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call-me-eds · 5 days ago

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Written for @steddiesportsau.

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Prompt #1: Friday Night Lights | Word Count: 2771 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Pre-Steddie, S2 Canon Divergence/Mild AU, Football Player Steve Harrington, Hawkins High School Football, Let It Be Known: Eddie Munson Did Not Sign Up For This Willingly

Also on ao3.

It was only supposed to be an unfairly issued punishment for a bullshit charge of attempted destruction of school property. The old, if you want to mess with the school's footballs so bad, then maybe you should be on the team nonsense that only a smooth-brained coach could cook up.

An ultimatum to either suck it up and accept the forced task of throwing practice passes to the JV losers, or be suspended, all but guaranteeing himself a third senior year. All because Coach Watkins saw Eddie snag a football from one of the asshole jocks, cock his arm, and send it flying into the trees in a nice spiral Uncle Wayne had taught him as a kid. Back before it was quite so blatantly obvious that sports weren't gonna be an interest in his life.

Now, months later, he's having a helmet shoved on his head mid-game because Carver, the asshole starting quarterback, is being carted off the field. Knee blown out.

Two minutes ago, Eddie was reading a book on the bench. Now, Steve Harrington is pulling Eddie's jersey off his back, shoving a pair of pads into them, before demanding he put his arms up.

He does, not sure what other option he really has at this point. Harrington yanks the jersey down over his head, settling the pads onto his shoulders, then slides his hands under Eddie's jersey. Eddie hears the click, and feels Steve yank them tight. Too tight.

They're not really gonna make him play football in an actual game, are they? That's absurd.

"You should've been padded up," Harrington says, and then pats Eddie's thighs. Eddie is wearing his bottom pads, but if he wasn't, would Steve Harrington try to strip his pants off him too? "Why weren't you dressed out?"

"Uh, I don't really play," he starts, but Steve Harrington, the only remaining captain on the field, is too busy dressing him before they have to resume play.

Harrington holds up a helmet, and Eddie lets him shove it down onto his head. It's uncomfortable over his ears, pinching. Steve doesn't give him a chance to complain as he's pulling the chin strap around, snapping it in place, then holding out his mouthguard.

Eddie opens up. Doesn't know what else to do. Steve slides it into his mouth, and Eddie bites down. It's not molded to his teeth very well, and he regrets that. He should have listened. He just never expected to use it. He's just an extra arm in practice. He doesn't actually play.

He doesn't want that. Nobody wants that.

Except apparently Steve Harrington, right this minute. Eddie doesn't even know how to play, he wasn't paying attention. He tries to get the mouthguard comfortable, and that's a lost cause, but at least it'll probably be enough to keep him from grinding all his teeth off from the nerves that have suddenly overtaken him.

His time should have been served, but the assholes in administration decided this was good for him. Like, the reverse of what they do to actual athletes. Instead of not getting to play for bad grades, Eddie was given the option to either join the football team for the rest of the season or be suspended.

He wasn't actually ever supposed to play in a game. Just get his ass worked in practice until that F in Ms. O'Donnell's became at least a C.

"Throw a few, warm-up," Steve says, and he jogs down the sideline backwards, clapping his hands together to get Eddie to throw to him.

He does. It's shaky, and far too low.

Steve tosses it back, and the second and third are better. He's just loosening up when he hears that they have three minutes, and he feels more butterflies than he's ever felt taking the usually unwelcoming stage of The Hideout with his band.

People keep thumping him on the helmet, people that have treated him like shit for the past five years of high school. He focuses on Harrington.

It's Harrington's senior year, probably the only one he'll have unless he'd like to follow in Eddie's footsteps. He's sure he wants to win, but Eddie isn't the guy. He really, really isn't the guy.

"Captains," the ref calls, and Steve starts moving. Eddie stays put, and Steve snags him by the arm on the way past. Eddie digs in his heels.

"Quarterback's a captain," Steve says, pulling harder.

He's not a fucking captain, he's barely a player. But he gets dragged along, listens to the speech to finish out this game safe and clean.

Once he gets on the field, he looks at the play call sheet that Steve strapped to his wrist. It's basically gibberish. He was supposed to memorize it, and he did, sort of. He's good at that sort of thing from all his Hellfire campaigns, but right now, he's forgotten everything he ever knew in an instant.

The play is called without his input, and after the snap Eddie tries to hand off to Steve on the right, but he's gone to the left. Eddie gets sacked into the dirt by two linemen, and he makes an oomph sound, but manages to hold onto the ball.

He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing out here.

The wind's been knocked out of him, he's never been tackled before. He relaxes, letting his helmet hit the grass. Maybe he just won't get back up.

Harrington doesn't give him that option, though, tugging him back to feet. Swatting him on the ass, telling him to shake it off.

They line up for the third down play, a pass, and Eddie bounces it right off the helmet of one of the players on his own team.

Fuck. Shit. He can't do this.

Steve Harrington clearly realizes this, and makes the play call in the huddle, "I Right 42 Swing Pass."

Eddie squirms. His cleats are uncomfortable. The shoulder pads are heavy. He's gonna get hit again.

"Shouldn't we punt?" Eddie asks. It's fourth down. You punt on fourth and long. Even he's figured that out after years of the background noise of Uncle Wayne watching football.

Steve grips both of his shoulder pads, "We don't pick up a first down here, it's over. We gotta go for it."

Eddie nods.

"Hand off to me, right side," Steve explains, and Eddie nods, then Steve says, "I'll come from right behind you. Calm down. You've got this. We've got this."

Eddie gives his shaky cadence, and the ball is snapped again. He catches it without fumbling it, thank fuck, and puts it right in Steve's belly as Steve runs up the side, seemingly finding a hole that Eddie couldn't even see. Steve hits the grass, ball tucked into his body, getting them the first down they needed to keep them in the game.

Eddie honestly would have rather just turned it over, lost, getting himself the fuck off the field.

But now they're still in this. Steve's popped up, pointing downfield, and Eddie just stands there, waiting.

Steve gets back into the huddle and calls the next play. Eddie doesn't even feel like he has time to lift his throwing arm before he's laid out, sacked again for a loss of four. That fucking hurt, and he's slow to get up.

"Sorry, they blitzed," Steve says, tugging him to his feet, and then calls the next play. Harrington dresses down the line, telling them they have to hold their shit together better than that. Eddie's green. And the Panthers defense definitely smells the fresh blood in the water.

He's not wrong.

They line up again, and Eddie completes another hand off to Steve, and watches him drive right up the middle, again. Digging deep, using his thighs to gain additional yards, in a battle of sheer force of will.

It takes a third defender joining in on the dogpile to fully drag Steve down to the grass.

They're close to another first down again, still trailing by ten on the scoreboard. The clock is running. Eddie is really unsure about all this.

