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halcyone-of-the-sea · 11 months

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Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, abduction, violence, intense gore, death, swords & firearms, angst, hurt/comfort, nakedness, etc.

A/N: Guys, whatever you do, don't imagine Price in a white tunic holding Mermaid you in one arm and weilding a sword in the other. I'm frothing at the mouth.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You sit on your black rocks once more, the darkening sky warning of an oncoming storm that you can feel seeping into your bones. In your loose grip, you fiddle with John’s necklace.

He’d given it to you only recently as a gift, seeing as you enjoyed the shininess of it so much, and you’d taken great pleasure in keeping it around your neck. Out of all of your treasures and trinkets, somehow these measly metal discs had become your favorite. The necklace is smooth under your caress, and you look down at it adoringly, eyes soft and lips curved with delicate affection.

The cove, as always, was quiet above the call of seagulls and the lapping of waves; the whispering ripples from your tail as it sways under the water. You had gotten content with this—the silence. Because you knew it would be filled by the low gravel of an accented voice soon enough; would be swept away by the chuckles you could wring from beard-hidden lips.

John was something to look forward to, and you loved the way he looked at you.

Water hits the top of your head.

Blinking out of your honeyed thoughts you look up to the crying sky as small slaps of droplets slide across your cheeks. Lashes flinch at every motion, and you glance back to the empty cove before lowering the necklace to your scaled lap.

Confusion slithers in like an eel to your heart as your eyes slide over the growing waves. The yawning mouth of the entrance sits abandoned of any small fishing ship.

For three, beautiful, sand-covered, months, John had never missed a day to come and see you. Rain or Sun.

A prick of a sharp fish's spine enters your brain. The rain comes down now in sheets. Lightning and thunder fight, and if you look close enough, the remnants of ancient lightning birds battle overhead with a flurry of black wings and their insatiable need for blood. Yet, still, your eyes stay frozen on the cove entrance as the water rises and rises.

With a thinning of your lips and the violent pushing from the torrent as it swallows your rocks, you clench your hands over John’s necklace and push off your perch with a shove of your palms.

Water encompasses you, scales dull, and fins limp as the general calmness from the encompassing water holds you in a constant sway. Your brows furrow.

Why wasn’t he here? You ask yourself, sinking among the seaweed and the schools of quick fish. Concern mingles with hurt. Do…do you think he’s alright?

Human ways were still confusing to you, even if John had been helping you understand them and giving little clam-shells of information. But they seemed…like violent folk. Angry and selfish, from what John had said about their wars and squabbles. The thought of your fisherman potentially being in danger on land was terrifying to you.

There wouldn’t be anything you could do if that happened.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of his necklace as you stare at the surface, back lightly hitting the bottom of the cove with a puff of sand. Crabs scatter as your tail twitches, your lungs sighing in their own special way.

John can take care of himself, you reason. He’s just a little late is all.

John’s never late. Your face creases, but you stuff the thought down, twisting on your side and bridging the piece of jewelry to your lip—kissing it once as sand digs into your skin. Holding the fisherman's property to your pounding heart, you close your eyes and wait as any lonely and loyal Merwoman would; tail held in close and the reverberations of a rabid downpour above you.

—

You wake up to the darkness of night. Blinking, you sigh to yourself and move a slow hand to rub at your eyes. After a moment of fatigued confusion as to why you weren’t in your cave, you realized why you had been out here in the first place.

John.

Arms pushing you up, your mind fights to wake itself, laced with algae and fatigue. How long have you been asleep? Has the storm stopped? Surely you hadn’t slept the entire day away. You pull the fisherman's necklace over your head as you stare at the sand below you. No fish were slipping past besides one that brushes your tail, which you found odd, but didn’t think much of it.

Shaking your head, you feel sluggish and put the necklace back on with a huff. You worry what John will think of you perhaps missing his late visit and smile slightly in humor.

The fish brushes your tail again.

Scales shimmering, you turn with an annoyed pull to your lips, fins scraping something hard and rough even as it’s saturated by the water of your cove. When you spot it, not only the rope but the shadow of the large hunting ship above you, your body drains of any life that had once lived in your lungs. It wasn’t nighttime.

Eyes widening at the loop that was parading around your tail, you don’t have time to move before it tightens with a force that leaves your mouth opening in a bubbled scream; ruthlessly jerking your body along the seafloor.

Desperately, your hands rip along the rocks and weeds of the bottom of the cove, getting torn and shredded in their soft nature as easily as paper. Your body smacks into every little object with a rattling to your bones that makes you sob. Red saturates the water as you’re manhandled in long and steady intervals back and up.

No amount of rampaging your tail does can break the rope, and with a last-ditch effort as the sandy floor gets farther and farther away, you twist around and tear at the woven cord with sharp nails. Adrenaline pumps, pupils tiny and panicked.

No! No, not like this! You can imagine the pain of it now—the hooks and the ripping of scales from your supple flesh. Even now the tiny ones under the dig of the vice are peeling away in long strings of red to disappear behind you as you’re thrust upward. They’re delicate, don’t these monsters understand? They’re beautiful and treasured and they’re destroying them!

You scream in pain at the pulling of your spine; a large creaking in your muscles.

But as you gain a small sense of feral hope when the rope begins to fray from your grip, the iron net squashes any belief of surviving.

It slams into you as John would cast his own for his prey—but this one is larger and full of cruel, curved, spikes. Is this what your parents endured? What the harpies had meant? The iron sinks far quicker than rope, and it traps you in a dome of hell before you can mutilate yourself out of the maw.

Oh, Gods, it was going to peel your skin away.

True fear pounded in your breast, and with a cry of John’s name from under the water, you watched with horror as the net descended onto you and your bloody wounds.

They drag you above waves and the first thing you do is thrash and wail so loud the seagulls shriek in surprise. There’s crimson staining the waters sloshing at you with combative ease, the violent storm from before now a light slapping at add to your fear. In the wake of open air, the curved spikes dig into your flesh as easily as a unicorn’s horn can penetrate a wyvern’s armor. Skin everywhere is assaulted and peeled to a tautness of bodily torture.

Oh, and your precious tail.

It hurt so badly, like nothing you had ever experienced before.

“John!” You scream as your body strikes the side of the large ship, voice cutting out and leaving a bawling yell behind. Your form was being pulled by steady hoists and barked orders.

All around you can hear laughing—joking. Loud exclamations of approval.

You’re sure they’ve dislocated your tail right at the joint, how could they not have? The ream of their strong arms and ruthless greed. Oh, your tail, your precious, beautiful tail.

Long streams of salty tears fly down your dripping face; arms pushing the spikes away from your neck and face with futile action. The net and rope were your earthly graves.

They slam you to the deck like a fish.

Jerking and slapping around, your arms hit the wood with a bird-paced heart. The iron rattles and keeps you down like a weight.

Brokenly gasping through loud cries, the sudden jeering faces from all around leave your fear all-consuming.

They were ugly—broken teeth and sun-destroyed skin. Eyes that bugged and scars that could be from either a sword or a Strix’s claws. More than likely it was from meager squabbles with crewmates. But you balk back nonetheless, terrified and bleeding profusely.

They were going to rip you to pieces.

Inside your chest, your lungs are rising and falling quickly, and the hands that glide along your form make you want to burn your skin off. They grip at you, yanking you around as your hair gets caught in the gaps between the iron. With nail and tooth your bite and claw, but how many were there? Ten? Twenty?

There’s uproar and more jokes as you fight back; body lifted and spikes torn out of skin as you arch your back and howl in agony. Their hands are not John’s. They don’t caress your smooth skin with reverence or holiness—this is cruelty. This is a sadistic pleasure.

“Isn’t it our lucky day, Lads?!” A high and grating voice bellows out, and finally free of the net, all you can do is cry and flip your tail uselessly along the polished wood as they throw you down. Your vision blacks and slowly comes back—hair matted and skin slick with more than water.

It hurts to breathe too much. Whimpering, your cheek presses itself into the deck as footsteps take someone closer.

“Holy God, would ya look at that down there, eh? A true maiden of the sea,” A thunderous belt of achievement from everyone leaves you flinching, eyes tight shut to try and focus on anything but the excruciating way your skin throbs and gushes blood. “Though we’d have gotten all of them by now!”

Haggard laughs and rotted smiles.

A hand snaps to wrench your face upward, and you yowl and grasp at your head as your delicate strands go tight.

“Now who’s the little beauty we have here?” Whoever this man was, he had no standing on John. On your Fisherman.

Loose skin and an age-rotted tunic, a belt at his waist holding a scabbard with a gold sword and twin pistols. He had only one eye—brown as a pile of mud—with a black eyepatch over the other.

Your fluttering lashes took in a cracked-lipped grin of approval; whether at your battered appearance or the nature of your species, you knew not. But you didn’t like the way he was glancing at your tail as if it was made of gold one bit.

“Lords above, did ya have to be so brash, Lads?” Spittle slaps your face and you fight again with the hands in your locks to get away. The man’s hold jerks your face back and forth until you stop with bile building in your throat. “Wrecked her silky skin, you did!”

Being thrown back, your skull slams the deck before you hurl your guts in a sputtering of air and crimson. Many laugh and kick at your already broken scales. You grit your teeth and refuse to cry out.

“Get ‘er tied up and in the Hold for storage. If the scales are good enough, we’ll peel ‘em tomorrow.”

“Peel?!” Your face whips into a twisted glare, and pain leads to fast anger; wrath, even. The men grow gradually silent at your outburst and the leader comes to a slow stop—his back to you. “How dare you?” You gasp out, hands pushing your body slightly backward until the agony makes you stop with a lip-bitten whine. “How dare you do this to me? What have I done to you and your men? You’re nothing but senseless cowards who shy at something that lives its life differently! Am I only a pile of coin for you?!”

Your blood runs over the deck and seeps into the grain. Staining it with your memory and presence like a ghost that’s not yet dead. Loose scales shimmer and drip red. They were damaged and dull—your flesh was mangled.

The leader turns back and smirks with blackened teeth. “More than a pile, Little Dearie. Far more. And if those hooks had been kinder, the King would have loved a beauty like you in his collection.” A look is slid down your body with a knowing chuckle.

He stalks off and you peel back your lips to say more, but a stained rag is shoved into your mouth instead, shutting up your rageful screeches and any hope of a peep of potent song despite not knowing these devils’ names.

By the time they chuck you in the Hold, body bouncing along the wood, and shut the hatch with a reverberation of wood, you had managed to rip someone’s ear clean off and break another’s arm; but there was only so much you could do. They had bound your hands behind you with a blow to your spine.

Curled up and longing for the sea, for John, you hold the only thing you have left.

Silver discs on a chain, the metal smooth and the only thing now shining. You feel it hit your breastbone and sob as the headache of blood loss begins to set in. Laughter echoes from above your dark prison.

—

John saw the blood in the water before he saw the scales being pushed back and forth on the beach. Caught in that gentle push and pull now that the storm had ceased beyond a light drizzle—bright and reflecting the misty sun; far more vibrant than a fish or a sea serpent. But the blood.

Christ, there was blood in the water.

Blue eyes stare blankly at the sea-foam at the shoreline, red and bubbling, John’s pupils small and the lashes held back even as a salty breeze hits them with a burn. At his sides, his hands slowly close into fists.

Jumping off the side of his ship, the man lands in thigh-deep water, gritting his teeth before he shoves his way to the sand and black rocks of land. He doesn’t know what drives his actions, or why he’s doing this, but with quick hands, he snatches up what scales he can find and keeps them in his palm; mind on fire.

Anyone could see the fury in John’s gaze—a growing hatred for what was just beyond sight. When he has all he’s able to carry, he wades back through the water and gets himself back atop his boat easily with one hand.

Walking quickly and soaked, he pushes aside a small cloth atop a barrel; seeing a gold box hidden under it. He opens it deftly, and while he puts the damaged and torn scales inside, John glances at the expensive and elegant twin cuff bracelets that sit in blue velvet.

When he had been away buying them for you, he should have already been here. Wasted time.

I left her here alone. Knowing what could happen if I did. A growl bounces under his beard, face going red with anger. The two of you had quickly become enraptured with each other—drunk off flesh and touch like non-sentient animals.

And something had taken place while he was away. You were gone, the fisherman knew. The water wasn’t as clear, the fish were terrified, and the blood alone proved this—the scales. This wasn’t an accident.

And it had something to do with that ship he’d seen on the horizon with his narrowed eyes not minutes prior. The Captain was slowly re-taking over the man.

“Fuck!” John curses, teeth bared as he spins and readies his sails. With violent pulls at the ropes, letting the mainsail shift down in a flurry of white sheets, he turns the vessel around in no time at all. It was as if Poseidon himself was pushing the ship forward to that small dot on the ocean line, far, far away.

Deadly purpose bled into his heart, and the early afternoon sun forced him onward with hellfire following at his heels. He re-wraps his gift in the meantime, only taking a single scale from inside and putting it in a small pouch on his belt before walking to another barrel and pausing. This one was older, more sun-bleached.

John deserted the service years ago, but not long enough to forget how the world of men can be. With a grunt on his thinned lips, the brunette rips the top off and grasps inside.

With an experienced hand out came a sheathed Cutlass, the leather of the handle worn and indented to his very grip. It found a place on his belt, and John wasted no time in making the Flintlock pistol follow.

A fisherman he may be, but in his blood John would always be a killer. He knew how to fight dirty and fight well—carve skin and not flinch at the sparks of gunpowder. There was no hesitation as to what he would do to get you back.

In his chest, there was a weight of rage and concern as he glared at the far-off Hunter’s ship.

