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☆ who i write for: rafe cameron & steve harrington (i may add more in the future, however as of now my stories pertain to them)
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☆ all of my writing is female!reader unless stated otherwise.
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↳ 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.
summary: you and steve have been sneaking around for months now behind your boyfriend's back. it became a routine — him sneaking in through your window. spending the night doing things that you couldn't speak of. until tonight, it's different. your boyfriend calls while he's there, and something shifts within steve.
warnings: some smut, infidelity, suggestive themes, angst, not proof read, idk what else
author's note: this is my first time writing for stranger things, however i plan to keep doing so in the future so bare with me pls. i also haven't wrote in ages so my apologies if im a little rusty rn #pain (and yes, there will be a part 2 before anyone asks)
it was 10:29 pm when steve finally made it through your window, the screen whispering in protest as he climbed inside. he didn’t land gracefully. his foot caught, his shoulder bumped the frame, and your vanity paid the price—your succulent tipped first, then a soft clatter of glass and trinkets followed, too loud in the quiet of your room.
“shh,” you breathe, already moving toward him, hands instinctively reaching out to steady his arms. your voice is barely there. “my parents are here.”
he freezes at that, eyes flicking to your door like it might suddenly swing open. his hands hover awkwardly at your waist, unsure if he’s allowed to touch you yet. then he winces, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth as he crouches to pick things up. “sorry,” he mouths, even quieter than you were, the word shaped more than spoken.
you kneel beside him, helping gather the mess, your knees brushing his. the air feels thick now, charged in that way it only ever does when he’s this close and he shouldn’t be. his cologne, something warm and familiar, mixes with the clean scent of your sheets, and for a moment you forget why you’re whispering at all.
“you’re bleeding,” you murmur, noticing the scrape along his knuckles.
he shrugs like it’s nothing, but he lets you take his hand anyway. “worth it,” he says softly, eyes lifting to yours. there’s something in his gaze, apologetic, earnest, a little dangerous, that makes your stomach twist.
you guide him to sit on the edge of your bed, careful, deliberate. every sound feels amplified: the creak of the mattress, the faint hum of the house settling, the way he exhales when you dab at his skin with a tissue. your fingers linger longer than necessary, tracing the line of his hand, and you feel him tense beneath your touch.
“you’re really not supposed to be here,” you whisper, though there’s no conviction in it.
steve smiles again, slower this time. “yeah,” he says, voice low, steady. “but i couldn’t stay away.”
the words settle between you, heavy and sweet. your parents are down the hall, the clock keeps ticking, and still neither of you moves away. instead, he leans in just enough for you to feel his warmth, his presence pressing into your space like a secret you’re both keeping. you swallow, heart racing, and let your thumb brush once more over his knuckles; gentle, intimate, reckless. outside, the world is quiet.
steve takes in every inch of you like he’s afraid the image won’t last. the soft, sweet pull of amber and vanilla drifts toward him, familiar now, intoxicating in a quiet way. your hair spills down your back in a dark, glossy curtain, catching the lamplight as it moves, and his eyes follow it without thinking. your skin looks warm, almost luminous, like the light was meant for you alone, and the silk of your nightgown clings and slips in all the right places, lace tracing delicate lines that make his chest tighten.
he doesn’t touch you yet. he just looks, breathing shallow, like one wrong move might break the moment. his gaze lingers, reverent, hungry in a restrained way, and when his eyes finally meet yours, there’s something unspoken there—want, yes, but also awe. like he can’t believe he’s here, in your room, with you this close, wrapped in candle-soft light and borrowed time.
“you’re gonna get me in trouble,” he murmurs, barely audible, though the way his eyes darken tells a different story.
“so?” you breathe, soft and deliberate, like you’re placing the choice directly in his hands and watching what it does to him. it feels almost playful, the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw tightens like he’s bracing himself. you’ve learned his tells; how easily he falters when you’re this close, how saying his name a certain way makes something give in him. you notice everything.
steve exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers snagging just enough to betray his nerves. he looks at the floor for a second, then back at you, like he’s weighing consequences he already knows he’ll ignore. “so,” he murmurs, voice low, strained, “your boyfriend would probably kill me if he knew i stepped foot in here.”
the words hang between you, heavy, complicated. you tilt your head, studying him, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. his eyes flick to your lips without permission, then away again, like he’s scolding himself.
“probably,” you agree quietly.
the admission makes his laugh come out breathless, humorless. “yeah,” he says. “that’s kinda what i thought.”
still, he doesn’t move back. if anything, he gets closer, just enough that you can feel the heat of him, just enough that your perfume clings to his clothes. his hand drops to his side, fingers flexing like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you. his voice lowers, almost reverent. “you don’t make this easy.”
you meet his gaze, steady, unflinching. “i never said i would.”
for a moment, everything is suspended: the quiet house, the closed door, the rules he’s breaking just by being here. steve swallows, eyes dark, and whatever decision he’s been trying to talk himself out of seems to settle in his chest, inevitable and dangerous, as he leans in just a fraction closer.
“you…” he starts, then stops himself, like the word alone is too heavy to finish. another slow, tortured sigh slips from him as his eyes betray him—leaving yours, drifting to your lips, lingering there before trailing lower, stopping just where the silk of your nightgown rises and falls with your breath. “are going to be the death of me,” he admits quietly.
it’s not just the words. it’s the way his shoulders slump, like surrender. the way his hands curl at his sides, knuckles tight, aching with restraint. you can feel it on him; the wanting, the fear threaded through it. like you’re something holy, something fragile, and he’s terrified that one wrong move will ruin you.
his gaze softens, almost reverent. “i shouldn’t,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
you take another step closer, close enough now that his breath ghosts over your cheek, warm and unsteady. “just do it, harrington,” you whisper, your voice gentle but sure, an invitation wrapped in a dare.
that does it.
something in steve breaks, quiet but decisive. his hand lifts slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to, but you don’t. his fingers brush your arm first, barely there, like he’s testing reality. your skin is warm beneath his touch, softer than he imagined, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
“God,” he breathes.
his hand settles more fully then, thumb tracing a careful line along your arm, memorizing you. the house stays silent, the clock keeps ticking, and still the moment stretches, fragile and electric. when he leans in, it’s unhurried, intentional, his forehead resting against yours as if he’s grounding himself.
