𓏵 𝙿𝙴𝙿𝚂𝙸𝙿𝙾𝙴𝚃 𓏵

"Oooo girls, they wanna have fu-u-un..."

You sang (screamed)–dressed in mismatched socks, an old Hawkins High T-shirt and pyjama shorts, your hair tied up and hanging together by sheer determination, sliding across the kitchen tiles with a whisk doubling as your microphone.

You weren't exactly giving Cyndi Lauper a run for her money, but the half-empty bottle of red wine sitting on the counter was doing a fairly decent job of convincing you otherwise.

You swung open the oven door, immediately being hit by a wave of warm, sugary goodness. Tilting your head, you squinted at the tray of cookies. Misshaped and definitely not done.

You hummed, and with a decisive nod that suggested you had far more baking expertise than you actually possessed, you pulled the rack out slightly and turned the tray around. "There," you informed the cookies. "That'll fix you."

Whether it actually would remained to be seen.

You shut the door and immediately reached for your wine glass, taking a long sip as the next song drifted through the radio. The red wine was pleasantly cool against your tongue, and you leaned back against the counter, swaying slightly to the music.

For a moment, a thought slipped through the haze of music and sugar and warm cookie-scented air. An unwanted thought that maybe, just maybe this wasn’t what a twenty-something-year old should be doing when she got the house to herself. Rather than say, have friends over; you knew the older members of the gang were free tonight bar Robin who had a late shift at the squawk. 

Maybe you should, instead, be throwing some crazy party that people would talk about for years or, maybe—maybe you should have invited a boy over. 

You immediately shook your head, as if you could physically dislodge the thought from your head. If only it was that easy; because yes, there was a boy… but he didn't want you. Not the way you wanted him.

An annoyingly familiar ache settled itself into your chest, yet again. Unwelcome. Persistent. Stupid, really, considering you'd spent months (years, if you’re honest) trying to convince yourself you were over it. Over him. And his stupidly, beautiful face and stupidly soft hair and stupidly sweet smile and–

The shrill ding-ding-ding-ding-ding of the egg timer nearly sent you through the ceiling.

"Jesus Christ!" You slapped a hand against your chest, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass as your heart launched into your throat. You might have definitely, completely and utterly forgotten that you’d set that. 

You flicked the timer off and immediately opened the oven door, a wave of warm air washing over you. The cookies had finally reached that perfect golden colour around the edges, chocolate chips melted into glossy puddles across the tops.

Far better company than Steve Harrington.

The thought slipped in uninvited.

You groaned. Apparently your brain wasn't finished torturing you. Or lying to you. 

Because as much as you wanted to deny it—and would, repeatedly. As much as you wanted to roll your eyes and pretend otherwise, given the choice between a tray of fresh cookies and Steve Harrington?

Well.

It wasn't exactly the cookies you were thinking about at night now, was it? 

Curled beneath your blankets, a plate of still vaguely warm cookies balanced beside you and your wine glass perched precariously on your nightstand, you watched Ronald Miller grin at Cindy Mancini like she was the only woman in the world through the glow of your television screen.

You hadn’t stopped glaring at it. "Oh, please." As if any man was actually like this, well– 

The cookie paused halfway to your mouth. 

On screen, Ronald was pulling that awkwardly charming routine that was clearly supposed to make audiences swoon. It made you scoff. Actually scoff. He wasn’t that charming. Okay , maybe a little… but he tried way too hard. Steve never even had to try. Steve could walk into a room wearing a ridiculous sweater, carrying six video tapes and complaining loudly (maybe a little obnoxiously), and somehow every eye would still end up on him anyway.

Not based on true events obviously but who cares. The wine certainly didn't. Because suddenly Ronald Miller wasn't even on the screen anymore.

Instead, your mind wandered to broad shoulders, to hands constantly pushing through impossibly soft hair, to warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners. It was deeply unfair.

The man couldn't even complain properly.

Somehow, even when he was whining about Dustin dragging him across town for some ridiculous emergency or being roped into babysitting duties for the kids yet again, he still managed to be annoyingly endearing.

Ronald Miller might have looked good in a varsity jacket, but Steve had spent years making one look utterly unfair.

You could still picture him leaning against his BMW outside Hawkins High, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, letterman jacket hanging open, sunlight catching in his hair while half the female population of Hawkins suddenly found excuses to walk past. 

The truly irritating part?