“What the hell have you done to her?” He growls, beard back and eyes narrowed. His hands clenched and unclenched with loathing.

John’s thoughts go to the horror stories he’d heard about Merfolk and them getting caught in the open ocean, when he’d found you he had been surprised. He felt his heart beat faster when you were around, his blood would spike with love and affection.

It was strange, unheard of, but he can’t stop it now that it’s happened.

No one touched you with their cruel hands and lived.

John didn’t like it, but he hung far enough away from the Hunter’s ship so that the cover of night hid him. Dark stars hung at his head, tunic blowing in the chilled breeze when the waves took him close enough—all was silent. Asleep.

Lantern light slid along the waves, and with deft fingers, John anchored his ship with measured efficiency a small distance away. Looking over the side, the fisherman grunts under his breath and sets his shoulders. Without a single glance in hesitation, he slips silently off the deck into the water.

Immediately, John kicks his legs and resurfaces with a puff from his nostrils, whipping his head to the side to dispel water. Making no sound, the man swims the distance between vessels, hearing the creak of the still and bulky form of the Hunter’s ship ten times his own sitting above him.

“Fuckin’ bastards,” he grumbles to himself and thinks of your condition intensely. His heart hammers even in the clutches of the frigid waters. But beyond the insult, no other words needed to be spoken—the prior Captain was a man of action.

Violent Action.

John wades to the side of the wooden structure, the waves threatening to smash him tight into the hull and skin him against the barnacles, but he braces himself and grabs ahold of the knife at his belt, next to his cutlass. In his stupor to get to you quickly, he’d forgotten that his Flintlock would be completely useless now that it had been submerged in water.

Grunting and trying to remain as quiet as possible, the man sets his blade into the side of the ship into the thin slits available. In his free hand, he takes up his cutlass and does the same. In a feat of impressive upper-body strength that leaves his muscles bunching and tensing—veins visible from the side of his neck—John huffs breaths as he climbs the ship one panel at a time.

He groans and sends the blades back in at opposite intervals, the firm thunk-plunk, thunk-plunk, bouncing off the dark air as the moon shines bright. But no one awakens.

The Fisherman pulls himself up the side of the ship and swiftly ducts behind a pile of large crates on deck to gather himself, wiping his forehead with his arm.

“C’mon Sweetheart,” he mutters, “hold on just a little longer.” Duel wielding both weapons, narrowed eyes look across the open area—the stain of blood all along the wood. Glimmering in the low light catches John’s fiery gaze.

Scales. Your scales. Littering the deck and scattered all over.

If possible, the man becomes even more enraged, knuckles going white over his blades. The man stationed on deck was asleep across the way; leaning back and snoring. John locks eyes on him and hides back a vicious smirk. Quickly sneaking over and staying near the edge of the lantern’s lights, the ragged-looking man awakens to a blade at the base of his throat and a voice in his ear.

“The woman,” John speaks slowly and deeply, accent rolling out. The watchman tenses in his grip, but John grits his teeth and grits out, “Where the fuck is she?”

“W-woman?” Usually, the brunette could paint himself a patient man, like a flag fluttering in a breeze waiting for the next bout of heavy winds without care or concern. But this was different.

By God, if these pathetic fortune-seekers had hurt you even in the slightest bit…

John presses the blade harder to the man’s throat, thighs shifting in agitation, glaring at the far-off water beyond this stranger’s shoulder.

“The woman.” Blood falls down the blade edge, crimson. A tiny whimper. “The one that you stole away like an fucking animal.”

“The fish?” The tone was incredulous but with a snarl the voice continues, whispering pitifully out in fear over the night’s silence. “She’s in the Hold! I swear it, Sir, on God’s green earth I do—”

John slits the man’s throat and takes his leave before the body drops, blood spraying into the air with a garbled cry.

—

You don’t sleep so much as you fall unconscious from the lack of blood. Inside your head, your brain is fuzzy and light—everything swirling like a jewel’s many faces reflected onto a wall. The rocking of the Hunter’s ship, while something you should be used and accustomed to, made you sick at times until only the watery bile that fell from your lips hit the wood.

At some point, you’d given into the call of nothingness at the lack of seawater and the violent shivering of your shoulders. Your tail had gone completely numb.

Everyone knew that Merfolk needed the sea to survive—you couldn’t live without feeling its loose arms around you for long periods, pulling you in and filling your airways.

This was torture.

But whoever was ripping up cloth at your limp side was muttering you back into the darkness of the Hold.

“I’m right ‘ere, c’mon, Love. Open your bloody eyes.” Hands pressed to your face, tilting it and hissing before a thumb slid along the swollen skin of a cut. “I’ll rip them to pieces…mark my word. They’ll not live through this.”

It sounded like…

Gripping at your binds and gag, both items slipped away right before the larger cuts on your body were suddenly packed with strips of rough material. Occasional whispers of words and curses wafted out.

“...J-John?” Your voice is rough, shattered, but at the same time you manage to force open an eye.

Tight blue eyes meet yours immediately, and his voice softens to a painful degree as he addresses you. “That’s it, atta girl. Just keep focusing on my voice, then, yeah? Come back to me, Sweetheart.”

Tears well your ducts, lips quivering.

John was curled over you and had ripped up the bottom of his tunic to make strips of bandages to try and stop the bleeding. He came for you, gruff voice and large frame, all.

“How are you—” Your voice breaks into body-shaking coughs, but that doesn't deter the man. He carefully puts a hand forward and tilts you into his arms; head resting on his chest. Your ears twitch to the sound of his heartbeat, loud and fast. You cling to it like a lifeline as those calluses graze your skin once more.

How was he here?

“What have they fucking done?” John’s voice is dark and volatile, his hand stroking your matted hair. “What did they do?”

He’s not so much asking you as he’s asking himself. You breathe in a wheeze, not noticing the crimson staining John’s clothes—none of it his or yours in the slightest. The other men on the ship weren’t the Fisherman’s priority, only you; always you. But whoever had been in his path had met the unfortunate end of being on the opposite side of his blade.

When he’d found you like this….it was like his entire chest had fallen still. His eyes wide with horror and fear.

John had never felt something that visceral before, except when you hadn’t been in your cove.

“Oh, my Beauty.” Chapped lips press to your forehead, breathing you in as arms curl around you. “Let me bring you home.”

You shake and cry silently into his neck, weak hands coming to grasp at his neck.

“They’re going to take my tail.”

“No,” John’s answer is immediate and firm, pulling you closer until you might slip into his skin. “No, they’re not doing a damn thing to you. I promise, Love, not a single person will ever touch you again, you hear?”

You burrow into his neck, this fisherman’s flesh soft under your force. Hands keep you to him, and with another kiss on your cheek, they tighten and gently move you into the clutch of his arm.

John looks down at you with great distress, eyes flickering over every sign of abuse and hurt. The men whose throats he’d slit in their sleep deserved to be awake and see the blade descending for their neck, he thought.

“I’m going to lift you, Sweetheart, eh?” He grunts to push aside the hatred in his tone, not wanting to scare you. He gazes around the Hold and at the low ceiling—the insistent rocking from the waves just outside.

You suck down greedy breaths and nod slightly, shaking in his arms. John’s eyes crease in sorrow but has no option but to continue; the both of you can’t be here when the remaining men wake or discover the bodies.

Your Fisherman frowns but does what he’s able to both quickly and effectively lift you, your tail hanging limp and dripping blood from the fins. When you tense and whine, John shushes you quietly.

“Hush, now, it’s alright. It’ll all be over soon, I’ve got you. I’m taking you back home if it’s the last thing I damn-well do.” Your teeth grit with held-back pain, every movement was agony and to think made it worse.

Home? Home wasn’t safe anymore. Like taking a knife to the heart, the thought makes the torment all the worse.

John holds you in one arm, head under his ear and rubbing against his beard as his muscles strain to keep you right to him with his torn tunic and blood-freckled skin. In his free hand, he wields his Cutlass and exits the Hold slowly, eyes surveying the scene.

The scores of bodies were only a fraction of the men of this ship—only one side of the crew’s quarters that ascended up to the deck. John knew the anatomy of a ship well, certainly one like this.

His only question was why such an unsavory bunch was living on a King issued hunting vessel in perfect condition. Was the bastard hiring pirates for his extermination game?

“If I ever get my hands on him…” John shuts himself up as someone groans in their sleep from the far wall.

He glares in the general direction and puts his body between yours and the straight direction that he walks—sword parallel to the ground and knife at his belt as a backup. Ready and wound for a fight.

“You..you came for me?” You ask softly as John carries on, your blood leaving a crimson trail behind the two of you; your mind is loose to all except the way your Fisherman’s thumbs run circles in your rent scales, fingers gripping under your tail joint which aches and hurts. His bicep is curled at the small of your back.

John carries you like you weigh nothing.

“‘Course,” the brunette's eyes slide to yours, true honesty and firmness behind his words. You flutter your lashes at the fatigue in your body and his feet speed up, speaking into your scalp and nuzzling his beard into you. “No one messes with my girl.”

“I’m not a…girl, John,” you remind, softly.

The smirk on your head gives you strength, fear steadily draining like contaminated liquid.

“No,” he whispers, “no, not quite. You’re something far more lovely, aren’t you?”

Your heart swells, tears dripping down your cheeks once more before lips slide them away with brushes of a kiss. He carries you up the stairs quickly, sword at the ready.

Lantern light makes you squint, hands tightening around John’s neck.

He hums to you, a small melody that you can latch onto to help focus—it keeps your mind working as everything else falls away. John’s warm flesh and his lungs, the sound of his pulse.

He came for you. No man would do that besides him—no specimen of any species. No one except John.

Your Fisherman.

You’re halfway to freedom, feeling the sea air on your flesh and longing for the depths of untouchable waves. You peek from John’s neck and blink delicately, what little scales still intact shimmering, and fins aching for water.

“John,” he begins to pick up his pace, but still glances in attentive question. “I need to be in the water. I can’t go long without it.” You already felt a bit stronger by just being by the open sea. The man nods and you smile deeply, face twisted. You kiss his cheek deeply. “You have my thanks, Fisherman.”

His tight expression gradually loosens with care and love. “Doubted me, then?”

“Perhaps only a little,” he kisses your lips, cheeky smiles peeling his beard.

“Well, we’ll have to fix that, eh?” The man’s face is lit by lanterns, stars like a crown above his head that illuminate the small scars and the sheen of sweat like a portrait of a good man.

Perhaps humans were truly more magical than you had been taught to believe, for no mortal man would do this for anybody.

In the midst of him carrying you over to the edge of the ship, he’s only three feet from the drop when the familiar sound of a Flintlock hammer being clicked back hits his ears. You feel John lock up, and your eyebrows crease in confusion; not common to the model of metal and wood.

Looking over his shoulder, you strangle down a raspy gasp.

“John—”

“I know, Love.” He whispers, turning slowly with his sword at his hip. The stranger with the eyepatch has his weapon leveled with the brunette’s chest. “Easy, let me handle it. Keep focusing on me.”

“A thief in the night!” The leader calls, and alarm from below deck start to rise in question at the noise. John grits his teeth and his stance widens. “Thought to make off with my prize, did ya? I’ve not seen you before on this ship.”

“Hell,” John grits out, loudly now that he’s caught. You burrow deeper into him and he shields you, voice hot with rage. “Save me the fuckin’ monologue. She isn’t yours—to own or bloody take.”

As he speaks he points his cutlass in the leader’s general direction, holding it aloft with a strong and pale arm. The leader smirks, and soon the pound of rushing feet enter the deck—men holding weapons and clubs. You make a noise of tension and John tries to shift you farther into his grip even more.

Your tail hangs and brushes the deck, gaining some feeling back to it gradually.

The leader laughs. “What that creature is, Mate, is enough gold for a whole moon’s time in rum and pleasure.” His single eye falls on you as the crew gets closer, crowding in and yelling.

John shuffles back and snarls like a boar, pointing his sword’s tip from one chest to another.

“Keep your bastard eye off of ‘er, you prick. Find your score elsewhere. She’s coming with me.” So sure he sounds that you yourself believe it. Your chest swims with pride.

The crew closes in, but jumping at this stage was dangerous. The ones with firearms could aim in the water before you both could get away and John didn’t know if you could swim still. Your fins were torn and tail flinching with damaged nerves.

Eyepatch barks a vile laugh, “...I think he loves the beast!” John’s body winds even farther and your eyes slip to the side of his red face. He grunts stiffly, hair damp. Everyone follows in their amusement, mocking the two of you. “I knew that necklace around her neck meant something.” Your body stills and you glance down at John’s gifted silver. Blue eyes flash to the same, but as if suddenly realizing the nakedness of your top surrounded by such brutes, your Fisherman pushes on the back of your spine to shove your chest into his own with a panicked look. You grunt in surprise, but let him. “No greedy Mermaid would bother with a trinket like that! A piece of rubbish metal. It means something to her—and I’ll bet that something is you, Thief.”

Me, greedy? Your eyes narrowed into slits. If you knew his name, you’d sing his death song in an instant. Your Fisherman’s face goes stiff, knowing the predicament the two of you were in. There was no way he was giving you up.

But himself…

Tiny lids narrow on the arrogant leader.

“Do you trust me?” John whispers to you, suddenly, as all sides were surrounded and the water just as dangerous as the deck.

Face creasing, you say, confused and worried, “Of course.”

“...Then forgive me.”

He throws you from the side of the deck, and whirs to run his blade through the nearest man.

