To make it easier to find - I just wanted to say thank you to everyone actually reading this. Makes my heart so happy <3 -P
Stranger Things
Billy
Use Your Words (Reader is a shy girl who gets too embarrassed to talk dirty. Billy’s going to get it out of her one way or another.) Smut!!
New Found Confidence (Shy reader doesn't realize Billy's snuck into her bedroom. But Billy doesn't realize reader's feeling themselves in the bathroom mirror.) Smut!!
Lollipop (You thought you were driving Billy wild by teasing him, but he was actually enjoying every minute of it.) Smut!!
Eddie
Senior Skip Day Part 1 (Reader’s got a secret, a guilty one. She wants her best friend, Eddie Munson to take her virginity. What better day to spill her guts than on senior skip day?) Light smut!!
Senior Skip Day Part 2 (It's the perfect day for Eddie to take his best friend's virginity.) Smut!!
Just want to celebrate your happy hour and the fact that you write some of the most INCREDIBLE fanfic here!!! It’s genuinely so sweet and romantic and smutty!!! You deserve everything and more <3
Now, may I please have a Steve Harrington vodka cranberry, stirred, with a twizzler straw and a cherry? I think a lil bent paper straw would also be cute for the situation. Thank you!!!
I'm like, incredibly happy with how this turned out and LOVED writing this drink menu fic so much. I made it extra smutty and romantic for you <3
[fic masterlist]
your very real boyfriend
You only agreed to fake date him to score cheap rent above the local bakery. But a bottle of wine, a too-sweet story from your elderly landlady, and a very real game of “what would my boyfriend do next?” changes everything.
Love was never supposed to be part of the lease. But there he is.
wc: 11642
order up: steve harrington x reader, modern au strangers-to-roommates-to-lovers story with fake dating, mutual pining, smut, softness, and a sexy sweet, awkward “so… we’re real now?” kind of confession.
tw: smut (explicit), alcohol use, oral (f & m receiving), praise kink, fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, aftercare, domestic intimacy, body worship, awkward post-hookup humor, emotional vulnerability, very soft cockwarming, this man is so house husband coded i stg
You’re standing outside the bakery just off Main. The air is cold enough to see your breath, the kind of early October chill mixed with homemade pumpkin bread and wet leaves. Plastic skeletons hang from lampposts, a ghost made of streamers flaps in the wind. You tilt your head back to look at the apartment above the bakery, the one that could finally be yours.
For a minute, you start to picture it. Where your records would go. How you’d hang your posters so the sunlight hit them in the morning. Maybe you’d even meet some guy in a band, bring him up here, put a record on, and pretend you both have the world figured out.
Someone clears his throat beside you.
You glance over. He has good hair, the kind that looks effortless, and a nice sweater layered over a collared shirt. Jeans that probably cost more than yours, clean sneakers. The kind of guy who says “ma’am” to waitresses and holds doors for old ladies.
You, on the other hand, tried to look like the kind of person who could get approved for an apartment. Your usual band tee is swapped for a black long-sleeve top tucked into a plaid skirt, your usual leather jacket replaced with a plain denim one. You even brushed out the streak of color in your hair, though a bit still lingers near the ends. You figured you looked normal enough, but the way he gives you that slow once-over says he can still tell you’re a little offbeat.
“Are you here to show the apartment?” he asks, polite but already impatient.
You blink. “No. I’m here to rent it.”
He glances down at a folded sheet of paper in his hand, the listing printed in neat type. “I thought the showing was at nine.”
“It is. For me,” you say, checking your watch.
His eyebrows draw together. “Mrs. Shaw told me nine thirty.”
“No. She told me nine thirty.”
“So one of us is wrong.”
“Yeah,” you say, crossing your arms. “You.”
He looks down at his note again, mouth twisting when he sees the small “9 AM” written in his own messy handwriting.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “Shit. Guess that’s on me.”
“Guess so.”
He looks like he’s about to argue anyway, but the bakery door swings open before he can. The smell of cinnamon and sugar rushes out, warm against the morning air.
Dorothea Shaw stands there with flour dusted across her apron, cheeks flushed from the ovens. She’s in her late sixties, with silver hair pinned up in a bun that always comes a little loose by midday and soft pink lipstick that never quite stays on the edges. There’s a kindness in her eyes that makes everyone call her “Mrs. Shaw,” even though she always insists on Dorothea.
“Oh, you must be the two I spoke to on the phone,” she says cheerfully. “I didn’t realize it would be a couple.”
You and the guy both start to talk, overlapping. “Oh, we’re not—” “No, we just—”
Dorothea laughs, waving a hand like she’s already made up her mind. “You young folks don’t have to explain yourselves to me. Come in, come in, let me show you the place.”
She ushers you through the side door of the bakery and up a narrow staircase that smells like sugar and yeast. The steps creak underfoot, the paint along the banister chipped from years of use. She keeps talking as she climbs, her voice bright over the hum of ovens below. “I’ve known Steven since he was knee-high,” she says with a fond glance at him over her shoulder. “Never thought I’d see the day he settled down.”
You raise an eyebrow. The guy (Steven, apparently) flushes pink and gives you a helpless look. “It’s, uh, not exactly like that,” he mumbles.
Dorothea just smiles knowingly. “Sure, sure. I’ve heard that before.”
The apartment opens into a cozy living room where morning light spills across faded floral wallpaper and lace curtains move with the draft. A corduroy couch sits against one wall, a crocheted blanket draped neatly over the back. There’s a short wooden shelf lined with old cookbooks and a square television with a crooked antenna. Everything feels a little worn but loved, the kind of place that’s been lived in quietly for years.
Dorothea gestures toward a small archway. “Kitchen’s through there. Gas stove still works if you’re patient with her. I left the table too, it fits right under the window.”
You peek inside. The kitchen is narrow, tiled in pale yellow, with a single sink and a fridge humming softly.
She continues down the hallway, showing two small empty bedrooms across from each other and a bathroom at the end. The fixtures are old porcelain, the mirror spotted, but everything smells like soap and lemon polish.
“There’s even a second bedroom,” she says warmly. “Perfect for when the baby comes.”
Steven coughs, nearly choking on air.
You glance at him, deadpan. “Children aren’t part of the plan yet.”
Dorothea chuckles, eyes twinkling. “Still in the honeymoon phase, then. That’s sweet. Plenty of time for that down the line.”
His head snaps up. “Please—”
She waves him off, smiling. “Oh, hush. I’m only teasing.”
Then she names the rent. The number sounds unreal, the kind of price you’d only hear from someone who values good tenants over money. You and Steve both pause, sharing your first real look of agreement.
You clear your throat. “Would it be all right if we talk about it for a minute?”
“Of course, dear,” Dorothea says, folding her flour-dusted hands. “Take your time. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
You both step out onto the landing. The air smells like fresh bread cooling below and a hint of rain outside. You can hear the old radio from the bakery drifting through the floorboards. Steven sticks his hands in his pockets, shifting awkwardly, still a little pink from the “settling down” comment. He looks over at you, sheepish.
You stay quiet for a second, both of you standing there with the soft hum of the bakery radio beneath your feet. The landing is narrow, lined with worn wallpaper and a window that looks out over Main Street. The sun is climbing higher now, catching the edges of the guy’s hair and the faint blush that still hasn’t left his face.
“So,” you say finally. “Steven.”
He looks up fast. “Just Steve.”
You nod. “Okay, ‘Just Steve’.” You give him your name, offering a quick, polite smile.
He repeats it softly, like he’s trying it out. Then he clears his throat. “So, uh, about the apartment.”
You glance back at the door. “Yeah. The price is… kind of hard to ignore.”
He nods. “It’s a good deal. Way better than anything else I’ve seen. I mean, I work at Family Video, so it’s not like I’m swimming in cash.”
You huff a small laugh. “Record store on Main. Same situation. I can pay, but it’d be easier to split it.”
Steve leans against the wall, crossing his arms. He looks thoughtful, not cautious, just measuring the idea. “There are two bedrooms. If you wanted, we could…” He hesitates, searching for the right phrasing. “We split the rent, utilities, all that.”
You tilt your head, he sounded like he had thought of this long before he messed up the showing time. “Did you already have a roommate in mind?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Sort of. I figured Robin might move in, but she’s still living at home. Doubt she’d care either way. She’ll probably be around a lot, though.”
You nod, finding it funny, the way he says the name like you should already know her. There’s a familiarity in his tone, easy and fond, the kind people use when they talk about someone who means something. You can’t help but wonder if she’s his girlfriend. You push the thought aside, keeping your tone even. “That’s fine. I’ve got friends who’ll probably hang around sometimes, too. Nothing crazy.”
He smiles, a little relieved. “So, no wild parties. Got it.”
“Same goes for you,” you say. “I’m not cleaning up after any keggers.”
He holds up both hands, mock-offended. “I’ve retired from that life. Promise.”
You talk through the practical stuff. Who’d take which bedroom. How to split the bills. That you’ll both try not to steal each other’s laundry quarters or leave dishes in the sink.
Maybe it’s the warmth from the bakery below or the way Steve’s voice softens when he agrees with you, but for a minute, it doesn’t feel like a bad idea.
When the terms are settled, you knock lightly on the doorframe and call for Dorothea.
“So?” she asks.
You glance at Steve, and he nods. “We’ll take it,” you both say at once.
Dorothea’s face brightens. “Oh, that’s just wonderful. I can have the paperwork ready this afternoon.”
She walks you through a few more details, pointing out where the spare key will hang and reminding you about the mail slot downstairs. Before she leaves, she pauses in the doorway, eyes soft. “And you two should come down for dinner sometime. Once a month, maybe. I get a little lonely in the evenings. It’d be nice to have company again.”
You start to say something, but Steve beats you to it, his smile smooth and easy. “That sounds lovely, Mrs. Shaw. We’d like that.”
Dorothea beams. “Good. I miss cooking for someone.”
When she’s gone, the apartment is quiet again, filled only with the muffled clatter of baking trays below. You and Steve stand there in the center of the living room, both realizing at the same time that you’ve just agreed to more than a lease.
He scratches the back of his neck, looking a little dazed but not unhappy. “So, guess we’re roommates,” he says finally.
You glance toward the window, then back at him. “Yeah. Guess we are.”
Sharing space takes some getting used to.
The first few weeks are a mix of small arguments and quiet adjustments. Your makeup and hair stuff slowly take over the bathroom counter, spreading across the sink like a virus. Steve leaves coffee mugs everywhere. On the counter, on the windowsill, once on top of the toilet. You tell him you’re not his maid, and he tells you he didn’t realize a person could own that many lip liners.
You meet in the middle. He keeps the mugs to one a day, and you start keeping your things in a little basket.
Dorothea still thinks you’re a couple. Every time you run into her downstairs she calls you “sweethearts.” Sometimes she sends you home with bread or pie and tells you how nice it is to have young love in the building again. You play along.
Steve’s good at it, annoyingly so, smiling and slipping an arm around your shoulder when she’s looking. The first time he calls you “babe” in front of her, you nearly choke on your croissant.
Your respective friends find the whole thing hilarious. They know it’s fake, and they don’t let either of you forget it.
Robin comes over a lot and makes herself at home, sitting cross-legged on the couch while she tells you stories about Family Video. It’s her who lets it slip that she isn’t Steve’s girlfriend, or any guy. She says it casually one night while the three of you are eating takeout, and you realize how easy she is to be around.
After that, she starts siding with you on all the roommate debates, insisting it’s weird and unsanitary for Steve to drink his coffee in the bathroom in the first place.
Your friend Eddie, who is at the record store so often you’re surprised he doesn’t work there too, drops by sometimes.
He acts like it’s the strangest thing in the world that you live with Steve Harrington of all people. You tell him you didn’t even know who that was supposed to be, and he spends half an hour filling you in on Hawkins High lore. It becomes a running joke, him calling you “Mrs. Harrington” just to watch you roll your eyes.
There are little gestures you both fall into when Dorothea’s around. Hand-holding when she’s looking. A light touch to his arm when she makes a comment about how happy you seem.
Once, she hugs you both goodbye and you kiss him on the cheek without thinking. The warmth of it lingers, and you both pretend it didn’t happen. You don’t really talk for the rest of the day.
By the end of the first month, you’ve fallen into a rhythm. He makes breakfast most mornings. You leave notes reminding him to pick up milk. Robin and Eddie still tease, Dorothea still thinks you’re in love, and neither of you has bothered to correct her. It’s easier this way.
By January, you’ve settled into a rhythm.
You and Steve move around each other like people who have lived together for years. He makes coffee in the mornings, you open the windows to let the cold air in while you get ready. You take turns doing dishes, and somehow it’s never been a fight.
He’s realized by now that the way you looked the day you met was a toned-down version. You don’t bother hiding it anymore. The pins are back on your jacket, your eyeliner a little heavier, your hair streaked again. You catch him humming along to your records sometimes, quiet and half out of tune, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. He brings home movies from Family Video on Fridays. Horror for you, action for him, something in the middle when you compromise.
You don’t bring anyone home, and neither does he. It’s easier that way. Keeps the story with Dorothea simple, and it makes the apartment feel like yours, even if you both keep pretending it’s temporary.
You’ve had a few dinners with Dorothea since moving in, each one warm and easy. She always sends you home with something wrapped in foil and a compliment about how you remind her of herself at your age. Tonight’s dinner is at her house, a small place on Cherry Street, just past Melvald’s, where the neighborhood dips into quiet. Her living room smells like pine, and there’s a small fire crackling in the hearth.
The table is already set when you arrive, three plates, mismatched silverware, a vase of fake flowers in the middle. She insists you sit side by side, saying something about “young love keeping her warm.” Steve just smiles and thanks her for the invitation.
Dinner is cozy. Roast chicken, scalloped potatoes, something green she swears will make your skin glow. The conversation drifts from the bakery to her garden to her late husband, William. She tells stories about him, how he used to bring her pastries even though she made them herself, how he’d leave her little notes in the kitchen every morning.
