get back to your heart

A ripple of whispers spreads through your fifth-grade classroom.  

You blink, already pushing your chair back. “Did he say what kind of emergency?”

Eli shakes his head, serious as anything. “No. He just said we need to hurry.”

Your stomach gives a small, uneasy flip.

Eli isn’t the type to exaggerate. He’s sweet, careful. Reminds everyone when it’s time to line up after recess and always volunteers to erase the board without being asked. He's the sort of kid teachers trust without thinking twice.

If he’s the messenger, it’s because of something important.

“Alright, everyone,” you call to the class. “Keep reading quietly. I’ll be right back.”

A chorus of shuffling follows as you reach for your cardigan.

“Hurry, hurry,” Eli bounces on his heels, voice small but insistent.

Before you can answer, he reaches for your hand. His grip is tiny, warm, a little sticky—surprisingly strong. You find yourself getting dragged by his bouncy, determined steps, weaving past rows of lockers, dodging a cluster of kids heading to recess. He zigzags through the main hallway, past the water fountain, the art room, taking the shortcut through the library until you arrive at the wide, double doors leading into the gym.

The moment you push them open, chaos erupts.

Bright rubber dodgeballs zing through the air. Sneakers squeak across the glossy, lacquered floor. Laughter and triumphant shrieks ricochet off the walls, punctuated by the occasional, “Yes! Got you!” from victorious first graders.  

Coach Steve's leaned casually against the far wall, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging loose around his neck. He’s sipping from a blue ceramic mug that reads World’s Best Teacher in chipped white lettering.

Only five months into the job, yet he’s already something of a legend here at Hawkins Elementary. The younger kids adore him—dodgeball days and ridiculous warm-up games where he pretends to be a shark, stalking the gym with dramatic dun-dun noises until they’re all shrieking with laughter. Older kids trust him in quieter ways, lingering after sex ed to ask questions they’re not brave enough to bring home. 

Despite the nerves you remember from his first day, Steve has settled into teaching like it’s been waiting for him all along.

Right now, though, he’s fully in coach mode. Brow furrowed, stance wide, eyes tracking the game like it’s a championship match instead of a bunch of kids still learning how to throw straight.

“Out of bounds! That one doesn’t count.”

“Woah—no head shots, Jacob! C’mon, we talked about that.”

“You okay, Alex? I got you. Here, try it like this. Yeah, there ya go bud!”

Eli, who had been clutching your hand the entire walk across school, suddenly lets go and races toward his favorite teacher.

“Coach Steve! I did it! I got her!”

Steve looks up. Sees you.

And the grin that breaks across his face is so immediate, so fond, it'd be enough to give you both away if anyone was paying the tiniest bit of attention.

“Hey!” he laughs, stepping forward. “Nice work, buddy. Thanks for the help.”

You watch, eyes narrowed in confusion as he ruffles Eli’s curls and slaps a high five against his tiny palm.

Eli puffs up with pride and pivots to sprint back to the game.

“Whoa—hang on, pal.”

Steve drops to his knees, setting the clipboard aside as he reaches for the loose strap on Eli’s shoe. He fastens it with careful, practiced fingers, giving it a quick tug to make sure it’ll hold.

Your stomach melts a little at the sight of him crouched like that: focused, patient, so gentle with this kid who’s staring at him like he hung the moon.

“There we go, champ,” he grins, giving Eli's sneaker a little pat. “Good as new. Now go have fun, alright? Your team missed you.”

Eli nods hard, then rockets back into the game without another word.

Steve straightens and finally turns to you, eyes warm, smile soft—and just a touch guilty.

“Mr. Harrington,” you say, crossing your arms carefully, “what exactly is the emergency you pulled me out of class for?”

His mouth quirks sheepishly, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Well, I just…” He steps closer, dropping his voice. “Haven’t seen you all morning. I missed you.”

You blink.

“You—” A breathy laugh slips out before you can stop it. “You sent poor Eli to fetch me because you missed me?”

He nods like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “Yeah. He's my fastest kid.”  

“No, that's not the...” you trail off, turning your head, failing completely to hide your smile.

Steve steps closer, angling the clipboard between you so that, to anyone looking in, it would look like you’re addressing some very concerning issues with the class roster.

Well, except for the part where his eyes are glued to your face.

There’s this soft intensity in his gaze that makes your breath hitch, just by holding it. You find yourself staring back, unable to look away, appreciating the faint creases around his temples, how they deepen with his smile, the plush curve of his bottom lip and the rounded apples of his cheeks as they get pushed upward.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, voice all deep and honey-warm. “Just needed to look at you for a second.”

You shake your head, cheeks warming despite yourself.

There’s a reason you’ve been keeping this thing with Steve a secret.

You both realized, pretty early on, that acting normal in a building full of nosy children and nosier adults was a losing battle. You had to learn to bend with it, catching tiny, fleeting moments in the spaces between, holding onto each one as tightly as you can.

It wasn’t perfect. Mrs. Kline, the school secretary, has definitely noticed the two of you laughing a little too freely by the copier. One of your students will occasionally squint at you during silent reading time, wondering why a tiny scrap of paper left on your table at lunch leaves you grinning for the rest of the day.

Still, you make it work.

A shared coffee in the teachers’ lounge before the morning bell. Standing side-by-side near the parking lot fence as the buses roll in. A granola bar tucked under your desk with a note folded impossibly small.

you look beautiful today ◡̈

He repeats the message to you now, even as you roll your eyes and try to look away.

“Seriously, I mean it," he murmurs, tracing your face with his eyes—the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek—before lingering, unmistakably, on your mouth. “Want to kiss you so bad right now.”

You snort, nudging the sleeve of his sweatshirt with a finger. It’s soft, heather-gray, the Hawkins Elementary mascot faint and cracked across the chest.

“That’s deeply unprofessional of you, Mr. Harrington.”  

He groans under his breath, brow creasing as he tips his head back. “God, I love it when you say it like that. Say it one more time?”  

“Jesus—Steve!” you hiss, half-laughing, eyes darting toward the gym floor like the kids might suddenly develop super-hearing over the screech of sneakers and flying dodgeballs.   

Instead of stepping back, he leans in closer, lips parted in that familiar half-pout, eyes full of mock agony. “Can’t help it, honey. You’re fucking killing me over here.”

“Language,” you warn him, simply out of pure habit.

He smirks, lips twitching.

From the far end of the gym, a group of kids cheer triumphantly, “Yes! Coach Steve! We won!”

You both jump back like you’ve been caught doing something much worse than grinning at each other like idiots.

“Uh—great! Great job, gang!” Steve calls, clapping his hands. “Let's get all the balls in the cart and then grab some water, yeah? Five-minute break.”

Then he leans back in, brows raised. “See? Total professional. I’m telling you.”

You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You’re still smiling when he pivots, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one’s paying attention. Satisfied, he turns back to you, brows drawn into a hopeful, pleading slant.

