valerie

see ya later, live and be well ! i salute the time we had but love can’t break the spell xo

[cantbreakthespell]

♯ ⋮ ⋆˚࿔ bello it’s val || @oohgeminii = writing acc n main blog 💋 ||

this is gonna be a mix of fic recs n maybe even spoilers😁 of upcoming fics im posting bc i can’t keep my fat mouth shut

the valerie reccomends this a lot tag is where you’ll see my recs !! + the shutupvalerie tag is me either responding to asks or j talking yep

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[moonstoneandmoonlight]

can't save 'em all | steve harrington

football au, goalie!steve, needy!steve, sad!steve, established relationship, female reader, no use of y/n.

wc: 1.2k

The moment the ball slipped into the back of the net behind Steve at the eighty ninth minute, he knew he had let his team down. He knew it was all over for Man City’s chances at victory.

The stands behind him erupt with cheers from the opposition and the City fans that had been cheering him on two minutes ago when he had made a save by the very tips of his gloves were now booing him.

He couldn’t exactly blame them. It was his job to make sure the ball didn’t hit the back of the net and he had failed at that job. Twice.

It had been a tough match. His team had scored early on into the game and the defenders had been working tirelessly to ensure the other team didn’t score an equaliser. But at the very start second half, they did just that.

Morale died, just a little. Still, his team preserved. Worked to try and keep the ball away from Steve’s goal. But the opposition were brutal and they didn’t let up. Saw opportunities that his team didn’t. Steve couldn’t even count how many goals he had saved in the last ten minutes. But he knew no one would remember those saves, they’d only remember the ones he didn’t save.

As the referee sounded his whistle and the other team were declared the winners of the Champions League, Steve lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. But also to wipe away the tears in his eyes so that the cameras wouldn’t see.

Steve hated letting people down, he hated letting his team down, letting the fans down. But mostly, he hated letting you down. You—who was probably watching on in the stands, in his jersey, angry that he couldn’t save two fucking goals.

“C’mon, Harrington,” one of his teammates mutters in his ear, pulling him in for a one armed hug and leading him off the pitch, away from the other team’s celebrations. “You did good, don’t worry about it. You can’t save ‘em all.”

But worry is all that Steve would do. It’s all he thought about as he followed his team into the locker room, as he peeled off his kit and showered. He could feel the disappointment in the room, could see it on his teammates’ faces and all he could think was that it was his entirely fault.

After a post match de-brief with the coach, it doesn’t take long for him to find you.

You were waiting patiently with some of the other players’ partners, nervously fiddling with the hem of Steve’s jersey you were still wearing.

The moment you see Steve slipping out of the changing room—his head hung low in shame, trying desperately to avoid the flashing of the cameras directed at him—you find it hard to stop yourself from running over to him and kissing every inch of his face until he was okay again.

“Hey honey,” was the first thing you say to him when he approaches you, a soft smile on your face as you gently brush your fingers through his still damp hair.

The fact he doesn’t smile at the pet name—not even a little bit—tells you that he was not okay. Not in the slightest.

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

He doesn’t even argue when you tell him you were driving home. Nor does he crack a smile when you start to play one of the playlist he had lovingly made you.

You knew how important that this match was to him, knew how hard he and his team had worked all season to get to the finals and you knew that he believed—that he truly believed—the loss was all his fault. And it was breaking your heart to know that he blamed himself.

“M’going to bed,” Steve murmurs to you as soon as the front door closes behind him. “Tired. Love you.”

You swallow, letting him kiss you on the cheek before he slips upstairs.

You don’t take it personally, not at all. After all, an entire stadium of people booing you would make you shut down too.

But you were you and you refused to let Steve Harrington go to sleep blaming himself.

You wait maybe three minutes before following him upstairs. You can hear him sniffling, muttering words of self-loathing to himself in the bedroom and you can’t stand to listen to it a second more.

The bedroom door swings open and you find Steve sat on the edge of your bed, tears streaming down his face. Something inside of you twists horribly.

“Oh, baby.”

You’re by his side in seconds, pulling him into your arms and letting his tears soak your his jersey.

“M’s-sorry,” he stutters out, arms wrapping around you and pulling you even closer as though he didn’t ever want to let you go. “M’tried t-to s-save ‘em, I-I really d-did—”

“—shh,” you hush him gently, rubbing soothing circles on his back as his shoulders shake, his body nearly collapsing into you. “I know, honey. I know you did.”

You knew Steve had a tendency to be a little hard on himself when he lost, you knew he’d rather die than blame it on poor defending from his own team but when it came to big games like this? Steve couldn’t barely hold it together after a loss.

But you were always there to pick him right back up.

You pressed your lips to his forehead then to the tip of his nose as he pulled you even closer, looking so lost and young that you felt something inside of you break.

“J-just didn’t w-want to dis-disappoint anyone,” he murmurs as he buries his head into your shoulder. “Didn’t w-wanna disappoint y-y-you.”

Your heart felt as though it had been torn apart by that.

“Baby, you could never disappoint me,” you tell him, meaning every word as you pull away enough to look at him, so he could see the determined look on your face. “Never.”

“But—”

“—but nothing,” you interject. “I don’t care how many goals you let in. I’ll always be proud of you. Always.”

Steve swallows, seeing the intensity in your gaze, hearing the conviction in your voice, knowing that you meant every word. That you would be there cheering him on, no matter what.

“Thank you,” he says finally, grateful that he had you to remind to not be too hard on himself. Grateful that you were there to hold him when he needed it most. “I love you, baby. So much.”

“I love you too,” you tell him with a small smile and a soft kiss to the lips, one that Steve finds himself melting into, his hand lifting to cup your jaw so that he could deepen the kiss.

And though he wouldn’t admit it—not to anyone but you—but being in your arms was much better than any damn trophy anyway.

mooney rambles: it's not coming home guys x

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[moonstruckness]

Complicated

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: You see Steve Harrington as the conceited golden boy everyone knows him to be, but when you are forced to tutor him, you see a different side of him and start to soften towards him, so much so that you fall for him. But when he has a perfect girlfriend he loves, and friends that see you as a joke, you know that you don’t stand a chance.

Content: fluff, angst, slow burn, s1 Steve so he’s a bit of an asshole, mentions of shitty dads, a few uses of y/n, opposites attract, popular boy x nerdy tutor girl (I’m such a sucker for this trope I had to do it), the timeline for s1 in this fic is a bit inaccurate but let’s go along with it for the plot please. Lmk if I missed any! (Pictures are not intended to reflect the reader)

Word count: 14.4k words

From the moment one of your classmates had asked you to tutor them in your freshman year, you quickly learned that you loved tutoring people.

Perhaps it was because you had always been a helper, and it felt good knowing that people were comfortable enough to come up to you and ask for such help.

But what you really loved about it was the outcome.

When the person you helped came to you afterwards and excitedly told you how they had aced their test, or how they had gotten a good mark on their assignment, it filled you with a quiet sense of pride. Not exactly for yourself, but for them. For their success, for their improvement. And because you had done that, you had helped them get to that success.

So naturally, you signed up to become an official tutor at the Hawkins High School Tutoring Centre.

It became apart of your routine. Staying after school to tutor someone, or having to come to their house to do so. Either way, you never really minded. All that really mattered was that you helped them not to dread class so much anymore, to help them to not have to scratch their head while looking at the work because they just didn't get it.

So of course, now in your sophomore year, you didn't mind when the coordinator of the centre informed you that a new person had been added to your roster. However, you didn't know who this person was because the arrangement had been last minute since the person's original tutor had been unable to do so, so he wasn't officially on your schedule yet. All that you knew was that he was a guy in the year above who had apparently been holding off getting tutored for a long time. This made you assume this guy was going to be a bit hard to work with, but you were always able to manage.

It had been thirty minutes since school ended when you sat in the library, waiting for this person to show up with your stationery already set out on the table. This person was already late, and should have already been at the table with you fifteen minutes ago.

You were thinking about the meatloaf you were going to have for dinner tonight when the doors of the library swung open, abruptly cutting off your thoughts and startling you. You looked up as the librarian glared at the culprit at the door, pressing a pointy finger to her lips.

And the culprit was the last person you expected to walk into a library of all places.

Steve Harrington.

As in Steve "The Hair" Harrington, also known as King Steve.

The kind of person who threw a raging party every Saturday, the kind of person who misbehaved in class because they knew there would be no real consequences, and the kind of person who would only ever be at school after hours for basketball practice.

So why the hell was Steve Harrington in the library of Hawkins High after school hours?

And why was he looking straight at you?

He didn't look happy by any means. He was obviously annoyed by whatever was plaguing him, and you grew nervous as he approached you while still wearing his irritated expression.

He came to a stop in front of your table, and you swallowed anxiously under his intimidating stare, starting to fiddle with the ends of your sleeves as a nervous habit.

"Are you Y/N L/N?" He asked flatly.

You blinked. "Yes. Can I help you?"

"You're supposed to apparently, you're my... tutor," said Steve, his face scrunching up as if the word physically hurt him.

Somehow, you had known from the second he had walked in with that look on his face, yet your stomach still dropped with dread when he said it.

You were happy to tutor anyone, but anyone didn't include Steve Harrington. It was something you had never worried about, because how were you supposed to assume that one day you would have to tutor King Steve out of all people?

You schooled your expression to the best of your abilities, and you recollected yourself as you nodded. "I see. Well... sit down, and we can get started."

You tried to say it kindly, but you immediately regretted doing so when he mumbled something grumpily under his breath as he reluctantly sat on the same table on you, pointedly choosing the seat furthest from you. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, and you had a feeling that was an urge you would need to resist often.

You cursed the coordinator of the centre for setting up this arrangement. Clearly, this person didn't know anything about how you and Steve couldn't be any more different, because you truly were polar opposites.

While he played beer pong at house parties, you were studying. While he goofed off in class, you paid attention and completed all of your work. While he was at basketball practice, you were tutoring. While he always had a rowdy table at lunch, you had a quiet and calm one.

There was a spectrum, and you both sat at the opposite ends of it.

You just hoped you could swiftly help Steve pass a test so that it would be over as soon as possible.

***

After just one week, you could tell you were going to be tortured with tutoring Steve Harrington for a while.

To put it nicely, he... lacked concentration, and perhaps lacked a lot more. You really didn't think he was stupid, he just couldn't focus on what he needed to.

Only after two sessions, you had noticed that while you talked, he simply didn't listen and clearly didn't even try to. He always had a faraway look in his eyes, like he was thinking about the party he was throwing that weekend, or what he was having for dinner. Sometimes he was clearly present in the moment, he just still chose not to take in a single word of yours. One time, he started to balance a pencil on his nose while you were explaining the math equation he needed to solve, and it had taken him ten minutes to realise you had stopped talking.

He was already by far the most difficult person you had tutored, and so far, you were lost on how to get through to him.

You didn't even know how or why he was in the tutoring program. He had made it clear since day one that he didn't want to be tutored by you, and he hadn't once shown an ounce of effort in any of your sessions. Maybe he had gotten pressured by his parents, that wasn't an uncommon reason behind kids coming to the tutoring centre. But then you had heard rumours that his parents was always out of town and that's why he was always able to throw parties, so if they were never there, why would they pressure him to do such things?

You didn't know, and you didn't really want to. You had no interest in Steve Harrington's life, no matter how handsome or charming he was. He wasn't all that interesting.

Nevertheless, you were still being forced into his life one way or another, so much so that you ended up with plans to go to his house on Sunday.

It had been during the usual tutoring session tucked away in the corner of the library, you overviewing your notes for your own work while he was supposed to be reading the textbook laid out in front of him. Of course, he was instead staring out of the window longingly, like he wished to be outdoors instead of stuck inside with you.

"Do we always have to do this in the library?" He asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

You looked up, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, is it necessary to be in the library for all of this stuff?" He rephrased.

"Well... yeah. A library is the best place to study and get work done," you said, confused on why this wasn't obvious to him.

"Yeah, but... someone could walk in," he said quietly.

Oh, so that's what it was about. He didn't want someone to walk in and see him actually studying, something that was considered weird and nerdy for people like him. Or more specifically, he didn't want to be seen with you.

You sighed, and propped your chin on the palm of your hand. "Then where do you suggest we go if not a library?"

"I don't know, just like... not at school," said Steve, avoiding your gaze.

"Well, you could come to my house or I could come to yours. I've done that with other people when they weren't able to study at school either," you said.

He blinked. "You want me to come to your house?"

"Yeah, so I can tutor you. If that doesn't work, then we can go the public library or-"

"No, just..." he trailed off, seeming to consider it before sighing, running a hand through his hair that you couldn't help but look at. "My parents are out of town this weekend. You can come over on Sunday if you really want."

You were secretly glad he suggested his house. You didn't want Steve coming over and judging your house that was very much not a mansion like his probably was.

"Sounds like a plan," you said dryly. "What time do you want me to come over?"

"I don't know like... two o'clock?" Said Steve.

"Works for me," you said unenthusiastically, and he seemed just as eager as you were as he ripped some paper from his notebook and wrote his address on it, giving it to you.

"Don't take this the wrong way but can you please not tell anyone about this?" Steve asked.

You didn't resist this time, and let yourself freely roll your eyes. "Don't worry, I don't want anyone knowing about this either Harrington."

His eyes flashed with surprise, and you tried not to feel too satisfied as you had clearly startled him with that.

The rest of the week passed quicker than you would've liked it to, and before you knew it, you were climbing onto your bicycle with your bag on your back and his address in your hand. It was a longer ride than you had anticipated, and you soon realised why your houses were so far away from each others as you entered his neighbourhood, which was lined with rich houses and fancy cars in driveways, a stark contrast to your neighbourhood that was filled with actual life instead of excessively big, soulless properties.

You finally pulled up to Steve's house, and suddenly the nerves inside you increased tenfold. You certainly didn't want to be alone with Steve Harrington in his house that was go-to place for high school parties you were never invited to. But you were a tutor, this was your job, so you had to pull through. You were determined to get Steve to at least pass one of his subjects.

You took a deep breath before you approached the house and knocked on the door. You stood there for a few minutes with no answer, so you knocked again, and only a minute after that, the door swung open.

Steve looked like he had just rolled out of bed with rumpled clothes and hair that was tousled, out of its usual polished state, a sight that felt a bit shocking to see as he was well known for his perfect hair.

He blinked as if he was surprised to see you, and then he said, "I forgot you were coming."

Despite your nerves, you were able to remain cool and unbothered on the outside as you shot him a deadpanned look, sarcastically replying, "flattering."

He sighed. "I didn't mean it like that, I just- sorry, I know you've come all this way, but I can't do the whole tutoring thing today. I've got a killer headache, so I'm in not in a good state to study."

You actually did believe that he had a headache, but you had a feeling he was leaving out some details.

"Are you hungover?"

A pause.

"No," Steve scoffed.

But his hesitation had already answered your question.

"Have you made a hangover smoothie?"

He frowned. "Hangover smoothie?"

"You don't do that sort of stuff? My sister always did when she was in high school," you said. "Do you have a blender?"

"I... don't think so?"

"God, for someone who always goes to parties, you don't seem well equipped for your hangovers," you said quietly, but he heard it all the same, and he looked at you incredulously.

"I can't study," Steve repeated firmly, probably a way of trying to get you to leave.

But you only tilted your head. "I think you can."

"What?"

"Just drink lots of water, and we can get started," you said with a sweet smile.

"This is ridiculous, you can't-"

"But I can, because I'm your tutor, and you can be as difficult as you want, but I'm not giving up on you. So, are you going to let me in, or should I tutor you at school this week?" You asked.

Steve stared at you in bewilderment, like he couldn't even fathom the fact that someone was saying no to him, that someone was going against what he wanted.

He seemed to realise that you weren't going away anytime soon, so he widened the door, and you smiled with satisfaction as you stepped into the threshold, shoulder brushing against his as you walked further into his house.

Your confidence diminished as you followed Steve into his fancy kitchen, awkwardly standing in silence while he had a water in a glass that had probably been expensive, like most items likely were in the house by how everything looked, but you tried not to pay too much attention to it all.

He then led upstairs to his bedroom, and you tried not to show your surprise at the size of it, at the king-sized bed in the middle of the room, the shiny basketball trophies that lined the shelves, and the ensuite connected to the room.

It reminded you of how much of a typical jock he was, and how you were supposed to tutor this certain jock.

"Get started with it then," said Steve unenthusiastically, flopping onto his bed. When he noticed you weren't moving, he said, "you can sit down, y'know."

You cleared your throat awkwardly before sitting on the edge of his bed that you noticed immediately was very soft. Still, you didn't let yourself get too comfortable as you shifted your bag to your lap, undoing the zip and starting to unload your stuff.

Soon enough, there were books and pens scattered on the bed, both of you sitting opposite each other. He at least had a notebook opened in front of him with pen in his hand, but that was where it ended, while you explained the key points of the Civil Rights Movement for his history class.

"Are you hungry?" He interrupted you to ask. "I am."

You gave him a confused look. "Um... I guess I could eat, why?"

"I'll go get a snack!" He said eagerly, jumping up from the bed, "do you like potato chips?"

"Yeah...?"

"Great, I'll be back," said Steve, bounding out of the room, leaving you confused by his sudden hospitality.

When he was gone for longer than necessary just to get chips, you realised he was just making an excuse to not do his work, and it made your irritation grow. You needed to come up with a new strategy to get the information for the work through his head.

He eventually came back with a bag of chips that he sat between you so that you could share, but he still ate most of them as you focused on trying to make him learn. It became even more annoying to do so when he kept crinkling the bag obnoxiously and chewing excessively, all while sat in a stupid position on his side while leaning on his elbow.

And then you got an idea.

Just as he reached out for more chips, you snatched the bag out of his reach and placed it next to you.

Steve looked at you, clearly affronted. "You didn't have to take the whole thing if you wanted some."

"I made some flash cards for you," you said, ignoring what he said.

"Oh, great," he said sarcastically.

You shot him a look as you reached into your bag to pull out the pile of flashcards stuck together with a paper clip.

"Here's how we'll do this. For every answer you get right, you get a chip," you told him. "If you get it wrong, well, you just won't get anything."

He narrowed his eyes. "That's just stupid. I could easily get those back."

"Okay, then go ahead."

He held your challenging gaze before moving abruptly to try and startle you, reaching for the bag. But you were faster, taking the bag before he could touch it and placing it on your other side.

His mouth parted. "That was good luck."

"Just answer the flash cards Harrington, and you can get as many as you want," you said. "Only if you get them right though."

Steve groaned, running his hands over his face before he said, "fine, then shoot."

You smiled, pleased, and read out the first flash card. "What does the atomic number of an atom tell you?"

Steve was silent for a moment. "Uh, say that again?"

You repeated it, then he narrowed his eyes at you suspiciously.

"I thought we were doing history," he said accusingly.

"We were, but now we're doing science. I guess I didn't think you'd realise since you don't listen to anything I say," you said coolly.

Steve raised his eyebrows, and got off his elbows, sitting up. "Alright, so we're not holding back today."

"Why would I? I'm serious about tutoring you, Steve," you said while looking into his eyes, saying his first name for the first time without realising it. A smirk then tugged at his lips, and he subtly grew more confident.