his voice drops to a whisper. “tell me to stop.”
you don’t.
instead, your fingers creep up the back of his neck, slow and intentional, combing through his thick brown hair. you feel the way he reacts instantly, his breath stutters, his shoulders loosen, as if you’ve given him permission he’s been aching for. you coax him closer without words, and steve lets himself follow.
he lowers his head, hesitant only for a heartbeat, until his lips find the gentle curve of your neck. he doesn’t rush it. his mouth hovers there first, barely brushing your skin, breathing you in like he wants to memorize the warmth, the familiar sweetness of you. then he kisses you; soft, reverent, right over the place that makes you shiver.
each kiss is unhurried, deliberate, full of a quiet hunger he’s been holding back for far too long. it feels less like impulse and more like devotion, like this is something he’s imagined in stolen moments and never thought he’d actually get. his hand settles at your waist, grounding but careful, thumb pressing lightly as if to remind himself you’re real.
you tilt your head just enough to give him better access, and he exhales against your skin, a sound that feels almost relieved. the house remains still around you, time stretching thin, and steve kisses you again and again like he’s waited centuries for this exact moment, and now that he has it, he’s afraid to let it slip away.
his free hand glides up the side of your thigh, slow and intentional, the silk of your nightgown whispering beneath his fingers. it rides up just enough to make you aware of it, to make your breath catch, and then he stops. leaves his hand there. close enough to feel dangerous, restrained enough to make it ache.
your body responds before your mind can stop it, arching subtly toward him, asking without words. but steve doesn’t give in. his hand doesn’t move an inch. instead, he keeps kissing your neck, unhurried, maddeningly slow, like he knows exactly what it’s doing to you.
“steve,” you warn, though your voice betrays you—soft, breathless, not nearly as stern as you want it to sound.
he hums quietly against your skin, a low sound that feels like a smile. “i know,” he murmurs, lips brushing the pulse at your throat. he lingers there, just enough to make your knees weak, then presses another slow kiss, deliberate, controlled.
it’s a game, and you both know it. the waiting. the restraint. the way he holds himself back even when everything in him wants more. his hand stays exactly where it is, fingers flexing once like it costs him something, while his mouth continues its slow exploration, teasing, patient.
“don’t rush,” he whispers, voice low, almost a confession, almost a promise. and somehow, those words make it impossible to breathe, heavier than anything else he’s done tonight.
you shiver under him, a delicious mix of anticipation and impatience curling through your chest. his lips linger on your neck, each kiss deliberate, a slow, teasing dance that leaves a trail of heat across your skin. the silk of your nightgown shifts under his fingers, whispering against your thighs, a sound so soft it feels like a secret meant only for him.
his hand is patient, yet authoritative in its restraint, holding just enough pressure to remind you he’s here, tangible and alive, while simultaneously promising he could unravel you completely if he chose. you feel the subtle tension in his muscles, the quiet hum of control that radiates from him; he is holding back, but every inch of him radiates want.
he tilts his head, brushing his lips against your collarbone, inhaling the scent of you as if memorizing it. the faint tremor in his hands betrays him, though his eyes remain steady, dark pools fixed on your face, reading you with a precision that makes your chest tighten. his gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes, as though silently weighing every thought you haven’t spoken.
you arch slightly toward him, the movement instinctual, asking without words for him to bridge the space, and he responds, not by taking, but by heightening the intensity of the moment. his lips press gentle, reverent trails across your skin, each kiss like a soft punctuation in a sentence written only for the two of you. the warmth of his breath contrasts the cool air of your room, mingling with the faint scent of amber and vanilla that clings to him, intoxicating and grounded all at once.
“every time i look at you,” he murmurs, voice low, hoarse with restrained desire, “it’s like i forget everything else exists.” his words are soft, but they carry weight, a confession hidden behind the sensual cadence of his mouth against your skin.
you feel his fingers shift slightly, just enough to trace a path along your thigh, gliding under the fabric with the faintest pressure. the silk slips, teasing the curve of your leg, and you inhale sharply, a breath caught between protest and surrender. his thumb grazes the edge of your hipbone, memorizing the line of your body like a map, while his lips return to the hollow of your neck, pressing, tasting, claiming, but still, carefully, reverently.
“steve,” you whisper, voice trembling, almost a plea. your fingers weave through the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging gently, guiding, coaxing. his eyes lift, meeting yours with an intensity that pins you in place, and you feel the heat in his gaze, slow and deliberate, the kind that makes your pulse hammer like a drum in a dark, quiet room.
he pauses only a fraction, forehead resting against yours, breathing mingling with yours. the restraint in his hands, the slow, patient exploration of your skin, the careful way he tastes your warmth; it all feels like a promise. a promise that he could take everything, but he chooses instead to linger, to savor, to make every second stretch into infinity.
his lips brush over your jawline now, slow, deliberate, tracing lines as if he’s sketching you into memory. the tip of his nose grazes your cheek, a feather-light touch that sends a shiver down your spine. his hand shifts again, tracing the hollow behind your knee, just enough to make your legs quake beneath him.
“i could stay here forever,” he murmurs, voice thick, low, almost reverent. “just like this. just you and me.”
you tilt your head, letting his words sink in, feeling the heat of his body pressed just close enough to make your heart race. his gaze is anchored to yours, a tether you don’t want to break. you let your hand rest over his, guiding, teasing, letting him feel the permission without saying it.
“steve,” you breathe again, but this time there’s a firmness underneath, a subtle command threaded with need, your voice soft yet insistent. “steve,” you whisper, calling for him, silently pleading, though there’s little strength left in your words.
“hm?” he hums, lifting his eyes to meet yours, sincerity written in the slow curve of his jaw, the tilt of his head.
“i… this… i don’t know,” you murmur, frustration and gentle hesitation threading through every word. your fingers comb through your hair, restless, tugging lightly at the strands as if trying to anchor yourself in this impossible moment. “i don’t feel right about this. i mean—this is wrong, isn’t it?”
you shift slightly, drawing the soft fabric of your nightgown around your legs, trying to make yourself feel grounded while your body hums with awareness of him. you perch on the back of your calves, hands resting shakily in your lap, shoulders curved slightly inward as if bracing against something.
he laughs then, quiet, humorless, caught off guard by your words, and the sound sends a shiver down your spine. “what’re you talking about, y/n?” he asks, eyes dark and searching, voice low, almost reverent, the kind of sound that threads through the quiet of your room like silk.
you hesitate, caught between the heat of him and the rational thoughts clawing for space in your mind. your fingers twist through your hair again, a subtle, nervous rhythm, and your gaze drops to the floor for a heartbeat before flicking back to him.
