Work Text:
You were going to die. Like actually, rot in your bed, turn into a corpse and evaporate, die.
Your thoughts kept straying away to stupid stuff like work, did you remember to pay your rent, it’s kind of warm. You tried to imagine. You tried to think of anything that could set you off and finally release this throbbing need between your legs.
Your fingers were aching, tired, and painfully bored. You were ready to give up. Tonight was just not the night even though horniness spiked through you since the moment you laid in bed. You groaned, unsatisfied and pissed off, staring at your dark ceiling.
And suddenly, your phone rang. You looked at the clock, reading 11:17pm. You weren’t expecting anyone to call, but the possibilities were endless. Though, you let it ring until the very last moment, answering it finally, agitation pooling from your tongue. “Hello?”
“Wow, an attitude already?”
You rolled your eyes, sitting up in the bed at the sound of your best friend, Steve Harrington’s voice.
“I was almost asleep,” you lied. You faked a yawn, hoping it would sell.
It did not.
“You wouldn’t have answered the phone if that was true.” He said it so matter of factly. “I just got home from the station. You okay?”
You hummed, recalling how you had rolled your ankle earlier in the day and had been banished to stay at the station during the Crawl, bored out of your mind.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said. “Just hate not being involved.” What you weren’t going to say it absolutely ruined your mood.
“It was a boring Crawl anyway. Dustin didn’t even acknowledge anything I said the whole night.” He sighed.
“I’m sorry, Steve,” you murmured.
“Yeah, I really wish you had been there,” he said quietly and slowly.
Oh. You swallowed, biting the skin on your thumb briefly. It was that bubbling feeling again, that tension that formed in your shoulders, spreading all the way to the bottom of your belly. Recently, the way Steve talked, said things… looked, made you feel a certain way.
He was your best friend, and he always will be. But, about a month ago, something snuck up behind you, and you had no idea if it had always been there in the first place. Or if you were just lonely. Maybe, both.
“Yeah, probably would’ve beaten sitting in a room with Joyce and Will. I could have at least gone on a stake out .” You twirled the cord around your finger.
“Hey, how about this. I didn’t get to hear about your day yesterday. Why don’t you… tell me?” His voice had a strange inflection. You could hear Steve move, sheets shuffling, the other line making a crinkling noise. “Start from the beginning,” he muttered.
“Comfortable? Because it was a long day,” you sang.
“Uh… yeah.” He had that strange tone again.
You chose to ignore it, because you suddenly felt a warmth in your chest, any agitation you had prior had broken. He always managed to do that to you.
So you began, “Well, first off, I woke up late. So I had to quickly get ready before work. I didn’t even get to eat breakfast.”
“What would you have eaten?” He asked.
You chuckled, “Probably yogurt.”
Talking like this felt familiar, almost comforting. You and Steve had been doing this for years now. It was late-night calls, filling the quiet with the sound of each other’s voices. It was easy. It was safe.
At least, it used to be.
“Then,” you said finally, voice light on purpose, “work was… bad.”
Steve made a small sound of acknowledgment, low and patient, like he was settling in. “Bad how?”
You shifted onto your side, pressing the phone closer to your ear. “Just one of those days. Everything went wrong, but nothing big enough to complain about.”
You paused, thinking about it. How small things stacked up until they felt heavy. How tired you still were.
“I spilled coffee on myself right after I got there,” you added. “Not a lot, but I smelled like it all day.”
There was a soft breath through the line. You pictured him frowning, jaw tight in that way he got when something bothered him.
“That sucks,” he said quietly.
“Yeah. I kept thinking everyone could tell,” you went on, thoughts spilling easier now. “Like they were all secretly judging me for it. Which is stupid, because no one cares. But it still got under my skin.”
You didn’t mention how you’d felt small. Or how the day had already felt doomed after that.
“What were you wearing?” Steve asked.
The question tugged you out of your thoughts. Your brows knit together, and you stared at the wall, suddenly very aware of your own body in the quiet room.
“…Just my blue blouse,” you said.
“The button-up?” he asked, too quick. Too certain.
Your stomach fluttered, uninvited. “Yeah.”