Coach makes a substitution, drawing up a play for Hargrove. Bringing in the violence and physicality. Hargrove prefers playing defense, clearly addicted to hitting people, but on the next snap, it's out of Eddie's hands and into his. Harrington's running out ahead downfield, blocking, giving them the very best chance to score.

A dive across the goal line.

Touchdown.

Eddie jumps into the air, excited despite himself, but he's ushered off the field, fast. They're still down. Even after the extra point.

"Onside kick," one of the other players on the sideline explains, and Eddie grips onto his shoulder pads through his jersey.

He's actually nervous for them. He shouldn't care about the outcome at all, but he's invested now.

Hagan punts it short, and it bounces off the hands of one of the players on the other team, fumbling up in the air. Eddie holds his breath as it fumbles to the grass, rolling. Players from both teams scrambling, chasing after it.

Harrington has it.

Harrington fucking has it.

Eddie's shoved back onto the field, and they've really only got time for one more play. Maybe two. If they're lucky.

"Think you can throw a bomb?" Steve asks, grabbing him by the shoulders, and Eddie nods. In theory. It's the one thing he's good at.

"Good. We need a Hail Mary right about now. Do you remember how to read the coverage?"

Eddie shakes his head.

"Look before you throw the ball. Just look, see who's open. Don't worry about the play called. Throw it to someone in green that's open."

Eddie laughs, and Steve smiles. It has calmed him down. Just a little.

"Listen, we have a chance to win this," Steve declares, and Eddie nods. They do.

He drops back, and he's gonna get fucking killed. The line has collapsed, again. He scrambles, aborting the pass, and Steve saves his ass with a huge block.

Eddie just needs to get out of bounds, and everybody is screaming at him to do exactly that. He knows. He's trying.

He's shoved out of bounds by one of his own teammates, he's pretty goddamn sure, and goes down in the grass in front of the bench, getting tangled up in the chains, but at least he made it out before more time bleeds off the clock.

They have one more chance.

When the ball is snapped this time, the blocking is good, perfect maybe, and Eddie has a pocket. A good pocket. Time. He drops back, his heart hammering in his chest as he reads the coverage, feet dancing, before he finally sees Steve Harrington hauling ass.

He's not even sure that's part of the called play. But Harrington is getting downfield, then suddenly cuts inwards towards the middle of the field, finding a hole. Hands up. Calling for the ball. Eddie just has to hit him.

This is the part he's good at. The throwing.

Eddie plants his feet, and lets it rip. Just in time, apparently, as he gets knocked on his ass from his blindside, and watches from the ground as that Wayne Munson spiral glides through the air, landing right in Steve's arms. Steve cradles it, and stiff arms his way into the end zone as the clock runs out.

Steve made it look easy. Like they've done this before, when they most certainly have not.

Eddie jumps up, and pumps his fist, spinning around. He threw a goddamn, game winning touchdown.

Maybe sports aren't the worst. Just, worst-adjacent.

He takes off his helmet and shakes out his hair. He's sweaty, and he was only in the game for a few plays. Probably nerves, more than actual physical exertion.

Steve Harrington is running back down the field, dodging people left and right, not stopping until he's right in front of Eddie. Then he's picking him up, pressing the game ball into his chest. Eddie feels flush, and he knows it's not just the adrenaline that was unceremoniously dumped into his system.

"You did it!" Steve yells, and Eddie is pretty sure Steve did it. He carried the team on his shoulders those last few plays, Eddie was just along for the ride. A warm body on the field.

The cheerleaders are swarming, as well as most of the town. Chrissy Cunningham kisses both of his cheeks, and he's pretty sure he's blushing crimson. Attention from Steve Harrington and Chrissy Cunningham, back-to-back? He's definitely not complaining.

Eddie's just pretty sure he's slipped into an alternate universe.

He's surprised Chrissy's not already on the way to Hawkins Memorial to check on her boyfriend. The one that caused this whole problem by getting hurt in the first place.

The crowd grows, and Eddie doesn't particularly like that, so at the first chance he slinks away towards the school so he can shower and change his clothes.

Jeff is standing on the edge of the field, and Eddie stumbles into his arms, hugging him, "Holy shit. They made me play. I could have been killed."

"That's what we thought when we saw you go in," Jeff laughs, patting Eddie on the back as he pulls away from the hug. Eddie's sure everybody in the pep band was shocked to see him actually get on the field. Especially his friends.

Gareth runs up, drumsticks still in his hand, "You played football! And didn't die."

Eddie laughs. He did. He played football. And didn't die.

Wayne is waiting outside the locker room, and is just one big grin. It's creepy, deeply unsettling. Wayne Munson doesn't smile like a pod-person.

"Stop it, old man," Eddie says, but he's smiling, too. He might not care about sports, but being a minor hero for the night feels pretty fucking good, he's not gonna lie.

"Pretty nice spiral you've got, kid," Wayne teases, and Eddie just looks at him. This is all his fault. Eddie's just not sure if that's a good thing, or a bad thing, yet.

Either way, he hands the game ball Harrington had bestowed upon him to Wayne. He'll definitely appreciate it more than Eddie will.

Of course, when you think of the devil, the devil appears. Steve Harrington is coming down the hallway now, helmet in hand, cleats clacking on the tile floor.

"Hey, wait for me to shower and come out with us," Harrington says, just now making his way to the locker room after the on-field celebration.

Eddie's not sure about that but Steve presses, draping his arm around Eddie's shoulders, "C'mon. You have to. Can he, dad? I'll keep an eye on him. Get him home safe and sound."

He sounds like Eddie Haskell, laying on all the charm he can muster, like a little brown noser.

Neither Eddie nor Uncle Wayne make any corrections, but Wayne nods, "Just stay out of trouble. Both of you," he advises, tucking the game ball under his arm as he leaves.

Eddie's not sure about this. A jock party? Definitely not his scene.

"Give me ten, I'll shower fast," Steve says and Eddie nods, despite his best judgment.

Out in the country, there's a bonfire and more beer than Eddie's ever seen in one place. Steve Harrington is working the party, keeping everybody hyped and in celebration mode.

Eddie's had too much attention, from people he doesn't particularly like, and he slinks back into the darkness as best he can.

Carver turned up after everybody else, with a big brace on his knee, and that does not look promising. Eddie's now concerned he's gonna have to play next week, too. This was fine as a one-off, but there's a lot of season left. Fuck.

Steve finds him, out in the dark, and slings his arm around Eddie's shoulders again, "You did real good, Munson."

"I don't know about that," Eddie answers, taking a pull off the bottle Steve had handed him.