"Atomic number... um... it tells you how heavy the atom is, or something?" He guessed.

"Incorrect," you said flatly, "but at least you tried. The atomic number of an atom tells you how many protons there are in the nucleus."

Steve frowned. "What does that even mean?"

"The nucleus of an atom is the centre of the atom, and it consists of the protons and neutrons," you explained, and at his lost expression, you added, "I can draw you a diagram-"

"No, just... next question," said Steve with a slight grimace.

You obliged, and went to the next card. "How many electrons are found in the first, second and third shells of an atom?"

"Jesus Christ," Steve murmured, rubbing his temple.

Feeling a stab of sympathy for him, you said softly, "want a hint?"

"Obviously."

"There are two found in the first shell, and the second and third are the same," you told him. "Well, it depends on which rule you're using, but we'll just use one for this one."

"I don't know, okay?" Steve snapped, still rubbing his temple. "We both know I don't know shit."

You deflated at his outburst, and you bit your lip, reading over the flash cards.

"Let's try this one, it's easy," you said gently. "What is the central part of an atom?"

Steve shot you a glare. "I don't-"

"I just said it," you told him encouragingly, "when I was explaining the answer to the first question. Think back on what I said."

Steve furrowed his eyebrows, "I..."

"I offered to draw a diagram of it."

You waited patiently as Steve went into deep thought, and then he blurted out, "the nucleus!"

You grinned. "Yes! That's right?"

Steve's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Really! Good job, Harrington, I knew you had it in you," you said happily.

"Thanks. Now, can I have my chips back?”

"Oh, right," you handed the packet back to Steve, and he took it back eagerly, digging into the bag enthusiastically. You snorted, and he sent you a sharp look with no real bite.

"You haven't had any yet, have some," Steve offered, holding it out.

"I'm fine, thank you," you said politely.

"You said you could eat, so eat," Steve insisted, and you let out a little laugh before giving in and taking one.

"You know, it's not that you don't know shit, it's that you don't pay attention," you said. "If you just simply did that, you would know much more."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Tell me more about it later," said Steve, bored by school talk. "What's your favourite chip flavour?"

To your own surprise, you went along with the change of topic. "Salt and vinegar."

His face scrunched up in disgust. "Are you serious?"

"What's wrong with salt and vinegar?" You said defensively.

"Everything. It makes my tongue feel weird, and I hate the smell," said Steve. "It's disgusting."

"No it's not! What's your favourite then if you're such an expert?" You inquired.

"Chicken's good."

It was your turn to grimace. "Yeah, you're the last person who should be judging my favourite flavour."

Steve's jaw dropped. "You don't like chicken?"

"It's got a weird smell to it," you said.

"Salt and vinegar is the one with a weird smell!" Steve said furiously, and instead of snapping back at him, you couldn't help but burst into laughter.

Surprise flickered across his face at your laughter, before he was unable to stop himself from laughing with you. It felt so out of the ordinary to be genuinely laughing with Steve Harrington on a Sunday, a moment that you felt like you shouldn't have belonged in.

And when the ring of the telephone on his bedside table cut through the sound of your combined laughter, the moment vanished, and you no longer belonged.

"I'll get that," said Steve, sobering and jumping off the bed to reach the phone, taking it off the stand and holding it to his ear.

The awkwardness crept back into you as you sat in silence, trying to mind your own business as you looked down at the books set out in front of you. Still, you couldn't help but pay attention to Steve's conversation.

"Oh, hey Nance!" He said eagerly, and you blinked at the change in his voice. "Mhm... yeah, of course, I would love to. How could I ever say no?" He laughed then, and you could hear the muffled voice on the other end. "Yeah, I'll be there in fifteen minutes. See you then."

You were picking at the skin on your fingers by the time he put the phone back down on the stand, and you reluctantly looked up as he turned to you.

"Hey, so uh-"

"You have plans with your girlfriend?" You said it before he could, raising your eyebrows.

"Well... yeah," said Steve sheepishly. "So unfortunately, we're going to have to cut this short."

"I don't think you find that unfortunate," you said knowingly, getting off the bed and starting to gather your stuff.

"Yeah, I don't," he admitted shamelessly. "No one does homework on a Sunday anyway."

"People with good grades do," you said pointedly, and Steve's eyebrows furrowed at the jab. Yes, it was a little harsh, but you had realised by now that you needed to be harsh if you wanted to get your point across. You straightened up, looking him in the eyes. "Harrington, you can't cut a tutoring session short just because your girlfriend wants to hang out with you."

Annoyance spread across his face. "Why not?"

"Because that's not how it works," you said snappishly, getting irritated with his obliviousness. "We were finally getting somewhere, and then you just ditched it with no second thought. You signed up for this, so you need to pull your head out of your ass and go through with it."

Steve scowled. "For the record, I didn't sign up for this, my dad did, so you should know I'm not doing this willingly. Even if I was, I'm not going to ditch my girlfriend to be tutored by another girl in my own house."

"Doesn't she know you're getting tutored?"

"No, no one does!" He blurted out, and you blinked. "The whole thing's pointless. Seriously, you really don't need to do this. You know my girlfriend is really smart? She can just tutor me instead, and she's happy to do so."

"Maybe you should've told your dad that before he signed you up," you said coldly.

"You don't think I- you know what, it's none of your business. You should just give it up, because you should know by now that this isn't going anywhere," said Steve heatedly, and you clenched your fists, biting your tongue so that you wouldn't say something you'd regret.

You packed the rest of your stuff and zipped your bag with an angry sigh. You hoisted your bag onto your back and went for the door, desperate to get out of the house.

But then you paused by the door, gripping the doorframe tightly as you looked at Steve who was glaring at the ground.

"You don't understand that I'm not giving up, Harrington. This might be an arrangement neither of us like, but I'm going to help you no matter what, because that's what I do. You shouldn't doubt yourself so much," your voice became quieter the more you spoke, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

You turned before you could see him look at you, and you hastily left the house.

***

The next tutoring session in the library was awkward and mostly silent. You had tried to explain the work to him for the first fifteen minutes, but when you realised he was never going to listen, you stopped talking and looked at your notes instead. You gave him a textbook that you told him to read even as that was something the both of you knew he wasn't going to do. You spent the whole session trying to think of what to do about him, how you could get him to just listen to you.

It was at the end when he broke the silence.

"About the other day..." he started, and you looked at him too quickly, with too much hope. "I just... you know who my girlfriend is, right?"

Oh, so it was just about his girlfriend instead of an apology. You didn't know why you were expecting more.

But of course you knew his girlfriend. Nancy Wheeler, a pretty, smart girl who nearly beat your top grade in the class, and sometimes did when you lagged behind on work due to tutoring. She was quiet but kind, and never did a thing wrong it seemed. You weren't friends with her, but you liked her with the exception of the times she got a higher mark than you, and jealousy would flare up inside you without being able to help it.

You didn't know how someone like her was able to put up with Steve.

"Yeah. She's really nice," you replied.

Steve smiled, a soft look in his eyes you had never seen before. "Yeah, I know."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

"I just want to ask you to not tell her about this... whole tutoring thing. Or anyone, for that matter. I don't want her to know because it's a bad look for me to be spending so much time with another girl," he explained.

"But I'm just tutoring you," you said with confusion.

"Yeah, but still," Steve shrugged.

You didn't hold back from rolling your eyes this time.

"And I don't want anyone knowing I'm getting tutored either. They might think I'm a nerd," said Steve, and then gave you an apologetic look. "No offence."

"None taken," you said sarcastically.

"Anyway, is that all okay?" He asked.

You sighed. "Yes, it is. I haven't told anyone anyway, and I don't plan to. My goal is just to get you to pass one test, and then you can be free."

"One test?" He repeated.

"Yes."

"It doesn't have to be an A or anything?"

"No, just a pass, even if barely," you said.

Steve nodded like he was accepting a challenge, leaning back in his seat. "Deal."

You hated how a small smile twitched at your lips. "Deal."

That next Sunday, Steve came over to your house instead. Leading up to it, you had been a nervous wreck.

People came over to your house all the time for tutoring, it had become normal for you, and you never minded it. But it was different with Steve, because he was different from all of the other people you had tutored. You had seen his big house, you knew he was rich just by looking into his driveway, so he was more likely to judge.

It wasn't that you were poor. You and your family were comfortable, but not rich, and you had a feeling Steve had only ever been around rich. You were the type of person who still only had a bike because you were saving up for a car, while he was the type to have his car bought for him.

You also just had wildly different interests, so yeah, you were pretty fucking scared.

You sat in your kitchen while your mum moved around you, biting your nails while you waited for Steve to come. You had deep cleaned your bedroom, and cleaned other parts of the house just to be safe.

You hated how much Steve Harrington was stressing you out.

"I think your new student is here," your mum said, looking through the window.

You jumped up at once, and joined her by the window, spotting Steve's burgundy BMW parked outside of your house.

Your mum raised her eyebrows. "He must be borrowing his dad's car.”

"No, that's his car," you said weakly.

She blinked. "Oh, wow. Okay."

You watched Steve get out of the car, subconsciously observing the navy jacket he was wearing over a polo shirt, along with his famous jeans that always fit him just right.

You blinked, startled by your own thoughts, and distracted yourself by heading for the door to greet Steve.

"Don't be weird!" You called out to your mum.

"I'm never weird!" She called back. That was a lie.

You opened the front door before Steve even reached it, and you internally winced at your eagerness.

He seemed to notice it by the slight raise of his eyebrows, but thankfully, he didn't say anything.

"Hey," he said casually as he approached you.

"Hi," you said blandly.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and you were about to ask him what was funny until he spoke. "You know, you always speak in this tone."

You frowned. "Tone? What tone?"

"Like, this flat tone, and you're blunt too," he explained. At your skeptical look, he rushed to say, "not in a bad way, it doesn't have to be bad. Except for when you're like, insulting me."

"I don't insult you."

"You literally did this time last week."

"Just because someone's saying the truth, doesn't mean it's an insult Harrington," you said sweetly.

He clicked and pointed at you. "See? That's it, right there!"

"That wasn't an insult."

"No, but it was blunt."

You rolled your eyes, albeit a smile tugged at your lips against your will.

"Just come in, we've got work to do," you said, widening the door and stepping aside for him to come through.

"Yes ma'am," said Steve, stepping into the threshold, and you failed to keep your smile from widening.

Your smile dropped when you were reminded of your fears as you noticed him looking around your home, and you started to pick at your fingers.

"My bedroom's just upstairs," you said quietly, about to lead him to your room until your mum appeared with a wide smile.

"Hello! You must be Steve!" Your mum greeted brightly. She introduced herself by her first name, and you wanted to sink into a hole.

"Nice to meet you," said Steve politely, seeming taken aback from your mum's energy. But there was nothing judgemental on his face, just... surprise.

"I don't know how long you plan to stay over for, but no matter the time, if you want a drink or some food, feel free to come down and ask! Or just get some yourself, she can show you," your mum said kindly, referring to you. "If she lets you out of the room, that is..."

"Mum," you warned.

"I'm just playing around honey! She's just a strict tutor, she's determined," your mum told Steve.

"He knows, mum. I've been tutoring him for a few weeks," you said with annoyance. At least, you had been trying to. "We're going up to my room now."

"Okay. Good luck, Steve!" Your mum said playfully to Steve, and you groaned as you urged him along while he laughed, seeming heavily amused by your mum.

"I'm sorry," you said once you were out of earshot. "I told her not to be weird, and I guess she heard a completely different thing."

"She's not weird," Steve smiled. "She's... really nice."

He wore a strange expression when he said it, one you couldn't read, so you just looked away and dismissed it.

You swallowed nervously as you entered your room, Steve stepping in behind you, and you rushed over to set up the stationery on the floor, as if starting as soon as possible would give him less time to look at your room.

You called him down to sit, and your face felt hot as he sat down without saying anything, glancing at your posters with an unreadable expression.

Your focus was on English today where Steve had to write an essay. You didn't think it was particularly hard, but that was always different for Steve. So you went into it thinking that he would be ignorant to it as always, that he would just get distracted by something stupid again.

But he proved you wrong.

Because when you looked at him, his eyes were already on you, and they weren't glazed over with the other thoughts he usually had running through his mind. He seemed... focused, and it startled you. Especially so when he asked a question about the topic.

So you let him write the introduction of the essay himself, sitting in silence as he wrote. Both of you had your backs pressed up against your bed, the supplies laid out in front of you while you sat a respectful distance from each other.

You tried to mind your own business, but then you couldn't help but stare at him while he wrote something that you'd probably have to give some constructive criticism on. Either way, it felt oddly personal to see him like that. King Steve sitting in your bedroom, writing an essay after apparently listening to the tips and information you gave.

You noticed how his eyes slightly narrowed while he wrote, his tongue sticking out slightly while he concentrated. The small vulnerability was definitely strange to witness, but... nice to see.

You snapped out of your daze, and looked away from him.

You spent the next whole hour working on the essay. There were many scrunched up balls of papers by the end of the hour, all that had come from a frustrated Steve every time he made a mistake. You had to gently remind him that it wasn't his final copy, that these were only his drafts.

He ended up with an introduction he was somewhat satisfied with, and a written starting sentence for the next paragraph.

You never thought you'd say it, but you were actually proud of him. Proud of him for finally putting in the effort, for swallowing his pride and taking your advice.

Your mum came at the perfect time with a plate of chocolate chip cookies just as you had decided to give Steve a break. They were leftovers from the batch she had made only a few days ago, and while Steve had been politely thankful, you could see the delight in his eyes.

After your mum left, he took his first bite of the cookie, and stopped masking his joy.

"I love your mum," he said blissfully, throwing his head back as he savoured the cookie.

"Don't go throwing that sentence around please," you said with a small grimace.

"But I do! I swear, these are heavenly," he said solemnly, holding up the cookie like it was a trophy. "This is exactly what I needed after the worst hour of my life."

You snorted. "Uh oh, Steve Harrington's actually done schoolwork and now he's dying."

"I am," he said seriously, and you laughed, making him grin.

You fell into a relaxed silence as you grabbed a cookie for yourself, and it felt strange to feel so comfortable around Steve, to just eat cookies with him in silence like you were friends who did this all the time.

After a few minutes, Steve interrupted the silence as he nodded towards something on the wall, asking, "do you have siblings?"

You followed his gaze to the photos of you and your family hung up on your wall, one of which included a younger you surrounded by older kids that were in fact your siblings.

"Yeah, quite a few actually," you answered. "But they're all either moved out or at college right now, so I'm basically an only child at the moment."

"So... you're the youngest?" Steve inquired, and you weren't expecting the genuine curiosity in his voice.

"That I am," you said with a bashful smile.

Steve hummed as he stared thoughtfully at the picture of you and your siblings.

"I've always wondered what it would be like to have siblings," Steve said like it had been a thought in his head more than something he'd meant to say out loud, and that seemed to be the case by the way his face fell after he realised what he had said.

But you didn't pay any mind to it, continuing the conversation normally, "it's loud when the house is full. It can also be really annoying when I want some quiet privacy, because that always get disrupted. Well, I guess I get time to myself all the time now, but that's going to change when they come back for the holidays."

You hadn't meant to ramble, and heat rushed to your cheeks once you realised, but Steve

showed anything but judgement. If anything, he seemed invested in your words, a faraway look in his eyes like he was imagining the scene for himself.

"Sounds nice," he said so quietly you almost didn't catch it, and you decided not to let him know that you had heard it, because you somehow knew those words had only been for himself. He cleared his throat, seeming to recollect himself as his voice returned to its usual confident, slightly cocky state. "So, do you plan to go to college like them? Your siblings?"

"Yeah, I'm actually really excited to. It'll be nice to get out of Hawkins," you said with a smile, "what about you?"

Steve shrugged. "I guess. My dad wants me to. But anyway, I probably can't get in with the way I'm going," he gestured to his incomplete essay.

"How many times do I have to tell you that you really do have it in you, Harrington? And either way, it's up to you whether you want to go to college or not. Don't let your dad decide for you," you said lightly, popping a small piece of a cookie into your mouth.

Steve blinked, and something vulnerable flickered in his expression for a few seconds before it smoothed over, his walls coming back up.

He seemed to be in a rush to lighten the unspoken weight that now hung in the air, so in his haste, he grabbed another cookie and took a reckless bite of it, spilling crumbs onto your carpeted floor.

"Stop it, you're getting crumbs on my carpet!" You complained, grimacing as you picked the crumbs out of your carpet and sprinkled them back onto the plate.

When Steve let out a laugh, your expression soured and you decided to take a different approach, gathering more crumbs in between your fingers before throwing them at him.

He let out a sound of disbelief as he held his hand up to shield himself, and he narrowed his eyes at you before he picked some of the crumbs out himself and threw them at you.

"You jerk!" You laughed, swatting his arm before the two of you fought over the last few pieces of crumbs in the floor to toss at each other.

You both ended up in a fit of laughter that made your stomachs hurt from the sheer absurdity of it, and that was what you counted as the first successful tutoring session.

***

The tutoring sessions with Steve changed after that day. Instead of it being something in your schedule you dreaded, it became something you actually looked forward to, because the times with Steve became enjoyable.

You both came to an agreement of doing tutoring twice a week, since you had other people to tutor and he had basketball practice. Wednesdays at his house, Sundays at yours.

You grew to favour Wednesdays and Sundays.

What it was, was that he was finally listening to you, and he was finally getting schoolwork done. There were many things about the work from each subject that you always had to explain to him multiple times so that he would understand, but you never lost your patience. He seemed surprised by this every time, looking at you like he was waiting for you to get angry after sheepishly asking for another explanation.

But you never did. You never saw any reason to.

It was not only that he was finally getting assignments done, but there had also been a shift in the dynamic between you. At the beginning, it had all been awkward silences and irritated glares, until you started to talk instead of letting the silences settle, until you laughed instead of throwing annoyed words and looks at each other, and the glares became playful instead of real. It began to feel less like a chore, and more like a fun hangout.

You considered Steve Harrington as a friend now, which felt ridiculous while simultaneously feeling right, because why wouldn't he be your friend? Sure, he didn't acknowledge you at school, and sometimes he talked about his girlfriend too much when he should've been studying, but he was kind. He was extremely nice to your parents, he complimented your home in a way that you knew he meant it, and he was always offering you food and drinks whenever you went to his house, or bringing them over whenever he came to yours.

You had even grown to like him so much that you started making hangover smoothies for him every Sunday when he came to your house, because he was pretty much always hungover on Sundays. You told yourself that you did it because you wanted him feeling well enough to be tutored, but deep down, you knew it was more than that.

Sure, he had his flaws, but Steve wasn't nearly as bad as you had initially thought him to be. Because you had seen a different side of him, a softer and more vulnerable side he never showed in public, in front of his popular friends and the girls that fluttered their eyelashes at him despite knowing he was taken. You wondered if he even showed that side to Nancy Wheeler.

It had especially shone through on one Wednesday when he came to your house instead of his. He had called you immediately after school to beg you to not come to his house, to have him come to yours instead just for that week. He hadn't told you why, but you had said yes anyway, because all you needed to hear was the urgency in his voice to know that it was important.