"C'mon," he murmurs, lifting the clipboard up like a partition. "I’ll get another game going. The kids won’t even notice. Just you... me...” He gestures between you, then toward the double doors leading outside. “Five minutes?”

You press your lips together, schooling your expression back into something stern. “Steve Harrington. I am not fucking you behind the school gym.”

"Language!" He gasps, mimicking your tone. “And jeez, who said anything about that? I was just gonna, you know, have a very professional conversation with you… about teaching.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, c’mon, bab—"

“Coach Steve?”

Both of your heads snap down at the same time.

Eli stands there, chin tipped up, hands clasped neatly behind his back like he’s been waiting for his turn to speak. He’s rocking gently on his heels, eyes bright with curiosity as he looks between the two of you.

“Heyyy, buddy!” Steve laughs nervously, voice jumping up an octave. “What’s up? You okay?”

Eli nods.

Then, completely matter-of-fact, he asks:

“Coach Steve, when you marry her, can I come?”

Steve chokes on absolutely nothing.

“When—what?”

“When you get married,” Eli repeats patiently, like Steve’s just being a little slow today. “I wanna come.”

Steve squats down so fast he almost drops the clipboard.

“Eli,” he says carefully, “why do you think we’re getting married?”

Eli shrugs, unfazed. “’Cause you’re prac-tis married.”

“Practice… practice married?”

“Yeah. Like my Auntie Jen and her friend Mark at Thanksgiving.”

Steve blinks. “Okay, and what's... why do you think we’re practice married?”

Eli doesn’t hesitate. He points toward the front of the gym, in the general direction of your classroom. “’Cause you always wait for her outside her door.”

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it.

“And you bring her coffee. But you don’t bring us coffee.”

“Well,” Steve murmurs faintly, “that’s ‘cause you’re six.”

Eli shrugs again. “And you talk to her really soft. Like this,” he cups his hand around his mouth to demonstrate, whispering loudly. “Also, you always save her a chair at ass-em-blee.”

Steve rubs a hand down his face, glancing up at you before looking back at Eli. “That’s, uh… very observant of you, buddy.”

Eli isn’t done.

“And you make funny faces at her in the hallway. Oh! And you fixed her pencil sharpener. And, and, there was one time you looked at her, and you didn’t look away for one... two... three...” He glances down at his fingers and starts counting under his breath. “five... six... seven... eigh—”

“Okay!” Steve laughs loudly, holding up his hands. “Okay, buddy, I get it. That’s... that’s a long time.”

Eli nods, clearly pleased with himself. “Auntie Jen and Mark, they used to go everywhere together. And Mark fixed all the stuff around her house. Then later they got married for real.”

He looks between the two of you, satisfied.

“So. I think you’re practice married.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and crouch beside Steve. “Well... I think that’s a pretty solid theory, Eli.”

“Mm-hm, thanks,” he nods confidently. Then he spins back to Steve. “So, when you do the real one, can I come? I’m really good at sitting still. And my mom says when people get married they always eat cake. I love cake.” He spreads his arms wide. “Auntie Jen’s was this big!”

Steve presses his lips together, letting out a short, incredulous snort. “You know what, pal? Sure. Whe—if we get married, you’re more than welcome to come. And we’ll get the biggest cake we can find, okay?”

Eli beams. “Okay!”

He starts to run back to the group, then skids to a stop and turns around.

“Hey, Coach Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“You should ask her nicely,” Eli says, serious as anything. “With flowers. Mark did that.”

And then he’s gone.

Steve stays crouched, staring after him, jaw slack.

“…Did a six-year-old just give me relationship advice?”

“Mm, seems like it.”

He stands slowly, running a hand through his hair, eyes still following Eli as he rejoins the others.

“You think he spotted it before we did?” he asks quietly. “Back when... you know, we were still trying to figure out what we were doing?”

You smile. “Probably way before then.”

Steve's still distracted when you put your hand on his shoulder, quickly checking to see that no one’s watching before pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek.

He blinks, stunned. “Wha—no, wait, shit—”

He reaches for you a full second too late; you’re already headed for the door.

“Language. Have a good rest of your class, Mr. Harrington.”

Steve watches you go, hand frozen at his cheek.

Across the gym, Eli spots you and waves enthusiastically, completely unaware of just how accurate his little theory was.

The proof?

You, Robin’s other best friend, never pass up an opportunity to remind Steve that actually, according to Best Friend Law: you were there first. Which allegedly gives you some sort of eternal precious connection to Robin and bragging rights until death.

It was you who defended Robin against the Chocolate Milk Bullies of ‘74, you who has spent countless hours in the Buckley basement for sleepovers, you who Robin has clung to through the tumult of the last decade.

But if Steve ever needs to rile you up, he’ll mutter something about the ‘psychokinetic bonds formed through drug-induced hallucinations’ and that’ll get you going for a good half hour, at least. (He doesn’t actually know what the words mean, beyond memorizing them to imply a badge of closeness with Robin that drives you up the wall.)

If it weren’t for Steve’s deep love for Robin, he’d have weaseled you out of the psuedo-triangle of friendship already. But he’s not a total jealous tyrant and he respects Robin’s wishes, however irritating those wishes may be. 

If it weren’t for your deep love of Robin, Steve would be buried six feet under. Somewhere offroad, past mile marker 10. 

You’ve run the logistics enough to know you probably wouldn’t get away with it, but there’s always room for a plan b in your heart.

___

Robin has a right to be worried about this evening. 

During the Thanksgiving meal at the Wheeler’s, you’d snuck a giant spider (courtesy of Dustin and your bribe of twenty bucks) through the cracked window of the Beemer. 

Steve ran to get the leftover can of whip cream in his front seat before the pie was cut, and screamed so loud Hopper nearly shot out the Wheeler’s living room window.

You’ve never seen Steve that color before- a bright, cherry-cheeked red, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon, shaking with adrenaline and anger. 

It’s a personal goal of yours for next year to make him return to that color, somehow.

But for tonight, you really do mean to swallow it down, for Robin's sake. To put your bitter rivalry on the back burner and come together in holiday cheer, just for an evening.

And then you walk in the room, and across a room full of faces you love, there he is- wearing a green cashmere sweater that looks stupid expensive and is hugging his frame stupidly tight across his stupidly broad chest. 

There’s a glass of champagne in his hand; he’s leaned a shoulder against the wall, talking to Jonathan on the couch- but when Steve see you walk in, he stops conversation altogether to grin wicked, calling out far too loudly- 

“Hey, look who it is! Lay any evil spider eggs recently?”

“Funny, Steven,” you shoot back, bickering coming as easy as breathing, pushing it even when Robin gives you a sharp warning look over the coat rack- “I’ve reserved all further egg clutches for that towering mess you call hair.”

You catch the twitch in Steve’s fingers, like he’s dying to push a hand through those auburn strands falling over his forehead but doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction. It makes you smile. 

“OH-kay!” Robin announces, brightly, pushing at your shoulderblades to hurry you into the kitchen. “Merry Christmas, everyone- let’s not fight in front of the kiddies.”

