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Late November, 1987.
You can hear Harrington muttering next to the van before you even have the chance to pull up properly, he has his hands on his hips as he nods and bounces his head erratically;
“Of course. Of course! Piece of junk decides to die on me, again! Why not! Perfect timing, really…” he grunts quietly, squeezing his hands into the plushness of his sweater before swinging his leg back and kicking the side of the van, a bass-y bang of metal echoing into the crisp, snowy air.
“Now, now, Harrington. That’s not a very nice thing to do.” You pout sarcastically, rolling the window down and leaning out of it to assess the damage, “Have you tried gently coaxing it? Words of affirmation?”
Steve turns to you and makes a face. A face! Scrunching his nose up and scoffing quietly, “Oh great, of all the people to see my pain and suffering.” He stops talking to run his hands over his face (tan, veiny, large… so large, Jesus Christ), “Don’t you have literally anywhere else to be?”
“I mean, I could keep going but watching your pain and suffering is genuinely quite amusing. I also don’t want the cavalry banging on my door tomorrow morning when they find your corpse.” You shrug, gesturing to the security camera on the streetlight overhead as you press the clutch and shift into neutral, “You got jumper cables in that rust bucket?”
“Somewhere amongst all the other junk.” He huffs, his warm breath creating a frosty white cloud in the freezing cold air, “Think you can find reverse and pull in so we’re not blocking the street?”
You raise a brow, barking out an incredulous laugh, “Do you want my help or do you wanna continue standing out here doing your best castanet rendition?” You cock a brow, unsurprised when Steve looks at you with this vacant, confused stare, “I’m not explaining what castanets are to you, you’re not five.”
You press the clutch once more, sliding smoothly into reverse and guiding the car parallel to Steve’s van in one fell swoop, hood to hood. You don’t give him a second thought whilst you manoeuvre, just vaguely aware of a flurry of movement from your peripheral as he (hopefully) looks for the cables.
Why were you even doing this?
You supposed, Steve was… Steve. You’d known him since elementary school, since you were both five years old and he’d knocked you down in the playground and skinned your knee. It was an accident, Steve was never a bad kid, didn’t play into that role until middle school when the food chain really started to matter.
There had always been this natural gravitation towards each other, over the years. Friends to not friends. You didn’t always agree with Steve’s attitude, how he spoke to people and used his king persona to be an asshole. But in the quiet he was always so loveable, it kept you hanging on.
And you never ran with his crowd, didn’t suck up Carol Perkins’ ass or pretend to enjoy Tommy Hagan’s company. tommy himself would goad Steve whenever he’d stop to speak to you in the halls, ask why he hadn’t hit it yet and make dirty comments about you that rolled off you like water from a duck’s back.
Tommy Hagan was always a loser anyway.
Then Steve and Nancy became steveandnancy, and the friendship was over after that. Maybe Steve thought it was disrespectful to continue entertaining your bond with Nancy in the picture. He was so serious about her, really, truly loved her and showed her off in front of everybody. Didn’t care if it affected his cool status.
And why did it make your heart ache?
Getting the job at Sam Goody in Starcourt was just a coincidence. You saw Steve every day, under the harsh fluorescent lights in Scoops. You saw every time he lucked out, counted it as a quiet victory each time.
And he caught you looking, a few times. Would wave and smile that goofy smile of his, always too afraid to come over and talk, like he wondered if too much time had passed to make amends.
It hadn’t. But you didn’t want to make that first move. So it never happened.
You’d wondered, for a long while after the fire if Steve and Robin Buckley were an item. They spent every waking moment together, you’d thought, always in each others back pockets. Until Robin had given you a second once-over when she was checking you out in family video, eyes scanning your body a second too long and oh — huh.
All of this to say, things didn’t happen between you both until that stupid fucking party, a little over a year ago. When you lost all inhibition in a strangers backyard and dropped to your knees in the rain.
