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Pins & Needles: Chapter 7

Pairing: Steve Harrington x (Non Descriptive!) Female Reader/You, AU Rating: Mature/NSFW/MDNI, Smut Warning (check tags if needed), Read CH. 1 HERE or on AO3

Tags: enemies to lovers, SLOW BURN, coworker relationship (kinda, Steve quit lmfao), mention of violence (hurt Steve!!!), angst, jealousy, language, fingering, oral (f receiving), canon big dick Harrington, P in V sex, shower foreplay, submissive Steve, giving in to their desires finally!!! TagList: @girlupin, @ninefaults, @amysteed, @fionaisinlove, @stydiaforeverbitchezz, @torimcc, @markspossibilities, @bouchradz, @chestharrington, @ripleyism, @iwrotethissky, @kissalready / gif credit

please let me know if you’d like to be added for future chapters! 🎳

Word count: 10.6K (!!!!) A/N: We DID it!! we actually committed to a posting deadline!! and we finally got to write SMUT!!!! thank you to my slow burn truthers, please be patient for me and what I have in store 🤍

Summary: It’s been 6 months since you had been forced to work with Steve Harrington at the local bowling alley. He is impossibly stubborn, argumentative, lazy, and unfortunately, attractive. With his sharp tongue and soft lips, he keeps you on your toes and your jaw clenched. If he’s supposed to be your nemesis, why do you get butterflies when he touches you?

It’s kind of nauseating how Steve exudes such a remarkable level of suaveness that even the older ladies at the diner are fawning over him.

With ease, all he had to do was bend his height down slightly to wave and greet the smaller, rounder woman with crinkles by her eyes that only deepened when she lit up at the sight of Steve. Despite his injuries, he was charming as ever, kissing her cheek in greeting like he’s known her for years and maybe he had with the way her name rolled off his tongue in the singsongy kind of way that made her giggle and lead you to what you learned was his booth.

Faint smells of cigarettes swirled with the nostalgic aroma of breakfast fill the space and your stomach actually rumbled. The cheap and tacky red vinyl that covers the bench seat squeaks awkwardly as you slide in with nervousness. The diner is basically empty with the closest patron still a good couple of feet away, but it still feels like everyone is looking at you.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s used to it, you think. He’s shrugging off his bomber jacket and tossing it onto the booth seat opposite from you before sliding in himself, completely unaware of the attention he gets—especially with a busted lip and dark crescent bruise framing his one eye. You see another waitress in the background gasp, touching her own cheek as if she can feel the sympathy for his injury. You wonder if when she whispers to a line cook if they’re assuming you did it, or something.

“Order whatever you want,” Steve sighs, silencing the paranoid thoughts of yours. “It’s on me.”

When you look at him, he’s only looking at the menu, turning it over a couple of times as he scours his options, but you both know he came here for the pancakes.

“I can pay for mine, don’t worry—“ you shrug, but Steve’s huffing with another crankier sigh than the one from before.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mutters through a clenched jaw, brushing the underside of his nose with his knuckle in habit. In a quick flash, you can see his eyes dart over his menu to look at you, but they’re already back to scanning the print by the time you try to catch his gaze.

You understood his subtle warning; you’re not trying to start a fight back up again either. Your cheeks burn scarlet, your stomach filling up with flutters that were confusing your appetite.

“So,” you lower your voice to a volume hardly above the nostalgic radio playing above from the speakers. “You come here often?”

Steve snorts and hides a grin behind his hands folded in front of him, elbows propped up and shoulders shaking with a light chuckle. “Oh, my God,” his hands rub over his features, he sounds horrified as his laugh starts to subside. “What year did they program you, Geekatron? Who says that anymore?”

You join his laughter to spare your embarrassment which makes his smile grow despite his efforts of hiding behind his folded clasp. You noticed how his thumb would find its place against his lower lip, avoiding his cut and just toying with the soft plump part that you remember what it was like to nibble on. It looked just as blushed and inviting as you remember.

You clear your throat to recenter your thoughts. “I was asking because you seemed like a regular here,” your voice trailing off more distracted as you take in the sight of all the novelty art and items that lined the wooden walls—some war memorabilia, painted plates, rusty or faded tin signs of all kinds, and framed articles. Clearly, this was a historical hidden gem of Hawkins you never noticed before.

Steve’s eyes follow yours, though he has been here countless times, he still feels like he could find something new.

“Yeah, my uncle—“ he clears his throat then, his eyes squinting at some of the signage as if he’s trying to distract himself, “he, uh, did the tile in here back in the 60’s, so…” another sigh tumbles past his lips, “just came here a lot as a kid, I guess. There was a summer when I used to do the dishes when I was, like, fourteen but quit when I started school. Naturally, became a spot for where I could bring my friends to sober up after going out or parties, whatever. Been coming here forever, but it’s always looked the same. Just one of those places, I guess.” He scratches at some incoming stubble as he speaks before nervously brushing his nose with the backside of his knuckle again.

Your smile grows fondly as you imagine what Steve was like as a child, sitting at the bar of the diner by the open kitchen window and begging for more pancakes with syrup all of his cheeks and hands.

“That’s cool, I envy you. I don’t have anything like that, really. It sounds special,” you admit, catching him off guard. Steve’s eyes dragged from the hidden patterns of the wooden paneling to look at you then.

He lets his folded hands finally rest on the table and his lips part as if to speak, but you are interrupted by the same older woman from before who came sauntering in with a balanced saucer resting on her shoulder, the smell of maple and caramelized butter wafting in the air.

“Thanks, Jean,” Steve looks up at her with a toothy grin after she’s placed the plates in front of you, earning another musical giggle from her. She squeezes his shoulder and offers the two of you coffee, which you feel happily obliged to enjoy despite it being nearly 8:30PM. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking too obviously while watching Steve pour a fourth sugar packet in his mug.

“Alright, entertain me,” Steve began as he sawed carefully at his stacked pancakes, you nodded, not entirely sure where this conversation was headed after what you left behind in his apartment. “What makes you think waffles are better than pancakes?” He asks, waving the fork with his next bite at the end of it like a judge with a gavel.

A wash of relief rolls down your shoulders knowing he’s not trying to pick up where you left off right away.

