hums in acknowledgement as you turn your phone back on to read youtube comments.
you chuckle, "yoongi marry me," you read out the comment.
"course i will."
"what?" you got back up to face yoongi, who looked just as confused as you were, "huh? what?"
you showed him the comment that you were reading out loud and yoongi simply laughed, "oops."
you looked at yoongi in disbelief before laughing yourself, "oops?" yoongi shrugs in response, sitting up after you before he softly holds your jaw to guide you towards him, slowly closing the distance with a kiss.
you return the kiss with a small smile before pulling away with an amused expression. yoongi grins, "just something for you to think about. if you're ready."
"you wanna marry me?" you tilted your head with a big grin while it was yoongi's turn to look at you in disbelief, as if it wasn't obvious from the start.
"jagiya, i've been chasing after you ever since i was mature enough to make my own decisions." yoongi's hand rests on your jaw, his thumb gently caressing your cheek.
you chuckled, "wow, jagiya? wait till dispatch hears about this," you joked, still not being used to yoongi calling you that even if its the only thing he calls you when the two of you are alone.
yoongi sighs, "let's eat before the food gets cold." yoongi tries to deflect, but you notice the blush rushing to his ears as he starts to fluff up the rice in his bowl. you can't help but laugh again.
"i can't believe i'm the one that gets min yoongi to say yes to the infamous 'yoongi marry me'. you must be so smitten, aren't you— mmp!" your tease was cut short after yoongi shoved a spoon of rice and stew into your mouth with an amused grin.
you glared at yoongi, who chuckled a little before giving you a peck on the cheek, "you're lucky i love you."
genre: fluff; angst; established relationship, idol au; workaholic reader gets pampered by workaholic yoongi
warnings: cursing, banter, slight angst, and a shit ton of fluff ?
word count: 2.2k
author's note i am loving this producer reader au and i will be keeping at it until i throw up from being sick of it :) i hate writing dialogue just for the record, ugh (in any situation, not just fic related stuff) but i'm doing my best! lowkey burnt out and don't have any ideas at the moment so, send away!
summary: wherein yoongi doesn’t want to see you overexert yourself in work, so he takes care of you (or min yoongi's love language)
it was way past midnight.
you were in your studio, spending the fourth night in a row there. the low hum of the air conditioning and the looping track playing from your earphones as your only company.
you were ardently standing there, having a staring contest with the microphone. a side of your huge headphones covering one ear while the other one pulled just slightly above it, not fully concealing the other just in case somebody called out.
[2:24 am] myg: you up?
the text interrupts the quietude of your studio that had been marinating for quite some time now followed by a few notifications after.
[2:24 am] myg: i sent you something. let me know when you get it and let me know
[2:25 am] myg: what you think about it
you sigh. you weren't particularly aware of the time until he texted. only then had you realized how late it was; accounting for the dead building that crept past your studio. but the nature of your job had you getting used to adapting a temporary nocturnal lifestyle that involved sleeping at 9:00 am in the morning and staying up until 4:00 am the next day. you knew it wasn't healthy; you weren't doing the right thing. but honestly, who's ever done the right thing especially when they were so immersed in their work?
[2:32 am] myg: ok i'll drop by
[2:32 am] myg: just need to wrap up
you gather your things and exit the recording booth, stumbling on a few things scattered on the floor. you take a look around your studio and discover how filthy your living situation had become for the past few weeks. filthy was probably an overstatement; you liked to keep things clean, get unnecessary things out of the way. but this was quite grimy compared to what you were used to. should probably clean up before he arrives, you thought.
but you were tired. still not quite in the right mood to do all the tidying—picking up the plastic bottles, rearranging some of the wires that were left tangled on the floor as well as the pieces of clothing left on the couch. he was probably busy, and probably wouldn’t come around for another few hours was, your rough guess.
and so you let it be. grabbing your laptop and sit on the couch, pushing away some of the clutter, deciding to do the rest of your work there instead. but that turned out to be a bad idea because just a few minutes in, your eyes started to get heavy and you started to lean on the couch more often. a week's worth of sleep was chasing you and decided that now was the time to pay your debt.
you should have also know better that whatever yoongi says, yoongi does; because you hear somebody input the password to your door and it opens a few seconds later to reveal a yoongi.
"hey," he peeks into the door, voice quiet. you could hear the slight strain it had. he was probably working as much as you were before he came.
"hey." your eyes follow him as he switches his outside shoes for inside ones, not anticipating a visitor, at least not for a couple more hours. yet you still forced a flat, evidently tired, smile out of your face.
you tear a piece of your earphones out of your ear, legs crossed, laptop open, and hair a mess, as if it had been ruffled around or pulled, before in desperation of extracting an idea from your brain.
he carefully settles in. the familiar natural scent he had mixing with his perfume creeps into the room. a bag in one hand, the other on the door frame, guiding him as he goes inside.
"you ate yet?"
"i think," you answer without looking at him and you scoot over to the side, gathering the scarves, jacket, and other clothes to make room for him to sit down.
"i'm asking if you ate." he chuckles, amused at your attempt to dodge the question, twist it in a way that makes sense but also doesn't.
he sits next to you, clothed arm brushing against your shoulders. the bag he was holding with his left hand settles down onto the table, right next to her notebook and a pile of paper, discarded lyrics you couldn't quite let go of just yet.
"heard from hobi that you might still be in here."
"hmm," a mindless reply. you were tired.
he gradually leans forward, looking at what you had on your screen for a few seconds before quickly batting his eyes to look at you instead. you could feel his breathing: slow, deliberate, exhausted. you pursed your lips, trying to think of something, anything else other than the presence next to you.
how you wished something as simple as a look from him wouldn't throw you off so much, but it does, and he knows it.
you give up, sighing. you lean back, resting your head against the wall. he takes this chance and gently removes your hand from the mouse, taking it into his, cautiously moving the track back to the beginning. he takes just a quick glance at you to which you nod at for consent, and plays it.
the sound fills the small space, clearly unfinished—evidently spent. it sounded like what you had envisioned, but just not in a way that satisfied you, still missing something.
"not bad. good enough for you to take a break." he comments hoping to sway you, peering at your reaction.
you grimace.
you turn to him and see that he had a look on his face. it was quick, but it was there. one that you knew all too well. just confirming something that you had been trying to put off for so long now: you were burnt out, and you desperately needed a break.
"god, this is fucking with me, really." you murmur, taking your hands to your face, pushing some stray hair away and taking a large inhale, exhausted.
this was one thing that you had in common. both similarly enamoured in creating, making sure every second in a piece had its purpose. something that was worth talking about. sewing beats and melodies into precise proportions that felt comfortable and snug but ones that also suffocated and strangled when it needed to.
however, you also periodically became too absorbed that in return you just shut everything off—especially him. not knowing when to return; only ever stopping when he has nothing left to give, pushing past the limit. you had always been so conscious about it, pointing it out whenever you see the him spiral.
but sometimes it's just too much.
and he doesn't always have the right words to say that he was descending again. dubious on how he should tell you that it was getting bad again. so bad that whenever he sinks, he unknowingly brings you with him.
it happens frequently than he would have wanted and starts with a few nights spent overtime in the studio that turn into weeks, bad days that come one after the other.
it occasionally brings out the worst in him. But no matter how difficult he can get, how critical—especially to himself, you just kept on understanding; bringing your light, sharing it for the both of you. never asking nor wanting anything in return.
and it had become yoongi's silent oath to not let you wander the same path. not wanting to see you in situations he has experienced before. loving you in quiet, covert ways—the way he knows how.
"you should eat." he suggests, yawning as he stretches his arms.
"what's this?" you pry open the bag and immediately got blown away by the savory smell you've always had during nights like these but was too tired to make it yourself: mandu-guk.
you sigh dramatically, exaggeratedly, and turn to face yoongi who was radiating nervous energy; he knew what was coming.
all of a sudden, you take his face and cup it in your hands, looking at him like how you would encourage a child who took their first steps. you tell him how grateful you are in a melodramatic way and immediately pepper his face with kisses, leaving him squirming underneath. 'yah, yah, stop!' he scolds with the biggest smile on his face.
he absolutely loathes receiving physical affection—or any kind of affection, really. and would prefer to show it through small gestures, the complete opposite of how you were. and so, it became your mission that whenever you do, you would crank it up ten times more to sway him, purposefully annoying him, despite finding it quite cringe as well.
but seeing the big smile on this man tells you he's right exactly where he wants to be. he smiles, proudly. deep inside this is what he came here for.
you eventually settle after wrestling him down with your hugs and appreciation as he questions his life choices beside you, while you enthusiastically open up your food.
you pick up utensils he's included inside the bag and take a bite, and then a few more.
"good?"
you just nod and give him a thumbs up, savoring the well-curated taste in your mouth.
it's your pout and the puppy eyes that come with it that does him. you try to trigger any kind of reaction in him just for fun. jutting down your lower lip and bat your eyelashes the best you can, as you await his reaction: scrunching his face in horror. you complete it with the most ridiculous aegyo voice as well.
"aww, thank you ba-"
"don't" he interjects, but his whole face was completely red. his horror quickly drowned by his laughs, covering his eyes with calloused hands—proof of his hard work. and you try your best to gulp down a giggle but ridiculously fail.
you thought of how lucky he was to have a girl that could make him cackle his heart out ;)
you eagerly consume the meal he made just for you while he watches, like a mother who says 'i'm full just watching you eat' when you invite him to eat with you—that line, he actually says.
in the meantime, he silently starts to clear out the table bombarded with paper scraps and plastic bottles that should have been discarded a long time ago. his arms reach out past you and cautiously clears them out, making sure to not disrupt you.
when you tried to dismiss him, saying he doesn't need to and that you will be the one that'll do it later, his brows furrow and insists.
"you're overworking yourself. take a break, hmm?" he says, and asks you which things are still of use to not mistakenly throw them away.
you eventually join him after finishing the majority of your meal, clearing out the clutter and finally tending to your precious cables left tangled on the floor now that you had the motivation and energy to do so.
moments later, you two were back on the couch, peacefully enjoying each other's company. your studio was already looking good. not spotless clean, but better than what it was a few minutes ago.
crossing your arms, resting a leg on top of yoongi's, and leaning your head on top of his shoulders, the temporary tranquility gave you a chance to rest your eyes.
he planted a kiss on your forehead, resting his head atop yours. slowly, you could feel the built-up stress and exhaustion evaporate as you finally had the chance to bask in comfort and surround yourself in a familiar scent.
it was a challenge to try and not fall asleep under such conditions. you were so close to just ignoring the work demanding your attention and drifting off to sleep, but your mind remained locked into the laptop just right in front of you, remembering the deadline pdogg had suggested when tracks should be submitted.
he somehow sensed this and started tracing shapes on your arm to comfort you.
"can't sleep."
"i know. should i turn the lights off?"
you groan.
"no, that's- i have so much to work on, still." you reply, gently freeing yourself from his embrace, although you didn't want to, and directed your attention back to chords and melodies.
yoongi sighs. he learned a long time ago that it's no use trying to convince you to try and rest because you would always decline. stubbornness and persistence being some of the things you also had common.
he does what be can do instead and asks what it was that he could get for you, to which you answered coffee. that was the only thing keeping you from passing out asleep and crashing on your couch. the majority of your bloodstream was probably pure caffeine at this point.
he happily obliges. sitting there, observing, and giving suggestions whenever you asked for it.
you take a look at him every now and then to see him battling his own demons as well: the urge to doze off. you chuckle to yourself, seeing his determination to stay up and be with you, despite your protests.
later on, as other people—normal, sane people anyway—start to get ready for work, you were still wrapping up to go back home, finally. you let out one last sigh in defeat, and crash on top of yoongi, quietly squeezing in, not even wanting to go back home just yet.
and as the building slowly comes back alive, you gradually drift off to slumber.
You're best friends with Min Yoongi and somehow along the way he became a father figure to your daughter.
Yoongi never planned on being anyone’s appa.
He barely planned on being out of bed most days, if he’s honest.
You were his constant first—late-night calls, takeout on the floor, quiet companionship that didn’t ask too much from him when the world already did. He liked you because you didn’t need noise to fill space. You understood him in the pauses.
And then your life shifted.
Suddenly there was a tiny human in your arms, and everything about you sharpened—your priorities, your exhaustion, your love. Yoongi didn’t step back.
He just… adjusted.
At first, he stayed in the background.
He’d sit on the edge of the couch while you fed her, eyes flicking over like he wasn’t trying to stare. He’d bring groceries without asking, leave them on the counter like it wasn’t a big deal.
“You don’t have to keep doing that,” you told him once, watching him unpack formula like he’d done it a hundred times.
He shrugged. “I was already out.”
“You hate going out.”
“…I was already out,” he repeated.
You didn’t argue.
He got used to her faster than he expected.
Faster than you expected.
It started small.
Holding her while you showered.
Rocking her absentmindedly while scrolling on his phone, only to realize ten minutes later he’d been swaying the entire time.
Letting her grab onto his finger—tiny, impossibly strong grip—and just… staying there.
“She’s got you wrapped already,” you teased one night.
He scoffed. “She weighs like, what, three kilos?”
“Four now.”
“Still.”
But he didn’t pull his hand away.
Sleep became the biggest thing.
Not his—yours.
Yoongi noticed the way your eyes burned, the way you moved like you were running on fumes and instinct.
So one night, when she wouldn’t settle, he just… stood up.
“I got her,” he said.
You blinked at him. “Yoongi, you don’t—”
“I got her,” he repeated, already taking her from your arms with a surprising amount of confidence.
You hesitated. “She might cry.”
“She’s already crying.”
“…fair.”
He didn’t look at you again, just turned and paced slowly around your living room, her small body tucked against his chest.
And you—despite yourself—fell asleep on the couch.
You woke up to quiet.
That kind of quiet that feels suspicious.
For a split second, panic hit—until you sat up and saw them.
Yoongi, slouched back against the couch now, head tilted slightly, eyes closed.
Your daughter asleep on his chest.
One of his hands was resting protectively over her back, fingers splayed like he’d been making sure she stayed there even in his sleep.
Your chest tightened.
He didn’t even realize what he’d become.
It stopped being a question after that.
He had a key.
He showed up unannounced.
He knew where everything was—diapers, bottles, her favourite blanket.
“You reorganized,” you said one afternoon, watching him move through your kitchen like he lived there.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Made more sense this way.”
You stared at him for a second. “…you’re nesting.”
“I am not nesting.”
“You are absolutely nesting.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite to it.
She started recognizing him.
That was the turning point.
The way her face lit up when he walked in. The way she reached for him, little arms grabbing, tiny voice babbling excitedly.
Yoongi tried to play it cool.
Tried.
But you saw it—the way his shoulders softened every time. The way his voice dropped an octave when he spoke to her, quieter, gentler.
“Hey,” he’d murmur, taking her from you like it was second nature. “You good today?”
She’d just grin at him like he hung the moon.
