₊˚꩜ 𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚊 ✮˚₊ @shaehaze - Tumblr Blog

nettles | steve harrington x reader, former eddie munson x reader

summary: The war against Henry Creel was catastrophic. All of your friends are either dead or missing. With so many casualties, you and Steve find an unconventional way to ride out the loneliness together, all while trying to keep your heads above water.

wordcount: 20.9k (just kill me thanks)

pairing: steve harrington x reader; former eddie munson x reader

warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST, graphic descriptions of death and gore, mourning, mentions of blood, violence, cursing, vivid mentions of depression and depressive tendencies, mentions & descriptions of suicide, grief, dom!steve, pinching, slapping, sub!reader, reader’s a bitch (self indulgent srry), sex to cope, rough sex, fingering, oral(f! receiving), unprotected p in v, choking, hair pulling, crying, drinking, mentions of addiction, no use of y/n (please let me know if i missed anything)

a/n: 18+ only, minors DNI!! please don’t read if you are not comfortable with any of the warnings! please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction and i am not promoting nor glamorizing any of the unhealthy grieving or coping habits mentioned herein. also, thank you so so much for all the love on my Mike fic! i am so touched and glad that everyone was able to enjoy it, honestly i was shocked at how well received it was, thank you everyone again! there will be a second and final part to that fic coming out post-finale, as a thank you to all who enjoyed. <3

this was not beta read, so please ignore any grammatical or structural typos hehe

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Friday, November 5, 1993

Drip, drip, drip.

The faucet in your kitchen needs mending. But so do your bed frame, coffee table, and oven light.

It all needs fixing. Some dedicated time and effort- the former which you find yourself having an increased excess of, while the latter diminishes daily.

As you sit at the broken table, its back leg nearly succumbing to the weight of your empty tea mug, the drip, drip, drip of the faucet accompanies your thoughts with an agitating cacophony. You make a mental note to fix all the needy appliances. Realistically, you won't get to it.

You believe it funny, as you scoff into the stale air, how in the midst of your grief and loneliness, the world has not decided to stop alongside you. There are still dishes to clean, laundry to tend to, and oven lights to replace. Every mundane task still accumulates. Life goes on.

Most of your friends are dead, some as good as it, but you cannot forget to buy groceries. You fought in a war, losing much more than you gained, but you still have to punch-in on time at work. You must continue to live- all while wondering why you are not dead, too.

You find yourself here most nights, in this worn seat by this broken table, nursing a cup of tea that’s gone cold, and thinking somber thoughts.

As the weather grows cooler, the memories of your loss resurface. Your Glory in Grief support group tries to teach you that grief gets easier as time goes on, but you know they just say that because they have to. No one would go to the stupid meetings if they'd admitted that you’d be stuck in this emotional hell for eternity. Steve made you go with him, forcing you to relive the worst day of your life every Tuesday night at seven.

The group leader, Marnie, looks at you with pitiful eyes every week. You want to punch her in her stupid fucking face. You don't need pity. You deserve the pain. You couldn't save them, and for that you must pay your tithe. Most attendants are grieving the loss of a family member, taken too soon by cancer or old age. Most days, you feel horrible for wishing that was you. If you had to know loss, you would give anything to have been able to expect it. To know it was coming. At least then you could've prepared yourself.

Steve tells you that you won't get better unless you accept the help. He tries to put up a front for you, going to the crackpot meetings and following the program, but you know he's just like you, if not worse. If you had any sadness left to spare, you would like to share yours with him, for his efforts of trying to show you he's okay. So you don’t feel responsible for him, either.

But you don't want help. You don't want to stay strong and give motivational speeches in high school auditoriums. You want to feel it. You want it to break you. You shouldn't be alive. The least you could do is let it hurt you. For your friends. For Eddie.

You pull at the guitar pick hanging from your neck, lost in your sullen reverie. You haven't taken it off in seven years. It's the last piece you have of him, of your Eddie. You won't speak his name, not anymore. But you think of him every day, the longing presenting as a permanent void in your chest that is nearing the point of swallowing you whole.

You looked for him for three years. By yourself. Countless trips to the Upside Down, hoping that a monster might kill you while you were down there. You might've searched all of Hawkins four times, hoping to find him in whatever state he was in. If he was dead, at least you could go home with a body. Every part of you knew he wasn't alive, but that didn't stop you from hoping. Hoping that one day he'd show up on your stoop and share the weight of your loneliness with you.

You never found him. You told yourself he would come to you if he was alive, he would. But he didn't. One night, you overheard Steve telling Jonathan that he was eaten alive down there, in the Upside Down. You cried for weeks after that. But no one was there to confirm it, so you looked, and looked, and looked, and looked until there was nowhere left to search. He was gone, and you knew he was never coming back.

Eddie was the first person you'd lost. Your love, your home, your sweet, handsome boy. The grief had consumed you, tearing you apart limb from limb, desecrating you from the inside. You didn't know that he was just the beginning, so you grieved him with all you had. You'd wished you had been less liberal with your sorrow, not that Eddie didn't deserve it, but you had no way of knowing that what little was left wouldn't be enough for everyone else.

You buried an empty grave four years ago, and every part of you wanted to crawl in there and rot with him, wherever he was. Steve and Jonathan held you tight while you cried into the air, painfully aware of your urges. Edward Munson, his gravestone read, Now At Peace.

You and Eddie had joked about death together, imagining yourselves growing old and decrepit until it was your time to go. He said he would die first, as his arms wrapped around you, unable to withstand the heartbreak of you leaving this world before him. You think about that memory often, your sweet boy, always so lovely to you, as you hold on tight to the pick around your neck and imagine how his lips felt on your forehead.

By the time you buried him, Jonathan, Steve, and yourself had lost so much, you were surprised any of you had any tears left to cry. But for Eddie you would, always. The funeral ripped off the band-aid. He was gone, and any hope you had left sealed itself under six feet of earth.

You three were inseparable after that, the last ones left cognizant. Things got better for a while, as you shared fond memories together over warm beers. You cried together, grieved together, laughed together. Maybe all was not lost, if you had each other.

Jonathan got a job, Steve had applied to university, and you had stopped feeling sorry for yourself, just for a bit. You were all doing your best to adapt to your new normal, and things were looking up. Steve and Jonathan hadn't liked each other very much out of high school, but after the final battle, they bonded over the deaths of their friends, over Nancy. Grief builds community, like Marnie always says.

They quickly got over their petty jealousy, for it wasn't like either of them could have her anymore. The tension felt childish, and they had grown up, if, ultimately, by force.

Nancy died shortly after the final battle. Her leg had been amputated and the wound had become infected by particles from the Upside Down. The Upside Down was a dangerous place and it was under studied. It wasn't just monsters you had to worry about down there- everything, every tree, every plant, every stone, was a leech. When black necrosis began to grow from her incision and travel up her body, doctors had no idea how to save her. It reached her heart one day, ending her. Mike, Jonathan, Steve, and yourself were all with her when she died.

But still, you found a way to compartmentalize. All your loss could be attributed to Henry Creel, and he was gone. As tragic as it was, maybe you could get a fresh start now. Henry had killed the last of your friends. Vecna's Curse had finally used up the last of its power.

It was last year, when Steve walked into Jonathan's unlocked apartment and found him slumped on the couch with a gun in his mouth and red splattered across the cream wall behind him, that you realized that Vecna's Curse would follow you forever. There was no such thing as okay. That was not a luxury you were privy to. It would creep into every aspect of your life, tainting it. His lasting haunt was to pick off your friends one by one, ensuring your happiness obsolete.

You remember being angry at first, so blindingly and viscerally angry. The rage had consumed you. How dare he? How could he fucking leave you both like this, just another body to grieve, while he took the easy way out? He had written you a letter, and in your fit of rage you'd thrown it in your fireplace. You had regretted it immediately. Flames licked your fingers as you fished it out, placing it on your coffee table, unopened. Another time, perhaps.

You had no more funerals left in you. After Jonathan, you promised yourself that the next one you would attend would be your own. You buried him last year next to Will and Joyce, all finally together again. While you admit that he was selfish in killing himself, you understood. He was lonelier than you. At least your parents were alive. Your sister was breathing. You understood, and maybe it was selfish of you to think he could hold out for the sake of you and little ol' Steve.

Jonathan's funeral was beautiful, but you didn't cry. It was easier to tell yourself he would've wanted you to stay strong than to face the fact that you were numb. You’d spent all your grief, remember? There was nothing left for Jonathan.

Steve, however, was a wreck. He'd cried for his friend, the guilt of not being able to save him, eating him alive. He’d tried to get Jonathan help. He’d tried to take him to meetings, talk to him, spend time with him. In part, Steve was trying to make up for how he’d treated Jonathan in the past, but it wouldn’t hurt if he saved Jonathan's life in the process.

Steve took Jonathan’s death personally. Once Jonathan was no longer there to care for, Steve focused his efforts on you. He’d be damned if another friend, very well his last friend, met the same end as the rest. He couldn’t be alone.

After Jonathan's death, you spiraled. You quit your job, your house was on the verge of foreclosure, and you didn’t leave your room. Steve had to force you to socialize, picking up your pieces and carefully putting you back together. He had always been of stronger will than you.

He started taking you to meetings, every Tuesday at seven. He would go to the cemetery with you on Saturdays, bringing fresh flowers every week for the many graves in need of replenishment. On Thursdays and Sundays he'd come over, just like he and Jonathan used to do, a twelve pack of warm bottle-neck beers in tow.

He left you alone on Mondays and Wednesdays due to sheer begging on your part. He reluctantly agreed, but still called those nights to make sure you were okay. He would play it cool, not allowing you to see the real reason behind his incessant doting- he was worried. Worried that one day you'll be alone and you'll be sad. Terribly and hauntingly sad. You'll do something to yourself, and he would have to find your body.

At first you put up a fight, refusing his care and rejecting his help. But slowly, after realizing that your security let him sleep at night, you caved. He deserved to feel okay, too. To feel normal. Steve had been caring for people his whole life, for Dustin, Jonathan, Nancy, and now that they're gone, you're his last chance. He couldn't let anything happen to you. He would never forgive himself.

On Fridays, a day very much like today, you get up from your table, grab a coat, and are out the door by five. While you've never been the type to dote over another like Steve does, you've haven't once missed this appointment in five years.

It’s a strange sort of ritual now- one you never talk about, never explain, not even when Steve lingers in the doorway on his way out, pretending he’s not waiting to see if you’ll leave on time. You just offer him a half-smile, something soft enough to pass for reassurance, then slip past him before he can read too much into it.

The drive always feels the same, no matter the weather. Long, quiet, the kind that forces you to sit with your thoughts. Your hands know the way without help, following the familiar turns, the same back roads, the same stretch of empty fields that catch the dying light in a haunting way. You don’t think about the destination. Thinking about it too hard makes your chest tighten, makes the world feel smaller, makes the responsibility of it, of her, too real.

You focus on the motion instead. The hum of the engine. The weight of your coat in your lap. All the little normal things that keep you grounded long enough to reach the gates.

You pull in, park in the same spot as always, and let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You get out of the car, bag packed full of soup, candy, Kate Bush cassettes, and a portable radio. The gates of Pennhurst Mental Hospital open at your arrival, beckoning you inside their cold, sterile interior.

You walk up to the front desk with an awkward smile. The lady at the front desk is nice enough, if a bit chatty. She has two kids, one's in college, one just graduated middle school. He's going to be a junior olympic gymnast, as you learned from her a few months back.

"Hey Janine." You tap on the counter of the visitor's center, your bag weighing down your shoulder. She looked up from her files, greeting you with a big smile.

"Hey sugar! I was wonderin' when you were fixin' to show up. She's in the common area waiting for you. Just sign here." She pushed a visitor's log your way, a blue pen waiting patiently on top of it.

"Thanks." You mumbled, signing your name, date, and time quickly.

You hand the pen back, offering Janine a polite smile you don’t quite feel. She nods, already reaching for the phone to call someone in the back, her voice warm and syrupy as she alerts them of your arrival.