“this… us,” you whisper, voice soft, fragile, tremors woven into each syllable, “i don’t know if i should let this happen anymore.”
steve stares at you, eyes dark, intense, confusion flickering across his features like a shadow passing over a sunlit room. every word you speak seems to hit him in the chest, leaving a hollow ache behind his ribs. his mouth parts slightly, a humorless chuckle escaping, dry and unsteady, almost disbelieving. he shakes his head slowly, as if trying to process something that shouldn’t exist.
“i don’t get it,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with frustration and something sharper; pain. his gaze holds yours, searching, questioning, almost desperate. “why are you telling me this now… all of a sudden?”
you watch him, your own chest tightening as you feel the vulnerability there; the way his jaw flexes, the way his dark eyes shimmer with emotion he doesn’t want to name. his glance flicks to your lips for a heartbeat, then back to your eyes, like he’s trying to find a lifeline in your gaze.
“because of chase,” you say quietly, the name sitting uncomfortably on your tongue. “y’know… i think we’re getting pretty serious and i—”
you don’t get to finish.
steve lets out a short, incredulous laugh, sharp and humorless, but carrying that dangerous edge that always makes your stomach twist. his head tilts, eyes narrowing slightly, disbelief flashing hot and fast across his face before dark amusement settles in.
“you mean…” he murmurs, low, deliberate, voice laced with disbelief and something darker, “before or after the fact that i’ve been fucking you for months straight?”
the words land like a slap, blunt and unflinching. the air between you thickens, almost crackling with the weight of his gaze, dark and fixed on you, searching, hungry, amused all at once. he leans back just enough to brush the tips of his fingers along the edge of the bed, tracing invisible lines like he’s marking territory, daring you to argue.
“chase?” he snorts, laughter soft but sharp, derisive. “you’re seriously worried about him? the guy who gets you a promise ring and thinks that makes him… what? better than me?” his lips twitch, a crooked, dangerous smile forming. “please, y/n. he’s a joke. a nice enough little placeholder, maybe, but do you really feel it with him? do you feel alive like this? like this,” he murmurs, his hand brushing along the curve of your thigh, not yet bold, but precise, testing, teasing.
you flush at the contact, trying to focus, trying to pull your thoughts together, but his eyes hold you, unrelenting, and you can feel the quiet, intense pull of him; the way he knows exactly how to make you forget the world outside this room.
“look at me, y/n,” he murmurs, voice low, almost a growl, and you can’t resist. your eyes meet his, and it’s like he’s looking straight through the polite, careful version of yourself that chase sees, to the part of you that craves danger, thrill, that aches in ways your boyfriend never touches. “he doesn’t know you,” steve says, fingers ghosting up your leg, the silk of your nightgown whispering under his touch. “he doesn’t know how you want to be touched, how you want to be felt, how you… want to feel him.”
the words are deliberate, a slow burn that makes your chest tighten, makes your stomach flip, makes your pulse hammer in rhythm with the quiet power of him. he leans closer, the heat of his body pressing into yours, eyes dark, dangerous, watching for the flicker in your expression. “but i do. i know you, y/n. every curve, every shiver, every quiet moan you’ve been trying to hide… i’ve felt it. i’ve made you feel it.”
his hand drifts higher, brushing the fabric against your hipbone, slow, teasing, intimate, and you catch your breath. your tongue catches behind your teeth, wanting to deny it, wanting to push back, but the truth burns like wildfire in your chest. chase has never touched you like this. chase has never made you feel like you’re the only thing in the world he wants to memorize, to claim, to worship in quiet, consuming ways.
“so don’t,” he murmurs, voice low, deliberate, “don’t tell me about him. don’t tell me about rings or promises. he’s not me. he’s not what you need, what you crave… what you want.”
you’re trembling now, every nerve alight, every thought of restraint dissolving in the heat of him. his gaze doesn’t waver, and the way he leans in, inches from your face, forehead brushing yours lightly, lips hovering, it’s a challenge wrapped in velvet and fire. he’s daring you to resist, knowing you won’t, knowing that even in guilt and confusion, you feel it—him.
“you want me, don’t you?” he whispers, slow, controlled, a question but not really a question. it hangs between you, electric, a taut line only you can cut, and you can feel it in every brush of his hand, every inhale of his scent, every dark, steady look in his eyes.
he stills the moment you nod. not freezes; just quiets, like the world narrows to that single, fragile motion. his eyes darken, something molten settling there, satisfaction tempered with awe, like he’s just been handed something breakable and sacred all at once.
“yeah,” he murmurs, barely audible, like saying it too loudly might shatter you. his thumb brushes under your chin, gentle this time, coaxing your gaze back to his. “i know.”
the room feels warmer suddenly, or maybe it’s just the way he’s looking at you, like he’s cataloging every breath, every tremor in your lashes, every second you hesitate and choose him anyway. his hand doesn’t rush. it doesn’t take. it just settles at your waist again, grounding, familiar, possessive without being cruel.
“tell me to go and you’ll never see me again,” he murmurs, low, almost a growl, fingers gliding down the small of your back in a teasing, deliberate drag. the sensation is fire against your skin, a trail of heat that makes your chest tighten and your pulse hammer. his voice is soft, quiet, but threaded with danger, like he’s daring you to challenge him.
you look at him, heart thudding, lips parted, utterly stunned. his gaze is sharp, fixed, measuring every twitch of your body, every tremor in your hands. “all you have to do,” he whispers, each word deliberate, “is say the word, and i’ll leave you alone.”
but you don’t speak. you can’t. the words die in your throat, drowned out by the heat of him, the intoxicating brush of his fingers, the pull of his presence that seems to draw you in and hold you captive in ways nothing else ever has.
instead, you act, silent and deliberate. your hand drifts to his free one, guiding it, placing it dangerously close to the sensitive spot between your thighs. the silk of your nightgown is soft beneath his fingers, whispering against skin that already aches for his touch.
he inhales sharply, a low, strangled sound that vibrates against your chest. his control, always so deliberate, falters for a heartbeat. the air between you feels impossibly tight, charged, as if the very molecules of the room are humming with want.