Time hadn't fixed the problem. If anything, it had somehow made it ten times worse.

Because somehow Steve Harrington had traded a varsity jacket for a stupid lime-green Family Video vest and had still come out winning.

You could picture him again outside waiting at the end of the day, one arm hanging out the driver's side window, sunglasses shoved into his hair; though this time he was here for you… and Dustin but that’s beside the current point.  

On those rare, glorious days you made it to the car alone, his face would immediately light up. "Hey, Henderson."

Then he'd be out of the car, arms wrapped around you before you could even blink, squeezing you in a quick hug that always lasted just long enough to leave you smiling afterwards. Who are you kidding? Just seeing him made you smile for days afterwards. 

If Dustin got there first, however, it was a completely different story. 

Steve would immediately become trapped in one of your brother's endless monologues while you trailed behind, rolling your eyes as Dustin launched into a detailed explanation of whatever "disaster" had occurred that day. You'd get a quick smile thrown your way as Steve somehow managed to keep up with the conversation, and then you'd open the back door yourself, sliding into your usual seat while the two of them continued talking/bickering.

But then there were summers. 

Summers were the worst. 

Long afternoons at the lake with the entire gang sprawled across towels and blankets. Robin and Eddie stretched out in the sun. Dustin arguing with Steve about music. Nancy pretending she wasn't people-watching while reading a book. Or days at the local public pool. Dustin loudly insisting he could swim despite never having taken a single lesson because he'd skipped them in favour of science classes. You and Steve watching his every move. 

Steve always so close, yet never really there. Sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes, swim shorts hanging low on his hips, and a permanent tan that appeared every summer without fail. The sunlight always seemed to cling to him somehow, turning his skin golden after mere minutes outside.

It was annoying. It was all very, very annoying.

Especially when he laughed and tipped his head back, exposing the line of his throat, or stretched his arms above his head after a swim like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing to the people around him.

Not that you were paying attention. Obviously.

However, more than once you had caught Max and El whispering to each other, looking in Steve's direction. The second you'd followed their gaze, both girls would immediately start grinning.

Which was rich.

Because at least they had the excuse of being teenagers.

You were a grown woman.

A grown woman who should have been perfectly capable of sitting beside Steve Harrington without becoming acutely aware of every accidental brush of shoulders, every lazy smile, every moment he turned toward you and gave you his full attention.

He was the sun.

And you, despite knowing better, had spent years turning your face towards him anyway.

God, you needed a stronger drink–you were turning poetic. 

Or, as Eddie constantly insisted, you needed to get laid. Preferably by Steve, but at this point, you'd probably settle for anyone willing to knock some sense into you. ‘Cause god did you need some. 

The man was lucky he was your best friend otherwise you would have hit him. It also helped that he was.. maybe not entirely wrong but whatever. 

With a sigh, you reached for your wine glass and took another long sip, determined to focus on the next movie instead of your increasingly embarrassing train of thought.

Let's be honest, if any man was capable of making you stop thinking about Steve Harrington, it should have been Westley.

The man literally crossed countries, fought pirates, survived torture and came back from the dead for the woman he loved.

Objectively speaking, that was insanely romantic.

Steve would do that. Your mind immediately countered. 

You groaned. "No, he wouldn't."`like saying it aloud might make that true but, hadn't he already kind of done that. 

Not the pirate part. Obviously.

But the rest?

The man had been beaten up, battered, dragged through a nightmare dimension and survived being tortured by Russians, all because somebody he knew needed help.

Because that's who Steve was. 

You stared at the television, but your mind had already wandered. To a day you’d recalled more times than you can remember. Back to Steve leaning against a tree, chest rising and falling in sharp breaths as everyone caught their bearings. Dirt streaked across his skin. Dried blood along his cheekbone. His hair shoved back from his forehead with trembling hands.

You remembered the fear first.

Then maybe, a little jealousy. The way Nancy had stood so close to him afterwards. The way Steve had looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him upright. Like seeing her there had made everything worth it.

You weren't necessarily proud of those feelings.

But you did have a pretty good defence, if you say so yourself. You'd been in love with the boy for years and had just survived being attacked by a swarm of murderous bats in an alternate dimension. Emotions were running a little high. Okay?

You definitely hadn't found any of it attractive at the time. You'd been too busy being terrified. Too busy trying not to imagine what would happen if Steve–if any of you—didn't make it home.