"You've got a hell of an arm. Better than Carver's, that's for damn sure. Little more practice, actually learning the plays," he teases, grabbing the back of Eddie's neck, tugging Eddie close. Harrington bumps his forehead against Eddie's, breath smelling like beer, and his hair like fancy shampoo. Eddie's glad it's dark, because he feels his cheeks flush as Steve adds, "And you'll be a real threat."

Eddie laughs, nervous at being so close.

Harrington's still cupping the back of his neck, squeezing, as he stares into Eddie's eyes, declaring, "You know, I think you and me might just do something great together."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiesportsau and follow along with the fun! 🏈

Notes: Definitely drew inspiration from Saracen having to go into the game, pretty unprepared, in the pilot of Friday Night Lights. Steve Harrington was a fullback/tailback in this one, like Tim Riggins. I listened to a lot of Hair of Dog by Nazareth and Devil Town by Bright Eyes while writing this one, lol.

Violence and physicality is the hallmark of RL player Leo Chenal. But that sounded very Billy Hargrove. And from my experience with small town teams like Hawkins, a good handful of players would likely be playing both sides of the ball, at least partly.

#OOOOOOH GOD #FNL MY BELOVED #fic rec #this will ruin me

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call-me-eds · 24 days ago

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offically

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve panics as he has never had that talk with you, and staying true to form, he overthinks the situation entirely

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, m oral reciving, thigh riding, steve being a nervous sweetheart <3

a/n: idk if i'm happy with this BUT i had to get it out of my mind. also this could be counted as switch!steve so do with that what you will!

series masterlist

A low rumble of thunder echoed outside, and the rain tapped steadily on the classroom windows as Mr Harrington huddled on the floor with his group of second graders.

It was indoor recess—a golden opportunity for this nail-biting Jenga showdown. Steve’s team and the opposing side of giggling kids faced off over a tower stacked higher than it had any right to be, teetering ominously near the top.

Everything else in the room was buzzing with activity—board games and colouring sheets spread out on tables—but the teacher’s full attention was on the wooden blocks in front of him. He was as serious as any professional athlete under stadium lights. Tension thrummed in his chest, and he could swear the kids on the other side were practically holding their breath, too.

“All right,” he murmured, leaning closer and tapping at a lower block. “What are we thinking, guys?”

One of the students on the other team let out a sharp gasp.

“That’s cheating!” She accused, pointing at Steve’s probing finger.

“Not cheating,” he huffed out a laugh. “It’s called strategy.”

He rolled his shoulders back, confidence in his eyes and his heart pounding at the childish competition.

“What does that mean?” A young boy asked with a confused expression.

“Strategy means…” He glanced around the tower, “figuring out how we’re gonna win.”

He sent the kid a playful wink. Instantly, a small chorus of giggles broke out across the table.

“Pick that one!” one of his teammates whispered urgently, pointing to a precariously wedged block near the middle.

“Yeah, bud, I think you’re right,” he agreed, feeling a surge of pride that this little second grader had even braved an opinion in such a pressure-cooker situation.

Without further hesitation, he leaned forward slowly, fingertips tingling with anticipation. The room seemed to hold its breath.

He nudged the block—just a hair’s breadth out of place. It was going smoothly at first, half the block was free—until suddenly, the entire tower swayed and came crashing down with an echoing clatter. Wooden pieces scattered across the carpet as laughter, shrieks, and theatrical groans erupted from all sides.

“That’s your fault!” wailed one of the kids on Steve’s own team, arms flopping in exasperation.

“Mine?” Steve exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up in feigned offense. “You’re the one who told me to pick that block in the first place!”

The child folded his arms, trying to keep a straight face.

“Yeah, but I would’ve done it so it didn’t fall.”

Steve burst into laughter, tossing a block gently back into the box.

“Okay, hot shot. Next time? I’ll let you take the lead.”

He glanced at the clock mounted high on the wall, signalling the end of playtime. With a clap of his hands, he stood tall and called out over the ruckus.

“All right, party people, fun’s over,” he announced. “You’ve got five minutes to get this place looking like it did before we started.”

He fought a grin at the unified chorus of dismayed groans. He raised his brows, crossing his arms in a mock-stern stance.

“If you don’t put it away, next time we don’t play. Got it?”

A smattering of Yes, Mr. Harrington, rang out, and the kids jumped into action. He allowed himself a moment to watch them scatter—tiny hurricanes of energy, racing to scoop up board game pieces, crayons, and Jenga blocks from around the room.

Teaching was his chance to make a difference, sure, but also to indulge in childlike wonder—when everything felt hopeful.

His gaze flicked to the farthest table, the one that always looked like a rainbow explosion had taken place—glue sticks, coloured pens, and tiny scraps of construction paper littered every inch of it.

With a soft chuckle, he strolled over to help. Beginning to collect lids and snapping them onto markers, relishing the simple, grounding routine. One of his quieter students, Alfie, stood nearby, cradling what looked like a small, folded card against his chest.

“Hey, Alfie,” he said gently, tilting his head toward the colourful paper in the boy’s hands. “Whatcha got there?”

Alfie blinked up at him, eyes wide with shyness. He held out the card.

“It’s for Ellie,” he mumbled, voice barely audible over the rustle of paper scraps.

“Oh yeah?” Steve asked. The name tugged at his heart in a different way than usual—he thought briefly of you. Seems like love has been on everyone's minds recently.

Ellie was busy putting them away now, small arms struggling around the stack, and Steve felt a pleasant feeling in his chest at the simple reminder of your first meeting, all spurred on by a simple request for children's reading material. He shook his head as he returned his gaze to his younger student.

“Special occasion?”

The boy’s cheeks pinked as he fiddled with the corner of the card.

“I’m…gonna ask her to be my girlfriend.”

He had to bite back a grin; the pure earnestness was almost too sweet to bear.

“That’s a big step, bud,” he said, tone soft as he screwed the cap onto a glue stick. “You nervous?”

“Kinda.” Alfie’s shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “I’ve never asked someone before.”

There was such bravery in those words that triggered a familiar swell of empathy. He crouched down so he could be eye-level with the kid, giving the card a closer look.

“Well, you’re doing it right.” He said as he got closer. “A nice card? Thoughtful. Girls like that.”

“What if she says no?” Alfie peeked at the little hearts he’d drawn in the corner.

“Then that’s okay,” Steve replied, voice warm and unwavering. “Just means she wasn’t the right one for you.”

The boy studied his own artwork, as if absorbing some ancient wisdom.

“Go put it with the rest of your stuff so it doesn’t get lost,” he patted him gently on the back. “It’s important, right?”

Alfie nodded, teeth catching his bottom lip in a shy smile before he scampered off to tuck the card safely in his cubby.

Steve straightened, scooping scattered crayons into a box. He was keenly aware of the other children zooming past, arms full of supplies and games, but his mind drifted toward a realisation that made him pause.

He had never actually asked you to be his girlfriend. Not in any official sense, anyway.