You hadn't asked when he arrived, even when he  looked down more than usual. You still didn't ask when he wasn't nearly as talkative as he usually was, almost silent the whole time as you talked him through the history paper he had to write.

You were forced to finally do something about it when you noticed him doing nothing after you left him to do it on his own, his eyes glued to the paper with a distant look in his eyes, mindlessly tapping his pencil on his knee. It was easy to see as you were working in your living room, sat at either ends of the couch. You didn't want to push him as he clearly wasn't in a good mood, but unfortunately, giving him a push was what you were there to do.

"Steve," you said softly, bringing him back to the moment and capturing his attention. "Are you struggling to start the next sentence?"

He blinked. "Huh?”

"On the paper," you said, nodding towards it.

"Oh," he said, looking at it like that was the first time he had noticed it there. "Um... no. Just thinking."

"You've been thinking for a long time," you pointed out gently, and you swallowed when he fixed his hard gaze on you. "I just- if you need me to go through it again, you know not to be afraid to ask me-"

"For god's sake, I already know I'm stupid so can you just leave it alone for a second?" Steve snapped, and you jerked back a little, taken by surprise. "I don't need you talking to me like I'm some slow kid."

"I wasn't-"

"You were. You always do!" Steve said out of frustration, running a hand through his hair.

You stared at him for a moment, processing his words before you leaned back into your spot on the couch, accepting defeat.

"Work at your own pace then, Steve," you said flatly, not bothering to hide your annoyance as you shifted your body away from him, focusing on your own notes.

You didn't look at him for a few minutes, but the tension in the air was palpable as you felt Steve's gaze burn holes into you. He said your name after at least ten minutes had passed, and you looked at him to find his guilty expression.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, looking at the ground. "You're not doing anything wrong, I'm just an asshole. I don't even know why I'm acting like one when I literally wanted to come here."

You frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The last place I wanted to be at was my house tonight, and for some reason, your place was the first thing that came to mind for an alternative," Steve admitted softly, and your heart skipped a beat. "I was so relieved when you said yes to me coming here instead."

The admission slammed into your chest, and it made your breath catch. Your house had been the first place he had thought of for an escape? Not Tommy Hagan's house? Not even Nancy Wheeler's?

Steve blinked as if snapping out of it, and frantically said, "sorry, that was a weird thing to say. I don't know why I- just forget that ever came out of my mouth."

"Don't be sorry. I think it's nice," you said softly, turning your body back to him as he looked at you curiously, "that you thought of my house as a better place to be. I didn't realise you liked it that much."

"How could I not? It's the place that holds the outcomes of your mum's glorious baking," Steve joked, and you laughed quietly, shaking your head at him. Steve smiled, but his face quickly sobered as he looked at you questioningly. "By the way, you haven't asked me anything."

"About what?"

"About what happened at my house, why I prefer to be here," said Steve bluntly.

You shrugged. "Not my business, is it? It's up to you if we talk about it."

Steve seemed taken aback by that, and you didn't know why he did. Was he used to people prying in his personal business that clearly upset him?

"But... don't you want to know?" Steve pushed.

"I guess I'm a bit curious, but I'm not going to force you to say anything," you said as if it were obvious.

Steve opened his mouth just to close it again, and narrowed his eyes. "You're weird."

You arched an eyebrow. "Or I'm just not nosy."

"Or that," Steve agreed in defeat, and you huffed out a laugh. You didn't expect anything more from him, but when he started talking again in a weaker tone, you listened. "My dad's just an asshole, and... is it really bad to say that I prefer my parents being away on a work trip to them being home?"

You didn't respond momentarily, staring ahead thoughtfully before you softly spoke. "I think you're allowed to feel however you want to, and you shouldn't be so quick to invalidate yourself."

You looked at Steve to find him staring at his lap with his eyebrows knitted together into a small frown, picking at his fingernails as he went into deep thought, probably taking in your words.

Neither of you mentioned it again after that. His asshole of a dad and his unstable home, that was. Every time his parents were home on a Wednesday, you always changed the plans around for him to come to your place instead. You never made a big deal out of it, never talked about the reason why, because you never felt it was necessary to make Steve explain himself more than he had to. It was something Steve appreciated more than you could realise.

It was a Friday night when your parents were in need of some last minute groceries. Your dad had been about to go get them himself before you had offered to get them instead. Your parents had both just come home from a whole day of working, and it had worn them down enough to the point you could see the exhaustion on their faces, so you had been generous enough to take a small weight off their shoulders. They had been hesitant to let you with the recent disappearance of a young boy named Will Byers, but they had been too tired to argue with you, so they let you go with minimal argument.

You weren't old enough to drive on your own yet, so you took your bicycle as you always did with a flashlight. The grocery store wasn't far away anyway.

You quickly popped in and out, getting what you needed with the cash your parents had given you. You took your bicycle out of park and struggled to juggle the full grocery bag in your hands while trying to get onto your bike safely, only having the fluorescent lights of the store behind you to help.

You heard a car pulling up to the curb in front of you, and didn't look up as you thought nothing of it, thinking it was just someone else coming to the grocery store until they suddenly honked. You jumped in surprise, almost dropping the bags as you looked up.

The headlights of the car blinded your vision for a moment, and you blinked rapidly as you squinted to see who was sitting in the drivers seat of the car. When you realised who it was, bewilderment washed over you.

The window rolled down, and Steve tilted his head to meet your gaze from the drivers seat. "What are you doing?"

You blinked, and shot him a look of disbelief. "What am I doing? What are you doing, honking at me like some idiot?"

"That's not very nice."

"Am I usually nice, Harrington?"

Steve snorted. "No. But seriously, what are you doing?”

"What does it look like? You do know what groceries are, right?" You asked sassily.

"I know that! But why are you... you're trying to get onto that bike while you're holding a bag that looks very full."

"Yes?" You said, confused on why he was pointing out the obvious.

Steve returned your confused look. "Didn't you bring your car?"

You gave him a deadpanned expression. "I don't have a car."

Steve didn't react for a moment as he comprehended what you had just said, and then his eyes widened. "You- you don't have a car?"

You looked at him with irritation. Of course a rich boy like him couldn't believe such a thing. "No, because not all of us are rich like you, Harrington."

Steve blinked, eyes flitting from you to your bicycle as he slowly seemed to understand. "Right... but you couldn't even bring your parents' car?"

"I can't drive yet. I'm a year younger than you, remember?"

"Then why-"

"Can you stop interrogating me and just get to the point of why you're here right now? Or have you just come to make fun of me for not having fancy transportation like you?" You snapped more harshly than you meant it, and a tense silence followed your outburst, making embarrassment flood through you.

"I didn't come to make fun of you," said Steve quietly. "I was going to ask if you wanted a ride back home."

Your face changed, not expecting that. "Oh."

"Yeah, um... well, do you? Want that ride?" Steve asked.

"Is it still up for grabs after I just bit your head off?" You said sheepishly.

Steve let out a laugh, and answered your question wordlessly as he got out his side of the car and walked around the BMW to approach you. He stopped in front of you, looking into your eyes for a second before he took your bike out of your hands.

"You're not about to throw my precious bike to the side of the road, right?" You asked, half joking.

He snorted. "No, I'm putting it in the trunk. You can get in the passenger seat, I’ll be there in a second, I just gotta put the seats down first."

You were about to speak up to say that he didn't have to go through so much trouble and that you could really just pedal your way home, but he was too swift in his movements as he opened the car door, leaning in to adjust the backseats of his car.

You tentatively got into the passenger seat, balancing the grocery bag in your lap. You glanced at Steve through the rearview mirror, and felt a weird fluttery sensation in your chest.

You stared ahead with a warm face as you listened to Steve’s movement before you could hear the sounds of him handling your bike. You looked over your shoulder this time, and watched the way he put in extra effort to make sure your bike was in a safe position before he closed the trunk. You turned back to the front, the fluttering in your chest intensifying as your cheeks started to burn. God, why were your cheeks burning?

You didn't move as Steve got back into the car and started up the engine again. After a moment of silence, he said, "you can put your seatbelt on, y'know."

"Right! Sorry," you said, your cheeks burning even hotter as you scrambled to put your seatbelt on.

Steve pulled out of park after putting his own seatbelt on, and you deliberately kept your gaze on the window while keeping a tight grip on the bag in your lap.

"You also don't have to keep that bag on your lap. You can put it on the ground," Steve added.

You might as well have been on fire at that point. You carefully placed the bag on the ground, avoiding his gaze. "Sorry, it's just... a nice car. Don't want to ruin it."

"Groceries won't ruin the car," Steve chuckled, and you smiled sheepishly. In your defence, it was a really nice car. "So, why were you on your own? Getting groceries, I know, but your parents didn't want to come?" Steve asked, genuinely curious.

"They were going to get groceries, but I decided to do it to let them rest. They're tired from working all week, so I just wanted to give them a little break," you explained bashfully.

Steve hummed. "That's really nice of you."

"Unheard of, right?" You joked.

"Not really," said Steve so quietly you were sure you imagined it, glancing at him to find that infuriatingly unreadable expression on his face again. "Still dangerous to be going out by yourself at night, though. Especially since that kid's just gone missing."

You did a double take, unsure if you had heard him right the first time. His tone was casual as he said it, but his jaw was tight. He surely didn't care, did he?

"Well, that kid was eleven, and I'm sixteen. I'm capable," you replied.

"Sixteen's not that much older."

"Oh come on, don't act all high and mighty just because you're a year older."

"I'm not. I'm just saying you need to be more careful because I- you don't want something bad to happen you," his voice grew quieter with each word, barely inaudible at the end of his sentence, but you were still able to catch what he said.

You shot him a confused look. He was acting weird tonight, you thought. There was that softer side of him showing that he never displayed in public, but it wasn't that. There was something about his energy that lacked its usual spirit, something dejected. Had it been his parents again, you wondered? You certainly weren't going to ask, though.

The rest of the drive to your home was silent and quick. The grocery store was only a short way from your house anyway.

When you arrived, Steve got out of the car with you to take your bike out of the trunk, being kind enough to park your bike where you directed him as you held the grocery bag.

"Thank you, Steve. For the ride and doing... all of this. You really didn't have to," you said sincerely as he leaned on his car.

Steve smiled weakly. "No worries. Couldn't have just left you there, could I?"

"You could've," you said calmly.

"I'm not that bad, L/N," said Steve teasingly, and you chuckled.

"Goodnight, Steve," you said softly, sending him a small smile.

He mirrored your smile, saying goodnight to you back with your name. You turned on your heel, starting the walk to your house as your heart raced in your warm chest.

When Steve called out your name, you turned around too quickly, making it seem as though you had been waiting for him to call you back. Perhaps you had been.

Steve scratched his neck, seeming nervous as he hesitated. "Um, sorry to be a bother but can I just ask for some advice?"

"Yeah, of course," you said, walking back over to him.

"Since you're a girl and all," said Steve quickly. "It's about Nancy."

You froze.

Oh. You forgot about Nancy.

Your chest twisted suddenly, nearly winding you and making you stumble, but you kept your composure and faced him with your chin up.

"Yeah, what's up?" You said airily.

"She's not happy with me right now. I invited her and her friend over to a party at my house, and she stayed over without her friend and now she hasn't seen her since, and she's really worried," Steve explained. "And I guess I was just more concerned about getting in trouble than her friend, and she got pissed off at me for it and... I don't know, I just don't know how to make it up to her."

You frowned. "Wait, her friend? Like, Barb?"

"Yeah, her. You haven't seen her around, have you?"

"No, not since Tuesday," you said.

"Well shit, that's the night she went missing..." said Steve, and your eyebrows drew together with concern. Just like Nancy, you weren't friends with Barb, but you had always thought she was nice. "Anyway, Nance isn't talking to me so I thought that you, a girl, would know how to fix it."

"Right," you said uncomfortably. "Why don't you ask your friend Carol? She's a girl."

"Yeah, but she's too... I just think you're someone who gives better advice," said Steve honestly.

You didn't know how to take that, and you hated how a smile twitched against your lips.

"Well, it seems simple. You just go up to her, apologise, and help her look for Barb. Or just be there for her. She's obviously distraught if her best friend is nowhere to be seen," you told him.

Steve nodded along, listening intently. "Yeah, okay... thanks."

You smiled weakly, "no problem."

Steve sighed. "I just... I really like her, and I don't want to mess it up, y'know?"

Your chest twisted even further, and you bit your lip, looking away from him.

"Yeah, that's understandable. Well, I hope it works out between you, but I have to go to bed now. My parents will get worried," you said briskly, already starting to talk away.

"Yeah, okay. Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight," you said quietly over your shoulder, and basically sped to your house, not looking behind you as you went back inside the safety of your home where he couldn't reach you.

That was the night you realised you had developed feelings for Steve Harrington.

But it didn't matter, because his heart only belonged to Nancy Wheeler, and you didn't stand a chance.

***

You were zoned out as you absentmindedly stored some of your books into your locker, your mind in a different place to your physical body.

Annoyingly enough, all it ever seemed your mind could stay on these days was the thought of Steve.

You knew it had been a bad idea to tutor him from the very start for many reasons, and now your worst fear had actually happened. Just like every other girl at Hawkins High, you had developed a schoolgirl crush on Steve Harrington, and he plagued your mind completely without permission.

It had been two weeks since you came to your realisation, and every tutoring session with Steve since then had been torture. It didn't help when he was his usual sweet self, bringing your favourite snacks when he came to your house, telling you how one of the posters in your bedroom looked cool, getting along with your parents, and listening to you with that concentrated look he had that was frustratingly handsome.

And it certainly wasn't helping that he now insisted on giving you a ride home every time you went to his house. He had asked you about your method of transportation to his house since he found out you weren't able to drive, and he seemed to take it personally when you told you just took your bike every time. Sometimes, you even got into small arguments about it, because you didn't like making him go through the effort of putting your bicycle into his car every time, but it made you learn that Steve didn't take no for an answer when to came to those sort of things.

Every ride home made your heart beat a little faster for him, and your feelings grew stronger with each time you both talked nonstop for the whole ride. It wasn't fair that he was able to make you feel such a way.

You used to judge those kind of girls before, the ones who batted their lashes at him in an attempt to get his attention, the ones who stared longingly at him in the hallways. Now you were one of them, and you felt so pathetic. You wanted to defend yourself by acknowledging that you had actually spent quality time with him and had gotten to know him as more than just a popular jock, that you had seen what was under the mask he always hid behind at school.

But did it even matter when he had never once remotely showed interest in you? When you technically weren't even friends, just acquaintances? You were his tutor for goodness' sake, of course you weren't supposed to feel this way. You had never even come close to feeling the same about anyone else you had tutored.

Of course Steve had been the one to capture your heart out of all of it. Him and his stupid soft smile that almost seemed reserved for you, him and his stupid jokes that made you genuinely laugh, and him and his stupid kindness in giving you a ride back to your house that night, putting your bike in his car without you having to ask him to do so, the implications of him caring about you when he expressed a concern for your safety.

All before he had asked you for advice on how to make it up to his girlfriend.

Even if you could've, you wouldn't. You certainly weren't the type to barge into a relationship, a very happy one at that.

You were snapped out of your daze when you heard someone call your name, and you perked up, looking into the direction of the voice.

A boy named Tyler came up to you, a student in your year that you tutored for maths and history. He had an excited expression on his face as he approached you with a piece of paper in his hand.

"Hi, Tyler," you greeted with a warm smile. "What's up?"

He grinned at you. "I have news. Good news."

"What is it?"

He held the piece of paper up to your face, showing you the contents. All you had to do was look at the B circled on it to know what it was.

"I got a B on my maths test!" He told you happily.

"That's amazing!" You said with a wide smile, pride blooming in your chest upon seeing the joy in his eyes. "I told you you had it!"

"I couldn't have done it without you," he said. "Seriously, thank you so much. You saved me."

You laughed sheepishly. "I'm just glad it worked out for you."

"I mean it, you're the best! I hope you're getting good credit for all of this tutoring you do," said Tyler earnestly. "You deserve it."

You smiled. "Thanks."

"I'll see you around. Hopefully I'll ace my history test next!" He said hopefully as he walked off, and you gave him a thumbs up before he fully turned away.

You turned back to your locker with a smile, your chest filled with warmth. That was why all those hours of tutoring was always worth it at the end of the day. The extra credit was a bonus, but it was helping others that really mattered for you.

You jumped at the sudden bang on the locker next to yours, followed by a familiar voice saying, "who was that?"

You turned your head in surprise, and your face morphed into an expression of disbelief as you saw him.

Because here Steve was, his body completely facing you while it leaned against the locker next to yours, his arms crossed and his eyes focused on you while everyone moved around you, all easily able to see the interaction between you two. The interaction between the most popular guy in school and some quiet girl who tutored people. 

It was the first time Steve had ever even looked at you in the school hallways, let alone talked to you, so it took you a moment to respond to his question as you processed your current situation.

And god, you hated how your chest started feeling warm in a different way when you looked at him.

"Um- uh- just a guy I tutor," you said bashfully.

"What were you talking about? He seemed very happy about something," Steve asked, and you quietly grew confused at his curiosity.

"He got a good grade on his test. He came to me because I helped him study, and he really thought he wasn't going to do a good job, but I told him he would, and I was right," you said with a proud smile.

Steve narrowed his eyes at you, his expression unreadable. "Hm, interesting. You seem to like him."

You blinked. "Um... yeah, he's a nice guy."

"So, do you have a thing for him?" Steve said suddenly with a smirk.

Your face dropped. "What?"

"What? It's just a question. You can tell me, I promise it'll stay between us. If it helps, it seems like he might like you too," Steve lowered his voice and leaned in a little, causing heat to rush to your cheeks.

You tried to hide your flustered state by rolling your eyes and slamming your locker shut. "No, Steve. I don't have a thing for him."

"But wouldn't he be your type? Like, smart guys?"

You looked at him incredulously. "No offence to him, but he's not exactly a smart guy if he needs tutoring. God, Steve, just because I get along with him, doesn't mean I like him. I'm his tutor, and that's it."

His infuriating smirk didn't falter, his eyes shining with amusement as he said, "if you say so."

You sighed while rolling your eyes again. "You're so annoying."

"Your eyeballs will get stuck in the back of your head if you keep rolling them."

"Then stop doing things that make me roll my eyes, idiot."

Steve opened his mouth to continue the banter both of you would never admit you thoroughly enjoyed, but the next words never got to leave his mouth as you were suddenly approached by two certain people, one of which threw an arm around Steve.

"Couldn't find you for a second there Harrington, you disappeared on us," said Tommy Hagan, while Carol Perkins stood beside him, chewing gum obnoxiously while assessing you with her eyes.

Then, a smirk spread on her lips, her voice laced with amusement as she asked, "who's your friend, Steve?"

Tommy looked at you like he hadn't noticed you were there, and immediately started sniggering even though you hadn't done anything.

Steve's face fell, something more guarded taking over his expression at the presence of Tommy and Carol while panic flickered faintly in his eyes, and you noticed it. Meanwhile, your stomach churned uncomfortably as Tommy and Carol stared at you like you were some form of entertainment.

