pairing: steve harrington x reader
word count: 4.1k
summary: six weeks have passed since your little sex contract. six delusional weeks of crawling into this metal box, pretending a list of rules can undo what’s already etched into muscle memory. and it's driving you insane, the way steve harrington follows each one like he’s being graded on precision. down to the fucking letter, not a single one missed.
warnings: 18+ mdni, fwb to eventual lovers, fwb w rules, angst, mutual pining, oral sex (m!receiving), deepthroating, van sex, no-kissing sex :(, d/s undertones, first time subdrop, unexpected subdrop, aftercare, slow burn, pre-s5
pt. 1
“Wait—fuck—just... just slow down, jesus—”
He tastes like sweat-salt tonight.
There’s something painfully familiar about it. The musky, slow-built heat, the bitter smack of honey that sticks to the back of your tongue, thick and stubborn and unmistakably his.
You shouldn’t know the taste of him. Not like this. Not with the kind of certainty where you could pick him out in a lineup blindfolded, relying on tongue alone.
It’s exactly the kind of shit the rules were supposed to wring out of you. This obscene bodily recognition. This intimate, involuntary fluency.
But habits carve their own quiet shapes in the dark. And your body has spent eleven Crawls learning the shape of his.
Your palms slide up his thighs, fingers slipping over warm, twitching muscle. You settle into the rhythm your mouth knows by heart.
Up. Down.
Up. Down.
Most things get easier with repetition. Pattern breeds comfort. Routine breeds numbness.
That’s the lie, anyway. That if you repeat something enough times, it’ll stop meaning anything. That habit will file down the edges until everything is dull and safe and numb.
You’re still waiting for the numbness.
Six weeks have passed since your little sex contract.
Six delusional weeks of crawling into this metal box, pretending a bullet-point list can undo what’s already etched into muscle memory. Like the rules are helping, like they’re giving structure, like they’re guardrails and not bright-white chalk outlines against black pavement.
And Steve Harrington follows each one like he’s being graded on precision.
Perfectly. Painfully. Down to the fucking letter, not a single one missed.
No touching once you’re done? He pulls away the second you finish, hands dropping like your skin scorched him.
No talking about it outside the van? Daylight Steve performs casual so hard he might actually sprain something—hands shoved in pockets, grin easy and boyish, acting like he doesn’t go home twice a month with your nail marks on his hips.
Rule #3, though. That one’s the real knife.
That’s the one that’s slowly skinning you alive.
But it’s fine. It’s doesn’t matter.
It’s okay that his hands shake when they close around your waist.
It’s okay that he holds his breath when your face drifts too close.
It’s okay that lately....
That lately he doesn’t let you face him at all.
He turns you around now. Every time.
Guides you by the hips, the waist, the small of your back, gentle palms that used to cradle your face now wrapping around to rotate, to keep everything angled cleanly away.
You brace yourself on cracked vinyl, on metal brackets, dig your nails into shag carpet or the edge of the back bench while he fucks breathless sounds out of your throat—keeping your face far, far away.
Away. Always away.
You should be relieved.
It's what you asked for, isn’t it?
Carved those words into him in permanent ink.
Signed your initials together, side by side, might as well have etched it into a fucking tree like two kids in love; one heart, four letters, arrow clean through the middle, immortalize your doom with a dull pocketknife and walk away like it’s not bleeding sap behind you.
And the thing about carving into trees is that they bleed sap no matter what. Doesn’t matter if the cut is meant as a promise of ending or a promise of eternity.
Rule #3: No kissing.
Now, you spend more time looking at each other between the thighs than in the eyes.
But maybe that’s just the point.
Distance through proximity. Intimacy without tenderness.
Your face is buried down there now, dark-washed Levi’s pushed down to his knees. The moonlight washes him in silver tones, turns his sweat into shimmering trails and draws long shadows out of the tremor in his lashes.
You relax your jaw, try to breathe around the sheer girth of him as you flatten your tongue against the heavy, pulsing underside.
Up. Down.
Up. Down.
There’s only one way to keep from drowning in a boy like Steve Harrington.
Smother the softness before it can breathe. Bury tenderness beneath something filthier, louder, easier to name.
Every bob of your head strips away a thought, every swallow submerges a feeling.
He’s close. You can feel it in the twitch of his thighs, see it the tightening in his gut. Taste it in the small bead of slick that bleeds from his tip, salted and bitter, smearing across your tongue before it melts into your throat.
