You say go, I won't leave - Steve Harrington
summary: on-and-off relationship between you and Steve Harrington spirals through arguments, desire and distance, two people deeply in love but terrified to say it out loud, caught in a cycle where passion replaces communication until they’re finally forced to choose whether love is worth the risk.
warnings: Explicit sexual content, toxic on-off relationship dynamics, miscommunication & emotional avoidance
wc: 8k (sorryyy guys, totally got carried away with this one)
main masterlist | stranger things masterlist
The thing about Steve Harrington is that he never raises his voice first.
And that somehow hurts worse.
You’re standing in his kitchen, arms crossed tight against your chest, the overhead light too bright, the silence louder than any argument you’ve ever had. The clock on the microwave blinks 12:04 a.m. like it’s judging you both for still being awake, still circling the same conversation you’ve had a hundred times before.
“You didn’t text me back,” you say finally.
Steve doesn’t look at you. He’s leaning against the counter, fingers braced on the edge like he needs something solid to keep him upright.
“You were busy for twelve hours?”
You laugh, sharp and brittle. “It’s not fair that I waited all day for a single word from you, Steve.”
He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair like he’s already exhausted by this. “Why does it always have to turn into this?”
Because it already has, you think.
“You could’ve just said you needed space,” you say quieter now. “I would’ve understood.”
He finally looks at you then. His eyes flicker — guilt, frustration, something unspoken. “I didn’t know how to say it.”
That sentence feels like a punch to the ribs.
You blink hard, mascara already threatening to spill. “You never do.”
The fight doesn’t explode. It never does with him. It creeps in, slow and suffocating, filling every corner of the room until there’s no air left.
Steve straightens, jaw tight. “You make everything so heavy.”
Your chest tightens. “Because I care.”
He scoffs. “That’s not what I meant.”
“But it is,” you snap. “You hate that I feel things out loud. You hate that I don’t pretend this is casual when it’s not.”
His shoulders tense. “We said we weren’t putting labels on this.”
“And I said I didn’t need labels,” you fire back. “I needed consistency.”
He doesn’t argue that one.
You turn away from him, pressing your palms into the counter, breathing through the sting behind your eyes. “You can’t keep showing up when it suits you and disappearing when it gets real.”
Steve’s voice is lower now. “I don’t disappear.”
“You do,” you whisper. “You vanish the second it feels like you might lose control.”
You feel it in the way he stills completely.
Steve Harrington is loyal to a fault — but only when he knows where he stands. The second emotions start to slip out of his grasp, he panics. He pulls back. He builds walls and pretends they were always there.
“You don’t know that,” he says, but there’s no bite to it.
You turn back to face him, tears finally slipping free. “I do. I know you better than you think.”
He looks at you like that’s the problem.
The worst part is that between the fights, he’s so good.
There are nights where everything feels easy — Steve picking you up late just to drive with no destination, windows down, music loud. Him laughing so hard at something stupid you say that he has to pull over. The way he fixes things around your place without being asked, like it’s instinct.
The way he touches you — like he’s grounding himself.
Like if he lets go, something terrible will happen.
He never says I love you.
“Text me when you get home.”
“Stay. Just a little longer.”
And you never say it either.
Because you’re both terrified of what would happen if you did.
The argument doesn’t resolve.
Steve steps back, creating space like he’s bracing for impact. “I think you should go.”
Your heart stutters. “You don’t mean that.”
He looks away. “I need to cool off.”
You nod, biting your lip, grabbing your bag. You walk to the door with shaking hands, fingers wrapping around the handle.
This is the part where one of you is supposed to be brave.
“I hope you know that, if I leave now, I won’t come back Steve.” you say softly, without turning around.
Steve swears under his breath.
You feel him behind you before he touches you heat, presence, tension snapping tight between you. His hand closes around your waist not wanting to let go, desperate.
“I didn’t say that, you know I don’t want you out of my life baby”” he murmurs.
You don’t look at him. You can’t. Because if you do, you’ll stay. And staying always makes things worse… and better… and impossible.
“Steve, please.” you whisper.
His grip tightens slightly. “I don’t know how to do this without fucking it up.”
Your throat burns. “Neither do I.”
The door closes behind you when he pushes you against it.
No promises. No softness. No confessions.
This is what happens when neither of you knows how to communicate without tearing each other apart.
The tension.
The hurt.
The longing.
It all boils over into the only outlet you’ve ever been good at.
Steve’s hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back as he crashes his mouth against yours in a brutal kiss. There’s nothing gentle about it, just teeth and tongue and frustration poured straight into your lips. You moan, fingers clawing at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, desperate for something solid.
