ellie

Steve Harrington stands behind the counter the entire time with his arms crossed and his shoulders shaking, fighting a smile so poorly it barely counts as fighting.

Keith clocks out at eleven-oh-three even though the store opened an hour ago, but apparently he has “business” to take care of. 

The door swings shut bahind him.

Steve leans back against the counter, arms crossed, the smile no longer fighting anything, and you are already rolling your eyes before he pulls breath to speak.

This is the thing about Steve Harrington: he is not a dick, exactly. He's not cruel. He doesn't do anything that you could point to in a court of law and say there, that's it, that's the thing. What he does is flirt with every girl who walks through the door and get their numbers and then hide in the backroom when they come back looking for him.

Then there was once he told Robin— in the backroom, where he apparently believes sound does not travel— that you lack attention to detail, which is reach so extraordinary you nearly respect it. He alphabetizes by first name half the time. You have never once brought it up. Okay maybe you brought it up occasionally. Often. Maybe every chance you have.

And then there was the incident with the girl last month, when you told her Steve wasn't in because he'd mentioned feeling itchy downstairs, which, fine, maybe you embellished slightly, but Robin had found it funny and that's really all the justification you need. But since then he’s been a lot more moodier when he’s around you. Barely even speaks to you. 

Also, you don't even think he's that good looking.

He's fine. He has good hair, probably, if you're being completely objective, which you are, and you've noticed in a purely observational capacity that his arms fill out his sleeves in a way that suggests he goes to the gym with some regularity, and his jeans fit him well, and you'd have to be actually blind not to notice that. That's just having eyes. That doesn't mean anything.

He has never once flirted with you, for the record. Which is fine. Great, actually, given that you have a boyfriend. Had a boyfriend. The distinction is new as of last night, when you threw Scott's things out your apartment window and told him not to come back, but the point stands.

Steve opens his mouth.

You cross the distance between you two in four steps and put your pointer finger directly on his lips.

"Don't even, Harrington." You look him dead in the eye. "Not in the mood."

You make the mistake of leaving it there.

His bewildered hazel eyes narrow, slow, something conspiratorial moving through them, and then the corner of his mouth twitches against your finger and his lips part and his tongue drags forward, and your finger drops onto it, and he closes his teeth around it with the gentlest possible pressure and just… holds it there.

The sound you make is not a gasp. It is a sharp inhale of surprise, which is completely different.

His eyes are mischievous and fixed on yours, and up close— closer than you typically allow yourself to be— you can see that his irises aren't simply brown. There's green in there, threaded through, soft and swirling, and his teeth are straight and white and his tongue is cool and wet and— you are going to actually strangle him with your bare hands.

The bell over the door chimes.

An older woman shuffles in, making a beeline for the romance section, and you turn toward her on instinct and Steve uses the moment to take your wrist. His hand large and warm, fingers spanning easily around it, and draws your finger out of his mouth slowly, his eyes tracking the shine of it after.

You snatch your hand back and wipe it on his shirt.

You feel his chest under your palm when you do it and you remove your hand immediately.

He licks his lips. Brings his thumb up to brush his bottom one, slow, like the contact has left something there he's deciding what to do with. Something in his expression shifts— not the smirk, something underneath it— and he looks at you for a moment that goes a beat longer than it should before he says, "Was gonna ask if you spilled coffee on yourself this morning."

His eyes drop to your chest. Back up.

You look down. The vest does nothing to hide the stain on the swell of your breast, dark against the fabric, thoroughly obvious.

You say nothing. He's already walking to the customer, his customer service voice emerging from somewhere inside him like a different person entirely, warm and easy and charming, and the older woman is already smiling at something he's said, and you stand where you are and roll your eyes and then linger for approximately three seconds on the way his jeans sit on his hips before you go find something to do.

.-.-.-.

You are reorganizing the candy display for the second time when the phone rings.

You know it's him before he finishes saying your name.

Scott. Three months, on and off, mostly off in practice if not in name, and last night you'd finally had enough. His stuff went out the window, you told him not to come back, you meant it. You had stood in your apartment afterward feeling entirely certain and somewhat exhilarated and had gone to bed and slept fine.

And now his voice is coming through the Family Video phone line at twelve forty-three in the afternoon, thick with rehearsed remorse, telling you how badly he messed up, how much he misses you, how he knows he can do better—

"Fuck off, Scott."

You put the phone down hard enough that the candy display rattles.

The fluorescent lights are suddenly very bright. The slushee machine is suddenly very loud. The store smells like chemicals and artificial sugar and you need to be somewhere that isn't the front of it immediately, so you go, pushing through the backroom door hard enough that it swings back and hits the wall.

