Sea.Sand.Sun.

Dedicated to happy thoughts and couple ships. Enjoy<3

[thecreelhouse]

always ready to be left out in the cold

Paring: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? You’re almost certain you’d rather freeze to death. Almost.

WC: 18k+

Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steve’s trauma. reader’s trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.

A/N: Said I wasn’t gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if you’re sick of the van fics, but here’s one more 😅 title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine

‎♪ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armor’s heavy, never suited me at all / but it’s the devil I know ♬

This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.

Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.

Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.

Leaving you- alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.

Yeah, lucky you.

This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.

You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.

It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.

And that's never your call to make.

Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."

"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.

He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.

Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"

"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."

"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.

"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"

"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."

"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."

"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."

"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"

"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."

Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."

"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"

"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.

Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."

There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.

Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.

Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?

It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.

Until you just… left. 

 Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.

No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.

You'd drift in, drift out.

Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.

In, out.

All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.

So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.

Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.

When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.

What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?

What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?

What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?

If you stayed… would it have been worth it?

The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.

It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.

That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.

No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.

Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.

Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?

Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.

You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.

Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.

Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.

That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.

Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.

The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.

That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.

You can only tread water for so long, though.

"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"

Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.

"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."

And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.

"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"

"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."

His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.

Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.

What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?

Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.

Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.

"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."

He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."

"God, you're such a bitch."

"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."

"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"

"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"

"Stop!"

"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"

"I meant the van, asshole!"

Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.

Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.

You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.

"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"

Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.

His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"

You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.

Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.

"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.

"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"

He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."

Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.

She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"

You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.

"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"

Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."

"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.

In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.

Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."

"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."

So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.

Fantastic.

"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."

Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.

"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"

"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"

Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"

Hopper.

Oh, boy.

Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.

Well, can't say you didn't try.

Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."

You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.

"Okay, where are you exactly?"

The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.

You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.

Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."

"Language."

"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.

"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."

So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.

Way off.

"I- I don't know."

A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.

"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"

Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.

There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."

Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling the flu.

You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.

"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."

You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."

Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."

"I didn't lose the fucking—"

The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.

"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"

"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."

Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.

Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.

"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."

Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.

"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."

There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.

Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.

He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".

"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."

Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."

Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."

Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."

That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.

Together.

Alone.

"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"

A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.

"Yeah, kid. I got it."

In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.

It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.

Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.

"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"

"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"

Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?

"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."

Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"

"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."

"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.

"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.

There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.

Unless…

There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.

You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.

"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."

But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"

"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."

"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."

"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"

His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.

"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"

"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."

"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."

He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"

Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"

"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"

You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"

"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"

"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."

"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"

"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."

"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."

"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.

Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.

The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.

If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.

Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.

The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.

Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.

Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.

Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.

He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.

And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.

So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.

He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.

By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.

Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?

What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.

To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.

To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.

The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.

The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.

He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.

Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.

You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.

Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.

It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.

Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?

In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.

There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.

"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.

You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.

"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.

When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.

"Ow… S'loud," you groan.

"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.

"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.

It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.

Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.

Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.

"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.

Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.

And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.

Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.

Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.

"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.

He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.

Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."

"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."

"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."

The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.

Yeah, you're worse than he thought.

"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"

"M'yeah, s'kay."

If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.

Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.

Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.

He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"

"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."

"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.

He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.

"Okay, c'mon, boots first."

Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.

Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.

And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.

He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.

You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.

"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."

There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.

At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.

"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.

"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.

"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."

He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.

"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."

If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.

"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."

You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.

"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"

That's a dumb fucking question.

"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."

When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.

About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.

"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."

"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.

"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."

Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.

Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.

But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.

Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"

"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.

You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."

He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.

What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.

Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.

"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."

He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?

That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.

Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.

Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.

He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.

That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.

The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?

God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?

Whatever.

It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.

The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.

Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.

That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.

Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—

"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"

Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.

Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."

Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.

Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.

He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.

"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.

He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.

"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."

Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."

The words ache with more desperation than he intends.

"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.

"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.

"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"

He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"

"Fu- fucking cold."

"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."

You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."

"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."

You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.

Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.

Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.

Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.

"Be n- n- nice!"

"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"

"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"

The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.

Like a fucking fool.

"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."

The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.

"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."

"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"

You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"

"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"

"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.

He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."

"You could h- have some f'ya' want."

"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."

"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."

"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.

You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."

He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."

Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.

"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.

You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.

"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."

Oh, if only you knew.

"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"

"Make wh- what weird?"

Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.

The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."

"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."

"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.

The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.

"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."

"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."

You sound mortified.

"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"

"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"

He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?

"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."

"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."

He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.

There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.

Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.

Talk about something else. Anything.

"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.

"Hm? Wi- with what?"

"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."

"We still ended up in a ditch—"

"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."

You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.

"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."

Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."

"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."

Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.

"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."

"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.

"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."

It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.

"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."

He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.

"… What?"

Because since when do you care about letting him down?

"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."

Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.

"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."

And look where that got the two of you.

Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.

You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."

"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."

"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."

"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."

The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."

We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.

"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."

An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.

Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.

"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."

It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…

Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.

And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.

"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"

"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"

"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."

Scared is an understatement.

He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.

He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.

He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.

And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—

Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.

Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.

Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.

Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.

And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.

Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.

Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.

If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.

And you.

You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—

It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.

He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.

Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.

So much wasted time—

"Steve?"

Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.

Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"

"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"

A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."

"Oh my god, Steve."

"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."

"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.

"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."

Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.

"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.

"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."

"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."

Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.

"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."

A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.

The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.

"Fuck, shit, fuck—"

Yeah. He's hard.

He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.

Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."

"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"

Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."

Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.

"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"

Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."

He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?

"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."

"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"

"Not to death."

"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."

"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"

"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"

"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"

He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.

"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."

"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"

"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."

"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.

No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.

"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."

"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"

He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.

Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.

Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.

Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."

Not like this one's much easier to talk about.

Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.

"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"

"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."

You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.

It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.

"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"

When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.

"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."

For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.

"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."

It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?

There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.

The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.

"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."

Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.

Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.

You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.

He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.

The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.

"Shit, Steve…"

He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.

He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.

"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"

"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.

If, you know, you were into that.

His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.

The two of you just have to survive this night first.

"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."

You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.

Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.

"Finish. The. Sentence."

You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.

"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"

"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."

Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.

"Bet you were this wet before you left."

Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."

"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."

"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."

Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.

"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."

"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.

"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."

Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."

The smug expression falters, "Too much?"

"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."

Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."

Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.

He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.

Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."

"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."

"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."

You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."

"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"

"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."

He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.

And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.

The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.

Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.

"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."

Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.

"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"

Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.

"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."

The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.

"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"

The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.

"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"

Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.

"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"

You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.

This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.

Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.

And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.

He's missed you. So, so much.

The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.

"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.

"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"

Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.

"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."

Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.

"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.

"I- I want it."

"Want… what?"

Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."

"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."

"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.

Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.

Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.

"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."

As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.

You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.

"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"

Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."

He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.

"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."

Steve blinks as the words sink in.

Oh.

"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."

"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"

He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.

"One step at a time, okay?"

He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.

Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.

Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.

"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.

Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.

"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.

In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."

Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.

Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.

"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"

You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.

Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.

Oh, no.

"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"

Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"

"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"

"Steve."

"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.

"Were you— oh my god."

"What?!"

A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.

The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."

He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.

Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"

"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."

"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"

"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."

Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.

You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.

It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.

A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.

Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.

It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.

By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.

Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.

He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.

Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.

"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"

The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.

"S'okay?"

"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.

"But?"

Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.

Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.

He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.

"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"

"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."

Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.

As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.

You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.

Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.

"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.

"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'

Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."

And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.

"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."

"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."

"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."

Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.

"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"

Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.

With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.

"You done talking logistics yet?"

Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.

That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.

No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.

"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."

"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.

Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in. 

Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.

Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.

What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.

Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.

It tightens.

Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.

"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.

The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.

"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."

Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.

But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.

Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.

That plucks at his heartstrings, too.

"Steve?"

Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.

"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."

Baby.

Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.

Wait, did you say he was crying?

"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."

"Steve—"

"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."

"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."

"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."

Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.

"St—"

He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.

You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"

"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."

And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.

You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"

He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.

"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"

"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.

You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.

"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."

Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"

"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."

Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"

It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.

His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.

And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.

No one's like you. No one could even compare.

"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."

"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."

Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.

"Steve," you whine.

"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."

You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."

"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."

"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"

"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."

You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."

"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"

"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."

"Please… what?"

"Steve, I s- swear to god—"

"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."

"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.

He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.

"Such a what?"

"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"

Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.

"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.

 The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same. 

"I… Yours?"

 Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.

"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"

Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.

"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.

He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.

"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"

"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you. 

"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."

"Y- you."

Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.

"I'm right here."

Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.

The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.

And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.

"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.

It's only fair to match his energy.

"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."

He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.

No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.

"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."

Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.

Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.

God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.

"Fuck, you're unreal."

You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.

Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck

"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.

"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"

He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.

Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.

Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.

Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.

That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.

"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.

All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.

"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."

Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."

"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."

Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.

The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.

"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."

And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.

There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.

"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."

"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"

Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"

"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.

Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.

It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.

"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."

"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"

"Okay."

"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."

This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.

"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."

He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."

"Steve."

The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will. 

And he will, too.

[levanswrites]

𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your boyfriend loves you with his whole heart. and sometimes, you’re not sure what to do with something that big. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, established relationship, touch/love-starved reader, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, brief smut, implied past trauma/abuse but nothing explicitly mentioned, heart-aching fluff, character analysis 𝐚/𝐧: flipping my favorite trope onto reader. this one's for all my peeps who have a tough time with physical touch and emotional intimacy

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

Your boyfriend loves easily.

Affection stitched directly into the lining of him, inseparable from the rest of his body.

Touch, to Steve, is instinct before intention.

Automatic and unthinking, his hands find you the way roots find water.

Waiting in line at the fall fair, he hooks two fingers through your belt loop and sways you gently side to side while the Ferris wheel spins overhead in smeared red and gold light.

The air smells like fried dough and cinnamon sugar, cold autumn wind carrying bursts of laughter through the crowds. Steve stands behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder, warm chest pressed loosely to your back while he argues passionately about kettle corn versus popcorn.

Once in a while, he'll slide his thumb beneath the cuff of your sleeve mid-sentence, stroking the pulse point at your wrist, completely unaware that your heart is beating itself raw under his fingertips.

It’s impossible to explain it.

How overwhelming it feels to be loved by someone so thoroughly.

Because Steve never hesitates.

Never acts like affection is something shameful.

Love pours out of him, as naturally as body heat.

If your hands are cold, he interrupts himself halfway through a story just to catch your fingers and tuck them into his jacket pockets alongside his own, rubbing warmth back into your knuckles while continuing his sentence without missing a beat.

If you yawn during movie night, his arm is around your shoulders before the sound can finish leaving your mouth. “C’mere, sleepy girl,” he murmurs automatically, pulling you sideways against his chest.

If your shoelaces come untied in the middle of the sidewalk, he drops immediately to one knee with a distracted, “hang on, baby.”

Rainwater hisses along the curb while he reties the bow tighter this time, fingers quick and practiced, one hand steadying lightly against your ankle. His knuckles brush your skin through your sock and you have to stand there, holding your breath until your lungs ache with it, staring down at the concentration pulling his brows together.

Wondering what it must be like to love someone with your whole heart and not feel like it’s going to break you open.

He’s warm everywhere, your Steve. Warm hands, warm mouth. Warm stomach pressed against your back beneath blankets. He smells like laundry detergent and faint cedar cologne rubbed into the collar of his jackets. Sometimes vanilla chapstick, sometimes mint gum. Always Steve.

And the kisses are constant too.

Quick, thoughtless ones, born entirely from fondness.

The corner of your mouth while waiting for the microwave to beep. Your forehead when he passes behind you in the kitchen. Your shoulder while you lean over the sink brushing your teeth side by side. The back of your neck when he reaches around you for orange juice in the fridge, mumbling a sleepy, “morning, honey,” against your skin before kissing beneath your hairline.

Sometimes he just looks at you for a second. Expression softening imperceptibly, like some private thought crossed his mind, and then he leans over and kisses your cheek with this quiet little hum in his throat.

Like loving you tastes good.

And god, the neck kissing.

It’s terrible.

And right now, in the middle of a museum gallery so quiet you can hear shoes squeak against polished floors, he’s doing it again.

You’re trying to read the plaque beneath some enormous renaissance painting—something about divinity and grief, oil on canvas—but Steve is behind you, arms folded around your waist while he scans the museum brochure one-handed.

One of his hands has slipped beneath your cardigan, warm palm spread low across your stomach.

“Okay, so,” he murmurs near your ear, voice low enough that the sound vibrates through you, “there’s the Greek sculpture thing upstairs, or... there’s apparently a room with these like, tiny dollhouses?”

You wrinkle your nose. “That sounds horrifying.”

“Right?” His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Like what if one of them’s haunted?”

Then his mouth finds the hinge of your jaw.

One lazy, distracted kiss.

His lips are soft, slightly chapped from the cold outside. Warm breath spills across your skin afterward, making your pulse jump beneath his mouth. He lingers there, nose nudging lightly against your neck while he keeps mumbling off different sections of the museum.

You feel the shape of his smile against your skin when he finds another ridiculous exhibit.

“Apparently there’s a room that’s just chairs.”

“That can’t be true.”

“No, I swear to god.”

Then his mouth drifts lower.

Open-mouthed kisses this time.

Slow enough that warmth blooms beneath every press of his lips. You feel the faint scrape of his teeth catch your skin playfully before he smooths over it with another softer kiss, his thumb stroking across your stomach.

Your entire body tightens around the feeling.

The worst part is knowing that he isn’t trying to fluster you.

Steve isn’t performing intimacy.

He just never second-guesses affection.

Unlike you.

For you, every touch feels catastrophic.

The second Steve touches you, awareness crashes through your body all at once—your pulse, your breathing, the weight of his hand, whether your hair smells okay, whether your stomach feels too soft beneath his palm, whether someone across the gallery can see this.

Whether you deserve to be loved this openly at all.

“....and Robin said there’s some painting of a guy eating his own son which honestly seems kinda—”

He stops, hand stilling against your stomach.

“Babe?”

You blink hard, staring at the plaque without reading a single word.

Steve leans back, concern creasing immediately between his brows.

“Hey,” his hand slides higher, rubbing gently over your ribs. “You okay?”

“Hm? Mhm.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Another lie.

Your skin still burns where he kissed you.

And underneath all the panic is something worse.

Fear and hunger, knotted so tightly you can’t separate them anymore.

Wanting him closer, wanting him to keep touching you forever. Wanting to crawl inside every warm, gentle thing he gives you and stay there.

Not knowing what you’d do if he ever stopped.

Because as terrifying as it is to be loved this softly, you think losing it might actually destroy you.

“You wanna sit down for a sec?” Steve asks quietly. “I think I still have that granola bar in my bag if you’re hungry.”

You almost laugh, because of course that’s where his mind goes.  

Care.

Always care.

“No, I’m okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “We can keep going. The uh, Greek sculpture thing sounds good.”

He watches you for a beat longer than comfortable, thumb rubbing against your hipbone through your jeans.

“Okay,” he says finally.

His hand slides up your arm, gently fixing the cardigan slipping off your shoulder. His fingers brush your neck in the process, absentmindedly smoothing your hair back into place too.

And then, because he’s Steve—because affection lives inside him so naturally he doesn’t know how to love except with his whole body—

He reaches down and interlaces your fingers with his.

Warmth immediately fills the spaces between your knuckles, his callused fingers curling around yours with steady, secure pressure.

He keeps holding your hand the entire walk toward the staircase, thumb stroking across your skin while he talks about haunted dollhouses and ugly marble babies and whether you think ancient Greek people had chest hair.

And isn’t it terrifying, how quickly your body has learned what safety feels like in someone else’s hands?

...

It isn’t just the touching.

You almost wish it was.

Because that would be easier to understand.

A touch can be explained away:

Steve’s just naturally affectionate. Steve likes physical contact.  

But it’s not just that.

It’s the way he loves you without condition. Without making you earn it first.

A few weeks into dating, he showed up at your apartment carrying a bouquet so enormous it nearly blocked his entire face.

When you opened the door, all you could see were flowers.

Soft cream roses crowded against pale pink delphiniums, petals curling delicately at the edges like silk ribbon. Deep burgundy dahlias bloomed low in the arrangement, velvety and dark as spilled wine, white baby’s breath drifting between everything like tiny bursts of snowfall.

And hidden right in the middle were your favorites.

Blue hydrangeas.

Dusty-blue petals clustered together like storm clouds at dusk, edges fading lavender where the light caught them.  

You had pointed them out exactly once while passing a florist downtown.

Three seconds, maybe.  

You remembered slowing briefly in front of the shop window because they looked beautiful beneath the warm yellow display lights. Rain had just started misting softly against the sidewalk and Steve had been halfway through ranting about some middle schooler trying to rent an R-rated horror movie with a fake ID. You’d smiled at his story before murmuring, almost absentmindedly, “Those are so pretty.”

That was it.

You hadn’t even thought he heard you.

But Steve Harrington has a habit of holding onto the tiniest details about you like they're something precious.

“Baby, I swear to god,” Steve was saying now as he stepped inside your apartment, nudging the door shut with his foot, “I had the craziest day today. This guy at work tried to return a tape completely melted.”

The bouquet landed in your arms before he shrugged off his jacket.

“Melted,” he repeated, horrified, running a hand through his hair. “Like, fully warped. Looked like somebody cooked that thing in a microwave.”

You stared down at the flowers.

The bouquet was heavy enough that you had to support it with both arms. Thick stems pressed cool and damp against your palms beneath layers of cream florist paper, the wrapping folded slightly unevenly around the flowers and tied together with rough twine that looked suspiciously hand-done.

Not florist-perfect, but Steve-perfect.

The flowers smelled dizzyingly alive: sweet rose perfume softened by rainwater and the cool, earthy scent of freshly cut stems.

“…um, Steve?”

“—and Keith asked me if I did that,” he huffed, toeing off his shoes. “I mean, can you believe that shit? What does he think I do at work all day, destroy tapes for fun?”

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

You blinked at him slowly.

“What’s…” Your throat tightened strangely around the words. “What’s this for?”

He looked down at the bouquet like he’d genuinely forgotten he walked in carrying it.

“Uh…” His brows lifted slightly. “Flowers?”

He laughed softly after saying it, confused.

But you didn’t laugh.

Because your brain was already doing what it always did: rummaging frantically for conditions. For expectations and hidden meanings tucked beneath kindness.

Your heartbeat started creeping unpleasantly high in your throat.

Was it an anniversary?

Oh god.

Had you forgotten something?

Your stomach dropped, dates scrambling uselessly through your head too fast to follow. One month? Six weeks? Was there something couples were supposed to celebrate this early? Had Steve done something thoughtful and now you were standing there empty-handed like the worst girlfriend alive?

The cellophane crackled beneath your tightening grip.

“Did I…” You cleared your throat quietly. “Did I forget something?”

Steve’s forehead wrinkled.

“Huh?”

“The flowers.”

“What about ‘em?”

Your voice came out impossibly small. “Why’d you get these?”

“Uh, ‘cause I…” He huffed a tiny laugh through his nose, head tilting. “’Cause I wanted to?”

His confusion only made your chest tighten more.

“Is it our anniversary or something?”

His frown deepened. “What? No.”

“Then… why?”

Steve stared at you for a second, slightly open-mouthed now, the soft amusement on his face fading into gentle concern.

“Baby, they’re just flowers.”

You stared back helplessly.

“But why?” you asked again, quieter this time.

“Well, I…” He shrugged one shoulder slightly. “I saw them. And I thought about you.”

The apartment suddenly felt very quiet.

You looked back down at the bouquet in your arms.

The hydrangeas were even prettier up close, petals shifting between pale blue and soft lavender depending on how the light hit them. Tiny sprays of baby’s breath caught between larger blooms like stars scattered through clouds.

A single sunflower tucked near the back, drooping sideways because Steve probably had the bouquet strapped into the passenger's seat on the drive over.

Your throat burned.

“That’s it?” you asked quietly.

Steve let out a soft breath through his nose.

His socked feet whispered against the floor as he stepped closer, one hand rising to cup your cheek.

Big enough to hold the entire side of your face, his palm enveloped you in warmth. Your lashes fluttered at the feeling of his thumb sweeping beneath your eye, brushing over the apple of your cheek, soothing something there without even knowing what hurt.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s it. I saw ’em and thought you’d like them.” His mouth tugged into a small smile. “You stared at those flowers for like, ten minutes.”  

You huffed weakly. “It was not ten minutes.”

Steve’s smile widened, encouraged by the sound of your laugh.

“There was this whole wrapping station thing too,” he added, gesturing proudly toward the bouquet still overflowing from your arms. The cream paper rustled softly as he touched it, uneven folds bunching around the stems where the twine had already started slipping loose on one side. “The lady kept trying to help me but I told her I could handle it.”

He tipped his head, inspecting his own work. “Pretty good, right?”

You looked down again.

The wrapping really was crooked. One corner folded inward strangely while another flared too wide, baby’s breath poking free through gaps in the paper.  

It couldn’t have been more beautiful.

Steve’s grin turned sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, I think she stopped helping 'cause I was stressing her out.”

A quiet bubble of laughter escaped you, and the second it did, you noticed the way his face changed. Grin softening, eyes gone warm at the realization that he’d made you smile.  

That was the other unbearable thing about him.

How carefully he watches for your joy, waiting for the next chance to do it again.   

He really had done all this just because he wanted to.

No special occasions—he just saw something beautiful and immediately thought of you.

You blinked quickly, staring down at the velvety rose petals before he could notice the dangerous sting gathering behind your eyes.

Nobody had ever remembered little things about you before.

Not enough to act on them later.

Certainly not enough to drive across town carrying an absurdly oversized bouquet because of one passing comment you barely remembered making yourself.  

But Steve noticed everything.

The tea you always reach for when you’re sick. The songs you hum in the car without realizing. Which side of the bed you like to sleep on. Which sweatshirt you wear when you’re sad. The way you peel pepperoni slices off pizza before eating.  

The flowers you paused to admire for three seconds on a rainy sidewalk weeks ago.

Your fingers tightened carefully around the bouquet.

“Thank you,” you managed quietly.  

Steve smiled, stepping closer until the bouquet crushed lightly between your bodies, cellophane crinkling in the quiet of the apartment.

“Yeah. Anytime, baby,” he hummed, bending down to press his smile into the curve of your mouth, as natural as breathing.

...

You don’t know why you get like this.

Why your body reacts like it’s bracing for impact when all he’s doing is being gentle. Why his affection makes your chest ache the way it does.

Why your first instinct is always to freeze.

Body going stiff whenever Steve wraps himself around your back in grocery store checkout lines, chin hooked over your shoulder while he complains about magazine prices and rubs his thumb beneath the hem of your shirt.

Sometimes he brushes your hair behind your ear mid-conversation and keeps talking without even realizing he did it. Sometimes he reaches for your hand in his sleep, eyes still closed, finding you beneath the blankets when his body notices your absence before he does.

And you wonder why, in all those sweet, wonderful moments—when he kisses your forehead while waiting for the microwave to beep, when he pulls you against his chest during movies, when he drops to his knees on dirty pavement because he doesn't want you to trip over your laces, when he holds your face in both hands like it’s something precious—you feel this horrible urge to apologize afterward.

Sorry I’m difficult. Sorry you picked me. Sorry you don’t realize yet there are easier people to love.

Love had always arrived transactional before him.

Conditional.

Dependent on being easy enough, pretty enough, quiet enough, useful enough.

But Steve loves you without condition.

And being seen that intimately by someone so good—someone as warm and earnest and sincere as Steve Harrington—feels unbearable sometimes.

Maybe that’s why nights like this overwhelm you so badly.

A fancy dinner downtown stretches long past sunset, candlelight flickering gold across Steve’s face while he steals bites from your plate despite insisting twenty minutes ago he was “seriously so stuffed.”

Wine leaves his cheeks faintly pink by the time you leave the restaurant. His tie hangs loose, crooked around his throat, top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. Summer heat still clings to the sidewalks even this late at night, thick with blooming jasmine spilling from flower boxes outside storefronts. Somewhere farther downtown, music drifts through open bar doors, muffled bass and laughter carried through the warm air.

Steve's hand never leaves your lower back, fingers flexing gently against you whenever the crowd thickens, pulling you instinctively closer to his chest.

By the time you drift into the park, your heels are dangling from one hand and your body feels pleasantly heavy from the wine.

The grass is cool beneath your bare feet. Damp earth presses between your toes as you wander deeper along the meadow paths, fireflies blinking through the dark around you like floating embers.

Steve is halfway through retelling some ridiculous story his students had told him earlier that day, pausing every other sentence because he keeps getting distracted trying to kiss you.  

Grass stains smear across the knees of his expensive slacks when he finally pulls you down beside him into the field.

“Steve,” you protest weakly, glancing at his pants.

“What?” he asks innocently, tightening his hands around your waist.

“Those are gonna stain.”

“Mm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, grin lazy. “Worth it.”

You lose track of time there.

Talking between kisses, lying shoulder-to-shoulder in the grass while Steve points out constellations he names wrong on purpose just to make you argue with him. His fingers comb slowly through your hair while your head rests against his shoulder, skin sticking together in the humid night air.

And by the time he gets you home, you’re half-floating.

Steve crowds you against the apartment door before the lock has even clicked shut.

Both hands on your waist, lips sealing over yours. The force of it nudges you softly into the door, his body fitting against yours as he grunts low into your mouth like he’s been holding himself back all night.

Sweet burgundy wine still lingers on his tongue when his lips part against yours.

He’s warm everywhere.

Warm hands sliding beneath your dress, warm mouth against your throat. Warm breath ghosting over newly exposed skin every time he pauses to look at you.

And he does pause, constantly.

Heavy-lidded hazel eyes drag across your face, your throat, the curve of your body beneath his hands, lips gone slack from that third glass of Merlot though his smile tells you he’s drunk on more than just the wine.

His palms skim along the back of your thighs while he kisses down your neck, the soft scrape of his stubble pulling a shaky breath in the shape of his name.

He smiles against your skin, feeling your fingers clutch tighter at his shoulders.

“C’mere,” he murmurs softly.

The bedroom lights stay low when he walks you backward toward the bed.

Blue comforter wrinkling beneath you when he eases you onto your back, following you down, kissing over every inch of exposed skin while your heartbeat stutters harder with each press of his mouth.

Broad palms smooth upward beneath your dress while his lips trail lower, the slow descent of it dizzying; his mouth dragging across your collarbone, the center of your chest, down your stomach, your ribs, each kiss separated by warm breaths and playful nips that make your muscles jump.

And when he kneels at the foot of the bed—nudging your legs apart carefully, lovingly, thumbs stroking slow circles into the soft skin inside your thighs as he settles himself in between—he lets out this quiet little sigh.

Like nowhere else on earth could possibly compare to this.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs against you, pressing the words directly into your skin. “You’re so beautiful.”

His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your underwear while he glances up at you through heavy lashes, tongue darting briefly to wet his lower lip.

You reach for his hair quickly, panic flaring.

“Steve,” you whisper. “Wait.”

His hands still immediately where they rest on your hips. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow hard. “Nothing, I just...”

Your head spins pleasantly and horribly all at once from the wine and the heat and the sweet boy kneeling between your thighs looking at you like you hung the moon.

“I should shower first.”

His brows pull together. “Why?”

“Because,” you laugh weakly. “I’m sweaty.”

Steve smiles at that, like it’s the sweetest thing he’s heard all day.

He leans in even closer, nose brushing over your clothed mound before he presses a slow kiss there.

“Baby,” he murmurs against you, “I don’t care.”

“Steve...”

“I mean it.”

His hands glide upward along your waist, warm and heavy as velvet, fingertips grazing your ribs on the way up.

“I like you like this,” he says softly.

Then he takes in a breath.

A deep, deliberate pull through his nose, the warm drag of air against the damp fabric making your thighs twitch around him.

“You smell good,” he murmurs, kissing you there again. “Like summer.”

Your face burns, but Steve only smiles wider, already halfway gone.

“Just stay,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you. We can take a bath after, promise.”

He turns his head to the side, nose nudging affectionately along your inner thigh before he closes his lips around the sensitive skin there. The suction is soft at first, teasing warmth into you before the pressure deepens just enough to sting pleasantly.   

A new love bite starts to bloom, petal-soft and tender, like a flower kissed awake by rain. His mouth traces over it, soothing the flush of it back into softer color with gentle, unhurried pecks.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss over the bruise-tinted skin. “My perfect girl.”

To be loved this intensely feels like it could swallow you whole.

Like the warmth of it could burn straight through you.

You don’t even realize you’ve started crying until your breath catches sharply in your chest, a raw, jagged gasp tearing from your lungs.

Steve’s head snaps up instantly.

You jerk your face away in horror, both hands flying to cover your eyes before he can see.

God.

Oh god.

Not now.

Why now?

“Baby, are you—”

His voice cuts off the second your breath stutters again, louder this time.

The mattress jolts beneath you as he pushes upright, fast enough that the bed frame gives a small protesting creak.

“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”

You can feel him at your side immediately, his quick, uneven breaths brushing against your hands where they're pressed tight to your face.

“Baby, what happened?”

His fingers curl around your wrists, firm but impossibly gentle.

Always gentle.

“Did I hurt you? Did I do something?”

“N-no,” you choke out immediately.

“Then what?” His voice starts to break slightly, turning sharp with worry. “What is it? Honey, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head helplessly, unable to form the words, unable to explain.

The lamp clicks on beside you. Warm amber light spills across everything at once: rumpled sheets and discarded clothes, Steve kneeling beside you, shirt open at the collar, belt buckle undone and tie hanging loose around his neck.  

The flowers from dinner are on the dresser.

Slightly uneven in their vase, waterline crooked, the hydrangeas beginning to open wider in the warmth of your apartment.

Embarrassment crashes over you like a wave.

Perfect.

A night he’d planned so carefully—reservations at the candlelit Italian place downtown, your favorite wine already waiting at your table, flowers arranged before you’d even walked through the door—

And now you’re crying halfway through sex because your brain can’t handle something as simple as being loved.

You turn your face away again instinctively, shoulders curling inward, but the tears don’t stop. They come harder, messy and humiliating, gasps of air ripping through your chest no matter how hard you try to swallow them down.

You feel Steve’s hand slide up your spine.

Slow, slow passes between your shoulder blades, fingertips pressing gently.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide, okay? You don’t have to hide from me.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, wiping at your face uselessly. “I-I don’t know w-why I’m—I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry—”  

“No, hey, don’t apologize, baby. Don’t say sorry.”

You resist him weakly when he tries to gather you in his arms.

You can’t look at him.

Can’t stand the thought of seeing the concern on his face after ruining this.

“I just—” You let out a shaky breath, voice cracking completely. “Fuck, I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Steve stills at that.

Then slowly, carefully, he takes your wrists fully in both hands.

You let him this time. Arms trembling the entire way down as he lowers your hands into his lap. You still refuse to meet his eyes, staring instead at the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His crisp white shirt is wrinkled, open at the collar, a faint pink bite mark just above his collarbone where you kissed him during the taxi ride home.  

His gaze presses into you, heavy and intent, trying to read what you can’t say.

“I need you to look at me,” he says quietly.

“I can’t.”

“Yeah,” he answers immediately. “You can.”

Another tear slips down your cheek. He catches it without hesitation, wiping it away with the pad of his thumb.

“Please,” he whispers, softer now. “Look at me.”

You finally do.

