#tm!reader

🥮 seonghwa

slow, languid laps into your heat; nose pressed into your cock, absolutely buried in you—moans along with you

fucks his tongue into you, holding you still with his arm draped across your midsection

if you'd allow it, he’d stay down there for as long as he wanted, till you were so worn out you couldn’t even shake from overstimulation

sucks on your t-dick like it’s fucking huge; bobbing his head for emphasis, swirling his tongue around it (understands if you must throw your head back at the sight of it)

never takes his eyes off you, refuses to—makes sure to watch every little reaction you have to everything he’s putting you through

makes sure you do the same, tone sweet yet commanding: “eyes on me, honey.” / “it’s okay, you can do it.”

hongjoong 🍢

genuinely could suffocate himself in you if he wanted—you pull him off you and he gasps like he was drowning; mumbling, panting, moaning into you as he goes on

like a fucking. piranha attack. like fucking jaws. eats you out like he’s a goddamn zombie trying to rip you to pieces

not super coordinated, might graze you with his teeth a little (who knows, you might be into that), but his passion makes up for any mistakes he will make

is trying to make you cry tbh. brings you there quickly and efficiently, will only slow down/stop if you ask

and if you do, he’s all smiles, cocky—”petting” you with light slaps on your boycunt; “was it too much for you?” / “you need a break, baby?” / “was it that good?”

if you push his head back down he’ll get right back to it, with more vigor (not before flashing you a dark look from beneath his lashes)

yunho 🍜

"you gonna eat that?" *pointing at your dick* *stomach rumbles*

doesn’t start off holding onto you, gradually snakes his hands into place when you start fidgeting a bit more frequently, trying to squirm away from his tongue

“relax,” he coos, craning down to capture your cock in his mouth, simultaneously working you open with his fingers

will only tap your cunt if you do the opposite of relax (lightly, not cruel)

do not. bring up the fact that his hips buck when he licks into you. do not do it.

“you like this?” / “yeah? how about this? do you like that?” (he says like he’s unsure, but he just wants to hear you confirm what he already knows)

licks you clean, your cum sitting on his tongue, and then crawls up to make out with you so you can share

🍘 yeosang

messy. so messy and you don’t even know if he realizes (and he doesn’t, until he pulls back, his mouth drenched in you and his own spit)

works you with his mouth and fingers, precise, controlled curling and thrusting

holds you in place with one arm, full concentration on your heat

will pull away to finger you as he attempts to shake his hair out of his face (will quietly thank you if you tuck it for him)

ends that sweet moment by sucking your wetness off his fingers before diving back in

not super talkative (too busy plunging his tongue as deep as it can go); “is right here good?” (he says while swirling around your t-dick, making sure you, also, cannot speak)

san 🥟

you are not moving—his arms are locked around your legs, grip firm but not bruising

short but wide tongue lapping at you like a popsicle—long strokes pronounced by kitten licks in between

closes his eyes when he concentrates, eyebrows furrowed like he’s trying to identify all the flavors on his tongue

plump lips suckling on your dick, encapsulating it in warmth, all while he peers up at you, seeking approval in your reactions

“like this?” / “am i doing good?” / and muttering a string of ‘i love you’s’ and whatever compliment his gradually melting brain can come up with

wants to make sure you know he’s strong enough for you to trap him between your thighs: “you won’t hurt me.” / “i can handle it, sweetie.”

mingi 🍣

slow, long, lazy strokes of his tongue; deliberately prolonged yet deep, pressing as he drags up to your cock, popping it into his mouth momentarily to make you squirm

decides to leave his rings on (cold metal latched onto your thighs as he presses in, leaving you open for him)

his moans rumble through you, encouraged by your hands gripping and petting at his hair

his fingers are a complete 180—hard, quick pumps into your heat, the jewelry tapping your lips in an almost painful experience

bruising grip, like he doesn’t realize his own strength—holding you in place, rings creating divots in your skin where he holds on for dear life

oh so encouraging; strings of “yeah?” whenever your moans pitch and you try arching away from him; “c’mon, do it for me. please.”

wooyoung 🍤

pinches at your clit, just to see what you’d do (laughs if you jump, short and high)

strokes your dick with his fingers while he laps into your cunt, making sure he’s buried deep enough that his nose is flush with you

lightly taps your cunt with his fingers, for good measure, in part to get a reaction and almost to say "good job"

talks you right along your orgasm; short, quick, repetitive, “mhm,” “yeah,” “there you go,”—“c’mon, pretty boy, you got it,” fingers aiding in the process

immediately pressing to see if you can do it again, yanking you back into his hot mouth

suggests you sit on his face next time (or now. for your third round)

jongho 🍥

makes sure you know he is not letting you go (hands on your thighs, holding you apart, keeping you in place)

quiet when he works, silently locking eyes with you to confirm he’s making you feel good

likes wrestling you into embarrassing positions (i.e. him sitting upright while still buried in your boycunt, your legs resting on his shoulders, back flush with his front, you nearly upside down, helpless)

furrows his eyebrows with effort as he presses as deep as he can go—diving in wholly, tongue flattening against you

has you sit on his face, once again locking you in place as he sucks on your hole like he’s trying to wring you dry

only speaks if you start begging / crying out his name; “hmm? what was that?” / “you can get a little louder. the others won’t mind.”

Steve threw a quirked brow your way while taking a sip from his half-empty, seashell pink wine glass. "Seriously? Even her voice?"

You gasped at him. "How dare you? Her voice is cute! And just wait ‘til you hear her sing ‘Suddenly, Seymour’, Ellen Greene kills! Just a little taste of that hidden power and then poof! Back to the mousiness. Incredible."

The two of you were lounging on the couch, part of the way through Little Shop of Horrors. At this point, you both had your feet kicked up on your coffee table, still cleared off from pizza work earlier that evening. Steve had gotten up at some point to pop some popcorn, which now sat in a bowl jammed between one of your and one of Steve’s legs, the only thing putting any distance between you. Your arms were still stretched out on the back of the couch, the hand closest to Steve occasionally brushing against his neck or catching a stray hair when he turned to look at you. When it happened the first couple of times, you had thrown apologetic looks his away, but he hadn’t seemed to notice—or if he did, he wasn’t bothered.

Eventually, when it happened again, you had noticed the smallest of smiles twitching at the corners of Steve’s mouth, although he kept looking pointedly forward. After that, you stopped worrying about it.

Steve chuckled and rolled his eyes at you now. "Didn't take you for a musical nerd."

That made you throw your head back in an unapologetic cackle. "What, did the style revolving around a music genre and culture not clue you in? The three years of choir maybe? Music being a big part of film production, which is something I’m a nerd about? Interest in music doesn’t just stop at a different genre of it. Well… maybe for some but—"

"Okay, okay, I get it!" Steve threw his hands up in surrender, but the smile he was wearing was sweet. He could hem and haw and roll his eyes all he damn pleased, but you knew that Steve loved being a confidant of his friends’ interests, even when he didn’t know much about them. Especially when he didn’t know much about them.

