#loser steve

He’s always had an easy smile for you, or a friendly word. 

But right now, his smile is gone, replaced with a helpless sort of expression. The top buttons of his coaching polo are undone, and his hair looks mussed, like he’s been raking his hands through it. 

“Hi,” he says, a little sheepish. “Sorry to just show up like this, I—”

Something in his gaze shifts, and his lips part as he takes in your outfit. His eyes rake over you. From your stylish updo, to your sultry eye makeup, to your tight dress, and finally settling on your high heels. 

“Oh—wow. You look…really good. I mean—” He huffs an unbelieving breath. Like he’s just remembering where he is. “I’m interrupting. I can go. I’m going. Sorry!”

You rush to stop him. 

“Hi, Mr. Harrington! No, it’s okay. Do you want to come in?” You step aside, motioning inside. 

“God. Steve. Please. Uh, no, I—” He glances back towards his house. “It’s just…well, you’re a girl, right?”

You chuckle. “Last I checked. Is everything okay?”

He groans, running a hand over his face. Your eyes catch on his long, tapered fingers, tanned by the summer sun.

“God, this is embarrassing. That came out bad. Yeah everything’s fine, it’s just my daughter, Lily,  has a ballet recital tonight. And she’s supposed to wear her hair up in this…scrunchy donut thing? And I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and anyway, I’m sorry. You clearly have a date.” He sighs, then his eyes widen. “Or—plans. I didn’t mean to assume—shit, I used to be better at this.”

“What? Asking for help.”

“Talking to pretty girls.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah, that too.”

You know you should feel bad for him. Stressed, overworked single dad, trying to make it to his daughter’s recital on time. But really, with every rake of his hands through his hair, and every shift of his feet, you can’t help but be amused. 

It’s actually, really cute. 

“Relax, Steve,” you say with a smirk, closing your door and stepping down onto the steps with him. “I’m happy to help.”

Relief floods his face. “Oh my God, really? Are you sure? I mean—”

“Really, I don’t mind,” you assure him with a gentle hand on his arm, already pulling up your phone to message the guy on Tinder. “My date seemed boring over text anyway.”

Steve turns away, but as your hand falls from his warm skin, you catch a small, crooked smile starting on the corner of his mouth. “Hmm. Shit texter? Huge red flag."

You smile. “Right. So, where is this ballerina?”

“Oh, she’s inside. Finishing up her dinner. But I have all the supplies…if you wanna come over and save me from completely ruining her life.”

You smile. “I’d love to.” 

Ten grassy steps later, Steve opens his front door for you.

When you step into his home, heels clicking on his polished wood floor entryway, your heart does a little flip. 

There are girl toys everywhere. 

Pinks, and purples, and glitter, and…is that a play castle?

“Daddy?” a little voice calls from somewhere deeper in. 

“Yeah sweetheart, I’m back,” Steve replies, motioning for you to follow him. "Sorry for the mess, we just got back from practice."

The first thing you see when you round the corner into the kitchen, is a tutu—pink frills stuffed up on a barstool, little legs swinging. But where you expect to find ballet slippers dangling, instead, you find dirty baseball cleats.

Steve’s daughter, Lily, looks over her shoulder as you both enter the open doorway. She looks sweet. 

Very sweet—given the jam smeared around her lips, a messy PB&J in her hand. 

She smiles at you, her brown curls a little mussed, just like her dad’s. And on top of her head, rests a princess hat. It’s one of those long cone ones with a ribbon train hanging down her back. 

Upon seeing her state, Steve surges forward and swipes a paper towel. “Honey, you’ve got jelly all over your face—hey, c’mon.” His voice softens as he leans over to wipe her cheek. “Okay, listen, this is our neighbor—” He pauses and looks up at you. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, actually.”

You tell it to Lily, because for some reason, when you meet Steve’s eyes, you can hardly get a word out. 

“She’s going to help you with your hair for the recital, okay?” Steve adds, a little more upbeat, cleaning the last of the sticky sweetness from his daughter’s face and standing up straight again. 