But afterwards?

Now, a few years later, safe in your room with a glass of wine and absolutely no sense of self-preservation?

Well. Now your mind could wonder. And god, did it like to. 

Steve had looked wrecked that day—hair matted with sweat, jaw tight, his usual charm stripped away—but strong. Too strong for someone bleeding in another dimension. 

You remembered the split skin across his chest. The way he'd dragged himself upright despite every reason not to. The way his first concern had been everyone else. Nancy. Robin. Any of you. All of you.

Fuck. Your breath hitched.

Yes, he was hot. Broad shoulders, strong arms, sun-kissed skin and a smile capable of causing minor structural damage to your common sense. Yes, he was handsome. Sharp jaw, warm brown eyes, impossibly good hair and the sort of face that made complete strangers trust him immediately.

But beautiful?

Beautiful was different.

Beautiful was the way kindness seemed woven into him. The way he always made room for one more passenger in his car, one more problem to carry that was never his to begin with.

Beautiful was the way he laughed with his whole chest. The way he looked at the people he loved like they hung the damn moon but never expected it in return. The way he threw himself in front of danger without a second thought if it meant somebody else got to go home. 

Beautiful was Steve Harrington, entirely unaware that he was.

God, you needed to get over Steve. Or at the very least get your mind off him. And while you couldn't exactly follow Eddie's advice to a tee, you did have something better than another man.

Something pink, buzzing, and stashed in the bottom drawer of your nightstand—purchased on a whim after one too many late-night fantasies involving a certain ex-jock-turned-bat-wilding-hero. Your fingers twitched toward the drawer before you hesitated, glancing at the still-open bedroom door. A reckless laugh bubbled up—since when did you care about locking doors? 

The house was empty. It was only slightly ajar; enough that you’d surely hear if your mom came home early. Though she never did on book club nights; her and Belinda always cracking open a few too many bottles and turning what was supposed to be a two-hour book discussion into an all-night event she needed picking up from no earlier than midday the next day.

Your fingers fumbled against the drawer handle—once, twice—before finally yanking it open with a little more force than absolutely necessary. The vibrator was cool against your palm, its smooth surface already warming as your thumb flicked on the lowest setting then the next. 

The first press between your thighs was electric, blunt and insistent through the thin fabric of your shorts. 

Your breath stuttered out as you arched into it, your free hand gripping the sheets beneath you. The movie’s dialogue blurred into static, replaced by the low, persistent hum vibrating against your skin. 

Fuck, you’d forgotten how good it felt—or maybe you’d just never let yourself just be in the moment, too wrapped up in the fantasy of someone else’s hands, someone else’s mouth. 

But this? 

This was all you. 

Your fingers curled tighter around the toy as you slipped it beneath your waistband to drag it against your already damp panties; shorts discarded halfway down your thighs.

Adjusting the angle of the toy until your hips jerked up on their own accord—until the pressure was perfect, relentless, too much and not enough all at once. 

The sound that escaped you was embarrassingly loud—half-moan, half-sigh—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when you were home alone, not when the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter and–

You bit your lip, hard, but it did nothing to stifle the next noise, high and breathless as your hips stuttered against the mattress. 

God, you were close—so close you could already feel the tension building, tightening like a spring in the pit of your stomach—but you didn’t want it to end just yet.

Your fingers fumbled for the dial, twisting it down—just enough to take the edge off, to draw it out—and you groaned at the loss.

Your free hand drifted up, fingers skimming over your stomach, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt—your touch hesitant, almost unfamiliar–God, it really had been far too long. 

Your breath hitched when your fingertips brushed over your nipples—already peaked beneath the fabric—and you rolled one between your fingers, testing the pressure. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, you were— 

“Henderson?” 

Steve knocked twice before trying the handle.

Nothing.

He frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The lights were on. Dustin knew they had plans tonight. Dustin had already forgotten they had plans last week, leaving Steve sitting outside the arcade for nearly forty minutes before he realised the little asshole had completely forgotten–he better not have stood him up, again. 

"Dustin?" he called through the door.

Silence. With an exasperated sigh, he pushed the door open. It moved without any fight. "Mrs. Henderson?"

Still nothing.

The house wasn't empty. It couldn't be. Door unlocked. The television was playing somewhere upstairs, faint enough to be distant but loud enough to carry down the hallway.