You reciprocate, smearing the melted butter into the crevices of your crusted waffle. Maple syrup pools into the square shaped divots, making the ideal puddles on top for dipping. “Easy,” you say while effortlessly cutting a perfectly portioned cube of a bite, following the natural grid of the waffle. “Structure.” you answer confidently before the familiar comforting taste of warm butter and sugar envelope your tongue.

Steve snorts then. “Of course you love structure, robot,” he remarks lowly in a way that would make you embarrassed, but you immediately took notice of the playful tilt in his voice.

When your eyes leave your plate to look up at his, he’s leaned back into the booth with that smug grin that you’re used to. Steve’s arms rests on the back of the booth, fully relaxed as if he owns the place. His jaw works as he chews, drawing your attention to the hollow of his cheeks, the pinkness of his lips. You can see his exposed neck swallow his bite and your body heat rises.

His legs are much longer than yours, causing you to nearly jump out of your seat at the sudden brush of his cotton clad knees rubbing briefly against yours. It’s the kind of deliberate “playing it cool” move where it could be accidental, could be intentional, but with his smug expression, you have no choice but to assume it was his subtle way of making you nervous on purpose.

“Structure is important,” your eyebrows pinch at the center as you defend yourself while stacking your waffles to distract yourself from the energy radiating from your knee all the way through your body. Your cutting pace quickens, stacking and sliding pieces until the waffle is in bite size pieces but still maintaining its waffle integrity. There’s a satisfaction with the ridges lining up together and creating a perfect cube of deliciousness.

Steve’s smirk falters a bit but he shrugs with arched brows to play it off while continuing to haphazardly cut his pancake stack into some irregular shapes of all sizes, complete opposite to your organized bites.

“Structure sounds safe,” he murmurs.

This felt like a passive pivot that you weren’t sure if you felt ready for. His arms come down to his sides again as his posture straightens, his doe eyes lingering on you like you’re meant to read between his lines like always.

“I like stability,” you say on a heavy exhale, your chest growing tighter for some reason. “I like safe.”

His jaw ticks the slightest. You pretend to not notice, your fork poking around at some of your neatly stacked bites.

Steve’s lips purse as he nods slowly to your response, but he’s having a hard time believing you prioritize safety when your ex left his face like that.

At least he was in school for a real job, not just some cushion to get you from one place to the other like Steve’s been doing since graduation. Maybe that’s all you meant by safe… Stability, structure.

Your ex was a class act dickhead, but he was promising a stable future for you that Steve couldn’t compete with if he tried, especially since getting cut off from the Harrington Enterprise funds—a type of structure he couldn’t provide.

It was making his skin prickly with needles to think about. Steve could offer more than just financial stability. Steve had life experiences, he was able to show you things your ex wouldn’t without a guide or itinerary. There’s not even any competition anymore, but it still felt like he’s losing. His tongue pokes into the inside of his cheek before he shoves another bite of pancakes in his mouth to silence himself.

“Don’t you think—“ Steve starts, but huffs in frustration before his fork clatters against the ceramic, the noise sharpening the tension. “Don’t you think you would have a better life if you weren’t afraid all the time?” he rushes out, leaving you speechless.

A sharp twinge in your lungs spreads across your chest as you blink at him, trying to catch your breath.

You can’t see them underneath the tabletop, but Steve’s hands have balled into fists at his sides, desperately pushing whatever nails he has into his palm to create crescent shaped punishment markings for boiling over the way he promised himself he wasn’t going to.

You shake your head as you choke on a laugh, tilting it slightly as you look at him in disbelief. Was it so impossible to share a moment together that he wouldn’t sour?

“What makes you think I’m afraid?” you challenge, though you feel sick at the thought of his answer. Unfortunately, he was right. Maybe you were an over-thinker, someone who always has a Plan D—just in case.

Something about Steve perceiving you this intimately makes you want to take the butter knife from the table and force it into the flesh of your hand rather than have to hear what he had to say.

Steve’s not even done chewing as he rolls his eyes at you. “Please,” he starts, “don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Your body stills while he continues to act natural, unfazed as usual. You wonder if he’s alluding to your crush; was it really so obvious? Maybe he just meant in general, since you are more of the anxious type and that’s not exactly a secret either. You’re already proving the point by overthinking his vague response, just as he wanted. It’s like he was dangling the bait right in front of you. How typical for him to always deflect the conversation into how something you do isn’t agreeable with him, what about Steve’s choices?

You shrug as you chew thoughtfully. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve makes a tsk sound before placing his utensils down quieter this time, leaning closer so even his lower register can be heard over “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” by Culture Club which felt a little too on the nose for your liking. The universe would always find a way to remind you it had a sense of humor.

“Are you happy?” Steve asks then, his tone changing to something closer to sympathy or maybe patience. His eyes are looking up at you, his long dark lashes nearly reach his defined brow bone. A beat passes before you can begin to even process an answer. “Actually happy? Like, satisfied with your life?” he presses.

Now your turn to roll your eyes at him, suddenly feeling a loss of appetite. Steve’s pancakes are nearly gone, clearly he had no trouble multitasking being a human vacuum and an asshole.

You push your plate away from you and avoid his gaze. “No,” your voice barely a whisper. “I’m angry,” you confess.

Steve’s nodding as he slides his final bite into pools of syrup on his plate. You quietly wondered if he was desperate to clean the plate as much as possible with consideration for the current dishwasher.

“Anger’s good,” he manages before swallowing. You pretend to ignore the coil in your stomach winding tighter at the visual of him sucking the remaining syrup from the sides of his fingers. “Anger is at least a feeling.”

You can’t help but huff exasperated, “Would you knock it off? Have I not showcased enough emotion in front of you to convince you I’m not some sad, rigid, robot, control freak?” You fold your arms over your chest, trying not to let yourself grow in volume and draw more attention to this side of the diner. “Or do you need to make me cry again?”

Steve’s tight expression softens, his lips curving into the lopsided smirk that almost made you forget what you were getting upset over.

“Okay, okay—” he lifts a placating hand. “I’ll stop,” his voice sounding sincere, but his expression remaining sly.

You want to ask him why he even brings it up. What’s the point of criticizing you all the time if you can’t even ask about his own internal turmoil?

“Steve?” your voice carries across the booth sadly and it pulls him into reality like nothing else. His eyes are locked on yours, desperate to hear you say his name so softly again.