Steve looks up from his magazine.

His feet are on the table. There's a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the wrapper beside him and a Coke going warm in his hand, and he takes in your expression with raised eyebrows and then loudly turns a page.

You walk over and pick up the sandwich and take a large bite.

He doesn't react.

"Why are men—" You chew. Swallow. "What is it. What is it that you're born with that makes you—" You groan at the ceiling. "What is wrong with all of you."

Steve blinks. He appears to be running an internal calculation about whether he needs to be offended. He turns another page. "Let me guess," he says, not looking up, the smirk audible. "You and meathead broke up again."

You take another bite of his sandwich.

He holds out the Coke without being asked. You take it and drink half of it in one go and set it back down. "I cannot believe I let him get me this worked up. Who does he think he is, calling here—"

Steve laughs. Loud, genuine, the kind that makes his head tip back.

"What?" you snap, reaching up to wipe a smear of peanut butter from the corner of your mouth.

He shakes his head. "Nothing."

"Tell me."

He puts the magazine down. His feet come off the table and he shifts in the chair to look at you properly, elbows on his knees. "He knows you'll take him back."

"I won't. I mean it this time."

"You said that last time."

"This time is different."

"You'll feel lonely in two days and call him." He picks up his trash, standing, moving toward the bin. "You always do." He says it low, almost to himself, something in his voice that doesn't quite match the smirk.

You uncross your arms. "That is… that's not—" You hate that your mouth can't finish the sentence with any real conviction. "It's not true."

"It is." He tosses the wrapper. Turns around. "Honestly I don't get why you're even with him. You complain about him constantly." He shifts into an impression of you that is offensive in its accuracy, his voice going up slightly: "Robin, he never buys me flowers. Robin, I don't think he knows my favorite color. Robin, I don't even think he knows where the clit is."

The backroom is not large. There is not much space between you. He takes a step closer.

"Sounds like you need to find someone else." His eyes blink half-lidded, his lips pursing with a sassy deliberateness that makes your hand itch. "Or stop complaining."

"Oh, great advice." You hold his gaze. "When you find a single guy in Hawkins who isn't you, let me know."

He tilts his head. Steps closer. Something shifts in his face— the smirk softening at the edges, his jaw ticking once— and his eyes have gone a little sad at the corners, which is infuriating because it looks genuine. "Wait." His voice drops. "What's wrong with me?"

"Plenty of things." You keep your voice soft, wanting the words to land clean. "Surprised you haven't gotten a girl pregnant by now."

"Oh, I thought it was because I have an STD?"

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Something moves behind his eyes. His tongue presses into his cheek. He steps into your space.

You are against the wall and he is close enough that you can smell him. It’s woodsy cologne, laundry detergent, the faint ghost of peanut butter. He's looking down at you with his brow furrowed, his hazel eyes darker than they were a minute ago. Both palms find the wall on either side of your head and he leans in, his mouth at your ear.

"At least I'd know where you needed to be touched."

The ache that moves through you is immediate and mortifying and you are absolutely not acknowledging it. You shift your weight— not away from him, just shifting, just adjusting, for no reason— and you look directly at his face and laugh.

Loud. Right at him.

"Yeah, right, Steve." You bring your hand up to make him look at you, fingers at his jaw. "Bet you've never made a girl cum in your life."

The corner of his lips flickers.

His thumb comes up to your chin— slow, his eyes on yours the whole time— and you take him in all at once the way you don't let yourself do usually: the moles on his jaw, the chest hair where his polo buttons are undone, the way his jeans sit easy on his hips, the slight soft curve of his stomach, his thighs, his arms, the Family Video vest that he makes look less stupid than anyone has a right to. His eyes, hazel and green and completely focused on your face.

Fuck.

His hand trails down your side. Finds your hip and squeezes, warm and sure, and neither of you looks away as his fingers find the hem of your skirt and slip underneath. His pointer finger traces a slow circle on your upper thigh and your breath goes shallow and you keep your expression completely neutral through what you can only describe as heroic effort.

His hand moves higher.

His palm cups you through the fabric of your underwear and your back arches off the wall by a degree before you catch it, breathing through your nose, furious at your own body, furious at the warmth of his hand, furious at the specific and undeniable ache of wanting more pressure.

Steve Harrington is the last person. The absolute last person. You don't even like him. You don't even think he's—

His fingers slip beneath the waistband.

Oh, you think, oh no.

His finger slides between your folds and the sound you make is quiet and involuntary and you hate it and him and yourself in equal measure.