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luveline · 2 years

Text

𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary steve harrington is your boyfriend now. your boyfriend. and having a boyfriend means doing lots of new things, like dinner dates and movies, cuddling on the couch and kissing — lots of kissing. but there’s one thing you guys haven’t done yet, and steve’s just asked you to spend the night. [17.3k words]

warnings SMUT 18+ only, fem!reader, fluff heavy, new established relationship, first time, an overload of intimacy and affection, p in v sex, pet names, steve being the most loving dork on the entire planet and r being equally infatuated, mentioned that r has stretch marks, proofread not perfect

this is a companion to have you seen her? you don’t have to read it to understand, but if you want to it’s here <3

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Inside a sea of flowers lies a girl. Her skin glows with colour, the reflection of pigments. Sunspots of darkest red buffeted by buttery orange, indigo stretching into magenta, whites; endless whites ranging from creamy ivory to the violet shine of snow in the nighttime.

It's as if the flowers themselves bloom over your skin. Steve blinks and everything settles, your skin returns to skin, the reflections fade from focus. You stretch your leg out absentmindedly and lean forward to follow the book resting against the top of your thigh, entirely distracted.

The room smells as bright and fresh as the florist's itself. The flowers he'd given you, more than he could ever name, permeate everything. Most remain in good condition two weeks later, where some wilt despite your dedicated care.

Your fingertips are pin-pricked by the thorns of a rose's stem, injuries sustained in the hours you've spent preening each bouquet. You bring one such fingertip to your lips and suck lightly for a moment like it'll draw the small pain from your skin.

He leans against the doorway and takes in your appearance indulgently. Plaid pyjama bottoms hug your thighs. Your socked feet wiggle along to the sounds of your Walkman, music loud enough that you've missed his entrance.

He doesn't want to scare you into flinching and ruin the content little bubble you're in but he's certainly not about to turn around and leave after waiting all day to see you, no matter how selfish it might be to disturb you. I'm only human, he thinks.

"Hey, beautiful," he says. You don't hear him.

Steve bends at the waist to unlace his shoes before stepping onto the plush carpeting of your room. He weaves between vases and skinny buckets, repurposed cookware and every mug you own, worried that one wrong move will domino your intricate arrangements and spill flowers everywhere.

You catch sight of him before he's made it to your side. You flinch as he suspected you would, only a small jump but a jump nonetheless.

Steve's face creases in sympathy as you pull off your headphones, orange foam padding around your neck. "I'm sorry," he says, expecting you to be at least a little peeved at his sneaking. "I knocked, I swear."

You abandon your book carelessly and are only slightly kinder to your Walkman as you tug the headphones from your neck.

"Steve," you say, smiling.

"That's me. Hey."

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, white sheets rumpled in your wake as you scramble to your feet. Steve doesn't know who does what first but he opens his arms and you've opened yours and you fit into the circle of his embrace like you were made to.

"Sorry to scare you," he says.

You're not as confident as he is. Where Steve throws his arms over your shoulders, quick to press his mouth to the skin of your forehead, your hands draw tentative lines up his back.

To be touched so carefully is numbing in the best way. Steve wonders how his affection for you can continue to grow, more when you laugh half-breathless into his chest and look up, pinning him with your bright gaze.

"That's okay," you say, your happiness to see him palpable. It makes his chest hurt.

Steve puts some space between you to hold you at arm's length, one hand clasping your shoulder and the other following the curve of your neck.

He feels almost too happy to speak, like the words won't come out right. You seem to feel similarly, smiling wide, your lips pressed together tightly.

"I missed you," he says finally. Your reaction emboldens him; your eyes crease with pleasure and he has to duck down for a kiss.

Just one, pressed chastely to the skin left of your cupid's bow. You lift your chin in reaction, your hands searching up towards his shoulder blades.

"I missed you too," you say.

He decides to push his luck and kiss you properly. Your lips are warm under his and your cheek is aflame under his hand as he cradles your face.

"Haven't been lying out in the sun again, have you?" he asks as he pulls away. Your eyes flutter open.

"Huh? No, I've been reading inside all day."

"Good. You'll get sick, you sunbathe so much," he chides with no real heat.

He squeezes your face mildly and you steal another quick kiss. Steve would let you steal as many as you want to no matter the duration, but you stick to just one.

"Are you hungry?" you ask. You don't wait for an answer, skirting around him.

His hands miss your skin as soon as you're out of reach. He follows you to the kitchen like a lost dog hungry for scraps – scraps of your voice in the shadow of your exhale, any small flash of your skin, the back of your wrist as you pull open the refrigerator door. Steve situates himself by the sink so he can see your face. Your arms quickly grow heavy with fresh vegetables and a precarious china dish, a familiar carafe slipping in your fingers.

"Here," he mutters, reaching for the glass carafe with both hands.

"Thank you," you say, giggling. "Thought I was gonna drop it."

You set everything down on the clean counter. The sun kisses your skin where it shines golden-orange through the window. A bouquet of tulips sits in the sill, thin petals translucent and bright like the bulbs are made up of sweet maraschino cherries.

"I would've caught it."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Super fast reflexes. LaRusso style," he says, putting down your carafe. Fruit slices and rose petals bob on the water's surface.

"The Karate Kid?" you ask, pushing up your sleeves.

He smiles as you walk towards him. "Exactly. You like that movie?"

You turn on the faucet and wash your hands without looking, your eyes drawn to his face. "I loved that movie. I've only seen it twice, though. Once at the movies, once with Dustin."

"You watched it with Dustin?" he asks.

Your eyes flit between the sink and his face as you turn off the faucet and shake your wet hands over the basin. "Yeah, and his mom. She's really nice, you know?"

"She's a real treasure. It's her kid I'm not too sure about."

You laugh and he loves it, less when you flick your still-wet hands at him and pattern him in tap water.

"Stop, idiot," he protests, leaning away from you.

"It's raining, babe. I don't control the weather."

"Sure."

You grin over your shoulder and flounce to the counter where your wooden chopping board resides. He's desperate to be close to you but doesn't want to look it.

It's too early to show her how much of a total loser I am, he thinks, turning to the sink and washing his hands so he can help you make dinner and steal some closeness.

"Did you have a crush on him?" he asks.

"Dustin?" you ask, horrified.

Steve laughs and rubs the slippery bar of soap between his palms. "No, weirdo, Daniel LaRusso. The Karate Kid."

"Nah, Mister Miyagi was more my type."

Steve drops the bar of soap into the basin and struggles to pick it back up, only pausing in his panic when he hears your self-satisfied giggling. It's infectious.

"That's so sick. Dude was ninety years old," he says, rinsing the suds off.

"I'm kidding!"

You're still laughing to yourself when he joins you. You've already chopped the inedible tops off of three long carrots and peeled them. You start to cut them into uniform batons, your quick peeling and knife work both impressive and daunting to Steve, who's only just weaned himself off of a steady high school diet of TV dinners and chips.

He shakes his hands at you. Flecks of water hit you and shine on your skin like the fine mist of morning dew, a dampened flower. You smell like one, though Steve supposes that's inevitable when you're sleeping surrounded by a crush of petals every night.

"Can I help?" he asks.

You blow a raspberry. "I should kick you out."

He flicks more water at you and you hide your face in your shoulder, the soft skin of your cheek pulled cruelly.

"Don't hide."

"Stop flicking me."

"It's raining, babe. I don't control the weather," he says dryly.

Finely spritzed, you open your eyes just enough to see him through your lashes, smiling like you wish you weren't. Steve holds his hands up in surrender, mostly because they're dry enough now that any flickage is negligent, and because you're much too pretty to be hiding away. The sun has begun to set, its descent marked by a gaussian blur spreading across the countertops and cabinets, your arms blanketed in a glow. Steve finds your face practically dietific to begin with – the light makes you something else entirely.

He wants to say something too heartfelt, say, Fuck, you're so pretty.

He's not that brave.

"You want a drink?" he asks.

"Yes please. You know where the cups are?"

He grabs two glass cups from the cabinet othweise pillaged for makeshift vases to your left and you cut the celery, a small lull in conversation filled only by the crisp crunch of your preparations and the slosh of Steve's pouring. The flower petals have bled their pigments into the carafe's cold water and turned it a transparent vermillion, something so quietly inordinate that he can't not mention it.

"The water's purple, babe," he says.

"Huh?" you ask. You hold the cutting board aloft, your knife guiding chopped vegetables into a shiny metal colander.

"The water," he says, punctuating his claim with a sharp click as he puts your glass down in front of you.

You discard your knife distractedly. "Oh. It must've been the rose petals."

"Can we still drink it?"

"Sure we can. Rosewater is really good for you. Though I'm not sure if this counts as rosewater, actually, I think you have to steep the petals in hot water first."

You shrug your shoulders and bring your glass to your mouth.

Steve frowns. "Are you sure?" he asks worriedly. He doesn't want you to get sick, especially from flowers he brought you.

You get a crease between your eyebrows, lips pursed quizzically. "I'm sure. You worry too much, Stevie," you say.

It's like being struck. You've never called him that before.

The nickname had sounded easy as breathing for you to say and had felt easier, felt right, like you'd used it a hundred times before.

He laughs, says, "Fine, but if you turn purple don't say I didn't warn you," and proceeds to work himself into a poorly contained frenzy.

He takes the colander to the sink and washes the carrot and celery sticks more thoroughly than he needs to whilst he composes himself. He listens with ears made keen by his racing heart as you turn on the stove. The fan hums. There's a loud crackling as you peel back the aluminum foil covering a medium sized casserole dish.

"I forgot to ask you, you like buffalo wings, right?"

He turns off the faucet and almost misses your question, too busy thinking So she called you Stevie, are you twelve? Get a hold of yourself, you-

"What?"

"I can make something else, if you don't."

Steve shakes the colander to drain any excess water as he reassures you. "No, that's okay. That's perfect. I love wings, and I'll love them double if you're the one making them." After all, you make a mean BLT.

The oven door swings open and he turns in time to watch you bend at the waist and insert the dish of chicken wings, your eyes narrowed. Adorable.

You straighten up and dust your hands off, bumping the door closed with your hip. "Awesome. Here, let me-" You take the colander from his hand like you're going to whiz away and then evidently change your mind, stuttering to a jolting stop. "Thank you," you tell him earnestly.

"You're welcome. You did all the hard work," he says, caught off guard.

"Super hard work, cutting up some carrot sticks," you say, mock-agreeably.

Steve reaches out to pinch your side. "Just because you made it look easy doesn't mean it is. It would've taken me double the time to make something, and it would've been, like, a grease fest," he says. "You already made the chicken, too, so that's more hard work you're not thinking about."

"The chicken marinades itself," you admonish lightly. You step on toes to kiss the high point of his cheek. "But thank you."

You turn to tip your veggie sticks into a bowl with a quarter inch of water at the bottom. Steve prods your kiss mark unthinkingly, the skin tingling from a combination of your gifted kiss and the affectionate tone you'd used.

"I got all kinds of dip. Hummus, artichoke and spinach, tahini, ranch. Do you like those?" you ask hopefully.

If he didn't he'd try and find a way. "Who doesn't like ranch?"

"I'll make fries too, okay?"

He really, really likes you.

Steve still looks kind of silly eating at your small kitchen table. You're in the seat that's crammed against the refrigerator and he's in the opposite. You're so close that your calves keep touching, often enough that you both forgo apologies in favour of sending the other a small smile. Less of an 'I'm sorry,' and more of a 'We touched again,' a confirmation that he's real and you're real and you're eating a home cooked meal that you made together.

He's so handsome, so ridiculously lovely, and the food is good but not good enough to keep your attention. Not when Steve takes a sip of water and his arm moves, the muscle beneath his skin shifts, pulls taut, and his shirt tightens around his bicep and you're just as hopeless as you were the very first time you'd invited him in.

He's saying something and it must be pretty funny because he's laughing, a chesty, giggling thing that sounds boyishly happy, like he just can't help it. You're not sure what he's laughing at but it's enough to set you off, infectious as it is.

"So Robin's in the back pretending to search for this movie that doesn't exist, and I'm thinking, shit, maybe I should call the police. Because he's got both hands in his pockets and, whaddya know, one pocket is like bulging out."

"Steve?" you ask, trying to sound forceful, befuddled that he's laughing at all. "Someone came into the store with a gun?"

His laugh peters off. "No," he says reassuringly. "Klondike bar."

He chews through a big mouthful of celery and you dissolve into giggles.

Cleaning up with Steve ends up being just as fun as cooking. He stands at your side with a hand towel wiping off dishes as you wash them, hip to hip.

"I can wash them," he says.

"That's okay."

You pass him a wet plate. He wipes it dry and sets it to the side. It could only be five minutes of this before you're done. Weirdly, you wish it had taken a little longer.

It's nice to spend time with him.

"I was thinking you could come over to my place tomorrow, if you wanted to."

Your heart flutters and you're hit with the realisation that you might get to do dishes with him tomorrow, and again, that today isn't a one off. That Steve likes you enough to kiss you and buy you flowers and invite you over.

"I've never been to your house," you say.

"I know. It's supposed to be really hot out tomorrow until seven. I thought you could sunbathe for an hour and I could keep an eye on you, you know. We can get takeout, listen to music," he continues, his voice soft, a melodic cadence to his suggestions.

Why is he trying to sell you on it? You hand him the last plate and twist, holding your dripping hands in the basin.

"I'd love to," you say, smiling. "Though I resent the idea that I need to be supervised."

"I just don't want all those brains to turn to mush." He puts the plate down on top of the others and reaches for your hands without saying anything, eyes on your face as he dries off your fingers gently. "Though you were super adorable when you had heat stroke. All clingy and giggly," he teases.