His thoughts began that familiar racing which was practically muscle memory at this point.

You and him were clearly together—you spent half your evenings with each other, cooking dinner, stealing kisses around your shop, taking turns meeting the other from work. You even called each other on nights when neither of you could slip away from your busy schedules.

And that other day in your kitchen, on the counter, his head between your—

The memory threatened to flood him with heat, and he cleared his throat, forcibly shutting down that train of thought.

There were children present, for crying out loud.

But still, he couldn’t shake the question. Should he say something? Did you even want him to? You’d always been so content with the small gestures—picking up your favorite snack at the movies, leaving a sweet note behind the register.

He’d been out of the dating game for God knows how long, but this—this felt like a crucial step, one that couldn’t be ignored or fumbled.

Running a hand through his hair, he surveyed the classroom. The kids were nearly done, the once-messy tables now growing tidy. He hefted the box of coloured pencils and returned them to their spot on the shelf. In his chest, the question still glimmered, stubborn and insistent.

Are you his girlfriend?

He exhaled, a sigh that seemed to carry all the pent-up yearning in his heart, and wandered back to his desk. As he sank into his chair, he knew this thought wouldn’t leave him alone. Not until he found the right moment to bring it up with you.

And with his luck, it was sure to be more of a challenge than necessary.

Sunday in Hawkins was supposed to be mellow—just a quick coffee, maybe a grocery run—but alas, things don't always go to plan.

You had somehow transformed this simple outing into a mini shopping spree, darting from shop to shop with that almost pleading expression he could never say no to. And while his arms were definitely beginning to ache, he wasn’t one to complain. Not when he got to watch you light up at the sight of each new treasure you found.

He followed you into a cosy little home goods shop, the kind with shelves stacked to the rafters with mismatched antiques, colourful glassware, and odd knickknacks. You drifted to a shelf with an impressive selection of vases—round ones, tall ones, some painted with delicate flowers.

“It’s… very you.” Steve teased safely as you eyed up a beautiful glass vase, soon holding it up for his opinion.

“What?” you shot back, grinning over your shoulder. “You don’t like my interior design choices?”

He shifted the other bags onto one arm, the lingering weight reminding him just how many stops you’d made that afternoon.

“I didn’t say that,” he replied, giving you a playful smirk. “It’s just…do you really need another vase?”

Your shelves were already pretty cluttered, and he just couldn’t see how you could possibly fit anything else up there. And that’s not to say he didn’t like the eclectic style of your flat, but the practicality was something he was finding difficult to ignore. Even with your excited expression.

“Uh, no?” You didn’t miss a beat, your matter-of-fact tone making him roll his eyes. “I want it. There’s a difference.”

“Sound argument,” he conceded as he followed you to the counter, trailing behind you good naturedly.

He had some experience shopping with women, and he learnt pretty fast that questioning the validity of such purchases was a redundant argument.

But hey, if you're happy, so is he—and it meant getting to spend more time with you.

He watched quietly as you paid. He’d tried to do it himself in the first shop you'd visited, but you'd quickly shot him down—not that it stopped him from wanting to. You were rather insistent when you set your mind to something. But that was alright; he’d just have to get creative in the future.

If he really thought about it, this could even count as market research—practice for when he got you something special himself.

As soon as you finished thanking the young woman behind the till and tucked your wallet back into your bag, he swept in, picking up your purchase before you even had the chance to reach for it.

If he couldn't pay with money, he could at least help this way. Besides, he enjoyed the glances he received from people on the street. The approving looks that confirmed he was doing something right.

“You think I shouldn’t have bought that?” you teased, nudging his shoulder with yours.

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He relied as he pushed the door open with his shoulder, following behind you once again.

“If it’s too heavy, you can just say that.” You smirked, eyes dancing with mischief.

He let out a small, theatrical huff as he shook his head.

“You’re lucky I like you, y’know that?”

Your face softened, a grin blooming so sweet it made his stomach do a small flip. You hooked your arm through his as he fell in step with you.

“I am lucky,” you said, your voice warm and fond. “And hey, you look good carrying my stuff.”

His cheeks warmed at that, a heat spreading as he basked in the little thrill your words always seemed to ignite. And yes, he had to agree—he did look good carrying your things. He looked like your boyfriend carrying your things. Once again, that same nagging thought resurfaced, the question of whether you two were ‘official’ pulling insistently at the edges of his mind, just as it had all week.

Before he had a chance to vocalise any of his racing thoughts, the clouds that had been looming overhead all afternoon finally decided to make themselves an issue.

A single raindrop splattered onto the tip of your nose. Another hit his arm, quickly followed by a deluge that washed over Hawkins in a matter of seconds. You let out a startled squeal, gripping his sleeve in an attempt to dodge the worst of the sudden downpour.

“Shit—this way,” he called, reaching for your wrist and gently tugging you along. Rain pelted the pavement, soaking through his hair and dampening his jacket. His shoes splashed in gathering puddles, and he could feel you stumbling to keep up, breathless laughter tumbling from your lips.

“Steve!” you gasped, half-exasperated. “The car is in the other direction!”

He cradled the bags protectively to his chest, blinking raindrops from his eyelashes.

“Yeah, well, someone decided to go off track with all those extra stops,” he retorted, voice raised above the hammering rain. “My apartment is closer!”

“Seriously?” you said, eyes widening even as you followed him down a side street. The walkway glistened with water, and your shoes squeaked on the slick pavement.

“Yeah, so follow me if you don’t wanna get drenched,” he insisted. Though you were both already pretty soaked, the idea of shelter felt too good to pass up. There was just one small detail that caused a surge of excitement in your chest.

You’d never been to his apartment before. Not once.

You'd spent plenty of time at your place, curled up together on the sofa after closing, or wandering aimlessly around town—giggling in coffee shops and buying far too many pastries along the way.

But his apartment?

This was new.

It wasn’t like he’d intentionally hidden it from you; it had just never seemed to fit naturally into your plans. Whenever you went on a date, he usually just walked you back to your doorstep. After work, your place was conveniently on his way home. And whenever he was in town, you always seemed to be there, somewhere close by.

His place had simply never come up.

The thought of you stepping into his home—into the space where he felt safest—felt like a huge step. He valued it deeply, the one place where he didn’t have to pretend to be anything other than himself.

Inviting you inside meant sharing a significant part of who he was.

When the two of you finally tumbled inside his apartment, the door slammed shut behind you with a dull thud, muffling the roar of the storm outside. Rainwater dripped from the hems of your clothes, creating a small puddle at your feet. Steve, still balancing your many shopping bags, set them down by the door with a sigh. You might've felt guilty about him carrying everything, but the excitement of being inside his flat quickly overshadowed any lingering worries.

