the backroom confessional.
steve harrington x fem!reader
summary: two best friends, one bottle of stolen rum, and a "movie-poker" debate that turns into a confession. it turns out steve's been screaming the truth at you for months—he was just waiting for a little liquid courage to finally use his voice.
warnings: swearing, suggestive language, insecurities, self-deprecation, alcohol use, slow-burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, angst (if you squint), tipsy confessions, steve is dork, emotional fluff
word count: 3.9k
a/n: ive been sitting on this for weeks going back and forth about whether or not i hate it. ever feel like the idea is better than the execution? ugh. enjoy? proofread until my eyes hurt but im sure i missed something.
minors dni.
The neon Family Video sign hummed with a faint, electric buzz outside, illuminating the front windows and casting streaks across the floor that stretched all the way back to the cracked door of the cramped back room. The space was dim otherwise, lit only by a small lamp with a cracked shade atop Keith’s desk. Stacks of damaged VHS tapes and boxes of promotional materials cluttered the corners, leaving the two of you sprawled out on what was left of the carpet. Old pieces of popcorn were strewn about the room—some from the two of you, the rest likely left behind by Keith.
Steve sat comfortably against a stack of boxes, one leg outstretched while the other was bent close to his chest, his arm resting loosely on his knee. You were nearly shoulder to shoulder as you leaned against crates stacked in front of the industrial tape rewinder. A bottle of Bacardi sat by his leg, nearly a third of the way gone. The smell of rum lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the dusty scent of cardboard and plastic tape cases.
Steve had acquired the bottle—meaning he’d swiped it from Robin’s not-so-secret stash—and suggested that making another late night of sorting returns might be a little more fun with a bit of help. That was how you’d ended up here at midnight, on a Thursday tipsy at work with your best friend.
Steve passed you the rum and you took a swig, the liquid fire coating your throat before you handed it back.
“I see your Breakfast Club and raise you one Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” he said, confident as ever. He nudged the tape you had just laid on the floor between you and presented his own, laying it down adjacent to yours like a winning hand.
You groaned in disgust. “Oh god, not this shit again. Are you serious, Steve?” You gestured toward the bottle silently, and he passed it to you without a second thought.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Dead serious. Are you really going to sit there and tell me that people talking in a library for two hours is better than the heart that Fast Times has?” He looked at you like you were insane.
You stared at him with a deadpan expression. He was doing that thing where his eyes got wide and he talked with his hands—a habit you never told him you found endearing. Steve used to be a little uncultured when it came to movies, but working at Family Video with you and Robin had forced him to expand his knowledge or face eternal teasing. These movie-poker debates had become a staple of long shifts, usually when you were closing or during the slow hours when customers were few and far between. It was a way to pass the time, and hell if it wasn’t fun to watch him get riled up.
“It’s about breaking down social barriers, Steve! The human condition. It’s deep and it was way ahead of its time,” you countered, nudging his shin with your foot. “The dancing scene? C’mon.”
“Who dances in a library? Seems to me like they ran out of dialogue. Cop out.” He waved his hand dismissively. “And the makeover scene? Total crap. They ruined her whole look for some meathead jock.”
“It’s a metaphor, Steve. They’re dancing against the system,” you managed to say, but he wasn’t listening. You could only gaze at him in utter disbelief as he continued.
“Fast Times has Spicoli! Cinematic masterpiece. You can’t beat Spicoli.” He said it like it was a revolutionary breakthrough. It was rare to see Steve this passionate about anything; it was almost hilarious that this was the hill he chose to die on.
“Spicoli is a burnout who orders pizza to a classroom.” You rolled your eyes and muttered under your breath, “Something you probably would’ve done a few years ago.”
Steve scoffed, his hand going to his chest as if he were truly offended. “I heard that. I am hurt. I have never once ordered pizza in a classroom.” He shook his head while taking a sip from the bottle. “I waited until I was in the parking lot like a professional.”
A genuine giggle escaped you. As you looked at him, a smile worked its way across his face, his own laugh bubbling just beneath the surface.
“Admit it, you just like the guy in the trench coat,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows and nudging your shoulder with his. There was something in his eyes—a brief, flickering warmth—but you didn't dwell on it. You wouldn't let yourself go there.
“Only if you admit you just liked Judge Reinhold in the pirate hat,” you retorted without skipping a beat, waggling your eyebrows back at him suggestively.
That was the final straw. Steve lost it—a genuine, wheezing laugh that made his shoulders shake. You couldn’t help but laugh with him. He nudged you playfully, his arm lingering against yours a second longer than necessary, causing a small, sharp flutter in your stomach.