Knowing exactly how much your mom hated shoes in the house, Steve carefully shut the door behind him before toeing off his sneakers beside the mat.

"Dustin?" he called again as he wandered further inside, reaching the kitchen—which quite frankly looked like a war zone. 

Flour dusted the countertops. Mixing bowls sat abandoned beside the sink. A cooling rack crowded with freshly baked cookies occupied most of the available space, and an almost-empty bottle of wine stood proudly amongst the chaos.

Immediately, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You.

This had you written all over it.

He could practically picture you here. Music blaring. Dancing around the kitchen. Leaving a trail of destruction in your wake while baking something sweet. Without thinking, he reached over and stole a cookie. For investigative purposes. Of course. 

"Henderson?" he called again, louder this time. 

The smile slowly faded.

Normally he'd have gotten some sarcastic response from upstairs by now. A yell telling him to help himself. A complaint about Dustin. Something.

Instead, the house remained strangely silent.

Then he heard it.

The sound was faint. Barely audible over the television upstairs. Soft. Unfamiliar. His brows immediately pulled together. "Henderson?"

Still no response, but then it happened again. His stomach dropped–you sounded distressed or hurt. And then suddenly every possible worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.

Had you fallen? Burned yourself? Passed out? Those were some of the tamer possibilities.

Steve's mind had spent entirely too much time fighting monsters and interdimensional horrors to jump to reasonable conclusions anymore. "Henderson!"

The next time it happened he was moving–fast–crossing the living room and heading for the stairs.The television continued playing somewhere above him. Another similar sound drifted down.

Softer this time. Weaker. Definitely coming from your room. Concern tightened violently in his chest. 

Steve Harrington had never been particularly good at ignoring people he cared about when they might need help. And he was even worse at ignoring you. 

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his heart was hammering against his ribs. The hallway stretched out before him, your bedroom door sitting slightly ajar at the end.

You'd never been particularly good at shutting doors. Still, Steve slowed as he approached, his stomach twisting tighter with every step.

"Henderson?" he called again, voice softer now.

Nothing.

Then another sound came from inside the room, and Steve's concern sharpened instantly because that had definitely not sounded right.

Without thinking, he pushed the door open and nearly passed out at the sight in front of him.

“Henderson?”

The word left his mouth before he could stop. He stood frozen in your doorway like he’d just walked into yet another alternate dimension. Because this—this—was not happening. Couldn’t be happening. Not with you. Not with him. Not you with your back arched off the bed, pajama shorts rucked down around your thighs, one hand shoved beneath your shirt and the other disappearing past the waistband of your—Jesus Christ—underwear. 

His brain short-circuited. 

So did yours. Evidently. As your hands stayed in the same place for another half a second. 

Steve's knuckles went white around the doorframe. His pupils dilated—dark and drowning—before snapping up to your face. Trying and failing to look like he hadn't seen anything.  

Your body locked up, legs snapping shut with a mortified squeak, yanking your hand out from under your waistband so fast you nearly elbowed yourself in the ribs. Pulling your shorts up to recover some form of modesty. The vibrator clattering to the floor—still buzzing—but neither of you moved to grab it. 

A sharp inhale. Then—silence. Well silence bar the buzzing. The kind that makes your ears ring. The kind that makes you wish a Demogorgon would burst through the ceiling and swallow you whole. 

The wine haze evaporated in an instant, replaced by the kind of embarrassment that makes your skin feel two sizes too small. 

Steve cleared his throat. Twice. "So." His voice cracked. "Uh." His gaze skittered away—past your shoulder, over your bed-frame, to the wall—anywhere but down. "Cookies were good." 

You wanted to disappear, to fall through the floor all the way to the upside down to–your eyes involuntarily moved down. 

Oh. God. 

Did your mind make this up? Did your fantasies catch up to you? 

But the grey sweatpants. The thick outline pressing against the fabric. The way his fingers twitched slightly—subtle, reflexive. 

You needed him to leave. Now. Not so you could finish—Christ, no—but so you could plan your escape from Hawkins immediately. No way were you ever facing anyone again—let alone him. You were going to live the rest of your days at a convent somewhere far, far away until the sheer level of embarrassment overwhelms you and you die.  

But your traitorous body didn’t get the memo. 

Heat pooled low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively—like you could trap the ache between them and suffocate it. Spoiler: it didn’t help. Not in the slightest.

