One shot summary is in the title LMAOOOO and ofc a play on words of Fat Daddy Slim.
Older!Fat!Steve Harrington x f!reader
2.4k Words
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI!! PORN THIS IS JUST PORN AND 1% PLOT, Daddy kink, Age gap (17 years), classic hospo worker shenanigans (sleeping with ur coworkers), probably immense overuse of pet names (pretty girl, babygirl, sweet girl etc), P in V, fucking RAW, (good lord wrap before you tap people), creampie <3
!! Hey so I suck balls at smut but @keer-y wanted some GOOD HONEST Daddy Kink Steve Harrington, and I just love him so ofc I HAD TO. Also for my sweet @djob00bies
⟡°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⟡
“—c’mon sweet girl, I know you got one more f’me.”
Knees pressed up against your chest, folded in half like a pretzel while one of Steve’s hands holds your legs in place and the other fucks into you brutally. Thumb circling and pressing onto your abused nub, spurring you on to jerk upwards.
“There she is, there’s my good girl. Daddy makin’ you feel good hm?” He cooed breathily, all flushed cheeks and sweaty tendrils of hair sticking to his face. God he’s a vision. Fuller cheeks and heavier set than the pictures of him that scattered around the apartment indicated.
He’s so manly. Gut, tits and all.
“U-uh-huum, fuck,” you whine, eyes screwing shut and back arching off the bed, “you-ah— you always make m’feel good Daddy.”
His fingers yank out of your pulsing hole, ripping another whine from you and subsequently denying you the release that was oh so close, “oh so now we like Daddy, hm? Should let you sit here all soaked and needy after the stunt you pulled earlier.”
The playful lilt of his voice brings you back to earlier at how you even ended up in this situation.
It was a slow night at The Hideout, as always was the case on Tuesdays when Trivia, Bingo or a band weren’t on. A manager always needed to be on, (lest Eddie go on a tirade about his staff getting abused again — it was one time) and since supervisors also have to be rostered on closes; the night time rotation was you, Steve and Roxy.
No one had come in for 25 minutes so you sat at the far end of the bar with a cosmopolitan magazine while the other two chatted and messed around to pass the time. It was lucky Steve was so charismatic with the other staff because it meant that the companies best kept secret would stay that way — a secret.
That most nights after a close you’re stowing away in your managers beat-up pick up to have the most mind blowing sex with said manager. The manager who was about to turn forty next month and that made him precisely 17 years your senior.
Weird, it was weird. Super weird.
Easier to keep that under wraps than to explain to anyone who cared how or why there was attraction there. Steve is an easy guy to be attracted to, great hair, great personality, great body, even now if it was covered by one of his stupid fucking slogan shirts. Today's said 'Blink if you want me' and you'd made a concerted effort to not engage lest you blow this secret out of the water by making fuck-me eyes at him all day.
You still do that but you just make them across the bar while watching him play games with coasters and bottle caps to entertain Roxy. “Oh yeah, that’s right, come to daddy.” He has that playful tone, but the word sends you into another dimension almost.
Roxy pulls a face and immediately loses interest in the game, “gross! Don’t talk about yourself in third person, yuck.”
Coolly, you lift your head and barely raise your eyes to look at either of them deadpan, “that’s what you got from that? The third person reference and not ‘Daddy’?” It was a little on the nose, really, but he started it by saying it outside of the bedroom and you were always a little too good at psychological warfare.
“Everybody loves Daddy,” he defends with a shit eating grin, eyes dropping down to so obviously check you out. He’s getting cocky.
Asshole.
You pull a face, “eugh, as if.” And returned to the magazine without incident.
That attitude, the act of pretending like you weren’t completely obsessed with this man was why you’re being folded in half, pussy squeezing around nothing while Steve slowly tortures you to complete madness.
Though he 'd stopped completely, laid your legs back down and held a hand up to cup the side of your face, “hey, sweetheart — you with me?” Just like that, he can be sweet, dirty, sour and everything in between. He’s seen the faraway look in your eyes and waits for the moment to pass where you’re present.
“Sorry,” you mumble, nudging against his hand, “I’m here. I’m okay.”
“Where’d you go?” His thumb brushes over the apple of your cheek, tracing the contours of your face before resting by your lower lip. He asks because he wants to know, but you’ve disrupted the flow of the moment enough and simply answer by parting your lips for his thumb.
Dropping his head with a groan, his salt and pepper hair flops with it, “that,” he grinds against you, “isn’t an answer, sweet girl.”
You suck his thumb harder, biting down on it gently, urgently while you paw at his pillowy gut for him. “Wan’chu Da’ddy,” against his thumb gets jumbled up and barely a proper sentence but he understands enough to groan again.
“Needy thing,” he tsks, dropping down to kiss along your cheek, pulling his thumb out of your mouth, smearing your own drool all over your lips. The sensation makes your hips buck up, desperate for attention and friction. “What do you want, sweetheart? Mouth or cock?”
His fingers ghost over your folds, the absence of his touch maddening and making you frantic for something. “Mmf—fuck, your cock — please, please I need you to feel you p-please, Steve.”
Cocking his head with that look on his face, you can guess you’ve said something wrong, mouth going dry and an indignant whine forces itself out of you.
“Princess,” he chides, parting your legs and leaning over you, arms braced either side of your head trembling to keep himself upright, “you were doing so well. Try again. Who am I?” His nose nudges up against your cheek, then his wet lips follow in messy little pecks.
Tonight he’s pushier than usual, which means that the playful jabbing at work had gotten to him. Normally you enjoy pushing back but with how desperate you were for something, you acquiesce instantly, “Daddy, I’m sorry—”
“Ah.” He nips at your jaw, a wordless direction to try again.
You gulp and buck up against him, dragging your abused hole along his chubbed up cock. Fuck, he’s always good at turning you on, but tonight was practically unbearable. Another whimper tumbles out, catching into the sob that followed, “Da-ah — Daddy.”
A groan slips out, smothering it against your temple which is the only indicator that he’s on the cusp of falling apart as much as you. “F-hmm, yeah. That’s right, pretty girl. You want Daddy’s cock, hm?”
Whole-body tingles trickle through you as he looks down with those ridiculously playful eyes and already wrecked expression. You risk another buck of your hips, eyes fluttering at the contact of him against you again “mm-hmm, please.”
“Yeah? Want me to remind you of who I am so it sinks in?” He kisses and nips along your throat, “or do you want me to fuck you stupid?”
The decision was already made before it could even form as an answer in your mouth. He sits up, the rush of cold is sobering until you’re blessed with the view of him stroking himself lazily. God he’s perfect.
“Daddy’s gonna fuck his pretty girl stupid, isn’t he?” He grits through his teeth, hungry eyes roving over you laid across his bed. He tracks down from your face, then to your tits and slowly down all the way to your cunt where you clench again under his stare. “Jesus. ‘lright, legs.”
Without a second thought, your legs lift and rest over his shoulders. His lips twitch almost giving way to a laugh, maybe a different night he’d have laughed at how eager you were being. Not tonight. “Thaaat’s my good girl. Look at this pretty pussy, cryin’ f’me.”
Steve liked taking his time, though whatever was in the air had him skipping the theatrics and cutting straight to the finale. Another whine cuts through a sharp breath when he lines himself up, “gonna make y’feel so good, Princess.”
“P-ah, fuck, please Daddy.” You knead roughly into his chest, feeling already so overwhelmed and now impatient to feel him anywhere. Mouth, ass, cunt — somewhere to alleviate the restlessness.
Hearing you, he buries himself completely inside your waiting hole with a guttural moan. The sensation is sharp, pulling a choked sob from you. As always is the case with how wide he is.
“Fuck, feels like heaven, babygirl. Always take me so well,” he groans, taking a moment to collect himself before thrusting at a rapid pace in short bursts. “Mf— y’ know the drill, honey. Touch y’self,” he pants.
Honey.
Through the complete haze of how filled he makes you feel, the surprisingly sweet endearment felt different than all the others. He’s never called you that before, not like this. Cock sheathed completely inside you, bullying your hole, he’s never called you honey.
Heeding his direction, one hand flicks and plays with your tits while the other glides down to circle your clit. God, you were so slick with want for him, picking up the pace whenever he slowed his thrusts for a few minutes.
Since the Christmas party last year and the first time this happened, Steve had an inexplicable ability to make you so beyond horny it was almost frustrating. It was laughable that at one point in your life, you had committed to the idea that sex was boring and you could live without it.
But with this man in all of his glory, has somehow managed to get you going in a way no other person had before.
A year of this; him fucking you into his bed with all the care and time in the world and you letting him, and it has yet to get old.
“Ah fuck y’squeezing Daddy so fucking tight. Mmf — Love fucking my sweet girl raw.”
His thrusts pick up again, so do your fingers around your clit to chase that feeling again. Each snap of his hips leave you feeling so filled and somehow its never enough, for either of you.
“I-hmm — Daddy I’m close,” you breathe and arch up, lifting hips up enough to change the angle enough that both of you groan in unison.
By now, he’d have you ride him, but considering how worked up you’d gotten it was barely a thought to him right now. He loves watching your tits bounce when you ride him as much as you love making his tits jiggle, but now was more about a feverish need to keep momentum and chase that release.
“Ha-I, fuck, I know.” He chuckles quietly, his vocalisations were always soft gleeful little moans. Like he was in complete disbelief that you let him defile you every time he asks for you to come over. You once told him defile was a strong word, and he had said it was hot and continued to fuck into you on his couch.
That tightness starts to strengthen, that sinking feeling in your tummy as your movements feel lighter becomes more apparent with each thrust of his cock and glide of your fingers, “God, don’t stop, please.”
“That’s my good girl. C’mon — come f’me, come for, ah — Daddy.”
Your hips half up buck up, your face scrunches and jaw loosens to let out a breathy moan from orgasmic bliss. It pulses in waves while your cunt clenches and un-clenches around him, urging him into his own release. “ohmygod,” you seize up while it rushes through your core and blooms outward to your head.
His pace picks up now, grunting and moaning quietly while effectively fucking into your now rag-dolling post orgasm body, which he pretends never to get excited over but always fails. He loves fucking you boneless and loose, only ever admitted in the way his eyes rove over your tired face and he smiles proudly about it.
Like yes, he did this to you. He fucked you so good and hard that you’re loose limbed and lethargic in a euphoric daze all from his cock. But its not just his cock, its all of him. Face, body, hair, him.
“Gonna fill up my pretty girl, yeah? You gonna let Daddy fill you up?” He asks but it was never as if you’d tell him no. Because there was something about him filling you up that was so lewd about feeling him for hours afterwards.
You nod lazily, too blissed out to say much of anything, which he knows. Bringing a hand to caress your face and slipping his thumb through plush lips, “thats my girl. So good f’me.” The tenderness stops when he hangs his head and then his hips pick up a brutal pace.
His thumb hooked into your mouth keeps your head steady while he hammers into you with such intense concentration. No one fucks like Steve Harrington. And somehow you were the lucky recipient to experience it all, the sweet talk, the tender moments, the absolute abuse on your pussy when he fucks you hard and fast.
It’s a head spin to feel already at the height of overstimulation that it was almost unbearable.
“Ah, fuck. Fuck. I’m —” his hips notch as close to yours as possible as he spills his load into you, rocking his hips slowly until he’d completely emptied himself. He languidly slides your legs off his shoulders, the position they’d been in for so long has them prickle with pins and needles.
With an exhausted boyish smile, he leans down to pepper wet kiss along your neck and face, and collapses onto the bed, dragging you on top with a tired smile. “Mmf, you are so pretty when you come on my cock, honey.” And he dives back in again for more kisses.
There it is again, honey.
You feel his spend oozing out of you, probably getting all over his meaty thigh, but he doesn’t care and neither did you. He’d clean it up after a moment to catch his breath, which was honestly, your favourite part of being with Steve. How sweet and mushy he got after sending you into an alternate reality with his cock.
“Y’know I was thinking the same about you, honey.” You murmur, drawing shapes across his soft chest, pulling gently at his hair absently.
He doesn’t say anything about the pet name, no verbal acknowledgement that indicated he had thoughts about it. But there was a self satisfied little smile on his lips and that look of content in his eyes that gave away more than words ever could.
And yeah, that checks out, but you felt the exact same way.
Your boyfriend is more than happy to die between your thighs.
pairing: bucky barnes x curvy!reader
words: 2.0k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) curvy!reader, oral (fem receiving), face sitting, fingering, pussy pronouns, tiny bit of pussy inspection, body worship, established relationship, dirty talk, pet names (pretty, doll), female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: i have nothing to say except that i blame @goldiwrites for this one
to be added to my bucky taglist | masterlist | requests page
Bucky Barnes could not think of anywhere else in the world that he would rather be than between your thighs.
Which was exactly why the very first thing he did when he got home from a long day was throw you over his shoulder and carry you into the bedroom.
“Bucky!” You squeal, your heart thumping in anticipation as you attempt to wiggle out of his arms. But considering the fact that your boyfriend was a six foot super-solider, you knew deep down that you didn’t stand a chance. Not that you were complaining about being man handled by him. “I was reading! You can’t just—”
You’re cut off by your own playfully shriek as Bucky throws you down onto the mattress in your bedroom. You would never admit it to him—simply because he would be a very smug about it—but you loved it when he manhandled you like that.
“You’d rather read than spend time with me?” He asks you as he leans over you, his vibranium hand resting on the pillow inches away from your head while his flesh hand grips the swell of your hips, fingers digging into the skin peaking out beneath your shirt and making you body thrum with want. “I bet I can change your mind.”
Your cunt clenches around nothing at those words. Fuck. This man knew just how to drive you insane.
“And how are you gonna do that?” You ask, a smile pulling at the corners of your lips as you had a pretty good idea what Bucky had in mind.
And sure enough—less than five minutes later, you were sprawled out on the bed, completely naked as two of Bucky’s thick fingers slide through your glistening folds, not dipping inside of your needy hole just yet, just gathering your slick on his fingers before smearing it over your swollen clit.
“Look at her,” Bucky breathes out, his lips ghosting over your inner thigh as you mewl beneath him, your pussy throbbing in anticipation as your boyfriend uses one hand to spread your plush thighs further even apart. A slight groan escapes him at the sight of you—wet and dripping onto the sheets beneath you. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen, doll.”
You let out a loud whimper, one you can’t help as his thumb presses against your swollen, aching clit, causing pleasure to surge through your body and heat pooling in your gut.
Bucky grins, loving every pretty sound that escapes your lips before he leans in to press a kiss over one of the stretch marks that decorates your inner thigh. The gentle kiss sends a fresh wave of heat directly to your core and the loving act of intimacy acts as a reminder of how much he loved your body. How much he loved every dip and curve, how he loved the softness of your stomach, the thickness of your thighs and the weight of your breasts in his palms.
“Buck,” you breathe out, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you try not buck your hips upwards, trying not to lose it as his digits gently part your folds. "Don't tease me, I can't—"
“—can’t, what?” Bucky asks, his eyes on you as he plunges two fingers deep inside of you with little to no warning. The fullness of his thick fingers has you moaning out, has you fisting the soft sheets beneath you. You barely have time to adjust as his fingers drag through your gummy walls before curling, finding the spongey spot inside of you almost instantly and causing your vision to blur momentarily.
“C’mon, pretty. Talk to me. Is it too much for you? You want me to stop?”
You couldn’t speak, couldn’t form a coherent thought, not when Bucky’s fingers were fucking in and out of you—slowly, deeply—and the wet squelching of your soaked pussy was beginning to fill the room.
“Please—nghh—please don’t stop, Buck,” you mewl out desperately, your back bowing off the bed as his thumb returns to your clit, pressing just the right amount of pressure on your sensitive pearl. The deep penetration of his fingers, coupled with him toying with your clit was almost overwhelming. You could feel the pressure building and building deep in your gut, feel the pleasure pulsing through your veins.
“Buck, I’m gonna—”
But it was at that precise moment that Bucky withdrew his fingers.
“God, she’s fucking crying f’me,” Bucky murmurs, ignoring your whimper of protest as his blue eyes drop down to your slick that was coating his fingers. “Is this all for me, doll?”
You open your mouth to respond, to beg him to keep going, but words fail you as you watch your boyfriend wrap his lips slowly around his fingers. The sight was so obscene and it did absolutely nothing to ease the burning ache between your thighs—watching him lick his fingers clean, listening to him groan around his digits at the taste of you, his tongue swirling as though he was tasting something sweet.
He withdraws his fingers too soon for your liking with a wet pop and you feel a syrupy warmth spreading through your gut at the sight of the mix of his saliva and your arousal now dripping from his fingers.
“Tastes like heaven,” Bucky tells you, his pupils blown out as he looks at you. You couldn’t help looking down, at his cock straining painfully in his boxers. You could see the thick, glorious outline of his cock, see the dark, wet patch from where he was already leaking, could see him almost pulsing with need for you through the material. “But I need more, doll. I need so much more.’
You feel your pussy throb in anticipation, your hips instinctively buck upwards as you expect him to dive right in, for his lips to descend down onto your waiting cunt.
But Bucky Barnes had other ideas.
Another shriek leaves your lips as Bucky’s hands plant themselves on your hips before he flips the two of you over with ease. Your hands fall to rest on his chest as you straddle his waist, feeling his skin hot beneath your palms.
“You look fucking incredible,” Bucky tells you, unable to help himself as his hands run over your thighs, his fingers digging into the plush flesh and squeezing. He groans at the feeling, the thickness of them always making him feel dizzy with want. “Move up now, doll, c’mon.”
The heat returns again—low and bubbling up in your stomach deliciously because you knew exactly what he wanted. You could see it in his eyes. But you don’t move. Not just yet.
“Are you sure?” You ask, the hesitation in your voice making Bucky narrow his eyes slightly. “What if I—”
“—don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Bucky growls, his hands moving around to grab your ass, where he squeezes and kneads the globes as though he can’t get enough. “If I die between your thighs, I’ll die a happy man.”
You roll your eyes but you feel the heat rise to your cheeks. Because you couldn’t help but love the way Bucky loved you, the way he worshipped you and your body. The way he never made you feel as though you were too much, never made you feel as though you needed to take up less space or make yourself smaller in any way. That he made you feel beautiful, wanted, worshipped.
Bucky Barnes just loved you. All of you.
And so, you begin to shift up the bed, watching the way Bucky’s lips part in anticipation before he licks his lips, feel the way his hands squeeze the fat of your ass as his eyes flicker over you, his cock twitching beneath his boxers as your breasts bounce with each and every movement.
When you finally reach him, you hover just above his mouth, hesitating for the smallest of seconds.
“Are you sure that I won’t—”
But before you could finish your sentence, Bucky hooks his hands around your thighs and pulls you down to sit on his face.
And Bucky doesn’t waste a second.
You feel his tongue first, licking a long, broad stroke through your glistening folds. He uses the tip of his tongue to gather your slick before slurping it up messily, causing your thighs to clamp around his head as you lean forward to grab onto the headboard for support.
“Fuuuck! Bucky! That feels so—” you don’t get to finish your sentence, not when his tongue was working you open, not when the pressure of it had you clinging onto the headboard for dear life.
Bucky mumbles something in return but with his mouth full of your pussy, it’s ineligible but you feel the vibration in every nerve in your body. You felt your desire to hold back slipping further and further away as his tongue fucks in and out of you, his hands now squeezing your thighs as though he was determined to keep you there.
“B-Buck,” you gasp out, your fingers gripping the headboard as Bucky pushes his face even deeper into you, his nose now nudging against your clit while he savours the taste of you, not caring that a mix of his saliva and your slick was now dripping down his chin.
He hums against you, his hands giving your thighs a generous squeeze before he licks a slow, languid stroke from your entrance right up to your swollen, puffy clit. The moment his lips seal themselves over your sensitive pearl, you swear you saw stars.
You can’t stop yourself then. The way he sucking your clit, the moans he was letting out beneath you, it was too much. You feel your hips move without your permission, rocking your pussy back and forth over his mouth as he begins to alternate between slow, languid licks and feverish circles with the very tip of his tongue.
A wanton moan of his name that you can’t control escapes your lips as you feel your orgasm nearing, your hips still rocking over his face, him still groaning in ecstasy beneath you as the heat in your gut builds and builds.
“I’m going to—”
You can’t finish your sentence, because with a final flick of Bucky’s tongue, you tipped over the edge. Your thighs clamp tightly around his head as white hot pleasure surges throughout your body. Stars burst behind your eyelids and all you could do was hold onto the headboard to ride it out, listening to the sound of Bucky lapping up your juices like you were sweeter than honey.
“Heaven,” you hear Bucky mumble against you before his hands move up to your hips to guide you gently off of face, looking up at you as though you were something sacred. “You riding my face like that, doll? Heaven.”
Your face feels hot and the praise goes right down to your core. Because there was no such thing as too much when it came to Bucky Barnes.
“Well,” you say, your body still coming down from the intensity of your orgasm as you smile down at him. “I had a pretty good seat.”
Bucky smiles back at you and you don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn red.
“Come ‘ere,” he murmurs, both hands cupping your face as he pulls you down for a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he licks into your mouth and the lewdness of it makes your pussy throb.
He pulls away, only so that he could look at you, his eyes tracing over your face and his hands holding you as though you were something delicate.
“I’m the luckiest son of the bitch in the world,” he murmurs, looking at you with such reverence that the look in his eyes held you captive. “I’m never letting you go, doll.”
It was impossible not to smile at that, your face feeling too hot as you look at him. And Bucky smiles back at you, the sort of smile that had the corners of his eyes crinkling with happiness. The sort of smile you wish that you could bottle and save for a rainy day.
c/w: friends with benefits. steve is a little bit cocky/overconfident but has a soft side. helping him study but they get distracted. teasing/heavy flirting. smut (18+). dry humping/grinding. orgasm with clothes on.
words: 3.8k
a/n: not necessarily a part two from the previous one. the amount of research i had to do for this one. don't ask.
“So, let’s go back to the beginning,” you say, your thumb running along the edge of the textbook as you flip the pages backward. “When did the empire fall?”
Steve groans, a low, dramatic sound that comes from the back of his throat. He throws his head back, letting out a long sigh that vibrates through his chest.
“Boring,” he complains, his voice dripping with playful misery.
Without breaking his rhythm, he continues spinning his basketball on the tip of his index finger. The rubber ball hums in the air, a blur of orange and black lines, before he flips it up into the air, catches it with both hands, and starts tossing it casually from his left hand to his right.
You let out a soft sigh, sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed. The mattress creaks slightly under your weight as you adjust your position.
“Steve, you’re not going to pass your midterms like this,” you say, tilting your head to look at him properly.
“I’m gonna pass,” Steve says, flicking the ball high up toward the ceiling and catching it smoothly with one hand on its way down. “Professor Walther loves me.”
“Steve, this isn’t high school,” you counter, tapping the open page of the book with the tip of your pencil. “You can’t just go through college by making puppy-dog eyes and asking the professors about their weekend.”
Steve lets out a bright, rumbling laugh. He doesn’t even deny the puppy-dog eyes part. Instead, he sits up a little straighter, tossing the basketball across the small distance between the desk where he’s sitting and the bed. It lands softly against your thigh.
“I don’t do that,” he says, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “I just... build rapport. It’s called networking.” He pauses, his expression shifting into a light scowl as he looks at the open history textbook on your lap. “Besides, I honestly don’t get how knowing when some ancient empire fell helps me with my major. It’s all stuff that already happened. What’s the point?”
Steve pushes himself up from his chair, his tall frame uncurling effortlessly. He reaches for the pack of cigarettes lying next to his lamp. He takes one out, rests it between his lips, and heads over to the window.
Even though the fraternity house has a reputation for throwing the wildest, loudest weekend parties on campus, there is a strict no-smoking policy in the bedrooms during the school week. The house manager threatened fines for anyone who set off the smoke detectors.
But Steve is the president of the house. Nobody is going to tell him what he can or can’t do in his own room.
He pushes the heavy window frame upward. A cool breeze sweeps into the room, cutting through the stuffy evening air and lifting the stray hairs around your face. Steve flicks his lighter, the small flame illuminating the sharp lines of his jaw and his eyes for a second before he pulls the flame to the tip of the cigarette.
He takes a long drag, his shoulders relaxing as he exhales the white smoke out into the cool night.
“Not everything has to have a super obvious purpose, you know?” you say softly. You shift your weight, leaning sideways onto your elbow on the mattress, watching him framed against the dark window.
Steve turns his head back toward you, taking another drag. “Alright, genius. What’s the implicit purpose of history then?”
“Mmmh, I don’t know...” you murmur, a teasing smile touching your lips. “Maybe so you don’t grow up completely uncultured? Though I guess we’re a little late for that.”
Steve laughs out loud, shaking his head as he looks down at the floorboards.
You smile back, feeling a sudden, familiar flutter in the pit of your stomach.
You would never admit it out loud — not to your friends, and certainly not to him — but being the reason Steve Harrington smiles like that makes you feel warmer than anything else.
There is something effortless about the way he holds your attention, even when he’s being completely infuriating.
You uncross your legs and stand up from the bed, smoothing down your sweatpants. You walk over to the window, the cool breeze catching your skin as you lean against the wooden sill right next to him.
“Well, if we’re officially done studying, then I should probably head out,” you said, tilting your head back to meet his gaze.
Steve’s brow furrows slightly. “Why? We can do something else...”
His smile returns, quick and playful, but it turns into a soft gasp when you reach out and pinch his side through his cotton t-shirt.
“I can’t,” you say, shaking your head. “I promised my friends I’d meet up with them at the room to study tonight.”
Steve takes another slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes never leaving yours. “I can help you study.”
You roll your eyes, letting out a breathy laugh. “Here we go again...”
“What?” Steve whines, making a tiny pout with his lips that look ridiculously endearing on a guy with shoulders as broad as his. “You never let me help you.”
“Because I really don’t see how someone like you could help someone like me when it comes to academics, Harrington,” you reply, crossing your arms over your chest.
Steve clicks his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “You’re mean. You say stuff like that, but you’ve never actually seen me fail a class, have you?”
“That’s because I sit here and force you to study every single week!”
“Or,” Steve says, his voice dropping a pitch lower as he takes one last drag of his cigarette, “maybe I’m just a lot smarter than you give me credit for... and all this time, I didn’t actually need your help to pass. Maybe it was just an excuse to get you in my room.”
He blows a thin stream of smoke toward the window, but the breeze catches it, swirling a faint cloud around your face. It stings your eyes just a little, but you don’t pull back. You can’t. He’s looking at you with an intensity that makes it hard to move a muscle.
“What do I have to do to get you to stay a little longer?” he asks quietly, his eyes searching yours.
“Promise me you’re actually going to review these chapters,” you say, trying to keep your tone firm, though your heart is beating noticeably faster against your ribs.
Steve rolls his eyes, but a soft smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He stubs out the butt of his cigarette against the windowsill, leaving the filter resting on the edge before shutting the glass window most of the way down to keep the cold out.
“Okay,” Steve says, leaning his side against the wall. “Fine. But for every question I answer right, you have to give me a kiss.”
You raised your eyebrows, giving him an unimpressed look. “And how exactly does that benefit me?”
“You get a very dedicated, very motivated student,” he says, tapping his chest like a promise.
You roll your eyes again, trying to suppress the smile breaking across your face. You let out a long defeatist sigh and push yourself back off the sill. Steve immediately takes advantage of the movement, he grabs the chair next to the window, where he normally just leaves his clothes, and occupies the space you had just left, resting his head back against the window.
“Fine,” you murmur, turning back to face him with your hands on your hips. “When did the empire fall?”
Steve rolls his eyes dramatically. “Give me something harder, I’m not that dumb.”
“Answer the question, Steve.”
Steve sighs, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the windowpane again as if searching his memory. “The Western Roman Empire fell in four-seventy-six AD. After Romulus Augustulus was deposed.”
You blink, genuinely caught off guard. You hadn’t expected him to remember the exact year, let alone the name of the last emperor.
“Good,” you say, recovering quickly. “Now, when—”
“Hey, no, no,” Steve interrupts, cutting you off with a quick shake of his head. He taps his index finger against his right cheek, leaning his face down slightly toward you. “That’s not how the deal works.”
You chuckle, feeling defeated by his charm, and lean in. You press a quick, soft kiss against the warm skin of his cheek.
Before you can pull back, Steve’s hands wrap around your waist. His grip is firm but gentle, his fingers digging softly into the fabric of your sweater as he pulls you closer, positioning you directly between his legs.
“Another question,” he murmurs, looking up at you from the chair with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Mmhm...” You think for a second, trying to find a question that stumps him. “How many years did the Hundred Years’ War actually last?”
Steve doesn’t even hesitate. “One hundred and sixteen years. From thirteen-thirty-seven to fourteen-fifty-three.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Hey!” you say, a genuine smile breaking across your face. You reach out, cupping his face with both hands as you press another kiss onto his cheek. “I really didn’t think you’d know that one.”
“Make them harder,” he murmurs, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you a fraction of an inch closer so there is barely any air left between your bodies.
“Mmmh,” you hum, your mind racing through the textbook chapters you spent the last two hours reading over. “What was the name of the treaty signed in sixteen-forty-eight that ended the Thirty Years’ War, and what major political concept did it establish?”
Steve smiles, a slow, confident grin that shows off his teeth. “The Peace of Westphalia. And it established national sovereignty — basically saying countries shouldn’t mess with each other’s internal affairs.”
You stare at him, completely speechless. You are starting to realize that his claim earlier wasn’t just playful bragging. He really has been reading the material. He really has been paying attention to every single word you said during your tutoring sessions over the past few weeks. The realization hits you like a wave — he really has been using studying as an excuse just to spend time alone with you.
A soft, warm flutter blooms in your chest. You lean down, intending to leave another proud kiss on his cheek, but the moment your face gets close, Steve turns his head.
Instead of his cheek, your lips met his.
It’s supposed to be a stolen, quick trick, but the moment your mouth touches his, Steve’s hand moves from your waist to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to keep you right there. You let out a quiet moan against his mouth, intending to pull back and complain, but he doesn’t give you the chance.
His hand shifts to your jaw, his thumb gently resting against your cheekbone as he leans into the kiss, deepening it. His lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of mint and smoke.
You feel your heart hammer against your chest as his tongue slides gently past your lips, getting a soft sigh from you.
While one hand holds your jaw perfectly still, his other hand travels down your back, resting heavy and warm on your lower waist before slipping down to cup your ass, pulling your hips flush against his.
When he finally lets you go, your breath comes out in short, ragged hitches. Your lips feel warm and slightly swollen, and your hands are resting against his chest, clutching his shirt for balance.
Steve looks up at you, his dark eyes heavy and hooded, a triumphant smirk resting on his lips. His thumb is still gently tracing small circles along your jawline, his skin warm against yours.
“That wasn’t a small kiss,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper, trying to sound firm but failing completely.
“We didn’t specify the kiss,” Steve replies smoothly, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “And besides, I got the hard question right. Extra effort deserves a better reward.”
You try to gather your thoughts, but the feeling of his palm resting against your round ass is making it nearly impossible to concentrate. You turn around, reaching back with one hand, grabbing the textbook from where you left it on the bed, and holding it up between your chest and his like a shield.
“Okay, Mr. Smart Guy,” you breathe out, clearing your throat as you open a random chapter near the back of the book. “Let’s see if you can handle this one.”
“Fire away,” Steve smiles. His eyes aren’t looking at the book at all; they’re glued to your mouth.
“Who was the prime minister of Britain during the majority of the Napoleonic Wars, and what major tax did he introduce to fund the war effort?”
Steve tilts his head back slightly, his fingers playing with the hem of your sweater, slowly sliding under the fabric to rest against the bare skin of your waist. His touch sends a shiver straight up your spine.
“William Pitt the Younger,” Steve whispers, his knuckles lightly grazing the skin above your hip bone. “And he introduced the income tax in seventeen-ninety-nine.”
You let out a soft gasp — partly because he was right again, but mostly because his warm hand had slid fully under your sweater, his broad palm cupping the side of your waist, his thumb stroking your ribs.
“Right… again,” you whisper, biting the inside of your cheek.
“Payment time,” Steve reminds you.
Before you can say anything, he pulls you down onto his lap.
He shifts his weight back on the chair, resting his knees wide so you are sitting on his thighs, facing him. He wraps both arms around you, drawing you so close that you could feel the steady, rapid thump of his heart against your chest.
He doesn’t rush it this time. He leans up, pressing his lips to yours with a gentle, lingering pressure.
It’s slow and sweet, his mouth moving against yours with a soft patience that makes your knees go weak. You drop the textbook to the floor next to him, your hands instinctively finding their way to his shoulders, then sliding up to wrap around his neck, burying your fingers in the soft, thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Steve lets out a low hum of approval into your mouth, his hands pressing firmly into your ass, molding your body against his, making your hips grind down against his growing bulge.
He kisses you until you are entirely breathless, his lips tracing a path down your jawline, pressing a soft kiss right beneath your ear, then down the sensitive curve of your neck.
You let out a quiet sigh, tilting your head back to give him better access. “Steve...”
“Tell me another one,” he murmurs in your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “Ask me another question.”
You swallow hard, trying to recall literally anything from your notes while his mouth is pressed against the hollow of your throat and your hips rock back and forth, making his bulge grow thick and harder, as your clit gets the same amount of attention rubbing against it.
“Umm... what... what year was the Magna Carta signed?” you ask, your voice shaking slightly as his hands slid down to squeeze your back thighs, lifting you slightly so you are settled even more comfortably against him.
“Twelve-fifteen,” Steve answers instantly against your skin, his lips moving up to the soft space behind your ear. “Runnymede. King John.”
He doesn’t wait for you to confirm it. He presses his lips back onto yours, deeper this time, his tongue slipping past your teeth to stroke against yours.
The kiss is hot and demanding, making your head spin. His hands move possessively, sliding from your thighs up your back, his fingers pressing into your shoulder blades as he pulls you as tightly against his chest as physically possible.
You melt into him, returning the kiss with equal intensity.
The room fills with the sound of their moans, wet kisses, and the friction of their bodies against the chair, which groans under their combined weight.
His cock is fully erect, throbbing beneath his clothes, likely already leaking pre-cum from the tip and staining his boxers, while your own underwear is getting so wet you think it’s going to soak through to your sweatpants.
Every time you try to remember that you are supposed to be studying, the feeling of his warm hands, his moans against your ear, and the firm press of his body makes every thought evaporate from your mind.
“You... you really read the whole book, didn’t you?” you whisper when he finally pulls back an inch, both of your breaths coming out in ragged puffs in the cool air near the window.
Steve smirks, his eyes soft as he looks at you. “I told you. I’m a dedicated student.” He raises one hand, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. “I spent three nights straight reading that stupid thing because I knew if I didn’t get these right, you’d just walk out that door.”
Your heart does a hard flip inside your chest, and you slow down the rhythm of your hips for a second. “You read the entire history book just so I’d stay?”
“I’d read the whole library if it meant you’d sit on my lap like this,” Steve says honestly, his voice dropping into a soft, quiet tone that makes your throat feel tight with affection.
He leans in again, taking your lips in another kiss. It isn’t rushed or chaotic; it’s careful and deep, as if he’s trying to prove every word he just said.
His hands move gently along your back, his fingers tracing the line of your spine, traveling down to your ass again, making you go down harder against his pelvis.
The cool air coming through the cracked window is starting to make your skin prickle with goosebumps, but neither of you want to break the moment. Steve feels you shiver slightly against him and immediately pulls back, his brow furrowing in concern.
“You’re cold,” he murmurs, his hands moving up to rub your arms gently.
“A little,” you admit, smiling softly at how quickly his tone switched from confident and teasing to gentle and caring.
Without another word, Steve wraps his arms securely around your waist and thighs, lifting you off the chair with him in one smooth motion. You let out a quiet yelp of surprise, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you the few steps across the room toward his bed.
He drops down onto the mattress, bringing you with him so that you land on top of him. The springs squeaked loudly, and both of you burst into quiet laughter, listening to hear if anyone down the hall noticed.
But outside his closed door, the fraternity house is filled with the usual distant sounds of music, laughter, and footsteps echoing down the wooden hallway.
Inside his room, it feels like an entirely different world.
Steve reaches out, grabbing the heavy blanket thrown over the foot of the bed, and pulls it up over both of your shoulders, creating a warm, dark cocoon around the two of you.
“Better?” he asks, his voice low and soft in the dim light under the blanket.
“Much better,” you reply, leaning your forehead against his.
His hands find their way back under the hem of your sweater, his palms resting against the bare skin of your sides. His hands are warm, almost hot, against your cool skin, his thumbs gently sweeping back and forth in soothing, hypnotic circles.
Your hips move instinctively, seeking that delicious friction once more. Steve groans, burying the sound against your cheek. The bed creaks beneath you again as his hands knead your ass, pressing you hard against his cock, but neither of you stops this time.
“Ask me another one,” Steve whispers, his eyes watching your face in the shadowed light. “I still have a lot of answers left.”
You chuckle softly, resting your hands flat against his chest, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heart underneath his t-shirt.
“Alright,” you said softly. “Wh— what was the main cause of the F— French Revolution in seventeen-eighty-nine?” you ask between soft moans.
Steve smiles, throwing her head back and closing his eyes while biting his lips to stop himself from moaning too loud.
You can tell he’s close by the way his hands wrap even harder around your waist, and he throws his hips up to meet yours in the way.
“Financial crisis, extreme inequality between the estates, food shortages... and a king who didn’t know what the hell he was doing,” Steve answers smoothly, his gaze lowering to your mouth. “How’d I do?”
“Perfect,” you whisper.
This time, you don’t wait for him to claim his reward. You lean down and kiss him first.
Steve lets out a soft groan against your lips. Your hips begin to move faster and faster and the bed creaks louder, but the truth is, his fraternity brothers are used to it.
Your clit rubs right against the head of his cock in a way that makes you both see stars.
Seconds later, his hands grip your round ass firmly; he throws his head back, and he doesn’t need words for you to know his cum is flooding his boxers.
A moment later, you reach your own climax, burying your face in his neck as if to muffle your high-pitched moans.
The two of you stay there for a minute, your breathing ragged, trying to catch your breath.
Suddenly, he rolls over slightly, shifting you onto your back on the soft mattress. He hovers over you, supporting his weight on one elbow while his free hand reaches out to trace the line of your collarbone, his fingers gentle and warm against your skin.
His lips find yours in a soft kiss and trail down to the side of your jaw, pressing sweet, lingering kisses along your neck. You let out a breathy sigh, your fingers tangling into the back of his shirt, pulling him closer, even though you're still sensitive.
“Steve...” you whisper, your voice breathless as he presses his lips where your neck meets your shoulder.
“Yeah?” he murmurs back, his breath hot against your skin as he kisses his way back up to your jaw.
“I... I don’t think I have any more questions left,” you admit softly, looking up into his dark eyes.
Steve lets out a soft, low chuckle, his thumb gently wiping away a stray sweaty hair from your forehead. He looks down at you with a look that makes your breath catch in your throat.
“That’s okay,” Steve whispers, leaning down until his lips are barely an inch from yours. “I think I already passed the test anyway.”
He kisses you again, slowly, deeply. His hands wrap around yours, lacing his fingers through yours against the pillow, holding you tight as the rest of the world outside his room simply fades away.
Your friends can study without you tonight.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆
pairing: mayfield!reader x slight himbo/lovesick!steve, established relationship
summary: you and steve started dating a month ago, and you couldn't be happier. so why is your little sister, max mayfield, out to get him?
content warnings: mentions of death/canon character death (billy), mentions of divorce/separation, max and reader's mom is basically MIA, allusions to trauma, a bit of angst with a happy ending, allusions to smut, making out, steve is a boob guy lol
a/n: this is a little different from what i've written in the past, but i really love the idea of steve and mayfield!reader. this obviously isn't super canon to the ST timeline/storyline but it takes place after s3. i was particularly interested in exploring the dynamic that would occur between max and an older sibling if she started dating steve, so that's what this is! i hope you enjoy <3
title is a lyric from hard by hayley williams :)
dividers by @designlikenonsense!
when you and steve officially start dating, a few months after flirtatious glances and stolen kisses and dates at the hawk and picnics at the park and meeting him at the end of his family video shifts, your younger sister, max, is pissed.
now, you hadn't expected her to be over the moon or anything. she's always had a habit of teasing steve about his intelligence or calling him stupid nicknames (she's currently going between "barf bag" and "airhead"), far before you and steve started gravitating towards one another romantically. but you'd figured that, at the very least, she has her own boyfriend, now in the throes of her teenage years, and she would understand that you actually really like steve.
he's more than just some dumb, random guy you're seeing.
he means something to you.
except... in the first month of your relationship, max has been hurling insults his way tenfold. to the point where even lucas has noticed and has encouraged her to "chill out on harrington", which resulted in her breaking up with him for an entire week.
(it was the longest week of your life, because lucas sinclair wouldn't stop calling your landline phone. when his efforts there weren't sufficient enough for max to take him back, he started showing up to your doorstep every morning, biking over with a bouquet of flowers in one hand.
eventually, max ended his misery when he promised to never tell her she's doing something wrong, ever again.)
that friday night, steve whisks you away from the wheelers' basement, driving you over to lovers lake so you can finally get some privacy in the back of his car. it's not ideal, but max is still calling your space a "no harrington zone", and you'll take whatever alone time you can get with your boyfriend.
"have you figured out why max hates me more than usual?" steve asks as his hand works the bra clasp behind your back. you furrow your brows and disconnect your lips from his, a confused look on your face.
"are you really thinking about my sister while we're making out?"
"ew, no," steve says before ducking down to press a series of kisses along your neck. you hum, feeling the confines of your bra loosen, and he pushes the straps down your shoulders, "i was thinking about how she looked like she wanted to murder me when we left mike's just now, though."
"does max intimidate you?" you ask, combing your fingers through his messy hair. steve shrugs, burying his face into the junction between your shoulder and neck.
you notice the very distinct lack of kisses being seared into your skin, and you exhale lowly, scratching gently at his scalp. he nuzzles closer into your touch.
"i don't think she's ever liked me too much, but now that you're my girl, her opinion really matters to me." steve finally admits.
a gentle smile crooks at the corners of your lips.
"i can talk to her," you murmur, thumbs finding his warm cheeks, brushing over his skin. "d'you wanna see my tits now?"
steve looks up and presses his chin against your chest.
"yes, please. i think that'll make everything better."
that night, steve drops you off at the trailer you and max live in.
it used to house billy and his dad, too, but the latter split after his son died. your mom also technically lives there, though she hasn't been all too present since everything with billy happened.
if it weren't for max and now steve, you think you would've left hawkins a long time ago.
you're not surprised when you walk through the front door to find all the lights still on, max eating cereal and watching some late night television in your makeshift living room. you send her a small smile as you dump your bag on the counter, then plop down next to her.
"hey, killer," you greet, bumping her knee. "how was the rest of your night?"
max shrugs, jaw working through a mouthful of soggy cheerios.
"fine," she eventually answers. "the usual."
she turns to you, shifting her position slightly so she's angled closer to your body, blue eyes sweeping over you. you wrinkle your nose as she juts her chin at your neck, fingernails covered in chipped green polish suddenly yanking at the collar of your worn tee-shirt.
"what are you—"
"god, why do you let that leech leave marks on you like a vampire?" max asks, poking hard at the fresh hickey steve left at the top of your breast.
"oh my god, max, haven't you ever heard of a little personal space?!" you exclaim, shoving her away. she rolls her eyes and gets up to dump her empty bowl in the sink. "what's your deal with steve, anyway? i thought you liked him."
max laughs bitterly at that. in her sad excuse for pajamas — an oversized hawkins high tee-shirt that used to be yours, now passed down to her — she reminds you so much of the little girl she used to be.
it scares you a tiny bit, how much she still looks like her — the same bruised knees and freckles and frizzy red hair, except this version of max seems to hate you a little bit, and you can't figure out why.
"night." max mutters, and it's the last you see of her that night.
"can i take you out tonight?"
it's the first thing steve asks when you call him the next morning. you smile to yourself, all loved up and thoroughly charmed by steve harrington, who is already experiencing severe withdrawals after being away from you for less than 10 hours.
"i don't think so," you murmur into the receiver, twirling the phone cord around your fingers, "max was seriously peeved when you dropped me off last night."
steve groans on the other end. "we have to figure this out, mayfield. i'm not letting a teenager dictate my love life."
