#steve x yn
Request:
Inspiration:No More Blue Horizon by China Crisis
Word Count: 1564 Warnings: angst, and self-destructive behavior.
Written Date: 12/17-20/2019 Posted Date: 12/20/2019
Steve “The King” Harrington was nothing but a fraud who hid behind great hair, brand-named clothing, and, occasionally, tinted specs. But while he had everyone wrapped around his pinky, he was nothing more than a doormat in the middle of sleepless nights. Not because you often bumped shoes with him every time he welcomed you into his arms but because the only time you ever sought him out was after a nasty fight with your older boyfriend, and only in places no prying eyes could reach.
He hadn’t spoken more than a couple sentences to you in months―you have muttered even less to him―yet somehow the warmth between your heated skin had become well acquainted with his.
With your head on his chest and an arm around your waist, Steve’s bed had offered a fraction of the comfort after you decided to climbed into his window and sob unintelligibly against his shirt. Steve didn’t say anything when you flinched upon his fingers grazing over a bruise on your hip. This was the first time.
The clashing of teeth and swollen lips was the first kiss you had desperately bestowed upon him. The school’s boiler room had been too dark for him to see, and maybe that’s partially why the first kiss had been just a little too rough but somehow he had the feeling the brutal kiss was purposeful too.
The first time Steve had sex with you was on your bed of flowered bedding just fifteen minutes after the bell had released its students for the day. Your clammy hands hardly roamed his torso, opting to remain on his shoulders, while your thighs shook around his slim hips. You rode him, wanting Steve’s sweat to penetrate through your sheets and displace the scent of your boyfriend’s odor of whiskey. Meanwhile, Steve’s eyes took turns settling between your face screwed up in mild pleasure, your bouncing breasts, and the door.
Steve was somewhat of a douchebag, but he had a soft side. Your twenty-year-old boyfriend didn’t have a genuine latter. Those moments you stole from Steve were selfish yet they were the only occasion in which you could take control of.
This fucked up routine between the two of you was wrong. Steve had enough sense to understand that, but what else could he do? Steve had known you since your mother styled your hair in small pigtails with ever-changing ribbons.
Your mother used to bring you along for visits with Steve’s mother back when his home was actually a home lived in by a functional family and not just their neglected son. You used to run up the carpeted stairs in your classic Velcro shoes and barge into his room, demanding he’d stop hiding from underneath his bed and play with you.
As an eight-year-old who didn’t have siblings to share his toys with, he often wished to opt out of the presence of the free spirited and bossy girl, and hoped to avoid her. But, not wanting to disappoint the child of her dear friend, his own mother never covered for him with some made-up-on-the-spot lie as to why little Steve wasn’t available for a play-date. No matter how much he begged.
This childish stage was rather quick to pass, and the both of you managed to find some common ground that transformed into a stable friendship. As the years progressed, your oozing confident nature bathe him in a glow of his own.
But, the friendship didn’t last long. Once you hit the age of fourteen, your figure already developed, you met an attractive seventeen-year-old after you and one of your friends decided to crash her brother’s get-together. His name was Nathan, and he was already a high school dropout who sold drugs under the counter at his father’s liquor store. That didn’t matter; Nathan had a car, you liked him, and every girl in your grade wanted to be in your shoes.
Soon, your independence had run thin and every friendship you cherished was squandered under Nathan’s boots. Whatever you had with Steve was strained and peeling like an old coat of paint. It wasn’t obvious at first, but Nathan had been slowly molding you into his ideal twisted image of partnership. His father was controlling, so he figured he should be too.
The school began mailing home your borderline failing report cards and you sent them back with forged signatures. The discolored blotches that appeared on your skin from Nathan’s manhandling never had a chance to heal themselves before new ones appeared. Your arms and waist seemed to think it was some sort of game by collecting the most bruises he threw at you.
Your mother, who you’ve always had a close bond with, didn’t even recognize you anymore. No one did. Casual acquaintances drifted once the bubbles of your character popped while closer friends eventually gave up on you. But, not Steve. The separation of distance between Steve and yourself had always been on you. Your childhood pal spent afternoons knocking on your front door just to have your mother send him away with slouched shoulders. You spent less time at home and more time experimenting with other boys.
And once Nathan hands began twisting and turning your figure every time he so much as suspected you were out of line, Steve became an outlet for frustration. Steve never really spoke during the encounters―never even refused you―and in this perverted logic, you knew you could always count on him.
That is until tonight.
The air was thick from a random bout of humidity, even though summer is still several months away. Steve laid flat on his back, skin slick from moisture and hairline drenched, chest rising and falling in deep breaths. Your back facing him, you had already pulled on your panties and is now sitting on the side of his bed, picking up your fallen sweater.
One of your arms has just found the tunnel of a knitted sleeve when goosebumps pebbled the skin of your exposed spine. Your knotted hair dangles freely and you don’t move an inch.
Among the whirring of crickets chirping in the dead of night, Steve just confessed what he’s known since before puberty widened your hips and gave him armpit hair: “I love you.”
You suppose this knowledge had already been growing like a seed in the pit of your stomach, but hearing it is different. Hearing it so softly spoken sent a spray of acid rain into your tummy, destroying whatever progress was made of your garden. It made this hint of fantasy very real and very daunting.
You compose yourself rather quickly, though not because it’s easy, and slip your sweater on at double speed, eager to slip out of his unlatched window. The frumpy jeans you’d thrown on earlier are next in line for the picking, and once the zipper is zipped and the button is buttoned, you get up to slip on your sneakers.
But, you find you cannot because Steve’s fingers wrap around your wrist. “Y/n―”
“Stop.”
It’s forced between clenched teeth. Gratefulness envelops you when you notice that the curtains of your strands block your face from his view and you refuse to give him a passing of your eyes.
The pads of his fingers and palms stay shy of a caress, but they are softer and gentler than Nathan’s will ever be. And, you know that the gaze Steve has settled on you is nothing short of balmy and that his brown hues plead in a combination of honey and cacao while Nathan’s eyes are as deep as an ocean ready to drown you. Yet, none of these things keep you from shimmying your wrist out of Steve’s grasp.
It’s an easy tug and soon you are tying the laces of your sneakers and placing strands behind your ears, and throughout it, Steve lets you without another word.
No glances are spared as a leg slips through the opening of the window, and you don’t bid him a goodbye before disappearing―not that you ever do.
His window stays open for the rest of the night just like his lids don’t drift him off to a dreamless sleep. His thoughts are on you; how you’re so quick to brush him off as if he was a piece of lint on a coat; the way you touch his body like he’s a mannequin yet attack his lips like a fierce fever, and he briefly thinks about how you behave with your boyfriend in such lustful positions. He wonders how you could be so desperate to find him and then twice as desperate to leave him.
Steve wishes he could be disgusted with you just as much as you self-loathe, but it doesn’t come naturally. He’s a doormat. A fool stuck in love.