“Love is all habits,” she says, folding her napkin in her lap. “You find someone who makes your life quieter, easier, and you keep them around.”
You smile without thinking. The way Steve brings you coffee at work. How he picks up horror movies without asking. How he lets you talk over the opening credits.
When you look up, he’s already watching you. Not staring, exactly, just aware. You glance away, pretending to focus on your plate, but the heat creeps up your neck.
Dorothea notices, of course. “You two are sweet,” she says softly. “Reminds me of us.”
Steve laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “We try.”
She nods, satisfied, and launches into another story about the bakery’s first year, about waking up before sunrise to bake pies for customers. You listen, caught between the rhythm of her voice and the quiet sound of Steve’s fork tapping his plate beside you.
When dessert comes, the conversation softens. The fire pops, snow starts against the window, and you think about what she said about habits, about quiet. You don’t look at Steve this time, but you know he’s thinking the same thing.
Dorothea insists on pouring you both another glass of wine before you leave. You try to decline, but she waves it off, saying it keeps you young. The bottle is nearly gone by the time you finally manage to put your coats on, cheeks flushed and stomach warm.
Steve carries the leftovers in a small paper bag tied with twine. You’re walking back toward the bakery, breath fogging in the cold air. The snow isn’t heavy, just a flurry that catches in your hair and settles on his shoulders. The streetlights glow soft against the snow, and everything feels quieter than usual.
You walk side by side, boots crunching on the pavement. The air smells faintly like wood smoke and sugar.
“Dorothea really likes you,” Steve says after a while.
You smile a little. “Pretty sure she likes you more. You’re her golden boy.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “She’s just known me too long to be impressed.”
“Still. You’re the favorite.”
He grins, tipping his head toward you. “You jealous?”
“Not even a little.”
You keep walking, the silence between you not uncomfortable, just warm. The kind that hums quietly under the sound of your steps.
Then you say it. “So, my very real boyfriend…” you tease lightly, glancing up at him.
He snorts. “Yes, my very real girlfriend?”
You both laugh, the words sounding strange but not unwelcome. It’s the kind of thing that would normally end there, just another shared joke, but something about the wine keeps you talking.
You nudge him with your elbow. “I feel kind of bad, actually. If you ever want to bring someone home, we can figure it out. You know, so you can have an actual very real girlfriend.”
He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Thanks for the offer. I’ve been on a few dates, but nothing worth introducing to Mrs. Shaw. Or risking your wrath over.”
“Risking my wrath?” you ask, smiling.
“Yeah. You seem like you’d have rules about that kind of thing.”
“Only the important ones. No weirdos. No one who wears too much perfume.”
He laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind. Not that I’ve had much luck anyway. I definitely don’t have the appeal I did back in school.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That so?”
He shrugs, the bag shifting in his hand. “Apparently.”
You can’t help laughing. “Maybe someone out there’s into that stupid Family Video vest you have to wear.”
You laugh again, shaking your head. “Well, any dates I’ve been on weren’t exactly thrilling either. Mostly at their place. Which probably says a lot.”
“Please,” he says, grinning. “Trust me, no one’s ever been into the vest.”
He’s quiet for a second, then says softly, “Yeah. It’s weird, right? Talking about this stuff.”
“Kind of,” you say.
He looks over at you, eyes soft in the streetlight.
Home comes into view, the windows dark except for the glow of the sign in the front. He unlocks the door and holds it open for you. The smell of baked goods drifts through, familiar and warm.
You head upstairs together, the floorboards creaking under your feet, both of you still smiling like you’re not sure why.
Inside, everything feels softer. The bakery below is quiet for the night, and the only sound is the hum of the radiator and the faint wind against the windowpanes. You kick your shoes off near the door and hand him your coat without thinking. He takes it, hangs it on the hook by the door with his own, and toes off his shoes before heading toward the kitchen.
It is automatic by now. You go to the couch. He goes to find something to put on. The small rituals you have built over months slot neatly into place.
“You want another glass of wine?” he calls from the kitchen.
You blink. “We have wine?”
He laughs, the sound muffled by the clinking of glasses. “Debatably good wine. From the corner store. Classy stuff.”
You grin. “Pour me some, then.”
He comes back with two mismatched glasses and sits beside you. The movie starts up, something he must have grabbed from work. The title rolls across the screen, half horror, half comedy, a compromise you both pretend not to notice.
You sink deeper into the couch, the wine warm in your hand. It is cheap, but it is red, and you realize he must have remembered that you like it better than white. He never says anything about those little things, but you notice them. The red wine. The coasters he finally started using. The way he lets you pick the music when you clean.
For a while you both watch in comfortable silence, the kind that fills the room instead of empties it.
After a while, you speak. “You know,” you say, voice low, “I really think she buys it. Dorothea. The whole couple thing. I kind of feel bad lying to her.” You take a sip of your wine. “But it’s nice that she believes it.”
He doesn’t answer right away. The light from the television flickers against his face. He takes his own sip before setting the glass on the table. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I almost do too.”
You turn your head to look at him. The thought catches in your chest.
He’s leaning back, relaxed from the wine and the warmth, hair falling into his eyes. The yellow cable knit sweater he changed into before dinner looks soft, worn at the cuffs. There’s a faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the start of a smile he never quite lets out. He looks content, peaceful in a way that makes it hard to look away.
You have always thought of him as clean-cut, too put together for you. But sitting here now, you see something else. The faint tiredness in his eyes. The curve of his shoulders. The kind of quiet that feels steady.
You tell yourself to look back at the screen, but you don’t. The movie keeps playing, forgotten. The air between you shifts, something warm and unspoken threading through it.
Steve is the one who breaks the silence.
“What?” he says, catching you looking at him. “Do I have, like, wine mouth or something?”
You blink. “Wine mouth?”
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his thumb across his lower lip, like he’s trying to wipe away the color. “Like when kids get that ring of juice stain around their mouth, but for adults.”
You laugh quietly, shaking your head. The motion draws your eyes right back to his mouth. The faint red tint from the wine. The way his thumb drags over his lip. You look away, smiling a little.
“No,” you say softly. “Just… nothing.”
He leans back, still watching you. “You sure?”
You glance at him again, teasing now, trying to cover the flutter in your chest. “What? Am I not allowed to look at my very real boyfriend?”
He pauses. The joke should land easily, but his voice comes out quieter. “Not like that.”
You turn toward him a little, the air suddenly thicker. “Like what?”
He hesitates, then looks at you the way people do when they decide something. “Like I actually am your very real boyfriend.”
It’s quiet after that. His arm is along the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him behind you. You don’t remember when he put it there. Your glasses sit on the table, half-finished.
You tilt your head, the corner of your mouth lifting. “If you were my very real boyfriend,” you say, voice lighter now, “what would you be doing right now?”
He grins, eyes still on yours. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d put my arm around you.”
You glance at his arm already stretched along the back of the couch. “Guess that one’s covered.”
He laughs softly. “Then maybe I’d tell you something sweet.”
“Like what?” you ask.
He pretends to think, his smile crooked. “Maybe that you look really pretty tonight.”
You huff a laugh, your cheeks warm. “That’s a good one. I’d probably tell you your sweater looks soft.”
He raises an eyebrow, playful. “You could always check.”
You bite your lip, pulse skipping as you press your hand lightly against his chest. The fabric is warm, softer than you expected. You can feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Soft.”
The air shifts. His laughter fades into something quieter. He covers your hand with his, fingers curling gently over yours. The space between you disappears inch by inch, breath mingling, eyes caught on each other.
“What now?” you whisper, still teasing but softer this time.
He smiles, almost shy. “Now I think your very real boyfriend would probably kiss you.”
You let out a soft laugh, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. “Oh yeah? Is that part of the job description?”
“Pretty sure,” he says. “You’d know if you read the fine print.”
You lean in a little, teasing. “Guess I missed that part.”
“Guess I’ll have to remind you,” he says, voice low but still smiling.
You’re both still grinning, still pretending it’s just a joke, but the space between you keeps getting smaller. The kind of slow drift that feels inevitable.
“Wouldn’t want to ruin our very real relationship,” you whisper, eyes flicking down to his mouth.
He laughs quietly, breath warm against your skin. “Yeah, that’d be a shame.”
Neither of you moves for a second, just the steady sound of the movie in the background, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
Then he leans in just a little more.
And you don’t stop him.
It’s slow, hesitant at first, the kind of kiss that starts with laughter still in your chests and ends with all the air gone from the room. The wine lingers between you, sweet and warm, and the world outside the window fades into the hush of snow and steady heat.
His hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin like he’s been itching to touch your face.
You didn’t even realize your fingers had curled into his sweater, gripping onto the fabric like it might keep you tethered to the moment.
He pulls back just enough to search your face, his hand still cupped at your jaw. “Is this okay?”
You nod once. “Yeah. This is… yeah.”
He kisses you again, and this time there’s nothing hesitant about it. It’s slow but sure, like he knows exactly how to pull you into it. His mouth moves with quiet confidence, patient and present. The kind of kiss that says he’s not rushing anything, not asking for more than you’ll give, but also not holding back.
When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you part them without even thinking, letting him in. There’s wine and warmth and something deeper you don’t name.
He tastes like everything he is:
Familiar.
Surprising.
Better than you expected.
You shouldn’t be surprised though, not after everything you’ve heard about from Eddie about Steve Harrington and the way he used to kiss girls behind the gym or in parked cars at Skull Rock. But this is nothing like that.
He’s not a teenage boy anymore. He’s grounded, even more sure of himself without putting on some bullshit act.
When he finally pulls away, both of you still breathless, he doesn’t let go of your hand. He lifts it from his chest like he’s realizing just now that you’d been holding him there. His eyes are soft and searching again, and the silence between you shifts.
Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to and you sit back a little, needing space to breathe. “It’s late.”
Steve blinks like he’s coming back to earth. “Yeah...”
“I… have work in the morning.”
He gives you a crooked smile. “No, you don’t. You have Thursdays off.”
You look at him. He says it so casually, like it’s just a fact in the universe.
“You know my schedule?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. It’s our cleaning day. You sweep, I vacuum. We fight about which records get played. You always win.”
You laugh under your breath, rubbing your palm against your thigh. “Still. Sleep. Sleep is good.”
“Definitely,” he says, eyes still on you.
Eventually you move. He stands first and offers his hand to pull you up from the couch. You both walk slowly toward the hallway, the apartment dim and quiet around you. The bedrooms are across from each other, same as always, but tonight it feels different.
You both hesitate for a second, then wordlessly disappear into your own rooms.
You change into your usual sleep clothes, a big t-shirt and your favorite worn-in shorts, the kind that make you feel like yourself. Your mind keeps replaying the kiss, the way his fingers felt against your cheek, the way his mouth lingered like he didn’t want to stop at just a kiss.
You open your door at the same time he opens his. He’s in sweatpants and a white undershirt. You’re both heading toward the bathroom.
You stop in the doorway. “Sorry. I just—”
“I just need to—”
You both gesture toward the sink.
“I’ll be quick,” you say.
He leans against the doorframe instead, watching you for a second too long. Then something in his expression shifts.
Something like “fuck it.”
He steps forward, brushing your hair back before kissing you hard.
There’s no question this time. It’s not soft. Not teasing. It’s heat and need and the leftover as his hands find your waist. Yours slide up to his shoulders. The taste of wine mixes on your tongues and you don’t even care.
All you can think is that this is happening. Really happening.
And you don’t want it to stop.
You don’t know how long you’re kissing him before you both come up for air, chests rising and falling like you’ve just sprinted across Main Street. His hands stay firm on your waist, holding you there against the bathroom doorframe, and he’s watching you like he’s trying to decide if this is real.
It is.
You glance between your bedroom door and his. “My room’s… um, it’s a mess.”
Steve laughs, the kind that’s low and breathless. “Yeah. It’s always a mess.”
You start to protest, already ready to defend yourself. “Okay, no, I clean sometimes, I’m not—”
But he kisses you again before you can finish, stealing the rest of the sentence straight from your mouth. One hand slips around your back and the other finds your wrist, guiding you with him as he moves.
You barely register the few steps it takes before you’re inside his room. He doesn’t stop kissing you. He doesn’t even pause when he kicks the door shut behind you with the heel of his foot.
You feel the edge of the bed press against the backs of your knees. He gives you the smallest push and you tumble backward with a quiet laugh. The mattress creaks beneath you, protesting like it hasn’t been used for much more than sleep.
“Shit,” Steve mutters, crawling in after you. “I didn’t realize it was that loud.”
You grin up at him. “You haven’t tested it out?”
His mouth quirks. “Not like this.”
He leans over you, arms braced on either side as you settle against his pillows, and just looks for a second. Your shirt’s rumpled from where his hands touched you, your hair messy in the way that only happens when it’s been in someone else’s fingers.
His hair’s even more of a disaster than usual. You can tell he’s been running his hand through it, nervous, like he does when he’s thinking too hard.
But right now he’s not thinking. He’s just there, above you, eyes on your mouth again.
He kisses you.
Then again, slower this time, lips dragging across your cheek and down your jaw.
When his mouth brushes against your neck, your breath catches. He lingers there, warm and careful, his strong jaw against your skin in a way that sends a shiver through you. Your hands slide from his shoulders to his hair, curling your fingers into the soft mess at the nape of his neck.
“You okay?” he murmurs against your skin.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
He smiles, a small curve of his lips against your throat before he continues, his kisses light, deliberate, exploring. He’s mapping you out. Learning the shapes of you. The space behind your ear, the sensitive spot just above the hollow of your throat.
His hands move too, one sliding under your shirt to rest flat against the small of your back, the other tracing patterns along your ribs through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. His touch isn’t rushed. It’s like he’s savoring the moment, memorizing the feel of your skin, the sound of your breath catching when he finds a place you like.
“No bra?" He says against your skin, a question that isn't really a question.
You huff a quiet laugh, pulling back enough to look at him. “I was expecting sleep...”