"you rescheduled a date once so you could take dustin to the arcade."
"that was different."
you roll your eyes, "regardless, i feel like i should be spending more time with her. maybe she's still reeling from the whole billy thing. i don't know."
"i could come over. bring some ice cream and steal a tape from family video."
"you're sweet. thievery and all," you tease, biting your lip, "lemme just try to handle this one, though. we can catch up tomorrow after your shift."
"promise?"
"pinky promise."
"holding you to it, mayfield."
you giggle as you each hang up the phone, just as max walks into the living room. she already has that look on her face — the one that's half a pout, half an evil eye — and you smile at her, playing dumb.
"hey, do you wanna have some sister time tonight? i got paid yesterday, i could order us a pizza and paint your nails or something. watch a movie, too, maybe?"
the hopeful tone in your voice is impossible not to pick up on, and it kills you a little bit when max's frown only burrows deeper into her face.
"don't you have plans with your little airhead boyfriend?" she asks.
"no, and he's not an airhead, max. i told him i was busy hanging out with you tonight."
"so what, you ditch him for one night and think you're sister of the year?" she rolls her eyes. "i already have plans with lucas anyway. you're off the hook."
"max," you sigh, blocking her from walking any further as she goes to leave. "come on, we have to talk about this. what's your deal with steve? why don't you like us dating?"
max crosses her arms over her chest. she's as stubborn as the day she was born, when she refused to fall asleep anywhere but your mother's arms.
"you're gonna think it's stupid."
"nothing you think is stupid."
she hesitantly twirls a braid in her hand.
"i just... look, mom's always brought him these absolute losers, so who's to say steve isn't one of them?"
you blink. the anger in your throat immediately subsides.
"you're scared i'm gonna end up like her," you say, and max, though looking off to the side, still looking uninterested, nods her head. "i get it, maxie. letting steve in was a risk for me, too. it took me some time to decide he was worth it."
she chances a glance at you. you reach out to brush over her knuckles.
"he's not like the bad guys mom dates, and he's not like billy, either. he's good. he... he takes care of me, and he takes care of all of you, right? just because we're dating now doesn't mean that's gonna change. a label isn't gonna change that."
max shrugs. "but what if he wants you to, like, leave hawkins before i graduate? won't you go with him?"
you smile gently.
"never in a million years," you say. "he knows better than to ask me to ever do anything like that. and he knows that you'll always be my number one priority."
max, looking slightly less uncomfortable now, nods her head. her arms are at her sides, and her lack of response tells you that she's processing, if not at least pacified by your explanation.
"okay, well," max swallows, then clears her throat. "you can tell... steve that he can come over whenever he would like, then. and he can come to the next sister night we have."
you grin.
"thank you, maxie," you step forward to wrap her arms around her shorter frame, to which she reluctantly accepts. you laugh into her messily parted hair before pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "steve is a good guy, okay? i promise."
"if he's so good, he can cool it on the hickies," she bites, grabbing her skateboard as she wiggles out of your embrace, "seriously. you look like you're in a bad halloween movie half the time."
you stick her tongue out at her and wave her off, following as she jogs down the short flight of stairs at the entrance of your trailer.
in a minute, you'll call steve to let him know you sorted everything out and he's officially welcome in your home (and at sister nights, which he'll be particularly excited about), but for now, you'll stand here a little longer, watching your little sister skateboard down the asphalt road of the shitty trailer park you two live in, as she goes to meet her own boyfriend.
Summary: Your boyfriend wants a taste of you at a party.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, jumps right into it, Oral (f receiving), fingering, squirting, clit-spanking, spitting, finger sucking. Slight dubcon if you squint (Steve and reader are kind of buzzed). Dirty talk, slight degradation, praise, mentions of alcohol, mentions of weed. Dom!Steve Harrington, kinda soft!dom Steve too, fluff, overstimulation, multiple orgasms (f).
Word count: 3k
a/n: surprise! here’s a little Steve smut. Mostly proofread. Happy reading, hope you like it! <3
“Oh, fuck—nnngh—St… Steve, please.” You babbled, drool trickling down your cheek. Steve’s tongue lavished at your cunt in slow circles, his saliva mixing with and clinging to the slick webs of your arousal.
The chatter of your friends and peers continued downstairs. Their voices muffled slightly by the sound of a song you didn’t recognize playing over Steve’s stereo. The thump, thump, thump of the bass reverberated through you, matching the pounding of your heart against your ribcage. It was a catchy song, and your buzzed brain decided you needed to know what it was.
“Steve?”
“Mmm?” He hummed against your clit. Your breath caught at the vibration. Oh. That was new. You really needed him to do that again, but it would have to wait.
“What—ah—what song is that?”
Steve stopped what he was doing, and a whine of protest tore from your throat. Fuck. You hadn’t meant for him to stop. But if you didn’t find out what song that was, it was going to bug you the rest of the night. His dark brows knit together with a look of slight incredulity as he pulled back just slightly from your pussy, enough to get a good look at your face.
A glossy sheen of your slick covered his nose down to his chin. Truly a testament to how little Steve cared about mess when he was making you feel good.
Could he tell that it got you so worked up to see him that way? Or was he really just so skilled that he was sloppy? You couldn’t tell. Butterflies flitted around in your stomach as you shyly pulled your bottom lip between your teeth. Steve seemed pretty good at reading you, so maybe he’d figure out your thoughts.
Your gaze flicked over his face. A mistake, really, because your train of thought disappeared entirely. Song? What fucking song? You didn’t care now.
He looked so hot like this; moles dotting his tan skin. His dark hair tousled from your twisting fingers, cheeks flushed red from being squeezed by your thighs. His brown eyes were heavy-lidded, almost sleazy with how they drank you in, as if you were water to a man dying of thirst. Heat settled low in your belly when your eyes met his. God, it was unfair how he could unravel you with just a glance. You would hate him for it if you didn’t love him so much.
Soft, huffing pants were leaving his plush lips. They were red and kiss-swollen from being attached to your pussy. It almost looked like he was wearing lip gloss. Oh. You disguised a giggle as a sigh at the thought. It was a nice shade, though. Something you’d never be able to find in a store. It reminded you of using cherry popsicles as lipstick with your friends as a kid. You wanted to tell him about it, but held back. That was definitely the alcohol talking. And there was no way he’d let you cum if you did.
Steve had edged you for hours once just for telling him he was going too slow. A shudder vibrated down your spine. Yeah, no. You couldn’t handle that again right now.
“Sweetheart—“ you shuddered as Steve’s hot breath fanned over your sensitive clit. His brow shot up. The look on his face was almost bitchy. But who could blame him? You knew Steve didn’t like having to come up for air.
“—You’re seriously asking about a song, right now?” He finished, dipping down to nuzzle his nose to the side of your clit. “Am I boring you?”
Boring you? Was he serious? You wanted to shake him for even suggesting it.
“No!” You protested quickly.
Too quickly, maybe, because Steve’s eyes narrowed.
Uh oh.
“Not boring. S’good. Sooo good,” you tried to recover, words slurring with both pleasure and the shots you’d had earlier catching up to you.
Steve started to pull back, and you squeaked, fingers grasping for his hair. He clearly wasn’t buying it. Panic flared behind your ribs; the last thing you needed was your boyfriend thinking he was bad in bed.
“We don’t have to do this, baby,” Steve murmured, letting you pull him back down. He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, testing the waters. “You know if you’re not into this right now, then neither am I. We can just go back downstairs to the party.”
Your heart melted at that. His eyes were intense when they met yours, and searching. You knew he was trying to discern if the alcohol you’d had earlier had caught up to you too much to continue. But you hadn’t had that many shots. Just a few with Robin and Eddie before you and Steve snuck up to his bedroom.
“I’m okay, Steve.” You murmured, cheeks flushing red at his concern. “I just liked the song. Please don’t stop….” And for good measure, you added, “pretty please?”
A wet smirk curled onto Steve’s lips. Got him. You knew he liked it when you were desperate.
Clearly just as eager to continue, he nuzzled a kiss onto your mound, lips trailing down seconds after to meet your folds again. His tongue was warm and thick as it licked a stripe through your cunt, hovering at your clit to slowly swirl around the bud.
A low moan slipped from your throat as Steve took your clit into his mouth again. Wet, slurping sounds filled the air around you as he sucked in a pulsing rhythm.
The noises made you wrinkle your nose a little, but how could you be embarrassed when Steve was so passionate? It would have been ridiculous. And when he added his tongue back to the mix, your back arched off his sheets. Pleasure replaced your flustered feelings, heavy and coiling in your abdomen. Spreading through you like blood in your veins.
Your fingers tangled in a tight hold against his hair, tugging as you ground your hips down against his pink mouth. His stupid, expert mouth.
God, you thought you might die.
Steve buried his face deeper into your pussy. One of his hands slid down your hip to join his mouth. Two of his long, thick fingers notched at your weeping slit, and he circled it for a moment. You bucked against them, needy and spiraling.
You hated it when he teased you. Especially at a time like this, when you were supposed to be quick. What was his problem? You almost asked him. But the threat of being edged was already on the horizon. No thanks, you were not gonna push it.
“Steve, please,” you whined, rolling your hips for some sort of friction. The calloused pads of his fingers caught on your tight ring of muscles. They snagged, pushing in just a little at the tips and—almost in. Just a little push. And… Fuck. He pulled them back at the last second.
“What‘s that, honey?” Steve asked, lips curling at the corners as he looked you over. “Did you need something?”
Smug bastard.
“Your fingers, Steve. Please.”
“What about them?” He gave you a bemused look, like he had no clue what you were talking about. A ‘what can you do?’ sort of thing that made you glare at him.
You didn’t answer. Instead, you pouted down at him in hopes he would get the idea.
“Oh, you mean you want my fingers inside you?” He snorted, pulling back from between your thighs just a bit. Steve was a terrible actor; you could see right through the bravado. But that didn’t mean it didn’t affect you all the same.
“Yeah, you know… I only give my fingers to good girls who ask nicely.” Steve sucked his teeth. His hand came down on your clit suddenly with a quick smack. A gasp tore from your lips as you arched against the mattress. But Steve just kept talking. “So, if you want me to fuck your pretty, greedy pussy on my fingers, you better stop acting like a bored slut and start asking politely.”
You swallowed thickly. But still, your pulse thumped harder at his words. He was serious; you could tell that much. Asking about the song must have gotten under his skin more than you thought. You knew Steve got off on your enjoyment, but you hadn’t realized just how much it mattered till now.
“Please, can I have your fingers, Steve?” Your cheeks pinked at your own words. You weren’t above groveling for your orgasm, but it wasn’t something you ever made a habit out of until Steve.
“You can do better than that, baby.”
Ugh. He really was going to make you beg, wasn’t he?
“Please, Steve. Need your fingers so bad,” you whimpered, rocking your hips toward his hand. “Please-please-pleaseeee fuck me with your fingers. I’ll be good, I promise.”
You must have said something right, because a moment later, Steve brought his fingers to your lips. “Open up, sweetheart. Get ‘em nice and wet f’me.”
A dizzying sensation washed over you as you parted your lips and sucked his middle and ring fingers into your mouth down to the knuckle. Your tongue swirled over the long, thick digits, lavishing them with whatever saliva you could manage to produce.
He tasted like your cunt, which was bittersweet. But you loved it. You wished you could kiss him and taste yourself on his lips, but you didn’t want to risk pulling him away from you.
“Good girl, getting my fingers nice and slick.” Steve praised you. “You’re so beautiful, baby.” He leaned over you and spit onto your pussy, a long string of saliva that dropped down. You shuddered at the feeling of it pooling on your swollen folds. Fuck, that was so hot.
His mouth reattached to your clit as a reward, sucking in long pulls as he slowly shook his head from side to side.
You gagged a little as his fingers pressed down on the back of your tongue, sputtering and drooling spit down the length of them. When he was satisfied with the amount coating his skin, he pulled them out of your mouth. A rush of anticipation flooded your chest, and you watched with bated breath as he guided his hand lower and lower.
“Please. Oh, please. Pleasepleaseplease,” the pleading words were whimpered under your breath. The air caught in your throat as you felt his fingers rubbing slow circles over your hole. It clenched and fluttered with a needy mind of its own, your pussy desperate to be filled.
“Steve—mmnnh oh fuck,” you were cut off by him easing a long, thick finger into your pussy. Stars flashed behind your eyes as they squeezed shut, your mouth hanging open on a silent moan. Steve’s wrist moved loosely, almost nonchalant as he dragged his finger in and out of your tight cunt.
A low whine left your lips, pleasure pooling in your belly. As good as it was, you needed more. Fuck, maybe Steve was right about your cunt being greedy.
“M-More. Please, Steve. More.”
Steve hummed against your clit in acknowledgment. A high-pitched cry left your lips as the vibration reverberated through your pussy. His thick, fluffy hair tangled in between your fingers as they shot down for something to hold onto.
Without disconnecting his swirling tongue from your puffy, sensitive folds, Steve’s arm hooked beneath your hips to prop them up, and he dragged you down the sheets closer to him. Your thighs hooked over his shoulders again, squishing his cheeks as he devoured your cunt with renewed focus.
A surprised squeak left your lips, but you didn’t protest. If he wanted to manhandle you, then he could go for it at this point. Usually, you’d sass back to him about it, but right now, all you could think about was your building orgasm.
Steve’s fingers pumped in and out of your tight hole in a quick, deep rhythm. You could almost picture his ears perking up like an interested dog with its favorite words each time another string of moaned “mmh, mmh, mmh’s” left your lips.
“Ohmygod, don’t stop.” You gasped, and he crooked the pads of his fingers against your sweet spot in response. Oh god. You needed to come. You needed it so bad, your head was spinning.
“That feel good, honey?” Steve murmured against your rosy folds. “You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?”
“Yes—ah!” You hardly got the words out. Steve’s mouth was sucking on your puffy clit again within seconds. The pleasure began to build within you, hot and heavy. Your cheeks burned red, your skin flushed and sweaty. His plump lips wrapped around the swollen bud, his tongue swirling and lapping over the flesh. He timed the thrusts of his fingers with each suck.
The coil in your belly began to unravel, like a stubborn knot finally untying. Desperate, hitching gasps left your lips as it built. Beneath the burning heat of your skin, a faraway pleading chant formed in your brain.
“Gonna come,” You dragged in a shuddering breath and forced it into words. “Gonna come. Please, Steve—don’t stop. Please let me come. Fuck, please. M’so close.”
Steve growled into your folds. He tilted his buried face back just enough to flick his eyes up to yours. You knew what that look meant. He was giving you permission. Your shaking thighs spasmed over his shoulders, squeezing his head tightly. You hoped you weren’t hurting him, but you couldn’t ease up. If it did ache, Steve didn’t seem to care.
All it took was a few deep thrusts of his fingers into your sweet spot, in time with the harsher sucks of his lips around your clit, and you were orgasming.
“Ah! Steve, fuck! Oh god!” You cried out, rolling your hips to grind down on his flicking tongue.
Your abdomen tightened, belly hot as pleasure flooded through you from your head down to your curling toes. You were dreaming, you were sure of it. Nothing could feel as good as this and be real.
A small gush of slick squirted from your cunt, soaking down to Steve’s wrist and coating his face in a new wave of wetness. The hungry look in his eyes made you whimper as he doubled down in his efforts. Your cheeks turned pink. You had just squirted all over your boyfriend. But fuck, it felt so good.
“Gimme another, baby.” Steve softly demanded, lifting his mouth from your clit. “I know you can.”
Your eyes rolled back for a second as he added a third finger inside of you, pounding them inside of you now with wet, slick squelches. You were stuffed full of him; it was a visceral stretch.
But you couldn’t do it. More than that, you couldn’t handle another. You were already so sensitive, your orgasm fading into a hazy, sleepy feeling. You felt boneless on the mattress. Your limbs were trembling and heavy, the only things keeping you from floating away entirely.
“Can’t, Steve.” You whimpered weakly, but the feeling was already building again. Heat grew in your belly, pressure building in waves. “S’too much. Can’t take it.”
“Yes, you can,” Steve answered immediately, almost incredulously. “You can take it. Don’t tell me you can’t take it… Come on, sweetheart. Be a good girl for me, soak my fingers again.”
His tone turned sickeningly sweet, coaxing it out of you in a low, heavy drawl that made your pussy squeeze tight around his fingers. You felt like you were going to pass out. Yeah, you were totally going to pass out. A dizzy rush filled your head, but your body apparently had other ideas.
“I can feel you squeezing my fingers, baby," Steve murmured hotly, words muffled as he spoke between kissing and sucking at your clit. “I know you need to let go again. Your pussy tastes so fuckin’ good, ya know. I just wanna taste it some more… Give it to me, honey. Cum f’me.”
Your orgasm took you by surprise this time. A sharp gasp left your lips as the hot, heavy pleasure jolted through you. It was more focused this time, centralizing in your stomach and your fluttering pussy rather than your whole body. Slick spurted from your cunt, drenching the sheets beneath you and Steve, once again.
“Mmmnh, Steve.” You moaned, back arching against his arm.
He gave a muffled hum into your pussy, sucking slowly at your clit as his tongue swirled in short, tight circles over it. His fingers slowed too as your second orgasm began to fade out into sensitivity and a heavy, heady feeling. It was better than heaven. Floatier than when you shared your first joint with Steve and Eddie a few days ago.
But it was quickly turning into too much. Your hand weakly pushed at his head with a whine. But Steve didn’t stop. His mouth and fingers slowly fucked you through aftershocks, prolonging the warm, pleasurable sensation until it slipped into overstimulation.
Steve didn’t come up for air until tears pooled at the corners of your lashes, and a whimpering sound of desperation left your lips. You already missed the feeling of his fingers stretching you the moment he dragged them out. When he came up, he crawled up your body and mushed his lips against yours. Your pussy gave a weak flutter at the taste of your own arousal on Steve’s tongue as he eased it into your mouth. Your taste buds flared, and you were surprised to find that you liked the taste of your own come.
“You did good, sweetheart.” Steve muttered against your lips. “S’proud of my good girl.”
You whimpered at that, a lightning bolt of leftover pleasure shuddering through you. But you felt guilty. Steve’s cock was thick and throbbingly hard against your thigh. Did he want you to take care of him? You wanted to. Hoped for it, really. But you were tired too. Already almost falling asleep.
The kiss didn’t last long after he noticed. Steve broke it off to kiss your forehead before he rolled over onto his side next to you. He was warm. So warm, you needed to bury yourself against him. You cuddled close to him as he pulled you into his arms, holding you against his chest.
“Do you want me to…?” You trailed off.
“Nah,” Steve rasped, though he sighed as he palmed at the bulge in his boxers for a moment. His face twisted in pleasure, brows knit together. He looked pretty like that, with his brows knit together and plump lips parted. You went to reach down and touch him, but Steve gently grabbed your hand, instead.
His damp fingers interlocked with your smaller ones, and he brought your knuckles to his lips. Butterflies filled your stomach, swarming you. Fuck, he was so sweet. So considerate of your tired state despite his own need.
“Later, baby. Alright? You gotta rest.” Steve pulled the blankets over you. You nodded sleepily despite the party still ongoing on the floor beneath you.
It was quiet for a few long moments before Steve spoke again, just the sounds of your breathing and the gentle swishes of Steve’s fingers running through your hair.
“Higher Love.”
“What?” You blinked sleepily, looking up at him in confusion.
“The song. You wanted to know what it was,” Steve snorted, glancing down at you with a soft smile of adoration despite his amusement. “It was ‘Higher Love’ by Steve Winwood.”
Oh. You vaguely recalled the melody you had heard earlier. But none of that even mattered now. Though you were glad he’d remembered, at least.
“Of course it was by a guy named Steve,” you sighed, rolling your eyes. “I can’t escape it.”
“You love me.”
“Yeah, Steve.” Your eyes softened at his words, flicking up to meet his. He was right about that. You loved him more than anything. “Yeah, I do.”
A five year crush, too much bourbon, and a sleepless night.
wc: 4.6k
warnings: 18+ age gap (25-46), college best friends dad trope, oral fem receiving, chest riding, fingering, panty play (??) not sure what to call this but he does some pretty filthy stuff using your swim suit bottoms, exhibitionism, steve talking you through it, and mild angst because they know they shouldn’t :)
authors note: i turned into some horny monster and this is probably the dirtiest smut I’ve ever written. this is dedicated to my og colors girls, while this is a separate story all on its own, i hope you enjoy all the small little call backs.
Bourbon burns on your lips while the warm bubbles of the jacuzzi heat your skin just like the liquor does going down your throat. Setting the thick crystal glass back on the ledge, your eyes stay trained on Steve sitting across from you.
Half his chest is submerged under the water, leaving the thickest part of the hair there in view. A gold chain you’d helped his daughter Jenny pick for him a few years ago dangles around his neck. It shimmers in the low light of his kitchen shining warm gold onto his back deck from the sliding glass door. A hint of dark stubble lines his sharp jaw with specks of grey dusting the underside, just like the silver that’s weaved itself into the sides of his chestnut hair.
Holding your gaze down the slope of his nose, he leans further back into the jets, spreading his arms wide along the ledge. Thick biceps sit on display for you making your thighs search for each other under the water and when his tongue darts out to wet his full lips, you wonder if he can tell.
God, you shouldn’t be looking at your best friend’s dad like this, and he most definitely shouldn’t be looking at you like this. The unmistakable hunger that’s simmered under the surface for years burns in the narrowed darkness of his eyes, daring you to make a move.
For a while you thought it was only you — just a college girl with a crush. But you felt something shift after graduation a couple years ago. The crazy idea that it might be mutual started last year during the fifth Christmas you’d spent with the two of them. It was the way his gaze lingered a little too long, or how he found ways to touch you or place a hand on the small of your back.
Christmas Eve was when you knew for certain though. Jenny had ditched both of you for an early night in her bed, still getting over the cold she’d brought with her. Too much wine led to flirty words and light touches on his couch with A Wonderful Life on in the background. It wasn’t until his hands got bolder, and you got closer that he stopped it abruptly. Gently pushing himself away from you before mumbling that he needed to go to bed.
Just like tonight.
Except instead of wine, it was after dinner celebratory bourbon shots for Jenny’s new job offer in the city. The tension from a year ago was still so palpable in his small kitchen that there was a part of you that worried she would somehow notice too. Steve couldn’t keep his eyes off your exposed legs after you’d all gone upstairs to change into something cozy. The small sleep shorts you’d pick out with purpose doing exactly what you’d hope they would. It was enough to give you a bold kind of confidence that had you holding his gaze from under your lashes every time you caught his stare. Relishing in the way it made his cheeks redden.
An unmistakable weight of disappointment bruised your ego when he excused himself to bed first, and it had you finding an excuse to do the same after about an hour or so of hanging out with Jenny. Tossing and turning for two nearly hours still too worked up to actually fall asleep. You’d given up trying, snatching your swimsuit out of your suitcase and headed down to the Jacuzzi.
The strong jets had instantly soothed your wound up muscles, feeling so good that you took the risk of taking your bikini top off, letting it float to the bottom. It was then that Steve appeared in nothing but a pair of short hemmed black swim trunks with seemingly the same plan as you. Despite the internal conflict painting the handsome features of his face, he still joined you, and that bruise on your ego lightened a hue.
“I thought you were going to bed?” You hum, with the kind of fake nonchalance you’ve never been more proud of. The tips of your fingers gliding along the top of the water.
“Tried too.” He answers with a gravel in his voice that goes straight to your core. “Too wound up.”
“Good thing you have a jacuzzi then, huh?” You tease, biting into your bottom lip to hide your smile, playfully sliding forward in your seat from the buoyancy.
The new position reveals the swell of your breasts, and the lack of top covering them. Steve inhales sharply at the sight, scratching his clicking jaw before running that same hand through his unruly hair.
“Yeah, good thing.” He grunts with sarcasm, that swooping strand flopping back over his forehead with damp ends.
His eyes are hungry, taking in all the newly exposed skin with the kind of want that makes you squirm. Sticking his tongue into the side of his cheek, he grabs his glass, taking another sip of the brown liquor with an unwavering stare. This kind of need feels all consuming and it unfurls deep in your gut, despite how wrong this is.
The realization of it has you closing your eyes leaning back against the small headrest behind you, fighting with your self-control. Just his presence has your body thrumming, an effect he’s shamefully had on you since the first summer you came home with Jenny nearly six years ago.
“Topless in someone else’s home hardly seems appropriate, don’t you think?” he asks, voice nothing but spiced honey demanding your attention back.
“I thought I was going to be alone.” You shrug, lifting your head to meet his gaze, desperately trying to keep up this nonchalant ruse despite the tightening in your chest.
All Steve does is hum, taking another sip of bourbon before setting the glass down.
“D- does it bother you?” You question quietly, the facade slipping for a brief moment as your anxiety makes you wonder if you’ve read this all wrong.
His gaze drops to the bubbling water, torture pinching his eyebrows together before finally giving you an answer.
“It should.”
The weight of his confession hangs in the air, thick like the steam.
“Does that bother you?” He asks in return, still not meeting your eyes.
“It should.”
Those two whispered words threaten to change everything.
Steve finally lifts his head, running another wet hand through his hair and god you wish it was your own. The silence that falls between you charges the space with something electric. It sends your body buzzing, overheating you in the already hot water. The pang of guilt that hits your chest fights you to care and just walk away before it’s too late. But then Steve’s jaw clenches again as you watch the last bit of his resolve slip away taking yours with it.
“It’s kinda hot in here, isn’t it?” You say a little out of breath, stomach swooping feeling him track your every movement.
“Need me to turn down the heat?” He asks in a concerned tone that sounds too casual after what’s just been admitted outloud.
“No, I’m okay.” You brush him off, holding his gaze that’s just as dark as the sky above you, your palms finding the slippery edge of the jacuzzi.
Giving yourself a push, you slowly lift yourself out of the water. The cool night air hitting your wet skin, chilling the droplets of water that slowly drip down your chest. It sends a shiver up your spine, pebbling your nipples, and blowing out his pupils.
“Fuck, honey.” He groans, running a hand down his face before letting out a shaky breath. “We shouldn’t —“
“We shouldn’t, what, Steve?” You whisper, leaning back with palms flattening on the wood of the deck, putting yourself on display.
Your heart thumps so wildly in your chest that you can hear it over the roar of the jets. He holds your gaze with an intensity of someone who’s desperately trying not to look at something they shouldn’t. Swallowing hard, his adam's apple bobs before he finally gives into temptation, bringing his eyes to your pert nipples standing at attention just for him.
“You know what.” He sighs sounding tortured, rolling his neck, his resolve dissipating just like the bubbles that hide the bottom half of him.
Steve stands up, the movement sending panic coursing through you because you’re half expecting him to walk away and save you both from a huge mistake. But he doesn’t. Instead, he starts to close the space between you making you forget how to breathe.
Water and leftover bubbles drip down his chest, matting the dark hair there. The soft muscles of his stomach twitch with moles you hadn’t seen before dotted like the constellations on his cheeks and neck. The urge to find them all with your mouth is so strong it almost hurts.
“Do I?” You ask, chest heaving as your thighs press together at the sight, making his jaw click again.
He stops in front of you, chlorine and the leftover amber from his cologne taking over your senses.
“Sweetheart.” He sighs with a hint of condescension, those big hands finding purchase on your slick thighs, spreading them back open with embarrassing ease.
“Steve.” You whisper his name in the same tone.
He doesn’t say anything as he drops to his knees on your empty submerged seat, the new position putting him at eye level with you. His face is so close to yours that you can smell the sweet caramel of the bourbon still lingering on his breath. Crows' feet crease at the edges of his forest colored eyes, while his big wet hands slide further up your thighs. The tips of his fingers tickle your damp skin before finding the edges of your swim suit bottoms.
“You should tell me to stop.”
He tries doing the right thing one more time, squeezing harshly at the fat under his palms. Glazed over eyes watching the way they jiggle back in place. You can’t find your voice, so instead you spread your legs wider.
”Jesus.” He breathes, the deft ends of his nails digging into your soft skin.
His fingertips follow the seam of your bottoms, till they curl under the fabric next to the place that screams for his attention. A shaky breath slips from between your lips, needing more of him. The pads of his thumbs trace over your covered slit, groaning to himself every time they slide over your swollen clit and your legs shake in response.
“Oh my god.” You whine, watching how his eyes darken, feeling a different kind of wetness grow underneath his thumbs.
“You really want this, huh?” He drawls, something treacherous hidden in his question.
Looking up at you from under his lashes, Steve swipes pointedly against your bundle of nerves now.
“Y-yes.” You manage with hooded lids, hips rolling, meeting the next glide of his thumbs.
Pressing his forehead against yours, the whisper of your name sounds pained. The heat of his breath fans against your lips that part trying to breath him in as Steve’s eyes pinch shut, his grip on your wet bottoms tightening. His thumbs disappear bringing his fingers to curl around the thin scrap of fabric at your hips.
When his gaze finally meets yours again, there’s not a hint of color left in his eyes sending another shiver up your spine. Then, without warning, he roughly tugs up both sides. Gasping his name, the damp fabric between your legs spreads your glistening puffy lips apart.
“God, look at you.” He hums appreciatively, tugging up the material even harder. “So wet for me, honey.”
Your fingers curl around the edge of the hot tub, jaw going slack. The pressure feels painfully good against your clit, your body craving more of whatever this is. A deep moan rumbles from his chest as he starts moving the thin fabric in time with the grind of your hips. Completely enraptured by the way your slick grows for him.
“So fucking dirty, honey.” He chides, giving one last tight pull before finally letting go.
The loss of contact leaves your chest heaving, but before you can protest, he invades your space. Bullying his way deeper between your legs, they open even more, thighs pressing against each side of his torso. Steve’s hands grip your hips, pulling you even closer to the edge.
His top lip catches against your bottom in an almost kiss, the coarse hair on his chest tickling the most sensitive part of you. Grinding against it, you have no control over your body anymore because every nerve ending in it screams for him. Something that resembles a growl rumbles loud from his chest, vibrating against your clit, his bruising hold encouraging you to do it again.
“You want this too, don’t you?” You manage to get out with another roll of your hips, mouth brushing with his around every word. You’re positive you could cum like this.
“If you knew just how bad, I think you’d run far away from me.” He admits in a tone that goes straight between your legs. Gripping your hips impossibly tighter, his mouth hovers right above yours in another silent dare.
Finally pushing your hands off the ledge, you bury them in his hair, fingers curling in the damp thickness at the nape of his neck. It’s something you’ve imagined doing thousands of times, and it's somehow softer than you could have ever dreamed up.
Running the tip of your nose along the sharp length of his, all you whisper is —
“Show me.”
Those words are enough for his self control to finally crumble, closing the space with a bruising press of his lips. It takes you a moment to realize that you’re getting everything you’ve ever wanted before quickly catching up to him. There’s a desperation in the way your mouths move together, like this it.
Because it is. It has to be.
He licks into your mouth with animalistic need and you meet him in the middle with equal intensity. Desperately trying to commit this moment to memory. The rough patch of hair on his chest catches your clit again in something that feels so dirty. Whimpering into his grunt, water laps at his waist, spilling over the ledge as he bends his spine to push up against your heat with every one of your shallow thrusts.
You pull away with his full bottom lip between your teeth bringing him with you before letting him go with a loud pop. He doesn’t waste any time gripping your chin between his fingers, tilting your head to the side to kiss and nip a path up your neck. His tongue pokes out to lick the dip behind your ear, teeth biting your lobe into the heat of his mouth, sucking hard.
“Fuck — Steve.” You whine, eyes rolling in the back of your head feeling them scrape against it.
”I need to taste you, let me taste you.” He whispers against your ear, his nose pressing into the sensitive spot behind it.
His breathing sounds desperate as short quick bursts of air fan down your neck, and even though his chest heaves, he never stops pushing it into your throbbing cunt.
“Please, I’ve - I’ve — “ Begging, you lose your train of thought, feeling everything inside of you start to pull taut.
It’s too much. All those years of your hand between your thighs thinking of nothing but him has you already dangerously close to falling over the edge. Not even with the weight of what’s between his legs that you haven’t touched yet, just the thick patch of hair that’s always tortured you peeking out of the top of his shirts.
”You’ve what, baby?” He murmurs against your skin working his way down your throat, perfect teeth nipping the base of it.
Baby.
“I’ve wanted this for so long.” You manage around a gasp, letting his salt peppered hair slip through your fingers as he sucks your nipple into his warm mouth.
One of his big hands comes up to cup your other breast, massaging it under his palm. His tongue flicks against your sensitive nipple in quick succession, rolling it between his teeth before licking his way to the other one using the same amount of care. Framing your ribs in his hands, he starts a wet path down your sternum once he’s satisfied, looking up at you from under his thick lashes. He sinks his body deeper into the water, letting his chest drag down with him leaving you with nothing to chase the high you were so close to reaching.
“How long?” He presses, his hands following him, caressing the curves of your body along the way.
His long fingers curl around the sides of your swim suit bottoms again, only this time instead of tugging them up, he pulls them down. Leaning back on your elbows, you help him by lifting each leg that ends up propped on his broad shoulders once he drops the offending fabric in the water just like your top. He regrips the fat of your thighs, pulling himself closer to where he begged to taste. Completely exposed, there’s nowhere to hide anymore but watching the way his pupils swell at the sight in front of him, you can’t find it in yourself to care.
“Since that first summer.” You confess with a shiver, feeling the heat of his breath wash over your cunt.
The blunt ends of his nails dig into your soft flesh at that answer.
“You went so long without getting what you wanted. Let me fix that, honey. Let me make you feel good.” He murmurs, running his nose along your inner thigh, inhaling deeply before pressing a kiss dangerously close to where you need him most.
“Please - please - I need - I” You pant, becoming non coherent staring down at him between your legs like this.
”I know, I know.” He hums softly, dragging his lips lazily to your dripping honey.
His mouth hovers, holding your heavy lidded gaze in his own before flattening his tongue, running a broad stripe up your seam. Throwing your head back, you have to slap a hand over your mouth to keep from crying out when he does it again with more pressure. A moan rumbles from the back of his throat, regripping your thighs like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground before burying his face into your needy cunt without abandon.
He collects everything you give him like he’s greedy and doesn’t want to share, tongue dipping into your entrance so gently, teasing the velvet of your walls so softly that it has your hand burying itself in his hair again silently encouraging more. He smiles into your wet neediness, loving how your hips roll in desperation.
“I wanna take my time, honey.” He chastises you, nudging your clit with the tip of his long nose. “I’ve waited a long time, too.”
His words wash over you like a current, sending another wave of arousal leaking out of you. Cussing under his breath, he wastes no time lapping it up with a satisfied hum.
”Just don’t - just don’t stop.” You whine, looking down wishing you could take a picture of him like this.
You need to memorize how his unruly hair hides your fingers buried in the thickness of it, making him look more disheveled than you’ve ever seen. Or the way you shine on his full twisted up lips and stubble covered chin while his heavy lidded eyes stare up at you blissed out like he’s wanted this for five years too.
“I can’t promise I’ll ever be able to stop after this.” He admits to something deeper than what you meant. “You’re going to have to be the one to do it.”
“I can’t promise I will.” You whisper, chest rising and falling with anticipation, admiring how your answer has his lashes flutter, kissing the tops of his cheeks.
The air crackles around you with something that you’ll never be able to go back from. Something you both know you should never do again, but this it’s starting to feel like a little more than just one night thing, even though it can’t be. Steve inhales deeply, like he's fighting everything in his body telling him to stop, but the sight of you spread and dripping just for him is enough to forget the rest of his morals he had left.
Tugging you closer, Steve plants an open mouthed kiss on your swollen clit, sucking it hard enough for your jaw to go slack, and your eyes to roll back. The way his tongue explores every inch and crevice of you at the same time feels like he’s unhinged his jaw. It’s almost overstimulating having his mouth all over the place like this, lapping up everything so intensely that his head moves up and down. He nips at your clit before soothing it with a soft swipe of his tongue, doing it again feeling how it makes your legs shake and squeeze around him.
His iron clad grip opens your thighs a little more, the whites of his knuckles making sure you don’t go anywhere before finally licking into your entrance. Pulling harshly at his roots, your back bows off the ground, teeth digging into your bottom lip to keep from being too loud. Completely sitting up with your legs over his shoulders, your other hand rejoins the one in his hair. You use it as leverage to grind your hips in time with the thrusts of his tongue that reaches places you didn’t even know existed.
He moans into you, feeling the way your soft walls beg him for more, like what he’s giving you is far from enough. Losing himself, he pushes his face even deeper, the tip of his nose putting the right amount of pressure on your clit for you to gasp his name. The new position has it swiping against your bundle of nerves with every lick, making it harder and harder to stay quiet. Especially when your noises encourage him more.
A growl rumbles low from his chest, fingers digging into your thighs when he feels your legs start to shake. Your needy walls pulsing around his muscle letting him know that you’re close. Rolling your hips against his face with the intensity of someone who’s completely lost herself, the sound of the jets drowns out the wet slapping your ass makes on the edge of the hot tub
“Steve, Steve, Steve.” You whine, eyes pinching shut everything in your body pulling tighter than before.
The sound of his name like that has him groaning, sucking harshly at your cunt before pulling away to catch his breath. Two thick fingers replace his tongue leaving you no time to notice the loss, stretching you out even more. You have to slap your hand over your mouth again, your body shaking, begging to let go. He pumps them in and out of you with the kind of ease that should be embarrassing, watching every reaction you give him with dark enraptured eyes.
“Gonna be a good girl and cum for me?” He asks, a needy rasp in his voice, curving his fingers just right.
”Ohmygod.” Your eyes roll back, just like your body, teeth biting into the fat of your bottom lip giving him a nod he can barely see from your place on your back.
”No, no, honey. Tell me.” He tsks, leaning forward wrapping his lips around your clit for just a moment, relishing in the way it makes you twitch. “Tell me you’re gonna be good for me.”
”Please — Steve.” You whine needing him to do that again. “I’ll - I’ll be good. Wanna cum for you.”
Something animalistic rips itself from his chest, bringing his mouth back to your bundle of nerves, he sucks with just the right amount of pressure for your mouth to fall open in a silent scream. Colors burst bright behind your eyes as the most intense orgasm of your life snaps that tight string that’s been pushed to its limits all night. Steve watches in awe from between your legs as you come apart for him, eyes glazed over feeling the way your walls pulse, trying to push him out while sucking him deeper at the same time. He groans watching your chest heave, nipples still puffy from the work of his mouth.
He lets you ride out your orgasm a little longer before gently pulling his fingers out, cleaning them off in his mouth with an appreciative hum. It takes you a moment to regain your surroundings, to remember who you are. His hands massage your thighs, whispering praises against the inside of them, leaving feather light kisses on your still twitching muscles. Your fingers slowly release their death grip in his hair as your breathing starts to even out, eyes fluttering open to the starry night sky.
The pale glow of the moon peeks out from behind a thin cloud, the silence of the evening bringing you out of whatever reality you two had just lost yourselves in. Neither of you say anything, leaving racing thoughts left unspoken to manifest into something you won’t have any control over.
”Hey,” he murmurs sweetly, like he knows too. “Come here.”
Steve gently takes your legs from off his shoulders, bringing them back down into the heat of the water. His hands slide up your calves to your thighs before grabbing your hands, encouraging you up. You don’t put up a fight despite the muscles in your body feeling weak from it all. Helping you in, he pulls you over to the other side where he had started the night, sitting you on his lap.
It’s impossible not to feel just how big he is underneath you, or how hard and all you want to do is take care of it, but your body screams at you to go to bed. Curling up sideways on his thighs, you tuck your face into the curve of his neck, fingers finding their way into the thick hair on his chest. The tips of them twiddling the gold chain resting there.
”Honey, I know what I said, but as amazing as that was, it really shouldn’t happen again.”
Resting his cheek on the top of your head, the way he lets you down sounds so tender you almost didn’t realize he was ending this before it could begin. While you were both still ahead. Those lust drunk words whispered from between your legs losing all their credibility in ten seconds flat.
“Yeah. I know.” You say quietly, clearing your throat. Nuzzling into his neck deeper, you breathe him in one last time, before doing what you need to do to feel like you’re the one to walk away. “I should probably go to bed, Jenny’s gonna be up soon.”
Using the last of your strength, you push off of him ignoring the way he tries to pull you back, and the way he says your name like this hurts just as bad for him too.
”It’s fine, promise.” The smile you give him wrapping the towel you’d brought down around yourself doesn’t meet your eyes. “I’ll uh - I’ll see you in the morning.”
”We should talk about this.” He argues, standing up and you have to avert your gaze or all your resolve will go away.
”Really, Steve, it’s fine. We had too much to drink. That was it. This is it.”
The hurt that flashes across his face tightens in your chest turning the butterflies into an ache that feels a lot like heartbreak. You force yourself to walk away before he has a chance of getting out of the hot tub, ignoring the way he said “It was more than that for me” as you slide through the glass door and up to your room.
first of all congrats on 4k and second of all ily 💓
may i please order a caramel latte with chest hair and happy trail licking (stevie got his bday cake all down him silly boy) please my sweet honey bun
wasn’t in the list of prompts but let’s pretend it was 🥰
𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐔𝐏! - SWEET BOY
visit gray’s 4k cafe | steve harrington x female!reader
Licking frosting off Steve's chest and happy trail...
tags: [sorta smut, so MDNI] [established relationship] [whoops, the cake slipped...] [frosting tastes even better off Steve's body] [lowkey body worship] 850 words
“I’m gonna hop in the shower, babe” Steve calls to you from the other room. “You sure you don’t wanna join?”
If this were any other day, he wouldn’t even have to ask. You’d be racing him to the bathroom and stripping down to nothing before the door even closed behind him—but today is different.
“I’m sure!” You yell back from the kitchen, forcing as much nonchalance in your voice as you can, but still cringing when you hear a sad little “okay,” before the shower squeaks on.
You listen carefully to make sure he’s not coming back out before you crouch down and carefully pull out the cake you hid in the cupboard.
It’s Steve’s birthday today, and he hates birthdays. Well, not other people’s. Just his. Which is the stupidest thing in the world. Still, he made you swear you wouldn’t throw him a party.
…but he didn’t say anything about a cake.
Worrying your bottom lip, you look down at your masterpiece. It’s not bad, actually! It’s round, golden brown, and smells like vanilla.
Now, for the frosting.
It doesn’t take long for you to whip it up, and it glides onto the spongey surface better than you expected. You’re so focused on layering it on smoothly and evenly that you don’t even hear when the shower turns off.
Finally, after one last swipe of your spatula, you stand back to survey your work. Thick, white frosting coats the cake, and your mouth waters just looking at it.
Just then, a door opens past the kitchen and your pulse leaps. Swiping a hand under the plate, you balance the cake in your arm and turn—right as Steve rounds the corner.
You gasp and try to recover at the last second, but it’s too late.
“Hey, babe, what are you—”
Steve stops short, lips parting in surprise, as the cake slips down the plate and plants right onto his hairy chest.
You’re caught red-handed, but you can’t help but notice how the evening light paints his broad shoulders in a dusky glow, and turns the water droplets from his hair into little sunlit beads that roll down his strong stomach, disappearing into the towel wrapped around his waist.
At the sight of that towel, you seem to remember that he just showered— and now he’s literally wearing a cake.
Your eyes meet.
“S-shit!” you stammer, springing into action. “Steve, I’m so sorry!”
You try to scoop the cake back onto the plate, but his warm hand finds your hip and your grip slips, sending a glob of white frosting down into his happy trail.
“Was this for me? I told you not to do this,” Steve warns with a soft laugh. “Here, just—”
He grabs the plate with his other hand and pushes the smeared cake back onto it, then gently pries it from your hands and sets it on the counter.
Now, with his birthday gift out of the way, you have a mouthwatering vision in front of you. You should definitely be helping him clean up, but right now, you’re too busy staring. The frosting mats down his chest hair, smearing down his toned torso, and you can’t help yourself.
Before he can say anything, you lower your mouth to his chest and lick a line through the soft sugar, right between his hairy pecs.
His breath stutters out of him, and his fingers tighten on your hip. Sugar blooms bright and sweet on your tongue, and mixed with the salt on his skin, and the soap from his shower—the concoction is heavenly.