Lily’s eyes light up. “Can I knight her, Dad? Please?”

He looks over at you and rubs the back of his neck. “We’re in a bit of a medieval phase, lately. Lots of fairytale books from the library, and now it’s…a whole thing.” 

“I love fairytales,” you say. Then you turn to Lily and curtsy as well as you can in your little black dress. “I’d be honored, Your Majesty.”

Lily lets out a delighted squeal and slips off the stool, vanishing into the next room. She’s back seconds later, clutching a glittery wand topped with a star. 

You don't miss the way Steve glances at his watch and grimaces.

You slip off your heels and kneel on the cool kitchen tile just as Lily marches up to you, bowing your head solemnly. 

“My lady,” you say, voice hushed for the ceremony, “as my first act as knight, it would be my greatest honor to do your hair.”

Lily lifts her chin, wand raised. 

“Granted,” she declares.

From across the room, Steve sends you an appreciative look. It turns your stomach all warm and melty. 

You stay perfectly still as she taps the plastic star first to your left shoulder, then your right. “I dub thee…Knight Neighbor.”

You lift your head slowly, like you’ve been entrusted with something of great importance. Lily giggles. Then, you stand and gesture to the kitchen table. 

“Amazing work, Your Majesty,” Steve plays along, nudging Lily towards the chair. “Alright, sit tight, and here, look, I have a mirror you can hold." He turns to you, holding up a handful of supplies.“Here, I’ve got a hair tie and the—uh—donut thing. Do you need anything else?”

You nod. “I’ll need a hairbrush. A fine-tooth comb would be best. And some hair gel if you have any.”

Steve disappears down the hallway, and you turn your attention to the little girl sitting in front of you. 

“Lily, I’ll have to take this off to do your hair. Is that okay?” you ask, tapping her cardboard hat. 

“Oh. Yes.” She spins around in her chair to face you. “But I forgot to tell you, you have to call me Princess Lily.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry.”

She turns back around and picks up the mirror. You gently remove her hat and set it aside, careful to place it somewhere it won’t accidentally get stepped on.

“So, Princess Lily, how old are you?” you ask. 

“Five.”

“Wow. So, you run a kingdom, do ballet, and you play baseball?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. Dad says girls can do both.”

You smile behind her, catching her eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “He's right. Girls can do everything.”

Steve’s footsteps thump against the wood as he returns to the kitchen.

 “Okay, I found the comb, but I don’t have gel. Will hairspray work?” he asks, handing you the supplies.

You shrug. “Probably.”

You take a second a second to lay out your supplies, but once everything’s arranged on the kitchen table and you’re expected to start on her hair, you find yourself hesitating. 

The only sounds are the distant hum of a lawnmower somewhere in your neighborhood, and the whisper of tulle from Lily’s tutu as she shifts in her seat. There's nothing wrong, it's just...

Here you are, in your tight date-night dress, barefoot in a kitchen that smells like peanut butter and jelly. 

But it’s not that you feel like you don’t belong here. 

It’s that you feel like you do. 

It’s ridiculous, and completely unreasonable, but you feel it all the same. 

Suddenly, you seem to remember they’re on a time crunch, so you take a steadying breath and quickly smooth back Lily’s hair. 

It’s soft and warm between your fingers as you brush it through. When you spray the hairspray, you guard Lily’s eyes with your hand. She giggles and pretends she’s gone blind. The spray creates a little haze that gathers in the sun beam streaming through the window. 

“This is nice hairspray,” you say dumbly. Partly because it is, but mostly because you don’t know what else to say to fill the silence. You hope Steve can’t hear the rapid staccato of your heartbeat. 

“It’s Daddy’s,” Lily says, 

You look up. Steve’s sending her an incredulous look in the mirror. “I don’t use it that much.”

“You did today,” Lily points out, tilting her face up to look at him. “And you buy girls’ hairspray for yourself!"

She laughs and covers her mouth, like she's just spilled a giant secret.

“Stay still, kid.” Steve scolds, but his hands are gentle as he places a palm on each cheek, turning her to face the mirror again. 