Steve’s hair is a mess, chestnut strands falling across his forehead where your fingers had been tangled moments ago.

His eyes—warm honey and green and amber all blurred together beneath the low light—are pained, tight with worry and unbearably expressive.

“There's nothing wrong with you,” he says, unshakably certain. “Nothing.”

His lips are swollen from kissing you, parted slightly with how hard he’s breathing.

It’s so painfully clear, how panicked he is.

Steve’s face never hides anything

It doesn’t know how to.

When he’s happy, it shows in the soft wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

When he’s worried, it gathers in his brows, in the tight set of his mouth.

And when he loves, it radiates from him so naturally it feels endless. Like sunlight.

You wonder what that must feel like.

To love someone without fear.

To offer tenderness without expectation, without the quiet dread that grows the more there is to lose.

He reaches up slowly, clearing tear-sticky strands away from your temples, thumb brushing beneath your eye. Still trying to read what hurts, the furrow in his brows asking without words.

You want to tell him.

For him, you’d try.

But the truth feels monstrous once it reaches your throat.

How do you explain that being loved by him feels unbearable sometimes?

That every touch lands somewhere deep inside you that still expects pain?

That he gives and gives and gives, asking for nothing in return, and yet some terrified part of you waits for the bill to come due?

How do you explain that it makes you feel broken, not knowing how to take something he gives so easily?

You part your lips, throat dry and aching.

Steve waits, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your wrists.

Patient.

Always so fucking patient with you.

“I just...” Your voice shakes. You stare at his mouth instead of his eyes, because it’s easier than being seen.

“...I just really love you.”

It rushes out so quickly.

And in a horrifyingly beautiful moment of clarity, you realize it’s the first time you’ve ever said it to anyone.

Ever.

Steve goes still. His brows soften, eyes drooping at the corners. His lips part soundlessly for a second.

“Oh,” he breathes.

You feel his hands twitch against yours, squeezing your fingers unconsciously.  

“I love you too,” he says, immediate and certain. “I... I love you so much it’s kind of insane.”

He watches you for a moment, thumb rubbing slow over your knuckles.

“Is that... is that why you're crying? 'Cause you love me a lot?”

A small, startled laugh breaks through your tears; it sounds so simple when he says it like that.   

It isn’t simple.

But maybe it also is.

So you nod, watching him visibly come back to himself, drawing out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping heavily like he’d been bracing too, just in a different way.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. C’mere.”

This time you don’t hesitate.

You fold into him, feeling his arm wrap securely around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

And what you always used to brace against—tonight, you sink into willingly.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair.

You let your eyes slip shut, burying your face in the crook of his neck, fingers crinkling his shirt as you hold on tight.

“I love you,” you whisper again, the words pressed softly against his skin.

Thank you, you mean.

Thank you for being gentle with me. Thank you for waiting. Thank you for loving me like it’s easy.

Thank you.

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

[cassiopeiia24]

just... 🫠🫠🫠.

[sheltiespenthouse]

State of Attraction

pairing: steve harrington x f!reader

summary: physical touch is your forte and steve is trying to pretend he doesn’t love it

tags: fluff, slightly bitchy!steve, no use of y/n, established relationship, drabble

🎧: I didn’t mean to turn you on - cherrelle

In the eyes of Steve Harrington, you could be a total pest. You knew because he told you… on multiple occasions.

He would say it in that exasperated Steve way, all huffy with a pout and his large hands resting on his hips. He would always tilt his head just so when he did it, causing that one strand of hair to fall out of its stupidly perfect style and onto his forehead like easy bait.

You quickly came up to your toes and ruffled the front of his hair with a suppressed grin, causing him to groan and swat at your hands.

“This! This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

You see, you were a pest because you couldn’t keep those hands off of him and it was driving him crazy.

If you were behind him coming up the stairs? You were playfully patting his rear until he reached the top.

“Come on Harrington, double time!” You’d singsong pleasantly. He always obliged, taking the steps two at a time with his head ducked to hide his smirk.

In the car he could guarantee that your fingers would find the nape of his neck and lightly scratch, sending shivers up his spine.

Then there was the bed…

Every time you both crawled into bed you would instantly press into his side and tuck your cold feet under his legs. Running as hot as he did, the feeling always made him suck in a sharp breath and tighten his arm around your waist.

“Shit- do you have to do that every time? You’re freezing.”

And you’d just move in closer, head on his chest and hand laid over his tummy. Immune to his attitude.

“Duh, you’re warm.”

To Steve’s credit, he really tried to pretend it irritated him further by muttering something like “yeah so are socks”— but then his legs would adjust to better cover your feet and suddenly any argument he had was invalidated.

Any chance you got you were touching him and he was not used to it at all. All of his previous relationships had involved him reaching out, touching, feeling, and giving comfort without asking for any in return no matter how desperately he needed it. Like he was supposed to— like a good boyfriend.

But then he met you… and man, are you seriously blowing his mind.

You who always soothes your hands over his sides when you meet him at the door after work, petting and cooing about how much you missed him. Always reaching out first, leaving his mind blank and his body leaning in for more since he doesn’t know how to ask.

“You know… I’m starting to think you only love me for my body…” He joked one day, voice low as your fingers curled into the belt loops of his jeans and tugged him closer. His hands were on your arms, stroking up and down your bare skin slowly while his eyes glanced toward your lips and silently begged for the ‘welcome home’ kiss you always gave him.

“Only? Oh no, just among other things…”

You replied sweetly before bridging the gap and giving him exactly what he wanted.

[emryses]

listen to me. this is my final message to you. when you are at your lowest a fictional guy will come to you and when that happens you must start putting them in situations. this is the meaning of life.

[spikyiwaizumi]

the issue with writing for yourself is that you will get sucked into rereading your own fic over and over and pretend it’s “editing,” but really you’re just reading because it’s exactly what you want to read. because you wrote it. for you.

[findingfeather]

and then you will be like why does this asshole never finish anything god

[levanswrites]

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: steve makes it home, but not all of him comes back at once. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, drugged and concussed steve, blood/injury, mentions of torture and trauma, brief non-descriptive vomiting, non-sexual undressing, fluff, post-s3 torture scene (4.4k) 𝐚/𝐧: i’ll be fine and then remember out of nowhere they tied up a 19-year-old, drugged him, and tortured him. anyway. im sorry abt this one. had to cope somehow.

.   *　✦　　.　 ˚　✦　 .

“Woah, babe... that... that mailbox just waved at me.”

You glance over at the perfectly normal, completely unmoving mailbox at the end of your driveway.

“Yeah?” you say carefully, digging through your pocket for the house key, trying to keep his arm balanced around your shoulders. “Did it say hi too, or just the wave?”

Steve considers this very seriously.

His forehead rests against your temple while he thinks, brows furrowed in sluggish concentration. His breath fans across your neck in warm, uneven puffs, tinged with something coppery that makes your stomach turn.

“…just waved,” he decides after a long pause.

“Wow,” you murmur. “Rude.”

He huffs out a soft laugh into your hair—and for a second, it sounds just like him. Like the Steve you know.

Then his knees buckle.

“Woah, hey—!” You catch him hard, the impact jarring up your spine as he sags into you. Your grip tightens around his middle, fingers digging into the damp cotton of his shirt.

“Stay with me,” you say, sharper now, breath coming quick as you fumble the key toward the lock. “Steve, just... just hang on, okay? We’re right here.”

He makes a vague sound in agreement, head lolling against your shoulder.   

“Mm... m’kay,” he mumbles.  

You finally jam the key in, shove the door open with your hip.

“I got you. Just watch the step—Steve, watch the—”  

His sneaker catches on the edge of the rug and he pitches forward, dead weight.

You lurch with him, heart jumping into your throat, barely managing to haul him back before he faceplants into the welcome mat. He makes a quiet, confused noise as you pull him upright.

The distance from the door to the couch is nothing. A straight line. Ten seconds, maybe.

It takes close to a full minute.

Steve’s face sinks right back into your neck as you half-drag him toward the living room. He keeps stopping every few steps, gaze snagging on random things like he’s discovering them for the first time: the standing lamp, the coat rack by the wall, the crooked photo of you two at the lake this summer.

“Babe,” he murmurs at one point, voice soft with wonder, pointing vaguely toward the end of the hallway. “There’s… wha... why’re you over there?”

“I’m right here, baby,” you say gently, tugging him forward again. “That’s a mirror.”

“...Oh.”

By the time you reach the couch, your arms are shaking.

Steve collapses into it with a breathy oof, body folding in on itself before going slack. His limbs fall wherever they land—one leg hanging off the cushions, head tipped back, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls.

For a moment he just sits there. Blinking slowly at the ceiling, breathing through his mouth.  

You drop into a crouch in front of him.  

“Steve?” you whisper.

“Mm.”    

The uniform makes it worse.

Bright navy and white stripes, grotesquely cheerful against the splatters of blood that have seeped into the collar, smeared across his side like someone tried to wipe their hands on him.

You start moving before you can think better of it.

Sliding your hands up his arms, across his shoulders, down to his thighs, his calves. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for, just checking for something hidden, something worse, eyes frantically cataloguing every faint scratch you can find on his exposed skin.

Steve makes a quiet noise in his throat when you touch him. Not quite pained—more like confusion, like the sensation is arriving late.

His hand lifts, slow and uncoordinated, missing yours the first time. He tries again, fumbling clumsily until it lands over your fingers.

The second he finds you, he holds on. Threads his fingers between yours, his grip weak but insistent when he squeezes.

You’re about to squeeze back when your eyes catch on something else.

His wrists.

Deep impressions ring both of them, angry red marks already bruising dark at the edges. The skin is rubbed raw, split and abraded in places where he must’ve fought against whatever they used to hold him down.

I don’t know, they took him—woah, dingus look at that! Oh my god, that’s amaazing... huh? Oh, right, right, um... I think they like... took him to another room? But... I don’t know what they did to him.  

You swallow hard against the rising bile, brushing your thumb lightly over one of the marks.

Steve doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Steve, baby,” you say quietly, still inspecting his wrists. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Nothing.

“Steve?”

Your head snaps up, panic cutting sharp through your chest.

He’s looking at you.

Staring, actually—eyes locked onto your face with a strange, heavy focus that doesn’t quite stick, like he’s trying to see you through water, like every second you’re slipping just out of reach.

His hair hangs in damp strands over his face, clinging to his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

“Hey,” you whisper, lifting your free hand to push his hair back.

Your fingers barely graze his skin before he flinches.

And you finally see it.

Up close, it’s so much worse than it looked under the neon glare of the Starcourt parking lot.

Steve’s eye is nearly swollen shut.

The lid is puffed up and dark, deep purples and sickly reds bleeding into his cheekbone. His nose is streaked with dried blood, rust-colored trails cracking against his skin. His lower lip is split wide open, a jagged cut that hasn’t fully sealed.  

You watch, horrified, as he presses his tongue against it, absentmindedly pressing the tip of it against the inside of his cheek. It slides beneath the swollen flesh, prodding the ragged edge.  

“No, baby, don’t… don’t do that,” you murmur quickly, your hand moving on instinct to catch his chin.

The moment your fingers touch him, he freezes completely. His body relaxes, almost unnervingly pliant, and his expression goes slack.

Your hand trembles when you pull it back.

You don’t let yourself think about happened in that room.

All you have are fragments. Dustin Henderson’s explanation outside of Starcourt had been rushed and breathless, a mess of words that mostly made no sense to you—Russians, secret codes, an underground government lab.

Torture. 

It hadn’t sounded real then.

It does now.

The evidence is sitting right in front of you, breathing unevenly on your couch.

Your gaze drops back to his wrists.

“Hey, Stevie?” you ask, voice thin. “Do you know where you are?”

“Mm?”   

“Where are you right now?”

He frowns slowly. His eyes stay on you for another long second, then drift, sliding across the room in a dazed, unfocused sweep.

Whatever drugs they forced into him—truth serum, Dustin had said—it’s still in his system.

You can see it in his pupils—so dilated that the hazel in his eyes is barely visible, just a thin ring of gold swallowed by glossy black. The whites are bloodshot, veins spidering outward.

“...your house,” he murmurs quietly.

Your lungs finally let go of the breath you’ve been holding.

“Okay. Good. That’s good.” You swallow, throat dry. “And what day is it?”

That one takes longer.

You see it, the delay. His lips parting, eyes losing you again as they drift somewhere over your shoulder.

“Mmm… don’t know.”

Your chest tightens.

“Can you try? Just take a guess?”

He squints. Looks down at the coffee table, following the swirls in the wood grain.

“...Wednesday?”

It’s Monday.

“Okay,” you nod immediately, trying to keep your voice from pitching higher. “That’s okay. Um... what about the month?”

He blinks slowly.

“Steve?”

“...July.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, squeezing his hand, clutching to the answer like a lifeline. “Yeah, that’s right. That's good. And tell me what year?”

Something in him changes at that, a sudden restless energy cutting through the drugged haze. 

His nose scrunches, shoulders twitching uncomfortably against the couch. He drops his gaze down to his hands, to where his fingers are still tangled with yours.

“I don’t…” His voice fades, head tilting in a slow, helpless shake. “…sorry.”

Your grip tightens instantly, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“No, it’s okay. You’re okay, baby. You’re okay.”

You say it like it’s true.

Inside, everything is screaming.

You have no idea what you’re doing.

Nothing but half-remembered warnings from health class, scenes from movies, TV shows, something about concussions and checking someone's pupils, not letting them sleep.

But what if this is something worse?

What if there’s something happening inside his head right now—bleeding, swelling—and you’re just sitting here, holding his hand?

You tried to take him to the hospital. God, you tried.  

He could barely keep his eyes open in the car, forehead knocking softly against the window every time the road curved, but whenever you said the word hospital, he shook his head.

Stubborn as always, even half-conscious.

“Steve—"

“No.”

“Steve, you need—"

“No... no hoss...pital.”

And after what you learned tonight—after everything about Russians and government labs under small-town malls—you understood him enough to hesitate.

But now it’s just you.

And the quiet, suffocating thought that you’re not enough.

What if you miss something?

What if he gets worse and you can’t help him?

What if— 

A sharp, sudden huff cuts through your spiraling thoughts.

Your head jerks up just in time to see him fold forward, arms lifting clumsily, not quite making it.

You catch him immediately.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Your hands slide up to his shoulders, steadying him before he can pitch all the way down. “You okay? You feel sick again?”

Steve shakes his head.

Looks so distraught, all of a sudden.

The emotion sits strangely on his face, tangled up with the swelling and the fuzzy stupor still dulling his expression. 

He drags his tongue across his split lip, swallows hard.

“Can you... can you hug me?”

He’s nineteen.

You forget that sometimes.

He turned nineteen less than two weeks ago.

You remember the pancakes you made that morning—burnt on one side, stacked too high with a slow-motion avalanche of whipped cream. The surprise party at the lake, Dustin nearly dropping the cake twice before it made it to the table.

The way Steve groaned when you made him close his eyes and make a wish.

Babe, you know I’m way too old for this, right?

Still, he blew out every last candle. Tore open every gift, read every letter. 

And later that night, when it was just the two of you tangled under sheets and summer heat, he told you something you never forgot.   

“Mm… ten years, maybe?”

“What?”

“Yeah, I mean... my parents traveled a lot over the summer, so. Just stopped having ‘em, I guess.”

Stopped celebrating his birthday, he meant.

Your arms are around him before the memory can finish forming.

You pull him in carefully, one hand cradling the back of his head, angling him so he's not putting pressure on his bruised eye.

He crumples into you with a quiet sigh, forehead bumping against your collarbone before he buries his face in the curve of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, damp where it catches.

For a minute, you just hold him.

Feeling the frantic, unrelenting thud of his heart against your ribs, so fast it makes your own chest ache. You tighten your arms around him, pressing him closer, like you can slow it down that way.  

His voice comes after a long silence, words muffled and heavy.

“…they kept... kept asking questions.”

Your fingers still in his hair, then move again, smoothing back damp strands from his forehead.

“Yeah?”

He nods, dragging his bruised cheek across your shoulder. 

“Same... same ones. Over and over. Didn’t matter what we said. Just... again, again.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, a quiet, nauseating realization washing through you. Maybe your incessant questioning—Where are you? What day is it?— just dragged him right back there.

You feel him shiver into your shoulder, a weak laugh ghosting against your collarbone.

“Hey... you know wha... you know what was weird?”

“What?”

His fingers move against your back, tracing shapes you can’t see.

“They said we were gonna die down there.”

Your throat goes tight.

“And I…” he huffs, another brittle laugh shaking through him. “I just like... kept talking, you know? So they’d look at me ‘n not... not Robin. Saying whatever. Dumb stuff. I work at Scoops! Ice cream... Scoops... Scoops Ahoy.”

He sniffs, tilting his face into your neck. You feel his brows furrow against your skin.

“They got really pissed. Said if we didn’t answer, that was it. Nobody’d find us. Nobody’d even… know we were there.”

He sighs, his weight sinking heavier into you.

“I kept thinking about you,” he whispers.

Your hand stills in his hair.  

“I kept thinking… if I didn’t come back, you’d—” He falters, jaw tightening where it presses into you. “You’d notice. Right?”

The inside of your cheek stings where you bite down. You nod, pressing your lips into his hair so he won’t hear the tremor in your voice.

“Of course I’d notice, Steve,” you whisper.   

He nods, swallowing hard enough you feel it against your collarbone.

“I didn’t... didn’t tell you,” he mumbles, words muffled into the curve of your neck.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t tell you,” he repeats.

A cold thread slips down your spine.

“Tell me what, Stevie?” you murmur, pulling back slightly, trying to see his face.

You feel it before you understand it.

The shift.

The warmth you were holding stiffens under your arms. Muscles locking up all at once, shoulders going rigid.

“Steve?”

It goes from nought to ninety in less than a breath.

One moment he’s heavy, pliant in your arms; the next, his whole body convulses. Tremors wrack him violently, shoving against your chest, jostling you both. Each wave builds, stronger than the last.

“Hey, hey, it’s—it’s okay—” You rush, voice thinning with panic as your hands scramble along his back, trying to grip him, steady him. “I’ve got you, you’re okay—"

His arms clamp around you like steel, brittle fingers digging into your back. His chest jerks with shallow gasps, each inhale too quick to carry air.

“I d-didn’t tell you,” he chokes out, words splintering between breaths. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

“Steve, baby, it’s okay,” you whisper, sweeping your hand slow and firm along his back, even as your own chest feels like it’s caving in. “Hey, hey, just breathe for me, okay? You’re home, you’re safe.”

He shakes his head, breath hitching against your shoulder.

“No... no, I—” His voice catches in his throat, scraped raw. “I never said it. I never... I never told you. We never...”   

And in the long, ragged, suffocating pause that arrives after, you hear what he’s been trying to say.

What he means.

Two months.

That’s all it’s been.

Barely enough time to learn the shape of each other’s lives, and yet... it’s never felt that way. 

It’s always felt older.

Like you didn’t meet him so much as find him again. Orbiting the same point for years, lifetimes, just waiting to collide.

You used to joke about it. Past lives, red strings. Soulmates, if you were feeling dramatic.

And in those two months—in all the ways you’ve come to learn him—this boy who loves loudly without knowing it, who gives pieces of himself away in quiet, constant gestures, who shows up, who stays, who cares harder than anyone else ever has—

After two months of learning what it means to be adored by someone like him—

There was always something buried just under the surface, left unsaid.

They’ve lived inside you for weeks now. You carried it with you everywhere, pressed close like a second heartbeat.  

Three words you’ve never said out loud.

“I didn’t say it,” he whispers, hoarse, broken. “I didn’t.”

And whatever he’d been holding onto all night—whatever thin, fraying thread kept him upright for Robin, for the kids, through the mall, the parking lot, the drive home, brushing off every what happened? are you okay?—

It finally gives.

Slips clean through his fingers like sand underwater. Gone all at once, nothing left to brace against.  

“I was just... I was so scared.”

You fold him into your chest, arms pressing him closer as a tear slides down your cheek and catches in the damp strands of his hair.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know, baby. I know.”

It isn’t true.

You don’t know.

You weren’t there.

Didn’t see the way they looked at him, didn’t hear their threats.

Didn’t feel what he felt, tied to that chair, not knowing if the next second was going to be the one that ended everything.

Not knowing if nineteen was it.

You don’t know.

But what else can you say?

...  

It’s strange, how life keeps moving after a moment like that.

How something so monumental can implode in your chest while the rest of the world spins on, indifferent.

Your room looks the same—the half-made bed, his jacket draped over your chair from the last time he was here—but nothing feels the same. Your hands tremble, and you flex your fingers, pressing your nails into your palm to ground yourself before you pull open the drawer. You let your fingers trail over the familiar textures of his shirts, his sweatpants—pieces of him he leaves behind on purpose. They still smell like him, even after washing.

You take a shaky breath and turn back.

He doesn’t argue when you kneel in front of him.

Just watches you, sat quietly on the edge of the bed, legs parted to make space as your fingers start loosening the laces of his sneakers. 

You ease them off one at a time, then move to his socks, brushing your thumbs over the warm, soft skin of his ankles. Lingering there, trying to imprint the memory of a touch that doesn’t involve pain.

You glance up at him, hands sliding over to his waistband.

“Gonna get these off, okay?”

He nods, planting his palms into the mattress so he can lift his hips, fingers splayed to brace himself. Your chest tightens at the way his face pinches—just for a second, there and gone, like he’s trying not to let you see. 

You ease his shorts down over his thighs, then his briefs.  

His shirt is the last thing to come off.

He hesitates a little when you reach for the hem, and the moment you lift the fabric, you understand why.

Even in the dim light, there’s no hiding it.

Dark bruises bloom across his sides, wrapping around his stomach. There’s one just under his ribs that’s so deep it’s nearly black at the center, the skin tight and swollen in a way that turns your gut ice-cold.

That's not from a fist.

For a heartbeat, you see him there.   

Head slumped forward, taking blow after blow while he tries to breathe through the blood filling his mouth. You force it down, swallowing the rush of panic before it can break free.

Steve follows your gaze, blinking down at himself.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Yeah, that’s uh… looks worse than it is.”

His speech is clearer now. No longer thick or slurred like it was before. Up close, you see that the glassiness in his eyes has started to lift too, his pupils returning to normal.

But what’s left behind isn’t easy.

His brows are pulled tight, expression pinched from bracing against the pressure building in his skull. He’s clenching and unclenching his jaw to fight off the waves of nausea, worsening with each passing second of clarity. 

You know that he’s lying—that it doesn’t look worse than it is—but you don’t argue.

Instead, you reach for his hands, gently lifting his arms, pulling his shirt over his head. You discard the bloodied uniform to the floor before helping him into a fresh shirt, sliding it over his bruised frame with care.

You reach for his sweats next, guiding him one leg at a time, your hand braced at his shin to keep him steady as you draw the fabric up over his thighs.

You’re adjusting the waistband over his hips when he suddenly goes still.

“You okay?”

He stiffens, jaw working. “Mm—I need the—”  

You drag the trash can over just in time.

He folds forward with a weak gag, body curling in on itself as far as his ribs will allow.

There’s not much left in his stomach. The retching is brief, mostly dry, but it still wrings him out. Leaves him shaking, breath catching in uneven pulls.

You press your hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing slow, firm circles until it passes, until he leans back with a shallow breath.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, lips parted, face gone pale under all the bruising.

You shake your head, reaching for the warm washcloth you’d set aside earlier.

"It's okay. Don't apologize."

You press the cloth gently to his lips, slow, careful strokes as you wipe the corner of his mouth, the faint smear of blood under his nose, along the line of his jaw and down the column of his neck. It comes back faintly pink each time.

Your thumb follows after, catching where the cloth missed.

Then you pause at his mouth.

The cut on his bottom lip is so deep, the edges of it raw, pulled tight every time he speaks. You tilt his chin slightly, angling his face toward the light.

You’re still frowning at it, wondering whether you should clean it now or let him rest, when he says it.

And it’s not what you thought it would feel like, the first time.

It’s supposed to feel bigger than this, isn’t it? Fireworks in the chest, thunder in the ribs. Something that cracks the world open a little—shake the ground under your feet and pull the stars a little close so they can witness it too.   

Instead, it happens in your bedroom at two in the morning, the coppery smell of dried blood clinging to your fingers, sticky under your nails, catching at the back of your throat

“I love you.”

His voice is low, scraped hoarse with exhaustion, yet steady in a way it hasn’t been all night.

It’s almost painful, how much rushes up all at once.

All the times you didn’t say it.

All the almosts. 

All the places it lived instead.

In the center console of his car, watching him belt out the wrong lyrics at the top of his lungs, just to catch your laugh from the passenger seat.

In the sticky vinyl booth of that diner off the highway, knees knocking under the table while you plucked the cherries off his milkshake and debated the dumbest lines from the movie you just watched.

In the space between your pillows, lying on your sides in the dark, sharing half-formed plans and distant, candy-colored versions of the future—nothing guaranteed except for the easy assumption that you’d share it with one another.

It was always there.

Perched on the tip of your tongue, waiting—in the quiet beat after a joke, a kiss.

In all the moments where you’d look at him and just know.

Know with a certainty so sharp it scared you sometimes.

That this boy—this ridiculous, funny, soft-hearted, endlessly giving boy—was it.

You’d always told yourself there was time.

Tomorrow. Next week.

Later.  

Some other night with candlelight and rose petals, when it made sense, when it could be perfect, worthy of the way it feels to love and be loved by him.  

But maybe the truth of it lives here, like this.

Stripped bare, intimate in a way no grand declaration ever could be.

“I…” Your voice catches, and you swallow before trying again. “I love you too.”

Your vision fills with a sudden haze, and you blink quickly, forcing yourself to look away.  

Steve’s eyes droop at that, brows furrowing softly as he shuffles closer.

“Baby… c’mon, don’t…” He raises his hand, brushing his thumb under your eye to catch the second tear before it falls. He lingers there, cradling your cheek in the warmth of his palm. “Don’t cry. Please?”

“I’m not, I’m not,” you sniff, half-laughing, hastily wiping at your face with the back of your hand.

He studies you a long moment, blinking unevenly, before the faintest smile curls his lips. “Does my face look that bad?”

A startled laugh slips past you. You shake your head, pressing a weak palm against his shoulder. “You’re such an idiot.”

His grin softens into a gentle, half-lidded smile, eyes warm and heavy as he lets his gaze settle on you.  

“’M gonna say it every day,” he murmurs quietly.  

Your chest aches at the promise.

You wish he didn’t have to think about it like that.

That he didn’t have to worry. That he didn’t have to carry the weight of those three words on his chest while tied to that chair—wrists raw, blood in his mouth and fluorescent lights burning into his skull—wondering if he’d ever get to say them aloud.

That the last thing on his mind wasn’t the absence of something so small.

Something you already knew.

You’ve always known.

“Steve…” you whisper.

“I know,” he whispers back, nodding slowly, eyes thick with exhaustion but bright with that familiar resolve. “I know you know. I just…” He rubs his thumb gently across your cheek. “I’m still gonna say it.”

You watch him for a moment, taking in the quiet conviction in his gaze, the stubborn tilt of his head. Stubborn in the ways that matter most—clinging to small, sacred truths even after staring death in the face.

You nod, because that’s who he is.

And because you’ll listen every time like it’s the first.

“Okay,” you whisper.

You lean in carefully, tilting your head to avoid the split in his lip, and press a soft, lingering kiss to the unbroken corner of his mouth.

“I love you too.”

[djoemygod]

Summer Sleepovers

cross posted on AO3

It is totally normal for best friends to share a bed when one of them has a nightmare right?

Tags: sharing a bed, childhood friends, denial of feelings, pre-stranger things 3

word count: 1.6K

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steve and you had not always been friends. While you are currently friends and coworkers at Scoops Ahoy, there was a time when you did not speak to each other.

Your mothers were best friends in high school, and they lived out their dream of raising children together. Well, “raising” was a bit of a stretch. Growing up as neighbors allowed Steve and you to become best friends quickly.

Unfortunately for their children, both parents thought that because you had someone to play with, you did not need supervision. Absent parents are something that you both understand deeply.

For the longest time, you both only had each other. Two peas in a pod, determined to not be like your parents.

Things changed when you entered middle school. More expectations were put on you to be the perfect daughter. To learn how to be a woman and a wife, even though you were only 11.

Steve had the opposite. He was given more freedom and subsequently was left alone more than ever.

Your pea pod began to split. The responsibility to uphold the family’s reputation and portray the idea of a perfect family were placed on you.

While you tried to follow every rule to appease your parents, Steve took a different approach. He learned that he could get his parents’ and other adults’ attention by acting out.

The death of your friendship was when he became friends with Tommy and Carol in 7th grade. The pair were “not the kind of people we want you to associate with” according to your parents.

‘King Steve’ was someone you despised. And in high school you both held the assumption that they thought they were better than the others.

It is now the summer of ’85, and you two are friends again. The pea pod has been reformed after dealing with Demogorgons, Demodogs, and The Upside Down.

Unable to please either of your parents, you are both now stuck working at Starcourt Mall. It opened right at the end of your senior year, and you both needed jobs. Despite scooping ice cream all day, you both enjoyed working together.

Steve drives you to and from work on the days you have scheduled together. Time seems to pass more quickly when you share a shift.

And best of all, you made a new friend who was not charmed by the ‘King Steve’ persona that had originally driven you away from him.

Robin is a year younger than you and Steve, but that does not stop her from making fun of him endlessly. To his credit, Steve takes it like a champ, but he often complains to you about how ruthless she is during their shifts together.

You had been informed about the important data Robin is collecting about his failed attempts at wooing women. The satisfaction you feel when you see an additional line on the ‘you suck’ side of the whiteboard is always pushed down.

Unfortunately, you are not immune from Robin’s observant and teasing nature. She often makes you question things about your friendship with Steve, pointing out things that normal friends do not do for each other.

You do a good job at keeping yourself in denial about most things. Things are special between you and Steve, childhood friends who have bonded about the traumas of fighting monsters to keep kids safe.

You are just glad Robin has not figured out that you slip into the other’s window late at night when either one of you can not sleep.

It happens to be one of those nights. Steve called you this time. It is a little past 1 am when he slips into your room through the window, managing to trip over the windowsill. He catches himself before he tumbles to the floor.

“My parents aren’t home this week. You could have come through the front door,” you tell him as you pull the covers back for him.

Once his shoes are off, he practically falls into your bed. His unofficial side of the bed welcomes him as Steve makes himself comfortable. The sheets rustle as his arms reach out to wrap around you. Pulling you into his chest. The lack of words from him is slightly concerning.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Your voice is soft as your arms move to wrap around him. He is wearing one of his old gym shirts from high school, the fabric soft from age.

He lets out a sigh and burrows his face into your hair. Steve’s voice is quiet and he mumbles against your head, “We were back in the tunnels, after we got the kids out, you know?” His arms tighten around you. “The dogs didn’t run past us though…” his voice fades out.

This is a common nightmare that Steve and you share. The terror that you felt when the Demodogs rushed towards Steve and you, is not something that is easily forgotten. Sometimes you are the one who has it, but it seems tonight is his turn.

Keeping your voice warm you comfort Steve in the same way that he does for you, “I’m here.” He nuzzles his nose deeper into your hair.

“But you weren’t. You were pulled from my arms,” his voice is quieter than before. Shifting your head so that you can look up at him, you see that his eyes are red. Before you even realize it, your hand moves to caress the side of his face.