The kiddies, in various groups of board games and television watching, remain undisrupted. It’s not exactly new to hear you and Steve exchanging barbs; most of them keep absorbed in their current holiday fun.

Dustin manages a wave before you’re ushered into the bustling kitchen, much to Steve’s chagrin. 

“What?” From the couch, Dustin shrugs off Steve’s death glare, eyes dropping back to the screen of Lucas’s new GameBoy. “I’m not the one who thinks she’s the devil incarnate, come to slay us all. Maybe it’s time you turn a new, reasonable leaf.”

“You’re twelve,” Steve retorts, with stunning childish inaccuracy. The stem of the champagne flute creaks under his grip. 

Once you’re in the kitchen it’s easier to ignore your rival’s presence- Mrs. Byers and Nancy set you up with a cutting board, and you get to work, chatting happily over the holiday radio station.

Dinner passes mostly without incident, a blend of families and friends so big that some of the younger kids resort to stretching out on the living room carpet with plates piled high. 

You and Steve are sat on opposing corners of the extended table, so you’re able to keep true to your deal with Robin. No chance for you to accidentally knock the table vase of flowers into Steve’s mashed potatoes; no chance for Steve to sneak a spoonful of gravy into your water glass. 

It’s almost a little boring. You wonder if Steve (seven seats away and listlessly pushing his fork through a mound of peas) is missing the chaos, too. 

After dinner and cleanup, everyone disperses back to various groups. An instrumental of Silent Night plays softly from the handheld radio, while in the living room, A Charlie Brown Christmas rerun is just beginning.

Eddie catches your eye from across the kitchen, pack of cigarettes raised in question. Your jean jacket and boots are thrown on in record time, shoulder bumping into Eddie’s genially on your way out the back door.

___

Steve is really trying to pay attention to Argyle’s one-sided debate about the merits of flats or wings, but he can’t stop thinking about your coat. 

And about how thin it looked, and how much it’s snowing, and how long you’ve been out there- jesus christ, is Munson trying to kill you? It’s been thirteen and a half minutes. How long does a smoke break take, anyways?

“-but the sauce, brochacho, you gotta consider the sauce-” Arglye gestures towards Steve with emphasis while Jonathan, two couch cushions down, hums in sage agreement. 

“Yeah,” Steve replies, eyes on his watch. “That’s awesome, man. I’m gonna hit the bathroom. Back in a bit.”

The kitchen is still bustling with conversation as Steve ducks in unnoticed, snagging two clean glass tumblers from the side table and bringing them over to the cooler resting on the far counter.

Among other drinks in the ice bed, a vintage whiskey lifted from Harrington Sr.’s cellar for the occasion lies in wait. Steve uncorks it, then pours a generous stream into each glass. 

His eyes flick to the window above the sink- it’s dark, but in the dim back porch lights he can just make out two forms at the edge of the yard, backs turned and feet stomping with cold. 

“Be nice,” Robin calls in warning from her seat at the table, slung over Vickie’s lap and being no help at all in the current round of Jenga.

In answer, Steve raises two glasses of perfectly nice alcohol, an extra coat tucked under his arm as he backs out the front door and into the chill of the night air.

The snow has eased some, but there’s still plenty on the ground; it soaks through the bottom of Steve’s jeans as he crunches across the frozen grass to join you and Eddie on the far side.

Duel clouds of smoke trail and twine into one as Eddie passes you a joint, and you pass him a cigarette- a trade off, as both of them are lit. 

Steve tsks in greeting. “What, not enough fresh air out here for you two to desecrate, so you gotta smoke twice as many things?”

“I knew I smelled hairspray.” You’re quick with another hit off the joint, blowing it downwind, the pretty shape of your profile hitting Steve with unusual force. “Careful, Eddie- Harrington here isn’t supposed to be near an open flame with the amount of product it takes to keep it up.”

Steve’s sigh floats out of him in a cold cloud. “C’mon, princess, lighten up- ‘tis the season. I brought you some spirits.”

You squint at the glass Steve leans to hand you, immediately suspicious- “Did you spit in it, or something?”

“No, I didn’t spit in it,” Steve protests- and then, knowing you won’t believe his word without action, takes a sip from both glasses to prove his point.

“I dunno.” Smoke streams from your nose, eyebrow cocked. “You might be the type of guy to drink your own spit.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Exasperated, Steve makes to give the whiskey to Eddie, instead, but you intercept the glass.

Eddie takes a step back with his fingerless gloves palm-out in surrender. “Hey, man, as long as you two promise not to tear each other to ribbons, I’m gonna head in.”

Steve waves him off, and you give a half-hearted scout’s honor with your free hand. The back door creaks closed again, and Steve steps into place at your side, proffering the flannel-lined coat he’d brought. “Here. For you, too.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You’re appreciative but don’t say anything more as Steve helps you into the first sleeve, then the second, and soon it’s quiet as the fresh snow all around.

Steve swirls the whiskey in his glass and takes another swallow. Then, because he can’t stand the silence anymore- “Smoking is bad for you.”

“God,” you groan, but it’s followed by a snort of amusement. “Thanks for the health tip, mom.”

Steve smiles into the rim of his cup. He sees you smiling, too, from the corner of his eye- until it fades and you’re staring unseeing into the winter forest past the fenceline. 

“Do you think we’re totally just gonna end up like our parents? Mine, they used to fight just like this. Like you and me. I’d hate to be like either of them, when I get older.”

Steve’s heart flickers at the raw, open vulnerability in your voice. 

He thinks about the Christmases spent between his parents at either end of the dining table, used once a year; his father talking incessantly about the world of law, trying to mold his son into it like an ill-fitting suit; his mother, all blurry lipstick and distant smiles as she used the holidays as an excuse to polish off the fancy wine.

Steve thinks about his parents’ absence from the last three Christmases, and how little he misses them. How the seasons have brought him siblings in droves, aunts who always make sure to send him off with overflowing tupperware, friends to warm the cold interior of the Harrington mansion and make it feel like home for the first time.

From what Steve’s heard in bits and pieces over the years (via the ever-accessible Robin gossip line and the more rare drunken confessions from yourself), your parents weren’t exactly batting a thousand, either. 

Probably, you’ve had it even harder- which is why Steve is so awed by your nature. You’re a caretaker, a shining pillar of quiet goodness, with a soft quality that’s only obscured like a finely-tuned reflex during tiffs with Steve. 

Memories weave in and out, seamless and shifting into the next- your hands braiding Holly’s hair at the breakfast counter. Your grin, bright as a sunbeam, for Max’s skating trick, then a whoop and a holler and a round of applause that makes Max blush but secretly preen. Your arms around Robin on the couch, Nancy in the summery front yard, Jonathan on the porch; always willing and eager to give kindness where you can.