There was a pause. Not silence exactly, but you could hear him breathing, and it felt charged, like the air before a storm.
You told yourself not to overthink it. You shifted on the bed, pulling your knee up to your chest.
“Okay,” you said lightly, “why do you sound like you’re interrogating me?”
“I’m not,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Just… listening.”
You let it go, even though your heartbeat had picked up for reasons you couldn’t explain.
“Anyway,” you continued, forcing your voice back into a casual rhythm, “my boss was in a mood. Everything I did was wrong. I swear I triple-checked my work, but somehow I still got blamed.”
Your chest tightened remembering it. The way you’d stood there, nodding, biting your tongue.
“I just apologized,” you said. “Didn’t even argue. I didn’t have the energy.”
Steve exhaled slowly. “I hate that for you.”
Something about the way he said it. It was so sincere, so protective. It made warmth bloom behind your ribs.
“It’s fine,” you said, even though it hadn’t felt fine at the time. “By the end of the day, my feet hurt, my hands were gross from the copier toner, and I just wanted to be home.”
There was another sound then. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.
“…Steve?” you asked.
“Sorry,” he said. “Go on.”
There was another sound then. A faint shift, like fabric moving.
“So, then you eventually got home” Steve said, voice lower than before.
Your cheeks warmed. “Yeah, by the end of the day my feet hurt, my head hurt, and I just wanted to go home and lie down.”
“And when you did?” he asked.
“I kicked off my shoes,” you said. “Changed. Ate cereal for dinner.”
“Changed into what?” he asked.
Your fingers tightened around the phone before you realized you were doing it.
“I don’t know,” you said, a nervous laugh slipping out. “Just something comfortable.”
This time, the pause stretched longer.
You listened, really listened, and noticed things you hadn’t before. The way his breathing wasn’t as steady. The faint rustle of sheets. And the faint sound… almost like slapping. The fact that the silence didn’t feel empty at all.
“Steve?” you said softly. “You okay?”
The sound that followed was unmistakable. A sound you had never heard from him before.
Low. Soft. Uncontrolled.
A moan.
Your breath caught so sharply it almost hurt. Your entire body went still, every thought scattering at once.
“Steve—” you whispered.
“Fuck,” he breathed, and then your name slipped from his mouth like it hadn’t been planned. Like it had been pulled out of him.
Hearing it like that sent a slow, dizzying warmth through you. Confusion tangled with something else, something you’d been trying very hard not to name for weeks now.
“I…” You swallowed, heart pounding. “What was that?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
There was silence, thick and heavy.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said finally. His voice was rough, stripped of its usual easy confidence. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t trying to make things weird.”
“But it was weird,” you said quietly. Not accusing. Just honest.
“…Yeah,” he admitted.
You stared up at the ceiling again, but it felt different now. Like the room itself had shifted. Like something had cracked open between you. It felt dangerous.
“Steve,” you said after a moment, voice barely steady, “why did that happen?”
Another slow breath. Then, softly, “Because I don’t think I’ve been listening to you the way a friend should.”
Your chest tightened. Heat pooled low in your stomach, unfamiliar and unmistakable.
“Oh,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “I’m really sorry if that changes things.”
You held the phone closer, pressing it against your cheek.
“…It does,” you admitted.
The line went quiet again.
But neither of you hung up.
The quiet stretches again, but this time it doesn’t feel fragile. It feels deliberate.
“Is this why you called me?” you ask softly.
Your voice sounds steadier than you feel. There’s a warmth in your chest now, spreading slowly, like you’ve stepped too close to something you shouldn’t touch but don’t want to move away from.
Steve exhales through his nose. “Yeah,” he admits. “It is.”
You swallow.
“But I never…” You trail off, searching for the right words. “I never said anything. You know that, right?” How did he get turned on by nothing is what you really wanted to ask.
“I know,” he says immediately. There’s no hesitation in it. “You didn’t really have to.”
You close your eyes.
“When I got home,” Steve continues, voice lower now, less guarded, “I was trying to take care of it. Just… get it out of my system. That’s what I told myself.”