The security door buzzes, a sharp, metallic sound that never stops making your spine tense. You thank Janine again out of habit, then head toward the corridor, pushing through the threshold into that too-bright hallway you could walk blindfolded by now.

The air changes instantly. Colder, quieter, humming with fluorescent lights. You steady your breath and count your steps. A nurse passes, offering a gentle nod. You return it, the both of you sharing that wordless understanding reserved for people who frequent places like this.

You follow the pastel-blue tiles down the corridor, each step echoing a little too loudly in the stillness. They’d repainted the walls some time last year, something cheerful, but nothing pretty can hide the heaviness this place carries. Not really.

You reach the last door on the left, the one with the little square window that’s always fogged at the corners. Through it, you can see hints of movement- someone pacing, someone humming, someone rocking back and forth. You’ve learned not to assume it’s her. Some days she stays still as stone. Some days she wanders. Some days she hides behind the couch until she hears your steps.

Today, the door swings open before you can knock.

“Evenin’,” the orderly greets, stepping aside. “She’s over by the windows.”

You nod, stepping into the common area, your fingers tightening instinctively on the strap of your bag.

The room is dotted with mismatched armchairs and low tables with half-finished puzzles. A couple patients hum near the TV, the sound low and repetitive. And then- there she is. By the windows, sunk halfway into a bean bag chair that’s seen better decades.

Max Mayfield. Or the closest thing to her that the world has left you.

Her hair is longer than she would've liked, brushed into two loose braids by careful hands that aren’t her own. Her eyes track the dust mites in the light, slow and unfocused, and her fingers tap rhythmically on her knee-three taps, then a pause, then three taps again.

The moment your footsteps cross into her awareness, her head lifts, jerky and uncertain. Her eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second, blue, empty but searching, and whatever she finds there must be familiar, because her face softens, just barely.

“Hi, Max,” you whisper, lowering yourself to the floor beside her like you’ve done a hundred times before. You don’t touch her yet. You wait for her to make the first move.

She doesn’t speak. She hasn’t in years. But after a few heartbeats, she leans just enough that her shoulder brushes yours. Permission.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Carefully, you set your bag beside you and start laying out your offerings: a thermos of soup she’ll spill but try to sip anyway, her favorite candies divided into colors she'll sort without eating, the cassettes, and the little battered radio.

Her fingers twitch when she sees the tapes. You like to think that she remembers them somehow.

“You wanna listen?” you ask softly, holding one up- the tape she used to rewind over and over until the case cracked at the hinges. Kate Bush stares back at you from a wrinkled label.

Max doesn’t answer, but she tilts her head, her cheek resting against her shoulder in that childlike way she’s adopted, and you know it means yes.

You slot the cassette into the radio, press play, and wait as the opening chords crackle through old speakers. Max’s tapping slows, then settles into a new rhythm, syncing with the music like muscle memory.

You lean back against the bean bag, letting the familiar ache wash through you. Max isn't the same anymore. Her brain has regressed to almost a childlike state. She doesn't speak, communicating only through sounds and motions. It took you a while to learn her mannerisms.

Henry did this, as he is responsible for all the other tragedies in your life. She was unable to escape the dreamscape. When Henry was defeated, she became stuck in her own mind, with no way to escape. She'd woken up from the coma, but her brain was fried. You've referred her to countless psychiatrists and they all told you the same thing. Her brain is in a state of degeneration so severe, it's a miracle she has any cognitive function at all. She'll be stuck like this forever, in this juvenile mind-prison as her body ages around her.

You visit her every Friday, bringing her some of her favorite things in hopes of triggering some sort of Hail Mary. A chain reaction that would bring her back, just like you all used to do in hopes of her escaping the Curse. You have a lot of that, it seems- useless hope. But you can't help but think if maybe, just maybe, you're able to fix her, to cure her, you'd gain a tiny ounce of solace. The world wouldn't be so bleak.

You watch her for a moment. You’ve wondered before if music feels like a light behind a locked door for her. She used to love it so much.

“You know this one, don’t you?” you murmur, offering her one of the green candies. She takes it clumsily, turning it over between her fingers before setting it neatly into the corner of the pile. Sorting, organizing, always in color order.

She makes a small sound, soft and breathy. Almost a hum.

“I brought your book too,” you tell her, reaching into your bag. “The one with the pictures of the skate ramps. Thought you might want to look.”

Her eyes flicker at the word “skate,” a blink too quick to be coincidence. She shifts in her seat, leaning closer, her hand lifting shakily until her fingertips brush the cover.

“That’s right,” you say, your throat tightening. “You used to spend hours looking at this. Used to plan out the stupidest tricks, remember? Scared the shit out of all of us.”

She presses her palm flat against the image of a half-pipe, breath catching in her chest like something snagged. Then she lets out a small, frustrated little whine, like the sound a toddler makes when something won’t fit into a toy slot- when the shape is familiar but the mind can’t place it.

“Hey,” you whisper, reaching out slowly, giving her time. When your hand finally rests on her forearm, she doesn’t pull away. “It’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to remember.”

Another hum- low, shaky. She nudges her head against your shoulder, her braids tickling your neck.

You swallow hard.

After a moment, she reaches toward the cassette player and taps it twice. You smile.

“You want me to flip it?” you ask.

She taps again, two quick pats, her “yes.”

You turn the tape, press play, and it starts again from the beginning, a loop she never seems to tire of.

“You know,” you say quietly, watching her sway, “I think you still run in there. Somewhere in your head. Maybe you skate too. Maybe you’re freer in there than we are out here.”

She looks at you again and for one heartbeat, the blue in her eyes sharpens.

But it’s gone as quickly as it came, her gaze drifting back to the dust floating in the afternoon light.

She will not come back. That’s what the doctors told you. What logic tells you. What the years have tried to make you accept.

Still, every Friday, you try anyway.

You spend the next hour sitting with her, helping her sip soup she spills down her chin, wiping it gently with the sleeve of your shirt. You help her sort the candies until there are perfect little rainbow rows between you. You let her braid and unbraid the fringe on your coat sleeve in an absent, soothing rhythm.

At one point she places a red candy in your palm, deliberate and slow.

A gift.

You thank her softly, your voice breaking. She doesn’t understand the words, but she beams anyway, proud of herself.

The sun begins to dip, the shadows stretching across the common room. A nurse approaches with a sympathetic smile, the kind of smile you’ve grown to hate and tolerate in equal measure.

“It’s almost time,” she murmurs.

You nod.

You begin packing up your things. Max watches, her head tilted, brows drawn in a faint frown. When you stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder, she lets out a sharp little sound.

“I’ll be back,” you tell her, crouching again so she can see your face clearly. “Friday. Same time. I promise.”

You hold out your hand- not expecting her to take it, because she rarely does.

But today, she surprises you.

Her fingers, thin and cold, wrap around yours for a fleeting, trembling second. Her grip is weak and uncoordinated, but undeniably her.

“Hey,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She releases you abruptly, retreating into her bean bag as if the contact overwhelmed her. You rise slowly, heart pulling in two different directions, and give her one last look before turning toward the door.

You walk down the corridor, the lights buzzing overhead, your steps heavy with the taste of cherry in your mouth. Outside, the evening air is sharp, biting, almost cleansing. You breathe it in like a punishment.

You’ll be back next Friday, because she is one the last pieces of them you have. Because you couldn’t save any of the others. You’ll come, again and again and again. Even if she never comes back. Even if neither of you do.

And as you climb into your car, hands trembling on the steering wheel, you let the engine rumble to life and whisper the same words you whisper every Friday night, too quiet for anyone but yourself to hear.

“I’m sorry, Max.”

Then you drive home through the dark.

Saturday, November 6, 1993

The sky is the color of wet paper when you wake up. You stare at it for a while, through the slit in your curtains, willing it to turn blue, or purple, or anything other than the soft, washed-out gray that always manages to find you on Saturdays.

You haul yourself out of bed and head towards your bathroom. A frightening image greets you in the mirror when you flip the light on. “Jesus,” you mumble, looking at yourself. You look deathly pale, almost sickly. It does nothing to help hide the dark circles under your eyes, which seem to grow daily.

You sigh, running your hands across your face. You can’t expect yourself to look any good when you don’t sleep. The memories don’t just haunt you during the day, they plague your dreams at night. Vicious, horrible nightmares. Ones that drench your body in sweat and awaken you with your heart thumping in your chest.

You wince as you recall the afflictions, graphic recollections of your friends being torn limb from limb by Demogorgons. Henry spared no mercy. Even as poor Will siphoned his own powers against him, rendering him essentially obsolete, he was still able to end his life. You remember screaming, his small, lifeless body collapsed on the floor, extremities bent in odd ways- unsurvivable. Siphoning Henry’s powers had consequences, and by overexerting himself with powers he was not trained to use, Will gave the ultimate sacrifice. He saved you, but at what cost?

You shudder as the memory fades, gripping the sink so hard your knuckles bare white. You let the memories of the others slip into the back of your mind, unable to dwell on them so early in the morning.

You quickly brush your teeth and wash your face, hoping to shock some life back into it with the cold water. It works somewhat. Your ghostly appearance gives you no choice but to dab on some light make-up, just enough to keep Steve from asking any questions about your sleep habits.

By the time you get dressed and scarf down a bowl of cereal, you’re almost late. You check the time.

9:47 AM. He’ll be here soon.

A car horn sounds outside, one short beep ringing through the air. You grab your bag and step outside, locking the door behind you, leaving the dirty cereal bowl on the table.

Steve is leaning against his BMW, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, hair ruffled by the morning wind.

“Hey,” he says softly when you walk up.

You nod. “Hey.”

He gives you a fleeting smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

He opens the car door for you, as he always does, even though you’ve told him a hundred times he doesn’t have to. But he insists, and you’ve stopped arguing. It’s small, but it matters to him. Maybe it makes him feel useful.

You settle into the passenger seat, and Steve closes the door gently before circling around to the driver’s side. He turns the key, and the engine hums to life, warm and low.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

You smell the flowers in the back, a combination of lilies, roses, and sunflowers, freshly picked and awaiting to be placed in their forever homes, where they’ll wilt and rot just like their human counterparts.

“Nice picks,” you say, referring to the flowers.

“Thanks. I was going to get some daisies for Joyce, but Maude’s was out,” he said, referring to the corner shop he frequents every week for the same purchase.

You let out a hum of acknowledgment. “I don’t think she’ll care.”

Hawkins passes by outside in a blur of muted colors. The town is quiet today, softened by the overcast sky. People move slowly on the sidewalks, bundled in jackets, carrying grocery bags, walking dogs, sweeping porches. Normal things.

Steve keeps one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting palm-up on his thigh. You know the gesture well. You slide your hand over his without a word, and his fingers curl around yours instantly, like he’d been waiting for it.

He doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him.

It’s complicated, this thing between Steve and yourself. Steve is great, really. He’s caring and attentive and loyal, but most importantly, he understands. He understands that your heart is no longer yours to share. It was always Eddie’s and always will be. You can never feel anything for Steve when you already feel so much for someone who is no longer here.

You allow yourselves to find comfort in each other, however. It comes in the form of soft touches, warm hands to hold, and falling asleep wrapped in each other after long nights. There is a limit to your affection, much to Steve’s dismay. If it were up to him, you’d find peace in each other, completely and utterly. But no, he understands, and he’s so fucking patient. It pains you sometimes, to know you can make him happy but to not be able to. He deserves happiness, but sadly, it can’t be with you.

You feel bad, sometimes, being so noncommittal. But he’s the only thing that makes you feel like your life hasn’t completely gone to shit.

“Rough night?” you finally ask, voice quiet.

Steve exhales through his nose, a humorless little puff. “Something like that.”

Nightmares, you assume, like those that plague you. He doesn’t specify, and he doesn’t need to. You’ve heard enough from him- not the details, but the aftershocks. The trembling hands. The sudden silences. The way he sometimes stares at nothing for long stretches, like he’s waiting for something terrible to step out of the shadows.

“I didn’t sleep great either,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

You nod, shoulders tightening with a sigh. “Dreams.”

“Bad?” he asks.