Even to Steve, when he really needs it. Mugs of tea that have appeared noiselessly at his elbow. The gentle pressure of a hand on his back. The poke of your sneaker against his knee under the table. Small ways to show that you care, that you see him, usually when no else bothers to. 

The fights with you are just a bonus. He counts himself lucky that he’s been hand-picked to take on this side of you.

Steve realizes he’s been quiet for a long time, thoughts tumbling; you shift beside him from one boot to the other, and he pinwheels his way into speaking-

“Oh, like- you mean like, we’re playing at being adults. With their bad habits, and everything.”

You nod. Still staring off into the distance, still with your hands around the unsipped whiskey glass. The cherry of the cigarette between your fingers is no longer glowing.

“I know what you’re saying,” Steve starts, cautious but earnest- “-but no, I don’t think we’re like our parents. Either of us.”

There’s a beat, a moment where you really absorb this- and then, as if the honesty makes you squirrelly, you breathe out a sigh and close your eyes in mock contemplation. “I think this fighting’s good for my aggression outlet. So. I’m not gonna stop.”

“Merry Christmas to me,” Steve says dryly, reaching to clink his glass into yours. “What would I do without your smart mouth and the threat of life-endangering pranks in the new year?”

“Quit talkin’ about my mouth or I’ll hit you in yours.” 

You both descend into quiet snickering laughter, and Steve feels something loosen in his chest. Words bubble to the surface before he can think to censor them.

“Y’know, some days, the only reason I get out of bed is because I know I get to fight with you at a party.”

And then he turns on his heel, cutting a swift path back towards the house, leaving you in open-mouthed silence in the gently falling snow.

___

Steve thought that statement was a clear white flag. An unsubtle declaration of wanting to stop pretending- pretending like he doesn’t stare at your mouth just to memorize the shape, pretending to take no heed of your laughter even and especially when it’s at his expense.

Three days after Christmas, in yet another crowded family kitchen, you’d eased past Steve with your hands settling on his hips, briefly, the pressure there and then gone in your path towards the living room.

Steve had to go to his parked car for a bit. He sat in the passenger seat and bit his knuckle raw, reciting every Mets player like a Hail Mary just to will away the stiffness in his dick. 

So yeah, Steve’s in deep, and while he has the distinct feeling you and him are speaking different languages entirely, he’s still trying to send signals. 

The softer he gets, the more you resist, claws digging in with a bite, remarks sharper than usual. Never cruel, but pointed and quick. 

Steve knows he’s throwing off the whole rhythm you two have built up over the last few years. The bitch-for-bitch routine only works if he’s a bitch, too-

but he can’t help it. He’s tired of the bullshit. He’s tired of pretending. 

He just needs you to see it, too.

___

Steve has been so weird, recently. 

The more you’ve been dishing, the more he’s been taking- graciously. With a smile quirked at the corner of his lips like the whole thing is funny. You’ll tee up a snide comment and he’ll bow his head, hair flopping over his forehead in a puppy-like way that makes verbal combat so much harder.

You feel like the rug keeps getting pulled out from under you in every social interaction. It’s like he doesn’t even want to be friends anymore. What’s the point of this whole arrangement if you’re sparring by yourself?

There’s a sneaking suspicion you have- that after that night in the snow, Steve pities you. He feels bad, and that’s why he’s been going so easy. 

It makes his niceness much harder to swallow. 

Which is why the reappearance of your crush on Steve is so goddamn inconvenient. 

Usually, you’d be in the rightful position to take advantage of his lack of comebacks- but he has you feeling flustered. Goddamn twitterpated. 

Looking at you under long lashes, with those doey eyes. The moles on his neck deeply confronting every time he wears a low collar. 

And the killer is, you don’t even have the guts to talk to Robin about it. Your best friend in the whole world. It becomes a secret guilt, something that pushes your psyche to the avoidant side.

You start withdrawing from Steve. You stop picking at him like you normally do the second he walks in the door; you excuse yourself to activities in other rooms, on other couches; you pick up extra shifts and tell yourself it’s for the holiday pay but really, it’s to get out from under the potency of Steve’s gaze.

Most of your friends are too wrapped up in their own shit to really notice the new strangeness, the new tension that’s formed (one-sided though it may be). 

It comes to a head one evening, though. 

With that fucking sweater. 

The off-white, heavy-knit, rainbow-thread-pricked sweater that fits Steve like it was made for him. The contours of his shoulders, hunched against the winter winds in the Wheeler’s driveway, draw your eyes in like a beacon. 

“Did you hear me?” Steve says your name again, pointing at Eddie’s van idling on the curb. “There’s not enough seats. I’m gonna stay behind- it’s past my bedtime, anyways.”

The idea of leaving Steve in an empty house while the rest of you enjoy the heated interior of the kids’ concert hall performance is ridiculous. It jolts you from the single-mindedness of watching a snowflake melt into the golden apple of Steve’s cheek.

“Don’t be an idiot,” you say, pulling him by the sleeve to the open door of the van. The last empty seat is by the window. “I’ll just sit on your lap. As long as you promise not to be a weirdo about it.”

Steve grins. The flash of his teeth feels like a shot through the heart. “Promise.”

Nancy and Jon had the same idea, already snuggled up with a shared lap belt, so it shouldn't be weird, except that Jon and Nance are a couple, and you and Steve aren’t, and you’re really trying not to overthink it-

and then you’re sitting in Steve’s lap. Someone else closes the door, the van kicks into gear, and the radio fills in all the gaps as your world shrinks down to just the feeling of his thighs underneath yours. 

You’re not sure how to place yourself best, half-perching and holding onto the seat in front until Steve slips an arm around your waist. 

“I won’t break,” he says, low at your ear, just for you. 

So with his coaxing you settle your weight further in, letting him ease the front of his chest to your back. There’s a bump in the road, and Steve tightens his hold to keep you steady.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, breath spilling down the line of your neck. 

Goosebumps cascade across your skin. You’re grateful you thought to wear jeans tonight, not a dress- although feeling him all around, so suffocatingly close, feels just as revealing.

“It’s okay,” you breathe back, nose turning down over your shoulder to reply. His right eye, the one you can see, squinches like he’s smiling. 

The drive to the community center is a staggering 15 minutes. Around you, your friends are laughing, talking over the radio like nothing has changed and Steve isn’t pressing his forehead to the back of your neck in the dim light.

There’s an ache growing steadily between your thighs. You try your best not to shift around too much, but then there’s a bend in the road that has Steve’s thumb slipping against the bare skin of your stomach, and it takes enormous effort to keep your legs from snapping shut at the feeling.

“Are you cold?” Steve asks. In that same quiet, just-for-you voice.

You shake your head. He feels it. 

The tenderness of his thumb stroking over your hipbone is making your head foggy. Impairing your better judgement. He smoothes gently, at first, waiting for you to snap at his wrist or maybe tell him off- but when you don’t, Steve grows more confident with his touches.