The first time it happened, it wasn’t even a big moment.
No build-up. No warning.
Just a normal afternoon.
You were in the kitchen, Yoongi on the floor with her, letting her crawl all over him while he half-heartedly protested.
“You’re heavy,” he muttered as she climbed onto his stomach.
She laughed, patting at his face with clumsy hands.
“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed. “You’re strong, I get it.”
You smiled to yourself, leaning against the counter, watching them.
And then—
“Appa.”
Everything stopped.
Yoongi froze.
Completely.
“…what?” he said, barely above a whisper.
Your daughter just blinked at him, then smiled again, like she’d said the most natural thing in the world.
“Appa,” she repeated, clearer this time.
Your breath caught.
Yoongi didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
“She—” he started, voice cracking slightly. “She didn’t—did she just—”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “She did.”
He looked at you like you needed to confirm it was real.
Then back at her.
Then back at you.
“I didn’t teach her that,” he said quickly, almost defensive.
“I know you didn’t.”
“I didn’t—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “That’s not—”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence.
Because she reached for him again.
“Appa.”
That did it.
Something in his expression broke open—not messy, not overwhelming, just… quiet and deep and completely unguarded.
His hand came up slowly, almost unsure, brushing her hair back from her face.
“You can’t just say things like that,” he murmured to her, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.
She giggled.
Didn’t understand a word.
You stepped closer, kneeling beside them. “You okay?”
He let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck in his chest for years.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
His eyes flicked to yours, something vulnerable sitting right there.
“That’s… a big word.”
“I know.”
“She shouldn’t—” he started, then stopped himself.
You tilted your head. “Shouldn’t what?”
“Call me that,” he said quietly. “I’m not—”
“You are,” you cut in gently.
He shook his head. “I’m not her—”
“I’m not saying you’re replacing anyone,” you said, just as soft. “But you’re here. You’ve been here.”
He looked down at her again, at the way she was clutching his shirt, completely content in his space.
“She chose that,” you added.
That hit.
You saw it land.
Because Yoongi had never been someone who believed he deserved things easily.
Least of all something like this.
“…appa,” she mumbled again, already distracted, tugging at his sleeve.
He huffed out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
Then, carefully—so carefully—it was almost like he was afraid of doing it wrong—
He adjusted her in his arms.
Held her a little closer.
“Yeah?” he murmured, voice low and steadying. “You calling me?”
She beamed.
And Yoongi—
Min Yoongi, who kept his world small and controlled and guarded—
Steve Harrington had always looked forward to meeting his soulmate. But you? Not so much.
pairing:steve harrington x mayfield!reader
words: 4.1k
contains: fluff, angst, soulmate au, soulmarks, friends to lovers, brief mention of death of a sibling, mention death of a romantic partner, grief, female reader, no use of y/n (steve calls reader mayfield), she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: 3k followers special request by @beainabottle2 | first fic for the 3k followers special! i love soulmate au's so i couldn't leave this one as just a blurb! requests are still open until wednesday 28th may 5pm bst. please send in blurb requests here ✨
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Steve Harrington had a habit of noticing everyone's soulmark. He couldn't help it. Ever since he was told about the concept of soulmates, ever since he had learned that there was someone out there destined to be with him, he wanted to find his person. He wanted to find the person whose soul was intertwined was his, the person who had a mark in the shape of an anchor on their wrist that was identical to his own.
He had thought a lot over the years about what the anchor meant. Soulmarks tended to hold significance to where soulmates would first meet and so, Steve first thought that he would perhaps meet his soulmate on a cruise. His parents had taken him on many cruises as a child and so the idea wasn’t completely ridiculous. He had believed in that idea so much that he hadn’t really considered any other options. That was until his first day at Scoops Ahoy!
The moment he had seen the slightly obnoxious bright blue and butter yellow signage, Steve’s eyes were instantly drawn to the red anchor that sat between the S and the A. It was near identical to the anchor that had appeared on his wrist at ten years old. It was then Steve realised he had been dead wrong, that he wasn’t meant to meet his soulmate on cruise at sea. He was going to meet his soulmate here—at the job where he made $3 an hour and where he was forced to wear a sailor uniform.
Steve spent his summer slinging ice cream for kids with sticky fingers, begrudgingly giving Erica Sinclair free samples and checking the wrist of almost every woman who walked into the ice cream parlour. Days slipped into weeks and yet—Steve never lost hope.
And so, when he first met you—Max’s older sister who had been dragged along to buy her sister ice cream—of course his eyes had shifted down in the hopes of seeing your wrist. But you had been wearing an abundance of bracelets and he couldn't see whether or not you had the mark.
Still, he held out hope anyway because you were pretty and he felt a warm, fluttering feeling in his stomach when he was near you. A feeling his mother had once told him that he would only feel when his soulmate was near.
But you gave nothing away—no indication that you felt that feeling too or that you even noticed his own soul mark.
Steve held out hope that one day he'd see it on your wrist.
And he did—at your step brother Billy's funeral.
He saw it only for a few, brief moments as the sleeve of your blouse dipped while you wiped away your tears. But it was there and it was undeniable—the anchor that was identical to his own etched into the skin on your wrist.
Of course he didn't tell you then. You were grieving and it wasn't the right time. Still, he let you cry on his shoulder, he became a friend—just a friend—who was there when you needed him. He helped to get you a job at Family Video when you worried about your family's finances and he became your ride home from work. But still, Steve didn't tell you and it was eating him alive—being friend zoned by his own soulmate. He was just biding his time and maybe, just maybe, Steve Harrington was fucking terrified that you already knew and that there was a part of you that was disappointed that the universe had decided you belong together.
And so, Steve Harrington kept the fact that you were his soulmate to himself. For now.
Max Mayfield usually came along to Family Video with her skateboard tucked under one arm just before closing time. It had become routine for her over the past few months—skating after school and letting the hours slip by and then heading to the video store so Steve could give you both a lift back to the trailer park. It had been a routine ever since you had scolded her for skating home late at night. She had huffed at the time, called you paranoid but still—she showed up to the video store after every skate boarding session and got into Steve’s beamer with no complaint.
Whenever Max would walk into the video store, she would always head straight for the horror section. You had told her, perhaps a hundred times, that there was no way you were going to let her rent The Slumber Party Massacre or Friday the 13th but still—Max just gravitated towards it.
The sound of Cloudbusting by Kate Bush blared through her headphones. Max hummed the words under her breath as she picked up a tape for The Evil Dead, flipping it over to read the back.
“You know your sister isn’t going to let you rent that, right?”
Max only just hears Steve’s voice over her music. She rolls her eyes and doesn’t put the tape away.
“Whatever Harrington," Max replied with a small huff, pulling her headphones down to rest around her neck before casting a quick glance over at Steve who was restocking a nearby shelf. “I can still look, can’t I? Or is that illegal now?”
Steve opens his mouth to reply but honestly—trying to outwit Max Mayfield was something he simply could not do eight hours into his shift.
“Why don’t you check out the more age appropriate films?” He asks, glancing over to the front counter where you were going through the end of shift returns box while Robin talked your ear off about her most recent Vickie update.
“Like what?” Max asked, uninterested. “Annie?”
Steve very nearly laughed but managed to stop himself, pursuing his lips as he placed My Bloody Valentine back onto the shelf.
“Funny,” Steve murmurs, lips twitching slightly as he looks down at Max. “No, I was thinking something more like… The Goonies or—”
“You sound like just my sister,” Max mutters, her blue eyes bright as they flicker over to Steve with a mischievous look on her face. “No wonder you two are soulmates.”
The tapes Steve had been holding all clatter to the floor. Both you and Robin look over at the noise while Max didn’t even bother to hide her amusement.
“Are you good over there, Stevie?” Robin calls out to Steve as he scrambles to pick up all of the tapes he had just dropped, his face burning an impressive shade of red. You meanwhile were looking over at Max in surprise, having only just realised that your sister was in the store.
“Yeah! Sorry—butter fingers!” Steve calls back as he shoots Max a look that plainly says ‘shut up’.
Max sends you a quick smile in acknowledgement before turning to look back at Steve who was now blushing a shade of red that Max did not know he was even capable of turning.
“How did you—”
“—oh, come on Steve,” Max huffs, though Steve can’t help but notice how she speaks in a low voice, eyes flickering back over to you as though making sure you couldn’t hear. “I’m not an idiot, you have the same soulmarks—”
“—I never said you were an idiot,” Steve says quickly as he shoves the last tape back onto the shelf before turning to look at Max fully. “And that’s just a coincidence—”
“—you have an anchor. She has an anchor in the exact same place. You met at Scoops—none of that is coincidence.”
Steve opens his mouth to respond and then quickly closes it again because she was right. When it came to soulmates, there was no such thing as coincidences.
“Plus you act all…pathetic when you’re around her.”
Steve's ears turned red, almost perfectly matching the shade that his cheeks had turned.
“I do not—”
“—you do,” Max tells him with a faint smile. “Really pathetic, actually.”
Steve huffs in response and once again, his eyes shift over to you—mostly so he could make sure you weren’t listening to his conversation with your sister but also because you looked ridiculously pretty. You always did but today you’d done something different with your hair and—
“Exhibit A,” Max says, clicking her fingers directly in his face to snap him out of whatever trance you had unknowingly sent him into. “Staring at her like a lovesick puppy.”
“Well she is my soulmate,” Steve says, his heart thumping in his chest because it was the first—the very first time—he had said those words out loud because he hadn’t told anyone. Not even Robin (though, admittedly that was because Robin had an inability to keep a secret due to the fact she had a tendency to ramble when nervous).
“Surprised you worked it out,” Max says under her breath.
Steve has to force himself to take a deep breath, having to remind himself that Max was going through a lot. Between witnessing Billy’s death, your stepdad leaving, the move to the trailer park and a breakup with her own soulmate, it was no wonder she was a little more brash than usual.
“Yeah well, your sister doesn’t seem particularly fussed about having me as a soulmate,” Steve says finally, looking away from Max and instead looking at the tape still clutched in her hand. “Probably realised it was me and—”
“—it’s not you,” Max interrupts him quickly in a tone so surprisingly soft that he looks back at her. “Trust me she’s just—she’s just skeptical, she doesn’t really—”
“—believe in soulmates?” Steve finishes, jaw tightening because he had always had a feeling that you didn’t by the way your mark was always covered or the way you couldn’t even pretend to be interested when a soul couple would come into the store and share their story.
Steve had never hoped before that he was wrong but as he waited for Max to respond, he prayed he was. But when she says nothing in response—he knew he was right and the feeling that began to burn in his gut could have killed him.
Max, perhaps noticing the heartache written all over his face, quickly adds, “It—it’s a long story but if you talk to her—”
“—no,” Steve says quickly, shaking his head and pulling himself together in the blink of an eye. “I’m not going to make her do something she clearly doesn’t want to do.”
Max’s expression changes, she looks slightly panicked and shakes her head. “No Steve, you don’t understand—”
“—you should put the tape away,” Steve tells her, nodding towards The Evil Dead tape that Max was still holding. “Before your sister sees.”
And with that, Steve heads towards the stock room before Max could see the way his hands were shaking.
You couldn’t help but notice the distance that Steve Harrington had carefully placed between the two of you.
He still gave you a ride home from work, still laughed along with you and Robin at work, still showed up to the trailer unannounced with a bag full of groceries for your mom. But Steve no longer lingered, he stopped calling to tell you about whatever story you had missed from your day off at the video store, he stopped giving you those one armed hugs before he went on his lunch break that had become part of your routine. You were beginning to feel his absence like it was a physical ache.
And so, you sit in the passenger seat of Steve’s beamer after a shift at Family Video and two weeks of distance wondering whether or not to ask Steve if you had done something wrong.
Perhaps your nerves were a little too obvious because barely two minutes into the car journey, Steve was looking over at you.
“You gonna stop bouncing your leg like that?” He asks. “It’s distracting.”
“Sorry,” you mutter quickly, eyes fixed determinedly on the road ahead as you place your hands on your knees to try and stop them from moving.
It’s quiet then—aside from the gentle hum of the radio, Time After Time filling the silence between you and Steve.
“You okay?” He asks suddenly, shooting you a hesitant glance before focusing back on the road. “You’re a little quiet.”
You chew your bottom lip between your teeth as you consider your reply. You could be honest with him—you could tell him that you were worried that you had done something wrong, that you had felt the distance Steve had put between you. How that distance had started to feel like a chasm and you didn’t know what to do.
Or you could lie.
You choose the latter.
“Long shift,” you say finally with an attempt at a smile.
It was a lie and you both knew it.
But Steve doesn’t press you further. That somehow hurt more than the distance.
Your leg begins to bounce before you could stop it. Steve glances at you again.
“You’re doing it again—”
“—did I do something wrong?” You burst out suddenly, the feelings in your gut swirling in a dangerous storm.
Steve’s eyes remain on the road but you see the way his face blanches ever so slightly. “Wrong?” He repeats in a voice of forced composure. “Why would you think—”
“—because y-you’re different, Steve,” you say finally, your heart racing as you turn to look at him fully. “You don’t—you’re treating me differently and I just—I’m trying to understand what on earth I did wrong.”
“You didn’t—”
“—then why won’t you look at me, Steve?”
You can feel the anger beneath your words, a tone that surprised even you. But still, Steve doesn’t say anything and you simply watch as his jaw tightens, as his knuckles gripping onto the steering wheel turn white.
“Because I’m driving, Mayfield.”
You feel cold at the use of your surname. In all the time you had known Steve, he had never called you by your last name. It felt cold and distant and it made something in your gut turn uncomfortably.
“Pull over,” you say suddenly.
“What?”
“I said pull over.”
“Are you insane? I’m not—”
“Pull over, Harrington or I swear to god that I’ll open the door and—”
“Alright!” Steve snaps back, his clipped tone matching your own as he signals before he pulls over into the side of the road. “I’m pulling over, happy?”
You wait until Steve’s car is stationary before you decide to answer him. “Ecstatic.”
And then—without another word, you rip open the passenger side door and climb out of his car without another word.
You make it perhaps ten feet up the road before you hear Steve calling after you.
“Where are you going? Mayfield! Have you lost your damn mind?—”
“—Mayfield?” You repeat, anger flaring as you turn around to face Steve, only to find him barely two feet away from you. You try not to think about the way your stomach turns at that. “Since when do you call me Mayfield, Steve?”
Steve blinks, seeming to realise his misstep as he rubs a hand over his face in frustration.
“I—I don’t know, I just—”
“—can you just tell me what I’ve done wrong? If I’ve pissed you off or annoyed you or—”
“—you haven’t,” Steve says too quickly. “I’m just—”
“—you’re just calling me Mayfield and avoiding me like the plague?”
“I’m not avoiding you, I just—”
“—you’re just, what, Steve?”
“I’m just upset, okay?” Steve exclaims angrily, and the exhaustion in his voice silences you.