He noticed he was doing it again. Finding any excuse to touch you was a habit he’d picked up lately—always respectful, in a way that didn’t make him a creep, but more frequent than someone who is ‘just friends’ should. More than the way he touched Robin or Dustin.
You wiped a stray tear from your eye as the laughter quieted down. “If we were in detention, I’d definitely have been the Jock. You’d be... I don’t know. The one making me realize I have a heart of gold?”
You snorted at that, taking another sip from the bottle before picking at the label on the glass.
"Back in high school? I'd be the one turning the volume up so I didn't have to hear you talk about your hair," you deadpanned.
Steve nudged you again, harder this time, his eyes bright and warm in the dim light. "Liar. You’d be sharing your snacks with me by the thirty-minute mark. You can’t resist the Harrington charm. Not even in a metaphorical library."
You picked up both VHS tapes, stacking them and hitting him playfully in the chest with them. “God, you’re a dork.”
A winded groan punched out of him. "Yeah, well, I'm your dork. And you're the one currently drinking warm rum in a backroom at midnight, so what does that say about your life choices?"
There was a slur in his words, so slight you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t hyper-aware of everything that was Steve Harrington. It was a hyper-awareness that felt like your downfall. You’d stopped counting how long it had been since you realized you’d fallen for him. Somewhere between cleaning him up after his fight with Billy Hargrove and being chased by Russians through Starcourt Mall, the truth had become undeniable. At least to yourself.
You turned your head to look at him. His hair was only slightly less perfect than it had been at noon, which was as infuriating as ever. The familiar haze from the alcohol settled behind your eyes, bringing a rush of sudden confidence. "It says I have excellent taste in company."
Steve paused, his eyes softening for just a second before he nudged your shoulder back. "Damn right you do."
The words hung in the air, heavy and buzzing with something unspoken. His jaw tightened and your eyes tracked the movement despite yourself. The silence wasn't awkward, but it was thick—heavy with all the things neither of you had the heart to say while the sun was up.
The moment lingered just a second too long before shattering. He cleared his throat and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. He passed the bottle to you again as he stood up. “I’m grabbing more popcorn.”
You nodded silently and took the rum, rubbing a hand down your face as you watched him exit the room.
“Idiot,” Steve muttered to himself once he was out of earshot.
-
A few minutes later, the rustle of a popcorn bag announced his return. The floor was starting to feel too hard and the air too still, so you’d migrated, hoisting yourself up to lie across Keith’s desk. Steve didn't reclaim his spot by the boxes; instead, he stretched out on the carpet near the desk's edge, legs crossed at the ankles. You stared at the ceiling, feet dangling off the end of the desk.
"You know, Robin thinks we're weird," Steve said, his eyes fixed on the liquid he was swirling around in the bottle, now nearly half empty. "Staying late. Drinking in a room that smells like industrial cleaner. She thinks I shouldn't be here so much. Should be out... I don't know. Finding a 'nice girl' or whatever."
The words sounded clumsy as they left his mouth, but you didn't flinch.
“Yeah, I’ve heard her say something to that effect.” You tried not to sound disappointed, but the sigh was hard to mask.
He finally looked over at you, his gaze heavy. "But I told her I’m exactly where I want to be."
The statement made your heart flutter, your mouth suddenly feeling very dry. You swallowed, trying to keep your voice even. “Maybe she’s just trying to tell you that you have bad taste.”
His jaw dropped slightly and he placed a hand on his chest in mock offense. “I’ve matured. I’m looking for substance and... something long-term.”
The gentle slur in his voice was evident and, to you, oddly attractive. The way everything Steve did was to you.
“Yeah? I think I might know someone,” you said, suppressing a smile.
It was Steve's turn for his heart to race. “Really?”
“I think the lady who is always pursuing the foreign film section has the hots for you. Maybe her.” You shrugged, a teasing hint in your tone.
His brows furrowed deeply. “Ms. Treeble? She’s like seventy years old.”
The look of utter confusion on his face sent you into a fit of laughter. “I said you have to branch out from your type, didn’t I?”
“You’re the worst.” He grabbed a stale piece of popcorn from the floor and tossed it at you. Your laughter didn’t cease as you shielded yourself and stuck your tongue out at him. His eyes dropped to watch the motion so briefly you almost didn’t catch it.
He lifted his neck to take another sip before turning to look at the label on the bottle. “I think this has hints of... oak? What do you think? I’m definitely getting oak.”
You scoffed, smiling at him. “Oak? Steve, the bottle was five dollars. You’re not getting hints of anything other than glass.”
“Hey, hey, just—shhh. It’s all about the experience. Don’t ruin the ambiance I’ve worked so hard to build between the stack of Jane Fonda workout tapes and the hum of the tape rewinder.” He gestured around like you were in a palace.