A scene of Audrey II popped up on the TV screen, the plant having grown exponentially since its last appearance onscreen. Your eyes lit up as you pointed at it, leaning forward with a giddiness that only punk concerts and explaining about film creation could elicit from you. "Did you know that she’s all puppetry? Onstage and in the film. They made a bunch of different puppets for her—obviously—and there’s a team of puppeteers piloting her. The reason she looks so clean is because they’d shoot shots at different frame rates to make her movements look faster."

Steve leaned forward as well. His was more in confusion, though, as he tilted his head and squinted at the screen. "I don’t see anybody."

"They’re most likely hidden in the set," you explained. "Under the floor, in Twoey’s pot, behind the walls and such. Stuff like fishing line probably helps too. Skinny, transparent, thus harder to see on film after the editing is done."

"Huh." Steve frowned and nodded in a way that gave off severe dad energy—that said he didn’t get it but was glad that you were enjoying yourself. He leaned back into the couch, taking the time to take over the back of it with his arms since yours were no longer there. "Cool."

You grinned at him. It was mostly due to the film talk but, as you looked at him, you were also thoroughly pleased to see him so comfortable and lax in your home. The lighting really did do him justice, casting him in a warm glow that brought out the brown of his hair and eyes, the yellow of his shirt. The stained glass lamps casted various shapes of color around the room, some of which landed across Steve’s form in an incredibly artful way. For a moment you wished you had a camera to take a picture of him before ultimately pushing the thought aside. A camera would never do the scene justice.

A breeze from the cracked window above the TV pulled you out of your reverie with a shiver. Careful not to disturb the mood, you quietly got up and scooted around the other side of the coffee table to avoid Steve having to move his legs. You closed the window by the TV, then moved to shut the small panel window on your front door as well. You felt Steve’s eyes follow you all the while.

You turned to him, waving a hand. "You keep watching, I’ve seen this in theaters and the one from the 60s. Finally cooled off a bit, gonna go grab a jacket."

"Do you just want mine?" Steve asked. Clearly getting comfy to the point of not wanting to move, he stretched out with one lazy arm until a finger could snag the jacket from its place discarded over a nearby chair. He shifted the arm in your direction, holding the article of dark blue clothing out to you.

You raised an eyebrow. "You're not cold?"

Steve shrugged, then nodded to the vest you were wearing. "Trade ya?"

You snorted but found yourself already tugging the denim off your body. "It’s a vest. Not particularly warm."

Steve shrugged again, smiling. He looked so cozy burrowed into your burnt yellow couch. "Can give me one of your hoodies then. What about that one that you did for Halloween last year? You replaced the sleeves with a different one and did a, uh… bleach? Dye? Skull design thing on it?"

"Why don’t you wear your own jacket?" You didn’t know why you were being contrarian. You really wanted to wear his jacket. You really wanted to give him something of yours that you could see him snuggled into. You pulled your vest off.

You hadn’t paid much attention to how the fit of your tank top’s sleeves hung a bit lower on your body than normal, exposing the bit of scarring closest to your underarms. You only noticed when, while your arm was raised to toss the vest aside, Steve’s eyes dropped to stare at them.

You stood there, frozen, gauging him. You could tell right away that there wasn’t a hint of meanness or even judgment in his eyes. It was mostly curiosity, like he didn’t understand why you did it—he’d already said so, he didn’t—although you could see a hint of sadness there too.

"Penny for your thoughts?" You questioned quietly after a few too-silent moments had passed.

Steve’s eyes immediately flicked up to meet yours. He looked like a kid having been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Still, he nodded toward the scar, still pink and new. "Was it painful?"

You shrugged, rolled your head a bit in thought. In the meantime, you tossed your vest on the chair and snagged Steve’s jacket from him. You pulled it on, the soft fabric immediately encasing your bare arms in warmth and the smell of cologne and hairspray.

You said, "The procedure itself? Nah, I was knocked out. Probably too knocked out, actually. They kept me overnight to make sure I was waking up proper because they had a hard time getting me to wake up to take my meds. The recovery was kinda rough, though. I didn’t do the opiates, just basic painkillers, for obvious reasons. And didn't really have anybody to stay with me, so I—"

"You should’ve called me." Steve’s voice sounded tight. You could tell he was trying to keep sounding nonchalant, but the pain in his eyes was telling. "I would’ve come. Robin too, maybe. Make it a road trip to the city, could’ve been fun."

Your cheeks warmed under his intense, long-lashed stare. You rolled your eyes anyway. "Oh, yeah, have you take a week or so off work and do a six-hour drive just to take care of me. Not just you, Robin too! That would’ve gone over well with your jobs."

"Your safety is more important than my job," Steve said simply, sternly. You weren’t sure he had even blinked in the past few minutes, his dark eyes trained on you as he waved a dismissive hand at the idea of picking his job over being with you. "Especially Family Video. Replaceable. Easy. Wouldn’t even have to think about it. You’re not, you know."

Your next breath came out heavy. Your skin felt itchy and far too warm. The entire trailer felt like it was heating up to the point that you were briefly concerned you had left the stove on. You knew that wasn’t the case, though. It was just you. It was just Steve.

"Yeah, well," you mumbled, "everything turned out okay. Here I am. But… thanks. ‘Ll keep that in mind. Hang tight, I’ll grab that hoodie."

