out-charmed ✰
steve harrington x female reader
↳ summary: steve's mood has been horrible lately. while working his boring shift at the family video, he crashes into the most angelic, innocent girl he has ever seen. he's sure he has never wanted someone more, even more than any other bimbo he has ever hooked up with.
↳ warnings: explicit smut, dirty talk, corruption. lots of stuff.
↳ notes: not proof-read. I have no words.
word count: 10.8k
The fluorescent lights of Family Video buzzed with a low, persistent hum that sounded suspiciously like a dying wasp; it set Steve Harrington's teeth on edge. This was his personal purgatory.
Outside, Tuesday's humidity pressed against the windows in heavy waves. Inside, the air felt thick enough to chew, damp with the scent of old popcorn, industrial floor wax, and a musty undertone from decades of old VHS cases. In the back office, Keith, the annoying ass manager, sat behind a desk with the door ajar, tearing through a bag of Cheetos. Each crunch echoed like a distant gunshot, annoying Steve even more.
Steve stood alone in the Horror aisle, gripping a wobbling stack of The Evil Dead tapes. The cardboard spines crinkled under his fingers, red and black, blood-splashed, a woman's face frozen in a silent scream. He stared at that cover art as though it spoke directly to him, felt a spiritual kinship with the terror it depicted. He fucking hated this job. He hated the scratchy, unfashionable green vest strangling his chest, the way it clung to his sweat-slicked skin. Most of all, he hated how his life had capsized in the last six months.
He was supposed to be "The King" of Hawkins High, worshiped by status, cruising in his BMW convertible, in command of every hallway. Instead he was restocking dusty VHS tapes for minimum wage, while Nancy Wheeler roamed around town smooching with Jonathan Byers, the camera-click weirdo who stalked his ex–girlfriend from behind bushes. The thought of Jonathan Byers left a bitter tang in Steve's mouth, like he'd just swallowed battery acid. It made no damn sense. Nancy had abandoned his beautiful hair, nice car, and great status for a guy who wore flannel and photo-bombed squirrels.
In response, Steve had turned into a living fortress of cynicism. His once-fluid charm had ossified into jagged spikes of sarcasm. He was mean. He snapped at customers, brushed off Robin's entertaining chit-chat, and dated a rotating roster of bimbos he didn't care about—just to prove there was still something dangerous and untouchable under that perfect hair.
"Steve!" Robin's voice sliced through the quiet, coming from the front counter. "Stop glaring at inventory! If you melt the plastic with your frown, Keith's taking it out of your paycheck."
Steve clenched his jaw until his molars clicked. He didn't bother looking up. "Shut up, Robin! I'm working. Or I would be, if you'd stop barking orders across the store like a sea hag!"
"A fishwife?" Robin chuckled, leaning against the counter with a raised eyebrow. "That's a new one. Watched that in a movie you never rented?"
His chest tightened. "I'm going to kill her," he muttered under his breath.
Steve spun on his heel, the Evil Dead tapes tiled in his arms. He barreled down the aisle without looking ahead, every muscle braced for confrontation.
Crash.
The impact was a solid thud, knocking the wind from his lungs. Tapes flew from his grip, boxes scattering and skittering across the floor in a thunder of plastic. A spine cracked off, flopping like a fallen bird.
Steve's temper ignited, wildfire in his chest. "Jesus Christ! Watch where you're fucking—"
His insult died on his tongue. He froze, mid-snarl, his voice strangled off by a sudden absence of hostility. Because he wasn't looking at an overweight negligent kid ready for a shove. He was looking at an angel.
She lay on the floor, having tumbled backward among the wreckage of horror franchises. Her legs were splayed, one knee grazing a cassette labeled Evil Dead II. She wore a sundress of pale pink, its fabric soft and flowing around her calves. Her hair fell in gentle, natural manner.
Then Steve's gaze dropped to the wreckage beside her: her glasses. One lens lay shattered, its cracks fanning out like spider legs. The slender wire frame was twisted at a grotesque angle.
He stood there with his mouth half-open. The girl scrambled to her knees, but didn't scream. Didn't demand a manager. Instead, she looked up at him with a soft, devastated gasp.
"Oh my god," she breathed, voice ringing like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze. "I'm so, so sorry! I wasn't looking—I turned too fast and I didn't see you!"
Every defensive and asshole-y instinct dissolved in the warmth of her apology. He tried to form words. "I..." His brain had ground to a halt.
She reached forward, slender fingers trembling as she hovered over the scattered tapes. "Did I break them? Please tell me I didn't break them. I can pay for them. I'm so clumsy.."
The sight of her worry ripped something open inside him. Without thinking, he knelt down beside her, bringing himself to her level with a thud of denim-covered knees.
"No," he blurted, voice cracking and rising an octave. He cleared his throat violently. "It's... the tapes are fine. Plastic. Garbage. Total garbage. Don't worry about it."
His hand shot out at the same moment hers reached for a tape. Their fingers brushed. Her skin was warm and smooth, carrying a faint scent of vanilla and strawberries, a sublime, relieving contrast to the stale popcorn and waxed floor.
She looked from the tape to his hand, then back up at his face, teeth nibbling her lower lip. "Are you sure? You look... angry. I didn't mean to make you angry. You were yelling so loud."
He swallowed hard, breath ragged. "I... I'm not mad." His chest fluttered with panic and something else, something like hope. "I'm Steve."
Oh god. "I'm Steve," he repeated in his head, mentally slapping himself. Real smooth, Harrington.
The girl's lips curved in a gentle, apologetic smile that softened the panic in her eyes. "I'm Y/N."
"Y/N," he echoed, tasting the name on his tongue. It fit her, very delicate, beautiful.
Y/N glanced at the broken frames in her hand, guilt washing over her face. "Oh. My glasses."
Steve's gut wrenched. "I... I broke them. I stepped on them. I ran into you."
She shook her head, tucking her hair behind one ear. "No, no. It's my fault. I shouldn't have dropped them. And they were so ugly, I never liked wearing them." She squinted at him without her lenses, brow furrowing in earnest concern. "You look a bit blurry, Steve. But a very tall blur... with great hair, I think."
Her compliment, shrugged off so casually, sent a jolt through Steve's chest. He cleared his throat. "Right. Hair." He shifted awkwardly. "I—uh—can help with the titles. If you want. Since you can't see."
Her eyes lit up, radiant as sunrise. "Would you? That would be amazing. I'm looking for The Princess Bride. I promised my little sister we'd watch it tonight."
"Right, yes.. Princess Bride," he muttered, standing and offering her a hand. She placed her palm in his.. it felt small, trusting. He hauled her upright with a gentle tug. She stumbled forward, her chest brushing against his vest. A wave of strawberry-vanilla warmth surged through him again, and he had to step back, as if burned.