Your head fell back against the desk with a full-bodied laugh. The sight warmed his chest in a way no alcohol ever could. God, he loved to make you laugh.
“Ahh yes, you know Keith’s stash of... cheeseballs really sets the mood.”
He crinkled his nose in disgust and chuckled, offering you the bottle. You shook your head. “I’ve got to be done. One of us needs to be sober enough to drive before the sun comes up.” You sat upright on the desk.
Steve froze as if he’d only just remembered you had to get home. He set the bottle far away and sighed.
You laughed, shaking your head at his mild panic. “Robin’s gonna kill us if she finds out we made a hole in her emergency stash.”
Steve chuckled, a low, tired sound. “Let her. I’ll tell her it was a matter of national security. Emotional crisis.” He rested his head against the carpet again, eyes fluttering shut. “Besides, she’s too busy trying to figure out if Vickie likes her or not to notice.”
The way the words left him feeling exposed caught him off guard. The reality of the statement hitting him right where he tries to be the most guarded. Though he was pretty sure you’re unaware just how lovesick he is over you. He swallowed, keeping his eyes shut as he willed himself to get a grip.
You smiled to yourself at the thought of Robin pining so deeply. You two had that in common. “If only she realized how awesome she is and just went for it.”
The words flipped a switch for him.
He opened his eyes then, sitting upright and facing you. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a gaze so heavy and honest it made your breath hitch. He’d been staring like this all night—like he was trying to memorize the way the blue light hit your face.
The air in the room shifted.
He stood, walking over to stand in front of you, stepping between your knees. He was closer than he’d ever been.
“You okay?” you asked softly, shifting your weight.
“Yeah,” he whispered. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers stayed there, resting against the heat of your cheek. “I was just thinking... how much I hate when the lights go up.”
Your stomach did an intense flip. “The store lights?”
“The world lights,” he corrected, his thumb tracing your jawline. “Everything is so loud out there. Everyone wants something. Henderson needs a ride, Nancy needs a favor, the world needs saving.” He leaned in closer, the scent of rum and his familiar cologne filling your senses. “But in here... in the dark... it’s just you. And I don’t have to be Steve Harrington or 'the babysitter.' I just get to be... me.”
The tension of the last few hours reached a flashpoint. The air between you is heavy with the unspoken—the way he always stays late to walk you to your car, how you always save him the last slice of pizza, how his heart never fails to skip a beat when your shoulders touch and part of him wonders if yours does too.
You swallowed hard, your eyes dropping to his lips. “And who is ‘you,’ Steve?”
He was quiet for a minute. He moved slowly, giving you every chance to back away, but you stayed pinned to the spot. He leaned forward until your foreheads touched.
“Someone who’s been too scared to tell you the truth,” he murmured, his voice cracking just a little. “Someone who’s completely, miserably in love with his best friend.”
He didn't wait for you to break. He closed the final inch, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss that tasted like cheap rum and desperation. It’s not like the movies they rent out front; it was clumsy and shaky and full of all the angst he’d been bottling up since the first time you’d smiled at him.
His hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers fisting in your hair as he pulled you flush against him. A jolt of pure adrenaline hummed through you, sharper than the rum. His palms were warm and steady as they settled against your thighs, anchoring you to the edge of the desk while he pulled you closer.
His mouth dropped to your neck, finding the spot behind your ear, and your knees trembled. The feeling of his mouth on you was even more euphoric than you’d imagined. Your eyes fluttered open briefly and you caught a glimpse of the glass bottle on the floor. It was like a bucket of cold water.
“Wait, wait, wait.” You placed your hands on his chest and pushed just enough to pull back. He stilled immediately, hands dropping to your arms.
“I’m—shit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” He starts, but you shake your head, hands shaking.
“W-why now? Why tonight? How do I know it’s not the alcohol talking?” You stumbled over your words, your brain still buzzing from the adrenaline.
That seemed to hollow him out. He looked at you, saw the doubt in your eyes, the vulnerability. He thought of who he was before, a shallow guy who said things he didn’t mean. He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stepped back a little, giving you space.
"Because I’ve said it a thousand times already," he whispered. "I said it when I stayed until two in the morning helping you inventory those shitty horror tapes. I said it every time I made sure your car started in the cold. When I pick up the extra shifts just to spend time with you. I’ve been screaming it at you for months. I’m just finally brave enough to use my actual voice."
He wasn’t drunk—not really—but he had enough running through his veins to make him a little less scared. He hated that he needed it to confess this all to you. Hated what it said about him. Makes him wonder if his father was right about something after all. He was a coward.
