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You look unreasonably pretty.
As soon as Steve walked into the house, despite the Christmas decor and the crowd and a whisper of damage from the “earthquake”, everything was familiar. It looks the same, despite a gentle lack of pictures or furniture (again, like courtesy of the quake). It has the same warmth in the air that your house seemed to hold, never enough to get hot but never chilly. It even smells the same.
The party isn't outrageously huge—there are rules that need to be followed now that this place is basically one big battlefield (more “underground” than over). But there's a hefty amount of people, with enough beer and liquor to supply them all with at least a fairly drunken night off. And you've made an ungodly amount of cookies, which seem to be a hit because now there is only a plate left. He had two.
You're wearing red, and it looks very nice on you. Steve wants to tell you that, but he's worried you'll be upset if you even realize he's looking in your direction. Which he deserves.
“Oh my god.”
Robin's voice startles him. He makes that known when his hands shoot out of his pockets and he mutters “Jesus” under his breath. Her expression remains.
“Are you still staring at her? You look like a total creep, dude.”
He's not in the mood for this. “Shut up. I'm not staring. This isn't staring.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her head and looking entirely unimpressed. “You're right. I'm pretty sure this could classify as stalking.”
He scoffs, crossing his own arms tight and pouting to himself. He mutters something to himself about the point of her.
“Stop being a pussy and go say something,” he says, “or I'll go tell her she's got a stalker named Steve Harrington.”
He pulls a face, one eye squinted, his lip twitching with platonic disgust. “You know, I really don't know why I keep you around.”
She shrugs. “I'm the only one who puts up with you. Do it!”
“Alright!”
~
It's ten minutes later. He hasn't moved. Every time he goes to do it, he remembers a string of words that haunts him with their cruelty. He flinches every time.
But Robin sent him a look a couple minutes ago, and he swears she's slowly getting closer to you, so he decides to suck it up.
When he comes into the kitchen, you're digging in the fridge for more booze. He suddenly gets extremely nervous in a moment, once he realizes that you're going to turn around and see him just standing there and it's going to scare you. This was so dumb. He should just leave.
But when he goes to, the sight of you already standing there looking at him with two bottles in your grip, looking a mix of mild disgust and majority confusion, is what he finds instead.
Shit.
“I always thought you looked really sexy in red.”
Fuck.
The confusion gives way to the disgust. You look like you might punch him. He'd deserve it.
“Probably wasn't the best opener,” he says with a flinch.
You take in a slow breath, breathe it out a little quicker. “I'm sorry, my liege.” He flinches worse. “I didn't realize you were mingling with commoners these days. My alcohol isn't exactly top shelf.”
He nods, looking down at his shoes regretfully. “Okay, yeah, that's fair.”
You brush past him, setting the bottles down and pulling more solo cups out of the cabinet. “What do you want, Steve?” You don't even look at him. He digs his thumb into his palm.
“To…say hi?” he tries pathetically. He speaks slowly. “I know I probably don't have the right, but I mean, I wanted to.”
You look unimpressed. “That’s new.” You pour yourself a cup of something liquor. You take a long sip, let the warmth spread, and then look at him. Not a word between you is spoken while you take him in like you want to be doing anything else at the moment.
“What do you actually want?”
Steve sighs gently. He raises his hand up to brush through his hair, scratching the back of his neck as he tries to figure out how to respond. He really fucked up. He can't even say hi to you without fucking it up.
“Mostly to apologize.”
You brow furrows slightly, your lips parting at the word you're pretty sure you hallucinated. Apologize. You didn't know it was in his dictionary. “For what?”
He offers a little smile, a regretful one that makes him look kind of sad. You've never seen this look on him a day in your life.
“Being an asshole,” he admits. Steve purses his lips, chewing on the bottom one thoughtfully. He gestures like he's going to say something, but backs out when he thinks about it a little too much.
He lets out a short breath. “I was totally shitty when we were together.” You want to mock his use of the word “together”, because the last you'd heard it, you never were. “Shouldn't’ve treated you like that, like shit. I'm— I'm sorry.”