Steve’s eyes burned holes in your back all the way down the hall.

~~~~~

Steve really had no business looking as cute as he did cozied up in one of your sweatshirts. Rumpled hair that he’d given up on as the night has gone on. Nose tucked close to the collar, hands stuffed comfortably into the sleeves. Sleepy, half-lidded eyes, but if he had any desire to go home, he didn’t make you aware of it. 

That sweatshirt in particular was one of your cooler projects, in your humble opinion. Originally an entirely black sweatshirt that you had worn to the point of thinning and fading to an ugly brown over the years, you had broken out the dye and dyed it back to its original rich color. Then, probably counter-intuitively, you had also broken out the bleach and bleach-dyed a messy skull design into the sweatshirt’s front; the back received an anatomically correct skeletal back pattern. The sleeves, too long anyway and beginning to fray, you had decided to replace with those from a soft orange sweater you had thrifted. Any patching needed was done in the rest of the sweater’s material—in a series of fun, Halloween-y shapes, like pumpkins and bones—as well as reinforcing the sweatshirt’s thinning body from the inside. It had been one piece of a last-minute Halloween costume puzzle, black jeans and boots bleach-dyed or painted with similar bony patterns and a cheap skeleton mask Joyce Beyers let you snag from her shop for a single buck as the only sale of the night, after Steve and Robin invited you to party-hop with them. You had quickly gotten bored out of your mind with the parties themselves, but your favorite duo’s company was always a joy. 

You were over at the TV again, popping out Little Shop of Horrors and putting Gremlins in. Echoing Steve’s question about the first movie of the night, you asked, "What’d you think about Little Shop of Horrors?"

"Well, that puppet can sing," Steve said, his response a bit delayed in his lazy state. "You were right, the puppeti-ng is really cool at the end there."

You hummed in agreement as you stood up and shuffled back to the couch, tucking your hands into the pockets of Steve’s jacket. "'Mean Green Mother From Outerspace' and 'Feed Me' are the best songs in it. Levi Stubbs."

"So…" Steve ventured after a moment. His eyes drifted over to you suspiciously, causing you to break out in a sneaky smile. "Gonna tell me what we’re watching now?"

"A Robin recommendation?" You offered.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. "What did she do?"

Your smile widened as Gremlins began to roll. Throwing your hands up in surrender as Steve’s glare turned severe, you said, "Her note said, and I quote, ‘Steve will be crawling all over you’ followed by a cute little heart. I had to know what that means, Stevie. Simply had to."

Steve was now a statue, all taut and stony. 

"Steve," you tried after a moment, "do the weird little fluffballs… make you horny?"

Steve blanched, choked a breath, and you cackled in response. He immediately went onto the defense—"What? No! What the hell?"—before your laughing clued him in and he went back to glaring at you. "You’re joking."

You snorted and pretended to wipe a tear from your eyes. "Yeah, no shit, I’m kidding. So, what, not puppets, clearly, but animatronics get you a little spooked?" 

In his mind, Steve was losing arbitrary cool points by the second, that goofy standard of his that he felt made him worthy of existing in the world. You could see it in the way he was getting increasingly flustered, shaking his head and waving his hands around like he could fight off the—loser allegations? You didn’t know. He was wrong, of course. Cool points didn't count past high school, and Steve Harrington was a dork. There just was no fighting it. He was an awkward, lovable, sometimes-too-handsome-for-his-own-good dork. 

While you looked on like a pleased cat after it had pushed a vase off a shelf, Steve pointed a dangerous finger in your direction. "No, listen, listen—"

Your hands flung up as you laughed again. "I’m listening!"

Steve went on, "I can do no eyes. I can do many eyes. What I cannot do is a singular pair of weirdly human, robotic eyes on a… not… human… thing. Okay?" 

"So it’s the eyes?" 

"Eyes and— and, like… the movements!" Steve continued to flail around, this time trying to mimic a robotic slowness. So, it was animatronics.

"You don’t even like Gizmo?" You moved your hands close together and held them up, peeking at Steve through them. "He’s just a little dude. Looks kinda like a chihuahua. Or a baby."

"I like both dogs and babies!" Steve hunched further into himself as the little Mogwai in question finally made its first appearance onscreen. "That is not a baby."

You were still thoroughly amused—what an incredible fact to learn about Steve, of all people—but you were ultimately sympathetic to his plight. You moved to the edge of the couch, ready to move to action if he willed it. "Want me to turn it off? I have an ass-load of movies in my room we can pick from instead. Or you can head home if you want, it is getting pretty late—"

"No!" Steve said, a little too quickly and a little more desperate than he’d intended. It hung in the air for a moment as the two of you stared at each other, your faces growing progressively redder. It may have been the first time during this entire night that you both acknowledged the tension, albeit nonverbally. 

Steve broke contact first. He took a deep breath and rolled his head and shoulders like he was preparing for a fight, then looked forward to glare at the TV. "I can handle it."

he’d met you while volunteering for an on-campus pride event (he liked doing that sort of thing). the two of you were responsible with setting up the booths and decorations hours beforehand. you didn’t talk much aside from a polite “hi” at the start, an energy hongjoong matched. you both silently worked for roughly 2 hours before a break was in issue. other volunteers responsible for food and drinks brought out lemonade for everyone to share, and hongjoong retreated to the shade of a faraway tree, one that let him soak up the glory of his (and your) hard work.

you joined him mere seconds later, face in your cup so your eyes wouldn't wander, quietly sitting a (polite) distance from him.

you spoke first, voice wet and rasped from the citrus and probably some other thing: “i like your hair.”

hongjoong smiled to himself. “thanks. i like your voice.”

you tense. it was a genuine compliment. “thank you,” you’re whispering at this point, “i like yours, too.”

the conversation ended there for the moment, the two of you sitting in silence until you were both summoned for more hard labor.

hongjoong is the one who picks the conversation back up once everything’s set (you were wistfully watching him the rest of the day, so he decided to put you out of your misery).

one thing led to another, and you both became fast friends.

it was easy to be around you—the shared identity partly facilitating it. it was never something you both outright said, just a quiet, unspoken understanding. maybe you’d absentmindedly asked him for a pad one time, or maybe hongjoong mentioned adjusting his packer a little too casually in front of you. either way, it was amusing how quickly you both clicked after a few hangouts. from bumping into each other after classes, to riding shotgun in hongjoong’s car to grab lunch, to staying late at either’s dorm and even sleeping over if it got too dark.

soon you were going shirtless in front of each other. you were even inadvertently introduced to his parents (who had their hearts in the right place when they asked “what you were”—hongjoong apologized profusely when you both got back in the car.)

and when you both binge movies in the living room on the nights his roommates have late classes, you allow your legs to sprawl across hongjoong’s. usually, you’d have to move to his bedroom so you don’t bother his roommates when they do come back. and he doesn’t have a tv in his room, so you’re both cramped together, shoulder-to-shoulder on his twin bed, staring into the screen of his laptop.

and, honestly, what did you both expect? the proximity, the way the hair on his arm felt against your own, the itch beneath the very surface of your skin as you grew more accustomed to his warmth.

moving to hongjoong’s bedroom had been a courtesy. and you both nearly forgot that fact, with the way you were both rutting against one another like dogs, panting puffs of hot air in each other's mouths; making you both sweat with the effort it took to keep the moaning low but the pressure enough.