“fuck,” he breathes, voice rough, low, teetering between awe and restraint. his fingers flex where yours have placed them, subtle at first, testing the line, then stilling as the weight of your intent presses against him. he doesn’t pull back. he doesn’t warn. he only looks at you, really looks, like he’s memorizing the curve of your eyes, the quiver of your lips, the way your breath catches against the swell of his chest.
“you’re insane,” he murmurs, voice a mixture of admiration and warning, his forehead leaning down to brush yours, grounding himself, grounding you. his other hand presses firmly into your lower back, anchoring you, keeping you from drifting away while the tension coils tight between you.
and then he waits. slow. deliberate. letting the seconds stretch long, letting your hand speak, letting the heat, the want, the quiet desperation of the moment do the talking. he doesn’t rush. he never does. instead, he lets the tension build, lets every inch of him resonate with the hunger and control, the danger and reverence, until the very air between you hums with it.
"touch me, steve." his breath stutters at the sound of it. not because he didn’t expect it, but because hearing you say it strips away the last thin layer of restraint he was clinging to.
“yeah?” he murmurs, voice low, careful, like he’s making sure this is real. his forehead stays pressed to yours, noses brushing, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles where your body is already aching for him. “you sure?”
it’s almost gentle now, the way he moves, like he’s afraid of startling you, like he wants to feel every second of this choice. his hand slides just enough to make you shiver, touch feather-light but intentional, a promise more than anything else. you feel it everywhere: in your stomach, your chest, the way your knees threaten to give out.
“tell me again,” he whispers, not taunting this time. grounding. steady.
when he finally does touch you again, it’s slow and reverent, like he’s relearning you, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts under his hands. his thumb presses with purpose, his palm warm and sure, and the quiet sound you make against his mouth pulls a low groan from his chest. his other hand comes up to your face, cradling your jaw, grounding you there with him.
“lay back,” he murmurs again, voice low and husky, the kind that doesn’t need to be raised to be obeyed. it isn’t cruel, just certain. steady. and something about it makes your chest flutter instead of recoil.
you don’t argue. you only hold his gaze a moment longer, your big doe eyes searching his face like you’re trying to read what comes next. his expression softens at the sight; at the openness in you, the quiet trust, the way your nerves sit just beneath your skin like a held breath.
“easy,” he whispers, almost to himself.
you move slowly, deliberately, lowering yourself back as if every inch matters. his hand stays at the small of your back the entire time, warm and supportive, guiding rather than forcing, fingers splayed like he’s making sure you don’t fall, even though you’re already on the bed. it feels intimate in a way that has nothing to do with skin.
once you’re settled, he doesn’t rush in. he stays hovering over you, eyes tracing your face, your expression giving everything away: wonder, innocence, that faint thread of nervousness you can’t quite hide. uncertainty lingers in the way your lips part, the way your hands rest unsure at your sides.
he notices. of course he does.
“hey,” he says softly, thumb brushing your cheek, grounding you. “look at me.”
you do. immediately.
his gaze is steady now, warm but intent, like he’s anchoring you to the moment, to him. “you’re okay,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you.”
his body stays close, a careful weight beside you rather than on you, one arm braced as he hovers like he’s holding himself in check. the other hand lingers near you, not quite touching, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it, the promise without the claim. every movement he makes is deliberate, restrained in a way that feels louder than action ever could.
he lowers his head slowly, stopping just shy of you, his breath warm where it brushes your skin. the pause stretches, taut and unbearable, and your breath catches anyway, your chest rising just enough for him to notice. you close your eyes for a second, trying to steady yourself, trying to remember how you’ve done this before; how you’re supposed to feel grounded instead of unmoored.
but this isn’t the same.
when you open your eyes again, he’s watching you, really watching you, like he’s taking inventory of every small reaction. there’s something different in him tonight, something sharper beneath the tenderness, something controlled and hungry but leashed tight. it makes your nerves spark instead of settle.
his hair is perfectly tamed despite the way he keeps running a hand through it, the soft stubble along his jaw catching the light when he tilts his head. his brown eyes are darker up close, steady and intent, and when they meet yours, it feels like gravity shifts.
“hey,” he murmurs quietly, not moving closer, not pulling away. just there. present. “you with me?”
you nod, barely, because words feel too big. too clumsy. your heart is pounding, your thoughts unraveling, and all you can focus on is the way he looks at you like this moment matters, like he won’t cross a line unless you ask him to.
he studies your face first, the way your expression shifts, uncertain, expectant, open, like he’s reading something fragile he doesn’t want to misinterpret. only then does his hand settle just below the swell of your chest, fingertips resting where your ribcage begins, light enough that it feels like a question rather than a claim. his touch barely grazes you, a ghost of pressure, and it sends a quiet shiver through you anyway.
steve leans down slowly, unhurried, giving you time to pull away if you want to. you don’t. his lips press to your sternum in a soft, deliberate kiss, warm and grounding. he lingers, breathing you in, before pressing another kiss just a little lower.
then another.
each one trails downward by mere centimeters, measured and intentional, as if he’s mapping you out, committing every inch to memory. your breath grows uneven despite your efforts, chest rising and falling beneath him, and he notices—of course he does.
when he reaches the space between your chest, he pauses again, forehead resting briefly against you, his hand still steady at your ribs. the moment feels heavy, intimate in a way that has nothing to do with speed or urgency. it’s restraint. it’s attention.
his voice, when he speaks, is barely there. “still okay?”
your mouth opens like you’re about to say something, but nothing comes. the words get lost somewhere between your chest and your throat, swallowed by the way he’s looking at you. steady, intent, like he’s the only solid thing left in the room. you feel hazy, unfocused, like his presence has tilted the world just enough to make everything else blur.
“y-yeah,” you manage finally, the sound embarrassingly soft, fragile. you nod too quickly, too eagerly, as if afraid he’ll change his mind if you hesitate.
steve lets out a low chuckle at that, quiet and warm, a sound that tells you he sees your nerves and isn’t put off by them. if anything, he seems to linger in them, savoring the way you’re unraveling beneath his careful attention.
“okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
his lips return to your skin, slow and unhurried, kissing along the space just beneath your ribcage, then lower, following the gentle slope of you. each kiss is deliberate, grounding, like punctuation marks rather than a rush forward. you feel every one of them, your breath growing shallow as his mouth moves farther from where you started.
by the time he reaches just above your waistline, your throat feels tight. you swallow hard, brows knitting together as you track his every movement, hyperaware of everything at once; the warmth of his breath, the press of his hand, the way your palms feel clammy against the sheets. your thoughts scatter, fuzzy and bright, butterflies swarming low in your stomach like they don’t know where to land.
“steve—” you whisper, his name slipping out like a plea and a warning all at once.
he pauses immediately, lifting his head just enough to look at you again, eyes searching your face with quiet intent. “talk to me,” he says softly. not demanding. not impatient. just there.
“i’m nervous,” you admit softly, almost apologetic, pushing yourself up just enough to rest on your elbows. your eyes search his face with an honesty that leaves you wide open, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with skin and everything to do with trust.
steve stills instantly.
it’s subtle, but you feel it, the way his body relaxes instead of pressing forward, the way the hunger in his eyes softens into something steadier, warmer. his hand slides up your side, not to take, just to anchor, his thumb brushing slow, grounding circles into your skin.
“hey,” he murmurs, leaning down until he’s level with you, close enough that you can feel his breath but not close enough to overwhelm. his forehead rests gently against yours. “that’s okay.”
“we can go at your pace,” he starts gently, thumb brushing your side, grounding, “we don’t have to do anythi—”
you stop him.
“i want to.”
it’s quiet when you say it. not rushed. not reckless. just honest. your voice is soft but steady, and when his eyes lift to yours, something shifts in him immediately. surprise first—then relief. then something deeper, warmer, more intent.
he studies your face like he’s making sure he’s reading it right. your expression isn’t frantic or unsure. it’s open. certain in its own delicate way. nervous, yes, but wanting.
“yeah?” he asks quietly, not pushing, just checking. his hand stays where it is, still, respectful. “you sure?”
you nod again, slower this time, more deliberate. “i am.”
his exhale is slow, controlled, like he’s letting himself believe you. his forehead dips to yours again, noses brushing, the moment intimate without being rushed. when he speaks, his voice is low, steady—protective, even.
“okay,” he murmurs. “then we go slow. together.”
he dips his head once more, pressing a lingering kiss to the soft skin just above your waistband, his breath warm against you. your fingers curl into the sheets, anticipation coiling low in your belly as he hooks his fingers into the edge of your underwear, easing them down with careful slowness. the fabric slides away, cool air brushing your exposed skin, making you shiver.
steve settles between your thighs, his hands gentle on your legs, parting them just enough to make space for himself. he looks up at you one last time, checking, waiting for your nod before he leans in. the first touch of his mouth is feather-light—a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, then higher, teasing the sensitive edge where leg meets core.
your breath hitches, body tensing instinctively, but his murmur against your skin, “relax, i’ve got you”, grounds you. then his tongue flicks out, warm and wet, tracing a slow line along your folds. it’s deliberate, exploratory, savoring the taste of you as he parts you with the flat of his tongue, lapping gently at first.
a soft gasp escapes you, your hips shifting without meaning to, chasing the sensation. he hums in response, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and presses deeper, his lips closing around your clit with a tender suck. it’s not rushed, not overwhelming—just right, building that heat steadily as his tongue circles, then dips lower to tease your entrance.
your hands find his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands, not pulling, just holding on as the world narrows to the feel of him: the wet slide of his mouth, the way he licks into you with increasing focus, drawing out every quiet whimper. your thighs tremble around him, the butterflies in your stomach twisting into something hotter, needier, as he works you open with patient strokes.
“steve,” you breathe, the name a shaky exhale, your back arching slightly off the bed. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t rush; his hands steady on your hips, guiding you through the rising tide, his mouth devouring you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.
his tongue presses flat against your core, dragging upward in a long, slow lick that makes your toes curl into the mattress. the wetness from his mouth mixes with your own, slick and warm, as he circles your clit again, firmer this time, sucking it between his lips with a gentle pull that sends a jolt straight through your core. your fingers tighten in his hair, not guiding, just clinging as the pleasure builds in steady waves, your breaths coming in short, ragged bursts.
steve's hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there, holding you open as he dips lower. his tongue pushes inside you, thrusting shallowly, tasting deeper while his nose brushes your clit, the friction adding to the ache. you whimper, hips rocking up instinctively, and he meets the movement, licking faster now, his mouth hungry but controlled, drawing out the slick sounds of him eating you.
"that's it," he murmurs against your skin, the words vibrating through you before he seals his lips back over your folds. he sucks harder on your clit, tongue flicking rapidly, relentless in its rhythm as one hand moves to your hip, pinning you gently when your body starts to tremble. the heat coils tighter in your belly, spreading like fire down your legs, your thighs quivering around his shoulders.
you feel yourself clenching, the pressure mounting as his tongue laps at your entrance, then swirls back to your clit, alternating until you're gasping, back arching off the sheets. "steve—oh God," you moan, the words breaking free, raw and desperate. he groans in response, the sound low and encouraging, his free hand reaching up to lace fingers with yours, squeezing as he pushes you closer.
the orgasm hits suddenly, crashing over you in sharp pulses—your core contracting around nothing as waves of pleasure rip through, your cries muffled by the way you bite your lip. steve doesn't stop, licking you through it, softer now, prolonging the shudders until you're boneless, panting, your grip on his hand loosening as the aftershocks fade.
he pulls back slowly, lips still pink, breath uneven. his eyes lift to yours with a soft, satisfied smile that feels more intimate than anything else that just happened. he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh once, then again, gentle, lingering, before carefully making his way back up your body.
the mattress dips as he settles beside you, close but not crowding. his arm drapes over your waist, instinctive, familiar, pulling you into the warmth of him. his chest rises and falls against your back as he tucks himself in, nose brushing the side of your neck, breathing you in like he’s grounding himself.