You stare at him for a long time without saying anything. He looks legitimately sorry, and that confuses you more than anything else. The Steve you remember would never ever admit he was an asshole unless it was for some sort of joke. He was too proud, too important, too mean. You thought you'd like that, and then you started dating (at least, that's what you thought was going on) and you realized you really didn't.
But now he's standing here, not only apologizing for it but admitting fault and claiming accountability as he does it.
“Did a worm eat your brains or something?”
He smiles, a surprised chuckle softening his features and making him look prettier than you remember. You don't even notice him step closer. “No, just hit my head enough times to knock some sense into me.”
He is prettier than you remember. His hair is still overly groomed, but at least it's not the done up thing you remember. He looks like he smiles more. He doesn't speak so loud, and he's not actively feeling you up just to take you to bed. He's got the same lips, though. Plump and pink and–
You don't even realize he's close enough to take your hand. But he does, and he cradles it in his palms like it's something special, warm but loose enough to give you plenty of choice to pull away.
So he's still got that spell, huh? Now that he's so close, it's settling over you like a haze of glitter over your eyes. But there's something sweeter about this, some more earnest in the way he looks at you. Not seduction, just sentiment.
His voice drops down low to a near whisper. Some of his hair falls forward as he tilts his head down to see you, serious but kind. “Shouldn't have said that shit you,” he repeats. He doesn't follow it with another apology, because this one isn't aiming for forgiveness, it's honesty.
You take note of the toe of his shoe gently knocking into yours, dangerous. “No, you shouldn't have,” you agree.
He nods. “I'm really sorry. Truly. No bullshit.”
You blink up at him slowly. His head is vertical, there's no tilt to prompt any kind of kiss, so that can't be his reason for being so close. His eyes don't droop with that intent to close either, nor do they wander where they don't belong. He's not trying to kiss you, and that's what sells it.
You would sigh, but the space between you feels so fragile. “And how do I know you're not lying?” you ask slowly, unaware of your hand reaching up to rest on his arm.
He smiles gently, cautiously. “I'm gonna sound really fucking stupid even suggesting this but…” he shrugs lightly, your cradled hands undisturbed by the movement, “trust me?”
You hum. “Well…” your scrunched lips move from side to side, considering this, “your hair is different, so maybe there's hope.”
He smiles a little wider, glancing up at his bangs. “You like it?” He shakes his head enough to get some movement, bouncing his brows like he's proud of his perfected balance of sleek and fluffy. You try not to feel too fond, but you think the softness of your voice is enough to give it away.
“It's a welcome change from before. It looked really douchey. Shoulda been a red flag on its own.”
He pulls his brows tightly together, seemingly amused. “Okay, ouch,” he whispers.
Your head tilts. At the side of your slightly narrowed eyes, he back tracks just enough to grant him the raising of an eyebrow to offer reprieve from any (fairly) harsh response. “You deserve a lot more than a mean comment about your hair, Steve.”
He doesn't even think about it, just nods emphatically. “Yeah, you're right, I'm sorry.”
“That’s the third time you've said that, are you sure bugs didn't eat your brains?”
He glances up and squints like he really needs to think about it. “Uh, seventy-nine percent.”
Your brows shoot up. “Those are low numbers.” Arms crossing over your chest, you level him with an unimpressed gaze that plainly betrays your amusement in the subtle twitch of your lips, the tiny squinting of your eyes.
He shrugs. “Can never be sure.”
“Ew.”
You wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him down to your lips. He kisses you back happily, smoothing his thumbs over the hand he's still got held in his own. He steps closer, if that were possible, molding your body to fit with his the same way it always had before. You slot perfectly in place of the empty space of his body.
You breathe him in, the taste of him mostly consisting of whatever booze he's had tonight, just enough for a warm buzz in his ears. His hair is still soft. His lips are still warm. But he kisses you like he's truly missed you.