Steve leans into your touch. Your thumb runs gently along his cheekbone, “I’m here now. I am here and in your arms.” His breath hitches, and you continue, “I promised you I will always be here. I’m not ever gonna leave you.”

It was a pinky promise made a long time ago, when you were both still young kids. After Steve’s parents had left alone for the first time. He was distraught. He felt forgotten and unwanted. Steve did not understand why his parents were going on vacation without him. You promised that you would never do that to him. He made you pinky swear.

Steve stares at your face, memorizing your features. His gaze shifts all around your face as he soaks in your promise. He nods his head, “I know. Never gonna leave you either.”

The T-shirt you’ve worn to bed crumples as his hands fist the back of it, unwilling to let you go. “Good,” a smile creeps onto your face.

The hand on his cheek moves down to his chest, where you can feel the steady thump of his heart. If it picks up slightly, you do not mention it. Your eyes flick down to his chest before going back up to his exhausted expression.

His hazel eyes stay locked on your face. To avoid his gaze, you move to be under his chin again. Your hand rests on one side of his chest while your head rests on the other.

Both of your breaths even out as you settle against one another. Silence stretches between you, only being filled by the AC clicking on. Before long, you find your eyes drooping as the sound of Steve’s heartbeat lulls you back to sleep.

“Don’t know what I would do without you,” he mumbles so quietly you almost miss it. Steve must have thought you had fallen asleep. You let his words comfort you as you fall asleep against him.

The morning light wakes you. It spills from your window and past your curtains that you and Steve forgot to close after he came in.

It is not uncommon to wake up hot during summer in Indiana, but you quickly realize that it is not just the season that is causing your warmth.

You are still wrapped in Steve’s arms like you were last night, but it seems that you have become even more tangled than you originally were. Your face is now tucked against his neck, lips nearly brushing his skin.

His palms have slipped under your shirt and rest on your lower back and between your shoulder blades.

Both of your legs are intertwined, and his thigh rests solidly between your legs.

Before you can really react, Steve shifts. His arms tighten, pulling you even more flush against him. Sleep made his voice gravelly, “Good morning.”

As he stretches, he easily peels himself from you. You finally manage to voice your own grumbling, “morning,” to him. Did he not realize how close you had been? Or was he not affected by it in the same way you desperately pretend you are not.

Heat is present on your cheeks as he continues to lazily stretch. At least he seems more rested than he was last night.

Steve moves further away from you as he sits up in your bed. The hair on his head sticks in all directions, a sight very few are privy to.

He scrubs the sleep from his face before attempting to tame his hair. “I’m gonna go shower. Then I’ll come back over to pick you up for work, okay?” he does not really ask, but he still lilts his words in a way that makes you feel like you have a choice.

Unable to give him a verbal response, your head nods in conformation. The smile on his face practically blinds you when he turns towards you. As if it is his mission to completely stun you this morning, he leans down and presses a kiss on your temple. Steve sits back up to stand from bed.

“Don’t take too long getting ready, might just leave you,” a smirk dominates his expression. He would not actually leave you. He has always waited for you.

You just nod your head again, as you are still incapable of speech. The scent of Steve makes your brain feel fuzzy. Your body already misses the warmth that he was providing.

Steve shoots you a wink before he climbs out of your window, seemingly having forgotten that he could go through the front door. You ignore the way your heart is pounding.

You guys are just friends… right?

[sugartalk-ing]

"are you trying to turn me on?" with steve harrington plssssss

⋆˚꩜｡dean’s celebration sleepover⋆˚꩜｡

"jesus," steve mumbles, catching himself on the shelf he puts his keys on to stop him from falling. he looks down at whatever he tripped over, seeing one of your shoes discarded haphazardly near his entryway. "babe?"

he frowns when he doesn't hear you call a response out to him. he peeks his head into the living room, then the kitchen.

"babe?" he tries again. he still doesn't get a response but, as he steps closer toward his bedroom, he hears the sound of his shower running. he can't help the smile on his face and the warmth that spreads in his chest as he thinks of you using the spare key he gave you and welcoming yourself to anything in his apartment.

he's in the middle of undressing when you come out of the shower, hair pinned up and donning one of his shirts, a pair of his boxers and a pair of his socks. before you can greet him, you're interrupted by his loud groan.

"are you trying to turn me on?"

"please," you scoff, walking further into his room and wrapping your arms around his neck, burrowing your face there.

"you know what it does to me to see you in my clothes." he leans down slightly to wrap his arms around your waist and bury his face in your neck, too. he lets out another groan when he inhales you. "and you used to coconut body wash."

"put some in the bathroom to keep in stock for when i stay over. hope you don't mind." you squeal and push to get away from him when his hand lightly swats your ass, but he's quick to pull you back against him.

"i mind that you stocked it yourself. we'll go shopping this weekend for you to keep some stuff here," he bites his tongue to stop himself from just suggesting you move in; you two have only been dating for just shy of six months, and he doesn't want to scare you off by moving too fast, even though he wants to hop into a freight train with you and speed track toward a white dress and an altar. he'll settle for clearing some space in his closet for you in the meantime.

"deal," you sigh out, hiking your leg up in an attempt to climb him. he takes the signal and grips your thigh, hoisting you up and wrapping you around his waist before walking over to his bed and depositing you both on his bed, him on top of you.

"how was your day?" he mumbles in your neck, dropping a couple of kisses there.

"long. glad i'm home," you say without thinking, tightening your arms around him. home.

home. home. home.

"glad you're home, too," he says, pulling back enough to give you a proper kiss, sighing against your mouth when you kiss him back.

maybe he will bring up you moving in this weekend; seems like you're both on the same freight train.

[fru1t4fr0gs]

Can’t Lose You

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: After a foolish act of bravery nearly gets you killed, you and Steve have the argument of a lifetime. Unfortunately, (or maybe fortunately) your boyfriend happens to be ridiculously hot when he’s angry, and the line between fury and passion has a tendency to stretch very thin when it comes to the two of you.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI; Smut!, Unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, friends), Angry sex, My hand slipped and Steve is dominant as fuck, Dirty talk, Please let me know if I forgot anything!!

Author's Note: We all knew this day would come, and now it’s finally here. In honor of Steve Harrington’s Canonically Huge Dick, I present to you my first full-on smut drabble. Special thanks to @flowersforbucky for proofreading! And as usual, please let me know what you think! If you guys like this, there’s a pretty big chance you can expect more like it in the future!!

-

Steve Harrington, your boyfriend and the absolute love of your life, drives you fucking crazy.

He’s overprotective, bossy, always ready with a sarcastic comment, and so fucking cocky sometimes that you want to wring his gorgeous neck.

Perhaps luckily for both of you, you drive him crazy right back.

You’ve spent the last half hour or so shouting at each other. In his car. In his front yard. Through the halls of his empty house. And now in his bedroom, where he’s running a frustrated hand through his hair and pacing back and forth and still just as absolutely furious with you as he was since the fight began.

“What’s the point of a plan if you’re never going to stick to it?! What the fuck did you think was going to-“

“I didn’t think! I didn’t need to think! If I hadn’t gone in there, those fucking monsters would have-“

“They would have ripped you apart if I hadn’t gotten there in time!”

“But they didn’t.”

“But they would have!”

You swear you mean to leave. You mean to turn on your heel and storm out, to shake off the anger and stomp home and wait for the adrenaline and fury and…everything else to wear off on its own.

But Steve catches your wrist, and spins you back toward him, and his face is flushed and his jaw is clenched and his eyes are on fire and…well, he must be having a similar thought process about your current state, because suddenly his mouth is crushed to yours and his hands are moving up to tangle in your hair with a ferocity that steals the breath from your lungs. He backs you into the door of his bedroom, slamming you against it and caging you in with his body so hard that the impact might hurt if it weren’t for his hand catching the back of your head to shield you from the blow.

“You drive me insane.” He growls, low, as his furious hands tug your shirt over your head like the garment is the most offensive thing he’s ever seen. “Never fucking listen. Always talking back.”

“Take this off.” You tug at his own shirt, breathless and growing increasingly more desperate with each layer of clothing remaining between you.

“And bossy.” But he pulls his shirt over his head, ducking back down to bite at your neck hard enough to make your knees buckle.

“Oh, I’m the bossy one now-“ he cuts you off with another bite, hands sliding over your waist as he presses you tighter against the door until there doesn’t seem to be a millimeter of space left between you.

“Do you have any idea what could have happened if I hadn’t been there in time?” His words are dangerously quiet against your jaw, and you think he might be shaking. You pull back, catching his lips with your own as you begin to fumble with his belt. He responds faster than the crack of a whip, snatching your wrists with one hand and pinning them to the wall above your head without once breaking the kiss.

“Never sticking to the fucking plan.” He continues between demanding kisses, the fingers of his free hand working expertly at the button of your jeans. “Never. Fucking. Listen.”

“We didn’t have time to- oh God.” Your defense is cut off with a gasp as his hand dives beneath your waistband, and you hear his breath catch as his skilled fingers find just how desperate you are for him.

“Fuck-“ for just a moment, his composure breaks. You whimper, the sound leaving you before you can remember that you’re trying to sass him, and he crushes his lips to yours again as he begins to work you like a well-loved instrument. Despite his words, and the gravel still lacing his tone, his movements aren’t rough. He holds you still against the wall, completely in control, but his kiss is loving and his fingers are deft as they move in the exact way he knows will make you fall apart faster than you can think.

“Almost lost you, because you can’t stop throwing yourself into danger.” He murmurs, crooking his finger and adding a second in a single smooth movement that makes your toes curl.

“We didn’t have…t-time, fuck. Steve.”

“Still arguing with me.” He almost grumbles, but his voice is so raw and his fingers are speeding up inside of you and his thumb is working in small circles and you’re having trouble remembering to be pissy with him. That’s probably his fucking intention, but you definitely can’t complain right now. “You almost die, and two seconds later you’re arguing with me.” He pulls back, just far enough to let his nose bump against yours, eyes locked on your face like he’s trying to memorize every expression that crosses it.

He’s losing his grip on his anger, too. You can see the fury in his eyes replace itself with something like reverence as they look into yours, as he crooks his fingers again and swallows your gasp of helpless pleasure like it’s a drug. “Fuck, you’re beautiful. Hold onto me.”

He releases your wrists, and pulls his fingers back so quickly that you nearly sob from the sudden loss. Your arms move to lock around his broad shoulders before you can think, and his hands come down to the backs of your thighs so he can lift you against the wall and kiss you so hard and rough that you forget how to breathe right. His hips rock against yours, and when your nails dig into the warm skin of his back he groans low enough for the sound to vibrate through you.

“Want you.” You murmur, and he moans again as he pulls you back from the door and lowers you onto the bed, still so careful despite his anger.

Once again, your hands move down to tug at his belt, desperate for more of him, and once again, he bats them away.

“Not yet.” He murmurs into the hollow of your throat, trailing searing kisses over your collarbone as he crawls lower. Lower. You whine, arching your back in frustration as your fingers curl against his shoulders in a stubborn attempt to pull him back to you.

“Steve, just-“

He interrupts you with a sharp bite to your hip, hands already working to pull you out of your jeans.

“Do you really think,” his voice is even lower now, dark eyes still burning as he turns them up to you, “that after the shit you pulled tonight, you get to tell me how to fuck you?”

You do your best to glare, even as his words send molten heat through your already burning bloodstream. You can’t find it in yourself to answer, and his satisfied hum only makes you burn hotter. Cocky bastard.

“That’s what I thought.” He murmurs, thumbs hooking in the waistband of your underwear and pulling them down as you squirm with a desperation that makes frustration ignite in your core all over again.

He lifts your knee over his shoulder, ducking back down to drag his blunt teeth along the inside of your thigh, and you try so, so hard not to give in. To stay mad at him. To find the words to tell him that he was being overprotective and you had everything under control and just because you’re about to lose your mind with lust and need doesn’t mean you’re done yelling at him.

And then his mouth is on you, hot and skilled and overwhelming, and anything you might have said is cut off by a near-sob of pleasure.

“That’s it.” He murmurs, the words vibrating through you as your fingers tangle helplessly in his hair. “Lemme hear you.”

The way Steve Harrington can take you apart with his mouth should be studied by science. The way you see stars as he writes sonnets into your body with his tongue, the way his fingers join the machinations of his mouth to make you cry out so loudly you’re worried you might wake half the fucking neighborhood. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, and his hand moves up to push your knee back down onto the bed, moaning into you like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are and it’s so fucking hot you might die.

Your high approaches like a fucking freight train, barreling towards you almost alarmingly fast. It’s overwhelming to the point of near-pain, but Steve doesn’t stop. Not for a second. His hand leaves your thigh, sliding up your stomach and your ribs until you’re almost mindlessly clawing at the muscled bicep before you, desperate to anchor yourself to anything solid.

His hand catches your fingers instead, threading them through his own, and when you look down, his eyes are dark and starved and possessive and locked right the fuck onto yours, and you fall over the edge with a scream of his name.

When you come to, still struggling to catch your breath, it’s to your boyfriend climbing up your body like a panther poising to attack, lips brushing over any exposed skin he can reach like he’s trying to inhale you into his very lungs.

“So good. You did so good for me…” he murmurs as he reaches the hollow of your throat, and you can only raise a hand to comb your fingers weakly through his hair. Your grip tightens, however, when you feel his own fingers return to where they were aiding his tongue moments ago, making you gasp and squirm beneath him, still oversensitive.

“S-Steve.” You start, only to be cut off by another sharp gasp as he slips two digits inside of you without so much as a warning.

“Shoulda tied you to the fuckin’ headboard.” He growls, breath warm against the shell of your ear. The words make you arch beneath him, and it takes a lot more focus than you would like to admit for you to smirk.

“Still mad, huh?”

He catches the lobe of your ear between his teeth, and speeds up the movement of his hand until you’re writhing.

And once again, his fingers move and curl inside of you, relentlessly massaging your sweet spot until you’re shaking beneath him.

He kisses you, slow and hungry and deep, and whispers soft praise against your lips until he finally builds you slowly back up to the precipice. Works you open until you’re moaning and gasping shamelessly into his mouth.

Just as you’re about to combust, clinging to him like a lifeline, he pulls back.

“No no no-“ you gasp, mindlessly, and almost reach down between you before his hand flies up to catch yours, pressing it back against the sheets by your head.

“Shhh.” He coos, nuzzling into your cheek with a cocky smirk. “Not so quick to talk back now, are ya?”

“Asshole.” You wish you meant it. He laughs, kissing your cheek, and finally reaches down to tug his jeans over his hips.

He’s big. Almost too big. Even with all of the preparation, all of the time he took to work you open for him, the stretch makes you whimper as he pushes in, slow and careful and shaking with restraint.

“You can take it, baby.” He half-whispers, more than a little breathless himself, and squeezes your hand a little tighter as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. “I’ve got you. My girl. So fucking tight. Made for me, yeah? You were fucking made for me…”

He kisses you again, groaning as he sinks all the way into you, and begins to move in a slow, steady rhythm. Like he’s savoring every thrust. Like he’s taking his sweet time making sure each movement hits the deepest, warmest parts of you.

“S-Steve.” His name leaves your lips in a desperate gasp, and the fingers of the hand not holding your own tighten behind your knee as he pulls it up a little higher around his hip.

“What is it, baby?” He asks, teasing and soft as you writhe beneath him. His lips glide over the line of your jaw, and his next thrust is just a little rougher. A little more intense. It sends a shot of pleasure through you, but it’s not enough. Not nearly. You whimper, the fingers of your free hand digging deep into his bicep as you try to match his movements with your own. Try to create just a little bit more friction.

He tsks at you, holding you still as he presses his lips to yours.

“Mm, always such a firecracker.” He purrs, another slow roll of his hips making you keen. “But you get so sweet like this, don’t you?”

“Steve.” You nearly sob his name now, and he still doesn’t pick up speed, but he does slide his tongue between your lips with a rock of his hips that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“Shh,” he coos again , and you can see the restraint in his shoulders. See how difficult it is to keep his slow rhythm in the way sweat beads on his brow. “Be good, and I’ll give you what you want.”

“Y-you…ngh.” The insult dies on your tongue.

“I what?” He whispers, breath warm against your cheek. His hand tightens in yours, still teasing, and your toes curl as your head falls back against the pillows with frustration. More more more. You need more so badly you can’t think straight. You know he does too. You’re going to kill him. “You know what I wanna hear, sweetheart.”

He wants you to beg. You’re definitely gonna kill him.

“This is…you’re…” words are not your friend, it seems.

He thrusts a little harder, just once, and you whine. “C’mon, be sweet for me.”

“Please.” You nearly sob, and he grins as his free hand comes up to smooth over your hair. “Please, please please.”

“Good girl.” He purrs, and finally starts to speed up. Finally angles himself to hit that spot inside of you that has you moaning into his shoulder. “Was that so hard?”

“Steve.”

And even with the way his fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he can kiss you so roughly you wonder if your lips might bruise, and the way he snaps his hips so hard against yours you wonder if the headboard is going to dent the wall, his fingers are still tangled in yours by your head. His eyes are still locked on your own, and there’s so much love in his gaze that you think you might drown in it.

You’re drowning in him, and you never want to come up for air.

“I love you.” He whispers, hoarse and hungry and raw. “I love you so much. Doing so good for me. Fuck.” He kisses you again, and you can do nothing but sob out more pleas and broken forms of his name.

You feel like you’re on fire. It’s so good it hurts. You can’t think. You can’t speak. You wonder for a moment if he’s somehow broken your brain, mind almost too empty to even register the sweet words he’s whispering against your skin.

You try to tell him so. Try to express the intensity of what’s building inside of you. The words fail, and you just choke on a whimper of “S’ t-too…”

“I’ve got you.” He kisses your cheek. Your nose. Your lips. “I’ve got you. Let go for me. Wanna feel it.”

And you do. You’re too far gone to even scream anymore, biting down so hard on his shoulder that you’re positive it’s going to leave a bruise and clinging to him with everything you’ve got as your vision goes completely white for the second time tonight.

“So good... Fuck, fuck baby.” His breath is warm against your throat as you slowly fall back to earth. He follows you over the edge, pulling back to press his lips to yours in a surprisingly gentle kiss as he comes apart with a guttural moan of your name.

You’re boneless. Exhausted. Damp with sweat and still trying to remember how to form coherent thought.

Steve seems to be in the same boat, collapsing on top of you and taking a moment to catch his breath. His nose nuzzles into the skin beneath your jaw, hand releasing your leg to slide lovingly up over your waist.

“You okay?” He murmurs, and you can only nod, reaching up to wrap your arms around his shoulders with an exhausted hum.

“Still mad?” You ask, and he finally pulls back to look down at you again, fingers tracing over your still-flushed cheek.

“You can’t do that.” He says, soft and just a little rasped. “You can’t…you have to be more careful. I almost lost you.”

“Well, if that’s how you’re gonna show me that you’re mad-“

“I’m serious.” He turns your face towards him, and his eyes are soft. Vulnerable. The fire and fury from before is gone. “I almost lost you tonight. You almost…” his breath stutters a little, “I can’t lose you. Don’t you get that?”

His thumb smooths over your cheek, like he’s savoring the feeling of your skin, and you can’t blame your exhaustion for the way your heart melts.

“Okay.” You turn your face, kiss the skin of his palm. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

He nods, and leans down to kiss you, slow and sweet and soft.

And as he gathers you into his arms, lips barely leaving your skin for more than a second as he shifts to wiggle you both beneath the covers, you completely forget that you were ever upset with him in the first place. Something about him being overprotective. Or bossy. Or both.

You’ll try to remember that you’re mad in the morning. Or not. Or you’ll just hold him, and remind him how much you love him in the dim light of his bedroom, and wait until you can feel your legs again.

Steve Harrington, the love of your life, drives you absolutely fucking crazy.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

[djosnoopy]

some protector — steve harrington

chapter twenty one

pairing: steve harrington x reader word count: 9.7k warnings: cursing, smoking, graphic descriptions of death includes: childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers, insane amount of mutual pining, the slowest of slow burns, co-dependency on steroids, loverboy!steve but also the first inklings of jealous!steve and insecure!steve.... summary: a horrifying dream has you spiraling in ways you never have before and when steve suggest spending the day with him at work to get your mind off of it you think it's a great idea. but when news breaks of a horrific murder at the forest hills trailer park your day of watching steve work is replaced with trying to keep secrets and getting thrown right back into the craziness that always seems to happen in hawkins. a/n: it's starting to get juicy!!! i hope you guys can kind of tell where i'm taking the vecna storyline with the reader. i'm very excited to get to start writing it and exploring it more!!! as always comments and reblogs are so appreicated! and thank you so much for your continued love and support on this <33

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─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

There’s a gentle breeze that floats through the air as you walk up the long sidewalk towards the big blue Victorian house. It’s a beautiful house, one you aren’t familiar with, yet your legs carry you up the front steps and onto the porch like you’ve been here a million times before. 

The front door has a stained glass window pane with a rose in the middle of it and a warm glow from inside the house bleeds out through the glass. You stand there for a moment, admiring it, before your hand wraps around the handle and pushes open the door like you lived here. 

The inside of the house is just as extravagant as the outside– a grand staircase, a giant grandfather clock, a chandelier in the middle of the foyer. It was a house you only could dream of living in. Your feet carry you down the hall and into the den only to find a man looking out the window– his back turned to you. 

“Y/N. I’m so glad we could meet again.” 

Even though you’d only heard that voice once before, you’d never forget it. 

The man turns around and you’re met with the same man who you’d dreamt about last month. The man whose arm transformed into something only nightmares could conjure up. 

You want to ask a million questions. 

Where am I? Who are you? Is this a dream? 

But you can’t seem to speak and when he motions for you to take a seat on the plush couch your legs move without even thinking about it. You can’t help but think– is he controlling me?

He takes a seat in the lounge chair across from you and for a moment you actually take in his presence. Blonde hair, blue eyes with round frame glasses perched upon his face, and he wore a three piece suit that was nice, but looked a little dated. There was nothing about him that would have told you to steer clear if you’d seen him out in public. You wouldn’t have even looked twice if you’d passed him on the street, yet there’s a dark aura that seems to surround him. 

“Who are you?” You finally manage to spit out. 

He clasps his hands together in his lap as a faint smile stretches across his face. “I’m a friend. Someone that’s been around for a while, but hasn't really had time or the means to make my presence known until recently.” 

Your eyebrows meet in the middle as you stare back at him. How the hell could this man be a friend if you’ve never seen him before except in your dream last month? 

“I can tell you’re confused, but don’t worry. This will all make sense after a while.” He slowly gets up from the chair and removes his suit jacket, gently draping it over the back of the chair, and then he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows. “I just wanted us to meet again so I can tell you just how helpful you’ve been. I would have never been able to do this if it weren’t for you.” 

“I don’t understand.” You mumble the nervous pit in your stomach growing larger by the second. 

“You were the perfect candidate– already so broken and weak. When I finally made my decision that you were the one that was going to help me and then when you let me in so easily that night. I knew I had made the right choice. You were so compliant, letting me into that pretty little head of yours, and I’d say your suffering has paid off so far. Stage one has already been completed.” 

You’re beyond confused. Had he been the one that had been giving you all these nightmares, purposely fucking with you until you were on the verge of mental insanity? And what the hell had you unknowingly been helping him with? 

In the blink of an eye you see his arm starting to transform into the same disgusting form from your dream. He rounds the coffee table that separates the two of you and as he approaches you it’s like you’re frozen, but not in fear. It’s like he’s got you in a trance and an odd sense of calm washes over you. 

He raises his arm and his large disgusting hand hovers over your face just like it had before. Your eyes flicker past his crawling skin and land on his piercing blue eyes that seem to be void of any life. 

“I want you to see what we were able to do together. This is just the beginning Y/N.”

Your head snaps back and your vision goes black. 

It comes to you in quick flashes– a trailer park, a Hawkins Tigers cheerleading uniform, a black bandana. Then suddenly you’re standing in the middle of Eddie Munson’s trailer as you watch Chrissy Cunningham levitate in the air while the lights flicker continuously.

The scene that’s unfolding in front of you makes no sense. What was someone like Chrissy doing with Eddie and at his trailer too? This clearly had to be a dream, something that could only be imagined. 

You quickly realize that Eddie can’t see you as you try to talk to him, try to ask him what’s going on, and you suddenly feel like you’re in your own fucked up version of A Christmas Carol. 

Chrissy’s body flying up onto the ceiling has you nearly falling onto the floor with Eddie and when her limbs begin to snap and twist into shapes not humanly possible you stand there frozen in fear. Her jaw dislocates with a cracking sound that makes your stomach churn and then just when you think it’s over with, her eyes burst and get sucked into her head, blood pooling out where they used to be. 

Eddie’s screams fill the trailer and you don’t think you could scream if you wanted to. You feel the bile coming up your throat and how your body is telling you to run but you can’t. All you feel is panic and the man’s words replay in your mind. 

I want you to see what we were able to do together. 

Was this real? How did you have anything to do with this horrific scene that just unfolded in front of you? This was surely just another one of your fucked up nightmares. 

It had to be. 

Chrissy’s body drops to the floor with a lifeless thud, Eddie runs out of the trailer, and your vision goes back once again. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When your eyes open again you’re disoriented, but the moonlight shining through the curtains illuminates the room just enough that you can tell you’re back in your bedroom. There’s no jolting up in bed with tears streaming down your face as you reach out for Steve this time. Instead you feel a heavy weight on your chest, like you can’t breathe, and the feeling of Steve’s arm around your waist makes it even worse. 

It feels like the walls are closing in on you and you can feel the heat starting to spread throughout your body. You know you’re on the verge of a panic attack and normally you’d seek out Steve, but right now all you wanted to do was get out of this room. 

Your chest tightens the more you move and by the time you make it out of Steve’s grasp and down the stairs you feel like you’re going to pass out, but you use every ounce of strength you have left to walk to the backdoor and out onto the back deck. 

The cold March air hits your lungs and it burns like a wildfire has ignited inside your chest. You manage to sit down on the steps, your hand gripping one of the banisters of the railing like it’s what’s going to get you through this. You try to do your breathing techniques and while the fresh air and openness does help some, you can’t seem to rid yourself of the weight on your chest. 

You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself, but the images of Chrissy’s mangled body are all you can see. You keep telling yourself that it was just another bad dream, that it’s just your mind playing some really fucked up trick on you, but you can’t shake the feeling of how real it felt. Eddie’s screams still play in your head like you’re next to him back at the trailer. 

The storm door opens, but you don’t hear it, and you don’t even realize someone is out here with you until you hear your Dad’s voice. 

“Jesus honey, what are you doing out here? You’re gonna freeze to death.” 

March in Indiana was usually never warm and just because it was spring break that didn’t mean winter wasn’t still holding on for dear life when it could. So needless to say your sleep attire of an oversized t-shirt and some underwear was less than adequate for being outside right now, but honestly you couldn’t even tell how cold it was. You don’t even think you’re in your body right now. 

Your Dad sits down on the step next to you with a sigh that only comes from a fifty year old man who’s worked a blue collar job since he was right out of high school. “Sweetie what’s going on? Why are you out here crying?” 

You furrow your eyebrows at him. You hadn’t been crying, you’d been spiraling, but you hadn’t been crying. A quick swipe to your cheeks lets you know that you had been in fact crying. Good lord how much of a mess were you that you hadn’t even known you were crying? 

The overwhelming feeling of not being able to breathe is quickly replaced with one of just straight sorrow. One look into your Dad’s eyes and you crumble even more than you already have. You can actually feel yourself crying now and as your Dad wraps you up in his arms the first sob wracks your body. 

“I’m scared.” 

“Another nightmare?” He asks softly as you grip onto his shirt like you used to when you were a baby. 

The sounds of Chrissy’s bones snapping fill your head and you want to bang your head against the railing to try and get it to stop. 

“I’m so scared Daddy. There’s something really wrong with me and I don’t know what to do. I just want it to stop.” 

You haven’t called him Daddy since you were a little girl. When pigtails were still your signature hairstyle and you didn’t have your two front teeth. Yet as you sat here curled into his side while you sobbed into his shirt all he saw was that little girl. You’d always be that little girl to him and it kills him that he can’t seem to stop whatever has been plaguing you since that fire at the mall.

He’d figured it would be Julie that they’d have a hard time with and while she has her moments still, nothing could have prepared him or your Mom for these last eight months with you. All he wants to do is make your pain go away, but he can’t, and apparently no doctors can either. 

Upstairs Steve finds himself half awake reaching out for you only to find your side of the bed empty and cold. His eyes fly open and panic blooms in his chest as his eyes scan your bedroom. He notices your door was left wide open and he’s tumbling out of bed, practically tripping over the covers as he flies down the hall. You very well could be in the bathroom and honestly he should not be panicking this much over you not being in bed next to him, but Steve had abandonment issues. 

Growing up in a less than loving household will do that to a person. Add in all the people in high school that never liked him for who he really was and a first real relationship that Steve had convinced himself was love when it really wasn’t and well Steve can’t help but be a little neurotic when it comes to you. 

He’d thought for the longest time that no one would ever love him for him. That no one would really want to be with him, but then the one person who he’s loved since before he knew what love really was tells him that they love him just as much and now Steve can’t not be clingy. 

It didn’t help that you two had been intimate hours earlier for the first time and while you two hadn’t officially had sex, you’d done things that would only intertwine your souls more. Steve didn’t want you to regret it considering you’d only just opened up about actually wanting to be with him this morning, but things had gotten out of hand very quickly and so now he’s running down your stairs worried that you’d come to your senses and realized you didn’t actually love him like you’d said. 

It’s not just the whole sex thing that worries Steve, it’s the fact that you haven’t been the most stable lately and to find you not next to him in the middle of the night warrants a little worry from him. Especially when he comes downstairs to find the back door wide open, but when he starts to barge out onto the deck he stops dead in his tracks. His hand hovers on the handle of the storm door as he looks through the glass at the two figures illuminated by the moonlight.

He can hear your cries through the door and your Dad’s hushed words of comfort as he rocks you back and forth in his arms. Steve doesn’t know what’s happened and as much as he wants to be there for you, he just watches on from inside the house, knowing that you clearly needed your Dad right now more than you needed him. 

The moment Steve’s hand landed on the door handle your Dad knew he was there watching. Even with his back to him your Dad had a sense as to when Steve was around. When he’d found you out here moments ago by yourself he knew it would only be a matter of time before Steve would come looking for you. He’d been like that with you when the two of you were kids, glued to your side, always keeping an eye on you. And maybe that’s why your Dad is seemingly okay with Steve practically living here because he knows that when he can’t look after you himself that Steve will. 

You’ve always been one to need your Dad, but there’s a new man in your life that can protect you, wants to protect you. He’d be hesitant if it was anyone else, but he’s seen the way Steve looks at you. It’s the same way your Dad looks at your Mom– like you’re his whole world. And that’s all he could ask for when it came to his little girl. 

So, he turns his head to look back at the young man standing behind the glass door, ignoring the fact that he’s only in his boxers for his own sanity, and nods his head for him to come out onto the deck. Steve hesitates for a moment, thinking maybe he was seeing things, it was dark out after all. But then your Dad takes his free hand and motions again for him to come out there. 