Then, he fucked it yet again. In the middle of Bradley’s, between Nancy and Jonathan Byers. With all of his bravado, trying to put on a show for poor Nancy, who looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her as he and Jonathan bickered over who was carrying the 40-pack of waters.
You’d interjected, said something stupid that Nancy giggled at, hiding her smile behind her hand. And Steve looked so disgusted, looking you up and down like you’d walked into something you shouldn’t have, like you’d put your nose where it wasn’t wanted.
It hurt. Him looking at you with such disdain.
The hurt in your heart turned to anger and resentment real fast.
“A-ha!”
Steve comes back into view triumphantly holding the jumper cables in one hand, though his face is gloomy and perpetually miserable. You reach for the lever below your feet and pop the hood for him, gesturing vaguely to allow him to continue, you were sure he knew what he was doing.
You’d seen Steve in a lot of forms over his life — angry, elated, heartbroken, drunk, high, horny and desperate… — but never quite this fucking defeated.
He works between both vehicles quickly, hunched in on himself like there’s a storm cloud looming over his form, weighing him down. You feel a pang somewhere in your chest, feel the need to shake it off just as quickly as it’s felt before it burrows somewhere deep.
“Once you’re done,” your voice cuts through the freezing cold air, shocking Steve from where he’s ducked under the hood, “Get in my car. It’s around negative three million degrees and it’s warm in here, so.”
“I’m fine,” Steve grits out between clenched teeth, huffing out yet another blast of cold air. He must be finished, because he’s standing there with his hands bundled under his armpits, clearly trying to seek warmth. They must feel like blocks of ice by now.
You sigh, rolling your eyes, “Your nose is so red it looks like it’s trying to escape your face. Do you want to be nose-less at your open casket?”
Steve’s mouth downturns in consideration, only for a split second before he rounds the hood and jumps into your passenger seat, slamming the door shut with an exaggerated moan, “God, your seats are warm!”
Your face flushes, repeating that same moan over and over in a loop. He writhes and slumps into the seat, tension from the freezing temperatures escaping his body as soon as he settles himself in, “At least take her out for dinner first, Jesus.” You groan, a waver in your voice that you’re so certain gives away your inner turmoil.
“Steak and lobster, holy shit,” he grunts, wriggling around and making himself comfortable, arching his back and exposing his neck. His back pops and cracks with the movement.
There’s a scar on his neck. you ponder quietly, wondering how you never noticed it the last time you saw him. It’s faint, pale, wrapped the whole way around his throat, and you intake a sharp breath when you catch sight of it.
“Getting the real Steve Harrington treatment, what a dream.” The words roll off your tongue, sarcasm tinged, “what’re you doing out at this time anyway? marshal law, Steve, tut-tut.”
“Had business to attend to, that I guess I now cannot attend to.” He shrugs casually, rolling his neck to look at you dead on, “Could ask you the same question, where you going that’s so important you’re willing to risk your ass?”
You ponder. You could tell the truth, which is far more boring than the lie you have conjured up.
What the hell were you trying to do, exactly? Make him jealous?
“Seeing a man about a dog. Those army guys are really cute, have a few in my arsenal but there’s one that’s really sweet on me.” You smirk, and you see Steve’s face visibly crumple, not upset just — annoyed by the statement.
“‘Those army guys’ are all fucking losers, shit for brains on a fucking power trip,” he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and visibly huffing out a breath that puffs his chest, “thought you of all people would know that, you’re smarter than this.”
Hook, line and sinker.
“But their uniforms and massive biceps make me so dumb,” you jut your bottom lip out, mocking, “in all seriousness, this guy is just so good with his fingers. And his dick? God—”
The last part comes out in a bit of a slutty moan, actually. Which wasn’t what you were going for, but if it works.
“Yeah, I get it.” Steve grunts, muttering nonsensically under his breath, nostrils flaring. He shifts awkwardly, trying to cross his legs and failing miserably with the lack of space in the footwell.