When Steve didn't answer Carol, you took it into your own hands and hesitantly said your name. She snorted, arching an eyebrow at you.

"I wasn't asking you," she said.

"Well you were looking at me when you said it, so maybe you should've been clearer about who you were talking to," you shot back coldly, and Steve's eyes widened while Tommy whistled.

Carol's face hardened, chewing her gum more aggressively.

"Sassy, aren't you? Honestly Steve, since when did we start stooping so low for new friends? We shouldn't be welcoming this kind of crowd," she said, looking at Steve with a scoff.

"We're not," said Steve quickly, and you frowned. "She's not my friend. She's just..."

He trailed off, catching your sharp gaze. He held it for a few moments before looking away, looking at his actual friends, "she’s a stranger to me."

Your heart dropped.

A stranger.

Not a friend, not even an acquaintance, just a stranger. That's all you were.

“Then why are you even talking to her?” Carol snorted.

“Because, um… she dropped something and I was just giving it back to her was all,” said Steve hastily, talking about you like you weren’t even there.

Carol raised her eyebrows, unconvinced, and god, you wanted nothing more than to just shove her face into the locker like she deserved.

"As fun as this is, I'm hungry man, let's go eat!" Said Tommy, slapping Steve's back before letting go of him. He briefly glanced at you, his voice mocking as he said, "see you later... uh, whatever your name is."

Carol giggled, "yeah, see you sweetheart."

Tommy burst into another fit of sniggers, and your eyes caught it immediately as Steve let out a laugh, albeit it sounded a little more uncertain than the others.

But you were probably just imagining that just to make yourself feel better, because when the three of them walked away, Steve didn't look back at you once.

Your cheeks burned as he left you standing there, feeling like an idiot who had just been picked apart by a group of people who deemed themselves superior to you just because you weren't popular.

As if that hadn't already ruined your day, as if Steve hadn't already made your heart hurt enough, something happened at the end of your science class.

The class was pleasantly rowdy as everyone either did their written science work or talked with their friends about their plans for the weekend. You were one of the people doing their work, and was the first to walk up to the teacher to hand in your completed work.

"Well done, Y/N. I look forward to grading this, you never fail to impress me," your science teacher said, and you smiled sheepishly, thanking her quietly. "So, how's that tutoring of yours going?"

"Really good," you said, hating how Steve crossed your mind.

"I'm sure it is, I've even seen the evidence of it. You know, I never thought I'd see the day where Steve Harrington would be able to understand anything in my class, but proving by his recent results on his last test, it seems as though I have made it to that day," she told you with a smile.

You stilled. "What do you mean?"

She tilted her head at you. "Hasn't he told you? He passed his science test the other day. I even almost gave him a B."

You narrowed your eyes, "the other day? I- did you give him these results?"

"Yes. I know he tried to hide it, but I could see how happy he was."

Your blood started to pump in your ears, the realisation slowly dawning on you as you comprehended what she was saying.

"I even heard he got a good grade on his English assignment too. I don't know how you've done it, but you've worked wonders on him," she said. "Good job."

You didn't say anything for a moment before collecting yourself enough to say quietly, "yeah, that's good."

You went back to your seat after that, the noise around you fading to the background as the gears turned in your head.

He had been passing tests and getting good grades on assignments, and hadn't told you? He had been keeping it from you?

Your jaw tightened, and you clenched your fists, something hot stirring in your stomach.

You were going to kill him.

***

You thought it had been apart of your dream at first, then you thought it was just some animals playing around outside. But when the persistent tapping kept on going every time you thought it would stop, you finally woke up, and investigated.

When you saw nothing was happening to your window, you went over to it anyway, looking outside to see the source of the noise.

It was much worse than an animal. It was Steve throwing rocks at your parents' window, the morning sun shining down on him and highlighting the small cuts on his face along with the purple bruise on his left cheek.

You gasped softly upon seeing his beat-up face, concern flooding you against your will as you worried about who did something like that to him. You stared at him in disbelief before rushing to put your dressing gown and slippers on, tidying your hair as best as you could before hastily making your way out of the house, not even bothering to be quiet since Steve was being noisy enough anyway.

You walked around your house to meet Steve now crouched, gathering more rocks to throw. You stood there for a moment, gazing at him with folded arms while he didn't notice you, lost in his own world. You reminded yourself that you needed to be hostile, that he still hadn't given you an apology for what he did a few days ago.

When he rose to his feet, you finally spoke up.

"Trying to wake my parents up?" You asked, and he jumped, whirling around to you with wide eyes. He blinked at your words, looking back to your parents' window as you clarified, "that's their room, genius. I know you like my mum's food, but you surely can't be that desperate."

Embarrassment flickered across his face at your words, and he looked back to you with shame. "Shit. Sorry."

You shrugged. "That'll depend on how grumpy they are this morning."

A short silence followed your words, and Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair, and you watched him closely, eyes lingering on his bruises. The injuries looked fresh, and it made you wonder why he was here instead of resting at home.

"Are you okay?" You asked gently before you could stop yourself.

Steve looked at you in surprise. "Huh?"

"Your... face," you said, gesturing to your own. "Seems like you're hurt. Are you alright?"

"Oh, I'm fine, but that doesn't matter," he said quickly, seeming ashamed of whatever it was.  "What matters is what I came here to do, which is to say sorry for the other day."

You raised your eyebrows. "What did you do the other day?"

"You know, when we were talking and Tommy and Carol came over," said Steve, confused on why you were asking about the obvious until he realised you weren't playing dumb, you just wanted him to admit what he did wrong. "And then they were being assholes and I didn't do anything about it."

"Is that it?"

Steve's eyebrows knitted together as he seemed to search his mind for anything else. "I think so?"

You hummed quietly, keeping your face blank as you looked him over. You quickly noticed how something about him was off — not just the bruises and cuts on his face, but the way he held himself, the defeated look in his eyes that wasn't there before. You couldn't put your finger on it, but something in the air around Steve had shifted, and it made your curiosity grow stronger about whatever the hell had happened in the past few days that caused that and the bruises.

Steve sighed, his head hanging low as he said, "look, I know I messed up. I know that wasn't right of me and it wasn't fair to you, and you had to defend yourself which you shouldn't have had to because I shouldn't have let them treat you like that in the first place. If it's any help, it didn't feel good during that moment."

You scoffed. "It didn't feel good for me either."

The guilt in Steve's eyes strengthened, and he looked at you sorrowfully. "I'm really sorry. You didn't deserve that, after everything you've done for me-"

"Actually, it's okay Steve. We're not friends anyway, you don't owe me anything," you snapped.

Steve's face fell slightly like you had struck him. "That was stupid of me to say. I was trying to get them to back off of you, you know? They wouldn't have taken it well if I said yes, they would've been even worse."

"That's such a lame excuse. They were going to make fun of me no matter what you said, so you're just telling yourself that to feel better," you said sourly. "You're just like... I don't know, ashamed of me or something?"

Steve shook his head. "I'm not-"

"Then what do you call it? You're only nice to me when we're alone, and you're embarrassed to be seen with me in public. That's why you didn't want me to tutor you in the library. You literally said it yourself, you didn't want anyone to walk in and see," you poured out what had been pent up inside you through this whole ordeal. "You never acknowledged me in public until that moment for some reason, and even then, you said I was just a stranger."

"I know, I know, it was shitty of me. I shouldn't have- I'm really sorry," said Steve, and the worst part about it was how sincere he sounded, how real the apology seemed to be.

But you knew it would go back to normal after this, and with the last few days having given you room to think about it, you knew you couldn't go for any longer. Not with your feelings for him growing stronger everyday.

"I don't think this arrangement is necessary anymore," you said with a tight throat, avoiding his gaze as you said it. But even in your peripheral vision, you could see how his face dropped.

"What? But I still need to be tutored! I- I still need your help," said Steve frantically.

"There are other tutors at school, you can just go to them if you really need help," you said. "Also, didn't you say you could get your girlfriend to tutor you? She'll be happy to help."

Steve's expression shifted into something more hurt as he looked at his feet. "I'm not sure that's so true anymore. I'm not her favourite person right now."

Your chest tightened, and you finally looked at him, reading his crestfallen expression. Was that the reason why he looked like that? Because him and Nancy were arguing? You had a nagging feeling that there was much more to it, but you weren't going to push. You were too mad at him to do so anyway.

"Even then, I'm not the only tutor in the world. Besides, from what I've heard, you'll be just fine without tutoring anyway," you said bitterly.

Confused spread across Steve's features. "From what you've heard?"

"Yes. I'm not sure why I had to hear it from someone else that you had literally passed your science test, and got a good grade on your English assignment."

Steve's eyes widened slightly. "You- who told you that?"

"The science teacher."

"Why would she even tell you that? Oh my god..." Steve murmured, pressing his hands to his face.

"That doesn't matter, Steve. What matters is that for some reason you decided to hide the fact that you were improving," you scolded. "You neglected to tell your literal tutor that you had passed in two subjects!"

"I... forgot," said Steve unconvincingly.

You snorted humourlessly. "I don't think you did, and I don't even want to ask why you didn't tell me because you'll probably just give me another stupid excuse."

You were mainly pissed off at Steve for the way he had treated you in front of Tommy and Carol the other day, that was what drove the wedge between you two in the first place, but him not telling you about his good results had been the final straw. Because those had been moments he was meant to share with you, because you had been the one to help him. He was supposed to approach with you excitement like Tyler had done, and he was supposed to brag about his results to you with a wide smile while you were silently proud of him.

You had been eager for that moment between you and Steve, but because of some reason that was unknown to you, he hadn't told you, and had robbed you of that moment.

So yeah, you were very pissed.

"So you're ditching me because I didn't tell you about two decent grades I got?" Said Steve, and you couldn't help but notice the hurt that seeped through his voice. You hated how it sparked guilt in you.

Yet, you stood your ground. "I told you that all you needed to do was pass one test, and you could be free of me. Did you just forget that?"

Steve's Adam's apple bobbed, his jaw tight. "No."

"Then why didn't you just tell me? I know you hate being tutored, so why did you drag it out?" You asked heatedly, your pent up frustration spilling out. You stared at him expectantly, impatiently waiting for his answer.

But he only stared back at you, his mouth opening uselessly with nothing coming out, his eyes holding a desperate look that tugged at your chest, that almost made you give in. But you fought back against it, and scoffed at his silence.

"There's no reason to keep doing this, Steve," you said, your voice weaker.

"But I still need help with my other subjects," said Steve quietly.

"You know how to study now, and you can help yourself. I've given you a little push, so now you can be independent," you reasoned. "And look at the bright side, you'll have free time on Wednesdays and Sundays now."

"But I..." he trailed off, and your heart skipped a beat as you thought he was finally about to speak, finally about to admit something.

But he chose not to say it, and continued with his silence.

You gazed at his face, taking in each detail of his features, memorising it for when you would think about him at night, when you wouldn't see him anymore. The softness of his dark hazel eyes, the moles scattered on his face, and his stupid perfect hair that you longed to feel with your own fingers.

"It really was nice tutoring you Steve, but I've done my job now," you said softly, sending him your first smile of the day, and your last for a while.

He looked at you with sadness, something close to devastation, but not quite there. Because maybe Steve Harrington was fond of you in the way he was fond of your mother's cookies, but he nowhere near cared about you in the way he cared about Nancy Wheeler.

And that's why you turned your back to him, walking inside your house without looking back at him, even when you heard the small, desperate "please," leave his lips.

all comments and reblogs appreciated!

© moonstruckness

[tinfoileddd]

and if i could give you the moon || s.h.

ex-husband!steve harrington x fem!reader (18+; MDNI; 3.9k words)

It's been two years since you divorced your ex-husband. You get called back to Hawkins for his father's funeral.

cw: second chance romance; angst; character death; hurt/comfort; making out at an inappropriate time; hopeful ending!!! -> thank you to @keeryspullman for letting me torture u in dms with this! follow up at some point. maybe. hehe <3

masterlist || divider by @/strangergraphics || ao3 link

You’d never expected to find yourself back in Hawkins.

Not in the two years since your divorce, not since you saw your ex-husband for the last time as the two of you left the courthouse, refusing to make eye contact or even attempt an amicable goodbye.

(To be fair, what does a person say to their newly minted ex-husband after fighting with him for years to stop working so much? To let you in? After you gave up and decided enough was enough? What do you say to a man who, even as you signed the finalized paperwork, you still weren’t sure you could live without?)

(You hadn’t managed to figure that one out in time.)

But then you got the call from Robin in the middle of the night, panicked and crying and breathless as she says, “Steve’s dad died a couple of days ago, and I know you guys haven’t talked in forever, but he’s really falling apart and I don’t know what to do and he won’t talk to me and Mr. Harrington’s funeral is today and—”

That’s all you needed to let her know that you would make the hour and a half drive up from Indy, kicking out your date that slept over the night prior and packing a bag in a massive rush, only remembering at the last minute that you’re about to attend a funeral, that you need to be dressed for a funeral, and—

And you make it back to Hawkins by ten, a black dress on and pearl earrings that Steve once gifted you hanging from your ears.

The town is the same as you left it. Still small, still aging, still quiet. Everything that you thought you hadn’t wanted in life, and everything that you found yourself yearning for once you got your apartment above a restaurant on Mass. Ave and a shiny new job at a bank downtown.

For a moment, you almost let your muscle memory take over, to guide you towards the northeast end of town to the white, two-story cottage with a fenced in backyard and hydrangea bushes spilling out everywhere in the summer. The kind of house, the realtor had said, that was perfect for raising a family, with its tall ceilings and big windows and creaky stairs, ready to withstand everything from the small pitter-patter of feet across wood floors to the slamming of doors from teenage fueled angst.

The house that you know Steve still lives in, even two years later.

But you don’t let old instinct take over. There’s enough heartbreak being back in Hawkins as it is.

The funeral home sits in the center of town, the one that Will Byers was once memorialized in before he was found alive just days later, and sits opposite of the place the MAC-Z used to sit.

(The place where Steve had been released from military custody to you, and the place where he had dropped to one knee and asked you to marry him just minutes later.)

(The place that you had said yes through your confusion and tears, because he disappeared for weeks without a word, and you’d only had a thirty minute warning from the military to come collect him.)

(Steve never told you why he had been held in custody.)

(You never asked.)

You park down the street and make your way through the well-worn sidewalks, carving out the same path that you used to take with Steve in that summer after the two of you graduated high school, hand in hand whenever he had a free moment from Scoops.

(A summer that, as you recall, had been cut short by a mall fire and grief and the three weeks you spent by his side in the hospital, worrying and fretting as you slowly watched the swelling around his eye go down. A summer where too many people died, Steve had to be kept under observation in case of a brain bleed, and in the aftermath, he became more cagey than ever.)

A sea of mourning black surrounds the pristine white funeral home as you make your way closer, the crowd surging towards the ornate double doors, and it’s only then that you spot him.

Steve.

Steve Harrington in all of his glory. His hair is a little shorter than you remember it, a little less styled, and there’s new laugh lines crinkled along his eyes. But despite the differences in the man you once knew and the man in front of you now, he’s still the same Steve he’s always been with a soft look on his face and a steadiness to his broad shoulders despite the occasion.

And like a moth to a flame, he meets your gaze through the mass of people. His brown eyes widening with recognition as his face does something funny, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry or both, and you can’t help but offer him a small smile.

He smiles back.

The moment is cut short when someone calls his name, and with one last, lingering look in your direction, he disappears inside.

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, before slipping into the building after him.

You find a seat in the very back of the hall, away from the congregation of people you once knew, the people you once considered family. There will be time to greet your former mother-in-law later, when she doesn’t have Robin on one side and Steve on the other, and there’s no part of you that has any desire to run into Dustin Henderson who’s lingering near the front.

(Not after the last time you talked to him, two months after you filed and he went from begging you to not go through with it to insulting you when you told him that you unequivocally were not going to stop the proceedings.)

(Two weeks later, Steve had found out what happened and forced Dustin to apologize, but you never quite stopped nursing that wound.)

It’s a beautiful service, really. Not that you’d expect anything less from the Harringtons. Friends of Danny’s give their eulogies, colleagues talk about his business prowess, until finally, Laura and Steve step up to the dias side by side.

You can tell, even from a distance, that Laura isn’t quite holding it together the way you know she wants to. The way she needs to, really, because Laura Harrington has always prided herself in being put together and in charge, a matriarch in a family full of nothing but men for generations. You can tell that Steve notices, too, by the way he squeezes her arm and pulls a paper from his pocket, spreading it along the wooden surface of the podium.

He searches the crowd for a moment, and his eyes settle on you in your seat in the very last row. You’re not sure what he’s looking for, but whatever he derives from seeing you, it has his shoulders relaxing. And quietly, hesitantly, he glances down at the paper and begins his speech.

His voice is strong and steady as he reads, the same soothing timbre to it that he’d once used to calm you down after nightmares and hard days at work. A reassuring quality to his tone, one that could make anyone relax, as he talks about his earliest memories with his father — little league games, vacations to the Harrington beach house, morning spent snuggled between his parents — to his early twenties and learning how to navigate adulthood with his father’s guidance.

(He skips past the teenage years, the ones where you first entered Steve’s life. The arguments with his father about his future, the worries about his past, the stress that he might never amount to something. The period of time where resentment had swelled up so much between the two that it bubbled over constantly.)

He talks about the last conversation he had with his father, only a week prior, where the two of them had sat in the backyard of Steve’s house. And Danny, never a man with much to say, had clapped Steve on the shoulder and said, I’m proud of you, Steve. Truly.

You don’t miss the way Steve surreptitiously wipes his face.

“Anyone who met him would tell you that he was a complicated man,” Steve says. “But at the end of the day, no matter what other role he filled, he was my father. All I can say to that is thank you, Dad, for loving me even when I didn’t think you were, and—” He pauses, clearing his throat. “I’ll miss you, and I hope you’re resting easy now, wherever you are.”

The funeral ends and everyone is ushered to the graveyard, where Steve serves as one of the pallbearers and stands strong as Laura finally crumples into his side. 

You hang further back once again, away from the prying eyes of anyone who would ask too many questions, and you lose sight of him when the crowd migrates to the reception in a local church.

There’s part of you that wants to seek him out, to offer him your condolences and ask if there’s anything you can do, but—

Your eyes catch on Laura standing in the corner by herself, gazing at a family portrait of her and Danny and Steve from Steve’s childhood, and you cross the room without thinking, falling into place next to her with a quiet, “He was a good man.”

Laura blinks at you, though she doesn’t look surprised to see you there. Happy, maybe, but not surprised.

“Danny loved you, you know,” she says, apropos of an actual greeting, like this isn’t the first conversation you’ve had with her since you filed for divorce. “Never stopped talking about how get togethers weren’t the same without you beating him at cards.”

“I’m sure he’s having a big laugh that this is what got me back in Hawkins,” you say. Her lips twitch up. “He could’ve just asked, honestly. Spared us all the dramatics. I would’ve come for less.”

The corners of her eyes crinkle together the same way Steve’s does, and she draws you into a warm hug with shaking hands, the smell of her floral perfume overwhelming your senses. 