The moment the door closes behind Steve your head snaps up at the sound, but you don’t turn around to look at him. He can hear your Dad whispering something to you and then you’re shakily standing up with his help. Steve can feel his heart in his throat as you turn and he takes in just how broken you are. Even with just the moon as his only source of light he can tell that the girl he’d fallen asleep next to hours ago is long gone. You’re physically shaking as your Dad guides you into Steve’s arms and he wants to tell himself that it’s from the nearly freezing temperature outside and not your body wanting to give out. 

As Steve tucks you into his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head, your Dad’s hand lands firmly on his shoulder. Steve feels his heart skip a beat at the physical contact from him, but when he turns to look at him there’s no malice behind his eyes at all. Your Dad gives his shoulder a knowing squeeze and Steve nods in understanding. 

You’re his little girl and he’s trusting Steve to take care of you, be there in ways for you that he can’t as your Father. He’s letting Steve know that he’s got his whole world in his arms right now and that while he loved Steve as a son that didn’t mean your Dad wouldn’t hurt him if he hurt you. 

His hand is still on Steve’s shoulder as he leans in a little towards you, his other hand reaching out to move your hair out of your face. “Babygirl, you need to get some rest. We’ll talk about this as a family tomorrow okay? Try and figure out what we need to do to get you better.” 

If that meant going out of state for you to get the treatment you needed then so be it. The doctors here in Hawkins had been no help and your Dad would move mountains to not see his daughter suffer anymore. 

He just didn’t know what you were suffering from wasn’t anything a doctor could cure. 

You simply nod at him, unable to work up the strength to speak right now, and if you had you’re sure all that would come out is broken sob. Your Dad gives you a smile that falls flat and then gives Steve one more squeeze on the shoulder before heading back inside. 

Steve doesn’t pry for answers as to why you were out here crying and when he eventually gets you to go back inside and crawl back into bed with him he doesn’t ask then either. He knows you’ll tell him when you’re ready, but if it was another nightmare he’s already accepted the fact that you won’t tell him what it was about. You’ve never told him what any of them are about.

He can assume it might be something related to death or you reliving all the fucked up things that you guys have went through, but he isn’t for sure. And as much as he tries to help you through all this, at times he feels like he’s at a disadvantage when he doesn’t even know exactly what you’re dreaming about. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t insist on you telling him, he’s just there for you and that’s all he can do. 

Sleep never returns for you. The remaining five hours until Steve’s alarm goes off for work are spent staring up at your ceiling or at Steve once he finally drifts off to sleep. Every time you close your eyes it’s like you’re back in Eddie’s trailer and the vivid images of Chrissy’s body being snapped like a glow stick replay on a loop. Steve tries to stay awake with you, but you can tell he’s tired, plus he has work in the morning. So, you gently scratch your nails up and down his forearm knowing it’ll knock him out before he even realizes it and when you hear his snores start to fill the room you roll back over and wait for the sun to rise. 

Steve decides that you’re coming to work with him today as soon as he wakes up, claiming that you sitting at home all day wouldn’t do you any good. You can’t necessarily argue with him, you’d had such a good day yesterday and you wanted to have more days like that, even with the horrible night you’d had. So maybe getting out of the house and focusing on something other than the images that plague your mind will do you some good. Plus you’ll get to see Robin and maybe she can distract you with her Nancy issues. 

You seem to have to keep continuously telling yourself that it was just a really bad nightmare last night though. Every other one you’ve had you of course wake up at first thinking it’s real, then after a minute or so you realize it’s not, but this nightmare hasn’t had the same effect. It was different from any of the other ones, it had felt so real, and the man’s words still stick with you like he’d burned them into your brain. 

Steve can see you’re in your head again as you two stand in the bathroom brushing your teeth. His gaze flickers over to you in the mirror and the light that had seemed to reappear in your eyes yesterday was gone. He’s sure it was a nightmare last night, but for his own sanity he needs to make sure that everything was fine with the two of you after the time you’d spent together. 

“Y/N..” He trails off, testing the waters as he puts his toothbrush back in the cup on the counter. 

Your eyes flicker over towards his reflection in the mirror and you hum in response before spitting out your toothpaste and quickly rinsing your mouth. 

Steve takes a deep breath as you turn to look at him, preparing himself to hear an answer he might not want to hear. “I feel weird even asking this, but I just want to make sure you don’t regret what we did last night. It’s just that I woke up and you weren’t next to me and then I found you outside crying and like I knew it had to be a nightmare again. But things moved a little fast last night and we’ve still not established what we really are and we were supposed to talk last night but then I ended up between your th-“ 

Your lips are on Steve’s before he can even register you moving towards him. He’d been caught up in his rambling, hands moving through the air just as fast as his mouth, but then you’d silenced him with yours and now he’s melting into you. His hands find their home on either side of your face as he deepens the kiss and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this feeling. 

You don’t want to get used to it. 

Before this can turn into anything more than an innocent kiss you pull away reluctantly, but the pout on Steve’s face is almost just enough for you to smash your lips back onto his. Your hands lay flat against his chest as his arms wrap around your waist– pulling you flush against him. 

“There’s not an ounce of me that regrets what we did last night.” 

You can see the moment the worry in those big bambi eyes of his vanishes and a shy smile starts to paint itself across his face. “Good because I didn’t either.” 

“I am sorry for just vanishing in the middle of the night and not waking you up. It’s just I had a horrible nightmare last night and–” The images begin to replay in your head and you have to force yourself to rid your brain of them, try and stay here in the moment with Steve and not get sucked back into that dark place again. “When I woke up I was on the verge of a panic attack and I just needed to get out of my room as fast as possible. That’s all it was, it had nothing to do with us and what we did. I promise we’re good.” 

You made sure to emphasize that things between Steve and you were fine because honestly that’s the only thing holding you together after last night. Your little bit of happiness that you could still cling onto came from Steve and if things went south between the two of you there was no way you could handle all of this on your own. 

Steve doesn’t know what feeling settles in his chest as he takes in what you’ve just said. Relief? Worry? Guilt? All three? He’s glad that things aren’t weird between the two of you after last night, but also can things be that good between the two of you if you’re still struggling to just exist yourself? He wants to ask more about the nightmare last night, but he’s worried about overstepping and so presses a quick kiss to your lips instead of ruining the moment. 

“Hmm you just love kissing me don’t you Harrington?” You tease as he pulls away. 

“I’m making up for lost time. Should have been kissing you years ago.” 

Another kiss is pressed to your lips, which then turns into another one, and then after a short makeout session Steve ends up being ten minutes late for work. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

For a majority of the morning your mind is preoccupied with things other than your horrible nightmare. It starts when Steve and you stroll in late to find Robin standing at the counter already ready to start in on you two and then she sees the hickey on Steve’s neck which results in her waiting to hound you for information. Not that she particularly cared to hear about Steve and you having sex, it was just that she needed to hear some good news in your inner circle's relationship department. 

Steve grabs an extra stool from the back room and sets it behind the counter. “Just sit here and look pretty. I’ll be in the back doing some inventory if you need me alright?” 

You nod and Steve presses a quick kiss to the top of your head which results in Robin rolling her eyes. It was all honestly just an act she liked to put on, she loved the fact that her two best friends had finally pulled their heads out of their asses and got together. If only she could do the same. 

With Steve occupied in the back you proceed to tell Robin that it was just some heavy fooling around. If this would have been one of your old good friends you might have told her that he was good with his tongue, but this was Robin you were talking to and you adding heavy onto fooling around was enough for her. 

She then tells you that Nancy had approached her after the game last night. Apparently Nancy wanted insight for the school newspaper from some of the band members who had been at every game this season to capture just how much this win meant not just for the players but the whole school. She got so nervous that dropped her trumpet, breaking a part of it off, and then when Nancy bent down to help her pick it up, Robin scrambles to grab it and hits her with said trumpet. 

“Oh Robin…” You trail off, voice laced with sympathy. 

She hides her face in her hands, a groan slipping out as she leans against the counter. “I’m a lost cause. Just take me out back and shoot me. Put me out of my misery please.” 

Before you can tell her it’s not as bad as she’s making it out to be, Steve comes out from the back, a VHS held high in his hand. “I’ve found our morning movie.” 

You squint your eyes at the tape in his hands, trying to get a better look at it, and when you can finally read what it is you about burst out laughing. “The Shaggy D.A.? Babe, come on.” 

Steve doesn’t even clock the fact that you’re making fun of his movie choice all he heard was babe and everything else went in one ear and out the other. 

Robin grabs the remote from the counter and points it towards the TV. “Well I for one could use some fun and whimsy this morning, so pop her in the VCR Stevie!” 

The TV turns on and The Shaggy D.A. is long forgotten. 

We’re in the Forest Hills trailer park in east Roane County. We don’t have a lot of details now, but we can confirm that the body of a Hawkins High student was discovered early this morning. Police have not yet released the victim’s name although we are told they’re currently in the process of notifying the family.   

Everything around you seems to freeze in time and the news reporter's voice starts to get slower and slower until a ringing starts to develop in your ears and you can’t hear anything. You can feel the panic starting to bloom in your chest the longer you look at the trailer in the background.

There was no way this was a coincidence.

There was no way you had a dream about one of your classmates dying in Eddie’s trailer last night and now come sunrise your dream has become a reality. The chances of that not being Chrissy and that not being Eddie’s trailer were slim to none and you honestly don’t know what this means for you. 

If it does end up being true does that mean you’re somehow at fault for her death? Was it not a dream and did you sleep walk all the way to the trailer park and commit this crime with that man? Was this all still just one big fucked up dream? 

Steve breaks his attention away from the TV and glances over to check on you, he’s expecting you to be a little shocked, but he was not at all expecting to see you sitting there with a thousand yard stare going on. It’s like you weren’t even here. He gently places a hand on your shoulder and shakes you a little, mumbling out a hey to try and bring you back to reality. 

You eventually look over at him, but there’s still absolutely nothing behind your eyes, and then they’re back on the TV before he can ask you anything. 

The gruesome images from last night start to replay in your mind the longer you sit here and listen to the reporter say the same thing over and over again as she stands in front of the trailer you might have witnessed a murder in last night, one you may very well have had a part in. You need to get the hell out of here before this tight feeling in your chest turns into a problem you don’t want to have in public. 

Your brain catches up with your body as it’s halfway towards the door and your hearing comes back enough for you to register Steve hollering out asking where you’re going. 

“I need a cigarette.” 

Or maybe a whole pack. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The dumpster behind the arcade and Family Video won’t ask you what's wrong or judge you for chain smoking. So, you sit flush against the brick wall and let the busted pavement beneath you surely dirty your jeans. Your hand shakes as you bring the cigarette up to your lips and you know it’s only a matter of time before Steve comes out here looking for you. He’ll have questions that you won’t have answers to and honestly you’ve never told Steve the details of your nightmares before so you sure as hell aren’t going to start now.

You’re still trying to process what all of this means or if it even means anything at all and you’re trying to wait until the full story comes out before really spiraling because there is a small chance that it’s not even Chrissy that was found dead. But deep down you know it was her, you knew it as soon as the TV came on and you saw the trailer in the background behind the reporter. 

This was going to be a secret for as long as you could keep it because if you did tell Steve you know he’ll believe you and if he believes you that means there is something seriously wrong with you and this all just isn’t some coincidence. 

Seconds later you hear the sound of the back door opening and the all too familiar smell of Steve’s aftershave infiltrating your senses. He doesn’t say anything, just sits down next to you on the pavement with a sigh, grabs the pack of cigarettes, and lights one for himself. 

You don’t look at him for the longest time. You keep your eyes straight ahead, staring out at the field behind the building, the tall grass billowing in the wind. 

It’s not until he reaches out and intertwines his hand with yours that you turn to look at him. He’s got a soft smile on his face as locks eyes with you and for a second it feels like everything is okay when you look into those big eyes of his. 

“You alright?” Steve asks softly. 

Alright was on the complete opposite end of the spectrum of how you were doing currently. You wanted to tell him what was going on, maybe then you wouldn’t feel so alone and scared, but that’s your problem. You’re too scared to tell him that you might be connected to this murder and that you’d potentially seen it happen last night. Plus, the last thing you want to do is to drag Steve into something else life threatening. So, until you could figure out what was actually going on with you and whatever took place at Forest Hills, you were going to have to try and keep your shit together. 

“Yeah, it just freaked me out a little bit.” You take a long drag from your cigarette hoping the nicotine buzz can get you through this without breaking. “Seems like this town just can’t seem to catch a break.” 

“Maybe it was just some freak accident– who knows?” Steve replies with a shrug. 

You laugh a little and turn your attention back to the field in front of you. “Yeah because freak accidents are actually freak accidents in Hawkins.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything, just takes another drag from his cigarette, and joins you in looking out at the field. You were right though and if this ended up being connected to everything you guys had dealt with for the past three years Steve honestly doesn’t know how much more fight he has left in him. He’s only nineteen and some days he feels like he’s twice his age. 

You sneak a glance back over at him and you know he can tell you’re looking at him– admiring him. From the striped polo he put on this morning that was just a little tight in the arms so when he flexed his bicep the tiniest bit it strained against the fabric. To his stupid little green Family Video vest that you teased him about, but loved so much, wanting to grab him by it and pull him into you. Or his Levis’ that always seemed to fit him in an annoyingly good way. 

You watch as he lifts his cigarette back up to his lips and an old memory resurfaces in your brain causing you to let out a laugh that sounds more like a scoff. His eyes immediately darted over to you, eyebrows raised in question. 

“What?” 

“You remember my sophomore year when you were so pissed about me smoking that you ripped the cigarette out of my hands not once but twice? Now look at us.” 

Steve sighs, remembering how much of a menace he was back then when it came to you. “Yeah, well we’ve been through some shit since then. I think we deserve a cigarette when we want one.” 

He isn’t wrong and if the feeling you had deep in your gut came to be true, well you were about to go through even more shit. 

The two of you finish your cigarettes in silence and when he offers his hand out to you to help you up off the ground you gladly accept it. Robin still has the news on as Steve and you wander in from the back and you try to just tune it out, focus on something other than the hundreds of horrible thoughts whirling around in your brain, but when Dustin, Max and Julie come busting through the doors moments later it becomes increasingly hard to ignore. 

“Hey, Steve.” Dustin calls out. 

“Did you guys see this?” Steve replies from behind the counter.

Dustin ignores him completely. “How many phones do you have?” 

“Someone was murdered!” Steve says pointing over at the TV. 

“How many phones do you have?” Dustin reiterates, his tone already borderlining annoyed. 

“Uh two. Why?” Steve asks.

“Technially three, if you count Keith’s in the back.” Robin interjects. 

The kids share a look like they’re all mutually deciding something and then Max says. “Yeah three works.” 

Dustin rips off his backpack and then slings it across the counter. “What are you doing?” Steve questions as his backpack hits the floor with a thud and then suddenly Dustin is hopping over the counter and taking everything down with him as goes. “No, no, no! My tapes! Dude what the hell?” 

Dustin grabs your arm and tugs you off the stool you were sitting on in front of the computer. “Dustin!” You holler, stumbling right into Steve’s chest. 

That has Steve about ready to pull Dustin right off the stool by the collar of his shirt. “Don’t pull her like that again Henderson!” 

Dustin looks over his shoulder at Steve, sees his arm wrapped around you like he’d just saved you from a near death experience, and then he spots the hickey on Steve’s neck and lets out a laugh. “You two finally together now?” 

Steve quickly opens his mouth ready to tell him that yes you two were, but then he closes it just as fast. You’d said you wanted to be with him, he knew he wanted to be with you, and in your own weird way he knows the two of you are together, but nothing had been said officially. Or if this was something you were to be going around publicly announcing. So, he quickly changes the subject, not knowing that his lack of response makes your heart twinge a little. 

“What are you doing?” Steve moves so he’s hovering over Dustin's shoulder. 

“Setting up base of operations here.” 

“Base of operations? Get off the damn computer.” 

“I need it.” Dustin argues back. 

You didn’t care to listen to Dustin and Steve start their bickering. So, you bend down and help Robin in picking up the scattered tapes that are all over the floor behind the counter and trying to re-sort them. 

“For what?” Steve pries. 

“Eddie’s friends' phone numbers.” 

You freeze at the mention of Eddie, your breath catching in your throat as you try to act nonchalant, like his name doesn’t take you back to that trailer. You can hear Steve complaining to Dustin about Eddie being his new friend and Robin scolding the kids for being here and messing around on a Saturday, but you’re not at all engaged in the conversation. You’ve been staring at the same tape in your hands for the last minute hoping that once again this was all just one big coincidence. 

But you should know by now that things are never a coincidence. 

“Will you two fill them in while I do this?” Dustin commands to Julie and Max. 

You slowly turn to face the group once again, your stomach already churning at what you know is about ready to come out of their mouths. “Fill us in on what?” 

As Max and Julie begin to re-tell what they’d experienced last night the bile in your stomach begins to quickly make its way up. You keep trying to swallow it down, trying to stay calm, while they practically tell you that what you’d dreamt about or honestly at this point you don’t even know if it was a dream, had happened. It’s making the room spin and you have to steady yourself against the counter so your legs don’t give out from under you. 

The girls hadn’t even seen what you’d seen, but they’d seen the lights flicker, heard Eddie’s screams, saw Chrissy go into the trailer with Eddie and then never come back out. 

What this mysterious man had to do with you and why he killed Chrissy you have no idea, but whatever was to come next you were sure was nothing good. You know now would probably be a good time to tell everyone what you’d experienced last night, but you’re still processing everything and how do you exactly tell people that you’d witnessed a death but weren’t actually there for it as far as you know. 

Eventually everyone takes turns calling known associates of Eddie’s and it really is like a command center set up behind the front counter. You can tell Steve couldn’t care less about helping Eddie and so he mans the store, you sit on one of the stools so you don’t pass out, and everyone else makes calls like it’s their job. The plan is to find someone who knows where he might be and then hopefully find him and have him explain what happened, try and clear his name, but you’re the only one that knows it’s gonna be much harder than just Eddie saying he didn’t do it. 

“Hey, guys, I might have a lead.” Max states after what seems like hours of calling people. “Apparently, Eddie gets drugs from some guy named Reefer Rick, and sometimes Eddie crashes there.” 

“That sounds promising. Where does this Reefer Rick guy live?” Robin asks. 

“See, that’s the thing. No one knows. He’s more of a…. legend than someone that people actually know.” 

“What about a last name?” 

Steve finally speaks up from over by the bins, he’s been acting like he’s re-organizing them for the last ten minutes. “Bet the cops know the last name.” 

“What?” Julie asks. 

“The cops.” He turns and moves over to the front of the counter, leaning against it. “I mean, listen, if this Reefer Rick is actually a drug dealer. I guarantee you he’s been busted at some point. Means he’s in the system.” 

Dustin gets up from his stool with an annoyed look on his face. “The cops? Really, Steve? That’s your suggestion?” 

“I just think at this point they should be filled in on what we know, what’s going on.” 

You sit there thinking– they don’t know half of what actually happened. 

“You think Eddie’s guilty, don’t you?” Dustin questions. 

Steve puts his hands up in defense. “Whoa. I believe in innocent until proven guilty, all that constitutional shit. I just, you know, don't think we can rule it out.” 

Honestly, Steve had been less than thrilled when he’d heard this all had to do with Eddie, and you could tell from the jump that Steve wasn’t the biggest fan of Eddie. For what reasons you weren’t sure, but what you’re about to say is surely going to be nothing Steve wants to hear. 

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to do here Steve– trying to prove his innocence.” 

Steve physically re-coils at your words. You had barely said a word since the kids arrived and now you’re copping a little bit of an attitude with him over Eddie Munson of all people?

You take a deep breath before standing up from your stool and grabbing your bag from under the counter. “Also, we don’t have to worry about trying to figure out where Reefer Rick lives. His place is out by Lover’s Lake.” 

Now everyone’s eyes are on you and you know they are all thinking— how the hell do you know that?

“And you know where he lives because…?” Steve trails off, eyebrows pinched together in confusion and a little bit of something else he can’t quite place yet. 

“I got some weed from him once after everything at the mall. Thought maybe it would help.” You shrug like it’s no big deal. 

Except you’re lying straight through your teeth and praying no one can tell. The only reason you know where Rick lives is because Eddie had driven you out to Lover’s Lake that night sophomore year. He claimed it was so you guys could have more privacy, but clearly he was killing two birds with one stone because on the way back into town he swung by Rick’s to pick up more drugs. 

“You don’t like how weed makes you feel.” Steve states, eyes narrowed at you like he doesn’t believe you. Which, he wasn’t lying, the first time you smoked a joint was at a party at Steve’s freshman year and he had to stay in his room with you while you tried to remember how to breathe. 

Everyone can sense the tension starting to bubble up between Steve and you. Unbesetowed to you Julie jabs an elbow in Dustin’s side and gets him to move the subject along before Steve starts assuming things. 

“Does it really matter? If Y/N knows where Rick lives then we should already be on the way. The longer we wait the more at risk Eddie is.” Dustin interjects, hands flailing in the air to try and get his point across. 

Not even a minute later Robin is locking up the store and you’re all piling into the beamer. It’s a tight squeeze and Julie ends up sitting in Dustin’s lap, but you make it work. You can feel Steve looking over at you every so often the whole drive out to Lover’s Lake.

Normally you two would be holding hands over the center console or he’d have his big hand on your thigh, but not on this drive. You’re more reserved, your body turned away from him, and Steve does not like it one bit. It’s not that you're mad at him or anything, it’s just that you’re on your way to potentially go see Eddie and you’ve got to act like you don’t already know what’s happened. 

Act like your whole world is blowing up right in front of you– like you’re not losing your mind. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It’s not hard to guide Steve on where to turn. It’s a straight shot south out of town and then a right turn down Holland Road, the house is on the left with a big metal boat house out towards the lake. Even with your stellar directions, it’s still a decently long drive out to the lake, and by the time you guys arrive it’s dark. 

You all head up to the front door and without Dustin knocking relentlessly and calling out for Rick with no answer, you could tell no one was home. The lights were off and it looked like no one had been there for a good while. The mailbox was bursting at the seams with mail and there was at least a couple months of newspapers rotting away on his front porch. 

You wander off the porch and when you glance over at the boat house something in you tells you that is the place he’s hiding out at. “Guys, over here!” You holler out and everyone follows you down to the boat house without a question. 

Normally Steve would be the one to take charge and lead the way into possible danger, but he’d been a little more standoffish tonight and so he lets you take the lead, but follows very closely behind. You slowly push open the squeaky door, your flashlight illuminating very little for you to see. “Hello? Is anyone home?” You call out as you finally enter the building. 

The boathouse has a musty smell to it, like an old garage or an attic that never really gets used. There's a boat in the middle with random crap used for fishing and outdoorsy things filling the spaces around the rest of the building. The floorboards creaking as you walk around is the only sound that echoes in this metal shack, until Steve grabs an oar off the wall and starts jabbing the tarp that’s over the boat. 

It makes Dustin and you jump and you want to rip that oar out of his hands in annoyance, but you think Dustin might have you beat. 

“What are you doing?” Dustin exclaims and when Steve only continues to jab and doesn’t respond Dustin gets even more shitty with him. “What are you doing?”

“He might be in here.” Steve finally responds. 

“So take the tarp off!” 

“If you’re so brave you take the tarp off!” 

“Hey, look over here.” You hear Julie call out from the other side of the boat. She shines her flashlight onto one of the work benches to reveal candy wrappers and empty beer bottles. “Someone was here.” 

“Maybe he heard us. Got spooked and ran.” Robin theorizes. 

“Don’t worry. Steve will get him with his oar.” Dustin smarts off and you find yourself having to hold back a laugh. 

“I know you think you’re being funny Henderson, but considering everyone in this room has nearly died a hundred times. Personally, I don’t find it funny in the slight–” 

Suddenly a figure jumps out from under the tarp and starts to go after Steve. There’s so much hollering and commotion it takes a second for everyone to realize that it is in fact Eddie that has Steve pinned against the wall with a broken beer bottle to his neck. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Eddie! Eddie! Stop!” Dustin hollers out, voice cracking in desperation. 

Your heart has practically dropped to your ass when you see just how close that jagged glass is to Steve’s neck. You haven’t seen Steve this scared since the mall last summer and suddenly you’re back there hearing him get tortured while you can’t do anything. 

“Eddie! Eddie! It’s me.” Dustin calls out, finally getting Eddie to tear his eyes away from Steve and back towards you guys. “It’s Dustin.” 

Your hand finds Julie’s next to you and you’re sure you're squeezing it so hard that it hurts, but she doesn’t say anything, just pulls you closer to her. 

“This is Steve.” Dustin explains. “He’s not gonna hurt you, right Steve?” 

Steve mumbles out something in agreement as Eddie looks back at him, beer bottle still pressed against his neck. 

“Steve, why don’t you drop the oar?” Dustin suggests hoping it will diffuse the situation, but it does the complete opposite. As soon as Steve releases his grip the sound of it hitting the floor makes Eddie jump and press the jagged glass harder against Steve’s neck. 

“He’s cool. He’s cool.” Dustin exclaims. 

You lock eyes with Steve and your already heavy chest seems to tighten even more. How you two always ended up in situations like this you don’t know, but you don’t know how much more your heart can take. 

“What are you doing here?” Eddie finally asks. 

“We’re looking for you. We’re here to help.” Dustin replies and Eddie looks back at him. “Eddie, these are my friends. You know Robin, from band.” Dustin starts to explain, pointing to each of you as he speaks. “This is my friend Max. The one who never wants to play D&D.” He moves to the side so Eddie can see Julie and you. “And my girlfriend Julie. Who also never wants to play D&D.” 

As Dustin goes to introduce you Eddie’s eyes flicker over to you and you make the mistake of making eye contact with him. You can see the exact moment his eyes soften as he finally sees you standing there. “And this is Julie’s sister–” 

“Y/N.” Eddie mumbles. 

“Um, yeah that’s Y/N.” Dustin stutters slightly, surprised that Eddie knew who you were, but didn't think much of it, still trying to get him to free Steve from his grasp. 

Steve though, even with a piece of jagged glass pressed to his neck, could sense the softness in Eddie’s voice when he said your name. Like he was relieved to see you here and Steve wonders what history you have with someone like Eddie for him to act like that when he sees you. 

“Eddie. We’re on your side. I swear on my mother! Right, guys?” Dustin is trying everything to reason with Eddie, trying to talk him off the ledge. 

Everyone agrees mumbling out that they swear on Dustin’s Mother’s life and it was like everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Eddie to let Steve go or do something that would alter his life and everyone else’s forever. 

Thankfully Eddie makes the right choice and pulls the bottle away, releasing Steve from his grip, and straight into your arms. 

“Hey I’ve got you. It’s fine, you’re fine baby I promise.” You whisper to Steve as he seemingly crumbles into your arms, trying to catch his breath. You can feel his heart racing as you press your palm flat against his chest, trying to ground him, and honestly yours is probably beating just as fast. 

Steve doesn’t really say anything and you’re not expecting him to, he just grips the back of your shirt like his life depends on it as he nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck. 

“Eddie…” Dustin starts as he kneels in front of his trembling figure, who’s now slid down onto the floor. “We just want to talk.” He tries to take the beer bottle from him, but Eddie sharply pulls his hand back, an iron grip still on the neck of the bottle. 

Robin crouches down next to Dustin. “We want to know what happened.” 

Steve has calmed down enough that he’s able to just stand beside you. Your arm is still wrapped around his waist though, because if there was one thing Steve Harrington needed– it was physical touch.

A sniffle comes from Eddie and then his broken voice says. “You won’t believe me.” 

You know you shouldn’t, you should just keep your mouth shut and let someone else say something, but for your own sanity you need to know if what you say last night was what actually happened. 

“I will Eddie.” 

Eddie looks over at you and his big doe eyes seem to regain a little bit of spark, like he might be able to re-tell what had happened if you were here to listen. Steve notices the way he looks at you because of course he does, but you don’t notice the way Steve pulls you impossibly closer to him, how his hand grips yours like you might leave him to go sit next to Eddie. And that makes the gears in Steve’s brain start to turn and a ugly green feeling start to settle in his chest. 

Eddie begins to tell everyone about how Chrissy had come to him to get something to help her with her nightmares and how he’d taken her back to his place after the game and then he starts in on what actually happened and you feel the life drain out of you in a matter of seconds.

“Her body just like, lifted up into the air and uh, she just hung there in the air. And her bones, she um…” A whimper escapes past his lips as he tries his hardest to relive that moment without breaking down. 

You feel like you’re in the same boat, the images replying in your mind right along with how he’s telling it and you think you might actually be sick this time. 

“Her bones started to snap.” 

The sounds of her body twisting in ways that weren’t humanly possible fill your ears and you find yourself squeezing Steve’s hand like it might take it all away. 

“And her eyes man, it was like there was something inside her head, pulling.” 

A ragged breath escapes past your lips and you’re trying so hard to keep it together, but Eddie is explaining exactly what you saw last night to a T and you have no idea what this means for you or if maybe you’re next. 

“I didn’t know what to do, so I ran away. I left her there.”

Eddie scoffs when he realizes just how insane this sounds and even if you’d said you’d believe him he knows he wouldn’t if he was in your guy's shoes. “You all think I’m crazy, right?” 

“No. We don’t think you’re crazy.” Dustin immediately replies. 

“Don’t bullshit me man! I know how this sounds.” 

“We believe you.” You state, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat. 

Dustin exhales and begins to tell Eddie just how crazy this town can be. “Look, what I’m about to tell you might be a little…difficult to take.” 

“Okay.” Eddie replies, not sure what else they could tell him that could rival what he’d witnessed last night. 

“You know how people say Hawkins is… cursed? They’re not way off. There’s another world. A world hidden beneath Hawkins. Sometimes it bleeds into ours.” 

“Like ghosts and shit?” Eddie asks. 

“There are some things worse than ghosts.” Max responds. 

“These monsters from this other world, we thought they were gone, but they’ve come back before. That’s why we needed to find you. If they’re back again, we need to know.” Dustin continues. 

“That night.” Robin interjects. “Did you see anything? Dark particles maybe?” 

Eddie shakes his head no. 

“It would almost look like dust, swirling dust.” 

Again, Eddie shakes his head. “No, man, there was nothing you could see or touch. You know I tried to wake her. She couldn’t move. It was like she… she was in a trance or something.” 

“Or under a spell.” Dustin suggests, like he’s just figured something out. 

“A curse.” Eddie replies, looking up at Dustin. 

“Vecna’s curse.”  

Steve and you look at each other, confused as to what the hell they were talking about. “Who’s Vecna?” 

“An undead creature of great power. A spell caster. A dark wizard.” 

You’re about ready to ask for them to explain this in a little greater detail when suddenly your vision goes black and when it returns you’re no longer in Reefer Rick’s boat house, but in the middle of the road somewhere. You see Fred Benson standing in front of you with the same white eyed look that Chrissy had and a familiar voice from behind you makes your stomach drop. 