When he pulls back, it's with a lovely smile and wet lips. “Does this mean you forgive me?”
You smile back, pecking his lips. “Fuck no, but it's a start.”
You take a step back, squeezing his hand gently with a light bounce on the balls of your feet. You tilt your head toward the hall, walking backward and taking him with you. He follows behind like he's still processing what's even happening.
He seems to be done processing when he stops you somewhere in the hall, thankfully a lot less crowded than everywhere else, and pushes you up against it for another kiss. His hands find your waist, holding you tightly with a gentle squeeze that makes you smile against his lips. Your hands wrap happily along the back of his neck and into the softness of his hair.
He hums into your mouth, bringing one hand to tilt your chin up a bit. When your leg lifts slowly to wrap around his waist, he unhooks it kindly to set back onto the floor.
You linger there in the kiss for a while longer before pulling back between them for breath. “You don't want me?”
He keeps kissing you, shaking his head quickly as he stumbles, “God, yes, but I don't want you to think I'm just tryna get into your pants.”
You smile, a small laugh shaking you. “I got that from your apology. You can make it up to me by accepting that this is my decision and showing me how sorry you really are.”
“Fuck, I missed you.”
He wastes no more time kissing you, but instead of hooking your leg around him again, he shoves his own between your thighs with a gentle press. You sigh against his lips, trying not to moan as you lean into him more.
You grind down onto his leg, not caring that you're out in the hall where anyone can see you, where some people do pass by and couldn't care less because there are three more along the way with similar feelings. A sigh passes your lips at the kiss of his own trailing down your neck, licking out over a slip of skin he finds when your neckline gets sloppy. When he starts nipping at your collarbone, you're cradling his head and sighing into his ear.
You smell the same. Warm and sweet and something he can't find anywhere else.
“C’mere,” he murmurs into your ear, suddenly dipping down and hoisting you up to wrap your legs tight around his waist.
Steve carries you up the stairs and past more people who do little more than glance as you go. He takes you all the way to your bedroom, kissing you the majority of the time as his hands greedily squeeze your ass.
He's more patient than you remember. When he gets you alone, he closes and locks the door behind him and lays you on the bed like you're worth something. Your body is nothing if not inviting as he crawls over you and kisses you nice and slow and without any kind of lacking in passion. His hands roam your body, his lips suck on your yours, his mouth trails down to your neck where he imprints them.
His hand passes over your chest, feeling your breasts through your dress with a sigh. He's missed your body so much. (Of course, it's not the only thing he's missed, but you're here and you're about to be fully spread out for him and he'd be sorry you were upset that that's the only thing on his mind.)
“Steve,” you breathe against his mouth, spreading one leg apart at the bend as your dress rides up, showing him this pretty set of red that's already in the process of being ruined by the arousal beginning to stick between your thighs.
He refrains from grinding his hips into your own, especially with the way you've got the perfect spot open for his body to slot through. Sucking a hickey right below your ear as he hums, he waits for you. “Yeah? What do you want from me, baby?”
You smile, a little breathless and really needy but no less teasing. “Oo, that's a new one, too.”
His lips turn up into your skin, tracing your ear. “Well, I'm trying to listen more. Hard head.”
You scoff. “You're telling me.”
He pulls back a touch, your lips still nearly brushing with how close he is, how far he refuses to be. “Oh, so you're still a smartass, huh?” The smile that sits upon his pink lips fails to convey any real annoyance. He seems happy to be here dealing with your smart remarks, your quick words. He feels almost…at home here.
You laugh below him, tilting your hips up to tempt him. “Last I remembered, you actually used to do something about it.”
He lingers there a moment, watching you with a look in his eyes that makes you bite down on your lower lip. He smiles, leaning in to press another kiss to your kiss-bitten lips. “Maybe I will.”
He moves quickly, startling you into a fit of giggles as he starts kissing all over your face and your neck and your chest. Steve doesn't dare tickle you—he learned that lesson a long time back when he tried to do it as a joke and got punched square in the face on pure reflex. You did not apologize, simply said that it was his fault anyway for trying. He remembers being a little upset about it at the time, but now he's only upset about all the time he's missed with you since then.
