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wonderlandwalker · 2 months ago

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Developments | Steve Harrington x reader

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈

summary: Steve keeps finding Polaroids of you in… compromising positions. Each one burns hotter than the last, until his ‘just friends’ act is ashes

word count: 5.7k

tags / content warnings: pining, explicit language and insinuations, pure smut too, Steve is a disaster really, hurt, comfort and whole nine yards of my ramblings, au where mario kart existed in the 80's

a/n: had an anxiety attack while abroad in Germany. Slept for 14 hours. Debated deleting my blog. Wrote this instead

The first time it happens, Steve is three beers deep at The Hideout, loose-limbed and laughing at something Robin just said—something crude, probably, given the way Eddie’s wheezing into his whisky, shoulders shaking. Steve’s still grinning when he reaches into his jacket pocket for his lighter, fingers searching for the familiar shape.

Instead, they brush against something stiff.

What the hell?

He pulls it out under the dim, beer-stained lights of the bar, and—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

It’s you.

Not just you—your bare skin glowing in the grainy tint of a Polaroid, the flash catching every curve, every shadow. One knee is drawn up, giving way to the perfect view, and your arm is thrown across your face like you couldn’t bear to be seen. But your mouth—Christ, your mouth is open in silent ecstasy, lips swollen and parted, and your fingers—

Jesus Christ.

Your fingers are buried in your cunt, working deep like you’re trying to feed an insatiable ache, the wet shine unmistakable even in the cheap film. His throat goes dry. His pulse kicks so hard he can feel it in his fucking teeth. Eddie says something then, some smartass remark that has Robin snorting into her drink, but Steve doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t care. All he can think about is how you’re sitting right across from him, legs crossed, sipping your drink and quipping back like it’s the most normal evening in the world. He slaps the photo face down against his thigh, grip so tight the edges crumple.

How the hell did this get in here?

He doesn’t remember you giving it to him. Doesn’t remember touching it, period. But now that he’s seen it, he can’t unsee it—the curve of your hip, the desperate arch of your back, the way your brows were scrunched together like you were right on the edge—

Stop.

He shoves it back into his pocket, but it’s too late. The image is seared into his skull—it’s just a stupid Polaroid, but now it’s all he can think about. His pulse thrums under his skin, restless and too warm. He shouldn’t be this affected. He shouldn’t. But his traitorous mind keeps circling back to it— how easy it would be to move closer, to let his hands settle where they’ve been itching to go, to see if your breath would catch the way he imagines it would. All he can think about is how badly he wants to tiptoe that thin line between friendship and sex, but it’s a dangerous game. One he’s played before and lost spectacularly. He knows the rules—knows how quickly almost turns into too much, how just friends becomes we shouldn’t have done that in the space of a single reckless moment.

But god, the temptation is killing him.

The way your knee brushes against his under the table like it’s an accident, but he knows it’s not. The way you lick salt off the rim of your margarita, eyes locked on his, like you’re waiting for him to break first. The way you shift just slightly, just enough for him to catch the ghost of a smirk—like you know exactly what he’s picturing.

It’s a slippery slope he’s sworn off.

Or at least, he tried to. But then you catch his eye, lips quirking like you can read every filthy thought racing through his head, and—Fuck. He’s too far gone already.

The following four days, Steve lives in a special kind of hell. The photo should’ve been forgettable. Just some stray Polaroid lost in the chaos of his life—another piece of clutter tossed onto the pile of things he doesn’t have the energy to deal with.

But it’s not. It’s you, branded into his brain with the precision of a lit match pressed to skin. No amount of pretending—no amount of jerking off in the shower with his forehead braced against the tile, teeth gritted around your name—dulls the ache. If anything, it makes it worse. Every time he closes his eyes, there you are.

The worst part? Nothing’s changed. You still sling your legs over his lap like it’s nothing, like you hadn’t ruined him with a single fucking square of film. No sly glances, no secretive smirks. Just normal, like you haven’t been haunting his dreams with your fingers between—

God. He’s losing his goddamn mind.