“Y/N. You’re just in time.” 

tag list: @fan-of-many-bands @loverslakess @1tsjustj @daydreamin1220 @theleo28 @superswaggycooch @tq-cherri @mirellef2001 @simplyblonnd @bowielovesyou @onlyangel-444 @keilahhhsstuff @alyssa070202 @lillithxo013 @lololalalulu @apocalypse-v @gaylittleboi69 @famouslysilent24 @evajzcks @matthewswifeyy @erenxyeagersblog @holycastoroli @cznctnty @lauraashley93 @sleepywxtch @swe3tyann @sleekni @thegoldengirl2006 @idontknow0704 @pocbarbie @cherryhazee @rrosiitas @lalqu @sennavettels @melgarcia119 @originaldaughterofagun @keirarose96 @secondary-character-25 @sehyojae @why-am-i-here-22 @pmmemei @k-offrecord @lem0ns77 @junipermarche @mel164 @ribeiroteresa97 @salvatt1 @samanthaw16 @spellbinding10 @4ria790

[behappyitsemmalie]

If I could only give one Steve x reader fic rec, it would 1000000% be this one

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

NEEDY | steve harrington

You're starting to wonder if you're too needy for Steve.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 2.5k contains: angst, hurt/comfort, eventual (tooth rooting) fluff, established relationship, toxic ex, mention of a previous age gap relationship, steve harrington loves hard, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader.

author's note: requested by anon | i really loved this request! as someone who has felt too clingy in the past, it got me right in the feels 🥹🥹 this was meant to be much shorter but couldn't stop

to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page

The first time someone had called you clingy, it had been your best friend. You were seven years old and hadn’t really understood what it meant. All you knew was that she stopped being your best friend shortly after that. 

The next time—it was a boyfriend who had called you needy. He had said it affectionately. You were fifteen and he was older. Much older. You hadn’t questioned it. Just smiled and clung to him a little tighter. But over time needy became clingy and clingy became suffocating.

Suffocating. That was what he had called you once. It had been during an argument but you knew he meant it. You had noticed when he had started to recoil at your touch. How he would roll his eyes when you would try to hold his hand in public. How he turned his head when you leaned in for a kiss.

You stopped reaching for him after that. 

He stopped trying entirely.

Needy. Clingy. Suffocating.

Those words had lived under your skin for four years now. They had buried themselves in your veins and refused to leave.You had built walls up in every relationship since—something to protect yourself from falling hard again. You had stopped yourself from clinging onto someone who would inevitably despise you for it.

But then Steve Harrington came along like a damn wrecking ball and tore down those walls that you had built.

You had met through your cousin Robin—after multiple attempts on her part to set you guys up. You had finally given in after she had promised you that he wasn’t the guy you had known in high school. That he was—in her words—a great guy. It was a mark of how much you trusted Robin that you had finally agreed.

You were annoyed to find out that she had been right. Steve had taken you to Enzo’s and you had laughed over his terrible pronunciations of Italian food. He had laughed when you pointed out that the waiter seemed to be wearing a fake moustache. Steve had asked you questions—a lot of questions in fact and seemed genuinely interested in your answers. In every way, it had been a perfect date. Steve had been perfect. 

He didn’t kiss you that night—just a simple kiss to your cheek after he drove you back home and left you with a promise of a second date. The fact you had wanted him to kiss you told you that you were in deep already.

You considered cancelling the second date. You had considered telling Steve you had changed your mind—that you wanted to remain friends. That he was nice but not your type. Not because you truly meant it but because the thought of another guy one day finding you suffocating made you want to run for the hills.

But you didn’t. You decided to go on the second date. You decided to see where things went.

Four months and numerous dates later and it was undeniable now—you were in deep. You were fully in love with Steve Harrington.

The realisation that you loved him had hit you out of seemingly nowhere two weeks ago. You had been his plus one to his cousin’s wedding. He had looked ridiculously handsome in a suit and tie—a tie that perfectly matched your sage green dress. Which had felt like a statement of unity that told everyone that Steve Harrington was yours and you were his. Over the course of the evening, you found yourself staring at him. Not only because he looked so handsome (though, in fairness, it did contribute) but because being at a wedding with Steve, it had made you think about your own wedding one day.

You found yourself wanting to ask him if he wanted to get married. Whether he wanted a big church wedding or a small, intimate wedding. If he wanted to elope, even. You wanted to ask him if he wanted kids—how many he wanted. If he wanted to get a dog or cat or both. You wanted to ask him about the future and it was that moment—as you watched as he twirled one of his little cousins around the dancefloor—that you realised you loved him. You really fucking loved him.

It had scared you so much that you had found yourself wanting to pull away. You felt the need to cling to Steve after that. You felt as though you wouldn’t be content until you were able to crawl into his skin and live inside of it. Steve never seemed to mind—he always smiled when you would reach out to hold his hand during dinners. He didn’t seem to mind when you would cuddle up to him during a movie. How you always greeted him with a hug. But there was that little voice in the back of your head—the one that sounded suspiciously like your ex-boyfriend—that told you to stop being clingy. A voice that told you that if you wanted Steve to not grow tired and annoyed at your need to touch him every five seconds, then you needed to pull back.

And so—you did.

Steve Harrington was starting to wonder if he had done something wrong.

He had noticed how you were beginning to pull away from him. He noticed how when he had picked you up from work the other day that you didn’t hug him. How you didn’t even lean over the centre console to kiss his cheek the way you usually did. How the last time you went out for dinner you didn’t hold his hand beneath the table. How you didn’t reach for his hand as you walked down the street together. How you seemed to stop reaching from him entirely.

Steve felt it—especially now when you were sitting on the other side of the couch instead of curled up next to him, your head resting against his chest as one of your hands slipped beneath his shirt to trace patterns on his skin. Run your fingers through the hair on his chest.

But instead, your hands were tucked beneath your thighs—a respectable gap between the two of you. One that felt more like a chasm than just the space between you. It makes Steve feel on edge. Makes him think about Nancy—how she had pulled away from him. How he didn’t even realise it was happening until it was too late. The thought makes Steve look over at you—makes him think about everything he could have done wrong over the past two weeks. 

Was it that time he had forgotten to get the chocolate you wanted from Bradley’s? Was it that he hadn’t taken you to see the fifth Friday the 13th movie before had stopped showing at the movie theatres? Was it that he hadn’t noticed your new haircut the other day?

“You okay?” Steve finally asks you—trying to sound normal, like he wasn’t spiralling on the other side of the couch. Like he wasn’t losing his damn mind because you weren’t touching him.

You turn to look at Steve, your eyes softening slightly when you look at him because all you wanted to do was curl up on his lap. Kiss his stupidly handsome face. Tell him that you loved him.

But the thought of Steve growing tired of you—of thinking you needy, or clingy or suffocating—it kept you rooted to the spot.

“Yeah,” you say finally, looking away from him and back at the movie you were watching. “I’m okay.”

You don’t elaborate. You don’t trust yourself. Don’t trust that you won’t drop the L bomb if you look at those big brown eyes of his for a second longer.

Steve nods—his throat feeling tight as he watches your expression carefully. He notices how you tense your jaw, how your eyes are a little glassy. Part of Steve—the part of him that remembered how Nancy had pushed away his affection—told him not to press you. To just let things be. You’d talk to him when you were ready.

But the other part of him—the part that knew he loved you—told him not to do that. Told him to not let you dwell on whatever it was bothering you.

Steve finds the remote behind one of the sofa cushions between you and he turns off the TV before he could second guess himself.

You blink—looking over at Steve in confusion.

“Why did you—”

“—I don’t think you’re being entirely honest with me,” Steve interjects, setting down the remote on the coffee table before he turns his body to face you fully. His hands twitch as though itching to reach for you.

You swallow, looking at him properly now and seeing how his face twists with worry and concern and you feel something that feels an awful lot like guilt settling in your gut. Because he was right—you weren’t being honest with him.

So you say nothing, you look at him as you wait for the inevitable—for him to tell you that you were too much. That you were too needy. Too clingy. Too suffocating.

But he doesn’t say that. Instead—he leans over to you, wraps his fingers around both your wrists to pull your hands out from under your thighs. Then—he laces his fingers through yours without breaking eye contact. It does funny things to your heart. Makes your stomach feel fluttery.

“Something’s up,” he murmurs, lifting your hand so he could kiss the knuckles on your right hand. Then, he does the same with your left. Eyes never leaving yours. “Tell me. Please. Whatever it is—I promise you, it’s okay.”

His voice is so soft, so tender, so loving that you want to be wrapped up in it. You wanted to be cocooned by his gentle words and velvety voice until you felt okay again.

“It’s silly,” you whisper finally, so quietly that Steve has to scoot closer to you on the couch—that carefully constructed space between the two of you lessening.

“Baby, if something is bothering you—it’s not silly,” he says, so matter of factly it makes your face warm. “Especially if it’s something that I’ve done.”

You look at Steve, brows furrowed in utter confusion. “Something you’ve done?”

Steve nods, squeezing your hands gently. “Yeah. I mean—I must have done something wrong. You’ve been so distant lately. You don’t touch me the way you usually do.”

Your breath hitches, you worry your bottom lip between your teeth as your fingers twitch against his.

“I just—” you begin, trying to find the words but struggling as your fear of rejection comes bubbling dangerously close to the surface. “—I just didn’t want you to think I was too needy or clingy. I don’t want you getting sick of me.”

Steve looks at you for a long, long moment before his face breaks out into a smile. For one horrifying moment, you think that he’s going to laugh at you. But then, he gently lifts one hand to cup your cheek. Holding your face as though you were made of something precious.

“Sick of you?” Steve murmurs, his thumb gently rubbing over your cheek as his eyes danced over your face. “Baby—I can’t get enough of you.”

“You say that now but—”

But Steve is already shaking his head, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your nose. He then places one on your forehead. Another to your left cheek—then your right. Before he finally places a gentle but firm kiss to your lips. One that takes your breath away. One that you lean into and kiss him back before you could let doubt seep in.

Just as your hands reach up to grip the front of his shirt, he pulls away and you let out a small whine at the loss of his lips. Steve smiles at that but looks at you with an almost stern gaze.

“But nothing,” Steve says finally. “I don’t know who the hell has made you think that you could ever be too much but they were wrong. They were so fucking wrong. I love that you want to touch me all the time. I love knowing that you want me—I love that you make it known that you want me—that you can’t go five minutes without a kiss.”

The concerns of your mouth twitch, looking back at him as his thumb continues to gently caress your cheek. “I think five minutes is a stretch,” you mumble.

Steve smiles, rolling his eyes before he places a chaste kiss to your lips that you find yourself wanting to melt into.

“I think it’s accurate,” he murmurs against your lips before he pulls away to look at you carefully.

It’s quiet then for a few moments, him just looking at you and you leaning into his touch like it was all you ever needed.

“I need you to know something,” Steve says, breaking the almost silence between you. “I need you to know that—that you could never be too much for me. Never. You are—fuck, baby—you’re my favourite person. I could never get tired of my favourite person. I want to be near you all the fucking time. I’m like the most pathetic guy because of you—Robin and Dustin tell me that all the time—how much I talk about you. How many times I have this stupid smile on my face when I’m thinking about you.”

You bite back a smile, your chest feeling warm and eyes beginning to sting a little because you had never been wanted like this. Steve notices and wipes your tears away before they could fall.

“You—are never going to be too much for me,” Steve tells you. “Never, baby. I mean that.”

You’re speechless—genuiely speechless. 

And the only thing you can think to say is—

“I love you.”

Steve’s thumb stops brushing over your skin. His eyes widened. His heart might have even stopped beating.

For a split second, he says nothing. You think the worst. That you had said it too soon, that you misunderstood his speech as something more—

But then Steve is kissing you and all you can think about is him. About Steve and his hands that still held you as though you were made of gold. Steve and his ridiculously perfect hair that only you were allowed to mess up.

He pulls away—though it’s clear he doesn’t want to from the way his breathing is erratic. The way his forehead presses against yours.

“I wanted to say it first,” Steve whispers.

“Too slow,” you say quietly with a small smile.

He laughs and then—he’s kissing you all over again. The space between you is nonexistent as he pulls you onto his lap. As his hands find your waist and yours find their way into his hair.

“For the record,” Steve says as he pulls away for a moment to catch his breath. “I love you too. More than you love me.”

You laugh and it’s a sound Steve hopes to never forget. And you? Well—you don’t question whether Steve Harrington thought that you were too much ever again.

dividers by @cursed-carmine

[lannegarrett]

[64mpg]

once i am perfect in every conceivable way i will be happy i can feel it

[64mpg]

i love this sentence thank you. so excited to become perfect!

[somnolentsuggestions]

looking up at night and realizing omg !!!!! stars !!!! - i dont think i’ll ever outgrow that

[levanswrites]

𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

pairing: steve harrington x reader word count: 12k summary: five-year-old steve harrington hates the hamptons—until he meets a barefoot girl with a bucketful of shells and becomes stevie. a coming-of-age story about first friendships, pinky promises, and falling in love, one summer at a time. warnings: 18+ mdni, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), childhood best friends to lovers, oldmoney!steve, coming-of-age, vignette storytelling, first kiss, loverboy baby steeb!, heavy angst, slow burn, canon divergence, his parents are godawful in this one, character study as always, happy ending | playlist | moodboard

Steve Harrington is 5 years old when he decides that the Hamptons are the worst place in the entire world.

He knows this because he’s been here for one whole hour and he already wants to go home.

At least, he thinks it’s been an hour. The numbers on his new watch are shiny and hard to read, and the leather strap feels too heavy on his arm. It keeps sliding down like it’s trying to escape.  

Steve kind of hopes it does.

If it slides off completely, down through the cracks in the porch and into the sandy dirt below, then maybe the ocean will take it. The ocean takes lots of things. Shells, seaweed, shiny bits of glass, baby turtles.

Maybe it could take him, too.

Maybe he could float on the blue waves all the way back home.

Not Hawkins—Hawkins is full of grown-ups who bend down too close, their eyelashes like moving spiders as they pinch his cheeks and say, Oh, Catherine, he looks just like Daniel already, doesn’t he?

No. Steve wants to go home to his room. Where all his dinosaurs live. Where his blue night-light makes everything soft and underwater-colored. Where no one tells him Smile, Stephen, or Be polite, Stephen, or For heaven’s sake, Stephen, stop fidgeting.

His new sandals hurt. Bad. The buckle is sharp and keeps poking the soft part of his ankle every time he moves. His shirt itches him everywhere—his neck, his sides, his armpits—and no amount of wriggling seems to help.

He tugs at the collar, trying to make it stop.

His mom’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“Stephen, sweetheart, keep still.”

He tries. He really, really does.

But all around him, the grown-ups are being very loud. They stand in little circles, laughing these big, sharp HA-HA-HA laughs that poke straight into his ears. Every time his dad says something, it’s like someone presses a button and they all explode at once.

Someone tells his mom how tall Steve’s getting. Someone else winks at his dad and keeps saying the word “Princeton,” which Steve thinks might be a kind of car, but it makes his dad laugh loudly and look at Steve with a funny smile.

Another woman bends down and tells him he’s going to “break so many hearts one day.”

Steve frowns.

Why would he do that?

He likes hearts.

Hearts are for loving, not hurting.

He looks past the grown-ups—past the chairs and tables and the flowers that smell too strong—toward the tiny slice of ocean peeking between the dunes. Blue and shiny and very, very far away.

He wants it.

Wants to touch the sand with his bare feet. Wants water he’s allowed to splash in.  

Wants a summer that belongs to him instead of everyone else.

His mom squeezes his shoulder again. “Posture, Stephen. Stand up straight.”

He thinks maybe that’s his name now: Posture Stephen.

“I am standing straight,” he mutters.

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.”

He wants to run.

Run until the HA-HA-HA sounds disappear. Run until nobody’s watching him. Run until he hits the water.

So when his mom gets called over by someone waving a fancy glass, and his dad tells another joke that makes everyone explode-laugh again—

Steve sneaks away.

He’s fast and light, like a ninja.

He slips between chairs, tiptoes down the wooden steps, and as soon as the dunes come into view, he runs.

The sand squishes under his feet, and Steve sighs so big his whole chest feels lighter. He breathes in deep, holding as much salty air as his lungs can fit.

The beach is huge. Bigger than his school playground. Bigger than Hawkins, even. Tall grasses wave on the dunes like they’re saying hello, and beyond them is nothing but water—blue and green and silver, stretching all the way to forever.  

The ocean roars, but it’s a good sound. A soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that fills his ears without hurting them.

On his way toward the water, he finds a stick.

A really good stick. Long and a little pointy on one end.

It could be a cool pirate sword. He’s gonna use it to make the biggest hole in the world.

He plops down, criss-cross-applesauce, and starts digging. Sand sticks to his shorts, but that’s okay. He can say he tripped later.

He stabs the stick into the ground and drags it out.

The sand slides back in.

He digs again.

Slides back in again.

He huffs and tosses the stick away.

“This is dumb,” he mutters. “You’re dumb.” He means the hole. And the stick. And the sandals. And maybe the whole world.

He’s just about to flop onto his back and stare at the sky, because that usually gets someone to notice him—

When a shadow falls over his hole.

“What’re you doing?”   

Steve looks up.

It’s a girl. About his age.

You stand there, barefoot, hair wild like you ran through ten windstorms. Sand is smudged on your cheek like face paint. He stares at your toes curling happily in the sand and feels a sharp pinch of jealousy.

You drop a bright plastic bucket beside him. It’s full of shells and rocks and something that moves.

A crab lifts its tiny claws and clicks at him.

Steve jerks back. You don’t.

Instead, you plant your hands on your hips and squint down at him like you’ve known him forever.

“You’re not diggin’ right.” you announce.

He blinks. “…I’m not?”

“Nope.” You point at the hole with your whole arm. “Sand’s too dry. It just falls in. You gotta use wet sand.”

“Oh.” He feels silly for not knowing that. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do.” You plop down beside him. Your knees are dirty, covered in scratches and tiny dots from the sand, but you don’t seem to care. “Wanna see how?”

Nobody ever asks him that.

Nobody ever asks him if he wants to see something.

He nods fast. “Yeah.”

You grin and grab his hand, yanking him up so quickly he stumbles.

“I-I’m Steve,” he blurts as he gets dragged toward the ocean, because he knows he’s supposed to introduce himself to new people.

You tell him your name proudly. Then you tilt your head, thinking.

“Can I call you Stevie?”

“Stevie?”

“Yeah! My mom’s favorite singer’s named Stevie.”

Steve thinks about it.

Nobody’s ever given him a nickname before.

It feels special. Like a secret.

“Okay,” he nods, smiling.

You beam and tug him toward the water. “C’mon, Stevie!”

Stevie.

He likes it.

Loves it.

It feels like the sun just turned on inside his chest.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 6 years old when summers suddenly mean everything.

The Hamptons stop being itchy shirts and sharp laughs that hurt his ears.

They become you.

Summer means you. It means your laugh, your bucket full of strange treasures, your hair decorated with seashells “because it looks cool.” It means your brave, bossy voice telling him what to do, but always in a fun way.  

Every month of the school year, Steve waits.

And every night before bed, he lines his stuffed dinosaurs up by his pillow and tells them stories about the beach. About the girl with the crab bucket and the sand-matted hair the wind couldn’t catch. About how you call him Stevie because it’s the name of your mom’s favorite singer. About how you don’t care when he wiggles, or gets dirty, or says some words wrong.

When his mom asks if he’s excited for the Hamptons, he just shrugs. “I guess.”

But inside, his chest feels all tight and fizzy, like a soda can he’s not supposed to open yet: Coca-Cola, his favorite.

The whole flight to New York, Steve squints at the numbers on his watch, trying to decide if the big hand is halfway or not. He’s still not very good at telling the time, but he knows enough to know the flight feels like forever.

He ends up staring out the little oval window instead, at clouds that look like giant dinosaur eggs. He wonders if you’d think so, too. He’ll ask you when he sees you.

If he sees you.

What if you aren’t there this year? What if you forgot him?

The thought makes his stomach feel all wiggly and twisty. He doesn’t like it.

He hopes you’re there. He hopes you didn’t forget him.

The moment the car turns onto the long, winding road toward the summer house, Steve scoots forward as far as the belt lets him, pressing his face to the window. When he sees the ocean shining in the distance like a giant blue secret, his chest gets so tight he can hardly breathe.

He can’t wait. He can’t.

He barely waits for the car to stop.

“Stephen! Shoes! Your shoes are going to—oh, for heaven’s sake…”

He doesn’t listen. He takes the steps two at a time, sandals smacking hard against the wood.

He’s taller now. A whole two inches and a half, thank you very much.

He’s faster, too. Knows he is. He’s been practicing during recess, racing Tommy H. behind the swings.

He leaps off the last step and skids into the sand—

“STEVIE!”

He spins around so fast the world blurs.

You’re barreling toward him at top speed. Sand spraying behind you, hair flying everywhere. Your bucket bangs against your knee as you run, rattling and clanking and sounding even fuller than last year.

Steve’s face splits into the biggest grin he’s ever had.

You crash into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, and the force of it nearly knocks him onto his back.

“HI! Stevie, Stevie—you gotta see this shell I found! Wait, hang on—”

You pull back just far enough to dig frantically through your bucket, dumping half of it into the sand. Rocks tumble out. Then a string of green, slimy seaweed. You grab something big and lumpy and shove it up toward his face.

“See?”  

Steve blinks.

The shell is huge, bigger than his whole hand. Pale pink and creamy white, spiraled tight at one end and opening wide at the other. The outside is dotted with rounded little spikes that feel rough when he traces his fingers over them, but the inside is smooth and shiny.

“That’s really cool,” he says, because everything you do is cool. “It kind of looks like…” He squints hard, turns it sideways. “…a horn?”

Your eyes light up. “Yeah! Like a unicorn.”

He smiles. “Or a dinosaur.” 

“That’s better,” you nod seriously. “Okay now listen!”

Before he can ask what you mean, you press the wide end right against his ear. It’s cold and sandy against his cheek.

“…What’s it do?”

“Just listen.”

He holds very still, not sure what he’s supposed to be listening for.

And then—

Whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.

His eyes go huge.

“Whoa,” he breathes.

“Cool, right?”

“It’s loud.”

“That’s the ocean.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s stuck in there.”

You drop the shell into his hands and curl his fingers around it. “Keep it.”

He frowns. “But… you found it.”

“It’s okay.” You shrug like it’s obvious. “I’ll find another one. The beach has, like, a million.”

He looks down at the shell again, then back at you. His chest feels funny, all warm and full. It feels good. Really good.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, squinting out toward the water. “Wanna see something even cooler?”

Of course he does.

⚓︎

You drag him everywhere.

To tide pools where little fish zip and hide under wet rocks and the seaweed shimmers in the water. Look, look, a crab!

To a secret hideout between the dunes where the grass grows taller than your heads. This way, Stevie!

To the treasure spot, because every beach has one if you know how to look. You draw an X in the sand with a stick and make a crooked map with squiggly lines and arrows. Quick, Stevie, dig! We have to find the gold before the sea monsters come!

You show him your jar full of hopping sand bugs. One brushes his thumb and he squeaks.

You laugh. He stands up straighter and pretends he wasn’t scared.

You even show him your Very Important rock collection. which is a big deal because you don’t show anyone your rocks—not even your cousins, who are “mean poop-heads who don’t appreciate cool stuff.”

Later, you’re sitting in the sand, sorting shells by color—white pile, pink pile, stripey pile—when you tell him you’re flying back to California when the summer’s over.

“Cal-ee-for-nee-yah,” you say proudly.

Steve blinks. “Why?”

“That’s where my house is.” You shrug. “I stay here with my aunt in the summer.”

“Oh.” He digs his toe into the sand. “So… you’re goin’ away?”

“Just for school.” You glance at him. “I’ll come back. I’ll always come back.”

He looks at you fast, careful, like maybe it’s a trick. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When?”

“Next summer.”

He thinks about that. A whole year sounds really long, but summers always come back. They have to.

“You promise?”

“Promise,” you nod, sticking out your pinky.

He hooks his around yours immediately, serious as anything. Pinky promises are the strongest kind. Everybody knows that.

“Okay,” he says, finally breathing again. Then his forehead scrunches.

“Where’s… um…” He sticks his tongue out, trying to remember how you said it. “Cal… Cal-uh-for-nee… Cal-uh-for-na?” He shakes his head, mad that he can’t say it right.

You smile. “Yeah! It’s super, super far. You gotta take two planes.”

“Oh.” He nods slowly. Two planes sounds like forever.

You tell him it’s hotter there. That the trees are huge and tall, with giant leaves like green fireworks stuck in the sky.

You tell him the beaches there are bigger. Way bigger.

Steve looks out at the miles of Hamptons shoreline and frowns. “How?”

“They just are,” you insist, tossing a shell onto the striped pile. “And people surf there.”

“What’s that?”

You squint up at the sky. “It’s like… flying. But on water. They stand on boards and go really, really fast.”

Steve blinks, tries to imagine it.  

Flying… but on water.

He knows you can’t fly. Birds can. Planes can. People can’t.

And you definitely can’t stand on water. He tried once in the bathtub. You just sink.

His mouth twists.

“That’s not real,” he says, sure of it.

You scrunch your nose, lip jutting out. “It is too!”  

You shove him—not hard, just enough that he flops backward into the sand with a surprised oof.

For half a second, his stomach drops. Maybe he did something wrong.

He stares up at you, eyes wide, waiting for your face to go tight like grown-ups’ faces when he messes up.

But you’re laughing.

Bright and easy, like nothing’s wrong at all.

Sand sprays as you jump up and spin away, yelling over your shoulder, “Race you to that big rock!”

And you’re gone before he can say wait up.

The tight feeling in his chest disappears.

He scrambles up, laughing too, chasing after you with everything he’s got. Legs burning, sandals slipping, but he doesn’t care.  

It’s perfect.

It’s the best day of his whole life.

Until you fall.

It happens so fast.

One second you’re running ahead of him, laughing, hair flying everywhere.

The next, you stumble over a hard patch in the sand and go down hard.

“Ow!”

Steve skids to a stop so fast he almost falls too. His heart leaps into his throat.

He drops beside you right away. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Oh no, oh no—” His eyes dart all over you, scared and frantic. There’s a smear of red mixed with the sand on your knee. His breath catches.

“Your... your knee,” he whispers.

You sniffle, lip wobbling. “H-hurts.”

It’s the worst word he’s ever heard.

“It’s okay,” he says fast, even though his hands are shaking. He reaches for your arm, then stops, afraid he’ll make it worse if he touches you wrong. “It’s okay. I can fix it. I know how.”

You look up at him, eyes shiny. “…You do?”

He nods hard. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t really know. But his mom fixed his knee once after he fell off his bike. He remembers the cold wipe. The sting. The band-aid after.

“I’m gonna get the band-aid box,” he blurts, pointing up at the house. “I’ll be super fast. I promise.”

“O-okay.”

Before he runs, he leans in and gives you a quick, careful hug around your shoulders, making sure not to touch your knee. It always makes him feel better when you hug him.

“I’ll be fast,” he promises again. “Really fast.”

And then he sprints.

He sprints like he’s never sprinted in his life.

Across the beach, up the steps, through the house, ignoring the sharp call of “Stephen! Shoes!” as he dives into the bathroom.

He drops to his knees and yanks open the cabinet under the sink. He grabs the entire first aid kit, almost the size of his head, and runs back with it rattling in his arms.

You’re still there when he gets back, sitting exactly where he left you.

“I got it!” he pants.

He flips the kit open, hands clumsy, trying to remember how his mom did it. He finds a wipe, tears it open, and gently presses it to your knee—

You hiss and pull back.   

“Sorry!” His eyes go wide. “Sorry, sorry! I’ll do it softer.”

He leans down and blows carefully on your knee.

“Better?”

“…Yeah,” you sniff. “A little.”

He nods, relieved. He wipes as fast and gentle as he can, tongue poking out while he concentrates. Then he grabs a band-aid, peeling it open with his teeth because his fingers won’t work right. He sticks it on crooked, pressing the edges down with both thumbs.

“There,” he breathes, nodding to himself. “All done.”

When he looks up, your eyes are huge and your mouth is open like you just saw a unicorn.

“Hey, are you oka—oof!”

All the air is knocked out of him when you lunge forward, both arms wrapping tight around his neck.

A warm, squishy, full-body hug.

“You’re the nicest boy ever,” you mumble into his shoulder.

Steve freezes.

His ears go hot. His whole chest feels too full, like it might pop.

No one’s ever said that to him before.

“Oh... okay,” he whispers, because he can’t think of any other words.

He hugs you back, being careful and gentle.

And inside him, something huge and glowing starts to form.

Something he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he knows he will carry it with him forever.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 10 years old when he realizes he’ll never forget you.

It’s the end-of-the-summer fireworks festival.

He sprints down the familiar sandy path, sneakers thudding, two glass bottles of Coca-Cola clinking together in his hand. A crinkly bag of potato chips is tucked tight under his arm—salt and vinegar, your favorite, even though they make your mouth pucker and your nose wrinkle.

His heart thumps in that way it always does during the very last week of summer, when everything fun is happening all at once—and also ending.

He knows you’re there, waiting for him.

You always are.

Your spot is exactly where it’s been for five summers now: a small dip between two grassy dunes, hidden from the rest of the beach. The sand curves around it like arms, blocking the wind and the noise from the crowd.

You’re sitting on your blanket, legs crossed, tongue poking out as you carefully tie pieces of sea grass together into a bracelet.

When you see him, your whole face lights up.

“Stevie! You got it!”

“’Course I did,” he grins, holding up the chips. “My mom wouldn’t stop talking to Mrs. Aldridge about… I dunno. Hair stuff? It took forever.”

“That’s ’cause grown-ups love being boring,” you say, scooting over. “Sit, sit! The first one’s gonna happen any second.”

He flops down beside you, and you shuffle closer until your shoulder presses against his.

Closer than last year, he thinks.

Your hand brushes his knee when you reach for the snacks. Steve pretends he doesn’t notice, but he notices like crazy.

The first firework explodes with a loud crack, red sparks bursting across the sky.

You gasp, sharp and happy, and grab his hand without thinking.

Your fingers slide between his.

Steve looks down, startled.

Your palm is warm, a little sweaty. His own hand is rough in spots, scraped from climbing the rope at recess back home and picking at scabs he shouldn’t. Your thumb rests right against it.

You don’t let go.

He definitely does not let go.

“Whoa,” you whisper as the sparks fade. “Did you see that? It looked like a flower.”

“Yeah,” Steve says.

But he’s not looking at the sky at all.

The fireworks flash over your face, turning your eyes all sorts of bright, pretty colors: blue, then gold, then pink. Your nose scrunches when one pops extra bright. Every time a big one crackles, you squeeze his hand tighter.

So he squeezes back.

Carefully at first. Then a little braver.

Green fireworks shoot out like tree branches, spiraling high into the dark, but he only really notices because they shine in your eyes.

You’re brighter.

You’re always brighter.

When the sky goes dark for a second and everything is quiet, you turn to him.

“Hey, Stevie?” you whisper.

“Ye-ah?” His voice cracks halfway through. That’s been happening a lot lately. He clears his throat fast and hopes you didn’t hear it.

You smile at him.

“You’re my best friend.”

His stomach flips, like that time he went on the biggest roller coaster at Indiana Beach and thought he might fly right out of his seat.

He sits up a little straighter, squeezing your hand.

“You’re mine too,” he blurts. “Like—like the most. Outta everyone. In the whole world.”

Your face breaks into the biggest smile yet, and before he can think about it, you lean in and wrap your arms around his neck.

A hug.

It feels familiar. But also different.

Bigger. Like it means more than it used to, even if he doesn’t know why.

He hugs you back right away, pressing his nose into your hair. You smell like sunscreen and grape popsicles and the ocean.