You watched him get lost in his thoughts so you reach out and take his hand, encouraging him to come back from wherever he just went and hope he sees in your eyes all you can’t seem to say.
He reached for you again slowly, a silent question.Stepping into your orbit, he brings his hands up to cup your face, his hands warm. His eyes locked onto yours with a clarity that the rum hasn't touched. Every movement was slow, giving you ample time to say no or step away. It made your heart ache to see him so hesitant with you, like you have the power to break him with an inch of distance or a denied touch. You could see it in his body, his eyes. He was afraid you wouldn't feel the same. "It’s not the alcohol. If anything, the alcohol is just making me brave enough to stop being a coward."
Your heart set a thundering rhythm in your ears that you swore he must’ve been able to hear. You opened your mouth and shut it once, twice, attempting to muster the courage to actually use your words. Your body vibrating with adrenaline as you stared at him, chest heaving as you tried to find the proper words.
You kissed him instead, pulling him toward you by his shirt. You pulled until there was no room left between you. You hoped he felt everything you couldn't put into words. He stilled in surprise before his hands went to your waist and he melted into you, a soft groan rising in his chest.
“You’re not a coward,” you managed to say against his mouth. “You’re the bravest person I know.”
His hands squeezed your waist, his eyes still closed as his brow furrows ever so slightly. “Please, believe me.” He swallowed, the words desperate on his lips. “I’ve said it in every way except the one that really matters, and I’m sorry for that.”
You could hear it in his voice. The sincerity, the raw emotion, the fear that you’ll reject him.
His mouth left yours and he smoothed your hair back from your forehead, looking at you with pure adoration. Your hands fist in the back of his shirt, desperate to keep him there. “You know, Robin has been telling me to just tell you for months now.”
These were things you’d only dreamed of Steve saying to you. And there he was confessing every feeling that you mirrored right back.
You raised your eyebrows. “Why didn’t you listen to her?”
“I never said I wasn’t an idiot. I’m just an idiot who is in love with you.”
You shook your head at him, “I love you too, Steve. I have for a long time.”
He let out a breath of pure relief and looked down at your clasped hands, "I know what people say about me," Steve murmured. "The hair, the car, the 'King Steve' bullshit. I used to think that was all I had. That I was this guy who peaked in high school and then started hanging out with a bunch of middle schoolers and became best friends with the weird band girl. And I didn’t give a shit what anyone thought, not about that at least because these people mattered to me. But I still felt like I had something to prove, I guess. Then you came into the picture. You were there, through every shitty moment and every great one. You started laughing at my shitty jokes and actually... listening. You saw me. We became this weird little family and you were the missing piece."
Your mouth sat agape, eyes glossy as you listened to him talk.
He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.
He looked up from your clasped hands, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And now I look at myself and I just think... I hope I’m enough. I hope I’m the kind of guy you could actually see yourself staying with. Not just for a shift. For real."
The insecurity in his voice made your chest ache. You thought the world of him. All the parts of himself that he sees as damaged and unlikeable are the things that make you love him the most.
“You’re more than enough. You’re everything to me.” You said, hoping he sees how much you mean it.
He pulled you in the minute the words left your mouth. You felt every bit of relief in the way he held you. The emotion of the gesture is more intimate than any kiss ever could be. It felt like home.
You pulled back slightly to look at him, though his arms stayed locked around you. “You’re not that guy anymore, Steve. For the record, I always kinda liked that guy too.”
He chuckled. “Oh yeah? Douchebag Harrington?”
You shrugged, chewing on your lower lip. “I don’t know. I heard about a few things you were pretty good at.”
The words left your mouth before you could stop them. You watched as Steve processed the heavy innuendo. You could practically pinpoint the exact second your words landed.
Steve’s eyes darkened, a slow, lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—the one that usually meant trouble. He took a half-step closer, his chest pressing against yours, until you were looking up at him through your lashes.
"Is that right?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that made your toes curl against the wood of the desk. "Well. I’d hate for you to not be able to form your own opinion.”
You’d forgotten just how confident he was like this. The way he was looking at you, the way his hands kept touching in different places in the gentlest, most teasing of ways. He was intoxicating, in a way that made your head spin. You knew right then that the "Harrington charm" was a lot more dangerous than you’d ever given him credit for.
The insecurity that had been clouding his face all night evaporated, replaced by that familiar, confident spark you’d first seen in the halls of Hawkins High—only this time, it was just for you.
"Whatever you heard," He leaned down, his nose brushing yours, his hands sliding up to frame your face. "I promise you. It doesn't even come close to the real thing."
a/n: i had originally planned on making this one long piece with the smut included but i second-guessed myself so much on even posting this that i figured id post this and see if anyone wants part 2 first <3