The next one hits him like a slap to the face. He’s rummaging through the disaster zone of his coffee table—shoving aside empty beer cans, a half-eaten bag of chips, a crumpled pack of cigarettes—when his fingers brush against something that isn’t his keys. Cold dread slithers down his spine even before he pulls it free.

Another fucking picture.

It steals the air from his lungs.

You.

On your back, sheets a mess beneath you, your hair fanned out like some kind of halo. The angle is intimate, almost reverent—the curve of your bare hip, the dip of your waist, the way your fingers dig into your own thighs, holding yourself open.

Wet.

Exposed.

Your head is tipped back, lips parted around a moan he can almost hear, eyes half-lidded, lost in it. The flush on your chest, the way your body arches—like you’re caught in the thick of pleasure, like you’re drowning in it. Steve’s not sure if he’s surprised or jealous or just furious that he wasn’t the one to pull that expression from you.

He knew you were beautiful—that wasn't news. Everyone with working eyes and half a brain could see that. But this? The way golden light caressed the sweat-slick curve of your throat, the way your pleasure wasn't performative but private, intimate, real—

Christ.

It wasn't just erotic. It was sacred.

The Polaroid nearly slips from his trembling fingers before he catches it, the glossy surface warping slightly under his desperate grip. He forces himself to relax, to breathe, but the damage is done—the image already tattooed behind his eyelids.

Are you leaving these on purpose?

The question claws its way up his throat like a living thing.

It can't be.

But God help him, he needs it to be

His thumb traces the edge of the photograph as he drinks in the details: Your lips—swollen, glistening, the faint indentation of teeth where you'd bitten down to silence yourself. Your eyes—black as spilt ink, heavy-lidded yet startlingly aware, staring through the lens like you were seeing him, like you wanted him to witness this unravelling. A voice whispers through the static of his thoughts: You're missing something, and the realisation hits like a sucker punch—he's been here before, trapped in this limbo between wanting and having, between friends and something else. He remembers the exact moment he first knew you held his heart: The air in family video had been thick with the scent of stale popcorn and the hum of the ancient AC unit fighting a losing battle against the summer heat. You'd laughed at something he had said—and the sound had punched through him like a bullet. Your tongue darted out to catch a drop of Cherry Coke from your lower lip, and suddenly his hands were sweating, his collar too tight, his entire body electric with the need to move, to touch, to— "Steve?" You'd caught him staring, your head tilting in that way that made his ribs ache. "You okay?"

Now. Say it now.

But his tongue had turned to lead. Three words lodged in his throat: I want you. Then the bell chimed, Robin bursting in with arms full of candy, grinning as she spoke, “Okay, who wants to bet Eddie eats all the Red Vines before the movie even starts?” and the moment shattered like dropped glass.

Now, staring at this damning photograph, the same fear coils in his gut—what if he's wrong? What if these Polaroids aren’t for him?

What if they’re just—

Lost.

Left behind.

Not meant for his insatiable eyes.

The thought sends acid flooding through his veins. Because the alternative—that you planted these for him to find, that you wanted him to see you like this—that wasn't just hope. It was arson. And he was already burning; the way you look at him sometimes, like you’re waiting for him to figure it out; the way your fingers linger when you pass him a drink; the way you smile when he stumbles over his words, like you like that he’s flustered.

And now—

The Polaroids. Left where only he would find them.

Taunting him.

Testing him.

Tempting him.

The third Polaroid nearly fucking kills him. By the time your group crowds into the diner booth, Steve's almost convinced himself he imagined it all. Almost. But then, after about an hour of comfortable familiarity, his fingers brushing the edge of his milkshake glass, the coaster shifts –

There.

Tucked beneath it, glossy and damning. He chokes so hard Eddie has to thump him on the back. "Jesus, Harrington, are you allergic to strawberries now?" Eddie's voice is all amusement, but Steve barely hears it over the blood roaring in his ears. He doesn't answer. He's too busy slipping the picture under the table, pulse hammering in his throat as he glances at you across the booth. You're stirring your drink absently, the neon diner lights catching in your hair. And then he risks a look at the Polaroid.