You drag your nails up the insides of his thighs: ten neat lines that make him jerk, make his cock jump exactly how you knew it would. It fills you with a strange, hollow satisfaction, like winning a game you shouldn’t be playing.
You pull off with a slick pop.
Steve hisses, hips jerking up instinctively; it’s pure inertia, that split second when the brakes slam but the body lurches forward.
You blink up at him through wet lashes, a slow, wicked smile curling your mouth.
He looks wrecked. Chest heaving, chin tipped to the sky, throat bared in a long column of flushed, freckled skin. His knuckles glow bone-white where he’s got a death grip on the seatbelt bolt beside him.
You lean in, lips brushing just under the swollen ridge of his cock.
Not quite a kiss.
But his body shudders like it is.
Your voice is a low, sultry hum when you murmur:
“I want you to come in my mouth.”
He jolts like you’ve struck him. Breath ripping out of him in one violent catch, shoulders snapping back against the vinyl seat.
“Jesus—don’t—don’t say it like that.”
You hold his stare and drag your thumb through another bead of slick at his tip, smearing it lazily.
“Like what?”
His jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth, throat coming up with nothing but a thick swallow.
But his stare—god, his stare—says everything.
It pours over you, molten and heavy, sliding down the bridge of his nose and spilling hot across your skin. It settles at the base of your throat like a phantom hand, calloused fingers pressing down, holding, stroking, claiming, even though he isn’t touching you at all.
Instead, his hand lifts in a hesitant arc toward your face, close enough you feel the heat of his palm before he veers away at the last second, fingers raking through his own sweat-curled strands.
“You want that? Want me to come in your mouth?” he breathes.
You guide him back to your lips, suckling around the flushed head.
“Mmhm.”
He groans low at the vibration, hips twitching in a helpless little rut.
“You’re... you’re gonna—hah—gonna take all of it?”
“Yeah,” you murmur, stroking slow along his length, made glossy with your spit. “Want all of it. Make me choke on you.”
His eyes slam shut, fist yanking at his own hair so hard it must hurt.
“Okay,” he pants. “Okay, just—ah, fuck—!”
You sink down in one long glide.
Deeper, deeper, until the thick weight of him presses into the back of your throat. Your jaw aches instantly, tongue flattened painfully against your molars, pinned by the girth that widens at his base.
You force yourself lower.
Then you pull up an inch. Drop again, harder.
Tears sting your eyes, blurring him into a trembling smear of gold-lit skin and shadows.
You keep your focus on movement. On depth, on rhythm. The wet squelch that fills the van with each downstroke, thick suction layered over the ragged noises tearing from his throat.
“God,” he whispers. Wide, brown eyes narrowed to sharp slits, they burn straight into you. “You’re—”
Whatever he means to say dies when you angle your head and take him past the tight catch of your throat, sinking until your nose is buried in the soft curl of hair at the base.
You’ve never taken him this deep.
Steve chokes on a sound, halfway between a groan and a sob, palm slamming against the fogged window in a frantic splay.
“F-fuck—oh my god, I’m gonna—”
Everything inside him goes taut, then snaps.
Tears spill hot down your cheeks as you stay there, choking yourself open while he floods your throat in heavy, helpless bursts. You don't look up; you keep your gaze fixed on his stomach, the way his sweater bunches tight with each shuddering breath.
He groans your name like he’s been swallowing it back all night.
Then the rest of it unravels.
He chokes on the word as it rises, tries to force it down, but it’s out, it’s out, it’s out, and it slips into the dark before either of you can stop it.
“Baby—”
He never calls you that anymore.
Not intentionally.
But instinct is older than intention.
And Steve Harrington has always loved like muscle memory.
He loves hard, in old grooves carved deep, in tiny unguarded cracks he tries to smother on nights like these.
Affection runs through him like a river he cannot dam, hidden like groundwater, impossible to drain. The leftover pulse of a boy who used to love out loud before the earth split open and swallowed his softness whole.
But not all of it. Never all of it.
Even after monsters and heartbreak, after grief and exhaustion and the calloused edge he’s learned to wear like armor, something tender inside him refuses to die.
And no matter how many borders you draw—no matter how carefully he tiptoes around each one—the river spills.
That’s all it is, though.
Spillover.
Reflex.
Old devotion leaking through the cracks.
Instinct baked into his bones from a past life: teddy bears, rose bouquets, first dates at a movie theater that’s been dark for months, windows boarded since the soldiers shuttered half the town.
The body remembers what the mind tries to bury.