“You’re the best, Stevie,” you whisper into his shoulder. “The best ever.”

That fluttery feeling in his stomach comes back, stronger this time. He swallows, nods even though you can’t see it.

“You too,” he says quietly, squeezing you just a little tighter.

Then, just as you pull back, you press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Barely there.

But it feels like something exploding inside his chest.

His face goes burning hot. He’s really glad it’s dark, because he’s pretty sure his cheeks are as red as the fireworks.

Up above, the finale roars to life: fountains of silver streaking upward, bursting into brilliant gold that lights up the entire beach.

You turn back to watch like nothing happened, scooting closer until your head tips and rests against his shoulder.

Steve freezes.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

When he finally has to, he does it slowly, careful not to move an inch. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your breath is warm against his neck when you let out a small, sleepy sigh.

The fireworks crash and boom overhead, sparkling like giant flowers.

Steve stares at the sky, heart pounding, feeling something change inside him.

Something big.

It’s the first time he understands something he’s never felt before.

Steve Harrington is ten years old when he falls in love with his best friend in the whole world.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 12 years old when everything gets... weird.

He’s a lot taller now, second tallest out of the boys his class. He’s faster, stronger. His shoulders are broader, his arms a little longer than he expects when he stretches them out. His hair brushes the tops of his ears, and he kind of likes it that way, even though his mom keeps telling him it’s time for a trim.

And his voice... his voice keeps doing that awful, traitorous squeak. Especially when he’s around you.

But none of that really matters.

Because you’re here.

You’re back.

And you’re different, too.

Not in a big, obvious way. You still run like you’ve got rocket boosters strapped to your ankles. You still crouch by tide pools and whisper to crabs like they’re old friends. You still call him Stevie in the exact same way.

But now...

Now you lean on him sometimes when you sit together. You don’t move away when your knees touch. Now your eyes flick to his mouth when he’s talking, and Steve doesn’t really know what that means, but he knows it means something.

The wind is steady and warm today, bending the dune grass in lazy waves. The two of you sit cross-legged in your secret spot, the same hidden hollow you’ve shared since you were five. Piles of shells and weird rocks you swear might be fossils are scattered between you.

You hand him a perfectly round one with swirls. “This one looks like Neptune,” you declare.  

Steve nods, even though the only thing he knows about Neptune is that it's blue.

He’s not looking at the rock, anyway.

You’re telling him a story about a crab you swear was as big as a dog. You stretch your arms out to demonstrate the size, ridiculously wide.

“Stevie, I swear,” you insist. “Its claws were this big. Could’ve snipped your big toe off.”

Steve nods along, trying to focus on the part where he should laugh.  

But he can’t stop staring.

At the color of your eyes in the sunlight. At the way the breeze lifts strands of your hair and drops them back against your cheek. At the curve of your mouth when you get excited.

He feels weird all the time now. Fluttery and unsteady, like the moment at the top of a roller coaster right before it drops. It happens every time he looks at you, or thinks about you, which is basically always.

He’s thinking about how pretty the sun looks reflecting off your skin, how it catches the little beads of water on your cheek and makes them glint like tiny stars, when suddenly—

You go quiet.

Really quiet.

Steve’s stomach tightens instantly.

You’re never quiet unless you’re asleep or thinking about pulling a prank on him. He stiffens, glancing around for whatever bug or crab you might’ve hidden.

There’s nothing.

You’re just… looking at him.

“Hey, Stevie?” you say softly.

His throat makes a weird clicking noise. “Yeah?”

You scoot closer. Your knee presses against his leg and doesn’t move away.

Your voice drops to a whisper. “I’m gonna do something. Don’t freak out.”

He’s already freaking out. He doesn’t think he’s ever freaked out this much in his entire life.

“O-okay,” he manages.

You nod once, take a tiny breath, lean forward—

And you kiss him.

Right on the mouth.

His first kiss.

Your lips are soft and warm. They press against his for just a second, shorter than a blink, gone before he can react.

You pull back, eyes still closed. Steve is frozen, eyes wide open, mouth puckered.

Your nose crinkles when you open your eyes and see him.

“Stevie,” you giggle. “Close your mouth!”

He snaps it shut so fast his teeth click together.

You completely lose it, laughing as you fall sideways into the sand.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “You looked like a fish!”

He groans, mortified, covering his face with both hands as he flops down next to you. “Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry!” you say, laughing harder. “I’m not—it’s just—”

He peeks through his fingers, smiling despite himself. He loves the sound of your laugh, even when it’s at his expense.

When your giggles finally soften, you scoot closer on your back until you’re nose to nose, lined up from shoulder to ankle.

Steve turns his head to look at you.

Up close, he can see the little grains of sand stuck to your forehead, the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. His face burns.

“Is…” His voice cracks again, and he swallows. “Is it okay if we… do that again?

Your smile is huge and immediate. “Yeah. I wanna.”

This time, he leans in first.

And this time, he’s ready.

He closes his eyes. Keeps his lips together. Moves slow and careful. His nose bumps your cheek, squishing awkwardly from the angle, and you break into giggles again, turning the kiss wobbly and messy.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling the exact same way.

“Oh my god, your face is so red.”

“It’s—it’s because it’s hot out,” he stammers.

“Nope. It’s you.”

You reach up and ruffle his hair, messing it up completely.  

“Hey!” he sputters, batting at your hand.

You climb halfway on top of him, not really tackling, just laughing, squirming, wrestling in that loose, joyful way where nobody’s trying to win, and he'd let you anyway.

You’re both out of breath by the time you flop back onto the sand, laughing so hard it hurts.

Steve throws an arm over his face, smiling wide, everything dizzy and bright.

The wind brushes over him. The sun hums overhead.

After a while, you stretch your pinky toward him.

He feels it tap against his hand and hooks it without even looking.

“Promise we’ll hang out every summer,” you say.

“That’s easy,” he answers immediately. “Promise.”

Then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, suddenly serious.

“Actually, next time, I’m gonna bring something.”

Your eyes go bright. “Like what?”

“It’s a secret.”

You shove him lightly. “What? Tell me!”

“Nope.” He flops back onto the sand, grinning. “You gotta wait.”

You groan dramatically at the sky, pinky still tangled in his. 

“I hate you.”

He closes his eyes, smiles at the sun.

“No you don’t.”

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 13 years old when his world stops for the first time.

It happens on a warm June morning, with sunlight slanting through tall windows and the smell of pancakes drifting through the house.

He starts the day happy.

He hums as he packs, can’t help it. He doesn’t even care that his room’s a disaster: swimsuits tossed over the chair, T-shirts half-folded, socks everywhere.

On his desk sits a small shoe box.

He pauses in front of it.

Inside are the things you’ve given him over the years. Precious, timeless treasures.

The spiral shell shaped like a dinosaur horn. The seaweed bracelet, brittle now, faded pale from time. The smooth blue stone you said looked like Neptune.  

He picks up each thing carefully, touches it, turns it over in his hand.  Then he puts them back exactly how they were and closes the lid.

The box goes into the bottom drawer, where it’s safe.

Then he picks up his gift.

It’s clumsy. Strung together with twine, wrapped messily in torn comic-book pages because he couldn’t find real wrapping paper. The corners are taped crooked, the edges uneven. He’s worked on it for years, adding to it bit by bit every summer, telling himself next year every time.

But this year feels different.

This year, he thinks he can give them to you.

He’s even written his address on the top one—carefully, in his neatest handwriting—so maybe you could write to him in California. You’re smart. You’d know how.

He smooths the edges with nervous fingers.

He’s practiced what he’ll say all week.

Hey, these are for you. Too boring.

You can have these, or whatever. Too nothing.

You mean everything to me. Too much. Way too much.

He settles on a smile instead.

You always say he has a nice one, that he smiles with his whole face, that his eyes squish up “like a happy chipmunk.”

No one else ever says things like that to him. Not the way you do.

He’s halfway through folding a beach towel when his mom’s voice floats up the stairs.

“Stephen? Breakfast.”

“Coming!” he calls, already jogging down barefoot, taking the steps two at a time, giddy.

His mom is in the kitchen, stirring her coffee neatly. His dad sits at the table with the newspaper spread wide.

“Hey, Mom,” Steve says, breathless. “Have you seen my hat? The one with the red stripe? I can’t find it.”  

She doesn’t look up.

“Stephen,” she says evenly, “we aren’t going to the Hamptons this summer.”

The world stops.

“...Huh?”

She sets her spoon down. “We’ve decided to do Europe instead.”

For one second, he thinks it’s a joke. He lets out a short, confused laugh and looks at his dad.

His throat goes tight when nobody smiles.

“What?” Steve croaks.

“You’re thirteen now, Stephen,” his dad says, turning the page. “It’s time you saw culture. Real culture.”

“But...” Steve shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “But we always go to the Hamptons.”

“This will be good for you,” his mom says, smiling lightly. “Europe will be lovely.”

Lovely.

Like the sound of your laugh.

Like the colors of fireworks in your eyes.

Like the warmth of your hug when you called him the nicest boy ever.

“N-no, but—” His voice cracks. “But I have a friend.”

“You’ll make new ones.”

“You don’t understand,” he says, words tripping over each other, panic rising fast. “I have to—I promised—I told her I’d—”

His dad sighs, newspaper crinkling. “Stop whining.”

Steve flinches.

“I’m not whining,” he whispers.

His mom steps closer and smooths his hair back like he’s still little. “You’ll love Europe, darling. Now eat your breakfast. You can finish packing after.”  

Something hot and awful swells in his chest.

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to throw the coffee pot at the wall and watch it shatter.

Instead, he tries again.

“Please,” he begs, voice breaking completely now. “Please, Mom. We have to go. She’ll be waiting. I told her I’d come back. Just this year. Please.”

He promises to be good. That he won’t run off to the beach without permission. That he won’t complain during parties. He swears he’ll do more chores, stop arguing, get better grades. He’ll be perfect. He’ll be anything.

Anything.

“Stephen,” his father snaps, voice like a slammed door. “Drop it.”

Something inside Steve drops with it.

Falls.

Cracks.

Shatters.

⚓︎

He runs upstairs, slams his door and locks it. Drags his dresser in front of it with shaking arms. Slides down onto the carpet, breaths coming in sharp, broken pieces.

He doesn’t come out the rest of the day.

That night, he sleeps with your shell clutched in his hand, pressed tight against his ear. The ocean hums inside it. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s there—pretend you’re tugging his hand, pulling him toward the water.

Stevie, look!

He cries until his pillow is soaked.

⚓︎

The Hamptons house stays closed all summer; curtains drawn, doors locked, a whole season going on without him.

On the way to the airport, Steve presses his cheek to the car window and watches the world blur past.

He doesn’t know how to send a letter. He doesn’t know where in California you live.  

He can’t call. Can’t write. Can’t find you.

There is no treasure map back.  

Just sandcastles washed away by tides and a pinky promise he couldn’t keep.

He pictures you standing in the dunes, bucket in hand, looking over your shoulder.

Waiting.

Maybe you’re mad.

Maybe you’re worried.

Maybe you’re thinking he forgot you.

That thought hurts so badly he has to bite down on his knuckle to keep quiet.

⚓︎

In hotel rooms across Europe, Steve lies awake at night, staring at unfamiliar ceilings.

He tries not to cry.

Some nights, he fails.

But he does it silently, face shoved into a pillow, because boys his age aren’t supposed to do that anymore.

In Florence, he stares at the Arno River and thinks of the ocean. Wonders if you’re there right now, toes buried in the sand, waiting for him to complain that the water’s cold just so you can grab his wrist and drag him in, laughing.

In Paris, he watches fireworks bloom over the Eiffel Tower and feels sick.

Red, gold, and blue explodes across the sky, but all he can see is your eyes. Your hand laced through his, your head heavy and warm on his shoulder.

You’re my best friend.

He cries himself to sleep on expensive hotel sheets, muffling his sobs into Egyptian cotton until it’s dark with salt.

In dreams, he is flying.

The wide blue waters of California stretching endlessly below him, carrying him closer to you.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 15 years old when he learns how to disappear.

The hallways are packed tight with shouting and shrill laughter. Boys slam into each other on purpose. Everyone pretends they’re bigger, tougher, cooler than they were three months ago.

So Steve pretends, too.

He discovers the power of hairspray, learns how to make his hair work for him.

By October, everybody has an opinion about him. Mostly girls.

“Oh my god, Steve Harrington is so cute.” “Right? He looks taller than last year.” “Did you see his hair? Total dream.”

He smiles. He flirts. He jokes. He learns to be charming the way his father is at dinner parties—making people laugh, making them lean in close.

It works.

High school is a costume. And Steve Harrington wears it well.

⚓︎

One afternoon in P.E., Tommy Hagan decides Steve is “my best bud, actually.”

It happens after the 100-meter sprint. Steve wins without really trying, legs strong and fast from years of racing barefoot across sand dunes.

Tommy slaps him on the back hard enough to knock the air out of him.

“Harrington! Jesus, dude, you move.”

Steve grins, even though his shoulder stings.

Harrington. Not Stevie.

Tommy hooks an arm around his neck like they’ve been friends for years. Carol Perkins tells him she likes his hair.  

And for the first time since losing you, Steve feels something close to relief.

He’s not alone.

⚓︎

Sophomore year, someone calls him King Steve for the first time.

He laughs, because it sounds stupid.

But the name sticks, like gum on a shoe.

He’s captain of the swim team now. Sixteen years old and he’s already broken the state record for the 200-yard freestyle. His body does what he tells it to, and he likes that. Likes the rush of being good at something, the roar of the crowd every time he touches the wall first.

His parents are almost never home anymore. No more summer trips to Europe, or anywhere. They leave him with a credit card and a spotless house.

Steve makes it his personal mission to ruin that.

He throws the loudest, wildest parties he can, every chance he gets. Music shaking the walls. People jumping on furniture, spilling drinks, diving into the pool with all their clothes on.

Everyone loves the parties.

Everyone loves King Steve.

⚓︎

Steve has a drawer that no one opens.

Not his parents. Not the housekeeper. Not even him, most days.

The wood sticks when it’s pulled, swollen from years of humidity and neglect.

Inside it is a shoe box.

Shells. Rocks. A bracelet that doesn’t fit anymore.

Remains of summers he pretends not to remember.

Most nights, he leaves it alone.

But sometimes—when the house feels too big, when everyone’s gone home and the silence presses in—he opens the drawer.

Lifts the lid.

He doesn’t touch anything.

Just looks.

He wonders if you remember him.

If you still call him Stevie in your head.

If you ever think of those summers: the dunes, the fireworks, the scrape on your knee.

Then he closes the box. Slides it back into the dark.

In the morning, he is Harrington once again.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 18 years old when the letter finally arrives.

It sits on his desk for three days, unopened.

The envelope is thick, cream-colored and heavy. He knows what it says. He’s known since the phone call, since his coach clapped him on the shoulder and grinned, since the guidance counselor told him he should be so proud of himself.

He isn’t sure if he is.

On the fourth day, he carries it downstairs.

His father takes the packet without ceremony, skims the first page, and scoffs.

“California,” he says flatly.

Steve nods, throat tight. “They’ve got a really strong swim program.”

His father exhales through his nose and sets the packet down like it might stain the table.

“A public university. On the other side of the country.”

“It’s—” Steve clears his throat. “They offered me a scholarship.”

The look he gets says more than words ever could.

“Stephen,” his father says, tone perfectly level, “state schools are for kids who don’t have better options. California is lazy, full of idlers. It’s not the kind of place where you get serious about your future.”

Steve feels a familiar pressure building up in his chest, hand around his ribs, that same old relentless squeeze.

“Real academics are here, on the East Coast," his father continues. “Institutions with standards. History. You don’t see men running this country who went to beach schools.”

“Dad,” Steve says quietly. “I worked for this. I earned it.”

His father doesn’t even look up. “You were recruited. Because you can swim.”

Steve’s fingers curl around the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening beneath the table.

“I’m not paying for you to run off to California,” his father says, voice precise, final. “Just so you can throw parties and chase girls and waste your life on nonsense.”

The room shrinks.

For a moment, Steve is thirteen again.

Bare feet on cold tile, begging for one last summer.

Promising he’ll behave. Promising he’ll try harder. Promising he’ll be whatever they want him to be.

He really thought this time would be different. Thought being older meant they’d finally listen.

Something quiet settles inside him.

“Fine,” he says, pushing his chair back. “I’ll pay for it myself.”

His father lets out a short laugh. “With what money?”

Steve picks up the envelope. Feels its weight.

Possibility, distance, risk.

Hope.

“I’ll figure it out.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He goes upstairs and starts packing that night.

⚓︎

Numbers race furiously through his mind as he clears his room.

The scholarship covers some of the tuition, but not housing. Not books. Not fees.

He’ll start lifeguarding again in the summers. Take early morning shifts during the year, work weekends. Take out loans under his own name.

It won’t be easy.

But it will be his.

⚓︎

He loads his entire world into the BMW.

It doesn’t take long.

For someone who’s grown up with so much, there isn’t much that’s actually his.

Clothes. Swim trophies. His alarm clock. A framed photo from a family vacation he’s too young to remember: his parents smiling, arms around each other. He hesitates, then slides it into a box face-down.

The last thing he opens is the drawer.

It sticks, like it always does.

Inside is the shoe box.

And beneath it, the gift he never got to give you. Built slowly, carefully, over summers that feel like they happened to someone else now.

He tucks them both into his duffel bag, wedged between folded clothes so they won’t shift.

His father doesn’t come outside.

His mother stands at the edge of the driveway, watching him pack the car in silence. When he’s finished, she steps forward and smooths his collar the way she used to when he was little.

Then she presses a folded envelope into his hand.

It’s heavy.

He doesn’t open it. Just nods, gives her the best smile he can manage.

Closes the trunk.

Gets behind the wheel.

Looks west.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 20 years old when his world stops for a second time.

He likes California.

The weather, the people, the food. He likes the way the air always smells like the ocean here, the way winter barely exists. He never liked the cold anyway.

College is different in ways he didn’t know to expect. He’s found classes that actually interest him, professors who ask questions and wait for real answers.

He has friends now who say they’ll see him tomorrow and mean it. Who sit on the floor with him at two in the morning talking about nothing and everything: music, stupid theories, what they want to do after graduation, whether anyone really knows who they are yet.

He still gets tired sometimes.

Tired of himself. Tired of that old, hollow echo that never fully went away. But that weight isn’t constant anymore. It shifts. Recedes. It loosens its grip when he’s laughing with his roommates, tossing a beach ball across the sand, swimming lap after lap until his muscles burn and his mind goes quiet.    

The house is packed tonight.

Last party of the school year. Spilled soda, cheap perfume, summer sweat and warm beer. Music thunders through the walls. Bodies press together, shouting and laughing over the noise.

An older teammate claps him on the back. “Harrington! Hell of a party, man.”

Steve smiles, nods, laughs along.

Can’t shake off that feeling, still. That faint sense of displacement that hums under everything.  

He drifts through the crowd, eyes unfocused, letting motion and color wash over him. Someone nearly spills a drink on his shoes. Someone dances too close. It all registers. None of it sticks.

Then, he hears it.

A laugh.

Clear. Bright. A recognition that tightens his chest before his brain can catch up.

Steve turns slowly, frowning, not sure why his body is moving toward the sound.

Near the doorway, head tipped back in laughter, hair catching the light—

There’s a girl.

Not quite a stranger. Not quite someone he knows.

Familiar in the way a dream is: sharp in feeling, slippery in detail. Memories flicker past him, too fast to grab—the curve of a smile, the tilt of a head—dissolving like sand through his fingers.

He stares without meaning to.

You turn.

Your eyes find his.

Your drink freezes halfway to your lips. Confusion flickers across your face, soft and fleeting.

Then recognition.

Disbelief.

“...Stevie?”

Something in his chest detonates.

The hollow feeling he’s been carrying shatters into a thousand fragments of warmth and longing he didn’t know he’d been saving.

You step closer, eyes wide, face lit with a smile he hasn’t seen in years but never truly forgot.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, half-laughing. “It’s you.”

Steve can’t speak.

His throat closes. The world narrows.

He’s thirteen again, standing barefoot on cold tile, begging for a summer that never came.

He’s ten, sunburned and breathless, watching fireworks bloom in your eyes.

He’s six, running barefoot toward the sound of your laughter, sand sticking to his ankles.

He’s five, staring up at a girl with a bucketful of stolen seashells, telling him he’s digging wrong.

He’s a lonely kid on the beach, carving crooked shapes into the sand, waiting for someone to come find him.

And you did.

You always did.

The cup slips from his hand. Beer splashes across the floor, unnoticed.

He whispers your name.

A decade of wanting, released in one sound.

⚓︎

“...Hi.”

“...Hi.”

“How—”

“What—”

He laughs, scrubs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous in a way he hasn’t felt in years. His palms are damp, heart stumbling over itself.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I just—I can’t believe you’re actually—”

You surge forward and wrap your arms around his neck, tight enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Oh my god,” you whisper against his ear, voice breaking. “I missed you.”

For a second, Steve just stands there.

Stricken. Breathless. His brain lagging behind what his heart already knows.

Then his arms come up—slowly, instinctively, carefully folding around you. He lowers his head, presses his nose into your shoulder, breathing you in like proof.

He doesn’t say I missed you too.

It wouldn’t be enough. Wouldn’t come close. Wouldn’t touch the years, the distance, everything he’s lost and carried and never learned how to put down. How your memory has lived inside him like a second spine, holding him upright when nothing else did.

Instead, he tightens his grip and whispers:

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t say it’s okay.

But you let out a soft breath and pull him closer, arms firm around his shoulders.

And that, more than words, feels like forgiveness.

⚓︎

The place is called Scoops Ahoy. 

Steve hasn’t been inside it in years, but the second he steps through the door, it all comes rushing back.

The headache-bright fluorescents. The aggressively nautical theme: ropes and anchors, boat-shaped displays that never quite made sense. The faint, permanent stickiness of the floor, no matter how often it gets mopped.

He worked here his freshman year, back when he was desperate for cash and all the good jobs were taken by upperclassmen with better timing. It had been fine. Mind-numbing, but fine. The ice cream was decent if you ignored the décor and the way the lighting made everyone look a little sickly.  

At this hour, it’s dead.

Completely empty except for the girl working the register—short, sandy-brown hair, half-slouched over the counter as she flips through a comic, clearly counting down the seconds until closing.

But Steve can't bring himself to focus on any of it.

Because you’re here.

You’re actually here, leaning over the glass case, eyes flicking back and forth between flavors like this is the most important decision you’ve made all day. You bite your lip and his eyes follow the movement, unbidden.

He can’t stop staring.

The whole thing feels surreal, like a fever dream his brain stitched together out of old memories and wishful thinking.  

Like he might blink and you’ll disappear.

But the details are all the same.

The way you tilt your head when you’re thinking. The faint crease between your eyebrows when you’re overanalyzing something that really shouldn’t matter this much. The way your mouth presses into that familiar line when you can’t decide.

And when you glance back at him, eyes warm and expectant, that exact same light glows there. 

You smile. “What’re you getting?”

Steve blinks, realizing he’s been staring for way too long. He clears his throat and forces himself to look down at the ice cream like he hasn’t seen this exact lineup a hundred times before.

“Uh,” he says, squinting thoughtfully. “The salted caramel’s usually pretty good.”

“Ooh.” You nod, completely serious. “Yeah, that does sound good.”

He smiles before he can stop himself.

His eyes flick up to the menu on the wall, scanning for something he half-hopes they got rid of. But no—there it is, in all its over-the-top glory.

The Triple Decker Extravaganza.

“Why don’t we just get the sundae?” he offers. “That way you can pick whatever you want.”

You turn to him, eyes lighting up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “Go nuts.”

Your face brightens instantly, and something in his chest goes warm as he watches you lean forward again, picking out flavors, debating them out loud.

Steve just stands there, smiling like an idiot.

When he pulls out his wallet without thinking, you don’t stop him.

“Thanks,” you say softly, glancing at him.

“Don’t mention it.”

He shoots the girl behind the register an apologetic look as he pays, knows this order’s a nightmare. Hot fudge, caramel, whipped cream, cherries. Those stupid little sail-shaped cone pieces that always break in half. He slips an extra ten into the tip jar, and her expression improves instantly.

The sundae arrives in a ridiculous plastic boat, wobbling under the weight of it all.

You laugh, delighted, as Steve carefully carries it over to the counter by the window. You hop up onto a stool, legs swinging as you settle in.

Outside, the street is calm, washed in neon and soft sodium light. The glass reflects both of you faintly, past and present overlapping in double exposure.

Steve sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.

You start asking questions the same way you always did, listening like every answer matters.  

“What’s your major?”

“Business,” he shrugs, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “But… I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about switching. I like my psych classes way more than econ.”

“Really? What kind of psych?”

“Developmental stuff, mostly. Kids, families. That kind of thing.”

You nod, thoughtful, spoon hovering midair. “You’d be really great with kids.”

He lets out a surprised laugh. “Yeah? I mean... I don’t know.”

“No, I’m serious,” you insist, turning on your stool to face him. “You’ve always been patient. You’re a great listener. You care.”  

He blinks, goes quiet. Looks at you for a beat too long before remembering to glance away.

“Thanks… uh, what about you?”

You tell him about your classes, your roommates. The professor who assigns too much reading. The weird smell in your dorm hallway no one can identify. How the ocean never really gets old, even when you see it every day.

“So,” you ask eventually, tilting your head. “How’d you end up picking a school all the way out here?”

Steve stirs the melted ice cream with his spoon, not meeting your eyes.

“I don’t know. I mean, the scholarship helped, but I guess I just wanted somewhere warmer. Closer to the water.”

He doesn’t say how much of it was quiet, impossible hope.

Doesn’t say how a tiny part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d find you here.

“You know,” he says after a moment, voice lower, “I should’ve asked for your phone number back then. Or your address. Or... something.” He huffs out a breath. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“Hey,” you slide your hand over his, squeezing once. “We’re here now. Right?”

He nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”

You smile and return to the ice cream. He does too.

A new song crackles over the speakers, and you start humming along absentmindedly. It takes him a second to realize what it is.

Edge of Seventeen.

Stevie Nicks.

He meets your eyes.

Feels something click, then.

He’s never really believed in fate.

But if there were ever a reason to try, a reason to hope in a world that so often disappoints, he thinks that reason would be you.

⚓︎

When the ice cream’s gone and the girl behind the counter starts wiping things down a little too pointedly, you hop off the stool.  

June nights in Santa Barbara are warm, carrying faint traces of salt from the ocean. You stop beneath the neon glow of the marquee outside, the lights painting your silhouette in soft blues and pinks.

Steve’s heart stutters.

What happens now?

He's dreading the ending; there are years stretched between you now, whole versions of you he’s never met. So much left to ask, to know. To say.

He rubs the back of his neck.

“It’s late,” he says. “I should probably let you go. Maybe I could get your dorm’s phone number? Or we could grab lunch someti—”

You’re smiling when you kiss him.

Up on your toes, fingers clutching the front of his shirt as you pull him down. Your lips taste sweet: strawberry and chocolate, cherry and vanilla. Every flavor, because you couldn’t decide. Because he wanted to share.

The neon hums above you. The world narrows again.

This kiss lasts longer than the last one he shared with you. Long enough for him to cup your cheek, to brush his thumb along your jaw, to realize, distantly, how much better he is at this now.

He knows how to angle his head just right, slant his lips to deepen the press, to pull you closer by the small of your back and have you flush against him.

When you pull back, he chases your lips all the way until you've dropped back onto your heels.

You blink your eyes open, tongue darting over your lip like you’re tasting him, too.

He has to force himself to step back, fight the urge to lean in again.

You both speak at once.

“So—"

“Would you—”

He laughs. “Sorry. You first.”

You laugh too, shaking your head. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine. My roommates are gone for the weekend.”

He stares at you, stunned. Hopes the neon glow is bright enough to wash out the red rushing to his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he manages. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

You smile and reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

You don’t let go.

He definitely does not let go.

⚓︎

You’re kissing him the moment the door clicks shut.

There’s no pause, no awkward second-guessing—just the soft thud of the door and then you’re there, hands fisted in his shirt, lips warm and insistent against his. It’s messy and eager, teeth knocking, breath tangling, soft laughter trapped between two mouths as he murmurs, We should—we should probably slow down, even as he’s nudging his sneakers off with his heel.

Your apartment is small in the best way, quiet and lived-in. Soft amber lamplight, a throw blanket folded over the couch, lingering scents of citrus and cinnamon. Steve takes it in only in flashes, details flickering at the edges of his vision before your fingers slide back into his hair and the rest of the world drops away.

Clothes come off in a scattered trail to your bedroom.

Your jeans get kicked aside in the hallway. His shirt gets stuck halfway over his head and he has to pull back, laughing breathlessly while you help tug it free, your hands warm against his sides. He keeps his lips pressed to yours as he guides you backward, hands around your waist, bumping his shoulder in the doorframe and grinning like an idiot.

It’s not until you’re straddling him that he really stops.

Until he’s sitting on your bed, your sheets rumpled under his hands, your pillow pressed against his back.

You’re in his lap in nothing but your underwear, knees snug around his hips, solid and warm and real.

Steve looks down.

Feels it hit him all at once.

He hasn’t done this in a while. Hasn’t had a real girlfriend in college, too busy chasing grades, covering rent, picking up shifts whenever he could. A few dates here and there—awkward dinners, polite kisses—nothing that ever stayed.

Nothing that felt like this.

Your hand comes up, soft and sure, brushing along his cheek.

“Hey,” you murmur. “You okay?”

He swallows.

Steve doesn’t know if there is a word for what he’s feeling. Okay feels laughably small for what’s sitting in his chest right now, this swelling mix of affection and disbelief and something like gratitude.

“Yeah,” he starts, instinctively reaching for easy words. Fine. Good. All good.

Then he stops, shakes his head. Why hold back? Why say anything less than the truth?   

“God, I just—” He exhales, voice thick, heart full, "I can’t believe I found you.”

Your expression softens, eyes shining as you lean down to kiss him again.

And that, more than words, feels like being found right back.

⚓︎

What happens next is a slow unlearning of loneliness.

A careful dismantling of habits built around absence, years of swallowed affection and muted instincts.

Steve Harrington has learned to hush the restless stirrings of his heart, to press down the parts that ache too loudly, that reach too far, that insist on wanting. He’s gotten good at filling his days with noise, instead. Convinced himself that wanting too much is the same as wanting wrong. That loneliness is a failing, something you earn by expecting more than you’re allowed to have.

He's blamed himself for it for as long as he can remember.

But being with you is like a light dropped straight into the darkest hollow of him, the deepest pit in the sand, a sudden clarity that leaves nowhere to hide. He realizes, with quiet devastation, just how far down the emptiness goes. How much he’s learned to live without.

And now, here, with you, he has to unlearn it.

It happens slowly. In inches. In pauses.

A quiet rediscovery of loving you in this new, intimate way.   

He wants to know everything.

He wants to know what makes your breath hitch. What makes your fingers curl into the sheets. What makes you go quiet in that way that tells him he’s doing something right.

He kisses you constantly. Your mouth, your jaw, the soft place beneath your ear, the hollow at your throat—familiar paths he remembers tracing once upon a time, and new ones he maps with reverent patience.