He settles into a stroking rhythm with his thumb while his other hand subtly crawls up the path of your outer thigh, one wide, warm palm coming to rest over the seat of your jeans. If anyone looked now, it would simply seem like Steve had your best interests at heart, wanting to steady you from the rocking of the backroads.

When in reality, Steve was taking you apart at the seams. Splitting them open one by one. 

His nose is pressed just above the collar of your coat, like he’s breathing you in the same way you’re taking lungfuls of his spiced cologne and laundry detergent. You think his breath might be shuddering, but whether it’s from the cold or the proximity, you can’t tell. 

The spell breaks when the van screeches to a halt in the parking lot. There’s a flurry of movement, a tangle of limbs as everyone catapults back out into the chilly night air. 

Steve’s lips brush the back of your neck before he withdraws. It feels like it might’ve been an accident. You’re not sure of anything, anymore. 

He opens his arms, releasing his hold, and you crawl from the van, stepping into the snow without looking back.

___

The night before New Year’s Eve, Robin comes over to help Steve prep for the party.

There’s tinsel strewn across the dining table, black and gold balloons in various states of inflation bobbing in a cluster underneath Robin’s chair. She ties off the end of another gold one and drops it unseeing to the pile below.

“Jon will grab the pizzas, Vick’s on soda duty, and Eddie will supply us with all the age-appropriate drugs our devious little hearts desire.” Robin reaches for a deflated black balloon, wincing around the taste of latex. “And Sweets will bring the cake. You got any top-shelf champagne you’d like to gift us from Dear Old Dad?”

“Technically basement-shelf,” Steve corrects, letting go of the half-blown balloon in his hand. It squeaks a loud path upwards, careening towards Robin’s side of the table and glancing off her shoulder with the last of its air. 

Steve feels unsettled and overly warm at the mention of your name, the epithet rolling off Robin’s tongue like it’s simultaneously precious and nothing to call you that. 

He spins a string of tinsel around his pointer finger, winding it tight enough to cut off circulation, then releasing it again. “Is Sweets- is she, um. Seeing anyone? Recently, I mean.”

“Not since Roy.” Robin pokes her tongue out in concentration, flat end of the balloon twisting in her uncoordinated fingers. 

Steve almost flinches at the name. Roy Stillwell, the biggest idiot on the former football team, who somehow managed to capture your attention for nearly six months. 

Robin finishes tying off the balloon and lets it slip through her grasp, already reaching for the next. “He wasn’t nice to her, like, at all. I’m so relieved she listened to the good sense of her most wise best friend and dropped his hulking ass after the earthquakes.”

It’s been almost a year, then. Steve tries not to sound suspicious but fails, ears tingeing pink as he asks- “So no one… no one special for her since then?”

Robin looks up from her self-imposed balloon wrangling job with a withering squint. “Why? Are you planning to mess with her, or something? You’ve both been so good recently. It’s been bringing my poor torn heart such healing.”

“Shut up,” Steve tells her, feeling overly fond and deeply embarrassed. The tinsel stretches between his fingers and breaks, noiselessly. “I was just thinking, if she wants to get back out there- I could set her up with one of my buddies.”

“Buddies,” Robin echos, incredulous. “I’m sure our graduating class of high school rejects would absolutely froth at the mouth to get a chance with her, but honestly, Steve, she doesn’t deserve it. You can’t sabotage her love life. I draw the line at food and animal-based pranking.”

Steve shakes his head, eyes dropping to the half-drunk beer between them; he picks it up just to have a label to pick and peel at. “I wasn’t planning any love-based sabotage, so you can cool your jets with that.”

He cringes to think about the narratives you’ve likely been fed by Robin regarding his own love life (or lack thereof), what with her fantastic propensity to bloat the truth. Daliances distorted and disproportionate and probably miles away from reality. 

Steve Harrington might not hold the king’s title any more, but his track record this last year as far as keeping women around where any meaningful long-term capacity is concerned has not been good.

He’s lied, here and there, to Robin, which he hates doing, but there are only so many times he can come crying to her about a girl never calling him back after the third date before it gets pathetic. 

The details of who, exactly, neglected to call whom after sleeping together have been fudged enough to make Steve seem slightly less lame. More in control, more laid back and casual than he actually is. 

He really shouldn’t bother, anymore. Like he said- he’s tired of pretending, tired of the bullshit- 

and Robin already thinks he’s kinda lame, yet loves him anyways. 

Robin rises from the table, breaking Steve from his thoughts. She kicks gently at the balloons to begin herding them into the living room, and says over her shoulder with finality on the issue- “She deserves better.”

Steve peels the label off his beer in one clean sweep. “Yeah. Can’t argue there.”

___

In the end, it’s Robin that brings the two of you together. 

As she always does. Intentionally or not. 

Two AM in the new year finds Robin belting out a jazzy rendition of Auld Lang Syne, cheeks flushed with spirits as she’s half-carried, half-pushed up the stairs by you and Steve.

“Don’t worry,” you’re calling down the hall to where Vickie stands giggling, car keys in her hand. “We’ll take good care of your girl.”

“If she doesn’t kill us first,” Steve grumbles, ducking another one of Robin’s far-flug arms. “All right, songbird, that’s enough out of you.”

He takes a wider stance against the stairs, leaning forward to tuck Robin’s waist against his shoulder, then straightening up with a grunt. She drapes like a sack of potatoes, and Steve grits his teeth before the next step. “Christ alive, Buckley. You’re practically sloshing.”

Robin’s head lifts from the small of Steve’s back as she declares, “You are the slushed one. Shteve.” 

Your hands go to stabilize Robin as you follow them both, and Steve can hear you laughing quietly at her drunken antics. 

Steve decides to put her to sleep in the second guest bedroom- it’s the one furthest down the hall, with a bathroom attached. He eases Robin from his shoulder straight onto the mattress, supporting her neck on the way down- then gets stuck halfway to standing as she throws her arms around him.

“Steve,” Robin sighs. “You’re the best- my best- friend. Ever. Love you, dingus.”

Steve’s cheek is squished into the side of her neck. He chuckles and pats at her hips. “Hey, love you too, Goose. Unhand me and I’ll take your shoes off for you.”

Robin’s arms flop back to the sheets, and Steve bends to ease the sneakers from her feet. He sets them under the bedside table, where you’ve just appeared with a glass of water and two blue Tylenol pills.

“I scrounged around in the bathroom cabinets,” you say, by way of explanation.

“No, that’s- that’s cool,” Steve rushes to assure- but your focus has already been pulled entirely to Robin.

You kneel at the mattress edge, the back of your hand lifting to brush down the side of Robin’s flushed cheek as you tell her softly- “Gonna leave you some water. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

“Sweets,” Robin croaks, eyes hazy and roaming over your face. “Jus’ you’n me?”

“Yeah,” you say, keeping to the same soft tone, even as your free hand jolts backwards. “Just me, honey pie.”

Somehow you land a perfect hit to the side of Steve’s ribs, and he’s forced a step backwards into the shadows of the room. He stifles a laugh into his fist, your touch melting into his skin long after the initial impact of your fingertips. 