He’s flushed red in the cheeks, not from the cold this time. You gawk, eyes running down his body, landing where they probably shouldn’t.
You slump in your seat, rolling your eyes and trying to turn away from where you see the very obvious outline in Steve’s tight pants. “Been a while?” You snark, drawing attention without actually looking directly at the problem, “Probably has something to do with the perpetual scowl and lack of willing suitors.”
You press yourself against your car door, thigh digging into the cold leather with the need to make as much space between yourself and Steve as possible. His jeans strain obviously around his hips, the bulge of his cock prominent even in the dim light luminating through the car’s windshield, from the corner of your eye, even. You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to focus on literally anything else.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Steve exhales, on a laugh that sounds more like a bitter grunt. His fingers tighten on his own thigh, white-knuckling the starchy denim. He can’t even look at you, stares straight out the windshield instead, embarrassment making his cheeks a ruddy red.
You just have to keep pushing it though, don’t you? A weird anger and resentment coiling in your gut, annoyance that he’s not taking your sly jabs on, maybe. And yet-
“Surprised you and your right hand aren’t better acquainted, thought you loved yourself so much you’d prefer it.” The words come out of your mouth like vomit, spewing out venom even as the images of Steve touching himself make home in your brain and have your heart thudding against your ribcage rapidly, “Did watching yourself in the mirror get boring too?”
You need to stop. you’re being mean, going across the line from harmless goading to just straight-up nastiness. Your thighs clench together as you watch Steve’s grip on his own skin somehow grow tighter, bruising and angry.
The muscles in his jaw seem to be working overtime, teeth grinding audibly in the small cabin. He turns to look at you, and you’re not a coward so you turn to look right back, brow cocked in wait, “Oh fuck off.” He spits, the words low and ground out in a growl.
Except he’s… touching himself. Pressing the heel of his palm hard against the straining bulge in his pants, wincing at the feeling. Your body feels like static as your eyes follow the movement, trained on his hand covering the entirety of his trapped cock.
“Is this doing something for you?” You ask, voice breathier than before, “Me talking about you getting yourself off?” You almost scoff, actually. Covering your mouth with your hand as you continue to watch every squeeze of his fingers, “Didn’t realise you’d be this hard up.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, do you ever shut the fuck up,” Steve grunts, a rhetorical question that he doesn’t wait for you to answer, his hips give an involuntary twitch under the heat of his own hands. He’s not watching your face anymore, eyes dancing over your clavicle, across your collarbones and your cleavage.
Your own eyes track his, watching the way his deep-set brown irises flit around your body, and you’ve seen this exact look on his face before, only once.
A year ago, some girl you both knew from school threw a rager that definitely was not supposed to happen, and it was shut down rapidly by the army just a few hours after it began. You were both so drunk, so stupid drunk and he looked at you like he wanted to fucking devour you. As you ran off together in a blind panic, tears in your eyes from laughter.
Things got messy. And quick.
You didn’t see Steve again after the incident at Bradley’s, not for a long while, and the animosity in your heart just made home and grew in your chest. Imbedding itself there, because Steve was still a fucking asshole, “Are you thinking about it?” Your voice cold but wavered, “Thinking about how I got down on my knees in the dirt for you?”
You hear Steve’s breath catch in his throat, his hand tearing away from where it sat over his cock, moving to flex on his thigh once more. Like he’s imagining them somewhere else, almost.
“Don’t talk about that,” Steve’s face is hard, his eyes dark in the dim car light, “It was— I was— ”
He can’t even think of an excuse, his voice weak and unconvincing in your ears and probably his own as well. You can see where his pulse hammers in his neck, where the tendons flex from grinding his teeth too hard, trying his best to show some sort of fucking restraint.
“But it was so easy to get me where you wanted me, huh?” Your fingers toy with the hem of your shirt as you say it, voice cutting and cold, he’s looking where your hands dance over your skin, “Just one look, one smirk. The Harrington charm, right? And I was down on my knees in that backyard where anybody could’ve seen.”
