norweigan wood || steve harrington
a/n: uh oh bitches im back!!!!!!!!!!!! still passively suicidal but why not write fanfiction instead of deal with that head on? i finally finished this hoe and i have more stuff cooking in google docs that you may or may not ever see Idk. fem reader, 1k words. reader is mentioned to be on the pill but we keep it ominous here. not proofread
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You throw yourself on to your shag and stare at the tapestry that you poorly tacked to the ceiling. Sometimes you wonder if one of the thumb-tacks will fall out and blind you, but you know you could pull off an eyepatch.
You flip yourself to the side and stare at the honey-gold boy who you've decided is dinner for tonight. His amalgamation of browns and blonds smash into the orange of your rug where hes lied next to you. You wonder if he uses Sun-In on his hair, because it looks oddly blonde when he pushes it a certain way. You give him a smile, not so shamelessly giving him a good up-and-down.
“Are you comfortable?” You ask with a more timid smile before sitting up. You quickly get distracted by one of the other orangey posters on your wall, noticing the bottom line is just ever so slightly not level. You chew some of the dead skin on your cheek before the guy’s voice drags you back to reality.
“Yeah. All good over here.”
“Did you want anything to drink?” You ask as you drag your knees to your chest. You guys just came back from some funky (shitty) bar in the seedy parts of the city, and realistically all you have is water (for two more days), some bottom shelf white wine, and apple juice. Oh, and some Folgers. No milk, though. You list these things off for him and he says he’ll take the white wine. Whatever.
You come back later and just hand him the bottle because you don’t want to have to wash a glass out. “You’re cool with that, right?” You ask softly before plopping back on to your carpet and staring at your ceiling. Usually when you're here there's some kind of rainbow hallucination projected onto the asbestos filled popcorn-ceiling, but you can deal with this. Apparently LSD is turning your brain to mush, or something like that.
“Yeah.” He says rather shortly before popping the cork out and taking a sip. You can tell he isn't very cool with it, but he grimaces and goes back for another. After a couple repeats of that, you join in on the action. You take a swig and plop bag on to your floor, staring at the wood of your bedframe and dresser before lolling your head to look back at him.
“Have you ever tried acid?” You ask him out of curiosity. You don’t even have the means to let him try any if you wanted to.
“No, but, I’ve had some weird run-ins with some Russian folk.” he says before handing you the bottle of white
“What does that mean?” You ask as you study his face, before another sip, and then handing the bottle back to him.
“Nothing.” Another sip. Cold glass bottle in your hands.
“You should tell me anyway. I probably won’t ever see you again after this.”
“Well, I’d hope for that not to be true.” He says before taking the bottle out of your hands. He takes two sips this time.
“Oh. So you think I’m interesting?”
“To say the least.”
“You're saying the least. You know that drinking is supposed to open people up, right?”
“Yeah, but… I don’t know.”
“No one knows anything. Just say what's on your mind like a normal drunk person.”
“What makes me a normal drunk person?” He asks with a tilt of his head; an upturn of his free palm, right as you guys finally meet eyes. Honey brown eyes have turned a darker shade of mahogany and his face has a beautiful pink tinge to it, with scatters of deeper darker brown moles. You fight the urge to kiss him, though you know eventually you’ll lose to it.
“Uhm. The fact that you're in my bedroom after 3 whiskey sours. Pretty average Joe.”
“Average Steve.”
“You got two thumbs, too?”
“You know it.”
“You’re being drier than this wine. Did you seriously come over here just to fuck?”
“I mean…”
“I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Well, you let me in anyways. You’re good looking and you have to know it.” You and that maraschino cherry, six seats down at the bar.
“Just because I let you into my apartment doesn’t mean that I’ll let you fuck me. You know that, right? What if I wasn’t on the pill?”
“You’re on the pill?”
“That's none of your business. How much money do you make?”
“None. I freelance… sometimes. Hey, isn’t that also none of your business?”
“Never ask a man his salary, a woman if she's on the pill…Well, you’re the one who actually answered. Props to you.” You chime with a rhythmic tilt of your head.
There's something about you laying on your bedroom floor, something about the shitty white wine that’s keeping the both of you there like two planets stuck in orbit. After a while, Steve gets over the fact that you’re not a force to be reckoned with, but you end up a tangle of limbs anyways.
Your yellow alarm clock ticks right to the 2:14 AM mark, and that's when your eyes are blinking sticky and slow. You know in the morning you’ll severely regret mixing lights and darks, but for now it feels okay. Steve must have a sensitive stomach, though. He’s looking a little gray around the gills.
“Its time for bed now. Some of us work nine to fives” You say with a decided yawn before lulling your head in the opposite direction of Steve. You feel a warm hand placed on the soft line of your jaw, and tilt your head towards him.
Again, those eyes, that mouth of his. You swallow then yawn some breath into his face.
“Where?”
“A public city building. Come and find me.”
“Okay. Not like I have anything to do.” he says before pressing a sloppy kiss to your forehead and then sitting up.
“Where's your bathroom?”
“Out the door, immediately to the left.”
“‘Kay. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
You climb on to your bed and sleep with a throw blanket. The only thing that bothers you the night of is some tumbling in the bathtub. He’ll figure it out.