“Yeah,” he whispers, sliding a hand higher to cup your breast. The weight of his palm against you, the warmth of his palm makes your breath hitch. “Maybe later.” He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, his thumb brushing over your nipple. It stiffens instantly, a shock of pleasure.
You let out a soft gasp, arching into his touch. He’s watching you again, that same focused look, his eyes tracing your face like he’s searching for some kind of permission in your expression to take your shirt off.
“Yeah?” He doesn't stop, just continues his slow, deliberate movements under the fabric. His thumb circles your nipple, each pass sending a jolt straight through you. You can feel the heat building between your legs, a low, persistent ache that’s been there since that first kiss on the couch.
Instead of answering, you tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion. It’s not exactly graceful, but it’s efficient, and the cool air hits your skin, sending goosebumps everywhere. But it’s the look on his face that truly makes your breath catch. It’s not hungry, not exactly, but… reverent. Like he’s looking at something beautiful, something worth savoring.
“Wow,” he breathes, his gaze moving from your face down your body, taking you in. There’s no hesitation, no sense of him being overwhelmed. He looks like you’re the only thing in the room. "I always kind of wondered..."
"You've thought about my boobs?" You're aiming for sarcastic, but your voice comes out softer than intended, a little breathless.
His eyes snap back to yours, and he grins, a real, genuine grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Not just your boobs." He leans down, pressing a kiss to your sternum, his lips soft and warm. "I thought about the way you'd laugh if I said something stupid." Another kiss, a little lower, between your breasts. "I thought about the way your eyes get all intense when you're arguing with me about the best way to load a dishwasher."
His mouth travels lower, skimming across your ribs. "And yeah," he admits against your skin, "I thought about your boobs too."
You let out a huff of laughter that turns into a sharp gasp as his tongue traces the underside of your breast. He doesn’t go straight for your nipple, he’s taking his time, tasting you, mapping your skin. His hand that was resting on your back slides up, cradling the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as his mouth finally, finally closes over your nipple.
"Fuck," you whisper, arching into him. The sensation is a jolt, hot and sweet, and your fingers tighten in his hair. He applies gentle suction, his tongue flicking against the hardened peak, and his other hand palming your other breast, thumb rolling over that nipple, providing a friction that is almost too much.
"To be fair..." He says, switching over to give the other breast the same attention, voice a low rumble against your skin that makes you shiver. "It's a really great pair of boobs."
You want to laugh, you want to make a witty comeback, but all that comes out is a breathy moan as his teeth scrape lightly against your sensitive skin. He's listening to you, to every sound you make, and responding, adjusting his pressure, his pace, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you squirm. He's not just doing this for himself; he’s doing this for you.
The praise, the way he's looking up at you with his lips wrapped around your nipple, has heat pooling low in your belly, an insistent warmth.
"'Boobs' is such an unsexy word..." you breathe out, more of a reflex than a real complaint. It’s the only defense you have against the way he’s making your hips roll.
He pulls back for a second, his mouth hovering just above your skin, his breath warm against you. "Yeah?" he says, a small, smug smile playing on his lips. "You want me to find a better one? Tits? Breasts?" He pauses, tracing your other nipple with a finger. His eyes meet yours, dark and serious. "Or how about... beautiful." He kisses the spot between your breasts, right over your heart. "Perfect."
This is the most turned on you've been in a while. Your usual sarcasm feels flimsy, useless against his sincerity. It's easier to just let go.
The last word is whispered right before he dives back in, licking a broad stripe between your breasts and up to the hollow of your throat.
Your hands are restless now, roving over his back, feeling the muscles shift under his thin t-shirt. It's in the way. You want to feel his skin. With a frustrated tug, you start pulling it up, he gets the message immediately, lifting his head and pulling back just enough to yank the shirt over his head in one quick motion.
He tosses it aside. It lands somewhere on the floor, probably on that pile of clean clothes he never puts away.
And there he is. Steve Harrington. Shirtless in his bedroom.
He's not what you were expecting, and you have to force yourself not to stare too openly. It's not bulky muscle. It's the kind that comes from doing things. From lugging around inventory at work and probably playing basketball in his driveway at home. He’s broad in the shoulders, with a light trail of dark hair that starts at his pecs and disappears into the waistband of his sweatpants.
A thin, silvery scar runs diagonally across his ribs. You trace it with your fingertip, a small frown pulling at your lips. "What's this from?"
He looks down, then back at you, a hint of something complicated in his eyes. "Just... from a while ago."
He doesn't elaborate, and the way his gaze shifts just slightly tells you it's not a story for tonight. You can respect that.
You don't ask, you just lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss against the scar. Your lips are warm against his skin. He closes his eyes, and when you pull back, you see his jaw is tight.
You trail your eyes down his body, and the smile that finds you is different. Softer. "Well," you murmur, your voice low. "It's a nice view from here."
He grins, the tension breaking. "Yeah?"
"Mhmm."
He shifts above you, settling his weight more comfortably. He's careful, not crushing you. He nudges his nose against yours, his breath warm. "The view's not bad from here either," he whispers. His eyes travel from your face, down your neck, across your chest and stomach.
He’s slow as he lowers his mouth, kissing the curve of your belly, soft and open-mouthed, and you feel yourself relaxing into his touch. His fingers trace the waistband of your shorts, teasing, and you instinctively lift your hips as he pulls them down.
They get caught on your ankle, a tangle of cotton. You both let out a breath of laughter, the spell of quiet intensity broken for a second as he works the fabric over your feet and tosses them aside.
“Okay,” he grins up at you from where he's kneeling between your legs. “Got it.”
And then his eyes go back to you. To you completely bare. On his bed. The smile fades.
You're used to being looked at. You're not shy. But this is different. He's not just looking; he's seeing, making you feel quiet inside.
"Impressive form," you murmur. You can't help it. It's your shield. "A little clunky, but you got there."
He chuckles, his eyes still fixed on the spot where your thighs meet. The sound is warm, and it vibrates right through you. "Oh, don't worry," he says, his hands braced on your thighs. "My form gets better."
Before you can fire back a reply, he gently spreads your legs apart.
And then he dips his head and kisses the inside of your knee.
It's a soft, deliberate kiss. And he continues from there. He mouths a path up your inner thigh, and his hands follow, warm and slightly calloused from work, gripping you gently. It's the slowest possible version of what this could be. He's not rushing toward the main event; he's taking the scenic route.
Your breath hitches when his mouth ghosts over the crease of your thigh. So close.
He hovers for a beat, and you can feel his warm breath against your pussy, already slick with arousal. The anticipation is unbearable.
"Steve," you whisper. It's half a plea, half a warning. Your bravado is evaporating under the focused heat of his attention.
He looks up at you, his mouth impossibly close, his eyes dark with something that looks like awe. "You're so pretty," he says, his voice a low murmur against your skin. It’s not a question. It's a revelation.
And then his tongue is on you.
A long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit. It's not tentative. It's knowing. The groan he lets out is for your taste. The sound vibrates through your whole body.
"Fuck," you breathe, your head falling back against his pillows.
It was very clear to you earlier that Steve really liked kissing, and that is very obviously a skillset that translates. There’s no aimless exploration. He finds your clit easily, circling it with his tongue, testing the pressure until your hips buck off the bed. He slides two fingers into you, curling them instantly against that sensitive spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble.
"God, right there," you manage to choke out, your hands fisting in his duvet.
He hums in response, a sound of deep satisfaction, and redoubles his efforts. His mouth is a perfect, relentless pressure. His fingers move in a steady, maddening rhythm. He’s watching you from between your thighs, cataloging every shudder, every hitch in your breath, and adjusting his technique accordingly.
He seems… proud. Proud that he can do this to you.
"Look at me," he says, his voice thick and muffled by you.
You force your eyes open. You’re so lost in it you had completely forgotten to be embarrassed or worried you weren't being "cool" about any of this. The sight of him, head tipped up, your wetness glistening on his chin, his pupils blown wide with desire, is the final straw.
"You're so-- fuck, you’re so intentional," you hear yourself say. It's an observation, barely a whisper, stripped of its usual bite. It's an offering.
"Yeah?" he grins, a real, genuine grin before his tongue flicks out for another taste, his fingers never ceasing their movement. "'Cause I want to get it right."
And that does it. That thought of him wanting to get something so right for you, while his mouth is wrapped around your clit, sends a bolt of pure, unadulterated heat through your center. Your back arches, a long, shuddering moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. It's not a quiet, polite thing; it's a full-body wave that leaves you breathless, your hand fisted in the duvet, your toes curled tight.
He doesn't stop. He works you through it, his mouth gentle now, his fingers slowing, drawing out every last spasm until you’re left twitching and boneless on his bed. When he finally lifts his head, his expression is pure, unadulterated pride.
"Jesus, Steve," you manage, your voice wrecked.
He crawls back up your body, settling his weight beside you. His grin is soft, satisfied, and when he leans in to kiss you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You meet him with equal fervor, your hands wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, pouring everything you can’t say into the kiss.
It’s you who deepens it, your tongue slick against his, one of your hands almost clumsy as it trails down to the waistband of his sweatpants. You’re not thinking. Not about anything but how you want to give him that same focus, that same careful consideration.
Your fingers find the line of him, hard and straining against the soft cotton. You're met with a soft gasp in your mouth, a sharp intake of breath. He freezes for just a second, surprised, before his hips press into your touch, a silent plea.
His reactions are better than words.
It’s your turn to explore. You slide your hand under the elastic of his pants and boxers, gasping softly into his mouth as your fingers wrap around him, hot and impossibly hard. You’ve spent hours next to this man, and you've never once thought about him like this, not with this intensity. He’s bigger than you expected, thick in your palm, a bead of slick already gathering at the tip. The weight of him feels like a confession, his need a tangible thing in your hand.
“Jesus,” he breathes against your lips, and then your name comes out like a genuine prayer. His body is taut, the muscles in his back bunching under your free hand.
You move your hand in a slow, steady grip, feeling him twitch in your palm. You’re not trying to get him off; you’re exploring, learning his shape, the texture of him.
When you let go he actually whimpers. It's so quiet you wouldn't have heard it if your mouths weren't so close.
He scrambles off you and pushes both layers down. His movements are a little clumsy as he kicks the last of the fabric away. You watch him, propped up on your elbows.
He doesn’t hide. He just hovers over you for a second, completely bare and more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him, letting you look your fill.
"Can you... lay on your back?" You whisper, "I just... I want to see you."
Steve blinks. For a second you think you've gone too far, asked for too much. But then his Adam's apple bobs in a slow swallow. He shifts, rolling onto his back beside you, stretching his long body out against the blue sheets of his bed. One arm goes behind his head, his other hand coming to rest on his stomach, just above where his erection lies hard and heavy against him.
The posture is casual. Open. It’s a surrender, and you feel a strange sort of power bloom in your chest. He was just in control, his head between your thighs, but now… now he’s letting you lead.
You shift, kneeling between his legs, and his eyes track your every move, dark and expectant. You lean over, places kisses on each beauty mark that dots his torso until you reach the cluster of them by his navel, where you look up.
“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips pressed lightly against the mole just under his belly button.
“Yeah,” he breathes, the word coming out strained. “More than okay.”
In response, you press an open-mouthed kiss to the base of his cock.
“Fuck.” His whole body tenses, the hand on his stomach clenching into a fist as you take him in your hand, stroking him slowly from base to tip, his pre-come smearing over your palm. The feeling of him in your hand, hot and alive and yours for the taking, is intoxicating.
You don't waste any more time. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock, and the sound he makes is a beautiful, broken thing.
Your hand settle on on his hip, the other wrapped around his shaft as you start to move.
He’s trying so, so hard to be quiet at first, the sounds catching in his throat. And sure, you remember everything that Eddie has said about the guy he used to be, the cocky jock whose voice was a loud, obnoxious thing at parties. But this is not that guy. This guy is trembling under you. This guy smells like soap and cheap wine and happiness and the heat of his own skin.
And this guy falls apart in minutes under your mouth.
His hips start to rock, small, helpless movements. His hand, previously clenched on his stomach, now comes to rest at the back of your head. He's not guiding you, not demanding, just resting it there, his fingers gently tangled in your hair as you work your tongue along the underside of his cock. He's learned, already, that you don't need to be told what to do.
Then his hips start to rock just that little bit more. That's all the permission you need.
You go lower, taking him deeper. His breath hitches as his cock hits the back of your throat and he tries, he really tries, to stop from babbling. A string of nonsense ends with a deep moan of your name as he loses the battle.
"So good... holy shit, you're so..." He breaks off into a guttural sound when you cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. "Fuck, don't stop, please don't..." It’s the first time he’s sounded truly desperate.
You don't intend to stop. You pull back for air before taking him deep again, faster this time, more confident. The hand in your hair tightens, not painfully, just... holding on.
"Look at you," he breathes out.
You glance up at him through your lashes. The look on his face is wrecked. All that former-cool-kid confidence completely gone, replaced with this raw, open-need. He’s watching your lips stretch around him, watching you take him, and the sight alone is enough to push him closer to the edge.
"I'm... I'm close," he manages to get out, his voice ragged. "You should... I'm gonna..." He's trying to be a gentleman. He's trying to warn you.
Instead of pulling back, you take him as deep as you can, your hand stroking what your mouth can't reach, and look him dead in the eye as you do. The silent permission, the greedy acceptance, is his undoing.
His whole body goes rigid. He calls out your name, one last, sharp, breathless cry, as he spills in your mouth. His hips stutter, his hand in your hair holding you there as you swallow him down, the taste of him salty and warm and utterly Steve.
After, you let him fall from your lips, pressing a soft, final kiss to his still-sensitive tip. You look up at him from your position between his thighs. He’s sprawled on the bed, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. He looks completely undone. A state of him you've absolutely never seen and you are the cause of it.
You feel a surge of something that's equal parts satisfaction and affection as you crawl back up his body. He gathers you into his arms the second you're in reach, pulling you flush against his side. His mouth finds yours instantly, a hungry, messy kiss that doesn't care where your mouth just was.