Steve swallows audibly, grunting, jaw continuing to tick.
“Do you think about that? When you fist yourself in the mirror?” You cackle in delight, taking great pleasure in how his jeans somehow grow tighter and you see the length of him pulse through the thick fabric, “Think about how my throat swallowed you down? Inch by inch.”
“Fuck, stop.” Steve makes a strangled, garbled noise in the back of his throat, his other hand slamming down on the dashboard hard, shocking you back into your seat. He’s so tense, wound up tight like a spring, hips continuing to jerk roughly like he can’t control it.
“You do think about it,” you murmur, the teasing lilt in your tone still carrying on even as you lean forward into Steve’s space, cleavage spilling from the neckline of your shirt with the movement, “How I gagged and cried but didn’t stop. How you couldn’t keep your eyes off me, off your cock sliding in and out—”
You’re cut off abruptly when he turns to look at you, pupils blown and breath shaking in his chest. His fingers dig into his own thigh so hard you know he’s bruising himself, “Yeah,” he growls, voice rough and strained, “I fucking think about it. when I’m alone, when I’m in the fucking shower, I guess even when I’m jerking off in the damn mirror, like you said.”
You make an elated noise in the back of your throat, thighs squeezing and your hand running along Steve’s inner leg, just briefly. You make a show of dancing your fingers between his legs, only to skate completely past where you’re so sure he wants them. Your hand lands between his knees to pull the lever under the seat, forcing it back as far as it can go.
“What are you— what—” Steve’s hand comes up to rest on the car door, bracing himself as you swing your leg over his thighs, “there’s a camera.”
“Okay, and?” You shrug, a thrill running up your body and covering you in goosebumps, a sick part of your brain hoping that Steve kicks into overdrive from here and takes over, takes some of that pent-up frustration out on you, like he so clearly needs.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” He mutters, voice thick and frustrated. His hips punch up into the space you’ve left between your bodies, your knees doing the work and holding your frame up so that you don’t sit down on him fully.
“Yeah, I really am,” you admit, pawing at Steve’s sweater-jacket combo and hoping he gets the memo to just take them fucking off already, “think you can last more than a few thrusts if I let you fuck me?”
Steve moves awkwardly to strip himself of his layers with your help, leaving him in a threadbare white tee, hair mussed from the movement. He exhales sharply through his nose, fingertips digging into your waist possessively to press you down onto his lap, moving you back and forth gently, “You talk way too much.” He huffs.
He’s looking at you again. That same look. The devouring kind. You inhale on a gasp, relishing in those hands mapping out your torso, running up under your shirt to grasp at your soft waist, “You stall too much,” you counter, lazily rubbing off against him, hips rolling, “trying to buy for more time? I can feel it twitching, y'know.”
You can feel every inch of him through the fabric of your panties, skirt askew on your hips from the movement. His hands are everywhere, one sliding up higher on your body to paw at your tit, the other inching up behind your neck and wrapping tightly into your hair, tugging gently to pull your head back and expose your throat.
“Fuck, you’re right,” Steve admits, voice strained, his lips brushing over your neck, whispers of a promise to bite and claim, “I’ll still fuck you better than that fucking army lacky.”
"Yeah? Gonna put those talented fingers of yours to use, big boy?” You moan up at the ceiling, head snapped so far back it’s all you can do. You slap a hand down onto the window, the other wound tight in Steve’s shirt for balance.
He finally bites into your skin, sucking and licking until you’re sure there’ll be a mottled bruise in it’s place. His hips don’t stop bouncing, rolling into your cunt as he gets to work marking your body.
Yeah, you needed this. to be raw and animalistic, all teeth and bite and sweat and cum. Needed to unleash that pent up anger and need that had been roiling in your gut for over a year, needed for Steve to show you just how fucking angry he was.
“Bet you needed this as much as me, someone who knows what you want,” he speaks conversationally against your skin, hand trailing down from your breast, to dip into your panties, pressing into you where you’re wet and aching, “gonna shut you up.”
