they’ll hang us in the Louvre

“Steve’s already making dinner,” you tell him, "but thanks."

“Oh, yeah? What’re we having?” 

Your eyes burn, and you cover them with your arm again. “Soup, I think? I’m not sure.” 

“I’ll go find out.” 

You’re both surprised and not when Eddie’s lips press to yours a moment later, a small sound half forming in your throat as he pats your hip and begins to stand. 

“What’re you—don’t kiss her.” 

Eddie straightens up fast. “Jesus,” he says. “I thought somebody's dad was here for a second.” 

Steve makes an exasperated sort of huffing sound. You don’t have to open your eyes to know his hands have landed on his hips. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“What am I doing? I thought I was kissing my girlfriend. Why are you acting like you’re gonna call the cops?” 

“She’s sick, idiot. You wanna get sick?” 

“I am not,” you argue idly.

Eddie’s tone takes a dip into sympathy. “You’re sick?” 

“No. I just looked at my laptop for too long.” 

“You have a fever,” says Steve, the sternness of him softening the tiniest bit. “You’re totally getting sick."

“It’s just hot in here.” 

“It’s really not, actually.” 

There’s a pause while you both wait for Eddie to decide who he’ll back up. He betrays you kindly, at least, setting his hand consolingly across your forehead. “It’s not, sweetness. You should have called me earlier. I was just dicking around at work. We could have dicked around together.” 

Steve makes an amused noise. “I don’t think that’s really what she needs to—” 

“Hey, get your mind out of the gutter, Harrington.” 

Eddie’s hand leaves your forehead, and then you hear the familiar sounds of him kissing Steve wholeheartedly. You sneak a peek. Steve’s posture is relaxing (hands indeed on his hips, but lowering now), a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. 

He sighs when the kiss ends. Eddie looks satisfied with himself. 

“Well,” says Steve, meeting your eyes over Eddie’s shoulder, “I guess we’re all getting sick now.” 

“Or none of us are,” you try. 

Eddie laughs, turning and plopping back down next to you on the couch. “No, you’re for sure sick. But the good news is, you’re totally rocking it.” 

You groan. You have to admit it does come out sounding more nasally than you expect. “I don’t want to.” 

“Yeah,” Steve hums compassionately, “none of us did.” 

“Speak for yourselves,” says Eddie. “The only thing better than dicking around at work is not going. We should start figuring out what movies we’re going to rent before it really sets in.” 

You groan again, rolling over so your aching eyes are pressing into a throw pillow. 

An amused puff comes from Steve. He squats down beside you to kiss your cheek. “Sorry, honey.” 

Your voice is muffled into the pillow. “I thought you didn’t want to kiss me.” 

It shouldn’t have mattered. Who cares if Steve Harrington is giving you attention all of a sudden? He’s still a world-class douchebag, and a playboy, and the genes bestowed upon him at birth are still totally unfair. You ignored him. When he came over to you, you were short and rude while he tried to make conversation. You were totally uninterested, and then somehow you were on a punishingly quiet drive on your way to his place. 

The awkwardness doesn’t last long. You go inside, Steve says something about drinks in the fridge if you want one, and you’re tangled up on his couch in thirty seconds flat. 

You kiss Steve roughly, meanly, unsure if you’re trying to punish him or yourself. Steve opens his mouth to you and lets you take what you want, his hand climbing up your side. When it slips under your shirt to cup your bra, you snatch his wrist. 

“No,” you say, firmly. “Yours first.” 

To your surprise, Steve doesn’t so much as blink at the demand. He stands to rip his shirt over his head, and—you’ve got to give him credit for his efficiency—his jeans fall to the floor a moment later. 

You tilt your head. Steve Harrington, a boxers guy. Interesting. 

You don’t give him any time to ask the same of you. You tug him back down onto the couch, taking in a startled breath when Steve fits his knee in between your thighs. 

“You’re so pretty.” He breathes the words into your mouth like a secret. Hot indignation flows through you. Of course he would think you need that from him. Every girl wants to hear that Steve Harrington thinks they’re pretty, don’t they?

You push your tongue past his teeth to shut him up. 

Steve makes a sound—he moans—and your eyes fly open. Steve doesn’t seem self-conscious in the least. In fact, he does nothing to keep his boner from pressing into your stomach as he worms a hand between you, fingering the button of your jeans. 

“Can—” He opens his eyes, catching you watching him. Your cheeks flame, but Steve only asks, “Can I?” 

You rub your lips together. They have the strange, tingly feeling of having been thoroughly kissed. Instead of answering, you say, “You can’t tell anyone about this.” 

You know how it goes with Steve. He hooks up with someone, and the next day Tommy H and Carol and everyone from your class are talking about it—just the fact that they had sex if they’re lucky, the weird birthmark on their butt if they’re not. It doesn’t matter that you’re not in high school anymore. The gossip network in Hawkins still runs the same. You won’t be talked about as another one of Steve Harrington’s conquests. 