So, no, he doesn't tickle you when he lavishes you in plentiful embraces. He draws a line down your back as you happily writhe beneath him, undoing the zipper until he can just peel you out of your clothes without hassle. He was always really good at taking off clothes…
He pulls back just enough to see you in your lacey red set. He hadn't been expecting it, but maybe he should have. “Expecting something like this?”
You smile. “Can't a girl just look nice and pretty for herself?”
He glances down back to your bra, designed not to leave much to the imagination as one of your nipples has already slipped from its thin cover. “I don't know if I'd call this nice.”
Your smile twists into this sly little thing. “No? What would you call it then?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Appetizing?”
You throw your head back to laugh, and he smiles at the achievement before going right where he wants to be, with his head in your chest and his mouth wrapped tightly around your nipple as he sucks and licks and teases you until you're moaning.
Your lips part for every breath that leaves you, spreading your legs wider until Steve has no choice but to slit himself in the space there. He fits perfectly, your legs wrapping around his waist as the erection stiff in his pants presses against your thigh.
His tongue flicks and swirls at your nipple as the other one raises to unhook your bra from the back. It's gone in an instant, forgotten with the warm heat of his palm on your other breast. Your fingers tangle into his hair eagerly, keeping him right there where he's happy to love on your chest forever.
He plays with your nipple until it's as stiff as him, poking out at the cold air that greets it after being nice and snug in the hot heat of his mouth. He switches to the other side, his hand moving down to occupy a different space.
You whine when his thumb brushes over your clit through your damp panties. You curse something under your breath, feeling the way his fingers hook beneath the material to pull it to the side. You feel his finger slide through your folds and feel your head getting light and fuzzy.
Steve was a complete and total dick. But the man knew how to fuck you (with his very nice dick).
When he slips a finger inside of you and you gasp, the response is quick as he strokes that finger nice and slow inside of you. Your breath puffs in the air, warm and needy and whiny when he curls his finger in a come hither motion that has your back arching up slightly off the bed.
He touches you just a bit longer before he's pulling his hand away with a grin. You're about to protest when you watch him pull those fingers into his mouth, suckling on them like he's dipped his hand in honey. He hums, his tongue peeking out when he swipes it greedily along his finger. When he pulls them out, it comes with a pop.
He comes down to mouth at your throat. “God, I missed this pussy.”
Your hands find themselves at the hem of his shirt. You don't even know why he's still fully clothed on top of you at this point. You pull it off of him without a word, toss the shirt across the room like it has personally offended you as you let your hands explore the space of his chest. When your hands meet a patch of skin rougher than the rest, you pause. You pull back to take a look, but he stops you before you can, clasping his hands with yours in a movement so smooth that you don't even realize at first that he's keeping you from inspecting. He pins your hands to the either side of your head and dips down for another, deeper kiss. He doesn't pull away until he's sure you're not thinking about his scars anymore and then trails those same kisses down your body.
When you take a nice long look at his head perched between your thighs, looking up at you with kiss-swollen lips as he holds your hips in his large hands, you lick your lip absently. “You do this now?”
He smiles, laughs a little. “Apparently, I really like it.”
Before you can say anything, he's mouthing at your panties and making the wet spot he finds there wetter. You gasp lightly, your legs going to close around his head, which he pries open easily. He noses at you, licks you, treats you like he hardly ever had before. Your head is fuzzy with the attention, worse when he pulls your panties down your legs to really touch you.
When you're bare beneath him, he mutters something under his breath and doesn't let you in on it before he's diving into you. He skips the teasing, skips the taunting. His tongue licks somewhere inside you, plunging in like he intends to fuck you with it. Your arousal leaks out into his mouth, sounding sloppy as he licks it up like a dog to water.