Robin doesn’t notice the noise, eyes only for you as she catches your hand in both of hers and says, “You should tell ‘im goodnight. Go onnnn. It would be so fun, I love y’both so much-!”

You shush Robin’s stream of consciousness, in a mild way, like one might for a child fighting a much-needed nap. “Hush, Robs, you’re talking silly. Beddy bye time.”

Then you pull up the covers to her chin, lean in to kiss her sweaty forehead, and brush past Steve on your way out to the hall. 

After turning out the lamp and ensuring Robin is snoring, Steve follows in your wake; he finds you downstairs, on the living room couch. Feet tucked under yourself, hands twisting in your lap. 

It’s a bit of a disaster area, empty bottles and Happy New Year ephemera strewn about the room. The lamp over your shoulder is the only source of light in the room, casting your profile in warm oranges. 

“Hey.” He eases onto the cushion next to you but keeps his knees tilted away, leaving a careful amount of space between your bodies. “What did, uh. What’d Robin mean?”

Steve’s heart thumps unsteadily at the base of his throat, waiting for your response. 

It comes quietly. 

“She wanted me to tell you goodnight. Which I guess is code for, like, admitting my big fat crush on you.”

Steve jerks his gaze to yours, heart thudding louder. 

There’s no indication of any life-altering statements that have just been made- in fact, your chin is tilted upwards, an expression of practiced nonchalance settled into your features.

When Steve meets your eyes, though, there’s something that courses over your face unhidden. It’s fear, or embarrassment, maybe, the intensity of it there and gone in the span of a breath as you work to smooth back into a blasé manner. 

Your gaze drops to the knee of your jeans, plucking at a stray thread. There’s a bitter quality to your voice as you speak. “What, no punchy comment? It’s fine. You can let me have it. You pity me, and I’m the last person you’d ever wanna-”

Steve moves on pure instinct and desire, closing the gap of your bodies in a moment, hands reaching to cup your cheeks, noses bumping together briefly as his face crowds yours. He hears the quick intake of your breath before he whispers, sharp-

“Please shut up.”

And then Steve is kissing you. In the hungry, desperate way he’s been thinking about for the better part of three years. Lips pressing and sliding together, teeth clacking with the force but it doesn’t matter because you’re kissing back. 

Parting your lips for him, tongue sliding against the front of Steve’s teeth, the roof of his mouth; your hands fly to his wrists, keeping him in place, keeping him close as the kiss keeps spiraling. Drawing back only to readjust, to fit your nose to the side of his, angling to get in deeper-

Steve’s hands are trembling. The adrenaline is coursing through his veins, along with a dozen other emotions rapidly rising to the surface. He sends a silent prayer to every god ever that you won’t notice, that you’ll let him keep kissing you and drinking you in.

You do notice, though. There’s a wet click as your lips leave his, and Steve keeps his eyes closed, begging to keep the moment for just a little longer, nose still pressed to your cheek.

But all you ask, in a quiet whisper, is- “Are you okay?”

Steve nods. A hoarse exhalation shudders through him, as his thumbs memorize the path of your jaw. He wants to tell you that he’s more than okay- that the tremors are just a pesky side effect from all that torture and trauma, that he’s shaking with anticipation and delight, not nerves, exactly- 

then you’re swinging a leg over his hip and sitting in his lap and under the weight of you, Steve’s racing thoughts go silent. 

All he can think about is that car ride where he felt suffocated by lust, by wanting, and how badly he’s longed for this, the pressure of your thighs draped over his and your fists in the roots of his hair like they’re doing right now. 

“I don’t pity you.” Steve says the words before his brain gets too clouded by your smell and touches. He settles his hands at your waist, guiding you to sit more heavily, just like he had in the car. “You believe me?”

This won’t work if you don’t. 

To Steve’s immense relief, you nod, eyes flicking from his spit-slick lips to his gaze still locked on you as you whisper back, “Yeah. I believe you.”

With a stifled groan, Steve reaches one of his trembly hands to the nape of your neck, pulling you in to kiss again. His cock is rapidly filling out a hard line in the leg of his jeans, brain going static at the tiny whimpers you’re making into his mouth.

It’s nearly overwhelming, being this close to you. Steve has always wondered what noises you’d make when kissed, how you’d respond to a hand sliding under your shirt along the length of your back- and now, he’ll never have to wonder again. 

Your tongue twists against his. Steve’s glad he had the foresight to close his eyes, because the way they’re currently rolling to the back of his head is probably not very pretty. 

His left hand, beneath the sheer black shimmer of your shirt, grazes the edge of your bra, and can’t help but think he used to be good at this. Good at hookups, at fun, meaningless sex; at unhooking a bra with nothing but an unshakeable pinky. 

This hookup isn’t nothing, though. It’s sort of everything to Steve. The culmination of all the pent-up feelings of the last few years, channeled into every touch, sinking deeper than the surface of his skin, down into his bones. 

The hands in his hair tighten and loosen in a repetitive pattern, sharp then gentle, like you’re having a conflict of your own- you break the kissing again just to let out a frustrated huff. “I can’t- I don’t know how to be soft. It might break me, to be that with you.”

Steve knows what you mean. The intimacy of gentleness, with your shared history of bickering, can’t be overstated. 

He pets at your hip, across the planes of your back, leaning forward again to kiss at the downturned edge of your mouth. “Hey. I get it. Even though I do think you know how to be nice, I’m not asking you to be that. Not right now, at least.”

You shift again in his lap and Steve grits his back molars at the feeling of your thigh against his cock, electric even through all the layers. Tentatively, you tug at the roots of his hair again, then harder, gaining confidence as Steve responds to the sharper pulls. 

Your mouth is back on his and there’s a flash of teeth again, on purpose this time as you bite into the plush bottom of his lip. Steve hisses, brows drawing together, another lightning strike of arousal turning his thoughts to dead air. 

“Like that?” You question, but it’s self-assured and slightly smug and Steve feels like he’s burning up.

“Please let me go down on you,” he murmurs, instead of a simple ‘yes’. 

He doesn’t have time to consider how very whiny he’s sounding because the begging increases, surges with force as Steve licks under your jaw, planting kisses down the pretty line of your neck in between each word.

“Please let me, please, I’ll make it so good- wanna taste you-”

You’re already guiding him with the pull of your limbs to a much more horizontal position on the couch, Steve catching his weight with a hand planted on either side of your shoulders as he continues to kiss his way down your body.

He carves a path between the valley of your breasts, leaving wet lip imprints against the sheer shimmering black fabric of your shirt (a New Year’s-themed low-cut number that Steve didn’t put a whole lot of effort into pretending not to stare at all night). 

There’s the darker outline of the lace edge of your bra so Steve kisses that, too, then continues to your tummy, a bare stripe of skin waiting for his lips to press over. Steve’s left hand drifts underneath the hem of your shirt, exposing more skin to kiss at, seeking out the soft mound of your breast and squeezing to mold the shape in his hand.