there was a part of you, in the soberness of the following morning (you woke up to hongjoong in the kitchen making a sorry attempt at breakfast), that feared a shift from these new developments.

but hongjoong reassured you—nothing had to change.

and nothing really did. you and hongjoong remained thick as thieves (but his fingers scissoring you open were even thicker). 

around a month or two into this newfound aspect of your dynamic, hongjoong began to mention a boy from class.

song mingi got into college on a scholarship: football, spent his high school years plowing through hordes of big, sweaty men.

according to a friend of a friend (who’d dated mingi once upon a time), he wasn’t passionate about athletic life. wasn’t aiming for a spot on a big-name team. but it’s not like he could quit.

and he was good, apparently, based on the way a trio of gymbros hongjoong was well-acquainted with sung his praises.

all of this hongjoong sniffed out after catching said football star staring at him in the middle of lecture. at first, hongjoong thought mingi was spacing out. just happened to lay his mindless eyes over hongjoong’s frequently-gawked-at frame

so hongjoong glanced his way—casual, brief, fleeting. just to see what was up.

and song mingi flinched. like he’d been caught. tried to act like he hadn’t nearly jumped out of his skin, turning back towards the projector in front.

naturally, all of this was repeated to you over lunch (big fat burrito in your two cupped hands, takeout leftovers in an oily tupperware for hongjoong).

and according to that friend of a friend, mingi's only ever dated girls.

by the time hongjoong finished dropping that truth bomb on you, the bite of burrito you’d just taken was threatening to fall out of your mouth.

“interesting,” you say through a mouthful of burrito. hongjoong’s finger taps against his plastic fork.

“you think he’s confused as to whether i’ve got a dick or not?”

you roll your eyes, scoffing into your tortilla.

“would you ever get with a cisguy?” hongjoong continues, peering at you through his lashes.

you shrug. “dunno. i wouldn’t seek them out specifically, but i’m also not, like, thinkin’ about it in the moment.”

you take a bite, then speak between chews, "plus, isn’t he most likely straight?"

“well, for now,” hongjoong replies, not looking at you.

you stare at him.

“you have no self-respect,” you say suddenly, bluntly, mouth half-full and words muffled by ground beef. hongjoong can’t help but grin, not responding. his fork meets the container once more, flicking peas and cubed carrots around. 

your eyes blow wide, "you're really considering this?"

hongjoong grits his teeth, nervous at your less-than-stellar reactions.

“i’m talking in theoreticals! i don’t sleep with bigots."

silence. you’re still staring at him.

"and, i don’t know. haven't you fantasized about, like… turning a straight guy?"

you opened your mouth, then shut it again. your eyes dart across his face.

"you're perverted," is all you could muster, but there was a warmth on your cheeks. hongjoong's grin grew wider.

“i wouldn’t call it ‘turning’,” you offer, taking another bite of your burrito. “opening his eyes sounds better. blowing the hinges off his closet door.”

hongjoong laughs. he finally takes a bite of his food, staring off into the distance as he chews. 

“you should come to class with me," he offers a few seconds later, like it was something so simple. "so you can see him."

"so i can see him?”

hongjoong nodded. “you know, so you can get a sense of what i’m dealing with. it’d be fun.”

you blink.

and so you did. wednesday afternoon, a 2-hour lecture about art history or something similar. black-and-white photographs on a big projector screen. you and hongjoong were shoulder-to-shoulder in the middle aisle, the infamous song mingi sitting a few seats away, in the corner of your eye.

he was big, even while sitting. you'd first spotted him when he walked in a few minutes after you and hongjoong had sat down—broad shoulders and a head that looked like it suited a bulky football helmet.

and, oh, was he staring. in short intervals, gaze flicking towards the front of the room and then back to you both. hongjoong said something about having “two hot guys to stare at” and all of the sudden the shit on the screen seemed way more interesting than hongjoong’s bastard grin in your ear.

but there was something intoxicating about it, the attention, the clear attraction, whatever it meant. how he seemed incapable of prying his eyes off the two of you, absolutely bewitched.

class ends quicker than you expected, and immediately hongjoong’s asking your thoughts on the not-so-secret admirer. you’re shoulder-to-shoulder in the hallway, giggling like schoolgirls over how obvious he was, unaware of the hulking beast lurking in the doorway and soon stalking over to you both like a nervous dog.

“hey,” is all song mingi says at first, sneaking up from behind, halting you and hongjoong in your tracks. simultaneously you both turn to look, the football player standing nearly a full head taller than the both of you.

you and hongjoong exchange glances.

“hey,” hongjoong returns, crossing his arms.

“we’ve never spoken before,” mingi says, surprisingly formal, “i’m mingi.”

“hongjoong,” he’s smiling as he says it, and gestures to you as he gives mingi your name.

“yeah, i noticed you were new,” mingi asks, eyes now locked on you, and for a split second you feel like a cornered prey animal.

you chuckle nervously. “yeah, just visiting.”

“can’t believe it took this guy dropping by once for you to finally introduce yourself,” hongjoong butts in, eyebrow raised. your eyes bug out, alarmed at the forwardness of the accusation.

mingi seems to vaguely share your expression; mouth hanging open, though the corners of his lips are upturned in amusement.

“i’m joking,” hongjoong lies. “you do stare, though.”

mingi’s smile is coy, “i— i didn’t realize it was that bad.”

your eyebrows raise, because how did he not? but hongjoong grins all the same, waving it off.

“all good. i’m flattered. we’re flattered.”

mingi blushes, trying to play it off by pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“we’re probably gonna grab something to eat if you wanna join,” you find yourself saying, because mingi approached with intention, and you’re sure he was going to ask for your instagrams or something stupid like that, and then this would never go anywhere. hongjoong nods.

“oh, cool. thanks.”

“c’mon, you’re a big boy, you can handle it,” is what hongjoong’s cooing into mingi’s ear as he caresses the back of his head, fingers threading through damp locks of hair.

mingi became pretty talkative after he settled in. the three of you decided to go off campus for dinner, some fast food place nearby, and sat in mingi’s car as you all ate (normally you’d take hongjoong’s car, but mingi had offered. hongjoong cracked a joke in your ear about chivalry, and you whispered back that if mingi started saying stupid shit, you’d jump him.)

2 hours of just talking turned into hongjoong throwing signs; flirty comments that could’ve easily been taken as “friendly” soon evolving into propositions. you’d been sitting in the back seat (a “punishment” for “taking attention away from hongjoong”). eventually, mingi’s driving back to the dorm with hongjoong’s hand on his thigh, massaging distractingly.

now mingi’s on his back, elbows wobbling where they sink into the mattress but still kept politely at his sides. his bottom lip’s still glistening from the last swipe of his tongue, eyes threatening to close. hongjoong’s other hand is fisted into your top, which sticks to the underside of your arms and the small of your back from perspiration and the heat and the effort it takes for you to grind in tandem with the impressively deep rolls of hongjoong’s hips. what’s even more impressive is the space mingi’s thighs grant, allowing hongjoong and you to perch atop him and rut against his throbbing cock to near exhaustion. it’s also pretty fucking impressive mr. song mingi hasn’t blown his load yet. you have to admit, you underestimated him.

where you begin, where hongjoong ends and where mingi pulls you both together is merging, mixing into one massive, writhing pound of flesh in your mind. your eyes are wired shut, head thrown back in a messy mix of ecstasy and fatigue, the only thing keeping you upright being hongjoong’s grasp on your shirt. your hips move on autopilot as you become numb to the burning sting of your muscles, the abdominal cramp threatening to rear it’s nasty head.