You blink, your eyes flickering over his face as you try and understand his anger.
“Upset?” You repeat, confused, hurt and everything in between. “Why are you—”
“Because I can’t be around you anymore!” He snaps, your name cracking at the end of his sentence like a whip.
Your blood starts to run cold. The skin on your left wrist itches.
“Why?” You ask, your shoulders slumping slightly as you look at him, feeling something inside of you break a little.
Steve looks as though he was bracing himself, scrubbing another hand over his face before he takes a deep breath and looks at you properly this time.
“I can’t—I can’t be around you because—I know. I know you’re my soulmate.”
The air in your lungs disappears. The words seem to echo around you as you try to digest exactly what Steve had just said. And your eyes, your traitorous eyes, move down to the exposed skin of his wrist where the anchor identical to yours was etched into his skin.
“How did you—”
“—I saw it. At Billy’s funeral.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realise you had been holding, glancing down to the wrist you had kept covered for years. The mark you had tried to ignore since you were thirteen years old.
“Steve, I—”
“You knew, right?” Steve asks, taking a single step towards you as his eyes hold you captive. “You knew—you knew I was your soulmate, didn’t you?”
You had the urge to lie, to tell Steve that no, you had no idea. But one look in those big, brown eyes and you knew you couldn’t.
You give a small, barely there nod.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I knew the day I first met you at Scoops.”
Something in Steve’s expression cracks—a mix of hurt and betrayal that words couldn’t quite explain.
“Then why—why didn’t you say anything?” He asks you, your name falling from his lips at the end of his question like it had always belonged there. “I mean—we’re soulmates and you didn’t say anything.”
You look away for a brief moment, a sense of shame mixing with that fluttering, warm feeling in your gut you had always felt around Steve. The feeling you had tried so hard to ignore.
“Is it me?” He asks you, taking another hesitant step closer to you. You can see the hurt, the desperation in his eyes as he watches you. “Were you—were you that disappointed that it was me who was your—”
“—no!” You say quickly, your throat thick with emotion. “God, no. Of course I wasn’t disappointed. I mean, you—you’re—you’re great. Amazing, actually.”
Steve’s expression softens slightly, eyes slightly glassy as he looks at you. “Then why didn’t you say anything? Is it because you don’t believe in soulmates?”
You flex your fingers before you dig your nails into the skin of your palms, your breathing starts to feel uneven.
“It’s not that I don’t believe in them,” you say finally, swallowing a lump in your throat as you force yourself to look at Steve. “I ju—just—I’m scared.”
“Scared?” Steve asks, perplexed as his eyes flit down to watch the way your nails bite into your skin. His own hands twitch as though he was desperate to reach for you. “Why would you be scared?”
You want to look away, you almost do but something in Steve’s eyes keeps you there.
“Becuase my mom met her soulmate when she was young too,” you tell him in an uneven voice. “And he—something really bad happened to him.”
You don’t elaborate and Steve doesn’t press you further, but you don’t miss the way he looks at you with softer eyes.
“Then she met my dad who hadn’t ever met his soulmate and they fell in love and things were great for a long time. She had me, then she had Max. And we were happy. But then he met his soulmate—some random woman in a grocery store while me and Max were standing right there. And things just—things fell apart pretty quickly after that. My mom met Neil and she—she was never the same. All because she was trying to fill a hole that couldn’t be filled—her soulmate dying. The person she was meant to have forever with only being in her life for two years. Even in the years with my dad that were good, I could tell she—she was looking at my dad and seeing something else, seeing somebody else. An—and when you know what someone goes through when they lose their soulmate—I just—I don’t want to go through that.”
You hadn’t realised that tears had started falling before it was too late, your voice breaking and traitorous tears beginning to slip down your cheeks.
“Baby,” the word falls so naturally from Steve’s lips that it makes your heart feel lighter. A small sob escapes you before you could stop it and Steve doesn’t hesitate this time in taking another step closer, lifting his own hand to wipe away your tears so gently it very nearly took your breath away. “You don’t—you’re not gonna lose me—”
“—you can’t promise that, Steve,” you say, fighting the urge to push him away from you—because the place where his skin was touching yours felt hot enough to burn. “You—I've seen you. You throw yourself into danger without a care in the world! You act as though you’re disposable and I ca—can’t watch it happen, Steve, I can’t—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve hushes you softly, two large hands cupping your cheeks gently and rendering you powerless to his touch. “I know, okay? I can’t promise that—that something bad might not happen to me. Or to you. Or to both of us. Okay? I know that. But—but you’re my other half and no matter how much time we have together, whether it’s seventy years or seventy days, I promise you that I’m in, one hundred per cent.”
“If you need time or space. I’ll give it to you. I swear. But I’m not going to let you throw this away because you’re scared. Baby, I’m scared too. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to give this everything I got because—what if we do get seventy years? What if we get seventy great years? You really gonna throw all that away because you’re scared?”
You swallow and you try to look away from him, his words too intense but Steve doesn’t let you—his hands keeping your head gently between palms.
“But what if—”
“—if we don’t get them then what we do get will be beautiful anyway,” Steve tells you in a voice so fierce yet so certain, you found yourself unable to look away from him even if you wanted to. “I can’t promise you a lot, but I can promise you that.”
The fear still lingered in your gut—the place it had lived since you had first walked into Scoops Ahoy! to see your soulmate in a sailor uniform. The fear that kept you up at night, that imagined over and over again what those Russians had done to Steve to leave his face and body black and blue. The fear that kept those bracelets covering your soulmark for years.
But alongside that fear was that feeling that you had never been able to shake—that warm, fluttering feeling whenever Steve was near. The one that made you realise that home wasn’t a place, that it wasn’t Hawkins nor was it California—that home was Steve Harrington.
And in the end, it was that feeling that won.
Your hands move without you thinking too much about it, fisting the front of his vest as you tug him closer. And when your lips met his, it was like two pieces of a puzzle slotting together, like the sea kissing the shore, like everything had finally fallen into place.
Steve’s hands find their way into your hair as he kisses you back with lips so smooth that you couldn’t think straight. Everything else had ceased to exist and all that remained Steve and his lips on yours, You barely even register that you were kissing Steve Harrington on the side of the road—that cars were driving by and honking at the two of you as his other hand rested on your waist to pull you even closer.
It was only when you felt droplets of rain beginning to fall that you finally pulled away from each other.
“Is it really starting to rain?” You ask, laughing as you look up to feel the rain falling onto your skin like a million tiny kisses. “Right now?”
Steve smiles, watching the smile break out onto your face as the rain starts to fall even harder. His fingers gently wrap around your left wrist, tugging down your bracelets to expose your soulmark before lifting it up to press a gentle kiss to the anchor that lived on your skin, the mark glowing golden beneath his lips.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence when it comes to soulmates,” Steve mutters against your skin.
“Maybe you’re right,” you whisper back softly with a faint smile. “Now should we get out of the rain?”
Steve hums, considering your question as he looks back at you. “Maybe just after—”And then before you could even breathe, his lips were back on yours. You let out a gasp of surprise and the rain fell even harder around you, but you didn’t pull away. Because this was right where you and Steve were always meant to be.
summary: when someone calls for steve's help, he'll come running. when you call for it, he would burn the world down to get to you. but is it too late? will he never get to tell you the words he's been dying to confess?
w/c: 1.1k
warnings/tags: hurt/comfort, angst without a happy ending, injury detail and blood, probably innaccurate descriptions of patching someone up lol, somewhat ambiguous ending
a/n: i know like everyone writes a fic about steve finding you in the upside so this is me throwing my hat in the ring! hehe, hope you enjoy xx
˚｡⋆₊ ꨄ₊ ⋆｡˚
“Steve!”
At first, he thinks it’s just an illusion. A trick his ears have been playing on him, from the years of damage the Upside Down has given him.
“Steve!” It rips through the spore-ridden air again, distant but desperate.
“Did you guys hear that?” He turns from left to right trying to find the sound, as Dustin and Nancy blink back at him in total confusion.
“Steve, help!” And this time, he knows one thing. It’s not an illusion. And it’s not just anyone calling. It’s you. His feet pick up before anyone can even respond, chasing a lead that’’s barely there.
“What the hell?” Dustin calls from his side but he can’t hear anything but your voice. He’s zeroing in on it like a bat, speeding over vines, through trees, all in search of you. In four years of high school, Steve has won many sports events; basketball, swimming, even athletics. Still, never has he moved as fast he is now. He’s practically airborne, leaping through the Upside Down. His heart speeds far too fast and he can’t tell if it’s because of the running or because he can’t hear your voice anymore. But he’s close to you. He can just sense it.
What he sees when he reaches you, makes him stop in his tracks. Even in the dark, the color blinds him.
Red.
Blood seeps from your side from the spot where you’re laying on the ground. Next to you, there’s a burning demo carcass.
He’s beside you instantly. Your eyes are wide, an arm weakly reaching out to him.
“Steve.” You say, but this time your voice is breathless. “I yelled for you.”
“I’m here. I’m sorry, I’m here now.” He presses one hand to the wound, but it feels useless. There’s so much blood. “What happened? Where is everyone?” This isn’t right. You agreed not to split from your groups. He’s going to murder whoever dared to leave you alone.
“It’s my fault.” You whisper, reading his mind even in this state. “I-I thought…” You can barely speak through your laboured breathing. “Demo…snuck up on me.” Your lip trembles, tears flooding your face. “I’m sorry.” You whimper. That’s when your eyes start drooping.
“No. No, no, no. Stay with me, ok?” What happened doesn’t matter, he needs to get you out. You can talk about everything else when you’re better. Because you will get better. That’s when he’ll tell you the truth. The words he’s been holding in for far too long. He doesn’t want to spend a single moment more daring to pretend that you're only friends. That what he feels for you is even close to platonic and that this situation isn’t his worse nightmare.
“Holy shit.” Dustin’s voice draws Steve’s attention. The rest of the group have found you, and share equally shocked looked on their faces.
“This is my fault, I looked away for two second and you were gone-“ Robin begins to ramble, but Steve shoots one glare at her and she shuts up.
Nancy is next to you two instantly. Steve diligently follows her instruction, tearing off his shirt to make a makeshift tourniquet and wrap it tightly around you. You groan as he does and he’s whispering apologies to your forehead, like somehow that will be enough to make this better. His voice has been your anchor throughout the entirety of this Upside Down ordeal and you, his. But right now, the way it shakes only breaks your heart. You shouldn’t have tried to wander off on your own. You make the mistake of looking down to your wound, and feel the need to throw up.
You breathe out. “I don’t think-”
“No.” Steve doesn’t even let you suggest it. “You just killed a demogorgon on your own, we can get you through this.”
There’s a rustle from a distance. Another monster on its way.
“We have to move.” Nancy stands, cocking the shotgun in her hand.
“I don’t think I can-“ Steve is lifting you up before you can say it. “Hey, no.” You protest weakly. “I’m- The gate’s too far away.” Steve is strong, sure, but not that strong. All you’re going to do is slow him down. And beyond that, demogorgons chase blood. And right now, you are their breakfast, lunch and dinner all wrapped into one. But he won’t listen otherwise, pulling you tightly to his chest with a grunt. A roar breaks out through the woods. It’s coming.
“Run. Now!” Jonathan screams.
So everyone does. The wind rushes past you as Steve tries his best to stay upright, and dodge the vines while he still holds you. You are getting out of this alive. He swears it. Why was he stupid enough to even leave you alone? He should’ve stuck by your side. This is all his fault. You can feel his chest moving against your limp head with heavier breaths. Your mind is spinning, the quick movement of your surroundings making your insides feel like they’re in a blender. “You’re gonna be fine. Just fine.” Even as he tries to dodge this monster, he’s looking after you.
And then it happens.
Steve’s foot catches the loose root of a tree and you both go tumbling to the ground. After several hits, he stabilises himself. He can’t even begin to feel his own pain, when he sees you rolled away from him. He dropped you. First, he let you get into this mess and then he dropped you. Can he let you down any more? He scurries over to you, still on his hands and knees. You’re just barely conscious at this point, groaning. “I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.” He pulls your body up, so you’re leaning against a nearby tree.
“S-Steve.” You pant, eyes watering. You look to where the monster is probably still approaching and then back to him. His body splits in two.
“No.” Steve spits. “No! Are you crazy? I’m not leaving you.” But you are too exhausted to argue. Your head rolls back against the tree. “Hey. Hey. Stay awake!” Steve tries, the tears now down his face too.
And suddenly, the others are rushing over to you. Mike says something about how it’s not there anymore, Nancy insists they still need to run, Steve is only looking at you. Because you’ve made up your mind. Every inch of your body hurts. There’s so many voices overlapping and you’re growing more tired by the second. And your side. It stings and you know its still bleeding too much, despite all Steve’s efforts. You just want to sleep. Make it stop. Things are beginning to blur. Your eyes quickly grow heavy, body sinking down. “Don’t. Don’t do this to me- Please…please…No!”
Those are the last words you hear before the world tilts.
Well, almost.
Somewhere, in the blackness, you hear a distant voice echo in the haze.
(Steve Harrington x Dustin's older sister, fem!reader)
Summary: When you get hurt during a secret Crawl into the Upside Down meant to stop Vecna, everything falls apart as your friends rush to get you out alive—and Steve, terrified of losing you, is forced to confront just how deeply it affects him.
word count: 6,597 (oops...)
Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, hospital scene, bad injury, mentions of blood, panic, mild violence, fluff ending though. The details are not accurate to season 5 because lowkey kinda forgot what happened.
A/N: This is for whoever requested it, thanks for the idea and I'm so sorry it took me forever I've just been in a writing slump. Also, if you are the person who sent me a request in my inbox about the marriage and you're reading this, I will be doing that 100% so stay tuned.
*.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.*
The rules of the Crawls are simple.
Stay focused. Stay quiet. And more importantly, above everything else, don’t die.
Of course, nothing about your life in Hawkins has ever been simple, not for a long time. You can thank your genius little brother for that, the one who first dragged you into this mess with demogorgons and Vecna and every nightmare that followed since.
Even now, a few years later, you’re still here—still stuck in it like it never learned how to let you go. And yet… you wouldn’t undo it because somewhere in the chaos, it led you to Steve. It carved out space for friendships you never would’ve had, for people who became something like family when everything else fell apart. It gave you something worth holding onto, even when everything around you was falling apart.
Right now, things still suck. That part hasn’t changed but you are all so close to the finish line. Closer than you’ve ever been. Vecna, the source of all of it, the thing that’s been lurking behind every wrong turn and every broken piece of Hawkins, is finally within reach.
And these crawls? It’s the answer to how you will figure out the rest. Step by step. Dark tunnel by dark tunnel. You’ll do whatever it takes to end him for good.
By now, everyone in Hawkins knows the military owns the town.
Curfews. Checkpoints. Armed patrols rolling through neighborhoods at all hours. Helicopters overhead so often nobody even looks up anymore. Entire streets blocked off behind fences and floodlights while government officials lie through their teeth on the news about “environmental contamination.”