"You..." He breathes out as he pulls back, but he doesn't seem to have any other words. He just shakes his head, a slow, amazed movement. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and damp against your skin. "You're..."
You trail your fingers through his hair, damp with sweat at the temples. "I think the word you're looking for is 'intentional'," you whisper, a ghost of a smile on your lips. He chuckles, his breath warm against you.
"No," he says. "The word is perfect."
His hand starts to move again, tracing slow circles on your hip. He kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck. His mouth is lazy and sweet, the both of you pushed to a soft, warm exhaustion. You could stay like this all night, a tangle of limbs and warm skin. But the hand on your hip moves.
It trails down, back to the place he already wrecked. His fingers slide through your wetness, exploring your slick, oversensitive folds. You twitch, a soft sigh escaping your lips as he gently pushes two fingers back inside you.
It's a feeling of coming home. He curls his fingers, finding that same spot as before. Not enough to make you come again, not yet. Just a promise. A reminder. He moves in and out of you with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His thumb finds your clit, circling it in time with the slide of his fingers.
"You feel so good," he whispers against your ear, and his voice is soft, not heated. It's like he's not even trying to get this to lead to anything more. He just wants to feel you. His touch is confident and caring in a way you've never experienced.
You turn your head to kiss him. It's slow and sweet.
His fingers work you, slow and sweet till you cum again. It's not the sharp, bright crash of your first orgasm, it's deeper, softer. A gentle wave of pleasure rolls through you, and you let out a soft, breathy moan into his mouth. Your body shudders against his.
When it's over, you slump bonelessly against him.
He holds you while the tremors run their course, his other hand tracing soothing patterns on your back. It's as close to perfect as you can imagine. He brings his fingers to his lips to taste you, and in his eyes, you see a flicker of the same awe from before. You also see a hint of something else. Something you’ve only ever seen hints of. Pride. Pride in you and pride in the fact that you are in his bed.
You pull back a little, looking down at him. His face is bathed in the soft, moonlit glow from the window. His hair is a mess on the pillow, his lips are kiss swollen, and he has a soft, contented look on his face.
"What?" he asks, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Nothing. Can we... can we sleep? Like this?" You ask, already feeling a wave of sleepiness crash over you.
"I was hoping you'd say that." He pulls the duvet over the both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.
He pulls you into his arms again, and you rest your head on his chest. He’s warm and solid under you, and you can feel the steady, even beat of his heart against your cheek. It's a rhythm that's already starting to feel familiar, comforting.
Steve’s not a stranger anymore. He’s Steve.
Your very real Steve.
Your eyes drift closed. The last thing you hear is the quiet hum of his breathing.
You wake slowly, your mind piecing things together one at a time.
The sheets are softer than yours. The light is coming from the wrong side of the room. There is an arm draped over your waist, heavy and warm. It takes a second before it clicks. This isn’t your room.
You breathe out quietly and look around. The window is cracked just enough to let in a thin line of sunlight, catching on the framed car poster near the closet and the pile of clothes on the chair. It smells like sex and laundry detergent.
Carefully, you lift his arm from your waist. He doesn’t move. He’s out cold, flat on his stomach, hair a complete disaster, face half-buried in the pillow. You gather your oversized t-shirt from the floor and pull it over your head. Your shorts are nowhere in immediate sight, so you don’t bother looking long.
You pause at the edge of the bed and glance back at him. His back rises and falls in a steady rhythm, mouth slightly open, a small frown between his eyebrows like he’s dreaming about something frustrating. You feel something tug in your chest, and you’re not sure if it’s regret or something much worse.
The apartment is quiet when you step into the hall. The wood floors are cool under your feet. You head to the kitchen, pulling your hair out of your face with one hand while the other starts the coffee maker. The smell fills the room fast. It steadies you a little.
You pour a cup and lean against the counter, drinking it over the sink while looking out the window. Hawkins is already awake. A couple of kids are walking their bikes down Main, Joyce Byers is sweeping the front steps of Melvad’s, and a thin layer of snow dusts the street. The kind that won’t last long once the sun hits it.
The coffee burns a little going down, but it feels good. You’re trying not to think about the night before, but it keeps replaying anyway. His hands, his focus, the way he said your name like it meant something.
You don’t hear him right away, but then there’s a low, sleepy voice behind you.
“Morning.”
You turn just slightly, enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. His hair is sticking up everywhere, and he’s just in his boxers. He walks past you to the coffee pot, yawning, and pours himself a cup.
“Morning,” you say quietly.
He leans against the counter next to you, shoulders brushing as he takes a sip. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s heavier than it should be.
You glance at him. “I’m sorry if this ruined our dynamic as roommates.”
He looks at you over the rim of his mug, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, it definitely ruins the roommate dynamic.”
You blink, unsure if you should laugh. “Oh.”
He sees your expression change and shakes his head quickly. “No, no, I mean—” He sets his mug down and turns to face you fully. “It definitely ruins the fake dating thing too.”
That doesn’t help. You look down into your coffee, your stomach sinking a little. “Right.”
He groans softly, rubbing a hand through his hair. “That came out wrong. I meant… it’s not fake anymore.”
You look up. His eyes are clear now, not sleepy, not joking. “I just… I figured this meant we went from ‘very real’ to actually… very real,” he says quietly.
For a second, you can’t find words.
You meet his eyes again, and the small, nervous smile that follows is enough to make your heart trip over itself.
You take a slow breath. “Oh,” you say again, but this time it’s different. Softer.
He takes a small step closer. “So… is this— us. Are we okay?”
You lean your hip against the counter, considering him. “I don’t think I’d call us ruined.”
A quiet laugh escapes him, and he steps forward until he’s right in front of you. “I'd disagree. I feel pretty ruined from that mouth of yours--"
"Shut your mouth about my mouth." You groan, cheeks warming.
He grins wider now. "No. I don't think I will."
His smile softens again. It’s disarming, the way he can swing from teasing to sincere without missing a beat.
He reaches past you for your coffee mug, taking it from your hand and setting it on the counter beside his. Then he snakes his hands around your waist. But instead of pulling you in, he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your front and resting his chin on your shoulder. It’s a comfortable position, intimate in a way that feels new. You can feel his warm breath against your ear. You cover his hands with your own, leaning your head back against his shoulder.
“I’m really hoping you’re not going to go back to your room and pretend this didn’t happen,” he says, his voice low against your ear.
“No,” you say. “I really don’t want that.”
You don’t. The thought of going back to the carefully constructed farce you had between you feels impossible now.
"Good..." he murmurs. "But just to make sure..."
His hands move under your big shirt and settle on your hips and he nudges your thighs open with his knee, pressing himself against you. There’s no mistaking his intent, but it’s gentle, a question more than a demand.
You can feel him, half hard already, pressing against the thin fabric of his boxers. And this time, you push back, grinding your ass against him in a slow, deliberate movement.
He makes a soft, choked sound. "Okay, so... same page?" he manages, his breath hitching.
"Mhmm," you hum, turning your head to kiss his jaw. He tilts his head down to meet your mouth.
"Lean over the sink," he says, his voice low. "Please."
The 'please' is a key detail. A signpost.
You grip the edges of the counter. You can see the two of you in the small window above the sink: you, in your oversized black t-shirt; him, shirtless and strong behind you. It’s a raw, unfiltered image. You watch as he slowly, deliberately pulls down his boxers just enough, and you watch his face in the reflection.
He lines himself up. Instead of just pushing in, he traces the tip of his cock along your slick folds, back and forth, letting you feel the weight of him without rushing. He’s watching your face in the reflection, his own expression tight with control.
“Are you on…” he starts, trailing off.
You nod against the cool metal of the faucet. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he breathes out in relief. “Good.”
He notches the head of his cock at your entrance, and for a long moment, he just stays there, a hot, firm pressure. He’s pushing in so slowly, inch by torturous inch, your knuckles are white on the counter. The stretch is immense, a deep, fulfilling ache.
He watches the whole thing in the reflection.
You don't just feel watched, you feel worshipped. It’s unnerving, it’s intoxicating. He watches his cock disappear into you like it’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, his breath caught in his throat.
"You okay?" he grunts out once he's fully inside you, his hands gripping your hips, his chest pressed against your back.
You can only nod again, a choked sound in your throat. Words are useless. You feel incredibly full, more connected to him than even last night. And all he’s doing is breathing.
His first withdrawal is slow too. A long, steady drag that leaves you feeling empty before he pushes back in, a deep, smooth thrust that makes your eyes roll back in your head. You feel every inch of him.
“Shit,” you whisper, pushing back to meet him.
He lets out a low groan. “Yeah?”
“Mhmm.”
“Let’s make this official, then,” he murmurs. He wraps one arm securely around your waist, pulling you back against him while his other hand slides down to find your clit. His movements are deliberate and assured.
“You feel so good around me,” he says, voice raspy and loving. "Could feel like this every day." His fingers begin to circle your clit. He starts to find his rhythm, a steady, deep rocking motion that has you bracing yourself against the counter.
You watch him in the window. The way his jaw clenches with effort, the way his biceps flex as he holds you. You watch your own face, lips parted, eyes hazy with pleasure.
The pace builds slowly. Each thrust a little harder, a little deeper, and the drag of him inside you is sending sparks of electricity up your spine. His fingers on your clit move in time, relentless, as your orgasm starts to build.
"Could be my very real girlfriend..." he whispers in your ear as his hips piston a little harder. "Could do this whenever you want..."
His voice, the raw need, the permission to have this, it's all too much. "Steve..." you manage, your voice cracking. You reach back, a hand finding his hip, nails digging into his skin as you try to hold on, to ground yourself, but he won't let you.
“Take you on dates, real ones,” he pants. “Not just fake ones for Dorothea.” His thumb presses harder, circles faster. “Go to the movies and hold your hand in the dark. Come home and do this."
Your orgasm crashes through you. It's a white-hot wave that steals your breath and makes your vision blur. You're crying out his name, a long, ragged sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. Your legs tremble, your body going weak as the pleasure overwhelms you. The hand braced on the counter almost slips.
He holds you steady through it. He doesn't stop. His hips keep pistoning, drawing out your orgasm, milking you for every last shudder.
"You sound... so pretty when you do that," he groans, his voice thick with desire. He's close, so close. You can feel it in the erratic rhythm of his thrusts, the way his breath hitches. His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh.
His rhythm stutters. He buries his face in your neck, his mouth hot against your skin as he lets out a string of curses. His hips jerk forward, and he’s coming with a final, deep thrust, spilling into you with a shudder. He presses his forehead between your shoulder blades and breathes you in for a minute. His body is hot and heavy against yours, a dead weight that is one of the best things you have ever felt.
Neither of you speaks. There is just the sound of your breathing, the distant hum of the city, and the quiet aftermath of it all. It’s not awkward. It’s more. It’s heavy in the best way.
Finally, he straightens up, slowly, carefully. He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder before pulling out gently, leaving you feeling suddenly empty. You stay leaning against the counter for a second, trying to find your legs.
"Hey," he says softly, his voice still a little rough. "You okay?"
You turn around to face him fully and he's reaching to grab a clean dishcloth from the drawer, hand going around you to wet it in the sink, the other hand on your hip keeping you steady. He’s gentle as he cleans you up. He’s done this before. But this is not a rehearsed performance. It's an act of reverence that makes your throat tighten.
You finally look up and meet his eyes. He looks as wrecked as you feel. "Yeah," you say, and your voice is hoarse. "I'm really okay."
He looks a little shy, as you watch him clean himself up a little with the cloth before pulling up his boxers.
"I'm going to make some more coffee," he says, clearing his throat a little. "And then... then I think I'm going to do something incredibly uncool and make you pancakes."
You laugh, surprised by the sudden domesticity of it all. "Pancakes?"
"Yeah," he says, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Pancakes. From your hopefully very real boyfriend..."
He trails off, and you decide to help him out. You step forward and wrap your arms around his bare torso, pressing your cheek against his chest. You can feel his heart beating under your ear.
"I think I'm going to be incredibly uncool too," you mumble into his skin. "And let your very real girlfriend have some."
He hugs you back, and you just stand there for a moment, wrapped around each other in the brightening kitchen. This is new territory, but it doesn't feel scary. It feels right.
He pulls back after a minute, and you can't help but admire him again. He's relaxed in a way he hasn't been before, with an easy smile on his face.
"I'm going to be really honest, though." He says, looking sheepish. "I'm not actually that good at making pancakes."
You snort, and start rummaging through a drawer, eventually pulling out a wooden spoon and a mixing bowl. "Shut up. You are not getting out of this."
He laughs, reaching for his coffee mug again. "Okay, okay. But no laughing when they're a little... lumpy."
You watch him for a minute, a real smile finally breaking through your usual guarded expression. This is it, then. The thing you’ve been dancing around for months. It's not a performance for Dorothea or a convenient solution to awkward landlord encounters. It's just Steve. You. A kitchen that smells like sex and brewing coffee. And a coming promise of slightly lumpy pancakes.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Steve," you say softly, leaning your hip against the counter and watching him gather ingredients. "Wouldn't dream of it."
[LOWKEY I WROTE THIS IN LIKE THREE HOURS BECAUSE IT MIGHT BE SOME OF MY FAVOURITE STEVE SMUT IDEAS I'VE HAD. FUCK.]
↳ summary: steve's mood has been horrible lately. while working his boring shift at the family video, he crashes into the most angelic, innocent girl he has ever seen. he's sure he has never wanted someone more, even more than any other bimbo he has ever hooked up with.
↳ warnings: explicit smut, dirty talk, corruption. lots of stuff.
↳ notes: not proof-read. I have no words.
word count: 10.8k
The fluorescent lights of Family Video buzzed with a low, persistent hum that sounded suspiciously like a dying wasp; it set Steve Harrington's teeth on edge. This was his personal purgatory.
Outside, Tuesday's humidity pressed against the windows in heavy waves. Inside, the air felt thick enough to chew, damp with the scent of old popcorn, industrial floor wax, and a musty undertone from decades of old VHS cases. In the back office, Keith, the annoying ass manager, sat behind a desk with the door ajar, tearing through a bag of Cheetos. Each crunch echoed like a distant gunshot, annoying Steve even more.