“you okay?” he whispers, voice rough around the edges, still thick with what he’s feeling, but tender in the way he waits, doesn’t rush you, doesn’t assume.
your heart is still racing, your body humming, but there’s a calm underneath it now. you nod first, then turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. “yeah,” you murmur, a little breathless, but honest. “yeah… i’m okay.”
his shoulders ease instantly, relief washing over his features. he presses a soft kiss just below your ear, slower this time, affectionate. “good,” he murmurs. his thumb starts tracing idle patterns against your hip, absentminded, soothing.
he rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded. “you did so good,” he says softly, not teasing, not possessive—just sincere.
the butterflies in your stomach multiply at his words, heat blooming across your cheeks all over again. it makes no sense. you and steve had done this a hundred times by now—stolen moments, whispered promises, hands memorizing skin they already knew by heart. he’d seen every part of you, heard every sound you made, felt you in ways no one else ever had.
so why did this feel different?
why did your chest feel tight, your thoughts soft and scattered, like you were sixteen again with a stupid, impossible crush?
you swallow, eyes dropping for a second, suddenly shy in a way that catches you off guard. it’s embarrassing almost, how aware you feel of yourself beneath his gaze. like a schoolgirl who somehow ended up with the jock everyone whispered about in hallways, the one every girl wanted but never actually got.
except you did.
steve harrington, who was pined over, chased, admired, was here, beside you, arm around your waist, looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered. like you were the prize. like he’d chosen you, again and again.
you’d had him on his knees before. you knew that power, had felt it, owned it. but this time… it wasn’t about that.
this time, it felt quieter. heavier. more intimate in a way that had nothing to do with bodies and everything to do with the way his thumb traced slow circles into your skin, like he wasn’t ready to let go. the way his eyes stayed on your face, searching, soft.
you let out a small breath, almost a laugh, shaking your head at yourself.
“why am i acting like this?” you murmur, half to yourself.
steve hums softly behind you, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder. “like what?”
“like i don’t know you,” you admit quietly, cheeks still warm. “like this is the first time.”
his arm tightens just a little, protective, grounding, like it’s instinct now. he shifts, propping himself up just enough to really look at you, his expression soft around the edges, fond in a way that makes your chest ache.
“felt that good?” he chuckles, the teasing slipping in easy, familiar, like armor over something more sincere.
you scoff immediately, rolling your eyes as you swat his bicep, light, playful, but pointed. “don’t flatter yourself, asshole.”
he laughs, real this time, warm and low, the sound vibrating against you as he falls back beside you again. “wow,” he says, hand sliding back to your waist, thumb tracing lazy shapes like he didn’t just get roasted. “that’s how i know it did.”
you glare at him, but there’s no heat behind it. your lips twitch despite yourself. “you’re insufferable.”
“mm,” he hums, grinning, pulling you closer until your back fits perfectly against his chest. “and yet.”
his chin rests lightly on your shoulder, breath warm, familiar. you can feel his smile there, feel the easy confidence return, but underneath it, something gentler lingers. his hand stays firm at your waist, grounding, like he’s not quite ready to let the moment turn into a joke entirely.
after a beat, his voice drops, quieter. “you okay, though?” not teasing now. just checking.
you nod, relaxing into him without thinking. “yeah.”
“good,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, affectionate, unguarded. “because i kinda like when you get shy. doesn’t happen often.”
you groan, elbowing him lightly. “steve.”
he just smiles against your skin, arms tightening around you like he’s exactly where he wants to be.
you feel yourself drift off, your thoughts finally quiet, body slack and heavy with comfort. steve’s arm is warm around your waist, his breathing slow and steady against your back, anchoring you in a rare kind of peace. for once, nothing feels urgent. nothing feels loud.
minutes pass. maybe longer.
then the phone rings.
the sharp sound cuts through the quiet like glass.
you jolt awake with a gasp, heart leaping into your throat as you fumble for the base unit on your nightstand. the cord tangles around your fingers as you lift it, disoriented, half-asleep.
“h–hello?” you groan softly, rubbing at your eyes, voice thick with sleep.
there’s a pause on the other end. just long enough for your chest to tighten.
“y/n,” a familiar male voice says.
your stomach drops.
your gaze snaps to steve immediately.
he’s awake now, propped up on one elbow, eyes already on you. alert. watching every flicker of your expression, every shift in your body. the softness from before is gone, replaced with something sharper, more guarded.
“it’s… it’s late,” you say carefully, trying to keep your voice steady.
“yeah,” chase replies. “i know. sorry. i just—i needed to hear your voice.”
your fingers tighten around the receiver. you swallow hard. “what’s wrong?”
steve doesn’t say a word. he doesn’t move. but his jaw tightens, just slightly. his hand rests at your waist, still there, but no longer relaxed. possessive without trying to be.
“nothing’s wrong,” chase says, too quickly. “i just… couldn’t sleep.”
the silence stretches.
you glance back at steve again. his eyes search your face, dark and unreadable, like he’s trying to decide whether this is something he should brace for or something he already lost. he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t pull away. just watches.
“chase,” you whisper, lowering your voice instinctively, even though your parents are asleep down the hall. “we can talk tomorrow.”
another pause. longer this time.
“…are you alone?” he asks.
your heart stutters.
steve’s gaze sharpens immediately.
you hesitate just a beat too long. “yeah,” you lie, quietly.
steve exhales through his nose, slow, controlled. his thumb presses once into your side—not rough. not angry. just there. reminding you he’s real. that he’s listening.
“okay,” chase says. “i just wanted to say i miss you.”
the words feel heavy. misplaced. they sit in your chest like something you don’t know what to do with anymore.
“i’ll call you tomorrow,” he adds. “goodnight.”
“goodnight,” you murmur.
the line goes dead.
you lower the phone slowly back onto the base unit, the click sounding louder than it should. your hand lingers there for a second before dropping to your lap.
the room is quiet again.
steve doesn’t speak right away.
when he does, his voice is low, even—but there’s something tight underneath it.
“that him?”
you nod.
he looks away for a moment, jaw flexing, then back to you. his expression isn’t angry. it’s resigned. almost tired.
“you okay?” he asks, echoing his earlier words, but now they mean something different.
you aren’t sure how to answer.
“yeah,” you say again, softer this time, the lie slipping out almost automatically. it settles in your stomach like a stone. because you know it’s not true. not even close.
you sit there, the reality of it all crashing down at once—you just lied to your boyfriend. your actual boyfriend. and steve harrington is in your bed, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his presence undeniable.
you glance at him without meaning to.
his hair is tousled from sleep and your hands, falling into his eyes in that effortless way that never fails to undo you. his shirt is gone, bare skin catching the low lamplight, all warm lines and familiar angles. his lips are still plump, a little pinker than usual, and his eyes—heavy-lidded, tired, but sharp—are fixed on you like he already knows the answer.