"It's over here," he said, voice tight, leading her to the Romance section. His steps were stiff, nervous as burning hell, heart hammering against his ribs. He pointed to a shelf lined with pastel-colored spines and frilly script. "Here."
She stepped close, attempting to read the label, then pressed the tape to her chest like a treasure. "Perfect," she sighed. "Thank you, Steve. You're a lifesaver."
She turned and drifted toward the front counter, her pink dress brushing the floor in whisper-soft folds. The bell above the door jingled a bright farewell, and then she was gone.
Steve remained rooted in the aisle for a full ten seconds, staring at the empty space where she'd stood. His mind raced. It felt as though a freight train had plowed through his chest, in the best possible way.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair.
He squared his shoulders and marched to the front. Robin stood at the register, ringing up Y/N's purchase. The girl was counting out change with a careful precision. Once the bell tinkled and Y/N stepped into the humid afternoon, Robin slowly turned and fixed Steve with a flat, knowing stare.
Steve collapsed against the counter, arms crossed, picking up a magazine as a feeble cover. "What?"
Robin pointed a pen at him like a rapier. "What was that?"
He flipped a page without reading it. "I was helping a customer. It's called customer service, Robin. Maybe you should try it sometime, might keep Keith from breathing down your neck."
"Customer service?" Robin's laugh was soft but mocking. "You looked like you were about to bust on the spot. You were stuttering—'I'm... Steve?' 'Right... hair?' Seriously, are you having a stroke?"
Heat blossomed in his ears. "I didn't stutter. She broke her glasses. I felt bad. That's all."
"Uh-huh," Robin said, leaning forward so her voice dropped to a conspiratorial hiss. "Last time you looked that sweaty and desperate, Nancy Wheeler was carrying a tray of tater tots across the cafeteria."
Nancy's name was like a slap to his face. His jaw snapped shut, mean-guy Steve crashing back in. "Shut up," he growled, yanking a pricing gun from the counter and slamming it down so the spring clicked. "Don't say her name."
Robin shrugged. "Just saying, for a guy who claims he's done with 'feelings' and 'romance,' you looked like a puppy who found a new owner. It was funny, Harrington."
"I said shut up, Robin!" Steve barked, jabbing a finger at her. "She's not my type. At all. Did you see what she was wearing? I would rather kill myself."
"Right," Robin said, rolling her eyes and swiveling back to the register. "The clothes. That's the problem. Maybe you should quit the bimbos and find someone a bit more.. genuine."
Steve glared at her retreating back, then couldn't resist a glance toward the door where Y/N had vanished into the afternoon haze.
He turned back to his work, ripping pricing labels off the roll with more force than required, each tear echoing the tingle still burning in his palm where she'd touched him.
It hit him, thirty seconds late, just as he slapped the last sticker on a battered copy of The Exorcist: he'd broken her glasses. Steve Harrington, destroyer of eye wear, unapologetic meathead, had trampled some sweet, helpless girl's only way of seeing the goddamn world. And she hadn't even gotten mad. She apologized to him.
What the actual fuck was wrong with him.
He tossed the pricing gun onto the counter, sending it skittering into the register, and scanned the store for Robin. She was half-buried behind a cardboard standee for The Lost Boys, scribbling a crossword.
He didn't slow, just pushed past her, mumbling, "Hold the fort," and sprinted for the door. The bell shrieked as he exploded onto the sidewalk, heat smacking him in the face, sweat instantly beading upon his forehead.
He caught sight of Y/N immediately, she was only halfway down the block, walking fast but definitely not in a straight line. The broken glasses swung from her hand, their bent arms splayed obscenely, and for a split second he saw himself from above, a total asshole, standing there, letting her walk away with the proof of his idiocy dangling from her fingers.
Robin's voice followed him out, thin and incredulous. "Dude, where are you—"
"Just, hold on!" Steve hollered, not looking back. He jogged, then full-on sprinted, sneakers slapping the hot sidewalk, lungs filling with the soupy, bug-thick air.
"Y/N!" he shouted, and she turned, hair catching on the static of her shoulders.
She smiled, the kind of smile that made his stomach go rigid, like bracing for a punch. "Hi again," Her voice was so gentle it made him anxious.
He took a step closer, then another, until he was well within her personal space, sweat leaking down the side of his face. He tried to remember the apology he'd rehearsed in his head, but the words jumbled together, heavy and awkward.
"Hey," he said, and winced at how breathless it sounded. "I'm sorry. About earlier, I mean..I ran you over, and then I broke your glasses, and you apologized to me, which is, like, insane. I mean, not that you're insane. It's just... You should be yelling at me, not being nice. I was a total jerk. I'm sorry."
Y/N opened her mouth to protest but Steve barreled on, the words tumbling out faster than he could shape them.
"Let me pay for your glasses. Or replace 'em. Or, like, whatever. You don't even have to let me, but if you want, I can do that—" He stopped, realizing he was babbling, and raked a wet hand through his hair. "Look, I can drive you to the mall or wherever you get new glasses, I can pay. Also, if you want, and it's completely up to you, I could take you out to dinner, like, as an apology, not that you'd want to spend more time with a guy who's already concussed you, but, uh—" He heard himself and wanted to die.
Y/N's head tilted, the way a bird's might: curious, gentle, maybe a little wary. She blinked at him, the world fuzzy behind the cracked lens she held up, and said, "Dinner?"
He nodded, too quickly. "If you want. Or lunch. Or coffee. Or nothing at all," he said, and realized with horror that he was being cringy as hell. "Just, yeah. Sorry."
Y/N held the broken glasses with both hands, her smile turning wry. "My mom is going to kill me. She says I break everything I touch." She shifted her weight, swaying a little in the sticky heat.
He groped for something, anything, to redeem himself. "Hey, you know what?" He reached into his back pocket, fished out a pen, and scrawled his number on the inside cover of her rental box. "If you need to call me about the glasses, or, you know, if you just want to prank call a jerk, that's my direct line. And—" He stopped, uncertain, then plunged ahead. "There's this party Friday? My friend's throwing it. Robin. The girl at the rental. She's actually not the worst, and her parties are kind of legendary, and if you want to go, you're invited. By me. I mean, by Robin too, but, uh, mostly by me."
She took the box from his hands, eyes squinting down at the large, blocky numbers. "Are you always like this?" she asked, a smile threading through her voice.
He grinned, self-deprecating because it was the only move he had left. "I'm trying not to be."
Y/N gave the faintest nod of approval, then tucked his number into the side pocket of her dress. She said, "Friday sounds good. If I don't trip and die before then."