Which means every Crawl has to happen in secret. They have to be quick. Quiet. Precise. That’s what Hopper calls it, like if he keeps repeating the words, the fear will stop leaking in around the edges.
“Controlled,” is how he phrases it.
Like anything about this has ever been controlled. You almost want to laugh when he says it because your hands don’t feel controlled. Your thoughts don’t feel controlled. And that quiet, irrational fear sitting under your ribs—the one that whispers you could die down there—definitely isn’t controlled.
But then you think about why you’re still doing it. Your little brother, who got dragged into this mess long before he understood what it meant, to think he was just a little boy when it all started… and Steve, who somehow ended up in the middle of all of it like he was always meant to be there. The others too, all tangled up in something none of you ever asked for, none of you ever deserved. Sometimes you didn’t understand why the responsibility of saving the world had fallen on you and your friends. You weren’t a hero by any means. So was it selfish to wish this burden belonged to someone else instead?
When your mind dwells on it too much something in you hardens. It doesn’t matter what you feel. It doesn’t matter how fear sits in your chest like a weight. It doesn’t matter if you want to play hero or not, you have to. Because god forbid if something happens—It has to be you. Not them. Never them. You.
You can’t let anything happen to them. You won’t. That part of you isn’t negotiable anymore. It is an instinct, sharper than fear, louder than reason. If something goes wrong down there, it should be you taking the hit, not them. That’s just how it is, you’ve made that up in your mind a long time ago.
So you nod when Hopper talks about “controlled.” You follow the plan. You step into the Crawls anyway, even when everything in you is screaming not to. Hawkins is already too close to breaking, and they’re already too important to lose.
- -
Rain pours hard enough to blur the windshield as the van idles beside the abandoned access road outside Hawkins. The woods beyond the barricades are black and endless, lit only by the occasional sweep of military floodlights in the distance.
Inside the van, nobody talks before the Crawl. Maybe they did at the beginning—back when everything still felt uncertain in a different way, when the first few missions were more fear than experience and silence wasn’t something anyone had learned to rely on yet. But after too many close calls, too many mistakes that almost cost everything, staying quiet started to feel like the safest option, like saying less might somehow mean risking less.
Still, it doesn’t make anything easier. Not when things are getting more serious, more real, and every time you get closer to Vecna it only gets more dangerous, like the Upside Down is learning you just as much as you’re trying to survive it.
The fear stopped being loud weeks ago. Now it sits there, quiet and heavy. It’s left exhaustion that settles deep into everyone’s bones.
“You remember the route?” Hopper asks from the driver’s seat for what feels like the third time, his grip tight on the wheel even though he’s trying to sound steady. He’s the adult, the one supposed to have this under control—but even he can feel it now, the weight of what they’re about to do settling in the van like a second body.
“Jesus, Hopper,” Steve mutters beside you, checking the shells in the shotgun across his lap. “We’ve done this one before.” Steve sounds rather angry in his tone, because that was his nerves talking, too. He’s not actually angry—he’s scared. For whatever reason, emotions tend to get the better of us in situations that put us on edge. Some people lash out in anger, while others fall into sadness. It’s just human nature.
Suddenly, everyone goes quiet again, no one arguing after that. The weight of Hopper’s words cloud your mind like toxic gas you can’t escape. Rain taps steadily against the roof of the van, soft and endless, like it doesn’t care what’s waiting for you out there.
In the dim dashboard light you catch a glimpse of your younger brother. Dustin somehow looks younger and older at the same time. You can’t help but think about how he’s too young for all of this, for the shaking hands and the radio packs he’s forcing himself to focus on. And all you can think about is how you still see him as that little kid with the missing teeth and the big, pearly, gummy smile that used to show up like nothing in the world could touch him, like everything was still simple enough to figure out, and all those innocent times when his only worry was about D&D and nerdy comics.
You nudge his shoulder gently, careful, like you’re trying not to break whatever’s holding him together, and ask, “You okay?”
Dustin Henderson snorts. “Fantastic. Love risking my life in nightmare hell dimensions.”
“That's enough Dustin,” Steve says automatically as if Dustin’s sarcasm triggers him.
You’d noticed that Steve and Dustin had been on edge with each other lately. The two people you cared about most in the world were too busy fighting to see how much it was tearing you apart. Under any other circumstances, you would’ve fought harder to make them stop, but with the possible end of the world hanging over all of you, nothing felt that simple anymore and it felt hopeless, exhausting even to waste your energy on something so stupid.
Dustin stares at him.
Steve pauses.
“…Never mind.”
The truth is, nobody’s doing okay anymore. You know you’re not. Not after three months of Crawls. Three months of sneaking beneath military blockades and slipping into the Upside Down looking for Vecna while Hawkins rots from the inside out.
And Steve—
Steve’s gotten worse too.
Not in an obvious way. He still joked around sometimes, still tried to keep everyone moving like he could talk the fear out of the room. You knew he thought that was his job too—keeping everyone else together, keeping them happy. God, how you wished you could make him understand that he was allowed to fall apart sometimes too.
But even now, he still threw himself between danger and the rest of you without a second thought, like protecting everyone was just another burden he’d silently decided to carry alone.
But it’s also in the way he watches you now. Every Crawl, every hallway, every breathless pause where something could go wrong. He’s always looking at you.
And the worst part is… you know why. Steve knows you. Knows you’d do anything to save your little brother. Knows you’d do the same for him, too, even if you don’t always say it out loud. He’s the same way, has been for a long time now—throwing himself into danger like it’s just part of the job.
But that doesn’t make it okay. It doesn’t make it less terrifying. Because understanding it doesn’t stop the fear from sitting heavy in his chest every time you step into the dark. He’s not just worried anymore.
He’s scared shitless of losing you.
And you could see it in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like he was already grieving you before anything had even happened. Like some part of him was trying to memorize every expression, every laugh, every little thing about you in case it was the last time he ever got to see it.
He couldn’t survive losing you. Not now. Not when the two of you were finally so close to having something beyond all of this horror, a future, a life, something normal. He wouldn’t admit it but Steve had never really been afraid of dying for himself. He was afraid of living in a world that no longer had you in it.
Robin even pulled you aside once after a mission and said, “I’m serious, he looks like he’s five seconds from a nervous breakdown every time you get hurt.”
At the time, it had only been a twisted ankle.
But tonight feels different. You can tell the second Hopper kills the engine.
The air changes.
You know how people in murder mysteries always say they felt it coming? Like it was some sort of gut feeling that chose not to trust anyways. Yeah, well, you felt something too. You just didn’t know what it was yet.
“Alright,” Hopper says quietly. “We move fast. Military patrol passes in eleven minutes. We miss that window, we’re screwed.”
Screwed was putting it lightly. If any of you missed this mark, you’d be dead but no one admits that to themselves.
Everyone grabs their gear.
Steve catches your wrist before you can climb out. “Stay close to me tonight.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I always do.”
“No.” His voice drops lower. More serious. “I mean it.”
There’s something in his face that makes your stomach twist. It's fear. Real fear.
Before you can respond, Hopper opens the van doors. “Move.”
The woods are freezing, cold crawling straight into your bones. Rain soaks through your jacket almost instantly as the group cuts through the trees toward the restricted zone. Somewhere in the distance, a generator hums beneath the crackle of military radios.
Floodlights sweep across the forest every few seconds, cutting through the trees in sharp, blinding arcs. Everyone ducks automatically. By now, the routine is muscle memory. And when you think about that too much, it hits in a way you don’t really let yourself sit with since it shouldn’t be like this. None of you should be here at all. Maybe in another life you’re just normal kids, worried about normal things, not carrying the weight of saving a world that keeps almost ending.
Hopper leads.
Nancy checks the rear.
Robin keeps track of timing.
Steve stays near you. Always near you.
“Same plan,” Nancy whispers. “In and out. We check the western sector for movement and regroup in forty minutes.”
Everyone nods. Then they descend—and you’re just left watching for a second longer than you should, hoping it won’t be the last time you see any of them come back up. Maybe it was wrong to think so negatively all the time, but who could really blame you? You’d all seen things no one was ever supposed to see, lived through horrors that went far beyond normal. After everything that had happened, “okay” didn’t even feel like a real thing anymore.
Crossing into the Upside Down never gets easier, no matter how many times you do it. The cold hits first, sharp and immediate, like the air itself is rejecting you. Then the smell follows. Rot. Blood. Wet decay that clings to everything the moment you breathe it in. If the “walls” could talk, you didn’t think you’d want to hear what they had to say.
And underneath it all, something worse—you can feel it before you even name it. The air doesn’t feel alive here. It feels wrong. Dead in a way that doesn’t stop moving.
You land hard beside Steve at the bottom of the tunnel and immediately hear the distant echoing groans somewhere deep underground. The Upside Down version of Hawkins stretches endlessly ahead in darkness and ash.
Steve instinctively reaches for your hand for half a second before catching himself. Still, his fingers brush yours. “You good?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah.”
He studies your face like he’s checking whether you’re lying. Obviously he can see that a part of you isn’t fine but… who is right now? So he reluctantly nods.
The group moves carefully through the ruined underground corridors beneath Hawkins High, flashlights dimmed low while spores drift through the air like snow.
No monsters.
No attacks.
No sign of Vecna.
Just silence.
That should’ve been fine. But nothing ever really was. Not when that evil son of a bitch Vecna always seemed to have another trick up his sleeve.
Robin notices first. “Do you guys hear that?”
Everyone stops.
Nothing happens.
“That’s the problem,” she whispers.
Steve immediately lifts the shotgun.
The walls twitch, a sick ripple runs through the vines coating the ceiling. Then Nancy sees it first. Her whole expression changes. “Move. Now.”
But it’s too late.
The tunnel behind you seals with a wet, snapping snap of flesh and root and something alive deciding you don’t get to leave. Vines burst across the walls like they’ve been waiting for permission.
Dustin stumbles back. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!”
The lights overhead pop one after another, glass bursting into sparks before the tunnel is swallowed in darkness. Then the screaming starts. It’s a demogorgon. And it’s close. It’s coming straight for you all.
It doesn’t just echo through the tunnel—it fills it. That wet, guttural screech tearing straight through the air as something massive drops from the ceiling in a sudden, violent impact.
“RUN!” Hopper roars.
Everything snaps into motion at once. Gunfire flashes through the dark in sharp bursts. Nancy fires blindly, hitting nothing fast enough. Robin swings her crowbar hard, metal striking something solid—but it barely slows it. The demogorgon moves wrong-fast, snapping forward and missing you by inches, claws raking sparks off the wall beside you.
Steve grabs your arm and yanks you forward. “GO!”
You run.
And it follows. Not rushing. Hunting. Deliberate. It drives all of you deeper into the tunnels instead of toward the exit.
And that’s when it clicks to you. Vecna knows. He’s not just waiting. He set this.
“This is a trap!” Dustin shouts, voice cracking as he runs, barely keeping up as the darkness closes in behind you. The realization hits too late. A demogorgon drops from the ceiling.
“DUSTIN!” you scream.
It lands directly in front of him with a yell so loud the tunnel shakes. Dustin barely gets his hands up before it slams into him, throwing him sideways into the wall hard enough to make the sound echo.
His flashlight skids across the ground, spinning uselessly through the dark. The demogorgon turns immediately. Straight toward him. Focused and ready to kill.
You don’t think for even a second you just act. You move quickly in front of him. “HEY!” while shouting you throw yourself between them just as it lunges.
Pain explodes through your side. Its claws rip across you so violently it feels like being torn open with burning metal. Your breath vanishes instantly. A scream rips out of you before you can stop it. You hit the ground hard.
Somewhere behind you, Steve goes completely silent as he is currently processing what the fuck just happened.
Then—
“No. NO!”
The terror in his voice is instant. Raw. Unrecognizable. The shotgun blast detonates through the tunnel. The demogorgon jerks back with a screech, but it doesn’t go down. It barely even slows. It twists toward Steve for half a second before its attention snaps right back to you.
Like it chose you. Like that was always the plan.
“Get her up!” Nancy shouts.
You try. You really do but the second you push against the ground, agony tears through your ribs so sharply your arms collapse underneath you. The demogorgon lunges again.
Steve gets there first.
He throws himself between you and the creature with the nail bat raised, slamming it across the monster’s face with a roar that sounds more desperate than angry. “GET AWAY FROM HER!”
The creature shrieks.
Steve hits it again. And again.
He’s furious now. Reckless. Swinging hard enough to stagger himself.
“Steve!” Robin screams.
The demogorgon catches the bat mid-swing. Everyone freezes. For one horrible second, neither of them move. Then the creature hurls Steve across the tunnel. He crashes into the wall and drops hard.
“STEVE!” Your voice breaks on his name.
The demogorgon turns back toward you slowly. Its flowered face opens wider, revealing rows of teeth slick with blood. You try to move but the pain immediately tears through your side so violently you nearly black out.
The creature steps closer.
Steve gets between you and it instantly, torn nail bat raised with shaking hands. “Come on,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Come on, you want somebody? Take me.”
The demogorgon pauses. The vines twitch violently beneath its feet, and then, suddenly, the creature backs away. Not defeated. Not afraid. Called off.
At first, the retreat barely makes sense. Demogorgons don’t stop. They don’t hesitate. And then the realization crashes over the group all at once. Vecna never intended to kill anyone here. He wanted panic. Distraction. Chaos. A reminder, carved deep into your all your mind, of exactly how much power he still had and how easily he could unleash it whenever he wanted.
It was a warning not to mess with him anymore—or whatever it is that he’s planning.
And judging by the blood soaking through your clothes, he got exactly what he wanted.
“Shit—shit, she’s bleeding bad,” Dustin says, voice thin with panic.
Steve drops to his knees beside you so fast he nearly slips. His hands hover over your body helplessly, terrified to touch you and terrified not to.
Your breathing comes out uneven and sharp. Everything hurts.
“Hey, hey, look at me.” Steve’s voice is trembling now. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
You try.
His face is pale underneath the grime and blood splattered across his cheek. His eyes look wrecked already.
Nancy kneels beside him immediately, ripping open the medical bag.
“We need pressure on it now.”
Steve presses his hand over your side carefully. The second he does, you cry out. His entire face crumples. “I know. I know, I’m sorry.” He sounds close to panicking himself. “I’m sorry.”
The vines around the tunnel pulse faintly again. Like Vecna’s still watching. Still listening. Steve notices too. And something angry flashes across his face. “Get us out of here,” he says sharply without looking away from you. “Right now,”
“We need to move.”
“She can’t walk,” Dustin says instantly.
“Then I’ll carry her!” Without hesitation, Steve slides one arm beneath your back carefully. The second he lifts you, you cry out. He looks devastated.
“I know,” he whispers frantically. “I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
Sweetheart. In another circumstance it would make your heart melt but you were currently on the verge of what felt like, and probably was, death.