“Not the worst.”

He squeezes your hand, thumb brushing the back of it in small circles.You watch the town fall away behind you as the road curves out toward the outskirts. Trees line both sides now, tall and bare and skeletal against the cement sky.

The rest of the drive goes by in a blur, with you both taking turns humming along to a song or other on the radio. After twenty minutes, the iron gates appear, tall and familiar. The cemetery is big, bigger than Hawkins should need. But Hawkins has always needed more room than it should.

Steve parks in the same dirt patch at the front, the one that used to be grass until the two of you wore it down to dead earth over the years. He kills the engine. Neither of you move.

Finally, Steve sighs, giving your hand one last squeeze. “Okay,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “Let’s go.”

Your feet hit the gravel road with a crunch. You take in the sight of the cemetery, the smell of fresh earth hitting your nostrils and reminding you why you’re here.

Steve closes the car door behind you, flowers tucked under his arm, and the two of you start toward the far end of the cemetery.

The sky hasn’t changed. Still that same washed-out gray, pressing low over the stones.

You walk in silence for a while. The path curves gently, leaves sticking to the damp ground. Your chest feels tight, like you’ve been holding your breath all morning without realizing it.

The oak tree comes into view ahead. Eddie’s grave sits beneath it, exactly where you expect it to be.

You fall quiet again as you approach. You kneel, setting the flowers down carefully, fingers lingering against the stone.

Steve stays standing behind you, giving you space.

“I had a dream about him,” you say suddenly, touching the grass at the base of the stone.

Steve glances over, hands in his pockets. “Eddie?”

You nod.

“We were in the trailer,” you continue, voice steady for now. “He was talking. Just- normal stuff. I could see him. His face, his mouth was moving.”

Steve doesn’t interrupt.

You swallow, swaying slightly in your crouched position. “But, um, I couldn’t hear him?”

You turn your torso to face him, your breath shallow.

“I mean, I knew he was talking,” you rush on, like if you don’t say it all now you’ll lose the nerve. “I knew what he was probably saying. But there was no sound. And I woke up and-”

Your voice catches.

You clear your throat, pressing your lips together. It doesn’t help.

“I can’t remember what he sounds like,” you say, quieter now, your voice cracking, tears pricking in your eyes, taunting you.

You let out a hollow laugh. “And y’know, I woke up, and I willed myself to think of something he’d said to me, anything, just to see if I really had forgotten. I couldn’t- there was nothing. I remembered what we talked about, but not his voice.”

The words sit heavy between you.

Steve’s expression shifts sadly.

“That doesn’t mean-” he starts.

“I know,” you cut in quickly. “I know what they say. Marnie dug it into me last week- that it doesn’t mean anything. But it feels like it does.”

Your throat tightens again, sharper this time. You have to look away, blinking hard.

“It feels like I’m losing him all over again,” you admit.

Steve steps closer, careful. “You’re not,” he says softly. “Memory does that sometimes. It’s not-”

“I don’t want it to,” you interrupt, voice breaking despite your effort to keep it together. “I don’t want to forget him. If this is what it’s like now, what else will I forget?”

Steve hesitates, then reaches out, resting a hand on your arm.

“He mattered too much to you to just disappear like that. It’ll come back to you,” he says.

You nod, even though it doesn’t make the tightness in your chest ease.

You both spent a couple more minutes at Eddie’s empty grave, Steve watching you closely as you arranged the flowers prettily inside the vase beside it.

When you were satisfied, you stood, wiping your hands on your jeans and joining Steve a couple steps behind you.

He wraps his arm around your shoulders, bringing you in to press a quick kiss on your forehead. It didn’t mean anything more than the comfort it brings, but it was nice.

After a moment, he clears his throat. You approach Eddie’s grave again, kissing the tips of your fingers like you do every time you leave him, placing them atop the cold granite.

“Bye, baby,” you leave him with a sad smile, turning back to Steve and walking over to Dustin.

The walk is short.

Steve stops several feet from Dustin’s grave, shoulders tense. He doesn’t look at it right away. When he does, it’s like something in him caves inward.

He stares quietly. Steve is never one to say much, always bearing the pain in silence, suffering enough for the both of you, sparing you. He thinks you're fragile enough as it is, always so destructive, like a ticking timebomb, seconds away from exploding.

He was a wreck at first, obviously. Dustin was his little brother, his friend, his partner. But with time, Steve learned to cope the best he possibly could, putting his best foot forward for you, Mike, and Robin. He learned to prioritize you once he started getting better, holding you tightly as you broke down time and time again.

However, these moments, the once a week you make this trip together, are tell-tale indicators that he is still hurting. He doesn’t speak about it, but his eyes, usually a warm, deep brown, look blue under the cement sky. They carry inside them years of guilt, pain, and loneliness, trapped deep within and finally granted escape.

He lets out a shaky breath, kneeling down to arrange flowers for Dustin. He always gets stuck during this part. Noticing his hesitation, you kneel beside him, hands meeting his at the vase, delicately arranging the flowers. He gets like this whenever you visit, the one time he’ll allow himself to get lost in the flood of a thousand feelings. The least you can do is step up.

He grabs you then, pulling you into a hug. It’s automatic, meant to be comforting, and it is, just not in the way you need. His arms are steady and warm, but they don’t fit.

Your body registers the difference immediately- the wrong shape, the wrong weight. His arms don’t pull you flush, don’t lock around you like they’re afraid to let go.

Your body screams for Eddie. But Eddie isn’t here.

You’re about to pull away when you remember that this isn’t for you, this is for him. He needs someone here, and you’re all he has left. He’s pulled you out of an endless pit more times than you can count, it’s rare that you can do the same for him, but you try.

It feels wrong but you stay anyway. For Steve.

When he pulls back, his face looks calmer. You feel hollow.

The sky stays gray, the cemetery stays quiet, and the absence of a voice you should still know echoes louder than anything else.

Sunday, November 7, 1993

You’d slept through most of the day, awakening well after noon. It didn’t matter how much you slept, you never felt rested, much like a vampire whose thirst never quenched.

Steve was coming over today, and your house had seen better days. You spent the rest of the day cleaning and organizing where you could, until it no longer looked like you lived in a junkyard.

There’s a knock on the door around seven. The door clicks open before you can even move to greet him, the familiar weight of Steve leaning against the frame like he owns the air in your home. His hair is slightly mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it all day, the jeans and jacket stiff and worn from days of moving through a world that no longer felt like it belonged to anyone.

He’s got a twelve-pack dangling from his grip, the condensation wetting his fingers, the glass bottles warm from being left in the car too long.

“I see you cleaned,” he says, dropping the pack on your kitchen table with a muted thud. He doesn’t sound chipper, doesn’t try to hide it. There’s a heaviness in his voice, one you’ve come to recognize as the same one you carry yourself when the quiet catches too loud.

You shrug into your sweater, already seated on the edge of your couch, a mug of stale tea beside you. “I didn’t think you’d like the sight of my week old panties on the floor,” you reply in a half-joke. You don’t look at him, don’t need to. His presence is a kind of quiet anchor, a weight to hold you upright without demanding anything in return.

He opens a bottle and takes a long pull before settling into the chair across from you. You motion for him to toss you a beer, cold tea long forgotten. You shrug again, letting the silence stretch and curl around both of you like smoke. It doesn’t matter that it’s warm. Warmth is irrelevant when everything else tastes like ash.

For a moment, you watch him, Steve Harrington, grown man, broken by life in the ways he’d never admit. You both know what you’ve lost, what you keep losing, and yet there’s something special in these small, mundane moments. Warm beer, cracked mugs, chipped furniture, stale scent of cleaner in the air. But at least you’re together.

You pop the top and take your first sip of beer, the bitter taste washing over your tongue. It’s one of those nasty IPA’s that Jonathan loved, the warmness not helping the flavor. You two don’t drink anything else, though. It’s your small way of remembering him.

You look at him disapprovingly as he kicks his feet up on the coffee table. He knows you don’t really car, but truthfully he wouldn’t give a fuck if you did.

“How’re Rob and Vicky?” You ask. Robin comes back to town a couple times a year to visit Vicky’s family. She’s been freelancing at a couple radio stations over the years, and last you heard she was in Cincinnati. She packed up and left as soon as the funerals were over. You’re jealous of her, in that respect, how she was able to leave and start a new life somewhere far away from this shit-hole.

She, Steve, and Vicky went to a bar last night. You were invited, too, of course, but going to the cemetery makes you pensive. It was best if you just stayed home. Steve knew better than to push for your attendance.

“Doing good from what I heard. They’re planning a trip to the mountains or some shit in the winter. Asked if we wanted to come.”

You contemplated the request. It would be nice to get out for a while, but the thought of having fun, like things were normal, unearthed a pit of guilt in your stomach that you’d prefer not to face.

“Yeah, we’ll see.” You hummed noncommittally.

“Just think about it, you don’t have to decide right away.” You nod, looking down at your hands wrapped around the sleek bottle. Steve had pleaded with you to socialize repeatedly over the years, saying something about how it could help you “acclimate back to the real world.” You give him crumbs, every once in a while meeting him for dinner or for drinks.

You wished he’d stop asking, and he usually does for a period of time after you satisfy him. But he gets resilient when you hermit, and you’ve been doing a lot of that lately.

He takes another swig of his beer before speaking, voice low and careful, “I saw Mike yesterday. He’s fighting again.”

You glance at him, brow furrowing. “Yeah?” You already know the answer. Mike’s face always comes to you after dark, bruised and split. He’s been fighting for some time, in bars, rings, and alleys, until he’s bloodied and beaten. He wins more now than he used to, but he’s angry and broken inside, everything he couldn’t use to save your friends he instead throws at strangers.

You and Steve have tried to talk him out of it, tried to get him to follow the book, just like you both did. But Mike is young, and oh so stubborn. He’s trying to prove something, whether it’s to himself or to the world, you don’t know, but you understand that everyone has their thing. You used to drink, Steve smokes cigarettes (which he tries to hide but you can smell faintly on his clothes), and Mike fights. He’s broken ribs and been pummeled to basically a pulp more times than you care to count, but he won’t stop.

It breaks you to see him like that, eyes swollen shut with dried blood on his face, but you’ll be there to patch him up whenever he needs. He feels useless for what happened, and the drunks he beats aren’t Henry, but he’ll pretend they are. Beating them to the ground until they can do nothing but gurgle blood and take his lashings. You’re not happy that this is the path he chose for himself, but you understand that without an outlet, the anger starts to eat at you from the inside-out.

Steve leans back, taking another swig, eyes flicking to the ceiling as if the light there might hold some excuse. “I thought he told you he was done.” There is a lingering accusation hidden in his tone, as if Mike’s actions were somehow your fault.

You scoff, shooting him a glare. “I’m not his fucking handler, Steve. Mike will never stop. Not until he gets beat so bad he doesn’t get back up. You know this.” You chug a bit of your beer, needing the comfort of alcohol as quickly as your body will digest it.

“I’m not saying that you are. It’s just you never tell him anything. You let it happen. He comes here, you put a band-aid on ‘em, and then you let him walk out the door to do it all over again tomorrow.” He throws his hands up in exasperation, motioning to your front door as he speaks. “You’re so fucking existential sometimes, man, and he leeches off that shit. Yes, our situation fucking sucks, but you’ve got to learn to make the best of it. Your ‘I dont give a fuck whether I live or die’ shit might be cute for you, but Mike’s a kid. You’ve gotta be tougher on him.”

“What the fuck, Steve?” You look at him incredulously. “Why are you attacking me? You literally just got here? Usually, you save your savior complex bullshit until we’re at least down to half the case.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. Steve has a bad habit of living ten feet up your ass at all times, and your patience was running extremely thin today.

“Yeah, no, go ahead. Maybe one day, I’ll find something that you actually take fucking seriously. This isn’t some stranger,” he huffs your name, standing to his feet. “This is Mike. Our Mike. What happens if one day he gets knocked so hard that, that’s it, he’s gone? It takes one, one hit to the fucking head.” He makes the point of shoving one finger in front of him as he walks to the kitchen to grab another beer.