At this, your hips give a short jolt upwards, and Steve hears a soft gasp leave you. The sound lights him up, moving on pure instinct to drive his own hips down into the pressure of the cushion beneath. 

Steve ruts the bulge of his cock forwards and fumbles at the button of your jeans with his free hand, tremors at an all-time low as his focus hones in between your thighs.

Everything Steve has ever learned by fumbling in the back seat with girls who wouldn’t care about him in a week- he thinks it might’ve been all for you. 

All to be able to hear that noise you make the first time he gets his mouth on you.

It’s halfway to a long, breathy moan, cut short by the slap of your own palm, but it doesn’t matter because Steve’s already burned it into his mind for forever as he laps against your bare cunt. You taste just as good as he’s always imagined, sweet and bright and honeyed as his tongue slides into the channels of your muscle. 

He feels you pulse around him. Steve moans, the vibrations making your hands snap to his hair again, taking the reins to pull him further in. 

“Steve,” you whisper, thighs beginning to close around his ears. “Steve-”

His name has never sounded better, coming from you. Not ‘Harrington’, not ‘King Steve’ with sarcastic derision. Just Steve. He’s never felt more seen. 

It’s probably for the best that his mouth is occupied, because Steve gets pussy-drunk at an alarming rate- a rate that’s made even worse if he likes the person. 

And he really, really likes you.

Steve withdraws his tongue from your cunt and seals his lips around the beating heart of your clit, listening for the hitch in your breath as he finds the right pressure. His fingers squeeze tighter around your breast, thumb and forefinger pinching at your nipple; your back arches from the couch, pressing yourself into his touches. 

His hips grind mindlessly down and forwards, trying to find a reprieve for all the blood currently pooling southwards but it only serves to draw the band of pleasure even tighter. 

Steve distracts himself by sinking his middle finger into the wet heat of your center, sucking on your clit in time with the exploratory thrusts he gives with the digit. He slides another alongside it as your thighs begin to quiver.

When Steve curls his fingers and drives the angle against your front wall, a choked cry and a sudden sharp pull at his hair tells him to keep going. Steve does, sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks, humming a low note of encouragement. 

He stays the course until you’re spasming around him, cursing quietly with his name thrown into the mix. 

Steve pulls off just long enough to look at you, still keeping the rhythm up with his hand but resting his chin briefly on your lower stomach.

“I gotta give you three, sweetheart, okay? Not trying to blow my own horn, or whatever, but- uh- I won’t fit unless I stretch you out a little. Yeah?”

“Oh my god-”

You take his third finger like you were made for it, head lolling back and hands still fisted in his hair. There’s another spasm of your walls and then you’re coming, unexpectedly soon but Steve acts quick, latching back onto your clit and coaxing you through the wave of it with feverish enthusiasm.

That’s it, he thinks, instead of speaking aloud, mouth full of your taste, a palm full of your slick. That’s it, baby- 

Steve draws out your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, fingers finally pushing at his forehead when you’ve had enough. He lifts his mouth from you, but not before leaning forward to lick the flat of his tongue through the new wetness dripping from your hole. 

His dick leaks in the confines of his briefs at the sight of you- sweat dewing your skin, making you glow, lips parted in short heaving breaths as Steve gives you another kiss. A lingering but overall rather chaste one from someone who was just drinking from you like a starving man.

“I don’t have- I didn’t really stock up on condoms,” Steve stammers, suddenly remembering as your hands wander down the front of his button-down chest. “Shit. Sorry. It’s, uh- it’s been awhile, for me.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur back. Hands fiddling with the buckle of his belt. “Been awhile for me, too. But I’m on the pill. So. Have your way with me, or whatever.”

You give a shrug and a grin and Steve feels like the luckiest person to have lived, maybe ever. He buries a groan into the plush of your breast as you giggle at him. 

His burn of embarrassment quickly gives way to the hot flame of desire, rutting into the flat palm of your hand as you work your way to the top of his zipper.

Steve is overcome with a need to be good for you- to let you have whatever you want. He’s spellbound with obedience, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes. 

“Let me see you.” You thumb at the button of his jeans. Half of a smile on those lips Steve knows so well.

Steve helps by sliding the waistband of both his briefs and pants down, settling them just under his ass because he’s too wound up to stop for a proper strip. He can’t help himself, brushing over the head to spread his pre over his shaft, pumping a few times before you reach to bat his grip away. 

Then your hand is wrapping around the throbbing length of his bare cock and Steve has to restabilize against the cushions again, putting his weight in his forearms that sit snug along your sides. He has to dip to bite at the column of your neck in order to smother a loud moan as your fingers tighten around his girth.

“Holy fuck, you weren’t kidding.” You’re still speaking in a low voice but this time it’s hushed with awe and disbelief. “You really are huge.”

Steve licks at the indent of his teeth in your skin and huffs a laugh, then chokes on it when your hand twists around the base and up again in a cruelly slow arc.

You help pull the collared tee from his body and then your hand is trailing down his chest, through the thicket of hair, with curiosity- lingering on parts Steve doesn’t normally think of as hot. Fingertips trace the outline of his scars, the round of his stomach, the sparse line of hair leading below his belly button.

It’s the way you’re looking at him, too, eyes skipping between his and down lower to the cock in your fist. It’s almost like you’ve been dreaming of this, as well. 

“So handsome,” you’re murmuring, still roving over the scars at his side with the hand that isn’t pumping him into oblivion. “Steve- you’re so hot, so good-”

Steve feels it in that space behind his chest, the white-hot bloom of feeling. You’re not saying it like he’s some sort of novelty, some sort of side-show you’ve been jonesing to see, a ticket punched with no promise of return.

You’re saying it like Steve’s something to really look at. Like he’s worthy of the praise and kindness you’re doling out without expectation. 

Steve tries his best to take it in stride, but it’s becoming increasingly hard to think when all the blood in his body is currently being siphoned into the led pipe of his cock in your hand. 

He’s spilling precum onto your stomach, and you pause mid-stroke to gather some of it from your skin before taking him up again, moving more slickly with the help. 

Steve feels the weight of your gaze again as he tilts his hips, aligning himself with your entrance; his own hands rest on either side of your head, thumbs at your temples as he leans in to kiss you again.

He reaches to shove the hem of your shirt up to your throat, exposing the stiff peaks of your nipples through the fabric of your bra, chests crushing together as the head of his cock notches into place. 

Steve’s toes are curling in his socks while the arches of his feet press for further stability against the couch’s arm. From between the press of your bodies, your hands slip out to rest at the tops of Steve’s freckled shoulders. 

He kisses your breastbone, your jaw again, then says at your ear with ill-concealed strain- “I’m gonna- I’ll go slow, okay? And you tell me if- if anything, something- doesn’t feel good, and we can stop, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, fingernails beginning to sting into his skin. “C’mon, Stevie. Let me have it.”