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers. 

You feel your throat grow tight. “I’ve missed you, too.”

You stay like that for a few moments, letting her rock you back and forth and draw whatever comfort it is that she needs from your bones, until a throat clears and you look up to see the familiar face of Robin Buckley. You pull away from Laura and offer Robin a small smile, one that she easily returns, and you know that the two of you will catch up later when she squeezes your arm. 

“Mrs. Harrington, let’s go get some food,” Robin says.

Laura rolls her eyes, but lets Robin loop their arms together. “Steve’s had her on ‘Mom watch,’” she tells you conspiratorially.

“Well, there’s worse company to be had,” you say. “Robin always has a few jokes on hand, at least.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Robin says, and you let yourself bask in the raspy warmth of her voice for a few moments before stepping out of their way. And just as she’s slipping past you, she stops to whisper in your ear, “He’s in a private room down the hall.”

You stare at her, surprised, but she only leads Laura across the room without further acknowledgement. 

You shouldn’t go. Honestly, really, it’s a bad idea as it is — meeting him surrounded by people was one thing, but a private audience with your ex-husband is—

(Your feet are moving across the floor before you can even finish the thought.)

The hallway is quiet and empty, the conversation from the reception hall only a quiet buzz compared to the pounding in your ears as you slowly and methodically check each room you come across until finally, at the end of the hall, you spot one with the door cracked open.

You press your palm flat against the wood, the hinges creaking in protest as you ease it open just a bit wider, and find Steve sitting on a couch, leaning over his knees with his face pressed into his hands.

He doesn’t move.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You settle on the couch next to him, silent and waiting for something — anything — to tell you what to do. Any cue or sign from Steve or God or anyone who will listen, because your hands are shaking and your throat is dry and Steve—

Steve. Strong, brave, kind Steve, who once held you as a doctor stitched up an ugly gash in your leg, is hiding his face as his shoulders tremble, trying to pretend like his tears aren’t catching in his throat.

“I want to be left alone, Dustin,” he mutters. “Just five minutes. Please.”

You bite down on your lip and, quietly, say, “I’m not Dustin, but I can give you space.”

He jerks up, tears still coursing down his face, and stares at you with wide-eyes, his voice little more than a whisper when he says, “Oh.”

You smile. “Hey.”

“You’re here,” he murmurs, full of wonder, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re real or simply a mirage.

“Yeah,” you say, just as quiet. “I’m here.”

It starts with his brows pressing together, then his jaw clenching. He presses his eyes shut, his nose flares, and you pull him into your arms before the first hiccuping sob has a chance to billow out.

He doesn’t fight you, only wraps himself more firmly around your waist as he buries his face into your chest, his back heaving from unrestrained grief and everything left unsaid between the two of you. He cries and cries and cries, letting everything out until he’s stripped down to his rawest form, the image of a man held strong for far too long finally letting himself fall apart entirely.

You let him.

You smooth your hand down his back and card your fingers through his hair, comforting him in the way you only know how.

(The only way you learned how, back in those first few, fraught hours after the mall fire back in ’85. Back when you’d sat in the waiting room, leg bouncing, waiting for anyone to tell you that he was okay. Waiting for his parents to catch a flight back from their beach house in North Carolina, waiting for a nurse or a doctor to come out, waiting for a sign that your boyfriend was going to make it.)

(And when you’d finally been allowed into his hospital room, he’d grinned, all boyish charm and bloodied teeth, like it was no big deal that he’d been hurt.)

(It was the first time you’d seen him so injured.)

(It was nowhere near the last.)

“It’ll be okay,” you whisper. “I’ve got you, Steve. I got you.”

The front of your dress is completely soaked through, but you find that you don’t quite care. Not when he lets out a heart shattering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Your entire body freezes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Steve?” You press at his shoulders, suddenly desperate to see his face. “Steve, what are you talking about?”

He pulls back, and for a moment, he’s the eighteen year old boy who smiled at you with a swollen eye and a split lip, tutting affectionately when you sobbed into his shoulder. He’s the boy who pulled you into his strong arms, uncaring of the IV line he was surely at risk of tugging out, and said, I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, honey, I know that I scared you— 

“For everything,” he gasps out. “For keeping things from you, and — fuck, crying on you — and I know you’ve moved on, but I just — god, I’m so sorry for everything, for the divorce and the secrets and—”

(And your heart breaks all over again, because can anyone ever truly move on from Steve Harrington?)

“Steve,” you murmur, brushing a thumb down his cheek. He tilts his head just a little bit more into your palm. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he insists. “I mean, fuck, I kept so much from you, and everyone told me not to and I drove you away and—”

“Steve.”

He falls silent.

“I forgave you a long time ago,” you say. “You don’t need to worry about me, okay?”

(It’s the same thing that he said to you before disappearing off the face of the earth for weeks. The same words that he whispered as he held you close in the doorway of your apartment, his arms trembling as he murmured all of his love and affections into your ears, like he only had one more chance to tell you. Like he wasn’t sure he’d ever see you again.)

(It’s what he said before disappearing for twenty-five days, nine hours, and three minutes, leaving you alone as the earth heaved and shook and groaned, when it felt like the entire planet was once again at risk of falling apart, and you thought that you might die without ever getting to see his face once again.)

(And it’s what he said just minutes after the military released him back to you, seconds before he dropped to his knees and desperately said, I can’t live without you, will you please, please marry me? I’ll do anything to make you happy—)

“Your father just died,” you gently say. “You’re allowed to worry about yourself for once.”

He looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to push back, but you watch the fight leave his body. He gives you a wobbly smile, you give him one back, and for a moment, you can let yourself pretend that you hadn’t thrown eight years down the drain in the matter of a single night.

(That last argument still haunts your dreams. The way your voice cracked as you begged for him to let you in, to let you understand. How his fists shook when he said, Can’t you see that I’m doing this for you? The calm resolve you felt when you realized with an icy clarity that the two of you were too stuck in your ways to change.)

(The moment, nearly a year later, when you realized that you weren’t quite sure if you wanted to change into a new person without him.)

(Looking at him now, you think he might feel the same.)

You let out a sigh and draw him closer, resting your forehead against his the way that you always did, letting the feel of stubble rough up your palm.

His breath catches.

You peek at him through your lashes to find him searching your face with barely disguised desire.

You want to laugh. Truly, you do, because if there was ever a wrong time and place to feel desire, it would be your ex-father-in-law’s funeral, but you can’t help the timeworn flame deep inside of you from flickering to life once more, a fire that’s only ever been maintained by Steve’s careful hands.

“Honey,” he says hoarsely.

You swallow, tilting your chin just a bit closer.

That’s all the encouragement that he needs.

His fingers grip your waist, dragging you across the cushions and into his lap, and it’s need that has you tangling your hands with his hair. Need to be closer, need to be with him, need to be one with him.

(Need to remember what it’s like to fall asleep with his arms wrapped around your skin, whispered promises of nothing ever hurting you, swaddling you as you drifted off.)

“Tell me to stop,” he begs, his hot breath ghosting your skin. “Tell me to stop right now, and I will. I swear, I will.”

“Don’t stop,” you say, and he surges forward, capturing your lips with his own.

It feels like coming home, in a way. Kissing him, feeling him under you. Like stepping into a soft memory, carried along by hands that have long since learned the tune of you, held by a man who had dedicated so much of his life in pursuit of the knowledge of who you were, inside and out. 

Like your body had been held in stasis for two entire years, frozen in time, only able to come back to life with the key he held in his heart.

You giggle into the kiss, suddenly elated, as his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, teasing for more.

And you give it. God, you give him more. You’d give him the world, if you could, and suddenly you’re crying, your heart twisting, because you wasted so much time, because you were so, so stupid, because—

“I’m sorry,” you gasp into his mouth. “I should’ve listened to you, I should’ve trusted—”

“Not your fault, honey,” he assures, pressing a trail of kisses down the column of your throat. “I kept so much from you — there’s so much I need to tell you, and—”

And— 

There’s a knock at the door.

“Steve?” Robin’s voice, hesitant and unsure, calls through the wood. “Are you in there?”

He drops his head against your shoulder and lets out a world weary sigh.

The doorknob turns, and you don’t even have time to gather yourself or launch yourself across the couch, to pretend like Steve doesn’t still have his body wrapped around yours, before Robin’s peaking inside.

“Oh,” she says dumbly, eyes wide as she takes the two of you in.

Your face burns with embarrassment.

“Uh, Steve,” Robin begins, clearing her throat uncomfortably. “Your mom is asking for you. What… do you want me to tell her?”

“I’ll be there in a second,” he says. “Just give me a minute, Rob.”

Robin nods, and with a lingering look towards you, shuts the door behind her.

The two of you stay frozen like that, your legs still wrapped around his hips, his forearms still pressed into the small of your back, until—

A shocked laugh escapes him.

“Fuck,” he says, releasing his hold on you to scrub at his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I have to go check on my mom, but later — can we talk? Later? Are you staying in Hawkins, or were you planning on going back to…?”

“I packed a bag, but I wasn’t sure what my plans were,” you say. “I can stay, though. We can talk. I think—”

I think we need to talk.

“Come over,” he says, an urgent strain to his voice. “Tonight. Please.”

“Of course,” you say, because after everything, there’s no way you can deny his request. “Of course I will, but you should—”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, already beginning to shuffle you from his lap, keeping you steady as he settles you onto the cushions once more. “I know, just — you mean it? You’ll—?”

“I’ll be there,” you say. “I promise.”

He smiles, soft and true, and presses one more chaste kiss to your lips, as though he’s leaving the promise of something more for you to chase later.

And as you watch him leave, your heart pounding against your ribs, you let hope blossom inside of you once more.

[velveteenreverie]

time of the season.

Steve Harrington x fem!reader. 2k words.

You decide you want the halloween decorations up. In July.

summerween summerween summerween!

Steve comes through the door twelve minutes shy of seven, you're sure he was ready to come in after work and be welcomed by you, peck to the lips, music playing, you know, a nice and peaceful Thursday evening. 

But something had been gnawing at you all day. An irritating, completely unignorable urge to ransack your attic for the Halloween decorations.

Oh well, you think, Steve knows who he signed up for.

When the door goes, and your beautiful boyfriend steps in, his greeting dies on his tongue before it has even fully formed. He blinks a numerous amount of times at the problem you've gotten yourself into on your decor endeavor. 

''How long have you been in there?'' he asks, letting his bag slide off his shoulder and flop over at the coat rack. 

''I want to say an hour.'' You beam down at him. 

''You want to say an hour?''

''I can't see the clock Steve.''

You're stuck. As you climbed into the chasm, launching yourself through the square door, the ladders you'd been using, in some way totally not caused by you accidentally kicking, now lay on the floor side ways. Completely useless to you glinting silver against the carpet. Must've been a ghost who hates out of season celebrations, clearly it wants to see you shrivel up in the sauna that is your attic for your crime. What that ghost didn't know, is you have a knight in shining armour, or really, knight in shining family video vest. 

Steve strolls over to the junky ladder and heaves it back onto its feet, it stays upright for all of two seconds before turning boneless and dropping dead with a clatter and a bounce. 

''Well,'' Steve purses his lips. Hands on his hips as he cranes his neck to look at you, his eyes are huge from this angle, soft and amused and he's trying very hard not to laugh. ''Guess you live in there now.''

This game happens to be one of your favourites, ''Can you toss me a pillow and my walkman, maybe you can head to the store and get me a mini fridge!''

''No, are you kidding? I'll cook and send your meals up on a pulley system.'' 

You chuckle, pressing a hand to your chest, ''Right, my bad, didn't mean to doubt your commitment.''

He tuts. Steve prowls the living room, looking for anything you can stand on to be freed. You hook your elbows over the attic frame and watch him, the show giving you some respite from the thought of the dirt clinging to your arms. His search comes up empty.

''I'd kiss you if I weren't being held prisoner by the house.''

You know without a shadow of a doubt he's gonna figure it out, you'll be down by dinner, but it wouldn't kill him to hurry it along, every spec of dust that moves near you has you in a slight panic that a spider is coming straight for its dinner.

The corner of his mouth lifts, ''I'm about to call 911 babe, forget you, I'm gonna die if I don't get my kiss.'' Steve says. He's started to notice the strewn around jack o lanterns and pieces of your favourite skeleton littering your living room. 

Steve bends and picks up a bony arm. 

''The hell is Dustin Jr doing out here?'' he asks. 

Dustin jr was the very first Halloween decoration you ever bought for your joint home. He earned his name after the real Dustin pissed you off at game night, to this day you know you did not deserve that negative 3 points, you still bubble with rage thinking about it now. You'd said he was dead meat, the next time he came to the house his skeleton counterpart stood outside with one of his shirts on and a cap that said 'I AM STUPID' in your rushed handwriting covering its head. 

''I'm decorating!'' you shout. 

Steve looks around, monster mash is playing from your tape deck on the kitchen counter top. ''It's July.''

''I'm in a Halloween mood, if I don't make this place look the part I might cry Steve.''

''Can't have that, can we,'' Steve says, putting Dustin jr back together, joint by joint. He mutters a curse under his breath when one of the legs doesn't feel like cooperating. 

''Here,'' you say, ''Come get this.''

You shuffle backwards further into the attic and reemerge with a slightly crushed cardboard box of decorations you weren't brave enough to catapult. 

Steve pushes onto the balls of his feet, reaching for the box. God, if you were on the floor right now you know you'd have a front row seat to his shirt coming just up enough to see a sliver of his tummy. You'll mourn the loss of that perfect view for the rest of your life. 

''You've gotta jump, honey.''

''What, to my death?''

Steve's laugh might truly be the best sound you've ever heard. It's hearty and sweet and it makes your cheeks feel warm and your stomach gets all fluttery with delight. You squirm at the sensation of it each time. 

''C'mon, it's not that far a drop. Besides I'm gonna catch you,'' he opens his arms up and wide, feet shoulders apart ready and willing. 

The prospect of leaping into Steve's arms is equal parts terrifying as it is dreamy. You look at Dustin jr, newly assembled on the carpet and count every bone you could break in your flight, you actually quite like having them all intact and solid, and even though it's October in your head, it is still blistering heat outside in Hawkins. A bulky cast won't look cute with your new bathing suit at all. The community pool lifeguards made you wait outside the fence for 45 minutes after you ate an ice pop once, there's a slim to none chance they'd even let you look at the pool with so much as a chipped toe nail. 

''We're over if you drop me.''

''You're gonna have so much lift you'll look like that girl from dirty dancing,'' he says.

''Baby,'' you tell him.

His face melts, ''Yes?''

''No, you loser, the girl from dirty dancing,'' you say, ''Her name is Baby.''

''It is? That's dumb.'' he pouts. 

You open your mouth to complain, unleash fury onto him, you cannot let him get away with slandering dirty dancing in any kind of way.

He cuts you off before you can even try, ''Complain down here. Jump.''

You swing a cautious leg over the lip of the entrance, ''You promise you're gonna catch me.''

''This may be shocking to you, but I really don't wanna watch my girlfriend break her neck. Yes, I'm gonna catch you.'' 

He extends his arms a little higher, you drag in a long breath for courage and drop straight into his arms. You land with a startled oof, but you're in no danger of splatting to the floor. You wrap your arms around Steve's neck, hanging onto him though you're back within a normal distance to the ground, ''My hero!'' his cheek flushes pink under your smooch. 

He spins you around in his hold and you squeal into his shoulder before he sets your socked feet onto the carpet, you pull him down by his belt loop to the cardboard box of fall treasures, you pull out even more pumpkins, shiny ones, light up ones, a glittery one that rolls and rolls and bumps into the sofa, it leaves its trail of sparkly orange in its wake, it'll still be lingering around come Christmas, ugh. You make Steve pull out the fake cobwebs you hate to touch, a plastic spider pounces from the wad and lands near your knee. You jerk back with a gasp.

Steve lifts a brow, ''Really?''

''Hey, you do not know what I went through up there.'' You say jabbing a finger in the direction of the attic.

You reach down into the depths of the box and find pure gold, ''Oh we have to go put this up!'' In your hands is a doorbell, it is unbelievably ugly, it has a goblin's face and when the little button under him is pushed he goes crazy eyed, snaps out a purple tongue and sings a decrepit rendition of thriller. Steve eyes it with burning caution, his face devoid of all color. He hates this thing more than an extra shift at work, which he might actually pick up just to be far away if the little monster finds its way onto your door. 

''No way, last time we had this out there, its tongue hit a kid in the eye and he cried!''

''That kid was mike.''

The memory makes it impossible to hold in the laugh it conjures. Mike stood on your porch, hand clamped over one eye, Lucas and Max losing their shit behind him. He'd demanded you give him the rest of your candy and a bag of frozen peas for his freshly forming black eye. You'd told him to suck it up, honestly teenagers these days.

You hold the doorbell up by your face. ''But look at him, he's so cute!'' you're a bald face liar. 

''If you think that's cute I'm worried about why you're with me,'' Steve says, trying to untangle a string of fairy lights shaped like ghosts, he squints down at them, his tongue pressed lightly to the corner of his mouth, he's actually making the knots worse but, you won't tell him. You crawl over to where he sits and plant yourself in his lap, back against his chest, this is your favourite place to be. He presses a kiss to the crook of your neck, your shoulder, ''I missed you today.''

''Long shift?''

''No, there was just no you there.'' You could honestly eat him whole, your heart bursts with butterflies every time he says anything. 

''I love you,'' you say, turning around to kiss him all over his face, no mole or freckle is safe from your love. He squirms and laughs and runs his hands across your waist, the small of your back, up your thighs, you very nearly almost forget Halloween exists altogether, maybe they should make October thirty first Steve Harrington day! Halloween seems desperate to be your top priority though, you pull back from him mid kiss, he whimpers from the loss of you on him. 

''Watermelons! We could carve watermelons instead of pumpkins.''

''Huh?''

''Because pumpkins aren't in season yet,'' you clarify. ''But watermelons are everywhere, we can make summer jack o lanterns!''

''Where do you come up with this stuff?'' Steve says. He gazes at you totally lovesick and twirls your hair between his fingers. 

''I'm a genius I thought you knew that by now.''

''Hm, debatable, what genius gets stuck in their own attic.''

You lean in, smiling against his mouth, ''Take me to buy watermelons?''

Steve groans, but he's already reaching his keys.

''I haven't even gotten to take my shoes off.''

''Perfect, that means you're ready to go!'' you exclaim.

You kiss him, quick and persuasive. He sighs through his nose, ''Fine. Only if that goblin doorbell goes back into the attic.''

You glance toward the hideous little thing lying maliciously in the decoration pile, waiting for its next victim, no doubt. ''Deal.''

He opens the front door for you, ''You're not gonna ask me to hang up the Christmas lights next week are you?'' He asks, cradling his back that's been perpetually sore for years. 

''No,'' you laugh and take his warm hand into yours, pulling him through the door. He's such a sap, you know he'd be more than happy to string those lights up if you ask anyway.

''Think they'll have a Hawaiian shirt for Dustin Jr?'' you ask.

''Get in the car,'' Steve laughs.