Maybe that’s why his hand finally drops, trembling fingers threading into your hair. Not to push, just to hold.
Maybe that’s why his voice shakes when he breathes out, thumb brushing your temple as he tries to coax you off him, even while he’s still twitching on your tongue.
“Jesus, you’re—are you okay? Hey, hey, just—just take a breath.”
You ease off him slowly, gasping as he slips free. Saliva and his release string between your lips, and you swallow the rest down in one raw gulp.
Cold air rips through your lungs in a sudden, ragged burst; too much, all at once.
Your hands are still braced on his thighs, but they hardly feel like his anymore. Just warm shapes under your palms, losing definition, slipping out of meaning.
The van tilts. Or maybe you do. It’s impossible to tell.
Your heartbeat is a thick, syrupy-slow thump in your ears, too heavy and off-tempo to match anything around you.
Nothing fits.
Nothing holds.
You’re drifting, helpless.
“Hey—hey—” A voice cuts through the panic. “Look at me. Baby, can you look at me?”
Your eyes try. They really do.
But your focus skitters, catching on the silver wash of moonlight across his shoulder, the fogged window, the lingering burn of salt on your tongue.
Everything feels… off.
The world is still spinning when Steve drops to his knees.
The shag carpet swallows the impact, turns what should be a thud into nothing but a soft, muffled noise.
Or maybe that’s just the cotton in your ears, stuffing everything into silence.
You blink at him through a thick haze, thoughts sliding around like butter. Your limbs feel stuffed with fluffy white clouds, soft wisps that float and drift far,
far,
far away.
Away. Always away.
Except...
He isn’t, now.
Not tonight.
He’s right here. Kneeling in front of you.
Big brown eyes—honey in the sun, toffee in the dark—sweep over your face, pinched quietly at the corners. His brows are drawn tight, like it physically hurts him to look at you.
Your name falls out of him on a cracked breath.
Then there’s warmth.
Wide, trembling palms that press against your cheeks, hot enough to melt the cold-hard shell of a Midwestern winter.
You’d know those hands anywhere.
Always runs hot, your Steve.
Made of golden summers and silver springs, his is a body that remembers wildflowers in a town where nothing blooms anymore.
You don’t realize you’d been leaning toward him—slowly, helplessly tipping—until your forehead bumps against his.
He catches you before gravity can claim the rest.
One hand stays firm on your cheek, thumb brushing over cold-blanched skin; the other slides behind your neck, the heel of his palm warming your spine as he holds the full, molten weight of your head.
It feels so easy here.
Safe.
Nose-to-nose, pressed close enough to count the flecks in his irises, close enough you think there’s maybe a little green tucked under that canopy of honey oak-brown. Roots and branches and all the stubborn things that grow even in the cold.
Hearts, arrows—all trees bleed the same.
“Hey,” His breath feels so warm. So close. Close enough you could tip forward and kiss him without trying. “You okay?”
You attempt a nod. It comes out slow, delayed, your brain still clawing its way up from whatever deep place you’d sunk into.
God, he’s warm.
Always so, so warm.
It would feel good to lean in, just a little more. To nuzzle your face closer, tuck into the scent of him: soap and sweat and citrus and Steve.
“Easy,” he whispers, steadying the wobbly tilt of your head, thumb tracing slow arcs over your cheek. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The words wash over you like warm water. Make goosebumps out of frost-bitten skin and dissolve the static in your head until all that’s left is blissful quiet.
Your lips tip into a soft, dazed smile.
He pulls back a little, just far enough to see you. Eyes round and dark, glossy like melted chocolate, they search your expression for something you’re too fogged to name.
He sweeps his thumb carefully over your bottom lip, wiping away spit and the faint, salty trace of him still glistening there.
The crease between his brows digs deeper. Like he’s in pain.
Strange.
Didn’t you make him feel good?
“You’re okay.” he repeats, voice cracking. “I’ve got you.”
He draws you in, tucks your face into the warm curve of his neck. It’s darker there, beneath his jaw, his voice a low rumble against your cheek. You sag into him, the soft, heavy heat of his body enveloping you like a blanket fresh from the dryer.
He breathes against your temple, whispering soft words into your hair.
Nice words. Sweet words.
Sweet nothings.
So aptly named.
Nothings, because they weigh nothing.
Because they float.
Because they leave no marks, no promises, no consequences.
None of it ever meant to last.
But god, do they taste sweet going down.