The retreat is a nightmare. Everything hurts. Steve carries you through the tunnels while Hopper and Nancy clear the path ahead. Robin keeps checking behind them for movement while Dustin stays glued to Steve’s side, panic written all over his face.
“You can’t fall asleep,” Steve says for maybe the hundredth time.
“I’m tired,” you mumble against his shoulder.
“Hey, no— no, look at me. You can’t fall asleep yet.” His voice shakes. He’s pleading with you more than commanding, desperation bleeding through every word. “You stay awake. Okay? Stay awake for me, please.”
Blood keeps soaking through his jacket. You can feel it.
So can he.
And the more blood there is, the more frightened he becomes. By the time they reach the outside world again, Steve is breathing hard and it’s not from exhaustion but from panic. Real panic.
He nearly stumbles climbing back through the tunnel into Hawkins.
The rain hits all of you instantly. Cold and sharp.
Robin yanks open the van doors while Hopper starts the engine.
“Go go GO!”
Steve climbs into the backseat with you still in his arms. Dustin scrambles in beside him.
The second the van starts moving, Steve pulls you against his chest and presses both hands harder against your wound.
The drive to Hawkins Memorial feels endless. Rain pounds against the windshield while military sirens echo somewhere nearby.
Nancy keeps looking back from the passenger seat.
“Steve,” you mumble, desperate for relief from something you can’t quite name—the pain, the fear, the awful feeling that everything is slipping away from you all at once.
He doesn’t answer.
“Steve.” you plead again, you’re not sure how much longer you can stay awake.
His eyes are locked on you. Terrified. “You stay with me,” he whispers again. “Please.”
Dustin suddenly starts crying quietly beside him. Which somehow makes it worse.
“I should’ve seen it,” he chokes out. “I should’ve known it was a trap.”
“This isn’t your fault,” you whisper weakly. The last thing you wanted was to ever make your baby brother feel at fault. This was nobody's fault besides that evil son of bitch.
“Yes it is!”
“No,” Steve says sharply.
Dustin looks up.
Steve’s face is streaked with blood and rain and tears. “This is not on you. You hear me?” His voice breaks harder. “None of this is on you.”
Then he looks back at you and completely falls apart again, because your eyes are slipping closed.
“No no no—hey.” He cups your face carefully. “Stay awake, you have to. We’re almost there.”
You try.
You really try.
But everything’s fading.
“I’m begging you. Just stay awake for a little longer, baby.” Steve whispers.
That word nearly destroys you, but somehow you force yourself to stay awake a little longer. One look at everyone’s faces tells you everything you need to know—this isn’t good. The fear in their eyes is impossible to miss and now you’re not sure you’re ready to die yet.
The hospital is in chaos. The military presence in Hawkins means every emergency room is overloaded already. Soldiers crowd the entrance. Backup lights flicker overhead. Nurses rush through the halls carrying supplies while distant shouting echoes from somewhere deeper inside the building.
The second Steve carries you through the doors, people start moving.
“Severe abdominal laceration—”
“She’s losing too much blood—”
“We need a room NOW.”
Hands pull you away from him.
Steve physically resists. “Wait—”
“Sir, let them work.”
“I’m coming with her.”
“You can’t.”
“She hates hospitals—”
“Steve.” Robin grabs his arm before he can actually fight somebody.
He looks wrecked. Completely wrecked. Your blood covers half his clothes, smeared across his hands and soaked into his jacket, and now that the doctors pulled you away from him, he looks utterly lost. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself if he can’t follow.
Dustin stands frozen nearby, looking completely numb. His sister had just thrown herself in front of a demogorgon to save him. That could’ve been him being rushed away by the doctors right now, bloodied and barely conscious, but instead it was you. That realization seems to hit him harder now that his brain is preoccupied. He can’t even bring himself to move, just stares after you with wide, terrified eyes like if he looks away for even a moment, something even worse will happen.
And for the first time since any of this started, Steve looks genuinely helpless. There’s nothing left for him to fight, nothing he can fix, nothing he can throw himself in front of anymore.
He can’t lose you. Not like this. Not after everything. And yet all he can do is stand there and watch as they take you farther away, like that possibility is happening anyway.
- -
Hours pass.
Nobody leaves—how could they? Not when their friend, girlfriend, sister is currently fighting for her life right here. Everyone stays rooted in place, because moving would somehow make it worse, stepping away would mean accepting something none of them are ready to accept.
Hopper eventually forces everyone into chairs while doctors move in and out of surgery doors down the hall.
Steve doesn’t sit. Not once. He paces endlessly through the waiting room, hands tangled in his hair. Every few minutes he asks for updates. Every few minutes he gets nothing.
Dustin eventually breaks around three in the morning. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Steve immediately crouches in front of him. “Hey.”
Dustin wipes angrily at his face. “What if she dies?”
Steve stops breathing for a second.
Just a second.
But it’s enough.
Enough for it to hit him all at once—because he hasn’t let himself say it out loud, hasn’t even let himself think it properly. Not you. Not after everything. Not after you just got dragged away from him with blood on his hands and your name still stuck in his throat.
Dustin notices first. His expression shifts like he already regrets saying it.
So does Robin. Her eyes flick to Steve immediately, like she’s bracing for whatever comes next.
“She’s not gonna die,” Steve says finally.
Too fast.
Too desperate.
Dustin starts crying again anyway.
Steve pulls him into a hug immediately because it’s all he knows how to do right now.
It hits Robin suddenly then, watching the two of them sitting there together in the middle of the hospital at four in the morning.
This is Steve’s family.
Not just friends.
Family.
And losing you would destroy him.
The doctor finally appears just before sunrise.
Everyone stands instantly.
Steve’s face has gone completely pale.
“How is she?”
The doctor pulls off his mask with a tired sigh but he reveals probably the best news of Steve’s life.
“She made it.”
Silence follows. Nobody moves at first, like the words don’t fully register, like if they stay still enough they can keep reality from changing again.
Then Dustin breaks first, the relief hitting him so hard he starts crying. His worst fear— losing his sister—is pushed back a little farther into the distance. Not today. Fate doesn’t get to take you today. Vecna doesn’t win this time.
Robin lets out a sharp, disbelieving swear, half laugh, half shock, like she can’t decide whether to collapse or yell at someone for letting it get that far.
Steve doesn’t say anything. He just closes his eyes. And for a second, it looks like his whole body finally gives out on holding itself together.
“You can see her soon,” the doctor continues. “She’s stable, but recovery’s going to take time.”
Stable. Alive.
That’s all he’s ever wanted to hear. Steve has to lean against the wall suddenly.
Robin grabs his shoulder before he falls.
“You okay?”
“No,” he laughs shakily.
Then quieter:
“But she is.”
—
When Steve finally enters your hospital room, the sun is barely beginning to rise outside. Pale orange light spills through the blinds in thin stripes across the floor. It’s only been a few hours since the demogorgon attack, but to him it feels like days. Days since he last saw your face without blood on it. Days since he knew for sure you were still alive.
For a moment, he just stands there in the doorway staring at you.
You look exhausted. Pale. There are bandages wrapped tightly around your abdomen, machines humming quietly beside you, bruises scattered across your skin. But your chest is rising and falling steadily.
You’re alive.
Steve lets out a breath that sounds almost painful.
“Hey,” you whisper weakly.
That nearly destroys him again.
He crosses the room immediately, grabbing your hand so fast it’s almost desperate. His fingers are cold, trembling slightly against yours.
“I thought I lost you,” he admits, voice cracking completely on the words.
And suddenly you understand.
Not just fear.
Not just panic.
Weeks of it. Months.
Every Crawl. Every fight. Every time the two of you stepped into the Upside Down together, Steve had been waiting for the moment something finally went wrong. Waiting for the second he wouldn’t be fast enough to protect you.
“You’re shaking,” you murmur softly.
He laughs once under his breath, completely wrecked. “Yeah, no kidding.”
Your thumb brushes weakly against his hand. “Steve…”
“No, because I need you to understand something,” he says quickly, eyes glassy. “When they took you away from me, I genuinely thought that was it. I thought the last thing I was ever gonna hear from you was you apologizing to me while you were bleeding out.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “I’m still here.”
Steve bows his head for a second like he physically can’t handle hearing that. He presses your hand against his forehead, breathing shakily.
“You scared the absolute hell out of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” He looks at you immediately. “Seriously, don’t ever apologize for that.”
The room falls quiet for a moment except for the steady beeping of the monitor beside you. Steve keeps staring at you like if he looks away too long, you’ll disappear again.
Then the door opens quietly behind him.
Dustin steps in looking exhausted beyond belief, hair a mess, eyes red and swollen from crying. Robin follows right behind him carrying terrible vending machine coffee.
The second Dustin sees you awake, his whole face crumples.
“You idiot,” he says tearfully. “Do you have any idea how traumatic you are?”
You laugh softly despite the pain. “Hi, Dusty.”
He points at you angrily while already crying harder. “No, absolutely not. You do not get to ‘Hi, Dusty’ me after that.”
Robin snorts loudly from the doorway. “Thank God. One more hour with sad Steve and I was gonna lose my mind.”
Steve rolls his eyes without looking away from you. “Robin.”
“No, seriously,” she continues, setting the coffees down. “This man stared at a wall for like forty minutes. At one point I thought he died too.”
“I was thinking, Robin.”
“You were having a breakdown.”
Dustin carefully hugs you a second later anyway, trying not to hurt you. The second he does, you feel him shaking.
“That could’ve been me,” he says quietly against your shoulder.
Your expression softens immediately. “But it wasn’t.”
“You shouldn’t have had to do that.”
“I’d do it again in a heartbeat."
“Don’t say that.” His voice cracks instantly. “Please don’t say that.”
Steve looks away for a second, jaw tightening hard enough you can see it. Because he knows you mean it. That’s the problem. You would do it again if it meant protecting the people you loved.
Robin gently nudges Dustin after a minute. “C’mon, Henderson. She needs rest before you emotionally flood the entire hospital.”
Dustin wipes angrily at his face. “I hate everyone here.”
“You love us.”
“Unfortunately.”
Eventually, the room settles. Robin and Dustin fall asleep in uncomfortable chairs after hours of refusing to leave. Steve stays beside your bed the entire time. Even when exhaustion is visibly dragging at him, he refuses to let go of your hand.
At some point after dawn, you wake again to find the room quieter. The sky outside has turned soft gold with early morning light. Dustin is snoring against Robin’s shoulder across the room.
Steve is still beside you.
His head rests near your hand on the mattress, eyes closed for the first time in hours, fingers still loosely wrapped around yours even in sleep. Like some part of him is afraid you’ll vanish the second he lets go.
You gently brush your fingers through his hair.
Steve stirs immediately, blinking awake in confusion before his eyes find yours. The panic there disappears almost instantly.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey.”
For the first time since all of this started, you see something different settle across his face. Not fear. Not panic. Relief. Real relief. And when he smiles at you this time, small and exhausted and unbelievably emotional, it feels like maybe—despite everything—you all survived this one.
Steve leans his forehead to rest against yours for a moment longer than he probably realizes. Like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, reality will snap back and take you away again.
“You’re really here,” he says quietly, like he still needs confirmation.
“I’m really here,” you answer, just as soft.
His breath shakes a little. “Okay. Good. Because I swear, if I had to go through that again—”
He stops himself, jaw tightening, like he can’t even finish the thought.
Your thumb brushes his hand again. “Hey. It’s over. I’m okay.”
Steve huffs a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re literally stitched back together and calling that ‘okay.’”
“You can’t classify anything as just ‘okay’ right now, but I'm alive and that counts.”
That earns a real laugh out of him this time, small, but real, and it breaks something tight in his expression. Just a little.
Across the room, Dustin stirs in his chair and groans. “If you two are gonna do emotional trauma bonding, can you do it quieter? Some of us are trying to recover from almost losing a sibling.”
Robin, still half-asleep, immediately throws a pillow in his direction without looking. “Go back to sleep, Henderson.”
“It hit my face.”
“Good.”
Steve doesn’t even look over. He’s still watching you like he’s afraid blinking will cost him something. Then his voice drops again, softer. “When they took you away… I couldn’t think. I just—” He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. “I kept replaying it. Like if I had moved faster, if I had grabbed you sooner, if I—”
“Steve.” You interrupt gently.
He stops.
You tighten your grip on his hand. “You didn’t fail me.”
His eyes flicker, like he wants to argue, like that thought has been sitting in him too long to just disappear.
But you don’t let him spiral.
“I did what I had to do,” you continue. “And I’m here because it worked. Because you all were there. Because we didn’t give up.”
Steve looks down for a second, breathing unsteady. “Still felt like I lost you.”
“I know.”
That quiet answer lands heavier than anything else. The room stays still for a moment after that, the kind of silence that isn’t empty—just full.
Eventually, you shift a little in bed, wincing at the ache in your side. Steve notices immediately, sitting up straighter.
“Do you need anything? Water? I can get a doctor. Or—wait—should I get a doctor?”
“I’m okay,” you reassure him quickly. “Just sore.”
“You’re allowed to be not okay,” he says immediately. “Like, medically speaking, I think you’re supposed to be not okay right now.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
That makes you smile a little, tired but real. Steve notices it like it’s something he’s been waiting to see.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“That.” He squeezes your hand. “Your face doing that thing where you’re actually you again.”
You roll your eyes faintly. “My face has always been me.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean… before. Before I thought I lost you.”
The weight of that hangs for a second.
Then you shift your hand slightly, turning it so you can hold his properly, fingers interlacing more firmly.
“Steve,” you say carefully.
He looks up instantly.
You hesitate, because you can feel how much this matters to him. How much everything hinges on the next few words.
So you choose them slowly.
“I need you to listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
“No more blaming yourself,” you say. “For any of it. For what I did. For what happened. For any of this.”
His jaw tightens again. “That’s not how it works.”
“It is when I’m telling you it is.” That gets a small, almost stunned pause out of him. You continue anyway, quieter but firmer. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not blaming you. And I’m not going anywhere because of what you didn’t do fast enough.”
Steve swallows hard. “You don’t get it. I— I keep thinking if I lost you—”
“But you didn’t.”
Silence again.
Then Dustin, still half-asleep, mutters from his chair, “Can you two stop saying ‘lost you’ every five seconds? We get it, you almost died.”
Robin, without opening her eyes: “He’s right.”
Steve exhales something between a laugh and a sigh. “Okay, yeah. Sorry.”
But his grip on your hand doesn’t loosen. Not even a little.
The morning light shifts slightly in the room, brighter now, softer. The hospital sounds outside begin to pick up—distant footsteps, quiet voices, the normal rhythm of a world that feels way too ordinary after everything you’ve been through.
Steve glances toward the window, then back at you.
“You scared me,” he says again, but this time it’s not as broken. More honest. Grounded.
“I know.”
“And I meant it,” he adds. “You don’t do that again.”