He exhales a soft laugh against your cheek. Licks his bottom lip. "You're so wet, sweetheart." His voice is low and wondering, almost private. "For me?"

"You fucking wish, Steve—"

His middle finger finds your clit.

One slow, precise circle, and the word you were going to say next dissolves completely into a gasp that echoes off the backroom walls.

He leans into you, his nose pressing into your temple, his breath warm at your ear.

"Gotcha."

"Big deal." Your voice comes out unsteady and you hate it. "You want a prize or something?"

His finger moves in tighter circles, faster, and the pressure of it unspools something low in your stomach, heat building in thick, stacking waves. His other hand is still flat on the wall beside your head and his forearm is bracketing you in and his mouth is at the corner of your jaw and you are gripping the wall behind you with both hands because the alternative is grabbing onto him and you are not doing that.

"I think," he says, low against your skin, "making you cum like this will be enough."

He works faster.

Your head tips back against the wall. Your knees make a compelling argument for giving up. The circles are tight and relentless and perfectly placed and you think, with the last functioning part of your brain, of course. Of course he's good at this. Of course.

"Steve—"

"Yeah." He coos, like he knows exactly what you need. His finger works faster still, and his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, pressing warm open kisses down the side of your neck while his hand does not let up, not for a second, his wrist moving with a patience that suggests he has no intention of stopping until he gets what he wants.

Your fingers find his shoulder.

You grip it.

He makes a quiet satisfied sound against your throat.

You feel that tension building and you shake your head, your vision going blurry, clutching him harder. "Steve, please it's too much… fucking go inside or something— shit!"

Steve's hand swipes at your entrance, and you think he might listen, his middle finger barely swirling inside, and then you hear a chuckle when you moan, clutching the green vest, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. Steve himself seems a bit imbalanced. His upper body presses into your chest, and you catch the way his eyes peek down at your blouse— something tells you he isn't paying attention to the coffee stain, but maybe the way your shirt pulls down a little, and the blue linen bra that peeks out. The flesh of your tits at the neckline.

You can feel his cock, hard and twitching, against your thigh and you really don't care. At all. You press your thigh into him— the one day you forget to wear stockings— feeling the heat of him through the denim on your skin. You mewl, obviously unintentional, because of the way Steve is still rubbing hurried circles against your oversensitive clit.

Steve's breathing hard in your hair, and you can still hear him chuckling occasionally when he pulls another cry from your lips. He tries to rut against your leg, but with what feeling you have left in it you push his hips away. "Steve… please… it's…."

You grind against his hand regardless.

"I bet it is, honey." His voice is low in your ear. "Bet you've been aching for months… and this is all you've needed. Is this why you have such an attitude when you come into work? Poor thing… probably needed Steve to show you how it's done."

"Whatever…." you gasp, burrowing your face in his neck, fisting the fabric of his vest. You try to make your thoughts go somewhere else. The last thing you are going to do is give Steve Harrington the satisfaction of cumming on his hand.

He slides two fingers inside you and makes no effort to move them, his thumb taking over in fast circles. "Stop fighting it. I can feel you. You want to cum. Do it." And it's true. You're clenching around his fingers.

You shake your head. You mutter no. However, you’re pulling him closer, making him grunt, your back pressing harder into the wall from the heat of his body. You're biting into his shoulder, listening to the slick wet sounds of him working your clit. His face is buried in your neck and he's not kissing you but you feel his mouth moving there, hot whispers against your skin.

"Come on," he says your name. "Come on, I've got you."

His hand goes fast and sloppy and you're over the edge before you realize it— you don't even feel when the band snaps, you only hear yourself cry out as he draws the orgasm out of you. His hand doesn't slow down, keeps going, and your legs are weak and shaking, his large free hand gripping your hip, rutting against your thigh— and you want to laugh at him because he's so fucking pathetic and needy.

But then he taps you gently on your sweet ache, and you feel his smile against your jaw.

"There we go," he whispers.

He's off you immediately, mouth partly open, his eyes drunk— on you— eyeing you up and down as he works his belt with both hands.

You blow hair out of your face, brows furrowed, and laugh. "What the hell are you doing?"

Steve stops and looks down, unzipping his jeans. "What does it look like? Gotta take care of something."

"Don't be stupid, Harrington. I'm not sucking your dick." Your eyes flick to his bulge before you drag them back up, hating how curious you are. "And I'm not fucking you either."

He tilts his head, something that is both amusement and wanting moving through his expression at the same time. "Might shut you up." 

He smiles. 

"Might even be nice about it."