“Okay,” Steve says. 

You frown at him. “I’m serious. You can’t say anything.” 

“Yeah, I won’t,” Steve agrees. “So, can I?” 

You stare at him a moment longer, unsure whether you should threaten him or something. That went way too easily. After a moment, you grind out, “Fine.” 

Steve undoes your jeans, wriggling his fingers under the soft cotton of your underwear. He wets his lips and concentrates for a second, and you jolt out a small gasp when his thumb lands directly on your clit. 

“Y’okay?” Steve checks, his mouth going for the exposed bit of clavicle over the collar of your shirt. 

“Mhm.” Even the short hum wavers. It’s humiliating. 

You don’t want Steve to have this power over you. You won’t give him that, won’t let him make you all weak and whiny just because he’s good with his hands. You shouldn’t even be here. But you are, and you’ve already committed to this, so there’s only one way you can think to make things even. 

Steve grunts when you press your hand to the shape of him, feeling him through his boxers. His mouth grows more fervid on your skin. Not meaner, to your disappointment, only sloppier. Wet, open-mouthed kisses that won’t leave much of a mark and yet have you tilting your head to the side for more anyways. 

You rub against him more purposefully in retaliation, and then Steve chokes out a gasp, twitching away from you. 

“Wait—” he pants. “I want—I really want to eat you out. Is that okay?” 

You blink up at him. You feel sure you’ve heard him wrong, but every way you play it back, Steve doesn’t say anything different. 

“Okay,” you hear yourself reply. 

“Okay.” Something about Steve seems to relax, and you can’t find any reasonable explanation for that, but then he’s sitting up and taking the waist of your jeans in his hand. “Okay, here, let me help.” 

It shouldn’t surprise you that Steve is good at getting girls’ pants off. You do appreciate that he makes it easier than it would have been for you to do, though, and he takes your underwear with them so there’s nothing in between you when he swings your legs up over his shoulders and gets to work. 

Instantly, your teeth are buried in your bottom lip. You reach for something—anything—to steady yourself, your fingers curling around the corner of a frustratingly plush throw pillow. Jesus fucking Christ, who taught him this?

Steve adjusts you as he goes, hiking you up further on his shoulders, palming your buttcheek and moving it to give himself more room. After a while, when your brain is fuzzy and you can feel your heartbeat in Steve’s mouth, his hand starts to make its way up your torso again. Brown eyes turn up to yours, asking. 

“Fuck it,” you mutter, furious with yourself. Your bra comes off with a few uncomfortable twisting movements, and then Steve’s hand is diving under your shirt, cupping your breast purposefully. 

You swallow a moan. Steve doesn’t bother. 

He moans again when you burrow your fingers in his hair—it’s a nice texture, regrettably—to urge him closer. His sounds reverberate up through you like the knoll of a bell. You tremble as he tightens his grip on you as though to keep you steady. 

“Fuck,” you whine. It feels cruel, the combination of who Steve is and what he can apparently do to you. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction. You don’t. 

Tears prick your eyes. Your voice becomes a breathless, unchecked outlet for your nonsensical stream-of-consciousness. 

“Wait—I’m gonna—shit, Steve—” 

Steve hums questioningly into your cunt—though you think he knows, the asshole—and the last of your self-control shatters. 

The journey back to reality is a slow one. You think you say a few more nonsensical, probably embarrassing things, which you’re lucky enough not to hear. You definitely curl your fingers in Steve’s hair like you’re trying to tear it out at the roots. When the wave of bliss washes away from you, dread and despair are waiting to take its place. 

You’ve just let Steve Harrington between your legs. You whined at him, and you came for him, and you just took him at his word that he wouldn’t turn around and be all Steve Harrington about it. You must be a new breed of idiot. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Hey.” A warm hand rubs the outside of your thigh. “Everything okay?” 

When you open them again, Steve Harrington is still beneath you. And…right. 

Listen, you don’t know if you’re going to let him put his dick in you (you definitely want to, but that might be a psychological problem you should deal with at another time). You do know, however, that as spiteful, and selfish, and generally unpleasant as you can be, you’re not going to leave here without getting Steve off. You give as good as you get.

Without answering his question, you meet Steve’s eyes and reach for his boxers. Only, they’re already wet.

Your brain buffers.

Steve’s expression twinges, and it’s something not quite sheepish. It’s almost shy. And you can’t—it doesn’t. It doesn’t make any sense. 

You doubt you have a track record like Steve, but you’ve had sex before. Some times better than others, definitely improving as you got older. You know what it’s like to come so hard you can’t see, and to make guys come even harder, and what some don’t like and what they all universally enjoy and everything in between. 

You’ve never had one get off from giving you pleasure before. 

Just your luck that it’d be Steve fucking Harrington. 

Steve wets his lips, and you’re not lucid enough yet to keep your eyes from dropping to the movement. The symmetry of them—plumpness given as liberally to the top as it is to the bottom—is just as insanely attractive as it always has been. 