You groan silently into the hand on your face. Steve was fucking on one today. You know he gets like this whenever he sees Mike. Steve Harrington, always brutally honest to the people he cares about, you having been many times on the receiving end of the conversation he definitely gave Mike yesterday during their run-in. Steve has this sort of paternal instinct that runs through him, not resting until he knows all his chicks are safe and sound in their coop. Deep down, however, he knows Mike and himself are two sides of the same coin. They were both supposed to protect, and they failed. Steve has been able to come to terms with his failure a bit better, though, be it for his level of maturity. Mike’s not really there yet, instead choosing to let the feelings drown him, flooding him completely.

You see yourself in Mike, too. In how you used to be. A bit in how you still are. But at least you’re halfway to healed. It is hard for you to get rid of that devil-may-care attitude, though. You are working on it, just not as quickly as Steve would like.

“He’s not a kid anymore, Steve.” You call to him from your place on the couch. The sound of Steve rummaging through glass bottles gets louder as he becomes increasingly frustrated. “He hasn’t been a kid for a long time. He doesn’t want our protection, and frankly he doesn’t need it. Mike will learn one day that there are consequences to his actions. So until then, I’ll put a fucking band-aid on him, hell, I’ll even kiss it better, too. He’ll learn.” You take another long drink from your beer, killing the bottle.

Steve leans on the entryway between your kitchen and living room, shaking his head, looking at his hands. “I am in awe of how you became such a stone-cold bitch,” he scoffs, looking at you. Low-blow, even for Steve. But he’s right.

You could be a bitch, when you really wanted to. “Hmm,” you hummed, faking deep thought. “I think it happened somewhere between having the love of my life disappear forever and watching Joyce get her eyes gutted out by Henry Creel. Or was it when Lucas got ripped in half? Or maybe, it was having to hold Hop’s intestines in my hands to prevent them from falling out? No, I know,” you say, sarcastically aloof, standing up and walking towards him.

“It was when we had to witness the skin peel off Dustin’s face as he cried out for us.” You hissed at him, pushing your way past him and throwing the empty bottle into the trash. Low-blow from you, too, it seemed.

He looks at you with fire in his eyes. “You think that doesn’t hurt me? You think I could just forget something like that? Just because it happened to us doesn’t mean it needs to keep happening to us. Cut me a fucking break,” he growled your name, running his hand through his hair.

“Do you really think we are the only people in this world that bad shit has happened to? Get a fucking grip. No one gives a fuck if we are sad, or if we are tired, or if we are about to throw ourselves onto oncoming traffic- no one gives a fuck! So take some responsibility and show up for Mike. Be an example. He can’t be better unless we are better.”

You grab another beer while he is speaking, rolling your eyes at how he could be so unbelievably optimistic towards a hopeful future. Bold of him to assume that there even is a “better” to get to. You must get halfway down the bottle before he is done talking, the bitter taste running down your throat like sandpaper.

You had an accountability issue, this much is true, and you didn’t take lightly to Steve perpetually blaming you for Mike’s behavior. “Dude, give it a fucking rest,” you groaned exasperatedly into the air. “We argue about this every week. I. Am. Trying. Mike wouldn’t even listen to Hopper when he was alive, why would he care what I think? How many times do I have to tell you? Let your savior complex shit, I don’t know, chill, for a second. Get off my ass.”

God, he made your fucking head hurt sometimes. You sincerely doubt that Mike was taking anyone else’s life into consideration when deciding what to do with his own. He needed an outlet, and he had one. Only God can judge, and you’re nowhere up on that list. You pushed past him again, returning to your spot on the couch with a second half-drunk beer and two fresh ones in hand.

“How can you not understand that Mike is still our responsibility? If we have the opportunity to make him better, to help him, why are you not trying to put your best foot forward? You’re enabling him every time you fix him up. It’s fucking ridiculous.” He’s gripping the back of your dining table chair, waving the beer around animatedly.

“I’m not enabling anything! I know I can’t stop him, you know you can’t stop him. So I’m helping him in the only way he’ll fucking let me!” You found yourself elevating your voice, so you took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down.

“I talk to him, Steve. Really, I do. And he brushes me off every single fucking time, just as he does you. I’m not a jukebox that just spills out music every time someone puts in a god damn quarter. Unlike you, I get tired of repeating the same shit week after week after week, only for Mike to wipe his ass with it.”

He walked back towards you, standing in front of the coffee table and looking at you in the eyes. You leaned forward a bit from the couch to match the weight of his gaze. “I’d rather have to repeat myself a million and one times and know that I had even the slightest possibility to save someone than give up. I didn’t give up on you and I’m not going to give up on Mike.”

Something inside you turned your vision blood red. It sounded to you like he thought you helpless, in need of his constant supervision in order to function like a regular human being. He helped you move forward, yes, but Steve was acting like he gripped you tight and forced you into recovery. He led you in the right direction, but the hard shit, the grueling hours spent putting yourself back together, that came from you.

"Oh please,” you scoffed, “Save me the fucking sob story, Steven.” You took a drink.

You were blind with rage like a rabid dog. Whenever you both fought about these topics a resolution was far from reachable, especially if you drank. You both became these hot-headed, stubborn versions of yourselves looking only to hurt the other.

"Because you're such a savior. Thank you, o' holy Steve! For saving me!” You placed your hands in an exaggerated prayer motion, bottle snug between them. “And now, your holiness, you will save Mike. You tried to save Jonathan too, and you know what that got him? A fucking .22 to the back of the throat."

The look on Steve’s face should have made you want to stop. It should have made you pack up all the bottles and throw them away, apologizing for hurting your friend. Of course you didn’t blame him for Jonathan’s death, but you were an angry, angry soul. And you wanted him to hurt. You wanted him to feel the suffocation you’d felt for the past seven years. Bad things change good people, it seems. You want him to recognize that harping on you, or on Mike, doesn’t change the fact that stupid fucking Glory in Grief meetings are not the ‘get out of jail free’ cards for healing.

Steve’s jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack. “That was fucked up,” he said quietly. That almost made it worse. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to use him like that.”

But you weren’t listening to reason. Something sharp flared in your chest, defensive and feral. “Oh, don’t act like I’m the only one who’s crossed lines,” you snapped. “You push and push and then act surprised when I bite back.”

Steve let out a short, humorless laugh. “I push because you’re killing yourself slowly and calling it retribution."

You opened your mouth to fire back, but he kept going, his voice tight, eyes locked on yours like he was bracing for impact.

He was used to this with you- your attempts to carve through him with mean words as a projection of your own feelings. He would usually steer through these types of conversations with a clear head, bringing you back to reality with some reassurance.

Today, however, with Mike’s return to violence adding insult to injury, he was fucking on one. He didn’t want to play nice, and he was sick of you turning his every effort to care for you into victimization. You haven’t shown him an ounce of gratitude in seven years, and he wanted you to feel the blow.

“And Eddie?” he said.

The name hit you like a slap.

Your breath stuttered. “Don’t.”

Steve swallowed. His eyes flicked away for half a second, like he already regretted it. Then he looked back at you anyway. “You don’t think I see it?” he said. “The way you wear him around your neck like a fucking relic. Like if you bleed enough over him, it’ll make everything else make sense.”

Rage roared up so fast it made you dizzy. “You have no right-”

“No?” Steve interrupted, his voice finally rising. “Because it looks an awful lot like you’re hiding behind him. Like Eddie dying gave you permission to stop living.”

That did it.

You stepped toward him, fists clenched, vision blurring red at the edges. “Say his name one more time and I swear to God—”

“And what?” Steve shot back. “You’ll what? You’ll start drinking again? Or sit here and rot, because at least then it hurts the right way?”

You laughed, wild and broken. “You don’t get to talk about him. You didn’t love him.”

Steve’s face twisted. “No,” he said. “But I loved you. And I watched him die for you. For all of us.”

The room went dead silent.

Neither of you apologized.

Neither of you moved.

The silence sat heavy between you, thick enough to choke on. Your chest burned, lungs pulling in air that didn’t feel like it was doing anything. Steve was still standing there, hands at his sides, looking at you like he was bracing for something he deserved.

Something inside you snapped.

You surged forward without thinking, shoving at his chest with both hands. Not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough to mean it. Hard enough to say I need to feel something.

Steve had never used his feelings against you, not like this. He was being unfair, knowing that his love for you was one-sided in that way. He knew you weren’t able to reciprocate it, and now he was holding it over your head. Your anger at him spiraled inside you like a dust storm, exploding all around you.

“Don’t you fucking say his name like that,” you hissed, hitting him again, fat tears running down your face. “Don’t you talk about him like you knew him-”

Steve staggered back half a step, shock flashing across his face before instinct kicked in. “Hey- hey,” he warned, grabbing your wrists as you swung again. “Stop.”

You didn’t. You wrenched one hand free and struck his chest again, fist connecting solidly this time. “You don’t get to weaponize him- you don’t get to weaponize your feelings,” you shouted. “You don’t get to tell me how to grieve him-”

“Enough,” Steve snapped, voice sharp now, urgent.

You shoved him again, and this time he reacted fully, grabbing you by the arms and spinning you around in one swift motion. Your chest hit the wall with a dull thud, knocking the air from your lungs. Steve followed you there immediately, body close but not crushing, one arm braced beside your head, the other pinning your wrists behind your back.

“Stop,” he said again, breath ragged, forehead resting on the back of your head. “I’m not letting you hurt yourself like this.”

You struggled against him, more out of fury than strength. “Get off me.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re not thinking.”

“I don’t care,” you spat, twisting your wrists uselessly. “Let go.”

Steve’s grip tightened just enough to keep you still, his jaw clenched hard. “I won’t,” he said. “Not while you’re like this.”

Your chest heaved against his, the proximity suddenly unbearable. You could feel his heart racing through his jacket, could smell the beer on his breath, could see every crack in his composure up close.

The silence that followed was heavy and electric, buzzing under your skin like a live wire. You could still feel his hands on your wrists, not painfully, but tight enough to linger. Your body remembered the closeness even as your mind recoiled from it. The warmth. The weight. The undeniable fact that you were not alone in the room.

You hated that part of yourself.

You stared at the floor, jaw tight, fingers digging into your sleeves. You were angry at yourself for wanting this, for wanting any man other than him, but your body didn’t care about vows made to ghosts or the sanctity of mourning. You swallowed hard.

It was so quiet you could hear the sounds of an ambulance three blocks over. It brought you back to reality a bit, making you realize the gravity of your situation. How raw it was. How there was no one left to interrupt you, no Jonathan to clear his throat, no Eddie to crack a joke and break the tension, no catastrophe to drag you back into survival mode.

Just two bodies. Two bodies breathing and hurting and wanting.

You felt it settle low in your stomach, unwelcome and insistent. The shame came immediately after, hot and nauseating. Eddie’s face flashed in your mind, grinning, alive, yours. The guilt hit so hard you almost laughed at it.

Steve spoke your name quietly, carefully.

You didn’t answer.

He was pressed barely up behind you, the imprint of his bulge light against your ass. His left hand held your wrists tightly, while the one on the right gripped your hip. He never crossed the line unless you did first. He’d learned that the hard way, by wanting you in all the ways he wasn’t allowed to.

Both of you knew where this was going. It was unspoken. The tension had you both strung unbelievably tight, and there was nothing left to do but to let it snap. It’d been a long time coming. You’d found yourselves stuck in these precarious situations before, but you knew no amount of moral high ground would reign victorious this time.

You’d tell yourself to blame the alcohol.

You turn your head until your cheek is against the wall, looking back at him. “This doesn’t mean anything,” you said flatly, like you were setting terms for a crime.

Steve’s throat bobbed. “I know.”

“And it doesn’t fix anything.”

“I know that too.”

You surprised yourself when you pushed back against him, feeling his length behind you. It surprised you more that he was hard, if at most slightly, but somehow, his body wasn’t hating this idea.

His breath quickened from behind you. He rolled his hips into yours, ever so slightly. If you weren’t so hyperaware of everything he was doing to you, you would’ve missed it. His hand had traveled from your hips, timidly toying with the button at the front of your jeans.