Your hand moves from where it’s wound tight in his shirt to his hair, nails digging in a silent beg to keep going. His teeth are angry and marking against your skin, stinging deliciously enough that your hips rock down on instinct into his hand, “Do it then.”
“You taste fucking amazing,” he murmurs, licking and soothing a vicious bite on your throat, fingers pressing harder where they’re sliding between your legs, running rough circles over your clit. He grunts when your fingers tug rougher at his hair, smirking against your neck and bumping his hips up once more.
Your own hips can barely stop moving, rocking against where his fingers circle your clit messily. The push and pull you’re both giving to each other is rough, vulgar and desperate. Your free hand clasps to Steve’s neck, scratching and marking his tanned skin with vicious delight, the gasps spewing from your mouth like you’re nothing more than a wild animal in heat.
Steve hisses and you know you’ve broken skin, but he doesn’t pull away from you. If anything, he begins pushing his hips up into you with more force, more insistence.
“You love this,” he mutters, slick fingers sliding from your clit to sink knuckle deep inside of you, curling and mapping out your insides. Smirking when you let out a foul moan, “That good, baby?”
Baby. He needs to shut his fucking mouth. He can’t just call you that and think it’s okay. It’s. It’s doing things to you.
“Would be real nice if you—” you’re cut off by his calloused thumb sweeping over your clit in rough strokes, working in tandem with his fingers pumping in and out of you relentlessly. The sticky click of your wetness is loud in your own ears, loud enough that it almost drowns out the whorish sounds leaving your mouth.
Your chest heaves with need, hips rolling and grinding against Steve’s hand and you know you’re making an absolute mess, can hear the dirty suction as his fingers work over you. You’re gonna cum, can feel it coiling in your gut in hot waves, ears ringing enough that your own moans sound like they’re underwater.
Steve barely blinks, can’t take his eyes off of you as much as you can’t tear yours away from him. You can see his arm flexing in your peripheral, tendons and veins protruding as he fucks you with his fingers, pressing on that same fucking spot and rubbing your clit in time, like he knows. Knows you’re fucking close.
“M'gonna make a mess,” you pout, fucking pout between wanton cries.
Steve smirks, his nostrils flaring, fingers working faster, “Good,” he shrugs, voice rough with want and it makes you run hot, “wanna feel it, c'mon.”
His thumb presses down harder on your clit, his fingers curling just slightly and your back arches off his lap, pleasure coiling in your gut, “F-fuck, Steve I—I’m,” your nails dig into his shoulder as your orgasm tears through you, hips jerking in aborted little thrusts. You’re moaning — loud, crying out Steve’s name and taking his fingers fucking prisoner or something as you come down, blinking away tears.
You can feel Steve watching you with this rapt attention, and he doesn’t stop moving his fingers, keeps them pumping until he’s drawn out every last twitch and spasm from your body. Your legs tremble as you slump against him, panting.
“You sound so fucking good when you cum, gonna be playing that on a loop for a long time,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your cheek as he slips his fingers free.
And then he. He tugs you back by your neck, a firm hand pressed to your skin as he brings his glistening fingers to his own lips and sucks them clean, groaning.
You watch with hazy eyes, awestruck as he sucks on his own fingers, hips still jerking up underneath you. And you can’t take it any longer, pulling his fingers free and smashing your lips against his, licking into him and moaning when you taste the remnants of yourself on the plushness of his mouth. You bite at his lower lip, tugging and feeling gratification when he sinks his fingers into your neck rougher, meeting the kiss with as much desperation.
”Need it, need you inside me,“ you rasp, fingers flying to his waistband.
He lets you fumble with his belt and zipper, arching to help you pull his jeans down below his ass. His cock springs out, red and leaking and you moan, wrapping your hand around it, ”Fuck,“ he grunts, swallowing loudly, "then take it, baby.”