"You won't. I'll make sure of it," he blurted, more earnest than he intended.
She laughed, a short, enthusiastic sound, then turned and walked away. She didn't look back, but Steve stayed locked on her silhouette, smacked by a sensation he refused to name.
Behind him, the bell over the Family Video door shrilled again; Robin leaned halfway out, arms folded, forehead shining with sweat and suspicion. "You good, Harrington?" she called, her tone full of mockery.
He wiped his palm on his vest and sauntered back toward the store, forcing a lopsided grin. "Totally good. Just, uh, customer appreciation. You know how it is."
Robin lifted both brows. "Is that what they're calling stalking now?" She retreated into the cool dimness of the store, letting the door wheeze shut behind her.
-
When he got home, Steve dumped his keys on the counter, grabbed a Budweiser from the fridge, and retreated to the couch, where he could commit himself fully to the task of hating himself. He sprawled, legs splayed, one arm thrown over his eyes. Every ten seconds, his brain replayed the moment in Family Video, like an especially cruel home movie, her voice, the way it had trembled around an apology, her smile when he handed her the tape, the goddamn way his hands wouldn't stop moving. He groaned and wedged the heel of his palm into his forehead. He was a lost cause.
A little after eleven, just as he was deciding whether to risk another beer or just wallow in his own self-loathing until he passed out, the phone rang. The ancient cordless rang from its wall-mount by the kitchen.
He wiped his hand on his sweats, then grabbed the receiver. "Yeah, hello?"
A pause, soft static. "Um. Hi."
He instantly straightened up, bracing his forearm against the counter's edge. "Y/N?"
A nervous little laugh, like she was holding her breath. "Sorry, it's late. Is this the right number?"
"Yeah.. yes, hey. It's Steve," he managed, catching his voice before it cracked. He could see himself in the dark panel of the microwave. He leaned into the counter, "You, uh, made it home okay?"
A deep breath on the other end. "Yeah. I just closed my eyes and pretended I was a bat. Bats can't see, but they don't bump into things. Except I did bump into three trash cans." She giggled, a tiny, delighted sound that seemed to ripple along the line. "But I found the front door, so it's a happy ending."
He had to grip the receiver tighter to keep from fidgeting. "Glad you survived."
On the other end, Y/N's breath shivered, like she was afraid to exhale in case it made a sound. "I'm calling because I wanted to... Well, I thought you deserved closure."
Steve blinked. "Closure?" He wasn't sure if she was mad at him or just had a dramatic way of phrasing things. Either way, it tied a knot in his stomach.
"Yes." A pause, then a rush of words: "I wanted to let you know I successfully watched The Princess Bride, and my little sister didn't even notice my glasses were broken, because she's seven and she thinks I'm Wonder Woman. Or Batgirl. Or... Do bats have a girl?" The words tumbled out, crowded together like they were jostling for the same seat.
Steve pressed the phone close, knuckles whitening and a ridiculously big smile peeking. "There's gotta be a Batgirl. Hang on, I'll check the encyclopedia." He heard himself and cringed. Encyclopedia? Like he was some kind of dad. "Or, uh, the next comic book section at the store. I'll let you know."
He could feel her smiling through the wire. "That's considerate," she said. "I'm just glad I didn't break your nose. My mom says if I ever do something like that, they should take away my library card."
He laughed, too loud, then muted it with a cough. He really wanted to ask what her mom would say about fucking an ex-prom king instead, but that sounded like a total HR violation, so he just said, "Glad your sister liked the movie."
"Yeah," Y/N replied. Her voice thinned, like she was backing away even as she talked. "I don't want to keep you, I just... well, never mind. I'm probably being nosy."
He said nothing for a moment, trying to read the silence like it was a clue in a murder case. Sometimes the trick was to just wait people out; sometimes it made everything weirder. "What is it?"
Y/N inhaled, a sound like static. "Do you—would it be okay if we still did the party? On Friday?" She spit it out so fast it took him a second to catch up. "I mean, you don't have to be my handler or anything, but if you wanted to, like, go with me. To the party. Or not. Or—" She laughed.
He almost let it ride out. He almost let her off the hook. But something in her voice, the soft tremor, the way she said "still" as if he'd ever wanted to back out, tripped a switch inside him. "Yeah. Of course. Friday," he said, swallowing back the urge to sound too eager. "I'll pick you up. What time?"
A pause, then: "You don't have to do that. I can walk."
He pictured her, clumsy and careful, weaving through Hawkins' cracked sidewalks with her broken glasses in her pocket and a VHS tape in her hands. He was seized by a sudden, ridiculous urge to follow her around town, and punch anyone who looked at her weird.
"I want to," he said, and felt his heart slamming against his ribs. "It's a date. Or, like, whatever." He winced at the sound of it, but Y/N didn't seem to mind.
"Okay," she said, laughter lilting up through the receiver. "But don't judge me when I wear the ugly glasses. I will glue them tonight. I might look like a bug."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She lingered, her breath a delicate hush. "Thanks for helping me today. You really didn't have to."
His brain stuttered. The old Steve would've brushed it off. The new one, raw-nerved and jumpy as a stray cat, just nodded into the phone like an idiot. "Yeah, well. You were, um. You were different."
He meant it. He'd spent too many years with girls who only spoke in hyperbole, who clung to be heard, who wore their ambition like lipstick, who never second-guessed. He'd thought that was what he wanted: friction, competition, the thrill of conquest. But Y/N seemed softer, sculpted from contradictions, and it drove him fucking insane.
It wasn't just attraction, it was hunger. Maybe it had been too damn long since he felt real attraction. He didn't even realize how parched he'd been until she filled the air with those shy, trembling giggles.
He wanted to hear it again.
He found himself grinning like a moron into the receiver. "I'm glad you called, actually," he said, letting his voice go lower, smoother. "I didn't even have a panic attack over it," he said, and immediately regretted voicing it, but Y/N's laugh shimmered across the line.
"You were so calm," she said. "I figured I was the one making you nervous." A pause, as if she couldn't believe she'd said it.
He ran his thumb along the coil of the phone cord, every nerve ending singing. "Yeah, well. Guess I'm not as cool as I look." The words came out before he could fence them in, and he felt the heat crawling up his neck.
A beat. Y/N's breathing, shallow and then steadier, like she was pacing the length of her own bedroom. "I wouldn't know what you look like. You were just this.. shape. And a lot of hair." Her voice was so quiet he barely heard it, and it thrilled him. "I'd say you seemed... nice, if that's not weird to say."
"You can say it," Steve said, and then instantly cringed at the desperation in his own voice.
Y/N hesitated, and for a moment all he heard was the faint squeak of her shifting the phone. "You just... you smelled so good," she finally said, a little breathless.