Fuck.

This one's... worse. Or better. He doesn't fucking know anymore. It's a close-up. Your face, tilted up toward the camera, tears streaking through smudged mascara, pupils blown wide. And Christ— there's cum dripping off your chin, your lips parted like you're showing off. The flash had caught every detail: the wet shine on your bottom lip, the way your eyelashes stick together, the way you look up with a glint in your eyes like you were looking at him, like you wanted him to see – His jeans grow uncomfortably tight. He shifts in the booth, pressing his thighs together as heat floods his face. It turns his brain to static.

Obscene. Perfect.

No.

Across the table, you tilt your head, voice dripping with sweet concern. "Steve? You okay?"

That's what really drives the stake in. The way you sound normal, like you're not the same person in the photo — wrecked and wanting. Like you haven't been systematically dismantling his self-control. He forces a smile, fingers twitching against the sticky diner table. "Peachy." His voice comes out strangled. Robin kicks him under the table, her eyes sharp with knowing.

He spends the rest of the evening in quiet agony, debating whether to bring it up, tearing himself apart for an answer that won't come. Every time you laugh at something Eddie says, your throat bobbing, he remembers how it looked in the photo – stretched taut as you tilted your head back. Every time you lick ice cream off your spoon, he thinks about your lips, shiny and parted. His mind drifts back to the first time he met you — Robin's bright smile as she introduced you, her "You two will get along so well!" ringing in his ears like a prophecy. Then, the first flicker of something more – that slow, dawning realisation as you sat there, a giggling mess from the joint he'd rolled, clumsily teaching him pat-a-cake like it was the most crucial lesson in the world. Your fingers had brushed against his palms, warm and sure, and something in his chest had clenched tight. Every moment since has been hidden torment. Every glance across the Family Video counter when you'd come to visit Robin, your eyes lingering just a second too long. Every laugh you'd smothered behind your hand when he'd fumbled his words. Every time he'd caught himself staring at the curve of your neck, wondering how you'd sound if he pressed his mouth there. Every time he caught himself wondering if you felt that same invisible pull.

And now?

Now he's stuck with this.

What the hell is he even supposed to say? "Hey, so, funny story—I found a Polaroid of you fucking yourself the other day. Any reason that might be lying around?"

Yeah. That’d go over real fucking well.

But who else would be leaving these? He knows it has to be you. Because no one else looks at him like that. No one else smirks like that when he stumbles over his words. And God help him—he loves it. But he's Steve Harrington, and Steve Harrington doesn't ruin good things. Doesn't risk friendships for fleeting moments of pleasure, no matter how badly his hands itch to touch. So he tucks the Polaroid into his pocket, lets Eddie tease him about spacing out, lets Robin shoot him looks that promise future interrogation, and pretends his heart isn't pounding loud enough for the whole diner to hear. And when you brush your foot against his under the table, he doesn't pull away; he wonders.—

How much longer can he keep pretending before he snaps and does something stupid? Like pin you against the nearest flat surface and find out if you taste as good as you look in those photos. The thought sends another wave of heat through him. He takes a too-big gulp of his milkshake to hide the way his breath hitches. You smile at him over the rim of your glass, all innocence and sharp edges, and Steve realises with dawning horror that he’s already in too deep to climb back out.

The fourth photo is the last straw. He finds it in his glove compartment that same night, the edge jutting out like a taunt as he sits there, engine off, the silence of the parking lot pressing in around him. For a second, he just stares.

Jesus.

A mirror shot—the kind that feels private.

Except now it’s in his hands.

