#and if you noticed the implications of steve having HPD and/or bipolar that was in fact on purpose

[flowers-that-sing]

"baby, if it feels good, then it can't be bad"

(a post s3 steve harrington songfic based on Gibson Girl by Ethel Cain)

TWs// sexual content, dubious consent to put it lightly but it's more implied to be sexual assault, past csa, grooming, it's not super detailed (the csa much less so, and told through memories where steve doesn't even exactly know what's happening), but like. you know. it's pretty bad. referenced physical abuse. referenced past incestual sexual abuse. alcohol consumption, smoking. lightly implied drugging.

also, disclaimer: this is all told through steve's eyes—the way he sees things is very warped, his relationship with sex is unhealthy to say the least, and just because he's saying he feels good does not mean that anything that happens in this is good. it isn't. nothing about this is good or healthy at all.

She approached him in the dark behind the bar, where Steve was half-considering lighting up in spite of his promise of quitting to Robin. He had drank enough that it didn't seem to matter. She had leather pants on, and sunglasses, despite the dark. 

"Corey Hart fan?" he asked lightly. She didn't bother to answer. 

"Just saw you leave the bar. I'm glad you stuck around."

Steve didn't recognize her, and she didn't seem to recognize him either. She was dragging her eyes across his body, and Steve was suddenly all-too conscious of his scars on display, his sweat-melted hair wax. 

He was sick of it, he was sick of feeling ugly, and this girl had desire in her eyes. Steve was craving desire. 

And he was craving thrill. His thoughts had been rapid all week, his body more fidgety, his stomach constantly filled with bees and his energy so high he hadn't needed more than a couple hours of sleep a night. He had so much time in every day, but nothing to fill it with besides the monotony of work, and he needed adrenaline. There weren't any monsters to fight now, and there weren't any basketball games to play since high school, and he needed the feeling. The melting, excruciating, nauseating excitement, racing heart, the feeling of something about to happen, the fear, the risk. 

"You came alone to me—from however far away," he mused, lighting his cigarette, delicately placing it between his lips, exhaling into her face. 

"How'd you know?" she asked with a grin. 

You're all the same. 

Steve shrugged. "Lucky guess." 

She stepped in, so he could feel her breath on his face. "You gonna buy me a drink?" 

Steve put the cig out on his thigh. He didn't feel the burn. "I was just about to ask." 

If I'm still walking straight, I need another drink anyway. 

They went inside together, sat back at the bar. Steve opened a new tab. 

By the time he had a glass of whiskey in his hand, she had a hand on his thigh. She didn't even pretend to drink the vodka she'd ordered, and he was still downing his last gulp of whiskey when she pushed it into his hand with a little half-smile. He drank it. 

The lights were bleeding all over him. 

He felt a hand in his back pocket, and when he looked up, she was pulling cash out of his wallet. 

You wanna love me right now? 

"You wanna get alone with me?" Steve asked. Her eyes were bright, and she nodded, pulling him to his feet and all but dragging him out of the bar. He wasn't exactly sure when he'd gotten there, but he was in the trunk of a car, the backseats folded down to make room. "You wanna get my clothes off and hurt me?" 

He hadn't meant to say 'hurt.' But she just laughed and grinned, and ripped his clothes off.

☤

"Baby, if it feels good, then it can't be bad," Lynn says. Steve's eight now, beginning to question if it was wrong. He's remembering his Sunday school teacher talking about how nakedness was wrong, or something. And a new word, he doesn't know what it means. 'Chastity.' 

Lynn's touching him, she says it's to make him feel good. He doesn't really know how he feels. It reminds him a little of his grandfather, but Lynn's a woman, and she's not family, so it's different. It's better. If he closes his eyes and lets himself sink into it, he likes it. Is he supposed to like it? Lynn says he's supposed to like it. 

He tells her he does, and opens his eyes when she's done, and she's smiling. She promises him a new teddy bear. But for right now, it's his turn to make her feel good.

☤

Steve likes to think he's a good person now, but he knows he's still a whore, and he can't deny the high that comes with being immoral in a stranger's lap. He's kissing over her chest and grinding down onto her leather pants, and she's digging her nails into his back. He still doesn't even know her name. She doesn't know his. Maybe it's better that way. 

She hasn't taken off more than her shirt still, but he's fully naked. It's dark, the only light coming from a dim greenish streetlamp outside the car, and he thinks maybe she can't see his scars, but she's running her hands over the scar on his chest, from where the Russian guards had cut him open. She looks at it with something he can't quite decipher. It almost looks like fascination, but he knows that isn't it. Her eyes are wide, her pupils dilated. 

Ah. Desire. 

"You know, I was serious about hurting me. You wanna add some more?" 

☤

"I'm in love with your body. That's why I'm fucking it up." Steve listens to Lynn's voice from where she sits on the back of his legs. He is on his stomach, face turned to the side so he can breathe. He can’t see her. He sees his disorientingly patterned wall. He smells rosewater and orange zest, and his head feels fuzzy. Something hurts. Everything hurts. He doesn’t think about it too much. He just focuses on the warmth, the heat from the points of contact between him and his babysitter, the sweat in the backs of his knees, on his upper lip. The bedsheets are damp. It’s itchy. 

☤

Steve tasted his own blood on her teeth as she bit his upper lip. He was starting to see colors in the spaces where she'd been after she moved. And then his face was between her thighs, and when had her pants even come off at all? His heart was racing, exactly like he'd wanted, and his body was wracked with tremors. He listened to the music coming from her lips, the moans rising from her chest, and his heart leapt. I did that. I'm making her feel good. 

His arms felt a bit numb as he reached up to rub his thumbs into her hips. She was panting hard, and he was giddy. 

"Oh, fuck—you really are special, baby," she hissed. 

Steve's eyes widened, watered, and he whimpered against her. 

I'm special. She said I'm special. 

Steve was going to ride this high for at least a week. He was desirable, wanted, special. He basked in her attention, even if he knew he wouldn't see her again after tonight. 

He felt like he was being shown something he could never have. Something he'd searched for all his life. For a second, he could pretend it was love. Love for his brain and his scars and his body. Him taking all of her attention and giving back anything she wanted in return. Just to feel special. He'd do anything. 

Because that's what love was, right? Love, want, attention, specialness, was just tied to sex. Maybe his parents didn't love him since they couldn't fuck him. His grandfather loved him, his babysitter loved him, and for one night at a time, anyone could love him. And growing up, it was the only way he was really touched, with affection, at least. In ways other than a beating. 

He knew that wasn't right, because him and Robin loved each other. He loved the kids—never in that way, ever, and he still loved them. It was a different kind of love. But then, it was another different kind he was looking for, anyway. Maybe he was ungrateful. But he was hungry for attention, for someone to call him special, to want him around, he was starving for it. 

His thoughts weren't making much sense anymore. 

She was holding him in her lap, his boxers were back on, he was resting his head on her shoulder. He assumed she'd finished at some point, he didn't remember, and he knew he hadn't, but he hadn't really wanted to anyway. 

He was drooling, and he couldn't stop himself, and he couldn't see much, but her body was warm. He crawled closer, squirmed in tighter. It felt good to be held. He felt good. 

He woke up almost naked on the sidewalk in the sun with drool pooling at his chin and the rest of his clothes on a pile next to him.