“Fuck,” he growls against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to sting. “I hate fighting with you.”
His voice is rough, edged with something dangerous.
“Missed this pussy,” he adds, breath hot against your skin. “Missed making you scream.”
You gasp when his hand slides under your skirt, fingers finding your bare cunt without hesitation. There’s no asking. There never is. You grind shamelessly into his touch, chasing friction like it’s oxygen.
“Missed your dick too,” you pant, rubbing against his hand, needy and reckless. “Missed you filling me up.”
Steve lets out a dark chuckle as he shoves two fingers inside you without warning, the stretch sharp enough to make you cry out.
“Gonna fill this pussy up so good,” he mutters, pumping his fingers mercilessly, “you’ll be feeling me for days.”
You whine at the pace, already empty and aching, already too far gone.
“Please,” you beg, voice breaking. “Steve, fuck me. Fuck me hard.”
His thumb finds your clit, strumming it brutally as his fingers move faster. “Fuck yeah,” he growls. “Begging for it now. Begging for my cock to ruin this cunt.”
“Y—yes,” you sob, grinding down on his hand. “Fuck me, Steve. Make me yours.”
A snarl rips from his throat as he pulls his fingers free only to spin you around, bending you over the nearest surface. The sound of his zipper is deafening in the small space, your heart hammering as you hear the crinkle of a condom.
The blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance, dragging slowly through your slick folds, coating himself in you.
“Beg for it,” he commands, fingers digging into your hips. “Beg for this big cock.”
“Please, Steve,” you moan, arching your back, offering yourself. “I need your cock. Need you to fuck me.”
He slaps your ass sharply, the sting blooming across your skin. “Fuck yes,” he growls. “Such a good little slut.”
With one brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.
You scream at the sudden fullness, walls clamping down around him as he starts moving immediately, hips snapping against your ass in a punishing rhythm. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, frantic and obscene.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, breath ragged. “This pussy was made for my cock.”
“Yes—yes, I’m yours,” you wail, pushing back to meet his thrusts, chasing every inch. “Your pussy. All yours.”
Steve fucks you harder, one hand coming around to rub your clit relentlessly, pushing you straight toward the edge.
“That’s right, baby,” he snarls. “Take my cock. Fucking take it.”
The pleasure overwhelms you all at once, white-hot and blinding. Your orgasm crashes through you without warning, your pussy clenching violently around him as you scream his name.
“Fuck—fuck,” he roars, hips stuttering as he loses control. “Gonna cum—fuck!”
He collapses over your back with a broken groan, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, pulse after pulse of hot cum flooding you. You feel every throb, every shudder, your body trembling beneath his.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
Just panting.
Still joined.
Still tangled in the mess of it all.
Then he pulls out slowly, leaving you feeling empty as warmth spills down your thighs. Steve helps you upright, his touch suddenly quieter, heavier.
And the weight of it hits you.
The realization that you’ve fallen back into the same cycle once again.
No words.
No clarity.
Just the aftermath.
Steve’s car pulls into the driveway later than usual.
The sun is already dipping low, sky bruised orange and purple, the street quiet in that familiar Hawkins way that always makes him exhale when he gets home. He kills the engine and just sits there for a second, forehead resting against the steering wheel.
Work was hell. Customers yelling. Tommy mouthing off. His head pounding with things he refuses to think about.
I might stop by later, okay?
He’d replied with a distracted yeah, not really processing it.
So when he unlocks the front door and steps inside—
There are shoes by the door.
His chest tightens immediately.
Then he hears your voice.
He follows the sound into the living room and stops short.
You’re sitting on the couch, curled up like you belong there, one of his blankets pulled over your legs. Dustin is perched on the armchair, animated as ever, rambling about something — a campaign, a game, something Steve isn’t fully hearing because all he can see is you.
Dustin notices him first. “Oh! Steve, hey—”
You turn, smile lighting up your face. “Hey. You’re finally home. ”
Something in Steve snaps.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
Your smile falters just slightly. “I told you I was coming over.”
“I thought later,” he says flatly. His eyes flick to Dustin. “Not… this.”
Dustin shifts, sensing the shift instantly. “Uh, I was just leaving actually—”
“No, it’s fine,” you say, standing. “I let him in. He was already outside.”
Steve laughs, short and humorless. “You let him in.”
Dustin clears his throat, already halfway through the door sensing the storm. “I can go—”
“No,” Steve cuts in. His jaw is tight now. “I wanna know why you’re acting like this is your place.”