He turned to you, taking in your damp hair and the tiny droplets clinging to your lashes, and felt a gentle tug of tenderness in his chest. Without thinking, he reached out, carefully brushing a few strands away from your forehead, his expression softening with concern.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice light, “you’re drenched.”

A delighted laugh bubbled from your lips as you raked a hand through your soaked hair.

“Yeah, well, so are you.” Your gaze swept over his own waterlogged sweater, making him acutely aware of just how chilled he was.

“Point taken,” he conceded, trying not to shiver. He glanced at the window, where sheets of rain still pounded against the glass. “Hang on, I’ll grab you something dry.”

“Steve, seriously, it’s not—” You moved to protest, arms folded beneath your chest.

He shook his head, a firm but amused glint in his eye.

“You’re gonna catch a cold like that.” His tone was teasing, but he meant every word—he couldn’t bear the thought of you being uncomfortable on his watch. “Just—stay here,” he added, vaguely gesturing for you to wait by the couch.

Without giving you a chance to argue further, he ducked into the short hallway that led to his bedroom. As soon as he was out of your line of sight, he let out a soft exhale and ran a hand through his hair, sending droplets flying, nerves building slightly. You were here, in his space. And rather than scaring him, it filled him with excitement.

The last person he'd brought here had been Robin, but that hadn't felt particularly special—she was around so often, comfortable enough to make herself at home without asking. But now you were his guest, and suddenly he was playing host. It made him giddy, his thoughts drifting to fantasies of coming home to find you already waiting, or casual phone calls where he'd simply just tell you to come over.

He flicked on the bedroom light, mentally cursing the scattered laundry he’d forgotten to fold. The room felt lived in, the walls adorned with movie posters he'd sneakily acquired from his old job, and a modest bookshelf tucked neatly in the corner.

He snatched a dry sweater from the closet for himself—quickly changing out of his soaked one—before rummaging for something comfy in his drawers, settling on a soft, oversized number he hoped would fit you well enough.

As he padded back into the living room, tugging his own fresh change of clothes more into place, he caught you gazing at one of the framed photos on his bookshelf.

You couldn't help yourself as you continued to look at all of his photos, each one turning his space into a gallery of vivid memories. Everywhere your eyes landed was something positive, something bright.

It was clear he had crafted this intentionally—surrounding himself with reminders of joy and comfort, so whenever anxiety or overwhelm crept in, happiness wouldn't be far away. And now, seeing you here in the middle of it all, it felt as though he'd included you in that gentle optimism, too.

“Here,” he said, offering you the bundle of clothing. The jumper practically swallowed his arms—he’d picked the largest one he owned. “It’s probably too big, but at least you’ll be warm.”

“Thanks.” You took it, fingertips skimming the worn fabric.

Then, as casually as if you were in your own home, you peeled off your soaked shirt. He froze, his pulse jumping to his throat. You were still wearing a bra, sure—but you might as well have been waving a neon sign because he couldn’t look away.

In the grand scheme of things, you'd both done far more intimate things together, yet this caught him completely off guard.

A surprise, absolutely, but definitely not an unwelcome one.

“You staring?” You arched a brow at him, a cheeky grin playing on your lips.

He cleared his throat, snapping his gaze to a nearby lamp.

“Uh—no,” he lied, feeling heat flare across his cheeks. “Shut up,” he added, but there was no real bite to his words.

Your laughter came soft and sweet, he felt a fierce ache of pride that you were comfortable enough to joke like this around him. Watching you pull on the jumper, he couldn't help but notice how perfectly it fell just past your hips.

He was just about to tease you—some witty remark about how good you looked in his clothes—but then your fingers moved to the button of your jeans, and his heart nearly short-circuited.

You shimmied out of them, leaving you in nothing but his sweater, which barely concealed your underwear. You held out your wet clothes at arm’s length, droplets pattering onto the floor.

“Can you…” you trailed off, offering him an apologetic smile.

“Yeah,” he said, breath catching. “Y-yeah, of course.”

Gingerly, he took the soggy bundle, hyperaware that his brain was racing at the mere sight of your bare legs. He forced himself to turn away, inhaling a calming breath.

“I’ll put these on the radiator.”

Slipping into the adjoining room—an open doorway that led to a compact kitchen and a laundry nook—he carefully spread your clothes over the warm metal. A burst of thunder rattled the window, shaking him from his smitten spiral. He cleared his throat, ran a towel quickly over his hair, and then made his way back to the living room. You were already curled up on his couch, legs tucked beneath you, your attention drawn to the rain hammering the glass.

Something about the sight—you, looking so relaxed and at home—melted the last of his hesitation.

He sank down beside you, the old couch cushions dipping under his weight.

“Better?” He asked, voice quieter than usual.

You turned, letting your gaze lock with his. “Much better.”

He sighed in relief but had to make a very conscious effort not to stare at the bare skin of your legs, no matter how tempting it was. He glanced away quickly, hoping you hadn't noticed, but when his eyes drifted back to yours, he saw that playful glint in your expression—clear evidence you'd caught him red-handed.

His heart jumped, a little embarrassed, but you weren't going to let him off easy; he knew that mischievous look far too well.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice already betraying him with a slight tremor.

Instead of answering, you shuffled closer. Closer still, until the thin cushion separating you ceased to exist and you were practically pressed against his side.

What were you planning?

“You still cold?” he teased, trying and failing to keep his composure as you inched even nearer.

Sure, it was a silly question—he was the one who felt like his blood was on fire—but the words spilt out before he could rethink them. His own breath caught in his throat as he began to catch onto what was happening.

“Maybe,” you replied, a playful lilt to your voice.

He was about to muster another snarky comeback, maybe tease you about the goosebumps on your legs, but you swung yourself over his lap before he had the chance. You leaned in to sweep away the stray strands clinging to his forehead. The simple gesture sent a warm flush skittering through his veins.

You clearly wanted to play with him.

“Wh-what are you doing?” he managed, voice just a bit hoarse. The way he looks when he’s flustered only urging you to tease him further.

“Nothing,” you murmured, tilting his chin gently upward until his gaze locked with yours. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”

The words echoed in his mind, and he blushed so hard that he was sure you could feel the heat rolling off his face.

“I mean—yeah, you—” He stammered, unable to form a coherent response before you leaned down and pressed your lips softly against his.

His eyes fluttered shut almost instantly, hands drifting up to settle on your waist as he held you close. You pulled back just for a moment, your breath fanning across his cheek, and he swallowed thickly in anticipation.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “what are you—”

“I’m saying thank you for today,” you whispered, sliding your mouth over his again. A shiver ran through him at the warmth of your lips, the gentle press of your body against his. His fingers curled in the fabric of his own sweater you were wearing, anchoring you closer.