[yeah-iveheardofbears]

melt with you

pairing: steve harrington x curvy!reader

summary: during a summer of heatwaves, arguing, and a chance encounter with your high school bully, your least favorite coworker ends up being your biggest supporter. in more ways than one...

wc: 17.5k (promised you guys a long one)

cw: coworkers to enemies to friends to lovers, curvy!reader, bisexual!reader, good ally (but slightly oblivious) steve, slight homophobia, talks of queerbaiting and bisexual fetishization, college burnout, feelings of inadequacy from both parties, TENSION, slowburn, maybe too many inner thoughts about steve in that slutty little uniform, making out, dirty talk, teasing, body insecurity (on both parts tbh), oral (f recieving), bigdick!steve, grabbing that mans ass because we need more of it, p in v sex, fluffy ending, cuddling

love notes: yet another long curvy!reader x steve harrington fic because i love him so very much. off the bat i want to make it clear that this reader is bisexual and its a large part of the story. i've always dealt with a lot of these struggles as a hyperfemme curvy queer woman and this was really cathartic to write about. i hope you all enjoy it as much as i did writing it, even though it took me forever. i'll just say half the reason is because sometimes its hard to think about writing when you have to picture him in those stupid little shorts... (⸝⸝♡﹏♡⸝⸝) (also, not a face reveal but the photo on the banner is me in my Robin cosplay since pinterest was a failure on finding anyone curvy in the scoops cosplay. when in doubt, be self indulgent i guess!)

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A small bead of sweat started to roll from Steve's forehead to his brow as he slumped into one of the backroom chairs. He could see you grimace as he wiped it away with that stupid hat before dropping it on the table. 

"What?" his exasperated tone was laced with heat exhaustion, "Am I not allowed to sweat in front of you?"

"No, by all means, sweat all you want," your fingers twitched around the straw in your drink, the plastic crinkling under the pressure, "Just try to get more on your uniform. It adds to the… aesthetic."

He rolled his eyes in that bitchy way you'd come to almost admire. 

"Yeah well maybe if I get sweat stains all over the hat, I won't be forced to wear it anymore."

You give a fake pout after taking another sip. "And the heats already ruining that perfect hair, your life is so difficult." 

He leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, the blue of his uniform making his hazel eyes look impossibly more brown, "You have no idea."

The door swung open, letting in a blast of mall air that did little to cool the room.

"Eugh!" Robin practically wretched from the doorway. "Can you guys get rid of that rancid trash? I'm pretty sure there's kiddie puke in there and the heat is not helping."

It was true. The break room smelled horrendous. The freezers and the sale floor were cold to protect the product, but back here was a stuffy, sticky coffin of recycled air.

One of the mall's maintenance guys was supposed to fix it this morning but he hadn't been back yet. And to be honest, he looked a little sketch. No tools, very short sentences, and a vaguely Russian accent. 

"It's your turn, Buckley," Steve grumbled without moving.

"Nuh-uh. I did it yesterday. You two can duke it out but it's not gonna be me."

The swinging door to the shop floor shut behind her and she was gone.

Great.

You didn't even need to look at him to know he had that stupid, lazy grin on his face.

"You two can duke it out," he mimicked in a higher pitch, still slumped in the chair, clearly having no intention of moving.

"Look, there's two bags already, we can each just take one. For once this summer, I don't have the energy to argue with you. I'm sweating from way too many places I'd rather not be, I think my deodorant gave up hours ago, and my drink is already mostly water."

With a dramatic sigh, you pushed yourself up from the chair, the red vinyl sticking to the back of your thighs with an embarrassing noise. Steve watched, an unreadable expression on his face, as you went to the corner by the door where the offending bags sat.

"What?" you echoed his earlier tone. "I can't help it if the shorts don't come in a bigger size."

You yanked one of the black plastic bags from the pile, and Steve finally stood up. The shorts they had you wear were ridiculous on your frame, a size too small, digging into your hips and thighs. Usually you didn't care, but today, with the heat melting everything in the mall to a sticky pulp, you felt like you were suffocating.

"Trust me, I'm not looking," Steve said. But he was.

He grabbed the other bag, his arm brushing yours. The contact lasted less than a second, but it sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the oppressive heat. You blamed it on static, on the friction of the plastic bags, anything other than some pretty boy in a sailor suit. He was the antithesis of everything you were supposed to like.

You made it to the employee entrance at the back of the mall, near the loading docks. The heavy metal door groaned open, and a blast of real, unconditioned air hit you.

The groan Steve let out was dramatic, even for this heat. "It's worse out here."

You couldn't argue. The air smelled of hot asphalt and distant trash. The sun beat down on the concrete as you trudged toward the giant green dumpster, the plastic bag scraping against the pavement.

"Let's just get this over with," you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.

Steve tossed his bag in with a lazy heave. It landed with a sickeningly wet thud. You did the same. As you turned to go back inside, you tripped over a deep crack in the pavement.

"Fuck!" you grunted out, turning to take a look at your knee, which was now stinging and bleeding. You ripped your knee away from the searing concrete and inspected the damage.

A deep scrape, a little bloody but more dirt and grime than anything else. You huffed out a frustrated breath, your already frayed patience wearing even thinner. You lay back on the hot pavement, one knee propped up, and awaited the sweet release of heat induced death. 

"Looks like someone hasn't gotten her sea legs." Steve stood over you, blocking the sun in his eyes with his hand, the other settled on his hip. "Oh, shit, that actually looks bad..." 

"Brilliant observation, Captain." you snapped, the pain making you sharper than usual.

He crouched down, the shorts stretched tight across his thighs. This uniform was truly ridiculous, but the way it fit him was… infuriating. Being near eye level with his crotch was not helping matters. 

"You're bleeding," he said, his voice softer now. He reached out as if to touch your knee, then thought better of it, letting his hand hover for a moment before dropping it.

"Again with the astute observations. You missed your calling, Harrington. Should've been a detective."

"C'mon." he rolled his eyes again, extending a hand to help you up. "Let's get you back to the break room. We've got a first aid kit in the stockroom. I'm pretty sure I saw it when I was looking for places to hide the day they made us film that embarrassing commercial."

You ignored his hand and pushed yourself up, your palm stinging on the hot pavement. He gave you a raised eyebrow and you sighed before reluctantly taking his help. His grip was firm and warmer than you expected. You tried to pull away as soon as you were standing, but he held on for a beat too long, steering you toward the door.

The break room was still a sauna, but at least it wasn't the blazing sun. He sat you down in the same chair you'd vacated earlier and rummaged through a cabinet, finally emerging with a white plastic box with a red cross on it.

"Alright, tough guy," he said, kneeling in front of you. "Let's clean this up."

"I can do it myself." You protested, but he was already wordlessly cleaning the wound. 

He was really good at this, you thought. Much more than you expected someone like him to be. 

"What, did you patch people up after you and your jock friends threw them against lockers or something?"

It was an unnecessary jab, but you needed to say something to break the otherwise tender moment. 

He looked up at you with an almost hurt expression as he ripped the gauze packet open with his teeth. The motion was quick and efficient.

"Yeah, that was me," he said, not looking at you, focusing on cleaning the scrape with an antiseptic wipe. "King Steve. Got the T-shirt and everything."

He sounded so bitter, like the name tasted wrong coming from his lips.

"Sorry," you mumbled, feeling a pang of something you didn't want to name. "That was..."

"Forget it," he cut you off, but his touch gentled even more. "People are allowed to think I'm an asshole. I was an asshole."

You stayed quiet as watched him gently pressed the fabric to the cleaned wound, noticing how such big hands could be so precise. How someone who you knew could be a clumsy, arrogant moron could now have a look of intense focus.

He's quiet for a long moment, before glancing up at you again. "Had my ass kicked more than a few times. You learn a few things. Like how to clean a scrape."

There was something more there, something in the way he said it that you couldn't quite place. He wasn't talking about a simple schoolyard scuffle. But you didn't have the energy to press.

"Well if they didn't build this mall so fast maybe all the pavement wouldn't be cracking..." you muttered, both embarrassed by your fall and desperate to move on from an impending heavier topic.

He lets out a short, amused breath of air and he's taping a fresh piece of gauze over your knee. He's so close you can smell him, a clean scent of soap and a tinge of sweat. It's a musky, surprisingly comforting smell that has no right to be this intoxicating.

"All done, think you'll survive."

He pats your good knee and sits back on his heels, surveying his work before looking up at you, as if asking with his eyes if there's anything else you may need.

It was a cruel joke seeing him like that, practically on his knees in front of you. His hair was sunkissed, brushed slightly more away from his forehead. His eyes were unfairly puppy dog-ish and you swore he had to actively put balm on his lips with how pouty and shiny they always looked. 

Steve was pretty, and you hated it. You hated how easy he was to look at.

"Guess I'll have to." You push the chair back and stand. "Thanks, I guess. For the medical attention and not, you know, leaving me to die out there."

"Yeah, well, Buckley would have my head if I came back without you." He stands too, his height suddenly imposing in the small space. "Can't have you bleeding out on my watch. Bad for business."

He walked over to grab his hat and did a little trick where he flipped it onto his head. You tried to look unimpressed, but a ghost of a smile tugged at your lips.

"C'mon, Harrington, don't flatter yourself. My death would probably improve sales."

His laugh was real this time. "I disagree. We'd have far less preteen boys trying to order extra scoops just to get you to lean over the counter."

You paused, your hand on the panel of the swinging door. That was… new. A warmth that had nothing to do with the weather spread through your chest. You risked a glance back at him.

He looked as if he was surprised at himself, too. He was leaning against the table again, trying to regain that careless facade, but something had shifted. You saw it in the slight tension in his shoulders, in the way he couldn't quite meet your eye for a second.

"The shirt." he gestured, clearing his throat. "It's, y'know, tight."

Any hint of flirtatious energy inside you evaporated at that. You were suddenly acutely aware of the way the company mandated top stretched across your stomach and chest. The casual, almost clinical observation stung more than any deliberate insult could have.

Steve could practically feel an icy chill when you wordlessly pushed through the door and it had nothing to do with the AC from the sales floor. 

"Shit..." he muttered to himself, relaxing against the table with a deep sigh, running a hand down his face. He knew that look. He had said the wrong thing. Again.

The rest of your shift was a special kind of hell. The soft serve machine seemed determined to only dispense melted soup, the toppings station was a sticky mess that no amount of wiping could fix, and the endless loop of corporate-approved pop hits drilled directly into your skull. Every interaction felt like a performance. Your smile for the customers was a brittle mask, your sarcastic remarks to Robin were forced and thin.

"Are you good?" she asked when it was close to closing and the Friday rush had died down. 

"Yeah. Fine."

Your words were short as you marked your clipboard for the nightly inventory. 

"Okay... well you're practically putting your pen through the paper there..." She gestured with her scoop, "and you haven't made a single joke about the mall cop that looks like Tom Selleck if he was raised by wolves."

You glanced at the man leaning against one of the columns outside the store, sporting a truly glorious yet questionable mustache. You shrugged and went back to your clipboard.

You could feel her looking at you before letting out a dramatic sigh and going back to her duties.

Steve didn't try to talk to you. He worked with a quiet efficiency, wiping counters, restocking syrups, avoiding your line of sight.

Eventually Robin shut the gate and you counted the money in the till. 

"You missed a twenty." 

It comes from over your shoulder, not in a malicious way, but a simple statement of fact. The fact that it was his voice though, that made you clench your jaw. 

"No I didn't." Your reply was clipped.

"Yeah, you did. It's stuck to the back of the tray." He reached over you, not quite touching you, but close enough that the scent of him - that faint musk- washed over you again.

His thumb brushed the bill loose from its hiding place. He set it on top of the stack without another word and turned to wipe down a spotless display case.

The silent ride home with Robin was just as bad. Your hands gripped the wheels a little too hard. 

"He's not that bad." Robin finally said from your passenger seat. 

"Who? Tom Selleck wolf-cop? No, I think he's probably a pillar of the community." The sarcasm was so thick it was nearly solid. You knew exactly who she meant.

"No, Steve."

You sighed, letting your shoulders slump as you pulled into her driveway.

"I mean, he's a total dingus, sure, but he's not malicious, you know?" She was unbuckling her seatbelt, gathering her bag. "He's just… post-prime Steve Harrington. He's still figuring out the new manual."

"It's weird of you to defend him." 

"It's weird of you to get your panties in a twist over a stupid sailor boy." She shot back with a grin, hopping out and leaning back in through the open window. "Look, all I'm saying is... don't take whatever dumb shit he says to heart. He's probably just scared of your... you-ness."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Anyway," she said with a yawn. "I have the morning shift tomorrow so I need sleep."

"Wait... you're not closing on a Saturday?"

"Nope. You're on your own with Captain Hair Care." She wiggled her fingers in a wave. "Don't let him get under your skin."

She was gone before you could formulate a decent comeback, a skip in her step as she trotted toward her front door. You watched until she was inside, the porch light flicking on. Alone with the quiet hum of your car's engine, you leaned your forehead against the steering wheel.

Robin's words bounced around your head. Scared of what? Your tendency to swear like a sailor? Your less-than-perfect figure in a ridiculous uniform? Your ability to form complete sentences without the word 'like'? The thought of the former King of Hawkins High being intimidated by you was so absurd it was almost funny.

But it was the last thing she said that stuck. Don't let him get under your skin.

Too late. He was already there, a low-grade fever you couldn't sweat out, even in this miserable heat. The image of him kneeling in front of you, his focused expression, the gentle pressure of his fingers on your knee... It played on a loop behind your eyelids.

Right next to all the annoying shit. Forgetting to restock the cherries. Leaving sticky rings on the counter. The way he tried to charm every mom who came to the counter. And that comment. The clinical, almost detached observation about your shirt being tight.

He was under your skin alright, like a parasite.

Saturday afternoon arrived with the subtlety of a jackhammer. The heat was worse. It shimmered off the asphalt in visible waves, ready to fry an egg or melt your skin off.

You walked into Scoops Ahoy at 1:59 PM, a minute before your shift. The blast of frigid air of the mall was a welcome shock. When you clocked in, Steve was already behind the counter, wiping down the surface that was already immaculate.

"It's been surprisingly dead for a Saturday," he said without looking up, breaking the silence. He sounded tired. "Guess everyone's at the pool."

"Smart people are at the pool," you mumbled, tying on your own ridiculous apron. The uniform felt like a punishment, the fabric scratching at your already overheated skin.

Robin popped out from the back, changed in some normal summer clothes. 

"Lemme guess," you sigh. "The pool." 

"Right you are my fellow corporate slave! Some of the band kids are getting together, and I cannot miss an opportunity to make fun of Brad Johnson's new haircut." she beamed. "You two have fun. Don't burn the place down."

She gave you a pointed look, then one at Steve, before she disappeared out the front with a jaunty little wave.

"I would give anything to have the morning shift right now," you grumbled to no one in particular.

"You and me both," Steve sighed, finally looking up at you. "I could be at the pool right now, seeing how the summer is treating the female population of Hawkins."

A familiar irritation sparked in your chest.

Of course.

That's where he'd be. Scoping out chicks in bikinis. The thought made your stomach clench for a reason you refused to examine.

Instead, you grabbed a rag and started wiping down the already clean topping bar.

"I already did that..." he started. 

"Don't you have a pool of your own?" your voice came out judgey and sharp, but you didn't look at him. 

"Uh, yeah... I do. But it's no fun by yourself." He gestured vaguely with the rag.

"I'm sure you have a rolodex of numbers you could call."

There. The perfect jab. Annoying, bordering on cruel, and it would hopefully shut him up for a few hours.

"Right," a bitter, short little laugh escaped him. "Look, could you just... not do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing you do. Where you act like you know everything about me."

Your hands stilled on the counter.

"I don't. I'm just making conversation based on the public record."

"Look, I know what my 'public record' is, alright?" His voice wasn't angry, just... weary. "You've made it pretty clear you think I'm some shallow, womanizing douchebag. But maybe..."

He trailed off, tossing the rag into the sink behind the counter with a wet slap.

"You know what? Never mind."

The silence that followed was thick as the hot fudge congealed in the drip tray.

A few hours went by and the after dinner rush finally slowed.

You managed to have a civil, albeit short, conversation about the best Muppet. You argued for Animal, obviously. He was a Kermit man through and through. It was the most you'd talked to him without the conversation taking a sharp, veiled turn.

As the night progressed, just a few hours left of your shift left, you both found yourselves people watching in between customers. 

"Oh shit, that's Stacey Carmichael," Steve said, a little too loud, a spark of that old King Steve charm suddenly igniting. He instinctively ran a hand through his hair. It was a reflex. "She, uh, she used to be a cheerleader." 

You rolled your eyes as you watched the tall, gorgeous blonde talking with a group of other equally gorgeous girls in the food court. 

"Yeah, I'm aware. She was in my class." 

"Oh shit... yeah you were a couple years ahead, right?" he looked at you with genuine curiosity, which somehow was more annoying.

"A gap year and then the failed college stint," you said, quoting the air with your fingers. "I was supposed to be a sophomore this year."

"So what happened? If you don't mind me asking..."

"Another gap year." was all you offered. You didn't want to get into the messy details of your spectacular failure. Of the crippling anxiety and the pressure of it all. How you'd locked yourself in your dorm room for three days before finally calling your parents in tears to come get you.

He seemed to understand this was a door you didn't want to open. He nodded, his eyes drifting back to Stacey, who was now laughing at something her friend said, a bright sound that carried across the food court.

"She turned me down for prom, you know," he said, a thoughtful look on his face. "Her prom. My sophomore year. I was so sure I had it in the bag. I'd just gotten my car."

"And already going for senior girls, huh?" you couldn't help but poke, a genuine, small smile gracing your lips. "A real legacy player."

He flushed, a deep pink creeping up his neck. "Shut up. She was... mature. For her age." He winced at how that sounded.

"Code for: she had boobs and long legs. Still does." you summarized, taking a sip of the soda you'd poured yourself a while ago.

"Yeah, well," he leaned against the counter, mirroring your posture. "She's still pretty."

"So go talk to her." The words were out before you could stop them. "You're a changed man now and all." 

He looked at you like you'd just suggested he go wrestle a bear. "No way. Not now. Not... not here."

"Why not? She'd probably still swoon for the old Harrington charm."

"I'm in a sailor suit," he deadpanned, gesturing down at himself with a look of utter revulsion. "The magic's kind of gone when you're asking for their order of banana splits instead of asking them to dance."

You had to stifle a laugh.

"Girls aren't that complicated. If she's still shallow like she was in school, she already peaked anyway." 

"You really think that?" He looked at you, and for a moment, the usual smirk was gone, replaced by a genuine, searching expression. "That people just... peak?"

"I think some people do," you said quietly, your gaze drifting to Stacey's group again. "She once asked me in English class if my hair was a 'political statement'. So, yeah. I think her peak was probably getting crowned queen of the winter formal."

The corner of Steve's mouth twitched.

"You had that pink streak in the front, right? That was cool."

Your eyes snapped back to his. Cool?

Coming from him, that felt like a betrayal of the natural order.