You chuckle softly and look over at him. “You do have nice hair.”

But as the words leave your lips, a blush steals across your cheeks, and you return your gaze to your work. It’s silent for a long moment, and you can feel Steve’s eyes on you like a physical, tangible touch. 

“Thanks,” he says softly. 

The hair tie snaps into place, breaking the tension as you secure Lily’s slicked back ponytail. 

“There,” you breathe. “That’s the hard part. Now, let me show you how to use the scrunchy donut.” 

Steve watches intently as you instruct him in the wild ways of a ballet bun. He nods along, hands on his hips, his breath ghosting your bare shoulder. You show him how to pull the ponytail through and gather her silky strands around the edge, explaining how it makes her hair look fuller. You even show him how to smooth back fly-aways around the edges. But when you finish wrapping her hair, the stubborn ends don’t tuck underneath quite right.

You struggle with it for a minute, then ask, “Do you have any bobby pins?”

Steve exhales, thinking. “Somewhere. I could look around for some—”

“That’s okay. Here—” 

Without thinking, you reach up into your updo and pull the pins free. Your hair tumbles down around your shoulders, and Steve makes a sound behind you, but you’re too busy perfecting Lily’s hair to pay close attention to him. 

You sigh, content, as you step back and review your work. 

“It looks perfect,” Steve says, awe in his voice. “Seriously. Thank you. What do you think, Lil?”

But she’s already slipping off the chair, mirror forgotten. 

“Hey, easy—careful,” he says as she jumps down, half-laughing. 

“Your Majesty, if I may…” you say, stopping her in her tracks. You glance down at her footwear and her eyes follow yours. “Listen, I’m not knocking the shoe choice. But as your knight, its my duty to inform you, that it might be difficult to pirouette in cleats.”

Lily seems to consider this for a long moment. Her little brows furrow together and when her lips twist to the side to think, she looks exactly like her Dad. Something in your chest tightens. 

Steve hurries over and hands her some mini pink ballet flats. “These might work a little better, huh?” He crouches slightly. “You good, or you need backup?”

She shakes her head with a determined tilt of her chin. “No. I can do it.”

“Okay, but hustle, alright? I’m going to walk our knight out. Can you tell her thank you?”

Lily wobbles on one foot as she yanks her cleats off, but it doesn’t stop her from beaming up at you. “Thanks. Bye. And next time you come over, you’ll have a place in the castle!”

You chuckle. “Promoted already, huh? Wow. Knighthood is amazing.”

“Yeah, my dad’s the king, and I’m the princess, so all we’re missing is a queen!” 

You freeze. Your eyes find Steve’s for one charged second before you look away at the same time. 

 Lily nods along to her plan, completely oblivious to the tension in the room as she plops right down on the kitchen floor to slide her flats on. “Sides, your dress is too fancy to be a knight anyhow.”

Steve’s throat bobs on a swallow, and his gaze holds yours for just a second too long. 

“I agree,” he says, finally. “Queen it is.”

“So, King Steve, huh?” you tease him as you slip your heels back on.

Steve tips his head and chuckles, like there’s more to the story and you don’t know the half of it. You wish you could ask him, talk more with him—but he’s already late as it is. 

So, you let him walk you to the door. Outside, the sun is starting to set, casting that perfect golden glow over everything. 

Steve leans on his doorframe and crosses his arms.  You can’t help but notice the way his brown eyes turn to molten honey in this light. 

A heat gathers low in your stomach. Like butterflies, but heavier, and softer. Something you haven’t felt for a long time. 

He sighs, then looks at the ground. “Listen, I’m really sorry I made you miss your date.”

You shake your head. “Trust me, it’s really okay. Dry texter. Remember?”

“Right. Well, I still feel bad. I know how…difficult the whole dating thing is.”

“Me? I’m sure it’s difficult for you.” Your eyes widen. “Not that Lily makes difficult or anything, just that—”

He holds up a hand to stop you, smiling gently. “No, it’s okay. I know what you meant.” He tilts his head and looks out at the sunset. “It’s…different, I guess. But honestly, I think it just makes you a little more careful. Wait for the right person instead of just…going through the motions. You know?”