He hasn't pushed his jeans down, but the belt is unbuckled and the zipper's all the way down and he's holding the waistband even though the button is undone. You'd think he was in charge, but really he's waiting for you. You swallow, bite your bottom lip, look down then back up.

"Why should I?"

He rolls his eyes. "Kneel."

"Excuse me?"

"You came in here interrupting my break, complaining about something I didn't even care about." He glances at his watch. "I've still got eight minutes. I'm not going back out to work with my dick tucked into my waistband, so either leave and let me take care of it, or get on your knees."

You blink at him, and if it wasn't bad enough that Steve was bossing you around— heat pooled between your legs again— and you felt your knees slowly bending. One of Steve's hands shot out and grabbed yours, electricity shooting through the point of contact. You chalk it up to static, and he helps you to the floor carefully, his eyes gentle, making sure you're comfortable. His hand grazes your shoulder, his thumb brushing your cheek. For a split second it feels almost intoxicatingly tender. Something Scott never once managed during intimacy.

Then he opens his mouth.

"Take this off." He tugs at your vest. "The shirt too."

You look at him. "How is this relevant––"

"No time to argue. Off."

You grumble and shed the vest. You look at him once before pulling your shirt off over your head. You smile at the way his throat works taking you in. You can't help it. You want to see his reaction, and it's only fair, you're about to see whatever his cock looks like, you're doing him a favor here— so you take your bra off too and let it drop beside you.

Steve's eyes widen and you hear him mutter "shit" under his breath.

He wastes no more time. He untucks his polo and brings the hem up to his mouth, biting onto it, and the sight of it— him towering over you, brow furrowed, his stomach exposed, the soft ridges and the pudge, the thatch of hair on his chest, the angel kisses scattered across his skin and one right beside his happy trail— abandons you of all good sense and you're leaning forward, pressing your mouth to it. You hear his breath hitch. You kiss more of them, nip his skin. You take your hands to the fly of his jeans and spread it open, using your fingers to drag the waistband of his briefs down, kissing just above the base of his cock. You make open-mouthed wet kisses around it, licking his happy trail and around it, and you let a dribble of spit drop from your mouth. You know you're about to ruin him from the way he whimpers and bucks his hips, gripping your shoulder. But when your mouth gets close to his cock, his hand flies to your head, pushing you back.

He shakes his head.

He pushes his jeans down himself and you help, stopping mid-thigh because there's not enough time to take them all the way off. His briefs go with them and his cock, with a bead of precum at the tip, hits his stomach. Your eyes go wide.

God fucking dammit. He's hung. And you've never thought this about anyone before, but it's pretty. The pink of the tip, the girth of it, even and full, the veins tracking the length, and it twitches under your attention like it's aware of you, and you have never once in your life thought this about anyone but you want it in your mouth. You want to feel the weight of it on your tongue. You want to wrap your hand around it and watch his face. You might, at some future point, let him put the tip inside you. For fun. Briefly. Hypothetically.

You lean forward to kiss it. You almost make it. His hand is on your head again.

He takes himself in his fist and lets his shirt fall from his teeth. Looks down at you.

"Spit on it."

You do.

He moans.

"Again."

You spit again.

"More."

You have spit running in rivulets down his length, collecting warm in the crease of his fist, dripping from the tip to the floor, and you reach forward—

His hand presses your head back.

"No. Hands at your sides. And don't touch yourself."

You only half-obey. Your hands fall to your thighs, but you push your skirt up as you settle them there, your soaked cotton underwear on full display, and you watch his jaw tighten when he sees it.

He strokes himself. One pump. Two. Watching your face.

"I wanna taste you, Steve," you say.

"Oh, now you do. Pretty sure you told me I was stupid for asking."

"Please, Steve."

He looks like he is losing the hardest mental war of his life. His hand stills.

"Open."

You open your mouth. He taps your tongue with his tip— once— and the weight of it alone makes your breath go thin. He pushes forward slowly until you choke slightly and your eyes water, and you look up at him through your lashes and he is completely, irreparably gone. You hum around him and try to move.

His hand holds you still.

His cock sits heavy and throbbing in your mouth, gathering the heat of your breath, drool pooling at the corners of your lips. He looks down at you.

"You look kinda pretty like this."

You should feel humiliated. You kind of do, actually. Except for the first time you're also starting to see it. Starting to think Steve Harrington is genuinely, actually hot. Too bad you didn’t like the guy, because maybe you’d give him a shot. Or maybe just flirt with him.

He checks his watch and sighs, drawing himself out of your mouth slowly, your lips dragging along his length, wrapping around the tip as it clears with a soft pop. A string of spit connects your lips to his cock, stretching in the low light before it breaks.