“If not because…“ you sigh, not allowing yourself to get embarrassed again by bringing up what he calls a stupid kiss, “Why’d you quit?”

Your shoulders hang low as your eyes dart between his dark irises that narrowed on you, traced with hints of copper and honey even in this ambient diner lighting.

Steve draws in a breath while a hand nervously rubs at the back of his neck before adjusting the hooded fabric. “Just felt like the right time,” he lies, fidgeting with the strings of his sweatshirt by the base of his throat.

You don’t say anything. It’s not worth a fight anymore; nothing is. You just nod and allow the bitter taste of diner coffee to help make it easier to swallow down your upset feelings.

Steve rubs his knee against yours again, more intentionally than before as he holds one of your knees between his own, and your body freezes instinctively. It feels like electricity is being passed directly from his skin into yours.

“I gotta help my uncle,” he clears his throat.

You blink, surprised by the sudden honesty. “The one who does tile?” you ask innocently as he nods slowly.

“The very one,” Steve mumbles behind the lip of his ceramic mug. You can see how long his lashes really are now as they rest against the tops of his cheeks with the long sips he takes before continuing. “M’actually flying to Florida tomorrow—to help him, I mean,” he swirls the remaining dark liquid around before taking another nonchalant sip while you continue to always feel like he’s never going to not be three steps ahead of you?

“Florida?” you ask, incredulous.

Steve’s fingers weave through his hair, a few rebellious strands still try to fall against his brow as he nods cautiously. His lips that were once pouted and bitten, probably tasting sweet like maple candy, have pressed into a tight neutral line.

Your heartbeat is quickening and you don’t know why. Freaking out to a sudden change is only going to prove his point from before. You could be cool. Steve likes cool girls.

“For how long?” you lean back into the cushion of the booth, the vinyl creaking as you do your best attempt at sounding disinterested.

He exhales through his nose, piling your plates and silverware together for Jean’s ease and his own distraction. “About three months,” Steve says under his breath. You can see his throat strain from a thick swallow.

Your hands find their place under your thighs, they’re safer there when they’re not flailing around gesticulating or balled into fists ready to slam on top of the table like the tantrum you wish you could throw. This was so unfair. Three months?

“What about your apartment?” Your brows knit together in confusion, but you try to keep your voice calm.

“What about it?” Steve shrugs, not looking to you as he’s signing the bill with a predictable scribble-like fashion. “Told you, m’dad paid me to get out of the house. He paid for the first year’s contract then cut me off. Just wanted me out that bad, I guess,” he huffs out a softer laugh, but it sounds hollow and bitter. He takes his irritation out on the receipt at the end of the table with a forceful slide using the flat of his palm.

You’re nodding like a bobblehead again, just trying to understand him even when he seems so far away. Your eyes flick to the fog on the diner windows. When did it start raining? A soft patter against the glass fills the silence between the two of you.

It’s not a breakup, so why did it feel more like one than the actual breakup you mourned last weekend?

“I’m sure the weather will be better,” you say lightly all of a sudden, hoping he can’t detect how forced your enthusiasm for him is. Inside, your stomach was turning.

It was one thing for him to not be at the bowling alley anymore, but to know that was going to be the last time in his apartment for an indefinite future was making you depressed. You didn’t want him to leave.

Steve studies your expression, his eyes flicking over rosy cheeks that rounded from your encouraging smile. Despite how badly Steve wishes for his ego to hear you beg for him to stay, he respects your distance.

There’s a tightness in his chest he can’t name when he sees you like this—smiling through your hurt, being a lot better at controlling your temper than he was. He began to realize he might not have been giving you enough credit for your strength.

“Yeah,” Steve folds his arms across the heavy ache to self soothe. “Looking forward to it,” he mutters under his breath.

You can’t help but sneak a glance at him then. His eyes completely trained on the condensation from the window, watching selected raindrops trail down slowly before colliding into another drop and creating a faster and heavier traverse. Maybe you were just a raindrop on a diner window that Steve, the bigger raindrop, just devoured one day.

Trying to return back to your normal routine without Steve sounded like paradise to you at one point, but now it feels devastating.

————————————————

Every moment from here on out felt like it needed to be savored, but there’s nothing you would miss more than the calloused warmth of his physical touch or the way his BMW smells on your rides home—a mix of spearmint, warm cotton, and the kind of light musk that just naturally smelled like him.

You tried to memorize how his hand fit around the gearstick, the veins flexing from between his fingers going up into his forearm as he shifts into a different speed. His skin was already tanned despite it being autumn, you couldn’t imagine what the Florida sun would do to him. The thought of his future inevitable tan lines left your mouth dry.

The hardest thought to relieve from your subconscious was what the women in Florida would do with a guy like Steve. The only way to remain sane was to imagine all of the retired older ladies he’s already popular with falling for him instead of a Miami Beach Barbie.

Despite your efforts, your devious thoughts are responsible for your growing smile and Steve notices without fail. He goes to tease you about it, but his teeth dig into his bottom lip instead, his jaw flexing at the motion and it’s making his profile view that much more beautiful. You hated the feeling sitting on your chest whenever you look at him.

The Beamer rumbles beneath your leather seat in a powerful purr as you go down the same familiar winding roads you know leads to your neighborhood. You’re not ready for your time with him to be cut so short and a heavy ache starts gnawing at your stomach.

Steve licks his lips as if to think for a moment before deciding to break your peaceful silence, “What would you have done, by the way? If I had answered the door not looking—you know,” he gestures vaguely by his face before turning to look at you, the bruised eye in sight again.

Your eyes drift to the roof of the car as you consider your words. The thought of being honest might spark up another defensive argument on either side, but lying didn’t feel like an option anymore. It was starting to become increasingly obvious how much Steve predicted your behavior. While you continue to always play your game of catch up, Steve could already see through you. It was hardly fair.

“I was pretty pissed,” you say sideways with a playful scowl, your lips curving up at the corners. You catch the flash of his eyes looking over at you then, assessing if you’re still mad at him or not. His grip on the wheel relaxes at the sight of your smile.

Steve nods as his free hand finds his lips again, running his fingertips over his smirk to conceal his amusement. “I knew those stomps up my stairs were pissed off stomps,” he jokes.