Your legs are shaking around his head, two useless limbs that probably wouldn't hold you up well had you been standing. He replaces his tongue with his fingers, shoving two inside of you and massaging deeply. You squeeze around his fingers, keening into his touch and moaning into the air, glad that the music downstairs is playing too loudly for anyone to truly hear you (not that you totally hated the idea of someone hearing the two of you fucking outside of this room. At least, you didn't seem to mind much when you were together.)
“Steve, please,” you gasp, worse when his tongue starts flicking over your clit in quick, emphatic licks. “Uhn, yeah. Right there, don't–don't stop.”
And he doesn't. His fingers work you nice and deep, his elbow rocking back at and forth as he stays happily perched between your thighs, licking you up like you're dripping ambrosia and finger fucking you until you pant.
The deep curling of his fingers has them brushing against your sweet spot, your thighs longing to twitch closed, your back longing to arch so far off the bed you'd be sure to get a cramp somewhere. His tongue laps easily over your clit while he coaxes you to an orgasm.
Your hands tangle in his hair, and Steve's only response is a deep groaning in the back of his throat. One of his hands nudge your thighs apart so gently as he continues to fuck you with his hands and his tongue as he opts to rub his cock against the bed in the confines of his tight jeans (some things never change).
“You used to fucking suck at this,” you manage between breathy moans.
He circles your clit a couple times, sucks it into his mouth before smiling up at you. “Mostly because I didn't wanna do it. Because I was a dick.” You make this face at him, and he silences any oncoming remarks with a deep pull of his fingers that has you keening. “Jury's still out, of course. But I found that I actually really like it.”
He kisses the inside of your thigh. “Especially,” he says, “when it smells and tastes as good as this.” Your thighs are trembling, so close to falling apart with the way he touches you, the way he speaks to you.
When you do come, it has you panting and whimpering and leaning off the bed. You're eager for more before you've even come down. Something inside of you yearns for it, twists in itself in its pursuit of it as your hands unwittingly reach for him, his hair, his shoulders. He coaxes you through it as you shake, squeezing your eyes shut and mumbling, “Yes, yes, yes, Steve, fuck.”
He kisses your clit and he pumps his fingers slowly as you try to catch your breath. He looks smug, looking up at you like he's done exactly what he meant to do, something you don't feel quite privy to.
“So pretty, sweet girl,” he smiles. “You did so good.”
You look down at him with hooded eyes, feeling as good as his praise indicates but needing more. You guide him back by his chest and turn the both of you easily, flipping him onto his back as you climb on top of him, your thighs straddling his waist and moaning when your clit accidentally catches on the fabric of his jeans.
He looks up at you, the picture of pleased. “What are you doin’ up there?” Steve's hands fall easily to your hips, holding you with fingers that occasionally pinching at the fat he finds there.
You smile, taking his belt in your hand, undoing it and pulling it off of him without fuss. “What does it look like I'm doing?”
His smile grows, kicking off his jeans once you've got them halfway down his legs. When you pull at his shirt, he takes your hands in his, once again so easily that you mostly miss the slight urgency peeking through at you in the movement. Steve distracts you with another heated kiss as he intertwines your fingers, his cock heavy against his belly where he's painfully hard and leaking.
It's effective, because you moan into his mouth and dip one hand down to stroke the thick length of his cock with a heavy sigh. You almost forgot how big he is. He fills the space of your hand with ease, hot and solid and already beginning to leak at the tip.
“Guess you really did miss me,” you smile, smug.
He chuckles. “Couldn't lie about that.”
He captures your lips before he can spend too much time away. You're almost too distracted by the feelings brimming in it to remember him pulsing in your hand, longing to be inside of you, until you squeeze him absent-mindedly and are greeted with his hips jerking up into your hand, purely instinct.
“God, please, babe,” he says, his brows pinched in concentration of his building lust. He feels like he'll just burst if he doesn't get to feel the wet heat of your pussy again after so long apart.