The line went quiet.
He gripped the receiver hard enough to blanch his knuckles, suddenly aware of everything, the sweat on his neck, and the faint aftershave he'd swiped from his dad's medicine cabinet and probably overdone. It was one thing to be told you had nice hair, or that you were tall; "you smelled so good". He'd never had a girl say that to him. Not with that nervous little edge, like she was embarrassed it slipped out. There was a not-small part of him that wanted to say, "What did I smell like?" just to make her say it again, but the rest of him froze.
He felt himself harden instantly. Fuck. Steve had been through enough late-night calls with girls to know the drill, where way naughtier things were said, but no one had ever short-circuited him like this. He was glad, suddenly, for the darkness in the kitchen, the half-dead bulb over the sink, the heavy blue spill of TV light. He cleared his throat, tried to get his head back under control. He squeezed the phone tighter, his other hand sliding to his lap, fingers pressing hard into the seam of his sweatpants. The muscle at his jaw flexed. This was insane. He was a grown man—well, a legal adult, anyway—yet here he was, tenting his sweats because some girl said he smelled good. Not even a girl he knew, not really. Not even a real compliment; just an innocent slip.
He tried to focus on the conversation, to keep his voice level. "So, uh, do you want me to bring anything? Like, for the party?" His hand moved again, a little firmer. He could feel himself swelling under his palm, heat pooling low and heavy. Jesus. This was like eighth grade, getting off to the smell of his math teacher's perfume, only now it was a real girl, with a name and a phone number and a laugh he could jerk off to for a week. Which, judging from the slow, insistent throb under his fingers, he probably would.
He gripped himself, squeezing through the thin cotton in a way that was half relief, half punishment. The second he did, it hit him: he was getting hard on the fucking telephone. This sweet, innocent girl who was barely an acquaintance, was talking to him about her mother and glasses, and meanwhile he was palming his own dick like a complete pervert.
For a second the thought made him want to slam the receiver down and punch himself in the face. He let out a shallow, shaky breath, and when Y/N spoke again, her voice sounded closer. She said, softly, "Steve, are you still there?"
He swallowed, pulling the phone away an inch to catch his breath, then pressing it close again. "Yeah, I'm here," he said, and the words came out a little raspy, a little too tender. He felt his whole body flush with a guilty excitement, like he'd just gotten away with something.
He wanted to stop, to will himself back into the cool, detached version of himself he'd be, but he let himself drift on the current, following the impulse deeper. He pressed down, slow and careful, then slipped his hand under the waistband to grip bare skin. The sensation was so intense he almost gasped. He clamped his jaw shut, fighting to keep his breathing normal.
"So, um," Y/N said, and there was a barely-there tremor in her voice, "I was wondering if maybe you knew what the dress code is. I mean, I don't want to show up looking like a dork." She laughed, then seemed to shrink from it, muffling the sound with her hand.
Steve squeezed himself, thumb circling along the slick of pre-cum already leaking at the tip. He stroked, slow and shivery, letting the friction build there. He imagined her biting her lip, hugging a pillow, all excited and flustered talking to him on the phone. He jerked himself slowly, the tip already wet in his grip.
He should hang up.. He should hang up, take a cold shower, and never speak to a woman again.
Instead he said, "Honestly, just... be yourself. Robin won't even notice. I'll be the one looking like an idiot."
Y/N made a noise, a soft hum that curled under his ribs. "I doubt that," she said. "You don't seem like you'd ever look stupid."
He suppressed a groan by clenching his teeth, rolling his hips against his palm. He was fully hard now, pressing the receiver to his ear with his shoulder and his hand down his pants.
He muttered, "You'd be surprised," and nearly choked on it. His cock was hot and slick in his grip, already throbbing as he worked it slow, careful to keep his breathing steady, lower than the rush in his own ears. He palmed the head, squeezing out another slippery bead and spreading it with his thumb, the wetness making every stroke a little easier, a little more dangerous.
On the other end, Y/N breathed, "Are you okay?" She sounded closer, like she'd moved the phone to her shoulder to free her hands for something else. He tried not to picture her touching herself. But he couldn't help it.
He stroked, wrists sticky and breath going ragged, but he forced it down, shoulder tensed so hard it cramped. "Listen, Y/N, I—uh." He nearly lost it then, teeth clamping together. "I should let you go. Big day tomorrow at the, uh, video store." His hand jerked once, hard. He needed this to end before he did something really, truly pathetic.
"Oh, okay," she said, and he heard the letdown in her voice, but also relief, like she'd been holding her breath. "I'll see you Friday? Or maybe before."
He grunted, "Yeah. Friday." He wanted to say something more, to reestablish the cool, but his voice was barely holding on. "Okay. Good night," he managed, and slammed the phone onto the cradle. The plastic clatter echoed in the empty house.
He just stood there, hand still wedged tight in his sweats, a pulse in his neck going crazy. His fingers worked in rough, desperate strokes, no rhythm, just a hard, mean need to erase the last five minutes of his own miserable performance. He pictured her, heard her voice, the way she'd said "you smelled so good"—and that was it. He came in his hand, thick ropes of cum, mess pooling sticky on his knuckles and the inside of his waistband. He grunted, shuddered, then pressed his forehead to the cold laminate counter.
He spent most of the next day trawling the mall for something, either flowers, a bearable cologne, maybe a cool watch, anything that would make him seem like he wasn't the kind of guy who jerked off to phone calls. He needed to feel like his old, nonchalant self. By Thursday, they'd talked again and again, for hours. If Wednesday's call was bad, Thursday's was a war crime. He'd called her after his shift, voice gruff with fatigue, and had lasted all of four minutes before she'd said his name in that soft, seducing way and his hand was back down his pants. He'd managed to keep his voice steady this time, mostly, but the last five minutes were a blur of raw nerves and half-gasps. When he'd finally let go of the receiver he'd been dizzy with relief and shame. He started to worry that she knew. That she could hear it in his voice, or in the way he went off the rails or got quiet at the wrong moment. That she could sense, through the wire, that he was a freak. Maybe she was just too polite to call him out. Maybe she liked it. Maybe she was doing the same thing, on the other end, tucked under sheets with her legs pressed together and her breath going shaky whenever he said something almost nice.
He showed up at her house on Friday at 6:59 p.m. sharp. He'd spent an hour circling the neighborhood, he didn't want to be early, didn't want to look overeager, but he also didn't want to risk being late. The BMW gleamed, detailed and waxed within an hour of neurotic spit-polishing; the windows practically blinded him, the interior smelled like a cologne commercial and fresh vinyl. His hair was perfectly arranged. He'd changed shirts three times, landed on a navy blue polo under his favorite blue Members Only jacket. The second he parked in front of her house, his heart rate tripled.