Not when Steve’s nostrils flared slightly, his grip tightening on the doorframe like he was physically restraining himself from—from what? Entering? Leaving? Dropping to his knees and finishing what you’d started? 

No. Your brain screeched. No no no. This is reality. Earth-shattering. Life-ending reality. 

Then—movement. Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before stepping forward—not out—into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with finality. 

He took another step, then another until his knees bumped against the edge of your mattress, his chest rising and falling unevenly. 

“So,” he said again, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it and his fingers brushed against the hem of your shirt, tentative, questioning—shaking.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his thumb traced the dip of your hipbone through the fabric. Testing the waters. Giving you time to push him away—to laugh it off—to pretend this wasn’t happening—but your body betrayed you (or, more accurately, did you a favour) by arching into his touch instead. 

Hey, maybe you could pretend this was just another fantasy. That the wine had gone to your head. But you knew the wine had left your system the second you heard your name in that breathless, low voice of his. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathed before his hand slid down then slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. Warm. Calloused. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t have been possible—not when he’d never touched you like this before. Or really at all.

The TV flickered—Westley’s face melting into static—casting shadows across Steve’s expression. His lips parted slightly as his fingers brushed over your stomach, tracing a line upwards.  “Is this okay?” he murmured, and you nodded (a little too quickly).

Steve chuckled lowly, completely not believing that this was really happening and in the glow of the television, you could truly see how red his cheeks were. His hair—always perfect, always soft—was mussed from nervous fingers running through it. 

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat—if he knew how loud it was—how fast—how yours matched the frantic rhythm of his own pulse beneath your fingertips when you finally reached for him.

His breath hitched when your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until his knee pressed between your thighs and the heat of him seared through the barrier of your shorts. 

You weren’t sure who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you–it probably was—but suddenly his lips were on yours, hungry and insistent, swallowing every gasp, every moan, every desperate noise you didn’t have the sense to be embarrassed about anymore. He’d seen worse just moments ago. 

His knee pressed harder between your thighs—an accident, perhaps, but one that made your hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, chasing the relief you’d had to put on pause.

Steve groaned against your mouth, his fingers tightening on your waist as your hips rolled against him—slow at first, then faster—each grind drawing another ragged sound from him, another whimper from you.

"Jesus—" His breath hitched when you arched up again—his praise coming out in rough whispers between kisses—"fuck, Henderson, knew you’d be like this” His fingers tangled in your hair, gentle but firm, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. "Knew you’d be a good girl—god, knew you'd be perfect—"

The words sent a shiver down your spine—how long had he thought about this? How long had he imagined you like this?—but the thought shattered when his thumb brushed over your nipple, sending sparks skittering across your skin.

You gasped and Steve grinned against your lips, chasing the sound with his tongue before pulling back just enough to murmur, "Yeah? That good?" His knee pressed harder between your thighs—without a doubt not an accident—and your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. "C'mon, baby—let go for me."

And you do. So hard and so sudden you didn’t even realise you were that close. 

He gently eases his knee back, but his mouth doesn’t leave yours. His thumb traces idle circles against your hipbone as you come down, as your breathing slows. “Sound better than I ever imagined,” he murmurs, voice rough with something like wonder, like he can’t quite believe you’re really here with him, like this—after so many years being so close yet so far. 

He’s not the only one. 

You blink up at him—dazed, boneless—and Steve’s grin turns crooked, smug in a way that should be infuriating but just makes your stomach flutter instead. His free hand drifts up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead, “You good?” 

You nod and his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone before he leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your forehead. 

Then he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and you both smile. Then laugh. Quiet at first, huffed against each other’s lips, before it bubbles up properly—giddy and disbelieving—until you’re both breathless again for entirely different reasons. 

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, wrinkling the fabric further as he shifts slightly but his grin falters when his gaze drifts lower. A slow blink. Then—"Oh." His throat works. "That’s—uh." His fingers twitch against your hip. "Still going."

Your brain catches up a beat too late—the buzzing still faint but unmistakable—and your mortified squeak cuts off abruptly when Steve abruptly slides off the bed. Not to leave, but to scoop the vibrator off the floor with a curious tilt of his head. Like he’s inspecting some alien artefact.

“Huh," he murmurs, thumb brushing over the controls before glancing back at you—your breathing still too fast, your thighs still trembling—and his grin turns certifiably wicked. "Ever used the highest setting?” 