your head lolls forward with the weight of a bowling ball, hair sticking to your forehead. hongjoong’s zeroed in on where your dicks all meet, tongue caught between his teeth in a wicked smirk like he’s hypnotized, and he probably is, because there’s no way he’s still going with this much energy of his own accord. it’s gotta be some kinda fucked up evil t-boy magic (if so, why hasn’t it kicked in for you?)

you let out a groan from deep within your spasming gut, head rolling back, making hongjoong’s eyes flick upwards.

“don’t die on us,” hongjoong’s saying, but you can barely hear him through the wet slide, the headiness clouding your brain and the sound of mingi’s whimpering.

suddenly you’re being yanked forward, limply pulled like you weigh nothing, practically colliding with hongjoong’s hungry, talkative mouth. your teeth gnash briefly, and the jolt of pain knocks some sense back into your brain before hongjoong’s tongue licking at the inside of your mouth steals it away.

you can’t see because your eyes are rolling into the back of your head, but mingi’s staring at the two of you through his lashes, which are soaked in his tears. beneath you and hongjoong, mingi’s hips sputter and twitch.

hongjoong pulls away unhurried, mingi’s eyes fixated on the thin string of saliva briefly connecting the two of you. he’s equally fixated on your blissed out face, lips swollen and wet from being mauled by the other hot guy on his lap. at this point, your hips have stopped moving, instead erratically jerking as you wade in and out of consciousness.

“you wanna give him a kiss, too?” hongjoong grins, wide and predatory, and mingi’s not a fucking idiot so he nods (nearly knocking himself out with the speed of it).

the hand hongjoong used to keep you upright has moved to cup your cheek, thumbing against your skin with a tenderness that’s giving you whiplash. “hey, you still with us?”

you nod, blinking back to reality. hongjoong plants a chaste kiss on your hanging mouth.

“why don’t you go and give the big boy what he wants?”

you giggle drunkenly, “hell yeah.”

you and hongjoong move in tandem; you sprawl against mingi’s chest, hands at his head, looming over him like a shadow. hongjoong licks a fat stripe against his palm before dismounting, jerking mingi off. it also grants him a front row seat to you and mingi making out—a lot less violent than you and hongjoong, but much sloppier. even through your shirt, hongjoong can get a sense of the strength in your arms as you hover over mingi. he leans over to grope at your tricep, the smirk on his face growing bigger by the second.

mingi groans against your mouth, low and rumbling through you as hongjoong pumps his weeping cock. you rub against his stomach, head tilting and pushing deeper into his mouth when he responds with an encouraging squeeze of your ass.

hongjoong taps mingi’s thigh, “get up.”

it takes a solid 4 seconds for you to pull off of mingi (you mouth one last time at his jaw before finally leaning back on your side, catching your breath), hongjoong beckoning you closer.

he maneuvers you into position: atop him, pretty as a picture, giving your ass a quick squeeze (deja vu). behind you both remains mingi, his hands balled into fists on his thighs, leaking cock jumping where it sits along wide legs. if you focused hard enough, you could probably see a tail wagging behind him.

you let out a much-needed sigh, flopping down on hongjoong, your hands folded below your chin, body nearly gelatinous. hongjoong gropes at your ass, squeezing and parting and dusting his fingertips over the hair. you look back to watch mingi approach, shy but eager, leisurely fisting his cock while he rubs lovingly on your bottom (god, obsessed much?)

hongjoong takes two fingers and parts your lips, showing off your cock to tease mingi. it seems to work.

his dick slides between you and hongjoong with humiliating ease, the three of you moaning low at the wet glide. mingi gets in a few test thrusts, peering over at the both of you for any signs of discomfort, before bracing his large hands along your waist and fucking into you both with renewed vigor.

“fuck!” mingi cries, voice peaking in time with a particularly rough slap of his balls against hongjoong’s ass, “i’m not gonna last long.”

your teeth sink into your bottom lip, savoring the slip and the need dripping from mingi’s voice. “feel free. i’m fucking your face if i don’t cum, though.”

mingi shivers, hip stuttering momentarily.

“maybe i’ll join. bring my favorite dick out,” hongjoong chimes in from below, planting wet kisses and nibbles along your neck. he speaks against your pulse, “you ever had your ass fucked, mingi?”

mingi’s hand jumps up along your spine, pressing you down. you briefly catch sight of his eyes closing as his body trembles once again. “n-no. i haven’t.”

“really? not even a finger?” hongjoong continues, and he’s trying his damndest to peer past your shoulder to watch mingi’s reactions. “you’ve got a nice ass. surprised you haven’t.”

mingi gasps sharply, and hongjoong flashes you a triumphant, shit-eating grin.

“well—fuck—one time… o-one time, with this girl i slept with. it was just— one f-finger.”

“you interested in changing that?” you sing, “you sound so cute now, can’t imagine how you’d sound with a dick in you.”

“hah—! fuck, i’m gonna cum. i’m gonna cum. i can cum, right? can i cum?” mingi’s blabbering, mouth going a mile a minute, barely cognisant as his orgasm steadily, rapidly approaches. his thrust grow more erratic by the second. you pant, open-mouthed into hongjoong’s chest as mingi sputters.

“of course,” hongjoong coos, locking eyes with you for a split second, “cum for us, big boy.”

mingi’s hand pulls back, fully flattening you against hongjoong, a welcome squeeze for his cock (along with yours and hongjoong’s). mingi groans and he spurts onto hongjoong’s chest, eyebrows knotted together. your mouth remains open, like it’d been your dick, your body twitching alongside him.

hongjoong reaches below you, taking mingi’s cock in his hand and giving it a few extra pumps, beads of cum leaking out of him. mingi whines in response, and you shudder as you watch, hongjoong’s nose nuzzling into the top of your scalp.

mingi flops forwards as hongjoong releases him, you and hongjoong letting out sharp squeaks of pain at the feeling of an over 6 foot man’s deadweight crushing you both. mingi doesn’t seem to hear, or even care—eyes closed and breathing shallow. for a split second you believe he’d began snoring.

mingi shifts, sleepily draping his chin over your shoulder, peering at hongjoong below, rubbing his cheek up against yours affectionately. hongjoong runs a hand through you and mingi’s hair. you feel mingi’s dick twitch between your asscheeks, and you chuckle to yourself.

“so,” mingi begins, breathlessly like he’d just ran a marathon, “round two in 10 minutes?”

You paced around your kitchen, what was really a kitchenette that took up one-fourth of the space in the small trailer you called a home. On the wall across from you, the cat-shaped clock slowly ticked down; it being a few minutes after five, Steve would be off work by now. Off work and on his way over to your place.

You may have gone a bit overboard. After basically asking Steve out and leaving Family Video in a bit of a tizzy, you had stopped by the grocery store. Initially it had been for snacks, but you had been out of groceries anyway, so you decided to pick up some other things as well. What was originally some movie snacks and a couple of bottles of sodas became that plus all the materials for a do-it-yourself personal pizza-making date—with some additional options like boxed pasta and frozen dinners if the pizzas ended up being too much of a hassle. 

By the time you had gotten home, you still had a good couple of hours until Steve would be joining you. You didn’t have much to distract yourself with, so you went ahead prepping for the evening. Putting away groceries, setting up pizza-cooking stations, laying out the movies by your shoddy TV. Eyeing said movies, you realized you had ended up with Little Shop of Horrors, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and… Gremlins of all things. Gremlins was courtesy of Robin, as shown by the handwritten note stuck to it—which said something about Steve crawling all over you if you played it? Oh boy.

And yet you still had time to spare. You decided to spend it freshening up. Despite having showered the night before, you decided to hop in again and take time scrubbing the products and glue and spikes out of your hair. As much as you enjoyed Steve’s long-standing game of pretending to get pricked by your spikes and mohawks, you felt the urge to do a more natural look this evening—you didn’t want painful pulling in case Steve’s fingers somehow found their way into it, a completely and totally normal thought to have—so you opted for a fluffy, natural shag. Hairspray and products still permitted to an extent, of course. Luckily, your choice of permanent hair dye this time around kept the color in tact despite the scrubbing.