He slides down over your stomach, kissing his way lower, gaze fixed on the heavy flutter of your lashes, the swell of your ribs when you let out a pleasured sigh. He takes your hand and fists it into his hair, hoping you’ll guide him—let him learn you, let him get this right.

And when he buries his face between your thighs for the first time—nose pressing into your mound, breathing you in, tasting you—it feels like coming home.

He’s missed this, being on his knees, giving. It used to be his favorite thing, always loved the way it quieted his mind, narrowed the world down to a single purpose. It made him feel useful, wanted.

But with you, this ritual turns into something else entirely.

He tracks your reactions with obsessive devotion: the furrow of your brow, the slow roll of your hips. The way your mouth falls open when he does something just right, when you want him to stay still, right there, exactly where you need him.

When he kisses his way back up your body, when he lines himself up with shaking hands and presses inside you, it’s face to face.

There’s no other way he could do it. Mouth to mouth. Forehead to forehead. Kissing, kissing, never not kissing; he needs the contact, the anchor, the constant reassurance that this is real.

That you’re here.

He wants to swallow the sounds you’re making, the way you gasp his name, and lock it inside himself. Let it sink deep, press it into bone and marrow. Carry it into that hollow place in his chest and let it bloom, fill him up until there’s no room left for doubt.

He knows he’s not going to last very long. You’re so soft, so wet, so impossibly beautiful, he can already feel the tension gathering low in his gut.

He only fights it long enough to get the words out.

Words that have been there for years. Pressed down, swallowed, buried under caution and embarrassment and the certainty that he always feels too much, too fast. Nobody ever wanted that kind of intensity for very long.

But he’s tired of pretending.  

And with you, he doesn’t have to.

He holds your hand against the bed, brings his forehead to yours.

The words cling to his throat, years of longing coiled tight—but this time, he doesn’t force them down.

With his lips brushing yours, he finally lets them go.

“I love you.”

The fear is instinctive. Familiar. A split-second flinch where he waits for the recoil, the moment someone decides it’s too much after all.

But it melts clean away when you answer him without hesitation, arms tightening around his neck as you kiss him back.

“I love you, too.”

And the hollow place in his chest turns into the sun once more.

⚓︎

The rest of the night is spent talking.

Kissing, touching, holding, kissing some more, just because he can.

He starts with the easy things. The dumb things. Stories about bad roommates, the worst job he ever worked, the time he locked himself out of his car in the rain and had to wait two hours for a tow.

Eventually, the jokes thin out. The pauses stretch.

He shifts, breathes in, and starts talking about the things he doesn’t like to think about. The quiet fears he keeps folded away. The weight of expectations, some inherited, some entirely his own. How surreal it feels to wake up as someone his younger self could never have pictured. To realize that the future he imagined so clearly once—simple, linear, inevitable—never actually existed.

He admits, quietly, that sometimes he worries there’s something wrong with him.

That everyone else seems to know how to be casual about life in a way he never has. Like they can want things lightly, hold them loosely, walk away without it costing them anything.

He’s never been built that way.

He feels things fast and deep. And for a long time, he resented it. Resented how much it hurt, how impossible it felt to turn it off.

You don’t interrupt. You just listen, fingers laced through his, thumb brushing slow circles over his knuckles. Every so often, you squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

Once the hardest parts are out, his thoughts drift forward.

He talks about wanting a job that matters to people. That helps. Something that lets him look at himself at the end of the day and feel like he showed up right, even if he hasn’t figured out what that’s supposed to look like yet. He wants to believe there’s a place for him in this world where caring isn’t a weakness.

When the conversation lulls into silence, you tilt your head back to look up at him.

“Did you ever learn how to surf?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“Surf. I remember you always wanted to see what that was like. When we were kids.”

He lets out a small smile. “No. I mean, I thought about it, but... just never had the time. Or the balance.”  

You hum and settle comfortably against his chest. “Tomorrow.”

He blinks. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” you repeat. “There’s a part of the beach I want to show you. You have to squeeze between some rocks to get there, but it opens up into this hidden alcove. Could be like our new secret spot.”

Steve smiles into your hair, already imaging it. Doing what he’s always done: throwing himself into the picture, letting it fill him up.

Tomorrow, you’ll take him to the beach.

Down between the rocks, your favorite spot.

You’ll show him where to step and where not to. You’ll rent two surfboards from that tiny shack down the road. You’ll laugh when he wipes out the second he hits the water, sputtering and embarrassed.

You’ll teach him how to stand. How to trust the water.

How to fly, just a little.

Tomorrow, he’ll show you the shoebox.

The one tucked into the bottom drawer of his dresser. The one that followed him through moving days and borrowed apartments. Filled with pieces of you he never let himself leave behind.

Tomorrow, he’ll give you what he couldn’t at the age of thirteen.

A stack of letters, one for every year since the summer he met you. ’72 all the way through ’79.

He always wrote them the night before he left for the Hamptons, lying awake with his heart pounding, thinking about the long stretch of coast waiting for him—and the best friend he’d get to share it with.  

He never found the courage to bring them with him when he was younger. But he kept writing anyway. Promising himself that, one day, he’d be brave enough to give them all to you.

He imagines sitting beside you while you read each one out loud. Smiling, shaking your head.  

Maybe you’ll tease him, call him cheesy, a hopeless romantic.

He doesn’t think you will, though. He thinks you’ll be gentle. He thinks you’ll love him more for it.

And once that thought takes hold, the future comes rushing in—faster, fuller, harder to stop.

He starts imagining days that stretch far beyond tomorrow, days where he wakes before you and watches the sunlight move across your face. Burnt toast and cheap coffee. Walking you home after class, fingers laced, listening to you talk about your day.

A shared place down by the water. Small, probably. Close enough to the beach that the sand never really leaves. Grocery lists on the fridge. Music playing while you cook together, bumping hips, stealing kisses.

He catches himself, shakes the thoughts loose with a soft, embarrassed breath.

Eight years is a long time to be apart. He knows there’s still so much about you he doesn’t know. True to form, he’s moving too fast, chasing desire before reason can catch up.

But eight years is also nothing.

Nothing measured against a lifetime. Nothing but a detour that still carried him back toward the main path. It only ever led to one place.

You stir softly in half-sleep, nestled beneath his arm, and Steve presses a little closer.

Sleep pulls at him too, heavy and kind.

He surrenders to it, lets it take him, because for now, it’s enough.

For now, he has tomorrow.

⚓︎

In dreams, he is thirteen again.

He is twelve, he is ten, he is six, and he is five.

He is walking down a wide, endless expanse of blue, waves whispering at his feet, the sky stretching forever overhead.

And beside him, hand in hand, is his best friend in the whole world.

June 24th, 1979

Hi!

I know I’m going to see you tomorow but I wanted to write this anyway. Sometimes when I try to say stuff out loud it doesn’t come out right. I know what I meen in my head but it gets all messed up or I forget what I was going to say. Writing it down makes it better.

I wrote you a letter every summer. One for every year. So you won’t forget me and all the fun things we did and the stuff we talked about. I keep all of them in a box, kind of like how you keep all your rocks and shells. Some of the older ones are really bad and there’s a lot of drawings and speling mistakes but maybe you’ll still like them.

I think about you a lot when we’re not together. Like when something funny happens or when I see something you like. Last week I saw a picture of a crab in my science book and I thought about what name you would give it.

I really really like you. You’re funny and nice and you understand me better than anyone else. You listen to me even when I talk too much or can’t say some words right. You make me feel special. I don’t have to pretend to be different or cooler or anything when I’m with you.

Sometimes I wish I lived in Californiya so we could see each other every day. I think about that a lot. Like we could just hang out whenever we wanted. Go to the beach and do surfing and stuff. Maybe one day I could come visit you or you could come visit me.

I’m really excited to see you tomorow. I hope you like this and I hope you don't think it’s dumb. I just want you to know how much you mean to me.

P.S. This is my adress so you can write me back if you want. 1590 willow creek lane, loch nora, hawkins, indiana 46001

P.P.S. I listened to that band you told me about. I really like the song You Make Loving Fun. It makes me think about you. Maybe we can listen to it together when I see you tomorrow?

Your best friend, Stevie

[rosesgray]

CHER (1991)

[djosnoopy]

some protector — steve harrington

chapter twenty

pairing: steve harrington x reader word count: 12.9k warnings: cursing, smoking, 18+ mdni (oral m&f receiving) includes: childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers, insane amount of mutual pining, the slowest of slow burns, co-dependency on steroids. summary: after months of depression and feeling like you were going insane you find yourself having the best day you've had in what feels like forever. so you decide that it's time to stop waiting around to have what you want. it's just that good things never seem to last long in your life and you have no idea about the darkness that is looming just around the corner. a/n: omg hi my loves!!! here is the very long awaited chapter 20 and the start of s4. it's a long one, but i feel like it works for setting up the season and also you guys really get treated with this chapter length and content wise. as always reblogs and comments are so appreciated and to all the people that are still sticking with me as i write this thank you so much for all your love and support. it truly does mean the world to me <3

series masterlist

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

For the first time in what you think is a week– you’d slept through the whole night without a nightmare. It’s hard to really keep track anymore, but a good night's sleep had finally been awarded to you and you were taking full advantage of it. Which meant you were sleeping like a log and your alarm clock stood no chance in waking you up. 

Steve on the other hand had seemed to be sleeping worse than you here lately. He once was what could be considered the world's heaviest sleeper, but the last two months of waking up with you in the middle of the night and his general paranoia after dealing with the demogorgons and Russians, it all had him waking up over the sound of a pin dropping.

Last night was no different. He found himself waking up every little bit to check on you, waiting for you to jolt up with a force that shakes the bed, gasping for air and reaching out for him. Sometimes you woke him before you were even awake yourself with your constant tossing and turning and talking during your nightmares. But last night even with you sleeping peacefully Steve was waking up every little bit to check on you. 

So, when your alarm goes off and Steve wakes up to find you sprawled out on your side of the bed with little snores emitting from you and not in your usual spot, which is you with your head on his chest, he’s a little surprised. But as he wipes the sleep from his eyes he realizes that in all the times he’d woken up out of habit last night that you were sound asleep each time and that meant no nightmares.

If he can remember correctly it’s been around a week since you’ve gone without one and so to see you laying there so peacefully, like your mind wasn’t a mental prison for you majority of the time, it has Steve wanting to stay here in this bed with you forever. He’d been watching you sleep most nights now, worried when he’d see your eyebrows pinch together or a groan escape past your lips, but watching you sleep like this, like an angel, this is the version Steve would much rather watch. 

But all good things must come to an end and as much as Steve hates it, you’ve got to go to school and he’s got to go to work. The two of you just had to get through three more days and then you’d be on your way to Chicago. Thankfully your parents are allowing you to go, agreeing with Steve that maybe some time away would do you some good. They trusted Steve, hell he’d been practically living here on multiple occasions now, so the two of you going on a trip together wasn’t the most outlandish thing ever.

Your parents knew them agreeing to allow their teenage daughter to go out of state with a boy was a little more than lenient on their part, but you were eighteen, about to graduate, and you were going with Steve. In about six months time you’d be off to college and living your own life, they figured this was the least rowdy thing you’d get up to in the next year. So they passed it off as an early graduation present and prayed you wouldn’t make any life altering decisions while you were gone. 

Steve eventually rolls over to face you, his arm bent at the elbow as his head rests on his hand. His big hazel eyes land on you, trying to burn this image into his brain and he decides there’s enough time to watch you for a few more minutes. He watches how your chest slowly rises and falls and how your ring catches the sunlight that’s peaking through your curtains. He wants to stay like this forever and he hates the idea of waking you up, especially when you’re actually sleeping well for once, but he has to be responsible. Also, he has to pick Robin up and take her to school too, so you both need to get a move on. 

It takes him a good couple tries to get you to wake up and he feels so bad because your body clearly needs this, but he wasn’t about ready to have your parents mad at him, especially not with this trip coming up. Steve shakes you one last time and you let out a groan, letting him know you’re awake, before you roll over and tuck yourself into his chest. 

“I know I’m sorry, but we’ve got to pick up Robin.” He says softly, his fingers combing through your hair. 

“Can she not take the bus?” You mumble, still half asleep. 

A small smile creeps onto Steve’s face, mainly because he takes Robin and you to school everyday, you know this. And you also know there’s the pep rally today and that means Robin has all her band gear, which does not work well with being on a crowded bus. 

“Should we let her drive your car?” Steve teases. 

You just groan some more at him and Steve’s chest vibrates with laughter. You’d become quite spoiled these last couple months by him. He’d basically drive you everywhere you needed, which included to and from school. You had a perfectly fine car of your own, but Steve had insisted, and well now he’s created a monster. The passenger seat of the beamer had always had your name on it, but now it was practically stitched into the leather. Which is just the way Steve liked it. 

“I wouldn’t let her drive a golf cart.” 

“Thats what I thought.” He starts to pull away from you and it takes every ounce of strength he has to not stay in this bed with you when you grip onto his shirt. “Come on, I can’t be late for work again or Keith is gonna have my ass.” 

Steve stands at the end of the bed and watches as you replace him with his pillow, tucking it against your chest as you get comfortable again. “You can sleep in the car.” He tries to bargain, but you aren’t budging, and so he resorts to his last option. “Alright you asked for this.” 

Your eyes shoot open and you immediately try to tuck your feet up away from him, but he’s too fast and strong. The squirming comes first followed quickly by laughter as Steve tries his best to tickle your feet, which then has him moving around the bed to tickle your sides. He hasn’t heard you laugh like this in so long and it makes Steve’s heart swell with joy. Your laughter was always one of Steve’s favorite sounds, but now after going so long without truly hearing it he thinks it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“Okay, alright, I’m getting up.” You concede finally after Steve’s fingers start to move towards your neck. 

He pulls away, but still lingers by your bedside with a fond smile on his face. There hasn’t been a morning like these between the two of you in lord knows how long and he has even harder time wanting to leave the space between these four walls, leaving you for the majority of the day. He hears you mumble something about taking a shower first, but his mind is still replaying your laughter on an endless loop. 

Even when you’ve long since exited your bedroom and the shower turns on across the hall, Steve’s bare feet are still firmly planted on your plush carpet. He has a feeling that today is going to be a good day, which is something you’ve both needed for a long time now. And maybe if luck is suddenly on your side this may be a sign that the tide is turning and that maybe this is the first sliver of light at the end of the tunnel. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Steve doesn’t say anything when you doze off not too long after he pulls out of your driveway and down the road towards Robin’s house. Your body desperately needed the sleep even if it was just an extra ten minutes and Steve wasn’t going to deny you that, especially when he’d already proposed the idea back in your room. 

The plush passenger seat of the beamer had become somewhat of a safe haven to you. It wasn’t just because Steve drove you around all the time, it was because on nights that your nightmares had you unable to go back to sleep the two of you would sneak out and cruise around. The radio would always play softly in the background and you’d lean your head against the window as the glow from the yellow streetlights eventually faded away the further you got out of town.

He’d drive and drive without even so much as a sigh escaping out of him and at some point he’d glance over for what is probably the hundredth time to check on you and he’d find his whole world curled up in that passenger seat– finally asleep. It worked like a charm every time and so he can’t really fault you for falling asleep so quickly this morning. 

When he pulls up to Robin’s house she’s already sitting on the front porch waiting for him with an unimpressed look on her face. The two of you may have been a couple minutes late, but nothing going ten over the speed limit the whole way to the school couldn’t fix. Robin trudges down the steps and through the yard to the beamer and Steve can hear her complaining even with the window rolled up. He cracks the door open and sticks his head through the gap as Robin approaches the car. 

“Be quiet. Y/N is sleeping.” He whispers in a stern tone. 

Robin gives him a dirty look as she tries to keep ahold of her trumpet case, her marching band hat with the most obnoxious feather on it, and her bag. “Right well you saw me struggling to walk all the way over here, you’d think the ever so chivalrous Steve Harrington might have lended me a hand.” 

“You’re my best friend, not the love of my life.” Steve rebuttals before softly closing the car door. 

Robin scoffs at him, but only because she cares about you does she slowly open the door to the backseat, gently puts her stuff in, and then slides across the bench seat to the middle. She watches as Steve takes one final glance at you, like he’s making sure you’re still alright, before he puts the car in drive and you three are on your way down the road. 

“How’s she doing?” Robin questions as she looks at Steve through the rearview mirror. 

Steve’s eyes quickly flicker back at Robin through the mirror before returning back to the road ahead. “She slept through the night last night for the first time in probably a week. Honestly we had a really good morning and I know she has her days that are better than others, but this morning had me feeling hopeful that maybe things are on the upwards track instead of such a steep decline these past two months have been.” 

Robin makes a disgusted face that Steve doesn't quite catch. “I didn’t need to know about your guys really good morning, so thanks for that mental image.” 

His eyes widen as he looks back at Robin again. “We did not-” He pauses, realizing he was talking loudly and lowers his volume. “Get your mind out of the gutter Robin. We haven’t even kissed since I confessed my feelings and then well basically got rejected.” 

“Yet you sleep in her bed every night. I don’t think that is something that happens when you get rejected.” 

Steve can feel himself getting annoyed, he’d had this conversation so many times with Robin, and yet she still didn’t understand that things simply weren’t black and white between the two of you. He loved you and he knows you know that, but sometimes he questioned if you really loved him. If what you felt towards him was as intense as what he felt. He knows you have stuff you’re dealing with and even back in the mall there was so much shit going on that he really should have chosen a better time to tell you. So, he isn’t expecting you to miraculously want to get into a relationship. He’d made that clear to you last Christmas.

It’s just that sometimes doubt starts to creep in and he wonders if you have him around just because he’s familiar, that the love you’ve claimed to feel for him isn’t as serious as he thinks. He knows it’s just him getting too in his head, hell you guys literally have matching rings, but you never explicitly talk about what is actually going on between the two of you and it throws Steve for a loop anytime he thinks about it too hard. 

“Why don’t we talk about your love life Robin?” Steve suggests, no longer wanting to talk about how things are with you when you’re literally in the passenger seat. Robin though, suddenly shrinks into the backseat and her always jabbering jaw is seemingly wired shut. “Are you alive back there?” 

Robin groans knowing she’s walked herself into this one by poking fun at Steve. “Yes I’m alive but you need to cut me some slack because your love life is one of labyrinthine complexity. It's seven in the morning, we have to go to this stupid pep rally, and I woke up looking like a total corpse!” She starts spiraling as she gets a good look at herself in the rearview mirror. 

“You’re worried about a basketball pep rally? You expect me to believe that?”  

“Yeah? So?” Robin mumbles. 

Steve can’t believe Robin thinks he’s that stupid. “So? We both know what this is about. I’m not buying that. I ask you about your love life and you start deflecting and being weird because you don’t want to talk about Vickie.”

“That is not the reason.” Robin huffs. 

“No it is the reason and you know what else?” 

Robin tries to act like this conversation isn’t her worst nightmare. “I really don’t care to hear what else you think Steve.”

“You gotta stop pretending to be someone else when you’re around her. Okay? Like you just gotta be yourself.” 

Steve’s talking with his hands and the both of them don’t realize just how loud they are getting as they bicker back and forth. 

Robin leans forward onto the center console so he can hear just how dumb he sounds. “You’re literally quoting me to me. You do realize that right?” 

“Well, maybe you need to listen to yourself. Ever think about that smarty pants?” 

“Listen, it's different for me.” She jabs her finger hard into Steve’s bicep and he yelps dramatically like it hurt. “Back in your prime you could have asked out any girl and she would have said yes and on the off chance she said no it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Sure your ego may have gotten a little bruised, but you would have survived and moved on to someone else.” She takes the same finger and points back towards herself. “Now if I ask out the wrong girl? Bam! I’m the town pariah.” 

Steve shakes his head in disbelief at his friend. “I’d buy that, except Vickie is definitely not the wrong girl.” 

“We just don’t know that do we?” Robin replies before spraying some breath spray into her mouth that she’d dug out of her bag. 

“She returned Fast Times paused at 53 minutes, 5 seconds. Do you know who pauses Fast Times at 53 minutes, 5 seconds?” Steve asks with a boyish grin on his face. He doesn’t wait for Robin to respond, they’ve already discussed this at work last weekend, in great detail. “People who like boobies, Robin!” 

Robin physically cringes at the words that come out of Steve’s mouth and she retreats further into the backseat. “Gross. Don’t say boobies.” 

“It’s not a big deal, okay? I like boobies. You like boobies.” He looks back at Robin for the millionth time through the rearview mirror. “Vickie likes boobies. Definitely."

Silence falls over the car for a moment as Robin tries to process the fact that not even a year ago Steve didn’t know who she was and now he’s one of her best friends, knows she’s gay, and apparently is someone she talks about boobies with. 

That is until you shift in your seat and suddenly the words that come out of your mouth have Robin scrambling to come up with something to say quickly. 

“Who the hell is Vickie?” 

Steve’s eyebrows meet in the middle, confusion written all over his face. You knew about Robin liking girls, there was no way you didn’t know about Vickie. Surely she’d told you about Vickie right? 

You turn in your seat to look back at Robin, an eyebrow lifted in question at her. You’ve never heard a word about this Vickie before, the only girl you ever hear Robin talk about is Nancy. So you’re thoroughly confused. 

What Robin thought would be a good idea has surely come back to bite her in the ass right now. See, it was one thing to talk to you about Nancy, but for her to talk to Steve about Nancy? Now that was a little awkward. She knows things didn’t end the best between the two of them and from what Steve had told her he apparently wasn’t ever really in love with her and they’ve both clearly moved on, but she’s still his ex and Robin doesn’t want to make things weird.

So when she’d started to confide in Steve about her feelings she threw out a random name, someone she was sure Steve had never heard of.

Vickie.

According to Robin she goes to school in the next town over and they met during that impromptu band camp she went to right before school started last fall. 

But then Nancy just has to come into work with her pretty hair and that sparkle in her eye that makes Robin forget how to talk and she just casually slides the movie onto the counter towards her. Just returning this she says and holds eye contact with Robin a little too long for it to not mean anything. Robin knows she's a complete idiot to be catching feelings for someone who is taken and someone who as far as everyone is concerned is straight, but there was just something about Nancy Wheeler that had her enthralled.  

Robin doesn’t think anything about what movie Nancy returns, doesn’t even pay attention to the cover. She’s still thinking about those couple seconds of eye contact as she pops it into the rewinder and then that scene from Fast Times pops up on the screen. At first she assumes it was Mike being a little horndog and the possibility of someone like Nancy watching a movie like that doesn’t even cross her mind, but the longer she stands there and stares at Phoebe Cates boobs the crazy idea that maybe Nancy had been the one to watch this and return it paused on that scene when she was the only one working the counter enters her mind. 

Maybe Robin was being a little delirious, but there had been moments where she felt like Nancy was giving her somewhat of a signal or at least something that Robin could sink her desperate teeth into. So, when Steve comes up to find the all too familiar scene popped up on the screen for what feels like the millionth time since the movie had hit their shelves he lets out a sigh. 

“I think I’m getting desensitized to boobs. Who returned it like that this time?” 

Robin’s brain short circuits and Nancy was the last person she was going to say, so of course her brain defaults to Nancy’s code name, thus resulting in her having to nearly pick Steve’s jaw up from the floor. He’d ran with it, not even questioning Robin’s response, and now she hates herself for blabbing out that name because Steve will not leave her alone about it.   

Which is how she’s now found herself in yet another sticky situation. 

“Vickie… you know Vickie.” Robin starts, hoping you catch onto her tone and pleading look in her eyes. “I told you about her. The girl from band camp.” Her eyes dart over to Steve and then back at you to try and get you to just go along with this. 

You still aren’t entirely sure who the hell Robin is talking about, but from the panicked look on her face and the way she keeps glancing over at Steve you get the feeling that you should just play along. “Right. Sorry I remember now. My mind’s a little scattered lately from not getting much sleep.” You slowly turn around and settle back into the passenger seat, fully knowing you’ll be interrogating Robin about whoever this Vickie is later. 

Robin breathes a sigh of relief once you’re facing the front again, she knows if by some miracle her crush on Nancy materializes into something real Steve is gonna eventually find out, but what he didn’t know right now wouldn’t kill him. In fact she knows he probably wouldn’t even care, but there’s still that lingering bit of worry Robin carries around. 

The school grounds come into view in the distance and the parking lot is packed as Steve pulls in. Clearly everyone else had waited until the last minute to get to school today, you’re actually surprised this many people showed up and hadn’t just skipped. Before Steve even has the car in a parking spot Robin is grabbing her stuff and nearly climbing out of the moving car. She waits just long enough for the car to come to a stop before she’s mad dashing it out the backseat and joining some of her other friends from band. 

You on the other hand are not as eager to join the masses. 

“You know I could just skip and hang out with you at work all day. I can sit there and look pretty, give out movie recommendations, really anything to get me out of spending all day in that hell hole.” You look over at Steve and give him your best puppy dog eyes and normally he’d fold like a cheap lawn chair, but he wasn’t going to risk anything ruining you guys going on that trip. So that meant you were going to school, no matter how much he wanted to just put the car in drive and have you by his side all day. 

“As tempting as that sounds, I don’t want to give your parents a reason to not let you go on our trip. It’s one day you’ve got to get through and then before you know it you and me will be on the open road.” 

The warning bell rings and Steve cocks an eyebrow at you saying you’d better get going. You groan in annoyance and grab your bag from the floorboard. 

Steve’s hand reaches out, his fingers grazing over your arm, but not fully touching you. “We’re still going to the game tonight right?” 

You turn slightly in the seat so you’re facing him, your head lulling against the headrest as you sit and admire him for a moment. The way the morning sun is shining in through the windshield and making the little flecks of green in his pool of honey eyes pop. You find yourself getting lost in them and it makes your insides turn to mush.

The way he expresses himself through his eyes and how every inch of those big doe eyes of his always seem to look at you with nothing but love, it’s on of your favorite things about him. It sounds silly, but when you look into his eyes you feel at home, safe even, and right now that’s something you need more than he could ever imagine. 

“Depends–are we getting food beforehand or not?” You’ve got a teasing smile on your face because for one Steve is taking you for food no matter what and two you wouldn’t miss watching Lucas play in the conference championship game even if you weren’t having one of your better days. 

“You already know the answer to that.” Steve replies with a fond smile on his face. 

Your hand reaches out gently and cups his face. The slight stubble on his jaw tickles your palm and he tries not to melt into your touch, but he should know better than to try and resist something his body was hardwired to do.

Even with how pretty he looked with the sun shining on him you couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under his eyes and it makes you feel like shit. He’d been by your side ever since your nightmares had started, staying up with you, losing sleep just the same as you. It wasn’t just taking a toll on you, but him too, and it was really starting to show.

He didn’t have to do any of the things he’d done for you these past couple months. Especially with how you handled things at the mall and then shutting him and practically everyone else out afterwards. But he showed up like he always does and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to express how grateful you are to have someone as loving and understanding like Steve in your life. 

“Steve.” 

He hums in response, not really paying attention to see if you’d said anything else, he was too busy looking at your pretty face and feeling your warm hand on his face. 

Your thumb gently moves back and forth across the apple of his cheek and you don’t care that you’re sitting in the school parking lot right now, you need to let him know just how much you appreciate him. 

“I know I don’t say it as often as I should, but thank you for being here with me, for enduring these months of hell with me. You didn’t have to and I didn’t ask you to, but you showed up and stayed even when things got so dark. I’ve never made things easy and I feel like we’d been through hell and back already way before everything happened at the mall.” 

You feel Steve’s large hand reach out for your free one and interlace your fingers with his. It grounds you, even though your other hand is still on his face, it's the fact that he felt the need to be connected with you even more than you already were.

The final bell rings, but it doesn’t phase you. There were still tons of kids shuffling into the gym, you’d sneak in when you were done saying what you had to say.

“And the fact that you continue to unconditionally love me, it’s something that I don’t think I’ll ever deserve even if I live a million lifetimes.” 

Steve feels his chest tighten over the fact that you don’t think you deserve to be loved. If anything he didn’t deserve your love, he’d fucked up those years ago and then recently, yet you’d always been there to let him back in. 

“Don’t say that. I’m always going to be here, always going to love you. You’ve never had to earn my love and you never will.” He pauses and then barely above a whisper he says something that has your stomach twisting in knots. “I think I was born to love you Y/N.” 

Your breath catches in your throat and you can feel the first signs of tears starting to well up in your eyes. You give him a weak smile, trying to hold them back, but the way Steve talked about how he loved you always damn near resembled poetry. It made you feel crazy. 

“I love you. I know I don’t say it and I should really say it more because I do. I love you so much and I know I’ve been avoidant about how I feel even after everything this past summer, but I’m tired of pretending like you don’t mean everything to me.” 

Your mind wanders back to this morning, how you woke up feeling better than you had in the longest time, and how Steve was right there beside you. It was something you wanted to have forever and you’d been so adamant about not letting yourself want something that you didn’t think you could handle. You’d been such a mess for so long that the idea of what Steve and you had going on turning into anything real had always just been pushed down.

A real relationship required work and a brain that didn’t seem to hate you, and that was something you didn’t think you were capable of. But now you were done waiting on things to change, if you were going to go insane you’d rather do it with Steve by your side and know that he was yours for real. He was already everything you could ask for and if he’d stuck by your side through your darkest days, well you two making it official surely wouldn’t change things that much. 

A deep breath pushes its way out of your lungs and you begin once again. 

“I woke up this morning and for the first time in a long time I felt good. The sunshine peaking through my curtains this morning wasn’t a reminder that I had to go through another day of hell, instead it felt like a start of a new chapter.” 

Steve feels like his heart is about ready to beat out of his chest. All his doubts that he’d been harboring were slowly starting to fade away. 

“I’m not saying things are going to be all hunky dory from now on. Just because I’m feeling good today doesn’t mean I will tomorrow, but this feels different, so maybe the good will outweigh the bad from now on.”

You squeeze his hand tightly in yours, mainly as a grounding technique for you, who would have thought you’d be having this conversation at eight thirty in the morning in the school parking lot.

“What I’m trying to say is that I love you and that I think we’ve wasted enough time dancing around each other, pushing each other away when we need each other the most. We don’t have to rush into anything, well I guess you are already sleeping over, but maybe we can be the couple people already think we are?” 

You feel like you’ve just sky dived out of plane without a parachute, the adrenaline from finally doing this pumped through your veins and for some reason there’s a little part of you that’s scared Steve will reject you like you’d done to him in the bathroom. 

Steve has no idea where this has come from, but he’s not complaining. He’s wanted this for so long, but he knew it had to be on your terms. He would have waited another twenty years if you’d needed it, but apparently that feeling he’d had this morning just wasn’t wishful thinking.

He knows this also could be a little bit of a manic thing coming from you and so as much as he wants to jump right in and love you like the partner he’s always wanted to be, he thinks you two should sit down and actually talk about this somewhere that’s not the school parking lot. 

“I’ve thought a lot about how this would happen, if the day would even ever happen. I just didn’t think it’d happen at eight in the morning in the school parking lot.” Steve teases. 

Your eyes automatically roll, but that little bit of fear you had vanished the moment he’d opened that sarcastic mouth of his. You know it isn’t necessarily the most romantic place, but the moment felt right and you weren’t going to pass up on it again. “Yeah well it beats the bathroom floor in the mall.” 

Steve fakes injury, his hand clutching his chest. “Ouch okay. I actually blame that one on Robin.” 