You raise an eyebrow slightly. “That sounds like an order.”
“It is.”
A beat. Then you sigh lightly. “Fine.”
Steve blinks. “Wait. Really?”
“I said fine,” you repeat. “No more reckless hero moments. I would risk my life again like that.”
He looks suspicious immediately. “You’re saying that way too easily.”
“Because I mean it.”
He studies you like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.
Then you squeeze his hand again, softer this time. “I don’t want to scare you like that again either.”
That finally gets him. His shoulders drop a fraction, tension easing just slightly out of him for the first time since you woke up. “Good,” he says quietly. “Because I don’t think I can handle it twice.”
“I’m not planning on it, trust me.” you whisper.
Across the room, Dustin has fully given up and is now asleep again, slumped awkwardly in his chair. Robin is half-leaning against him, also out cold.
Steve notices and huffs a quiet laugh.
“They’re unbelievable.”
“You love them.”
“I do,” he admits. Then looks back at you. “But I was really focused on you for a while there.”
Your smile softens again. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His voice drops. “Kind of still am.”
And for a moment, neither of you say anything else.
Because it’s not needed.
He just stays there, holding your hand like he’s decided that as long as he can feel you there, he can start believing in tomorrow again.
some munch!steve harrington thoughts this evening...
warnings: 18+, shy-ish!reader, oral f!receiving, certified loverboy steve
♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡
Call it devotion, call it curiosity. Call it his ego, if you want.
The need to know exactly what he’s doing to you. To understand it in every possible way: see it, hold it, breathe it in. That distinct aftertaste of the two of you entwined, becoming something shared.
Because once Steve Harrington realizes how easily he can switch from fucking you to tasting you, he never wants to stop.
It’s over for you, really.
He loves the closeness first; chest pressed tight to yours, the solid heat of him anchoring you into the mattress while he fucks those breathless, broken sounds out of your throat. His mouth hovers over yours, sometimes kissing, sometimes just there, close enough that every breath you take turns into his.
His eyes never leave your face. They flicker restlessly, near burning in their intensity to read you, from the tension in your brow to the way your lashes flutter when the angle hits just right.
He’s obsessive about it.
About learning exactly what you like. How deep to go, how slow to drag it out, when to snap his hips a little sharper to make you whine.
He loves telling you how beautiful you are. Loves feeling you clench when he asks if you can hear how wet you've gotten for him.
But even then… it’s not enough.
Because, see, his mind doesn’t stop there.
It starts to wander, fixate.
On the mess he’s making. On that slick, warm drag between you, the evidence of it everywhere—on his fingers, your thighs, soaked into the sheets beneath you.
On what that must look like.
On what you must look like.
On what you must taste like, fuck—
And once the thought takes hold, it doesn’t let go.
His head dips, rhythm faltering as his gaze drags down your body instead of staying locked on your face.
And then he’s sliding out, the sudden absence making your breath catch, that soft, wet sound of his cock slipping free from your pussy.
He mumbles a breathless apology, a gentle hold on, baby, and before you can even process the loss, he’s kissing his way down your body, lips worshiping the swell of your lower stomach, the delicate arc of your hips.
He doesn’t go far—never far—but he just needs to see.
Needs to check.
Needs to know what he did to you. To know what you look like after he’s spent hours making you his—round after round of slow, patient love-making, nothing short of worship—unraveling you piece by piece, then putting you back together the way he wants.
Warm, broad palms settle against your thighs, coaxing them apart.
His thumbs press into your skin, gentle but insistent when he spreads you open.
He just stares for a while, taking in the view like a man starved.
Tongue licking at the corner of his mouth, eyes gone dark at the sight of your swollen pussy; all puffy and fluttering around empty air, gaping from the way he’s stretched you open.
You usually turn away from this kind of intimacy, still a little shy about being seen this closely—but in the rare moments he can get you like this, completely undone and unmoored, he knows he only has a brief moment to take it in, and he makes the most of it.
He can’t stop staring at that fucking gape, can’t help the low groan that slips past his lips when another line of your arousal trickles down and soaks into his sheets.
“Shit, baby...”
And then he’s gone.
Once he starts, he doesn’t hold back.
Can’t, not when he’s down here. There’s always this moment—right before he presses that first, tender kiss to your pussy—where something in him splinters, and the version of him that survives doesn't hesitate.
He always gets a little too into it.
More than he should, probably. Past the point where it’s normal.
It unsettles him, sometimes, how far his mind drifts when it’s just you and him inside it. Things he’d never say out loud, things that'd have his face going red if he lingered on them for too long. Everything he imagines doing to you—doing with you—if he ever let himself lean fully into the feeling.
He loses himself in that thought, same way he loses himself in your pussy. The scent of it, the wet, velvety heat that glides across his tongue as he slowly laps at your entrance. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, squeezes your hips, vision tunneling until everything else fades out, until even his own breathing stops feeling automatic—it breaks into quick, shallow bursts, and he pauses just long enough for the light dizziness to pass before he dives back in for another taste.
Gentle, always gentle at first, savoring your flavor, melting you on his tongue. Though it doesn’t take long for him to get a little carried away—how is he supposed to help it when start squirming underneath him like that, rolling your hips to try and chase his mouth?
“Yeah? Right here?” he murmurs, muffling a smile against your plush warmth, nosing into your clit. A soft laugh follows when your hips buck up into his face.
This is his favorite part—seeing you give in, letting go of the careful restraint you usually carry. He doesn't want you to hold back, never with him.
He moans into you, chasing the quick, erratic motion of your hips with his mouth, sucking at your swollen clit with a pressure that makes you gasp, thighs twitching against his ears.
And when you start to whine—when you start begging for him to come back to you, for him to fill you in a way only he can—he just huffs out a quiet laugh, breath warm against your pussy.
“I know, baby, I know,” he rubs his palm against your thigh, barely pulling his lips away to speak. “Just hang on a sec, okay? I just... just need to taste you—god, you’re so fucking perfect.”
He buries his nose into your mound, takes a deep breath like he’s running out of air, when really it’s just an excuse to linger a little longer. To press closer, inhale your scent in greedy, shuddering pulls, letting it sustain him until the next inevitable return.
When you finally tug at his hair, fingers clenched between sweat-damp strands, demanding kisses with quiet whimpers that make him ache for you all over again, he can’t resist.
How could he?
He lets you drag him back up, mouth parted, chest heaving. His whole face is flushed, nose and cheeks shining with your arousal.
And there's this quiet, adoring stillness in him when he looks at you like this, propped up on his elbows, eyes heavy with something he doesn’t try to hide.
Watching his girl, an angel if he’s ever seen one, glowing against his pillow like you're lit from within.
“Steve...” you whine softly, clutching at his shoulders. “Need you.”
“Yeah? You need me?” he pushes your hair back, thumb dragging lightly along your cheek. “Need me so bad, huh?”
He presses a tender kiss to your mouth—one pair of lips just as sweet and velvety as the other—as he slides back home, the warm, tight clutch of your pussy welcoming him inside.
And when he settles into you again, like he never really left, he lets a quiet sigh brush against your lips.
“Could stay here forever, baby,” he admits. "I love you."
He eases back into a familiar rhythm—slow, deep strokes, just the way you like them—his forehead resting against yours like he really could stay right here, suspended with you, for as long as you’d let him.
But it's his eyes that give him away, betraying him with the smallest glance downward.
the one where you convince your boyfriend to try that stupid tiktok trend - eating sushi off his bicep - only for the sushi not to be the rawest thing caught on camera that night.
pairing: jungkook x fem!reader
genre: established relationship au, porn with plot, smut, fluff (mdni!)
word count: 8,089
warnings/tags: 18+, explicit smut, unprotected sex, creampie!, multiple orgasms (like... three), dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, recording/filming (the phone is basically a third character), food play (sushi on nipples, sushi on biceps, sushi everywhere), oral sex (f. and m. receiving), breast play (he fucks her tits and it's messy), clit stimulation (so much blowing on it, rubbing, tonguing), fingering, grinding and dry humping, squirting (she literally gushes everywhere), cum play (eating sushi mixed with cum, sucking her own fluids off him), hair pulling/fisting, lip biting, hickies/marking, second person pov, rich miami aesthetic, tiktok trends gone wrong (or right), that lip ring doing damage, "i fucking love you" ending, soft aftercare
a/n: I was in the process of writing chapter 3 for my jungkook series "purple tears I cry," and a certain sushi scene made me think of this that I just had to write a whole separate oneshot smut for it. this is genuinely nasty, please read at your own risk! hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think of it... don't forget to reblog <3
The Miami humidity clings to your skin the moment you step out of the Uber, but the restaurant's AC hits like a wall of relief, crisp and expensive-smelling, all yuzu and polished wood and money. Nobu. Of course he chose Nobu. You catch your reflection in the dark glass doors, your teal dress catching the neon glow from the street, the silk clinging to the curve of your hips in a way that makes Jungkook's hand tighten at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you who you belong to tonight.
Your hair is up, mostly, a messy twist that took you forty minutes to make look effortless, two strands curling against your collarbones like they have a mind of their own. Your skin glows, sun-kissed and dewy, and you feel his eyes on you, always on you, as the hostess leads you to the corner booth. You make sure to sway your hips a little more than necessary because you know he's watching, know his gaze is fixed on the way the silk shifts over your ass.
He's wearing a white button-up - one that should look innocent, corporate, boring, except he's left the first five buttons undone, and the fabric gapes open to reveal the hard plane of his chest, the ink that spills over his shoulder and disappears beneath the cotton. His lip ring catches the low light when he smiles at you, silver glinting against his mouth, and something low in your stomach tightens because you know exactly how that metal feels against your throat, your breastbone, the inside of your thigh. You know how it feels when he drags it down your stomach, when he looks up at you with those dark eyes while he tongues you open.
You slide into the booth and immediately pull out your phone, propping it against your water glass, angling it just so. The red recording light blinks to life. Jungkook raises an eyebrow but says nothing, just settles across from you, his knee brushing yours under the table, his foot hooking around your ankle to pull you closer.
"Documenting the experience?" he asks, his voice low, rough, the kind of voice that makes you think of hotel sheets and sweat and the way he sounds when he's inside you.
"Memories," you say, but your eyes drop to his mouth, to the silver ring there, and you know he sees it, knows exactly what you're thinking. You adjust the phone slightly, making sure the frame catches both of you, the candlelight, the way his shirt falls open when he leans back.
The server arrives with menus you don't need because you already know what you want, what you always want here. But Jungkook takes his time, asks questions about the omakase, the wine pairings, his voice smooth and deliberate while his shoe slides up your calf beneath the table, pushing the silk of your dress higher, higher, until it brushes the back of your knee and you have to bite your lip to keep from making a sound.
"Spicy tuna," you manage, your voice breathier than you intended, and Jungkook's eyes darken because he knows, he always knows what he's doing to you.
"Two orders," he says to the server, not looking away from you. "And sake. The good stuff."
The sake arrives in a ceramic flask, and he pours for you, his fingers brushing yours as you take the cup, and you make sure to let your tongue linger on the rim when you drink, watching his jaw tighten, watching his gaze drop to your mouth. You set the cup down and lean forward, the neckline of your dress gaping just enough, and you see his eyes flick down, see his throat work as he swallows.
"You're playing with me," he murmurs, and his shoe presses harder against your leg, insistent.
"Maybe you're playing with me," you counter, and you kick off your heel under the table, let your bare foot find his thigh, slide up, up, until you're pressing against the hard outline of him through his trousers, and he hisses, his hand gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white.
"Careful," he warns, but his hips shift, pressing into your touch, and you smile, sweet and dangerous.
"Or what?"
The spicy tuna arrives like art, ruby-red and glistening, arranged on black slate with edible flowers you won't eat. You take the first piece with your fingers because fuck the chopsticks, and Jungkook's gaze tracks the movement, watches your lips close around the fish, the rice, the wasabi that burns just enough. You moan, deliberately, because you know what it does to him, and his jaw tightens, that muscle jumping beneath the skin, his hand disappearing beneath the table where you know he's adjusting himself.
"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked already, ruined, and you haven't even started.
"So good," you say, and you take another, and another, each time making sure to lick your fingers after, slow, obscene, your eyes locked on his. You can see the flush spreading up his neck, can see the way his chest rises and falls faster than it should, the open shirt showing too much skin, the tattoo peeking out, and you want to trace it with your tongue, want to mess up his hair and ruin his composure right here in this restaurant full of people who think they're being subtle about watching you.
You lean back, your foot still working him beneath the table, and you reach for your phone, checking the angle, making sure it's still recording. You tilt it slightly to catch more of him, the candlelight catching the silver in his lip, the way his eyes look black with want.
"Say hi to the camera," you tease, and he does, his voice rough, his smile sharp and predatory.
"Hi, camera," he says, and then, lower, just for you, "Can't wait to see what you do with this footage later."
You take another piece of tuna and hold it out across the table, an offering, a test. He leans forward, never breaking eye contact, and takes it from your fingers with his teeth, his tongue brushing your fingertips, hot and wet, and you feel it everywhere, feel it between your legs where you're already aching, already soaked through your underwear.
"Jungkook," you breathe, and he catches your wrist, holds it, sucks your fingers into his mouth one by one, cleaning them, his tongue swirling around each digit while the restaurant noise fades to nothing and there's only him, only this, only the wet heat of his mouth and the promise of what comes after.
"You're killing me," he murmurs against your palm, his lips brushing the sensitive skin at your wrist, and you shiver, your foot still pressed against his hard length, feeling him throb even through the fabric.
"Good," you whisper. "Suffer."
You eat slowly, deliberately, drawing out every bite, every sip of sake, every moment of his foot tracing patterns on your calf, his knee pressing between your thighs under the table. You talk about nothing, everything, your voice light while your body screams for him, while you watch the sweat bead at his hairline, watch him shift in his seat, uncomfortable and hard and yours.
By the time you're full, stuffed, the silk of your dress feels tighter across your ribs, and you lean back with a groan, hand on your stomach, your foot finally retreating from his lap. He exhales, shaky, and adjusts himself again, not subtle, not caring who sees, and you love him like this, undone, desperate, ready to drag you out of here and fuck you in the Uber if he has to.
"I can't," you say, patting your stomach. "I'm gonna burst."
Jungkook smirks, that dangerous smirk that means trouble, that means you're in for it the second you get back to the hotel. "Shame. I like watching you eat."
"Pervert."
"Your pervert."
You flag down the server, ask for a takeout box, and Jungkook pays without looking at the check, just slides his card across the table like the amount doesn't matter, because it doesn't, not to him, not to either of you tonight. You pocket your phone, the recording still running, capturing everything, capturing the way he stands and offers you his hand, the way he pulls you against him in the elevator, his mouth at your ear.
"You're going to pay for that," he whispers, and you shiver, feel his hand slide down to grip your ass, squeezing hard.
"Promise?"