You shift, lifting yourself just enough to guide him to your entrance, sliding the head over your folds just once before sinking down in one fell swoop. Even after all of that, he’s still big enough to have you gasping on a choked breath as he enters you.
Steve’s hand grasps onto your thigh tightly enough to leave fingertip shaped bruises as he sucks in a harsh breath, “You’re so fucking tight, oh my God,” he groans, hips snapping up into you almost immediately.
And it’s overwhelming. He’s everywhere. Lips and teeth biting at your neck and throat, his other hand still clasped behind your neck and holding you in place. You brace your own hand on the car window, the other on Steve’s throat and for what? Leverage, balance, anything.
He fucks you from below, quick and sharp with his feet firmly planted to the floor and you take it, bouncing roughly in his lap and gasping, “Feels so good,” you whine, fingers flexing on his throat, a whisper of a squeeze, “God, so fucking big— fuck, fuck.”
A rough sound escapes Steve’s lips, his hand moving to your waist to maneouvre you slightly and bounce you back down on his cock, the angle changing slightly with the adjustment and you mewl, “Yeah? Taking me so good, baby.”
You nod, slumping forward into him and giggling breathily as he continues fucking you with this reckless abandon, sweaty skin slapping with the sheer force of your bodies meeting, “Yeah, needed this.” You swallow harsh, squeezing his throat again, “Y'needed it too, huh? Angry boy. Needed to let it out.”
Your words are slurred, gasped and desperate, jittery and nowhere near as cutting as you wanted them to be. But he’s groaning, hips snapping up and taking — the filthy, wet sounds of him sinking in and out of you are obscene.
“God, shut up,” Steve grunts, fingers tightening on your waist and forcing you to meet every rough snap of his hips, “just like that, oh fuck. Y'r gonna make me cum, shit,”
He tangles his hand in your hair, holding you in place. The eye contact is searing, leaves your body hot and prickly all over and oh, oh god. He’s fucking ethereal, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and his eyes so dark they’re almost black. He’s so close.
“I’m— fuck—” his mouth opens on a guttural groan as he pulses hot inside of you, holding you down on his cock so hard that you have to lean forward and bite into his shoulder.
The line of pleasure-pain has you crying out, your own orgasm ripping from you, and you’re clenching around him, milking him dry. His hips are still moving, erratic little thrusts as you both ride it out.
“Anyone ever tell you you look real good when you cum?” You ask, panting against his skin, nervous system on edge and making you vibrate against him.
“You look better.” Steve murmurs, his thumb brushing over your waist as if to sooth the stinging bruises he’s left behind.
He moves his other hand from where it was buried in your hair to dance down your back, gentle in the aftermath of roughness.
“Yeah, yeah, no need to woo me. we just fucked without all of that.” You shoo him away with a flick of your hand, though you’re smiling. He’s so gorgeous like this, flushed from his orgasm and covered in your marks. like he’s yours to claim or something. ha ha.
“Just saying,” Steve chuckles, a deep rumble in his chest as he shifts you from his lap with ease, both of you moaning gently when he slips free.
You climb back into your own seat, attempting to adjust yourself though you know it’s no use. You no doubt look a mess, evidence clear in the way your hair is mussed and your mascara slides down your face, “Y'think that thing has enough charge in it by now?”
Steve’s making work of buckling his jeans up when you say it, and he gives you a sidelong glance, “Probably. We’ll see if it makes it back to the squawk without shitting itself.”
“Chances are slim.” You say it severely, deadpan, “want me to tail you back just in case?”
There’s a glimmer in Steve’s eyes when you offer. Hopeful, if you think too hard. And your chest tightens.
“Gatorade and Boppers good enough for payment? Maybe your pick of the station playlist?” He cracks, going for casual and failing miserably.
“Sounds a lot like a date.”
“We’ve kinda done it ass backwards, but… yeah?”
“Well, if you insist.”
“Shut up,” Steve groans but he’s smiling, leaning over the centre console to kiss you messily.