“Jesus,” he huffs when your tongue flicks his hard nipple. “Baby…”
His chest hair tickles your nose as you press into him, licking him with broad, firm strokes, making sure you get every bit of it.
“You just had a shower, Stevie,” you sigh against his skin, lips fluttering over his racing heart. “And I got you all messy. Let me clean you up.”
A rush of arousal pools between your legs as you fall to your knees right there in the kitchen to mouth at that line of course hair, sinking your teeth into the softness of his stomach right where the towel sits as you swallow another mouthful of frosting.
His erection tents the towel, and he sucks in a breath when his length bumps into your chin, but your hands find his calves, thumbs pressing into the muscle there, a soft reminder that you’re here, worshiping him, wanting him to feel desired.
Steve rakes a hand through his hair, tipping his head back with a groan before looking down at you again through heavy lashes.
“Yeah, okay,” he rasps. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind on the whole birthday thing…”
a/n: what if I told you that i pictured steve & reader from sugar rush the whole time I was writing this.
steve masterlist | visit the coffee shop | go to gray's 4k event masterlist
Summary: stuck on a crawl during what has to be the hottest night of the summer, you convince Steve to pass the time. intended to be set in the tcogb universe between parts 5 and 6, but can be read as a standalone!
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Content Warnings: explicit smut (m!receiving oral, fingering, p in v sex, f!receiving oral, cum eating kinda), established relationship
Word Count: 4k
The interior of the van was stifling in the summer heat. So hot you felt sweat dripping down your spine as you parked outside of the skeleton of StarCourt Mall.
A big Grand Reopening, Fall 1986 sign was on a board outside, faded and torn from the elements. It had never reopened, and maybe never would. You'd have to make it out on the other side to know for sure, but you did miss The Gap.
"Big area to search," you said, peering over at Steve. He was playing one of those dumb handheld baseball games, tongue poking out in concentration. "He could be in there all night, just going store to store."
Steve shook his head. "Nah, it wasn't built in '83," he said without so much as a glance up. "He's looking around the old farm that the Saunders' sold to the developers. Probably gonna get tetanus, or something worse. Some weird, burrowing alien bug that lays eggs in his stomach."
Your expression twisted in disgust. Summer movie nights at the house had meant far too many horror flicks for your taste. But every time you suggested Flashdance or A Chorus Line you got shut down. But Steve had started to love the scary movies that Dustin and Mike picked, even if he called them weird. It was increasingly obvious to you that Steve was a bit of a weirdo himself.
You sighed and sunk back in your seat. The Squawk was playing some of Jonathan's moody, new age bullshit, which made you want to take a nap. You were so bored you could die… or maybe just kill Dustin for getting detention again and finally getting his sweet mother to snap and ground him.
The air in the van was stifling, so you cranked down the window and leaned your head out. It was unbearable, even stripped down to the least amount of clothes you could legally wear. It didn't help that Steve was dressed down too, in a muscle tank he typically mowed the lawn in and cutoffs.
It was annoyingly appealing, especially with the sheen of sweat that made his biceps look even better under the dim streetlights. Most of them were broken, so the light in the van was dim. Dim enough that you could get away with nearly anything.
"Steve," you whined. "We've got, like, two hours before we have to drive back to the Squawk. Can't we do something to pass the time?"
He finally glanced over and gave you an almost sympathetic smile. "I told you it was going to be boring tonight, honey. You should've brought a book, or something. I came prepared."
A scoff escaped you and you inched closer, leaning back into the van. "Not my idea of a fun way to pass the time," you said. Maybe it was the heat, or just how handsome your boyfriend looked just a few feet away, but you felt the prickle of need warming your belly.
You flicked the radio, scanning the other stations. Sometimes, in the right spot, you could get a killer Top-40 station from Indianapolis, but everything else was too staticky. You dug around in the glove box for something better, but nothing caught your eye. With a dramatic sigh, you switched back to WSQK and sunk lower in your seat.
"Ughhhh…" You groaned, kicking your feet onto the dash. The heat was the sort of oppressive presence that made you get that ansty feeling. You needed something, anything, to distract you from the ever-present heat in the van. It felt like you were in an oven, slowly roasting alive.
He glanced over and his lips stretched into a fond smile. "It's a couple of hours of boredom, you're being such a baby."
You pouted and turned to face him. "It's hot, the music sucks, there's nothing to do… not even anything fun to look at." You gave a weak wave towards the abandoned mall, dark and gloomy in the summer night.
Well, there was something fun to look at, and it was Steve Harrington. His muscular thighs dusted with hair, the peek of his ribcage in his cutoff tank. His hair curled at the ends from the sweat and heat, and you thought you'd never seen him look any more attractive in your life.
You climbed out of your seat and settled on the floorboard beside him, grateful for the ample space in the van to do whatever you wanted. "What are you doing?" His voice was a little higher than usual as you eased his seat back and moved between his thighs.
"Passing the time," you replied simply. "No one's around, it'll be fine."
Steve gave a nervous laugh. "Yeah, I'm not worried about being caught, I'm worried about the crawl."
A shiver went through him as your hand traced its way up his thigh, barely dipping beneath the ragged hem of his shorts. His skin was so warm, tacky with the heat. You pouted as you pressed a kiss to the soft skin just beneath your fingers. "Nothing happened before, nothing's happening tonight, baby." You peered up at him as innocently as you could manage, given the circumstances. "If you want, you can stay focused for both of us."
"You're a bad influence," he groaned, and you had to bite back a smile as you popped the button of his shorts. He'd already begun to fill them out impressively, just with the insinuation that you were going to give him a little attention. "I mean, Jesus, out of the two of us you'd think I'd be the one begging to fuck you right now. I have… I have self control."
You nodded, expression as grave as you could manage. "So much self control, baby," you agreed as you tugged down his fly. "You're so responsible."
It was disgustingly hot outside, you were grossly horny. You couldn't care less about responsibility or the crawl. Maybe if anything ever happened that would be a problem, but you were just as likely to win the lottery as they were to find anything remotely useful in the upside down, or whatever.
Steve's fingers twisted into your hair as you tugged down his briefs enough to expose his length to you. A soft groan fell from his lips as you wrapped your hand around the base of him and let spit dribble down his shaft and over your fingers.
His head fell back against the seat as you set a slow rhythm, pumping him in your hand as he got even harder in your grip. It was rare that you could ever act on your basest impulses. There was always a need to keep quiet in the house, or a member of the party nearby, or a thousand other reasons you had to stay decent.
Crawl be damned. Nothing was as important as the soft groans that spilled from him as your tongue swirled around his tip. His hips bucked instinctively, seeking the warm, wet heat of your mouth.
So much for self control. You weren't in the mood to tease, so you gave in. Inch by inch, you took him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you swallowed him down. With a few months of practice, accommodating his size had gotten simpler. It wasn't easy, but your jaw didn't ache and your eyes didn't water as much before your lips met the top of your fist.
"Jesus christ, baby," Steve groaned. You practically purred around him, watching him through hooded eyes as you set your rhythm. He was so pretty when he was undone like this— veins bulging in his throat as he swallowed down pretty moans. A force of habit. "Your mouth feels so fucking perfect."
The grip he had on your hair tightened as you took him deeper, throat squeezing around his tip as you fought a persistent gag reflex. You could taste salty precum on your tongue, dribbling out onto your palate with each bob of your head.
You'd long since bubbled over from a bored horniness to sheer need. It was obvious in the warm, sticky way the gusset of your panties clung to your aching pussy. The dull, empty throb between your thighs each time you swallowed down his length and were met with the sound of his moans.
You pulled off of him and he nearly whined in response. "C'mon, climb into the back with me," you said with a pretty grin. He glanced at the walkie, then back at the telemetry tracker that was holding steady with the close proximity to Hopper. You squeezed his hand and gave him your best puppy dog eyes. "Steve, nothing is going to happen."
And how could he resist when you wanted it so badly? And when you'd left him right on the edge of release? He mumbled something about you being a bad influence as you climbed past the front seats and settled into the carpeted back of the van. He tossed his shirt into the passenger's side floorboard and you relished in the exposed skin. You untied your shorts and shimmied the gray cotton down your thighs, and your body thanked you for one less layer.
When he pushed past the front seats and pinned you onto the carpet, you smiled up at him like the cat who got the cream. It was even hotter back here— stale, stuffy air that smelled like old paper and wood and wires. But you wouldn't have cared where you were, just that Steve was there with you.
His hand moved up, sliding under the thin cotton tank top you wore to grope at your bare tit. You mewled softly at the attention, arching into his touch eagerly. "Needy," he murmured, mouthing at the side of your throat. "Can't even wait an hour to get home."
You huffed softly, shivering as his tongue licked up the side of your throat. It wasn't just an hour, it was debriefing that they'd discovered literally nothing for an hour, then extrapolating meaning based on what they thought finding nothing meant for what felt like even longer, then finally, going home. But going home meant putting Sam to bed, then getting yourselves ready for bed, and then being so exhausted that you had no energy for anything else.
So, no, you couldn't wait the hour. And, luckily, you knew Steve was far past that point too. The hand that had slipped up your shirt moved lower— hot and heavy beneath the elastic of your panties. A soft whine escaped your lips as his fingertips brushed over your clit, swollen and aching for attention.
Just that little bit of attention felt like heaven. He gave in for just a second, circling the pads of his fingers around the bud once, twice, before they moved lower, where you were dripping with need.
"Holy shit," he groaned, pulling back to meet your gaze. His pupils had swallowed up the soft brown of his iris with pure lust. "Fuck, you're soaked. Bet I could just…" You cried out as he sunk his middle finger in, walls fluttering around the welcome intrusion. "That's it. So ready for me, aren't you?"
You nodded, and you felt your face get hot when you realized you were grinding down against his hand. You really were desperate. Your back arched towards him as he slid a second finger alongside the first, filling your aching cunt like you'd been dreaming of from the minute he had parked.
"Steve," you gasped, toes curling against your sandals. You reached out, grasping onto his bicep as he curled his fingers and made you moan wantonly.
Sometimes you embarrassed yourself by how much he could effect you. That he could make you scream for him only with his fingers, or make you drip down your thighs with need. That he could even make you enjoy blowing him so much that it always managed to set every nerve alight like a livewire.
Even then, as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, the lewd squelch made your face burn. "'M not taking care of my girl enough," he murmured against your jaw. "If you're this desperate, I need to give her a little more love, yeah?"
The wet kiss he planted on your jaw was almost sweet, contrasted by the stretch of a third finger pressing inside. Your eyes rolled back, showing off the whites of them as he worked you open.
It wasn't that he didn't touch you enough— he touched you plenty. It was that nothing ever seemed to be enough. Both of you were constantly filled with an insatiable need for one another that you too-rarely got to feed.
But then, with his fingers buried inside of you, a thumb on your clit, and his mouth on your throat, it felt like enough. A shaky moan fell from your lips as you clenched around his fingers, your release so close you could taste it.
"C'mon, you're the one who wanted this." His words rumbled against your throat, and you felt your walls squeezing around his fingers as he fucked you with them. "Cum for me first, then I'll give you what you really want."
He said it like it was that easy, because he knew it was. Steve knew your body, and he knew exactly how to touch you in order to make you cum. He told you once that he thought it would be a waste to have someone so perfect in his bed if he wasn't going to put in the work to learn exactly what she needed.
And learn he did. A string of moans escaped your lips as you came for him, overcome with the pleasure he pulled from you. It felt like a wave of liquid pleasure through your veins, washing over you head to toe, but leaving you wanting more as it receded.
Your cunt spasmed around his fingers, twitching with aftershocks as he pulled them from you nice and slow. In the low light, you could see your juices drenching his fingers as he moved them between his lips, tasting your release from them. Even after months of being with him, it still made your stomach flip sheepishly.
He sat up and tapped your thigh with a grin. "Open up for me. I'm gonna give you more."
You nearly shivered with anticipation as you let your thighs fall open to accommodate him. You watched him tug down his shorts and kick them elsewhere, until he was bare before you. You propped yourself up and let your hands trace the soft expanse of his chest and his stomach.
"You're being bossy now," you said with a coy grin. "What happened to me being irresponsible? Don't you want to check in on the walkie and make sure everything's all good?"
Steve rolled his eyes and pushed you back onto the carpeted floor. "Shut up." His fingers hooked beneath the waistband of your panties and tugged them down your thighs, so you could kick them off the rest of the way.
Your legs wrapped around his hips as soon as he positioned himself between your thighs. Muscle memory. A soft gasp was punched from your lungs as you felt him position the blunt head of his cock at your entrance.
It was always a stretch. A slow, delicious stretch as he sank inside of you. He was so thick and perfect, and you relished in the slow accommodation of your body to fit him. Your toes curled when he fully sheathed himself inside of you, and you gasped softly as he gave his hips a slow roll.
"This is what you wanted, right?" He panted in your ear. "So whiny. Don't I always give you what you need?" He pulled out just to drive back in deeper, punching a shaky moan from your lips.
The van's suspension was shitty— squeaking and rocking as he began to fuck you in earnest. It would have made you giggle if you could have focused on anything except the euphoric drag of his cock against your oversensitive walls.
"Oh my god," you gasped, eyes fluttering as he found a rhythm that made your body sing. Heat built in your tummy, fluttering as he drove into you again and again. Sweat clung to both of you like a second skin, dripping onto you from the tip of his nose and the cut of his jaw. "Fuck, Steve."
He grinned, dipping down to kiss you sloppily as he fucked into you. His own moans vibrated against your tongue, making you shiver under him despite the incessant heat.
His hand crept down, wrapping around your thigh and shifting it up towards your chest. A desperate cry fell from your lips as he drove deeper still, burying himself so deep that you saw stars.
"So perfect," he mumbled against your mouth. His half-lidded eyes bore into yours, watching every gasp and flutter of your eyes as he brought you closer and closer to the edge with each stroke.
The coarse hair at the base of him rubbed against your oversensitive clit with each thrust, which only made that molten need in your core grow. One hand dug into his shoulder and dug crescents into the slick skin there.
"Gonna cum," you panted, already beginning to flutter around his length. You cried out, head thrown back as he drove deeper, grinding into your spasming cunt the way he knew would push you over the edge. In the van, in the middle of nowhere, you could be as loud as you wanted, which you were taking full advantage of.
"Yeah? Give it to me," he panted. "Let me feel it."
And how could you deny him that? With a shaky cry, you felt your orgasm rip through you, so strong that your body writhed beneath him. Your walls squeezed around his cock as he worked you through it, fucking into your soaked cunt with sounds so obscene that you felt your tummy flip.
"Hear that? Hear what I do to you?" He moaned into your ear and you whined softly in response. His thrusts grew needier, more urgent, even as you ached with overstimulation. "God, I love you so much."
He pulled out suddenly and spilled onto your pussy and thighs, painting your sweaty skin with hot ropes of his cum. He groaned, swearing under his breath as he worked himself through it with his hand.
You sat up, biting your lip as he slumped over on his side and looked at you. Your body had a heavy, sated feeling, like your orgasm had managed to relax you down to your very depths. A tiny giggle escaped you as you nudged him with your foot.
"Happy now?" Steve teased, leaning down to kiss your shoulder.
"Very, very happy. Not bored at all," you replied.
Steve sighed and stretched to work out a kink in his shoulders. When his gaze fell on the mess he'd left on your stomach, he looked back at you with a frown. "Looks like I need to clean up after myself."
Despite your exhaustion, you found yourself opening yourself up to accommodate his broad shoulders. He hooked your legs over his shoulders and kissed the soft skin of your inner thigh. The second his tongue laved over your cunt, your leg twitched involuntarily, and he pulled a pathetic, keening whimper from you.
It felt like pure electricity running along your nerves with each lap of his tongue. His lips sealed around your clit and he sucked gently, like he knew your body was at his limit and he needed to handle you with care. Your fingers tangled in his hair and the carpet of the van as he licked at you.
"Steve," you gasped, nearly sobbing with the intensity of his mouth on your clit. "F— oh fuck, Steve—"
Your back arched off the floor of the van, hips involuntarily grinding up against his hot mouth, pushing through the overstimulation and into pure pleasure.
A siren outside the van made you freeze, thighs tensing on either side of Steve's head. His mouth continued to move, deaf to anything that wasn't the pretty sounds he could pull from you. But the sirens got closer and closer, until red and blue flashing lights illuminated the inside of the car.
"Shit, Steve, stop," you yelped, kicking him off of you. The cruiser parked directly in front of the van, shining its brights into the van so the two of you were illuminated and completely exposed. Steve scrambled to do something to cover you up. You scrambled to tug your dolphin shorts back on and readjusted your tank top. Steve, in a remarkably more vulnerable spot, settled on holding a spare WSQK crewneck over his hips hips and hiding in the back while you crawled into the drivers seat.
Phil Callahan tapped on the window with his flashlight and you pulled your wits together as you reached over to crank the glass down.
"Hi! Hey, Phil," you said with a pretty smile. Your hair stuck to your forehead, tacky with sweat. The rest of it was a rats nest. "It's um, it's been a while. How's Shiloh?"
"Yeah, y'know, she's getting older. I had to build her a little ramp to get on and off the couch," he said with a shrug. You nodded and frowned, oozing sympathy. "Anyways, she's still got a lot to live for, y'know"
You gave a tight smile and nodded again. "Yeah… yeah, of course she does. Who doesn't love a dachshund?" It got uncomfortably quiet, so you nervously cleared your throat. "Anyways, um, is this a warning type of situation? It's just, y'know, there's no one around so we really didn't think we were hurting anyone."
His expression wrinkled a bit. "Isn't it weird to hook up where, like, thirty people died?"
When you thought about it for a second, you kind of got his point. "Um… yeah, that's so fair," you agreed. "But, y'know… lesson learned, right?" You gave another pretty smile, willing all of your teenage charm to return to you and help weasel your way out of this. You were always glad when Phil was the one to catch you, Carol, and Tina when you ditched a house party, it was so easy to talk him out of any real trouble.
He leaned onto the van for a second and sighed. "I dunno, there's the military curfew, and this is private property. Plus public indecency, indecent exposure for Harrington."
You gave your best pout and met his gaze. "Phil… isn't that, like, a lot of paperwork for two people hooking up in a car? Can't you just give us a warning and send us on our way? I'd really, really owe you one."
He sighed, glancing back at a very naked Steve who was doing a terrible job of covering himself with just a crewneck. "Put some clothes on and get home. Next time I catch either of you parked somewhere, I'm taking you in."
You weren't entirely sure he meant it, but you nodded earnestly and watched him head back to the cruiser. When the lights disappeared, you glanced back at Steve with a sheepish grin.
"How do you know about Deputy Callahan's dachshund?" Steve asked as he tugged his clothes back on.
"Summer after senior year, he hauled me and Tina into the station for underage drinking. I thought he was cute so I flirted with him for a couple of hours until he let us go. He's a talker," you replied. "You kinda look alike, actually. Especially with your glasses on…"
Steve rolled his eyes. "Shut up. And never mention this to anyone, or they'll never let you go on a crawl with me again."
In a few hours, you'd find out that the party listened to police scanners, and Phil Callahan was still a talker. But for the moment, you mimed zipping your lips shut and propped your feet back on the dash. Steve went back to his baseball game, and you relished in the dull, satisfying ache between your thighs.
college au, frat!steve, king!steve, player!steve, slightly toxic!steve, steve harrington yearning, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader
wc: 1.4k
If anyone asked Steve Harrington what on earth he was doing in the library, he would have told them that he was actually studying for once.
But that would be a damn lie.
Because Steve was actually in the library because he was hoping to talk to you.
He didn’t know what had come over him these past few weeks, what sort of spell you had him under but Steve Harrington—King Steve, the guy on that everyone knew on campus, the guy that all the girls wanted and the one all the guys wanted to be—had found himself infatuated with you.
It had started when you showed up to his party a couple of weeks back, the party that your roommate had dragged you along to. You looked as though you would rather be anywhere else in the world, especially after she had left you alone by the drinks table to sneak upstairs with one of the guys on the football team.
Steve couldn’t help but notice you, eventually making his way over to you under the guise of grabbing another beer.
In truth, Steve was just hoping to get lucky that night (which for King Steve was nothing new) and you were gorgeous so, of course he had tried his luck. But you hadn’t seem to pick up on his flirting and usually, that was enough to make him walk the other way, find another girl who could keep his bed warm. He had been about to walk away but then you had smiled at him and asked what he wanted to do after college.
Huh. That was new.
A girl asking him a question that wasn’t ’are you clean?’ or ‘why didn’t you call me back?’. A question about him, not surface level too, but one about his future, about what he wanted. Steve had been honest with you—he told you that he didn’t know but that he would probably end up working for his dad. You had titled your head, considering his response before you then asked, “but what do you want, Steve?”.
And fuck, that simple question had derailed his entire evening.
It was the first party in a long time that Steve Harrington hadn’t gotten laid. But that didn’t mean he didn’t get lucky—not when he had spent the whole night talking to you.
He hadn’t seen you since the night of the party since you ran in different circles and lived on other side of campus to the frat house. But Steve had remembered from your conversation (because yes, he had been hanging off every single word you had said) that you went to the library every Wednesday night to study.
And so, that was how he found himself in the library. Because he wanted to see you.
He had been in the library for almost half an hour at this point. His eyes constantly flickering between the book he had been pretending to read and the library doors, hoping that you would soon walk through.
It was just as Steve was beginning to wonder whether he had misheard you that night or if you simply had plans that he finally sees you pushing open the double doors.
Steve feels his chest tighten at the sight of you.
Shit. You looked beautiful and beautiful wasn’t a word Steve Harrington typically used to describe women. But you were.
You were wearing some knitted cardigan and the same smile he remembers from the night of the party. The smile that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for the past two weeks, the smile he had been desperate to see again.
Steve feels himself straightening up in his chair, one of his hands reaching up to ruffle his hair as though trying to make it look just a little unkempt. He feels his other hand raise up to catch your attention and he feels like a fucking idiot for doing so but before he could let his arm fall back down to his side, your eyes flicker towards his table.
And the soft smile you give him before making your way over? Well, he felt his evening getting derailed all over again.
His heart thunders in his chest as you walk towards him. Fuck—he had spent so long wondering where you were that he hadn’t even thought about what to actually say to you. He should probably say something smart or funny or—
“Good book?” was the first thing that you ask him when you finally reach his table.
Steve smiles at you, a lopsided and slightly goofy smile that was rarely seen on campus.
“Yeah,” he says, tapping the pages as he grins up at you. “It’s really—”
“Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“You know it’s upside down, right?”
For the first time—in a very, very long time—Steve Harrington blushes. He feels the heat behind his cheeks, a dusting of pink that he prays you don’t see.
“Yeah,” he replies, hoping to salvage the situation so his face doesn’t burn an even darker shade of pink. “I actually, um—I’ve already read it before. Several times and wanted to challenge myself to read it but…upside down.”
It was a terrible excuse and the both of you knew that. But still, you smile at him like you found him endearing. Not King Steve, not the guy who spent his weekends too drunk to remember what happened but him—Steve Harrington—the guy who had spent the past half an hour with a book upside down because he had been too busy looking for you.
“And how exactly is that going for you?” You ask him and Steve feels something swoop low in his gut as he realises you were subtly teasing him.
“Great,” he manages, trying to control the smile on his face. “I love a challenge.”
He sees it—he sees the way you have to fight back a smile at his words. He sees how you very nearly laugh. And fuck, if it doesn’t make him feel more alive than any party ever had.
“Do you maybe want to—”
“—Stevie!”
Oh shit. No, no, no. Absolutely not. Anyone but—
“Hi Sophie,” Steve greets the girl who had just approached his table with a slightly pained smile. He recognised her right away, since Sophie had been the very last girl he had hooked up with before the party where he had met you. The one had hadn’t called back because he had been too busy thinking about you.
Steve watches as Sophie’s face falls slightly.
“It’s Sophia.”
Great. Now he looked like an asshole in front of you.
“Oh,” Steve says, forcing himself not to look at you so he didn’t have to see the disappointment in your eyes. “I knew that.”
Sophie—or Sophia rather—recovers quickly, or at least pretends not to care about the fact that Steve had evidently forgotten her name.
“Did you um, did you lose my number or something?”
“What?” Steve asks her, his eyes finally flickering over to you to try to read your expression. But he can’t. He doesn’t know whether or not that was a good thing.
“My number,” Sophia repeats. “I thought—after we, you know, that you’d call me.”
Kill me now, Steve thought to himself. Just kill me. Make it quick and painless and—
“I’m gonna…go and study now,” you say suddenly before Steve could even think of a reply to Sophia.
Steve’s shoulders slump, part in disappointment and part in shame. Because he didn’t want you to leave and more than that, he didn’t want you to leave thinking he was a selfish asshole who didn’t remember the names of the girls he had slept with.
Steve says your name, half standing up from his chair as he tries to think of an excuse to get you to stay, “wait, I wanted to—”
But you were gone before Steve could finish his sentence.
“Who was she?” Sophia asks, unable to keep the jealousy from her voice.
Steve swallows, watching as you disappear behind a bookshelf as he slumps back into his chair, the book in his hands slipping onto the table.
“Nobody,” Steve mutters, the words feeling like poison on his lips. Because you weren’t a nobody. You were the girl who had managed to turn Steve Harrington’s world on its axis. “She was a nobody.”
Steve bites the inside of his cheek, hating the feeling swirling in his gut as Sophia looks at him as though she didn’t believe a word he said. Steve couldn’t have that, couldn’t have people seeing him disappointed or even mildly upset over a girl—
“Wanna come back to mine, Sophia?”
Steve ignores the way his throat feels tight when she says yes, ignores the voice in his head that told him not as he stands and hooks his arm over her shoulder and he certainly doesn’t run after you like he really wanted to. Because Steve Harrington might feel something for you but King Steve was determined to ignore it.
can I get a hazelnut latte with this prompt; “repeating "don't stop" like it's the only language left in your mouth”, hot please!
𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐔𝐏! - CRUSH
visit gray’s 4k cafe | frat!gator tillman x female!reader
gator makes you ride his hand until you admit you have feelings for him...
tags: [smut, MDNI] [frenemies with benefits/fuckbuddies] [frat!gator] [fingering] [orgasm denial] [catching feelings] 1.5k words
“Don’t know what you’re fuckin’ whinin’ for,” Gator drawls, calmly raising his vape to his lips as if his hand isn’t currently down your pants on the couch, fingers deep in your wet cunt. “You’re the one who wanted to watch a chick flick instead of fuck.”
You open your mouth to defend yourself, but all you can do is whimper as his fingers press deeper, rubbing at that spot yours can never seem to reach.
You’re practically lying in his lap now, embarrassing as that is, and you aren’t even supposed to be doing this again.
You had the dorm to yourself for the night with all your roommates gone for the weekend, visiting their folks or boyfriends—and you had moment of weakness.
You dialed Gator Tillman’s number.
You’d convinced yourself that it was just to talk, hopefully clear the air about what happened last time the two of you hooked up.
But when the knock sounded and the door swung open, revealing Gator in a tight white T-shirt, and a backwards hat, sucking on that vape pen…you knew you were in trouble.
And you were right.
The last twenty minutes have been torture, thanks to him bringing you to the edge twice, but not letting you go over.
You hate to say it, but honestly, you deserve this punishment.
You know better than this. You know what he does to you. It’s just…well, you’re ashamed to admit that this hot, football quarterback, fuckboy is like your own personal drug.
Because even after months of going without this, you haven’t stopped craving him for a second.
He strode into your dorm like he owned the place, boots heavy on the cheap wood paneling, and you scrambled to turn something on the TV—anything—just to distract yourself from the urge so to jump his bones right then and there.
Now, the TV light flickers across your dark dorm as the movie drones on, but you aren’t watching it. You’re too entranced by how thick Gator’s fingers feel, lost in the slick, sucking sound they make as they slide back into your cunt, lazily burying themselves to the hilt.
God, this was such a bad idea.
Because now that he’s here, smelling like his woodsy deodorant and watermelon flavored vape, you really, really just need him to lay you down and fuck into you hard and deep. Like he used to.
Before you screwed everything up.
“Fuck, Gator, I just—” you start, but his palm grinds into your clit, and it’s so big and warm, it has your head tipping back against his shoulder. “I-I changed my mind, okay?”
No. Bad. Very bad.
His bicep presses into your cheek, and you feel yourself slipping.
Stop. Remember last time…
Gator looks down at you, his hazel eyes flicking over your face, watching your eyebrows scrunch and your lips purse.
His mussed hair pokes out of the hole in his backwards ball cap, and there’s a little stubble on his cheeks and chin, like he hasn’t shaved for a few days.
The sight makes the sharp ache build between your legs as you imagine what that stubble would feel like rasping against your inner thighs.
He doesn’t say anything, but his fingers keep stroking your walls, making your breath stutter and your eyelids drop to half-mast.
He watches it all, then pinches his vape pen between his lips and reaches down with his other hand to untuck your necklace from your shirt. The chain whispers over the dialogue in the movie, and he drops the silver charm on top of your tank top, resting it right between your heaving breasts.
You’ve always worn a necklace with the first letter of your name as a tiny charm. He used to grab a hold of it with his teeth as you rode him in your bed.
The memory makes something in your chest twist, even as your thighs tremble around his hand, your back arching off the couch.
“Gator,” you pant. “Just f-fuck me—”
He takes the vape from his mouth and when his tongue darts over his bottom lip, hope surges through you like an electric current, lighting up your veins and making your blood sing.
But instead of hauling you into his arms and taking this to your room, he just exhales a cloud of vapor through his nose and turns back to the movie.
“Nah.”
Your stomach plummets.
“What do you mean ‘nah’.”
Gator twists his wrist, driving his fingers deeper and tearing a torn sob from your throat. “Don’t hear from you fer months, and then you—” he pauses, and you hold your breath. “Tell me why I’m really here, or I ain’t fuckin’ ya.”
His words fall over you like a heavy blanket, hot and suffocating. Both your mouths settle into thin lines, and you turn back to the movie, unwilling to put voice behind what’s really going on between the two of you.
Like how the last time he was here…you kissed.
You didn’t mean to. Not really. But he’d had you on all fours in your bed, driving his hard cock into you over and over, his hips smacking against your ass. And when he reached a hand up to tangle in your hair, drawing close to whisper in your ear, you turned your head a little too far—and then you were kissing.
His lips were warm, and softer than you expected. But what really surprised you was the way he reached for you, curling his hand around your throat and holding you there, like he was afraid you’d pull away before he did.
It’s your own fault, really. Getting your heart involved. Stupid.
Everyone knows the cruel fuckboy, football quarterback, and resident jerk, Gator Tillman, doesn’t do girlfriends.
Still, what’s happening now…it doesn’t track. You’re practically begging him to take you apart on his dick, and Gator—the guy who chastises you if you’re not already naked when you open the door for him—is holding back now?
Why?
“What do you want me to say?” You quip. Your voice is harsh, bordering on annoyed, but his thumb presses into your clit in response and your vision goes fuzzy. “W-want me to s-say I have a crush on you or something?”
His shoulders stiffen under your head. “Nah—who the fuck said that?”
“Well, you—“
He scoffs, cutting you off. “Y’know, if you’re gonna be a fuckin’ brat, I could just stop right now.”
“Stop?” you squeak.
“Ya heard me. Not a peep fer months, and then you wanna act like everything’s the same?” His fingers go still inside you. “Should just leave ya with nothin’.”
Panic flares up in you, and you grab his forearm to keep him there. It’s second nature to avoid his wrist, that joint that still gives him trouble after he broke it last year playing football.
“Please,” you beg. Embarrassment flares hot inside you, but you still tip your head back to meet his gaze. “Don’t stop.”
His lips twitch. Not good enough. Your hips roll hesitantly into his palm, but he still lets you ride his hand until you’re throbbing again, pulsing around his fingers.
You’re just at the brink of tipping over the edge when his fingers go still again.
“Gate,” you whimper. He exhales softly at the nickname for a split second and looks away. You knew it would do that to him. “Please don’t stop.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” you sigh, voice tight as you scramble for the words, “I want you to—”
“Say it again,” he says, cutting you off.
Your gazes lock again.
Someone in the movie laughs uproariously at something, but neither of you care to look. Footsteps carry through the dorm halls, followed by the slam of the door, and still, his eyes stay on yours.
But when your cunt flutters around his fingers, and his eyes drop to your lips, it’s that look right there that makes you finally realize what he’s after.
“I want you.”
The words leave your trembling lips in a whisper, but they scratch your throat—too raw, too…loud.
You shouldn’t feel this way about him.
But, God, you can’t help it.
“Yeah, ’s what I thought,” he sneers, but it doesn’t hold the heat he thinks it does, because his fingers resume their work inside you, and his palm meets every thrust of your hips now with a softness that wasn’t there before.
Your hard nipples rub against your tank top as the pleasure crests and your breathing picks up—
Suddenly, he pulls away.
His hand leaves your pants, ripping your orgasm out from under you again like a rushing tide with nowhere to crash.
A broken sound escapes you, and you reach back for him on instinct, but he stands before you can grab him.
“Fuck you,” you grit out, panting and wound up.
He snorts. “‘S what I’m tryna do.”
His broad chest rises over you, blocking the light of the TV, and then he surprises you by slipping his wet fingers into his mouth.
You stare at him, hair mussed, jaw agape. “What?”
His lashes flutter for a split second at the taste of your arousal before his hand drops and he’s moving.
“C’mon,” he grunts, striding towards your bedroom and snatching his vape on the way. “After three months, you’re crazy if you think I’m gonna let you come around anything but my cock.”
a/n: thank you to @keeryspullman & @tellcherhesgone for inspiring me with their posts about frat!gator!
gator masterlist | visit the coffee shop | go to gray's 4k event masterlist
summary: there are things steve has never told you, wounds he won’t explain and questions you’ve learned not to ask. but when loving him means watching him suffer in silence, you finally push, and steve would rather break your heart than let you see what’s hiding underneath his
wc: uhhhh 18.6k. idk i slipped.
warnings: 18+, mdni, HEAVY angst and smut, hurt/comfort, established relationship, steve being cruel, arguments, migraines/medical concerns, canon-typical trauma, references to torture/interrogation/drugging, panic attack, trauma, absent parents, crying, reconciliation, explicit smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise kink!steve, needy steve, reader on top, hair pulling, steve having a bit of a thing about being told he’s good, hair pulling, emotional sex, aftercare
masterlist
“Yes, thank you,” you say into the receiver, trapping it between your shoulder and your ear as you hunt for something to write on. “Two-thirty. Got it, yeah.” You grab an old envelope beneath the fruit bowl, flattening it against the counter as you scribble across the back. "Yeah, alright. Okay, thank you so much. Okay. No, that's perfect. Bye-bye.”
You lower the phone back into its cradle, trying not to feel guilty for what you had just done.
Steve is going to hate this.
His migraines have been getting worse. He would disagree, of course. If you asked him, there has never been anything wrong with him in his entire life that couldn't be fixed by chugging some water and swallowing a few tablets.
He has been getting them for as long as you've known him, and they were nothing at the beginning. He had this unbelievable way of placating your questions whenever they bubbled up, catching your wrist when you reached for his forehead, pressing his lips into the centre of your palm.
Quit looking at me like that.
Like what?
Like I'm dying or something.
The grin that followed had worked a thousand times before, making you roll your eyes and calling him dramatic. He'd tell you it was rich coming from you, and fifteen minutes later the conversation would have turned entirely.
He made it look so easy, as he did most things that upset him. You had seen him do it in crowded bars or restaurants, sunglasses hooked over his nose long after the sun disappeared because he insisted they went with his look. In the grocery aisles, squinting in the fluorescents, one eye narrowed slightly as he inspected produce, waiting for whatever was pressing against his skull to pass.
If nobody looked closely, he could hide it, but you knew him better. The last one had knocked him out flat, barely able to see out of his left eye. He'd made it halfway through some ridiculous insistence that the two of you could still go out, that you could make it to the movies, that he's honestly fine, and—oh, you gotta stop worrying, baby—it's nothing—
You'd taken his keys, drawn the curtains and ordered pizza neither of you really ate. He stretched out along the sofa with his head in your lap, one arm folded loosely across his stomach, the television turned down so low it might as well have been silent. You'd run your fingers through his hair, and he pretended he didn't particularly care one way or another. You'd figured out the exact place at the base of his skull that makes the tension leave his shoulders. If you scratch lightly there, the groan that leaves him travels his whole body.
You turn behind you to reach for the cupboard, grabbing a glass.
This morning had begun as they always do. Folded against him, cheek against the warm skin of his chest, him still mostly asleep with an arm heavy around your waist. His childhood bedroom was still filled with pieces of him everywhere, old trophies, records from when he told you he worked at a radio station, a sports pennant he has yet to take down, all things left over from versions of himself you never knew; stories he has only ever given you in pieces.
You detangled yourself, reaching over to pull the curtains open, but when that first stripe of morning escaped, he had recoiled, his hands coming up immediately.
He said it hurt a little bit, which meant yes. You'd learned the scale by now. A little bit meant he could already feel it coming, it's annoying meant it hurt, and I'm fine generally meant he was anything but. It was a tiresome game you played with him, but you were willing to play it nonetheless.
You fill the glass from the tap and take the packet of painkillers from beneath the sink, used to it by now. Steve was stubborn in every direction except the sensible one.
You'd suggested the doctor, then got shot down immediately, always behind a joke. Must be something knocked loose while playing basketball back in the day. You pushed a little harder, and he mentioned a few fights in high school, his attitude was worse then, if you can believe it. Jonathan Byers, apparently. You'd nearly laughed when he told you. Jonathan, the man whom he greets like an old war buddy whenever he is back in town, who crashes on the sofa and steals Steve's beer, who spends an entire evening arguing with him over which movie is suitable. There are pieces of Steve's past that appear like that. It's always brief, but what you do know is that they were bad years.
Everyone he's close with seems to share an understanding that dissolves whenever you get too close. You let it lie; everyone is entitled to parts of themselves they aren't ready to hand over. But there is a difference between privacy and watching your boyfriend lie in a dark room, unable to help himself because something hurts too badly.
And lately, that difference has begun to frighten you.
The glass is cold against your palm as you leave the kitchen; the Harrington house always seems large when Steve's parents aren't in it. They never are these days. He rarely talks about them either, another door you know better than to push against.
Your socks make almost no noise against the stairs, holding the glass steady as you climb. Pressing the bedroom door open with the tips of your fingers.
It is dark as your eyes adjust, the curtains still drawn. Steve is still in bed, the duvet slipped further down since you left him, bunched low around his waist. His bare torso rises and falls, one hand tucked by his head and the other over his face.
You let the door fall shut behind you; he doesn't move. You tread slowly across the room and set down the glass, careful not to make too much noise. He shifts slightly in the bed, his arm lowering a fraction.
"Hey," you whisper, perching on the edge of the mattress.
He turns more towards you, eyes tired as he blinks. You reach forward to meet him halfway, brushing the hair away from his forehead. His skin isn't feverish; you knew it wouldn't be, you've checked enough times in the past. You let your fingers linger as they scratch lightly against his scalp, earning you a soft sigh through his nose.
“Brought you some painkillers," you tell him, his eyes falling shut.
“Thank you, baby," he murmurs. His words are thick with sleep, slightly pained as they leave him.
"You're welcome," you say, pulling your hand away.
He makes the tremendous effort of opening his eyes again; they are soft as the corner of his mouth lifts.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," you return, laughing quietly.
Steve shifts as he starts pushing himself upright, and you reach for his arm to help him steady. His face tightens at the movement, eyebrows pulling together, but it's gone fast. Or rather, he makes it gone. He breathes out, shoulders rolling backwards as though there had been nothing there at all as he shuffles himself against the headboard. You don't say anything as he reaches towards the bedside table, picking up the pills and tossing them into his mouth, dry.
“Steve," you begin to chide as you pick up the glass. “I brought you water.”
"Mm," he hums as he begins to take a sip.
You stare at him as he lowers it and puts it back on the table. Watching him swallow the tablets has done little to improve your mood. He hates taking them dry, once complained to Dustin for fifteen minutes about not having something to wash them down, said it was dangerous—what if they got stuck?
You watch him sink back against the pillows. “Sorry I'm not more exciting this morning.”
You roll your eyes. “I think I'll survive.”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe. It's touch and go.”
“Damn.” His eyes stay closed, but his mouth twitches. “Knew I was losing my touch.” He holds his arms out toward you. "C'mere."
“Steve.”
One eye opens. There is the faintest grin on his face now, crooked and lazy, you can feel your resolve weakening.
“You should lie still," you tell him.
“I am lying still,” he quips back.
“I'm just gonna distract you.”
“Impossible, angel,” he holds his arms out wider. “Now, come here.”
You huff, but he knows he's won. The bastard even smiles a little more when you crawl across the mattress towards him.
“Don't be smug. You have a migraine.”
“Pretty sure I’m allowed both.”
Damn him.
You settle down carefully into his side, letting his arms close around you, exhaling as you settle into him. The muscles across his chest are still tight beneath your palm, and his shoulders haven't fully relaxed. Even holding you, there is a tension running through him, some invisible wire drawn from the base of his skull down the length of his spine.
You tuck your head against him as his chin rests lightly on your head. Your fingertips wander over his chest, tracing meaningless shapes across warm skin. A line, a circle. The edge of a rib, round and back again. You avoid the marks lower down, the ones you're not allowed to touch. The ones that stare at you as you ache to know why.
“You feeling any better than this morning?” You start instead, pulling your thoughts back.
Steve doesn't hesitate. “I am now.”
You close your eyes.
Always the romantic.
“Steve,” you lift your head enough to look at him. “I'm serious.”
“So am I,” he says, one eyebrow lifting.
You let your head drop back against his shoulder.
Fine.
For now, you let him have it. His fingers continue their lazy path along your back.
“We can cancel dinner tonight,” you say quietly.
His hand stills for half a second before starting up again, like nothing happened. “No, don’t," he starts. 'I’ll be fine by then—honest. You know how these things go. Couple hours, I’ll be good.”
But you do know how these things go; you've seen it before.
By six o'clock, the worst of it will probably have loosened its grip on him. He'll shower, stand beneath the water for too long because heat apparently helps, though he insists it doesn't. He'll come out with his hair still damp, grab the first shirt his hand touches and make some stupid joke about being good as new. You'll go out, and he'll insist on driving, because he wants to be the gentleman. At the restaurant, he'll sit with his back to the brightest light without mentioning it. He'll catch you staring, and he'll wink. And eventually, because he is frighteningly practiced at suffering without inconvenience, there will come a point where even you start wondering whether perhaps he really is fine.
You just wish he’d let you in sometimes. Even just a little.
“It's really not a big deal,” you say. “We can stay here. Watch something. I can find something in the fridge.”
“Baby, I told you, I’m gonna be fine. It’s just dinner. Not exactly a big deal.”
“Then we can cancel?” you ask, optimistically.
“The pills haven't even kicked in yet,” he shifts beneath you, settling more comfortably into the pillows. “Gotta give 'em a chance.”
You hum, though the urge to keep pushing only grows. He knows exactly how to get you to give in, soft touches and teasing words until whatever you were worrying about starts to slip away. But this time, you can’t quite shake the gnawing feeling in your stomach; the phone call that morning.
“You've had three migraines this month," you start tentatively, and you can feel the hand on your back slow. You keep your cheek against his chest as you continue. “That's more than usual.”
He doesn't answer, his palm travelling upwards between your shoulder blades.
“Steve?” You ask, a little firmer. “Are you listening to me?”
“I'm listening.”
You lift yourself onto one elbow, but he doesn't glance down.
“Hey, look at me,” you say as his eyes meet yours. You study him, the tired look in his face, shadows beneath his eyes. “Don't they worry you?”
They worry you plenty.
He shrugs, but the movement is awkward with you tucked beneath him. "Not really,” he says noncommittally. “They go as quick as they come.”
You stare at him. “That isn't always—”
“I'm fine,” he tells you, suddenly short. "Seriously, drop it. It'll be gone by this evening.”
You touched the nerve again.
He moves away now, pulling one arm away and rolling towards the nightstand, apparently done with the conversation. You feel the irritation boil beneath your ribs, the same that is likely swimming through him too.