Steve stood alone in the Horror aisle, gripping a wobbling stack of The Evil Dead tapes. The cardboard spines crinkled under his fingers, red and black, blood-splashed, a woman's face frozen in a silent scream. He stared at that cover art as though it spoke directly to him, felt a spiritual kinship with the terror it depicted. He fucking hated this job. He hated the scratchy, unfashionable green vest strangling his chest, the way it clung to his sweat-slicked skin. Most of all, he hated how his life had capsized in the last six months.
He was supposed to be "The King" of Hawkins High, worshiped by status, cruising in his BMW convertible, in command of every hallway. Instead he was restocking dusty VHS tapes for minimum wage, while Nancy Wheeler roamed around town smooching with Jonathan Byers, the camera-click weirdo who stalked his ex–girlfriend from behind bushes. The thought of Jonathan Byers left a bitter tang in Steve's mouth, like he'd just swallowed battery acid. It made no damn sense. Nancy had abandoned his beautiful hair, nice car, and great status for a guy who wore flannel and photo-bombed squirrels.
In response, Steve had turned into a living fortress of cynicism. His once-fluid charm had ossified into jagged spikes of sarcasm. He was mean. He snapped at customers, brushed off Robin's entertaining chit-chat, and dated a rotating roster of bimbos he didn't care about—just to prove there was still something dangerous and untouchable under that perfect hair.
"Steve!" Robin's voice sliced through the quiet, coming from the front counter. "Stop glaring at inventory! If you melt the plastic with your frown, Keith's taking it out of your paycheck."
Steve clenched his jaw until his molars clicked. He didn't bother looking up. "Shut up, Robin! I'm working. Or I would be, if you'd stop barking orders across the store like a sea hag!"
"A fishwife?" Robin chuckled, leaning against the counter with a raised eyebrow. "That's a new one. Watched that in a movie you never rented?"
His chest tightened. "I'm going to kill her," he muttered under his breath.
Steve spun on his heel, the Evil Dead tapes tiled in his arms. He barreled down the aisle without looking ahead, every muscle braced for confrontation.
Crash.
The impact was a solid thud, knocking the wind from his lungs. Tapes flew from his grip, boxes scattering and skittering across the floor in a thunder of plastic. A spine cracked off, flopping like a fallen bird.
Steve's temper ignited, wildfire in his chest. "Jesus Christ! Watch where you're fucking—"
His insult died on his tongue. He froze, mid-snarl, his voice strangled off by a sudden absence of hostility. Because he wasn't looking at an overweight negligent kid ready for a shove. He was looking at an angel.
She lay on the floor, having tumbled backward among the wreckage of horror franchises. Her legs were splayed, one knee grazing a cassette labeled Evil Dead II. She wore a sundress of pale pink, its fabric soft and flowing around her calves. Her hair fell in gentle, natural manner.
Then Steve's gaze dropped to the wreckage beside her: her glasses. One lens lay shattered, its cracks fanning out like spider legs. The slender wire frame was twisted at a grotesque angle.
He stood there with his mouth half-open. The girl scrambled to her knees, but didn't scream. Didn't demand a manager. Instead, she looked up at him with a soft, devastated gasp.
"Oh my god," she breathed, voice ringing like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze. "I'm so, so sorry! I wasn't looking—I turned too fast and I didn't see you!"
Every defensive and asshole-y instinct dissolved in the warmth of her apology. He tried to form words. "I..." His brain had ground to a halt.
She reached forward, slender fingers trembling as she hovered over the scattered tapes. "Did I break them? Please tell me I didn't break them. I can pay for them. I'm so clumsy.."
The sight of her worry ripped something open inside him. Without thinking, he knelt down beside her, bringing himself to her level with a thud of denim-covered knees.
"No," he blurted, voice cracking and rising an octave. He cleared his throat violently. "It's... the tapes are fine. Plastic. Garbage. Total garbage. Don't worry about it."
His hand shot out at the same moment hers reached for a tape. Their fingers brushed. Her skin was warm and smooth, carrying a faint scent of vanilla and strawberries, a sublime, relieving contrast to the stale popcorn and waxed floor.
She looked from the tape to his hand, then back up at his face, teeth nibbling her lower lip. "Are you sure? You look... angry. I didn't mean to make you angry. You were yelling so loud."
He swallowed hard, breath ragged. "I... I'm not mad." His chest fluttered with panic and something else, something like hope. "I'm Steve."
Oh god. "I'm Steve," he repeated in his head, mentally slapping himself. Real smooth, Harrington.
The girl's lips curved in a gentle, apologetic smile that softened the panic in her eyes. "I'm Y/N."
"Y/N," he echoed, tasting the name on his tongue. It fit her, very delicate, beautiful.
Y/N glanced at the broken frames in her hand, guilt washing over her face. "Oh. My glasses."
Steve's gut wrenched. "I... I broke them. I stepped on them. I ran into you."
She shook her head, tucking her hair behind one ear. "No, no. It's my fault. I shouldn't have dropped them. And they were so ugly, I never liked wearing them." She squinted at him without her lenses, brow furrowing in earnest concern. "You look a bit blurry, Steve. But a very tall blur... with great hair, I think."
Her compliment, shrugged off so casually, sent a jolt through Steve's chest. He cleared his throat. "Right. Hair." He shifted awkwardly. "I—uh—can help with the titles. If you want. Since you can't see."
Her eyes lit up, radiant as sunrise. "Would you? That would be amazing. I'm looking for The Princess Bride. I promised my little sister we'd watch it tonight."
"Right, yes.. Princess Bride," he muttered, standing and offering her a hand. She placed her palm in his.. it felt small, trusting. He hauled her upright with a gentle tug. She stumbled forward, her chest brushing against his vest. A wave of strawberry-vanilla warmth surged through him again, and he had to step back, as if burned.
"It's over here," he said, voice tight, leading her to the Romance section. His steps were stiff, nervous as burning hell, heart hammering against his ribs. He pointed to a shelf lined with pastel-colored spines and frilly script. "Here."
She stepped close, attempting to read the label, then pressed the tape to her chest like a treasure. "Perfect," she sighed. "Thank you, Steve. You're a lifesaver."
She turned and drifted toward the front counter, her pink dress brushing the floor in whisper-soft folds. The bell above the door jingled a bright farewell, and then she was gone.
Steve remained rooted in the aisle for a full ten seconds, staring at the empty space where she'd stood. His mind raced. It felt as though a freight train had plowed through his chest, in the best possible way.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair.
He squared his shoulders and marched to the front. Robin stood at the register, ringing up Y/N's purchase. The girl was counting out change with a careful precision. Once the bell tinkled and Y/N stepped into the humid afternoon, Robin slowly turned and fixed Steve with a flat, knowing stare.
Steve collapsed against the counter, arms crossed, picking up a magazine as a feeble cover. "What?"
Robin pointed a pen at him like a rapier. "What was that?"
He flipped a page without reading it. "I was helping a customer. It's called customer service, Robin. Maybe you should try it sometime, might keep Keith from breathing down your neck."
"Customer service?" Robin's laugh was soft but mocking. "You looked like you were about to bust on the spot. You were stuttering—'I'm... Steve?' 'Right... hair?' Seriously, are you having a stroke?"
Heat blossomed in his ears. "I didn't stutter. She broke her glasses. I felt bad. That's all."
"Uh-huh," Robin said, leaning forward so her voice dropped to a conspiratorial hiss. "Last time you looked that sweaty and desperate, Nancy Wheeler was carrying a tray of tater tots across the cafeteria."
Nancy's name was like a slap to his face. His jaw snapped shut, mean-guy Steve crashing back in. "Shut up," he growled, yanking a pricing gun from the counter and slamming it down so the spring clicked. "Don't say her name."
Robin shrugged. "Just saying, for a guy who claims he's done with 'feelings' and 'romance,' you looked like a puppy who found a new owner. It was funny, Harrington."
"I said shut up, Robin!" Steve barked, jabbing a finger at her. "She's not my type. At all. Did you see what she was wearing? I would rather kill myself."
"Right," Robin said, rolling her eyes and swiveling back to the register. "The clothes. That's the problem. Maybe you should quit the bimbos and find someone a bit more.. genuine."
Steve glared at her retreating back, then couldn't resist a glance toward the door where Y/N had vanished into the afternoon haze.
He turned back to his work, ripping pricing labels off the roll with more force than required, each tear echoing the tingle still burning in his palm where she'd touched him.
It hit him, thirty seconds late, just as he slapped the last sticker on a battered copy of The Exorcist: he'd broken her glasses. Steve Harrington, destroyer of eye wear, unapologetic meathead, had trampled some sweet, helpless girl's only way of seeing the goddamn world. And she hadn't even gotten mad. She apologized to him.
What the actual fuck was wrong with him.
He tossed the pricing gun onto the counter, sending it skittering into the register, and scanned the store for Robin. She was half-buried behind a cardboard standee for The Lost Boys, scribbling a crossword.
He didn't slow, just pushed past her, mumbling, "Hold the fort," and sprinted for the door. The bell shrieked as he exploded onto the sidewalk, heat smacking him in the face, sweat instantly beading upon his forehead.
He caught sight of Y/N immediately, she was only halfway down the block, walking fast but definitely not in a straight line. The broken glasses swung from her hand, their bent arms splayed obscenely, and for a split second he saw himself from above, a total asshole, standing there, letting her walk away with the proof of his idiocy dangling from her fingers.
Robin's voice followed him out, thin and incredulous. "Dude, where are you—"
"Just, hold on!" Steve hollered, not looking back. He jogged, then full-on sprinted, sneakers slapping the hot sidewalk, lungs filling with the soupy, bug-thick air.
"Y/N!" he shouted, and she turned, hair catching on the static of her shoulders.
She smiled, the kind of smile that made his stomach go rigid, like bracing for a punch. "Hi again," Her voice was so gentle it made him anxious.
He took a step closer, then another, until he was well within her personal space, sweat leaking down the side of his face. He tried to remember the apology he'd rehearsed in his head, but the words jumbled together, heavy and awkward.
"Hey," he said, and winced at how breathless it sounded. "I'm sorry. About earlier, I mean..I ran you over, and then I broke your glasses, and you apologized to me, which is, like, insane. I mean, not that you're insane. It's just... You should be yelling at me, not being nice. I was a total jerk. I'm sorry."
Y/N opened her mouth to protest but Steve barreled on, the words tumbling out faster than he could shape them.
"Let me pay for your glasses. Or replace 'em. Or, like, whatever. You don't even have to let me, but if you want, I can do that—" He stopped, realizing he was babbling, and raked a wet hand through his hair. "Look, I can drive you to the mall or wherever you get new glasses, I can pay. Also, if you want, and it's completely up to you, I could take you out to dinner, like, as an apology, not that you'd want to spend more time with a guy who's already concussed you, but, uh—" He heard himself and wanted to die.
Y/N's head tilted, the way a bird's might: curious, gentle, maybe a little wary. She blinked at him, the world fuzzy behind the cracked lens she held up, and said, "Dinner?"
He nodded, too quickly. "If you want. Or lunch. Or coffee. Or nothing at all," he said, and realized with horror that he was being cringy as hell. "Just, yeah. Sorry."
Y/N held the broken glasses with both hands, her smile turning wry. "My mom is going to kill me. She says I break everything I touch." She shifted her weight, swaying a little in the sticky heat.
He groped for something, anything, to redeem himself. "Hey, you know what?" He reached into his back pocket, fished out a pen, and scrawled his number on the inside cover of her rental box. "If you need to call me about the glasses, or, you know, if you just want to prank call a jerk, that's my direct line. And—" He stopped, uncertain, then plunged ahead. "There's this party Friday? My friend's throwing it. Robin. The girl at the rental. She's actually not the worst, and her parties are kind of legendary, and if you want to go, you're invited. By me. I mean, by Robin too, but, uh, mostly by me."
She took the box from his hands, eyes squinting down at the large, blocky numbers. "Are you always like this?" she asked, a smile threading through her voice.
He grinned, self-deprecating because it was the only move he had left. "I'm trying not to be."
Y/N gave the faintest nod of approval, then tucked his number into the side pocket of her dress. She said, "Friday sounds good. If I don't trip and die before then."
"You won't. I'll make sure of it," he blurted, more earnest than he intended.
She laughed, a short, enthusiastic sound, then turned and walked away. She didn't look back, but Steve stayed locked on her silhouette, smacked by a sensation he refused to name.
Behind him, the bell over the Family Video door shrilled again; Robin leaned halfway out, arms folded, forehead shining with sweat and suspicion. "You good, Harrington?" she called, her tone full of mockery.
He wiped his palm on his vest and sauntered back toward the store, forcing a lopsided grin. "Totally good. Just, uh, customer appreciation. You know how it is."
Robin lifted both brows. "Is that what they're calling stalking now?" She retreated into the cool dimness of the store, letting the door wheeze shut behind her.
-
When he got home, Steve dumped his keys on the counter, grabbed a Budweiser from the fridge, and retreated to the couch, where he could commit himself fully to the task of hating himself. He sprawled, legs splayed, one arm thrown over his eyes. Every ten seconds, his brain replayed the moment in Family Video, like an especially cruel home movie, her voice, the way it had trembled around an apology, her smile when he handed her the tape, the goddamn way his hands wouldn't stop moving. He groaned and wedged the heel of his palm into his forehead. He was a lost cause.
A little after eleven, just as he was deciding whether to risk another beer or just wallow in his own self-loathing until he passed out, the phone rang. The ancient cordless rang from its wall-mount by the kitchen.
He wiped his hand on his sweats, then grabbed the receiver. "Yeah, hello?"
A pause, soft static. "Um. Hi."
He instantly straightened up, bracing his forearm against the counter's edge. "Y/N?"
A nervous little laugh, like she was holding her breath. "Sorry, it's late. Is this the right number?"