As he turns back to you and your eyes connect, you know exactly what he means. 

Ignoring the fluttering in your stomach, you turn towards the steps. “Well, have fun tonight. She looks perfect, and I’m sure—”

“Please,” Steve interrupts, reaching for you but stopping himself just in time. “There’s got to be some way for me to repay you for this. You know, according to medieval rules, you’re not supposed to let a knight leave without a token—”

You wave him off. “No token needed.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, leaning a little closer, playful but intent. “Pretty sure it’s bad luck. Like, for a really long time.”

He holds your gaze. A mourning dove coos, hidden in the branches of a tree in his yard, and suddenly, you realize arguing with him about this is fruitless. You aren't leaving his front porch without something.

And if you somehow manage to, it’s not like he doesn’t know where you live. If he’s as insistent as you think he is, he’ll leave flowers at your door, or you’ll pull up and find him mowing your lawn…better just to get it over with now. 

“Alright, fine,” you concede with a laugh and a gentle roll of your eyes. “What’s the traditional token for knights, huh? A handkerchief? A free beer—” 

“A kiss.”

Your eyes snap to his. Your stomach flips as he tilts his head in an unspoken challenge.

“What do you say?” he murmurs. “Will you accept?”

You can’t stop the way your eyes drop to his lips. Even if you tried. 

 “I will.”

He casts one hurried glance over his shoulder into the house, but the coast must be clear because when he turns back to you, his eyes simmer with heat. 

Your breath hitches as his arm shoots out, wrapping around your waist and pulling you in like he’s been waiting all night to do it. You’re close enough to smell the grass on him from the baseball field, the hairspray in his hair.

His breath caresses your lips, and you feel your eyes slip shut as he leans in. Your noses bump, and you both laugh softly. You’re still smiling when his lips brush yours. 

It’s a hesitant, soft thing. A thank you but in kiss form—genuine and warm. 

But when your fingers find his shirt, and you tilt your chin, inviting a firmer touch, he sighs into your mouth. 

It’s a relieved, desperate sound, as if he hasn’t been touched in ages. Something twinges deep in your chest, and your hand reaches up, threading into his hair and pulling him closer. 

That earns you a deep groan, and when his tongue brushes yours, your ankle buckles in your high heel. 

God, the man can kiss. 

Slow and steady, but hot and needy all at once. It’s so good it makes your head spin. 

“Daddy?” Lilly calls from inside. “I’m ready!”

This kiss breaks, both of you pulling back at the same second. 

But he doesn’t let you go immediately. His hand finds the back of your neck, slipping under your hair, and you swallow hard. You linger there, nose brushing again. Like you’re both barely holding yourselves back from falling into each other again.

“Thank you,” Steve whispers, his voice raspy now. And somehow, you know he means for more than just Lily’s hair. 

“You’re welcome,” you murmur breathlessly.

The soft pitter-patter of ballet slippers coming closer finally has you taking a step back. 

His hands slip from you reluctantly as you step down the stairs.

“And if you ever need anything else…” you wink over your shoulder, just to make sure he catches your drift. “Your knight is right next door.”

a/n: listen, my friend was telling me her husband didn't know how to do a ballet bun for their daughter's dance recital, and she hadn't even finished speaking before my fingers were FLYING typing this up in my notes app.

divider by @cursed-carmine | steve masterlist | come yell at me

“Uhhh—” His breath rasps through the speakers. “Sorry. I just…I found the napkin. The one with your number. It was at your table. In your seat. And I’m just gonna go ahead and assume it wasn't for the groomsman sitting next to you. I’m hoping you wanted me to find it. Y’know, since I was the one bussing the tables and refilling drinks and everything—well. You know all that.”

He huffs a nervous little laugh that sends your heart skittering. You hear the jingle of keys, then the crank and roar of an engine purring to life. 