There wasn’t much you could do to dress up "nicer", considering most of your clothes were thrifted, handed down, or DIYed from older, rattier pieces. Meaning dirty, stained, torn, and so on. Still, you tried your best. The sun was on its way down but it would still be hot as hell for a good couple of hours, which permitted a pair of long black cargo shorts with dental floss-stitched detailing paired with one of the few clean white tank tops you owned aside from a single warped heart stitched in red thread just below the left strap. Then a properly finished battle vest—black denim, cutoff sleeves, decorated with patches, pins, and an entire painting on the back panel—and, being ever the lover of accessories, a collection of chains clipped to belt loops, around your neck, around your wrists. Various other bracelets joined the wrist chains and face and ear piercings were filled in with your favorite pieces. A few rings for good measure and a last-minute decision to polish your toes in a nice new black, as well as touch up your anxiety-chipped fingers to match.

Maybe you were doing too much. Maybe too little. You guessed time would tell. Either way, though, you were pleased with the look when you caught a glimpse of it in your bedroom mirror. It was simple—for you and your style, anyway—but still you. Not to mention, the look showed off your various points of pride: tattoos old and new decorating your arms and legs, the leg hair that you found made you so much more comfortable in your own body, the still-new flatness of your chest, the pleasant curves of your exposed shoulders and neck. And, hell, you’d admit it; despite the shorts currently doing little to emphasize its shape, you’ve always had a nice butt.

You were still fluttering about the trailer trying to busy yourself when a knock at the door caught your attention. You quit bopping along to the guitar practice playing Judas Priest happening across the way and, after one—two, three—more paces around your living room to get some of the excess energy out, headed over and flung the door open with a flourish. "Stevington!"

Steve was standing on the lowest step of your trailer and leaning next to the door frame, the angle giving you a couple inches of extra height over him. To your surprise and pleasure, he had clearly taken the time to get cleaned up himself. He was now wearing a sunny yellow T-shirt, this angle allowing you to catch a tuft of dark chest hair poking out, and his Family Video work vest was replaced with a dark blue jacket. The blue of the jacket matched the dark wash jeans he wore, which were oh so well-fitted and belted with a dark brown leather that matched the nice—new?—boots poking out from under his pant legs. His hair was freshly coiffed, though still a bit damp from an obvious last-minute shower of his own, and the smells of aftershave and shampoo and familiar cologne rolled off him with a wonderful mix for the senses.

Steve looked up as you opened the door and you couldn’t help the sympathetic look that passed over your face. Tiny colorful bandages of various designs decorated his nose, under one eye, and a couple spots on his forehead and jaw where he had been cut during the VHS castle’s destruction.

"Aw, your poor face." You had the urge to reach out and brush your fingers over the bandages, maybe place a little kiss here and there. You smartly refrained because, hey, those were certainly new thoughts you were having as of today. 

"Yeah, the aftershave didn't help too much either. Like little paper cuts." Steve’s face twisted into a wince at the memory before shrugging it off. Then he offered you a sweet and somewhat awkward smile as he held up a small plastic bag. "These were the only bandages I could find at Buy Goods. But hey! I brought popcorn."

At that swatted yourself lightly over the head with a hand. "That’s what I forgot! Damn, nice save, Steve."

Steve’s smile widened, obviously pleased with himself for saving the day. Then he waved a hand of his own around his head before giving your hair a point. "Nice hair, by the way. You look kinda like, uh, Bowie’s character. But…longer on the sides?"

"Oh! Ziggy Stardust," you said with a grin, and Steve snapped his fingers in recollection at you. "Cool, I’ll take that. Love Bowie."

The two of you stood there for a moment, just kind of taking each other in during a quiet that wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable. Then Steve stepped the rest of the way up to your doorway and you backed away a step to fling an arm out in welcome. He stepped inside, looking around as he immediately kicked off his boots as per your rule. 

"I don’t know how you keep this place up while you’re away for school," he said. "Looks like my grandma’s place."

You let out a mock gasp before smiling. That was a fair statement, although a little off time-wise; Steve had never been a math man. Your trailer was decorated entirely to your retro, colorful, eclectic tastes, a jarring difference from the dark and grungy style of your closet. Your kitchenware was themed teal and yellow and light wood, your living room sported 70s fake wooden wall paneling and furniture in oranges, yellows, and browns. Most of your lighting was made up of lamps of various shapes and designs, with colorful glass shades that reflected shimmers of different colors when the lights were on. Your bathroom was pale yellows and creams. Art of all kinds, done by yourself or friends, covered almost every spare inch of the place, leaving the small space cluttered but extremely well-loved. It was also surprisingly clean—not a lick of dust on any object, not a rug unvacuumed, not a dish unwashed. Your space was an art gallery, a love letter to everyone and everything you loved.

Behind the door at the end of the hallway, where you went to bed every night that you were in Hawkins, your punk heart was housed. A bed swathed in black sheets and covered in hand-stitched pillows you would hug to sleep. A dirty work table covered in half-finished sewing and painting projects. Posters, drawings, pages ripped out of your favorite books, and glow-in-the-dark stars and planets stuck across every square inch of red-painted walls. A closet full of beloved clothes, containers of bleach and old bottles of hair dye, a small bag of chest-flattening wear that you would take back to the city at the end of the summer and donate now that you no longer needed them.

You nodded your head toward the window above your TV. The curtains were still open for now and you could see the big grey van parked a few trailers down, the same place the music was coming from. "I pay Eddie Munson to keep an eye on my place while I’m away. Try to help keep his nose clean. He’s got a surprisingly good work ethic, believe it or not. Also I used to tutor him for free when we were in high school, so he kinda owes me."

Steve’s face twisted at the name, which made you smirk, but he chose to keep his mouth shut about any comments regarding the metalhead. Instead, his eyes finally caught sight of your done-up kitchenette. "Hey, what’s going on over there? Looks like fun."

You scratched at your neck a bit, suddenly flustered. "Yeah, well, you got the popcorn but I got… everything else. Perhaps too much. I, uh, went to the grocery store hungry and low on groceries. Ended up doing that thing I do where I go overboard when I’m expecting guests. So I thought… making our own personal pan pizzas maybe? Or for each other. I-if you want, anyway. I also have other stuff."

You were rambling now. Steve, being friends with Robin and Dustin and several other nerdy children, was used to it, and just offered you a smile before heading over to the kitchenette. He put the boxes of popcorn on the counter and tossed the bank in the drawer where he knew the rest of your plastic bags were collected. Then, after admiring your selection of sodas—you were a straightedge household—like he was looking at an assortment of fancy alcohols, he picked up the set of nearby wine glasses you had set out earlier in one hand and a bottle of Slice in the other. Looking over at you as you shut the door, he said, "Making pizzas for each other sounds fun. Do you mind?"

Your smile turned wicked. "Nah, go for it. I have you all to myself for the night, Harrington. You better get comfy."

The pretty shade of pink painting Steve’s cheeks did not go unnoticed by you.