The place looked like every other house in Hawkins. He checked his breath in the mirror, popped a Certs, then killed the ignition and strode up the walk as if he wasn't five seconds from throwing up on her doorstep.
The door swung open before he hit the bell. And then she was there.
Steve's mouth went dry. For a horrible, vertiginous second, he didn't recognize her. She had on a white dress, he'd say it was a dress, but really, it was more like a white t-shirt with ambitions. It hung soft and tight and criminally short, the hem grazing her thighs in a way that made his mouth water. Her legs were bare, her feet in strappy, off-white sandals, and all her toenails were lacquered a pale pink.
"Sorry I'm late, my mom decided she had to interrogate me about my entire life. Also, I got contacts instead!”
He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't sure what, maybe a joke or a dumb comment about her dress, but nothing came out. All he could think was: I want to fuck her, I want to ruin her, I want to destroy her. He felt it low, a throb in his stomach, the old animal urge he used to channel so easily in the backseats of cars, in tiny bathrooms at parties, but now he was so nervous, and oh, so fucking horny. He tried to play it cool, shoved his hands in his pockets, offered a lopsided, "Hey, yourself."
For a half-second, they just stared at each other. Steve couldn't stop cataloging the details: the line of her collarbone, the shimmer of sunscreen on her shoulders, the way she hid her hands behind her back, unconsciously pushing her tits his way.
He couldn't help it. His brain, greedy and abject, went right for the worst version of the memory: her sprawled on the Family Video linoleum, legs tangled in the soft pink dress, one knee bare and the skin above it flushed and perfect; the way her hands had trembled, the way her voice had snagged on every word. He imagined her like that now, only with the white dress rucked up around her hips, hair shaken loose, glasses somewhere on the ground. He pictured himself over her, holding her narrow wrists to the carpet while she gasped and arched up and said his name, and it was so real it hurt. He wanted to fuck her until she went breathless, until she cried, until she clawed for something to hold and found only him. He wanted to wreck her, to own her, to pin her down and never let another guy touch her again.
Fuck, he was in for it. Steve Harrington was losing it.
The party was already in full swing when they rolled up to Robin's place. Buckley's had always been the perfect party spot, part because Robin's parents were "emotionally divorced" and spent weekends at their separate condos in Indy, and part because the street was just far enough from downtown Hawkins that no one called the cops unless someone pissed in the neighbor's mailbox. Steve parked three blocks away, pretending it was for the exercise, but really buying himself time to get his pulse under control.
The windows pulsed with sub woofer light, and somewhere on the second story a window had been kicked open so hard the frame hung at a 15-degree tilt. The porch was already packed with bodies—everything from lacrosse guys, a few art-school kids, Robin's friends from the rental store, a handful of dropouts and even some of the bimbos Steve had been on dates with weeks ago.
The house was a haze of moving limbs and spilled liquor. Someone had popped every light bulb in the living room except the Christmas stringers, which pulsed an eerie green over a forest of red solo cups. The air reeked of weed, tobacco smoke, and the tang of spiked punch.
Robin found them immediately. Her hair was in pigtails and she'd drawn a blue star on her cheek with Sharpie, like she was the host of a dystopian game show. Robin flung her arms wide, "Harrington!" she crowed, then, with a conspiratorial wink, "And... the girl from today! Come. Come come come."
She summoned them into the epicenter, ignoring the way Y/N clung to Steve's arm like a life preserver. "You made it!," Robin said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You look—" She paused, eyeing Y/N dress, then Steve's jacket, then Y/N's face again. Steve could see the calculation in Robin's eyes, the way she was already rewriting the evening's narrative to squeeze the most juice from it. "It's perfect for you. Love your dress by the way,"
Y/N blushed, reached for Steve's hand automatically. "It's a little much, sorry—"
"No, don't," Robin said, looping an arm through Y/N, dragging her into the kitchen with a confidence that brooked no rebuttal. "It's perfect. Harrington, take notes—you're in the minor leagues now." She winked, then plucked a bottle of tequila from the counter, held it aloft like she'd just landed the Olympic torch.
Steve lagged a step behind, almost tripped by his own shoelaces. He saw as Y/N let Robin pour her a solo cup of poison.
Steve watched the tequila slosh, the way Robin over poured "to the brim, for luck," and then topped the cup with a wedge of lime. "We're doing shots, obviously," Robin declared, "but not, like.. normal ones. This is a party, not church. We are going to do body shots, like God intended."
Steve choked on his own breath. "Uh, no, we're not. We don't even have salt. Or limes. Or... bodies," he blurted. He could feel his face going red even as everyone else just grinned and cheered like this was Christmas come early.
Robin grinned, her teeth sharp in the light. "Wow, Harrington's suddenly shy," she announced to the kitchen, and then, to Y/N: "But his abs are, statistically, the eighth wonder of modern Hawkins. We're doing this." She slammed the tequila down, seized a salt shaker from the back of the stove, and produced a lime from some pocket of chaos. With a flourish, she arranged everything on the counter top: salt, orange plastic shot glasses, a tangle of cut limes. "Y/N, sweetie, you ever done a body shot?"
Y/N blinked, looked at Steve, then at the counter top, then back at Steve. "I don't know," she said, voice small but not scared. "I mean, no. Not really."
"Great!" Robin crowed. "Harrington, shirt off."
The kitchen went insane.
Steve's stomach dropped, but he couldn't back down. Come on, this used to be his usual. But he felt nervous, especially with Robin grinning like the devil and Y/N standing there, blinking up at him like he was some sort of Greek God. He steeled himself, hooked his thumbs under the hem of his shirt, and peeled it off in one clean motion. Cold air licked his skin. A few people in the back whistled and some girls whispered to each other ungodly things. He tossed the shirt at the counter, flexed without meaning to.
Robin lined up the first shot. "Rules are simple," she slurred, waggling her eyebrows at Y/N: "Lick, sip, suck. Steve, you're the body. Y/N, you're—well. You're about to have a life-changing experience."
He watched Y/N's face as she nodded, eyes huge and glassy in the Christmas lights. She stepped forward, standing close enough that Steve could see the flush working its way up her chest, blotting her collarbone pink under the white dress. Robin handed Y/N a shot glass. "You know the drill," Robin said, voice dropping to a private register. "Salt, lick, drink, suck. Start on the abs. Go low."
Y/N's face went up in flames, but her hands were steady as she took the salt shaker. Robin leaned in, whispering something, then dusted a thin, crystalline line just below Steve's ribs, right above the waistband of his jeans. Steve felt the cold grit hit his skin, felt every eye in the room burn into him. His cock stirred against the denim, as alive as it can be. He tried to think unsexy thoughts, but every time he looked at Y/N, the urge came back, harder now—he wanted to toss her over his shoulder, carry her to some unused corner, and bite her neck until her knees gave out. He gripped the counter top and waited, heart in his throat.