You couldn't think. You couldn't breathe. All you could do was feel. You felt the cool touch of the wall against your cheek, your neck straining from its sideways position. You could feel his slender body behind you, his chest holding you against the wall. The tent in his pants pressed deliciously against your backside, clouding your brain with arousal.

Steve had to be sure, unequivocally and without a doubt, that you wanted this. You could regret him tomorrow, for all he cared, but he’d never force you to do anything you didn’t want to do.

"Tell me you need this." He spoke in your ear, his pained voice breaking through the silence, almost as if he was holding himself back. "C'mon, tell me."

"Steve, please." You whined. Every touch was conflicting. He was putting you in an impossible position. It had been so long, so incredibly, painfully, and torturously long since anyone had touched you. But you couldn't shake the feeling of betrayal in your heart. Eddie had been your first, and you'd considered him to be your last. But he isn't here. And he's not coming back.

Just as Eve was tempted with the apple, you, in your sinful wanting, found that your debilitating loneliness and rage withered away the longer Steve stayed pressed against you. For too long had you stuck it out alone. Steve had been there for you, clearly, but he hadn't known you. Not like this.

His hands gripped harder on your waist. "No,” he muttered your name. “I need words. I- I won’t be fucking nice, jus’ tell me you need this. Please." He sounded strained, teetering the edge of total collapse.

His desire was your undoing. You needed this. You needed to feel wanted again, to feel desired. You desperately needed to feel something- anything besides helplessness and grief. You were angry, fundamentally, about the words Steve had thrown at you earlier. But, now, you were too far gone to care. All the tension between you both for the past seven years- the constant fights, your attitude, Steve’s hovering- it all culminated here and now. You were going to explode together, like a stellar collision millions of years in the making, chaotic and bright. You both were going to use each other tonight. It's all a means to an end.

Steve would imagine this was something that it wasn’t, that he had you, safely and intimately. He wanted to care for you, to give you the outlet he knew you craved. He’d help you forget whatever you wanted. You wanted to feel something. The emotional numbness only soothed so much. In heated moments, moments like this, you wished you could give in to the fire, to the chaos. You’d do anything to remember how it felt to love, to regret.

"Yes," you answered him, nodded furiously against the wall. "I need this, Steve, please just-" Your words were cut off with a strangled moan as Steve shoved his hand down the front of your denims.

You were unbearably wet. You could feel his finger sliding atop the center of your panties, gliding with zero resistance. Steve began to slide his finger up and down your slit as he whispered, "Fuck, you're soaked," into the back of your hair.

The longer he teased you, the less patience you reserved. Soon, you began to roll your hips back and forth, encouraging his finger to move faster, slip under your panties, and do more. Given your unlucky position, the distance between your hips and the wall did not allow for much movement, but you attempted anyway.

It was awkward, rushed, and border-line rough, the way you both moved together. It had been so long since either of you had been touched, so there were no practiced movements or experienced maneuvers. Everything was experimental. There was also the lingering notion that at any time, either of you could come to your senses and realize the wrongness of what you were doing. This moment was fleeting, needy, and it felt so good.

His hand gripped your waist harder, attempting to direct the speed of your hips, but you were too far gone to care. The way his finger deliciously caught your clit was enough to send lightning down your spine. The tent in his pants grew harder as your hips rocked into it. It wasn't long until he began to rock back against you, desperate for any sort of relief.

As you felt him lose control behind you, a small trail of your arousal began to leak down the side of your leg, getting soaked up by the denim. If he were to move his hand away (God forbid), a sweet little trail of your juices would connect his finger to the outside of your panties.

"You feel so fucking good," He groans your name into in the back of your neck, sinking his teeth into the waiting skin, as your movements grew feverish. Then, by the grace of everything living and holy, he finally shoved his middle and ring fingers under your panties, and began rubbing slippery, slick circles on your clit.

Your forehead knocked against the wall as you began to take in shallow breaths.

"Oh right there, right there, pleasedon'tstop." Your hips had stilled now that you had him where you needed him most, but he continued to grind up against you, pushing you into his fingers.

"Like that?" His fingers sped up. "Is this what you wanted, sweetheart?"

You nod your head, and the words start spewing. "Yes, ngh, please, it's been so lo-, fuck, Steve, your fingers feel so good."

It's so good that it borders on painful. It's a white-hot feeling in your clit that makes you want to simultaneously run towards and away from it. His fingers scoop down to your entrance, teasing, and grab some more of your wetness, smearing it atop your clit. Every circle of his fingers makes your knees buckle, Steve's arm now gripping your waist to keep you upright.

You claw at the wall as he continues his ministrations, kissing your neck lightly as you try to keep your eyes open.

Suddenly, Steve slows down, fingers rubbing slow, wet circles around your clit, but no longer touching it directly. Your eyes shot open, and you let out a low whine, your head hitting the wall defeatedly. You knew he wasn’t going to make this fucking easy.

And you were right on that. Steve realised, after the initial pussy drunkenness wore off, that he had all night to play with you, and seven years worth of your bullshit to avenge. He warned you that he wouldn't play nice- he was going to make this hell for you, and if you wanted an orgasm of any kind tonight, you were going to work for it.

His deliberate avoidance of your clit continued for a little while longer, until your breathy groans and thrusting hips made him almost pity you. Almost.

“Y’want me to help you?”

You nodded your head frantically against the wall.

He tsk’d under his breath at your nonverbal answer. “Say it.”

“Steve, please,” Your face was heating up with embarrassment. Leave it to Steve to make an example of you, no matter the circumstance. Your cunt throbbed, your neglected clit yearning for the slick pass of his fingers, but the asshole knew exactly where to touch you so that all you felt was wanting.

You’d never wanted his help, nor had you ever shown him any sort of gratitude for anything he had ever done for you, always hellbent on holding your own. Steve had enough of your constant bitching regarding his efforts to keep you fucking alive, and he was in no position to help you now unless you begged for it.

“You haven’t wanted my help a day in your life,” he spoke into the skin on the back of your neck, pinching the inside of your thigh. “If you want my help now, fucking ask me for it.”

His voice was making you dizzy. It had gotten so deep, the rumbled command shooting through you like a bullet. It made its home in your core, heightening your want and bringing prickly tears to your eyes. If he would just movehisfuckingfingerdown-

“Steve,” you caved, not wanting to push your orgasm back any farther. “Please, please, help me come. I want your help, really, I swear-ngh, fuck.”

You could feel his stupid self-satisfied smirk form behind you. You would’ve said something slick under different circumstances, but he’d rewarded your admission with a wet swipe against your clit, which nearly took you out.

“Y’gonna listen to me? You won’t fight me?” He furthered, with another soft swipe on your clit.

You sobbed out a yes, knees buckling at his slow circles, focus redirected back to your swollen nub.

His hand shot up to the hair at the back of your head, gripping it and tugging your head back, grinding his heavy cock into you. You moaned at the shock of pain, soothed by sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on your neck. His fingers were still slowly working you towards the edge, each languid swipe shocking the nerves up and down your spine.

Your brain was reeling, thinking of everything you’d ever done to land you here, pushed up against the wall with Steve working you deliciously under his fingers. Your thoughts, however, were loud and demanding. You couldn’t stop thinking of the implication, of tomorrow, of yesterday, of Eddie, of Steve-

You felt your orgasm slipping away again, stomping your foot childishly with a groan. You were fighting him, if subconsciously, wanting him to move his fingers faster, forcing you to think of nothing but his assault on your clit. Despite your tantrum, he kept going with slow, direct circles, ignoring your whines and pleas for more.

“‘s not enough-not enough, please, Steve,” your hips moved frantically, searching on their own for the sweet release you were once more denied, your hands gripping the front of his shirt behind you.

Steve shook his head at your greediness.

“Yeah it is, jus’ feel it, c’mon- don’t run from it,” he delivered a slap to your clothed ass against him, urging you to stop thinking and to just feel. “Stop fightin’ me ‘n let it happen.”

His words were laced with sex, and gone was the articulate Steve Harrington who spoke like he was trying to cradle you with his words. His words were raw, deep, and groaned, grounding you in the pleasure he was feeding you. All these years he’d been trying to show you that he knew what you needed even when you didn’t, and this was no different.

You were hard-headed, and Steve should’ve known it was too much to ask for you to trust him. To allow him to give you what you needed without you having to take control of the situation. You thought you were so capable, never needing anyone but yourself. You were going to come, Steve would make sure of that, but you were going to do it his way. You were going to come slowly. It would build up intensely in your core, ebbing and growing until it was too far gone to stop. It would seep into your bones, shocking your system, and shutting you down. It would crack away at mental shields you had placed, until there was nothing left for you to do other than let him work you through it, turning you into putty in his hands.

You weren’t listening, too caught up in chasing your orgasm to heed his command. He got frustrated, yanking your neck back again by your hair, and sinking his teeth into the open skin, not harshly, but just enough to grab your attention.

“Stop fucking thinking and listen to me,” he growled, as he stopped moving his fingers entirely, much to your dismay. You became deathly still, save for your chest heaving between him and the wall.

“Close your eyes and open.” His fingers darted out from under your jeans and came to tap lightly at your lips. Not looking to earn yourself any more disadvantages, you did as you were told.

Your eyes fluttered closed, mouth stretching open. Steve placed his middle and ring fingers atop your tongue, resting them there for a moment.

“Suck.”

Immediately, your mouth closed around his digits, tongue running the length of them, cleaning them free from the salty taste of your wetness.

“Good girl, jus’ like that, clean ‘em up,” Steve murmured, cock hardening at the feeling of your warm mouth around his fingers. You moaned at his praise, the wetness growing in your jeans.

“Don’t think of anything but how it feels, okay? Stay outta that pretty head of yours, hm?” He hummed into your neck, ending his comment by sensually licking the spot where he had previously bit you.

You nodded your head obediently with his fingers in your mouth. The fucking sight of you made Steve’s cock twitch. The past seven years had left Steve a rugged and hardened man, and he would be a fucking liar if he said controlling you like this didn’t awaken the darkest parts of him with excitement. He was going to take care of you, whether you liked it or not. He had you trapped against the wall, unable to fight or run, but still, your submission to him was surprising. Now that he’d had a taste of how sweet you could be, how compliant, he would crave you forever.

Steve was clouding your senses- the tickle of his hair, his lips, his fingers. He’d enthralled you, willing you to obedience with just the low timber of his voice. It felt good to give up control for a bit, if not strange. You knew Steve would never take advantage of you, allowing your thoughts to still briefly. You deserved this. You’d mourned and lost much more than any girl your age should’ve, and maybe, just maybe, you deserved a bit of comfort alongside the pain.

Steve pulled his fingers out slowly, your tongue swiping a cheeky pass along the tips of his digits as they retreated, a small string of spit connecting his fingers to your bottom lip. You ran your tongue across your lips, savoring the taste of Steve that lingered.

His wet fingers trailed back down to the seam of your jeans, pressing down once on your clit through the denim. A moan caught in your throat, as you instinctively clamped your thighs together to keep him there.

Steve kicked your legs open, pulling your jeans and panties down until they hit the bottom curve of your ass. A gasp shot out of you at the sudden movement, the cold air soothing your warm pussy.

“We’re gonna try again, yeah?” he spoke softly, his fingers placed in a ‘v’ motion on your cunt, trapping your clit between them as he moved up and down, always so fucking slow.

You bit your lip and nodded, eyebrows furrowed together from sheer tension. You’d been worked up before he even began touching you, and now he was making it worse by trying to teach you a lesson. You were another failed orgasm away from tears, and once this was over, you had several choice words to say to him regarding his timing for revenge.

His left hand returned to meet yours behind your back. You gripped his wrist expectantly, as he held yours together, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the skin.

“I want to help you, sweetheart, but you gotta let me,” he spoke your name softly, his saccharine sweet tone a sharp contrast from his frustration just minutes before, but it was wearing you down all the same. He could get you to rob a fucking bank if he wanted, and all he’d need to do was speak to you in that honey-laced voice. There was a casual dominance to it, a small remainder of the once famous King Steve.