"Yeah.. yes, hey. It's Steve," he managed, catching his voice before it cracked. He could see himself in the dark panel of the microwave. He leaned into the counter, "You, uh, made it home okay?"
A deep breath on the other end. "Yeah. I just closed my eyes and pretended I was a bat. Bats can't see, but they don't bump into things. Except I did bump into three trash cans." She giggled, a tiny, delighted sound that seemed to ripple along the line. "But I found the front door, so it's a happy ending."
He had to grip the receiver tighter to keep from fidgeting. "Glad you survived."
On the other end, Y/N's breath shivered, like she was afraid to exhale in case it made a sound. "I'm calling because I wanted to... Well, I thought you deserved closure."
Steve blinked. "Closure?" He wasn't sure if she was mad at him or just had a dramatic way of phrasing things. Either way, it tied a knot in his stomach.
"Yes." A pause, then a rush of words: "I wanted to let you know I successfully watched The Princess Bride, and my little sister didn't even notice my glasses were broken, because she's seven and she thinks I'm Wonder Woman. Or Batgirl. Or... Do bats have a girl?" The words tumbled out, crowded together like they were jostling for the same seat.
Steve pressed the phone close, knuckles whitening and a ridiculously big smile peeking. "There's gotta be a Batgirl. Hang on, I'll check the encyclopedia." He heard himself and cringed. Encyclopedia? Like he was some kind of dad. "Or, uh, the next comic book section at the store. I'll let you know."
He could feel her smiling through the wire. "That's considerate," she said. "I'm just glad I didn't break your nose. My mom says if I ever do something like that, they should take away my library card."
He laughed, too loud, then muted it with a cough. He really wanted to ask what her mom would say about fucking an ex-prom king instead, but that sounded like a total HR violation, so he just said, "Glad your sister liked the movie."
"Yeah," Y/N replied. Her voice thinned, like she was backing away even as she talked. "I don't want to keep you, I just... well, never mind. I'm probably being nosy."
He said nothing for a moment, trying to read the silence like it was a clue in a murder case. Sometimes the trick was to just wait people out; sometimes it made everything weirder. "What is it?"
Y/N inhaled, a sound like static. "Do you—would it be okay if we still did the party? On Friday?" She spit it out so fast it took him a second to catch up. "I mean, you don't have to be my handler or anything, but if you wanted to, like, go with me. To the party. Or not. Or—" She laughed.
He almost let it ride out. He almost let her off the hook. But something in her voice, the soft tremor, the way she said "still" as if he'd ever wanted to back out, tripped a switch inside him. "Yeah. Of course. Friday," he said, swallowing back the urge to sound too eager. "I'll pick you up. What time?"
A pause, then: "You don't have to do that. I can walk."
He pictured her, clumsy and careful, weaving through Hawkins' cracked sidewalks with her broken glasses in her pocket and a VHS tape in her hands. He was seized by a sudden, ridiculous urge to follow her around town, and punch anyone who looked at her weird.
"I want to," he said, and felt his heart slamming against his ribs. "It's a date. Or, like, whatever." He winced at the sound of it, but Y/N didn't seem to mind.
"Okay," she said, laughter lilting up through the receiver. "But don't judge me when I wear the ugly glasses. I will glue them tonight. I might look like a bug."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She lingered, her breath a delicate hush. "Thanks for helping me today. You really didn't have to."
His brain stuttered. The old Steve would've brushed it off. The new one, raw-nerved and jumpy as a stray cat, just nodded into the phone like an idiot. "Yeah, well. You were, um. You were different."
He meant it. He'd spent too many years with girls who only spoke in hyperbole, who clung to be heard, who wore their ambition like lipstick, who never second-guessed. He'd thought that was what he wanted: friction, competition, the thrill of conquest. But Y/N seemed softer, sculpted from contradictions, and it drove him fucking insane.
It wasn't just attraction, it was hunger. Maybe it had been too damn long since he felt real attraction. He didn't even realize how parched he'd been until she filled the air with those shy, trembling giggles.
He wanted to hear it again.
He found himself grinning like a moron into the receiver. "I'm glad you called, actually," he said, letting his voice go lower, smoother. "I didn't even have a panic attack over it," he said, and immediately regretted voicing it, but Y/N's laugh shimmered across the line.
"You were so calm," she said. "I figured I was the one making you nervous." A pause, as if she couldn't believe she'd said it.
He ran his thumb along the coil of the phone cord, every nerve ending singing. "Yeah, well. Guess I'm not as cool as I look." The words came out before he could fence them in, and he felt the heat crawling up his neck.
A beat. Y/N's breathing, shallow and then steadier, like she was pacing the length of her own bedroom. "I wouldn't know what you look like. You were just this.. shape. And a lot of hair." Her voice was so quiet he barely heard it, and it thrilled him. "I'd say you seemed... nice, if that's not weird to say."
"You can say it," Steve said, and then instantly cringed at the desperation in his own voice.
Y/N hesitated, and for a moment all he heard was the faint squeak of her shifting the phone. "You just... you smelled so good," she finally said, a little breathless.
The line went quiet.
He gripped the receiver hard enough to blanch his knuckles, suddenly aware of everything, the sweat on his neck, and the faint aftershave he'd swiped from his dad's medicine cabinet and probably overdone. It was one thing to be told you had nice hair, or that you were tall; "you smelled so good". He'd never had a girl say that to him. Not with that nervous little edge, like she was embarrassed it slipped out. There was a not-small part of him that wanted to say, "What did I smell like?" just to make her say it again, but the rest of him froze.
He felt himself harden instantly. Fuck. Steve had been through enough late-night calls with girls to know the drill, where way naughtier things were said, but no one had ever short-circuited him like this. He was glad, suddenly, for the darkness in the kitchen, the half-dead bulb over the sink, the heavy blue spill of TV light. He cleared his throat, tried to get his head back under control. He squeezed the phone tighter, his other hand sliding to his lap, fingers pressing hard into the seam of his sweatpants. The muscle at his jaw flexed. This was insane. He was a grown man—well, a legal adult, anyway—yet here he was, tenting his sweats because some girl said he smelled good. Not even a girl he knew, not really. Not even a real compliment; just an innocent slip.
He tried to focus on the conversation, to keep his voice level. "So, uh, do you want me to bring anything? Like, for the party?" His hand moved again, a little firmer. He could feel himself swelling under his palm, heat pooling low and heavy. Jesus. This was like eighth grade, getting off to the smell of his math teacher's perfume, only now it was a real girl, with a name and a phone number and a laugh he could jerk off to for a week. Which, judging from the slow, insistent throb under his fingers, he probably would.
He gripped himself, squeezing through the thin cotton in a way that was half relief, half punishment. The second he did, it hit him: he was getting hard on the fucking telephone. This sweet, innocent girl who was barely an acquaintance, was talking to him about her mother and glasses, and meanwhile he was palming his own dick like a complete pervert.
For a second the thought made him want to slam the receiver down and punch himself in the face. He let out a shallow, shaky breath, and when Y/N spoke again, her voice sounded closer. She said, softly, "Steve, are you still there?"
He swallowed, pulling the phone away an inch to catch his breath, then pressing it close again. "Yeah, I'm here," he said, and the words came out a little raspy, a little too tender. He felt his whole body flush with a guilty excitement, like he'd just gotten away with something.
He wanted to stop, to will himself back into the cool, detached version of himself he'd be, but he let himself drift on the current, following the impulse deeper. He pressed down, slow and careful, then slipped his hand under the waistband to grip bare skin. The sensation was so intense he almost gasped. He clamped his jaw shut, fighting to keep his breathing normal.
"So, um," Y/N said, and there was a barely-there tremor in her voice, "I was wondering if maybe you knew what the dress code is. I mean, I don't want to show up looking like a dork." She laughed, then seemed to shrink from it, muffling the sound with her hand.
Steve squeezed himself, thumb circling along the slick of pre-cum already leaking at the tip. He stroked, slow and shivery, letting the friction build there. He imagined her biting her lip, hugging a pillow, all excited and flustered talking to him on the phone. He jerked himself slowly, the tip already wet in his grip.
He should hang up.. He should hang up, take a cold shower, and never speak to a woman again.
Instead he said, "Honestly, just... be yourself. Robin won't even notice. I'll be the one looking like an idiot."
Y/N made a noise, a soft hum that curled under his ribs. "I doubt that," she said. "You don't seem like you'd ever look stupid."
He suppressed a groan by clenching his teeth, rolling his hips against his palm. He was fully hard now, pressing the receiver to his ear with his shoulder and his hand down his pants.
He muttered, "You'd be surprised," and nearly choked on it. His cock was hot and slick in his grip, already throbbing as he worked it slow, careful to keep his breathing steady, lower than the rush in his own ears. He palmed the head, squeezing out another slippery bead and spreading it with his thumb, the wetness making every stroke a little easier, a little more dangerous.
On the other end, Y/N breathed, "Are you okay?" She sounded closer, like she'd moved the phone to her shoulder to free her hands for something else. He tried not to picture her touching herself. But he couldn't help it.
He stroked, wrists sticky and breath going ragged, but he forced it down, shoulder tensed so hard it cramped. "Listen, Y/N, I—uh." He nearly lost it then, teeth clamping together. "I should let you go. Big day tomorrow at the, uh, video store." His hand jerked once, hard. He needed this to end before he did something really, truly pathetic.
"Oh, okay," she said, and he heard the letdown in her voice, but also relief, like she'd been holding her breath. "I'll see you Friday? Or maybe before."
He grunted, "Yeah. Friday." He wanted to say something more, to reestablish the cool, but his voice was barely holding on. "Okay. Good night," he managed, and slammed the phone onto the cradle. The plastic clatter echoed in the empty house.
He just stood there, hand still wedged tight in his sweats, a pulse in his neck going crazy. His fingers worked in rough, desperate strokes, no rhythm, just a hard, mean need to erase the last five minutes of his own miserable performance. He pictured her, heard her voice, the way she'd said "you smelled so good"—and that was it. He came in his hand, thick ropes of cum, mess pooling sticky on his knuckles and the inside of his waistband. He grunted, shuddered, then pressed his forehead to the cold laminate counter.
He spent most of the next day trawling the mall for something, either flowers, a bearable cologne, maybe a cool watch, anything that would make him seem like he wasn't the kind of guy who jerked off to phone calls. He needed to feel like his old, nonchalant self. By Thursday, they'd talked again and again, for hours. If Wednesday's call was bad, Thursday's was a war crime. He'd called her after his shift, voice gruff with fatigue, and had lasted all of four minutes before she'd said his name in that soft, seducing way and his hand was back down his pants. He'd managed to keep his voice steady this time, mostly, but the last five minutes were a blur of raw nerves and half-gasps. When he'd finally let go of the receiver he'd been dizzy with relief and shame. He started to worry that she knew. That she could hear it in his voice, or in the way he went off the rails or got quiet at the wrong moment. That she could sense, through the wire, that he was a freak. Maybe she was just too polite to call him out. Maybe she liked it. Maybe she was doing the same thing, on the other end, tucked under sheets with her legs pressed together and her breath going shaky whenever he said something almost nice.
He showed up at her house on Friday at 6:59 p.m. sharp. He'd spent an hour circling the neighborhood, he didn't want to be early, didn't want to look overeager, but he also didn't want to risk being late. The BMW gleamed, detailed and waxed within an hour of neurotic spit-polishing; the windows practically blinded him, the interior smelled like a cologne commercial and fresh vinyl. His hair was perfectly arranged. He'd changed shirts three times, landed on a navy blue polo under his favorite blue Members Only jacket. The second he parked in front of her house, his heart rate tripled.
The place looked like every other house in Hawkins. He checked his breath in the mirror, popped a Certs, then killed the ignition and strode up the walk as if he wasn't five seconds from throwing up on her doorstep.
The door swung open before he hit the bell. And then she was there.
Steve's mouth went dry. For a horrible, vertiginous second, he didn't recognize her. She had on a white dress, he'd say it was a dress, but really, it was more like a white t-shirt with ambitions. It hung soft and tight and criminally short, the hem grazing her thighs in a way that made his mouth water. Her legs were bare, her feet in strappy, off-white sandals, and all her toenails were lacquered a pale pink.
"Sorry I'm late, my mom decided she had to interrogate me about my entire life. Also, I got contacts instead!”
He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't sure what, maybe a joke or a dumb comment about her dress, but nothing came out. All he could think was: I want to fuck her, I want to ruin her, I want to destroy her. He felt it low, a throb in his stomach, the old animal urge he used to channel so easily in the backseats of cars, in tiny bathrooms at parties, but now he was so nervous, and oh, so fucking horny. He tried to play it cool, shoved his hands in his pockets, offered a lopsided, "Hey, yourself."
For a half-second, they just stared at each other. Steve couldn't stop cataloging the details: the line of her collarbone, the shimmer of sunscreen on her shoulders, the way she hid her hands behind her back, unconsciously pushing her tits his way.
He couldn't help it. His brain, greedy and abject, went right for the worst version of the memory: her sprawled on the Family Video linoleum, legs tangled in the soft pink dress, one knee bare and the skin above it flushed and perfect; the way her hands had trembled, the way her voice had snagged on every word. He imagined her like that now, only with the white dress rucked up around her hips, hair shaken loose, glasses somewhere on the ground. He pictured himself over her, holding her narrow wrists to the carpet while she gasped and arched up and said his name, and it was so real it hurt. He wanted to fuck her until she went breathless, until she cried, until she clawed for something to hold and found only him. He wanted to wreck her, to own her, to pin her down and never let another guy touch her again.
Fuck, he was in for it. Steve Harrington was losing it.
The party was already in full swing when they rolled up to Robin's place. Buckley's had always been the perfect party spot, part because Robin's parents were "emotionally divorced" and spent weekends at their separate condos in Indy, and part because the street was just far enough from downtown Hawkins that no one called the cops unless someone pissed in the neighbor's mailbox. Steve parked three blocks away, pretending it was for the exercise, but really buying himself time to get his pulse under control.