Y/N stepped closer, squinting at the salt line as if she needed to do it right, even as Robin and half the kitchen hooted and egged her on. She bent at the waist—fuck, her hair smelled like warm vanilla—and pressed her lips just below his navel, tongue darting out to lap the salt. Her mouth was soft and wet on his skin, and something primal in Steve's gut snapped. He barely heard the cheers. The sensation ricocheted straight to his cock, which flexed up against his zipper so hard it hurt.
Next was the shot. Y/N tossed it back, half the tequila spilling down her chin. She softly coughed, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Then, as if on cue, she reached for the lime wedge Robin had wedged in the waistband of Steve's jeans, right above the button, just on the V of his hipbone. Her fingers grazed the skin, feather-light, but the cold rush of citrus and the heat at her touch sent a current through his entire spine. For a split second her knuckles pressed into the base of his stomach. He bit down so hard on the inside of his cheek he tasted blood. She took the lime in her teeth, and for a second lingered there, her face inches from his cock, breath warm on his skin, before she popped upright, giggling out the sour, sticky juice.
The kitchen howled. Steve's head swam, everything bright and stat-icky. He couldn't move; his abs were still flexed, hard, salt stinging where she'd licked him. He'd never felt more like a hunk of meat, and he'd never been more ready to let someone eat him alive.
It was supposed to be a goofy party trick. But obviously, it wasn't. He watched her, dazed, as she licked the last of the salt from her upper lip, then met his gaze and innocently smiled with a wet, trembling mouth.
Robin cackled and slammed her palms on the table. "See? That wasn't so bad! Who's next?" The kitchen erupted, a dozen hands shot in the air.
He barely noticed. He was too busy watching Y/N, with her cheeks flushed, eyes glazed and wild and overwhelmed by the heat working up her throat and into her face. She still had the taste of salt and Steve's skin on her tongue, and it was making her knees weak in a way she'd never admit.
Robin pulled Y/N her into a hug, sweat and tequila and vanilla and strawberry gluing them together in a messy, giggly tangle. "You're a natural!" Robin whispered in her ear. "And for the record, everyone in this room wishes you'd licked them instead."
Robin's grip loosened just enough for Y/N to stagger back into Steve's orbit. The music churned to a new song, the kitchen crowd already drifting to the next spectacle, but Steve couldn't break eye contact with her if he tried. She glowed, skin shiny with sweat, plump lips parted, breathing shallow.
He didn't remember deciding to do it. He leaned in, bringing his lips close to her ear, his stomach still sparking from where she'd licked him, and said, "You want to try one?" The words barely made it past his throat, he was so hard he felt like he might black out.
Y/N's eyes darted up to his, wide and momentary, and she nodded. No hesitation, just a hungry little nod like a dare.
He watched her hands. She gripped the edges of the counter behind her, squeezing so tight her knuckles shone through the skin. He heard himself say, "Where do you want it?" and when she didn't get it, Robin, ever the provocateur, elbowed her in the ribs and said, "Salt line goes wherever you want, babe. Classic is the cleavage shot. If you're brave."
Y/N's gaze dropped to her chest, then flicked to Robin, then to Steve. The tips of her ears went scarlet. She squared her shoulders and, in a motion at once hesitant and absurdly decisive, yanked the front of her dress down an inch, baring the soft valley between her breasts. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, and said, "Let's do it."
He heard the word in triplicate, echoing in his chest. Robin was already at her side, fingers quick and businesslike, shaking a thin bead of salt between Y/N's tits, her hands surprisingly gentle. Y/N's skin flinched under the touch, but she didn't pull away. She kept her chin tucked, her mouth pressed in a line so tight her lips nearly vanished.
Robin glanced at Steve, raised her eyebrows, and telepathically told him good luck, Harrington, and then poured the shot, steady, "Go," Robin whispered, and faded back into the kitchen, already shouting for the next round.
Steve blinked. He had done this before, a hundred times, but never like this. Fuck, never, ever like this.
He bent down, drew her in with a hand at the small of her back, and licked the salt like he meant it, slow and hot, just at the base of her cleavage. The taste hit him all at once—skin, salt, and the faint edge of her yummy perfume—and for a second, he thought he might actually lose control right there in front of the whole kitchen. He reached for the shot, eyes locked on hers, and tossed it back. The tequila burned, bright and immediate, and then he went for the lime wedge dangling between her knuckles.
She held it up, pinched between thumb and finger, but her hand was barely steady. He didn't just bite the lime, he let his lips graze her fingers, tongue flicking over her skin for one illicit, hungry moment.
He barely registered the kitchen cheering, the sting of tequila in his throat, the sticky neon of the Christmas lights. There was nothing but her.. the salt-sweat on her skin, the lime braced between her fingers, the way she breathed when he leaned in. He wanted to press his mouth to the hollow at the base of her neck and taste every inch of her, slow.
Robin was gone, the kitchen crowd surging elsewhere, the party's center of gravity shifting. Steve and Y/N stood together at the edge of the counter top, two empty shot glasses and a wedge of lime between them. For a moment neither of them moved.
Steve watched her. Her body quivered with leftover adrenaline, and her eyes, ringed with tears from the lime, locked on Steve's with a naked, hungry intensity that caught him very off guard.
He tried to say something. Anything. His brain coughed up only static. She just stared at him, jaw set, wet mouth parted, like she was daring him to move first. She swayed a little in place, the white dress clinging to her, and Steve saw—he knew, with the certainty of a thousand locker room stories—what she was feeling. She wanted. It was so obvious he felt it like a punch in the kidney. His own body responded, vicious and instant.
He tracked how her legs shifted, how she squeezed her thighs together, how her breaths got short and fast, and how she held his gaze so steady he couldn't look away. Every instinct screamed at him to grab her. Every instinct screamed at him to move.
Instead he stood there, paralyzed, heart slamming so hard he felt it in the tops of his feet.
Y/N blinked, once, slow, then reached for him. Her palm landed flat against his chest. No testing, no hesitation. She pressed, and he yielded, letting her push him back against the fridge. The handle jabbed into his hip. The cold tightened something in his gut. He waited. He was trembling and trying to hide it, and she leaned in, so close her breath hit his mouth. She didn't kiss him. Not yet.
"Steve," she said, so quietly he barely caught it over the kitchen's noise. He blinked at her, trying to focus, to re-calibrate. Her hand slid up, fingers splayed against his bare chest.