"Steve, all I'm saying is that—"
“Can we not?” he says over his shoulder, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we just—I don’t want to do this right now.”
There it is again, the deflection.
You do want to do this right now; you want to help him. You should have done something ages ago, but you have been patient, far more patient than you wanted to be. You could tell him later, once the pills have kicked in, when he’s smiling again and smugly insisting he told you so. Maybe that would be kinder, but later, he’ll argue, he'll put on that face again and pretend that everything is fine. Right now, with his head pounding and his patience worn thin, he won’t have nearly as much fight in him.
“I called the doctor,” you tell him. It’s out there now, maybe this is finally progress. “I made the appointment this morning.”
That stops him.
“Why would—" he falters. "Why would you do that?”
There is no sleep left in his voice, though his words are still quiet, stripped of the warm rasp. His eyes are still tired, still narrowed faintly against the dim light leaking around the curtains, but something behind them has sharpened.
“Steve, you cannot be serious—”
“I didn’t ask you to," he says bluntly.
“I know you didn’t.”
“Then why—I mean—” he shakes his head.
You push yourself upright. “Because you weren’t going to.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Oh, come on,” you say as you stare at him, disbelief beginning to edge out the guilt you had expected to feel. “Even you have to admit this is getting kind of weird.”
His jaw shifts. “It’s not weird.”
“Steve—”
“It’s not like I’m the only person who gets them,” he cuts in, rubbing the heel of his hand against his temple.
“Three in a month?”
“It happens.”
“And the fact that sometimes you can barely see?”
His expression hardens. “It’s genetic.”
“Okay,” you say. “Have you asked your parents? Your dad?”
Low blow.
You know it the second you say it. Steve's relationship with his parents is strained on a good day and practically nonexistent on the others. They had been absent for most of high school, preferring whichever house they had been staying in along the East Coast while Steve rattled around Hawkins alone. They are not much better now; their presence in his life seems to arrive entirely through answering-machine messages and occasional phone calls he spends twenty minutes avoiding before finally caving.
You know exactly what you are doing, and he knows it too.
“No,” he grits out. “I haven’t.”
“Maybe you should. If it’s genetic, like you keep saying.”
His eyes flash. “Why? What’s it matter?”
You huff, irritation sparking hot now, hot enough to make you careless. “Because maybe then you could, I don’t know, figure out what’s going on here?” You gesture at him, to the state of everything. “Maybe you could actually solve one of your own problems instead of everybody else’s.”
Another low blow.
Apparently you’re collecting them.
You love his selflessness. You love that he will answer the phone at midnight, already pulling on shoes before one of the kids has finished explaining what is wrong. He comes to you, crisis after ridiculous crisis. You love that Steve shows up. Again and again and again, for everybody. You just wish he would occasionally consider himself worthy of the same effort.
“I’m fine, okay?" he says, "we already did this.”
“No, Steve, I don’t think we did.”
“Yes—fuck—we have.”
“No, you’ve said you’re fine and then changed the subject. That isn’t the same thing as having a conversation.”
He drags a hand over his face. “Oh my God.”
“I mean it.” Your anger is starting to fray now. “We don’t talk about a lot of things, okay? And I’ve let that go, because I know you don’t—”
Steve throws the duvet back. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, a little too quickly. His hand catches against the mattress.
“Steve—”
“I’m not getting into this with you this morning.”
He crosses the room towards the wardrobe. He yanks open the door hard enough that it rebounds slightly and begins rifling through the clothes inside. He finds a jumper and pulls it over his head aggressively; his hair catches beneath the collar, sticking out slightly at the back.
“Steve, wait, I'm—" He keeps walking as you scramble out of bed after him. “Jesus, can you stop?”
He starts down the stairs, hand tight against the bannister as you follow him, your frustration growing with every step. You trail after him as he goes into the kitchen, flicking on the light with a flinch.
“See?" You hold out your hand in disbelief. "You can’t even turn the lights on.”
He doesn't respond to you as he moves towards the coffee machine, body on autopilot as he ignores you behind him. Your anger twists painfully in your chest.
“Are you seriously making coffee?”
“Yes," he says shortly.
“You have a migraine.”
“Wow, really? Hadn't noticed.”
He reaches for the coffee tin before stopping halfway, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. He bows his head, rubbing two fingers hard against his temple.
There he is. Hurting.
“Steve," your voice is softer now, more steady. "You get why I'm asking, though, right?"
His eyes stay closed, and you are far too into it now, months of swallowed questions beginning to crowd behind your teeth.
“Listen, I know there’s shit you don’t like talking about,” you continue. “I know there are things that happened before we met and I get that. I can get that. Everybody is allowed to have things they don’t want to talk about—but you won’t even go to the doctor for a headache?”
He cannot think you're being unreasonable here.
"Honey," he begins, the sarcasm so thick it makes your skin prickle. “People don’t run to the doctor every time their head hurts.”
The way he speaks to you makes something ugly flare. You don’t like being talked down to, and you can feel something equally sharp rising to meet it.
“You know it’s more than a headache,” you snap. “Quit playing around. It doesn’t look good on you.”
It is unbearably quiet in the kitchen, knowing you're pushing harder than you ever have before on this.
There is a point in almost every argument where he usually gives; you know it well. You have seen it when the two of you bicker about leaving wet towels on the floor or whose turn it was to buy groceries. His mouth twitches as he decides whatever he was angry about isn't worth being angry with you. But you don't see it now; you see his eyes sharpen, rising to meet yours.
“I’m not playing around. I’m trying to tell you it’s nothing, and you keep making it into this huge thing.”
“Because it is a thing!”
“No, it isn’t.” His palm hits the counter, not quite a slam but hard enough that the spoon beside the coffee machine jumps. “You’re acting like I’m fucking dying or something.”
“I’m just trying to help, okay? I'm just looking out for you."
“I’ve got it, okay?” He sighs. “I can handle myself.”
“No, Steve, sometimes you can’t. That's the whole point here.”
Low blow, for the third time.
His jaw locks, and you know you should stop this here. You should cross the kitchen and touch him, apologise for the way that sounded, because it isn’t what you mean. You don't think he's helpless, don't think he's incapable. God, if anything, Steve has spent so much of his life proving the opposite that sometimes you want to shake him for it. But you are hurt too. And tired—so tired—and, if you were being truthful, you were frightened for him. You keep going.
“All I’m saying is that you don't have to do everything by yourself all the time. Eventually you’re going to need somebody to help you with more than whatever this is," you gesture at him exasperatedly.
Steve's fingers tighten; the muscles in his forearm stand out beneath his skin. He takes a slow breath through his nose, and you watch the frustration settle over him, that familiar wall going up between you.
You have seen him angry before, though never often.
He's got a sharp tongue, and usually you find it funny. Sometimes Robin will say something about his high school days, and he will immediately glare at her, colour creeping beneath his cheeks while everyone else laughs at some joke you aren't in on. Once, Dustin had started talking, but Steve had thrown an arm around your shoulders, dragged you against his side and told you not to listen to him. Seriously, the kid's a pathological liar, can't trust a word that comes out his mouth—
You hadn't thought much about it, but you see it now. The tiny shift in his face as he decides that defending himself isn't working. So he falls back on the one thing that has always worked for him.
He goes on the attack.
“Maybe I don’t want your help. You ever think about that?” You blink, but he doesn’t look away. If anything, his expression hardens. “I was doing just fine before you started getting involved. I’ll be fine without your help.”
“That isn't what I—” you try to interrupt, but he cuts you off with a sharp shake of his head.
“I don’t need you playing nurse because you feel sorry for me.”
Your mouth falls open. “That’s not what I’m doing—”
“No?” A humourless laugh slips out of him. He looks at you like he’s daring you to argue. “Come on. I get it. I know what this looks like.”
Your stomach drops. You’re not sure where he’s going with this now, and something in his face tells you you’re not going to like it. He gestures around the kitchen, the house. The enormous house, all of it immaculate and empty.
“Steve Harrington,” he says with a bitter laugh. “Big empty house, parents never around, nobody giving a shit if I eat or sleep or take a fucking aspirin.” His mouth twists. “Real sad, right?”
“That is not what I think.”
“No? Could’ve fooled me.”
You stare at him, genuinely stunned now by the venom beginning to seep between his words. Not even ten minutes ago, he’d been pulling you into his chest, his mouth crooked into that sleepy smile. Now, there’s nothing soft left in him. He’s all teeth.
“Don’t fucking do that," you hiss out, your patience wrecked.
“Do what?”
“That—” your voice rises. “That patronising thing like you know what I’m thinking better than I do.”
He pushes away from the counter, the sarcasm returning. “Sweetheart. Look at me.”
“Steve—”
“No, no, look at me.”
You do, and immediately wish you hadn’t. The sweet boy who held you this morning is gone. So is the one who begs for five more minutes in bed on the weekends, half-asleep and warm. The boy who always reaches across the console at red lights just to squeeze your knee is gone too. What’s left is angry and sharp, though you can still see the fear buried somewhere in his eyes. You don’t understand how the hell you got here over a damn doctor’s appointment. Right now, you’re not sure you understand him at all.
“Listen to me, okay? I’m not a kid. I don’t need you acting like my mom just ’cause you feel sorry for me.”
Your face burns. “I don't—”
“You do,” his voice finally rises. “You obviously fucking do.”
You shake your head in disbelief and turn away from him, dragging a hand through your hair. The sheer audacity of it leaves you speechless. You can only stare at the counter, trying to figure out what the hell you’re even supposed to say to him.
“I can see it. Every time you look at me, it’s there.” He says, voice tight. “Like I’m some sad fucking case you gotta take care of.”
You don’t answer. You don’t answer because, suddenly, it hurts. You know he’s being cruel on purpose, but somewhere beneath the anger, his words start to sink in anyway. You start wondering if maybe he means them, if maybe they’re true.
You think of all the times you’ve caught him rubbing absent circles over the scars on his side when he thinks you aren’t looking. Every question you’ve asked that somehow went unanswered, every Christmas morning spent around this cavernous house without his parents, every casual story about high school that always seems to stop just before it gets important. You think of all the times your heart has ached for him, being thrown back in your face.
“Oh, fuck you, Steve,” you say as you shake your head at him. “I'm not doing this because I pity you, for gods' sake—”
“Sure you aren't—”
“I’m doing this because I love you, you fucking asshole," his nostrils flare. “And if you’re too stubborn to make the appointment yourself, then fine. Fine. Be stubborn.” You throw a hand up. “I’ll drag you there myself if I have to. The doctor can tell you how completely insane you’re being, and then maybe—maybe we can finally be done with this.”
All that can be heard in the kitchen is your breathing, your breathing and the low buzz of the fridge. The space feels too large between the two of you. Steve stares at you, and you watch him choose his next movement carefully, letting your words wash over him.
Something frightened rises in his eyes, and you catch it before he can bury it again. You let yourself believe that maybe, this might be it. The moment he finally tells you, tells you everything.
Maybe you're being naive, asking for something he doesn't know how to share. But he looks so hollow and so tired, so full of hurt that all you want is to take some of it away. To let him empty a little of it into you. To use you, just this once, for whatever comfort you can give him. You would let him; you would always let him. Perhaps this is what it has always been like for him, letting people take and take because being useful is easier than being known. Letting them lean until all that weight starts to feel like love. Giving pieces of himself away so quietly that nobody ever thinks to ask what it costs him.
The fear that was once there is gone in an instant, buried beneath something much older, much meaner. For years, his friends have joked about King Steve as though he were somebody else entirely. A boy left behind in school corridors and locker rooms, a stupid haircut with a stupid reputation. A version of himself they can laugh about now because surely enough time has passed he could never resurface.
But people don’t become someone else completely; some instincts just get buried. And Steve Harrington still knows how to be mean in the way he perfected in high school. He knows how to pick at something until you’re embarrassed you ever cared about it, how to turn a soft spot into a punchline and make you feel stupid for letting him see it in the first place. He has spent enough time watching you to know every bruise by heart, knowing exactly where to push to hurt.
His eyes move over your face. When he speaks, his voice is almost gentle.
“You wanna know what I think?” Your chest rises sharply. His mouth pulls into something that isn’t quite a smile. “I think you need me to need you. ’Cause if I’m fine, if I can handle my own shit, then—well, what the hell are you even doing here?”
Christ, Steve.
You don't feel anything as the words leave him. No anger or hurt where you thought it would come. You feel numb, actually. Just an emptiness where every single thought disappears within you, your heart contracting at his admission.
So that’s what he thinks your love is.
“Wow.” You nod once, already blinking the wetness that is gathering on your lashes. “You really wanna talk about needing to be needed, Steve?” Your mouth twists as you deliver the final blow. “Look in the fucking mirror.”
Steve's face falls as he comes back to himself, your words jolting him out of his nasty haze, but what did he expect? He got what he wanted, found the thing that would finally make you stop. Whatever satisfaction there might have been in landing the blow lasts less than a heartbeat.
“Angel—”
You laugh then, not quite meaning to as your vision begins to blur.
Fuck.
You blink again, hard, but the tears come anyway.
“Jesus Christ," you mutter to yourself.
“Hey—” His voice changes. “Hey, no, I—”
You are already moving. You turn and leave the kitchen before he can say anything else, walking quickly enough that the hallway tilts slightly around you. Your heart is beating painfully hard, turning your hands clumsy and your breath too shallow.
You need to leave.
“Hey—hey, wait—” his footsteps follow you. You find your bag where you dropped it beside the table in the hall and wrench it upwards. “Baby, wait, I didn’t—”
You ignore him, looking for your shoes beneath the coat rack. You shove one foot into the first, heel crushing the back down because your fingers are shaking too badly to fix it properly.
“Just—just hang on a second,” his hand closes around your arm.
“Get off," you grit out as you pull yourself away.
He lets go immediately, but he still stands too close. The anger is gone from his face as you take a glance; now, all that remains is fear. Stone cold fear.
“I didn’t mean that,” he says. "I didn’t—baby, honest—I didn’t mean it.”
You shove your other foot into your shoe. “Move.”
“I just—”
“Steve, stop it.”
“Just—just listen to me for a second, okay?” His words are coming fast, panicked. “I had a headache, and you were—you kept talking about it, and I just wanted you to stop—”
You shake your head and reach for the front door, not allowing him to finish, but he moves just as quickly at your side.
“I wanted to stop talking about it,” he says. “That’s all—I just—I needed to get you to stop talking.”
His hand comes down tentatively on your shoulder, but you shrug him off again before he can settle there. The same hand that held you so gently this morning leaves the place it touched burning.
You risk a glance up at him. His brown eyes keep moving across your face like he is trying to find the right thing to say and discovering, perhaps for the first time in his life, that sometimes there is no right thing to say after you’ve said the worst one.
“I just—I wanted you to drop it,” he says, voice catching. “That’s all.”
“There are other ways to make me drop something, Steve.”
Anything other than that.
“I know, I shouldn't have—”
“You don’t get to say shit like that to me,” you say as his eyes drop. “You—you don’t get to just find the worst thing you can think of and throw it at me in the heat of the moment, or—or because your head hurts or because I’m annoying you. You can’t do that when you're just angry.”
Or scared.
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know!”
“Then I’m sorry—” his voice cracks around it. “I’m sorry. Okay?—I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed it. Just—” he catches himself before touching you again. “Just take your shoes off, okay? Just stay," he gestures vaguely towards the stairs, towards the kitchen. “I'll stop—I'll drop it, I swear.”
You turn back towards the door, not wanting to listen to him trying to fix this.
“We’ve still got dinner tonight,” he continues desperately. “Remember? We’ll go out. I’m paying.”
A disbelieving laugh escapes you. “You think dinner fixes this?”
“No,” he shakes his head quickly. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just—fuck, I don’t know. I’m trying here.”
You wish he wouldn’t.
He could have let you closer long ago, could have opened something this morning. It didn't have to be much, just a little. You thought if you loved him patiently enough, he might someday hand you one small piece of it. But all because you pushed a little too much, he had shoved you back ten times harder.
You wipe furiously at your cheek as you shove past him, the front door opens beneath your hand and daylight comes crashing in. You see him wince but refuse to stop, putting one foot in front of another on autopilot. Your bag slides down your shoulder as you dig inside for the keys.
“Wait, wait—sweetheart, please.”
You keep walking. The gravel bites beneath his bare feet behind you.
“Steve,” you mutter, fumbling through your bag. “Go inside.”
You find the keys and stand sideways as you unlock the car. He stands just behind you, breathing heavily. The brightness must be agony; his hand against his forehead, shielding his eyes. You reach the car and wrench open the door, but he catches it before you can climb inside.
“When’s the appointment?”
“What?”
“The doctor.” He blinks against the light. “When is it?”
You stare at him, watching the desperate rise and fall of his chest.
“I’ll go,” he repeats. “Okay? I’ll go. You can come with me.”
You push him away as you climb into the driver's seat and shut the door. The keys shake between your fingers as you try to put them in the ignition.
“I’m serious. You can come in with me, you can sit there, you can—you can tell ’em whatever you want. I don’t care.”
The engine turns over, finally springing to life as you grip the steering wheel, your eyes swimming.
“Don’t—don’t go. Please, just—shit, just wait, okay? You can’t—you can’t leave like this. Let me fix it. Please.”
You close your eyes and take in a long drag from your nose. You want nothing more than to turn this damn engine off, climb out and march him right back into a dark room and make him lie down. You want to press something cold against his forehead and crawl beneath the blankets. You want his arms around you as he murmurs apologies into your hair until morning bleeds into afternoon then evening, until this whole disaster becomes something you can laugh about months from now. You want to forgive him before you have even had time to grieve the previous version you thought you knew.
This is exactly why you have to get away. Loving Steve has always been easiest when he is sorry. He goes soft around the edges, looks at you with those wounded eyes. You know if you stay, you’ll forgive him before you’ve even finished hurting. So you have to leave while it still aches enough to go.
“Steve, I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
His face goes still; he just stares at you through the open window, like he’s waiting for the rest of the sentence. Like surely there has to be something after that.
“Okay—okay, you don’t have to,” he takes a step back from the car, though he stays bent toward the window, his eyes never leave yours. “That’s—yeah. That’s okay... But you will, right?”
Your hand stills on the gear shift, and he swallows hard.
“Eventually, I mean.” His voice is smaller now. “You’ll—you’ll come back?”
You put the car into reverse as he begins to panic.
“Wait, wait—” His hand slips from the door as the car begins to move. “You’re coming back, though, right?”
You can’t answer him. You don’t know what the answer is. Maybe you should give him something. A tomorrow or a later. Some mercy he can hold onto after everything he took from you in that kitchen.
“Angel?”
He’s standing barefoot in the drive, eyes red and shining. He looks frightened. Young, somehow. Like underneath all that anger and all those carefully chosen words is the same boy who learned too early that people leave and houses stay empty.
“Angel,” he says again, and his voice breaks around it. “You’ll come back, won’t you?”
The tears spill hot down your cheeks. You grip the steering wheel until your fingers ache. “Take care of yourself, Steve.”
His whole face falls, like somewhere inside him, a light goes out. You start backing down the driveway, but he doesn't follow you this time. You watch him in the rearview mirror as you go, getting smaller and smaller beneath the morning sky. Behind him, the house rises, huge and immaculate, too many windows, too many rooms, all that space waiting to swallow him whole.
You keep driving until eventually there is more white behind him than there is Steve. You turn onto the road as he disappears from the mirror.
Only when there is no chance of him seeing you break do you finally let yourself cry.
“Hey. Uh. It’s me. I went. To the appointment, I mean. She wants me to see somebody else about the headaches, so… I’m gonna do that. You don’t have to call me. I know you said you didn’t wanna talk. Just wanted you to know I went. Okay—uh, bye.”
The tape softly comes to an end. You stand beside the stove, staring at nothing in particular as the answering machine concludes, again.
At least he listened to one thing.
You have played the message enough times now that you could probably recite every hesitation along with him. It came yesterday, sometime around noon, but you hadn't answered the phone when it rang. You'd been sitting cross-legged on your bed with a book open in your lap, reading the same paragraph for what must have been twenty minutes. You'd let it ring, knowing who would be on the other line. The voice you didn't have the energy to face.
You got exactly what you wanted. Someone had taken one look at him and decided they warranted somebody else’s attention. Usually, an I told you so tastes sweet. This one's only bitter.
You reach for the wooden spoon before the sauce can catch against the bottom of the pan, scraping slowly around the edge. The anger you felt has begun to drift, not holding so tight today. The first twenty-four hours had been different; you had been furious then.
You had not been kind that morning. There were moments you wished you could drag back between your teeth, swallow before they reached him. But not the appointment; you cannot bring yourself to regret that.
You're sorry you frightened him, sorry you pushed when he was hurting, that somewhere along the way concern turned into interrogation and both of you became more interested in winning than listening. But you are not sorry that someone is finally going to look at him.
At least one of us is getting somewhere.
You turn the heat down. Physically, at least, Steve seems to be getting somewhere. Whatever is happening mentally is another matter entirely; not if he feels anything like you do. You've never liked being angry, even on the best of days, and this anger feels especially exhausting because it refuses to burn clean.
Your bed was cold this morning, which is rare for a Tuesday. The two of you sleep together most nights, arranging your routines and toothbrushes next to each other. He prefers your place. Claims your mattress is better, though his probably costs more.
Mostly, you suspect, he likes that you live closer to the school. Twenty extra minutes in bed is twenty extra minutes in bed, which he rarely uses wisely. He rolls over you, warm weight and sleep-mussed hair, his soft mouth finding softer places along your neck, your chest—
You scrape the spoon around the bottom of the pan again.
Don't think about it.
You can’t keep mourning a version of him you’re not sure ever existed. Maybe only in your memory is he still the boy who would make an idiot of himself just to hear you laugh.
Who’s to say what was real anymore?
For so long, you had thought you knew him, thought you were one of the only people who could understand. You know he likes his coffee too sweet, which songs he'll change halfway through and which ones will make him drum the wheel. You know when he is lying, when he is tired. You know how he loves people. That might be the part you know best: he loves like somebody trying to make himself indispensable.
You had thought knowing all of that meant knowing him, but Steve is a map of unfinished stories.
The flat smells warm, garlic and tomatoes and whatever herbs you had thrown into the pan without thinking. Usually, he would have wandered into the kitchen by this point, lifted the lid despite being explicitly told not to, burned his fingers on something and then acted shocked when it happened.
You like to think you did know him, in a way. Just not the way you thought you did.
You taste the sauce, add salt, and turn toward the cupboard to find a bowl. Only to be interrupted by a small knock coming from the door.
Who could—
It's so quiet you almost convince yourself you imagined it, but then it comes again.
Surely it couldn't be—
You turn the hob off and make your way towards the sound, your stomach already sinking because you have a feeling who will be waiting on the other side. One look through the small peephole confirms it.
Why is he here now?
You pull back.
Fuck.
He told you—he told you he wasn’t going to make you talk. You hadn’t wanted to do this now; you consider ignoring him entirely.
But you do know this about him: Steve is persistent, especially when he thinks someone is hurting, and once he’s made up his mind, it’ll take far more than a closed door to make him leave.
Damn it.
You hesitantly undo the lock, but leave the chain in place before opening it fully those few inches. You need the barrier there, just in case you do something stupid.
You risk a glance through the narrow sliver of the doorway, letting your eyes travel over him. It’s obvious he came straight from work—white shirt creased and tucked into dark trousers, sleeves shoved up toward his elbows. No tie, the top two buttons undone, no blazer either. Probably tossed across the backseat of his car.
Your gaze drifts back up to his face. His eyes are brown and heavy, shadows sitting deep beneath them, and there’s something almost startled in the way he looks at you. Like he hadn’t really expected you to open the door. You hadn’t expected it either. You still don’t want to see him.
“Hi," he begins, shifting on his feet.
“Hi,” you say bluntly, watching him cautiously. His face falls a little when you don’t open the door any farther.
Too bad. He earned the distance.
“Uh,” he begins again. “Did—did you get my message?”
Your fingers tighten around the wood. “Yes.”
He nods again, resigning himself to the fact that you’re not going to budge. Not this time, not like you usually do after a fight. He probably knew it would be like this before he came, but he’s here anyway, so he tries. “I—uh, I went.”
You sigh at the hopeful lilt in his voice. “I know.”
“No, yeah, I know you know.” He says quickly. “Obviously. I just—I saw your note in the kitchen. The one with the number?"
There is something almost childlike in the way he tells you this, like he did what was asked of him and is waiting to be told he did well.
“Okay,” you say slowly, not offering him any help.
“They—uh—they gave me some pills,” he continues. “Something stronger—not, like, crazy strong or anything. And they said they wanna refer me to somebody else, some specialist guy, I don't remember what kind exactly, but they wrote it down, so... I'm gonna go.”
“Okay,” you repeat again, allowing another silence.
He looks at you, through the gap that feels far too small, waiting for something, waiting for the reward. He's always been like that, though he’d never admit it aloud—always watching your face for some small sign that he got it right, that he helped, that you needed him and he managed to be what you needed. A quiet good job, a hand in his hair, the reassurance that whatever he’s just dragged himself through meant something because it mattered to you.
You are proud of him, in a way. But pride is not forgiveness, and love is not permission, and you have spent too long confusing the two where he is concerned.
His eyebrows pull together. “You're not gonna say anything?”
It doesn’t sound like a dig. If anything, it sounds hopeful, not helping with the hurt that is once again making itself known.
Why should you be the one making this easier for him?
You didn’t ask for any of this, didn’t ask him to come over. Now he’s standing here like going to one doctor’s appointment might earn him some small piece of forgiveness.
“What do you want me to say, Steve?” His eyes drop. “That I’m proud of you? That you did a good job?”
“No, I just thought—”
“You thought what?” you cut in through the narrow gap. “That because you did one small thing, everything would just be fine again?” Your fingers tighten around the edge of the door. “Do you even remember what we were fighting about?”
You knew how this would go. Steve showing up with the one part he could fix neatly while everything underneath it remained untouched. The avoidance, the shutting you out. The way he could make you feel foolish for reaching toward him and then act surprised when you finally stopped.
You can live around locked doors for a while, learn which questions not to ask. But for how long? How long until there is another morning like that one? Another fight born from nothing more terrible than you loving him and Steve still not knowing what to do when someone tries to love him back?
His silence is answer enough. Frustration burns hot beneath your skin, tears already beginning to gather behind your eyes.
Coward.
“I—I think you should go,” you manage; you don’t have it in you to dance around the truth tonight. “I can’t do this right now.”
“No, wait, there’s—”
You start to close the door, but his hand shoots into the gap. The edge catches hard against his fingers, but he doesn’t even flinch.
Always the fucking martyr.
“Steve—”
“Just—” He begins. “Just open the door, okay? I wanna talk. I do. I want you to understand.”
“I can’t understand.”
Not when he doesn't let you.
The words come out louder than you intend, and whatever was holding you together finally gives. The frustration spills over again before you can stop it, pent up and angry. Angry at him for springing this on you now, for not tending to this wound months ago.
“I can’t—I don’t understand why you won’t just talk to me.” You scrub at your face, emotions getting the better of you. “I don’t like this, Steve. I don’t—I feel like I don’t know you sometimes. Like you’re here, and then you’re not. Like you’re always just—just one step away from me.” You shake your head. “And I can’t—I don’t know how to follow you there.”
And now that you’ve started, you can’t seem to stop. It isn’t only that morning anymore. It’s every half-answer and every subject changed too quickly. Every story with the important pieces carved out of it.
Your fingers curl tighter, and on the other side, Steve has gone completely still.
“I—I don’t know what I am to you sometimes.” Your voice cracks as you swallow around the ache in your throat. “I know you come to me. I know you hold me and you sleep beside me and you—” Another breath shudders out of you. “You let me make you feel better. But I don’t feel like you let me have you.”
The words come out small. Pathetic, almost.
“I feel like I’m just somewhere you go when you don’t wanna be inside your own head anymore.” You wipe at your cheeks, but the tears keep coming. “Like—like you can crawl into me and hide for a little while, and I’ll—I’ll hold you, and I’ll love you, and then the second it gets too close, you just—you just leave me there.” You look at him through the narrow opening. “I hold you all the time, Steve. I—I do. I hold anything you can give me.” Your mouth trembles. “I just don’t think you’ve ever—” You shake your head, crying harder now. “I don’t think you’ve ever really held me back.”
The words hang there between you, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing.
There. You finally said it.
After weeks of circling around it, swallowing it back, pretending you could live with it if you just loved him carefully enough. Your chest caves inward as the last of your anger finally gives way, cracking clean open into grief. You know it needed to be said, you know that, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.
You pull your hand away from the door to cover your mouth, trying to smother the sound that comes out of you, but Steve wrenches the door back against the chain immediately.
“Open the door.” His voice is urgent now.
“Steve—”
“No, no—just, please. Please, open it.” His fingers curl around the edge of it like he could somehow pull himself through the few inches between you. “I’m right here, okay? I’m—I’m right here.”
You shake your head, crying too hard to answer.
“Baby, don’t—” His voice catches. “Don’t cry—not because of me—Jesus, please.” His hand appears through the gap, but there isn’t enough room. His fingers catch nothing but air. “Just unlock it. Please. Just—just let me in.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. You can hear him shift from the other side, desperate to cross the distance.
“I need you. Okay? I do. I need you," his breath shudders as his fingers flex uselessly against the door. “Just let me in. Please. I’ll try, I swear, I’ll try. Just—” His voice drops. “Please. You’re right there and I can’t—I can’t—just let me in.”
Something in you gives at the sound of him. You’re so tired—so fucking tired—of carrying all of this by yourself, of waking up angry and going to bed missing him anyway, no longer even sure which version of him you’re missing.
You shouldn't—
Against every better instinct you have, you push the door closed just enough to reach the chain. Your fingers are shaking so badly you nearly miss it.
The second it comes free, Steve is there.
His hands find you immediately, holding you to him. One arm wraps around your back, and the other cradles your head, pulling you against him, letting you lean on him. You fist both hands in the front of his shirt and hold on as he folds around you. His palm moves slowly, again and again, smoothing your hair while you cry into his chest. He presses his cheek against the top of your head and keeps shushing you under his breath, soft but frantic, adrenaline coursing through his body.
The silence of the last few days has settled too deeply inside you, all that space pressing into places his arms can’t quite reach. You can touch him now, feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, his hands.
But what good is touching someone when you still can’t understand them?
You cry harder into him, into the strange, impossible shape of Steve Harrington—soft beneath your hands and still somehow unknowable. So kind it hurts and so familiar he feels like home, so often a stranger you can't reach.
“Come on,” he murmurs, and you let him guide you to sit on the sofa, but you don’t let go of him. Your hands stay twisted, and something in his face breaks at the sight of it—at the fact that he let you get this far. “C’mon, sweetheart, I’m here, aren't I? I’m here now.”
His words are sweet, gentle. But that's all they are, hollow and soft.
Useless.
“But you’re not, Steve," you lift your head shakily. "You're just not."
His hand stills where it has been moving over your hair, watching the ache move across his face. His mouth parts slowly and his eyes soften.
“Sweetheart—”
“Maybe this needed to happen.”
His head comes up sharply. “No—no, don’t say that.”
You look down between you, at the wrinkles your fists have left. His hands are still on you, but there is something almost tentative in his touch that unnerves you more than his panic at the door had.
Almost like he's preparing for something.
“I don’t expect you to tell me everything,” you say eventually. “I don’t—I never did.”
He looks at you, and something about the silence tells you that perhaps a small part of him had been afraid that was exactly what you meant.
“I know there are things you don’t want to talk about. I know—and that’s fine. They’re yours.” Your fingers flatten against his chest; beneath your palm, his heartbeat is going too fast. “But I can’t keep—I can’t keep asking you something and then watching you shut down like I’ve—like I’ve stepped on a fucking landmine.”
His jaw shifts. “I don't mean to.”
“Then why?” You press desperately.
Why can't he at least try?
“Because it’s not—” He breathes out hard through his nose, frustrated. He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, his face drawn with the effort of arranging something he has clearly never intended to put into words. “It’s not just me that it would be bad for. Okay? You gotta understand that.”
A small chill goes through you. “What does that even mean?”
He's still talking in riddles.
“Baby,” He drags one hand over the back of his neck, and there he is again, that old reflex beginning to rise—the frustration, the scrambling search for somewhere else to take the conversation. “Can you just—”
“No,” you grit out, and his eyes flick back to yours. You hate how quickly fear makes you stubborn. You hate even more that you can feel him preparing to retreat. “No,” you repeat. “I can't. I can't keep doing this.”
Something in his face gives as his shoulders shrink a fraction.
“Baby,” he says quietly, “it won't be good for you.”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t even know what you’re asking.”
“Then tell me—anything," you beg, and you hate how small you sound. “Just—God, Steve, give me one thing. One real thing. Something that tells me this isn’t what it’s always going to be like.”
The apartment seems suddenly too quiet around you. Outside, a car passes along the road, tyres hissing. Ordinary sounds from an ordinary evening. Steve looks anything but ordinary as you watch the thoughts move behind his eyes.
His gaze drops to your mouth, then your shoulder; his fingers flex against your back. He looks briefly toward the door, and something inside your chest twists at the instinct of it—not because you think he will leave, but because some part of him clearly wants to.
He wants to run again.
Always fucking running.
“Okay,” he whispers with a small nod, though it seems more for himself than you. “Okay. We can—uh."
Steve stares at his hands. You can feel his breathing against your shoulder, too measured to be natural. You have seen him nervous before. Before parents evening, before calling his dad, but this is different.
If letting someone in hurts him this much, then perhaps there was never meant to be room for you there at all.
You can't do this anymore.
“Steve,” you whisper. “If you can never do this, maybe we aren't—”
“No.” His answer is immediate. He looks at you, and there is something painfully earnest in his expression. “No, don’t—don’t say that. That’s not what I want.”
Then what does he want? You to roll over and shut up when he decides you've had enough of him for that day?
Your throat tightens as his fingers leave your waist. His fingers rise up to rub against his temple, the same spot that is the root of all of this. His hand stays there, two fingers resting against the place you've seen him press a hundred times before.
You didn't want it to end like this.
You think you can manage without him here. At least, you hope you can. Loving him had once been as easy as breathing; in the beginning, you thought he had given himself to you completely. Maybe you were wrong; there were always rooms inside him he intended to keep locked.
And if this is something he cannot give you—if letting you in is a piece he simply cannot bring himself to face—then you will have to learn how to accept that. You cannot spend your life loving a ghost, reaching for someone who disappears the moment you get too close.
You hope, eventually, you can make peace with it. You hope he can too.
“It, uh…” He clears his throat, pulling you back into the room. “It happened the summer of—of ’85.”
You frown, not following, unsure where this is headed.
“The fire,” he says. “At the mall. That’s when they started,” he continues, fingers brushing his temple. His mouth pulls tight. “That’s—uh, when they started to happen for real.”
You go very still as he looks away.
Oh.
He looks somewhere far, not just staring at the wall. He stares somewhere you cannot follow; as usual, his gaze settles blankly in the distance. His face empties; the nerves are still there, but everything else seems to draw inward, leaving him strangely glazed over.
You don't move. You barely breathe.
You've waited so long for this. Months of questions swallowed before they reached your tongue, scars you taught your fingers to move around rather than across. You have imagined this moment in a hundred different ways. You thought that if he ever opened the door, even an inch, relief would be the first thing you felt.
Looking at his face now, you begin to think you shouldn't have knocked.
“It was, uh…” he wets his lips. His voice sounds strangely distant, like he is repeating something someone else once told him. “It was the summer after I graduated. I didn't—y'know, I didn't get the grades for college or anything, dad decided I needed to learn about the real world.”
There is the ghost of something sarcastic in the last few words, not quite a joke, he doesn't seem capable of making one properly right now.
“S'where I met Rob.”
Okay, that part you know.
You know the ridiculous blue shorts and the sailor hat you once found stuffed behind a box at the back of his wardrobe. It had been early enough in your relationship that you were still learning which things you were allowed to tease him about, and you'd emerged with the shirt held against yourself, laughing while Steve groaned into his hands.
Oh, come on, Harrington. Don't tell me you wouldn't wear it for me.
Absolutely not.
You don't know. Maybe I'm into sailors.
Then find another sailor.
You'd chased him around the room with the hat until he'd caught you around the waist and thrown you onto the bed. You remember him laughing then, cheeks pink while he tried to wrestle the thing out of your hands. You remember asking afterwards why he had kept it if he hated the uniform so much.
Dunno. Should burn the damn thing.
Sitting beside him now, you realise with a sick feeling that perhaps he had meant it.
“We worked together. Me and her, then Dustin came back from camp.”
You nod faintly. He breathes in through his nose, and you think that might be all he gives you. Then his hand starts moving against his slacks again, rubbing once down his thigh, then back up. Something to do with himself, something grounding.
“He was so excited.” A little more of Steve appears in his voice, something warmer creeping in. “You know how he gets. Couldn't just come home like a normal person. Had this whole radio thing built on a hill, dragged everyone up there to see it.” He glances at you as if checking whether you're still with him.
You remain still, eyes on him, wrapped around every word.
“Huge thing. Probably illegal somehow, knowing Henderson.” His breath catches around what almost becomes a laugh. “Kid used those walkies for everything back then.”
You can picture it easily enough. Dustin at fourteen, Steve several years younger than the man sitting beside you and already allowing himself to be dragged into whatever scheme the kid had invented.
“He thought he picked something up,” he says. “On the radio. Some transmission—I don't know—some kinda code or something. Wasn't English. He thought we could crack it. And I thought… hey, why not? I didn't really have anything else going on. Scoop ice cream, drive home. Pretty packed schedule.” One shoulder lifts and falls. “So we started messing with it. Thought it'd give us something to do.”
It sounds simple enough: kids in the summer, cracking codes and saving the world—the kind of make-believe everyone wishes they’d lived when they were young. But you know this story doesn’t end happily. Not when you can feel him practically vibrating beside you. Not when he can barely meet your eyes as he talks about the people who mean more to him than anything.
“It turned out to be something.” The room seems to contract around the words. "Something realer than we thought. Realer than I thought.”
That finally makes him look at you. His eyes find yours and stay there, and you can see the fear beginning to bleed. You don’t know what to say that could make any of it feel okay. You probably look a mess, tear tracks dried tight against your cheeks, swollen eyes, hair a mess from burying your face against him. You don't know if you look safe. You don't know how to make yourself be safe. You want to reach out for him, desperately.
“We got too close.” His gaze drops again.
“Where?” you ask cautiously, unable to help yourself.
“I can't—” The answer comes so quickly that you immediately regret asking. His shoulders tighten. “Sorry. I can't. Just… somewhere we weren't supposed to be.”
You don't push this time, letting him breathe. He presses his mouth together before he continues.
“We should've stopped. Way before that. I should've stopped it.” His palms are sliding over his knees now, restless against the fabric. “I should've sent the kids home when we realised it wasn't some stupid radio thing.”
“The kids?”
There were more?
“Erica.”
You stare at him. “Erica? Lucas's Erica?”
“Yeah.”
Your stomach drops another inch.
You know Erica Sinclair. Not well, but enough. You've seen her sprawled across the armchair at Lucas and Max's house, suggesting everyone around her is painfully beneath her intellectual level. You've heard her dismantle Steve with three sentences while he points furiously at her and demands to know why nobody ever tells her to respect her elders. She is so self-assured now. Your mind scrambles backwards through the years.
“How... how old was she?”
Steve gives a horrible shake of his head. “Ten? Eleven? I don't—fuck, I don't know.”
You understand immediately that he’s asked himself that question before. Probably more times than you ever will. His whole career now orbits around children, the way he watches over them, never lets them feel small or overlooked. You can’t imagine what it would do to him if one of them got hurt on his watch. You’re not sure he could bear it.
Suddenly, pieces of him that never quite made sense before are beginning to fall into place.
“Steve…”
“I never should've let them come.”
“You couldn't have—”
“I could.” His answer is sharp, though not angry with you. “I was the oldest. Robin was—she was closer, but I was supposed to…” He stops, jaw working. “I knew better. I should've known better.”
He was barely nineteen. A kid himself.
“We weren't supposed to be there,” he repeats. “And the people who were there… They were important. High up, I guess. Military or government or—fuck, I don't know what they were.”
Steve looks down at his hands. They are trembling now, only slightly, but enough that you can see it.
“They were doing shit under the mall.” His words begin coming faster, as though now that he has said the impossible part aloud he has to outrun your reaction to it. “Like underneath it. I don't—I don't know if it was built because of them or if they got there after or what. I never figured that part out.”
You feel cold despite the warmth of the room. You've heard the stories of what happened. The newspaper photographs, smoke rising black against a summer sky, names printed in columns afterwards, Hawkins mourning another inexplicable tragedy. A fire. That was the story, the one the town went with.
You never would have guessed that Steve had spent all this time carrying the weight of a lie he was expected to keep alive every day.
His breathing has changed, each inhale a little shorter than the last. You move before you can think better of it, leaning closer and resting your hand gently against his thigh, because you don’t know what else to give him. You don’t know what could possibly be enough.
He drags in a breath through his nose and lets it out slowly between his teeth, like even that takes effort now. Your palm stays where it is, warm against the dark fabric, the smallest reassurance you can offer.
“They were gonna get the kids.” His voice catches. “They were gonna—they…” He presses his lips together. “They didn't.” His hand comes down over yours suddenly, gripping hard enough that you feel the bones in your fingers shift. “They didn't get 'em. Dustin and Erica got out. They got us, and they—” Nothing comes. His mouth remains open, but whatever word had been travelling toward it seems to die somewhere inside him. '"And they—”
“Hey.” Your voice comes out instinctively soft, he shakes his head. “Steve, it's okay, you can stop—”
“No, I—” He turns toward you abruptly. His eyes are too bright now. “No. I wanna do this.”
“You don't have to.”
He's said more than enough.
“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know, I just—I want to. I'm just… I'm no good at it.”
Your heart breaks for him again.
Steve has never been good with words. He tells stories backwards, starts halfway through and remembers the beginning when he's already reached the end. He once spent ten minutes trying to explain the plot of a movie to you before Robin yelled from the other room that he had confused two entirely different films. He has told you that he barely scraped through essays in high school, that he'd stare at a blank sheet until the words began swimming and then write whatever came to mind five minutes before the bell.
Words don't arrive neatly, especially these ones. Especially not after years spent making sure they never arrived at all.
“Then don't be good at it.” You curl your fingers beneath his, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. “Just tell it badly.”
Tell it any way he can.
He almost smiles. It is such a wounded thing that your chest aches at the sight of it. You watch him gather himself again, gathering sentences the same way someone might gather broken glass, knowing every piece can cut him, knowing he has to pick them up anyway.
“They thought we knew something,” he says eventually. “We didn't. But I guess from where they were standing… didn't exactly look like that.” His knee has begun bouncing beneath your hand. “They asked questions—fuck, so many questions. Didn't matter what kind, I didn't know the answers.” His tongue passes over his bottom lip. “They—uh—they knocked me around pretty bad.”
Knocked him around?
“What does that mean?” you ask.
“I—I don't remember all of it.” He drags a hand through his hair, fingers catching briefly at the roots. His breathing has begun to climb again. “I remember some. Not all. They hit me and—” He stops. “It doesn't matter.”
You bite the inside of your cheek until it hurts. He keeps going.
“They didn't hurt Rob.” Relief flashes across his face when he says it. “When I came to, she was there. She was alright. I mean, scared shitless and yelling at me, so… pretty normal. But after that it got…” His voice thins. “Angel, it got so much worse.”
Your heart pounds so hard it hurts. You don’t want to hear the rest. You don’t want the picture of him like that lodged inside you forever—blood on somebody else’s knuckles, his body limp, barely conscious, barely breathing. You want to shut it out.
But you asked for this. God, you asked for this over and over. You begged him to let you in.
So you sit there and listen. You listen to what they did to him.
“They gave us something.” His palm flies to the side of his neck as his fingers press there. "I don't know what it was. I never knew. They just—” The words barely make it out. “A needle or something. I don't—I don't know.” His hand shakes harder against his throat. “They put something in us and it—it fucked with your head. Couldn't think right. Couldn't think—”
You want to stop him. Tell him it’s too much, that he doesn’t have to drag himself through whatever this is all over again. You want to apologise for ever asking, tell him this is enough—more than enough.