Your breath hitches—sharp and punched-out—before you’re lunging for it, but Steve twists away effortlessly, holding it just out of reach.

"Steve—" His name comes out embarrassingly close to a whine, but he just laughs, warm and breathless, before leaning back in. His lips brushing your ear as his free hand skims up your thigh.

"C’mon, Henderson," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement and something darker. "Thought you liked a challenge?"

The man knew you far too well. 

You pout because yes, you enjoyed that, but you wanted more. Quite honestly you wanted him. You’d waited long enough.

Your fingers curl into his shirt once again, tugging him closer; peering up at him with eyes so readable Steve hesitates before his grip tightens on your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. "Hey," he says softly, suddenly serious in a way that makes your stomach flip. 

"I wanna do this right," he murmurs, and your brows pinch together—confused, impatient—until he continues, voice rough with sincerity. "The first time—our first time—I want it to be right. For you. For us.” 

He paused, before seeming to get lost in his own thoughts as he rambled, “I want us to go out on a real date first. Dinner-or-or a picnic. Whatever you want–I mean not whatever whatever. Golden dragon with the killer egg rolls and the duck you love. Then we’d go to the drive-in and see The Princess Bride” - you blush even deeper, eyes briefly flickering behind him,“or Sixteen Candles or honestly whatever cheesy rom-com is on because I know those are your favourites even though you never admit it.” 

And he's still going.

"And if it rained, we'd just stay in the car. Bring blankets. Hot chocolate. Maybe sneak in extra snacks because the food at the drive-in sucks. Then I’d drive you home and–"

You wanted him to keep going–forever preferably–but "Steve." You needed him to take a breath. 

He blinks, face screaming that he’d said way more than he ever intended. "...What?"

“You thought about this?” You can’t hide the shock and quite frankly awe in your voice as you stare up at him all starry eyed. 

"I have." His eyes stay locked on yours, impossibly open, impossibly honest. He pauses. Takes a deep, deep breath before adding, "...A lot."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. He’d thought about this. Not, just a brief oh that would be nice–no, he’d planned it. Curated it for you. Remembered your favourite food, your favourite movies.  

Steve takes your silence as something else entirely–you can practically see his mind going a hundred miles-per-hour—so, slowly, you reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Then you let your fingers drift through his hair.

You swear your heart does a complete somersault at the look in his eyes–softer than you've ever seen them–and the way he unconsciously leans into your touch. You’d thought about doing this—brushing your fingers through his hair, being this close, kissing him—for years. And now here you are.

You really needed to pinch yourself subtly because there was absolutely no way this was real. 

You think if this was all you could ever have of Steve–a quick fuck because he’d caught you touching yourself–you honestly don’t know if that would be better or worse than having never had him at all.

Better because at least you knew, in some capacity, he felt something for you too; even if that was just base-level attraction.

Worse because you knew what it was like to have him so close. You knew how he kissed. You knew the exact shade of brown his eyes turned when he looked at you from this close.

Before you could pretend. Now you knew. And you knew you’d never be able to forget a moment of it. 

But here he was. Telling you outright that he didn't want this to be all you had. And not just that—he wanted more. Had planned for more. Planned for all of it.

And somehow, impossibly, he wanted it all with you. 

So, could you wait? 

Yes. Yes you could. 

Especially if you got a free chinese.

"I'd like that," you murmur. The words barely audible–inaudible if his face wasn't inches from yours. 

His eyes widened, looking genuinely shocked, as if the last few minutes had been wiped from memory. Or maybe as though he'd never expected you to want this.

To want more.

“Yeah?” The single word is so hopeful, so achingly sincere, that it makes something in your chest squeeze painfully tight.

“Yeah.” 

The smile that breaks across Steve's face is immediate–the kind that made his nose scrunch slightly at the bridge. For a moment, you just stayed like that. Smiling at each other like the lovesick idiots you were, caught somewhere between disbelief and happiness.

Then the faint buzzing seeps back into it.

Your eyes flicked to it simultaneously, the object still clutched in his hand, then back to each other and then you were laughing, breathless and giddy, foreheads bumping as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

His thumb hovered over the power button of the vibrator, his breath still uneven from laughter. "We can stop—" he started, already moving to switch it off, but your hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist with a boldness that surprised even you.

"Or we could..." Your grip tightened slightly, guiding his hand back toward you. "...not?"