Fighting words, Steve thinks, hiding a smile into the side of your neck. He pulls back only so he can monitor your expressions as he begins to enter you.

The thick head of his tip gets swallowed up with immediacy by the warm, wet embrace of your walls, sinking further in, pausing when there’s some resistance. Steve’s trembling again but this time it’s with the concerted efforts of slowing down, of avoiding the overwhelm for both of you. 

Your cunt is so blissfully tight. He’s only got the first few inches in but already Steve’s having trouble breathing, stuttering out short pants as he keeps watching your face for any signs of discomfort.

“It- you’re so- so big.” The words are strung thin, your brows knotted together, eyes pinched in concentration. 

Steve presses another kiss to your sweaty cheek, feeling the dampness of his own hairline and hoping he doesn’t drip any onto you as he sinks another inch inwards. “I know, honey, I know- and you’re doin’ so good, that’s my girl-”

The term of endearment leaves before Steve thinks to drag it back, but all it does is make you sigh, eyes blinking long-lashed and half-open to look up at him again, right hand leaving the top of his shoulder to fist back into the longer curls at the nape of his neck. “Steve… I can take it all. Let me.”

And who would Steve be, denying you a thing?

He lets you have all of him, pelvis lowering to seat the length of his cock fully inside you. Your nails dig past the first layer of his skin in your ecstasy, crown of your head tipping backwards as Steve feels the pulse of your walls surround him.

“Fuck me.” Another hoarse whisper as he waits, letting you adjust to the feeling of being stuffed before dragging his cock back again, until it’s just his head at that upper wall of your cunt- then sinking back in with one long thrust.

This makes you moan, loud enough that Steve instinctively curls a hand to fit over your parted lips. His best friend may be notorious for being able to sleep through a hurricane after a few shots but he’d really rather not invite chance to play tonight.

If Steve is worried about the covering being too much, he’s instantly gratified when your teeth sink into his middle fingers, like you needed something to mouth on. 

You’re so wet from Steve’s earlier work that his length glides smoothly with every rock forwards and back of his hips, a maddening cycle that’s starting to steal his breath again. The sharp tugs to his hair and the punctuated, muffled whines you’re making are enough to have his climax looming close. 

“Ah- fuck, shit-” Steve curses, stilling when his hips are pressed to yours, cock throbbing. “Not gonna last long, sweetheart, fuck- sorry, you feel too good. Pussy is choking me.”

The dirty talk has your eyes fluttering. Steve takes his hand off your mouth and kisses you, once, twice, then whispers- “Feels good, yeah, honey? Y’like taking me like this?”

Your ankles lift to cross at the small of Steve’s back, hand like a vice at his roots once Steve starts up a rhythm of fucking into you again. “Steve, keep- keep talking like that, and I’ll- I’m right there-”

He obeys, holding your shoulders again to keep you in place as his cock drags against the inner front wall of your cunt with precision. The beginning stages of an impending orgasm have Steve babbling- “That’s it, sweetheart- let me give it to you. I’ve got you, shit- y’feel so amazing. So good for me-”

“Fuck, Steve-!” Your face turns to profile as one side presses to the couch cushion beneath, mouth dropping into a silent o.

Steve slides as deep as he can, muffling his own shout into the fat of your breast, nuzzling in as your cunt flutters and squeezes around him. Your ankles pull him in hard, pelvis hitting at your clit and sending you over the edge for a second time. 

You’re silent as you come, back arching, eyes squeezed shut. Steve feels the wave of it wash over you, every sense dialed up to 10 as he memorizes how it rolls through your body. 

When you return to earth, you gasp in a breath, reaching to cup Steve’s face in your hands, stars still sparkling in your eyes when you whisper-

“Your turn, Steve. Gonna fill me up?”

Steve is done for three sharp jerks of his hips later, spilling into you with a growl caught at the back of his throat, abs rippling and jaw clenching with every rope of cum pulsing out. 

He swallows down noise as he keeps circling his hips. The highs spiral down slowly; once you begin to squirm under Steve with overstimulation, he takes it easy on you and stops. Kissing at your collarbone with apologies. 

Breathing still struggling to return to normal, he sags into your arms, careful to keep most of his weight off you. You’re giggling at him somewhat breathlessly, dotting kisses along the apple of his cheek and petting over the back of his skull with a gentle hand. 

In all those hidden fantasies with you at the back of his mind, Steve never let himself linger on the afterglow, one of the best parts of sex, in his opinion- holding his partner, feeling the bellow of their ribs, the hitches as everything simmers back to normal. 

It felt too personal, like just by wanting it bad enough (because Steve did want it, badly) the sacredness would somehow dim. 

Steve’s delighted to find this isn’t the case. 

Even with all the bodily fluids, sweating, and achy muscles that have accumulated, you don’t seem to care, pulling Steve to fit between your back and the couch. He wraps his arms around your middle, nose tucking to the hollow of your neck, breathing in the trace smell of your faded perfume and hormones. 

You breathe a long, contended sigh. Somewhere beyond the far window, an owl hoots into the dark night.

Your hands smooth across Steve’s forearms absently as you break the room’s silence with a whisper. “Hey. Do you think- would it be okay if we don’t tell Robin? Not yet, at least.”

Steve holds you a little tighter, running the tip of his nose up the line of your neck. “Yeah. ‘Course it’s okay. And, y’know, we don’t have to do this again, if you- if you don’t want-”

“Oh, we’re definitely doing this again.” There’s a shadow of a former tease in your voice. “It’s just- she’s gonna be so goddamn smug when she finds out. She already said I wouldn’t last two weeks from when I first told her about the crush-”

“And how long’s it been? Since you told her?” Steve interrupts to ask, ears perking up. 

He can only see the back of your head, but the long silence is enough to clue him in to your loss of pride before you mutter, “About 12 hours.”

“Oh my god.” Steve laughs against you, even as you growl at him to shut up, even as your teeth skim over the soft skin of his elbow, daring him to say more. “If I knew you had it so bad for a jock I would’ve pulled out the ol’ Hawkins Tigers shirt way sooner.”

“Former jock,” you correct, turning in Steve’s arms to plant one elbow against the cushions, other arm lifting to rest your hand over his heart. “And I think you look best wearing nothing at all, so. Might want to take that note.”

Steve doesn’t care at all how dopey he might look right now, fondness all-consuming as he reaches up to thumb at the corner of your wry smile. “Note taken. Y’know, I think this setup will be a great outlet for your aggression. Feel free to use me any time.”

Your wide smile pushes into the pad of his thumb, sweetness on your tongue when you lean down to kiss him again. “Note taken.”

Your own fingers lift to roam over Steve’s face, tickling at his hairline, down to the corner of his brow, like you’re memorizing the feeling. Steve lets his eyes slip shut, smiling as your pointer finger traces at the edge of his right eye.

“I like these little lines,” you murmur. “They only happen when you smile, though. Lights your whole face up.”

In the dawn of a new year, Steve rises with a heart overflowing to kiss at your bare shoulder.