~~~~~

Cooking with Steve was fun. You wished you had thought of it sooner. He was a little heavy-handed with ingredients and struggled with measurements where, again, math was involved, but you were quick to accommodate. From there, things were a blast.

Steve actually quite liked to cook, you learned. It was something he’d enjoyed doing as a kid with his mom when she hadn’t been so busy, and a tradition he upheld as he grew up and both parents got busier, leaving him to fend for himself sometimes. He had abandoned it a little bit once high school picked up at he had started getting into sports and became Hawkins High royalty. Then, after the fall from grace post-graduation—you had scoffed at hearing that; after all, he had become friends with both you and Robin after graduation, and you thought you three were pretty awesome together—Robin had learned of his cooking ability during flu season and had encouraged him to pick it up again. It wasn’t something he did all the time and not something he shared with people very often, but it was something he enjoyed nonetheless.

You enjoyed all of it, working with him and watching him work. You were the one to quickly take over making the pizza dough after Steve opened the flour bag with a dangerous poof that left white dust in both your hair and on your faces, then nearly sent the flour to the ground with a distracted hip-check moments later. While you assembled the dough, Steve opted for cutting peppers and opening cans of black olives; you got to admire his knife work and he got caught staring at your arms while you kneaded the dough together. You smirked when you glanced over and caught it, Steve’s gaze trailing slowly over the swell of your shoulder blade and the slopes of your upper arm, openly admiring the muscles working underneath. 

When Steve realized he got caught, his face blushed a deep red. After some stammering and fumbling and hair ruffling in that way Steve did whenever he got nervous, he tried to cover up. Never quite turning to look at you and throwing an awkward point over his shoulder at your arm, he mumbled, “Is that, uh… a new tattoo?”

Little did he know you had looked over to eye the curve of his back as he leaned over his cutting board, chopping away while humming a little tune. You had just been much sneakier about it, grabbing for your wine glass of cherry Slice. You had to bite back a laugh when you caught him shimmying his hips along to whatever synth-y song was playing on the radio you had turned on earlier. After taking a drink and unabashedly observing the way his body shifted and moved, you turned back to your dough and got to work, Steve being none the wiser.

He got lucky with his question. The ink on your shoulder was stark and black and had just finished its scabbing phase—a new tattoo indeed.

You hummed an affirmation and nodded. You reached over to snag a knife to cut the pizza dough in two so you could start shaping and tossing. “It’s Sting. The dagger from The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings? Bilbo’s sword, he gives it to Frodo later. Anyway. I have a friend doing a tattoo internship right now who needed meat to work on, and another friend who likes designing her own takes on weapons. Et voila.”

The last remark was concerning both your tattoo and the two balls of dough, one of which you presented to Steve. 

Steve, only vaguely getting the references, simply nodded before presenting his own side of the kitchen counter with a flourish. An array of nicely chopped ingredients for cheese, pepperoni, and everything pizza possibilities, all organized in your uniquely colored and shaped bowls. He took a moment to wipe his knife and hands on the teal towel slung over his shoulder while you gave him a low whistle of appreciation.

“Nice work, Stevie,” you said. You slid your own knife aside and broke out two more cutting boards, which would have to act as pizza trays for the time being. “Looks good.”

“When I was little, I used to think it was really cool being able to use a knife properly. Like I was some kind of ninja or something.” He did a casual twirl with his knife, then pointed it at you with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. Lowering his voice and speaking in that way that said now he was Steve Harrington, King of Hawkins, teaching you something to gain cool points, he went on, “Now, as an adult, everyone appreciates good knife work in the kitchen. Mhm.”

Despite your snicker, you didn't disagree with him. It was a weirdly attractive skill to have. 

“So!” Steve sat his blade aside and gave his hands a clap before leaned with both hands on the countertop. He looked over at you, the angle causing a strand of thick, well taken care of hair to fall over an eye. “What’s next, boss?”

You slid one of the cutting boards over to him, then dropped your own dough on the remaining one in front of you. Giving your pizza dough a slap, you asked, “Ever toss a pizza before?”

Steve immediately shook his head. “Never in my life.”

You grinned. “It’s not hard, I'll show ya how. Now, we gotta keep these babies small because I do not have the capacity to cook a full-ass pizza in here— Honestly, we’re winging it a little bit either way. Don’t worry about it too much, though. If we end up with a bunch of extra dough and stuff, I’ll send you home with leftovers. Pizza dough can be kept frozen for a good bit.”

~~~~~

Outside of almost tossing the pizza dough onto the ceiling during his first couple of tries, Steve picked up handling the dough quickly. Once that process was done and you both had your miniature doughs laid out on cutting boards, you took a minute to add the sauce—carefully; you would not be having a pizza sauce mess to deal with right now—and then directed Steve over to your living room. Him balancing various bowls across his arms and you hauling over the makeshift pizza trays, the two of you got comfy on the living room floor with the long coffee table becoming your next work station. Since your oven had to preheat and the art of pizza designing would take a while, you had suggested moving over to the living room and popping in the first movie of the night. 

Once the coffee table was done up and Steve was comfy on the floor, you brought refilled drinks over as well. Then you went over to the TV, got it set up to play, and leaned a hip against its side as you picked up two of the movie choices. “So, Ferris Bueller or Little Shop of Horrors?”

“Oh, I loved Ferris Bueller!” Steve answered, lighting up at the choice. 

You chuckled and rolled your eyes as you popped open the case. “That makes sense for you. Never seen it myself, we'll see how it goes.”

Steve’s eyes followed you as you turned and bent down to pop the VHS in. Your shirt rode up a bit, revealing a sliver of lower back to him as well as a strip of the dark waistband of your underwear when your shorts sagged against your hips. You could almost feel the way his gaze singed into your skin there, your exposed skin prickling. You chewed the inside of your cheek to try to keep cool and fight off the stupid smile growing on your face. Still, you let yourself take your time finishing up the movie setup, and didn’t fix your outfit until you were already standing and making your way back over. His eyes tracked your movements all the while.

Steve finally broke his stare to nod his head at the movie you hadn’t brought up to him. He had to clear his throat before he spoke again. “You picked up three again today, didn’t you? What’s that one?”

You gave a nonchalant shrug as you plopped down on the floor next to him. “Final film of the night, you don’t get a choice in that one.”

“Can’t wait.” Steve sounded the opposite of enthused. He narrowed his eyes at you; you winked back and he quickly looked away again. “Making pizzas for each other then, yeah?”

“Oui,” you affirmed. “May the best pizza maker win. I don’t know what but… Nevermind.”

“Dessert pick?”

You pouted. “I didn’t really do dessert picks. I intended for this to be more… snacky than it ended up being.”

Steve shrugged. “Prettiest pizza gets a milkshake or something then. Next time we hang out?”

“Mm… I usually like my rewards in cash prizes…” You feigned mulling the offer over with a sigh before tossing a smile his way. “Sure, why not? You said you liked pepperoni, right?”

Steve pretended to roll up his nonexistent long sleeves and shake out his hands as he nodded. “A classic. You said an everything?”

You took a drink from your glass before nodding back. “All that shit you spent time cutting up earlier? Throw it on there. Gimme all of it.”

“I can do that. Ready?”

“Set.” 

“Go!”

~~~~~

Steve won the prettiest pizza. While yours was a basic sprinkling of cheese—and then two more helpings of cheese per Steve’s demand—and placing pepperoni in various shapes and patterns across your small doughy canvas, Steve’s was a beautiful balance of every ingredient on the table. It was actually kind of fascinating, looking over and watching him carefully arrange each sprinkling of pepper, olive, sausage, pepperoni, and so on. It was weird; if you tilted your head, you felt like you could piece together a landscape of sorts. Although it felt unlikely, you wondered if Steve did art in his free time.

Despite that, Steve absolutely insisted on paying for the next hangout. A playful, yet heated, argument broke out, but he eventually won that too.

He was counting on his fingers. “You rented the movies. You bought all the food—“

“You brought popcorn!” You huffed out in protest.

Steve continued as if you hadn’t spoken, a smug little smile on his face all the while. “We are at your house right now, so you’re hosting. I insist on getting you a milkshake and whatever else you want the next time we hang out. You like breakfast? I’ll buy you breakfast or something.”