Of course you left your number for him. But you didn’t expect him to be so eager that he’d call before even pulling out of the venue parking lot.

You finally win the war with the bobby pins, and when the last one pings onto the ground, you sigh with relief. You’ll pick them up later. Just not at one in the morning, and maybe when you’re a little less prone to falling on your ass.

You turn up the volume on the old house phone so you can hear the cute guy ramble better and round the corner into the small kitchen to pour yourself a glass of wine.

You might regret this in the morning, but what the hell. 

It’s a Saturday night. You just watched your best friend get married, and you pulled off every maid-of-honor duty flawlessly.

You deserve to celebrate. 

When you flick the light on, the modern light fixture blazes to life, searing into your eyes. 

Jesus. Where’s the dimmer knob? There. Good. Dim is good. 

“Anyway,” Steve continues, “I guess I just wanted to call and say…well, it was really nice meeting you tonight. I mean, not that we really met, exactly...” His voice fades slightly, and you imagine him pulling the phone away, cringing at himself. 

You smile. 

“We…saw each other, I mean.” He finishes lamely. 

Saw each other. From the way you were eye-fucking across the crowded dance floor? That’s a bit of an understatement. 

The gurgle of wine filling your glass briefly drowns out the low rumble of the road through the phone. 

“Okay, let me start over,” he says. “Sorry. I’m—I’m already not the best at this, and it’s been a long night. I took this job kind of last minute because the venue needed some extra people…you don’t care. Point is…I think you’re probably the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my life. No! Jesus. Not probably. Definitely. Without a doubt. See? I’ve lost my composure over your beauty already.”

You shake your head, a small smile playing on your lips. Charming. 

“When you walked in, I was carrying two trays of stuffed mushrooms to the food table. But I was so distracted by you that I didn’t notice where I was going until I ran straight into the mother of the groom. Full collision. Mushrooms were everywhere. She chewed me out, of course. Then, the caterer. So, I got banned from the kitchen. Thus…drink duty.”

You chuckle, remembering his stunned, slightly sheepish expression when the groomsman seated across from you asked him if the chicken would taste better paired with a Pinot Noir or a Sauvignon Blanc. 

You exit the kitchen, wine in hand, and head straight for your velvet artisan couch, framed by a twinkling view of the city skyline. 

Steve’s still talking, so you tune back in as you sink into the warm cushions. 

Finally. Horizontal. Horizontal is good. 

“…tell you that I wish we had more time tonight. I had this whole opening line. It was good, too. Nothing like this. But then the catering truck broke down outside, and apparently I was the only idiot around who sort of knows their way around a carburetor. So there I was, stuck under a truck in dress pants, thinking about how the maid of honor is inside looking at me like—well, like you were looking at me, and I’m thinking: I’m going to fix this damn truck as fast as I can so no one else has to refill her glass.”

He sighs. You bite your lip. He’s rambling alright. But it’s…endearing in a way. 

“You were the maid of honor, right? I noticed your dress was, like, a different color than the rest of them. But I don’t know shit about weddings, so maybe that’s normal. All I know is, it looked on you…good. Really good. And, well, all of you is really fucking bangin'. Pretty, I mean. Jesus. Just…you can delete this now.”

You can imagine him driving with one hand, the other holding his phone to his cheek. Or maybe he’s got both firmly at ten and two, the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. Brown eyes wide and earnest as he talks, illuminated by passing headlights, tie loose, hair raked through. 

Usually, you find intensely desperate guys a turn off. But there’s something different about Steve. He’s eager, yes, but he’s eager for you. What else might be so eager for? 

You take another sip of wine to steady the rush of lascivious images flooding your mind and whisking through your bloodstream to pool in your core. 

“…was nice of you to pull the bride’s grandfather out on the dance floor,” Steve says. “No one else really caught that, but I did. And that’s when I thought—okay. I want to know her. You. I want to get to know you. Everyone you talked to tonight walked away with a smile. How do you do that?” He pauses for a moment. “Okay, I realize that sounds like I was watching you or something. I swear I wasn’t. I just couldn’t help but…notice you. And you noticed me too.”