He takes himself back in hand, his other hand staying in your hair, tilting you to watch, and he strokes himself above you. Fast and purposeful now, and the sounds fill the small backroom entirely: the slick wet rhythm of his fist, schlick schlick schlick, quick and relentless, punctuated by the sounds catching in his throat that he's completely stopped trying to manage. 

"Only kinda pretty?" you mumble, fighting the pout.

Not surprising, you think. This is probably the last thing Steve wanted to—

"Always pretty," he corrects. His voice is rough and strained. "Right now you're so pretty it's gonna make me cum."

Your eyes widen a little. Your stomach flips. It's different this time, quieter than heat and want, something that makes you close your mouth and say nothing.

"Aw." He works faster, his breath coming in short pulls. "Guess all I had to do was tell you how pretty you are to get you to stop being mean to me." He whimpers, schlick schlick schlick, and a wet drop splatters right below your lip. You lick it, closing your eyes.

"You think we can be friends after this?"

Your eyes snap open.

He looks so hot— already holding back his release, his hands and forearms veiny from working, his neck strained, his chest heaving, his eyes boring into yours. The Family Video vest hugging his shoulders as he frantically strokes himself.

"As if," you scoff.

He tilts his head. "Aw, but I was so nice to you earlier. Can't we put our differences aside. Hm?"

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, sure."

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"Say we can be friends."

"I said sure—" You try to look away and his hand turns your head back towards him. His eyes are dangerously dark and clouded.

He doesn't ask again.

"Okay, whatever. We can be friends—"

Steve lets out a choked moan, your name tangled somewhere inside it. You feel warmth hit your cheek and he strokes through it fast, pearly ropes landing across your tits, and you gasp as some rolls down your sternum. Steve pants, head bowed.

After what seems like hours of silence and heavy breathing, he finally moves. His watch beeps and he silences it without looking. He leans over to the table— his neck stretching, arms flexing, the curve of his waist as he reaches— and grabs a stack of napkins. Wipes his hands. His cock. Pulls his briefs and jeans back up.

He drops the napkins on the floor and holds out his hand.

You take it and he pulls you to your feet. He grabs more napkins and holds them out toward you. He doesn't hand them over, his hand coming forward instead, pressing them gently to your chest and wiping the mess himself, careful and unhurried.

You look up at his face.

He looks up and meets your eyes and they go wide. "Oh… uh. Sorry. I didn't mean to— probably should've wet them first—"

"It's fine, Steve."

And you smile at him.

It lands on him like something he wasn't braced for. He goes still, checks for the punchline, finds nothing, and his lips turn up slowly. It’s cautious at first, then warmer, something in his face opening. He goes back to what he was doing. You look down and the mess has been gone for thirty seconds at minimum and he is very clearly using the napkins as an excuse, his hands warm through the thin paper.

"Guess after this you should get tested, right?" His eyes flick up then back down. The walls are down. His eyes are a little sad.

Guilt moves through you quiet and uninvited. You don't apologize. But you say: "I trust you." A breath. A grimace. "I mean. We are friends, after all."

He smiles bigger. And if you had known— all this time— that Steve Harrington could smile at you like that, open and unguarded, like you've handed him something he didn't know he wanted… maybe you'd have hated him a little less.

He leans toward you slowly and your hands come up between you, ready to push him away. He reaches past them entirely and swipes something from your cheek with a napkin. Holds it up. His cheeks are pink.

"Got some on your—" A breath of a laugh. "Sorry."

You open your mouth.

The bell above the front door chimes.

Both your eyes go wide and then it's chaos. It’s Steve buckling his belt and tucking his shirt in while you grab your clothes from where he's already gathered them off the floor, handing them back to you. You pull everything back on in ten seconds flat. He drops to his knees to collect the napkins from the floor and you grab him by the vest.

"Steve. It's fine, go. I'm taking my break anyway."

He looks at you. Brown eyes, long lashes, the flush still high on his cheeks. He clears his throat. Straightens his vest. "Yeah. Okay." A beat. "See you in thirty."

He turns.

You look at the back of him and grab the vest again. He turns back already rolling his eyes, already wearing the face he's had on every time he’s asked what now for the past few months.

"You know." You bite your bottom lip. "I wouldn't be totally angry if you came and interrupted the last fifteen minutes of my break."

Something flashes through his eyes, low and warm. His arms cross. His voice drops. "You think I need the whole fifteen minutes?"

You step forward and hook your fingers into his waistband and watch his throat move.

"Gotcha," you say.