You smile. It's a prideful thing—having a man beneath you begging for you to give him pleasure. And not in a cocky way, not in any way that could be classified as a mock. His brows are knitted, his lips are kiss-swollen, he looks akin to one of those love-soft boys in old paintings from the Romantic era. He's got the eyes for it, earnest and glistening, something real there that he used to so easily bury beneath small-town fame and cigarettes.
You hum, thinking, not quite convinced but also eager to tease, and definitely not forgiving enough to refrain. “I want another sorry. A really good one. I wanna feel it.”
There's a lot of things you want to feel. And while his apology before had been quite convincing, getting a sincere one now that managed to be separate from lust and basic desires would mean more to you. Steve never was good at lying to you when his brain was too frazzled by arousal.
But here. Now? With him looking up at you like you're something holy? With one hand reaching to cradle your face and his eyes unblinking but hooded at the sight of you so close to him once more? The only thing to be found is humble sincerity. The kind of sincerity that makes it hard to speak. The kind that makes choosing the refined version of his words a little more difficult.
“I'm sorry,” he says, voice softer, a little higher in his earnestness, a little breathy in his exertion, but real and unfettered by any selfishness that doesn't come naturally in this kind of emotion. “I'm so sorry, sweetheart.”
And you do feel it. It takes up space in your throat, warm and slightly unwelcome but honest. You breathe through it as subtly as you can, allowing the smallest nod to tilt your head. “Okay.” Your voice is so gentle that it wouldn't shake a leaf if he held it right up to your lips.
But your breath does shake when the tip of his cock parts your lips and then sinks inside of you. It's slow and hot and you're growing more and more impatient by every little stretch you encounter until you're full to bursting. You both groan in time, your bodies fitting together perfectly even after all that time. A little curl in your chest is illuminating you to how much you really have missed Steve.
You linger there, adjusting to him and his sex and his hands on your hips. It's hard to breathe right when your breath feels so loose.
When you start moving, it's with slow and indulgent rolls of your hips. It takes a moment to find your rhythm, a steady back and forth, back and forth on a swivel that has you lightheaded. He doesn't rush you, doesn't guide you as you move. His hands hold you for the purpose of holding you as your soft moans get used to the feeling of moaning.
Steve's head falls back on the pillows, brows furrowed in concentration as he watches you beginning to fray at the ends. Something tender is slipping into the cracks between where your pleasure ends and his begins. He thumbs circles into your hip, holds you like something to be revered, lets the feeling of something that was once just a red glow left over from a once burning lumber show itself anew as a much more fearsome flame.
You try not to breathe in the embers flicking in the air, but it's hard to do that when they taste so good, when they lick at your skin like glitter sizzling on flesh. He doesn't look away, holds your gaze like he's afraid this is all just a dream, and he will wake up without you in his hands. There's a fear, a questionably subtle ache that betrays the longing he's held for you through your time apart.
It's lighting something in you that makes you sort of break apart in the places that matter. Something crumbles, something else builds like wax drips cooling on the side of a candle. You hold his gaze and feel yourself surrendering to a strange power that feels…safer than before. It has your hips grinding just a little deeper, your fingers more restless on his chest where they long to plunge in and take a peak at what he may be holding for you in his heart.
“That's good, baby,” he breathes. “Keep doing that.” His hips twitch up to emphasize his words.
You're happy to oblige. Your moans mix with his the more frantic your hips become. You feel like you're barely holding on to the last slip of control you have left. Looking at him gazing up at you like gemstones is making you pliable from the inside out. You're aching for him, caught now in the memory of these same eyes in those small, intimate moments where he'd forgotten who he was and what he was supposed to be. Moments you never talked about, that could only ever exist outside of time and buried deep within the subconscious.
But this isn't subconscious, and you can feel time moving at the pace you both set in unison. He's here and so are you, he's melting under you without restraint and your lines are blurring without fear. With every swivel, every thrust, every moan or breath caught in the crevices of your hiding spots in which the other has shone a rose-colored light on, you both fall deeper and deeper into the endless longing of needing one another.