And fuck, it’s— You’re on your knees, but you’re not facing the glass. No. Your face is tilted up, lips stretched obscenely around your own fingers, glistening with spit, your tongue pressing against the pads like you’re imagining them as something else—someone else. Your lashes flutter, heavy with the kind of pleasure that borders on pain, like the strain is its own sweet torment. And shit, your ass—arched high, round and perfect, the curve of it taunting him, the dimples at the base of your spine begging for his thumbs to press into them. The way your hips tilt just slightly, like you’re already waiting, already needing the sharp bite of a handprint blooming across your skin. He can almost hear the sound it would make—the sharp crack of his palm meeting your flesh and the punched-out whimper you’d choke on right after. Your other hand claws at your own tits, fingers digging in, squeezing hard enough to make your breath hitch. The fabric of your shirt is rucked up, your bra shoved aside, and the sight of your nipple pebbled tight under your own touch—

Christ.

His hands shake. The photo nearly slips from his grip, and he has to white-knuckle the steering wheel just to steady himself. His throat is too tight. His jeans are too fucking tight; he shifts, grinding his hips down against the seat just to relieve the pressure, but it’s worse—so much worse—because now he can feel the rough drag of fabric, the heat of his own desperation, and God, he’s dripping, already slick with the image of you burnt into his skull. This isn’t—

This isn’t fair. He’s imagined it a hundred times. Fantasised about the way your mouth would look wrapped around him, the sounds you’d make when he finally got his hands on you. But never like this. Never with the cruel twist of being nothing more than a spectator to his own undoing.

Fuck.

His head thuds back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut like he can erase the image burnt into the backs of his eyelids. But it doesn’t help. The photo is branded into his soul.

He should stop looking.

He should.

But he can’t.

Because this isn’t just some fantasy anymore. This is proof. Proof that you think about this. Proof that you want this. Proof that you might—

Might—

Want him.

And that’s what terrifies him. Because if he’s wrong— If he misreads this—He’ll ruin everything.

But God, the way your back curves in the photo. The way your lips glisten. The way your fingers dig into your own skin like you’re aching for someone else’s touch. His fingers twitch against his thigh. He could—

He could find you.

Right now. Pull you into the backseat. Make that look in the photo a reality. But what if he’s just—

Projecting. Hopeful. Pathetic. His jaw clenches. He can’t risk it. He won’t. The photo goes back into the glove compartment. His keys twist in the ignition. The engine roars to life. But he doesn’t drive away. Not yet. Because one thought won’t leave him alone—

What if she wants you to come find her?

So he plans to ask you about the Polaroids—if he can ever figure out how the hell to bring it up without sounding like a complete creep.

His apartment is spotless, scrubbed down in a frenzy of nervous energy. Just a regular movie night, he tells himself. You’d had dozens. Nothing to panic about. And for a while, it is normal. You steal his fries, mock his shitty taste in films, and press your ice-cold hands against his thigh just to hear him yelp. It’s easy. It’s you.

But then—

Halfway through, as he gathers empty food containers, something flutters to the floor. Upside down. He knows what it is before he even turns it over. His heart stops. You’re still on the couch, laughing at something on screen—but he can’t help himself. He picks it up. And—

Fuck.

It’s you—sinking down onto a toy like you need it, like you’d die without it. Your eyes are closed, lips parted in relief. One hand braces against the bed, the other at your throat, fingers pressing in like you’re chasing more, like you want to feel it everywhere. The angle is obscene, the slick shine of your arousal glistening where you’re spread open for the camera. Steve swears he can feel it—the phantom roll of your hips, the way you’d clench around him if it was his cock instead— "Something wrong?"

Your voice is too soft, too normal, and it guts him. The photo sticks to his sweat-damp palm as his brain short-circuits between this you—wanting, wrecked, fucking yourself like it’s your only salvation—and the you standing in front of him now, all wide-eyed concern and bitten-pink lips. Ask her. The thought burns through him. Just fucking ask her. But what comes out is, "Nah, just—uh—dropped a napkin." God fucking damnit. You tilt your head, and for one heart-stopping second, he thinks you know. That you’ll smirk, step closer, and whisper, "Like what you see, Harrington?" But you don’t. You just hum, "You’ve been weird all night."

Weird. Yeah. That’s one word for it.