The windows pulsed with sub woofer light, and somewhere on the second story a window had been kicked open so hard the frame hung at a 15-degree tilt. The porch was already packed with bodies—everything from lacrosse guys, a few art-school kids, Robin's friends from the rental store, a handful of dropouts and even some of the bimbos Steve had been on dates with weeks ago.
The house was a haze of moving limbs and spilled liquor. Someone had popped every light bulb in the living room except the Christmas stringers, which pulsed an eerie green over a forest of red solo cups. The air reeked of weed, tobacco smoke, and the tang of spiked punch.
Robin found them immediately. Her hair was in pigtails and she'd drawn a blue star on her cheek with Sharpie, like she was the host of a dystopian game show. Robin flung her arms wide, "Harrington!" she crowed, then, with a conspiratorial wink, "And... the girl from today! Come. Come come come."
She summoned them into the epicenter, ignoring the way Y/N clung to Steve's arm like a life preserver. "You made it!," Robin said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You look—" She paused, eyeing Y/N dress, then Steve's jacket, then Y/N's face again. Steve could see the calculation in Robin's eyes, the way she was already rewriting the evening's narrative to squeeze the most juice from it. "It's perfect for you. Love your dress by the way,"
Y/N blushed, reached for Steve's hand automatically. "It's a little much, sorry—"
"No, don't," Robin said, looping an arm through Y/N, dragging her into the kitchen with a confidence that brooked no rebuttal. "It's perfect. Harrington, take notes—you're in the minor leagues now." She winked, then plucked a bottle of tequila from the counter, held it aloft like she'd just landed the Olympic torch.
Steve lagged a step behind, almost tripped by his own shoelaces. He saw as Y/N let Robin pour her a solo cup of poison.
Steve watched the tequila slosh, the way Robin over poured "to the brim, for luck," and then topped the cup with a wedge of lime. "We're doing shots, obviously," Robin declared, "but not, like.. normal ones. This is a party, not church. We are going to do body shots, like God intended."
Steve choked on his own breath. "Uh, no, we're not. We don't even have salt. Or limes. Or... bodies," he blurted. He could feel his face going red even as everyone else just grinned and cheered like this was Christmas come early.
Robin grinned, her teeth sharp in the light. "Wow, Harrington's suddenly shy," she announced to the kitchen, and then, to Y/N: "But his abs are, statistically, the eighth wonder of modern Hawkins. We're doing this." She slammed the tequila down, seized a salt shaker from the back of the stove, and produced a lime from some pocket of chaos. With a flourish, she arranged everything on the counter top: salt, orange plastic shot glasses, a tangle of cut limes. "Y/N, sweetie, you ever done a body shot?"
Y/N blinked, looked at Steve, then at the counter top, then back at Steve. "I don't know," she said, voice small but not scared. "I mean, no. Not really."
"Great!" Robin crowed. "Harrington, shirt off."
The kitchen went insane.
Steve's stomach dropped, but he couldn't back down. Come on, this used to be his usual. But he felt nervous, especially with Robin grinning like the devil and Y/N standing there, blinking up at him like he was some sort of Greek God. He steeled himself, hooked his thumbs under the hem of his shirt, and peeled it off in one clean motion. Cold air licked his skin. A few people in the back whistled and some girls whispered to each other ungodly things. He tossed the shirt at the counter, flexed without meaning to.
Robin lined up the first shot. "Rules are simple," she slurred, waggling her eyebrows at Y/N: "Lick, sip, suck. Steve, you're the body. Y/N, you're—well. You're about to have a life-changing experience."
He watched Y/N's face as she nodded, eyes huge and glassy in the Christmas lights. She stepped forward, standing close enough that Steve could see the flush working its way up her chest, blotting her collarbone pink under the white dress. Robin handed Y/N a shot glass. "You know the drill," Robin said, voice dropping to a private register. "Salt, lick, drink, suck. Start on the abs. Go low."
Y/N's face went up in flames, but her hands were steady as she took the salt shaker. Robin leaned in, whispering something, then dusted a thin, crystalline line just below Steve's ribs, right above the waistband of his jeans. Steve felt the cold grit hit his skin, felt every eye in the room burn into him. His cock stirred against the denim, as alive as it can be. He tried to think unsexy thoughts, but every time he looked at Y/N, the urge came back, harder now—he wanted to toss her over his shoulder, carry her to some unused corner, and bite her neck until her knees gave out. He gripped the counter top and waited, heart in his throat.
Y/N stepped closer, squinting at the salt line as if she needed to do it right, even as Robin and half the kitchen hooted and egged her on. She bent at the waist—fuck, her hair smelled like warm vanilla—and pressed her lips just below his navel, tongue darting out to lap the salt. Her mouth was soft and wet on his skin, and something primal in Steve's gut snapped. He barely heard the cheers. The sensation ricocheted straight to his cock, which flexed up against his zipper so hard it hurt.
Next was the shot. Y/N tossed it back, half the tequila spilling down her chin. She softly coughed, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Then, as if on cue, she reached for the lime wedge Robin had wedged in the waistband of Steve's jeans, right above the button, just on the V of his hipbone. Her fingers grazed the skin, feather-light, but the cold rush of citrus and the heat at her touch sent a current through his entire spine. For a split second her knuckles pressed into the base of his stomach. He bit down so hard on the inside of his cheek he tasted blood. She took the lime in her teeth, and for a second lingered there, her face inches from his cock, breath warm on his skin, before she popped upright, giggling out the sour, sticky juice.
The kitchen howled. Steve's head swam, everything bright and stat-icky. He couldn't move; his abs were still flexed, hard, salt stinging where she'd licked him. He'd never felt more like a hunk of meat, and he'd never been more ready to let someone eat him alive.
It was supposed to be a goofy party trick. But obviously, it wasn't. He watched her, dazed, as she licked the last of the salt from her upper lip, then met his gaze and innocently smiled with a wet, trembling mouth.
Robin cackled and slammed her palms on the table. "See? That wasn't so bad! Who's next?" The kitchen erupted, a dozen hands shot in the air.
He barely noticed. He was too busy watching Y/N, with her cheeks flushed, eyes glazed and wild and overwhelmed by the heat working up her throat and into her face. She still had the taste of salt and Steve's skin on her tongue, and it was making her knees weak in a way she'd never admit.
Robin pulled Y/N her into a hug, sweat and tequila and vanilla and strawberry gluing them together in a messy, giggly tangle. "You're a natural!" Robin whispered in her ear. "And for the record, everyone in this room wishes you'd licked them instead."
Robin's grip loosened just enough for Y/N to stagger back into Steve's orbit. The music churned to a new song, the kitchen crowd already drifting to the next spectacle, but Steve couldn't break eye contact with her if he tried. She glowed, skin shiny with sweat, plump lips parted, breathing shallow.
He didn't remember deciding to do it. He leaned in, bringing his lips close to her ear, his stomach still sparking from where she'd licked him, and said, "You want to try one?" The words barely made it past his throat, he was so hard he felt like he might black out.
Y/N's eyes darted up to his, wide and momentary, and she nodded. No hesitation, just a hungry little nod like a dare.
He watched her hands. She gripped the edges of the counter behind her, squeezing so tight her knuckles shone through the skin. He heard himself say, "Where do you want it?" and when she didn't get it, Robin, ever the provocateur, elbowed her in the ribs and said, "Salt line goes wherever you want, babe. Classic is the cleavage shot. If you're brave."
Y/N's gaze dropped to her chest, then flicked to Robin, then to Steve. The tips of her ears went scarlet. She squared her shoulders and, in a motion at once hesitant and absurdly decisive, yanked the front of her dress down an inch, baring the soft valley between her breasts. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, and said, "Let's do it."
He heard the word in triplicate, echoing in his chest. Robin was already at her side, fingers quick and businesslike, shaking a thin bead of salt between Y/N's tits, her hands surprisingly gentle. Y/N's skin flinched under the touch, but she didn't pull away. She kept her chin tucked, her mouth pressed in a line so tight her lips nearly vanished.
Robin glanced at Steve, raised her eyebrows, and telepathically told him good luck, Harrington, and then poured the shot, steady, "Go," Robin whispered, and faded back into the kitchen, already shouting for the next round.
Steve blinked. He had done this before, a hundred times, but never like this. Fuck, never, ever like this.
He bent down, drew her in with a hand at the small of her back, and licked the salt like he meant it, slow and hot, just at the base of her cleavage. The taste hit him all at once—skin, salt, and the faint edge of her yummy perfume—and for a second, he thought he might actually lose control right there in front of the whole kitchen. He reached for the shot, eyes locked on hers, and tossed it back. The tequila burned, bright and immediate, and then he went for the lime wedge dangling between her knuckles.
She held it up, pinched between thumb and finger, but her hand was barely steady. He didn't just bite the lime, he let his lips graze her fingers, tongue flicking over her skin for one illicit, hungry moment.
He barely registered the kitchen cheering, the sting of tequila in his throat, the sticky neon of the Christmas lights. There was nothing but her.. the salt-sweat on her skin, the lime braced between her fingers, the way she breathed when he leaned in. He wanted to press his mouth to the hollow at the base of her neck and taste every inch of her, slow.
Robin was gone, the kitchen crowd surging elsewhere, the party's center of gravity shifting. Steve and Y/N stood together at the edge of the counter top, two empty shot glasses and a wedge of lime between them. For a moment neither of them moved.
Steve watched her. Her body quivered with leftover adrenaline, and her eyes, ringed with tears from the lime, locked on Steve's with a naked, hungry intensity that caught him very off guard.
He tried to say something. Anything. His brain coughed up only static. She just stared at him, jaw set, wet mouth parted, like she was daring him to move first. She swayed a little in place, the white dress clinging to her, and Steve saw—he knew, with the certainty of a thousand locker room stories—what she was feeling. She wanted. It was so obvious he felt it like a punch in the kidney. His own body responded, vicious and instant.
He tracked how her legs shifted, how she squeezed her thighs together, how her breaths got short and fast, and how she held his gaze so steady he couldn't look away. Every instinct screamed at him to grab her. Every instinct screamed at him to move.
Instead he stood there, paralyzed, heart slamming so hard he felt it in the tops of his feet.
Y/N blinked, once, slow, then reached for him. Her palm landed flat against his chest. No testing, no hesitation. She pressed, and he yielded, letting her push him back against the fridge. The handle jabbed into his hip. The cold tightened something in his gut. He waited. He was trembling and trying to hide it, and she leaned in, so close her breath hit his mouth. She didn't kiss him. Not yet.
"Steve," she said, so quietly he barely caught it over the kitchen's noise. He blinked at her, trying to focus, to re-calibrate. Her hand slid up, fingers splayed against his bare chest.
She leaned in. Her lips didn't quite touch his ear, but her breath was hot on his jaw. "I need to get out of here."
He nodded, a violent jerk, already reaching for her wrist. He was ready to drag her straight out the front door, but she only pressed closer, voice a tremor: "I'm sorry, I just—" She laughed, a nervous, biting little sound. "I think I'm a bit.. wet."
Steve's brain short-circuited. For a half-second he was back in his kitchen, clutching the phone with one hand and his cock with the other, hearing her say his name, the way she'd whispered "Steve" like it was a secret. But now her voice was pressed to the side of his face, and her body was mashed up against every inch of him, and he was so fucking hard it felt like his cock was going to slice through his jeans.
He didn't ask where. He didn't have to. Steve took her hand and wove through the crush of bodies in the living room, the kitchen, the stairs, as if they were conjoined at the wrist. He made for the only place in Robin's house that wasn't already stuffed full of people, or garbage, or the smell of weed and spilled soda. The bathroom: second floor, back left, the one with the broken lock.
He shouldered the door open, nearly knocking the loose towel rack off its screws, and barely got it shut before Y/N was crowding in after him, her face alive with raw and startled need.
The bathroom was as ugly as Steve remembered: green shag rug, crusted toothpaste in the sink, a single 40-watt bulb casting headache shadows across the yellowed linoleum. They barely fit inside it together. But as soon as the latch clicked, Y/N was on him, hands fisted in the waistband of his jeans, mouth searching. She kissed with the frantic, open-mouthed hunger. Steve bent down, kissing back, nipping her lower lip, tasting tequila and salt and the faint trace of her lip gloss. He pressed her against the lip of the vanity, hands greedy as a mugger, and she let him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him until he saw stars.
He tugged her dress up—she made a sound, half gasp, half laugh, and let him, until the fabric bunched around her waist and her bare legs pressed hard against his hips. The pink cotton panties under the dress were already soaked through, and when he slipped his hand between her thighs she shuddered, digging her short, painted nails into his back. He was barely thinking at all.
She pushed his hand away, palms flat and insistent, then dropped to her knees so fast it knocked the air out of his chest. For a second he just stared at her, holy fucking stunned—does she even know how to suck a guy off? Steve thought. She bit her lip, looked up at him, breath ragged. "Can I?" she said, so quietly he almost missed it.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. He hooked a hand behind her skull, not rough, just needing to feel the shape of her, the weight of her, the way her neck tapered to her shoulder, and tried not to shake as she yanked his jeans and underwear down below his ass.
Y/N's fingers wrapped around his cock, and the heat of it almost undid him. She stared, close enough he could feel the air from her nostrils, and for a second he thought she might just hold it and look, but then her lips parted, tongue flicking out, tasting from the base up to the tip with a steady lap. Her mouth was warm and greedy, lips slicked with spit, tongue raking the underside, and then she just fucking swallowed him—no hesitation, just took the head right between her lips and held him there, eyes shut, cheeks hollowing. Steve's vision blacked out for a second. She wasn't careful, wasn't slow at all, and he could feel every inch of her: the edge of her teeth, the roof of her mouth, the wet smack of her lips, the crazy little noises she made in her throat.
Steve always considered himself picky with blowjobs. But saying he was surprised it's an understatement. Y/N seemed a full-blown maniac for the way she used her tongue, the way she pressed her nails into the backs of his thighs, the way she kept eye contact even as her mascara started to run. Steve couldn't breathe; his hands clamped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went bloodless.