“Steve, what are you talking about?”
He drops his keys onto the counter harder than necessary. “You don’t get to just—” He gestures around. “You don’t get to just be here. Going through my stuff. Sitting on my couch. Talking like you live here.”
Dustin’s eyes dart between you. “I should really—”
“Yeah,” Steve says without looking at him. “You should.”
Dustin grabs his jacket, mumbling something about calling later, and slips out fast, the door clicking shut behind him.
You turn back to Steve, confused and hurt. “What the hell was that?”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “You crossed a line.”
Your brows knit together. “I have a spare key.”
“That doesn’t mean this is your house,” he snaps.
Your chest tightens. “You gave me that key.”
“Yeah, and maybe that was a mistake.”
The words hit you like a slap.
You go still. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t get to invite people into my space,” he says, voice rising now. “You don’t get to act like this is some shared thing when it’s not.”
“You were sitting there like you belonged,” he yells, finally turning to face you fully. “Like this was normal. Like this is home.”
Something inside you cracks.
“Is that what this is about?” you whisper. “You’re scared because it felt normal?”
“Don’t twist this,” he fires back. “You don’t get that right.”
You laugh bitterly. “I don’t get any rights, do I? I don’t get clarity. I don’t get consistency. I don’t get to know where I stand—”
“Oh my god,” you snap. “You scream at me for being here, Steve, but you lose your mind when I pull away. You pull me in when it suits you and shove me out when it scares you.”
“That’s not what this is—”
“You don’t want me gone,” you say, voice shaking now. “You just don’t want me too close.”
You swallow hard, tears burning. “You don’t get to treat me like I’m invading your life when you’re the one who keeps pulling me back into it.”
“I didn’t ask you to act like this was permanent,” he says quietly.
You nod slowly, like something finally clicks into place.
You move toward the door, grabbing your jacket. “You’re right.”
His breath catches. “Don’t be dramatic.”
You turn back to him, eyes glassy but steady. “I’m not. I’m tired.”
He takes a step toward you. “We can talk about this—”
“No,” you cut in gently. “We don’t talk. We fight, or we touch, or we pretend nothing’s wrong.”
Silence stretches between you.
You slide the spare key onto the counter.
It sounds too loud when it lands.
“You don’t have to worry about me invading your space anymore,” you say. “I won’t come back.”
His face pales. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” you whisper. “Because having you like this is hurting me.”
For the first time, he looks afraid.
That’s how long it’s been since you last saw him.
Not counted in weeks, not marked by dates, but measured in absence, in the way your body still reacted to the sound of a familiar car engine, in the way your hand still reached for your phone before you remembered you weren’t supposed to anymore.
Three months since that night.
Since Steve Harrington screamed at you in his own living room, voice cracking with something that sounded too much like fear to be pure anger. Since you stood there, stunned and shaking, realizing for the first time that whatever this was between you had stopped being passionate and started being poisonous.
You’d walked out without saying goodbye.
You blocked his number the next morning. Muted his name everywhere else. Took shifts you didn’t need. Said yes to dates you didn’t want. Told yourself over and over that this was what moving on felt like dull, exhausting, wrong. You are seeing this guy named Tyler but u can’t stop comparing him to Steve and you hate yourself for it.
You learned how to exist without him.
Steve didn’t do much better.
He threw himself into work, into late nights and early mornings, into pretending the ache in his chest was just stress. Dustin noticed first, the way Steve stopped joking, stopped lounging, stopped letting anyone touch his stuff. He barely slept. Barely ate.
But he knew he had to move on, so we went on dates with the multiple girls, said girls that hated you for always being around.
So when he ended up on this hook up thing with a random girl it was normal.
When Dustin asked, carefully, once, “You ever gonna talk to her again?” Steve snapped something back he didn’t mean and immediately hated himself for.
No one said your name after that.
Which is why, on a random Friday night, neither of you expected to see each other in Dustin Henderson’s living room.
You’re already there when Steve pulls up.
Dustin had texted you earlier, something about a campaign night, pizza, “emergency nerd business.” You hadn’t overthought it. You hadn’t asked who else was coming. You’d learned the hard way that avoiding Steve meant avoiding half the town, and you were tired of letting your life orbit around him.
You kick off your shoes by the door like you’ve done a hundred times before. You’re mid-conversation with Dustin, Max and Mike laughing, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sleeves pushed up as you gesture dramatically about something stupid.
Steve freezes in the doorway.
For a full second, he thinks he’s imagined you.