He shoves the Polaroid into his back pocket like it’s evidence of a crime. His crime. Because, Christ, he shouldn’t have looked. Shouldn’t be hard right now, straining against his sweatpants as you blink up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to him. He forces himself to step around you, putting the couch between you like it’ll save him. "Just tired," he mumbles, grabbing his half-finished beer. The bottle is slick with condensation, and he clings to that—the cold—instead of the sliver of skin exposed when you stretch, the curve of your waist he knows by heart. Intimately. He’s catalogued every dip and slope of you—the way your hip fits perfectly under his palm when he guides you through a crowded room, the way your waist nips in just enough for his fingers to span it. He’s thought about it. Too much.

You don’t push. Just flop back onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. "Well, hurry up. This movie’s shit, but I want to see how it ends." Steve exhales through his nose. Right. The movie. Except all he can focus on is the weight of the photo in his pocket. The way you’d looked—fuck—like you were made to take cock, like you’d beg for it, like you’d whimper his name if he just—

That’s the problem, isn’t it? He knows you. Knows the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. Knows how you cling to your coffee mug in the morning, both hands wrapped around it like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Knows the way you’d held his hand that one time he got too high and swore the ceiling was breathing, your thumb brushing over his knuckles like you were anchoring him. But this?

This is a version of you he isn't allowed to have, isn’t allowed to need.

One he is desperate for.

The movie drones on, some cheap horror flick with terrible effects, but Steve’s pulse hasn’t slowed since he found the damn photo. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, fingers idly tracing the rim of your soda can. Innocent. Bored.

Too innocent.

Because he’s seen the way your gaze lingers on him when you think he’s not looking. The way you bite your lip when he rolls his sleeves up. The way you lean in just a little too close when you laugh. Steve exhales, rough, dragging a hand down his face.

Fuck.

He should say something. Should’ve done something. But the truth is, he’s fucking scared. Terrified of being wrong. Terrified of ruining this—whatever this is—with his stupid, greedy hands. Because what if the Polaroids aren’t for him? What if the way you look at him, all slow smiles and heavy-lidded glances, is just him, reading into things? What if he reaches for you, and you pull away? Every time you shift, his gaze flicks to your thighs. Every time you laugh, he imagines the way your breath would hitch if he dragged his teeth over your pulse. Every time you look at him, he wonders—

Is this a game to you?

Are you waiting for me to break?

Because he’s close. So fucking close.

When you leave, you linger in the doorway—just a second too long. Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, the fabric slipping between them like a secret. It’s innocent. It’s not. The way your knuckles brush against his hip, featherlight, makes his breath catch.

You’re tempting fate.

You’re torturing him.

"Night, Steve," you murmur, lips quirking in that way that drives him insane—like you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And for a wild, reckless moment, he considers it: Pinning you against the door. Trapping you with his body. Letting his mouth finally, finally ask the question that’s been clawing at his ribs for weeks—

Are you doing this on purpose?

But then you’re gone. The door clicks shut. And all he’s left with is the ghost of your perfume—something sweet and sharp, clinging to his clothes like a promise—and the Polaroid in his pocket, burning a hole straight through to his skin.

The get-together on Friday is a grand fucking disaster from minute one. Steve's apartment swims in a haze of cigarette smoke and the stale tang of spilt beer, the kind of party atmosphere that usually feels like second nature but tonight just makes his skin itch. The laughter rings too loud in his ears—Eddie's wheezing cackle from the couch, Robin's snort-giggle as she loses at poker again. Normally, he'd be right there with them, tossing out stupid jokes and soaking up the chaos. But tonight, every word sticks in his throat like gum, and every forced smile makes his jaw ache. And you.

Fucking hell, you.

You're everywhere. Perched on the arm of Eddie's chair, your knee brushing his. Leaning over Robin's shoulder to peek at her cards, your hair falling in a curtain that smells like vanilla when it grazes Steve's arm. Laughing at some stupid story Nancy's telling, your head thrown back, the column of your throat working as you swallow your drink. Every glimpse is a fresh punch to the gut. He's two beers deep and still wound tighter than a spring when it happens. You turn just as he steps forward, and his drink sloshes over the rim, drenching the front of your shirt in cold amber liquid. "Shit—fuck, I'm sorry—" Steve stammers, already grabbing for napkins he knows won’t help.