She leaned in. Her lips didn't quite touch his ear, but her breath was hot on his jaw. "I need to get out of here."
He nodded, a violent jerk, already reaching for her wrist. He was ready to drag her straight out the front door, but she only pressed closer, voice a tremor: "I'm sorry, I just—" She laughed, a nervous, biting little sound. "I think I'm a bit.. wet."
Steve's brain short-circuited. For a half-second he was back in his kitchen, clutching the phone with one hand and his cock with the other, hearing her say his name, the way she'd whispered "Steve" like it was a secret. But now her voice was pressed to the side of his face, and her body was mashed up against every inch of him, and he was so fucking hard it felt like his cock was going to slice through his jeans.
He didn't ask where. He didn't have to. Steve took her hand and wove through the crush of bodies in the living room, the kitchen, the stairs, as if they were conjoined at the wrist. He made for the only place in Robin's house that wasn't already stuffed full of people, or garbage, or the smell of weed and spilled soda. The bathroom: second floor, back left, the one with the broken lock.
He shouldered the door open, nearly knocking the loose towel rack off its screws, and barely got it shut before Y/N was crowding in after him, her face alive with raw and startled need.
The bathroom was as ugly as Steve remembered: green shag rug, crusted toothpaste in the sink, a single 40-watt bulb casting headache shadows across the yellowed linoleum. They barely fit inside it together. But as soon as the latch clicked, Y/N was on him, hands fisted in the waistband of his jeans, mouth searching. She kissed with the frantic, open-mouthed hunger. Steve bent down, kissing back, nipping her lower lip, tasting tequila and salt and the faint trace of her lip gloss. He pressed her against the lip of the vanity, hands greedy as a mugger, and she let him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him until he saw stars.
He tugged her dress up—she made a sound, half gasp, half laugh, and let him, until the fabric bunched around her waist and her bare legs pressed hard against his hips. The pink cotton panties under the dress were already soaked through, and when he slipped his hand between her thighs she shuddered, digging her short, painted nails into his back. He was barely thinking at all.
She pushed his hand away, palms flat and insistent, then dropped to her knees so fast it knocked the air out of his chest. For a second he just stared at her, holy fucking stunned—does she even know how to suck a guy off? Steve thought. She bit her lip, looked up at him, breath ragged. "Can I?" she said, so quietly he almost missed it.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. He hooked a hand behind her skull, not rough, just needing to feel the shape of her, the weight of her, the way her neck tapered to her shoulder, and tried not to shake as she yanked his jeans and underwear down below his ass.
Y/N's fingers wrapped around his cock, and the heat of it almost undid him. She stared, close enough he could feel the air from her nostrils, and for a second he thought she might just hold it and look, but then her lips parted, tongue flicking out, tasting from the base up to the tip with a steady lap. Her mouth was warm and greedy, lips slicked with spit, tongue raking the underside, and then she just fucking swallowed him—no hesitation, just took the head right between her lips and held him there, eyes shut, cheeks hollowing. Steve's vision blacked out for a second. She wasn't careful, wasn't slow at all, and he could feel every inch of her: the edge of her teeth, the roof of her mouth, the wet smack of her lips, the crazy little noises she made in her throat.
Steve always considered himself picky with blowjobs. But saying he was surprised it's an understatement. Y/N seemed a full-blown maniac for the way she used her tongue, the way she pressed her nails into the backs of his thighs, the way she kept eye contact even as her mascara started to run. Steve couldn't breathe; his hands clamped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went bloodless.
He'd never seen anything like it. Her cheeks hollowed, jaw flexing, and she went deeper, then deeper again, until the flare of his cock head pressed against the back of her throat. She gagged, but instead of stopping she growled, an inhuman sound, and he nearly came right then. He looked down at her, her lips stretched, her hair falling in her eyes, her hands working in a twisting rhythm at the base—and she looked right back at him, her lashes wet, daring him to lose it.
He tried to last. He really did. He thought of dead dogs, of geometry, of the ugly ass green shag rug under his sneakers, but her mouth was relentless. She sucked him with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, using her hand to twist and squeeze while her tongue lashed and teased and licked. Her other hand cupped his balls, rolling them, squeezing, then sliding back to stroke the strip of skin behind. He almost yelped when she did that, the jolt so raw and bright he had to bite the inside of his wrist to keep from howling. She paused, eyes glittering, and then went down again, deeper than she had any right to. She pulled off just as he felt himself tipping over,and she let him nearly fall into it: the head of his cock pulsing, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth would crack. He shoved her off, just in time,.
Steve grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her to her feet. She stumbled, knees wobbly, mouth open. He pressed her to the sink, back to the mirror. It was feverish, uncoordinated. His hands found her ass, fingers digging into the soft, warm flesh beneath the hem of her dress, and then he was hoisting her up, perching her right on the edge of the counter.
He didn't ask. He couldn't have, even if he'd tried. The cotton went slick between his fingers when he pulled them aside. Y/N let out a whimper, her thighs spreading obediently. She was shaking, but not from cold; she arched her back, and looked up at him with a hunger that made his knees buckle.
He wanted to make her say his name again.
He gripped his cock, the tip still glossy with spit, and ran it against the damp, slippery entrance of her pussy. She was so wet it was almost stupid. He lined up, pressed the head into her, and she hissed, nails raking his forearm as he pushed inside. She was tight, impossibly so, and he had to pause, just for a second, to keep from sliding in all at once and blowing straight past the edge of control. Y/N clamped around him so tight he almost lost it—her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs, her hands grabbing at the mirror behind her so hard he heard it creak. He went forward, every thrust rougher, rougher, until her head banged the glass and she gasped his name with every ragged exhale.
Steve braced his palms on either side of her hips, pushing her higher on the counter so the cold porcelain pressed flat to her ass, and he fucked up into her, mean and perfect, desperate to fill her, ruin her, make her remember this every time she looked in the goddamn mirror. He was panting, sweat already slicking across his chest, her knees bruising his ribs.
Steve couldn't stop. The slap of his hips against her bare skin echoed in the little bathroom. He wanted her to hear it, wanted anyone passing in the hall to hear it. He wanted them to know she was fucking the shit out of this beautiful girl.
He found himself talking, words tumbling out, low and rough, nothing like his usual jokes or sarcastic, mean lines. "You like being fucked where anyone could hear you?" He pistoned harder, watching her face go slack, mouth open and wet. "I bet you've never been fucked like this, huh? No, didn't think so."
His own voice got him off, got her off too—she clenched around him, a tremor starting in her thighs and then up her spine, lips shiny and parted and begging for more. He felt her body clamp down, so tight he couldn't move for a heartbeat; she was shaking, trying to ride the edge. Steve pressed his face to her neck and growled. "You want to come? I'll let you if you say you want it."