Your lips trailed a path to his neck then, soft and insistent. His breath hitched, and his mind went blank save for the electric pulse racing through his body. He felt your teeth graze delicately against his skin, and a low groan escaped him, unbidden. The next instant, he was arching up, a rush of heat coursing from his neck all the way down to his toes.

“Gonna let me thank you for real, Steve?” you purred against his ear, followed by a nip that had his vision hazing around the edges.

He was so easy to fluster—it was almost unfair, but you couldn't deny how adorable it made him. Especially when all he could manage was a ragged exhale. The sensation of your lips skewing his ability to think straight.

“Shit,” he mumbled, voice wrecked and hardly recognisable. “I—yeah, yes—please,” he breathed, mind whirling.

Any coherent thought dissolved when you leaned back and studied him, your eyes dark with want.

“Wanna try something,” you murmured, and every nerve in his body lit up at once.

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“Whatever you want.”

And he meant it. He trusted you—completely.

You could take care of him; he knew that deep down.

You slipped off his lap and sank to your knees in front of him. A jolt of pure, dizzying shock flared behind his ribcage at the sight, sending his heart into a frenzied rhythm. He blinked, mind scrambling to keep up.

You brushed your fingers gently along his thigh, your movements deliberate and careful—letting him know without words exactly what you were doing. His breath caught softly, grateful that you were communicating so clearly, even if words escaped him entirely right now.

He vaguely registered your hesitation about undressing him, aware you hadn’t quite crossed that bridge yet. Normally, he'd have appreciated your thoughtfulness, but right now, his mind was struggling to concentrate on anything other than your touch.

Your hands were purposeful, nails grazing the denim lightly, and he nearly jolted at the sensation. When you looked up at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, he felt an embarrassing hitch in his stomach. You were wearing that almost-innocent expression that never failed to make him want to do anything you asked.

“Look so pretty like this,” you said, voice low and soft as you let your hand creep to the waistband of his jeans.

And he did—eyes blown wide, lips flushed and parted—he was a vision, utterly breathtaking. You couldn't tear your gaze away, captivated by how beautifully undone he looked above you.

“Fuck, angel,” he mumbled, fighting the urge to sink deeper into the cushions. “Can’t just say stuff like that.”

“What?” you teased, tugging gently at the button of his fly. “It’s true.”

A strangled sound escaped him, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. You had his zipper halfway down, and he barely remembered to breathe as you began peeling away the damp denim from his hips.

The thought that this is happening looped wildly in his mind, making it impossible to focus on anything other than the smooth press of your palms against his skin.

Some part of him was still spinning—still tangled up in the swirl of half-voiced questions about what, exactly, you and he were. When your fingers found the elastic of his boxers, he felt his pulse spike. You were about to tug them down, already leaning in closer, when a burst of panic fused with desire in his chest.

“Hey, wait, no—wait, stop,” he blurted, placing a hand gently over yours.

You froze, wide-eyed and contrite.

“Sorry,” you whispered, already starting to withdraw your hand as though you’d touched something forbidden, terrified that you took things too far. “I’m sorry, what did I do?”

Fuck.

“No—no sweetheart, you didn’t—” he rushed to reassure, heart twisting at the worried look on your face. He swallowed, willing his voice to cooperate. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

As you stayed there, still on your knees, hand resting on his thigh, he felt heat flush his cheeks. God, you looked so concerned. And he felt utterly ridiculous for choosing now, of all times, to bring up the one conversation he’d been dancing around for days.

“What are we doing?” he asked, voice cracking on the question.

You blinked up at him, confusion knitting your brow.

Wasn't it obvious?

“Um, I was gonna—” and the embarrassment colouring your cheeks made his stomach clench. You looked as though you thought he was rejecting you—which couldn't have been further from the truth.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his messy hair.

“Not that—definitely not that,” he clarified, wincing because this was probably the worst way to go about this. “I just…” A groan rumbled in his chest as he struggled to string his thoughts together. “Are we…are we, like, together?”

Silence stretched for a moment, his heart hammering relentlessly in his chest. He watched you carefully, catching the uncertainty in your expression. He knew you weren’t misreading him—you never did. You always seemed one step ahead, taking his hesitation without question and guiding him towards an answer.

Even now, you understood him. You saw past the nervousness, the awkward pause, the apology in his eyes. He was still learning—still figuring out how to put his feelings into words without tripping over them—but you didn’t need him to say it outright. You could read between the lines, pulling meaning from the things he couldn’t quite articulate.

“What do you mean?”

You had an inkling of what he meant, had already pieced it together in the way he looked at you, the way he paused—but hearing him say it, hearing him put it into words, made it all the sweeter.

“I mean…” His frustration with himself flared. He pressed his palms against his eyes, mortified by the timing. “Are we, you know, together?”

There it is.

A knowing smile curved your lips as you leaned in, letting your hand trail just a little higher on his thigh. Slow and deliberate. His breath hitched, and you could practically see the anticipation warring in his expression.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Which part, exactly?” you asked, unable to hide your amusement. “The part where you spend all your free time in my shop? Or the part where you fall asleep on the phone with me practically every night?”

He let out a tortured groan, hiding his burning face in his hands again.

“This is so not how I wanted this conversation to go,” he muttered, shoulders tense even as he recalled the soft memories.

“Oh, wait—was it the part where you carried all my bags today?” You paused, as if savouring how flustered he was, before lowering your voice further. “Or maybe it's the part where you ate me out on the kitchen counter?”

Your words snapped something inside him, and his head lifted sharply, heat rushing straight to his cheeks as he desperately tried to silence the sinful image of you unraveling above him—an image that was both utterly filthy and entirely unhelpful in clearing his scattered brain.

“Stop,” he managed, somewhere between a whine and a protest.

“Alright,” you relented, your grin practically lighting the room as you decided he had been tortured enough. “I’m done. Promise.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, relief tangling with embarrassment.

You tilted your head, eyes still dancing with affection.

“So go on,” you urged softly.

“Huh?”

“Ask me what you want to ask me,” you murmured, guiding his hand to rest against yours on his thigh again, your skin warm beneath his touch, letting him know that you’ve got him.

He stared, trying to corral his thoughts into something understandable. His pulse thrummed through his entire body.

“Are…are you my girlfriend?”

He cringed inwardly, mortified at how childish he sounded. Hell, even his students could probably navigate this conversation better than he was currently butchering it.

“Do you want me to be?” you asked, fingers toying with his own.

“Yes,” he said, maybe more forcefully than he intended. “Yes, I want you to be my girlfriend.”

The reward of hearing him finally ask you officially was more than worth the trial you'd just put him through.

In truth, you had already considered him yours. There was no question of where his heart lay, no doubt that his gaze was fixed solely on you. But this uncertainty had been eating away at him, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts for days. Honestly, you were more than happy to put his mind at ease.