Your laughter dies instantly, caught in your throat. Your stomach drops so hard it’s like missing a step on the stairs. You haven’t seen him in months, but your body recognizes him immediately the broad shoulders, the worn out jacket, the way his presence fills the room even when he’s not saying anything.
His eyes lock onto yours.
Something sharp flickers across his face. Surprise. Hurt. Want.
“Oh,” Dustin says, glancing between the two of you. “Uh. Hey, Steve.”
Steve doesn’t answer right away.
He’s still staring at you like he’s trying to decide whether you’re real or a memory that came back to ruin him.
“You didn’t say she’d be here,” he finally mutters, everyone looking up at him.
Dustin frowns. “I didn’t think— I mean—”
“Dustin invited me,” you say, voice steady in a way you don’t feel. “I can go if that’s a problem.”
“No,” he says too quickly. Then, colder, “It’s his house.”
Dustin senses it immediately. He clears his throat, suddenly very interested in the empty pizza box. “I— uh— I forgot something in my room. Guys can you help me find it please? We’ll be back.”
They’re gone before either of you can stop him.
You and Steve stand there, three feet apart, breathing the same air like it’s dangerous.
“You look… good,” he says, like it slips out before he can stop it.
He shifts his weight. Shoves his hands in his pockets. You notice the tension in his shoulders, the way he looks like he’s bracing for impact.
“So,” he says, forcing a half-smile that doesn’t quite land. “Guess we’re both still haunting Dustin’s house.”
You huff a quiet laugh before you can help yourself.
And just like that, the tension twists.
Because it’s still there — the familiarity. The ease. The way conversation with Steve has always felt like slipping into something already warm.
About nothing important. About work. About Dustin. About how weird it is seeing each other again like this. You keep your distance. He keeps his hands to himself.
But every look lingers a fraction too long.
Every laugh hits a little too deep.
At some point, you’re sitting on the couch, knees drawn up, and Steve is across from you in the armchair, watching you like he’s memorizing the shape of your face all over again.
“You seeing anyone?” he asks, too casually.
“Yeah,” you say. “I mean… kind of.”
He nods. Once. Slow. Controlled.
The kids reappear eventually, oblivious, chattering about dice and rules and snacks. The three of you exist in an awkward triangle, but every time Steve’s knee brushes yours, every time your hand passes him a drink, the tension spikes again.
When the kids leave again to grab a bite, Steve stands abruptly.
“I need air,” he mutters.
You follow him without thinking.
Outside, the night is cool. Quiet. The porch light casts long shadows across the yard. Steve leans against the railing, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“This was a bad idea,” he says.
You cross your arms. “You came.”
“I didn’t know you’d be here.”
He turns to look at you then, really look at you, eyes dark and intense. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“No,” he interrupts softly. “I’m serious. I spent three months trying to forget you. Three months telling myself you were bad for me. That this — us — was toxic.”
“And then you’re just… there. Sitting on the floor like you belong. Talking to Dustin like you’re still part of my life.”
“I didn’t do it to hurt you.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s the worst part.”
The space between you closes without either of you stepping forward.
You can feel him. Heat. Gravity.
“This is a mistake,” you whisper mouth mere inches from his.
He exhales a shaky laugh. “We’re awful together.”
Your fingers curl into his arms.
“But god,” he adds quietly, “it feels right.”
The words hang between you.
Steve’s hands up and down your sides.
Instead, you say, “We can’t do this.”
His hand lifts hesitates then drops again.
Inside, Dustin clears his throat loudly, clearly giving you time.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut.
“Go inside,” he says. “Before I do something I can’t take back.”
But when you turn to leave, his hand catches your wrist.
Steve crashes into you, kissing you with so much passion that it reminded you why no one ever felt as good.
The kiss shouldn’t have happened.
That’s the first thing you think as soon as it does, because the moment Steve’s mouth meets yours on Dustin’s porch, the world tilts back into something dangerous and familiar. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s weeks of absence and months of damage and years of almosts crashing together in one breathless second.
“Steve—” your voice shakes. “We can’t.”
His hands stay on your waist, firm but not trapping you, like he’s holding himself in place just as much as he’s holding you. His eyes are dark, frantic, searching your face like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again if he blinks too long.
“Come home with me,” he says, fast and raw. “Please. Just—come home.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” you whisper. “You don’t get to say it like that.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “I know I don’t. But I need you to hear me out. I need five minutes. Ten. A night. Anything.”
You shake your head even as your body betrays you, stepping closer instead of away.