You roll your eyes, hiding your smirk behind your glass as if he could somehow see you. 

“Don’t deny it,” he says, and you laugh out loud. “You wouldn’t let any of the other servers near you. Every time your flute went halfway empty, there your eyes went, searching me out in that ballroom.” He’s silent for a moment, then he clears his throat. “I liked it.”

It’s true.

You drank your weight in champagne just to catch a trace of his cologne. To watch the way his long fingers curled around the bottle. To follow the line of condensation sliding over his thumb and forefinger and imagine licking it off. 

With every “let me know if you need anything else” whispered in your ear, the intoxicating fantasies of those hands only spiraled higher. And suddenly, all you could think about was asking him to pull your thighs open. Let him mouth and moan into your cunt with a fervor that could only be described as a service. 

“…and then later, outside,” Steve continues, “Y’know, when we ran into each other? I had just finished with the truck when you rounded that corner at the same time I did. I had engine grease all over my hands, and you were in that dress, and it’s all I’ve been able to think about ever since. About whether I left marks on you.”

Even through your warm, liquored haze, that particular moment stands out clear and crisp. You’d been searching for the best man to warn him that speeches were starting. Someone mentioned he might be outside for a smoke. So you hurried out, hoping to find him out there, and instead collided with something solid and warm in the dark. 

Steve. Steve’s chest, actually. 

His mouth popped open in surprise and his hands flew to your waist to steady you. You’d been breathless, lips inches apart in the dark. But then you remembered your duties. You muttered something about toasts and rushed off, blaming the champagne for the faint dizzy spell and fluttering heartbeat that ensued.

Steve’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Is it messed up that I kind of wish I did? Something to remember me by. That probably makes me a jerk, but I don’t really care, because it’s true. God—I’m sitting here driving, and I realize how insane I sound, but I just can’t….stop. Feel free to delete this at any point.”

You glance down at your dress and pull the fabric into the lamplight. No dark fingerprints. 

Disappointing.

Your mind wanders, filling with images of his rough hands on your waist, your wrists, your neck—leaving smudges you’d have to wash off in the morning. Maybe his mouth would join in, too, leaving some you couldn’t. 

“I kept thinking about kissing you,” Steve says. Your breath hitches. There’s an…edge to his voice now. It’s hot. “All fuckin’ night. I wondered how your lips would taste. All glossy and pink under those candles and roses at your table. And when you looked up at me over the rim of your glass…Jesus.”

The air in your apartment grows heavy and warm. It’s almost as if you can hear the sinful thoughts that mirror yours in his voice. An ache blooms low in your belly. 

Suddenly, a car horn blares. You lurch upright, eyes wide, and stare out the window. The city blinks back at you, sleepy and sated. 

“Shit—” Steve stammers. Oh. The car horn came from the voicemail. Yep. You’re officially past tipsy. “Sorry, I have to pull over. Shit. I can’t—I’m so hard right now I can’t fucking think.”

Your mouth falls open. He’s…pulling over?

That thought alone has you sinking back down against the cushions, your hand slipping beneath the slit in your dress. 

“This has got to be the longest fucking voicemail you’ve ever gotten,” Steve moans. “I swear, I didn’t plan for this call to go…here. I can’t believe your phone is still letting me talk. But you’ve probably deleted it by now anyway. Good. That’s good. Delete this. Please. Maybe then I can try again and ask you out to dinner and a movie like a normal person.”

You’re surprised the machine hasn’t cut him off, too. Then again, it’s an older phone. It came with the apartment, and you never saw reason enough to get rid of it. A perfectly good, working home phone. Besides, the lacquered red piece has kind of grown on you.

“Or…” Steve continues, a little breathless. “Maybe you’re still there? And you’re probably laughing your ass off, listening to me ramble like a loser, pulled over on the side of a highway in my Beamer with my hand down my pants.” 

The soft rasp of his zipper echoes through the room. 