“I might need a minute,” he admits, “if you want to keep going. Can I, uh, get you something to drink?” 

You think maybe you should have one. Your mouth is a desert. You try to picture yourself in Steve Harrington’s kitchen. Will he fuck you there, if you let him? In a place like this, they probably have a maid. You’re going to want to clean up after yourself, but Steve probably won’t have any reservations about you sitting naked on the counter, or even using the angle to make sure you beat him to the punch this time around. Or maybe, you’ll get your something to drink and he’ll wrap your legs around his waist and carry you to his bed. The thought of it—Steve’s bed, with all its associated mythology—doesn’t feel so intimidating as it did when you arrived.

His hands are at his sides, not raised but obviously empty. He crosses the room and stands in front of you, and he takes your face into his hand slowly. You’re inclined to let him. You love him, dramatically but also intrinsically, and it means you trust him even when your brain sees a pattern it shouldn’t have. You feel silly, and his gentle action lets your heart rest. 

Clark really wouldn’t hurt you.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

“For what?” You match his volume, and his weak tone. 

“Sorry beyond words.”

“It’s okay, Clark. You just– I don’t like to be laughed at, you know that.”

“It was cruel, but it’s not why I’m sorry now. Gosh, can you forgive me?”

You don’t have time to think of the answer as his hand lowers, his thumb rubbing your cheek, and Clark takes a knee in front of you. He’s so tall it doesn’t actually make him small, but it puts him at eye level now, and his agony is plainly written. He looks so guilty. You aren’t sure what to do in the face of his reaction. You squirm back in your seat but cover his hand on your face to keep, worried he’ll pull away. 

“You can’t laugh at me,” you say, your voice growing tight as though there’s fingers pressing against your windpipe, “you know I can’t stand it, you made me feel stupid.”

He squeezes his eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”

“We need to be able to talk about things without it turning into such a mean argument, Clark. I’m sorry, too, for not stopping it.”

“Honey, you’re right, but you– you know you just looked at me like you thought I was gonna hurt you, right?” 

You fall silent. 

Clark’s eyes are squinted in pity, or softness, or a place between those two things. “I didn’t mean to scare you, and I wasn’t trying to emphasise anything to you, not my belt, and not my stance, none of it. I never, ever meant to scare you, and I’m so sorry. I never want you to feel scared like that when you’re with me.”

“Clark…”

“What, honey?” he asks, still so quietly. 

It always feels like this, feeling cornered, explaining why. If you accept his apology you admit that he’s right, that he scared you, that your brain found a pathway and followed it to failure. 

You will not cry. You bite your cheek so hard you taste blood, because this will not become a thing. “Clark, it wasn’t like that.”

“Baby, I saw you. I could see how much I worried you.”

“No,” you say, your jaw tough like you’ve been chewing on cud all day, “I just wasn’t expecting the noise.”

He is quiet for long enough to make you nauseous. 

His hand slips down your cheek, retreating in a half-curled fist on your thigh. Any other moment, you’d expect him to sound incensed, he gets so passionate, but right now his voice doesn’t go above a murmur. “I’m sorry I got mad at you, and I’m sorry you were mad at me.”

You wish he were sitting on the sofa. Let you fold into his lap, cry against his thighs. This is now how you’d like to be positioned, yet Clark seems insistent he stay there just below you, patient and quiet if squirmy, wanting to say more and worried he’ll overwhelm you. 

You know your Clark. 

“Do you think you’d hit me?” you ask softly.

“Never.”

“You swear?” you ask, like it does anything at all to be promised. 

Still, Clark rubs each of your thighs nicely with the flat breadth of his palms. “I swear. I shouldn’t have let myself get agitated, and I was careless. I know you need a soft touch– please, just listen.” You close your mouth. “You need a softer touch sometimes, it is not a shameful thing to need. I didn’t say it to embarrass you.” 

“Well, what if you did hit me, Clark? It’s not like I could stop you.”

It feels mean after you’ve said it, like the insinuation that he’s going to do just that, hurt you because he can and you can’t stop it, but Clark doesn’t take it that way, he just lets his hands travel up your legs. He’s sunken further into the carpet, reduced and reduced until he’s practically got his forehead on your knees. 

“I won’t let anybody put their hands on you, least of all me,” he says quietly, his eyes just a little wet.

You say sorry the only way you can—you press your face to the top of his head and breathe in the smell of his hair. “I know you wouldn’t,” you say. 

“I won’t laugh at you again.”

“Laugh at me, Clark, what does it matter? What a stupid argument.”

Clark is sorrier than he needs to be, maybe. While he did make you flinch, it wasn’t that your nervous system held any evidence against him, it was pure fight or flight at a bad time. You ask if he can sit on the couch, if you can curl into his lap, and Clark doesn’t make you feel bad for needing to be touched nicely while your heart flips up and down.