But you can’t seem to speak. You can only sit there, stunned into silence, horror written plainly across your face.
“We got out,” he manages to say, the words falling over. “We got out, but by then it was—there was already—there was—” His hand comes down hard against his thigh. “Fuck, I'm sorry—”
His mouth stays open like there is another word waiting behind his teeth, but nothing comes. He swallows once. Twice. His shoulders draw tight beneath his shirt and he presses the heel of his hand against his sternum, like he can force whatever is happening back down.
But he shakes his head hard, as though he can physically knock himself back into the room. Trying to finish what you started.
“I know how it sounds, angel—but you gotta believe me.” He finally looks at you, and the fear in his face is so naked that your own breath catches. “I wanna tell you. I do. I really do, it's just—I can't. Not all of it. It's not me—it's not—" His words are beginning to trip over each other. “It's not—it's you. You can't—it isn't something you can just know and then go back, okay? It's not like that. There's shit that if you know it then you're—you can't just—”
He tries to breathe through it. You watch his nostrils flare, his jaw clench, the muscles in his throat working around breaths that never seem to settle anywhere. He bends forward slightly, elbows braced against his knees, and you think he might be sick. His chest jerks beneath the thin shirt. He drags another breath in, too fast, then another before the first has properly left.
Whatever distant place his mind had gone to while he told you the story is suddenly not distant at all.
“Steve.”
“I can't—”
“Hey—”
“I'm—I'm trying—but I—I'm sorry—”
His face crumples and you can't hold back any longer. He's dragged it open with bleeding hands and now he is standing on the other side of it, shaking.
You reach out and his body curls into yours, larger than you and somehow suddenly easy to gather, his face disappearing into the curve of your neck as you wrap both arms around his shoulders. He grips you immediately. One arm locks around your waist, the other bunching fabric at your back, dragging you so close there is nowhere left for air between you.
What had they done to him?
“Shh, it's okay,” you whisper into his hair. “It's okay. You can stop. You can stop now.”
His breath burns against your neck. He is shaking. Not the delicate tremor you noticed in his hands before, but something deep and involuntary that seems to move through his whole body. His shoulders jerk beneath your palms as he fights for breath, and you hold him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head.
You are horrified. There is no other word for it. Horrified by the shape of what has been hiding inside him all this time.
Nineteen.
Working in an ice cream shop because his father wanted him taught some stupid fucking lesson about responsibility. He had followed a kid with a radio because he was bored. He had found something he shouldn't have found and, because he is Steve, he had put himself between it and children and somebody had hurt him for it. Not a stupid high-school fight or some exaggerated story he could laugh about with Jonathan over beers. Interrogated—drugged. You don't know how badly they beat him because he cannot remember.
Your stomach turns violently as you think about his migraines. His flinch beneath fluorescent lights. The way he sometimes wakes disoriented and insists he was only dreaming, God.
What else happened to him?
If this is the story he can tell you, what the hell is the one he can't?
“I’m sorry.” His voice is muffled against your neck. “I’m sorry—I—I can't tell you the rest—"
“Steve—”
“I can't tell you the rest.” His fingers tighten desperately in your clothes. "I—” His breathing catches painfully. “I'm fucking this up.”
“You're not—”
“I am. I can't even—I can't get it out right.”
Your eyes fill. He sounds angry with himself now, which somehow hurts worse than anything else.
“You did,” you whisper softly. "You did enough, you've done enough, okay?"
Steve makes a broken sound against your neck, halfway between a breath and something he refuses to let become a sob. You hold him through it.
Only an hour ago, you had been crying against his chest while he tried desperately to gather you back together. Now the shape of you has reversed. Your arms are around him., your mouth brushes his temple as you murmur whatever quiet assurances come to you, none of them sufficient, all of them true.
You're here. I've got you. That's enough.
For once, he lets himself be the one held.
“No more apologising,” you tell him gently.
“But I can't—you deserve—” His breath shudders out against your skin. “Fuck, angel, you deserve more than this.”
Something in you snaps quietly back into place. You pull away just enough to look at him, and for the first time, you think you finally see him. Not the version Steve Harrington has spent years carefully arranging for everyone else, but the thing underneath it. The last pieces of him slot together all at once.
Of course this terrifies him.
Letting someone in. Letting someone help. Handing over the parts of himself he has spent so long protecting and trusting that they won’t be used against him. He knows how to give until there is almost nothing left of him; he has never learned what to do when someone tries to give something back. He will offer his time, himself, without hesitation, but ask him to place something fragile in another person’s hands and suddenly he has no idea how to breathe.
Because what if they don’t catch it? What if they don’t catch him?
And suddenly you can see the boy he must have been beneath all that high-school bravado—teeth and attitude and carefully sharpened edges, desperate to be seen and terrified of what might happen if anyone looked too closely. Be cruel first, funny first, useful first. Anything but be the one standing there with his hands empty, asking someone to just stay.
He doesn’t know how to be the one who needs saving. Not while he still has a body he can exhaust, not while there is still blood in him to give.
Being frightened is one thing; letting somebody see that he is frightened is something else entirely. Letting them see how lonely he has been, how scared, how badly he wants to be held onto—that, somehow, is the unbearable part. As though the truth of him would be too heavy for anybody else to carry. As though loving him means he has failed to protect you from himself.
And God, what a shame for him that you are already far too gone.
Those honey-brown eyes and those gentle hands ruined any chance you had of walking away untouched a long time ago.
He has cracked himself open for you now, however reluctantly, however painfully. Maybe it is the hardest thing Steve Harrington has ever done: standing in front of someone without a weapon, without a joke, without anything left to offer except the truth.
So you look at the pieces he has finally trusted you enough to show you, unflinching as you gather them softly.
“Don't say that,” You hold his face a little more firmly. “Don't say that, please.”
“Angel—”
“No.” Your own voice breaks, but you don't look away. “Don't you dare say that. You hear me?”
Your thumb moves; a tear has gathered beneath his eye, caught against the flushed curve of his cheek, and you brush it away with the pad of your finger. His eyes flutter at the touch, leaning into your palm instinctively. Your hand slides farther along his cheek, fingers disappearing into the hair above his ear. His eyes fall shut as another tear escapes anyway, warm against the side of your hand, and the guilt that has been sitting quietly beneath everything rises hard enough to turn your stomach.
You wanted this.
Not this—not him shaking in your arms, voice splitting around memories he could barely force through his teeth—but you had wanted the truth. You had demanded some piece of him he had spent years keeping buried, and now you understand.
God, you understand.
Steve would walk barefoot into hell if somebody he loved was standing on the other side of it. He would take the hit, stay behind, put himself between children and men with guns and call it what anybody else would have done. He would carry people until his arms gave out and then apologise for dropping them.
He asks for so little in return.
You cannot put it back, cannot make him unknow the feeling of saying it aloud, but you can be gentle with what he has given you. You asked him to open his hands; now it is your turn to hold what fell out.
“I don't want anything else,” you tell him. He opens his eyes; your thumbs rest beneath them, catching the dampness before it can travel any farther. “I don't want anyone else,” you say again, quieter. “I just want you.”
“Angel…”
“All I've ever wanted was to know you.”
His mouth trembles faintly. You shake your head before he can misunderstand you again.
“I mean you.” Your fingers curl lightly against his jaw. “I wanted to know why you disappear sometimes, to know where you go when you're sitting right beside me and suddenly it feels like you're a hundred miles away.” Your voice begins to break again, but this time you let it. “I wanted to know how to love you when you do that.”
You know how to do that now.
Steve jerks his head from your hands with a small shake, looking away from you. “No, you don't.”
Your hands fall uselessly into the space between you.
“Steve—”
He looks at you, and you see it again. The terror, the fear that somehow he has shown too much of himself and that you will leave.
He has spent years watching people leave Hawkins in pieces. Some of them went to college or simply moved away. People grew older, discovered larger worlds, bigger lives, better things. And he stayed, perhaps somewhere along the way he convinced himself that there was virtue in it.
Maybe if he remained exactly where everyone had left him, they would always know where to find him when they needed something. Now he is looking at you like surely this is the moment you realise there are easier people to love, far away from here.
“You can't mean that,” he says.
You move before he can retreat any farther, sliding closer.
You rise onto your knees, and his gaze flickers downward when you bring one leg over his lap, settling carefully across his thighs. Something catches in his expression, but he makes no attempt to stop you; he doesn't have the fight in him anymore. His hands hover uncertainly near your hips, not quite touching.
After what he's done, he isn't sure he's still allowed.
You decide for him, curling yourself over him and catching the collar of his shirt between your fingers, smoothing the fabric. He looks up at you from underneath tired lashes, his face flushed. His eyes are soft now, brown gone almost black in the dim light, watching you, expectantly. As though he is waiting for you to tell him what happens next. Waiting to find out whether he has ruined this too.
You slide your hands upward instead; your fingers disappear into his hair.
A shaky breath leaves him, too deep to be a sigh. He relishes the feel of your hands on him; even after such a short time apart, his body still craves you, still aches for the reassurance that you want him.
You'll always want him.
His shoulders drop, chin tips fractionally upward into the touch before he seems to realise he's doing it, and your heart squeezes painfully at how little encouragement it takes.
There he is. Your Steve.
Not King Steve, sharp-eyed and vicious, nor the frightened nineteen-year-old stumbling through memories. Not the man at your door begging you to let him in. Your Steve, tired and tender and desperate to know what you think of him now.
“I do mean it,” you whisper as his eyes open. You drag your fingers slowly through the hair at his temples, smoothing it away from his forehead. “All I've ever wanted was you.” You lean closer until your noses nearly brush. “Not what you can do for me. Not who you can save." You cup his face before he can look away. “All I needed was you.”
Steve leans back slightly beneath your hands, his head resting against the sofa. Your thumb moves along the curve of his cheek; his skin is warm beneath your palm, soft where, years ago, somebody else's hands had left bruises you'll never see.
Your touch becomes gentler without you meaning it to. You smooth your palm along his cheek until he turns instinctively into your hand, lips grazing the heel of it on a trembling exhale.
You know this about him. Steve wants to do be good.
It sounds so painfully small when reduced to those words, almost childish, but it lives at the centre of him. He wants to be useful. Reliable. The person you call first and thank afterward. He will drive across town in the middle of the night and complain the entire way because complaining lets him pretend he isn't secretly pleased somebody thought of him.
Yeah, whatever.
Wasn't a big deal.
But you have seen the little change in him anyway. The way his shoulders straighten, the tiny satisfaction he tries to hide. Because he has spent most of his life wanting somebody to look at him and tell him he did something right.
You lean down and kiss him, and he hums against your lips, almost painfully. It has only been three days, but three days suddenly feels enormous. Three days spent wondering whether the last kiss you shared had already happened without either of you realising it.
He sighs against you, melting completely into your touch, taking whatever you’re willing to give him. He doesn’t care if it’s only crumbs; he’ll take them. He’ll take anything, so long as you don’t run, so long as there’s still some way for him to stay.
His hand finds your waist, fingers spreading wide as he pulls you closer until your body fits against his. His mouth is soft as it moves against your own, careful, still keeping a distance after everything that happened tonight. You curl your fingers tighter in his hair and feel the restraint in him give slightly.
“Thank you,” you whisper against his mouth.
His eyebrows pinch together. “For what?”
You brush your nose against his. “For telling me.”
“Angel—”
“I'm telling you, thank you, Steve,” you say, leaving no room for him to doubt how much you mean it.
He shakes his head, already trying to escape. “I didn't really—”
“You did.”
“I barely told you any—”
“You did enough.”
That stops him, and the reaction is small. So small that you might have missed it if you didn't know him the way you do. His fingers tighten around as he lets a breath out through his nose, suddenly unsteady.
There he is.
You soften your voice. “You did good.”
He makes a sound, something dragged unwillingly from somewhere deep in his chest. His head immediately begins to shake again. “Don't—”
"Don't what?" You watch colour begin travelling slowly up his throat, your fingers slide from his hair to the nape of his neck. “Tell you that you did good?”
His jaw tightens. “Baby—stop.”
There is warning in the word, but it is undermined spectacularly by the way his eyes refuse to meet yours.
You lean closer, your mouth brushing the corner of his jaw. “You did.”
Another tremor moves through him; your lips travel slowly toward his ear.
Steve breathes your name like a warning now, but you ignore him, pushing him even deeper. “I'm proud of you.”
His head falls backward against the sofa.
The sound that leaves him this time is unmistakable, low and wrecked enough that heat rushes immediately through you. His hands flex and you can feel exactly how badly your words are affecting him, his whole body responding before pride can catch up and smother the reaction.
You smile faintly against his neck as his hips shift beneath you.
Got him.
All that bravado, the years spent making himself indispensable, shrugging off every bruise and every victory. Steve will throw himself bodily into danger without thinking, but tell him you're proud of him and suddenly he doesn't know where to put his hands.
You kiss the sensitive place beneath his ear and his fingers dig into your sides.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
“You're good,” you whisper as his chest rises sharply beneath you.
“Baby—”
“So good for me,” you praise.
Steve's hips shift involuntarily beneath yours as his cheeks grow darker; you give his hair the smallest tug as his breath catches, not letting him escape your words. He groans when you tug at the roots, letting you guide him however you please. Pliant beneath your hands, utterly willing.
"I love you," you say as he shudders. His hands climb from your waist to your back, pulling you closer.
“Say—say it again," he rasps and you still at his tone. “Please—angel, please. Say it again.”
Gladly.
"I love you, Steve," You tug his hair once more, enough to pull another involuntary noise from his throat, and immediately soothe the sting with your fingers. "I'll always love you."
The words seem to go straight through him. His hips jerk upward before he can stop them, and you move with him instinctively, meeting the motion. A broken groan catches against your shoulder as his forehead drops heavily there, his whole body tightening beneath you.
“Please—” he grits out when you roll against him again, harder this time. He sounds wrecked already, dizzy with it—the praise, the unbearable combination of being wanted and being made to admit how badly he wants you back. “Please, baby, I need—”
“What do you need?” you ask softly, refusing to let him disappear behind half-finished sentences. “Tell me, and it’s yours.”
Your hand slips between your bodies, smoothing over his lower stomach, tracing lazy circles everywhere except where he’s trying to guide you.
“Fuck.” His head tips back, frustration pulling tight across his face. “You—you know where.”
You smile, not letting him get away with it. “Gotta get better at asking for help, Steve.”
He does, not just here, not just when he's flushed and desperate beneath you. He needs to learn that wanting doesn't make him weak, that you can't help him if he keeps making you guess. This is a start. He looks so ruined by it that you can’t help pressing your mouth to his neck, teeth catching gently against the sensitive skin there as he hisses.
“Shit—” he whines helplessly, desire and embarrassment leaking through his tone.
“C’mon,” you murmur against his throat, knowing exactly how badly you’re tormenting him now. Your hand drifts lower, still quite giving him what he wants. “Just say it.”
He makes a frustrated sound, fingers tightening against you as he fights to find his voice. His legs shift restlessly, chasing even the smallest bit of relief, but the movement only presses you closer together. The faint friction tears whatever he meant to say from his throat, leaving him breathless instead.
“It’s yours,” you promise, softer now. “Whatever you need. But you’ve gotta tell me where it hurts, Steve.” You lift your head just enough to look at him. “Gotta tell me so I can make it better.”
He grits his teeth as your hands brush over his belt buckle, toying with the metal, not quite opening it yet. Embarrassment and vulnerability flush dark across his cheeks. His hips twitch again, helpless, before he forces them still.
“Need—need you on my cock,” he gasps, the words scraped raw from his throat. “Need you riding me, angel. Need to feel you—fuck, need to watch you come apart because of me.” His voice breaks on the last word, hips jerking uselessly beneath you. “Please. I need it—tell me what to say and I’ll say it, just please—please don’t make me wait anymore.”
He sounds so pretty when he gets like this.
You hum against his lips as you slip from his lap, and the loss of you seems to hit him all at once. His eyes follow you helplessly, hungry and almost pained, like looking away would cost him something. By the time you crawl back toward him, he already looks wrecked—breathing uneven, gaze fixed on you, hands flexing like he doesn’t quite trust himself to reach.
You settle back over him, your hands working slowly at the buckle of his belt. His stay exactly where they are, resting at his sides, not moving an inch.
This is what he wants, to let you decide, to tell him what to do, to take the choice out of his hands entirely. He doesn’t want to think. He wants to be looked after, handled, given only what you decide he can have until there’s nothing left in his head but you.
Whatever you give him, he’ll take gladly.
The belt comes free, and you ease the zipper down, and his cock springs out, heavy and flushed, the head already gleaming. He hisses as the cooler air hits him. Your fingers wrap around him gently, stroking once from base to tip, agonisingly slow. His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise as he fights the urge to buck up into your fist.
“Please—” he begs, brown eyes pleading as his hair falls against his forhead.
“Patience,” you tell him, leaning in to press a kiss to his shuddering mouth. You can feel the tension rolling off him in waves. “Gonna give you what you need, but you gotta be patient.”
He groans, low and broken, as you rise up on your knees and angle yourself over him. The head of his cock nudges against your folds, but you don’t sink down. Not yet. You rock just enough to tease him, watching the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes go half-lidded and desperate, until his hands are shaking.
“Baby, I need—”
You cut him off by sliding down in one slow, deliberate motion, taking every inch until you’re flush against him. Your mouth falls open on a silent gasp as the stretch blooms hot. You stay there, just breathing, letting your body adjust to the thick fullness of him. His legs shift restlessly beneath you; you feel him force the urge to thrust up, muscles trembling with the effort. Your palms press flat to his chest, feeling the frantic hammer of his heart as he tries to restrain himself.
“Feel so good,” you praise him, and you swear you feel his cock twitch harder inside you at the words. “Shit, Steve… I missed you.”
You use his shoulders for leverage and start to move—slow, torturous rolls of your hips that lift you almost off him before you sink back down, taking him deep again.
“Missed—missed you too,” he grits out, voice strained as he tries to keep his body obedient. His eyes stay locked on every blissed-out shift of your body, watching himself disappear inside you over and over.
You look at him, eyes glazed over, completely at your mercy and loving every second of it as he lets himself sink deeper, giving himself over to the feeling. He focuses on nothing but you, the woman he loves moving against him, the sweet sounds you make leaving room for little else in his head.
You reach up and catch his jaw in one hand, pinning him back against the sofa cushions as you start to ride him harder. The change in pace drags a rough groan from his throat. He swallows hard against your palm, eyes fluttering as he feels you starting to lose yourself in what he can give you.
It feels so foreign. He’s used to being the one who works for it, the one on top, whether he’s over you or between your legs. He’s always the one putting in the effort, the one who keeps going until you’re ruined beneath him, trembling and breathless, unable to think straight anymore.
This is different.
Tonight he has to stay still, has to let you take care of him, take what you need from him, and the effort of it shows in every tight line of his body.
Your lips crash into his, rough and claiming, not letting him think of anything else but the weight of you on top of him, the heat of you around him, the way you’re treating him. You squeeze his jaw a little tighter and another broken moan spills into your mouth. He leans into the pressure instead of away from it, almost chasing the sharp edge of discomfort, loving the way it blurs everything else until he feels strangely weightless beneath you.
When you pull back just enough to look at him, his eyes are unfocused, lips parted, completely gone on the feeling while your hips keep their relentless rhythm.
“Does it feel good?” you ask, teasing him with the question when you already know how difficult it is for him to answer once he’s this far gone.
“Yes—yes, baby, it feels good,” he grits out, the words almost punched from him. “Gripping me so tight, I can feel it—I can feel it, shit—”
You love it when he gets like this. When the sharp edges of him blur and he can’t think of anything but this. This is his reward for telling you the truth earlier. You can give him this, always. He can lose himself in you when it gets too much; you can take him away, make him focus on nothing more than the feeling of your heat wrapped around him.
You tug his hair, sharp enough to make his eyes snap open and focus on you again. They’re completely glazed, pupils blown wide.
“Touch me, Steve.”
He doesn’t hesitate. One hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles that make your hips stutter and a moan tear from your throat. The dual sensation—his cock filling you so deep and his fingers working you so precisely—makes your thighs tremble.
You can feel him getting closer, the way his breathing turns ragged, the way his hips start to twitch up in tiny thrusts despite his best efforts.
"Baby, I'm gonna—"
“Don't cum yet,” you say bluntly, earning you another groan as his eyes shut.
You know it’s cruel. You know exactly how mean you’re being, and maybe that’s part of what makes the sounds he gives you so unbearably beautiful.
He’ll hold out because you asked him to, because pleasing you gives him something else to cling to, one simple instruction where there used to be a hundred thoughts. And you know him well enough to know he’ll try until it hurts, until he’s shaking with the effort of being good for you. He’s always been like that, so eager to make someone else happy, and right now you’re shameless enough to use it.
You’ll let him keep trying, keep enduring, until even that effort dissolves and there’s nothing left in his head but you.
"You're—you're killing me here—" he grits out. "I—I can't."
You slow above him, and his hands immediately reach for you, trying to keep you moving. His face twists with frustration as his eyes snap open, wide and pleading, silently begging you not to stop.
"Yes, you can," you tell him softly. "You want to be good, don't you?"
“Yes—yes, I do. Please. I’ll do anything, just please—”
You shush him gently before he can unravel any further, scattering soft kisses over his cheeks, his temple, the corner of his mouth until his pleading breaks apart into shaky breaths. The second you start moving again, he sucks in deep, lips falling open with helpless relief as the tension drains out of him all at once.
You move more firmly against him, watching his jaw tighten as he fights to keep himself composed, desperate not to lose control, determined to follow the one simple instruction you’ve given him. You lean down close to his ear and bite hard enough to make his mouth fall open, drawing out those sweet, wrecked sounds you’ve been aching to hear.
“I’m close, Steve,” you tell him between shaky breaths. “I’m close.”
“Shit, I know, angel. Fuck—I know,” he rambles, voice wrecked. “Can feel you squeezing me.”
His fingers tremble as they keep working against your clit, slipping slightly with the effort. The coil low in your stomach pulls tighter, heat building fast enough to make your rhythm falter. His other hand catches you immediately, steadying you against him while his breathing turns tight and uneven. He’s still trying so hard, still following every word you gave him, even now.
“You can let go now, Steve,” you murmur against his lips, almost mercifully, and his whole body goes taut beneath you.
You kiss him before the sound can fully leave him, swallowing the broken noise he makes as the last of his restraint gives way. The feeling pulls you over the edge with him, your breath catching as you cling to him, shaking through it with your mouth still pressed to his.
His hips snap up as he spills deep inside you, a long wrecked groan tearing from his throat. His whole body shudders beneath you, tears almost slipping from the corners of his eyes as he feels the white-hot pleasure. Both of his release and the knowledge that he followed your instructions perfectly.
You stay there, both trembling, forehead pressed to his, breathing like you’ve run for miles. His arms come up slowly, wrapping around your back, holding you close while the aftershocks ripple through both of you.
For a long moment, neither of you says anything. Steve just holds you against him, his face buried in the curve of your neck as he murmurs half-coherent words into your skin, the only thing keeping him tethered, keeping him here with you.
It takes him a while to move, waiting until your breathing has almost settled. You lift your head reluctantly from his shoulder and find him watching you with an expression so open it makes something inside you ache. The frantic edge has gone from him now, so has the embarrassment that had coloured his face only minutes ago. What remains is softer, tired around the eyes, his hair fallen hopelessly across his forehead.
“Hey,” he murmurs shakily.
“Hey,” you return, a soft smile playing on your lips.
His gaze travels over you for a second, lingering everywhere and nowhere. There is something almost solemn about it as he shifts you next to him, hissing at the loss of contact before he tucks himself back in his briefs.
“I love you,” he tells you, as you settle in next to him. “I should say it more.”
“You do,” you insist. “Just... sometimes it gets lost in translation.”
He laughs at that, barely more than a breath, but its the first one you've heard from him in days. It's the first sound that feels uncomplicated. His mouth curves, tired and crooked, and something young slips back into his face.
You brush the hair away from his forehead and let your fingers linger there, smoothing the unruly pieces back into place. He closes his eyes for half a second beneath the touch.
“You gonna stay tonight?” you ask.
The question seems to surprise him more than it should. The earlier uncertainty returns just a little, the carefulness.
“Can I?”
You nod. A tiredness settles over you almost immediately, exhaustion creeping into every limb now that your body has finally decided the crisis is over. You lean against the sofa and rub your eyes.
“I made dinner,” you mumble. “If you want some.”
He hums thoughtfully and leans forward, pressing a slow kiss against your lips. Something changes in his face. Relief, perhaps, some return to normalcy. You brush your fingers through his hair once more before reluctantly pushing yourself upright.
“I should probably shower,” you murmur, trying to push yourself to your feet only for your legs to wobble beneath you.
He catches you immediately, one arm coming up around your waist before you can stumble back into him. The haze in his expression clears at once, replaced by concern as he looks you over.
“Hey, easy,” he says softly. “I’ll come with you.”
He stands carefully, keeping hold of you as he helps you up with him, one hand steady at your waist while the other finds yours. He doesn’t move until he’s sure you’re balanced, watching your face for any sign that you’re not.
He follows you down the hallway.
The bathroom light is warmer than the others in your flat, casting everything in soft yellow as he steps inside. There is something strangely intimate about the mundanity of it after everything else. Toothbrushes beside the sink, shampoo balanced on the edge of the bath. Steve's razor is still sitting where he'd left it earlier in the week, before either of you knew how badly things were about to go wrong.
He starts undoing what remains of his shirt and shrugs it from his shoulders, laying it beside the sink. His trousers follow, and you watch him without meaning to. The difference is that tonight he doesn't turn.
He stands there beneath the bathroom light, pale marks cutting across his skin, old and uneven, some thicker than others. You've spent months teaching yourself not to look at them for too long, not to let your fingers wander near them, not to ask. Your eyes rest there openly now and he follows your gaze. His hand moves almost absently across his side, fingertips tracing one of the larger scars.
“It was an animal.” You look at him, but he keeps his gaze lowered. He rubs his thumb across the pale skin again. “By the lake,” he adds.
That's all. No explanation and no story. You don't ask what kind of animal. You only cross the small bathroom and wrap your arms around him, proud of him once again.
Steve breathes out as your body meets his. His arms circle you almost immediately. You tilt your face upward and kiss him. That is the thank you; he melts into it.
There is no urgency this time, nothing desperate to prove, nothing either of you needs to repair in the space between one breath and the next. His mouth moves softly against yours, one hand settling at the back of your neck while the other rests against your waist. When you pull away, his eyes stay closed.
“You joining me?”
He opens his eyes. He looks at the shower, then at you. “That might be the dumbest question you've asked all evening.”
You stare at him. “Considering this evening, that's impressive.”
He grins and there he is again. You turn the water on before he can get too pleased with himself.
The bathroom slowly fills with steam. You wash his back. It should be an ordinary thing, and one day it will become ordinary. Your hands move differently over him, your palms travel over his shoulders, down the line of his spine, across old scars and unmarked skin alike.
He doesn't flinch, doesn't joke. He simply stands beneath the water and lets you.
Later, he washes yours, standing so close behind you that it becomes increasingly obvious neither of you is accomplishing much in the way of actually getting clean. He buries his face against your wet hair and you let him.
Dinner has gone slightly cold by the time you remember it. You reheat the sauce while he hovers, freshly showered and wearing the clothes he'd apparently left here months ago. At the table, his foot finds yours beneath it. And just like that, for several minutes, you are only the two of you again.
He watches you laugh at something stupid he says, chin propped against his hand, eyes softer than you've seen them all evening. When you catch him staring, he doesn't look away. Later, in bed, he practically climbs on top of you, and you feel his smile against the back of your neck. For someone who spent years pretending he didn't particularly need anybody, Steve Harrington is astonishingly clingy when given permission.
You turn in his arms until you're facing him. You can barely see him in the darkness, only the faint outline of his nose, his hair, the shine of his eyes when they catch what little light comes through the curtains. A moment later he pulls you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin. Within minutes, his breathing begins to deepen. You listen to him beside you, feel the weight of his arm across your waist and the slow movement of his chest against yours.
You know this isn't finished.
There will be other days when he goes quiet and disappears somewhere behind his own eyes. There will be questions you want to ask and answers he cannot give you. There will probably be arguments. There will certainly be moments when his first instinct is still to make a joke, shrug something off, insist he's fine until the word has lost all meaning.
Years of survival don't disappear because somebody asks nicely; love isn't going to make him fearless.
The pieces he gives you may never fit neatly together. There may always be spaces between them, shapes you cannot name, stories belonging partly to other people and partly to a version of him who still lives somewhere beneath his skin. But tonight he gave you something.
Steve shifts in his sleep, nose brushing against your hair. You smile into the darkness. It will take time.
There will be days when loving him requires patience, and days when loving him requires leaving him alone. Days when he will need to be reminded that being cared for is not the same thing as owing somebody something. There will be days when you will need reminding that loving him does not entitle you to every secret he carries.
But there will also be good mornings. Coffee too sweet and five more minutes in bed, his shoes appearing beside yours, the sound of his key eventually turning in your door. Little ordinary things. A life built not from one enormous confession, but a thousand smaller acts of trust.
Beside you, Steve murmurs something unintelligible and pulls you even closer. You close your eyes. For so long, you had mistaken knowing him for having every piece. Now you think perhaps this is enough, knowing there will be more when he is ready.
You press your mouth softly against his chest and feel him stir beneath you. His hand finds the back of your head even in sleep. It is enough. He is enough.
a/n: this is the longest thing i have ever written, i swear i rewrote the whole thing at least twice before i was happy with the ending. still don't know how i feel about it but i needed to get it out of my drafts!! i was going to post it in two parts but fuck it, i am always impatient when i see that so i did it in one
this is my second fic here, so i hope you enjoyed!! reqs are open as i am kind of out of ideas for now, also want to write for some other characters (both in and outside of ST, so we shall see)
thank you for all the support on my last fic too!! i genuinely didn't think it would get that much attention either, everyone in this fandom is so lovely <3 there will be more to come in the future ;))
how do you think gator would handle blossoms toddler tantrums
oooooh, i’ve been thinking about this a lot and talked to some friends.
which unfortunately or fortunately means i wrote a loooong ass thing about so enjoy!
tags/warnings: tantrums, parental guilt, gator loses his cool but he doesn’t really yell he just kind of snaps, talk about fear of being like abusive parent, etc
i think blossom’s first tantrum, he would not know what to do. honey is gone, at work, with friends, whatever she’s not there. it’s a daddy daughter day,
this isn’t like her crying because she got scared or fell on her butt a little too hard and it spooked her.
this is a full on, i’m tired, you put my water in the wrong princess cup, you started cleaning up my toys because it’s so close to nap time but you didn’t tell me you just did it?? i was playing with those??? rude?? tantrum
and blossom has never had one of those before (and in the future she doesn’t really have many but also gator hasn’t learned her new cues for this phase the way honey has since she’s with her more and is more familiar with the close to nap time tantrum yknow?).
so poor gator doesn’t know wtf he did wrong, she loves this cup?? well now she’s screaming over the cup, she doesn’t want it, she can’t find blankie, mama is gone!! and can’t get her the right cup!! and her toys are all put up!!
gator is trying to give her the cup but she just screams and cries and toddles away, trying to pull everything out of the way in the living room to find her damn toys and blankie. her little hands are scarily strong apparently because she just dumped a whole container of toys looking for the specific ones she wants.
he’s trying so hard to get her to stop, trying to see if picking her up and holding her will help. well he tries that and she just screams more, kicking her feet so he puts her back down.
then she runs to the kitchen, smacking the hell out of the fridge. “baby girl, got ya water see?” he hands her the cup, she takes it in her hand, and he thinks he’s good, he saved the day….
oh she fucking launches that cup across the kitchen, the lid pops off water goes everywhere. and her screams get louder, and gator is over stimulated and stressed.
blossom goes running towards the thrown cup to throw it again, because hey that felt good. she’s heading towards the water she’s about to slip and hurt herself.
“no! don’t ya dare! no!” his voice comes out a lot sharper and louder than he’s ever spoken to blossom before, it’s not a yell, never ever a yell, but a frustrated snap is probably the way to describe it.
it makes blossom freeze, daddy has never spoken to her like that before or to anyone (that she’s seen).
the tantrum fury leaves her face, her little fists unclenching, but now she looks different. she looks like she got in trouble, her little lower lip wobbles, eyes welling with tears again but these are different. it almost reminds him of when she’s scared of something in her room.
gator’s whole world comes crashing down, he realizes what he did, he yelled at his baby girl, he scared her, he’s no better than his old man…when he swore he would be…
he immediately gets on the ground, to her level, “hey hey, no, honeybee no, blossom baby, it’s okay. it’s okay sweet girl, daddy’s so sorry, he’s so so sorry.” he whispers so softly, he’s trying so hard to not just burst into tears with her.
blossom just stands there, little hands clutched to her chest, then she’s quick to move into dada’s arms. her safe place, he always makes her feel better, and right now she’s just tired and wants her blankie and the right princess cup.
“ya don’t like that cup? i’ll find another okay? whatever ya want sweetheart.” he mumbles, kissing the top of her head a million times. then he realizes, where is blankie?
“oh shit, where’s ya blankie? god, what kind of daddy am i? ya want mama home huh? she’s a lot better t-than me…” he feels the sobs in the back of his throat, god he hates himself, hates himself so much.
blankie is found, blossom picks the correct sippy cup, and he also finds a pacifier that was thrown around during the tantrum so now she’s really feeling good. her little fingers are playing with his hair like she always does, he rocks her and bounces her until she’s asleep. then he takes her to her room and puts her down, he stops for a minute to look at her, her little lashes on her cheek, she’s in a bed now because they caught her climbing out of her crib way too much and it was just easier this way.
as soon as honey comes home she knows something is wrong, gator isn’t acting right, not to mention he’s cleaning up a giant water mess on the floor.
“everything go okay today?” she asks, calmly, really having no clue what could possibly be wrong.
gator just grumbles, grunts something, he’s not looking at her, eyes glued to the wet tile.
“gator…” she tries again, he has to answer her at some point.
he clears his throat, a gruff, “s’all fine.” comes out and she doesn’t believe him for one minute.
so she walks over to him, bends down on the floor like she would if she was talking to blossom. “honey, i know something is wrong…please tell me.”
while she’s bending down lower and lower to try and look into his eyes, she sees the redness, the big tears threatening to pour out. “gator…” she whispers, “put the towel down, come here.” taking the towel out of his hand and putting it on the counter as she walks him over to the couch.
as soon as they sit down, she holds both of his hands, thumbs stroking over his knuckles. “baby, please, tell me what’s wrong…”
he sighs, its loud, dripping with frustration. he avoids eye contact the best he can as he sniffles, “b-blossom got upset, s-she didn’t like the cup i gave her, and it was n-nap time so i put her toys up. she just screamed ‘n screamed, nothin’ would help her, she didn’t want nothin’. i tried handin’ her that damn princess cup and she just fuckin’ threw it, bounced across the floor, water everywhere.”
honey nods, “yeah, she can get real grumpy when it’s nap time…but she hasn’t thrown the cup before.”
“well i guess that’s just something special for her evil old man.” he says with a sniffle, still not looking at her.
“gator, she’s a year and a half old. kids have tantrums, it’s nothing personal.” gently squeezing his hands as she speaks, “she’s still our happy little baby she just can’t voice what she wants that we—”
“i yelled at her, i snapped…a-and her face i-it just fell and she cried. god, she fucking cried, honey. s-she had that look l-like w-when she thinks there’s monsters in the shadows except the m-m…monster is m-me…” the words came pouring from him in one quick succession as he chokes on sobs.
honey was quick to wrap her arms around him, bringing him against her chest. “sweetheart, no no, you’re not a monster. you’re daddy, you just…you snapped. parents fuck up, it doesn’t mean anything.” she kisses into his hair, running her hand up and down his back.
“how did you say it? did you yell?” she asks quietly, not to accuse him of anything but she knew they had different ideas of yelling.
he pulls back just enough to look at her, “i uhh, i think i said, ‘no! don’t ya dare! no!’” saying the exact way he did earlier, with a few cracks in his voice this time.
honey ran her fingers through his hair, “that’s not yelling, that’s a snap, happens to everyone baby.”
gator shook his head, “n-no it scared her…she was scared…” his sobs were loud, breath heavy and short as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.
“hey, hey sweetheart, please…” honey cooed, cradling the back of his head. “it’s okay. you apologized right?”
his head shook up and down, not leaving the safety of her embrace. “Mmmhhhmm, s-she wanted cuddles…” he breaks down in more sobs, whole body trembling as honey tries to rock him back and forth.
he’s blubbering into her shoulder, the words aren’t even making sense anymore as she struggles to make out what he’s saying.
“said i w-wasn’t g….gonna be like him…i swore it…”
“what? who?”
he lifts his head, finally looking in her eyes, and the sight makes her chest fall. he looks like a scared little boy, she’s not sure if she’s ever seen him look like that before. his eyes huge, his whole body shaking, lips quivering, the tears continue streaming down his cheeks.
“roy…i promised i wasn’t gonna be like him.”
the realization hit honey hard, she swore she felt the air leave her lungs. gator was in no way roy, he would never ever be roy, the only thing they unfortunately shared was the same last name. gator was good, he was loving, he was sweet, he was protective, he cared…he cared so much.
honey knew about roy, she knew he was evil, she knew of things he did, but gator had never been this vulnerable about it.
carefully she took his face between her palms, holding his head up so he looks right at her. he can see how serious this is to her, how she genuinely means what she’s about to say.
“gator, you are not that man. you are not like that man, even at your worst you weren’t him. you changed, you grew, you tried to do better and you did. you continue to do better, these are all things that roy never did and never will. i was never ever worried that you would be like him, i always knew you’d be a sweet and loving daddy, insanely protective too, but that’s why i love you. and that little girl taking her nap in the other room also loves you, she knows daddy is safe, comfortable, he’ll always hold her until she feels better. she is not scared of you and she never will be, because you are not your father.”
it takes everything in honey to not burst into tears by the time she’s done, she watches as gator’s eyes change from horror to an incredible softness, relief, as he let the words sink in.
she just sits there, thumbs stroking his cheek as he thinks about what she said. he tries to open his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out except a strangled sob.
honey wraps her arms around him again as he cries into her shoulder, the sobs are loud, gut wrenching, for a minute there she’s worried he’s gonna throw up.
“easy, easy baby, get it all out its okay honey, i promise.” she whispers into his hair.
what neither of them noticed is all the noise woke up blossom, but she wasn’t scared, just curious. so she toddles her way out of her room, blankie in hand, paci in her mouth. she stands in the entry way to the living room with big eyes, as she watches her daddy sob.
next thing they know, her little feet are pitter pattering across the wood floor and honey’s neck snaps up.
“hey baby,” she whispers softly, hoping this won’t give gator anymore guilt.
“dada ouchie?” blossom asks, lip quivering, eyes growing glassier by the second.
honey smiles down at her sweet daughter, “dada is okay sweet pea, he’s just sad.”
a muffled cry comes from gator as he realizes what he’s doing but it’s too late to move.
gator feels a little hand pat the top of his head, he lifts up his face from honey, looking down at blossom.
next thing he knows her blankie is being shoved in his face, “bebba??”
he can’t help but smile even if just a tiny one, as he takes blankie in his hands like it’s the most treasured gift.
“thank you baby, it’ll help dada.” you say softly, caressing the back of her head.
but blossom isn’t done yet, not when she sees how badly her dada is crying.
so she tries to mooch and climb her way into your lap, until you can finally manage to get her on you. but she has no interest in you, she uses your hands to hold her steady as she walks onto gator’s lap.
she wraps her little chubby arms around his neck, squeezes him so tight, and then lets out a relieved sigh. you see one of her hands twirl in his hair while the other tries to rub his back the same way you rub hers when she’s upset. periodically she picks up blankie and rubs it on his cheek.
“dada dada dada dada…” she says softly, sounding so concerned.
honey watches the scene fold out, the shock on gator’s face when she climbs up to him, the relief when she wraps her arms around his neck. the tears running down his face now are different, they’re tears of relief as the smallest sweetest smile curls on his lips.
that little girl healed something in gator that day.
Steve would say that the best part of being married is the cuddling. Unironically. He would not say this to many people, sure, but he loves knowing that he isn’t an imposition in how often he wants to touch you. It’s a contentedness he didn’t know existed before having it, how comforting it is to reach for you and have you reach back.
“My Steve,” you mumble against his cheek. “C’mere, you. Fuck, you smell so good.”
Steve doesn’t blush, but it’s a close thing. “My girl,” he says back, laughing as you squeeze him tight enough to reawaken that twinge he gave himself between his shoulders what could’ve been five years or more ago swinging one of the kids onto his back. Cold muscles get pulled—Steve stretches before he takes the kids to the playground these days.
“What is that smell?” you ask. “Doesn’t smell usual.”
“I think it’s patchouli oil, compliments of my best friend’s weird girlfriend.”
“She can choose the next cologne you get.”
“What’s wrong with my cologne?”
“Baby, this is delish.”
He laughs loud and pulls away to wrinkle his nose at you. “Gimme a kiss, delish.”
“Mwah,” you say, puckering up for a kiss he turns mean too quick, smushing his nose against yours. He’s surprised you aren’t covered in bruises, how often he whacks his nose into yours. “Owwwww.”
“Sorry.” He kisses your nose. “There, how’s that?”
Your voice goes all small and quiet, just for him. “Can I have another kiss? A nice one?”
Hah, he thinks, the shock of having eaten something too hot, too suddenly. This is why he keeps asking you to have his babies, like, not kidding around. You’re remarkably endearing, and you make the prettiest of faces when he ducks down to get your lips under his, and he ushers you deeper into the couch to press his weight into you like a man starved. Your laugh rumbles from your chest to his, as does your happy sigh, your arm going round the back of his head to hook him against you.
“Wanna make a baby?” you mumble into his mouth.
Steve resists the urge to flick your forehead. “Don’t start.”
“Sorry.” You laugh, and kiss him again with your lips parting and your tongue there and hot and he lets you do it for a couple of blissful seconds before he kisses your cheek twice and climbs off of you to lie down at your side instead.
The girls’ll be back any time now with best aunt to ever do it, Robin Buckley. It won’t do either of you any good to start what you can’t finish, but he admires you all the same for it. Beautiful woman wants his babies, can you believe it? But beautiful woman has to stop teasing him. You curl into his armpit with a sorry sort of affection and wrap your arm around his stomach, hand at his side, your fingers worming under his shirt to feel his skin.
“Do you though?” you ask.
“Huh?”
“Want another one?”
“Honey, I could have ten of your kids and it wouldn’t be enough.” Steve nudges at your nose with his own and kisses your mouth all wonky, lop-sided, and he’s too slovenly to move so he just kinda lets his mouth drag down the side of your face to drop into your shoulder. “But, like, did you mean soon?” Dove just turned six months. Kinda too soon for another pregnancy, but if you wanted it, Steve could help you make it work, he knows he could. “We could–”
“Yeah, I guess not soon. I’ll have another one with you. Just not, like, now. I think my organs are still in the wrong place. Gimme a year.”
“Of course,” he says, kissing the hill of your shoulder. You laugh at the scratch of his moustache stubble, he knows that’s what it is, and he resents it but can’t resent you. “We don’t have to rush. I’m 24, you know, got my whole life ahead of me.”
“You’re 24?” you ask with another laugh, this one all giggle and snort in the face of his lie. “Practically a child.”
“It’s kinda crazy, right? Me and you, we get so much more than this. We’re gonna be together until we’re in our nineties. This is a third of our life.” He grins into your neck. “Let’s just keep making kids and–”
“They can raise each other,” you finish, rolling your eyes.
★ summary: your shoes are off in the back of the squawk van and steve harrington is looking at you in a way your boyfriend never did. he might not be able to fill his shoes, but that’s not gonna stop him from trying
★ pairing: steve harrington x reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, toxic relationships, absent boyfriends, parental issues, cheating, reader is a little manipulative and insufferable, steve deserves better, steve harrington munch, unprotected sex, rough sex, public sex, car sex, oral f & male receiving, cream pie, drug and alcohol usage
★ word count: 11.4k
★ notes: another one that i’ve had in the drafts since oct 25 that came to me in a dream and i needed to finish it. challenged myself so the ending is not like my usual fics! sorry in advance :,)
And this is how it starts. Your eyes on his, drinking him in so brashly that Steve had to take another look. Cocking his head back dramatically, as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. But your gaze never faltered; your eyes were still locked on him. This is the exact moment Steve knew that he was screwed, that he’d gladly lay his morals on the ground and stomp all over them for you.