You gasp, eyes screwed shut, breaths leaving your parted lips in short bursts. You can picture him in the dark, his hard cock springing free from his dress pants. His head tipping back against the headrest as he strokes himself hard and fast.

Steve curses softly just as your fingers find your aching clit. How ecstatic would he be if he knew the effect he was having on you?

This isn’t how you usually get off. To a stranger’s voicemail? Usually you have higher standards than this. But something about Steve’s short, punchy whimpers through the speaker has your thighs shaking in less than thirty seconds. 

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I just— I’m sorry, I know this is—” He groans, his voice grows quieter, like he tipped his head back, baring his throat to the phone. “—this is not how this was supposed to go. But I just thought about maybe how—if you were still listening—you might be doing this too. And just thinking about you…touching yourself to this. To me…”

You bite back a whimper.

Wine sloshes over the rim of your glass as your hips arch into your hand. Stray droplets splash onto your chest, staining your expensive mauve dress, but you’re too blissed out to care. You set the glass firmly on the floor, freeing up your other hand to press your middle fingers deep inside yourself and match his pace. 

God, you’re wet. You have been all fucking night. Because of him.

Steve. 

Steve with the soft eyes that constantly found yours beneath the sparkling chandeliers. A smirk lingering on the corner of his mouth as you looked over to find he was already looking at you. That eager-to-please, yet confident posture. The chocolate-brown hair falling over his brow, practically begging for you to run your fingers through it. 

And the way he talks? God. Steve can talk. 

He’s still muttering into the phone, but it’s hard to make it out every word through the harsh breathing going on. But it’s…something about it feeling so good he can’t think straight. Wanting to taste you, to go down on you?

Well, there’s a wish you both share. 

Your hips roll into your palm and and a whimper escapes your throat at the rising pleasure. 

“God, It’s been a-awhile,” Steve says, clearer now. He must’ve moved the phone. “I should probably try harder to go get laid instead of leaving a voicemail for the maid of honor because I can’t stop thinking about her. But on the impossibly slim chance that you’re still there, p-please call m-me back. Please. I know this is crazy, and I don’t deserve it…but I’d make you feel so good. I’d kiss you ’til you begged for me, then I’d spread those pretty thighs and go down on you for fuckin’ hours. I’m really good at it. I swear. And I wouldn’t stop. For as long as you wanted me there, I’d—Fuck, I’m close. I’m so close. I’m….mmmph.”

Your orgasm crashes into you like a rush of champagne. Bubbly, bright, and overwhelming. Your whole body gives into it, relenting as the waves pull you under again and again until you’re boneless against the couch. 

When your head clears and some feeling returns to your body, Steve’s still there. There’s some rustling and some heavy breathing from the phone, like maybe he’s cleaning himself up.

He sighs again. "Just feel free to lose my number at this point. Seriously. I’m—I can’t believe I just did that. I’m not even going to pretend like I still have a shot at asking you out.”

Your heart falls at the defeated tone in his voice. He sounds embarrassed, and tired, and it makes you want to pick up the phone and call him back right this second. 

The crunch of gravel filters through the line, then the rumble of the road is back. 

“But…if you’re there,” he murmurs into the phone. Your stomach flutters. “The last name’s Harrington by the way. Not sure if I said that already. Or not. Oh my god, I’m a loser. Alright. Enjoy your…night. Uh. Yeah, okay. Ending this now. Okay, bye.”

The voicemail ends with a soft beep that makes your chest tighten. Then the automated voice kicks in. 

This concludes your messages. If you would like to delete this message, press one. 

Delete this message? Never. 

If you would like to replay this message, press two. 

Tempting. 

If you would like to return this call, press three.

And you know what? 

You just might. 

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a/n: Listen, all I know is that I have watched the music video for Loser by Tame Impala with Joe Keery way too many times to count, and at some point it turned into a brief obsession with loser!Steve, and this idea was born.

Also, I know I owe you so many chapters on my ongoing fics, but after the week I've had, I just had to follow my creative impulses for a minute. Hope you liked this, too. Okay, back to writing those new chapters now.