You look down at the mess, then back up at him with an expression he can't quite read. "Real smooth, Harrington," you deadpan, but there's no real heat in it. Just that same unreadable something that's been in your eyes all night. The fabric clings to your skin as you peel it away, and Steve's mouth goes dry. He forces his gaze up to your face, but it's too late—he's already seen the way the wet cotton moulds to the curve of your breast, the shadow of your nipple through the thin material. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" you ask, and your voice is so normal, so casual, like you didn’t just notice him staring. Like you're not standing there half-drenched because of him.

Steve swallows hard. "Yeah, no, I mean—go ahead." He gestures vaguely down the hall, his face burning. "Towels are under the sink if you... you know." You nod, sliding past him so close the heat of your body sears through his shirt, your arm brushing his in a way that sends sparks skittering down his spine. The party's dying embers surround you—empty cups littering sticky tables as the four of you remain in the hollowed-out quiet of the now-empty apartment, and when you disappear into the bathroom, Steve exhales like he's been holding his breath for hours.

Robin materialises at his elbow like the world's smuggest ghost. Her grin vibrates with barely contained glee, fingers digging into his bicep hard enough to leave crescent moons in his skin. "Dude," she stage-whispers, her breath scalding his ear, "you're a walking fucking disaster." Steve doesn't deny it. He's been digging his own grave for weeks – every aborted reach across the Beemer's console, every confession drowned in stale beer, every time he's nearly had you pinned against the Family Video horror section only to choke at the last second. "Christ, Buckley," he hisses through gritted teeth, "not now—" The bathroom door creaks open. You. Polaroid pinched between your fingers like an executioner's blade, edges worn soft from how often he's traced them. Steve's stomach plummets through the scuffed floor.

Oh, fuck.

Oh fuck, oh fuck—

The drawer. He'd forgotten about the goddamn bathroom drawer he left the Polaroids in.

Your approach is lethal. Purposeful. The sharp staccato of your boots on hardwood echoes like a firing squad cocking their rifles. The air between you curdles – thick with tension and something darker, something that makes Steve's pulse stutter in his throat. When you speak, your voice drops to that register—the one that turns his bones to liquid, something that makes the fine hairs on the back of Steve's neck stand at attention.

"Where did you get these?" Not a question. A goddamn death sentence.

Robin's nails bite deeper. "Holy shit," she breathes, eyes darting between you like she's watching the best tennis match of her life. "This is better than my parents' divorce." Steve's heartbeat riots against his ribs as you stop just beyond reach—close enough that your perfume coils around him. The Polaroid dangles from your fingers, the image facing him like an indictment: your lips swollen, lashes fluttering against tear-stained cheeks, fingers twisted in sheets that should be his. The lights hum overhead as you tilt your head, catching the sharp challenge in your gaze. "Where did you get these?" you repeat, each word dripping with deliberate intent. Steve's throat seals shut. Every lie he'd prepared withers under your burning stare, under Robin's vibrating presence at his side, and under the way his body betrays him with every inch you close between you.

"I—" His voice cracks like dry kindling. "My jacket. And—fuck."

You step closer. The brush of your knee against his sends electric currents through the denim. "And?"

"My glove compartment." The admission tears from him like flesh from a wound.

Robin makes a sound between a wheeze and a dying air horn. Your smirk could strip paint from walls. "Interesting." Another step forward, and now your chest nearly grazes his with each breath. He can't tell if you're moving in for a kiss or a kill shot.

"And what were you planning to do with them, Steve?" His mouth floods. A dozen filthy images flash through his mind—his teeth marking your thigh, your back arching against the employee break room wall, that broken moan you'd make when—

You lean in. Your lips ghost over the shell of his ear as you whisper, hot and deliberate: Steve's vision tunnels to pinpricks. "You—you've been—" Your grin cuts deep. "Leaving them for you? Yeah." The world tilts on its axis. Steve stares at you, caught between outrage and a hunger so deep it terrifies him. "You've been messing with me this whole time—"

A careless shrug as you step closer—so close your thighs slot between his, your skirt riding up just enough to make his hands twitch with the need to touch. "Maybe I wanted to see if you'd crack."