“Who doesn’t like breakfast?” You grumbled, still irritated. You crossed your arms over your chest. “You don’t owe me anything, you know. I just wanted things to be nice. Got a little carried away. I told you that.”

Steve climbed to his feet and started carefully lifting both pizzas to balance between his hands. You moved to get up and help but he gave you a playfully warning glance that had you sitting back down with a scoff. “Then you can pay for the time after that when we hang out. Relax. It’s fine.”

“Yeah, well…” You snapped your fingers at him after a moment. “What about Robin? When is she supposed to pay?”

Steve chuckled, the sound surprisingly soft. He didn’t answer right away, taking all the care in the world to make sure he didn’t make a mess of getting the pizzas to the oven. Once they were safely inside and the oven was closed up, he grabbed your feline-shaped timer and set it. 

“No offense to Robin, but she couldn’t win a pizza-making competition to save her life,” Steve said as he walked back over. He started picking up the leftover ingredients and tools, this time not protesting when you got up and started to help. “Also, she wasn’t here, so she doesn’t count. It would be weird to include her in it. I meant the next time we hang out. Like you and me.”

“Oh.” You didn't realize he planned for the two of you to hang out alone together so often in the future. 

When you didn’t say much else, Steve immediately started fidgeting like he had done something wrong. There were a couple of increasingly awkward minutes of silent cleaning before he was moving to block your path. He looked at you from under defined eyelashes that would put most people to shame, the look surprisingly shy and almost… pleading?

“That’s okay for me to say, right?” He softly questioned. “I mean we can totally include Robin if you want to include Robin. We just don’t… always hang out together all the time, yanno? The three of us. Robin and I have, I don’t know, getting in trouble at work. I thought you and I could maybe have… this? I don’t know. If that’s weird, I can back off.”

Your heart clenched and you waved your hands dismissively around him. “No, no, no! No, it’s fine, we’re good. I was just a little surprised is all. Kinda weird not to think of us as a trio, I guess.”

You paused, something bubbling under your skin. You knew Steve, and you knew he wasn’t like this, but with everything you were newly considering about him right now… You felt the need to make a point. 

“Although, if you keep treating me like a girl, I’m going to beat your ass,” you said finally. You forced yourself not to flinch when Steve blanched. “And you and I both know I can win a fight.”

Steve started fumbling and fussing again. “What? No! I mean, I’m not treating you like a woman! Am I?”

You halfheartedly waved a hand around the general vicinity. “I can take care of my own shit. I don’t need you to do it for me.”

“That’s not— I wasn’t—“ Steve looked horrified; it made your heart regretfully clench. “I was just trying to be polite, really! [Y/N], I’m serious. I think you're really cool, so cool. Way cooler than me, you're not even on the same planet. And I don’t mean a cool girl, or woman, or wh— You're just… like… a really cool dude. A cool person. I like you as a person—” 

He broke off and something about his demeanor changed. He was still fidgety and awkward, but it was less panicked now. Almost more wondering, like he was getting himself buried into a thought. Very unlike Steve—he never chewed his lips, he wouldn’t risk splitting what he considered to be one of his most valuable assets—he caught his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down hard.

And then, avoiding your eyes, he went on, slowly, “Trust me, [Y/N]. I do not like you like I like women. It’s… different.”

It was a weird phrase. Could’ve been taken maliciously, or as entirely meaningless. However, you saw the confusion dancing in his eyes, something you had encountered in the mirror many a time during your childhood. You heard the conflicted emotion in his voice. You clocked the pink dancing across his ear tips.

You blinked and found your eyes burning. The moment wasn’t sad, just weird and emotional, but you caught a stray tear trying to escape with the back of your hand. “Ah, shit.”

Steve’s eyes widened. He took a step forward, arms open, only to freeze in place, unsure. “Did I do that? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. Listen, I… I want to— I hug everybody. I hug my mom. I hug my dad. I hug dogs. I hug Dustin. I don’t just hug women, I promise.”

That ripped a broken laugh out of you. You scrubbed your hands over your eyes to shoo the emotions back and stepped forward into his arms, which immediately wrapped around you. You flung your own around him with a force that almost had you both stumbling around your kitchen, and you shook your head against his shoulder. 

“No,” you said, stern, “you didn't make me cry. It’s fine, I promise. This shit’s just… weird to talk about sometimes. And I feel bad that I made you feel bad.”

Steve nodded slowly against your own shoulder, his worried energy beginning to dissipate. “It’s okay. I feel bad that I made you feel bad.”

You shook your head again. “No, you didn't. I dunno, I just felt like… I needed to say a thing. You know? Make a point. I don’t know. It was weird. I know you’re a good guy, Steve. Cool, too.”

Steve snorted. “Cool? How?”

You rolled your eyes. “You're one of the nicest people I’ve ever met in my life. Even when you try to be mean, you're absolute shit at it. It’s like being mean makes you sad. It’s great, it really is. Being nice is cool as hell.”

You couldn’t see his face but you could feel Steve’s smile against your shoulder, the warming of his cheeks against your bare skin. “Yeah?”

You pulled back from the hug to grip him by his shoulders. He was in fact blushing, and his smile was giddy, boyish. You grinned back. “Hell yeah, dude. Being nice is punk. Especially when you’re nice to people everyone else thinks don’t deserve it.”

Steve cocked his head a bit. It took a moment for the implication to set in but when it did, his gaze turned serious. Protective. A look you’ve seen before when you walked in on Dustin venting to him at Family Video. When he got a sudden phone call from Will Beyer’s mom and had to take off running. When you were still in school with him and he got hyped up to jump into a, usually senseless, fight for the sake of a friend’s honor. 

Damn Steve Harrington for being just so goddamned good.

“Yeah, well,” he said, and clasped your own shoulders so the two of you were standing in some weird, serious embrace of solidarity, “I think you talking about your stuff is… punk… too. And I think you should talk about it. Even to me, even if I don’t get it, which I don’t. But I don’t have to. Because I like you. Weird spiky hair—“

“Hey!”

“—and bad clothes—“

“Hey!”

“—and gender-y stuff included,” Steve finished with a smile. “All of it.”

It was your turn to blush, really blush, because you knew Steve meant it. Suddenly, your body was far too warm and you were standing far too close to him, so you stepped away and awkwardly scratched the side of your neck. You looked away, chewing at the chapped skin of your lip. 

Steve didn't invade your space. Instead he reached over a socked foot and poked your shin where an old, faded stick and poke of an eye was. “We good?”

You let out a sigh, your eyes drifting over to where Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was rolling credits. “Well, we missed half the movie, but yeah, we’re good.” 

Steve’s smile turned teasing. “And the next hangout’s on me?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” you waved him off with a roll of your eyes and headed off to toward the couch. “Ready for Little Shop?”

“Sure.” Steve trailed after you. He flopped onto the couch while you walked over to swap out the movies. “Oh! What did you think of Bueller, though? It was fun, right?”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t bad. I think they all needed to kiss, though.”

“What? Like… all three of them?”

“Yeah, like Ferris and Cameron and Sloane. They’d be a cute thing together.”

“Is that… something people do?”