Steve’s throat worked visibly. Frozen in place once again, his eyes locked on yours as your legs parted slightly.

Then he moved. Fast and clumsy and perfect all at once. His free hand cradled the back of your neck as he kissed you again, deeper this time, all heat and barely restrained want. You could feel the shape of his grin against your lips when you arched into him, your thighs bracketing his hips as he leaned over you. 

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts with a reverence that made your breath catch—not tugging, not demanding, just resting there, warm against your skin, waiting. Your hips lifted instinctively and Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before dragging the fabric down inch by torturous inch, his knuckles brushing the inside of your thighs as he went. The air was cool against your newly exposed skin, but the heat of his gaze more than made up for it.

The vibrator buzzed faintly between his fingers as he pressed it against the damp cotton of your underwear, the sensation muffled but still electric.

You gasped into his mouth, your fingers twisting into his hair—soft, always so damn soft—as he kissed you with a focus that bordered on worship. His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then lower—to the pulse point beneath your ear, to the hollow of your throat—each touch igniting a fresh wave of heat under your skin.

Your hands roamed over him greedily, mapping the familiar slopes of his shoulders through his t-shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. His skin was warm, taut with muscle that flexed under your touch as he adjusted the angle of the toy, pressing harder just to hear you whimper.

"Christ, Henderson," he muttered against your collarbone, his free hand skimming up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. "You’re su—" The rest dissolved into a groan when your nails scraped lightly down his back, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, the rough drag of his sweatpants against your inner thighs sending sparks up your spine. “–fuck–good girl.” He scraped out.

The tension coiled tight in your stomach snapped all at once. A sudden, shuddering release that left you gasping against Steve’s shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Your second orgasm hits you even harder than your first. 

Distantly, you registered the choked noise he made against your neck, the way his hips stuttered against yours, the tremble in his thighs where they pressed against the mattress. But the haze was too thick, your own satisfaction too consuming, to parse what it meant well until your hand drifted lower.

You hummed dazed, still riding the aftershocks and reached for him, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants with clumsy intent. But before you could slip beneath the fabric, Steve’s hand covered yours, peeling it away gently.

You blinked up at him, confused, until you caught the flush creeping down his neck—the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a shaky exhale. Then you looked down.

Oh.

The realisation hit you like a bucket of cold water. The strained fabric. The damp spot. The way his thighs tensed when he shifted slightly.

Steve let out a breathless chuckle, his grip on your hip tightening reflexively as you couldn't stop the little breathless giggle you let out. 

His cheeks burned brighter at the sound, one hand coming up to scrub awkwardly at his face as he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Christ," he muttered, voice rough with embarrassment and lingering arousal. "That's—uh—never happened before." 

The admission made your stomach swoop—equal parts giddy pride and aching tenderness—and you reached for him instinctively, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. Steve's breath hitched when your knuckles brushed his stomach, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. And you really couldn't help yourself when you said: 

“Better last longer next time Harrington, or I might regret saying yes.” 

Steve groaned but caught your wrist gently, pressing your palm flat over his thundering heartbeat. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no bite to it, just a breathless warmth you wanted to hear everyday for the rest of your life.

His thumb stroked over your pulse point absently before he exhaled and rolled onto his back beside you, staring up at your ceiling. The silence stretched, comfortable yet still charged, until he turned his head slightly, cheek pressed against your pillow. "So. Drive-in next Friday?"

The casualness of it—the normalcy—startled a laugh out of you. As if you hadn’t just—as if he hadn’t—

The laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest—hysterical and breathless—and you nodded, pressing your cheek into your pillow as you turned to face him.  

“Yeah,” you managed between giggles, the word dissolving into another helpless laugh when Steve grinned and kissed you again, his nose bumping yours awkwardly in his haste. It was messy and off-center and somehow still so goddamn perfect—his lips still curved with laughter as they moved against yours, the taste of shared amusement sweeter than any wine.  

Jesus you were down bad. But luckily for you, so was he. 

Dividers by @designlikenonsense (aka me hehe… had to do some shameless self promo)

P.S. Did not expect the reaction to the teaser... hope whoever interacted with that is not disappointed...

P.P.S. Playing around with paragraph lengths! I always write longer paragraphs, but thought that made it harder to read on here so I've been chopping them up but... I've seen discourse to the opposite so im trialling (what I call) 'mid-length paragraphs'