“You always say that,” you murmur. “And then I’m the one left wondering if I imagined it.”
“I won’t let you leave again,” he says quietly. “Not like that.”
You hesitate. Long enough for the night air to wrap around you, for the porch light to buzz overhead, for your heart to pound so loud it feels like it might give you away.
Then he opens the passenger door of his BMW for you like it’s instinct.
Like it’s always been this way.
The car ride is unbearable.
Not because it’s awkward but because it isn’t.
The silence hums with heat, with things unsaid, with the way Steve’s hand tightens on the steering wheel every time you shift in your seat. The city lights streak past the windows, and every red light feels like a dare.
You can feel him looking at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.
Your stomach twists. Your head feels light. Your skin buzzes.
By the time you pull into his driveway, you’re both breathing like you’ve already crossed a line.
The front door barely closes before you’re back in each other’s space.
Hands. Mouths. Familiarity that feels dangerous now.
You stumble together through the house like gravity doesn’t apply, like muscle memory is dragging you forward. The walls you’ve leaned against before blur past. The air feels thick.
You're on the couch now, arms tangled together, mouths fused in a desperation that feels like coming home after too long away.
Steve's hands roam your body like he's trying to memorize every curve, every dip, every place that makes you gasp. His mouth is hot against your skin, teeth scraping your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. He's unbuttoning your shirt one-handed, fingers shaking, and you can feel him hesitating with every new inch of skin he uncovers, like he's not sure if you'll let him touch you or push him away.
The thought alone makes you ache.
"Steve," you gasp out, fingers fisting in his hair. "Bedroom. Now."
He grins against your neck, all sharp edges and heat.
"Thought you'd never ask."
You barely have time to catch your breath before he's lifting you effortlessly off the couch, cradling you to his chest as he kicks open his bedroom door. He tosses you onto the bed like a challenge and you can't help but laugh, sprawled out across the familiar sheets, staring up at him like he's a ghost you're not sure is real.
He's on you in an instant, mouth crushing against yours, hands sliding down your body to yank off your jeans and toss them aside without ceremony. He settles between your thighs, pressing his hips down so you can feel every hard inch of him through his jeans. You gasp, back arching up into him, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his shirt.
He doesn't hesitate, pulling the fabric over his head and tossing it away blindly. You take a second to appreciate the sight of him above you, all lean muscle and flushed skin and wild eyes. He looks wrecked.
Desperate. Like he'll die if he doesn't get inside you soon.
You buck your hips up to emphasize the point and he groans, head falling to your shoulder.
"Fuck, you feel good," he murmurs against your neck. "Can't believe I made it this long without touching you."
Your hands roam his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his abs, his collarbones, his shoulders. Everywhere you touch feels like electricity under your skin. You're already so wet, you can feel it soaking through your panties, and he's not even inside you yet.
He must be able to feel it too because he's already working at your panties pilling them to the side, fingers sliding underneath the fabric to stroke through your slick folds. You moan, head falling back on a gasp, and he takes the opportunity to slide a finger inside you, pumping slow and deep.
"You're so fucking wet," he groans against your neck. "Fuck, I've missed this. Missed feeling you come apart on my fingers."
He slides a second finger inside and starts pumping faster, curling them in a way that makes your toes curl. Your hips buck up into his hand instinctively, seeking more friction, more pressure. He obliges easily, adding a third finger and picking up the pace until you're writhing underneath him, chasing your release.
"You gonna come for me like this?" he asks, voice rough with want. "Gonna soak my fingers before I even get my cock inside you?"
You can only moan in response, hands fisting in the sheets as he works you closer and closer to the edge. He knows exactly what you like, what angles to stroke and where to press to make your whole body sing. It's like he never forgot, like he's been practicing this moment in his head for the past three months just like you have.
Your orgasm hits suddenly, cresting over you in waves of heat and pleasure. You cry out, vision going white, thighs clamping down around his hand as you ride out the aftershocks. He keeps going, fingers pumping through every last bit of sensation until you're gasping and shaking beneath him, completely spent.
He pulls his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean with a wicked grin.
"You taste even better than I remember," he murmurs.
Before you can respond, he's sliding down your body, settling between your thighs with a hungry look in his eyes. He hooks his fingers into your panties and yanks them off in one swift motion, tossing them over his shoulder carelessly. You barely have time to register the loss of fabric before his mouth is on you, hot and eager and desperate.