He should’ve never taken you home from work that night; he should’ve stopped the moment things got too far. Instead, he couldn’t help it. You were too intoxicating, he was too addicted to the rush, the thrill of it all. To you.
“Oh, don’t worry,” You hummed into the receiver, “I can ask Steve for a ride. Yup. Love you.”
Steve tried to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping the whole time, but his head perked up like a puppy at the mention of his name. You leaned your body against the Radio station’s desk with a dramatic sigh.
“Oh, Stevie..” You called out, “Aren’t I one of your bestest coworkers in the whole world?”
He was still crouched on the floor, a stack of cassettes cradled in his elbow. “Don’t tell Robin.” He whistled, abandoning the tapes back on the cart. To be dealt with another time. “Why? Boyfriend of the year not picking you up once again?”
It was no secret that Steve didn’t like your boyfriend; he was a few years older than you and a total loser. A friend of the families son, a modern day arranged marriage they called it. Affluent families pushing their kids together to keep their status in a town like this. He had a cushy 9-to-5 job, probably a 401(k), and you. Yet he was still a miserable dickhead, as Robin would put it. A total manchild, with an ego the size of Hawkins itself.
“Down, boy.” You teased, “He had another work thing tonight. I can just walk, it’s no biggie.”
He frowned, “You know I wouldn’t make you do that, Y/n. I mean, who knows what’s out there in the dark.”
He internally cringed at the words that left his mouth, “B-because we’re such good friends, and you’re a girl. I can’t have any girls walking ‘round Hawkins late at night.”
Oblivious to his inner turmoil, you just smiled widely at him. “I know Stevie, are you sure? I don’t wanna be an inconvenience.”
“I’m sure.” He grinned, widely pretending that the tapes weren’t now damp from how sweaty his palms grew under your gaze.
Steve waited by the door with his jacket already pulled on, keys spinning lazily around one finger, though the knot twisting in his stomach had been there for the better part of an hour and had nothing to do with the late shift.
The two of you had been friends for years, long enough that giving you a ride home wasn’t anything worth thinking twice about. He’d driven you home plenty of times when your car was in the shop, when you’d worked a double, when the weather was bad enough that neither of you trusted the roads. It wasn’t unusual, and it shouldn’t have felt different tonight, but Steve couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted somewhere between closing up the station and watching you slip your bag over your shoulder.
“Thank you again,” you said as you climbed into the passenger seat, your voice filling the quiet cab of his car. “I know it’s a little out of the way. I’ll pick up any of the weekend shifts you don’t want.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said with an easy smile, starting the engine. “Really.”
You gave him a grateful look before turning toward the window, watching the station disappear behind you as he pulled onto the empty road. For a few minutes, neither of you said much. The radio played softly beneath the hum of the engine, some late-night song neither of you were really listening to, and Steve kept one hand loose around the steering wheel while you fiddled with the strap of your purse in your lap.
“Thank you again,” You spoke up, over the quiet crackle of the radio, “I know it’s a little out of the way. I’ll pick up any of the weekend shifts you don’t want.”
“Don’t worry about it,” He smiled, “Really.”
You smile, and Steve feels his knuckles aching with just how hard he’s gripping the gear shift.
“Stop me if I’m overstepping.” Steve cleared his throat, unsure as to where the sudden confidence had come from.
All you did was shift in the passenger seat, eyes wide. “Okay?”
“Does he take care of you?” The words came out an octave deeper than he wanted them to. He risked a glance at you, your face unchanging. His eyes went back to the road, letting the words fill the tension in the car.
“Like sexually?” You asked, genuinely curious. It also didn’t hurt to watch him squirm.
“God,” A blush was creeping up his cheeks. “All you talk about is sex. That’s not what I meant!”
He hated how defensive he sounded, especially because he knew exactly what he was talking about. He’d seen it too many times. Your boyfriend bailing on picking you up because something came up at work, never bringing you flowers unless somebody reminded him, expecting you to rearrange your entire life around his schedule while never once considering that you might have plans of your own. He’d met the guy once or twice, and both times he’d seemed like he’d rather be anywhere else, as though spending an evening with your friends was another obligation he’d been forced to check off his list.
“You worded the question weird!” You argued, throwing your hands up with a lighthearted laugh.
“You’re ridiculous.” He grumbled, turning the car into your driveway. He hated that the drive was over so soon; he liked spending time with you like this. Alone, no pretenses. Just you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beamer. He tried not to think of the implications of this, especially not while he was grilling you about your boyfriend. “I didn’t mean it like that, just is he good to you?”
You stared through the windshield for a moment, considering the question as though nobody had ever actually asked it before.
“I don’t know. I guess. He’s sweet.” You shrugged, one shoulder. “The sex is fine, too.”
Your tone was flat, uninterested. And Steve, he couldn’t help but poke the bear.
“Really convincing.” He deadpanned, letting the car idle from where he had rolled onto your street. Shifting his body to match yours, the two of you were only separated by the armrest.
“Do you really wanna hear about my sex life?” You raised an eyebrow at him, an unfamiliar heat rushing in your chest. You could feel it thrumming in your veins, your body betraying you with the adrenaline of what could come from this.
He grinned, an unassuming smile. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”
“Okay, Steve, I’ll bite. My sex life is boring. Missionary on weekends, and most of the time, I just fake it so it’s over quicker. Nothing to write home about.” The admission rolled off your tongue like honey. You and Steve have talked about sex before, but nothing as intimate as this.
“I mean, he at least gives you head right?”
Heavy silence settled over the car, thick enough that you suddenly found the dashboard fascinating. Your eyes darted toward the windshield, then the passenger window, anywhere but him. Steve noticed, because of course he did, and the easy grin slipped from his face as his tongue suddenly felt too heavy in his mouth.
“You’re not serious.” An awkward laugh escaped him, but there wasn’t much humor behind it.
You let your head fall back against the headrest, closing your eyes.
“It’s just,” You sigh, “Never come up, I guess?”
The excuse sounds pathetic even as the words come out of your mouth.
“That’s a shame.” Steve manages to get out, “I mean, that should be his favorite part of sex.”
You laugh, loudly as if what he said was some grand joke.
All your laughter does is make him side-eye you, his brows furrowed in confusion. Your laughter falters, as you shift in your seat.
“You’re not serious are you?” You ask.
“I’m very serious.” He says slowly, letting the words sink in for you.
It was crossing a line between friends and something dangerous, you thought. The air inside the car had thickened, warm despite the heater having long since stopped running, and Steve’s knuckles ached from how hard he was still gripping the steering wheel. He kept telling himself to look at the road, even though the car had been parked for minutes now.
“You’re telling me,” you breathed out, slightly amused, “that every single girl you hook up with, you give her head?”
“Yes.” His voice came out a little squeakier than he’d intended, and he immediately cleared his throat. “It’s like, why do it at all if you don’t get to make sure she’s having a good time?”
The blush creeping up his neck made you smirk. You liked getting under his skin, maybe a little more than you should have. For as sex-positive and experienced as Steve Harrington was supposed to be, you always managed to find some way to make him flustered, and lately you had started wondering if it was because you knew exactly where to push. And maybe, just maybe, you liked it a little too much.
“Does it get you off?” you asked, not cruelly, but with genuine curiosity.
Steve dropped his head against the steering wheel. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he whispered under his breath.
“Hmm?”
He cleared his throat, “Nothing, nothing.”
You smiled, turning a little more toward him. “Come on, I’m just asking. I don’t particularly get anything out of giving, so I wanted to know another perspective.”
Steve looked at you, and something about the way you were watching him seemed to make the embarrassment drain from his face. He swallowed, shifting in his seat to cover his lap, for no particular reason.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I think it’s probably the hottest part. I like knowing she’s enjoying herself, you know? Like, if she’s just lying there waiting for it to be over, what’s the point?”
Your smile faded slightly. Steve kept talking, more comfortable now that he had something to defend.
“And sometimes I don’t even care if I’m getting anything back. If she’s having a good time, that’s enough.”
Your mouth suddenly felt dry.
“Also,” Steve added, and there was the faintest hint of a grin returning to his face, “I think you just don’t like doing it for him because he sucks.”
“Hey-”
“He does, Y/N.” Steve turned toward you, eyebrows raised like this was the most obvious conclusion in the world. “Come on. You can’t enjoy doing something for somebody when you already know they’re not going to bother making sure you enjoy it too.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Steve’s expression changed when he realized he’d hit something.
“Has he ever-” He stopped himself, but it was too late. The question had already escaped. “Has he ever made you feel like you’re actually having a good time? Has he ever even made you cum?”
Your head tilts, mouth agape at the brashness of his question and he backtracks immediately.
“A-as a friend, I’m just concerned. You’re not happy, you know? I mean everyone deserves orgasms, I’m just concerned.”
You arch your eyebrow up at him, “Right. Are you also this concerned with Robin’s orgasms?”
His entire body cringes, and he can’t even find it in himself to lie properly. “Yup.”
He starts speaking before you can call him out on the way his voice rose an octave, “Just ask him. Bring it up, or you know tell him what you want. If he doesn’t suck like you say he doesn’t, he’ll do it.”
You’d never say it outloud, but it wasn’t the thought of your boyfriend that was making your lower belly burn.
“God,” You breathe out, shaking your head as if you could shake out the thoughts of Steve between your legs plaguing your deepest darkest thoughts, “If only I had dated you or something.”
Steve jerks so abruptly that the car shakes, and your heart falls into your stomach.
“What-“
“I didn’t mean it like that-“
“Course not.” He coughed out, running a hand anxiously through his hair. “Yeah, no I knew what you meant.”
“I was just saying, well I mean that,” you continued, trying to save yourself from the awkwardness, “it’s nice that you actually think about whether the other person is enjoying themselves. That’s an attractive trait. Lots of men don’t have that.”
“Hmm.” He nodded slowly, looking anywhere but directly at you. “Yup.”
“Sorry,” you said eventually cutting through the silence, shaking your head as your hands searched for the door handle in the dark. “This has been awkward. I made it awkward.”
“You didn’t.”
You gave him a look.
Steve sighed, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I promise, you didn’t.”
You laughed softly, ignoring the fact that you were suddenly noticing the warmth of his shoulder beside you, the sound of his voice, or how his lips looked, or the way he looked at you like you were something worth paying attention to.
“Listen,” you said, still smiling as you reached for the door, “to make it up to you, I’ll smoke some of the stuff Eddie gets for me from out of state this weekend with you. Deal?”
Steve knew what the right answer was.
He knew he should laugh and tell you that wasn’t necessary. He knew he should remember that this was already complicated enough, that every little moment between you lately felt like another step toward something he wasn’t supposed to want.
He should say no. His inner voice is screaming, pleading with him to say no. No, no, no, no.
Instead, a grin slowly spread across his face.
“Sounds like a deal, Y/l/n.”
”Good,” You wave, “Goodnight, Stevie.”
You closed the door and walked toward your house, but you looked back once before going inside.
Steve was still watching you, and you pretended not to notice, because it felt nice to be wanted. You ignored that feeling when you crawled into bed alone.
The sunset painted the sky in muted pinks and blues; it reflected off the water of Lover’s Lake like a watercolor painting. Steve was too busy propping open the back of the van to notice you staring. His back muscles flexing in his plain t-shirt, the defined muscles of his arms begging to be touched. You’ve always known Steve was attractive, but ever since the night he took you home, you’ve been watching. Staring, imagining things you shouldn’t. Not with your boyfriend at home, waiting by the phone for your call. All while you were letting Steve lure you into the back of the Squawk Van, the joint Eddie underpriced for you tucked behind his ear.
“Figured it’ll be quiet. Not many teenagers down here on a weeknight.” He said, plopping down on the shag carpet. Letting his feet dangle out the back. You joined him, leaning back on your elbows to watch the water ripple.
“Because they’re all adults now.” You stuck your tongue out at him, handing him your lighter.
He rolled his eyes, accepting it from you, your fingers brushing a bit longer than necessary.
“Now, just to make sure Hopper doesn’t bust us with pot.” You teased, watching him take the joint into his hands, setting it between his lips. His pink pouty lips wrapped around the filter, and all you could think about was how they’d feel against your skin. You watched him light it and exhale shakily before handing it back to you.
“If he busts us, I’m blaming it on you.” He coughed, making you gasp at him.
“You’re the one who offered to smoke it out here. Luring out a poor, innocent girl to Lover’s Lake in his sketchy van.” You grinned, the two of you splitting the joint until it was burned down to ash. With each inhale, you could feel your body going lax, the filter between your mouth and brain wearing down with each second. He was feeling it too, you could tell by the way he leaned. His dark brown eyes were glossy, his cheeks flushed.
As the two of you rambled on about work, and movies you couldn’t stop watching the way his thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks when he looked at you.
“So, did you take my advice?” He spoke up, his back now leaning against the wooden wall of the van. You mirrored him on the other side; your shoes were now off. Boots thrown somewhere in between speaker equipment. Knees tucked into your chest, your skirt riding up your thighs.
“What advice?” You giggled, brain too hazy to recall what he was talking about.
“You know,” He whispered, “The plan to get laid as you deserve.”
Steve wasn’t sure if it was the weed making him brave, or if it was you looking at him for what felt like the first time with unguarded eyes. You faltered, just a moment. But it was enough for Steve to notice.
“Oh, that.” You waved your hand, dismissing it. “Didn’t really work.”
You didn’t offer any details, too embarrassed to tell him that your boyfriend denied your advances. Content on asking for a blowjob, then going to sleep. It was even more embarrassing that you accepted it, trying to focus on the stable life he’d bring you. A nice house with a white picket fence, a fancy diamond, and kids in a few years. The life your parents envisioned for you, the one they were determined you’d have.
“What do you mean it didn’t work?” He scoffed, “What happened?”
You groaned, putting your face in your hands. “I don’t know. I dressed up all cute, lay in bed waiting for him. He came home, barely gave me a second glance. Then I asked him about going down on me, and he said no.”
“He just said no?” Steve spluttered.
You just nodded, “Said that’s not something he’s into. Then he asked for head.”
“You told him to fuck off, right?” He laughed, then went quiet at your silence. “Y/n..”
“He makes me happy.” You lied straight through your teeth, “Figured I could deal with it, for all the other upsides.”
“Upsides. Like what? Making your parents happy?”
“You’re one to talk.” You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “Mr. Trust fund.”
He clicked his teeth. Maybe you did have him there. The two of you were two peas in a pod that way, content on making your insufferable parents happy no matter the personal cost. Different circumstances, different families, different expectations, but the same exhausting habit of bending yourselves into whatever shape would make other people comfortable.
Steve had spent years trying to be the version of himself his parents wanted. The golden boy of Hawkins. The kid who had everything handed to him, the kid who was supposed to be successful and charming and impressive enough that nobody would notice how lonely he actually was.
You knew what it felt like to have people decide what your future should look like before they ever asked what you wanted. You knew what it felt like to have love measured in expectations, in appearances, in whether you were making the “right” choices. Sometimes it was easier to accept something mediocre than disappoint the people who had already written your life story for you.
“Money isn’t everything.” He shakes his head, “Trust me.”
You laugh, “Coming from someone who’s always had it.”
You didn’t grow up with the kind of safety net Steve had. You didn’t have parents who could buy you out of mistakes or cushion every fall. Steve could walk away from his parents’ expectations because, at the end of the day, he knew there would still be something waiting for him.
You weren’t sure you had that, but you knew you would with your boyfriend.
“At least I know how to eat a girl out,” Steve shrugged, the vulgarity of his words making goosebumps rise on your skin, “Makes me like 80% less of an asshole, automatically.”
Frustration is still thrumming in your chest, “Right, do these girls even actually cum? Or do they just fake it like the rest of us?”
Steve’s not sure what came over him. Between the weed coursing through his veins, the chill night air, or the smell of your perfume invading his senses he couldn’t stop the next words from leaving his mouth.
“Wanna see for yourself?”
His words cut through the air like a knife, the tension from the bickering getting replaced with something thicker.
You’re not sure what came over you, either. If it was the way you’ve been staring at his lips ever since that night he took you home, or if it was the way you were so sexually frustrated you would have done anything to feel his hands on you.
“Yeah.”
One of you should have laughed the whole conversation off, should have redirected it into something else entirely. It should have been a stupid joke, the argument turning into something nasty. But instead, the two of you couldn’t stop looking at each other. Both of your chests rising and falling in anticipation, like predator and prey waiting for each other to pounce first.
“Are you serious?” He asked, all the bravado in his voice now replaced with something gentler. Something that reminded you he was still your Steve.
“Yes.” Your voice was small, shy even as you shifted on your legs.
He tilted his head, as if he didn’t believe this was actually happening before he pushed himself up off the wall slowly.
“You really wanna do this?” His voice was deeper than before, his eyes darker. The timber tone in his words made your stomach burn with desire.
It took you a minute to find your voice, but once you did it came out breathy, “Steve. Please.”
“Fuck.” Slipped out of his mouth as he leaned forward ready to crawl on his hands and knees to meet you on the other side of the van.
“Spread your legs for me.”
This, was a different side of Steve. One that made you tremble with anticipation as you let your legs spread wide for him. Exposing the no doubt damp spot on the pale lacy underwear you had on.
A strangled noise left his mouth, his eyes never once leaving between yours.
“Pull your panties to the side for me.” He ordered, and you did. The fabric was clutched between your fingers, allowing him access to your trembling, wet heat. Your skirt was quickly rolled up to your hips, as he crawled in between your legs. Before his face could get any closer to the place where you ached for him, your back straightened nervously.
“Wait,” You whispered quickly, “I’ve n-never- I don’t know if I can even, I don’t know.”
His eyes looked up at yours, darkening even more if possible. “Never? Not once?”
You take your bottom lip in between your teeth, shaking your head.
He made a pained noise, and let his eyes travel back to your glistening cunt. “Don’t worry, I’ll go slow. I’ll make you feel good. baby.”
When his tongue made contact with your clit, both of your moans bounced around the walls of the van.
It was nothing like you had ever experienced before, it was warm and wet and had every single nerve in your body lit ablaze. You couldn’t help but watch, your eyes locked on his as his tongue made paintings between your legs. One of your hands wrapped itself in his hair, the other gripping the shitty shag carpet like your life depended on that.
“S’okay?” His eyes fluttered open to match yours, your back arching at the vibration of his words.
You couldn’t help but gasp, “Fuck, yes. Don’t stop, please don’t stop Stevie.”
He answered by suckling your swollen clit into his mouth, his tongue slipping past your entrance. He was gentle, but hungry. His mouth opened wide, drinking in each last drop of you he could.
A familiar, yet foreign feeling began to creep in your belly. A warmth started in your toes, your jaw dropping open as your thighs began to shake. His fingers gripped your thighs, forcing your trembling legs to stay apart.
“Steve..M’gonna,” You cried out, “You’re gonna make me cum, please, please.”
Your pleas were loud, and pathetic and each one went straight to Steve’s cock that was currently grinding against the carpet, desperate for relief. He pressed himself even further into you if possible, his nose brushing against your clit in each frantic swirl of his tongue. He wanted, no he needed, to feel you come apart against him. He needed to taste it, to relish in the sounds, to memorise the look on your face as he made you feel otherworldly.
He did just that, it didn’t take much more for you to cum against his face with a wanton moan. Your fingers gripping, pulling at his now disheveled brown locks. He couldn’t stop his own moans from synchronizing with yours as you writhed and ground your soaking heat against his open mouth.
When you came back down to earth, your body was putty in his hands. Your back slumped against the wall, body trembling with aftershocks as he gently licked you through the orgasmic haze. His eyes drinking you in.
“F-fuck.” You whimpered, eyes still squeezed shut. “That was…There are no words…”
“Want me to keep going?” He spoke up, his head still firmly between your legs. His mouth and chin soaked in your release, his eyes twinkling with eagerness.
A laugh escaped you, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.
“You’re insane,” Your fingers push his sweaty hair back from his forehead, “And really fucking good at that.”
He grins, “And you doubted me.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes, biting down on your bottom lip. “You can eat pussy, but can you fuck me even better than that?”
Somehow, his eyes twinkled even brighter. It took him no time to react, he pulled himself up on his knees his hands going to his belt. The bulge in his pants was enough to make the heat rise in your chest again.
“Turn around.” He panted, tapping your hips gently as he unbuckled his belt.
You flipped on your knees quickly, resting your palms on the scratchy carpet aching, begging for him to fuck you. It felt carnal, like something you needed to survive. He pulled your underwear down your legs harshly, lining his hard cock up with your entrance.
When he finally slid inside of you, you nearly fell to the floor, only being held up by his hands splayed across your hips.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking big.” You cried out, chest heaving as he slid each glorious inch deeper and deeper inside of you until his hips were slapping against yours.
“I know,” He cooed, “You’re taking me so well, god, no one’s fucked you this good before huh? Squeezing me so hard I can barely move.”
Your jaw fell at the dirty words leaving his mouth, you’ve known of Steve’s proclivities, but now you were seriously thinking that maybe the girls of Hawkins didn’t talk about him enough.
He fucked you hard, and deep. Each delicious drag of him inside of you had your toes curling and your knuckles turning white from where you gripped the wall.
“Stevie,” You panted, his body leaning over yours caging you in. His teeth nibbling at your ear, whispering filthy things over and over.
“Say my name, who’s making you feel this good?”
You’d answer with a wail of his name, and he’d respond by snaking his hand between your legs rubbing harsh circles on your clit to feel you clench around him.
“Perfect pussy,” He babbled, “So wet n’tight for me. Wanna feel you cum. Wanna make you cum around my cock.”
“You’re gonna make me cum,” You gasped, “Yes, baby. Don’t fucking stop, right there. I’m gonna- oh Steve I’m cumming.”
If Steve thought feeling you cum against his tongue was heaven, nothing compared to the way you exploded around him. Your thighs shaking, your cunt leaking around him as you fell apart. Your eyes shut and your nose scrunched, only wanton moans leaving your lips as he fucked you through the aftershocks.
“Good girl.” His breath flared out his nostrils, gritting his teeth as you clenched so tightly around him he had to rock his hips into you even harder. “Such a good girl, you’re gonna make me cum. Where do you want it?”
You were barely holding yourself up, but managed to push your ass back against him harshly drinking his cock in. “Inside, please-“
“You don’t have to beg baby.” His thrusts sped up, the lewd wet sounds of him inside your frothy cunt only pushing him to the edge. “M’gonna cum. Gonna go home with my cum deep inside of you. You want that? Tell me you want it.”
“Yes, yes.” You sobbed, letting out a final moan that matched his as you felt his warm cum spurt inside of you. You pressed back against him, milking him for every last drop before he slid his softening cock out of you with a wince.
“I don’t think I’ve ever needed anything as bad as I needed that.” You panted, barely holding yourself up on shaky arms as he used a random work shirt to clean up the mess he had made of you.
A gentle kiss is pressed against the small of your back when he’s done, helping you roll onto your back.
Your clothes are scattered around you, his hair a mess from the way you had been running your fingers through it. You look over at him with a sleepy smile, completely unbothered by the weight of what had just happened.
“That was…” You trail off, unable to find the word, because there really doesn’t seem to be any.
Steve watches you reach for your shirt, pulling it over your head before smoothing the fabric down over your stomach. Your cheeks are warm and your eyes soft as you glance over and catch him staring.
“What?” you ask, smiling.
“Nothing.” Steve forces the word out, reaching for his own clothes. “Are you okay?”
You suppose you should feel something, dread, guilt, maybe even despair. But there’s nothing there, not when the ache of Steve is so strong in your gut.
You press another kiss against his shoulder before pulling away to find your shoes, humming quietly as you get dressed.
Steve watches you.
He watches the girl he has been trying so hard not to fall in love with button her skirt in the back of his van, and something inside him sinks with the realization that this isn’t going to be something he can just forget tomorrow.
It hadn’t really sunk in what Steve had done until he dropped you off, staring at the flickering streetlights ahead. You had spent the drive beside him smiling, your hand resting comfortably on his thigh, completely unaware that he was replaying every second in his head. You kissed his cheek before climbing out, told him you’d see him tomorrow, and shut the door with the same easy smile you’d had when you’d gotten in.
“Fuck.”
That should have been the end of it. A one-time thing, a combination of drugs and poor decision-making. You were pent up, upset, and that’s all it was: a simple mistake. But it wasn’t. It was just the beginning. Weeks went by of the two of you falling into a dangerous routine. There was now a permanent indent in the back of his van in the shape of your body, where he’d fuck you senselessly into the carpet. You’d go home with rug burn on your back and bite marks on your shoulder.
There was a point where you wanted your boyfriend to see you walk back inside with a limp. To peek at the bruises on your hips, the bite marks on your chest, but he never did.
Supply closets at the radio station had been christened. Your knees bruised from hiding underneath the sound deck, his cock sitting firmly in your mouth in between songs. His fingers deep inside of you during morning announcements, and quickies in between song breaks. If either of you had spare time, you were clinging to one another. Your body held a new piece of him each time, and you were addicted. He was a drug you couldn’t stop. A drug you didn’t want to stop, selfishly.
“So, you and Y/n?” Robin asked one morning, in between announcements. Her feet lazily draped on the counter. Steve stilled, pausing too suspiciously for Robin not to pick something up.
“What d’you mean?” He coughed awkwardly, nearly dropping the stack of cassettes he was switching out.
“You guys are just getting pretty close,” She shrugged, “Was wondering if you finally manned up and asked her out.”
His eyes nearly bugged out of his head, staring at her. “What do you mean?”
“Dude, you’ve had the biggest crush on her for like ever; everyone knows this.” She laughed.
“Dude, no.” He scoffed, slamming the cassettes down harder than he needed to. “Besides, she’s got a boyfriend anyway.”
Robin’s eyebrow only shot up higher in confusion, spinning around in her chair to face the man. “Wait. She’s still with him?”
All Steve could do was nod; he couldn’t speak the words. His mouth refused to form the shape. It still made him sick to think about the idea that every night, he wasn’t the one you were going home with. But it wasn’t enough to stop; he’d gladly take whatever scraps of you that you’d offer up to him.
Robin has known Steve long enough to be able to read him like her favorite book. It took one pathetic, far-away puppy dog look from him for her to know exactly what was going on between her two friends.
Robin said his name with a saddened tone, her face falling. A look of pity, of shame even crossed her features. Steve kept his head down; he should’ve known she’d find out. He can’t hide anything from his best friend; and now she knows he was a dirty little secret. She took his silence as a confession, inhaling a deep breath.
“That’s fucked.” She decided on it after the silence had rung through the booth long enough. “Steve, that’s really fucked up.”
“I know,” Steve muttered, barely audible. “I know Robin.”
There wasn’t much left for Robin to say that he didn’t already know. That he deserved more than to be a dirty mistress. That you were walking all over his heart, selfishly. Steve also knew how pathetic he was. How pathetic it was to love someone so much that you’d let them destroy you, because at least you had them at all.
By the third week, Steve was fully embedded into your routine. The two of you knew each other’s bodies like the back of your hands. As soon as the music in the sound booth was nothing but a faint hum in the background, and the recording light was switched off, your eyes would gravitate towards each other. His legs spread in his chair, your fingertips pulling at threads on the end of your skirt. Both of you anxiously waiting to hear the front door slam close upon Robin’s departure.
SLAM
“Come on.” Steve patted his lap, beckoning you to come over. You hated how you didn’t hesitate. Hated how you gathered your skirt up in your hands, the skirt you only wore to make this easier. To pull his cock out of his pants and slide down on top of him. Sheathing himself deep inside of you. No matter how many times this happened, he took your breath away each time.
He’d take you right there in his chair, or sometimes he’d lift you up and fuck you against the soundboard. Then if that wasn’t enough, and it never was, he’d take you home, spend the whole drive with his fingers knuckle deep inside of you. Long enough to stretch you out so you could crawl right there in the driver’s seat with him and take him one last time for the night.
It felt like coming home after a long day, each time you rocked your hips against his. Even now, in the driveway of your house. Tits spilling out of your top, the van rocking back and forth for any passerby to see. But you didn’t care, it was hard to care about anything when Steve was near. Especially when his cock was pressing against your sweet spot, the patch of curly hair above it rubbing deliciously against your clit.
“He’d never please you like this.” Steve seethed through his teeth, his hips bucking wildly into you. Your head turned to your house, the light in the bedroom off. No doubt where your boyfriend was lying asleep, another night of neglecting you. All while Steve was balls deep inside of your cunt, just a few yards away. “Would he?”
“No.” You sobbed, clinging to him like a lifeline. Your fingernails left marks on his shoulder blades. You knew this was wrong, but it was the sort of wrong that just felt so good in the moment. So good that it outweighed the guilt that came after. So undeniably worth it, that the guilt just stopped coming after a while.
You came with a shaky scream of his name, and he followed not long behind pumping his seed deep into you while kissing up and down your collarbone.
In the filthy afterglow, you met his hooded eyes with a grin. “That was fun.” You panted, ready to slip out of his van and into the arms of a man that wasn’t him. Leaving Steve feeling hollow, with a bad taste in his mouth as you gave one last wave before shutting the door.
It didn’t feel like harmless fun, no matter what came out of your mouth. Not when you’d trapeze around his house in nothing but one of his oversized shirts with his cum dripping out of you. Not when you’d help him take the kids to the movies, splitting popcorn with Dustin because you knew he hated asking. Not when he’d hand-feed you strawberries dipped in cream while you sat on the kitchen counter, looking at him as if he had hung the moon for you.
He would have, if he could. You knew this. You knew him. You knew exactly how Steve liked his coffee, which records he played when he was in a bad mood, and the look on his face when you walked through his front door after he’d been waiting for you two to be alone all day. You were also very aware of how Steve Harrington looked at you. Everyone knew it, and it wouldn’t be long before the entire town knew just how madly in love with you he was. That included your boyfriend.
It didn’t feel casual when you’d hang off of his arm around his friends. It didn’t feel casual when you’d hang off of his arm around his friends, laughing at something stupid he said, letting your fingers curl around his bicep because you liked the way he looked when you touched him. It didn’t feel casual when you’d steal his jackets and leave your things scattered around his bedroom as though you belonged there.
It didn’t feel like nothing when he held you in his arms. It felt like everything, and more. That was the cruelest part. You knew exactly what you were doing to him.
Now, you weren’t cruel enough to do it deliberately, but you weren’t selfless enough to stop. You liked him. You loved being around him. You loved the way he made you laugh, the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel, the way everything felt lighter when you were with him.
You just didn’t love him enough to choose him over a life so safe. A life planned long before he stepped into the picture.
And Steve knew that, too.
He had never been stupid, no matter how badly he wanted to be when it came to you.
So he continued to take whatever you were willing to give him.
A few hours in his bedroom. A stolen afternoon at Lover’s Lake. Your laughter from the passenger seat of his car. Your hand slipping into his beneath the table when nobody was looking. Your head on his shoulder during a movie, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of his shirt. Your lips on his skin, the shape of your lips gasping out his name.
For all intents and purposes, the dalliance had been going well. You refused to call it an affair because the word itself felt too ugly, too sharp, too final, and who was Steve to disagree when you looked at him with those tired eyes and insisted that what the two of you had was different? It wasn’t some careless mistake. It wasn’t some cruel game you were playing at someone else’s expense. At least, that was what you told yourself when the guilt became too heavy to ignore.
Despite Robin’s harsh glances towards you, things were going without a hitch. She never said anything directly, which was somehow worse. She saw the way Steve’s whole face softened before he caught himself. She saw the way he found reasons to be near you, the way conversations that should have ended five minutes ago somehow stretched into another hour. She saw the way you started looking for him too, how your eyes instinctively searched the room for him before you even realized you were doing it.
She also knew exactly how this would end, but when Steve loved he loved hard. Her and Dustin’s pleas fell on deaf ears. All she could do was watch, and help him pick up the pieces you’d no doubt shatter.
Your boyfriend was never around long enough to see just how far away you really were. He was always working, always distracted, always promising that things would slow down eventually. There was always another deadline, another meeting, another reason he couldn’t make time. You became something that existed in the background of his life, something comfortable and familiar that he assumed would always be waiting for him whenever he decided to look up.
Steve was always looking. Wherever you were, Steve would find you. And you liked that, you needed that. So you kept stringing him along, kept letting yourself believe that this was working the way that it was.
It wasn’t until Stacey Haskin’s party that the first crack in the mirage appeared.
You weren’t one to go to parties, not parties like this. But with your boyfriend on your ass about hanging out with his friends instead of going out, it seemed like the easiest thing. You could get through one night of adults pretending they were living out the glory days of high school, all of them stuck in the rut of living in their hometown.
The house was exactly what you expected when you arrived. Loud music rattled the walls, the smell of alcohol and perfume clung to the air, and everyone seemed just a little too eager to prove they were having fun. Your boyfriend seemed to come alive around them in a way you rarely saw anymore, laughing louder, drinking faster, acting like he had something to prove.
You stood beside him and played your role to perfection, smiled and made easy jokes. You nursed a beer you hated, and pretended your mind wasn’t floating feet above your body. You were in the middle of grabbing water, before his arm slung lazily over your shoulder, nearly making you wince at the contact. He was never one for PDA, he swore it made him seem weak and clingy. You nearly stumbled back, feeling him pull you into his side more harshly than before. You didn’t know why until a familiar mop of brown hair was in your peripheral vision.
“Steve?” You stopped, causing your boyfriend to jerk his head back.
“Y/n?” He asked, his eyes wide and doe-like.
“Who?” Your boyfriend slurred, smoothing down the collar of his polo.
“Steve Harrington.” You said slowly, “My coworker?”
Steve pretended that didn’t sting, and gave a half-assed wave, “Hey, man.”
Your boyfriend, so drunk he couldn’t even pretend to care just nodded. “Right, I’m gonna go get another drink. Don’t be long.”
Then he was off, running into the open arms of his buddies who were hollering over a beer pong table.
“Didn’t think this was your scene,” Steve said, taking a drink out of his cup trying to appear more nonchalant than he was.
You could feel the bass of the music in your chest, rattling around in your ears. “I didn’t think it was yours either.”
Steve shrugged coldly, “Guess we don’t know each other as well as we thought, huh?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Your name is being called from a distance, a chorus of cheers following.
You open your mouth to speak, but Steve beats you to it.
“Don’t want you to be too long.” He held his hands up, a small gesture of surrender, like he was backing away from a fight he didn’t want to have.
He goes to walk away, and in a moment of fury you follow. Your boots clunking against the linoleum tile and all the way through the sliding glass door.
“Don’t walk away from me, don’t do that.” You hollered, following him into the driveway where he headed for his car.
Steve doesn’t stop immediately. His shoulders rise with a heavy breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he stares at the pavement like he is trying to find the patience to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. When he finally turns around, there is something exhausted in his face that makes your anger falter.
“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” He asked, “To us?”
“Doing what?” Your hands are shaking as you rummage through your purse for your pack of cigarettes. A horrible habit you’ve started again. Who knew the stress of an affair would cause you to start chain-smoking again?
“You’re not happy with him,” He stuttered, “I know you’re not, you don’t love him.”
“I can learn to love him.” You said through your own tears that threatened to break through, fingers gripping the cardboard box in your palm. “I can learn.”
“Y/n,” He grips your shoulders gently, as if he could shake the stupidity out of you, “He is sloppy drunk and you’re out here crying? In what world is that love?”
“The only love I’ve known, Steve.” The words tear out of your chest, “It’s safe! It’s stability in my life.”
“What does he really give you, huh?” Steve presses, “A big house? Shitty sex? Your parents’ approval?”
“You don’t understand,” You cry, letting a stray tear finally fall. “You got away from your family, I can’t-“
“Yes you can-“
“No!” You cry out, a little too loud, causing passersby to turn their heads. You don’t care this time, your chest heaving as you try to swallow down the sob threatening to break through your throat. “It’s all I’ve ever had, it’s all I’ve ever known. It’s different for me, so different, Steve.”
“Y/n,” He whispers your name, too affectionately for what you feel you deserve, and something about the softness of it makes you want to cry harder. “I know you, I know you’re scared, but honey, I promise you everything would be fine. You could stay with me, you can finish school, we can get you a car-“
“You don't even know me Steve, not really!”
He laughs, and it’s the cruelest thing you’ve ever heard from your sweet boy’s mouth.
“You wanna play that game Y/n?” He asks, bending down so his nose is touching yours. “I buy all of your favorite snacks every time I go to the store. I have a blanket of your favorite color on my couch because you run cold. You talk in your sleep, you wear socks with sandals, and hate the smell of patchouli. I know the exact scrunch of your nose when you’re about to cum on my cock. I know all your biggest fears but I know none of your dreams because you won’t talk to me about the future, because you just won’t admit that I’m not in it. So don’t ever accuse me of not knowing you.”
“You knew what this was,” You snapped, jerking your arm back from him harshly, “If you can’t handle it, then maybe we should stop.”
“Tell me,” Steve knew he should stop talking but all his frustrations were pouring out of him, “Who fucked you up this badly? Was it your parents, or was it him?”
“Fuck you, Steve Harrington.” You spit.
“Too late. You already have, and nothing else will compare, baby.” He leaned forward, his lips just inches from yours before your hands pushed against his chest pushing him far away.
“Go to hell.”
The next day you still found yourself at Steve’s front door. Jutting out your bottom lip, and asking for forgiveness. Your clothes were left behind in a pile leading up the stairs into his bedroom. You let him inside of you, you let him fuck the memories of last night out of you. You scream his name when you finish, and you let him cum inside of you. You tell him you think you love him, he doesn’t pretend to believe it anymore. It’s as if you knew it was ending, as if you needed to feel him one last time.
And Steve, he was going to keep taking whatever it is you gave him.
After it was over you lay on his chest, memorizing the pattern of his breathing, tracing shapes in his chest hair. His arms were wrapped around you, his mind far away as he stared up at the ceiling. No words were spoken, just the hum of each other’s breath.
When it got too much, you slunk out of the bed and leaned against his window. Clad in nothing but his crumpled-up shirt, lighting up a cigarette when you heard him mumble something under his breath.
You took in a deep drag, “You say something?”
Suddenly you could see the tension in his shoulders, the sad faraway look in his eyes. You braced for impact when he sat up on the corner of the bed, his hands gripping his knees.
“What are we doing, Y/n?” The words left his mouth with such a heartbreaking tone, you flicked ash on your leg by accident.
“What do you mean?” Your thumb is now rubbing at the burnt spot on your thigh, self-soothing as best you can.
“You know what I mean,” He glares, “This. Fucking and saying things you don’t mean just to go back with him.”
“It’s complicated-“
He laughs, and it's cruel and you guess you deserve that. “It’s not complicated, you’re just making it complicated.”
“Steve,” you barked, turning toward him as frustration finally began to overtake the shame, and you stubbed the cigarette out against the glass harder than necessary. “You told me you were okay with this, whatever this is. I told you I can’t, I can’t just leave him.”
“Bullshit.” He scoffed, shaking his head as he stood. “It’s fucking bullshit. You’re scared and just using me in your spare time.”
Your face falls, swinging your legs back to the floor. “Steve-“
“Does he take care of you?” He asks, emphasizing each word. His words echo the same ones he spoke to you on the night all of this started.
“In some ways, yes.” You cry out, your hands tugging at the roots of your hair in frustration.
“I could easily fill his shoes, Y/n. Come on.” He scoffs. “What can he give you that I can’t?”
You wanted to cry because the answer felt so cruel when you said it aloud, even though it was the truth.
“Stability? My parents not cutting me off-“
“Money, money, money,” He raises his voice, “It’s just money and sex with you, isn’t it?”
You narrow your eyes at him, “Is that really how you think of me?”
“You haven’t given me much else.” He admits, standing up from the bed and slipping on his sweatpants hastily. “What are you still doing here? I mean we might as well just fuck, s’all I’m good for anyways.”
“Steve-“
“Stop!”
He yelled so loudly that you sank into yourself, the sound reverberating through the bedroom and leaving a terrible silence behind it. His chest rose and fell heavily, his hands trembling slightly at his sides, and for one awful second you thought he might take it back.
“Stop,” he said quieter this time, and somehow that hurt more. “Stop saying my name like it means something to you when you’ve proved over and over again that it doesn’t.”
You choke on your breath, standing up to meet his eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I can’t keep being your dirty mistress, someone who you come to crying, who loves you more than anything, does anything for you, to be what?” His voice broke, and he looked down for a second before forcing himself to continue. “Treated like someone who gives you what he can’t. Like I’m just a good fuck.”
“No.” You shook your head frantically, tears finally spilling over as you stepped toward him. “You’re not just someone-God, don’t ever say that. Stevie, you have to know that. I love you. You’re one of my best friends.”
The words sounded so desperate that you hated yourself.
Steve stared at you for a long moment before his hands found your hips, pulling you flush against him. He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as his breath shook between you, and for a moment the anger disappeared entirely, leaving only the exhausted grief of two people who had wanted something they could never seem to give each other.
“So be with me, Y/n. I’m pleading with you. Let me give you the love you deserve. Please.”
Your hands curled against his chest, gripping the skin there because you needed something solid to hold onto, something that would keep you from collapsing beneath the weight of the choice he was asking you to make.
Tears were welling in your eyes as you looked at him, and every part of you wanted to say yes. You wanted to let yourself be selfish for once. You wanted to stop thinking about your parents, your boyfriend, money, expectations, and the future everyone else had already planned for you, and you wanted to choose the person standing in front of you.
“I can’t.”
Steve’s eyes closed.
And you felt his hands slowly loosen at your waist, as if even holding you had suddenly become too painful.
He cleared his throat, “Then I think it’s best we keep some space.”
You nod, knowing the moment a word left your mouth you’d be choking down sobs.
“Okay, yeah.” Your voice was small, but Steve turned away giving you privacy as you hastily changed.
Neither of you looked back at one another when you left. Your eyes cast downward on the floor, his fixated on the wall. Neither of you let the tears fall until his front door slammed shut.
Space. Space. Space.
When you say a word so many times it starts to lose its meaning, hell it starts to barely feel like a word anymore. It becomes nothing but sounds, syllables that roll around in your mouth without ever settling into something real. But space had become painfully real.
Space was empty seats where you used to sit beside him in the break room. Space was leaving five minutes earlier than usual so you wouldn’t run into Steve in the parking lot.
It was strange, discovering how much of your life had quietly wrapped itself around another person.
You couldn’t walk into work without thinking of him. Couldn’t hear a certain song on the radio without remembering the way he drummed his fingers against the sound board. Even stupid things had become all about Steve. Strawberry ice cream. Cigarette smoke. The smell of leather. The sound of aerosol. The stupid horror movies he made fun of but always watched anyway.
You had built little shrines to him in places you hadn’t realized could become holy.
Work was awkward in a way that felt almost unbearable. The kind of awkward that sat heavy in your chest and made every minute stretch longer than it should. Robin didn’t even pretend to be civil with you anymore, you respected her honesty. Steve needed someone in his corner, but it left you calling out more days than you should have, inventing headaches and family emergencies because it was easier than seeing him look at you like that.
Steve pretended not to sulk on the days that you were there.
He pretended not to watch your boyfriend pull into the parking lot. Pretended not to notice the smile that spread across your face before you climbed into another man’s car. Pretended not to watch your boyfriend lean over the center console to kiss you. Pretended not to feel something ugly twist inside him every time.
What had once been your sacred time had become someone else’s.
Steve stood beneath the buzzing lights of WSQK Radio and watched another man have all the things he had once foolishly let himself imagine could belong to him.
He had gotten through almost a month of ‘space’ before he caved. Relapsing on the drug that was you.
Steve knew you’d be here. Maybe that’s why he decided to come again, a shitty beer that’s gone warm gripped tightly in his hand as he watched you glued to his side, a fake smile plastered on your face.
A glimpse into the future that he wanted, and would probably never have.
He told himself he was only going to stay for one drink.
Then one drink became two, and two became three, because every time he thought about leaving, he caught another glimpse of you through the crowd and found himself rooted to the spot. It was pathetic, really. A month of trying to teach himself how to exist without you, only to walk into a party and immediately start looking for you as if his eyes had never learned anything else.