A giggle escaped from your throat and your cheeks flush immediately, feeling like another pathetic googly eyed girl in Steve Harrington’s passenger seat.

“I was pissed, but…” you trail off, noticing the houses out the window are only looking more familiar the closer you got to your parents’ driveway. “Then I just felt bad you got pathetically beat up by a bunch of short men in the parking lot.”

Steve laughs, a real laugh, louder than you anticipated but his eyes are crinkled the way you love when you glance over at him. He shakes his head and runs a hand up through his hair, pushing the dark curls away from his face that just fall back in line without effort.

”Fair enough,” he sighs as his chuckling softens. “Sorry again, but the way.”

Your expression changes too, your brows knitted together confusedly. “For?” you challenge, his car coming to a slow halt at the end of your driveway just as it always did every Friday after work.

It felt dramatic to end your time together with an apology. It would be more respectable if Steve was just content with being a pompous asshole who got high on messing with you, making you cry, occasionally humiliating you for your lack of experience or ability to read his mind the way he’s just managed to figure you out so predictably.

Right now, Steve doesn’t look cocky or smug like he’s going to say something that makes your eyes roll. His gaze is transfixed on the outside of your house, admiring the cookie-cutter nature of how it matches the other suburbans in the neighborhood.

Structure, he thought.

He seems far away even with only a middle console between the two of you. “It wasn’t stupid,” he says easily, the muscles in your stomach twisting together nervously. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Steve’s head rolls against the leather headrest on the one side to face you, his eyes scanning your expression in a way that almost feels invasive with how intense his gaze can be. You can’t help but notice how the bump in his throat bobs to swallow hard, his neck craned in a position that makes the skin tighter and more exposed.

The sound of the rain growing lighter as it continues to pebble against his windshield fill the silence. A beat passes before you decide to speak.

“It’s stupid how much it affected me—my life, I mean,” you confess, sinking more into your seat. Your fingers start twisting together into your other hand, lips pursing as you consider how embarrassing it is to even have this conversation you thought you had planned better as more of an angry confrontation, not a heart-to-heart.

Steve’s brows furrowed, “Don’t say that.” He didn’t sound as stern as usual, something reminiscent of the tender way he’s spoken to you before, the tone that makes your knees wobbly if you tried to stand. “It’s not stupid at all… and you’re right,” Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment, “I was selfish.”

Your eyes finally lift up from your woven hands stirring in your lap to look at him. Though he can’t see, you still nod considering his words.

Having Steve admit fault and apologize to you like this just felt so finite, like you weren’t going to see him again. The thought that you used to celebrate at the idea of just makes your throat feel like it’s been wrapped with barbed wire that only tightened as he continued.

“I knew you were still with him, knowing what I knew too, I just couldn’t tell you—and I’m sorry for that too, you know? I guess I am pretty selfish.”

A sharp exhale leaves his nose before he can look at you again. Your hair still messy from work earlier, your polo streaked with the raindrops that pelted on both of you as you made a run for the car from the diner.

A warmth developed in Steve’s chest as he remembered how he had offered to bring the car up for you but you declined, calling him ridiculous this time. You shrieked together as the cold bullets falling from the dark clouds hit your skin, laughing with him the entire sprint before finally making it inside the Beamer.

The smell of fresh rain mixed with maple and vanilla filling the cabin of the car and your laughter falling into light panting as you both catch your breath. He remembered the look on your face—the rosiness that flushed across your cheeks and into your lips, wide with a smile. He wanted to be selfish again, to kiss you one last time before he got to disappear like he was planning to do, but it’s just not fair to you anymore. God, he was going to miss you.

“Steve?”

Your voice is like a soft chime, bringing his attention back to earth.

He doesn’t say anything as he half expects you to call him a bunch of names, remind him of how much he hurt you that night, then again at his apartment earlier tonight. Truthfully, Steve hates making you cry despite how good he is at it, he hates the way he can’t sleep without the pillowcase that still faintly smells of your hair from that night, and he hates the way his heart is reacting to you saying his name so gently like if you raised your volume any louder, the real bubble of reality could pop at any moment.

Steve’s looking at you—really looking at you, the same way he did when you caught him watching you admire the constellations from his stairway. His eyes, warm and glassy, search for something in your expression that makes your breathing more erratic.

Is this what he meant by challenging yourself to not be so safe all the time? Maybe this was his purpose in your life—to just be an aid to your cathartic purging of your past self. You’re still recovering from a traumatic breakup to say the least, he’s leaving the entire state of Indiana for three months, you don’t even have to see him at work anymore, and he was infamously good at this; it was kind of the perfect “one night only” scenario. The version of yourself you knew last month is not the same girl who could do what the current you has been thinking about all night.

It’s got to be now or never, you tell yourself.

“Do you want to come upstairs?”

You’re surprised by how calm you sounded, despite maybe a bit more winded than you were moments before.

Steve’s eyes switch to look out the windshield towards your house for a second, his lips parting in a way that makes you think he might protest or suggest that’s stupid, but you bravely lean forward across the console so that you can brush the pads of your fingertips over his lips, lingering over his injury.

“Let me be selfish too,” your voice hardly above a whisper and you’re being so soft, so gentle with him in a way he’s never seen from you. It physically pains him to have his heart strings pulled like this.

As he turns his chin towards you, your noses nearly brush and his eyes are trying to memorize how you look right now—pleading eyes sparkling at him, cheeks a shade of scarlet, and the wild wisps of your hair that surround your face still glistening from the rain.

When his eyes settle on your lips, you freeze completely still and hope he leans in. Your hand falls gracefully from his lips, to the stubble on his chin, to then rest carefully on his cheek—encouraging him to be selfish too.

Without so much of a real rebuttal, Steve gives into his cravings and crashes his lips against yours. The volume of your heartbeat between your ears competes with the pelts of the light rain. By just the impact of his lips on yours again, you’ve completely melted in your seat. Your hand on his cheek manages to steady his increasingly more eager kiss. Even with the cut in his lip, he doesn’t hold back the slightest.

His tongue—that tastes as sweet as you imagined after watching him lick the syrup from his fingers—skillfully swipes across your own almost immediately, both of you lightly gasping in between the languid movements of your lips molding together. There’s a warmth on your cheek from the air his nose fans onto your skin and the blood rushing to your flushed lips, you felt on fire. The way Steve kisses you makes you feel like you’re turning into the sun; glowing bright, a burning sensation so powerful across your skin that can feel like as sharp as needles, but it’s electrifying too.