“you’re lying,” he says quietly.
it’s not an accusation. not raised. not angry. just certain.
your chest tightens. your fingers curl into the sheets as if they might ground you, and suddenly the room feels smaller, heavier. the comfort from moments ago dissolves into something tense and complicated, the air thick with everything you haven’t said.
you don’t respond right away.
steve shifts slightly, sitting up more fully now. the movement pulls the sheet lower on his hips, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. his attention never leaves your face. his jaw tightens just enough to give him away.
“you don’t have to do that,” he adds, voice low. “not with me.”
that almost makes it worse.
you swallow hard, eyes dropping to your lap. the quiet hum of the house presses in around you, the same walls that were supposed to keep this a secret now feeling like they’re closing in.
“i didn’t mean to,” you murmur. “it just… came out.”
he exhales slowly through his nose, dragging a hand over his face before letting it fall back to the mattress beside you. when he looks at you again, there’s no smugness, no teasing, just something conflicted.
“he called,” steve says, not a question. “middle of the night. while i’m here.”
you nod faintly, shame prickling at the back of your neck. “i know.”
his gaze flicks briefly to the phone, then back to you. “and you told him you were alone.”
another nod.
the silence that follows is heavier than any argument. steve leans back against the headboard, shoulders tense, eyes drifting to the ceiling like he’s trying to rein himself in.
“you gotta know,” he says after a moment, voice rougher now, “that puts me in a hell of a spot.”
you look at him then, really look at him, and the guilt sharpens. because he’s not wrong. because you dragged him into this just as much as you dragged yourself.
“i didn’t plan for this,” you whisper. “any of it.”
he lets out a quiet, humorless laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. it slips out of him before he can stop it, sharp and tired all at once.
“how much longer do we have to be like this?” he blurts, words tumbling out like he didn’t give himself time to reconsider.
your heart stutters. “what do you mean?” your brows knit together, pulse suddenly loud in your ears.
he finally looks at you then. really looks at you. not teasing. not smug. just honest, stripped bare in a way that makes your chest ache.
“a secret,” he says simply.
the word lands heavy.
you stare at him, the fabric of your nightgown clutched in your hand, like proof of everything you’re doing wrong. the room feels colder now, the comfort of his arms replaced by something tense and exposed.
“steve…” you start, but you don’t know how to finish it.
he sits up fully, forearms resting on his knees, shoulders slumped forward like the weight of it has finally caught up to him. his hair falls into his face and he doesn’t bother pushing it back.
“i’m not asking you to blow your life up,” he says quietly. “i’m not asking you to choose me. i just—” he exhales, jaw tightening. “i can’t keep pretending this doesn’t mean something.”
your throat tightens.
“every time i sneak in here,” he continues, voice low, steady but strained, “every time i leave before the sun comes up, every time you flinch when your phone rings… it’s like i’m borrowing you. like i only get pieces.”
you shake your head faintly. “that’s not fair.”
he nods once. “i know.”
there’s a long pause. the kind that stretches, presses, forces honesty to the surface.
“but neither is this,” he adds softly.
you look at him then, really look at him; the boy who climbed through your window like it was nothing, who held you like you were something precious, who now looks tired in a way you hadn’t noticed before. not sleepy. weary.
“chase thinks i’m asleep,” you whisper, the words feeling hollow the second they leave your mouth.
steve’s mouth curves, but there’s no humor in it. “yeah,” he says. “that’s kinda the problem.”
silence settles again, thick and unavoidable.
“i don’t want to be your dirty little secret,” he admits finally, eyes lifting to yours. there’s no accusation there. just truth. “and i don’t think you want to be lying to him every night either.”
your chest tightens, guilt and longing twisting together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
you swallow, your fingers worrying the fabric of your nightgown until it twists between them, knuckles pale. “i don’t know what to say,” you admit quietly, eyes fixed on your lap like it might hold the answers you don’t want to face. the shame comes in slow, insidious waves, settling heavy in your chest, tightening your throat.
steve exhales through his nose, not sharp, not angry—just tired. then he speaks again, softer now, almost careful, like he’s stepping around something fragile.
“i know why you chose him,” he says, and you flinch even though his tone isn’t cruel. “because it’s comfortable. he’s comfortable.” his gaze stays on you, steady, perceptive. “he promises you a future. something clear. something safe.”
you open your mouth to respond, to defend yourself, to explain—but he doesn’t let you.
“with me,” he continues, voice low but unwavering, “you worry. i see it every time.” he gestures vaguely toward himself, like the evidence is written all over him. “every time i show up with a bloody face, or another scar on my chest. every time you touch me like you’re checking i’m real.”
your breath catches.
“you get that look,” he says quietly. “the one where you’re already imagining the worst. wondering if the next time something happens, i won’t walk away from it.” his jaw tightens. “or won’t walk away at all.”
the room feels unbearably still.
you finally look up at him then, and his expression isn’t bitter. it’s open. vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache. like he’s laying the truth out not to hurt you, but because carrying it alone is getting too heavy.
“i don’t blame you,” he adds after a beat. “i get it. hell, if i were you, i’d probably choose him too.”
that’s what breaks you.
“don’t say that,” you whisper, voice trembling.
he gives a small, sad smile. “it’s the truth.”
you shake your head, eyes burning. “it’s not that simple.”
“isn’t it?” he asks gently.
the question hangs there, unanswered.
you scoot closer without thinking, drawn by the gravity of him, your knee brushing his. “i don’t want to lose you,” you confess, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “but i don’t know how to not lose everything.”
steve looks at you for a long moment. really looks at you. then he reaches out, hesitating only a second before his fingers curl around your wrist, grounding, warm.