Your fraying becomes more of an unraveling the longer you ride him, your hands so steady and so eager at his chest, your mouth fallen open with the huffing sound of your desperation, your veins coursing with something thicker than blood.
Steve gazes up at you with parted lips and pinched brow. His hands hold steady at your hips and continue to guide, to meet your rolling with his thrusting. His skin is kissed with heat and desire. You don't realize how much closer you've leaned in until you feel his hands sliding up the small of your back to press gently along the center of your spine. You cradle his neck in your hands like he's something to be revered. You hold him like he's something small, something fragile. To you, right now, he's even more delicate.
Your breaths share in the distance between you, like they're trying to fill the space and bring you even closer together. “Steve,” you breathe, the sound of his name so quiet but so nearly scared. “You're shaking.”
His muscles are tight and straining, holding in his hunger for you back by hardly a thread. His hands press you imperceptively closer, and still you feel the space shrinking anyway.
Your noses bump. You feel his breath on your lips just the same as you feel his cock inside of you, warm and filling and just a little too deep for the guise of having moved on. A little too deep for two people who haven't thought about one another every day since the last they were one.
Then he says, in this shaky, delicate voice, “So are you.”
You feel it then, your thighs and your arms and your hands unsteady at either side of his neck. You feel your lungs shuddering against his (you hadn't even realized you were chest to chest until that moment).
Your breaths grow shallower. Your moans get louder, higher, needier. Your hips are losing their rhythm. They're sloppy and jerky, every thrust searching for a different feeling, a different pressure. “Steve.”
He nods, hands pressing and grabbing and stroking. “I know,” he puffs. “I got you, baby. Please, I got you.” You mourn the loss of the warmth of one of his hands at your back, just to whimper when you feel the pad of his thumb pressing circles into your clit that has you panting.
You hand follows eagerly, covering his in a greedy pursuit to further the pleasure, to be closer, body and soul. You cant your hips up into his hand, rolling them in a way that spits on nuance.
“Ah, Steve.” It's so much so fast. You can't keep up with your breath, your body, the pleasure filling you and making it hard to think straight with a scent too familiar to you seeping into your senses and making it hard to think about anything other the rhythm of your hearts vibrating through the cages of your ribs, your head spinning with the force of your passion.
You're climbing higher and higher the longer the moment draws out. You feel your muscles tensing, the coil in your core growing tighter and hotter.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he huffs, just as desperate as you. “Jeez, you feel so good, baby.” He holds you closer, stronger. He strokes your clit and thrusts up into you and captures your lips with too much intimacy.
You're not strong enough to hold out much longer. You're whining his name and trembling above him like you're afraid it's all going to end. Like he'll get what he came for and leave you without a thought, snickering over his shoulder on the way out about how stupid you must be to have believed a single word he'd said.
The things he'd said to you before echoes in the back of your mind, reminding you, taunting you, warning you. The possibility gets caught in your throat, and a nearly sobbing sound shakes out of you. You hold him tighter, let your lips brush and let your skin thrum against the intensity of the moment before you, carrying on for too long and ending too soon.
Your fingers keep circling, pressing, caressing. Even when your throat gets hot. Even when your breath shudders and you say, “You hurt me.”
Your voice is so fragile. It's this glass-like murmur that is just high enough for Steve to know you and understand the capacity of your words.
His face crumples into this remorseful thing. His hands are an apology, his thrusts are a promise. His eyes are too sincere. “I know,” he rasps.
You lean closer, swallowing thickly and getting caught on a whine. Your voice gets impossibly softer. “You ruined me.”
He nods. Understands. You ruined me, you said, aching ever closer. Softer then, “I know.”
The moment feels quiet and still, despite the fact that the rhythmic smacking of your thrusts and your puffing breaths and the sound of skin on skin is filling the room with what could very much be a bad decision.
He buries his head in the crook of your neck, inhales the scent of you, surrenders to the power he'd unwittingly given you a long time ago to hold over him like a truth.
“I miss you.”