You cry out at the first swipe of his tongue, hands flying to his hair to hold him in place. He sets a brutal pace from the start, licking and sucking and nipping at your sensitive flesh until you're squirming beneath him, thighs clenching around his head. He doesn't let up for a second, tongue delving deep inside you before flicking out to circle your clit. The sensation is overwhelming, almost too much to handle.
But he knows just when to back off, when to slow down and let you catch your breath before building you back up again. He's masterful with his mouth, reading every twitch of your body, every hitch of your breath. You can tell he's enjoying this just as much as you are, getting off on the way you writhe and moan beneath him.
You can feel another orgasm building fast, coiling tight in your stomach. You're already so close from the first one that it only takes a few more well-placed licks before you're coming undone again, screaming his name as you shatter apart. He doesn't let up, tongue still swirling as you ride out the waves of pleasure, drawing out your release until it almost hurts.
When you finally come down, you're shaking and sweaty and completely boneless. Steve is still between your thighs, looking up at you with a satisfied smirk.
"You still taste just as good," he murmurs. "I could do this all night."
You manage a weak laugh, reaching down to tug him up by the hair until he's hovering above you again. You can feel him hard against your thigh, pressing insistently into your hip.
"I think it's my turn," you murmur back.
His eyes darken at that, pupils blown wide with want. He leans down to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
"You sure you're up for that?" he asks when he pulls back. "I don't want to overwhelm you."
You snort at that, rolling your hips up to grind against him.
"I think I can handle it," you say dryly. "Though maybe you should sit this one out if you're worried about me."
He laughs at that, the sound warm and rich and so familiar it makes your chest ache.
"Alright smartass," he says. "You want my cock that badly? You can have it."
He rolls off of you then, standing up to shuck off his jeans in one smooth motion. You take a moment to admire the view, long legs, trim waist, the thick curve of his ass leading down to strong thighs. He looks just as good as he did three months ago, if not better.
When he turns back to face you, fully naked and flushed with desire, you can't help but lick your lips appreciatively. He grins at that, hand stroking over his length slowly as he watches you watch him.
"Eyes up here, sweetheart," he teases. "Unless you want me to cover you in cum before I even get a chance to fuck you."
You shudder at that, thighs clenching at the thought of him painting your skin with his release. You sit up then, reaching for him without hesitation.
"I want to taste you," you murmur. "Want to feel you in my mouth."
He groans at that, hips bucking forward involuntarily. You wrap a hand around his base, thumb swiping over the tip to gather the bead of pre-cum already gathering there. He's already leaking from the anticipation alone.
You take him into your mouth slowly, savoring the feeling of him heavy on your tongue. He tastes like salt and musk and something uniquely him that makes your head swim. You can feel him tensing above you as you work him deeper, inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat. You relax your muscles instinctively, swallowing around him until he's as far as he can go.
He lets out a low moan at that, fingers tangling in your hair as he starts to rock into your mouth. You hum around him in encouragement, the vibrations making him jerk against your tongue. You can tell he's trying to hold back, trying not to thrust too deep or fuck into your throat too hard. He always has been gentle with you like this, respectful of your boundaries even when he's desperate for more.
But right now, you want more. You want to feel him lose control above you, want to taste him as he falls apart in your mouth.
So you double your efforts, taking him deeper and faster than before. Your hands move to his ass, nails digging into the firm muscle as you pull him closer, encouraging him to use your mouth just like he would a pussy. He doesn't need to be told twice, hips snapping forward as he starts to fuck into your throat in earnest.
You moan around him at that, sending delicious vibrations up his shaft. He cries out above you, voice breaking on a groan as he picks up the pace even further. It's fast and brutal and everything you need right now, him using your mouth, chasing his pleasure without holding back.
He lasts longer than you expect him to before he's falling apart above you with a hoarse shout. His cock twitches against your tongue as he comes hard, spurting thick ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow it all greedily, relishing the taste of him on my tongue.
By the time he pulls out of your mouth with a shudder, you're both gasping for breath, him from his release and you from the sheer power of it all. He collapses onto the bed beside you then, rolling to face you with a dazed smile.
"Fuck," he gasps out. "That was...fuck. I can't believe I held out that long."
You grin at that, reaching out to wipe a stray drop of cum from the corner of your mouth with my thumb.
You pop it into my mouth with a satisfied hum.
"Not bad for round one," you tease. "Though I have a feeling you can do better."
He snorts at that, rolling over to pull you into his arms without warning.
"Oh I can definitely do better," he murmurs into your hair. "Just give me a minute to recover and I'll show you just how much better I can be."
You laugh at that, nuzzling into his chest without thinking. It feels so natural to be back here with him, wrapped up in his heat and scent and familiar weight.