Impatient and desperate to keep Steve for as long as you can before he flies across the country, your hand returns to his stubble lined jaw, tilting his chin ever so slightly with the pad of your thumb gently pushing up from underneath.

Steve’s jaw slacks from your sudden dominance, his pretty lips parting again on a soundless intake of breath as your mouth travels down his neck, placing individual delicate stamps from your soft lips onto the constellation of moles that lined his bronze skin until you reached the spot just below his ear.

“Is that a yes?” your teeth graze his earlobe, earning you a soft groan in response that sends a rush through you, your body responding to all of his noises as you desperately try and savor the moment.

Steve sounds completely wrecked as he breathes out a needy, “Yeah.”

By the time you pull away, your mouth is swollen to a pout—pretty like a rose, he thought. Steve’s pupils look blown, his chest rising and falling, craving to once again eliminate the space between you.

“Okay,” you nod, your voice coming out breathier than usual with a smile teasing him for what’s to come.

You don’t remember the last time you felt this kind of rush. Your heart was colliding against your ribs, a slight sweat reaching your palms as you hurriedly reached for the car’s door handle.

Steve’s own eagerness following your lead without hesitation as he chased you from the driveway up to your door, the rain hardly noticeable anymore despite it drenching you both again.

Barely past your front door, he’s reached for you again already. His hand, normally so warm and comforting, had turned cold from the rainwater that rinsed his skin and found itself entangled in your equally damp hair in another dizzying kiss.

His wet curls are pressed against your forehead, hardly noticing the rogue raindrops that trickle down your skin. You sigh into his kiss once more, muffling a broken cry in the slightest against his plush lips when his fingers tug at your scrunchie, seamlessly sliding it from your hair and onto his wrist in one quick motion before his grip can tighten near the roots of your hair again—earning another mewl from your throat that sends him over the edge, a low groan emitting from the deepest part of his chest while he’s pressing his center against yours as you cling onto his shoulders for support.

“Steve,” you plead, but his tongue carefully delves past your parted lips, massaging against yours, swallowing your needy whimper.

You’ve officially reached your limit of patience. You’re desperate to have more of him, to feel him without limitations.

Despite your stumbling between stolen kisses, you still manage to guide both of your soaked bodies towards your parent’s bedroom with a firm grip around his wrist, leading him into the dimly lit master bathroom.

Steve pulls from your entangled kiss and searches your eyes for a moment and something passes between the two of you—unspoken but the air had shifted into something thicker, heavier with meaning. You can audibly hear his rough swallow, his tongue you can now memorize the taste of is swiping across his bottom lip with nerves.

“Should we, uhm—?” His throat suddenly dry. He didn’t finish his question, but he didn’t have to, you knew what he was going to ask. It was the first time Steve sounded nervous around you and the blood rushed to your ears, stomach fluttering again in excitement hearing him sound like he wasn’t in charge this time.

Steve considers himself to be well-versed in being a girl's first. While he suspects you’re not a virgin, as far as he knows, this still felt out of his comfort zone. Seeing you like this, needing you in a way that almost feels primitive compared to how you deserve something more emotional, stable… he starts to doubt himself.

He's always found bubbly, bold girls to explore with, deliberately choosing girls who are capable of separating sex from feelings or at least ones who he would date briefly who knew when to accept his distance as a shortcut answer to eventually not speaking again. You weren’t one of those girls, you pitied yourself for it, but Steve was intimidated by it. You were different—this was different. Steve was usually unwilling to entangle himself in something as fragile as this. This trembling he hadn’t felt since he was a virgin himself, charged energy of his own personal restraint as well as with his burning desire for more.

Seeing Steve, normally so regal and strong like a lion, look so nervous had oddly put you at ease. Your hand that had gripped his wrist falls to his hand instead, a tender squeeze of encouragement before turning on the shower faucet.

The sound makes his posture stiffen, increasingly looking more unsure until your eyes meet his again. A mix between gaining his composure as well as confidence surges through his veins as his fingertips go to reach for the skin of your hip.

You take the lead, crossing your arms over your torso to bravely lift the edges of your damp polo over your head. The ends of your hair are still cold enough to raise goosebumps on your skin that are instantly relieved by the touch of Steve’s returning warmth in his calloused and curious palms.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes out so quietly that you almost miss it over the sound of running water. The sight of you being this bare makes his breathing falter. He reciprocates almost immediately, throwing his soaked hoodie to the tiled floors and you’re overwhelmed by his tanned skin, his broad shoulders, and the dark hair curling in a mat on his chest that leaves a trail down his stomach and into his sweatpants that are hardly disguising his excitement. With your heartbeat in your throat, you try to ignore the heat that burns on your cheeks as his fingertips explore your skin once more—his thumb tracing the underwire of your bra before his palm can rest over the mound of your breast, giving the most gentle squeeze as he matches the tenderness of his kiss.

There’s a bolt of pleasure from his carefulness that invokes another desperate cry from your lips. Steve’s movements slow before he pulls away completely, his pupils dilated and breathing haggard. He knew you could turn back now and continue as you were, but it’s not what he wanted and he prayed you felt the same. Something shifts in the dark depths of his eyes before he’s nodding, granting you permission to explore him just as you craved.

Your own prying hands tug on the hem of his sweatpants, shrugging them off his hips with ease and springing him free. You moan together in response and your kiss turns open-mouthed, heated pools of each other’s breath fanning against your skin.

A few more items of clothing are shed and even thrown over the shower’s frosted glass doors as you stumble inside to be engulfed by the hot water together. Clouds of steam envelop your bodies that press together to share the warmth, his mouth leaving a trail of sloppy kisses starting at the corner of your lips, sponging against the hollow of your throat; his tongue lapping the sweet spot of where your pulse races and you wonder if he can taste your adrenaline.

Your back collides with the colder shower tile for balance, fingers tangling themselves in his dripping curls and giving a slight tug as his kisses make their way down to your chest. The hot water beads against his muscular back, his grip on your hips could leave bruises with how determined he was to ironically remain gentle.