"Why?" It's barely more than a breath. Your expression turns sweet, soft. "Because I like how you look at me when you think I'm not watching." A heartbeat of silence stretches between you, thick and charged.

"Did you like them?"

The question hangs suspended, heavier than the humid air between your bodies. Steve's control shatters. “I hated those photos,” he grits out, voice shredded. “Not because—fuck, not because I didn’t want you. But because every time I looked at them—” His jaw clenches so tight it aches. “All I could think was it should’ve been me making you look like that.”

Your lips part, just slightly, and you step closer. Just one more step. But it’s enough to make his pulse riot. “Prove it,” you murmur, your lips brushing his with provocation.

His hands find your waist.

Your breath hitches.

The space between you collapses. And when he kisses you, it’s not sweet. It’s desperate. It’s what I’ve wanted forever. It’s why the hell did we wait so long? You gasp against his mouth, fingers twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, every desperate inch of his body imprinting itself on yours like he’s trying to melt into your skin. Then his mouth crashes down—hot, demanding, lips moving with a possessive hunger that rewrites your pulse into something wild. You whimper into the kiss, fingers scrambling at his shoulders as Steve licks into your mouth like a man starved. There's nothing gentle about it – he kisses like he's determined to rewrite your DNA with teeth and tongue and the relentless press of his hips until every cell in your body sings his name. It's everything he's fantasised about and so much more – the heat of you pressed flush against him, the crescent moons your nails carve into his shoulders, and the broken little whimper you make when he nips at your bottom lip. When he finally tears away, you're both panting, foreheads pressed together, his ragged breaths scalding your swollen mouth.

"Took you long enough," you murmur, voice wrecked. Steve huffs a laugh, thumb swiping across your kiss-slick lips with a reverence that belittles the hunger in his eyes. "Yeah, well. You could've just told me."

You grin, all teeth. "Where's the fun in—" "Hell no," Eddie's voice cuts in, strangled. "I am not witnessing Harrington's sexual awakening live and in colour—" Robin's already dragging him backwards by his collar. "We're leaving! Enjoy your— Jesus Christ, Steve, just— use protection—!"

The door slams. Steve's on you before the latch clicks – no hesitation, no space between. He pins you against the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, his body a furnace against yours. One hand fists in your hair while the other slides up your thigh with deliberate roughness, calloused fingers branding your skin through the fabric. "Should've done this years ago," he growls against your throat, thumb circling your nipple with just enough pressure to make you arch into him. "Why the hell didn't we?"

His forehead drops to yours. The warmth of his breath ghosts across your lips as he confesses, "Because you're Robin's best friend. Because Eddie would've never shut up about it." His hips grind forward, the hard line of his erection leaving no room for doubt. "Mostly because I was fucking terrified of losing you."

"You?"

"Thought you'd get bored of me," you admit, the wall biting into your shoulder blades as he presses closer. "Worried I'd just be... another conquest." Steve goes utterly still. When he meets your eyes, the raw intensity in his gaze makes your stomach flip. "You were never just anything." His whisper is rough, like the words were clawed from his chest. "I've been in love with you since you beat me at Mario Kart drunk off your ass in '86." A surprised laugh punches out of you. "That was like our fifth hangout."

"Yeah." His grin is all boyish charm, obscenely at odds with the filthy drag of his fingers on your inner thigh. "Fucking devastating." Then his mouth is at your ear, teeth scraping that sensitive spot that makes your knees weak. "Gonna spend the rest of the night proving it to you," he promises, voice dark with want. Something feral flashes in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he hauls you up — arm hooked under your thighs — and carries you toward the bedroom, your laughter dissolving into a moan as his mouth finds yours again. The last coherent thought you have before he drops you onto the mattress is that you should've let him find those Polaroids much, much sooner.

𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈 [𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧]

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