“Right.” You scoff with no ill intent behind it. 

You glance back over towards the school and realize that the once rather large crowd had now dwindled down to nothing and you can’t recall how long it had been since the last bell had rang. “I should go and you definitely are going to be late for work now. I’m sorry, tell Keith I can get him an invite to Kimberly Brooks party tomorrow night as an apology.” 

Steve groans at that idea. “Oh god you don’t want to do that, he won’t leave you alone about her if you do. I’ll just deal with him.” 

You’ve got one hand on the door handle and the other on your bag as you take one last look back at Steve. “I’ll see you later, yeah? We can talk more tonight.”

Steve nods, but as you open the door and make the first move in getting out of the car something comes over him and he’s wrapping his large hand around your forearm, pulling you back towards him. “Wait.” 

You turn your head back to face him and before you can even realize what’s happening his hands are cupping your face and his lips are pressed against yours. It takes you by surprise, but the moment your brain catches up you’re kissing him back. His lips are soft and he tastes like mint and something that is so indescribably Steve– like home. You can feel him smile into the kiss and it makes butterflies erupt in your stomach, especially when he moves one of his hands down to your neck as he deepens the kiss. 

This kiss is completely different from the kiss back at the mall. That one was in its own way a goodbye kiss, it was sad, and you both tried to use it as a way to say everything you couldn’t back then. This one is full of life, hope, passion, everything that kiss at the mall should have been. 

You’re the first to pull away only because if you didn’t you’d end up being much later than you already are and Steve needed to get to work. Not that it was an easy task by any means, especially when Steve lets out a little whine as you pull away. It goes straight through you and it takes every ounce of willpower you have to not grab him by his stupid little green Family Video vest and smash your lips back onto his. 

You close your eyes briefly and find yourself having to take a deep breath to calm yourself down. The sound of Steve’s giggles fill the car as he takes in just how worked up he has you over a kiss. With one final deep breath you open your eyes and find Steve looking at you with pupils as big as saucers, you weren’t the only one affected by that kiss clearly. 

“Alright I really have to go now.” You mumble, grabbing ahold of your bag for the third time and this time you make haste to get out of the car before he can pull you back in again. As you stand on the pavement outside the car you lean down so you can peek your head in to look at him. 

“Have a good shift. I love you.” 

He’s smiling like an idiot and it’s not because you’ve said you love him or the fact that he’d just kissed you like a man crazed. It’s your own smile, a smile he hasn’t seen in a long time, that has him cheesing like a kindergartner on their first picture day. 

“I love you too. I’ll see you later.” 

He watches you close the maroon colored door and Steve finds himself still sitting there for a moment even after you’ve walked off towards the school. He was trying to figure out if he was dreaming or if this had all just actually happened to him. The hard pinch he gives himself on his arm lets him know it’s real, but he just still can’t seem to believe it the whole drive to work. 

You on the other hand feel like you’ve just done a line of cocaine, not that you ever have, but you imagine this is how you would feel if you had. You’re practically floating as you sneak into the gym. Thankfully the cheerleaders are doing their routine and you slip into the bleachers unnoticed by any staff. You do almost trip over some people to make your way to the kids, but you eventually get there and settle in between Max and Julie. 

When it came to the friend department of people your own age you were lacking. Any previous friends you’d had outside the group had drifted away once you’d fallen into your pit of depression and well Nancy was dealing with the school paper, Robin was with the band, so here you were as a senior with your freshman friends. 

Even with your good mood today that had been amplified by the events that took place moments ago in Steve’s car, this pep rally was truly the last place you wanted to be. The fakeness of it all, everyone acting like this was the most monumental moment ever, like this town wasn’t cursed. It made you sick. 

And then Jason Carver gets out there and starts spewing his dumb rhetoric and it just gets worse from there. He sounds like a politician up there, just talking out of his ass, trying to win the hearts of the masses. Using the deaths of everyone over the past couple years as a marketing tool– oh all these people died but we used their deaths as motivation to win this basketball game.

You want to be supportive, want to be normal, but it’s hard when you know the truth about what happened to people like Heather and Billy and Hopper. It puts a bad taste in your mouth and as you glance between the kids you can tell they’re thinking the same exact thing. 

It’s all just bullshit. 

But as much as you think Jason Carver is the biggest tool in Hawkins– Lucas is a part of that team. He’d looked so excited out there and from the disgruntled complaining coming from Mike and Dustin you knew they weren’t going to be coming to the game to support their friend. So, even though you already knew you were going to come support him, you sure as hell were now. 

As the gym slowly empties and you all shuffle towards first period you hear someone calling your name. You turn to see Ms. Kelley standing off towards the side of the gym entrance, motioning for you to come see her. 

You maneuver through the sea of bodies to get to her and she stands there radiating positivity as always. “Y/N! You missed yesterday’s session. Is everything alright?” 

You adjust the strap of your backpack on your shoulder, a forced smile on your face. “Yeah I’m sorry I forgot it was Thursday, been kind of hyper focused on Spring Break.” 

She nods and you can tell she doesn’t believe you, but she doesn’t push the issue. “I’d still like to get a session in before we start our break. How about you come see me during last period? I’m sure you won’t mind missing Mr. Wright’s thrilling history class.” 

You know you don’t really have a choice, so you mumble out an okay, and join the rest of your peers. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The whole morning you can’t stop thinking about the feeling of Steve’s lips on yours and how maybe things really are going to be different between the two of you now. That you’ve finally removed your head from your ass and you can finally let yourself truly love him. Have a normal relationship, but things have never been normal when it came to Steve and you, so maybe you shouldn’t get your hopes up. 

Even the hustle and bustle of the cafeteria at lunch time sounds like a low buzz in your brain as you sit across from Robin and relive that moment over and over again. 

“Hello?? Earth to Y/N. Is anyone home?” Robin waves her hand in front of your face trying to bring your attention back to her. 

You slowly blink as she comes back into focus and you find her looking at you with a questioning look. “Where the hell did you go off to?” 

The corn on your tray has never looked more appealing and you find yourself moving it around with your fork. Robin knows you're avoiding her question, you’ve used that corn trick one too many times on her before. 

“Did something happen with Steve this morning? I noticed you sneaking into the pep rally pretty late.” 

You glance back up at her and you know Robin is going to bug you about this until you finally snap and end up telling her. So, you might as well get it out of the way now. You set your fork down on your tray and take a deep breath, preparing yourself for the impending Robin freak out. 

“We talked and I told him that I was done dancing around what we were and that I wanted to actually be with him and then he kissed me.” You pick your fork back up and start pushing around the fruit cocktail instead, your shyness about the whole thing starting to get the better of you. “And maybe I haven’t been able to stop thinking about his lips on mine since I got out of his car earlier.” 

A hot red heat creeps up your neck and onto your cheeks as you glance back up at Robin and see her grinning at you like a fool. 

“God, I've been waiting for this to happen since last summer.” She laughs a little as she speaks and it only makes you blush more. “You two were making out in his car this morning like two little horndogs.” 

“Robin!” You yell, then quieter. “No we weren’t.” 

“I’m happy for you honestly. Steve loves you a lot, like more than humanly possible I think.” Robin’s teasing tone is gone and replaced with a softer more understanding one and as she reaches her hand out across the table to squeeze yours, you’re forever grateful to have a friend like her in your life. 

“Enough about me. I think I should be asking you who the hell Vickie is.” 

Robin groans and pushes her tray away from her, her elbows now propped up onto the table in front of her as she holds her head in her hands. “When I tell you I’m the world's biggest idiot, I literally mean it.” 

You furrow your eyebrows at her, still confused. “Is you know who no longer a thing or what?” The two of you never mentioned Nancy’s name outloud when you talked like this, even with hushed voices people could still hear. 

Robin slowly shakes her head. “Long story short. I started to confide in Steve about my feelings towards you know who, which I know is crazy considering their history, but he’s my friend and we talk about everything together. Anyways I created a fake name and some bullshit story about how we met at bandcamp and she lives in the next town over. Well, then last week you know who returns Fast Times paused during that one scene and when Steve asked who had returned it like that I panicked and my brain defaulted to her code name and I said Vickie. So now he’s like a mad man telling me to try and make my move on her, convinced that she likes girls too, but god dammit Vickie doesn’t even exist.” 

“Oh Robin…” You trail off, offering her a small smile. 

“I’m an idiot, but I’m an idiot that’s holding out hope that it wasn’t just her returning that for Mike and maybe in some weird twisted way she was trying to send me a message.” She hides her face in her hands with a disgruntled sigh and you honestly feel for her. 

Nancy was a pretty girl, smart, strong-willed, highly protective of the ones she loved, but as far as anyone was concerned she was straight and taken. Granted from what she's told you here recently her relationship with Jonathan is on the rocks. He was supposed to fly back home and visit her during Spring Break, but had decided against it. 

“I don’t know, people can surprise you. It’s good to have hope Robin.” 

She takes a peek at you from between her fingers. “That hope is currently playing with my heart.” 

The conversation eventually tapers into something about the test you both had in calculus this morning, but then suddenly a large commotion from one of the tables behind you has your attention. 

You look behind Robin to see Eddie Munson standing on top of the table, yelling something about societal expectations before Jason threatens to have a go at him and then the cafeteria is back to normal before you know it. 

“God I can’t believe you’ve made out with him.” Robin scoffs as she turns back in her seat. 

You freeze for a second, the heat returning to your cheeks once more. You know she’s talking about Jason and that party freshman year that had him spreading around a rumor that you guys had sex even though all you did was make out with him. He’d made you out to be some slut, when really he was the one that came onto you.

But you don’t freeze because of her mentioning Jason, it’s been years, it doesn’t bother you anymore. He’s a douchebag and everyone knows that. It's the fact that for a split second you think that she’s talking about Eddie. 

There may have been a party you went to sophomore year the weekend shit had hit the fan with Steve and Eddie may have been there just to supply the party with various things. But either way he’d found you out back with a cigarette between your lips and a red solo cup in your hand. You’d heard of him, outcast, freak, nerd, so many names associated with him over the years, but that night he sat down beside you on the steps of someone’s back deck and just talked to you.

He was nice and maybe it was because you were mad at Steve and you needed a distraction or maybe it was the fact that you saw a pair of big brown eyes that resembled someone else’s and lost all your inability to think straight. But you ended up making out with him in his van and maybe there was a little heavy touching too if you want to call it that.

As far as you know no one else besides Eddie and you know about it and it’s been that way ever since. You don’t regret it per say, Eddie was nothing like Jason, who’d turned your whole situation into something it wasn’t. It was just something you never felt the need to tell anyone about, it wasn’t like you two necessarily mingled in the same social circles. You two shared a moment together and then went your separate ways, nothing wrong with that. 

You stab a piece of peach with your fork and mumble something back to Robin along the lines of yeah me either. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Ms. Kelley was always nice and understanding every time you sat across from her in her office, but this was honestly the last place you wanted to be right now. You were having a good day, you didn’t want to sit here and talk about all the things wrong with you. Yet, here you were. 

“If I’m reading this correctly I see you have a C in calculus and a C- in Spanish.” She says as her eyes scan over your folder. “That’s not like you.” 

You sink lower into the uncomfortably hard seat. “Yeah, well I’ve been dealing with some things that are a little more important than math formulas and a foreign language.” 

Ms. Kelley gently sets the folder down onto her desk and clasps her hands together. “Have you made up your mind about Purdue yet?”

“No.” You shift in the chair again. 

“You only have a couple weeks left to decide honey and I don’t want you to pass up on an opportunity like this.” 

You knew that, it had been another thing for your brain to ruminate over. You know passing on going to college would be something you’d probably come to regret in the future, especially when one of your main factors of not wanting to go is over a boy.

Your Mom would absolutely kill you if she knew Steve was one of the reasons you didn’t want to go. She’d tell you that you shouldn’t sacrifice your future for a boy, but Steve just wasn't some random boy, and he was just one of the many reasons. 

“I know.” 

She sighs, knowing that this session probably isn’t going to go anywhere today. “Are you sleeping any better?” 

“Yeah, I didn’t have any nightmares last night.” 

You watch as Ms. Kelley jots down a note in your file and then looks back up at you. “That’s good. Anymore headaches?” 

You shrug. “Not in the last couple days.” 

She sits up a little straighter in her chair, her hands clasped together again on her desk. “Y/N. What you’ve been through, what you’re still going through, it’s a lot for anyone. And it’s okay to not be okay. But I can only help you if you’re truthful, if you open up to me.” 

“Yeah, I know. I’m being open.”

Ms. Kelley sighs at you with an almost disappointed look on her face and that’s what finally gets you to talk. 

“I’m just having a really good day and I don’t particularly want to talk about my little sister almost dying and me not being able to do anything to save her. Or the fact that I keep having horrible vivid nightmares of the people I love dying. So, yeah I’m being open.”

You’re doing everything in your power to hold back your tears as you fidget in your chair, eyes searching the room to focus on anything other than Ms. Kelley staring back at you. 

She knows having a good day doesn’t outweigh all the bad you’ve had before this and even on your good days you need to work through your trauma, but she can tell if she tries to push you even more you’re going to completely shut her out. So, she quickly writes down a few more things in your file and then gives you the same warm smile she gives everyone. 

“Alright, I think that’s enough for today. I’ll see you on the following Thursday when we get back to school. Have a good break Y/N.” 

There was still a good twenty minutes left of last period, but you weren’t going to go back to class. As soon you were past the threshold of Ms. Kelley’s office you made a bee-line for one of the side exits and made your way around the back of the school and towards the old track and field. You sat down on the concrete steps that led down to the field and rummaged through your bag for the little box that would bring you a bit of calm for a moment. 

Tears still threaten to spill out of your eyes as you shakily pull the pack of cigarettes out of your bag and thank god you’d found the lighter before the cigarettes because if you didn’t have a lighter you think that might have been what sent you over the edge. 

The moment you take the first drag from the cigarette you can feel it slowly starting to relax you, but in all fairness you are sucking on that thing like it’s your lifeline. You weren’t really a smoker, you used to do it at parties and then there was that spell sophomore year, but here recently you were going through them like they were candy. 

You don’t even realize someone has come up behind you until you hear Dustin’s voice scolding you. “Jesus Y/N, it’s like the inside of some dive bar out here.” 

The final bell must have rang without you realizing it or he was skipping last period too. 

Dustin shuffles down the steps past you and stands at the bottom looking back up towards you. “What the hell do you know about a dive bar Henderson?” 

“Enough.” 

You roll your eyes at the curly haired kid. “Right.” You flick the ash off the end of the cigarette and then put it back between your lips, taking another drag from it. “What do you want?” 

His nose snarls as he wafts away the smoke that billows his way. “Will you join Hellfire tonight?” 

You audibly laugh and you can see Dustin’s shoulders deflate, you were his last hope. “You’re funny Dustin.” 

“I’m being serious, we need a fill in since Lucas is off playing basketball.” 

“Why can’t you reschedule Hellfire? Your best friend is playing in the championship game, I think he’d like it if you guys came to support him.” 

Dustin kicks the gravel beneath his shoes. “He’s been riding the bench all season.” 

“Its the last game of the season, he’ll more than likely play. I think you and Mike are being bad friends.”  

Before Dustin can reply you spot a familiar cheerleading uniform and blonde ponytail making its way across the other side of the field and towards the woods. “What is she doing?” You ask Dustin, pointing over his shoulder. 

He turns to see what you’re pointing at and then you hear him say. “Is that Chrissy Cunningham?” 

“Who else would it be?” 

A sharp pain suddenly erupts through your head and you wince slightly. It had felt exactly like the pains you’d have at the height of one of your headaches, but as quickly as it had appeared it was gone. 

The two of you watch her until she disappears past the tree line and out of your sight.

“Weird…” Dustin mumbles as he turns back towards you. “Right, so Hellfire? Yes? No?” 

You take one last final puff from your cigarette before flicking it onto the ground and smothering it with the bottom of your sneaker. 

“No.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Steve is all smiles when he pulls into the school parking lot moments later to pick you up and honestly just the sight of him has you forgetting about your little moment earlier. He holds your hand in the car, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles ever so gently. It feels nice to be able to be like this with him, to not worry about what might happen, to just let yourself love him and in turn accept his love right back. 

You get greasy burgers and fries at the diner right outside of town and then stop by the Dairy Barn for milkshakes. It’s a perfect afternoon and you’ve been nothing but giggles since Steve decided that he sounds just as good if not better than Michael Jackson. And as Billie Jean blares through the speakers and the wind blows through your hair as you roll the windows down you think that if this is what being with Steve is like you don’t know why you’ve deprived yourself of this for so long. 

The gym is already packed by the time you two make it back to the school. The band plays loudly and the team is warming up as Steve and you weave your way past people and towards the bleachers. Without even thinking you slip Steve’s hand into yours and he doesn’t say anything, just squeezes your hand back, even though it’s got him feeling like a giddy thirteen year old. His hand finds the small of your back as you start to climb up the seats to the open space near the band and you now have to act like it doesn’t have butterflies erupting in your stomach. 

Just as you guys get settled the principal comes out onto the gym floor and stands at the microphone. 

“Everyone now please rise for our national anthem.” The crowd obeys and he continues. “Singing for us tonight, we have a very special guest. All the way from Nashville, our very own Tammy Thompson!” 

The crowd cheers and your jaw drops as you watch Tammy walk out onto the gym floor. You look over at Steve and he’s got the same expression on his face. Thank god you guys chose to sit by the band because you catch Robin’s gaze and the look on her face is priceless as she glances over at Steve and you.  

Tammy starts to sing and you have to hide your face in Steve’s shoulder to stop from laughing. You know it’s wrong, the girl is trying to put herself out there, and she had more guts than you, but god all you can think about is Steve and you telling Robin she sounded like a muppet. 

You lift your head up just enough to see Steve look over at Robin and you hear him whisper. “Told you– muppet.” 

“Okay, she does sound like a muppet.” Robin admits as she holds back her own laughter. 

It’s the middle of a time out with fifty five seconds left in the third quarter when the coach takes Lucas off the bench and into the game. It had been a close game the whole way through so far and the opposing team was playing a little dirty, but Hawkins was only down six with still a whole quarter left, this game was far from over. 

As soon as Lucas gets out onto the court Steve is seemingly trying to coach from the bleachers. He’s surely living vicariously through Lucas right now, in all the years Steve was on the basketball team they’d never made it this far in the championship and then the year after he graduates they have the chance to win the whole thing. 

It’s back and forth the whole time, the opposing team scoring and then the next Hawkins would score. 

There’s ten seconds left in the final quarter and Hawkins is down one point. Jason shoots the ball and it bounces off the rim and right into Lucas’s hands. You glance at the scoreboard and it now says five seconds. Lucas dribbles the ball, turns back towards the net, and with two seconds left he shoots the ball. The buzzer goes off as the ball is mid air and everyone has their eyes glued to it as it hits the back board then swooshes right through the net. 

The crowd goes crazy and you feel Steve pull you into his chest, adrenaline buzzes off of him like he was the one on the court. “Holy shit!” Steve mumbles. 

“I know. I can’t believe we actually won the whole thing for once.” 

There’s still an electric buzz that trails out from the gym and into the parking lot as everyone finally makes their way outside. You hear people mumbling about the party at someone’s house later and some girl in your third period mentions something to you in passing about going. You’re sure it wouldn’t be one to miss, but you seemed to always make bad decisions at parties, so you’d rather just enjoy your evening sober. 

Steve and you linger by his car, waiting for Lucas to come out so you could congratulate him. It doesn’t take long for you to see the team spill out of the gym doors and you holler out to Lucas, motioning for him to come over. He’s got a big smile on his face as he jogs over to the two of you and he doesn’t refuse when you open your arms for a hug. 

“I’m so proud of you. Congratulations Lucas.” 

Steve pats him on the back with an equally as big smile on his face. “You did so good man, congrats on the win.” 

“Thank you guys. It means a lot to me that you came.” Lucas replies. 

His name gets called from off in the distance surely from some of the other guys on the team and you can tell he wants to go celebrate so you bid him farewell and Steve and you get into his car. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The drive back to your house is quiet except for the radio playing and the sound of the tires on the road. Steve’s hand is intertwined with yours over the center console and occasionally you feel him look over at you, but he doesn’t say anything. You’re just in your own little world, replaying today's events in your mind on repeat, how good you’ve felt today. Yeah you had that little moment with Ms. Kelley, but besides that today was the best day you’ve had in you don’t know how long. 

Steve puts the car in park in your driveway and from the absence of your parents car and the house being dark, it seems no one is home. Julie was at Max’s tonight and apparently your parents were off doing their own thing. 

“Whatta thinking about?” Steve asks softly, his hand reaching out and settling on your knee. 

A soft smile paints itself across your face as you turn to look at him. “Just today, how good of a day I’ve had. Don’t think I’ve felt like I have today in months. I felt alive today– normal even.” You pause for a second and then lean in a little closer to him over the center console. “And maybe I was thinking about you too.” 

Steve smirks at you and his hand moves up to cup the side of your face. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah. Thinking about how lucky I am to have you. Thinking about how we wasted all that time dancing around each other and even when we knew we had feelings for each other we were still too stubborn and well in my defense I had other things going on too, but basically we’ve wasted so much time when we could have been together years ago.” 

Steve frowns a little, yeah you could say the two of you had wasted time, but he’d spent a lot of time at work today thinking that maybe this is how you two were supposed to end up together. That if you’d tried to get together earlier that maybe it wouldn’t have worked out and so if this was the universe’s plan then who was he to defy it.

“Yeah, but I’ve got you now don’t I?” He asks softly and you nod back at him. “So then I think we shouldn’t dwell on the past. We should live in the moment.” 

His thumb gently caresses your cheek and when you look into those big doe eyes of his you feel your insides turn to mush. “I love you Steve Harrington.” 

“Say it again.” Steve whispers. 

“I love you.” 

He feels like he’s going crazy, to hear you say it so confidently and freely after all this time, it’s something he’s dreamed of forever and now here it was right and front of him. He leans in so his lips are barely grazing yours. 

“I love you Y/N Y/L/N.” 

And then his lips are on yours before you can even blink. It starts out sweet, but honestly the both of you are a little wound tight and it turns heated before you know it. You’ve learned very quickly that Steve kisses with his hands and it drives you absolutely bonkers to feel his big warm hands holding you in place as his tongue slides over your own. 

Steve breaks away just long enough to reach in between his legs and slide the seat all the way back. “C’mon.” He commands as he pats his lap and it makes you absolutely feral. You practically leap over the console and slot your knees on either side of him. Steve feels like his heart is about ready to bust through his ribcage as you settle into his lap and when his hands find a home on your hips his eyes flutter shut for a second. He’d shamelessly pictured something like this happening for a long time now and he can’t believe the moment has finally arrived. 

“You still with me Steve?” You tease, your fingers combing through his hair. 

He doesn’t respond, just presses his lips back onto yours with the same fierceness as before. It doesn’t even cross Steve’s mind that you two were supposed to be talking tonight, not making out in his car, but here you two were, diving in head first. 

Steve is painfully aware of how hard he is already and when you grind down onto him he can’t help the little gasp that escapes past his lips. He can feel you smile as you kiss him back and he knows you’re enjoying getting him so worked up. 

“You know how many mornings I’d wake up and feel you pressed up against my ass hard as a rock?” You mumble as you press wet hot kisses down his neck. God his neck was your favorite and when you gently bite down to mark him the whimper he lets out goes straight to your core. “Then have to pretend I didn’t hear you in the shower getting yourself off. God it was torture.” 

Steve lets out a labored breath as you continue your assault on his neck and he thinks that if you keep grinding down onto him like this he’s gonna come in his pants. 

“You wanna go inside?” You whisper in his ear and Steve doesn’t have to be asked twice. He’s pulling at the door handle, helping you off his lap, and then trailing right behind you the whole way up to your room. 

As soon as your door closes behind him his hands and lips are back on you like a man starved. He walks you backwards towards your bed until the back of your knees hit the edge. You scoot back towards your headboard and rest your head on your pillows as Steve now towers over you. Suddenly all your confidence has vanished and the reality of what is about to happen is starting to settle in. You don’t know why you’re nervous, this is Steve, the guy you love, who you’ve known forever. Yet, there’s something about being this vulnerable with anyone that has you becoming shy. 

He can tell the second your mood slightly shifts and he sits back on his knees, his hands intertwining with yours. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I don’t want you to regret this because honestly we are moving a little fast.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek as you contemplate. There isn’t anyone you’d want to do this with more than Steve, you trust him, and frankly you’re so turned on right now you feel a little crazy. You two might be moving a little fast, but frankly this was a long time coming. So you squeeze his hands in yours and nod your head. 

“I need to hear you say it baby.” 

You take a deep breath and you can barely talk with how much your body is buzzing. “I want this. I want to do this with you.” 

Steve smiles at you before he leans down and presses a kiss to your lips. His hands wander down to the button of your jeans and gently pops it open, your hips automatically lift to help him drag them down and once they're off and thrown haphazardly onto your floor you feel like your skin is on fire. His hands run up and down over your thighs as he still kneels between them and he presses chaste kisses to the insides of your knees all the way alongside the inside of your thighs. 

“I wanna make you feel good.” His warm hands settle on your hips. “Can I make my baby feel good?” 

His voice is sweet and thick like honey and you find yourself nodding embarrassingly fast, mumbling out a weak yeah as his fingers play with the waistband of your underwear. Steve takes his index and middle finger and presses it against your clothed core and the gasp that escapes past your lips about sends Steve over the edge, not to mention the wet spot he feels on your underwear, there was no denying you were soaked. 

He hooks his fingers into the waistband and gently pulls them off and they join your jeans on the floor. Steve doesn’t even give you the chance to clamp your legs shut on him, he’s got his big strong hands on both your knees holding you open. He slowly leans down until he’s face to face with your glistening heat and it takes every ounce of willpower he has to not go absolutely crazy. 

He starts slow with a gentle lick to your slit and then he works his way up to your clit and that gets a real reaction out of you. “Oh my god!” 

Steve doesn’t say anything, just takes his free hand and intertwines it with yours, letting you know that he’s right here. He starts to really get into it now and he can feel your arousal dripping down his chin and it only eggs him on more. The moans that emit from you as he gently sucks on your sensitive bud goes straight to his dick and he finds himself grinding down onto your bed to relieve some of the pressure. 

“Steve.” You call out and he just hums in response which only has you withering more underneath him. “Fingers, please, your fingers.” 

He obeys immediately and inserts one finger into you, because whatever his girl wanted, she was going to get. You’re so soaked it doesn’t take him long to add a second finger and the sounds that echo between these four walls are absolutely filthy. 

“Steve. Oh my god, please don’t stop.” You’ve never felt this amount of pleasure before and when his fingers find that certain spot you feel like you’re going to pass out. He can tell he’s found it just by the way you react and so he continues to move his fingers just how you like it, stroking your velvet walls with nothing on his mind but making you feel good. 

He can tell you're close, the way you’re clamping down on his fingers like a vice, and the way you're moaning his name like it's a damn prayer. 

“You gonna come for me? You can do it pretty girl, let go for me.” His fingers continue to pump in and out of you, wet squelching sounds filling the room. “I want you to look at me when you come. Can you do that for me?” 

The only thing you can do is nod, you’re so close to the edge it feels like your whole body is on fire and when Steve attaches his mouth back onto your clit, it only takes a few more flicks of his tongue and you’re tumbling over the edge hard. The way his big hazel eyes look up at you as he continues to pleasure you through your orgasm makes it that much more intense. Your body feels like jello as your head hits the pillow and your body twitches with aftershocks as Steve still laps relentlessly at your cunt. 

You have to physically pull him off of you by his hair for him to stop. His pupils are blown once you finally get a good look at him and his face is drenched in your arousal. He was pussy drunk and you were his drink of choice. His lips are on yours in an instant and you can taste yourself on his tongue and the way his dick presses into your thigh. 

“Did I make you feel good?” Steve asks once he pulls away. 

You laugh a little because what kind of question was that? You knew some girls faked it, but Steve had just rocked your world, there was no faking that. “You made me feel amazing Steve. Thank you.” You use every ounce of energy you have left in you after Steve had made you come so hard to flip him onto his back. “I wanna make you feel good now.” You state as you settle yourself between his legs. 

“You don’t have to..” Steve trails off, suddenly being the shy one. “I won’t last very long, I can just go jerk off in the shower.” 

“I don’t care.” 

You make haste to undo the button of his Levi’s and he helps you take them off. Once his jeans are off it's very painfully obvious just how hard he is. There’s a wet spot on his boxers from the precum that’s leaked out. You want to tease him so bad, but he’d treated you so well and he’d been waiting so long. So, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tug them off too. 

There had been stories and rumors that you’d heard throughout high school about how well endowed Steve was, but you’d always chosen to ignore them. Not wanting to think about your best friend like that, but holy fuck were the rumors true. The moment his dick springs free from his boxers your jaw drops. He wasn’t only blessed in the length department, but it had a nice thickness to it and you could only imagine the way he’d stretch you out. It has you clenching around nothing just thinking about it. 

You gently take him in your hand and his hips buck up into your hand just at that little bit of fiction. 

“I’m sorry.” Steve mumbles. 

“Don’t be sorry.” 

Your thumb gently rubs over his tip collecting some of his precum and Steve thinks he’s gonna lose his damn mind. For good measure you spit into your hand and then begin to slowly stroke him. The whimpers that come out of his mouth are like music to your ears and it gives you the ego boost you need to lower your head and take him into your mouth. 

Steve nearly comes right then and there, he thought he was just getting a hand job which he was more than alright with, but then you go and start sucking him off and his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head. 

He’s so damn big that there’s no way you can take all of him in your mouth, especially the first time blowing him. So what you can’t fit in your mouth your hands take care of. He’s a withering mess beneath you and the way your name sounds when it rolls off his tongue is a sound you never want to forget. Steve’s chest heaves and he wasn’t wrong about saying he wouldn’t last long, he’s already right on the edge, and any other time he’d be embarrassed, but you are making him feel so good he can’t help it. Plus it’s you, he knew you weren’t going to care. 

“I’m close. Holy fuck I’m gonna come.” 

His words encourage you and you give him everything you have until you feel his hips stuttering and then the feeling of him cumming in your mouth. You pull your mouth off his dick with a popping sound and when Steve sees you swallow his load with ease he feels his dick twitch. He’d never ask you to do that, but the fact that you did it because you wanted to has him feeling things he never thought he could before. 

He’s still trying to control his breathing as he watches you slide off the bed and rummage through your dresser. You pull on a pair of clean underwear and then quickly take off your shirt and bra only to replace them with an oversized t-shirt. You open Steve’s drawer and toss him a clean pair of boxers, which he quickly slides on before you join him back in bed. He tosses his shirt on the floor with the rest of the clothes and then opens his arms for you. 

You snuggle into his side, your head laying on his chest as his fingers sneak up under your shirt and lazily trace patterns onto your back. Neither of you say anything for a while, you just lay there enjoying each other's presence, both of you still recovering from your mind blowing orgasms. 

Eventually you feel Steve press a kiss to the top of your head followed by a soft. “I love you, please don’t ever forget that.” 

You glance up at him to find him already looking down at you, there’s something you can’t quite read behind his eyes, but you try not to think too much into it. Instead you lean up and press your lips to his. 

“I love you too, so much.” 

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