"You know," you murmur against his skin. "I missed this too. I miss the feeling of you inside me."
He tenses at that, hands tightening on your waist. You can feel him hardening against your thigh again already, ready for another round.
"I'm going to make up for lost time then," he says quietly. "Going to show you just how much I missed having this perfect pussy wrapped around my cock."
He rolls over then without warning, pinning you beneath him on the bed. You gasp at the sudden shift in power dynamic, hands flying up to grip his shoulders as he settles between your thighs. He's already nudging at your entrance without preamble, hard and ready and eager to be inside you again.
"Beg for it," he murmurs against your neck. "Beg for my cock like a good girl."
You shiver at that, thighs falling open even further in invitation.
"Please," you whimper. "Please Steve I need your cock inside me so badly. I need to feel you stretching me open and filling me up.”
He groans at that, hips bucking forward to slide just the tip inside you teasingly. You moan at the sensation, back arching off the bed as he teases you slowly.
"More," you pant out. "Please more I need it so badly."
He grins at that, eyes dark with want.
"Since you asked so nicely," he purrs.
And then he's pushing inside fully in one smooth stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust.
You cry out at the sudden fullness of it, hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders as he starts to move above you.
"Fuck yes," he groans. "So fucking tight for me already. Like you were made for my cock."
He sets a brutal pace from the start, hips snapping forward with each thrust as he drives into you over and over again. It's rough and primal and everything you've been craving since the moment he walked through Dustin's door again.
You meet each thrust eagerly, hips rolling up to take him even deeper inside. You can feel every inch of him sliding in and out of your pussy, dragging deliciously against your walls with each stroke. It's so much more intense than it was before, like your body remembers exactly how he feels inside you and is desperate for more.
You can tell he's not going to last long this time, not with how wound up and desperate he is already. His thrusts start to falter after only a few minutes, hips losing their rhythm as he struggles to hold back his release.
"I'm close," he pants out against your neck. "Fuck I'm so close already I can't - fuck."
He reaches down then without warning, hand delving between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit in time with his thrusts. The added stimulation sends you careening over the edge immediately, vision going white as you come apart beneath him with a hoarse scream.
The sensation must push him over too because he follows right after you with a guttural moan of his own name tumbling from my lips over and over again until all I can hear is my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
He collapses on top of you then with a shuddering groan, still buried deep inside your pussy as he tries to catch his breath.
Later, you lie tangled together in the quiet aftermath, the room smelling like him, the sheets warm, the world reduced to breathing and heartbeats.
This is the part that scares you most.
Because now there’s nowhere to hide.
Steve turns toward you, propped on one elbow, watching you like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid he’ll lose again.
“I hate that I hurt you,” he says softly. “I hate that I made you feel like you were asking for too much.”
You stare at the ceiling.
“You made me feel like loving you was a mistake,” you say. Not accusing. Just honest.
He nods, jaw tight. “I know.”
Then he exhales, long and shaky.
“I’ve loved you for a long time,” he admits. “I just didn’t know how to say it without fucking everything up.”
“That didn’t stop you from fucking it up,” you whisper.
A sad smile touches his mouth. “No. It didn’t.”
You turn toward him then, really looking at him. The man who drives you insane. The man who feels like home and war all at once.
“I’m tired, Steve,” you say. “I’m tired of loving you in secret. I’m tired of leaving before you decide you’re done.”
“I’m not done,” he says immediately. Too fast. Too desperate.
That’s exactly what scares you.
Later, much later, you slip out of bed quietly.
The house is dark. Peaceful. Dangerous.
You pull on your clothes with trembling hands, heart breaking a little with every sound you try not to make. You pause at the bedroom door, looking back at him asleep, hair messy, face relaxed in a way you don’t get to see often.
You press your lips together.
You leave before he can change his mind.
Before love turns back into something sharp, cause what if you fall back into his trap.
Steve wakes up in the morning.
He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, the imprint of your body still warm beside him even though you’re gone. The sheets smell like you, faint perfume, something soft and familiar and it makes his chest ache in a way he hasn’t felt in months.
He reaches out without thinking.
“Fuck,” he mutters, sitting up.
For a moment, panic flares. Then anger. Then guilt. Then something worse understanding.
Of course you didn’t stay long enough to wake up beside him. Of course you didn’t trust the softness of the night to survive the morning.
Because he taught you not to.
Steve presses his palms into his eyes, breathing hard.