He'd never seen anything like it. Her cheeks hollowed, jaw flexing, and she went deeper, then deeper again, until the flare of his cock head pressed against the back of her throat. She gagged, but instead of stopping she growled, an inhuman sound, and he nearly came right then. He looked down at her, her lips stretched, her hair falling in her eyes, her hands working in a twisting rhythm at the base—and she looked right back at him, her lashes wet, daring him to lose it.
He tried to last. He really did. He thought of dead dogs, of geometry, of the ugly ass green shag rug under his sneakers, but her mouth was relentless. She sucked him with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, using her hand to twist and squeeze while her tongue lashed and teased and licked. Her other hand cupped his balls, rolling them, squeezing, then sliding back to stroke the strip of skin behind. He almost yelped when she did that, the jolt so raw and bright he had to bite the inside of his wrist to keep from howling. She paused, eyes glittering, and then went down again, deeper than she had any right to. She pulled off just as he felt himself tipping over,and she let him nearly fall into it: the head of his cock pulsing, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth would crack. He shoved her off, just in time,.
Steve grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her to her feet. She stumbled, knees wobbly, mouth open. He pressed her to the sink, back to the mirror. It was feverish, uncoordinated. His hands found her ass, fingers digging into the soft, warm flesh beneath the hem of her dress, and then he was hoisting her up, perching her right on the edge of the counter.
He didn't ask. He couldn't have, even if he'd tried. The cotton went slick between his fingers when he pulled them aside. Y/N let out a whimper, her thighs spreading obediently. She was shaking, but not from cold; she arched her back, and looked up at him with a hunger that made his knees buckle.
He wanted to make her say his name again.
He gripped his cock, the tip still glossy with spit, and ran it against the damp, slippery entrance of her pussy. She was so wet it was almost stupid. He lined up, pressed the head into her, and she hissed, nails raking his forearm as he pushed inside. She was tight, impossibly so, and he had to pause, just for a second, to keep from sliding in all at once and blowing straight past the edge of control. Y/N clamped around him so tight he almost lost it—her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs, her hands grabbing at the mirror behind her so hard he heard it creak. He went forward, every thrust rougher, rougher, until her head banged the glass and she gasped his name with every ragged exhale.
Steve braced his palms on either side of her hips, pushing her higher on the counter so the cold porcelain pressed flat to her ass, and he fucked up into her, mean and perfect, desperate to fill her, ruin her, make her remember this every time she looked in the goddamn mirror. He was panting, sweat already slicking across his chest, her knees bruising his ribs.
Steve couldn't stop. The slap of his hips against her bare skin echoed in the little bathroom. He wanted her to hear it, wanted anyone passing in the hall to hear it. He wanted them to know she was fucking the shit out of this beautiful girl.
He found himself talking, words tumbling out, low and rough, nothing like his usual jokes or sarcastic, mean lines. "You like being fucked where anyone could hear you?" He pistoned harder, watching her face go slack, mouth open and wet. "I bet you've never been fucked like this, huh? No, didn't think so."
His own voice got him off, got her off too—she clenched around him, a tremor starting in her thighs and then up her spine, lips shiny and parted and begging for more. He felt her body clamp down, so tight he couldn't move for a heartbeat; she was shaking, trying to ride the edge. Steve pressed his face to her neck and growled. "You want to come? I'll let you if you say you want it."
She tried to answer, but it came out as a sob, a hiccup, a choked, "Steve—" and he shoved in harder, grinding her against the mirror. He could feel her nipples through the thin cotton, hard as diamonds, and he wanted to bite them, wanted to mark her everywhere. He thought about pulling out and flipping her over, fucking her from behind so she could see herself in the glass, but he didn't trust his legs to hold him. He had to finish like this, deep inside, buried so far every time she walked she'd feel it for a week.
He heard himself again: "Do you feel that? Every time I fuck you, I can feel your pussy clutching me like it's hungry—like you want me to fill you up," He was almost shouting, didn't care if the whole party heard. He drove into her harder, the tip of his cock punching her cervix, and Y/N gasped, head thudding back against the mirror.
"You want me to fill you up, come inside this tight pussy, pretty girl ?"
Y/N's nails dug into his arms. Her head shook back and forth, helpless, but she was moaning, clenching, gasping with every ragged thrust. She was falling apart, coming undone, and he wanted to watch it happen. He was, indeed, ruining the sweetest girl he had met a few days ago.
Steve wrenched the top of her dress down with one hand, the neckline giving way with a violent little rip. Her tits tumbled out, flushed and perfect, nipples hard and shining with sweat. He stared, unable to help himself, and then grabbed both, squeezing, watching the way they bounced every time he railed into her. He wanted her to see what she did to him, wanted to brand the image into her skull the way he knew he'd never erase it from his own. He fucked her harder, faster, felt his own orgasm boiling up from somewhere below his spine, but he fought it back, desperate to see her finish first.
He pinched the tight pink bud, twisted and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, and she almost shrieked. Her hips jerked, heels slipping, breath bursting wet and hot against his neck. He bit and sucked and tongued her until her voice went high and stretched, until she was frantic and wild with it, so desperate for more she almost sobbed. Her hands fumbled at his hair, pulling him closer. He let go, ran his tongue slow and flat down the valley between her breasts, lapping at the sweat, and she arched up, rubbing against him, so desperate for friction she nearly threw him off balance.
"God," she panted, voice gone sharp and raw. "Please..Steve," She clawed at his shoulder. "Harder." Her breath hitched, lips plush and wet, eyes glazed with everything she was afraid to say. "Fuck me harder.. please, please, please, I need—"
He grabbed her by the hips, fingers digging deep enough she'd see the marks tomorrow, and rammed forward, burying himself as far as he could go. She screamed, the sound muffled against his neck where she clamped her mouth to keep from shattering. He knew she was close, so close, and he wanted to keep her right there, teetering. He lifted his head just enough to see her face: Y/N was gone, all sense evaporated, eyes huge and glassy and wet, mouth open and working for air.
She moaned, low and helpless up from her chest, then higher, until she made a sound so high-pitched and mortified he thought for a second she'd started crying. But she wasn't crying. She was coming, hard, every muscle in her thighs clenching so tight he could barely move. He watched her try to hold it in, watched her eyes dart to the mirror and see herself split open, hair wild, her own breasts marked up and jiggling, his cock jack-hammering in and out of her. She saw it and came again, her whole body seizing, mouth in a perfect O of disbelief. Steve had never seen anything so hot in his life.
That was it for him. He went feral, lost to the world, slamming into her with a speed that bordered on mean. Sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes but he didn't stop. He wanted to carve her into memory. Her pussy milked him, clutching tight as a fist, and the friction lit him up from the inside. He was past dignity, past restraint, past the point of pretending he was in control. His hips went wild; he felt it start in the soles of his feet, the heat climbing up his legs, then pooling in the base of his spine, then roaring forward, unstoppable. He lost his words; all he could do was grunt her name, low and guttural, as his cock twitched inside her, the first thick spurt hitting so deep her whole body flinched.
He kept going, aftershocks making his muscles seize and spasm, until she was shaking, spent, her head collapsed on his shoulder, arms limp at her sides. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck and just breathed, sweat slick on both of them, her hair matted and sticky against his mouth.
They stayed tangled like that, sweat and spit and salt drying between them, until the bright noise of the party outside filtered back into Steve's ears. The air in the bathroom was thick—humid, almost soupy, every surface fogged and slippery. Steve's hands were numb from gripping Y/N's hips so hard. She still shivered in aftershocks, arms looped around his neck, ragged breath cooling the bite marks on his shoulder. She was a mess. He was a mess. He loved it.
He let her down slow, careful, both of them testing their legs like foals on new ice. Steve tucked his cock away, awkward, the zipper fighting every inch, but Y/N didn't seem to notice. She only giggled, this high, brittle sound that made something low in his chest turn over. She tried to pull the top of her dress up, but it was hopeless. Steve watched her fumble with the neckline, then reached out and helped, trying to smooth the fabric back into shape. It was stretched, the seam a little torn, her bra hopelessly lost somewhere in the tangled mess of the skirt, but she let him fuss over her anyway, standing barefoot on the green shag with the ruined dress half off her shoulders. Her face glowed, feverish under the bathroom lights.
He studied her, searching for something clever to say, but the only words in his head sounded like they'd been ripped from a fortune cookie. He wanted to tell her she was incredible, or that he'd never wanted someone the way he wanted her, or that he might actually die if she ever left this bathroom without promising to see him again. But he was Steve Harrington, and the best he could do was stand there, tongue in cheek, grinning like a fucking idiot while she wiped her face on the back of her hand, trying to mop up the sticky gloss of his orgasm from the corners of her mouth.
He said, "Sorry if that was—" and then stopped, because it was the worst possible thing to say when you'd just fucked someone this hard.
But Y/N only laughed, wiping her chin, her whole body humming with aftershocks. Her dress was wrinkled all to hell, and there was a dark, thumbprint-sized stain spreading across where he'd palmed her hip, and her hair was coming down in wet, tangled ropes. She looked up at him with glassy, half-lidded eyes and said, "Don't apologize. That was, uh.. amazing."
Steve grinned. He couldn't help it. The sight of her, so messy, so alive, so fucking pleased, made him want to laugh out loud, or maybe punch the air, or maybe just wrap her up and never let her go.
He watched her fix her hair in the mirror, mesmerized. She caught his gaze in the reflection and went shy, covering her face with both hands and then peeking out through her fingers. "That was so embarrassing," she whispered.
He shook his head, still a little winded. "No," he said, and meant it. "No, it was the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life. I think you out-charmed me."
She peeked at him, fingers still spread. "Are you lying?"
"Fuck no," he said, a little breathless.
He realized he was telling the truth and it stunned him. Because, holy hell, he'd never felt like this over someone before.
i made this post because i've got so many friends that think saying something wrong in a conversation is the end of the world. it isn't. you'll be okay. you don't have to be embarrassed about every little thing. you are alive and doing things and speaking to people. you will make mistakes and you will live.
one detail that i love is that lisa is less doctor frankenstein but more mary shelley despite the movie's title. lisa's introduction is her stone rubbing the creature's headstone while mary learned to write using her mother's gravestone. lisa isn't a scientist she's a seamstress which is closer to mary's profession as a writer. they're women who lost their mothers at a young age and were outcasts in their respective societies. both having an odd relationship with death, finding love and comfort in it. mary connects with her mother through her grave like how lisa does with the creature's. at it's core it's a movie about grief and the non-finality of death.
it's also a campy movie about a devoted zombie romantic who would chop dicks off for their goth wife which i think stays true to the spirit of mary shelley.
Just something about the intimacy of tending to your lover’s grave does things to me I can’t explain
I know that Lisa didn’t love him at the time she was visiting his grave, but just the fact that she was drawn to his grave out of all of them because they were truly soulmates brings me to tears.
steve’s had a type for more than a while, all soft and cute and nancy wheeler and not you, but you’re around each other all the time lately it feels like, have been with each other before and in the heat of the moment it slips out – you ask him to be a little rough with it and it surprises steve how much he wants to please you… | ( 431 words – smut, sprinkle of fluff, friends with benefits to something more? steve x you, steve x reader )
T E L L M E W H E N
🎶 the feels, labrinth
The first time you told Steve to pull your hair it blew his pupils wide. Made his breath catch in his throat as he swallowed hard against the nerves that had flickered and caught fire in his chest.
You weren’t like the other girls.
Please, Steve.
Weren’t precious.
I’m okay.
You were soft sometimes, but other times – most times – you weren’t.
I’ll tell you when.
And the feeling it gave him was unlike anything else. The feeling he got when he pulled moans from you. When your hand flew up to hold onto his bicep for dear life. When you trusted him with what you really wanted. Your words planted in his chest and blooming between his ribs and making him feel electric. Making him feel like you held the entire universe and all the galaxies and stars in your hands and all he could do was look on in awe.
The soft slope of your neck. The dip of your hips. The curve of your body fitted perfectly against his. The way your fingers traced lines across his skin and set his heart on fire and brought him to his knees. The way you met his gaze, swam in his eyes all liquid amber and burnt caramel, didn’t shy away and held him there suspended between you and ecstasy.
Harder, Steve.
Your wish was his command. The words as they fell from your lips the very ritual he would follow, whatever it took to wrap his arms around you and pull you over the edge. Whatever it took to feel the sharp of your nails pressing half moons among the constellations of freckles and moles on his back.
Anything to hear your breath hitch in your throat.
Oh, god, Steve.
Anything to make your legs wrap tighter around his torso.
Don’t stop, Steve.
Anything to hear you say his name over and over and over until you couldn’t say it anymore and your voice shifted needy. Pulled those soft, sweet sounds from you and pushed them into something warmer. Something hotter and so desperate for release that when you both finally snapped, wrapped and wound so tightly against one another you could barely breathe. He didn't want anyone else.
Only you.
So good, Steve.
Only you and all of your unknowns.
Make me feel so good.
Only you and everything that came with uncovering this braver world of bearing it all. Unafraid and brightly bound and unapologetically you and the way your hair felt soft in his hand as he pulled and made you see heaven.
crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist
♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️
The neighbor’s daughter || Neighbor Joel Miller x reader
A/N: I rewatched ep 1 of TLOU. And yeah. DILF joel makes me feel things
This is 3k words.
Summary: When you come back to Texas for the summer to spend time with your dad, you didn’t expect to meet a hot, single daddy in the process.
CW: Use of pet names, fluff, smut, use of “daddy”, oral and fingering (f receiving), teasing, no protection, fear of getting caught, one use of y/n, reader is 25, Joel is 36.
When summer showed its colors and when the semester ended, it was time for you to fly back home. You had been going to university in New York for a degree in theater – something you could’ve never done in your small town of Texas.
When you went back to your dad, you knew it was always a relaxing time. Your mom had died a few years prior, showing you that yes, your parents were getting old, and you spent as much time as possible with your dad. He was important to you, and you were the apple of his eye.