She tried to answer, but it came out as a sob, a hiccup, a choked, "Steve—" and he shoved in harder, grinding her against the mirror. He could feel her nipples through the thin cotton, hard as diamonds, and he wanted to bite them, wanted to mark her everywhere. He thought about pulling out and flipping her over, fucking her from behind so she could see herself in the glass, but he didn't trust his legs to hold him. He had to finish like this, deep inside, buried so far every time she walked she'd feel it for a week.
He heard himself again: "Do you feel that? Every time I fuck you, I can feel your pussy clutching me like it's hungry—like you want me to fill you up," He was almost shouting, didn't care if the whole party heard. He drove into her harder, the tip of his cock punching her cervix, and Y/N gasped, head thudding back against the mirror.
"You want me to fill you up, come inside this tight pussy, pretty girl ?"
Y/N's nails dug into his arms. Her head shook back and forth, helpless, but she was moaning, clenching, gasping with every ragged thrust. She was falling apart, coming undone, and he wanted to watch it happen. He was, indeed, ruining the sweetest girl he had met a few days ago.
Steve wrenched the top of her dress down with one hand, the neckline giving way with a violent little rip. Her tits tumbled out, flushed and perfect, nipples hard and shining with sweat. He stared, unable to help himself, and then grabbed both, squeezing, watching the way they bounced every time he railed into her. He wanted her to see what she did to him, wanted to brand the image into her skull the way he knew he'd never erase it from his own. He fucked her harder, faster, felt his own orgasm boiling up from somewhere below his spine, but he fought it back, desperate to see her finish first.
He pinched the tight pink bud, twisted and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, and she almost shrieked. Her hips jerked, heels slipping, breath bursting wet and hot against his neck. He bit and sucked and tongued her until her voice went high and stretched, until she was frantic and wild with it, so desperate for more she almost sobbed. Her hands fumbled at his hair, pulling him closer. He let go, ran his tongue slow and flat down the valley between her breasts, lapping at the sweat, and she arched up, rubbing against him, so desperate for friction she nearly threw him off balance.
"God," she panted, voice gone sharp and raw. "Please..Steve," She clawed at his shoulder. "Harder." Her breath hitched, lips plush and wet, eyes glazed with everything she was afraid to say. "Fuck me harder.. please, please, please, I need—"
He grabbed her by the hips, fingers digging deep enough she'd see the marks tomorrow, and rammed forward, burying himself as far as he could go. She screamed, the sound muffled against his neck where she clamped her mouth to keep from shattering. He knew she was close, so close, and he wanted to keep her right there, teetering. He lifted his head just enough to see her face: Y/N was gone, all sense evaporated, eyes huge and glassy and wet, mouth open and working for air.
She moaned, low and helpless up from her chest, then higher, until she made a sound so high-pitched and mortified he thought for a second she'd started crying. But she wasn't crying. She was coming, hard, every muscle in her thighs clenching so tight he could barely move. He watched her try to hold it in, watched her eyes dart to the mirror and see herself split open, hair wild, her own breasts marked up and jiggling, his cock jack-hammering in and out of her. She saw it and came again, her whole body seizing, mouth in a perfect O of disbelief. Steve had never seen anything so hot in his life.
That was it for him. He went feral, lost to the world, slamming into her with a speed that bordered on mean. Sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes but he didn't stop. He wanted to carve her into memory. Her pussy milked him, clutching tight as a fist, and the friction lit him up from the inside. He was past dignity, past restraint, past the point of pretending he was in control. His hips went wild; he felt it start in the soles of his feet, the heat climbing up his legs, then pooling in the base of his spine, then roaring forward, unstoppable. He lost his words; all he could do was grunt her name, low and guttural, as his cock twitched inside her, the first thick spurt hitting so deep her whole body flinched.
He kept going, aftershocks making his muscles seize and spasm, until she was shaking, spent, her head collapsed on his shoulder, arms limp at her sides. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck and just breathed, sweat slick on both of them, her hair matted and sticky against his mouth.
They stayed tangled like that, sweat and spit and salt drying between them, until the bright noise of the party outside filtered back into Steve's ears. The air in the bathroom was thick—humid, almost soupy, every surface fogged and slippery. Steve's hands were numb from gripping Y/N's hips so hard. She still shivered in aftershocks, arms looped around his neck, ragged breath cooling the bite marks on his shoulder. She was a mess. He was a mess. He loved it.
He let her down slow, careful, both of them testing their legs like foals on new ice. Steve tucked his cock away, awkward, the zipper fighting every inch, but Y/N didn't seem to notice. She only giggled, this high, brittle sound that made something low in his chest turn over. She tried to pull the top of her dress up, but it was hopeless. Steve watched her fumble with the neckline, then reached out and helped, trying to smooth the fabric back into shape. It was stretched, the seam a little torn, her bra hopelessly lost somewhere in the tangled mess of the skirt, but she let him fuss over her anyway, standing barefoot on the green shag with the ruined dress half off her shoulders. Her face glowed, feverish under the bathroom lights.
He studied her, searching for something clever to say, but the only words in his head sounded like they'd been ripped from a fortune cookie. He wanted to tell her she was incredible, or that he'd never wanted someone the way he wanted her, or that he might actually die if she ever left this bathroom without promising to see him again. But he was Steve Harrington, and the best he could do was stand there, tongue in cheek, grinning like a fucking idiot while she wiped her face on the back of her hand, trying to mop up the sticky gloss of his orgasm from the corners of her mouth.
He said, "Sorry if that was—" and then stopped, because it was the worst possible thing to say when you'd just fucked someone this hard.
But Y/N only laughed, wiping her chin, her whole body humming with aftershocks. Her dress was wrinkled all to hell, and there was a dark, thumbprint-sized stain spreading across where he'd palmed her hip, and her hair was coming down in wet, tangled ropes. She looked up at him with glassy, half-lidded eyes and said, "Don't apologize. That was, uh.. amazing."
Steve grinned. He couldn't help it. The sight of her, so messy, so alive, so fucking pleased, made him want to laugh out loud, or maybe punch the air, or maybe just wrap her up and never let her go.
He watched her fix her hair in the mirror, mesmerized. She caught his gaze in the reflection and went shy, covering her face with both hands and then peeking out through her fingers. "That was so embarrassing," she whispered.
He shook his head, still a little winded. "No," he said, and meant it. "No, it was the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life. I think you out-charmed me."
She peeked at him, fingers still spread. "Are you lying?"
"Fuck no," he said, a little breathless.
He realized he was telling the truth and it stunned him. Because, holy hell, he'd never felt like this over someone before.
Never.