"Heat exhaustion," you correct. You feel like there's water in your ears.

"Mh-hm."

When your hands are to his satisfaction he swings the towel over his shoulder and takes them into his own, your fingers hooked gently over his. He rubs the fingernail of your index finger and then moves up, smoothing a path over your knuckles. He arrives at your pinky finger and wraps his index finger around it, massaging the length of it with the pad of his thumb.

"Are they still hurting?" he asks, hushed.

"A little bit. Not really, though. It's like after a splinter."

He holds your hand open, palm bared, his thumb pressed to the bottom of your last three fingers as he bends to look at your fingertips. Every touch, every detail, every movement he makes feels urgent to you, your heart racing fast as a mouse's.

"Poor girl," he mumbles to himself. He looks up and sees what must look similar to panic on your face. "Are you sure they're not hurting you? They look sore."

You're gonna say Yes, I'm sure, but he straightens up and brings your hand to his lips before you can muster the strength. He kisses your smattering of tiny injuries and grins when he's done, your entire body awash with a dizzying pleasure.

His hair is falling in his face. You take your kiss-warmed hand from his grip to tuck the longer strands behind his ear. Your heartbeat plays loud. You worry he can hear it.

You stall with your index finger shaking over his skin. Steve covers your hand with his, the look in his eyes unreadable, and you know he's going to kiss you.

You shut your eyes. His breath warms your lips as he closes in, his nose sliding against yours slowly. Your anticipation is a hand closing around your throat, at first a welcome touch and then dizzying breathlessness, an aching for the brush of his lips. He squeezes your hand where it cradles his cheek.

"Breathe," he whispers in bemusement. "Breathe, baby."

You suck in a breath and lift your chin as Steve knocks your nose with his and crosses the distance, his lips parted just slightly. Your head moves back under his kiss, your eyes screwed too tight. Steve takes your hand from his face and guides it over the slope of his shoulder until you're cupping his neck, his fingertips trailing down the length of your arm and moving under, palm to your shoulder blade. He pulls you in, makes the softest little sound against your lips that tickles madly and has a warmth like the setting sun filling your chest.

He kisses slow and sweet, his lips a softness against yours. You can feel as he starts to smile, as he takes your face into his hand, almost pulling at your skin in efforts to be impossibly nearer.

He laughs first, a huff that fans over your twin smile. You can't help but join in as you search up, ardent and excited, laughing into his open mouth until every kiss is a struggle.

"Y/N," he says. It doesn't even sound like your name. He could've said babe or baby or sweetheart and it would've burned the same.

"Do you have to go home?" you ask knowingly, reluctantly opening your eyes.

He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.

It's getting late, a warm Thursday evening becoming night. The street lamps outside burn yellow-white in the darkening sky and the flowers on the sill have lost their shine. Steve is the brightest thing in the room.

He checks his watch and frowns. "I probably should."

"But I'll see you tomorrow?" you check.

"Did you wanna stay the night? I'm not working Saturday."

You have the first thought that most girls your age might have at a new love asking that question: sex. For a moment, a split second of a moment, Did you wanna stay the night? becomes Do you wanna have sex with me?

You give him a guilty smile and he mistakes it for something else. He says, "You don't have to, I can drive you home. And uh, you know, I would…" You bring your hand back to his face. "We wouldn't do anything you don't wanna do."

"I know," you say quickly. "Yeah, I wanna stay the night." Which is scary to admit. Scary to want.

Whether anything happens or it doesn't, you want to go.

You walk Steve out and he kisses you goodnight chastely. You watch him all the way to his car and wave as he drives away, standing in the doorway until his tail lights are a mere suggestion of white in the distance, small and bright as a pearly star.

Robin shrieks as her chair reclines back as far as it can. "Shit, why does it go back this far?"

Steve is more than tired from a full day of work and while he loves Robin to the point of dying for her, he can't handle stupid questions. His short fuse is further shortened by missing you, and he groans.

"You fucking reclined it all the way?"

Steve watches in the rear view as she raises her eyebrows and hugs herself with both arms. "It went down too easy, is all I'm saying."

"That's all?" he asks.

He knows exactly what she's implying and he refuses to feed into it, even when she hums to herself happily. Her happiness lasts for only a few seconds before she's springing up and giving herself whiplash.

"You haven't actually fucked in this seat, right?"

"Christ, Robin."

Her nose wrinkles. "Have you?"

"No! No, I haven't done anything in here… in a while. And me and Y/N haven't-" He bites his tongue.

"You haven't?" she asks. There's no teasing to be detected in her voice, only curiosity.

He keeps his eyes on the road but his thoughts travel elsewhere. You're so close he convinces himself for a second that he can smell your sweet floral scent, a hundred different flowers clinging to your skin. He lets himself sink further, imagining the feeling of your cheek under his hand and the softness of your skin and fine hairs, the shape of your eyes as he leans in.

"Loverboy?" Robin asks expectantly.

Steve clears his throat. "What?"

"Ew, you're being disgusting."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You didn't have to," she says, and then laughs. "In deep, huh?"

"Shut up."

"I'm serious! I'm serious, you like her. And it's nice," she draws the word out hesitantly, "to see you happy. I guess. After I broke your heart, and all."

He doesn't blush like he might have before. Steve had liked Robin, a lot, and it was easy to understand why: she's the first real friend he's ever had. He's more than over his crush now, platonic (with a capital 'P') suits them well.

"Thanks, Robs," he mutters, rolling his eyes.

"You're welcome." She whistles. "So, you haven't fucked?"

Steve turns his face. "Don't you think that's, like, a private thing?"

"I'm your best friend."

"Y/N is an entire other person who isn't your best friend."

"I'm not gonna tell anybody."

Steve knows that. He sighs to himself, conflicted. He doesn't wanna kiss and tell but he does need advice. "She's staying over tonight."

"Ah, huzzah!" Robin cheers. Steve worries his eyes might get stuck inside his head from all the rolling. "And you're gonna…"

He chews his lip. "I don't think so. I think I scared the shit out of her when I asked her to spend the night."

"I doubt that, she still said yes. But, you know. Not all of us lose our V-card when we're in junior year."

He hadn't even thought about that. "Shit. Having a girlfriend is terrifying."

Robin laughs and throws the seat back up. "If she's scared, it might not even be about hooking up. You've been together for, what, a week?"

"Two weeks today."

Robin nods thoughtfully and then shrugs. "Forget about sex and everything and just have fun."

"I'm not a nympho." He isn't. He doesn't care if you want to hook up or not (though care might be indelicate – he won't lie and say he hasn't thought about it).

"I know. I'm just saying, there's no point worrying about if you will or won't."

He takes the turn onto Robin's street. Her house comes into view, and he suddenly realises, "I wasn't worried until you brought it up!"

"Then forget I said anything!" she shouts back, laughing.

Steve laughs too as he pulls up at the curb outside of Robin's house.

"It's fine," he says decidedly. He's still worrying about it because if you do want to hook up he's not exactly in practice right now, but underneath it is that building anticipation, an excitement. "Fuck, she's so fucking pretty, Robin."

"Sure is, idiot," Robin agrees, unbuckling and kicking open the door. "Wear a rubber or your kids will be pretty, too."

She closes the door with a smug smile.

"You're awful!" he calls at her retreating figure. She waves over her shoulder and doesn't look back.

Steve drops his head into the wheel and startles himself when it beeps.

By the time he's pulling up outside of his house he's forgotten all his sex-related nerves, any anxiety occluded by a want to see you. He rushes to clean up the huge mess he's made over the week in the kitchen and the smaller mess in the living room, soda cans and take out and all the gross things he'd rather die than have you see.

He throws open every window and heads out to the back yard to make sure the pool is actually swimmable. The sun is high but falling. The day's most punishing heat is over. Perfectly safe for sunbathing.

He doesn't have anything fancy but he fills a jug with water and tops it with badly cut orange slices to cool in the fridge while he waits for you.

Steve stretches, smells himself, realises he smells like sweat and checks his watch in alarm. Your visit is fast approaching but if he does it quickly he can shower before you get here.

He's not right. He's still in the shower when you knock the door. Steve almost kills himself as he scrambles over wet tiles. He's still basically soaking as he drags his clean clothes on, hair sopping and quickly saturating the neck of his shirt.

You smile when he opens the door, though your smile quickly fades. "I'm sorry, were you showering? I know I'm early, I just wanted to see you."

You look like you always do – pretty, so pretty, your hair a little messy, your shirt crinkled at the bottom, the slit in your skirt showing a tantalising stripe of your thigh. A breezy, thin outfit for the hot weather.

Steve couldn't say why but he needs to kiss you badly. He takes your shoulder into his hand to hold you in place and kisses the corner of your smile, your cheek, the small stripe under your earlobe. He lingers there for longer than the others, feeling the ever-present heat of your skin beneath his lips. He presses a second kiss over the first and then pulls away.

"Don't be sorry," he says. He pats your face. "I'm glad you're early. I wanted to see you more, I swear."

"You make everything a competition," you grumble, though your eyes evidence your bliss.

Steve leads you into the living room and you drop your backpack onto the couch. The sight of it makes him fawn, because you really are staying the night and you look cute and you'd wanted to see him. It's enough to make him ecstatic. It likely shows on his face.

You turn on your heels, taking it all in. "You have a really nice house, Steve."

"I'd say thank you, but it's all my parents'."

"Where are they?" you ask.

Where are they usually? He doesn't really know. "Chicago, I think? My dad's on business and mom always goes with him, so…"

You turn your eyes from the open patio door and back to Steve where he stands in the middle of the room towel drying his hair. "Lucky me, I get you all to myself," you murmur.

"Do you wanna take your shoes off?" he asks. "There's water in the fridge. Are you hungry?"

You peek up at home where you've bent down to unstrap your sandals and smile. "I'm good, Stevie," you say softly.

When you've stepped out of both sandals you hold them by the straps and they dangle from your hand, swaying with your steps as you walk towards him.

You look up at him and tilt your head to one side. Always charming, Steve's fondness for sky rockets.

"Are you okay?" you ask, a murmur, raising your hand to his bicep. Your fingers slip under his sleeve. "You seem frazzled. Long day?"

It felt endless, knowing that you'd be waiting for him.

"I'm fine. I'm good. I'm great, actually. Got a whole night with my girl."

"And tomorrow, too," you say, sounding as happy as he feels.

"What are we gonna do with it all?" he says teasingly.

Again, a flash of that nervous smile. He hadn't meant to insinuate anything at all. He's about to clarify when you bring your hand to his collar and kiss him.

Steve really likes your hands, he's fascinated by them, the way you move them and the way they feel, their tentative but tender touch as you feel along the ridge of his collar bone. You come to a stuttering pause as he kisses you harder, the wet of your tongue addictive as he opens you up.

He takes your face into both hands and pushes your face to one side so he can move in closer, thumbs careless where they press into your cheeks. You taste like something sweet and the sound you make is sweeter as he dedicates himself to your top lip, a quivering breath as he slows.

He tries not to feel smug at the lost glaze in your eyes when they blink open.

Your bottom lip shines. He wipes it clean with his thumb. "You wanna go sunbathe now?" he asks mildly.

You nod like he thought you would, slow, but then there's a sudden clarity on your face. "I brought you something."

You move out of his reach and he follows. You're only stepping towards the couch where your backpack rests, unzipping it and in no rush as you pull your pajamas out and lay them on the cushion. He tries very hard to pretend he hasn't noticed your underwear, a pair of pink lacy panties, but he thinks maybe you can tell as you turn to him with a tupperware of cookies in your hands.

"More flower shortbread?" he asks happily. "You spoil me."

"I think you're someone who deserves to be spoiled."

Steve's mouth goes dry. He holds his hands out for the tupperware and hugs it to his chest, throwing a hand around your shoulders to tug you close. He presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Thank you," he says.

"You're welcome."

He takes your hand and pulls you out into the backyard. You beam, your head tilting back to take in the warmth of the fading sun.

Steve drags two sun loungers close together and you waste no time in stretching out on one.

You bloom.

There's no other word for it. You unfurl like the petals on your beloved flowers. Your body relaxes completely. Steve reaches across the gap to take your hand again and they hang between your languid bodies.

You're smiling as you balance your red shiny Walkman across your chest and click play, adjusting the volume until the feminine scratch of Cyndi Lauper echoes over the concrete space of his backyard. You close your eyes soon after, and Steve knows he might not get as much conversation out of you as he craves but it's worth it to see you like this, to hold your hand.

He struggles to open your tupperware with one hand but doesn't consider letting you go, eyebrows furrowing at the stubborn lid.

When it clicks it's loud and he inhales fast, worried the entire thing is gonna topple off of his chest and your perfect shortbread biscuits will be destroyed. Flower petals adorn the top. Steve picks them off while you're not looking – they're beautiful, of course, and don't taste like much, but the texture is super weird.

"How was work?" you ask.

He takes a big bite of shortbread. "It was fine. I mean, it was fucking boring as hell. We watched Back to the Future again."

"I've never seen that movie."

"Never?"

"No. Is it good?"

He squeezes your fingers and pushes the rest of the shortbread into his mouth. It's not too sweet. You've dusted the tops with fine sugar that melts in his mouth and the crumbly texture is awesome, better than any store bought cookies he's ever tried.

He swallows and lets his head fall back, greedy enough to pick up a second one. "Wanna hear a story?"

You turn your head towards him and your eyes crack open. "A good one?"

"Depends on your politics."

You close your eyes. "Tell me."