You struggle to breathe around his admission. It hits you with a million bolts of electricity that spark in your gut and have you teetering on the very edge, daring and wanting to jump and see if you can fly.
“Say that again,” you whisper. “Please.” Nearly there. Almost. So close.
This time, it's not an admission. It's not even a fact. It's a confession. They're words spilled out for the sake of amends, of apologies and promises of a kinder, stronger passion. “I miss you,” he pleads.
You gasp as you're sent careening off the edge with a stutter that flushes your skin full of heat and pumps racing blood too fast to tell where any of the pleasure is coming from and going alike. You cry out his name in a half sob. The pleasure is intense and blinds you, robs you of your breath and mind. Your body stutters as it soars, wind caught beneath your wings and carrying you to a height you haven't felt in so long. You've missed these skies. You've missed these winds and their desire to blow to the end of time.
Your hand has gone limp, but he doesn't stop. You suck him in and beg him not to stop. “There you go, atta girl. So pretty.” His face is tight with the pleasure that is taunting him. Your walls are clenching down around him so much, warm and wet and still bucking desperately, begging the pleasure never to end.
You're bursting at the seams, unraveling above him with a visceral moan and a shivering deep, deep in your bones. “Yes, yes, yes,” you break. “Fucking—shit.” You're stumbling over his name, over your curses, lost in the ecstasy drowning you in all that is Steve.
You cradle his neck and crash your lips against his, teeth clicking and biting against the plush skin of the other's lips.
Steve gasps against your mouth, a sharp inhale that gets stuck and stumbles into this keening moan. His hips thrust up recklessly into the warmth of your pussy wrapped so sweetly around him. He spills inside of you like it's taking his whole body to fall apart beneath you His hips stutter, his face is tight with bliss, and he goes still as you keep kissing him through his release, even as you're still stumbling through the tail end of your own.
Neither of you moves.
Silence stretches as your bodies loosen into something slack with satisfaction, and maybe the anticipation of what happens after all of this is done. The uncertainty of knowing who's going to leave first—who's going to laugh first.
You keep your face buried in the crook of his neck and revel in the familiar, nostalgic smell of him. You're afraid to look and reluctant to let the moment pass you by. You've got him right here in your arms, and selfishly, stupidly, you don't want him to leave.
It's tender, strangely realer than anything else that has taken place tonight. When his hand begins to stroke circles into your back, you nearly choke on a sob.
Your hands on his shoulders are warm, fingers still brushing the skin of his neck as you keep yourself tucked into him and the warmth he provides.
You don't know how much time has passed before someone speaks, you. “Still haven't learned to pull out, huh?” you try, your voice raw and fragile despite your attempt at strength. It's so small that you can't even bring yourself to try to chuckle.
Steve offers you the mercy of a little one of his own, more a huff of breath than a proper laugh. “Yeah, still working on that,” he murmurs gently. Then, a little louder, “Last I remember though, you didn't mind too much.”
His stroking hand gives you the courage to laugh, and somehow you know he's smiling without even having to look at him.
You swallow thickly. You let your voice crackle around the edges. You're too afraid. “What now?”
His hand travels up your spine and shifts until he's cupping the side of your face and encouraging you to look at him. His eyes are melted and tender. “I don't know,” he whispers honestly. “What do you want?”
What do you want?
“I want you to stay.”
He looks like that response is going to make him cry. His voice is weak, barely above a whisper. “I want that, too.”
You can't stifle your grin, so you don't, you just play it down and lean in for a kiss. It's slow, long, deep. It's full of a yearning too thick to have only returned tonight.
Your noses rub gently as you stay close. “I guess, then, we go back to the party. You can help me clean a little. Then…we come back here?”
He nods, holding warmer without pulling tighter. “And then…tomorrow, I take you out.”
You smile gently, but the anxiety is still chipping away. “If you're still here in the morning…” You hadn't meant to say it out loud, and if you did, you hadn't meant to say it loud enough for him to hear.
He cradles your cheek. Kisses you sweetly. “I'm not going anywhere.”
And somehow…you believe him.