His old self comes out sometimes, in small quirks or tone of voice, but Steve has changed. He’s a shell of the man he once was, hollow and rough around the edges now. But sometimes, when he throws you a flirty smile, or spins you around your kitchen while singing some trashy song on the radio, you notice bits and pieces of how he used to be. Of a boy. King Steve. A reminder that he grew up too fast, parts of his soul left empty due to the rapid growth.

“I’ll listen, Steve, please. Whatever you say, I’ll- shit, I’ll fucking listen just-,” you cut off with a groan as he plunges his middle finger inside your wet heat. The air leaves you like a punch to the gut, wheezing out and spluttering away.

He worked you open diligently, arm moving to hold your torso upright while your knees buckled. The pleasure was all-consuming. You’d forgotten what it felt like to be touched, to feel wanted under someone else. It was making you dizzy. His long, slender finger hit that spongey spot inside you with repeated precision. Stars swarmed your vision, your arms moving from behind you to brace against the wall, clawing at nothing.

“Ohfuckfuckfuck,” you squealed, as Steve let out a breathy chuckle behind you, sliding in another finger alongside the first. The stretch was delicious, filling you up right where you needed him to.

“How’s that?” Smug motherfucker.

You couldn’t form words. You tried your best to nod your head in approval, some form of “s’good” tumbling from your lips.

He was enthralled by you. The noises you were making were going straight to his cock, which throbbed tightly in his jeans. He grinded himself into your ass, pushing you further onto his fingers. You were a dream, and he knew he’d think about this moment forever, in the late hours of the night, with his fist tightly wrapped around his leaking cock.

His own thoughts spurred him on, his fingers picking up their pace inside you. You could hear the sounds of your wetness echoing around you, mixing sweetly with your moans of pleasure. Steve had never heard a more beautiful sound.

You could feel yourself getting close, your hand shooting down to grab at Steve’s wrist to keep him grounded against your swollen pussy. In your frantic state, hips moving in tune with the thrusts of his fingers, your mouth began to spew nonsense, hoping that Steve would get the message.

“P-plea- don’t stop, Steve, ‘m right there, shit, pleasepleaseplease.”

You sounded so sweet like this, so agreeable, like he could do anything he wanted, and you’d accept it the way it was. He wished you were like this always, realizing that he only wanted what’s best for you, nodding your head and taking it for what it was.

He could tell you were close by the way your breath hitched and your head hit the wall with a thud, too full of pleasure to keep itself upright. His fingers felt like silk inside your velvet walls, a small pool of your slick collecting on his palm, allowing your clit to rub wetly against it.

You opened your eyes from against the wall, the glimpse of Steve’s fingers pumping in and out of you greeting you warmly. The sight made your mouth water. The sleeve of his shirt was bunched up by his elbow, and he wore a leather-strapped watch around his wrist, accentuating the skin of his muscled forearm. It may have been your dry spell messing with your head, but you don’t think you’ve ever felt so turned on, although you’d never let yourself admit it.

Steve was going to play nice this once, he really was. Until he realized that this moment was fleeting, and he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance to see you like this again. If Steve had learned anything over the past seven years, it was to be selfish, because you never knew if you’d ever get another moment twice. So he wouldn’t play nice, because he was selfish. And selfishly, he wanted to look in your eyes as he made you come.

He ripped his hands from your cunt, pulling you out of your bliss-fueled state, orgasm washing away once more.

You almost cried, eyes welling up with tears as you slammed your fist against the wall. “Nononono, Steve, why, plea-no,” you whined.

Before you could continue your tirade, he spun you around, pushing you back up against the wall. You were beautiful, with your puffy lips in a small pout, your eyebrows furrowed over your tear-filled eyes.

“What the fuck Steven,” you growled, pushing him lightly in the chest again.

He was so close now. While he’d basically thrown himself atop you when you were facing the wall, he felt so much closer face to face. He towered above you, bending down at the neck to the point where your noses almost touched. If you weren’t so angry at him for ruining yet another almost-orgasm, you might’ve taken a second to appreciate his looks.

“Patience is a virtue, y’know,” he replied smoothly, cocking his head to the side with another fucking smirk plastered on his face.

“I think my foot in your ass is another one,” you stared him down, trying to forget about the strong arms caging you in on either side of your head.

You huffed. “Are you going to make me come or not, Harrington? Because I have a million other things I could be doing right now.” You crossed your arms, ignoring the fact that your pants were halfway down your legs.

“Yeah, like what? Moping?” He jabbed.

“Y’know what, I don’t need this from you, thanks,” you pulled your pants up, pushing past his hold.

“No, c’mon, hol’ on,” he grabbed you by the waist, turning you to face him once more. “Please, just listen,” your stomach fluttered lightly at his grip.

“I’m trying to make this good for you, yeah? I just need you to trust me. Just let me do this, please. Let me take care of you. For one, don’t fight me.” His eyes bore into yours with sincerity.

You stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say. Ultimately, you gave him a curt nod, choosing to lay your pride aside for one night. You’d finally accept his help.

He smiled at your admission, pulling you forward towards the couch. You plopped onto the cloth cushions, starting back up at him. To your surprise, he got down on his knees in front of you, hands coming to rest behind your calves.

You looked at him with shocked eyes, slowly putting the pieces together. “Steve, you don’t ha-,” you began, swinging your hands in front of you in a hurried no, leaning forward to push him off.

“Hey,” he squeezed your calves, causing you to look at him mid-movement. “Do you trust me?” He asked again.

You paused, then whispered out, “yes.”

“Then let me do this. Don’t fight me,” he reminded you again.

Slowly, you leaned back on the couch, watching him expectantly, your hands nervously balled into fists beside you.

He pressed a quick kiss to your knee, tapping on your leg in an effort to get you to lift your hips up. You did as prompted, lifting your hips so he could hook his fingers around the waistband of your jeans, pulling down, down, down, until you were left bare on the couch. The bastard had taken your panties along, too.

Suddenly nervous, you pressed your legs together, trying to hide as much as you could from his prying eyes.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered, “let me see.” Something fluttered in your cunt, his words sending a warm shiver down your spine.

He put his hands in the crook of your knees and slowly pulled them open, the cool air once again making itself known. He pulled you towards him, urging you to inch down on the couch just a bit to give him easier access to your soaked folds.

His eyes were trained on your cunt, pretty and glistening just for him, it seemed. His tongue darted out from between his lips, running across his bottom lip slowly, almost like he was savoring his meal before he’d even had a taste.

You finally had a chance to look at him, really look at him. His hair was a tousled mess, the way you think looks best on him. His cheeks were slightly flushed, soft brown eyes full of want. He looked like he was carved by the gods, a couple years older, but still ruggedly handsome.

You watched him closely, the way his jaw clenched, and suddenly alarms started blaring in your head. When you were facing the wall, you didn’t have to face the fact that it was Steve making you feel this way. It was an unknown figure behind you, bringing you to keel with their fingers. Now, face to face, you had to make terms with the fact that it was Steve. Another pang of guilt shot through you. You felt like you were betraying him with your actions, your Eddie. And the worst part was, you wanted it.

Steve took you out of your mental battle once more, as he settled between your legs, his head dropping down to place a light kiss on your thigh. Your breath hitched in your throat from the sensitivity.

Slowly, he worked his way up your thigh, until his face was mere centimeters away from your aching core. You could feel his warm breath on you, itching for him to make the first move.

Steve pushed your thighs apart, hooking your left leg over the arm of the couch, spreading you out completely for him.

“There she is,” he mumbled, more to himself than anything. He thumbed your lips open, giving him full access to your swollen nub.

Just as you thought he was going to ogle at your cunt forever, he dipped his head down and licked one long stripe from the bottom of your cunt up to your needy clit.

“Oh fuck,” you sighed, you head falling back onto the cushion.

He gave you another long lick, with just a touch more pressure. His tongue was so soft, and it glided on you like velvet. He flicked your clit lightly, focusing his efforts on where you desperately needed him. Your moans gave him vigor, as he took his thumb and pulled up lightly on the hood of your clit, exposing it to him with no barrier.

He lifted his head and let a dribble of spit fall down on it, and you thanked the Powers That Be that you were able to witness it. It was so dirty, him spitting on your cunt like that, and it grew your want tenfold.

He took his tongue and swirled it around your nub, the added spit making it seamless. The feeling of his tongue on your bare clit was so intense, you didn’t know whether you wanted to run away from it or keep him planted there.

“Oh my- god?” You choked out, your hands finding his hair and burying themselves in his silky locks.

He hummed into your cunt as you pulled, right arm shifting to scoop under your thigh and the other went to press upon the leg rested on the arm of the couch to keep you from squirming.

He devoured you like a man starved, lapping on your clit like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. You nearly lost your mind when he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, your mewls of pleasure no longer reserved.

“Please, right the-, thatss’good, Stevie, oh God,” you were rambling again.

Your thighs were shaking under his hold, the pleasure white hot on your clit.

He looked up at you, eyes wild. All you could do was nod your head vigorously, words escaping you. You were so locked into the feeling that you were forgetting to breathe, moans stuck in your chest, not able to escape.

He released your clit with a pop, running back over it lightly with his tongue. You tasted devine, a bit tart, but still the best thing Steve had tasted in a long time. He couldn’t stop looking at you, the way you twitched, the way your chest heaved up and down from the exertion.

His tongue swirled in patterns incomprehensible to you. Steve Harrington would soon kill you with his mouth on your cunt, alone.

That familiar feeling began to swell in your core, his alternation between sucks and flicks on your clit pushing all the right buttons.

You needed to come so bad. It was primal. All your brain could think of was keeping his warm, wet mouth on you just long enough for you to come on it.

Your delirious state had you resorting to begging, unable to find a better way of communicating your thoughts.

“‘m so close, Steve, pleasepleaseplease. Just, uh- pleaseletmecome.” Your hands were gripping his hair tightly, his hands in turn gripping into your plush thighs.

His was relentless, sucking and licking until you could do nothing but squeeze your eyes shut and take it. The feeling in your core was so intense, much more so than before, breaking you down bit by bit until you could feel nothing but blinding pleasure.

“Yes, like that, please don’t stop, please Steve,” you whined prettily, so fucking close.

He hummed into you again, his tongue never stopping.

You didn’t realize you were coming until it was too late. You could do nothing but jerk through the waves that crashed into you all at once. Your back arched into his mouth, a soft squeal releasing from your lips and out into the air. The pleasure was excruciating. It filled every part of your body, ringing in your ears and blurring your vision. Your body felt like it was on fire, the flames licking your skin and burning you senseless. It was never-ending, just swelling up inside and crashing over you all at once.

It ebbs and flows into the aftershocks, to a point where you had no idea how long your orgasm had even lasted. When Steve finally pulls away, you’re a heaving puddle on the couch. He licks his lips again, savoring the last taste of you before wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

You stared at him through half-lidded eyes as he got up and sat on the couch next to you, turning your boneless body to face him, your back now resting on the arm of the couch.

“How was that?” He asked you softly.

While you hate to admit it, Steve was right. He’d known exactly what you needed, and although, initially, the idea of being edged like that had made your blood boil, you felt so much lighter after he’d made you finish. It had all piled up, like a snowball rolling down a hill, until it exploded into one of the best orgasms you’d ever had.

Does this mean you’ll listen to him? No. Will you at least think about it? Yeah. Progress is progress, surely.

You gave him a lopsided smile, still a bit hazed, “really good.”

“I’m glad I still got it,” he chuckled. “‘s not every day that Steve Harrington gets to work his magic on a pretty lady.”

He was such a fucking cornball.

“Ew, Steve. Gross.” He got what he wanted, as you playfully swatted his shoulder, your laugh music to his ears. He didn’t get to hear you laugh much anymore, and he’d forgotten how much he missed it.

Your giggles died out, and you were both left smiling at each other, the moment hanging in the air.

He was close again, and somehow your legs had ended up sprawled across his lap, his hands rubbing gentle circles on your thigh.