"The first time I saw Back to the Future was at the Starcourt mall with Robin. We were high out of our minds, total whitey's. And I had a concussion, so I was… worse."

Your eyes open fast. Your one shoulder lifts, like you might have to protect him from something. "What?" you ask, frowning.

He pulls your hand towards him, a tug, not to come closer but more in an everything is okay, kind of way.

"It's fine. Anyways, we laughed our asses off and left before the end. The first time we watched it sober I thought it was the wrong movie."

"Why did you have a concussion?"

He shakes the tupperware at you until you take one. Only when you've bitten into it does he answer, though he's not entirely truthful, "It was like, you know how there was a fire?" he asks. You nod. "Well, everything in starcourt was fucking janky, and we went down this one elevator shaft and- concussion." He explains without explaining. He doesn't lie.

No way is he ready to tell you about all the weird shit he's had to deal with. Not yet. He doesn't wanna scare you off or scare you at all, and the upside down shit is fucking terrifying.

You take his explanation without any suspicion and he feels a little guilty.

"You should get workers comp," you say, brows pinched.

He chuckles and rubs his thumb over the back of your hand. Being cared about like this is so weird, he thinks. How mad and worried you are over something that happened before you knew him makes him feel hot, something electric and melting on top of his chest.

"You wanna be my lawyer?" he asks, grinning.

You reach for another shortbread. "I wouldn't know the first thing about it."

"You'd look cute in a suit, though."

"Shush," you mumble. You roll your thumb over your shortbread until the flower petals fall off. "They're so pretty but they feel so weird. Maybe I shouldn't put them on there."

He looks at the scattered flower petals on the floor to his left where you can't see them. "Nah, I like 'em."

You glow. "If you like them I guess I'll leave them on there."

"That's generous. You'd never be a good lawyer."

"Lawyers can be generous! They do stuff for free, right? Pro-bono. Like that one movie last year, with the guy who kills his wife, but he doesn't kill his wife, but he totally does, um…"

"Jagged Edge."

"Jagged Edge! Exactly."

"Was she pro bono?" he asks sceptically.

"Maybe not," you say, and laugh. "That movie sucked."

"Better than Back to the Future."

You choke on a laugh and pull your hand out of his to dust yourself off. He misses your touch but doesn't complain, clicking the lid back onto your tupperware and hiding them under the lounger from the heat. The sunshine is amazing, not too suffocating but definitely warm enough to melt him into jelly. He'd been a little worried about wearing shorts rather than jeans but you hadn't mentioned anything.

He combs his hair out of his face and wonders if it looks awful. It probably does. Only the strands closest to his neck feel chilly with damp, half dried by the sunshine.

"Steve," you say shyly.

He turns back to you and you're sitting up, one leg off the lounger.

"What?"

"Can I… you don't mind if I take off my shirt, do you?" you ask.

He's quick to assure you. "No way, beautiful. Throw it off."

You huff a laugh and cross your arms. Steve's fascinated by the way you take off your shirt, how you've dragged the front over your face where he would've grabbed the back and pulled indelicately. Your back arches and your chest moves up as it comes off.

You're wearing some sort of animal print bikini top underneath, a cheetah or a panther or something. Steve watches the curves of your breasts rise as you breathe in and then snaps his gaze to your face, guilty. You aren't looking at him, busy fiddling with the Walkman in your lap.

"Do you have anything you wanna listen to?" you ask him offhandedly. "I brought this and A Night at the Opera, but if there's something else you wanted to-"

"Night at the Opera?"

"Queen?" you ask.

"Like Hammer to Fall?" he asks.

You turn to face him entirely, skirt ruffled by a gentle breeze. "That's their new one. Night at The Opera is from, like, '76? '75? It has that really long one. And there was," you start giggling, your words all jumpy and honeyed, "there's one called 'I'm in Love with my Car.'"

"Sounds like an album for me. I'll go get it."

You spring up, something he can't read on your face. You look fucking insane shirtless, all soft and shiny, the lightest sheen of sweat illuminating the hills and dips, the slope of your shoulder, the lengths of your arms. "No, I'll do it. I'll get the water at the same time."

He watches you pass back into the house from over his shoulder. "It's in the fridge!" he calls.

"I guessed!"

He wonders for a second why you'd sounded nervous before remembering your underwear. His cheeks go a similar colour as he tries not to think about it, only he can't not think about it. They had not constituted a great deal of fabric, and then he's wondering how much the current ones are made up of and feeling guilty for that too.

She's my girlfriend, he thinks. I can think about these things. Not, like, obsessively. But in passing. God, she's fucking beautiful. He descends into a panicked reasoning.

Steve scrubs his face with his hand and looks out over the pool. It's been a while since they used it. He can't say he wants to use it after last time, and he definitely wouldn't consider any night time swimming but if you want to splash around in there in the daylight hours he's not gonna stop you.

You flounce back onto the patio with the cold jug in your hands and two glasses hugged to your chest, the cassette in the other. "Here, Stevie, can you-"

"Yeah." He stands up. He takes the cassette and jug from you and you manoeuvre the glasses into your hands. "Swap?" he asks.

You swap one glass for the cassette and the two of you sit down in tandem. Steve pours water for you both as you take Cyndi Lauper out, the cold a blessing. He holds his glass to his face and sighs.

"It's still hot even though it's late," you say knowingly.

"Endless Indiana summer." You're struggling with the cassette, your lips puckered in confusion. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"I think I jammed it."

He watches you struggle with the lip that doesn't wanna open. "Pass it over?" he offers.

You pass it as soon as he asks, moving to sit by his side. He's very gentle with the small machine that you've once or twice affectionately monikered your 'baby'. He doesn't know a lot about tech and doesn't know why he offered. It had felt automatic. You had a problem and he just wanted to fix it.

The button that usually opens the door is pressed down, but the door is closed. He digs his fingernail under the button and pulls it up until it pops back into place and tests the play button.

The cassette starts to spin.

"Sticky button," he says easily.

Your thigh presses into his. "You're a genius, Harrington."

"That's Steve to you, babe."

You laugh and shift ever closer, until your arm is pressed to his arm, both perspiring lightly and too warm to really be touching like this. He should pull away, or you should. One of you should.

"Whatever you say…Harrington," you murmur through the corner of your mouth, smiling so nicely that he can't be bothered to argue.

He tucks his hand between your arm and your naked chest and pulls it toward him. You drop your head against his shoulder and turn the Walkman in your hand.

"How's your brain? Jello?" he asks lightly, flexing his fingers against the crook of your elbow and resting his head on top of yours carefully

"Jello pudding pops," you say wistfully. "You remember those? I haven't had one of those in years. Think they still make 'em?"

Your question is out of the blue. Enough to worry him some more.

He brings the arm furthest from you to your head and brushes his pinky finger up from your eyebrows to your hairline. "You feel warm."

"I'm perfectly fine, nelly."

"I'm allowed to be nervous. You were kind of out of it last time."

"We've barely been out here for thirty minutes," you argue with barely any heat.

His hand smooths down to your neck and then back up. He pulls your cheek back with his thumb and then drops his hand. "Just tell me if you feel sick, okay?"

"I promise I'm fine."

"Jeez," he groans, his lips barely parted. A fond annoyance. "Think a guy was asking the world."

You let your weight lean on him, the hand of the arm he's hugging moving around his back until you've found his side. You move it up and down sluggishly.

Like this, Steve has a perfect view of your lovely shoulder. One hidden behind, the other bared.

"You're beautiful," he says.

You tense up and he hates it, bringing his hand to your coveted shoulder. He rubs a line up the soft slope, the curve of your neck and then down again until you've relaxed.

"You… can't even see my face," you murmur. Your breath is a small hot patch into his sleeve.

"I don't need to see your face," he says, feigning a frustration he doesn't feel. "Think I haven't stared at you enough to know? And I was talking about your shoulders."

You laugh and drag your face up. "My shoulders?"

"Well I can only see one. But I assume the second is just as nice."

"You're weird," you say.

There's a certain weakness to it. He thinks maybe you need to hear him say it again. He doesn't hesitate.

"You have nice shoulders."

You shake your head almost imperceptibly. Steve takes the player from your lap and turns it down by half, putting it on the floor with the water jug.

Your legs poke into his as he encourages you towards him.

"Come on," he says, "I don't bite, babe. 'Less you ask me to."

"You'd like that, you sicko."

He laughs and really bundles you up, a too warm hug where your face presses to his shoulder and his hovers above yours. He squeezes and drags his hand down your arm, rough but not cruel.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Shh, I'm busy."

You've wrapped your arms around his waist loosely. Steve tugs your thigh over his until your legs are overlapped, as close as you can be while sitting side by side like this. He'd pull you completely into his lap if he thought you'd let him.

He can feel your smile.

His hand soothes a kinder path over your arm before he gives in. Shyly at first, Steve drops his mouth to your shoulder and leaves it there, barely a kiss.

Don't be a loser, he thinks.

Cautious but sincere kisses. He drops them in a uniform line down your arm, your sunned skin hot under his lips. Kisses not meant to be anything but kisses, little worships, a scattering of affection. Indiscriminately. His mouth passes over blemishes, beauty marks, the fine hairs at the top of your arm. You curl tighter around his waist.

He kisses back up the hill of your shoulder and his lips part. He sucks very, very gently, kissing the same spot until he's adorned your skin with shiny crescent moons. He doesn't know how long he kisses you for. He doesn't want to stop, or pause, or do anything but this.

His hands have moved to your back. One toys with the tie of your bikini top unthinkingly, the other rubbing your shoulder. You're limp in his arms.

He rubs his nose against your shoulder for long, quiet minutes. Perfumed by a thousand flowers and yet you still smell like yourself underneath it, your skin an indescribable scent and secret, something he selfishly doesn't ever want to share. Steve can't make himself move from you and you don't seem inclined either.

He groans. "Alright, you hungry?" he asks.

Your fingers stretch across his back. "Maybe."

"I'll call Mazzio's. What do you want?"

"Anything."

Steve pulls back to give you a fierce look. "Just tell me. I gotta know your favourite toppings. S'like, a boyfriend thing."

"A boyfriend thing?" you repeat, smiling wide.

You tell him what you like and he squeezes your shoulder, disappearing into the house to call the pizza place. When he returns you've laid out in his lounger, your eyes closed like you're sleeping. The worst of the heat has fallen away and cloud cover threatens to give you the chills.

"Come inside?" he asks from the doorway.

"No… come and give me another hug. It was nice."

"I bet it was," he mutters, a feigned irritation that's completely overturned by how quickly he does what you tell him to.

The lounger isn't big enough for both of you. Steve's already laughing as he climbs on top of you, careful but not really as he crushes the fabric of your skirt with his knees and thighs and wraps his arms tightly around your neck, rubbing your foreheads together roughly.

"This what you meant?" he asks through a grin.

"No."

Steve's bed smells of him unequivocally. You're trying to withhold from lying down and sniffing, wondering curiously if that's something you're 1) allowed to do, and 2) supposed to want to do. Is it odd to like the way he smells as much as you do? That familiar bergamot, the almost smokey undertone of lavender, cedar. It makes you feel doped up. Your happiness has you heavy-limbed.

"You head up, okay? I'm just gonna lock the door," he'd said.

So here you are, backpack at your feet. After greasy takeout and an entire movie holding hands you think you're probably as content as it's possible to be in this body and in this life.

You hear Steve's footsteps up the stairs and lie down flat against his pillows, turning your face to sniff indulgently, the fabric cold under your cheek.

He walks in and he's all rumpled clothes and smiles, his hair in total disarray like you've never seen. As soon as he's crossed the threshold he's pulling off his polo and you think Oh fuck, that was quicker than I imagined this happening. Your heart feels fit to explode but he's barely looking at you, his sights set on the huge oak dresser at the end of the room.

You watch his arms as he walks past, your heart a hummingbird as Steve says, "Did you pick a movie?"

You gawp at what you can see of his naked chest, the side of a pec. You've never seen him undressed like this. Your distraction leaves you quiet, and Steve turns to you with a soft looking t-shirt in hand.

"Baby?"

"I didn't," you say, your voice scratchy. "Uh, sorry. I just laid down and…forgot."

He bends forward a little before he puts the shirt on and his entire chest moves. You can't help but look at it. Steve has… Steve has pecs. Pillowy-

"Y/N?"

"Sorry," you say, blinking hard.

"Are you tired or something?" He turns back to the dresser and opens a different drawer and pulls out a pair of sweatpants. "Don't look," he says teasingly.

You avert your eyes.

"Do you wanna change?" he asks when he's done, leaning back against the dresser with his arms crossed.

You don't know what Steve wants, if he wants to hook up or if he doesn't, and you don't mind either way. (A bad lie – you really, really want to.) (But it's cool if he doesn't want to.)

You won't be upset if he doesn't make a move, but if he does you'd prefer to be less sweaty.

"Can I shower? Not to wash my hair, just…"

"Sure you can."

Steve holds out his hand and you take it, grabbing your backpack as he pulls you off of the bed and into the bathroom. He drops your hand as fast as he'd taken it to open the cabinet under the sink. "Listen, the shower doesn't work. Well, it does, but the hot water only gets lukewarm and I don't know how to fix it. But the bath works fine. Uh…" He pulls a basket of girly toiletries out. "You can use whatever you want, my stuff or my mom's, whatever."

You stand by the tub. "She won't mind?"

"It's fine. I'll have to get you stuff next time you stay over." He moves you to the side with his hand on your hip and you look up as he moves down, turning the faucet. He holds his hand under the stream and messes with the temperature until he's satisfied. "Sorry. I should've thought about all of this before I asked you to spend the night."