Your stomach tightens, slow and deep.
“And I couldn’t,” he says quietly. “No matter what I did, my head wouldn’t shut up. Every thought kept circling back to you.”
Your fingers curl into the sheets.
“I kept thinking… if I could just hear your voice,” he goes on, almost embarrassed, “maybe it would help. Or maybe I just wanted to hear you because I always do when things get too loud in my head.”
He pauses. “I didn’t finish. I just… called you instead.”
That feeling blooms fully now, spreading low and warm, curling inward. You bite your lip, hard, as your body reacts before your mind can catch up.
“Steve…” you whisper.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have put you in that position—”
“It’s your turn now,” you interrupt, gentle but firm.
The shift is immediate. He goes quiet, listening.
“…Okay,” he says.
You adjust in bed, rolling onto your side, the dark suddenly feeling thicker, closer. Your own breath sounds louder in your ears.
“Tell me about your day yesterday,” you say. “Start from the beginning.”
“Well… I woke up. I had an omelet. Got ready and went to the station.”
You swallowed. “What did you wear?”
Steve let out a breathless laugh. “A green sweater and some jeans.”
“Your Levi’s?” You asked immediately.
“Yeah… the Levi’s.” There was a knowing tone. Then he sighed. “Look… you don’t have to…”
“Keep going,” you let out a breathless noise, hand already slipping between your thighs.
Steve’s voice keeps moving through the dark, steady and warm, telling you about nothing and everything all at once. The way his day unfolded. The small frustrations he pretends don’t bother him. The pauses where he forgets what he was saying and laughs quietly at himself.
You listen with your eyes closed.
Your body listens too.
That low, constant pull in your stomach tightens gradually, like a thread being wound around something fragile. You breathe through it at first, slow and careful, telling yourself it’s just the night, just the closeness, just how tired you are.
But it isn’t.
It’s the way he says your name earlier and never takes it back.
It’s the knowledge that he called because he needed you.
It’s the simple, devastating fact of his voice being meant for you alone in this moment.
Your hand moves again, this time more hurried, guided more by instinct. You focus on Steve’s breathing, the faint rasp at the edge of his words, the way he softens when he realizes you’re still there.
The warmth builds quietly, spreading outward, then inward, until it feels like your whole body is humming under your skin. Your breath stutters. You press your lips together, trying to stay silent, but the feeling crests too slowly, too deeply to ignore.
Steve says something, your name, maybe, but you don’t hear it clearly.
What you hear is your own breath breaking.
A sound slips past your lips before you can stop it, soft and raw, pulled straight from your chest.
“Steve…”
His name leaves you like a confession.
The release follows, gentle but overwhelming, like standing too close to a fire after being cold for too long. You let it wash through you, eyes squeezed shut, fingers tightening in the sheets as the feeling unravels you from the inside out. You could hear the echo of your moan in the receiver.
On the other end of the line, there’s a sharp intake of breath.
“Shit…” Steve whispers.
Your heart races, suddenly aware again, suddenly shy. You don’t apologize. You don’t explain. You just breathe, letting the aftershocks fade into warmth and quiet.
Neither of you speaks for a moment.
Then Steve exhales slowly, grounding himself. “You okay?” he asks, voice rough but gentle.
You smile faintly, still floating. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I am.”
“Good,” he says softly. “Good.”
The conversation doesn’t go back to where it was. It doesn’t need to. Steve keeps talking anyway, quieter now, words blurring at the edges as exhaustion finally wins.
You listen until his voice slows, until his breathing evens out.
“Steve?” you whisper once, just to be sure.
A sleepy hum answers you.
The phone stays warm in your hand as you drift off, the line still open, his presence steady and real even as sleep takes you.
The night settles around you like a held secret, heavy and tender all at once. Nothing is said, because nothing needs to be. Whatever has shifted between you doesn’t feel fragile anymore, it feels marked, pressed into memory and skin alike. Tomorrow will come with questions, with consequences, with names for things you’re not ready to speak yet. But for now, there is only this. It’s warmth, quiet, and the steady proof that neither of you are alone. And somehow, that is enough to let you sleep.