You look different, in a way he can’t place. It takes him two more beers and feeling like a perv by watching you through the crowd before it hits him. You don’t look like you. The floral dress you have on, the stepford wife red lipstick. It’s not the same girl who’d show up to work in day-old eyeliner and high tops. It’s definitely not the same girl who would curl up on his couch in nothing but his t-shirts.
Your boyfriend was drunk, his head shoved obnoxiously into the crook of your neck as he paraded you around his equally drunk friends. His hand stayed possessively at your waist while he laughed too loudly at something one of them said, and you smiled because you were supposed to smile.
He stayed until the room became too loud to think in, until the beer in his hand was already warm and flat and the sight of your boyfriend’s mouth against your neck had become something he couldn’t keep swallowing down. He tried to convince himself he was leaving. He was drunk, because he had work in the morning. After all, Robin would probably make fun of him for showing up to a party he hadn’t even wanted to attend in the first place.
Then you slipped away.
It was subtle, the way you did it. You waited until your boyfriend was distracted by one of his friends, laughed at something you hadn’t heard, and gently peeled his arm from around your waist with some excuse about needing air. Steve watched you disappear through the back door, and for a few seconds he stayed exactly where he was, staring at the space you’d left behind.
He should have let you go.
That was the whole point of the month, wasn’t it? Space meant leaving you alone. Space meant allowing you to have your boyfriend and your life without Steve constantly hovering around the edges of it, waiting for whatever scraps of affection you were willing to throw to him. But then he remembered the pack of cigarettes that were always tucked into the little purse hanging from your shoulder.
He remembered the way you always smoked when you were overwhelmed, the way you’d take the first drag too quickly and cough before glaring at him when he laughed. He remembered all the nights he’d sat beside you on his back steps while you complained about your boyfriend, your parents, work, everything that had ever made you feel like you were living a life somebody else had picked out for you.
And before Steve could talk himself out of it, he was moving.
Outside, the air was cooler, and the music became muffled behind the door, reduced to a dull pulse that barely reached the porch. You were standing near the edge of the yard with your arms folded, staring out into the darkness as you dug through your purse. You didn’t turn around when the door opened, because you knew. You memorized his outline long ago.
You pulled a cigarette from the pack and rolled it between your fingers, staring at the end of it instead of him. Steve glanced down at your hands, then at your face, and something about the familiarity of the gesture nearly undid him. You looked exactly like yourself now. You finally held it toward him, an offering.
He took the cigarette from your fingers and brought his lighter up, shielding the flame with his hand when the wind caught it. You leaned toward him, and for one brief second your faces were close enough that he could smell your perfume beneath the smoke and the alcohol clinging to both of you.
The first hit makes your skin tingle, the smoke blowing out of your mouth quickly before you passed it to him. He took it, more out of impulse than he wanted.
Your lipstick stains the filter of the cigarette when you pass it back to him, a faint reminder of you left behind on something temporary. His lips closed around the same place yours had just been, and you watched him inhale. Steve watches the mark without meaning to, watches the way your fingers linger for half a second before letting go, and he hates how much meaning he has started finding in the smallest things.
The strap of your dress is still hanging loosely against your shoulder; er, it takes all of Steve’s willpower not to reach out and fix it for ,you out of habit, of a a of dto love you.
When you open your mouth, he doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Anything, but this.
“He’s gonna propose.” You say, your voice devoid of all emotion. “I found the ring last week.”
The cigarette burns slowly between his fingers as he closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the rough brick wall behind him. The impact is sharp enough to ground him, but not enough to pull him away from the reality settling over him.
“Are you gonna say yes?”
The question leaves him softer than he expects, stripped of all the anger he thought he would feel. He thought if this day ever came, he would be furious. He thought he would fight. He thought he would list every reason you deserved better, every reason you were making a mistake, every reason you should choose something else. It occurs to him then, that this was always how your story was going to end.
You can’t answer, instead, you let the hum of the cicadas answer for you.
He made a noise, a combination of heartbreak, anger, and cruel amusement.
“Did you ever actually love me? Did I ever even have a chance?”
This is the part where you’re supposed to break down, to confess your misgivings and plead for forgiveness. This is where you are supposed to fall apart and admit that you were scared, that you were wrong, that you chose the wrong person because you were too afraid to choose yourself. This is where you are supposed to tell him the truth.
But life is not like the movies.
There is no perfect confession waiting on your tongue. There is no grand gesture that fixes the damage. There is no version of this where nobody gets hurt.
You believe that Steve deserves the truth.
He deserves to know that every glance, every conversation, every moment you stayed just a little too long was real. He deserves to know that he was the person who made you feel seen when you had spent your whole life trying to disappear. But you cannot give him that, because you’re afraid it’s going to break him.
And maybe that is the most selfish thing of all, convincing yourself that breaking his heart is kindness. That letting go is your final act of selflessness, even if he’ll never see it that way. You can’t give him what he deserves, and that’s okay. So you take a shaky breath, and let your eyes fall on the ground.
“No.”
You pretend not to hear the cry that leaves him, or the uneven breath that follows. You pretend you don’t notice the way he wipes at his face like he’s embarrassed for letting himself get hurt, when he knew better. When everyone told him so. You pretend because if you acknowledge it, if you look at him, you know you will take it back.
Some selfish, desperate part of you wants to reach for him. Wants to tell him you were lying. Wants to tell him that every time you imagined a future, his face was somewhere in it. But wanting something does not always mean you are allowed to have it.
Steve stands slowly, brushing off his jeans even though there is nothing there. It is a meaningless gesture, something to do with his hands because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.
He walks away. And your heart stops for one terrible second when he turns back, because there’s a cruel, evil selfish part of you that thinks he’s going to plead, to think he’s going to convince you to change your mind.
“One day,” he says, his voice rough and tired, “when you’re his trophy wife, when you’re standing in some huge house pretending you’re happy because everyone told you that you should be…” He swallows.
“You’re gonna wake up and realize this was the worst decision you ever made.”
The words hurt because somewhere deep down, you know he might be right.
You flinch, but you force yourself not to look away. You force your tear-filled eyes open and make yourself watch him disappear into the darkness of the alley. You make yourself feel every piece of the pain you’ve caused and hope that one day, it’ll be worth it. No, not for you, but for him.
You know with every ragged breath and tear that slips down your cheeks, that he’s right. That you’ll regret this every last second of your life.
Summary: As it turns out, you can’t outrun a monster in his own home. You can, however, learn to question whether he was ever a monster at all.
Word Count: 17.7k
Warnings: real big emotions and confrontations; secrecy in a relationship; lots of panic/anxiety/fear/insecurities; weapons (guns, knife); minor injury (cut); references to criminal activity and violence; Bucky is possessive and protective and in love; emotional manipulation (perceived/debated)
Author’s Note: Here we are my lovelies, the second part to His Name Was Never Just Bucky. Honestly, I’m so relieved it’s finally done and I can return to other projects. This took me so incredibly long, but it’s rewarding to have it completed and I’m so proud I didn’t end up abandoning it like so many other things before. I truly hope you enjoy where I took the story ♡
Masterlist | part one
This was probably the worst decision you have ever made.
But, hell, now you officially jumped without a parachute, the ledge is gone, the air is passing by quickly, and your only hope is that you’ll somehow learn how to fly on the way down and you’ll be able to land on your feet.
The hallway outside has lost its symmetry, as you have lost your sanity, and now nothing seems to make sense anymore. Everything seems longer and crueler, your panic stretching the hallways into a long, suffocating throat. Each of your hectic footsteps makes you feel too exposed in this big mansion, they seem to echo your exact coordinates throughout the floors. Every hallway hears you, the walls themselves are turning their heads.
You take the first turn on instinct, then another, and another, trying to remember the route, trying to retrace the thread that brought you here, but your terror and all that bottled-up panic smashes sequence, steals direction, leaves you with nothing but speed because you know that if you stop, you’re done.
Your feel your heart everywhere. In your throat, in your ears, behind your eyes, beating against your teeth.
You blow past a side table where a cluster of pale lilies sits, blooming so aggressively, looking so wrong and even ugly in the corner of your eye, you have to take another turn.
You’re no longer thinking, you’re just running.
Your chest is a hollow chamber and all you hear is your own pants when you pass a maid who startles and calls something you don’t catch. You pass a window tall as a church promise and for one insane second consider throwing yourself through it.
Somewhere behind you, from the office, you hear a loud crash. His voice follows. His voice. It sounds so much more blood-curdling now.
He’s calling your name. Loud and baffled and then sharper. He doesn’t sound angry yet, but definitely alarmed in a way that makes every warning bell inside you turn rabid. Because there is something uniquely petrifying about hearing alarm in the voice of a man like him. It means you have disrupted the script. It means he does not understand. It means he is coming.
You run harder, every nerve in your body overflowing with adrenaline.
But, as expected, the house doesn’t simply spit you out. Corridors feed into corridors, archways into alcoves, burnished halls into rooms you have never seen, and every choice you make seems to slide you deeper into the belly of the place instead of toward freedom.
With a ragged and desperate breath, you shove through one swinging door expecting another passage, and stumble instead into a kitchen vast enough to feed a wedding. There is all this gleaming steel and those butcher-block islands and hanging copper, bright under the lights in a way that feels grotesque after the dim severity of the office.
It is wrong, all wrong, too open and yet somehow still a trap, because there is no front hall here, no visible exit, only counters and cabinets and startled staff, and you realize with a sick plunge of your stomach, that you have run yourself into a dead end dressed as luxury.
This is bad, this is so bad.
You stop abruptly, spinning around helplessly. The breath tears in and out of you like it is trying to escape without the rest of your body. The halls behind you are full of pounding footsteps, and you know it’s just one single set, but you also know it’s him.
He’s advancing and you can’t keep escaping.
A woman near the far counter goes still with a mixing bowl in her hands. Another man freezes by the sink with his hands in water. No one speaks. No one moves. The whole room seems to hold itself in suspension around your panic, everyone watching without watching, and then from somewhere behind you in the corridor comes Bucky’s voice sounds again, practically yelling your name—no confusion left now, only alertness, apprehension; and it punches you in the gut. It rings through you, through the kitchen, through the bright metal and tile and silence, and you know it has all been for nothing.
But before there is anything you can do, before the ground can open a portal for you to fall through, Bucky appears in the kitchen doorway, looking like an avalanche with a name. A big name. A dangerous name. A name that will be the end of you.
He doesn’t look raging in the obvious way, but he’s lost a bit of control. And for the man that he is, you don’t know how to survive it. And this intensity with which he came thundering after you is so extremely frightening because it looks expensive on him, tailored to fit, like one of his suits, like one of his watches, like all the impeccable and dangerous things he wears so naturally you once mistook them for elegance instead of that blaring warning sign they actually are.
Why just have you been so stupid, my god.
He’s totally got you wrapped around his finger—and dick, as embarrassing and daunting as it is—or you would have maybe been able to open your eyes for a second, you idiot.
But now they are open, wide, wide open, and you see him. You see him as the man he is. But maybe it’s a little too late now.
He stops the moment he sees you pressed half-backward against the dark island, sees the way your hands have come up slightly as if your body has decided on defense without consulting you, sees the wet shine gathering in your eyes, the terror you are no longer managing to powder over, and something happens to his face that is so brief and so devastating, but all you can do is stare at him so you see that clean strike of realization.
He doesn’t look confused anymore, and it makes him even more menacing.
He knows. He knows that you know. And he probably knows what he’s going to do to you now but you don’t know if you want to know that.
The air seems to cinch around you, seems to wrap itself around your throat, and squeezes. You can’t breathe. You don’t try to.
Bucky—James, your mind insists now with a sick recoil, James Buchanan Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, biggest crime boss in the city—does not look away from you when he tilts his face to the staff. That, more than anything, makes your blood run strange. His attention stays fixed on you with a steadiness so absolute it feels like a physical thing, a hand at the back of your neck, while his voice turns toward everyone else in the room and comes out low and unquestionable. “Everyone out.”
His command is dropped into the kitchen and nobody argues. The immediate obedience of his people makes you visibly shudder.
A woman near the stove sets down a towel with trembling fingers. The man by the sink lowers his eyes and moves. Another staff member glances at you once with a quick look that seems almost guilty, almost pitying, and you feel the pulse of it pounding all around you, everywhere inside you.
Nobody looks at you too long, nobody does anything besides leaving the fucking room. They won’t meet your fear and they won’t step between it and the source. Nobody here belongs to themselves enough to choose you over him. But it’s clear that they don’t. They’re his people for a reason. Nobody here will be on your side, whatever happens.
A door swings. The kitchen empties in a matter of seconds, everyone slipping out with the furtive speed of people evacuating a room where something dangerous has just unsheathed itself. They leave with the scene in their eyes. They leave you with him. And the silence after the last one goes is so sudden it roars.
You take another step back and only feel the unhelpfully solid press of marble against your spine. There is nowhere else to go unless you want to climb onto the counter like a cornered animal, and for one hysterical beat of a second, the idea does not even seem ridiculous.
You keep your eyes on him because looking away feels somehow more chilling, but your gaze is frantic within that line of sight, darting to the side entrance, to the swinging service door, to the corridor beyond him, to windows that suddenly seem decorative rather than useful, to every possible seam in the room where escape might be hiding in miniature.
There is none. The whole kitchen gleams at you with pitiless order that’s just full of steel and stone and copper, knives in their block and pots all around.
He notices you looking, but you can’t care; all you have to care about is the distance between you and him, the distance between you and anything that might become escape if panic suddenly grew wings.
Could you run past him? Maybe, if he were anyone else. Maybe, if this were some ordinary man with ordinary reflexes and an ordinary body and an ordinary life.
But he is none of those things. You’re in this damn situation because he’s none of those things.
He fills the doorway without even trying. He stands there in the collectedness of his dark clothes and encroaching presence, looking at you as if he can hear your thoughts tripping over each other and your fear has turned you transparent.
His shadow has finally caught up to his skin and you now realize how dark it is.
Even if you got around him, where would you go? The front hall might as well be on another continent. Every corridor in this house has already left you stranded. There is no map in your mind now, only panic. No way out.
The knowledge gathers in your chest until it hurts. Behind your eyes, heat stings. Your throat tightens around a lump and only something choked leaves your lips.
And Bucky sees all of it. You keep trying to shrink back from him because his very outline has now become a threat, and it doesn’t make your situation better, but he already knows, so you don’t have to pretend anymore.
And his face alters. It’s as if the floor has given way under him. As if he had stepped expecting hard tiles and found air.
He does not advance. That should help. It does not. He stays where he is, one hand dropping slowly from the doorframe to his side, as if he understands that any sudden movement from him might send you straight through the nearest pane of glass.
There is a fervor to him now that feels different from the one you knew in bed, at dinner, in the soft-lit luxury of his attention. It has made you feel protected, loved, worshipped.
But there is no feeling of that anymore, none of that, because now it’s stripped of adornment, revealed as what it perhaps always was beneath all that heat and gentleness. It’s focus. Pure and frightening focus.
His eyes are on you in that unwavering, devastating way of his, but the expression in them is nothing easy. There is something dark in there, something grim and braced, something that knows a door has just slammed shut and is already calculating what can still be salvaged from the wreckage.
His mouth is set. His jaw is hard enough to cast shadows. He looks, absurdly, heartbreakingly, like a man who has been struck and is refusing to touch the bruise. But he stands, and he’s still so tall, much taller than you thought he could become, and he is not the man you thought you knew.
He stands there with his hands visible, shoulders squared but not aggressive, and the intensity in him is bridled.
His stare does not feel like a threat in the crude sense, but it’s so full of attention, too much attention, because total attention from a man like him is its own species of fear.
“Sweetheart.”
His voice has changed. It is calm but only in pretense. It is soft, technically, but not the way it was before. Before, his softness had warmth in it, a hand held out in the dark.
But this is lower. Straighter. It has gone cool around the edges. It’s not vicious or unkind in any sense, but your body clocks it instantly. It’s almost formal in its restraint, as though he’s speaking across the lip of something that’s close to breaking and he’s trying not to widen the crack.
And that nickname makes you want to let the tears fall. Whatever he tries to achieve by calling you that, it doesn’t work. It’s just torture how familiar he tries to make it sound.
His gaze falls in fast snaps over your face, your posture, your trembling hands. “This looks bad,” he concedes roughly. His throat works once before he continues. “I know it does. But it isn’t what you think it is.”
The words land in you and do nothing. They just sink. Sit there.
He studies your face, sees he has not reached you at all. “What did you see, baby? What has you—” He breaks off with a crack, shakes his head slowly, and lets out a shuddering breath, eyes still on you. “Tell me what you saw.”
What answer could you possibly give him?
That you are looking at his mouth and thinking of all the times it softened around your name, and your own mind keeps turning traitor and overlaying that tenderness with headlines, with whispers, with ravening rumor?
That the same voice which once coaxed and soothed now sounds capable of making rooms empty and men obey and whole situations forgotten? That the current version of his voice is a masterclass in control and it terrifies you to no end?
That his hands are hanging open at his sides, looking so damn human and ordinary, as though they’ve never done anything wrong?
Which is a lie, you now know, a lie that runs deep and leaves you scarred, because all you can think is that these bare hands are the same hands you’ve had under your chin, lifting your face to his, tucking hair behind your ear, buttoning you up against the cold, and you’ve had them gripping you tight in the dark, moving inside you until you couldn't breathe, wrecking you in the best way possible.
These hands were your favorite things.
But looking at them now, you picture what they are doing when you aren’t around. Doing the dirty work, the ugly work, the unspeakable work, hidden back in the blacked-out corners of a life he kept under lock and key.
Your throat feels too dry to talk and you stay quiet, letting the stillness in the room ripen, letting your lack of words and the fear in your eyes speak for themselves.
A hard, hollow tension knots his face, makes his jaw grind, and look as solid as a piece of rock. His hands ball into fists and when your eyes snap to them immediately, your body already flinching, he flexes them, but it seems forced. There is an almost brute rigidity to his throat, a silent scream of dread choked down only barely.
“What do you know?” he grits out through clenched teeth.
The question is gentle in shape and brutal in substance. It makes your stomach turn. Because it sounds like a test. It sounds like inventory. It sounds like the kind of thing a ruthless man would ask before deciding what to do with the damage.
You let your fingers grip the edge of the counter. You can’t answer him. All you can do is try to breathe. All you can do is stare at the exit behind him, and his body standing between it.
He draws in a slow breath, lets it out. “Look at me, Y/n. Please.”
You didn’t know some part of you would still obey, but you notice too late. Maybe it’s better this way. Your eyes lift fully to his.
And you can actually see the way he has lost his grip. It’s right there in his eyes. If you were to describe it you’d say it looks distraught. As if he’s lost, his entire biography that’s been neatly written on paper now ripped away and he can’t find the next line.
Judging by the way you act and look at him, he knows you know something, he just doesn't know what, and the mystery is eating him alive. Just for one disorienting second he doesn’t look that much like this untouchable figure from all those disturbing rumors, but rather like a simple man who knows that if he tries to force his way out of this, he’s just confirming your worst fears about him.
“My name,” he starts with a little hesitance. The gravelly low timbre of his voice makes you shudder, “is James Buchanan Barnes.”
Something in your face gives you away.
You feel it the moment it happens. Some tiny involuntary flinch. Some helpless widening.
Because something crosses his expression, his throat bobs hard enough to show that everything inside him is suddenly in pieces.
He sees that the name is not new to you. He sees that you are already standing several steps ahead of where he hoped this conversation was.
He goes very still.
“You knew that already,” he acknowledges, and it almost hurts how he tries to sound calm about it all.
Your mouth is dry. Your whole body feels like a struck match. You let out a pitiful small breath.
He takes one careful step forward, and it’s not really a step, not even truly an advance, but you recoil so sharply, you ram your whole body against the wall of marble behind you. Your back stings, but your eyes sting more.
His face changes with your reaction, something like pain flashing through the severe framework of him before he reins it back in.
“How?” he asks, and he’s no longer trying for calm. He ducks his head, pleading eyes on you, and he speaks with a wounded quiet. “Sweetheart, how did you find out?”
Your throat works around the answer. “Your tags.” It comes out so faint it is almost nothing, just a shaking breath that accidentally caught a few letters on the way out.
For a second he shuts his eyes. For just one cut of time.
His head tips back the slightest amount, and he deflates. A breath of air leaves him in a hitching, rattling shudder, like he’s finally run out of things to hold onto.
He looks back at you and seems briefly at a loss. James Buchanan Barnes, man of closed doors and fixed outcomes, with no ready sentence in his hands.
It is strange and unnerving and it makes you talk more, bracing for him to yell and threaten and turn cold.
“And,” you whisper, voice wobbling and blundering around in your mouth, “there was a gun.“
You want to explain, want to urge that you didn’t mean to find it, didn’t mean to come across anything at all. You want him to know you would like to dump your eyes in a container of white paint so your vision is a blank canvas and you can color it with other pictures, but it’s too late, and your words already seem to break across him, differently.
He does not move at first. He almost flinches, but catches it halfway, as if his body forgot for a moment to be disciplined.
His eyes stay on you, and all that’s in there are things you’ve never seen in him before. Or in anyone, really. It is a stricken grief, resulting from the way every new piece of your fear is arriving inside him one by one and finding purchase.
He looks at you like he can see the exact route your mind took from one discovery to the next, and hates every mile of it.
“Baby, I—” he croaks, having to pause. Instead, he starts toward you again, even slower this time, palms open a little, perhaps meaning only to soothe, perhaps meaning only to be nearer, but simply more trepidation triggers in you before thought can intervene. “Please listen to me—”
Your gaze snags on the knife block.
The sleek black handles. The bright clean suggestion of defense. It’s without thought that you run to grab one.
It is graceless and frantic and you don’t brandish it like someone brave in a film. You don’t know how to do this well enough for that and you don’t have the nerve to think about it.
Your hand shakes around the handle almost immediately, and you pull it close to your chest, because fighting this vile man would be ludicrous considering who he is and who you are, knife or not, but you use it to protect yourself with the mere fact of holding something sharp. Hopeful that this thing will keep your horror from spilling out of your body altogether.
The blade catches the light and makes it meaner. You hate that you have done this. You hate more that you had to.
Bucky stops dead.
The whole room seems to stop with him.
His eyes go first to the knife, then back to your face, and what crosses his expression then is so nakedly agonizing it is difficult to bear.
Because he sees that you are not trying to threaten him, unlike how someone in danger might.
You are not foolish enough to think a kitchen knife turns you into his equal. You are holding it because your body needs one small fiction to survive on—the fiction that you are not entirely empty-handed in a room with a man who could ruin you if he chose to. The fiction that you still belong, in some tiny harrowed way, to yourself.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice cracks clean through the middle of the word.
You have never heard that happen to him before. Never heard his composure split like badly fired glass.
His stare stays locked on yours, but now there is no distance in it, no coolness, no stranger’s cadence. Just a visceral, human ache. “Hey,” he says again, softer, but it sounds so incredibly heavy. It’s the way you’d talk to someone who’s just woken up from a nightmare and doesn't know where they are yet. “I’m— I’m not going to hurt you.”
Your grip tightens. The knife trembles visibly. “Don’t come closer.”
He stops breathing for half a beat and nods slowly.
“Okay.” The word is a single rasp. “I won’t.” He swallows. You see the muscle move hard in his throat. “I won’t come any closer.”
You cannot stop shaking, no matter how hard you try, because a man with his power shouldn’t see you be so obviously afraid, but there is nothing you can do.
“Please believe me, sweetheart, when I say that I never intended to hurt you,” he swears, and there is no command in him now, none of that cold-sounding authority from a moment ago when he emptied the room with few syllables.
This is worse, in its own way. This undone version of him, this man trying to hold himself very still because the sight of you recoiling has clearly perturbed something structural inside him. “I have a thousand sins on my head, and it’s no use to claim otherwise now,” he speaks with a vulnerability in his tone that washes past you. “I’ve done a lot of things I can’t take back, but hurting you was never on the table. Okay? It was never even a possibility. You were supposed to be the only thing I didn’t ruin,” he ends with a lacerated wince.
You stare at him and have no idea how you can understand anything at all.
The knife handle bites into your palm. Your chest rises and falls too fast. The kitchen is suddenly too loud with all that humming of the refrigerator, the lights, the distant bloodstream of the mansion; and in the center of it all he stands facing you with that wrecked look in his eyes, as if your fear is not merely inconvenient to him but unbearable, and he’d rather be struck than watched this way by you.
And in a world that wasn't currently collapsing, maybe you’d actually care, maybe you’d actually notice how he would take a bullet to the chest just to stop you from flinching, but all you can think is that you are standing in the house of James Buchanan Barnes, with a knife against your own ribs as much as against him, and the man looking at you like heartbreak has found him at last is still the same man the city says should never be underestimated.
It’s so silent all of a sudden that the kitchen seems to be held in a trance. It feels as if there is a vacuum pressing against the walls and now the molecules of the room are terrified to touch the mess of what’s happening.
The last bit of help you could have possibly still leaned on due to your desperation has vanished, echoes of footsteps now pull back into the depths of this mansion.
The overheads feel hostile, throwing down a flat glare that skims over the stainless steel and floorboards with an inert eye.
And centered in that manufactured peace is him.
James Buchanan Barnes.
The name has already erupted once inside your chest, but it keeps echoing, reverberating through your bones in smaller aftershocks. It feels strange to attach it to the man standing in front of you, when his hands have mapped every part of you—right to the most intimate ones—you’ve come to recognize his voice even in half-sleep and his laugh once wound through the cage of your ribs, vibrating against the bone until you couldn't tell its rhythm from your own heartbeat.
It feels like a wronged ownership. It feels like a glitch, an error in the logic of the world, but who are you to find a way out of it. Surrounded by him, in a mansion that is now suddenly as big as the world itself.
But you see it now. And god, it’s so painfully clear. So agonizingly obvious.
You were delusional, you know that. It’s what hurts so terribly bad. You know exactly how this looks to anyone else. After all, this all started with you dating a guy for over a month and not even knowing his actual, legal name. But when you’re used to being nobody, a little bit of hyper-focused attention feels like a drug. He looked at you as if you were the only person in the room, and you would get this tight, anxious knot in your throat, thinking don’t ruin this. Asking for a last name or a background check felt like a quick way to feel high-maintenance, and you didn’t want to give him a reason to feel uncomfortable and walk away.
It was a habit born of pure insecurity, being so grateful for the crumbs of love that you don’t dare ask who’s baking the bread. He must have picked up on that on day one. He must have realized right away that as long as he kept making you feel special, you’d keep your mouth shut and let him stay hidden.
He used your loneliness, your blind spots. You were so desperately hoping to be seen, that you fell for the most obvious trap. And it’s your own fault, really. But it still makes you feel completely hollow, like someone scooped the air right out of your lungs with a cold spoon.
Now you have to live with the shame of that mistake.
Your jaw aches from clenching it, trying to swallow down the urge to throw up right there on the kitchen floor.
His presence alone seems to pull at the corners of the ceiling, dragging it down to squash you like a grape. He anchors the room to his foundation, consumes it with all he has, and tracks you with a pinpoint focus that has you shivering and sweating, because his gaze is treating the harsh thudding of your pulse as more vital than the massive, blood-stained kingdom currently cooling its heels on the other side of the door.
The roar in your ears turns outwards, seemingly engulfing the whole room with your panicked pulse. Your vision narrows down until the room stops spinning, and for the first time, you actually feel the air in the kitchen
And in the quiet, your awareness gives you the alarm that there is still something jarringly chilling resting just above your heart. It takes you a moment to realize it’s something physical. There is a weight there that now suddenly feels so deeply misplaced.
Your hand moves on its own, your fingers lifting toward your throat to find the source of that cold, sinister pressure.
The tips of your fingers brush pearls.
And for a moment, you stay frozen there, grazing the smooth curve of one luminous bead where the necklace drapes across your throat.
It once made you smile, had your shoulders drop in ease when you made contact with this present of Bucky. But it no longer feels like a present at all, it feels like a bribe, a hook, a trap because its ultimate purpose surely wasn’t meant as a gift but rather to restrict your freedom and keep you bound to him.
This necklace, these shiny pearls, they aren’t about you. Honestly, you don’t think anything is about you. It never was. It’s just a reflection of what he wants you to be, confining you in his version of your identity.
He manipulated you and stole you and wanted to make you believe you’re the luckiest damn girl in the world.
And you had been. But now you’re just the stupidest.
And you keep on being, because your mind just continues jumping back to the evening he gave it to you, how it felt so soft and intimate, something chosen carefully and fastened around your neck with that glint of pride that lived in Bucky’s eyes. And you want to cry and break down at the way he stood there in front of you so awkwardly with the luxurious velvet box in his hand like it was something far more serious than jewelry. The way his voice had gone rough when he said he saw them and thought of you.
And now, sitting against your collarbone all cold, these are no longer gems, but tiny hooks sinking deeper into your skin, reminding you with every little sting, that you walked into this prison willingly.
You let James Buchanan Barnes clasp it around your neck. The man whose name crawls across newspapers like a stain. The man whose stories carry blood and conspiracies and savagery in their wake.
Somehow you manage to close your fingers around the strand despite of their shakiness.
Across the kitchen, Bucky’s gaze drops to your hand the moment it moves.
The necklace feels impossibly smooth beneath your touch, each pearl round and shining like a row of innocent little moons.
A gift.
From a man you didn’t know.
Or maybe a man you knew too well, just not in the way the world did.
Your throat feels hot suddenly and you know it's the cursed pearls burning holes there, pressing into your pulse with every overwhelmed beat of your heart.
You cannot stand it.
Your fingers curl harder.
Bucky's gaze snaps up to your face, then quickly back to your hands, and then he goes still. But still in the way of an animal that sensed the crack of a branch in the forest. Every line of him tightens in subtle increments, his shoulders locking, his breathing halting so abruptly you see the pause ruffle through his chest.
He knows what your heart doesn’t yet.
His attention sharpens and his eyes grow wide. It almost seems like he’s about to move toward you.
“Hey—” he starts softly, though the word is unfinished, frail, fearing the direction your thoughts are taking.
But your brain is no longer interested in choosing to make decisions carefully.
The necklace feels oppressive, every inch of it tied to a truth you did not have when he first placed it there, and so you can’t think or react any differently.
Your hand jerks in one swift motion just as Bucky releases a desperate choking sound.
The strand snaps free from your neck with a sharp little noise, like a thread breaking under too much strain, and now the pearls explode outward from your hand and scatter across the kitchen floor like a sudden spill of tiny white stars. They strike the tile with a bright, haphazard clatter that echoes far too loudly in the empty room.
tik—tik—tik—tik—
Some bounce high, ricocheting against cabinet legs. Others roll wildly across the floor, spinning in spasmodic circles before coming to a stop beneath stainless steel counters and chair legs.
The sound fills the kitchen in poignant, crystalline bursts.
A rain of little impacts.
A beautiful mess.
For a second you don’t even breathe.
You just stare at them—those small, perfect pearls—rolling farther and farther away from each other, punctuating the heartbreak in the air.
Across from you, Bucky doesn’t move. Something is breaking across his face. His breath leaves him in a soft, stunned exhale, and all he can do is stare with his eyes unguarded. It startles you.
He takes a step back. Not a deliberate one. More like his body forgot the floor was there. His boot slides half a pace behind him as though the sound of those pearls hitting the tile physically pushed him away from you.
His mouth parts.
For a moment he looks like he cannot quite process what he just witnessed.
His eyes—those confident, storm-colored eyes that usually hold such controlled intensity—have widened in a way you have never seen before. It doesn’t seem to look like anger, or anything like it.
It looks like hurt. Pure, unhidden hurt.
His gaze falls to the floor, tracking the scattered pearls skittering across the kitchen tiles, watching them roll away from where you stand with that look in his eyes that says he never wished to see them destroyed.
Then his eyes return to you. Slowly. And the expression there is devastating.
Because it is not rage.
It is not even disappointment.
It is heartbreak so unexpected and unfiltered it seems to hollow his chest from the inside.
His jaw tightens as if he tries to speak, but no words come immediately. The muscles along his throat move with a hard swallow, his chest rising and falling once in a slow, unsteady breath.
You realize then that he is looking at your bare throat.
The place where the necklace used to rest, and he stares at the place with sullen eyes.
Then his eyes lift again, meeting yours, and they are still wide, still aching.
For the first time since you’ve known him, Bucky Barnes looks like a man who has just watched something precious fall apart in his hands and realized too late that he cannot gather the pieces fast enough to put it back together.
And in the bright, echoing kitchen, the last pearl finishes rolling.
Tick.
Then silence returns, and your dread turns harrowing and now Bucky doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands, which is such a small, irrational thing to notice in the middle of your terror and yet your mind notices it anyway, because this is a man who has always seemed like a structure that was built out of conviction, who has been a straight line for you to follow in your world of scribbles, a man who enters every room as though the room had the good sense to expect him, and now he stands before you with your fear pointed at him in the shape of a kitchen knife and looks, inarguably, like he has been shoved off-script and dropped into the crack that formed in his foundation and now he is walled in by the very bricks he laid.
His eyes stay on your face, then the knife, then your face again, careful, heartbroken, alert in that frighteningly intense way of his, and you feel yourself shiver as he is tracking every tremor in your fingers, every drag of your breath, every microscopic shift in your balance in case you bolt again or collapse or cut yourself by accident on the trembling edge of your own panic.
“What you think you know about me,” he starts, and his voice is lower now, roughened at the seams, “what you’ve heard… what people say, it isn’t the whole truth. It isn’t even most of it.”
You barely hear the words. They hit the air and fall uselessly to the floor. Because what else would a man like him say, standing in a cathedral-sized kitchen in a house full of people who obey him before he finishes speaking, after you found the gun and the tags and the name that can turn a city’s rumor mill rabid by itself?
No matter what he says, no matter that he looks so unbelievably shattered—the shape of him is wrong now. That is what your body keeps insisting on. Wrong in the doorway, wrong under these lights, wrong with that caution and that gentleness still trying to live in his face as if it is genuine. You cannot make him fit into one meaning anymore. He is split down the middle in your mind—tender and terrible, gentle and catastrophic—and the fracture is making noise inside you.
He takes a breath, slow, as if he is trying not to startle you even with the sound of his lungs working. “I know how this looks.”
A cough breaks in your throat, or maybe it's a huff or a wet laugh, or whatever, but it hurts coming up and out of your throat. Your hand shakes so badly the knife glints in nervous little flashes. “You used me.”
The sentence leaves you wheezy and small and much too true-feeling inside your own head. But they are out, and you take a whimpering breath, and two tears fall. They don’t arrive elegantly, and they sure as hell don’t spill subtly. They feel hot and you feel humiliated and betrayed, so deeply betrayed, and you hate that they are coming in front of him, giving him the satisfaction because your body is not able to choose a fight, to give you steel and armor and an exit and a miracle. All it can provide you with is dread and tears, and a terribly shaking kitchen knife in your unpractical hands. Your whole body has become an argument against calm and there is nothing you can do.
His face changes so sharply it is almost like watching a flame twist drastically in wind.
“No,” he gets out quickly, and his voice trips over itself. It is denial stripped to the bone. Pure and cruel because he’s genuinely the greatest actor on earth. “No,” he chokes out again, softer and somehow more desperate. “No, no, I— It's not— I never—” He swallows, the line of his throat moving hard. He looks like he is about to walk barefoot through broken glass without letting you see the blood. “You matter to me. You— God, shit, that doesn’t even come close to—”
“Stop,” you whimper while a fresh tear slips down. You shake your head because the words feel obscene now, feel almost insulting in their tenderness, like someone laying roses on a crime scene.
“I’m not pretending.”
“Stop.”
His jaw flexes. He looks toward the ceiling for half a second, and it seems like he is trying to gather language before it deserts him entirely, and when his gaze comes back to you there is something naked in it, something grim and pleading and painfully real. He seems to grope for something that keeps him standing.
“I wanted to tell you,” he despairs, voice scratchy. “I was going to.”
You stare at him through your blurred vision. Every instinct in you rejects the sentence on impact. It sounds nonsensical. The knife quivers against your chest with each breath you are somehow able to take, but they are shuddering.
“When?” you choke out. “After what? After I was stupid enough? After I—”
“No.” He takes a step before remembering himself and stopping immediately, hands opening at his sides. “No. When it was safe.”
The word safe almost makes you laugh, except there is nothing funny left in you.
He hears how deranged it sounds in this room, and grief moves across his face in one dark, swift shadow. “Listen to me,” he presses, and his voice cracks, stripped of that expensive control he wears so well. “I know this life is ugly from the outside. I know what my name sounds like to people. I know what kind of stories get told. I knew if I handed you all of it too soon, all at once, you’d run before you ever had the chance to know what was real.”
Your tears keep coming and you don’t have it in you to wipe them away. You fear your heart won’t ever be able to unclench again after this day. If you even make it out of here. “So you thought you’d just let me” —fall in love first— “into your life the way you did?”
He closes his eyes, and you know the sentence hit exactly where it meant to. When he looks at you again there is nothing smooth or seamless about him, and you have never seen him this way. Because you have never really known him. He is no longer buttoned-up and bulletproof. He honestly looks about ready to be hit in the heart one final, fatal time. “I thought I would give you time,” he supplicates quietly, voice husky. “I thought I would let you know me before the rest of it ruined everything.” The breath that follows his words sounds full of sorrow and a deeply seated regret. “Which it seems like it has.”
Yes, it has. Yes, he ruined it. But would you have felt any other way if you found out another way? In another setting, maybe while you were tangled in the sheets together, or while he was holding your hands? You don’t know because it didn’t happen that way and you found out the way you did and now the world is upside down and all wrong-angled, and your mind is spinning in a room with no corners, completely unanchored by a lie you never saw coming, or maybe you have, because a guy like him couldn’t ever want a girl like you, and perhaps first and foremost you’re just mad at yourself.
Your throat has gone tight with crying, with fear, with the dizzying effort of keeping your body upright when your whole nervous system is trying to flee in eight directions at once. He sees you struggling and looks halfway to moving again, then stops himself so hard the restraint shows all over him.
“I’m a patient man,” he keeps going, and you just want to run past him, out of this hell. You don’t hear how there is no pride in his voice, no menace, just a worn sort of honesty, as if this is the one truth he can still offer without it breaking on impact. “I would have waited. As long as I needed to. I was waiting for the right moment, for when you felt safe with me, for when I knew you wouldn’t hear my name and only hear every lie this city tells itself at night.” His voice lowers further. “For when you loved me enough to at least stay in the room while I explained.”
You blink at him as if he has said something in a language your body no longer speaks.
And then, because this nightmare apparently still has room to worsen, he says, very softly, “Because I love you.”
All you can do is stare at this stranger, and it feels like you are looking at him through a broken window.
It is not the first time he has said it, not at all, and you had loved how he had no shame in telling you, how he pressed those very words into your skin night after night, even this early into your relationship.
Gosh, you had cherished it, fallen deeper for him because of it, and now you know it's all been part of his manipulation. So what else should it be now. But at the same time—why should he still be saying it? How can he still say that? How can he say that now, after all of this, after you know who he is, after the room has filled with the bomb of revelation? What kind of man says I love you while being the very thing you are trying to escape from?
You don’t understand him. You have no clue about who this man is and it is making your hands sweat around the handle. You don’t understand how his eyes can look this shattered, how his voice can sound this human, how his face can hold this much pain and still belong to James Buchanan Barnes.
The knife is still trembling against your chest. Your arm aches from holding it so tightly. The tears keep slipping down no matter how furiously you blink. He stands there with grief in his eyes and power in every line of his body, and both things are true at once, and both things are hurting worse because no single version of him will stay still long enough to be hated cleanly.
“I was going to ease you into it,” he explains achingly, as if confession has broken loose now and cannot be coaxed back in. “Slowly. Over time. I was going to tell you what I could, when I could, and let you decide what to do with it piece by piece. I was never going to throw you into the deep end and watch you drown in it.” His throat works. “Y/n, I’m so fucking sorry you had to find out like this.”
But you are not really listening anymore. Or rather, you hear every word and none of them settle. They clatter against your panic and bounce off immediately only to land in a repressed corner of your mind.
Because maybe he means them. Maybe that is the tragedy of it. Maybe he means every single inconceivable word. But meaning them does not open the door. Meaning them does not make this house less of a trap or his name less of a threat or your pulse any less palpitating in your throat. Meaning them does not undo the gun, the tags, the scathingly smooth way everyone in this place disappears when he tells them to. Meaning them does not turn James Buchanan Barnes back into only Bucky, back into the man whose shirt you wanted to pull on because it smelled like him.
All you need now is a way out.
You don’t want justice, or answers, or even the damn truth. You just want a way out of this. You want to get the hell away from him and everything that smells and looks like him. And the room starts reorganizing itself around that instinct. The service door behind him. The hallway to the left. The distance to the far counter. Whether he is standing on the balls of his feet or flat. Whether the island might slow him for a second. Whether dropping the knife would help or harm you. Whether there is any point at all in planning when this is his house, his kingdom, his maze, and you are just a girl crying in the center of it with shaking hands and nowhere good to go.
He sees your eyes move and something in his face folds inward with understanding, with woe, with the excruciating knowledge that while he is pouring his heart out in rough little pieces, all you are doing is looking for exits. He looks completely emptied out, as if his ribs had been pried open and the only soft part of him had been torn away.
“Baby—” And now he just sounds pleading. But he doesn’t get the chance to keep on going with his drama.
The kitchen ignites with noise before you even understand what you are hearing. There was just you with your messy breathing and Bucky standing a few feet away with that awfully gutted look on his face and then the door slams open so hard the plaster cracks and the sound ricochets against your nervous system.
A crowd of men comes flooding through the opening, like a breach in a dam, so fast and threatening and all of them primed for dirtier work than anyone should ever have to do. The floor shudders under their hard slam of boots. Nobody hesitates and nobody asks questions. They all just move on some sick instinct, weapons out and raised in the space of a single heartbeat.
And now all of them are pointed at you.
The sound that hitches in your throat is not at all dignified or brave. You wish you could stare at the end of your life with at least a small sense of bravery, but it doesn’t seem like it. Every weapon these uniformed men hold is fixed on your ribs, your throat, your eyes, and the paring knife you are gripping feels pathetic. It is a useless piece of household metal against a wall of black iron, against men who don’t care that you are small and fearful.
Even so, your knuckles go numb around the handle from how hard you are gripping it. Your fingers lock up, your skin flashing from freezing cold to scorching hot while your heart thrashes against your ribs.
You think, irrationally, that this is how it happens then. There is no big speech, no lightning strike from the sky. It is just going to happen here on the linoleum, next to a bowl of apples on the counter, and a row of clean water glasses that are catching the light of the kitchen while strangers decide to put bullets in you.
Bucky pivots.
It happens so quickly it feels supernatural, like a weather change, like the room altering under the weight of him. He steps in front of you without quite blocking you, but enough that every single man in that doorway seems to remember all at once who exactly they have just disobeyed.
His expression does not merely harden; it shears. Whatever softness had remained in his face a moment ago is gone so completely it is frightening, scraped away until all that remains is authority in its most lethal form.
You feel fused to the counter behind you. You wish you would be.
He fixes his stare on his men and his eyes become glacial, pale and freezing, incandescent with a fury that somehow feels far more menacing than an outburst. He speaks, and the volume is so low that the room has to go completely breathless to catch it.
“Guns down.”
The response isn’t fast enough. No one moves quickly enough. One of the guards hesitates—just a fraction, just long enough to die for it in any other circumstance—and Bucky’s gaze lands on him so heavily, it’s as if he is deciding where to leave the body.
“I said,” he repeats, and his voice comes out with a rough friction, stripped of any emotion except the promise to do harm, “if any one of you ever points a weapon at my girl again, I’ll put you in the ground myself and make sure nobody bothers digging you back up. Do you understand me?”
His words are deadly. It doesn’t even sound like he’s acting at all, he just sounds absolutely lethal. He talks as though he has already buried people before and wouldn’t think twice about doing it again.
Around you, the momentum of the raid falters. The guards look genuinely unnerved, expressions switching so quickly between shame, panic, and obedience in ugly little flashes. Guns lower and now point toward the floorboards. A muted apology gets muttered into the silence and some of them take a step back. But it is too late, far too late, because the last thread inside you has already snapped, and your body no longer cares about reason.