"It's okay," you say quietly. "I didn't think about any of that stuff either. It's like I said, I- I just wanted to see you. Wasn't thinking about shower gel."

You laugh awkwardly. It ebbs when he grabs your shoulder and gives you a little shake. "Half as much as I wanted to see you."

He ends the shake with a good rub of his thumb.

"Want me to get in with you?" he asks with a smirk.

You laugh and start shoving at his chest playfully. "Get out," you whine.

He puts his hands up in surrender and you close the door between you, unsurprised when his voice rings out against it. "You come here often?" he asks.

"Do you?" you ask. Your voice sounds loud.

You strip off your clothes and your bikini top and slip into the water.

"Every morning for the last twenty years."

"What do you recommend?"

"The three in one."

You gawp and giggle, horrified at his suggestion. You know he's lying, his hair's too nice to use something like that. There's a few seconds of silence where you shudder at the new heat and rub yourself down.

"Which shower gel is yours?" you ask, looking between bottles unsure.

"Just use whatever you want. What movie d'you wanna watch?"

"Can't you choose?" you ask, bringing each gel to your nose until you find the one that smells like him. You lather the soap between your palms and run it over your body.

"I picked the last one."

"And you're good at it!" You reason, laughing loudly at your own joke. Steve's reluctant chuckles echo from the other side of the door.

You go to ask, Why are you still standing there, dork? But you're afraid that asking will make him move, and you like him too much to want that to happen.

"You were half asleep, how do you know it was good?"

"You were rubbing my hand!" you argue.

"You liked that?" he asks. His tone is honest.

You cup water in both hands to wash off your shoulders. You don't want to answer and give yourself away. Of course you'd fucking liked it, is he kidding? Boys. No, you think, not boys. Steve.

And after the stunt he'd pulled in the back yard, too. The nerve.

Warm water laps at your naked stomach. You think about his lips running over your shoulder and how tenderly he'd held you. Suddenly the water feels scorching, and you climb out over the lip as Steve says, "How much longer?"

"Stop stalking me."

"You're taking forever."

It's barely been five minutes. You go dizzy with pleasure at the idea that he might miss you so badly, the implication that he likes you that much.

You wrap a towel around yourself and squat down to sort through the contents of your bag for your pajamas and underwear.

"I'm getting dressed," you inform him, putting your clothes on the counter so you can dry off.

"I've never been any good at that," he says.

You pull your underwear over damp thighs and laugh under your breath so he can't hear it and get spurred on. "At getting dressed?"

"Right. Just awful. You should see me in the mornings, it's like, what limb does this go on?"

You stop scrubbing the towel over yourself to ask, "Are you flirting with me?"

"I'm trying. You're dodging the punchline."

"Wouldn't you want me to teach you how to take them off, rather than on?"

"How presumptuous!" You can hear his smirk.

"What was the punchline?" you ask, eager to draw the attention back to his bad joke rather than your suggestion.

You pull your shirt over your head and step into your pyjamas pants, tying the strings into a neat bow.

"Well, because you're so ridiculously nice I thought you'd offer to teach me how to do it, and then I'd get to say something like, 'Baby, I'm a visual learner.'"

"That's awful," you mumble, bent at the waist as you hop into your socks.

He hears it anyways. "Say it to my face."

You look yourself over in the mirror. Fresh faced, shirt sticking to your damp chest, pajama trousers high on your hips. You tug your shirt over the waistband. An entirely normal outfit for a normal night.

You open the door and Steve falls onto his back into the bathroom, looking up as you look down. He must've been sitting with his legs hiked, too much weight on the door to fall in readily. You laugh guiltily.

"Are you okay?"

He blinks. His eyes look impossibly wide.

"Steve?" You tilt your head to the side.

"You look killer," he says.

You mime like a slasher over his prone body and try to do the sound effects. Steve giggles and you decide it's your new favourite sound. He covers his face with his hands, one shoulder lifting from the floor with the force of it. You've never heard him laugh like this, all high pitched and gasping.

You can't decide whether you want to kneel down and kiss him or kneel down and pretend to stab him to death. You think the latter will make him laugh some more and you'll do anything for that next hit, falling to your knees with a threatening hand poised above you.

When Steve laughs really hard his mouth opens in a big smile, all his top teeth on display and shining.

You drop your hand to his chest, having lost all steam. The need to tell him how handsome he is, pretty, lovely, beautiful, all of it, is maddeningly high. You don't want to ruin the moment and you won't, spreading your palm flat over his chest and leaning down.

"I'm gonna kill you," you murmur, lips barely parted as you look between both of his eyes, memorising their flush of dark lashes. You drag your hand down his torso. "Why are you laughing?"

"I mean, if I'm gonna die-" He blows a big puff of air up his face and his hair moves like sea grass. "I'm okay with it being you who kills me."

"You'd let me kill you, baby?" you ask, still quiet, bemused and endeared and on the precipice of something big.

"I'd let you do a lot worse," he says.

You brush the hair out of his face. "I don't wanna do any of that stuff."

"Good. I was getting nervous. Here, give me-" he lifts up off of the ground to kiss you once. A chaste peck that leaves you a smiling mess.

You climb off of him before he has to ask and put your hand out to help him up. He takes it but doesn't need it, surprisingly lithe as he stands and pushes you back into his room. You laugh when he encourages you none too gently into his bed again. He flips on the TV, swaps the VHS out for one you can't see and then joins you at the top, lying down with a suffering sigh.

He stretches and groans. You ogle him.

"What's the movie?"

"Don't laugh?" he asks.

"No, I won't."

He shifts so you're two halves of a heart curved towards each other. "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." You nibble the inside of your lip. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"

"Am I laughing, Steve?"

"Just about," he grumbles.

You don't know why but it feels more than natural to curl up towards him. Any insecurity is fixed quickly when he pulls you close, one arm behind your head and propping him up tall, the other coming over your waist loosely, his wrist to your hip but his fingers not touching you.

You have to turn your neck to see the TV across the room. After a few minutes it aches and you consider moving, then Steve manoeuvres to press his lips to your head and you forget all about it.

His shirt's ridden up. His stomach is soft from the way he's on his side, and you can see the dark trail of hair leading from his navel that disappears into the plaid of his pants.

You reach out to slip your fingers under the hem and wrap your arm around him, feeling the croft of silky hair at the small of his back. You trail up, your finger bumping over the smoothed ridges of horizontal stretch marks.

"Can you feel that?" you ask.

Steve slowly moves his elbow. His face level with yours, he asks, "Can you feel this?" He scratches his fingers lightly over your hip.

You giggle with your mouth closed. "Yeah, I guess it was a stupid question."

Steve moves back and you turn to look at him. You're very close. You're in bed.

"Wasn't stupid," he says quietly.

You raise your brows and incline your head to his until he's laughing.

"It was misguided," he allows.

"I don't know why- I mean, I have enough stretch marks. I know they're not-" you laugh, a bubble of sound that warms his lips, "not dead."

"Maybe yours are special," he teases.

"Wanna find out?"

He laughs and kisses you. Pressure that slowly builds, a chaste pressing of his lips to yours. It's miraculous how quickly your breathing syncs, how you're inhaling at every parting, how your mouths open at the same time. He takes in a big sigh that lights you up and pulls you in like it's nothing.

He dedicates himself to your top lip. There's urgency there that wasn't before, and you're feeling it too. His mouth a crescent of heat, he takes your lip between his and sucks gently. You gasp and your hand twists in his shirt.

"Shit, sorry," he says, "I haven't done this in-"

"It's okay. It's okay, I liked it."

"Yeah?"

You huff against his lips. He's smiling as he does it again. You shudder at the feeling of his teeth, his careless nipping, your hands searching for comfort.

Everything goes slow. He kisses slow, he touches slow. His hands move over your back, slip under your shirt and climb up. Not looking for anything, just looking.

Your hand climbs over his chest. You brush your fingers through the ends of his carefully before pushing up, weaving into the soft strands at the back of his neck. You rub his thumb over his skin in time with your kisses.

Steve encourages you onto your back. You feel a heat growing in your chest, somewhere lower, as he hovers over you, his lips pushing you down into a space that doesn't exist. Your fingers are busy learning the back of his head, fingertips moving over his scalp, scratching lightly as you trail back down to hold him in place.

You kiss up. Steve's hand knocks your shirt up your chest as he squeezes the skin just below your breasts, breathing hard.

He hesitates. His fingers pinch your shirt as if he's going to pull it back down.

"Steve," you murmur. "It's okay."

He kisses your cheek without looking at you, his eyes on your naked skin. "You sure?"

You bring your knees up until they brush his hip and push them away from him, petting the hair out of his face. "Yeah," you say, smiling.

More kissing. Steve ducks down and holds your face steady in one hand, giving you short-lived, wet kisses as his fingers approach your chest. He pauses, watching your face as his fingertips bump into the swell of your breast. "Okay?" he asks.

You lift your chin. "It's fine, Harrington."

"Steve," he corrects steadily, the pads of his fingers ghosting under your nipple to caress the side. His thumb rubs a quarter circle just underneath and you feel the soft skin perk up.

"Steve," you utter.

From there you endure some of the worst kisses of your life – worst as in, life changing, as in sticky, as in everything you've ever wondered about and more. You know you're hopeless. You feel yourself melt into nothing as he massages your peaking nipple, laughing into his mouth when he squeezes and hitching when he squeezes harder.

He pushes the small nub between his index and middle finger and his teasing stutters. He holds you like this and kisses you and you don't know how much time passes. With him, time feels implausible. Like a guideline you ignore.

When you think you might be more him than yourself he pulls away, leaving your lips hot and bruising.

"Can I take this off?" he asks, pulling the hem of your shirt over his finger. His eyes are so brown. You can't believe how brown they are.

"Please."

"Don't- You don't have to say please with me. Not with this, okay?" He rubs his hand over your breast and presses it deep into your heart. "Not with anything."

"You'll regret that," you say, heat like nothing you've ever felt in your chest and the tips of your ears.

"I don't think I will."

He kisses you again like he just can't help it and sits up enough to work your t-shirt from under your back. The excitement gets mixed up with enough insecurity then to make you nauseous.

Steve drops your shirt onto the floor and plants his hands on either side of you. "Oh, you're fucking pretty."

His eyes take you in. It surprises you when he spends half the time staring at your face, entirely too much of it at your eyes. "You know how pretty you are?"

"You tell me enough, Stevie," you mumble, aflame.

"Wanna hear it again?"

You don't say anything. His eyes bore into yours. His lashes kiss.

His grin is practically dietific as his lips curve up. "You're beautiful. 'So fine and pretty,'" he says, almost but not quite singing.

"You're just as handsome," you say, bringing your hands to his defined cheeks. You smooth your hands over his face and ears and hair, holding it all away from him. "You're…" You drop your hands to the curve of his neck and follow over his trap muscle. "You're amazing."

"Stop," he says. You take it for 'keep going'.

"Handsome sounds too formal," you mutter, almost to yourself, "but it's true. You're handsome. More than handsome, you're- you're funny and kind and-" You shake your head. "I think you're the first person I've ever wanted like this."

You don't mean to get emotional. 'This' comes out so rough it burns, and you swallow it all down, blinking fast.

"Like 'this'?" he asks.

He brings a hand to your face, holding your cheek like you're made of solid silver, like you might bend under his touch.

"Like this," you say again. "If you want to."

"I want to," he says, nodding happily. "Of course I do."

You laugh and he laughs. There's a gap where you're both thinking, Oh, we're doing this.

And then Steve's in motion.

He pulls his shirt over the back of his head and you're starstruck. His hair's a dark mess, the ends cast light by the TV. You reach up to smooth them down and it's too late, Steve's ducking down for a smattering of heavy kisses across your lips, one corner to the other. His nose taps into yours and you turn your face to accommodate him, his tongue a wet heat as he pushes it into yours. You reciprocate as best you can, eyes closed tight and hands all over the place. You start at his collar. One hand runs over the twisting of chest hair over his pecs and the other holds his face to yours. He curls his fingers around your wrist, the other paying some much needed attention to your neglected breast. He plays until both nipples are aching and then some.

He spreads your legs and your heart skips as he puts his knee between your thighs, lips starting a ruinous journey downward. He sets kisses like tiny sparks of heat against your jaw and under it, nose dragging down your neck as he turns. You cup the back of his head as his lips part, as he takes your flesh between his teeth and sucks tenderly.

"You smell like flowers," he says, kissing his half-hearted hickey.

"Some idiot bought me a florists," you tease.

His hand slides under your back. His knee presses to the bump of your cunt. "Best decision that idiot ever made," he says, words soaking into your neck, smothered.

You roll your hips shyly against his knee, a negligible friction as he rubs your back and scandalises your neck.

You lift your hips high and he gets the idea very quickly, fingers pinching at fabric until your thighs are out. He tries to move away and you hold him there, dazed by his ravenous attentions.

He laughs and strokes your arm. "I'm gonna take them off, okay?"

You drop your hands from his hair sheepishly and he moves back onto his knees.

"Pretty panties," he says. You don't think he's teasing.

"I thought you might like them," you tell him honestly.

"I do. They're dainty," he says, sliding your pajama pants off of your ankles. "Almost don't wanna take 'em off."

You feel a little bit nervous and decide to direct your attention to his own pants. There's a noticeable bulge at the seat of them. Your cunt twinges at the sight.

Steve's hands worship at your ankles. "Is everything okay?" he asks.

"This is the first time you're seeing me like this. I'm just nervous."

He pulls your foot onto his thighs and fiddles with the elastic of your sock. "If you could see what I'm seeing, I don't think you would be."