Steve’s mouth feels like ecstasy, his tongue swirling and lips sucking until your bud comes to a stiffened point in his mouth. His teeth graze your swollen nipple and you emit a sharp gasp that he swallows instantaneously in another kiss.

His hands that had been so deliberately holding you in place started to explore shamelessly and it felt so human to be touched like this. Steve’s nose pressing against your cheek as the kiss deepened, your back arching away from the cold tile and against his torso, the hot spray of the shower barely reaching your skin as Steve, who feels even warmer somehow, fully envelops you in his arms.

With ease, he spins you by your hips gracefully and your back fully presses into his front, he whispers a “Jesus” on impact in an octave lower than you’re used to hearing. Your spit feels thick to swallow upon feeling his erection against the small of your back, but Steve is reaching in front of you for the body wash.

Your eyes widen in surprise as you watch the soap lather between his palms before he starts smoothing it over your soft skin, his nose nudging the side of your head to relax back against his chest while he bathes the cold rainwater from your body. The steam carries the smell of lavender and musk from the soap as his hands find your breasts again, lathering a blanket of bubbles over your chest and stomach. Steve has a knowing smirk as your head feels heavier against his shoulder when his fingers graze the top of your thighs, closer to where you crave to feel him the most.

Your ex was always focused on his own enjoyment, something you thought was mandatory in foreplay. How naive, you think, as Steve hasn’t guided your hands anywhere but allowed you to simply anchor yourself to his strong shoulders for support.

Steve’s chuckle is warm near your ear, listening to your weak sounds from his expert touch.

“Shut up,” you can hardly breathe out with a clenched chest, making his amusement more apparent in another louder humming kind of chuckle.

“Does it feel good?” his lips trace the shell of your ear, pressing another kiss to the soft skin below, taking advantage of your exposed neck craned over his shoulder like this.

Pathetically, you nod, clearly not able to speak. Your teeth press into your lower lip to contain more of your noises as his hand massages soap lower, lathering the curls between your wobbly legs. The soap cascades down the curves of your body that Steve’s hands massage over.

“Steve,” you say his name like a prayer and it invites his longest finger to explore between your folds, both of you groaning in response.

He goes for another innocent touch with a second finger, circling with a precision that is nearly bringing you to nirvana. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” his voice hoarse and scratched.

Your eyes are almost in the back of your head while his movements haven’t slowed in the slightest, a breathy laugh escapes you, “Well, we are in the shower, aren’t we?”

Steve’s teeth knick your throat as punishment for your smart mouth, making you gasp as he laughs lowly, always amused with you.

“Relax,” he murmurs by your ear again before he’s pressing another one, two, six kisses along your neck. It takes so little effort on your part—just the dizzy, relieved decision to give in as you feel his arm snake around the front your waist to hold you in place, encouraging your arm to drape behind his neck behind you for better anchoring, your other hand finding comfort in clutching his forearm pressed to your middle.

His fingers continued to circle, alternating pressures before he’s carefully plunging his finger inside you. The sensation is almost too much, your body jerking in response as his middle knuckle disappears inside before easily—so easily—sliding back out and in once more. Your body responds to his touch, gripping the arm that’s working you, pressing your ass more against his swollen erection, making him hiss.

It’s an adjustment for his second finger to be added, but he’s patient with brows knitted together in concentration, panting against your wet skin, and focused entirely on understanding how you like to be touched. You’re grateful for the shower’s stream being loud enough to drown out the obscene sounds of your increasing wetness, but there’s no mercy for your moans.

As his pace quickens, you start quivering, your breathing turning into a strained gasp. Your hand tightens on the nape of his neck, gripping tight until he growls, grinding himself against your ass for his own relief. His thumb dares to sweep over your swollen clit, tightening your grip on his forearm enough that you can feel his tendons flexing as he works you. Steve’s fingers crook up and press the sponge of your inner walls that start to tremor and he starts saying your name with such a pleading tone that you could come undone right there.

Steve knows you’re close, ignoring how the water has basically run tepid with his skin burning as hot as it is. His mouth is on yours again, filthier and clumsier than before as his tongue slides across and against yours until you’re whimpering his name into his open mouth. The arm he had fastened around your waist slides up, cupping your breast again, rolling your nipple between his fingertips with a firmness you weren’t used to—almost bruising with the pinch, the tug, but your toes are curling and you’re starting to see stars.

“Steve, I’m…” you breathe out weakly, feeling him fill you again with his fingers. The treason snaps, a strained whine escapes before you’re fully shaking under his grip.

“That’s it, I got you,” he encourages as he rocks you through wave, after wave, after wave. Steve’s hot mouth and tongue mark your neck and his teeth find your shoulder, biting down on your skin, holding you through your pleasure until you’re gasping for air and your cries echo off the bathroom tile.

His own heated, breathless chuckle against your skin afterwards should make you feel embarrassed, but he didn’t sound smug, just utterly amazed by you.

Your legs are so shaky, you don’t trust yourself to stand without his arms around you. Steve spins you around to face him again and you sigh into another one of his hypnotizing kisses.

This time, you twine your arms around his neck, his erection poking your stomach in a way that sends feelings of aftershock down to your core. The tip of his tongue traces your lower lip and finds your apple-sweet taste, his deep moan vibrates against your lips. Steve says your name again, sending goosebumps up the back of your arms. His face is completely flushed and beautiful when he pulls back—his lips all red and swollen, your favorite rogue curl has escaped the rest of the hair that remained slicked back from the shower stream.

Without words, you turn off the faucet, keeping your eyes trained on his the entire time and allowing the tension between you to build thicker, impenetrable.

“Do you…” you start to say, briefly glancing between your dripping bodies to see his leaking erection and a sly smirk grows, “want to—“

“Yes,” Steve answers quickly, obediently. His eyes are intense and dark, his pupils seem dilated and his hunger wasn’t sufficed.

You’re struggling to keep your composure and not reveal a huge shit-eating grin, knowing you’re capable of making the King Steve buckle like this.

“Okay,” you whisper, briefly giving him a chaste kiss before grabbing towels and feeling his eyes trained on you the entire time.

A sense of confidence came with the control transferring into your favor. It felt empowering to feel a man like Steve follow you up the stairs to your bedroom as silently and loyally as a shadow. You bit your bottom lip to contain your bliss knowing your plan worked.