His eyes left yours briefly, darting to your lips and back to up to your eyes. You knew where this was headed, and before you could think a second thought, Steve closed the gap between you, pressing his lips to yours and wiping your mind of any lingering notions.

He kissed you tentatively, testing the waters before he tried to move his lips. Your eyes fluttered closed, humming against his mouth in delight. He needed no additional invitation, and began to slowly move his lips against yours.

He tasted like sin, with a hint of tart that you’re sure came from you. There was something addictive in tasting yourself on him, so you deepened the kiss in an effort to get your fix.

Your mouths moved in sync, tongues grazing each other lightly. You scrunched his shirt in your hands in an effort to pull him closer. He smelled so good up close, a combination of musky and clean. One of the hands on your leg came to grasp the back of your neck, digging into the hair at the nape.

The kiss was becoming more aggressive, the full extent of your wants and needs now revealed. It was messy, and even a bit frantic, as you both discovered each other in this way. You nipped softly at his bottom lip, conscious enough to not cause him any real pain. He let out a low groan from deep in his chest, the sound rocking straight through you.

His hand on your neck traveled down to absentmindedly toy with the chain around your neck, the guitar pick swaying gently on your chest.

Another pang of guilt shocked you out of your trance, remembering what you were doing and who you were doing it with. You had lost the plot- Eddie was dead and there you were, swapping spit with his friend.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp out, pulling away and chest heaving. “I can’t, I’m sorry Steve, I-” You can’t kiss him. You should never have even let it get to that point.

The kiss was too intimate. A kiss would make it real; it would give this meaning. But there is no meaning. It’s just something you both needed. A means to an end.

Steve understands perfectly well what this is. If there’s anything to regret about your encounter, Steve refuses to add more fuel to your fire. His lips aren’t Eddie’s and they’ll never be. However, he can’t ignore your unspoken desire for them to be. It would be too much for you to kiss him- too unnatural. It would scare you out of whatever sex-fueled bliss currently inhabits you, and this would be over. And that can’t happen. Steve needs this. You need this.

He understands, and it’s infuriating how he always fucking understands. Your head tilts up towards the ceiling, tears of frustration prickling the corners of your eyes as his lips instead mark a new target on your neck, leaving open mouth kisses down toward your collarbone. He’d always comfort you, no matter what, and now he planned to distract you from your thoughts once more.

You wished he was some douchebag. At least then it’d be easier to treat him like shit. But he’s not. He’s perfect. He’s perfect, and patient, and caring, and will wait by your side for eternity. You’re the only person preventing yourself from being happy with him, choosing instead to live in an everlasting pity-party rather than to realize how good you have it.

Something in Steve shifted, his demeanor becoming slightly more confident, his touches more secure in themselves. It’s like if he was simultaneously falling back into his old habits while trying his best to pull you away from yours. He was trying to engrave himself into you, aiming to make you forget about everything for just one night.

“Y’wanna come again?” He whispered into your neck as he nipped at it, your head falling back involuntarily, offering him deeper access to your sensitive skin.

You nodded softly, while adding, “only if y’come, too.”

He knew what that meant, and both he and his cock were elated at your response. You were going to let him fuck you, and he had every intention to wipe your brain free of all thoughts except besides the pleasure he would bring you.

He pulled off of you slightly to unbuckle his pants, disposing of his jeans and underwear a bit slower than you would’ve liked given the circumstances. You bit your lip in anticipation, his hard cock upright and leaking sweetly by his navel.

At that moment you began to understand Steve’s former popularity with women. He might’ve hooked them with his personality, but they stayed for his dick. His cock was beautiful, not too long, but deliciously thick. The sight of it made your mouth water. He shaved the patch of skin nearest to the base, but left the rest alone to form a small, black patch leading to a slight happy trail.

You wanted to run your tongue down the dark line of hair, ultimately rewarding yourself with a soft suck on his leaking, red tip. You’d take him so well, you imagined, sucking and pumping until he was a grunting mess and filling your mouth with his warm cum. You wanted him to feel good, too.

Before you could act on your impulses, Steve took his hand and spit in it, your gaze following it all the way down to his cock, where he gave it two slow pumps. Something shattered inside you as you watched his cock spill out of his hold, a slight sheen of spit reflecting the dim light. His large hand put his size into perspective, and you knew you’d feel the stretch for days if he wasn’t careful.

He must’ve gathered as much from the look on your face, for he shook his head and turned to adjust you, placing your body so that you were laying horizontally on the cushions with your neck on the arm rest. “We’ll go slow.”

Your head shook in protest immediately, eyes wide and begging as you propped yourself up on your elbows to look at him kneeling between your legs. “No, not slow, I don’t care if it hurts, it’s just for a bit.” You whined, urging him to fuck you like you deserved, like you needed. You needed him hard and deep inside you to the point where you could see the slight indent of him jutting inside of your pussy through your lower stomach. You wanted it to hurt, because then it would consume you, forcing you to think only of the way his cock split you in two.

You bit your lip again as he pushed your legs back, signaling for you to hold them up by the backs of your thighs. You watched his jaw tick as a response to your request, but if he had any input, he didn’t disclose it.

Your breath caught in your chest as he leaned forward to swipe the creamy head of his cock down your folds, once, twice, three times, before stopping right in front of your aching hole and speaking, “I’m givin’ you what you fuckin’ need, babe. You said you would trust me, and I know you need it slow, so I’m gonna give it to you. Fucking. Slow.” One look at him was all it took for you to realize that he was not playing around.

His eyes were dark with lust, one hand atop of yours on your thigh, ensuring your legs stayed back and open, while the other pumped himself at your entrance. You let out a small grumble, clenching around nothing. He could feel your muscles working tightly against the tip of cock, not yet fully pressing inside you.

You needed him to move. The heavy weight of him against your entrance was enough to make you dizzy, poisoning you with glorious anticipation for when he would finally stretch you out around him. Thankfully, you didn’t have to wait long.

“Such a’pretty fucking pussy, so fucking warm ‘n tight, fuck.” Steve sucked in his breath as he breached you, your fingers digging into the backs of your thighs as your wet hole stretched around him with absolutely zero friction.

Your chorus of small “uh’s” filled the room as he took his time entering you. He was about forty percent into your tight, wet, warm, cunt when you realized he’d been watching his cock enter you, watching your heat envelop him sinfully.

“Please, Steve,” you beg him, desperate to feel him inside you entirely.

He rewarded you with another half-inch, and you watched his eyes clamp shut as you clenched around him involuntarily. He looked so fucking hot, with his hair a mess and his hands on your legs, even hotter when you knew that he was fighting for every ounce of self-control that he had left.

“Holy- how are you so, fuck? S’tight?” He sounded pained, as if it was hurting him to restrain himself from pushing his body weight against you and driving into you at full fucking force.

His praise was your ammunition, as you began your feeble attempt at moving down his cock by squirming and rocking your hips. Your head nodded at nothing and you honestly sounded like a broken record, pleading for something you knew eventually that you would get. “Keep going, keep going, please, ple-”.

Steve choked out a groan of your name, bringing his thumb to your clit and just pressing on the button, shaking his head. “You gotta let me do this,” he pleaded with you, brown eyes hungry for your cooperation. “C’mon, relax.”

It was an impossible task, he then discovered, to hold back from you. He could barely move an inch without you clenching around him like a vice, and it was getting more and more difficult to restrain himself.

“S-sorry,” you rasped, not really sure if you meant it, looking up at him with wild eyes, “fuck, I’m sorry, it’s just- it’s been, y’know-ngh, abit since I-?”

“Yeah, shi-Christ, I can tell,” he grunted softly, his fingers dropping back down to flex hard on your hip. He was able to slow your twitching somewhat, taking your right leg and swinging it over his shoulder.

This new position had you feeling everything. You couldn’t understand how he was so big, and the way he filled you made the room spin. Your leg on his shoulder opened you up further for him, as the head of his cock nudged your g-spot lightly.

You both felt it when he bottomed out, the heavy head of his cock kissing your cervix with one final thrust. A small gasp left your lips as you felt him resting inside you. Steve looked a mess, as if holding himself inside you was the single hardest thing he’d ever been asked to do. But what Steve lacked in patience he made up for in resolve. He said he’d fuck you slow, and he wasn’t going to stop until you were incoherent on his cock.

At this point, you were getting desperate. You needed to get fucked, borderline destroyed, you hadn’t been so sure of anything in your entire goddamn life. Steve was trying his best to be gentle and doting, working you open slowly under him like the gentleman that he was. But you didn’t need that. You were a big girl, and you’ve handled worse than getting split open on cock.

You were unbelievably tight and wrapped around him like you were made specially for him. Steve looked down at your furrowed brows and slightly opened lips with intrigue. You were trying your best to get him to move, clenching and rocking yourself into him, as much as he would let you. His eyes dropped briefly to where you both met, his balls pressing warmly against your backside, his cock sheathed completely inside of you.

Unfortunately for you, you were not very effective at getting what you want. Your brain stopped processing decision-making abilities the moment his cock first began to enter you, so you did not necessarily have much going for you in regards to a plan. Your ties curled from their spot on his shoulders, your hands scrambling to find hold of something, anything, to distract you from the fact that he was not drilling into you at this very second.

“So fucki- ah, fuck, it’s alright, it’s alright, just- nghhhhshit, okayokay, just relax, don’t tense up too much?” He was fighting for his life inside you, his brain foggy and barely able to comprehend what he’d set out to do in the first place.

“O-okay, sorry, jus’ move, please,” you mumbled,

He gave you the slightest mercy. Slowly, he pulled out of you to the tip, and sheathed himself in again in a steady motion, rocking your eyes shut.

Once he realized you were moaning in pleasure rather than in pain, he continued his steady rhythm, eyes locked on your face and immune to your pleas for reprieve.

“So fuckin’ pretty, letting me fuck y’like this,” he was slurring his words. Your pussy had him in a vice and it was causing him to ramble praise into the air as his body rocked against yours.

It was so slow, just as he’d promised. Slow to the point where you could feel his thick head moving in and out of your walls, lingering on your spongy spot with delicious pressure.

For Steve, it was like a dam broke, releasing fountains of praise from his lips and into the thick air. “Y’gonna, shit, be good f’me? Y’gonna let me do this to you? Sl-fuck, nice and slow, sweetheart.”

Your brain didn’t know what to focus on. Steve was pulling that tight feeling in your belly closer and closer to fruition with his deep, slow thrusts. His hands were holding your calves, murmuring rambles against the back of your legs. You were jelly under his grip, head lolling to the side against the arm of the couch.

You wanted more. Steve’s slow assault on your cunt made you feel like you deserved things that you didn’t. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think your current actions bordered on love-making. You didn’t deserve peace, especially not slow, tender sex with someone you cared about.

You didn’t deserve him.

“Please,” you whimper, clamping down on him as hard as you could, desperate to have some kind of impact on his stature. “Fuck, please, Steve- please just fuck me, please, I want you to fuck me until it hurts, fuck me the way we both nee-”

“That’s not how this works,” he snaps, quiet and furious, stopping his movements inside you. “Not tonight. Cut the shit. I’ve given you plenty of warnings and you still want to act like a fuckin’ brat.”

“You’re such a cu-” you move to lift up onto your elbows, but his hand suddenly plants against your neck and shoves you back down, gripping you tightly in his hand.

“Go ahead, babe, what was that?” You glared at him faintly. When he saw that you weren’t going to fight him, he resumed his slow torture, soft whines pulling from your mouth.

“Jus’ made you come and you’ve already got a fucking attitude again,” His mouth was rampant today, be it for your serious attitude deficiency or chronic ungratefulness you were unsure.

Although they were supposed to be reprimanding, his words had you drowning between your legs. You loved when he talked to you like that, putting you in your place. Maybe that’s what you wanted all along, why you fought him so much. You wanted him to shut you up and make you take it.

Your leg had begun to shake on his shoulder. “S-Steve,”

He’d resorted to ignoring you, your small pleas and whines for his attention disregarded. He wanted to teach you some manners, to show you that not everything in this world could be solved by begging and pouting. In reality, he couldn’t let himself listen to you in fear of the last of his resolve crumbling down around him, and taking you how you so desperately wanted him to. Steve was strong, but he wasn’t immune to you.