“i’m not asking you to decide right now,” he says softly. “i just can’t keep pretending this doesn’t matter. that you don’t matter.” your chest tightens, emotions tangling until it’s hard to tell where guilt ends and longing begins.
your brows knit together, longing and sadness folding into one another until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. loving him could be easy. heartbreakingly easy. with steve, there’s no hesitation in your chest, no second-guessing your words or your touch. you don’t have to fight the quiet pull toward someone else because it’s always been him—has been for longer than you ever wanted to admit. loving him feels instinctive, like breathing, like something your body learned before your mind ever caught up.
but reality is heavier than longing.
because loving steve is never just loving steve. it’s loving the danger that trails behind him like a shadow. it’s the late nights and the bruises he shrugs off too easily, the cuts he jokes about while your stomach twists itself into knots. it’s the way your hands tremble every time you see fresh damage on his skin, the way your mind jumps ahead to possibilities you’re terrified to name. he risks his life without hesitation for his friends, for what he believes is right, and you’re the one left holding the fear every time he walks through your window still breathing.
you’re the one who pays the price.
with chase, there is no waiting dread. no sharp intake of breath when the door opens. no silent counting of injuries. every day is predictable, steady, safe. he comes home when he says he will. you never lie awake wondering if he’ll make it back at all. loving him doesn’t feel like standing on the edge of something that could give way at any moment.
you look at steve now, sitting there so close, and it feels cruel how both truths can exist at once. loving him feels like freedom. loving him feels like fear.
and the worst part is knowing that whichever path you choose, you’ll be mourning the other one in silence.
you lift your hand slowly, like you’re afraid a sudden movement might shatter what’s left of the moment. your fingers find his cheek, warm beneath your touch, and your thumb traces the sharp line of his cheekbone with aching care. it’s such a small gesture, but it feels loaded, heavy with everything you’ve never said out loud. steve melts into it instantly.
his eyes slip shut, his head tilting into your palm like it’s muscle memory, like your touch is something his body recognizes before his mind ever could. he exhales softly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction as he lets himself have it—this one quiet, tender thing. for a moment, he looks peaceful. almost boyish. like the world hasn’t asked too much of him yet.
when his eyes open again, they’re fixed on yours, wide and searching. flicking from one eye to the other like he’s trying to read the truth there before you say it. those stupid, earnest puppy-dog eyes that have always undone you.
“steve,” you breathe, the word barely louder than a thought.
your voice shakes, but you don’t stop.
“i love you,” you whisper, quiet but devastating in its honesty. “like… really love you. truthfully.” your thumb stills against his skin, like you’re grounding yourself. “don’t think i don’t imagine it—what my life would look like with you instead. because i do. all the time.”
his breath catches, subtle but unmistakable.
you shift closer, the space between you shrinking until your knees brush. your hand slips from his cheek, trailing down his arm slowly, reverently, until your fingers find his hand. you lace them together, holding on like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you don’t.
“i’ve thought about ruining everything for you,” you admit softly. “more times than i can count. i crave you.” the word feels dangerous as it leaves your mouth, honest in a way that hurts. “i always have.”
your gaze drops to your joined hands, your grip tightening just slightly. “but it’s not easy,” you continue, voice breaking at the edges. “you’re an amazing friend. an amazing guy.” you swallow, forcing yourself to look back at him. “and that’s exactly why i’m terrified.”
the silence that follows is thick, fragile.
“i’m terrified of loving you,” you finish quietly. and steve just looks at you, stunned and aching and impossibly gentle, like you’ve just handed him your heart and told him it scares you more than anything else in the world.
steve goes still.
not stiff—just quiet, like the world has narrowed down to the space between your faces and nothing else exists outside of it. his fingers tighten around yours, not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you’re real. that you’re here. that he didn’t imagine what you just said.
for a second, he doesn’t trust his voice.
then he exhales, slow and shaky, his forehead dropping to yours like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“you think i don’t scare myself too?” he murmurs, barely audible. there’s no teasing in it. no edge. just honesty, raw and exposed. “you think i don’t lie awake some nights wondering how i got so lucky… and how fast i could screw it all up?”
his thumb brushes over your knuckles, a grounding, almost reverent motion. “i know i’m not easy,” he admits. “i know i come with blood and bruises and a whole lot of reasons to walk away.” his voice cracks just slightly on the last part, and he clears his throat like he hates that it did.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you, his eyes glossy but steady. “but loving you?” he shakes his head, a sad little smile tugging at his mouth. “that’s the one thing that’s never scared me.”
your chest tightens.
“i don’t need you to choose me,” he continues softly. “i don’t need grand gestures or promises you’re not ready to make.” his gaze flicks briefly to your joined hands, then back to your eyes. “i just need you to know that what we have—it’s not nothing. it’s not reckless. it’s not a mistake.”
his voice lowers, earnest, almost pleading without meaning to be. “you say you’re terrified of loving me?” he breathes. “yeah. i get that.”
he squeezes your hand gently. “but i’d rather be something that scares you… than something that never really makes you feel alive.”
and then he leans in, pressing his forehead back against yours, his voice a whisper meant only for you.
“whatever you decide,” he says quietly, “just don’t lie to yourself about what this is. or what we are.”
he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead.
it’s soft. lingering. the kind of kiss that carries too much weight for what it is. he keeps it there a second longer than necessary, his lips warm against your skin, and you feel the way he squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s bracing himself, like if he pulls back too fast he might shatter.
his breath trembles.
then he’s gone.
the warmth of him fades as he straightens, his hand slipping from yours slowly, reluctantly, like letting go costs him something real. the mattress shifts as he gets up, the empty space beside you suddenly loud, cavernous. you feel it immediately—the absence. the cold where he was. the way your body still leans toward where he should be.
“goodnight, y/n,” he says quietly.
you look up at him, heart lodged somewhere in your throat, confusion and longing written all over your face. you don’t even realize you’re reaching for him until your fingers curl uselessly into the sheets instead. you look small sitting there like that, vulnerable in the low light, eyes searching his face like you’re waiting for him to change his mind.
and God—that look.
it hits him square in the chest. sharp. familiar. devastating. the same innocence that always pulls him back, the same one that makes him want to stay, to choose you every time even when he knows he shouldn’t.
his jaw tightens. his lips press together hard, like he’s physically holding the words inside him. if he opens his mouth again, he knows he won’t leave.
so he doesn’t.
he turns away before you can say anything, before you can stop him, before he can betray himself further. the window slides open with a quiet scrape, cool night air spilling into your room. he climbs out the way he always does, practiced, silent.
and then he’s gone.
the window slides shut behind him, the sound final in a way that makes your chest ache.
you’re left sitting there alone, the sheets still warm, his presence lingering like a ghost. your room feels too quiet now. too empty. and all you can do is stare at the space where he was, your heart pounding with the awful realization that loving him was never the hardest part—