It sounds manipulative to say out loud, but your chest ached so deeply, to the point of hollowness, thinking about how long you would go without seeing him—maybe ever again. You’re not naive enough to think you actually matter, to think he won’t see this as just one last Hawkins Hoorah before he gets to fuck off to paradise for three months.

Though, it feels like a high when his hands are on your hips again once he clicks your bedroom door closed. Steve’s eye catch something familiar thrown over your desk chair, the heather gray crewneck of his from that night. He twitches beneath the towel around his waist remembering that night; how you looked with it on and how he imagined you the nights following while he stroked himself, thinking of you wearing only his stupid athletic sweatshirt and sprawled on his bed like that. His temperature starts rising as reality settles in, knowing he’s alone with you at last, without interruption or technicalities like a douchebag boyfriend.

Steve clears his throat for your attention with arched brows of amusement, a finger hooking the sleeve of the sweatshirt. When you spin around, your face immediately flushes with embarrassment.

“Oh, I—“ you stutter, a hand nervously tucking hair behind your ear. “Uhm.”

The glint in his eye sparkles, there’s a cockiness to him without saying anything at all. Steve’s delighted watching you stir like this, shifting on your feet like you have two left’s before your knees hit the back of your mattress, springs creak with your less than graceful plop. His forefinger and thumb find his bottom lip as he contains his smirk, approaching slowly like he’s careful to not scare off a rabbit.

Steve could be so intimidating without trying, though. Especially as he towers over you like this, being eye level with the happy trail that cascades into the towel. You swallow your nerves—maybe your lust, you don’t know anymore—and sit up more confidently, allowing the towel you clutched to your chest to be released, slowly undoing itself as it slides down your exposed skin. Steve’s lowering himself by the edge of your mattress like he’s about to pray.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, his damp hair brushes your inner thighs. Your breath hitches from the sudden cold droplets of water against your skin mixed with his warm breath fanning over you. You think he’s going to crawl on top of you, but he only sinks himself lower.

When his tongue licks your entrance, you nearly yelp loud enough that your neighbors should hear. Instead, your stomach caves in as you gasp, the feeling of his hot tongue sliding between you as easily as his fingers did in the shower.

“Oh— oh, my God—“ you stammer, roughly grabbing onto his hair from the root, tugging him closer until he’s burying his tongue in you.

Steve moans against you, his nose bumping your clit at the same time the stubble on his chin scratches against your most delicate skin, sending a sharp jolt through you. His lashes flutter shut as he tastes you, brows pinched together in concentration while his tongue swipes and glides to collect the honey dripping out of your center.

He leans back to sit on his heels, breathlessly admiring the sight of you while you almost sob from missing his mouth already. Your hands clenched at the blankets below you as one finger, then two, enters you at the same time his lips wrap around your clit with practiced precision.

You cry out in a way that makes him nearly leak on your duvet. “You’re so pretty,” Steve mumbles, shaking his head in disbelief, your wetness covering his chin.

The sight would normally embarrass you, but you’re so desperate to feel him as closely as possible that both of you make a noise of surprise at how quickly you’re forcefully grabbing his head to smash your lips against his, tasting yourself off his tongue.

“Fuck,” his voice breaks, muffled by your tongue sliding along his. You’ve never been more bold, reaching between the both of you to return how good he makes you feel, to feel the weight of him in your palm and Jesus, he was heavy.

Steve whispers your name on a shaky exhale as your fingers wrap around him, slowly pumping with the slick you’ve stolen from his swollen tip. He feels like warm velvet, throbbing in your palm. His pretty pouty lips are parted, panting unevenly as his nose nudges your cheekbone. Hot, wet breaths spill onto your neck, a wave of goosebumps erupt across your skin.

Steve can’t help himself, he thrusts into your hand out of desperation, hips sputtering while your pace quickens and your wrist is twisting in a tighter squeeze like he clearly wanted. His position changes to press his forehead against yours, lashes brushing his cheekbones while he remains slack-jawed over your touch.

Another strained whine erupts from his throat before he dives in for another deep kiss to which you eagerly lick at his tongue; his balance nearly faltering on top of you before he steadied himself, leaning you back fully against the bed, with his hands on either side of your head while yours remained in a tight curled fist that he thrusted into.

Steve wants to know how you learned to kiss like that, who taught you how to pull and twist on him like this, but his eyes are so transfixed on how you look with your hair spilled on the blankets when its not pulled tight in that ponytail for work and your lips so bitten and flushed. Something pricks in his chest that catches him off guard.

“Hey, uh, if this is—“ he’s not whispering, but it feels like it with how tenderly he’s talking to you. Your heart thuds heavily against your ribs as his hair tickles your forehead, still hovering above you with permission. You started feeling shy under his gaze, so you quickly wrap your arms around his neck again to stop him looking at you so sweetly.

“Steve,” you interrupt him, lips catching his in another kiss. You feel his muscles relax as his body lowers itself completely, his tongue delving deeper into your mouth while rolling his hips down onto yours.

Your ankles instinctively lock, pressing into his lower back. Steve’s lips brush your nose before he pushes himself against you, looking down at you like you hung the sun in the sky. You have an ache inside you so deep and desperate, your nails are digging into his shoulders before he gives another roll forward, aligning himself before he slowly presses himself forward.

Steve made a drawn out grunt, low and patient, like he was settling in. The stretch is a shock at first, not that it should be a surprise after the rumors you heard, but it was easily turned to pleasure as soon as he started moving his hips. He says your name again, your eyes that had squeezed shut then fluttering open to look at him longingly and he almost loses control right there.

“You…” your voice is strained, he presses an encouraging kiss by the corner of your mouth until you’re mumbling into a kiss, “Steve, you feel so good.”

His thrusts lose their tempo, jerking at your praise. He’s buries himself in the crook of your neck as his movements pick up speed, a raw soreness to your body stretching to accompany the full length of him, but the initial sting is covered by the waves of pleasure shooting through you.

As Steve got more comfortable, he’d pull himself almost fully out just to slide back inside you with ease until you felt fully adjusted. You moan so pretty for him, spreading your thighs as wide as you can so he can somehow be deeper inside you, completely swallowing him whole.