Even if you had a little fun with it first.

“Good,” you cooed, then trailed your palm over the front of his boxers. He shuddered at the sensation, heart flipping as you teased. “Because I’d really like to make my boyfriend feel good," you paused, glancing up to meet his eyes, "if he’ll let me?”

He swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly.

Boyfriend.

The label settled over him like a perfect fit, especially when it came to you. It felt right.

More than that—it felt earned.

After years of therapy, of unlearning, of piecing himself back together, he had finally reached a place where he could be that again. Where he could embody that for you. And God, if he could, he’d shout it from the rooftops—because after everything, he was finally here.

“Anything. Anything you want, just—” His breath came out shaky as he watched you hook your fingers into the waistband and finally ease him free, the sight of your hand on him making his brain sputter out.

He was fully at your mercy, and he knew it.

You freed his cock from his jeans, fingers wrapping around his length with a touch so deliberate it sent a shiver through him. Your strokes were slow, teasing, dragging out his anticipation until he was fighting the urge to buck into your hand. The pace was torturous in the best way, every movement intentional, every flick of your thumb over his tip pulling ragged curses from his lips.

“Please,” he rasped. It felt like an admission—like you’d unraveled him so completely that the only word he could utter was a plea.

The playful glint in your eyes didn’t wane for a second.

“Since you asked so nicely,” you murmured, leaning down to take him into your mouth.

His vision went momentarily white at the initial jolt of pleasure.

“Ah—fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, voice breaking on the last syllable.

His hand shot out, gripping the couch cushion to keep from tugging you closer too quickly. Every nerve in his body screamed to feel more—to sink deeper into that warm, wet heat of your mouth—but he wanted you in control, you setting the pace. No matter how undone he was becoming.

His heart thundered at the smug little curl of your lips around him, and a full-body shudder tore through him. You’re a fucking minx. The way you thrived off his torment, off every broken sound he made, was downright sinful—and God, he loved it.

“You’re—you’re gonna be the death of me.” He managed to choke out, though there was more desperation than accusation in his tone.

You didn’t answer—only laced your free hand with his, threading your fingers together. That tender gesture clashed beautifully with the wicked rhythm you kept, your mouth sending jolts of pleasure through every inch of him. Intimate and filthy all at once, and the contrast was dizzying.

He squeezed your hand to ground himself, giving another breathless moan that might have sounded embarrassing if he’d been capable of caring about anything other than how good you felt.

When you finally pulled back for air, you looked up at him, flushed and triumphant. The sight knocked the wind right out of him.

“Want you to cum like this,” you murmured, your voice low and sweet as you guided his palm to the side of your face. “Let me make you feel good.”

You settled over him again, lips wrapping around his cock, and his grip tightened involuntarily. This time, he couldn’t fight the broken whine that tore from his throat.

He tried—God, he tried—not to push you too hard, but every brush of your tongue shattered a piece of his self-control. The way his fingers twitched against your cheek and travelled to your hair, urging you deeper and apologising for his urgency.

“You are—” he managed to babble, voice raw. “You—God, always—” The rest of his sentence disintegrated into a choked, needy noise as you quickened your pace. His breathing came in short gasps, and his pulse hammered so fiercely that he felt it in his fingertips.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, the words half-lost. He couldn’t stop the slight thrust of his hips, the heat coiling in his abdomen reaching a breaking point. The blissful pressure threatened to overwhelm him.

“Shit, wait—baby—” His voice broke, hands trembling around you. “I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” you whispered. And then you were taking him even deeper, pushing him right over that dizzying brink.

It was too much, too intense—pleasure slammed through him, wrenching a ragged cry from his chest that he barely recognised as his own. His body went rigid for a moment, and then he felt it all wash over him in waves that left him trembling. Throughout it all, you held him, your hand entwined with his, guiding him through the spiralling bliss until he finally went boneless against the couch.

When the reeling from the blissful high began to dissipate, he glanced down at you, taking in the sight before he dared to move.

He leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees so he could meet your gaze on equal footing. His heart was still hammering in his chest, and he had to remind himself to breathe steadily, to find some semblance of composure. Yet the moment his eyes absorbed your flushed cheeks and the subtle rise and fall of your shoulders, any hope of calm unravelled.

God, just look at you. By some miracle, you were his—truly, officially his.

“You’re something else, y’know that?” he murmured, voice a little hoarse. There was a soft reverence in his tone, as though he still couldn’t believe his own luck.

A flash of self-satisfaction curved your lips, and before you could respond, he closed the distance. His kiss was as gentle as he could manage, though there was no denying the heat behind it.

You melted into him, arms looping around his neck, your fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. The scent of you—slightly musky from exertion, threaded with the faint warmth of your body wash—made his head spin all over again.

When he guided you onto his lap, you went willingly. The move ended with you straddling his thigh, and the firm press of his denim against your underwear made you jerk in surprise.

He felt the tremor that shivered through you and swallowed down a groan. Despite how tender he was still feeling from his release, an echo of desire began to thrum low in his stomach, and his mind latched on to a new idea—one that had him downright giddy with anticipation.

“Mmm,” you teased, smile dancing on your kiss-bruised lips, “you just figuring that out now?”

He scoffed softly, but the playful glint in his eyes couldn’t be missed. Pulling back a fraction, he rested his hands on your waist, tracing small circles into your hips through the fabric of his sweater—your sweater now, technically, but it bore his scent and that fact made him hum with satisfaction.

Your brows furrowed in curiosity as he edged you slightly backward, enough to slip his palms over your hips. Then—so subtly you almost questioned if it was by accident—he dragged you forward over his leg. The friction had your breath hitching, your eyes going wide with recognition when he repeated the motion.

“Oh,” you breathed, voice hitching, and he couldn’t help the slow grin tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” he rasped, dragging out the syllable, “oh.”

You braced your hands on his shoulders. The lazy confidence unfurling inside him felt new but exhilarating—after all those times you’d teased him into a breathless mess, it was his turn. He watched your cheeks burn hotter, and the awareness sank in that you’d realised exactly what he was planning.

His girlfriend. Official. Right here, perched all pretty on his lap, pliant enough to shatter on his thigh. A possessive thrill coursed through him at the thought. He wanted to make you feel as incredible as you’d just made him.

And from the look in his eyes—the slow, self-assured fire that glowed beneath his lashes—you knew it too. You might’ve been the one teasing him earlier, but by the gleam in his expression, you could tell he wasn’t going to relent until you were undone.

“Steve,” you started, your voice low and edged with apprehension and want.

He merely grinned, letting his hold on your hips tighten, urging you to move again.

“No, angel,” he drawled, mischief lacing his tone. “Don’t back down now.”