"Principal Higgins would disagree. He called it a 'deliberate act of insubordination' and threatened to suspend me if I didn't wash it out."

"He was a dick," Steve said with surprising vehemence. "He gave me detention once for a week when Mrs. Click caught me and Tommy H. trying to see how many pencils we could fit in the ceiling tiles."

You made a disgusted look at the mention of Tommy Hagan. That was a name you could have happily gone the rest of your life without hearing again.

"You were a child of privilege, Steve," you said, your tone light but sharp, trying to steer the conversation back to safer, more familiar territory.

He picked up a stray cherry that had rolled onto the counter and popped it into his mouth. The way his lips closed around the small red fruit was distractingly... something. "I think I was a bored little shit with too much time on my hands. There's a difference."

Seriously, why were his lips so—

"And now you're a bored little shit in a sailor suit," you shot back, grabbing the cherry stem from his fingers and throwing it in the trash. Your fingers brushed his lips only just slightly. A current ran up your arm that you blamed on the static from the stupid poly-blend uniform.

You turned back to see Stacey and her friends heading to the ice cream parlor. 

"And, sailor, here's your cue."

You leaned against the back counter, a gesture that forced Steve to take the lead and serve them. He straightened up immediately, that lazy, charming smile sliding into place like a well-worn mask. He was good at it, you had to give him that.

"Welcome to Scoops Ahoy, ladies. What's your pleasure?"

Stacey giggled, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Steve Harrington? I haven't seen you in ages. You work here?"

"Just for the summer," he said with a casual shrug that was anything but. "Living the dream. So, what can I get for you? On the house, for old times' sake."

Her friends tittered. You rolled your eyes so hard you were worried they'd get stuck.

You busied yourself with wiping down yet another spot on the counter that was already perfectly clean, trying to ignore the easy way he worked them.

You heard that sickeningly sweet voice say your name and you looked up at Stacey. Her perfect pink lip curled a little as she looked at you. "You're still doing... this?" She gestured vaguely, an all-encompassing wave that clearly meant your entire existence— your curvy frame in the too-tight uniform, the dark eyeliner that was slightly smudged at the end of the day, your complete lack of interest in her conversation.

A hot prickle of shame and anger started at the back of your neck. Until you looked up at her and noticed a familiar tell you'd only seen from a few girls in your college. 

It was less judgmental curiosity and more... interest.

You held her gaze and gave her a slow, deliberate smile before leaning over the counter. You knew exactly what this did to the uniform top.

"Yep. But now I have a deep and abiding passion for corporate-mandated polyester and the art of the perfect swirl," you said, your voice dripping with mock sincerity, giving her exactly the right amount of sarcasm and confidence.

To your left, you heard the soft clink of a metal scoop hitting a ceramic bowl.

Steve had stopped.

Stacey's perfectly composed mask wavered for a second, a flicker of... something in her eyes.

"Oh. Well. Good for you," she said, her smile becoming more genuine.

Steve, bless him, was clueless. He made an attempt to steer Stacy's attention back to him. As if he was doing you a favor. Getting you away from her taunting. 

"Alright ladies..." he started, trying to regain control of the situation, but he didn't understand.

You already had it.

Stacey's friends lost interest and started ordering their sundaes.

While Steve was occupied, Stacey leaned a little closer to you, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Hey, so, me and some friends are having a little get together tomorrow night. A bonfire, out at Lovers Lake. You should come."

‘Little get together’ was code for summer rager. You knew the type. Keystone lights and weed stolen from older brothers.

She was watching you, waiting. Not mocking. Expectant. And in that moment, the pieces clicked into place without any apprehension. Her initial judgment wasn't about you being beneath her. It was about her trying to figure out if you were like her.

A packed party meant no one was looking too much at any two people slipping off into the woods. A bonfire at Lovers Lake was prime real estate for secret encounters.

Steve's head popped up from behind you, a look of pure confusion on his face. He was completely lost.

"A party?" he asked, trying to smoothly join the conversation he wasn't a part of. He turned to Stacey. "Cool. Who's all going?"

Stacey didn't even look at him. Her gaze was fixed on you.

"We're not really advertising," she said, her tone dismissing him so completely it was almost masterful. "But... you're both welcome to join. Just some of us who are home for the summer. Hanging out."

The offer was still aimed at you. Steve was an afterthought, a necessary addition to extend the invitation to the other half of the current Scoops Ahoy duo.

He didn't seem to realize that Stacey Carmichael, the girl who had turned him down for prom, the girl who represented the peak of the very social hierarchy he used to rule, had just completely shut him out to talk to you.

"We'll think about it," you said, your voice casual, as if you got invited to ragers by reformed mean girls every day of the week. You gave her another slow smile, this one with a little more teeth.

"Cool. Hope to see you there," she said, finally turning to collect her sundae from a flustered-looking Steve. "Thanks, Stevie. It's... cute. The uniform."

The name 'Stevie' was the final twist of the knife. She sauntered away with her friends, their laughter echoing back from the polished linoleum.

You let the silence hang in the air for a solid ten seconds after they were gone.

"I think that went well," he said, crossing his arms and nodding his head. "She did a little volley there by mentioning the party to you and then looped me right back in. Classic misdirection. She's interested."

You stared at him. He was genuinely analyzing this like it was a sports play.

"Steve," you said, your voice dangerously quiet. 

"Yeah?"

"She wasn't interested in you."

"What are you talking about? She was totally flirting. I think she wants me to go to that party tomorrow." The hope in his voice was pathetic. "She even called me Stevie. That's pretty straightforward."

"That's not what was happening." You leaned forward, lowering your voice even though you were completely alone in the ice cream shop. "She wasn't interested in you."

The gears in his head were turning visibly.

"Okay...?" He drew out the word. "So... she was just being nice?"

"Let me spell it out for you, Captain. Her invitation wasn't for you. It was for me."

He blinked. The full, glorious impact of your statement seemed to short-circuit his brain.

"So she wants to be friends after bullying you in high school? Yeah, right."

"I didn't say she wanted to be friends." You met his bewildered gaze head-on, your own expression a mixture of pity and amusement.

And then, you saw it. A flicker of something in his eyes. A lightbulb, dim and far away, but it was on.

"Oh," he breathed out. He leaned against the counter, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. "Oh. Wow."

He looked from you, to where Stacey's group had disappeared, and back to you again, as if trying to solve a complex equation.

His gaze settled on your face, not your body, not your clothes, just your eyes. He was looking at you differently.

Not as a coworker, not as a friend of Robin's, not as the girl who made sarcastic comments. He was looking at you as a person with a secret, a life beyond this stupid counter.

"So she's...?" he trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish the sentence.

You just gave a simple nod.

"Holy shit," he whispered, a slow grin spreading across his face. It wasn't the cocky, practiced smile he used for customers. "Okay, now the prom thing makes so much more sense."

You couldn't help it. An honest-to-god laugh escaped you, echoing slightly in the empty shop.

"So that's what you get out of all this? An explanation for your bruised teenage ego?"

"What did you want me to say?"

It wasn't rude or judgemental like a small part of you had suspected he may be. He was confused and you had thrown a lot at him all at once.

"I was prepared for you to be an asshole, honestly."

"I can be," he said, shrugging on a surprising wave of vulnerability. "But, you know, not about... that." He gestured vaguely between you and the direction Stacey and her friends had left. "It's not... I don't see why it's a big deal."

Your laugh was a little softer this time. "You're the last person I expected to have that reaction."

His smile was a little softer now, something unreadable in his eyes as he cleared his throat a little. He busied himself with grabbing the clipboard and starting the closing inventory checklist before he spoke again. 

"So are you, uh, also..." he didn't look at you as he spoke, focusing hard on counting the boxes of cones like they held the secrets of the universe. "...like Stacey?"

"Gay?" you finished for him, the word feeling foreign and loud in the quiet shop. "No. Not... exclusively."

You watched the back of his neck turn pink as he nodded, processing the new information.

"Okay," he said to the inventory sheet. "Okay. That's... fine."

"Wow, Harrington," you deadpanned. "Don't get too excited. You might pull something."

He finally turned to look at you, and the smile was back, but it was different. It was real. "Sorry. My brain is just... rebooting. You know, Steve, circa '83, probably would have had some deeply stupid and offensive thing to say right about now."

"Yeah, well," you leaned against the counter, trying to act casual, but your heart was hammering against your ribs. "He's not here right now. Just the sailor."

"Good," he said, his gaze holding yours for a beat too long. "The sailor is much better company."

The last hour of your shift passed in a strange, comfortable silence. It wasn't tense or awkward, just...

Unnerving? 

You kept catching him watching you. Not staring, not leering, just... watching. When you'd catch his eye, he'd look away quickly, a faint blush creeping up his neck, and pretend to be intensely fascinated by the nutritional information on a can of whipped cream.

"I'm not interested in Stacey." You finally say, much more casually than you feel, as you count the till. 

Steve looked up from where he was sweeping the floor, leaning on the broom. "I figured."

"Did you?" Your tone was laced with skepticism.

He shrugged, pushing a stray sprinkle into a dustpan. "Yeah. I mean, you called her 'shallow'. You don't seem like the kind of girl to go for people you think are shallow."

He paused, then added, "Even if they do have incredible legs."

A small, unexpected laugh bubbled out of you. "Okay, fair point. Her legs are pretty great."

He grinned, a genuine, easy thing that made your stomach do a little flip. "See? We agree on something."

"Miracles do happen," you said, bagging the cash. "I just genuinely can't believe you didn't pick up on what was happening. I thought you were supposed to be the expert on girls."

"Former expert," he corrected, a wry twist to his lips. "My certification expired. Turns out, knowing how to get a handjob in the back of your car at a party doesn't exactly make you an authority on the female mind. Or... you know. Any mind but your own, really."

You made a disgusted noise. "Charming."

"I'm just being honest," he said, resting the broom against the wall and leaning against the counter opposite you. "It was all a game. And I was good at the game. But that's all it was. It was all... surface."

The words hung in the air between you, until he added the most vulnerable part. "You know, until Nancy."

You stopped counting the cash. This was the most he'd ever said about Nancy Wheeler outside of a few offhand comments you'd overheard, and it felt significant. Nancy Wheeler, the quiet, smart, headstrong girl who had brought Steve Harrington to his knees in a way that no cheerleader or social climber ever could.

"Surface?" you prompted gently.

"Yeah," he said, looking down at a worn spot on the linoleum. "She... she wasn't... She cared about things. Like, real things. The newspaper, and... college, her family and friends, and the future. And she saw right through the bullshit. Through me. It was... terrifying. And also maybe the best thing that ever happened to me."

The sincerity in his voice was disarming. He wasn't performing. He was just... talking. To you.

"And I'm guessing it didn't end so well," you said, finishing up the till and sliding the tray into its slot.

His smile was sad, a ghost of the easy charm he usually wore. "I, uh, didn't handle some things well. After her best friend went missing... I didn't... I wasn't there for her the way I should have been. I was still playing the game. And then... Jonathan Byers happened."

You knew Jonathan Byers. The quiet, intense photographer with the difficult home life. Another one of Hawkins High's outliers.

"Let me guess," you said, leaning on the counter, mirroring his posture. "They're together now?"

"I'm not angry," he said, and to your immense surprise, he sounded like he meant it. "I was, for a while. I was an asshole about it. But... they make sense. They actually, like, talk to each other. He gets her in a way I never figured out how to."

The only sounds were the low hum of the freezers and the distant muzak trickling from the mall's main speakers. You watched him, this boy you had so neatly categorized and dismissed, and saw the edges of the caricature start to fray.

"You're not so bad, Harrington. For a washed-up jock."

He looked up, a flicker of that old, lazy grin returning. "Coming from you, that's practically a marriage proposal."

"In your dreams," you scoffed, but the retort lacked its usual bite.

"You're right, my legs aren't nearly as good as Stacey's," he let out a dramatic sigh. 

You couldn't help the way your eyes glanced downward to see what he was talking about. The uniform shorts, while stupid, did little to hide how strong his legs were. How much they must've been toned from years of sports. How they hugged his thighs just right. How they hugged his--

"You're staring."

Your head snapped up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "I was not."

"Were too," he sing-songed, that stupid, completely gorgeous grin spreading across his face. "Don't worry, I get it. The uniform is a lot to handle."

"I was admiring the craftsmanship of how the seam is coming undone on your left thigh," you shot back, your face feeling hotter than the summer pavement outside. "Shoddy workmanship. I should report it to corporate."

He looked down, genuinely inspecting the seam in question. "Oh, hey, you're right. The thread's all popped." He fingered the loose string. "Huh. Probably from when I had to haul that new container of sprinkles out of the back. Nearly gave myself a hernia."

You internally were grateful for his complete obliviousness to your real line of sight and rolled your eyes. "Yeah, a real hero. The sprinkles would have been lost without you."

He shrugged, unbothered. "A hero's work is never done."

The weekend went by without much issue. You didn't go to the party. Something about getting high with a bunch of vapid teens you went to high school with, while trying to pretend you weren't having a mid-college crisis, felt about as appealing as licking the floor of the ice cream shop.

Instead, you’d stayed home, listened to records on repeat, and tried to write a short story that was going nowhere.

Tuesday night was when you always closed with Steve.

It was dead. A Tuesday night in Hawkins in mid-June was the definition of purgatory.

You both did your closing duties with practiced ease, a silent, efficient rhythm that you'd fallen into. He'd sweep, you'd wipe.

"So, like... the other night..." Steve started as he swept, his tone betraying the fact that it had been weighing on his mind. 

Him speaking had broken the zoning out you were currently doing. 

"What about it?" you asked, feigning disinterest as you scrubbed at a stubborn spot of dried fudge on the counter.

"Did you, uh..." He paused, leaning on the broom. "Did you and Stacey...?"

"If you're asking if we had some secret girl on girl rendezvous at Lovers Lake, the answer is no," you said, not looking at him. "I didn't go to the party."

He let out a small breath, and you couldn't decipher if it was relief or disappointment.

"Oh. Okay."

"It's not like porn, you know," you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. "The concept isn't a free-for-all for any man's viewing pleasure."

He bristled, his brow furrowing. "That's not what I was asking. I was... curious."

"What, wondering if we would go back home and wear silky pajamas and hit each other with pillows?" The sarcasm was a familiar armor, and you pulled it tight around yourself.

He almost looked angry now. He slammed the dustpan down on the counter a little too hard. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Assume the worst of me. Every single time. I ask a simple question and you turn it into me being some kind of... of..." He struggled for the word.

"Scumbag?" you offered helpfully. "Caveman? Horndog?"

"I was going to say moron," he shot back, his voice low and surprisingly hurt. "But I'm not that guy. And it's... it's getting really fucking tiring trying to prove it to you."

You were silenced for once, before you let out a deep sigh and put the rag down for a minute. 

"Look," you started. "College was... hard for me. On like, so many levels. I guess I thought the one way it would be easier is that I didn't have to hide certain parts of myself like I did here. And then I quickly realized that there were new reasons it was hard being... like me."

You couldn't bring yourself to put a label on it. You hadn't quite figured out what one worked and that was okay. 

"But anyway, one of the biggest hurdles, and maybe the most surprisingly common reaction I got from both men and women was to... treat it like it was for them. That it was a performance."

"Okay," he said, leaning against the counter, listening.

"You know, I’d meet a girl at a party and we'd chat and flirt and once it got to anything more than that, anything physical, she was usually just trying to catch the eyes of some pervy frat guys." You let out a self depreciating sigh, a little embarrassed to be telling him all this.

"And then if I tried to start something with a guy, they acted like it was a free pass for a threesome. It wasn't genuine interest in me, you know, just in what I could offer them. What my... existence could do for their sexual fantasy."

Steve watched you, his eyes soft and serious. There was no smirk, no hint of judgment.

"So when you get that look in your eye-like you're trying to work out some kind of complicated puzzle that would probably earn you a prize if you solve it, it's... hard not to assume. So I'm sorry. That I was an asshole. It's an ingrained defense mechanism."

The confession left a raw, buzzing silence in its wake. You had laid a piece of yourself bare on the grimy linoleum floor, a piece that you'd been holding on to since you decided to take a gap year, and it was in front of him of all people.

"Okay," he finally said, his voice quiet. "Okay, I get that. I'm sorry that happened to you. That's... shitty. People are shitty."

He looked down at the floor, kicking at stray sprinkles before looking back at you.

"For what it's worth, I'm not asking for a show." he said, a little sadly. "I don't... I wasn't picturing that."

He paused. "I just... I was just trying to figure it out. Figure you out."

You looked at him, your heart giving another one of those little, painful flips.

He cleared his throat and picked up the dustpan. "The good thing is, I'm a very slow study. So you'll have plenty of warning before I solve any of your complicated puzzles."

You watched as he fell back into the rhythm of sweeping. You noticed the way the muscles in his back moved under the thin fabric of that ridiculous shirt. How the shorts rode up just a bit as he bent over. How the back of his neck, where his hair started to curl with sweat, was surprisingly vulnerable-looking.

You were humanizing this man. You were seeing him as Steve. A guy who worked a shit job, who had a complicated past, who seemed genuinely, achingly lonely sometimes. A guy who, for some reason, was putting in the effort to be decent to you, even when you were a complete bitch to him.

"Why do you want to figure me out?" You asked, busying yourself with meaningless cleanup to hide the softness in your own voice.

He finished with the dustpan, straightened up, and leaned against the broom handle again. He looked out over the deserted food court, at the mall security guard making his slow, predictable rounds.

"I don't know," he said after a moment. His gaze was distant, fixed on the flashing lights of the arcade. "I guess I've realized there's more to people than I thought. A lot more. And I feel like I spent years… just not seeing any of it."

He turned to look at you, and the sincerity in his eyes was so disarming it almost felt like a weapon.

"You're interesting. And you don't like me. I'm trying to figure out what I did. And... maybe if I do, I can stop doing it."

The honesty of it was a punch to the gut. He wasn't trying to charm you, wasn't trying to get anything from you. He was just a guy trying to understand why he kept failing.

"I—" you started, but no words came out.

He saved you by pushing off the counter and grabbing the clipboard for the closing checklist. "Alright, what's next on the shutdown protocol?"

He was letting you off the hook, changing the subject, giving you space. And you were ridiculously grateful for it. But you also didn't want to take it.

"You didn't do anything, Steve," you said, the words quiet but firm.

He paused, pen hovering over the checklist. "Come on. Every time I talk to you, I feel like I'm putting my foot in my mouth."

"That's not your fault," you clarified. "I don't dislike you. I dislike the idea of you. The version of you that lived in my head. The guy who had it all. The guy who never had to try."

You gestured vaguely around you. "The guy who was probably going to get a sports scholarship and have a summer fling and never think about the people who had to clean up after him."

Steve finally looked at you, really looked at you, a small, frown line appearing between his brows.

"Little fun fact? I am trying. All the damn time," he admitted. "And the summer fling? Not exactly panning out. And the sports scholarship..." He scoffed, a short, bitter sound. "Let's just say my dad and Coach had a little talk about my 'priorities' last year and I didn't listen. I don't think college is in my future."

You felt a strange pang of something in your chest. It almost felt like guilt. You had built this whole narrative in your head about him, this perfect, easy life, and here he was, chipping away at it with every quiet, honest word.