He’s shaking his head again incredulously, in complete shock this is real life as he slides a hand under the back of your neck, cradling you into another earth shattering kiss. Your lips wrap around his tongue, a slow deliberate bobbing that makes him twitch inside you before he’s growling into the kiss.

“Jesus,” he groans, corkscrewing his hips into you. The sounds are vile, wet slapping but you don’t care. You briefly catch his fingertips graze his tongue before they’re applying pressure to your clit again, perfect circles mixed with rhythmic thrusts that make you see stars.

You’re nearly choking for the air he’s breathing into your kiss, your body quivering beneath his. He cups your breast in one of his large hands, greedily kneading and squeezing for his own pleasure but it’s bringing you closer to the edge.

“I’m close,” Steve confesses in a voice so deep that you wouldn’t have guessed it was his if your eyes didn’t witness him say it. You lift your knee in any attempt to let him be inside you deeper, his palm finds the backside of your thigh as he pushes himself up taller, cockier, snapping his hips in a way that reminds you who he is. Your knee is almost against your shoulder with how he has you.

“Come on,” you encourage him, your hand finding his chest, running your fingers through the patch of hair there and letting your nails drag down his skin, feeling the muscles in his stomach flex as your nails only get lower.

A sudden surge of his hips makes you cry, somewhere between alarm and delight, because it feels like when a bruise hurts in a way that weirdly hits the spot. The bundle of nerves stirring enough that makes your legs shake, he holds you steady hooking his bicep to press into the underside of your calf muscle.

Steve’s eyes are intense, his head hung low while his curls, now more wild and unruly from your copious grips and tangling, continued to brush your skin with each thrust. The muscles on his back begin to quiver, shuddering with a deep groan as his jaw hangs open for you to bite at and kiss while he twitches inside of you.

He stills briefly before collapsing on top of you, then rolling onto his back to lay beside you; the two of you panting together while staring at your popcorn ceiling. Your bedroom fan spinning fills the sudden silence and brings immediate relief to your sweaty bodies.

You dare to turn your head towards him first, his attention pulled to you the moment you do, and a very slow, warm grin like a sunrise spreads across his lips. You’re relieved to be actually flushed so he wouldn’t notice how much your cheeks were burning.

Something about seeing Steve look so spent and out of breath, smiling at you like that, you could feel a familiar fluttering between your legs. You can actually see the red in his cheeks, the sweat on his hairline. He looks so pretty, you could cry.

Your bed creaks as Steve starts to sit up at the edge of the bed carefully before his hand finds your bare thigh with a soft pat of gratitude, making your body instantly jump from his touch. He chuckles at your sensitivity, admiring his view until you got too shy. In one swift movement, you had rolled over on your side to face oppositely from him, hiding your chest from his sight hurriedly to throw the infamous crewneck over your naked body.

Steve rolls his eyes and makes a tsk sound from behind you that makes you nervous. “That only makes it harder for me to resist, you know…” his voice coos by your ear before you shift to face him once more, immediately reminded of how gorgeous and naked he was.

He catches your upper lip between his own for one last lingering kiss, his thumb and forefinger firmly holding your jaw in place contrasting with the soft and languid movements of his lips. You could melt into him all over again—forever maybe, if he’d let you, but he’s already pulling away as soon as you start to fade.

Your eyelids heavy and brain in a fog feels like time is slowing as he starts to stand, finding his now dry clothes you nearly threw on your bedroom floor when you finally got to lead him upstairs. Your heart kind of aches to see him leave, even after all of that, as if that was supposed to magically keep him in your room for the next three months instead of Florida.

“I hope you have a good time with your uncle,” you squeak out, your throat still kind of hoarse. He’s fixing his hood around his neck again before looking down at you, standing between your legs—still spread for him.

Steve’s lopsided smirk has never been more relaxed, his large hands cup your cheeks for an innocent forehead kiss before he’s telling you goodbye.

“I’ll call you,” he says like a promise, so sincere that you felt sick. It’s mind numbing to have your brain immediately assume he’s ended every hookup like this just to lie to their faces and never see them again—like you got the old fashioned bait and switch. Regardless, you nod silently, ignoring the tight feeling in your throat and even more noticeable ache in your core.

You’re shimming on a pair of cotton briefs right as Steve finds your Polaroid on your desk. He catches a moment where you’re sat so pretty with your thighs pressed together and the sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—is just long enough to conceal you. You yelp in surprise at the sound of the camera’s flash before the pitched humming of its printing. Even if Steve had seen parts of your body that the sun itself had not seen, that moment still felt more intimate than anything else.

You’re frozen still as he’s grabbing a marker from the cup of disorganized pens that you had on your desk, extending it out to you along with the Polaroid.

“M’serious, write your number,” his crooked smile bewitching you in your fragile state while your heart tries to regulate its beating. You watched as he made sure the ink was dry before he was insane enough to put it in his wallet. Steve was so good at this. Effortlessly charming, but infuriatingly difficult to read.

“Cool,” he says, like always.

You force a smile you disguise as happily sleepy, though not quite able to reach your eyes.

“Cool,” you mimic back.

You see the flash of his smile one more time before he disappears behind your front door. You linger at your locks for a moment, hesitating on if you should swing your door back open and beg him to stay, at least for tonight, but you don’t because it’s not what he wants and it’s not going to keep him from leaving anyways; that much is clear.

The sound of his metal door clanging closed makes your head snap up before you’re bolting up your stairs in a haste, bare feet thundering up each step until you’re at your bedroom window, eyes narrowing in on your driveway.

As if on cue, Steve looks up from his window and salutes you with a small wave. You wiggle your fingers back and stare longingly as the BMW loudly roared out of your driveway. You’re unable to look away until the glow from his headlights on the slick road had disappeared, leaving you alone in your bedroom where the smell of him still lingered on your sheets and skin.

In denial and in the paranoia of having to savor everything, you silently crawl back into your bed, ignoring the towels you’ve let fall to the floor and any other trace of Steve to be left perfectly untouched. You can’t bring yourself to wash the taste of his kiss from your tongue, much less shower him off you. Your body was finally catching up with you as soon as your head was cradled by your pillow. The glow of your bedside lamp is flicked off before you’re sinking into your mattress, inhaling the fistful of sheets that clung to his scent. You had brought them to your chest to comfortingly hold close, hoping to at least have a chance at pretending he was still there.

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