He continued guiding your hips, the gentle pressure of his palms keeping you tethered. When you tipped your head back, exposing the graceful line of your throat, he fought the urge to dip in and kiss every inch of skin he saw. Desire coiled low as he watched the way your body moved with each drag across his denim.

“Feel good, baby?” he asked, voice catching with that newly emboldened edge. His gaze swept over your flushed cheeks, your parted lips.

You only managed a strangled murmur that it felt so good, and he smiled—completely enthralled, slightly smug. He was the one rocking you like this, making you whimper and cling to him, and the knowledge shot straight through him like a jolt of adrenaline.

“Gonna get off like this?” he pressed, flexing his thigh more pointedly beneath you. Your only response was a nod, desperate and unequivocal. “Good,” he murmured. “Use me all you want. I’m yours now, aren’t I?”

It was such a shift from the breathless, near-begging mess he’d been earlier. That single reassurance you’d given him—claiming him—seemed to have flipped a switch inside him.

Steve Harrington never was the type to do anything by halves once he’d given his heart away, and this, right here, was proof he was ready to take care of you just as thoroughly as you’d done for him. He flexed his leg again, and you let out a shaky whine, head lolling back.

“No, none of that,” he chided playfully, giving your thigh a light tap. When your gaze fluttered to his again, he softened ever so slightly. “Keep those eyes on me, alright? Wanna see you.”

Your stomach knotted with need at his command, and you dug your hands into his shoulders for balance. Each roll of your hips sent pulses of molten pleasure through your core, and his steady grip on your body only pushed you closer to the brink. The intensity of his gaze, locked on yours, made it all the more dizzying.

“One day,” he said, breath hitching at your frantic movements, “gonna have you ride me like this.”

“Fuck—Steve,” A quiet gasp escaped you, surprised at how confidently filthy he’d become. Instead of blushing and letting the moment go, he kept going, emboldened by the way your eyes widened.

“Yeah, you like that?” He rasped, “ S’okay to want it, baby, I' know you do.”

You swallowed thickly, clinging to him as you sped up, each stroke of friction bringing you higher, closer. He watched your hands quake slightly where they gripped his sweater.

“Just know you’d take me so well,” he went on, voice rough with longing. His thumb slid across your belly, pressing gently just above the waistband of your underwear. “Gonna feel me right here—can’t wait to see it, gonna look so fucking beautiful, I just know it.”

Your control began to unravel. The pleasure built too high, too fast, and the broken syllables falling from your lips told him everything he needed. He held you steady as you tried to warn him, though it came out garbled, your body tensing in telltale desperation.

“Oh, I know—I know,” he whispered, coaxing you right to the edge. “C’mon, show me, angel. You can let go.”

And with that, you did. Each quiver and wave of your release pulsed against his thigh, the grip you had on his shoulders almost bruising. He welcomed every ounce of it, eyes locked on your face. He wore the raw, awestruck expression of a man witnessing something indescribably precious—like he wanted to imprint this moment forever.

When the tremors finally subsided, you slumped forward, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. Steve’s arms came up around you in an instant, holding you securely, chest heaving with exertion. He skimmed the back of his knuckles along your spine in soothing strokes, dropping a few featherlight kisses against your hairline.

He sensed the flutter of self-consciousness in the way your cheeks glowed pink as you pulled back, and it only made him grin wider.

“Oh? You shy now?” he teased, voice low.

Your immediate no, came out suspiciously soft, which made him snort. He tugged you closer and felt his heart skip at how you pressed against him so naturally, even through the bashfulness.

“So,” you ventured after a beat, a tiny smirk tugging at your lips, “do you feel better now?”

“Which part?” His mouth quirked up as he asked in a mock-innocent tone. “Because the part where you were on your knees—”

“No, not that,” you groaned, heat creeping up your neck. “Jeez, is that all you keep me around for?”

His laugh was unabashed this time, eyes shining with mischief.

“Well, if I’d known you could do that, I would have asked you a lot sooner,” he bantered back, just to rile you up.

You huffed and moved to stand, but he was quicker, shoving his arm out to stop you in your tracks.

“Wait, wait, no—come back here,” and pulled you back onto his lap with a gentle but insistent tug. His fingers drifting absentmindedly as he traced small patterns into your skin. You realised with a jolt of warmth that he was already more openly affectionate, more physically clingy.

Maybe the relationship label was all he’d needed to show this side of himself.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to ask,” he murmured, tone now serious. “I was being stupid.”

You shook your head and looped your arms around his shoulders, fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck.

“You’re not stupid,” you said softly. “It was…kind of sweet.”

He snorted, a playful scoff, as if unconvinced.

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” But the corner of his mouth quirked up, betraying how relieved he was to hear you say it.

Your eyes drifted to the window then, and you frowned. The steady drumming of rain had quieted, replaced by a gentle, sporadic dripping against the glass. He felt you tense in his arms and immediately straightened, concern flitting across his face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice laced with that newfound protectiveness. He was clearly prepared to fix whatever had put that crease in your brow.

“We should probably head back to the car." You sighed. "Looks like the storm’s over.”

He followed your gaze to the clearing sky, then shook his head.

“We don’t have to,” he said quietly, eyes flicking back to you. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Confusion flickered over your features.

“Steve, you have work tomorrow. It’s Sunday—”

He shrugged, sliding his hands up and down your sides.

“Yeah, but you don’t. And I can…what, pack my bag or something in the morning?” He rolled his eyes in good humour. “It’s not like I need much time to check I got my stickers.”

A small giggle escaped you, and your fingers toyed with the neckline of his sweater. He could tell you weren’t truly convinced, though he also sensed your reluctance came more from courtesy than disinterest. He smoothed a hand over your spine, trying not to beam too much with how badly he wanted you to stay.

“Please?” he added softly, his eyes bright and earnest. “I’m asking nicely.”

A warm flush spread across your cheeks; you chewed on your lower lip as though mulling it over. He recognised you were almost certainly going to agree, so he threw in one last incentive for good measure.

“I can order pizza for dinner.”

That sealed it.

“Sold!” you exclaimed, the tension in your body dissolving instantly.

With a sudden rush of affection, you flung your arms around his neck and buried your face in the crook of his shoulder. He laughed, the sound light and filled with relief, cradling you to him as if you were something precious.

He was really going to have a sleepover with his girlfriend.

His heart fluttered with excitement he didn’t even try to hide. Visions of you sprawled on his couch, rummaging through his secret stash of Family Video flicks, drifted through his mind. He pictured your socked feet propped up on his coffee table as you dozed against his arm. Maybe you’d share a blanket, occasionally sneaking kisses during the slow scenes.

His arms tightened around your waist. Leaning his head against yours, he allowed himself to revel in the moment. Because this was exactly the thing he told himself he would never achieve again.

But here you were—in his arms—proving his theory entirely incorrect.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee

#ugh I love them #fic rec

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