You try to imagine yourself as he sees you. Mostly naked and kiss mussed after a day of sun and fun and his affection, the dopey, slightly shy smile, with one arm crossed under your breasts and the other picking nervously at the lace of your underwear.

"You're fucking killer." He mimes a stabbing motion and you giggle. "I don't have to let you kill me, seeing you like this might just do it."

You let him keep your ankle in his lap but bring the other leg up, folding it across your thigh to hide your cunt from view. His eyes dip to the twin globes of your ass and he groans. Your ears strain to hear it.

"Are you gonna take them off?" you ask, eyes on the curve of his dick, eyebrows raised cheekily.

"You don't wanna take them off for me?" he asks. Your startled expression makes him giggle as he slides off of the bed and hooks his thumbs in the waistband.

He kicks them off, his boxers tighter than you'd pictured. You hike up on your elbows and bring your knees together, biting the inside of your lip as his hand drops to his cock. He readjusts the sizable length and a hiss of breath escapes him as he does.

"Fuck," he groans. "Shit, you're fucking- you're fucking everything."

You rub your thighs together coquettishly. "Come back and kiss me?" you ask. He takes a step forward. You tilt your head towards your shoulder. "Are you gonna take those off too?"

You had your suspicions, but the real thing makes your heart stop.

Steve kicks out of his boxers and holds his hands out. You spread your legs and he climbs on top of you, hands braced above your shoulders until he's negotiated himself into the gap. You feel the curve of his cock press into your stomach as he kisses you.

You try your best to be casual and let him kiss you, but you're curious and excited and you can't not think about it now that it's happening.

You stroke your hands down his back and leave them loose at his waist. "Steve," you whisper, breaking the kiss early.

"You wanna touch me?"

"Please?" you whisper.

"What did I say about please?" he murmurs. He doesn't sound very scolding.

"That I don't have to say it."

He leans back on his haunches. "So don't."

You sit up, hands between your laps and wringing. "Uh," you reach out. "Tell me if I do something wrong?"

He softens. "Sure, baby."

You lean in and Steve pulls you closer by the calves. Your hand trembles as you take his cock into your hands. He's thick. Fat. Girthier than you'd thought he would be and twice as hairy, though trimmed neatly at the outskirts, you slide your hand down to the underside of his shaft and pause.

When you align your hand, bottom of your palm to the very start of his shaft, the tip of your index finger misses the tip by two whole inches. You encircle him curiously.

"Spit in your hand," he says gently.

"Oh."

You spit into your hand and press it back into his cock, spreading it with loose strokes over veined ridges. The curls of his pubes brush your hand as you reach the bottom. The entire length of him jumps.

You're honestly dazzled. You laugh out of the corner of his mouth and look up at him with a happy smile. "You're packing a lot of heat here, Harrington."

He looks relieved. "Do you know how fucking scary it is when your girl has your dick in her hand and gets the giggles? I started second-guessing everything I thought about myself."

"I can see why you're popular with the ladies," you murmur, eyes bright with mirth as you dip down and kiss the tip where a dot of precum wells.

"Oh, don't, baby."

"Huh?" You sit up tall. "Do you wanna stop?"

"The opposite. I don't know how long I'll last, especially," he pulls you by the chin to his lips, "in this pretty mouth."

More giggles. He swallows them in their entirety, hand wrapped around your wrist to pull your fingers from his length. Your hands go limp, languid under his gentle kisses and featherlight touching.

You pull away from each other but fight to kiss anyways, cheeks aching with a smile as he steals one, another, a handful of sweet, catching pecks.

You pout as he pulls away.

"D'you wanna lie back?" he asks, hand behind his neck. He rakes his fingers through his hair.

You lie down with his pillows under your head.

Steve smooths his thumbs against the waistband of your panties.

"It's okay," you say, wiggling your hips from left to right encouragingly.

He drags them down. Over the slopes of your thighs and the hills of your knees, he slides them down to your calves. He pulls them off one ankle and they hang off of the other. You lift your leg and let the dampened pink fabric fall onto his rumpled sheets.

He crawls forward, hands hooking under your knee. "Lemme see you, babe."

You bring your legs up and spread your thighs, feet between his knees.

He takes his cock into his hand and tugs. "Fuck," he says, eyes heavy, "fuck, are you wet?"

"You've been kissing me for hours," you say bashfully.

"I'd kiss you longer if you're gonna let me. Can I touch you?"

You push your palm down to your cunt and spread yourself just slightly, more to get used to it than to tease him. "Yes, please."

Steve crawls until you're close and you settle your legs either side of him. He does as you'd done, pushing his thumb to the small well of slick at your entrance and spreading you open with his fingers. "Fuck," he says again. "Shit, baby. Look at you…"

He pushes his slick-wet thumb into the waiting bead of your clit. "There?" he asks.

You remember to breathe. "Yeah," you say, eyes drifting closed as he familiarises himself. You drop your head into his pillows, neck aching. "Right there."

"Aww," he says sympathetically, free hand pressed flat to the inside of your thigh, holding you open. "You have the cutest fucking pussy ever. Shit, i'so wet, you must have such a crush on me."

You smile to yourself and hide your face in a pillow that smells like him. "A huge one. It's kind of embarrassing."

"I bet it is."

His fingers probe your clit. It pulses under his touch, swollen and sensitive to every brush of skin.

"Can you come kiss me some more?"

He looks like he wants to argue.

"Please, Stevie."

Steve reaches over your chest and pulls open his nightstand, procuring a new box of rubbers. You flick his chest. "Is that a new box?"

"Maybe."

You kiss his shoulder and he rips one open with his teeth. "How many's in there?"

"Enough, you minx." He rolls it on.

Kissing. His weight pressed over you, his cock against your mess of slick. You whine as he grinds down into you hard, his tangle of dark curls a blessed friction.

His hips jerk back and the tip of his dick hits into your clit.

"Are you gonna tease me all night?" you ask.

"Hmm," he pretends to think about it, dropping his head next to yours, his arm wrapping around your neck. You turn your face to his. His eyes are closed and his smile is nearly peaceful, though the crinkle between his brows speaks to his growing desperation. It's as casual as any cuddle with him before. "I could."

"But you won't."

"No, I won't."

Steve gives you one last kiss and situates himself between your legs at full height, pushing your legs back until the tops of your thighs kiss the bump of your stomach. He takes his cock into his hand and guides the tip down the length of your crease. His head bumps your entrance.

You let one leg fall to the side, arm crossed under your rising chest, looking at Steve with bright, adoring eyes. He's beautiful above you, pumping his cock with one hand. The other plays at your weeping hole, fingertips dipping inside two at a time.

You clench around his fingers as they ease in.

"Shit, you're tight. You okay?"

You nod voraciously.

He spreads his fingers wide, his eyes rolling back showfully. "Fuck, babe… Gonna spread you wide open, yeah? Is that what you want?"

"Want you inside."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows are furrowed, a certain stress to his voice.

"Are you gonna make me say please?"

He takes your thighs into both hands and lines up. His grin is both salacious and adorable, a familiar mischief adorning his pretty features. "Never."

The stretch is a lot but he takes it slow. Really slow, his hands on your skin and constantly measuring your reaction. Which must be a super ego trip for him, because your face goes slack with pleasure and you have to focus a lot of energy on smiling rather than frowning; there's somethingwonderful about being this close to him. His cock pushes into you and you gasp with every gentle intrusion, every half inch of space he takes until he's halfway inside and staying there.

He bends over you and takes your face into his hand. You hadn't realised before you met Steve how often your face could be held by someone, and how safe it could make you feel. How the brush of someone's fingertips over your cheek could tickle and somehow you never want to move away. He pulls his hips back, rolls in, and your eyes crease with pleasure, lashes touching as you squint.

He smells like everything you're used to. He must be thinking the same thing as you, because he smiles, and says, "You might as well be a flower for how much you smell like one."

Bergamot. He touches something sensitive, gummy walls stretched around him. You whine under your breath.

Lavender. "Make that sound again?" he asks.

Cedarwood. The murmur of the TV fades away entirely. The only things you can hear are you and Steve. You; your panting, the high warping of every breath as his thick cock works you open. Steve; a panting all his own, a scratchy roughness. You try not to make too much noise in efforts to hear him.

The slightest hint of citrus. An impression. Maybe his breath, something lingering from the orange-infused water you'd sipped on earlier. His breath fans out over your collar as he bottoms out, a sound like a hiccup ripped from him.

You wrap your hands around his back. "Oh my god, Stevie."

"How's that feel? That okay?" He stays very still. "Pretty baby, taking all of me right now." He starts to move his hips in leisurely circles.

You pull him down for a kiss, a world away from being able to answer intelligibly. You're so full it aches, so full – the blunt tip of his cock pushes into your sweet spot and you have to break the kiss to gasp for air.

"Feels so good," you whisper, rubbing his back unhurried.

A shiver courses down your spine as he pulls out to push in again. The sound is filthy, an erotic slapping as his thighs hit into yours and he moans. He fucking moans.

"Fuck, Steve. Can you go faster?"

Steve forces his forearms under your shoulder blades and his forehead presses to your collar, lips sluggish as they kiss your chest. He pulls your nipple into his mouth as he starts to thrust into you rhythmically, sucking and nibbling and twisting, his ministrations sending little bolts of pleasure down to your throbbing cunt.

He kisses hickey after hickey into your chest. You're too busy getting fucked out to notice, lavished by his mouth and numbed by his cock. Every thrust starts to hit deep, and every thrust pulls an unintelligible sound from you. Panting turns to moaning, moans turn to mewls.

"Hear how wet you are? Do you hear that?" Steve asks as he pulls away. He flicks at your bruising nipples and pouts when you jump. "Sorry, I'm sorry. Not my fault you have the cutest rack ever."

"Steve!" you cry, flushing with an embarrassed heat.

"What? It's fucking true." He takes your hips into his hands and hits in hard, cock prodding your spongey g-spot unapologetically. "Cutest pussy, too."

He brings his hand down to your cunt and slows his pace, thrusts shallow and eyes wide as he spreads you open. You can feel your hole shaping around him, the stretch as he opens you up. His thick fingers press into the bead of your clit and he starts to draw, tight messy circles in time with his thrusts.

"Taking me so well, babygirl."

You cup your aching tits and feel them sway with every thrust, every hit of his thighs into yours. A sticky mess grows between you that leaves your clit wet with slick. Steve fights to find purchase as he spreads your lips, thumb coming up to pinch at it.

He moans and looks up at the ceiling, his throat bared as he rolls his hips and pulls you onto his cock. "Fuck…" he groans, beggy and out of breath.

You stare at him, unabashed in your rabid attraction.

"Fuck, Steve," you say between hitching breaths, "I'm lucky you're mine."

His gaze jumps to yours. He snaps his hips and you squeal happily. "Say that again."

"I'm lucky you're mine," you say without missing a beat. It's true.

He holds your hips in an iron grip and ruts into you, deep-seated and unrelenting. He's barely a half-inch back when he's rubbing back in, moulding you to the shape of his cock. Dark curls press into your clit as he leans forward.

"You wouldn't believe how perfect you look on my dick." He grinds down, pulls out and thuds back in.

Your face screws up.

"You like that, baby? You want me to do it again?"

You nod and open your arms. Steve falls into them, letting you wrap him up in a grip so tight you can feel the suggestion of his ribs, his chest hair scratching your chest as he repeats the motion. You squeeze your eyes closed and whimper into the top of his head, hands pulling at his back as he rocks in again and again and again.

"Y'making such a mess on me."

You're not surprised. Every thrust into your sopping heat sounds loud in the quiet of his room, and your slick is everywhere. Wetting the thatch of pubes around his cock, the insides of your soft thighs.

"Steve, can you- can you-"

He presses his fingers back to your clit. "This? Sorry, you're just gripping me tight, I had to hold onto something," he apologises, sounding a short fall from reverential. "I got you."

Your sticky thighs start to shake as he fucks into you, the quick rub of his fingers against your clit tightening the coil inside you until it's snapping hard. You can't even warn him, chasing the circles he's making with your hips as you force your face into his pillow and fall apart.

You want to hate the sound that you make. It's an embarrassing combination of a squeal and a breathless gasp, only partially muffled by the fabric under your lips. You find yourself unable when Steve chokes on his words, stuttering, "F-fuck, oh fuck, sweetheart, you sound like- like heaven. You fucking feel like it, clamping down on me."

Steve fucks into that extra snugness and you can see on his face that he's close.

You blink out of the haze of your climax and cover Steve's hand where it teases your overstimulated clit, pulling it up and around your neck. You slide your arms around him and scratch up his back lightly, his hips staggering into yours as you say, "You gonna cum too, baby? Please?"

"Fuck," he groans through gritted teeth.

You clench your walls down around him and the drag is insane, better when he gets his final burst of energy and fucks into you with big, rough thrusts, your knees clamped around his hips. His teeth close around your shoulder and he bites you, maybe harder than he means to, a white hot pain that lasts a split-second, his hitching breaths hot in your skin. His hips slow and his entire weight falls into your tummy, wrought with post-orgasm aching.

You rub his back, damp with perspiration.

He kisses an apology over his cruel hickey.

"Fuck," he whispers.

His kisses move up and he moves too. You both hiss – disturbed, sweaty, blood still pumping fast. He's only adjusting for the height advantage, his mouth at your ear.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." You have a lot more to say, but you need a second.

Steve makes a humming sound at the back of his throat. "Can I go get a towel? I'll be right back."