“Been trying to get you to listen for years,” Steve grits, cutting off your desperate whimpers with a short growl. “But you never did, always thought you knew everything, never let me f-fucking help-,” his hips pulled out and speared back into you, a tight sound choking out of you. “But- shit, now you’re letting me, now- oh fuck, now you’re finally letting me do it my way, so take it, and stop fucking asking.”

He wasn’t talking directly to you, more to himself, to the floating idea of your brattiness, but you were certain that he’d cursed you. Every sentence had you gripping harder around him, every stroke of him inside you blurring the lines of real and imaginary. You didn’t know what was actually happening, or if it was all just a sick, twisted fantasy playing in your head.

It didn’t take much longer of his steady rocking into you for you to start to feel it. His hands were everywhere, or at least you thought they were, leaving a faint buzz on your skin in their wake. Your eyes scrunched closed as the buzz got stronger, louder, ringing in your ears.

It spreads slowly, vibrating along your arms and across your shoulders, a restless hum that grows warmer and heavier the longer it lingers. The sensation sharpens, tightening, until it no longer feels random but intentional, as if something is winding itself deeper into her bones. The buzz shifts, melting into a low, rushing current that pulses with her heartbeat, uncomfortable in its intensity yet threaded with something strangely soothing, almost right.

Things blur at the edges first. Your lashes lower, your mouth falls quiet, and words slip out of reach like they were never yours to begin with. You can’t tell whether you’re looking at the ceiling, the inside of your eyelids, or somewhere far behind your own thoughts. Time loosens its grip so completely that when Steve’s voice cuts through the stillness, it startles you into realizing you no longer have any sense of it at all.

“S-Steve?” You stutter, staring at him blankly as spots begin to dance in your vision. “Steve, oh m-my, God-”

You were coming, you were sure of it, but it’d never felt like this before. This was eternal. The air around you felt wrong long before anything happened—too tight, like it was holding its breath. Every sound dulled, every color deepened, and a pressure gathered beneath your skin, restless and impatient. You tried to shake it off, not expecting it so soon, but the feeling only grew, threading through your chest and down your spine. Your heart beat faster, working hard to pump the rushing blood to your head, blurring your senses and signaling that something had reached its limit and was about to break through.

“Shit, are you coming?” He drops his body down to lay on yours, your leg pulled across your chest, grinding his hips achingly hard into yours, his hand coming down to support his weight by your head. “O-Oh, fuck yeah, you are- c’mon sweetheart- c’mon, give me another.”

When you finally came, it hurt. It was a white-hot, delicious pain, like stretching muscles you didn’t know you had- burning, aching, overwhelming. The sensation flared through your veins, sharp and bright, forcing a gasp from her lungs as if the orgasm itself demanded space. You clenched and unclenched your hands, nails digging into your palms, caught between wanting it to stop and knowing you couldn’t let it. The pain carried heat with it, a strange pulse that matched your heartbeat, and beneath the sting was something that felt so fucking good.

Then the pain softened, melting into a rushing warmth that washed over you from the inside out. You were floating in another dimension, disconnected from your body and catapulted into a sea of pleasure so strong, white swirling visions appear behind your closed eyes. Your body is twitching against Steve as he fucks you through it, his head dropping to let out a groan into the crook of your sweatshirt-covered shoulder as your pussy flutters rhythmically around him.

You feel his hand drop down between your bodies and you sob pitifully at the ceiling when the tip of his finger brushes your clit.

“N-no, can’t, ngggghfuck,” You cried, overly sensitive and forced to do nothing but take his strokes as tears dripped out of the corners of your eyes. Your orgasm had been so intense, furthered and amplified by his consistent and direct thrusts. Your body was wrecked, and you couldn’t find the energy to fight him away. Not that you really wanted to, anyway.

“You can, babe, you can. Doin’ so well for me, just one more,” Steve knew you could give him another one, and he was so close. His cock was aching inside you, so slick and wet, it was a miracle he hadn’t blown his load the minute he entered your velvet walls.

You sobbed into the air when he didn’t let up. He’d given you what you wanted.

His thrusts sped up slightly, your body jerking against the arm of the couch with the inertia. He was chasing his orgasm, deep inside you, finally giving into your desires. He didn’t want this to end so soon, but you were killing him, so pretty and utterly fucked. He’d give you the moon and stars if you asked him.

“Gonna come in this pretty pussy, hm? Y’gonna let me?” He whispered in your ear. You were boneless, nodding your head with an increased fervor. You wanted his cum deep in you, filling you. The thought of it had you clenching again, his fingers rubbing haphazard circles on your clit as his hips sped up.

You couldn’t respond verbally if you wanted to. He was everywhere, resorting you to the tiny whines and soft “uh’s” that mixed with the sound of his balls hitting your ass, slapping together in one big, sweaty mess.

“So good f’me, so- fuck, so fucking g-good,” he gritted, sinking his teeth into your shoulder.

You screamed against him, writhing as another orgasm snuck up on you. His fingers didn’t let up, as he thrust into you once, twice more, until his hips jerked and a beautiful groan fell from his pink lips. He emptied himself into you as floated down from your place in the heavens. Your breaths were heavy together, chests heaving and shirts stuck to your skin from the copious amounts of sweat.

He lifted himself off you slightly, looking at you with soft eyes. You returned his gaze, hand coming up to push some of his wet hair off his forehead and out of his eyes. You didn’t need to speak. There was nothing to say.

“Stay there, I’ll be back.” He slipped out of you, pushing off the couch and heading towards the kitchen, probably in search of a rag or something of the sort.

Your legs shook from your position, the tight muscles where your legs met your torso throbbing lightly. You took a couple seconds to grasp the extent of what you had just done, what you’d let Steve do to you.

Your eyes drifted from the ceiling to a photo on your mantle, an old polaroid taken by Jonathan back before your lives had been ruined.

You were smiling at Dustin’s birthday party, sitting in Eddie’s lap, arms wrapped around his shoulders. Your face was caught in the middle of a laugh. Eddie was supposed to be giving you a kiss on the cheek, but instead he’d licked your face at the last minute.

Your eyes filled with tears from the shame. He loved you so much. He would’ve given you the absolute world. He’d immediately put his life on the line for your friends, for you. You’d owed him so much, and this is how you repaid him. Fucking whoring yourself out when life got hard.

The sounds of Steve’s footsteps padding back towards the couch pulled you from your thoughts. He had a grey rag in one hand and a beer in the other, his cock now soft and wiped clean.

“Here,” he handed you the rag, taking a sip of his beer. You mumbled a “thank you” as you grabbed the rag and hauled yourself off the couch. He stepped beside you, searching for his clothes in the mess of throw pillows and blankets on the floor.

You made your way to the guest bathroom downstairs, where you finished wiping yourself off and doing the rest of your business. Your hair was a mess, mascara smudged around your eyes. There was a light imprint of Steve’s teeth by your shoulder that should go away by tomorrow. You felt fine, lighter even, if only it hadn’t been for that deep, pesky pit inside you that had decided to resurface.

You left the bathroom quietly, meeting Steve back on the couch, where he tossed you your panties that he found on the floor.

You slipped them on and sat back down, placing as much distance between you and Steve as possible. You eyed him from where you were, his body relaxed, nursing his beer with hair slick from the remnants of your encounter.

“I think you should go.”

Steve paused mid-sip, his eyes confused as his head slowly turned towards you. “What?” He asked incredulously, disbelief marring his features.

Steve didn’t move at first.

“I should go?” he said, quieter now, like he was checking if he’d heard you right.

You nodded once. That was all you could manage.

His face twisted into something pained. “We were just-” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Help me understand.”

“I can’t,” you said, voice already breaking. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh but wasn’t. “You didn’t seem unsure.”

“I was,” you said, sharper than you meant. “I just didn’t stop it.”

That landed wrong. He straightened, eyes hardening. “So it was my fault?.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what it fucking sounds like.”

You wiped at your face, frustrated, embarrassed. “I don’t know how to explain this without sounding awful.”

“Try,” Steve said, his voice cracking on the word.

You looked past him, anywhere but his face. “The second it was over, I-I felt like, I don’t know, like I’d gone backwards, or something.” Your hands dropped back in your lap after speaking, their expressive purpose over.

His shoulders dropped. “Back to him.”

You didn’t answer. Steve paced once, then stopped, hands on his hips. “I thought maybe this meant you were ready. That we,” he waved a hand between the both of you, “were on the same page.”

“I’m not there,” you whispered. “I’ve never been fucking there, Steve, you know this.”

He nodded slowly, jaw tight. “So what was this?”

You swallowed. “A mistake.”

Your words shot Steve in the chest harder than any bullet ever could’ve. It would’ve hurt less if you’d hit him, really.

“God,” he said quietly. “I really didn’t think I was.”

The room felt too small. Your chest hurt. You wrapped your arms around yourself like you were the one needing comfort.

“I think you should go,” you said again, barely audible.

Steve stared at you, disbelief cracking into something louder, his brain still reeling after the information you’d just dumped on him.

“So what, you just get to decide after the fact?” His voice jumped, “You don’t get to give me the okay and then tell me it doesn’t fucking mean anything.” He threw his hands up in exasperation.

“I didn’t say it didn’t mean anything!” you shouted back, tears spilling fast now. “I said I can’t do this.”

“That’s the same fucking thing!” he yelled your name, finally losing it. His hands came up, fists clenched like he didn’t know what to do with them. “You don’t get to rewrite it so you feel better about walking away.”

Your chest hitched violently. “You think I feel better?” you screamed. “I feel disgusting. I feel like I ruined everything.”

“There is nothing to ruin. They’re all fucking dead. Eddie isn’t going to come back and sweep you off your fucking feet. He’s not jealous of what you get up to, because he’s dead, ” Steve had finally snapped. All the things he’d been trying to get you to understand for the past seven years, they all piled up now, exploding out of him in a last ditch effort to get you out of your fucking head.

You cried silently on the couch, watching him as he paced in anger, hands running through his hair, muttering to himself.

“Fucking ridiculous, ’s what I’ve been trying to get you to understand,” he stopped mid-step, thinking of his words.

“Then why let me believe-” His voice broke, the shout collapsing into a jagged breath. He turned away, dragging a hand down his face, pacing once more like a caged animal.

The room rang with silence, both of you shaking, crying, and breathing too hard.

Steve stopped and stood still. When he turned back, his voice was lower, steadier, like he’d forced it into place.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

You looked up, confused.

He nodded to himself, swallowing. “I’m not doing this part. I’m not standing here begging you to want what you clearly don’t.”

“That’s not-”

He held up a hand, accepting his fate. If the decade he’d spent as your friend had taught him anything, it was that there was absolutely no point in fighting you. He was done. “It’s fine. Really.”

He grabbed his jacket, movements slower, deliberate. At the door, he paused, shoulders tense.

“I really thought you were moving forward,” he said quietly. He turned around to face you, eyes locked into yours to ensure you remembered his words.

“I’m done helping you,” he whispered your name. “I’m done killing myself for you, holding out for you. If you need me, I’ll always be here, but I’m done letting you take advantage of that. We both got our own fuckin’ issues.”

“I think you should go,” you whispered, voice wrecked.

Steve nodded once, like he expected it. “Yeah.”

You got up to lock the door behind him, hands shaky and face full of tears. Once the door clicked, you braced yourself on the rickety kitchen table as Steve’s car door slammed shut.

You sobbed at your kitchen table, the tears racking your body and filling you with a complete sense of loneliness that you never seem to get rid of.

Outside, the rumbling of Steve’s engine cut through the night. He ran his hands through his hair, pulling stressedly at the ends. One punch landed on the steering wheel, pain shooting up his fist, face burying in his hands.

You were mirror images of each other, two people experiencing different heartbreaks in the same way.

You heard him speed away as you cried harder, the night becoming silent once more, save for the weak dribble of your kitchen faucet.

Drip, drip, drip.

much sadder than the mike one, but i feel i write sad better lol, lmk what you think:)