The hotel suite is all white and marble and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, dark now, just a black expanse beyond the glass. You kick off your heels, your feet sinking into carpet that probably costs more than your first car, and you collapse onto the sectional, pulling out your phone, scrolling through the footage while he pours himself a drink at the mini bar, his back to you, the white shirt pulling across his shoulders, the tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve.
TikTok. Endless, brainless TikTok to wind down.
A couple on a beach. A dance trend you don't care about. A recipe for something with feta cheese.
Then: a girl, pretty, blonde, sitting cross-legged on a bed in what looks like a generic hotel room. Her boyfriend beside her, shirtless, flexing his bicep. The girl grins at the camera, then at him, and unwraps a sushi roll, places it on the hard curve of his muscle, and leans down to take it with her teeth. The comments are screaming. The views are in the millions.
You stare at the screen.
You stare at the takeout box on the coffee table.
You stare at Jungkook, who's pouring himself a drink, his back to you, the white shirt still open, showing too much skin, the lip ring catching the light when he turns his head.
Enlightenment.
You set your phone down. Stand. Cross the room on bare feet, silent, predatory. He hears you, turns, glass halfway to his lips, and you pluck it from his hand, set it on the marble counter with a clink that sounds like a promise.
"Take your shirt off," you say.
His eyebrow arches, that lip ring catching the light again. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." You reach for the takeout box, open it, the spicy tuna still perfect, still glistening, and you can feel him watching you, confused and curious and already getting hard because he always gets hard when you use that tone, that minx tone, the one that means you're about to ruin him.
He sets the glass down. Undoes the remaining buttons slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving yours. The shirt falls open, then off, and he's bare in front of you, all golden skin and ink and muscle that makes your mouth water. You step closer, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, and you press your palm to his chest, right over his heart, feeling it thud against your hand.
You set your phone down on the marble counter, angling it just so, the red recording light blinking like a heartbeat in the dim room. You want this captured, want the lens to swallow every moment of what comes next, want to watch it later and feel the heat crawl up your neck all over again. Jungkook's eyes flick to the device, understanding dawning dark and dangerous in his gaze, and when he looks back at you, something has shifted. The playful tension from the restaurant has evaporated, replaced by something heavier, hungrier, something that makes your breath catch in your throat.
You lean in, your hair falling forward, those two dark strands brushing his shoulder like silk curtains framing the moment. You don't go for the sushi yet. You press your mouth to his throat first, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make him groan deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your lips. His hand comes up to tangle in your updo, disheveling it further, fingers tightening in your hair until your scalp sings with the sting of it. You lick the salt from his skin, taste the cologne at his pulse point, the musk of him underneath, and you feel him shudder beneath your mouth, feel the sushi roll shift against your cheek as he breathes ragged and wrecked.
"You're insane," he murmurs, but his voice is already ruined, gravel and velvet, and you smile against his neck, teeth grazing his tendon, feeling his cock twitch against your hip through his trousers.
"Wait until you see what comes after the appetizer," you whisper, and finally, finally, you turn your head and take the sushi between your teeth, your eyes locked on his, watching him watch you, watching the way your lips close around the rice and fish, the way your throat works as you swallow, and the sound he makes is animal, guttural, something torn from deep in his chest that makes your thighs clench together with nothing but air between them.
He moves before you can even taste the wasabi. His hands find your waist and he's lifting you, setting you down on the cool marble counter like you weigh nothing, like you're something to be arranged, positioned, consumed. The stone bites against your bare thighs where your dress rides up, and you gasp, but the sound is swallowed by his mouth crashing against yours, the metal of his lip ring pressing hard into your flesh, cold and burning all at once. He tastes like sake and want and the promise of destruction, and you open for him, let him take, let him plunder your mouth with a desperation that makes your head spin.
"Look at you," he breathes against your jaw, his teeth dragging down your throat, sharp and claiming. "Look at you, playing with fire, recording this, thinking you're in control."
His hands find the thin straps of your teal dress, silk whispering against your skin like a secret. He doesn't rush. He takes his time, sliding the straps down your shoulders with agonizing slowness, his eyes tracking every inch of exposed flesh, his pupils blown wide and black with desire. The silk catches on your nipples for a heartbeat, clinging, teasing, and then it falls, smooth as water, pooling at your waist, and you're bare for him, your breasts heavy and full, nipples tight and aching in the cool hotel air, no barrier between his gaze and your skin.
He stares. The silence stretches, thick and electric, and you feel beautiful, powerful, laid out like a feast on this marble altar. His throat works, his hand coming up to cup you, weigh you, his thumb dragging across your nipple so slowly you whimper, arching into his touch.
"No bra," he observes, his voice rough, almost reverent. "You were planning this. Walking around that restaurant with nothing under this dress, teasing me, letting me wonder."
"I wanted you to wonder," you admit, your voice breathless, broken. "I wanted you to think about it all night."
"Evil," he murmurs, and then he's bending his head, his mouth closing over your nipple, hot and wet and devastating, and you cry out, your hands flying to his hair, gripping tight as he sucks, as his tongue circles and flicks and drives you mindless. He moves to the other breast, giving it the same worship, the same relentless attention, and you're squirming on the counter, your hips rolling, seeking friction, seeking him.
He pulls back with a wet sound that makes you blush even as you moan for more. His eyes are dark, predatory, the playful boyfriend from the restaurant gone, replaced by something that looks at you like you're prey, like you're his to ruin.
"Bed," he commands, his voice leaving no room for negotiation, no room for anything but obedience. "Now. On your back."
You slide off the counter, your legs shaky, the silk of your dress catching on your hips as you move. You cross to the bed, each step feeling like you're walking through honey, through heat, your body thrumming with anticipation. You climb onto the white sheets, the fabric cool against your heated skin, and you lie back, your breasts falling to the sides, heavy and aching, your hair spilling across the pillows in waves.
He follows you, stalking across the room with a predator's grace, all bare chest and ink and the hard outline of his cock straining against his trousers. He stops at the foot of the bed, his eyes raking over you, devouring you, and then he reaches for your phone still sitting on the counter, brings it with him, sets it on the nightstand angled perfectly to capture everything, the red light blinking like a third heartbeat in the room.
"Keep it recording," he says, not a request but a decree. "I want you to watch this later. I want you to see what you look like when you're being fucked properly."
He undoes his belt with slow, deliberate movements, the leather hissing as he pulls it free, the metal clinking as he drops it to the floor. His trousers follow, and his underwear, and then he's naked, glorious, his cock thick and heavy and curving up toward his stomach, the tip already wet with arousal, the veins along the shaft prominent and pulsing. You can't help but stare, can't help but lick your lips at the sight of him, at the thought of taking him inside you, anywhere, everywhere.
He climbs onto the bed, crawling up your body like a storm rolling in, all dark intent and coiled power. He doesn't touch you where you want him most, not yet. Instead, he straddles your chest, his knees settling on either side of your ribs, his hands bracing on the headboard above you, caging you in, trapping you beneath him. You can smell him, musk and sweat and something uniquely Jungkook, can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the weight of him hovering above you.
"Look at you," he breathes, his hand coming down to grip himself, to stroke once, twice, the sight obscene and mesmerizing. "Look at these perfect tits. Do you know how many times I've thought about this? About fucking them? About painting you with my cum?"
You whimper, arching up, and he takes that as invitation, as permission. He leans forward, guiding himself down, the hot, heavy weight of his cock settling into the valley between your breasts, skin against skin, velvet over steel. He groans, long and low, his head falling back, the column of his throat working as he begins to move.
He starts slow, rocking his hips, sliding himself through your cleavage, the friction making him hiss, making his abs tighten and flex with each thrust. You press your breasts together, creating a tighter channel for him, and he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, his pace quickening, his hips snapping faster, harder. The head of his cock peeks out from between your breasts with each forward thrust, glistening and flushed, and you crane your neck, wanting to taste, wanting to lick the salt from his skin, but he pulls back just enough to deny you, a wicked smile playing at his lips.
"Greedy," he pants, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm, his control fraying at the edges. "So fucking greedy for it. You want this? Want me to cum all over you? Mark you?"
"Yes," you gasp, your own arousal spiraling tight and hot between your legs, the sight of him using you, losing himself in your body, driving you wild. "Yes, please, Jungkook, please-"
He breaks. His hips stutter, his hand gripping the headboard so tight his knuckles go white, and he comes with a shout that sounds torn from his soul, thick ropes of cum spilling across your chest, your throat, marking you, claiming you in the most primal way. He keeps thrusting through it, milking himself, his cock twitching against your skin, until he's spent, until he's trembling above you, his chest heaving, sweat gleaming on his inked shoulders.
The silence that follows is broken only by your ragged breathing, by the wet sounds of him still sliding against your cum-slicked skin. He looks down at you, at the mess he's made of you, and his eyes flash with something dark and satisfied, something possessive.
"Beautiful," he whispers, his hand coming down to smear the evidence of his pleasure across your breasts, your nipples, making you glisten with him. "So fucking beautiful."
He reaches over to the takeout box still sitting on the counter, forgotten until now, and retrieves another piece of spicy tuna, the fish still cool, still perfect. He brings it to your chest, and you watch, breathless, as he places it carefully on top of your nipple, the sushi resting there like an offering, like sacrilege.
He bends his head, his eyes locked on yours, and takes the sushi between his teeth, his tongue dragging across your nipple as he does, hot and wet and filthy, sucking the fish and your flesh together, the combination of sensations making you cry out, making your back arch off the bed. He chews slowly, savoring, his hand coming up to palm your other breast, his thumb circling your nipple, spreading his own release across your skin in obscene patterns.
When he swallows, he surges up, his mouth crashing against yours with a ferocity that steals your breath, his tongue thrusting deep, sharing the taste of tuna and salt and him, his teeth catching your lower lip, the metal of his piercing dragging against your sensitive flesh. He kisses you like he's starving, like he wants to consume you whole, like the camera isn't even there, like the world has narrowed down to just this, just you, just the wet heat of his mouth and the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress.
"Mine," he growls against your lips, the word vibrating through your chest, through your bones. "Say it."
"Yours," you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging crescents into his inked skin. "I'm yours, Jungkook, I'm-"
He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper, harder, his hand sliding down your body, beneath the silk of your dress still pooled at your waist, finding where you're wet and aching and ready, and you know this is only the beginning, know that the night is long and the camera is still rolling and he's nowhere near finished with you.
He pulls back from the kiss with a wet, filthy sound that echoes in the quiet room, his eyes dark and glittering with intent. His hand is still between your legs, his fingers spreading your wetness in slow, teasing circles, and you arch into his touch, desperate, needy, your hips rolling to chase more friction.
"Give me the phone," he commands, his voice rough as gravel, as velvet, as something dangerous wrapped in silk.
You reach for it with trembling fingers, the device still warm from where it sat recording, and you hand it to him, your breath catching as he takes it, as he adjusts the angle, as he points the lens down at you like he's directing a film where you're the only star.
"Look at you," he murmurs, the camera capturing everything, capturing the flush spreading down your chest, the way your breasts rise and fall with each ragged breath, the sheen of sweat and his release still glistening on your skin. "Look at this fucking body. Do you see what I see? Do you see how perfect you are?"
He shifts back on his knees, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and he hooks his fingers in the silk of your dress still pooled at your waist. He pulls slowly, agonizingly slowly, the fabric sliding down your hips, your thighs, leaving you completely bare, completely exposed to the lens, to his gaze, to the hungry darkness in his eyes.
"Spread your legs," he orders, and you do, your knees falling open, your thighs trembling as the cool hotel air hits your heated core. You feel exposed, vulnerable, the camera recording every inch of you, the way your pussy glistens with arousal, swollen and pink and aching for him. He zooms in, the lens close enough to capture the details, the way you pulse with need, the way your thighs are already shaking with anticipation.
"Beautiful," he breathes, the word almost reverent, almost profane. "Look at this pretty pussy. So wet for me. So fucking ready."
He sets the phone down on the mattress, angled up at you both, the red light blinking steady and watchful. But then he's reaching for your hand, pulling you up, placing the device in your trembling grip.
"Hold it," he instructs, his voice dropping lower, filthier, his eyes locked on yours with a command that brooks no argument. "Record me. Don't you dare stop filming, understand? I want you to capture every second of this. I want you to watch later and see exactly what you do to me."
You nod, your throat too tight to speak, and you angle the camera down, your fingers shaking as you focus the lens on him, on where he's settling between your thighs like he belongs there, like he's coming home.
He looks up at you through his lashes, that silver lip ring catching the light, and he knows, he always knows what that piece of metal does to you. He runs his tongue over it slowly, deliberately, letting you watch the way it moves, the way it glints, and your breath hitches because you can feel it already, can imagine the cool metal against your overheated flesh.
"You like this?" he asks, his voice a purr, a promise, a threat. "You like watching me? Like knowing I'm about to wreck you with this mouth?"
"Yes," you whimper, the camera trembling in your grip as you hold it steady, as you capture every moment.
He starts at your knee, his mouth hovering, his breath hot against your skin. He blows, a gentle stream of air that makes you gasp, makes your leg jerk in his grip. He holds you steady, his fingers digging into your thigh, and he drags his lips up, up, not touching, just breathing, just letting you feel the ghost of him, the promise of him.
He reaches the crease where your thigh meets your hip and he pauses, his eyes flicking up to the camera, to you, holding your gaze as he blows again, right there, right where you're throbbing, where you're aching, where you're dripping for him.
"Please," you beg, your voice breaking, the camera shaking in your hand. "Please, Jungkook, please touch me-"
"Shh," he soothes, his breath washing over your clit, hot and cool and devastating. "I've got you. Be patient, pretty girl. Be good."
He blows again, directly on your clit this time, the sensation shocking, electric, making you cry out, your hips bucking off the mattress. He holds you down with one hand on your stomach, pinning you, controlling you, and he leans closer, closer, until you can feel his breath fluttering against your most sensitive flesh, until you're trembling, until you're sobbing with need.
"Look at the camera," he commands, his voice vibrating against your thigh. "Don't look at me. Look at the lens. Show them how pretty you are when you're desperate."
You force your eyes up, staring into the small black circle of the phone's camera, your vision blurred with tears, your mouth open, your chest heaving. You look wrecked, you know you do, you can see your reflection in the dark screen, can see the way your hair is tangled and wild, the way your lips are swollen and red, the way your body is flushed pink with arousal.
"Good girl," he praises, and then he finally, finally, touches you.
His tongue drags through your folds in one long, slow stroke, hot and wet and perfect, and you scream, the sound tearing from your throat, your hips bucking against his mouth. He groans against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and he does it again, and again, lapping at you like he's starving, like he wants to taste every drop of your arousal, like he could spend hours here, drowning in you.
He focuses on your clit, circling it with the flat of his tongue, then the tip, then flicking it, relentless, merciless, driving you higher and higher until you're panting, until you're chanting his name like a prayer, like a curse, until your thighs are trembling on either side of his head.