"Yeah, Stevie. Whatever you wanna do," you say lightly, rubbing his back and hoping each pass of your palm implies the depth of your fondness.

Steve is cautious as he climbs off of you. You close your eyes and bring your hands to your sweaty face, fingers over your eyes before pushing them to either side of your forehead to stare at his ceiling, entirely blissed and in disbelief.

Steve climbs over you with a towel in hand. You can feel the warmth coming off of its wet corner.

He drops it onto your stomach and you go to pick it up. He grabs your hands in both of his and holds them, joined, against your shoulders. "I'll do it, but just-" He ducks his face to yours. "Let me kiss you."

You smile happily and close your eyes, fingers flexing in his grip as he brushes his lips against yours, at first gently and then with an enthusiastic pressure. You're worn out from everything and can't respond how you want to, but if Steve minds he doesn't say anything, hands squeezing your hands and his lips all lazy and curled up against yours.

Your chest hurts.

Steve keeps a hold of one hand as he breaks the kiss in favour of cleaning you up though quickly drops it to take your shaky thigh into his hand. Spread wide, he wipes every trace of slick he can find, especially kind to your centre.

He's already discarded the condom and wiped himself down. You reach out to stroke the start of his damp snail trail as he throws the towel on the floor next to your discarded clothes. Pulling the sheets where they'd fallen to the bottom of the bed over your naked bodies, Steve slouches onto his side.

"Come here," he says, pulling you into his chest with infinite tenderness.

You turn into his hold and ram your face into his skin, hand searching for the tempting curve of his bicep.

He drops a kiss into your temple and then another. You feel surprisingly awake, his body a hot and heavy thing beside you.

"Do you feel like talking?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," you say, giggling. "Yeah, sorry. God, Steve."

He bends at the waist to cuddle you like he's shielding you. "I know."

You lie there in his embrace and you can't stop thinking about it. That was perfect. That was fucking perfect. Right? You want to ask him. You'd never felt that pretty or pleased before in your life.

"God, that was fucking perfect," Steve says.

You rub your nose against his chest and giggle, an overabundance of joy bubbling messy at the surface. "I was just thinking that."

"Yeah?"

"Oh my god."

"I'm kind of pissed off. Like, if that's the standard, how am I gonna live up to this every time?"

Every time, you think.

"Maybe we just got really lucky. We're never gonna have sex that good ever again," you theorise.

He starts laughing, big, contagious chuckles that boom from the centre of his chest and catch you by surprise. He sounds as happy as you feel.

"Don't jinx it." He rubs his hand over your shoulder blades.

You kiss his chest lazily and he slinks down under the sheets with you, dragging you up until your face is eye-level with his. His eyes are closed and you close your own, moaning as he crushes you to his chest and starts to pat your back.

It's an immense domestic pleasure. You couldn't explain why, but the continuous, steady rhythm of his firm patting makes it easier to calm your racing heart.

"You look really beautiful," he says.

"Your eyes are closed."

"So? You looked beautiful when I closed them. I just want you to know. And your sounds… God, I'm gonna be touching you all the time if that's what you sound like."

"I love how you sounded too." You rub his chest with your knuckle. "I love that you sounded like that for me."

"Because of you."

"I meant what I said. I'm really lucky."

Steve pushes his hand behind your ear and draws your face from his. You open your eyes and find him already looking at you, eyebrows raised. "Thanks for telling me?"

"Shut up! You know what I mean. I'm lucky to have you."

"If you're lucky I'm fucking blessed."

"I've never heard you swear that much."

"And it's entirely your fault," he jokes.

You're okay with that.

You tuck yourself into Steve's neck and trace the lines of his body. The small roundness of his Adam's apple and the ridges of his collarbones, the small dip between his chest muscles and the line underneath his pec. You go to just below his ribs before needing your hand between his torso and his arm, hugging him like he's hugging you.

The hickey he'd given you on your shoulder twinges, reminding you of his maltreatment. You place your lips against his throat and mouth lazy kisses until he sighs in content. When you know you've lulled him into a false sense of security, you take his skin between your teeth and nip.

"What's that for?" he asks in bemusement.

"You tried to take a chunk of me."

"Shit," he says.

You kitten lick the tiny welt you've bitten into his pale skin and he tenses. Your eyebrows jump in surprise, wondering if he likes that, and deign to give him a smattering of wet, sloppy hickeys to find out.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, fingers brushing over the small embeddings of his teeth in your shoulder.

"Not really," you say, mouthing up until your nose is to his cheek. You close your eyes as he turns his head. You can feel his breath against your lips. "No, I like it, anyway."

Your arms slide over his back as he pulls back to take you in. You stare at each other, not sure how to say anything that hasn't already been said or anything that hasn't been felt. He looks pretty and ragged, perfect hair mussed and dainty brown lashes in damp triangles. The dim lighting shadows his face, the lightest brightness under the well of his eye.

"I wish I was one of the old masters."

He smiles. "What's that?"

"Like, the great artists. Painters, masters of their craft. Like the guy who painted The Girl with a Pearl Earring."

Steve starts to shift onto his back. You lay your arm across his chest and hold your weight off of him. He doesn't like that very much, pulling you in with one arm crossed over the small of your back, the other held high but loose. He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, fingernails sliding over your skin. "Is painting something you like to do?"

Your heart melts at his genuine interest and his willingness to listen to something seemingly tangential. "I wish I could paint like they could. I would paint you."

"Yeah?" he asks, clarity brightening his face. His eyes are lined with pleasure.

"I would. The," you raise your hand to his face and start to trace each feature as you go, "bridge of your nose. The slopes here," his brow, the dip underneath, careful of his eye, "your cheekbones. Your lips. This line here, and this one. This one, too."

"Are you trying to tell me I have wrinkles?" he jokes.

"Only this one." You smooth the pad of your thumb between his eyebrows. "Though I think it's inevitable."

"Oh you do, do you?" he asks, abruptly loud. You're startled into giggling, dropping your hand over one of his eyes in your shock. He kisses your palm.

You fall silent. You take your hand to his jaw and press the invisible remains of his kiss to his cheek as you lean in.

"I think… I think I'd want to paint you. Just so people know," you murmur, touching your forehead to his, "that you were this handsome."

You wait for him to laugh and he doesn't. Like the trepidation of a sneeze that doesn't come, you feel off-kilter.

"Steve?"

He shushes you and kisses you for the hundredth time tonight. You could happily take another hundred, eyebrows pinching up at his silence.

He kisses you until you forget what you'd been saying, until the aching in your abdomen can't be ignored.

"I need to go to the bathroom," you announce regretfully.

"Yeah, okay. Want me to come with you?"

You laugh and climb off of him. His hand reaches for you as you go, his fingers catching yours until you pull away. You grab the damp towel and your sleep shirt off of the floor, slipping it on as you walk away. Steve acts like he's been grievously injured.

In the bathroom you clean up properly and pull on the spare underwear you'd had the foresight to bring. You stretch until you moan.

"You okay?" Steve calls.

"Stop listening to me in the bathroom, perv."

You can hear him stand. His footsteps in the bedroom. You shiver in the cool bathroom and smile at yourself really hard in the mirror.

When you return he's done the same as you, changed into new boxers. You stare at his thighs unabashed as he steps into his pyjama bottoms, yours rescued and folded on the end of the bed. Steve holds his hands out at your approach and tugs you towards him, not hugging but close. He pushes your shirt up to your ribs and you struggle to see what he's doing, craning your neck.

"What?" you ask.

He follows the impression of a stretch mark down your skin. "Did you feel that?" he asks genuinely.

You'd more than felt it. He pulls up the waistband of your panties thoughtlessly and traces another stretch mark. "You're pretty," he murmurs.

You hug him hard enough that he has to take a step back to avoid falling over. His hands stop their studying, braced at your waist and walking you backwards toward the bed. He pushes you down and you fall onto your back, clinging to him as he tries to pull away.

"Come on," he says, laughing, "I'm gonna get you something to drink. Let go."

"Whatever," you grumble.

Steve disappears downstairs and you sit up, eyes bright like you're seeing his room for the first time all over again. Fast Times at Ridgemont High looks to be nearing its end. You switch off the TV with a triumphant smile and move your attention to his dresser, where the cassette player you'd 'loaned' him sits. You're half hoping Van Halen II will be inside but it must still be in his car. Your disappointment ebbs quickly when you see what's really inside.

Steve has the good graces to blush when he returns. You've clicked play and sit with the tape deck in your lap, beaming. "American Pie?" you ask knowingly.

"It's a good album."

He presses a cold glass of water into your hands and you sip feverishly, best pleased when he sits beside you, thigh to your naked thigh.

"Softie."

He dips his fingers into his glass and flicks you. It feels good and you move back encouragingly. He indulges you, flicking cold water over your face and neck until you're finely misted as a flower in the morning dew.

The best part of American Pie starts to play. You gasp as Steve pulls the glass from your hand and sets them heavily on the dresser, hands wet with condensation as he sews your fingers together and pulls you up.

"What are you doing?" you ask curiously.

His shoulders move back. "Dancing?"

"You wanna dance?" you ask. Your legs are tired – his must be double.

"You're old enough," he says, encouraging your hands from side to side.

You were gonna give him what he wanted anyways, but that small smile toying over his pretty pink mouth spurs you on. You jump on toes and follow his lead.

Steve digs a short fingernail into the deep orange skin of what he thinks is a tangerine and watches as citrus spritzes into the air. It leaps from the fruit with every slice of rind he pulls away, and his hands quickly smell of it.

You lay in the grass with his sunglasses perched over your nose. Steve worries you might be sleeping, your smile demure and your arms still where they've crossed over your chest. Your cotton dress blankets the grass around your thighs, the hem waved as the thin edge of a peony petal.

"You better not be sleeping, Y/N," he warns.

You'd definitely been dozing. You hide it well, your hand hardly trembling as you stretch it across the grass towards him. "I wasn't."

"You know what happened last time."

"You're here to protect me."

He can't argue with that. Orange juice stains his fingers as he splits the segments apart, pulling white pith from the flesh until each slice is clean. He drops two into your hand. "For you."

"Thank you," you say, sounding genuinely excited. You sit up slow and your dress falls down enough to expose the top of your breast where Steve had hickied at a risk of excess the night before.

He moves across the grass until your knees knock together and presses his hand to your forehead. You're definitely hotter than you should be but not about to burst into flames. Steve ushers more tangerine into your hand and reaches for the grocery bag to grab your drink and put it in your lap. You gasp at the sudden cold and gasp again when he pulls the strap of your dress up your shoulder. There’s no hiding the worst one at the meeting of your neck and shoulder. Every time he looks at it, he blushes.

"Was I flashing?" you ask worriedly through a mouthful of fruit.

"Not really? But, uh, you know. Hickey."

"Ohhh," you say knowingly. "Well, that's your fault."

"Did I say otherwise? Have some water. We're gonna have to go soon, it's too hot."

"Steve."

"I'm serious."

"Let's just go buy one of those little hand crank fans."

"So I can crank it all day? No way."

"You'll dictate-"

"Dictate!"

"-my sunbathing but won't crank a little fan for me? What kind of relationship even is this?"

"Stop it," he says concisely.

Your lips pull into a self satisfied smile and you drink your drink like he'd asked you to. "What are we gonna do after?"

You'd woken Steve up early, before the sun had really come out, a vision and perfect and everything he'd known you would be in the mornings. Hands on his shoulders, you'd kissed him until he'd stirred, skipping kisses over his neck and chest.

"Ba-by," you'd whispered, dragging the last syllable, your voice croaky with tiredness, "let's go get breakfast."

Breakfast at a sticky diner that consisted of pancakes with too much syrup and whipped cream on strawberries. You'd dragged him into the fancy grocery store across the street and filled a basket with fancy drinks, pretzels, lip balm and a net of tangerines.

Now, hours later, sweaty from the outpour of ultra-hot sunlight and your company, Steve doesn't know what's left to do that could be any better than this.

He spread his legs and tucks a rogue lock of hair behind his ear. "What do you wanna do?"

You twist the cap back onto your drink and push onto your knees, grass crushed. "I don't know. Anything. I don't have anything to do tomorrow, so you can keep me as late as you want."

He doesn't feel bad when he says, "Could I keep your for the night again?"

You hesitate. He doubles down.

"I'll take you to your place and you can get some more clothes. And I'll make you something better than takeout, if you want," he promises, thinking of your home-cooked meals, the evident love poured into each one.

"No, it's not-" You smile at him, your eyes soft. "Of course you can keep me. But I'm not staying up to dance with you again." You yawn to drive the point home.

He breaks grass between his fingers. "Fine, no dancing."

You nod in agreement and take his shoulder into your hand, throwing your leg over his to straddle his thigh. You look comfortable despite the 'w' shape you're in, settling down with a harrumph of breath.

Steve tries not to think about the silk of your underwear against his leg, but of course he does. The pink colouring his cheeks isn't from the sun.

You look shy but happy as he grabs your hands, stroking your knuckles with his thumbs. "We can make something cool for the weather," you suggest lightly, the skirt of your dress ruffled by the breeze. "Sanwhiches. And something sweet for dessert 'cos we didn't have any yesterday."

"I don't know about you, but I think I had more than my fair share of dessert."

You drop the top of your head into his chest. "Sicko."

"A little. When it comes to you."

You start to fiddle with the bottom of his shirt, humming something very quietly. The Waterboys or something like that, your lips pressed together tightly. You lashes flutter and you rub your cheek with your shoulder.

"What?" he asks.

"I'm just really happy," you confess.

What's he supposed to do? Not kiss you silly? He wraps his arms around your back and pulls you in.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

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