You catch one in your mouth, hold it on your tongue like candy. Let it melt slow before swallowing it the way you swallowed everything else tonight, hungry and grateful.
His palm is rubbing slow, firm circles between your shoulder blades.
Each pass sinks you deeper.
And deeper.
And deeper still.
You melt against him, boneless, lashes drooping until the fog swallows you whole.
And once you’re swept away by the tide, you don’t hear the tremor in his exhale, how it slips quietly into the emptiness around you.
You don’t see him bend down.
You don’t feel the soft, hesitant press of lips to the crown of your head.
The gentlest pressure.
Like a snowflake landing.
Not quite a kiss.
But your body shudders like it is.
...
Warmth.
It’s the first thing you notice when your mind claws its way back to waking.
The second is a heartbeat. Not yours. Louder, faster, a steady, insistent thump-thump-thump that echoes right against your ear.
The third thing is the fabric under your nose: soft knit, pilled and worn smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and a body that runs too hot for winter.
You jolt upright.
“Whoa—hey, hey—” Steve’s voice catches, quietly startled. His hands rise instinctively, palms out, hovering without touching. “You’re okay. You just… dozed off for a bit.”
Your throat burns. Your tongue feels like paper. Your lips stick when you try to speak.
“Mmph…” You scrub at your eyes, blinking against the haze. “Crawl?”
He shakes his head gently. “It’s over. Nothing tonight.”
You nod, slow and loose, your head doesn't feel attached quite right. Your eyes drift to the shallow dent pressed into his sweater, just beneath his collarbone, in the exact shape of your face.
Dread prickles cold under your skin.
You don’t dare ask how long you were out. Or how long he stayed there holding you. Or why he didn’t wake you.
“Sorry,” you mumble, voice small, shame cinching like a wire around your throat. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
“It’s okay,” he says, quick and soft, earnest. “Just—” He tips his head, searches your eyes. “Do you... feel okay?”
You blink up at him, thin frown tugging at your mouth. “Yeah... I’m fine.”
You stand. The van immediately lurches, the ceiling dipping, walls tilting, everything spinning in a slow, nauseating wave.
“Hey! Whoa—” A warm hand catches your arm. “Sit. C’mon, just sit down for a sec.”
He eases you into the chair behind the radio equipment. Something cool and heavy gets pressed into your palm.
A water bottle.
Steve’s hand is still around it, fingers slow to let go, wrapped around yours until he’s sure you have a grip.
He’s still kneeling.
“Oh—hang on.” He twists toward the front console, rummaging loudly until he lets out a triumphant little ha! under his breath.
He turns back holding a silver-and-orange wrapper.
“Here.” He slips it into your free hand. Laughs softly when you shoot him a weak but pointed look. “Don’t give me that face. It’s good, I’m telling you.”
He drops to the floor below you, cross-legged, fingers picking at a loose red thread in the shag carpet. You take a shaky sip of water and pretend not to notice the half-second glances he keeps sneaking up at you, like he’s checking to see you haven’t toppled over.
The cold soothes the raw burn in your throat. When it finally feels bearable, you reach for the wrapper. The crinkle sounds absurdly loud in the tiny space.
You break off a piece and hold it toward him.
He grins, shakes his head, smoothing a hand over his stomach. “Nah. I’ve had like, three of those today. I’m at my limit, trust me.”
Too tired and too embarrassed to insist, you pop it into your own mouth.
The taste blooms instantly. Rich chocolate melting into caramel warmth. Soft crackle of crisped rice and smooth, gooey nuttiness spreading thick on your tongue.
It makes you wish you hadn’t turned him down all the other nights he’d offered it.
You wish a lot of things.
Steve watches you finish the whole bar. Only when you tuck the last piece between your teeth does he speak.
“So… uh,” he clears his throat. “Home?”
You hold the last bite on your tongue. Let it melt slow.
Then you swallow and manage a small smile.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
The sugar burns warm on the way down.
...
Drop-offs are always the worst part.
They’re quick and easy in theory; you hop out, he drives on.
Except, Steve Harrington never actually leaves right away.
Sometimes he fiddles with the radio, pretends he needs a better station to listen to on the drive back to his place.
Sometimes he sits there tapping the wheel, glancing at you through the window.
And sometimes, like tonight, he gets out with you.
Your shoes crunch on gravel as you hop down, bag slung over your shoulder, ready to beeline for your porch. You’re three steps into the walkway when he calls your name.
“Hey—wait. Hold on.”