"So fucking loud," he murmurs against you, the words muffled, filthy. "Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking hotel hear what I'm doing to you."
He pulls back just enough to speak, his chin glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark and wild. "Keep recording. Don't you dare stop."
You nod frantically, your hand cramping around the phone, but you hold it steady, you keep the lens focused on him, on where he's watching you with predatory intensity.
He slides one finger inside you, slow and deliberate, curling it to find that spot that makes your vision white out, and you moan, long and loud, unable to help yourself. He adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, and he starts to pump them in and out, his wrist twisting, his knuckles dragging against your walls in a way that makes you see stars.
"More," you gasp, your head falling back, but he clicks his tongue, sharp and reprimanding.
"Eyes on the camera," he reminds you, his voice stern, commanding. "Look at me through the lens. Show me that pretty face."
You force your head up, your neck trembling with the effort, and you stare into the camera, your eyes wide and glassy, your mouth open as you pant. He adds a third finger, the stretch burning so perfectly you sob, your hips rolling to meet his thrusts, and he starts rubbing your clit with his other hand, circling it in tight, relentless patterns while his fingers work inside you, while he crooks them to hit that spot, that perfect spot, over and over and over.
"You're taking three fingers so well," he praises, his voice dripping with filth, with pride. "Look at you, stuffed full, dripping down my hand. You love this, don't you? Love being watched, love being used, love being my little porn star."
"Yes," you cry out, the camera shaking as your orgasm builds, coiling tight and hot in your belly. "Yes, yes, Jungkook, please, I'm gonna-"
"Not yet," he cuts you off, his fingers stilling, his hand pulling away from your clit, leaving you hovering on the edge, desperate and whining. "Not until I say. Keep holding that camera. Keep recording. I want to see your face when you cum all over my tongue."
He dives back in, his mouth replacing his fingers, his tongue thrusting inside you, fucking you with wet heat while his thumb presses hard against your clit, rubbing in furious circles. The dual sensation is too much, overwhelming, devastating, and you're screaming now, loud and unrestrained, your voice raw as you chant his name, as you beg, as you plead for release.
"Jungkook, please, please, I can't, I need to-"
"Cum," he commands, the word vibrating against your core. "Cum for me now. Let me taste it. Let me drink you down."
He sucks your clit into his mouth, the metal of his lip ring pressing hard against the sensitive bud, and you break. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, like a storm, like something violent and beautiful and earth-shattering. Your back arches off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head, your hand spasming around the phone as you cry out, loud and broken and his, completely his.
He doesn't stop. He keeps licking, keeps sucking, drawing out your pleasure until you're shaking, until you're sobbing, until you're pushing at his shoulders because it's too much, too sensitive, too everything.
He finally pulls back with a wet, obscene sound, his chin dripping with your release, his eyes dark and satisfied and wild. He looks at the camera, looks directly into the lens where you're still recording, still capturing every filthy moment, and he licks his lips, slow and deliberate, savoring your taste.
"Delicious," he murmurs, the word dripping with innuendo, with promise. "My favorite meal."
He crawls up your body, his skin hot against yours, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that tastes like you, like him, like everything dirty and perfect and yours. The camera is still recording, still capturing, still blinking its red light in the dark room, and you know, you know this is a night you'll be watching back for years, a night that will never stop making you blush, making you ache, making you want.
"Good girl," he whispers against your lips, his hand tangling in your hair, his body heavy and warm above you. "You did so well. You held it the whole time."
He takes the phone from your trembling grip, checks the recording, a smug, satisfied smile playing at his lips. "Perfect angle. Look at you, pretty thing. Look how beautiful you are when you cum."
He shows you the screen, and you watch yourself, watch your face contort with pleasure, watch your body arch and shake, and you feel the heat crawl up your neck even as you feel yourself getting wet again, already wanting more, already wanting everything he has to give.
He pulls you up, his hands rough at your waist, flipping you until you're straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands braced on his inked chest. The sweat-slick slide of your skin against his is electric, devastating, and you can feel him hard and thick beneath you, pressing against your thigh, leaving wet trails of pre-cum against your skin.
"Come here," he growls, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling you down until your mouths crash together, teeth clicking, tongues tangling in a messy, desperate dance. He tastes like you, like sake, like the lingering spice of tuna and salt and sex, and you moan into his mouth, your hips rolling instinctively, grinding your soaked core against his rigid length.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, his hips bucking up to meet you, the friction making you both gasp. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good."
You reach for the takeout box still within arm's reach, your fingers trembling as you unwrap another piece of spicy tuna, the fish cool and glistening in the dim light. You break the kiss, sitting back on your heels, and his eyes track your movements, dark and questioning, until you lean forward and place the sushi directly on his nipple, the pink flesh peeking through the dark ink of his chest tattoo.
"Christ," he hisses, his head falling back against the pillows, his throat working as you bend down, your hair creating a curtain around you both.
You take the sushi between your teeth first, biting down, the flavor bursting across your tongue, but then you keep going, your mouth closing over his nipple, sucking hard, laving it with your tongue, the combination of cool fish and hot skin making him arch off the bed, his hand flying to your head, gripping tight.
"Oh fuck," he groans, long and low, the sound vibrating through his chest into your mouth. "Oh fuck, baby, fuck-"
You suck harder, your teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, and he cries out, his hips jerking up, his cock sliding through your folds, bumping against your clit with each thrust of his hips. You release his nipple with a wet pop, looking up at him through your lashes, your lips swollen and glistening.
"You like that?" you purr, your voice dripping with filth, with power. "Like me eating off you? Like being my plate, my meal?"
"Yes," he pants, his eyes blown wide, his chest heaving. "Fuck yes, anything, everything-"
You start grinding in earnest, rolling your hips, sliding your soaked pussy along the length of his cock without letting him inside, teasing, torturing, your clit dragging against his rigid shaft with every movement. The friction is delicious, maddening, and you're both moaning, the sounds filling the room, raw and unfiltered.
"Oh fuck, baby," he chants, his hands gripping your waist, your hips, guiding your movements, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Oh fuck, just like that, just like that-"
You lean down, your breasts pressing against his chest, your mouth at his ear. "Feel how wet I am?" you whisper, your voice a dirty secret. "Feel how much I need you? I've been dripping for you all night, Jungkook. All fucking night."
"Shit," he groans, his hips stuttering, losing their rhythm. "Shit, you're gonna make me cum like this, make me-"
He reaches for the phone, his hand trembling as he angles it up at you, capturing the way you move above him, the way your body undulates like a wave, like something primal and ancient and devastatingly beautiful.
"Look at this," he murmurs, his voice wrecked, his eyes flicking between the screen and your face. "Look at you, grinding on me like a little slut, so desperate for it. You want this cock, baby? Want me to fill you up?"
"Yes," you whine, your movements becoming erratic, desperate. "Please, please, I need it, need you inside-"
He drops the phone to the mattress, the camera still recording, still capturing everything, and he grips your hips hard, lifting you, positioning you above him. You reach between your bodies, your hand wrapping around his thick length, guiding him to your entrance, and you sink down slowly, inch by inch, your head falling back, your mouth open in a silent scream as he stretches you, fills you, completes you.
"Fuck," you gasp, your hands braced on his chest, your nails digging crescents into his skin. "Oh fuck, Jungkook, you're so big, so-"
"Move," he commands, his voice guttural, his hands guiding your hips. "Ride me, baby. Show me how good you are."
You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, feeling every inch of him drag against your walls, hitting places that make your vision blur. He keeps one hand on your hip, guiding you, controlling the pace, while the other reaches for your breast, palming the heavy weight, his thumb dragging across your nipple.
"The sushi wasn't the rawest thing tonight," he breathes, his eyes locked on yours, dark and possessive. "This is. You and me, like this, nothing between us. Just raw, filthy fucking."
You moan, your movements speeding up, your hips snapping down harder, taking him deeper, until he's hitting your cervix with each thrust, the stretch bordering on pain but feeling so perfect you can't stop. He grabs the phone again, angling it up at you, capturing your face contorted with pleasure, your breasts bouncing with each movement, the place where your bodies join, wet and obscene.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, his voice reverent and filthy all at once. "Look at you, taking me so well. My perfect girl."
He flips you suddenly, his strength shocking, his movements fluid and predatory. You're on your back before you can process the shift, him settling between your thighs, his cock still buried deep inside you, his hands bracing on either side of your head.
"Recording," he commands, pressing the phone into your trembling hand. "Don't stop. I want you to see this. Want you to watch later and see exactly how I fuck you."
You hold it up, the lens focused on where your bodies meet, and he pulls out slowly, agonizingly slowly, until just the tip remains inside you, glistening with your combined arousal. He hovers there, teasing, and you whimper, your hips bucking up, seeking more.
"Quiet," he orders, his voice sharp. "Be quiet and listen. Listen to how wet you are for me."
He thrusts back in, hard and deep, and the sound is obscene, wet and filthy, your arousal squelching around him, the slap of skin against skin filling the room. You bite your lip to keep from screaming, your hand shaking as you hold the camera steady, capturing the way he pulls out and thrusts back in, over and over, the rhythm building, the sounds growing louder, wetter, more desperate.
He pulls out completely, his cock slapping against your stomach, wet and heavy, and he drags the head through your folds, bumping against your clit, circling it, teasing it with short, sharp jabs that make you cry out despite your best efforts to stay quiet.
"Please," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please, Jungkook, please fuck me, please-"
He lines himself up and thrusts back in, but this time he doesn't stop, doesn't slow, doesn't tease. He starts pounding into you, hard and fast and merciless, his hips snapping forward with a force that moves you up the bed, your head hitting the headboard with each thrust. He's fucking you like he hates you, like he loves you, like he wants to crawl inside your skin and never leave.
"Scream," he commands, his voice ragged, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, just reminding you who you belong to. "Let me hear you. Let the fucking city hear what I'm doing to you."
You scream. You can't help it, the pleasure is too intense, too overwhelming, building and coiling tight in your belly, your orgasm approaching like a freight train. He's recording your face, the camera capturing your mouth open in a silent scream, your eyes rolled back, tears streaming down your temples into your hair.
"That's it," he pants, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. "That's it, baby, cum for me, cum on my cock, let me feel you-"
You break. Your orgasm crashes through you, violent and beautiful, your pussy clamping down on him, milking him, and he groans, long and loud, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, hot and thick and endless. But as you come, as your body convulses around him, something else happens, something wet and shocking, and you're squirting, actually squirting, your release gushing out around his cock, mixing with his cum, creating a mess of fluids that soaks the sheets, his thighs, drips down your ass.
"Holy shit," he breathes, his eyes wide and wild, the camera still recording, capturing the obscene flood of liquid, the way it glistens on his skin, the way your body continues to shake and convulse. "Holy fucking shit, baby, look at you, look at this-"
He pulls out slowly, his cock still half-hard, dripping with your combined release, and he holds it up, angling the camera to capture the mess, the way his cum mixed with your arousal drips from his shaft, thick and white and obscene.
"Suck it," he commands, his voice rough, his hand tangling in your hair. "Suck your cum off my cock. Clean me up, kitten."
You scramble down, your body still trembling from aftershocks, and you take him into your mouth, tasting yourself, tasting him, the mixture salty and musky and filthy. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard, your tongue swirling around his sensitive head, and he groans, his hand tightening in your hair.
"Fuck, yes," he pants. "My balls, kitten, suck my balls."
You pull back, your hand wrapping around his shaft, and you duck down, taking one testicle into your mouth, then the other, rolling them on your tongue, sucking gently while your hand works his length. He pulls your hair, guiding you, his hips bucking slightly, and then you pull back, kitten licking him, small, teasing laps at the head of his cock, your eyes looking up at him through your lashes, innocent and filthy all at once.
"Perfect kitten," he breathes, his voice wrecked, his eyes dark with renewed desire. "My perfect little kitten. Look at you, so eager, so good for me."
He starts fucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head, his hips snapping forward, pushing his cock deep into your throat, and you relax, let him use you, let him take what he needs. He's relentless, his stamina shocking, and you can feel him swelling, feel him getting close again.
"I'm gonna cum," he warns, his voice strained. "Gonna cum again, baby, gonna-"
He thrusts deep and holds there, his cock pulsing, and he spills down your throat, hot and thick, more than you thought possible, more than should be human. You swallow, your throat working, your eyes watering, and when he finally pulls out, spent and trembling, you collapse back onto the pillows, laughing, the sound breathless and beautiful and disbelieving.
"I can't believe you had all that cum inside you," you marvel, your voice hoarse, your lips swollen and glistening. "That was... that was the third time?"
He collapses beside you, his chest heaving, his skin flushed and sweaty and marked by your nails, your teeth, your possession. He pulls you into his arms, his hand cradling your head against his chest, and you can hear his heart hammering, feel the rumble of his laughter.
"For you," he murmurs, pressing kisses to your hair. "Only for you, pretty girl. You drain me completely. You ruin me."
The phone is still recording somewhere on the bed, still capturing the aftermath, the sweat-slick mess of your bodies, the way you curl into each other like survivors of some beautiful storm. But for now, you just breathe, just exist in this moment of shattered, perfect aftermath, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest, his hand stroking lazy circles on your back.
He doesn't ask. He just moves, shifting off the bed with a grace that seems impossible for someone who just spent himself three times over. You hear water running in the bathroom, the sound of a cloth being wrung out, and then he's back, kneeling between your thighs with a warm, wet towel in his hand.
He cleans you slowly, carefully, his touch reverent where it had been ruthless before. He wipes away the mess of your combined release, the sweat, the evidence of everything you did together, and his eyes follow the path of the cloth with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He presses kisses to your inner thigh, your hip, your stomach, each one soft and lingering, worshipping you in a different language than the one he used when he was inside you.
When he's finished, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls up your body, his weight settling over you again, but different now, protective, cocooning. He finds your mouth, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that tastes like salt and love and exhaustion. He bites your bottom lip, catching it between his teeth, pulling slightly until you whimper, and then he releases you with a laugh, low and warm and vibrating against your skin.
"Beautiful," he whispers, his forehead resting against yours, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw like he's memorizing you, like he's trying to commit every inch to memory. "You're so fucking beautiful. Do you know that? Do you know what you do to me?"
You smile, your hand coming up to tangle in his hair, still damp with sweat. "Show me," you whisper back.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you, his eyes dark and endless and full of something that makes your breath catch. He cups your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing over your swollen lips, and when he speaks, his voice is rough, stripped bare, nothing but truth.
"I fucking love you," he says. "I love you so much it scares me."
The words hang in the air between you, heavy and real and perfect, and you pull him down, kiss him deep and slow, pouring everything you can't say into the movement of your lips against his.
The camera is still recording somewhere, still blinking its red light in the dark, but neither of you reach for it. Some moments are just for you. Just for this. Just for the two of you, tangled in white sheets in a Miami hotel room, sweating and spent and in love, the rawest thing either of you have ever known.