He knows exactly what this is. He’s lived it from both sides now the push, the pull, the fear of loving too loudly and losing control. He thinks about the way you looked in his arms hours ago, the way your voice cracked when you admitted how much he hurt you.
He didn’t reassure you enough.
He didn’t say the words clearly enough.
And now you’re gone again.
The front door slams somewhere downstairs.
“Steve?” Dustin’s voice echoes through the house. “Dude, why is your car blocking the driveway like that?”
Steve exhales sharply, dragging himself out of bed and pulling on a hoodie as he heads downstairs.
Dustin’s already in the kitchen, dumping his backpack on the counter, mid-rant about something that happened at school when he finally looks up.
“Why do you look like you got hit by a truck emotionally?” Dustin asks.
Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Runs a hand through his hair.
“She left,” he says finally.
Dustin blinks. “Who left?”
Steve looks at him. “You know who.”
“Oh.” Dustin’s tone shifts immediately — quieter, more serious. “That bad, huh?”
Steve sinks into a chair. “I messed up. Again.”
Dustin leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Did you yell?”
Steve winces. “Not this time.”
“Did you not say what you actually meant?”
Dustin nods like that explains everything. “Okay. Yeah. That tracks.”
Steve glares at him weakly. “You gonna help or just diagnose me?”
“I am helping,” Dustin says. “I’m telling you the problem.”
Steve rubs his face. “I don’t know how to make her believe me. Every time things get real, she thinks I’m gonna disappear.”
Dustin tilts his head. “Because you do.”
The words sting because they’re true.
“She doesn’t need another emotional speech, Steve,” Dustin continues. “She needs proof. Something solid. Something that says, ‘I’m not going anywhere this time.’”
Steve looks up. “Like what?”
Dustin shrugs. “Make it official. Say it clearly. No mixed signals. No ‘let’s see where this goes.’ You either choose her or you don’t.”
Because the answer has never been unclear to him.
He’s just been afraid to say it out loud.
You’re sitting on Max’s bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring at nothing.
You didn’t even realize you were shaking until Max handed you a mug and your hands rattled against the ceramic.
“You left,” Max says gently.
She sits beside you, studying your face. “Did he hurt you?”
You shake your head immediately. “No. Not like before.”
You stare down at the coffee. “Because it felt too good. Because I was happy and that scares me more than being angry.”
Max sighs. “You’re scared he’ll change his mind.”
She doesn’t sugarcoat it. “That’s fair.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “He looked so sure last night. And I’ve seen that before. I’ve believed that before.”
Max nudges your knee. “Did he actually say it?”
You hesitate. “…Not the way I needed.”
She nods slowly. “Then you did the right thing.”
Your chest tightens. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Max says. “You’re allowed to protect yourself.”
You look at her. “What if he really means it this time?”
Max meets your gaze seriously. “Then he’ll show you. He’ll come find you. And he’ll say it without you having to drag it out of him.”
You swallow. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then you don’t go back,” she says softly. “No matter how much it hurts.”
He grabs his keys, heart pounding as he drives across town like the road itself is daring him to chicken out. He doesn’t rehearse what he’s going to say he knows if he does, he’ll overthink it. He just knows one thing:
You open the door, surprise flashing across your face before your guard snaps back into place.
“Hey,” he says, breathless. “Can we talk?”
You hesitate. “I already said everything I had to say.”
“I didn’t,” he replies quietly.
The silence between you is heavy, charged with everything that’s been left unsaid. Steve doesn’t pace this time. Doesn’t deflect. He stands still, grounding himself.
“I know I’ve hurt you,” he says. “I know I’ve made you feel like you were always waiting for me to choose you.”
“I’m choosing you,” he says firmly. “Right now. Out loud. No conditions. No running.”
You cross your arms. “And what happens when it gets hard again?”
“I stay,” Steve says immediately. “I talk. I fight for you instead of fighting you.”
Your voice wavers. “You said things like that before.”
“I know,” he says, eyes shining. “But I never made it real. I never gave you something solid to hold onto.”
“I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to be yours. I want people to know. I want you to know I’m not going anywhere.”
Your heart stutters painfully.
“And if I get scared?” you whisper.
“Then we get scared together,” he says. “But I don’t leave. And I don’t let you disappear either.”
You step forward slowly. “This is the last time, Steve.”
You search his face for doubt.
You let yourself fall into him, and when his arms wrap around you, it feels different, steadier, safer, like something finally clicked into place.
Steve presses his forehead to yours. “I’m not going to hurt you again. I love you so much baby.”
You exhale, finally letting yourself believe him. “I love you too”