He jogs around the front of the van, breath puffing white in the cold, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.
“You, uh... you got really quiet afterward,” he blurts. His face scrunches as soon as the words are out.
“...What?”
“Sorry—no, I mean—” He sighs, drags a hand through his hair. “You just seemed really tired. And kind of zoned out? And you were shivering a lot, so…” His hands leave his pockets long enough to make a small, helpless gesture. “That’s why I was holding you. In the back.”
“Oh.”
The memory’s still fuzzy: warm hands around your cheeks, scratchy wool under your nose.
“Right. Uh… sorry if that was weird.”
“No, it wasn’t weird,” he says quickly. “I was just—” he breaks off, blinks. Does a funny little shake of his head.
“Has… uh… anything like that ever happened to you before?”
You blink. “No, not really.”
He exhales, long and heavy, a cloud of white fading into the dark.
“Okay. I just… I don’t know. Maybe I went too far. You got really quiet all of a sudden, and I couldn’t tell if that was normal or if I did something wrong. Or if I—” He winces quietly, jaw twitching. “—if I hurt you.”
You frown at the guilt etched into his face, sharp and earnest. So expressive. So painfully Steve.
“I’m okay,” you say softly. “You didn't hurt me. And what happened after wasn’t your fault. Really.”
He nods, shoulders stiff.
You’re just about to tell him you should go when a sudden gust of wind slices through your yard. It bites across your collarbones, stealing the last bit of heat clinging to your skin.
Your body jerks with a small, involuntary shiver.
Steve’s brows knit instantly.
“Jesus, you’re still—” He doesn’t even finish. He’s already wrestling out of his jacket.
“Steve—”
“Just take it. You’re shaking again.”
“I’m literally about to walk inside.”
“Yeah, well,” He steps in close and eases the jacket over your shoulders. “You’re gonna freeze before you get there.”
His hands skim over your upper arms in a quick, almost absentminded rub. A firm up-down that leaves warmth in its wake before he returns his palms to your shoulders. They stay there a beat longer, holding the jacket in place.
The heat that blooms under your cheeks is impossible to blame on the weather. “You should keep this. You need it more than me. It’s like twenty degrees out.”
“No kidding,” he mutters, lifting the collar higher, tucking it gently under your chin. “That’s why you need a jacket. And not just—” He nudges the string of your hoodie with a finger. “—this thing.”
You shoot him a look that’s too soft to be a glare. He rolls his eyes, waving you off.
“It’s fine. Just bring it back next time.”
Next time.
You fight back a shiver that's got nothing to do with the cold, pulling the jacket tighter around you.
It’s warm, fleece-lined. Heavy with his heat and scent. Soap and sweat and citrus and Steve.
It feels like being held again.
Steve steps back, hands shoved into his jeans, flashing you a small, boyish smile. Daytime ease again, even though it’s midnight and nothing about what’s happening is easy anymore.
“So... you’re really okay?”
“Yeah. I'm good.”
“Okay,” he nods, eyes flicking over you once. “Now get inside before you turn into a popsicle, jeez.”
“I’m going, I’m going...” You hesitate at the first step, stealing one last glance at him. “Night, Steve.”
“Night. Now go! Jesus, it's freezing.”
...
He doesn’t leave until you’re inside.
You hover near the window and watch him jog back to the van.
Watch him climb into the driver’s seat.
Watch him sit there, hands resting on the wheel, staring at the dark windshield.
Your mind floats distantly to dryer-warmed blankets and sweet, soothing murmurs. Of oak trees and mossy forest floors and the stupid, quiet thought of forever.
Eventually, he shifts into drive.
The taillights flare red, then dim, then disappear down your street.
You follow their glow until the darkness swallows them whole.
...
It’ll hit you later that night.
While you’re lying in bed, staring at his jacket folded over your chair, the smell of him still clinging to your skin.
Rule #1: No talking about it outside the van.
Rule #2: No touching once we’re done.
Two rules. Broken clean through. Shattered like they were made of glass.
But what you won't know—what he'll never say—is that Steve white-knuckles the steering wheel the entire drive back to Loch Nora.
That when the light turns red, he slams the heel of his palm against the leather, swearing at himself under his breath.
That he lies awake for hours, eyes locked on the ceiling, replaying the one rule he never should’ve agreed to.
The one he initialed before he understood the cost.
The one that’s been strangling him for six weeks straight.
The one he's fantasized about tearing to shreds a million times over.
He thinks about the exact moment he almost fucked it all up tonight.
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