You run.
There is no time for anything else; you simply hurl yourself at the nearest gap in the room, toward the delusive hope of open space, of slipping between bodies, of somehow becoming smoke, becoming speed, becoming anything but this cornered and shaking thing inside your own skin.
You aim for the narrow corridor between Bucky and the island counter, convinced by sheer panic that if you can just get past him this once, just this once, the house might cleft and let you go. Your shoulder twists, your breath catches, your feet slip against tile and then catch again, and the world blurs into motion and noise and the blood-bright animal need to escape.
But Bucky is faster.
His arms hook around your waist in one brutal, seamless movement, and it yanks you backward before you’ve even made it past his shoulder. Suddenly you are no longer running, your feet lose the air, leaving you floating for half a heartbeat, before you are driven hard into the breadth and heat of his chest.
The cry you let out this time actually tears your throat. You thrash on instinct, your body fighting him with the full deranged force of your mind freaking out, and somewhere in that struggle your hand jerks.
The knife you have been using as a means of senseless protection, hits resistance. It slides cleanly, sinking into skin and it makes you gasp sharply, your lungs suddenly jamming. It’s not your skin.
The blade has opened a shallow red line across his forearm.
And that’s gotta be it. You’re now totally and completely fucked.
The knife drops from your hand and clatters to the floor.
For one aghast second you stare at the bead of red welling against his skin, bright as a neon sign, and horror crashes through you so adamantly it almost eclipses your fear.
But Bucky does not let go. He does not even flinch properly or draw back his arms. His wounded arm stiffens only enough to keep you from pitching forward, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, not pinning now so much as containing, as if he is trying to physically keep something from breaking apart right there in his grip.
He seemingly is completely blind to his own bleeding skin, as if the knife you were holding was never a danger to his life and only a threat to yours. Even with his blood on the floorboards, his only instinct is to pull you deeper into his chest.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he calls, and the transformation in his voice makes your head spin, because the man who just threatened death into a roomful of armed soldiers is gone again, folded away, leaving only this hoarse, pleading tenderness that feels almost more agonizing. His mouth is at your temple, right at your hairline, his breath gasping against your skin. “Baby, baby, stop. Please—please, don’t do this, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”
You fight him anyway because your body refuses to do anything else. Your hands shove uselessly at his chest, your shoulders wrench, your whole body convulses with the effort of getting free. But he is built like a locked gate, and every single push only burns through the last of your energy. Tears pour hot and shamefully down your face. Your lungs burn. The room swims at the edges. Somewhere nearby, boots shuffle, and Bucky snarls over your head without releasing you.
“Out.”
It is one word, but every person in the kitchen obeys it instantly. You hear the kitchen staff backing away, hear the door open and shut, feel the room empty until there is no one left but you and him and the sound of your own sobbing.
Bucky’s hold eases just a fraction, softening the pressure so you can actually draw in air even if inhaling right now feels like swallowing water. He presses his cheek against your hair for one heavy second, and when he speaks again his voice is breaking in places you have never heard it break before.
“Listen to me,” he murmurs, each word roughened by strain, by remorse, by something that sounds so heartbreakingly sincere you almost hate him for it. “Hear me out, sweetheart, please. I got you. I got you. Nobody’s gonna touch you, nobody’s gonna lay a hand on you. I won’t! I would never. You hear me? You’re safe.”
Safe.
The word is a total deformity. It is so grotesque in this moment you could probably laugh, except it comes out as a broken cry instead.
You feel the way his body tenses around the sound, how it seems to travel straight through him with his heart as the target. He bows his head, his lips brushing your temple by accident or desperation, you cannot tell which.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and now there is nothing controlled left in him, no command, no careful poise, only a man fraying in real time. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry. I wanted you to know, doll, I did, just—not like this. Fuck, not like this. You mean everything to me. You gotta believe that. You are everything.”
You shake your head against his chest, small and uncoordinated, feeling spent. You do not know whether you are denying him, begging him, or simply coming apart. His shirt is damp beneath your face now, whether from your tears or the sweat chilled over your skin or the blood from his arm, whatever it is, it feels symbolic somehow—one more blurred line in a night made of them.
“I wasn’t gonna let anybody hurt you,” he whispers, and even that seems to drag through his throat, hitting the walls of it. “Nobody would ever be able to hurt you. Especially me, my love, especially me! I swear to God.” His forehead grinds into yours until you can taste the heat of his skin. “I’m still the same guy who kissed you this morning. I don't care if I’m a monster to the rest of the world, but not to you, sweetheart, please not to you. I would never—god, I would cut my own hands off before I ever used them to hurt you. You have to believe me, darling, please!”
But your body no longer knows the language of swearing, or soothing, or reason. Your muscles don’t translate his pleading into safety. Your body only knows that he is stronger than you, and that the arms holding you are the same arms that can dismantle a life without raising his pulse. The palm mapped so carefully across the curve of your head is the exact same hand that commands a firing squad, directs the local precincts, and seals fates with a slight tilt of his chin.
Every touch from him now delivers a repulsive duality—a rescue that feels like an arrest, a stroke that resembles a chokehold, an overwhelming affection that wears the exact outline of a cell.
You can feel how easy this is for him, how negligible his effort is in keeping you contained even while he tries his best to appear harmless. That insulting fact finally starves out the last bit of resistance left in your veins. Your nervous system runs out of fuel, leaving your body to go completely toothless against his chest, without actually surrendering or any returning trust. Your body is simply done.
Your fingers drop their useless leverage against his chest, your joints go limp and your knees refuse to carry your weight anymore.
You sag in his hold all at once. The sobs keep coming, but weaker now, thinning out, scraping instead of breaking. Bucky feels the change immediately. His grip loosens just enough to become support instead of restraint, his palm rubbing between your shoulder blades in one of those soothing motions you used to love so much and it makes your chest ache with a fresh wave of grief.
“That’s it,” he coos, though his voice sounds completely mangled by the words. “That’s it, honey. I know. I know.”
You don’t know what he means by that. You’re not sure he does either. Perhaps he simply recognizes that your stamina has bottomed out, that even the sharpest panic has its boundaries, and that the rush of survival instincts always burns hot and fast, leaving behind this full-body collapse.
He holds your dead weight upright anyway. He keeps murmuring into your hair but it doesn’t glue your broken pieces back together or erase the reality of what he is, what this fortress hides, and what you stumbled into. His sliced arm stays locked around your waist. You can feel the sticky warmth of his blood soaking through your clothes. It is startlingly human, and it should probably make him look less like a monster, the simple fact that he can bleed. But it makes every detail about your situation so real and dreadful.
When your body finally ceases its rebellion entirely, it isn't an act of submission. It is pure depletion.
And Bucky, keeping you pinned against the wall of his chest, seems to grasp that exhaustion better than anyone else could. His lungs expand and contract in uneven hitching motions. He drops his chin heavily onto the crown of your head. He closes you in not like a conqueror taking a prize but like a man trying, too late, to keep a catastrophe from widening under his hands.
Beyond the kitchen threshold, the entire estate drops into a dead, listening sort of silence, as if the plaster and timber have cocked an ear to the room.
He keeps holding you as if you are something he has no right to touch anymore and still cannot seem to make himself release, and it’s crazy that even like this, even with your body rigid from all the things you have learned too quickly and too late, he is still somehow heartbreakingly careful, his hand spread wide and warm between your shoulder blades, his hold immovable but never bruising, his mouth close to your temple as though he cannot bear to put distance between you if distance means losing you for good.
It is all just so utterly confusing because this is not entirely what you had expected would happen.
“The way you looked at me,” he continues, and his voice comes out rough as gravel dragged through water, ruined by restraint, by panic, by the sheer effort of trying not to frighten you further with the depth of what is in him. He does not sound like the man in the hallway, not like the man who commands rooms into silence with a glance, not like the man whose name can make other people blanch and step backward and say yes, sir, with their pulse all up in their throats. He sounds flayed open. He sounds like the sight of your fear has gone into him like shrapnel and lodged somewhere vital. “The way you looked at me in there—” He stops, breathes in shallowly, like he has run straight into a blade and is trying not to lean on it harder. “Christ. I’ve taken bullets that didn’t hit like that. To have you look at me like I’m something you need to survive.”
Your face is turned into his chest, your tears soaking through the expensive dark fabric of his shirt, and still your whole body is listening against your will, because his voice is all around you now, low and urgent and splintering in places that make something cold move through you.
His hand slides back up the back of your head, not forcing, only cradling, his fingers threading carefully into your hair as though the gesture itself aches. When he speaks again, there is something almost disbelieving in him, some stunned grief that does not seem feigned, cannot possibly be feigned for this long without becoming madness.
“If I could do it over, I would do every goddamn thing different,” he breathes brokenhearted. “Every part of it. I would tell you sooner. I’d tell you cleaner. Shit, I should’ve just told you. I should’ve given it to you straight before it got this messy and before you had to figure it out by yourself and piece me together out of all the worst parts with nobody there to shield you. I would have died before I let it happen like this. I swear.” He swallows hard enough that you feel it where your cheek presses near his sternum.
The kitchen is too bright and everything is stinging so harshly with those clean counters, the severe gleam of copper pans above the island, the neat little arrangement of knives in their block where one slot is now empty, the overhead lights turning everything brutally visible.
There is nowhere for your agony to hide. It shivers right out in the open, lives in the tightness of your lungs and the salt on your mouth, and the fact that every soft word from him only makes the unreality of this more baffling. Because he sounds sincere. He sounds devastated. He sounds like a man speaking over the body of something precious he helped kill.
He says all of this like he’s offering you his throat, while all around you the evidence of his power still glints and twinkles from every glazed surface, every distant footstep, every forced silence in a house built to keep his secrets and carry out his will.
He is talking with all the gentleness he has. He is nearly breaking with it. And still, inside you, fear sits and it pants and it is unconvinced, because love does not make a cage less locked simply because the hands closing it are shaking.
You make a small sound then—not a word, not even close, just some thin and wrecked little fracture of breath—and he tightens around you reflexively, then instantly checks himself, as if terrified you will read force into even that involuntary movement.
His next words come faster, crowding each other, not panicked exactly but pressed by urgency, by the sense that you are slipping through his hands even while he is still physically holding you.
“I know what I am.” He breaks off again, and this time you feel the tremor that runs through him. “I know what kind of man I’ve been, what people say about me, what they’re right about. I know exactly what it looks like from where you’re standing.” His voice goes raw. “But, darling, I never meant for you to be afraid of me. This was never supposed to happen.”
The words enter you but you just don’t know where to store them. There is something so naked in the way he says them that your mind keeps tripping over it, keeps trying and failing to fit it beside the other truth—the guns, the guards, the coldness in his authority, the name that belongs in whispers, the empire standing tall all around you in all its obedience. Or maybe it’s just loyalty. Respect? What even is it?
It’s hard to acknowledge that he still sounds like himself. James or Bucky, the man who kissed sleep into your skin and tucked blankets around your legs and pressed absent-minded kisses to your shoulder while reading beside you in bed still exists inside this other, larger, more terrible man. He has not vanished cleanly enough to make your fear simple. You give a small whimper.
“I was selfish,” he rasps, and now the confession lands without defense. “That’s the truth. I was selfish as hell. Because I wanted you anyway. I wanted you even knowing I should’ve stayed away from you. I know I should’ve left you out of all this. A girl like you deserves something clean and safe, and I’m neither of those things. I knew that. Fuck, I knew that. And it’s been killing me. I let myself have you and it’s been so fucking selfish.”
His breath hitches around the last word, and the grief in it is so unexpectedly torturous it almost makes you nauseous. His forehead lowers for a second against your hair, and he scarily looks so weary, suddenly too full of feeling to carry it elegantly.
“Because you are...” He exhales a broken laugh with no amusement in it whatsoever. “Christ, sweetheart, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You couldn’t ever imagine what you walking into my life did to it.”
Your eyes squeeze shut and fresh tears slip out anyway. Somewhere inside you, some tired and furious part wants to scream at him for speaking like this now, for laying tenderness over terror as if one can cancel the other out, as if love—even if it is love, even if it is real and not just another instrument in his alluring hands—can unmake what you know. But before you can push any of that into sound, he keeps going, quieter, the words drawn so close to your skin they seem less spoken than confessed into it.
“If you want to go,” he states, and there is a pause before it, the kind that tells you the sentence is costing him blood, “I’ll let you go.”
Your breath snags. You don’t trust it nor believe it instantly, but even imagining the words coming out of him feels like a tectonic event, a mountain bowing. He does not release you yet, but his body changes with the promise, some iron set inside him going rigid with the effort of saying it and meaning it.
“I will,” he says, with more force now, as if he knows you don’t believe him and cannot bear that either. “If that’s what you want, I will. I’m not gonna keep you somewhere you don’t wanna be. I’m not gonna turn into that for you. But, baby—” and here his voice gives way altogether, drops into something so human and stripped down it hardly seems to belong to the same man who froze a room full of armed guards with one look, “—I am begging you not to make that choice before you hear me. I am begging you. Stay this one night, give me one chance to explain it all to you, to answer every possible question you could have. One chance to do this right, even if I already did it all wrong.”
Begging. The word would sound absurd from almost any other man. From him, it sounds cataclysmic. His hand shakes at the back of your head before steadying, his chest rises too sharply under your cheek, and he continues speaking as if silence might kill him.
“I love you too much to let this be the end of it if there’s anything I can do to stop it,” he croaks. “Too much to let you walk out of here thinking none of it was real. It was real. Every second of it was real. Me wanting you, loving you, worrying about you, making room for you in my life in ways I never made room for anybody—none of that was a lie. The only lie was thinking I could hold both worlds apart long enough to protect you from what I am. That was the lie. That was my arrogance. My mistake.”
The mansion remains hushed in that eerie, cathedral-like way that comes after a disturbance, as if everyone occupying this huge mansion is pretending not to hear the aftershocks.
But here in the kitchen, everything feels narrowed to his voice and your breathing and the blood drying on his forearm and the fact that he is speaking to you like a man on his knees, even if he is still standing, even if his arms are still around you, even if his kind of desperation does not know how to unclench fully.
There is a daunting sincerity in him now, not because it is soft but because it is not. Because it is fierce. Because even his tenderness carries the shape of obsession, of decision, of something chosen with his whole irreversible heart.
What can you possible answer here. What can you possibly think.
“I’ll do whatever I have to do.” He sounds so full of conviction. Technically, the words are quiet, but there is a hard core somewhere in his tone, and it glows fiercely. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make you feel safe again. To prove this to you. To earn back one inch of your trust. I don’t care how long it takes, I don’t care what you ask for, I don’t care what I have to lay down at your feet. I’ll do it. I will.” He takes a beat and the next words are so low you almost miss them. “I know I don’t deserve another chance and you have all the best reasons to run, but I’m asking for it anyway, Y/n.“
At that, finally, he leans back just enough to look at you. It’s not much, but the hand at the back of your head can guide your face up with painful gentleness, giving you every opening to pull away if you need to, though you are too wrung out now to do much except tremble.
His eyes find yours and stay there, and the sight of his face nearly brings you to your knees all over again. There is no coldness in him. No cruelty. No mockery. Only a kind of bereft intensity, a ravaged devotion, and beneath it the severe understanding that he is seeing himself reflected in your fear and cannot survive the image.
The whole fact of how broken he sounds starts to mess with your head. It cracks the armor of your panic, if only just a little bit. You’re trying to hate him. Because, honestly, you want to. You want the fear to be this insurmountable wall between you, but his voice keeps crumbling pieces of it.
The worst part is that you can’t just flick a switch and stop loving the guy you were tangled up with this morning. You fell for him so fast, so completely, because his version of happy felt like the safest place on earth. But with all those shocking revelations, that same love feels like a trapdoor that just dropped you into a cellar, and you are so angry at your own heart for still wanting him to hold you.
Underneath the exhaustion, there is a nauseating doubt starting to rot everything you remember about the last few weeks, and you really don’t need your mind going that far, but it does. You start wondering if you ever actually loved him, or if you were just hooked on the way he looked at you.
He treated you like you were the only important thing in the world, and you just hung off that affection, soaking up the protective way he took care of you. Even though he’s standing here right now, bleeding and hollowed out, swearing that every single touch was real, how can you ever be sure? Every memory you have is suddenly poisoned by the thought that it was just a beautifully built illusion, and the whole thing makes you feel completely seasick.
It’s just too much to handle all at once. Your brain is trying to hold two completely different men in the same space—the gentle guy who tucked the blankets around your feet in the dark, and the boss who froze a kitchen full of killers with one word. They are both real. They are both right here in front of you, and the fact that he isn't a cartoon villain makes it a hundred times worse.
If he were just a monster, you could run. But he’s a monster who tells you he loves you with this gut-wrenching, unyielding honesty, and looking at his ruined face, all your willpower just turns to mush.
“I should have asked more questions,” you whisper, and still, your voice breaks, the words tumbling out of you like loose gravel. You aren’t trying to be eloquent anymore, you are just trying to get the noise out of your head before it chokes you. “From the start, I— When you wouldn’t tell me things. I— I don't know, I was scared, I guess.”
Your fingers tighten into the expensive wool of his lapels just to keep your knees from giving out. Letting this mob boss know about your fears is probably a bad idea. But your life consists of you making bad decisions and so your mouth keeps opening. “I think I just liked the way you were to me too much to risk messing it up.”
The words drag themselves out of you like they do not want to be born, like each one has to force its way through the knot in your throat and the salt on your tongue and the simple, mind-numbing fact that nothing in you knows where to place anything anymore—not him, not yourself, not the last weeks, not the hands that held you so tenderly and the empire those same hands command with a flick of the wrist.
Bucky’s gaze is piercing as he looks down at you, listening with his breath visibly held.
“But I— I still don’t understand. I think.“ Your voice comes thin at first, scraped nearly transparent by crying, but it sharpens on pain the way a blade sharpens on a whetstone. “I just— I saw this gun, and—,” you blur out, the memory making your heart do that awful stutter against your ribs again while Bucky nearly flinches. His eyes go wide, pupils shrinking until they look like two dark pinpricks. “It was an accident. I swear it was an accident. I was just— you told me to grab a shirt of yours but I couldn’t reach up your wardrobe and so I was just going to go grab the shirt you've been wearing, but your jacket was there and then it just fell out. And I— I completely lost my mind because I realized I didn’t actually know anything about you, and I’ve been so stupid, and I’m really not good at this. I'm not good at talking things out or figuring out the right things to say. It’s just— this is so much to take in.”
Bucky´s chest hitches, a rough, dry stutter or air that sounds like he just took a fist to the solar plexus. His face looks almost unrecognizable with the pain plastered on it. You feel his hands tremble against you and he slowly takes them away, putting himself at a small distance to perhaps give you some space. His palms stay open, as do his eyes. He looks entirely unhinged by the clumsiness of his own life seeping into yours.
How could anyone understand how a man can kiss your forehead like a saint and still have blood and fear braided into his name. It’s so hard to understand how someone can look at you the way he is looking at you now—like you are both miracle and mortal wound—and still have lied, still have omitted, still have arranged the world around you so skillfully that you walked through it unknowing, barefoot and bright-hearted, straight into the center of his hidden life.
You do not understand what parts were real and what parts were merely curated, and worst of all, there is a terrible little splinter of you that already suspects the answer is not clean enough to save you. That some unbearable amount of it was real.
Your mouth trembles and you know that he can see it.
“You lied to me,” you sob, and although you mean for it to, it doesn’t sound like a weapon you’re throwing at him. It just sounds sad. “You made it so easy. I didn’t even think about it. I just— I just woke up every day and trusted the way you looked at me. And the whole time, I didn’t even know you.”
You look down at his chest so you can stop having to meet those devastatingly sunken eyes. “You let me fall in love with you not knowing who you were.” Your sentence has a shape now, the grief in you finally managing to find a spine. But you still can’t make your words sound all that accusing. Because you got yourself into this situation. You’re supposed to be furious at yourself first.
You haven’t used the word love before. You just dropped it, being the first time it cleared your teeth and the timing of it feels completely disastrous.
And Bucky suddenly undergoes a drastic freeze, as if his nervous system has been struck by lightning. He seems to tip back just a tiny bit but stays in your orbit. He stares down at you, his mouth parted, his chest stalling on an intake of air that he forgets to let back out.
The fact that you love him—and that you are saying it right now, while covered with dread and shivering nearly against his chest—seems to completely break his brain.
There is a dark heat flooding his face, his jaw tight enough to snap a tooth. He looks agonizingly vulnerable like this, the dangerous mob boss utterly gutted by four letters. His fingers twitch where they are now hovering near your neck, desperately wanting to bury themselves in your hair and pull you back into his skin, but he forces his hands down to his sides, his knuckles trembling against his tailored trousers.
“You…,” he starts, eyes burning with a starved intensity that makes the air in the kitchen feel boiling hot. He swallows loudly, taking a moment, staring out into some space behind you, and switching focus back to you. “Don’t call yourself stupid,” he goes on, voice dropping into a rasp that shakes with the failure of his own arrogance. “None of what you told me and none of what you felt makes you stupid.”
His face leans closer to yours and somehow you only shrink back a tiny bit, not really at all. You can feel the wavering rhythm of his breath against your lips. He looks thoroughly undone by his own greed, stuck in the realization that he won the only thing he ever wanted, right at the exact moment he stopped being the man who holds you in the dark and turned into the reason you’re afraid of the dark.
“The love was real,” he sounds so convinced. His face is breaking, but his voice is not. He knows what he is saying. “Every single second of it was real. I am the one who ruined it. But what I feel, and what we have, that isn’t a lie. I swear to you on my life, it was never a lie.” His eyes close briefly, and it looks like he is losing his footing somewhere internal. “I know how it feels from where you’re standing. But I wasn’t playing some game with you. I wasn’t trying to—” He drags a hand over his face, and for an instant he looks older than you have ever seen him, not in years but in burden, in wear. “I wanted more time. That was my sin in it. I wanted time. I wanted to tell you in a way that didn’t make you look at me like this.”
Like this.
The phrase feels unkind. Because yes—there it is again, the damn nucleus of the whole thing. The way your eyes have changed on him. The way he has noticed every flicker of fear in you as if each one were a cut and he keeps taking your terror not as an insult to his pride but as an injury to something much more private and much more vulnerable. And that, more than any fake excuse could have, is so hard to process. 
Because men who only know cruelty do not usually grieve like this over being feared by the woman they supposedly love. Men who are only monstrous do not usually look half-unmade by it.
You don’t want that thought, you honestly don’t, but it does arrive.
Because he has not hurt you. He hasn’t done a single thing to hurt you, and that makes him so much more complicated at the exact moment you most need him to stay simple.
He has had a thousand opportunities by now to become the thing you are bracing against. In the hallway. In the office. In the kitchen. When you ran. When you fought. When you took the knife. When you cut him. At every turn, there has been room for rage, for punishment, for the kind of retaliatory violence your frightened mind keeps expecting from a man like him, and instead he has done nothing but hold himself on a brutal leash, speak softly, plead, bleed, look at you as if your fear is the one thing in this world he has no defenses against.
And it makes you weaker.
Because fear is easier when it is clean. Outrage is easier when there are no counterweights. But now your thoughts begin to buckle under the strain of contradiction, and you feel yourself growing tired in some deeper way, not merely from running or crying or panic, but from the effort of sustaining one total version of him against the evidence of another.
The story you are trying to tell yourself—that he is simply bad, simply dangerous, simply false—keeps snagging on the memory of his hands shaking when he begged, on the way he threw his men out for aiming guns at you, on the heartache in his face now, open and unarmored and miserable with not knowing how to reach you.
None of it erases anything, how could it this fast, but still it matters, and still some fatal hope flares.
Your lungs are burning. You become dimly aware that your body is leaning, not exactly by choice, but because exhaustion is making choices for you now. The kitchen feels too bright and too far away at the same time. Your fingers feel chilled, your knees unreliable, your heart still overworked from all that horror. Even your anger is beginning to lose its clean edges, dissolving into something wetter and more helpless.
“I don’t know what to do,” you admit, and there is no strength in it at all.
The sentence is barely more than breath, but it changes him instantly, makes his misery seem softer, as if your confusion pains him almost as much as your fear did. His gaze searches your face carefully, greedily, looking for any sign that you have not vanished completely from him.
“You don’t have to know right now,” he comforts, and this time his voice is gentler still, worn down to the most tender parts of his body. “You don’t have to decide anything this second. I know I dropped all of this on you in the worst possible way. I know you’re overwhelmed.”
Overwhelmed. The word is so pitifully insufficient you want to cry some more, but the sound catches and turns to another shivery exhale instead.
Overwhelmed is a rainstorm. A bad day. A missed train. This is seismic. This is having the floor beneath your life cleave open and discovering it was built over a fault line all along.
Still, you know what he means.
Because beneath all the fear, and the betrayal and the urgent need to flee, there is now also this leaden, disorienting fatigue, this collapse of certainty.
You cannot keep all your alarms ringing at once forever. The body is not made for it. At some point even terror begins to sag under its own weight, and in that sagging comes the most dangerous thing of all. Maybe not trust or forgiveness yet, but confusion. A human confusion. The realization that if he truly meant to destroy you, perhaps he would have done it already. That if cruelty were the point, he has passed up too many easy chances. That whatever else he is—and God, he is still intimidating, still hidden, still a man with too much power and too many locked rooms in his life—his feelings for you do not look counterfeit. They look catastrophic. They look real enough to have ruined him too.
He had every opportunity to end this argument with force, not even making his hands dirty in a physical sense. But he didn’t, and that roughened sincerity that seems so deeply wounded keeps gnawing at all the things you thought you found out about this man, the stereotype you made him out to be. It makes a guilty stone drop into your belly and land with damaging intentions.
And you do not know what to do with all this honesty and realness, when real arrives dressed as the very thing you were trying to escape.
But you have to acknowledge that your lack of strength is not the only reason why you have stopped fighting him, stopped trying to get away.
Bucky seems to read some fragment of this in your face, because he does not press harder. He does not crowd you with arguments. He simply stays where he is, close enough for warmth, far enough now that his care has space to breathe. His injured arm hangs at his side, blood drying in a dark seam along his skin, ignored. His other hand lifts as if to touch your cheek, then stops halfway and falls again when he sees the flicker in your eyes. That tiny restraint breaks something in you all over again.
“I know I lied by not telling you,” he says quietly. “I know that. I’m not asking you to call it something prettier. I’m just telling you it wasn’t because you meant nothing. It was because you meant too goddamn much, and I was trying to find a way to bring you closer without making you run.”
The honesty of it is so ugly, so naked, so free of self-congratulation that it feels like he just threw a wet sandbag right at your chest, knocking every scrap of air straight out of your lungs. It’s not an excuse, not quite. More like the shape of the selfishness itself, held out in his own hands for you to look at. He wanted you. He kept you. He delayed the truth because he was afraid the truth would cost him the one bright thing he had allowed himself to love. There is no innocence in that. But there is something crushingly human.
Your eyes burn again and your grip on your own certainty loosens another inch.
You hate that, too, because, damnit, it would be easier to stand here shaking and loathing him if he would just become less tender and less heartbreakingly earnest in his regret. But he stays persistently, ruinously genuine, and all at once you feel not only afraid, not only betrayed, but emptied out by the effort of trying to hold every contradiction at once. He is a bad man. He may also love you. He lied. He is also hurting. He hid things from you. He is also standing here looking like your fear is flaying him alive. None of these truths cancels the others. They just crowd together until your thoughts feel waterlogged, too swollen to separate.
So all that is left is the simplest truth again.
You really are overwhelmed.
You are so overwhelmed that language itself seems too heavy to lift.
Your breathing has started to slowly settle in increments, like a storm reluctantly retreating from a coastline it battered too long. It feels like there are bruises left behind in your lungs, but it no longer aches with each inhale.
Your fear has ebbed enough to make you think again, to make you see again, to make you look at him not as the single monstrous shape your panic tried to build, but as the complicated, human contradiction standing in front of you now.
His shoulders are still too tight, drawn up, and perhaps trying to seem smaller. He keeps his hands visible and loose at his sides to perhaps avoid startling you. The cut along his forearm has darkened into a narrow seam of red, drying in flaking lines against his skin and remaining completely ignored by the man attached to it.
His focus hasn’t left your face. And in that focus, there is not an ounce of triumph. Rather, the opposite. There is only pain. Such a grave torment that lives in the corners of his mouth, the prominent crease between his brows, in the cautious way he keeps tracking your movements as though you still might shove him away and try bolting for the door again.
You swallow and feel the ballast of everything press back down on your chest.
“I—” you start, timidly, using every last scrap of your bravery. You don’t meet his eyes, staring at the floor beside him. “I’ve seen them.” Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, small but a little bit more poised now, like glass that hasn’t shattered but still remembers the impact. “I've seen the news, and the headlines. All the stories about you.”
The words suspend themselves in the space between you.
Bucky takes a moment to answer. His gaze drifts downward, just briefly, as if the floor might offer him something easier to look at than the defenselessness sitting in your eyes. The vulnerable questions there. When he exhales it is long and tired, and it sounds like all the versions of himself he has spent years outrunning are catching up to him anyway.
“Yeah,” he mutters out breathily. But a little flat. There is no denial in it or some sort of excuse. He drags a hand across the back of his neck, his jaw flexing slightly before he speaks again. “I figured you probably had.” He takes a shivering breath, his whole chest lifting. “They’re not all lies.”
You hold your breath, but don’t step back, don’t let fear take its seat at the forefront of your mind again.
He lifts his eyes back to yours then, and the seriousness in them deepens, intensifying into something resolute.
“I’m not gonna stand here and tell you I’m a good man,” he says. The words come slowly, and his eyes are searching yours while he talks. He is placing them carefully like he’s building something honest out of wreckage. “I’m not.”
Your heart stumbles in your chest, but you still keep your feet grounded and meet his eyes.
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things most people wouldn’t forgive if they knew the full story.” His voice lowers slightly. His eyes are full of sorrow. Despite the things he’s saying he unexpectedly doesn’t look threatening at all and it makes something startle abruptly in your chest. “And yeah, I’ll probably keep doing some of those things.” He doesn’t force anything into his tone that maybe should be there. He´s not saying those things with pride or arrogance or even threat. He has just accepted the callous contours that make his life the way it is. “But not for the reasons people think.”
His eyes soften then, slightly. And it makes you realize that they’ve actually been soft all along.
“I do what I do because there are people in this world who deserve protection. People who don’t have the power to protect themselves.” His gaze holds yours a little more firmly now. “And sometimes the only way to keep those people safe is to be the guy willing to do the ugly work.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’d do just about anything to protect you, Y/n. Even if it’s me you want protection from.”
The kitchen feels very still.
You don’t know what to say to that. You’re not even sure there is something to say. The statement isn’t a justification so much as a window, and looking through it leaves you with more thoughts to sort through and you’ve already gone through so many. But you hear him. You really do.
And he seems to notice that you’re listening now—maybe not agreeing, not forgiving, but truly listening, hearing him out—and some small measure of relief loosens the tension in his shoulders.
He doesn’t move a single muscle, standing before you like a brick wall, his legs pinned wide on the kitchen tiles, his frame perfectly still except for the anxious heave of his chest. His arms are hanging at his side, and shit, your gaze just has to focus on that bloody trail on his forearm. Because right, you’ve cut James Buchanan Barnes through his expensive suit enough to make him bleed. The redness runs from his wrist to his knuckles and you see some dots on the floor. The fabric of his suit is soaking it up, turning a dark wet black around the tear.
He still doesn’t glance down at it. He’s still so entirely anchored to your face, his broad shoulders squared as if he’s trying to shield you from the very room he owns. The survival instinct that had you clawing at the air drops away and now there is a sudden freezing emptiness in your head. And in that blank space, something takes place.
You look at the knife on the linoleum, then at the wet red tracking down his arm, and your stomach completely plummets through the ground. The panic you felt earlier didn’t protect you, it turned you clumsy and ignorant.
“Oh, no,” you choke out, gaze fixed on his arm, your words hacking up from your chest miserably. “Bucky, I— Your arm, I— I didn’t mean— This is my fault, I swear I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey,” he cuts in, his voice lowering into a rough, immediate hush that clips the words right out of your mouth. “Hey, no, sweetheart. No.” He steps back into your space and his huge palms come up, traveling slowly until they map themselves carefully across your jawline.
His fingers are trembling and the pressure is incredibly light. His skin is warm, smelling of that same familiar soap from upstairs, and his thumbs softly brush the wet tear tracks off your cheekbones, forcing you to look straight into his eyes. He doesn’t even spare a glance at his forearm.
“You don’t ever apologize to me for that,” he whispers hoarsely, his chest hitching against yours as he tries to get his breathing normal. There is so much regret in his voice, it is too much for your heart to handle. “You were scared out of your mind and I did that to you. That?” He tilts his arm toward you, indicating that he is talking about the cut. “That is nothing, sweetheart. Nothing.” The corner of his mouth lifts faintly, but the expression is gentler and definitely much more somber than humorous. “I’ve taken hits that should’ve put me in the ground, and none of them touched me.”
You shake your head in his palms. “But, I—”
“Doll,” he shushes, his arms keeping your chin locked, but not firm at all. His gaze is drilling into yours and it feels like he’s bleeding more from the inside and not the outside. “That little scratch hurts a hell of a lot less than watching you run from me.”
Your hands slowly stop trying to find leverage against his chest. The heat of his palms against your jaw feels like a grounding force, something so familiar but also completely new. It’s not entirely unpleasant in its newness.
You look up into his eyes, seeing the complete lack of the monster he just unleashed on his guards, and you can’t help but feel a little unmoored.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” you admit breathily, your voice cracking as your forehead drops forward to rest against his tie.
Bucky lets out a long, ragged exhale, his chin resting against the top of your head as his arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you into a hold that feels firm but unforced.
“You don’t have to figure it out right now, darling,” he eases, his words spoken with a splintered scrape into your hair. “You don’t have to decide anything today, or tomorrow, or next week. Take all the time you need. Turn it over in your head. Think about everything you saw, everything I am. And whatever you choose to do—if you want to pack your bags, and disappear, if you never want to see my face again—I will let you go. I will make sure you are safe, and I will support whatever choice you make. I swear it.”
He pulls back just an inch, his thumbs gently guiding your face up again so he can look straight into your eyes. There is something desperately begging in his stare, but he keeps his posture completely still, refusing to pressure you.
“But please.“ His knuckles tremble slightly against your cheek. “Just stay the night. Don't run out now while this is all still so new. Stay until morning. As soon as the sun’s up, the car is yours,” he promises sorrowfully, his thumbs catching the last of the dampness on your cheek. “If you want to leave, you leave. You can walk out of here and never look back, and I won’t follow you. I won’t look for you. If that’s what it takes to make you feel safe, I’ll let you go.”
He stops, his jaw clamping tight for a second, a sharp, jumbled hitch in his ribs breaking his breathing.
“But god, I hope you don't,” he shoves the words past the tightness in his throat, his eyes wide and burning into yours so achingly. “I will spend every single day of my life doing whatever it takes to fix this. I’ll earn back an inch of your trust at a time. I’ll show you the rest of me—the real parts—if you just give me the chance to try. I want you to love me again. I want that more than anything.”
He hitches his weight just a fraction closer, his large hands still framing your jaw with agonizingly slow caution.
“But just stay this single night,” he pleads with a strain in his voice, his forehead dropping down to rest lightly against yours. “Just stay until morning. Let me get you out of this kitchen, and you can just sleep. That’s all. Just tonight.”
You stare at the dark red crusting on his wool cuff, then look into that heavy, broken-down look in his eyes. Trying to picture next week or even tomorrow feels like watching a knotted ball of wire and not finding out where to start untying it.
But right now, your muscles are just running on empty, completely flattened and powerless from feeling all that panic. You let out one long shudder of air, asking your awareness for any reasons why you should still try to get the hell away from this guy, and come up with nothing yet. It’s all too fresh to truly give this some thought and right now all you want to do is curl up in those silky sheets and sleep it all off.
You give him a small nod. “Okay. Okay, Bucky, I’ll stay the night.”
Bucky’s shoulders drop with a massive, rattling relief. He doesn't say anything else, he just tucks your head back under his chin, his big arms closing around you to carry your weight out of the quiet kitchen, leaving the knife and the blood behind on the floorboards.
You don’t know what comes when the sun is up. You don’t know what loving a man like him means. You don’t know if the life he lives can ever exist beside the life you thought you wanted.
You don’t know if trust can grow again from the cracked ground beneath your feet, and considering your decision making skills, you shouldn’t let your heart handle things anymore.
But, frighteningly and also not all that much surprisingly after all, when you imagine leaving now—truly leaving, turning your back on him and walking out of this mansion forever—the image doesn’t bring relief.
It brings something bleak.
Because for all the discoveries of tonight and all that fear, all that shock, and the trust that has been abruptly broken, there is a bullheaded part of you that understands something you can’t yet put into words for him to hear.
You could run from this house.
You could run from his name.
But you are not sure you could run from him.
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple”
- Oscar Wilde
A/n: Looking at the word count now, I honestly probably could’ve turned this into a mini series but because this whole thing is essentially one long scene, splitting it up even more just didn’t feel right to me. So I guess I just have to admit that this became an unexpectedly long two-parter lmao.
As always, I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on this continuation, if it gave you hope, or even if you expected something different to happen. I always enjoy hearing your interpretations and feelings after reading ♡
I also wanted to gently address something else. I’ve received a few critical comments regarding certain reactions, choices, and dynamics in the story, and I truly hope this second part helped answer some questions or at least offered a little more perspective. If it didn’t, that’s completely okay too.
What I want you to know, I genuinely do appreciate helpful criticism, especially when it comes to my writing itself, because I’m always trying to improve and become better at what I do. Constructive feedback that gives me something to work with is always welcome and appreciated. But if something in the story simply wasn’t for you, or you personally disliked a choice I made, then sometimes it’s okay to just move on from it instead of tearing it apart. And if you do choose to criticize something, I just ask that you do it kindly. We’re still a community here, and there’s no reason to be harsh or blunt. Talk to me like a human being.
I put a lot of time, emotion, and effort into these stories, not to be told this makes no sense or this is weird without any real conversation behind it. Sometimes I don’t think through every single detail deeply because at the end of the day, this is still fiction born from messy little ideas in my head, written for comfort, entertainment, and emotion—not perfection!
Still, thank you to everyone who continues to boost me and my work and helped me stay motivated to finish this part ♡
And if you enjoyed my work, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi ♡
Kisses, please
loverboy & his clingy girl ♡ • fluff • established relationship
♡ 9:12 p.m. — Hawkins Radio Station, definitely not FCC-approved behaviour
You go to visit Steve at work—with only one thing on your mind.
You know you’re not helping. You know you might be a little annoying—at least to anyone else.
Not to your Stevie.
You’ve learned that quickly. You’re honestly not sure what you could do that would annoy him. You like that. You like feeling wanted—like you’re not too much for once. Not only seen, but reciprocated.
That’s why you swing your legs over the desk, one hand fiddling with a pen, the other drifting into his hair as he leans over the controls, focused in that way that pulls a crease between his brows.
It makes you want to smooth it away.
So you do.
Your fingers slide from his hair to his forehead, brushing over the line between his brows, soft and absentminded. Steve smiles at that—small but no less sincere—without ever really stopping what he’s doing.
You adjust his glasses slightly where they’ve slipped down his nose. Then, without thinking too hard about it, really without thinking at all, you lean in and press a soft kiss right between his brows. If you needed an excuse, you’d say you were just smoothing the crease—but it’s long gone now, and you never have to explain yourself to Steve.
“…you trying to distract me,” he murmurs, leaning into your touch. His voice warm, a little amused, a faint flush sitting high on his cheeks.
In place of a proper answer, you lift your hand, brushing a piece of hair back behind his ear, your fingers skimming along his cheekbone and down to his jaw.
“Never,” you mumble, soft, not even trying to sound convincing.
Steve laughs under his breath, shaking his head a little—he already knows he’d lose any type of argument with you. It never takes much with you. Just one smile and he’s done for.
His hand finds your knee where it’s hooked over the desk, squeezing lightly—thumb dragging once before it slides up to your thigh, settling there without a second thought.
“You’re trouble,” he says, but there’s not an ounce of weight to it. No warning; just pure, unfiltered fondness.
You lean in again, closer this time, your nose brushing his cheek before your lips hover just at the corner of his mouth.
“Kisses,” you pause, mouth pulling into a small pout, “please.”
Steve doesn’t even pretend to hesitate.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, already turning toward you, his hand sliding from your thigh to your waist to steady you where you’re perched. “C’mere.”
The kiss is soft, easy, wonderful. His thumb brushes your side absentmindedly, keeping you as close as possible. When you pull back, it’s barely anything, just enough to look at him before you lean in again.
And again.
Oh, and again.
Steve lets out a quiet whine into the next one, barely there, a little helpless—like he knows exactly how this is going to go, after all, this isn’t his first rodeo with you. “Y’know I’ve got, like, actual work to do,” he says, not moving an inch away from you.
You nod, already pressing another quick kiss to his mouth. “I know.”
You linger for a second after, just looking at him, the way he’s trying to look serious—brows slightly drawn, mouth set—but it doesn’t quite stick, not when he’s still this close to you, still a little flushed, still soft around the edges for you.
You press your lips together in a small, expectant pout, eyes wide, head tilted slightly. You know exactly what you’re doing. Steve knows exactly what you’re doing. Neither of you care.
Steve lets out a soft exhale, half a laugh, his forehead dropping briefly against yours. “You’re lucky I like you,” he mutters, even as he leans straight back in.
You smile a little at that, because you already know.
That’s the whole point.
“Just like?” You tease, fingers playing with the collar of his sweater.
You lean in impossibly closer, nudging your nose against his before he murmurs, breath fanning across your mouth—
“Love.”
The smile that breaks across your face is immediate. Soft. Impossible to hide.
Steve’s expression shifts the second he sees it, fondness melting straight through whatever was left of his attempt at composure.
“Sorry, honey,” he mumbles. And then he’s kissing you again.
“I.”
A kiss lands at the corner of your mouth.
“Love.”
Another against your cheek.
“You.”
One more, right over your smile as your laugh finally spills out properly, bright and breathless. You push lightly at his chest like you’re trying to stop him, but your hands are still twisted in the front of his sweater, keeping him just as close as he’s keeping you.
“Steve—” you giggle, ducking your head when he leans in again.
“I love you,” he repeats, gentler this time, punctuated by another quick kiss. “So much, honey.”
You’re still laughing softly by the time he finally slows, both hands warm at your waist, his forehead resting against yours while he grins in that helpless, completely gone way that’s become so terribly familiar.
And then—
A loud, aggressive chicken squeak blasts through the station speakers and out to the thirty or so late-night listeners.
You both freeze.
Steve’s eyes close instantly, already knowing exactly what that means—and somehow, you know he’s less worried about the listeners and more worried about Robin.
There’s a beat of silence before—
“Guys,” Robin’s voice crackles over the intercom, flat and deeply unimpressed. “Do you mind?”
She punctuates the question with a sharp knock against the glass separating the rooms.
Unfortunately, that’s what breaks you.
A helpless laugh slips out of you as you immediately hide your face in Steve’s neck, shoulders shaking against him. His own laugh is quieter, more embarrassed, but no less fond as one hand slides up to the back of your head, smoothing your hair down comfortingly.
“Hey, hey, it was a-” he mumbles, failing miserably at sounding serious, getting cut off by a less than impressed Robin.
“Steve, why is the chicken sound effect live right now?”
“It was an accident!” he calls back instantly.
“You literally only press random buttons when she’s around.”
“That is not true.”
“It is completely true.”
You’re still giggling into his neck while Steve absently pats your hair down again, holding you close even as he argues back.
“I can multitask.”
“Clearly not!” Robin shoots back. “You’re one make-out session away from broadcasting a car crash sound effect.”
Steve groans while you laugh even harder, and the two of them keep bickering through the station as the scene slowly dissolves into static, teasing, and Steve’s hand still warm at the back of your head.
loverboy steve masterlist ♡
P.S. wanna see more clingy reader or loverboy Steve? send in some ideas! ♡