"Oh," you said, brilliantly.

"Yeah, 'oh'," he mimicked, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He set the clipboard down, moving to the back to start emptying the sanitary bins. "The universe has a funny way of kicking you in the teeth. Turns out I'm not as special as I thought I was."

"But!" He turned to you and pointed, before pushing the door open with his back. "I'm kind of okay with that now."

You watched the door swing shut behind him, waiting a beat before following.

"Well, I guess I'm sorry for underestimating-"

You're suddenly chest to chest with him in the back room. He'd forgotten the trash bag. He'd turned right around and you walked straight into him.

"-you." you finished, your breath catching in your throat.

One of his hands was braced on your waist, grabbing to steady you. You could feel the warmth of his palms seeping through your uniform. You could smell him again, that clean, soapy, slightly sweaty scent that was becoming infuriatingly familiar.

"Whoa, easy there," he said, but his voice was lower than usual. He didn't move away, the softest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Your eyes, almost of their own accord, flicked down to his lips. They were slightly parted. And in that split second, you wanted to know what they tasted like.

This was bad. This was so, so bad.

You pushed gently against his chest. "Personal space, Harrington."

He blinked, the spell broken. He let go of your arm and took a half-step back, running a hand through his hair in that nervous way he had.

"Right. Sorry." He looked anywhere but at you. "My fault. Should've worn a bell..."

It had been four days since the almost-kiss. It's all you could think about, but neither of you spoke about it.

The silence that settled between you now was different. Before, it was laced with tension and disdain. Now, it was charged with something else.

Luckily, the busy Saturday night crowd had left you both too busy to think about anything but orders and cash. You moved around each other in the small space with a new, careful choreography, your hands brushing, your shoulders passing close, each touch a tiny jolt.

A mother with three screaming kids finally left, leaving a sticky trail of melted strawberry ice cream across your clean counter.

Robin was at the register, her head in her hands.

"I swear to God, if one more kid asks for gummy worms on their chocolate ice cream, I'm going to scream."

"It's a culinary revolution, Buckley. Don't stifle their creativity," you said, scrubbing at the sticky spot with maybe a little more force than necessary.

"It's gross." Steve chimed in, wiping down the scoop well.

You both looked at each other at the same moment before quickly looking away.

Robin's head shot up, eyes narrowed. "You two have been weird all week. Weirder than usual. What's going on?"

"Nothing," you both said in perfect, damning unison.

"Oh, my God," she breathed, a look of dawning, horrified comprehension on her face. "You had sex."

Steve dropped his scoop. It clattered into the metal well with an almost ear-piercing clang.

"No!" he yelped, his face turning a shade of red you'd only previously seen on a sunburned tourist.

"No!" you echoed, your voice slightly higher than you intended. "What the hell Buckley!"

You both looked at each other again, this was the last person you wanted to be in this interrogation with.

Robin stood up straight, planting her hands on her hips. She looked back and forth between your panicked faces with a gleeful expression. 

"Relax, you two. I'm messing with you," she said, waving a dismissive hand, although her eyes still held a speculative glint.

Robin was too good at her job, her specialty being pattern recognition. She had you two pinned, at least enough to know something had shifted in whatever weird, antagonistic ecosystem you and Steve inhabited.

Steve picked up the scoop, wiping it on the side of his apron. "Hilarious. In no world would that ever, in a million years, happen."

The words were a slap in the face, even if they were said in a panicked attempt to deflect Robin's teasing. You felt a hot surge of anger, but you didn't even have the energy to fight him on it. You just bit the inside of your cheek, focusing intently on scrubbing the last of the sticky pink sludge from the counter.

"Yeah, Steve only goes for girls of a certain pedigree, isn't that right?" The words came out sharper, more acidic than you intended, but you were hurt. "He has standards to maintain."

Robin looked between you two again, her grin faltering as she sensed the shift from playful banter to something real.

Steve winced, physically recoiling from your words as if you'd slapped him. He looked at you, his expression a mess of regret and pleading, but your back was to him.

"Alright, I think I've overstimulated the weird little... whatever you two have going on here," Robin said, grabbing her bag from under the counter. "I'm taking my break before I have to witness an extinction-level event."

She gave you both one last, inscrutable look before disappearing through the swinging door, leaving you and Steve alone in a silence that was so loud it hurt.

You kept scrubbing at the counter, the rough texture of the sponge a welcome, painful distraction. Your shoulders were tight, a knot of anger and humiliation lodging itself right between your shoulder blades.

"You know that's not what I meant," he finally said, his voice quiet, rough.

"Wasn't it?" you shot back, not turning around.

A customer came to the counter just then— a worn out looking dad with two kids hanging off his legs— and you had to switch on your customer service face. It felt like a mask that was cracking. You took their order with a brittle cheerfulness that you knew Steve could see right through. 

He took over making the sundaes while you worked the register, a silent, tense dance. His hands were clumsy, fumbling with the hot fudge pump. He was off-balance.

When the family left with their ice cream, the silence descended again, heavier this time.

The line picked up again and the two of you were too busy to even look at each other. He made the ice cream, you rang it up. There was no room for error or emotion. It was the most efficient you two had ever been.

Robin had the mid shift, so you and Steve closed yet again. For the last hour, the only sounds were sloshing of the mop bucket and the click clacks of the calculator.

The cleaning was almost done. You'd wiped down every surface, emptied the sanitizing buckets, and were now in the backroom hunched over the final inventory sheet. The numbers swam in front of your eyes.

You couldn't wait for your day off tomorrow. Maybe you'd hit up the pool or see if a new album had dropped at the record store. Anything to get out of this polyester prison and away from the suffocating silence.

"I'm not going to apologize for saying something dumb to Robin to get her to back off," he finally said, his back to you as he restacked the crates we had been counting. "Because I didn't mean it. I think you know I didn't."

"Why do you think I care if you meant it or not?" you said, not looking up from the clipboard. "It doesn't matter to me who you do or do not want to sleep with."

"Because I hurt your feelings," he stated, simply, matter-of-factly. He wasn't asking. He knew.

Your head snapped up. "You have a high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

"No," he said, turning to face you. "I just feel like every time I get close to saying something right, I trip over my own feet and say something monumentally stupid instead."

He took a step closer, the backroom suddenly feeling much, much smaller.

"Look, I'm not sorry for trying to get Robin off our backs," he said, his voice low. "but I am sorry for how I did it. That's all. End of story."

He stood there, waiting. He wasn't pleading or demanding. He was just... present. He was holding himself accountable, and it was maybe the most attractive thing you'd ever seen him do.

You slammed the clipboard down on a crate before turning around, the noise echoing in the small room. "Why do you even care?"

"Because!" he burst out, his frustration finally boiling over. He ran both hands through his hair, messing it up. "Because for some insane reason I can't figure out, I like being around you! And I'd rather do that without you looking at me like you want to set me on fire!"

The confession held more weight than you realized, your breath hitching slightly at his earnestness.

You stared at him, truly and completely speechless for the second time that week. This whole conversation had careened wildly off the rails you'd laid.

You didn't know what to say. So you just watched him pace in the cramped space. He was like a caged lion, all restless energy and barely contained frustration.

"I've had my life fall apart, okay?" he said, stopping to face you. "My girlfriend left me for a guy who's probably a better person than I am, my dad looks at me like I'm a monumental disappointment, and my crowning achievement is a hairdo that gets compliments from either freshman girls or lonely housewives."

You didn't mean to laugh, but a small hysterical sound escaped your lips. It wasn't mocking; it was just the pathetic honesty of it.

"And then you show up," he continued, taking a step closer, a wild, desperate light in his eyes. "You're smart, and you're funny, and you're... you just don't give a shit about any of the stuff I spent my whole life trying to be good at. You see right through it, and it's infuriating. And it's... good. It feels real. For the first time in a long time, something feels real."

He was so close now. The space between you was humming with a new tension. 

"So, yes. I care. Not because I see you as some novelty or a challenge or whatever fucked up things you think guys like me think. I care because you're the most interesting person I've talked to in months. And because I said something stupid that made you look at me the way you looked at Stacey Carmichael and I can't stand it."

You couldn't move. You could barely breathe. Every carefully constructed wall you'd built around yourself was crumbling, brick by brick, at the blatant sincerity pouring out of him.

"Do you always give romantic movie speeches or is it a special occasion?" The words came out quiet, stripped of their usual bite.

He didn't even smile. "I'm not trying to be romantic. I'm trying to be honest."

Oof. You should say something. You should deflect. But he spoke again before you could. 

"Not that... I mean, not that you're unattractive because you're very much..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you. He was so close you could feel the warmth coming off him, see the way his throat worked as he swallowed. "You know."

"Squished into this uniform?" you offer with a laugh that has zero humor to it.

"What? No!" he frowned. "You look… good."

Now it was your turn to blush, a heat creeping up your neck that you prayed he couldn't see.

"Yeah, well, you'd look good in anything," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "That's your whole... thing."

You didn't want to admit it before, but you knew. Even in this stupid uniform he was handsome, but there was something else there. 

Steve's smile was lopsided and soft.

"So you forgive me? For being an idiot in front of Robin?"

"I'll consider it."

He took another step closer, and this time you didn't back away. The fabric of your uniforms nearly brushed. You were close enough now that you had to tilt your head back to look at him.

"What, are you gonna kiss me or something? To seal the deal?"

It was meant to be a joke, a final test. A way to push him away and see if he'd flinch. You expected him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to step back into the familiar safety of sarcastic banter.

He didn't.

He just looked at you, his eyes searching yours, and the lighthearted air in the room vanished. Your bravado evaporated.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and then back to your eyes.

"I might," he said, his voice a low murmur. "If you wanted me to."

Your breath hitched. This was a bad idea. A terrible, no-good, very-bad idea.

"Do you want to?" you whispered back, the words barely audible.

He answered by closing the final inch of space between you.

His lips were softer than you imagined. It was a careful, searching kiss, nothing like the confident, performative smooches you'd witnessed him bestow on girls in school hallways.

You responded in kind, a soft sigh escaping you. Your hand, as if of its own accord, came up to rest on the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hair there. That seemed to be the permission he was looking for.

The kiss deepened. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. He tasted like mint toothpaste and a faint, lingering sweetness from the strawberry flavoring he'd been ‘testing’ earlier.

Your free hand found its way to the front of his ridiculous shirt, your fist clenching in the fabric. He was solid, warm, real. Not the caricature you'd built in your head.

He angled his head, the kiss becoming more insistent, more desperate, his free hand steadying on your waist. He pulled you flush against him, and you gasped into his mouth as you felt his body against yours.

The rational part of your brain, the part that was still screaming about what a monumentally bad idea this was, went completely silent. All that was left was the feeling of him. The smell of him.

You were tentative as your hands trailed down his torso, palms flat against his toned pecs to the softness of his stomach and back up to his strong shoulders. You wanted to feel him.

"Hey," he murmured against your lips, a slight smile in his voice.

You pulled back just enough to see his face, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. His hair was a mess from your hands, his lips were swollen and wet, and his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want.

"Hi," you breathed back.

"This is," he started, then seemed to change his mind, leaning in to kiss you again, a soft, brief press of lips. "This is not a good place for this."

"No," you agreed, your brain slowly coming back online. "Not really."

He looked past you, towards the door that led out to the shop floor. "We need to go before that weird mall cop comes by."

You were suddenly acutely aware of your surroundings. The scent of dry goods, the hum of the freezers. You could still faintly smell the disinfectant and the sickly-sweet cherry flavoring.

"I'll go lock the gate and we can leave through the back." He kissed you again quickly and practically jogged out of the room, not giving you a chance to respond.

You took a minute to try and calm your racing heart before grabbing your bag. You could hear the heavy clank of the metal gate from the front of the shop.

You met him by the back door, the silence between you now charged with a different kind of electricity. You followed him out into the oppressive heat of the Hawkins night.

The air was wet, clinging to your skin. The parking lot was a sea of asphalt, shimmering under the orange glow of the mall lamps. The cicadas were screaming their summer song from the trees beyond the lot.

"Which one's yours?" he asked. 

"The blue shitbox over there." You pointed to your car.

"Classy." He grinned, shoving his hands in the pockets of his ridiculously short shorts. "Mine's the Beamer."

"I know."

He walked with you to your beat-up car, the silence stretching out between you. You could still feel the ghost of his kiss on your lips.

"So," he said, stopping next to your door, his proximity making it hard to think. "Now what?"

You looked up at him, at the hopeful, uncertain look in his eyes. "Aren't you the expert in this stuff? Master of the..." you trailed off, not knowing what to call this.

"Post-shift makeout session in a stuffy back room?" he supplied, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, kind of a new one for me, too."

He wasn't trying to play a part, not with you.

You leaned back against the warm metal of your car door. "Do you work tomorrow?" 

"You don't have my schedule memorized yet?" he asked, a flicker of the old Steve in his tone. You decided you liked this version better. "I'm off. So are you, according to the board."

"Right."

"So," he said again, rocking back on his heels. "Do you wan--" 

"I don't do hook ups." The words tumbled out of your mouth, blunt and defensive. It was your last line of defense, a final test to see what he'd do with the rejection. “Not… any more. Since, you know.”

He stopped rocking, his smile fading. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable in the lot’s lights.

"Okay..." he said, his voice quiet as he drew out the word. "I wasn't asking for one."

You winced internally. You hadn't meant for it to come out so harshly.

"I just mean, I don't..." you struggled to explain yourself, the heat from the asphalt and the heat from your blush making it hard to breathe. "I'm not that girl."

"I know," he said simply. "I wouldn't be standing here if I thought you were."

The certainty in his voice was disarming. He stepped closer again, crowding you against the car door.

"Is that what you thought this was?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine despite the humid air. "That I'd kiss you in the back room and then expect to... what? Come home with me and...?" He didn't finish, just let the question hang in the heavy air.

You almost hated that you wanted to be more than a forgotten hook up.

The idea that the one guy you've been trying not to want for weeks, might see you as just another notch on a bedpost, was a rejection that would sting more than anything else.

"I mean... I wouldn't want to get fired," you deflected. "Hypothetically, workplace fraternization would be very frowned upon by our corporate overlords at Scoops Ahoy."

God, that was weak. He knew it, too.

A lazy grin spread across his face. "If I did bring you home with me, hypothetically, it wouldn't be a hook-up."

And that, that right there, was what made you feel lightheaded. The casual certainty in his voice. He wasn't just trying to get you into bed. He was trying to get you.

"I mean... I'd be lying if I said I'm not thinking about it, or that I'd be against something happening..." he admitted, his gaze dropping to your lips again. "But I'm also thinking about seeing you tomorrow. And the day after. And maybe taking you somewhere that doesn't require a sailor hat."

You felt a smile tugging at your own lips, unguarded. "Oh yeah? Like where? The food court?"

"Even better," he said, leaning in, his lips ghosting over yours. "The movie theater."

You couldn't help it. You laughed. "Wooing me with all the high-class hotspots, Harrington."

"I aim to please," he whispered, and then he kissed you again. "I can also do restaurants, if you're feeling particularly adventurous. Maybe even that fancy Italian place out by the highway if I save up my tips for a month."

You were smiling against his mouth. "A whole month of Scoops for a plate of spaghetti? You drive a hard bargain."

"I like you." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Simple. Direct. A fact.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. "That's all this is. It's not a game. It's not a hook-up. I just... really like you."

You held his gaze, feeling the warmth fill your body. 

"Do you like diner food?" you whisper. 

"Is that a serious question? Of course, I like diner food." The hopeful, ridiculously bright look that came back onto his face was worth more than you thought it would be.

It gave you the confidence to be bold. 

"I could... follow you home. And maybe in the morning you could take me to the diner for pancakes."

He blinked. "Seriously?"

"I'm not into hook-ups, Steve." The words were a little shaky, but you were sure of them. "But I'm not a nun, either."

He blinked again, trying to process. "So... you're coming home with me?"

"I'm following you home," you corrected, your own lips curving into a smile. "My car is my escape route. Don't make me use it."

"I won't," he promised, his voice dropping into that low register that made you want to melt into a puddle on the asphalt. "I won't."

He leaned in for one last kiss in the parking lot, a sweet press of lips that tasted like promise.

Following his BMW through the darkened streets of Hawkins in your hammydown car was one of the more surreal experiences of your life. The juxtaposition was almost funny. His clean, expensive car cutting through the night, you rattling along behind it, engine groaning in protest.

You'd driven by his house plenty of times. Large, sprawling, and dark. The kind of house that was meant for a family that was whole and happy, but instead there was an emptiness to it that you could feel from the driveway, a silence that had nothing to do with the late hour.

You hadn't asked if his parents were home, you already knew the answer. It was common knowledge that the Harringtons were never really around. You'd assumed he loved it. An endless party house. But seeing the stark reality of it, not even a single light on at the entrance, the cavernous windows all dark, you felt a different kind of understanding. A strange wave of pity and protectiveness washed over you. He was all alone in that big, echoing house.

He parked in one of the garages.

(Seriously, why were there so many?)

You had to park yours in the drive, a small, rebellious speck of automotive failure in the middle of all that success.

Steve must have gone in through the garage, because he was opening the front door as you got out of your car. You didn't miss the way he was still a little nervous about this whole thing. The confidence he had in the mall parking lot had retreated behind a wall of shyness that you had yet to see.

You walked up to where he was waiting at those red double doors.

"It's huge," you managed, feeling small.

"Yeah, well. My mom likes to entertain," he said, the words flat and devoid of any real emotion. He wasn't bragging; he was just stating a fact of a life that didn't feel like his.

He led you inside and locked the front doors as you toed off your shoes. The stairs were right by the entry way, carpet over wooden slats, the hall into the living space on the other side.

He turned a small lamp on by the wall before turning to you, hands on his hips and looking at the floor, trying to break the silence.

"Alright," he said, finally looking at you. "This is it. Casa del Harrington. Don't touch anything."

You could hear the smile in his tone.

"Wow, what a tour. So many highlights," you played along, your own lips tugging into a grin.

"I'm saving the best for last," he said, grabbing your hand. His was warm and a little sweaty, and your fingers linked together like they'd been doing it for years. He led you upstairs.

The hallway was long, half balcony, half doors to other rooms. One floor was bigger than your whole family home.

He pushed open a door at the end of the hall. "And this," he announced with a flourish, "is my room. The grand finale."

It wasn't what you expected. It was... plaid. Like, beige and black plaid walls and matching curtains.

"I swear I have a personality," he said, noticing your amused expression. "My mom's interior decorator did not get the memo."

"It's very... masculine," you managed, looking around the random items. A bowling pin on the desk, a poster of a car, a poster of a bikini clad woman he clearly flinched at when you saw. 

The king-sized bed, the sheets on top slightly rumpled from this morning, seemed to take up half the room.

It felt... intimate. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that made you feel like you were seeing a part of him no one else was supposed to. The messy pile of clothes on a chair, the photo on his dresser of him and a younger boy with curls and a goofy smile, a half-empty bottle of cologne.

"I'm gonna..." he cleared his throat. "Go change from this... stupid uniform." He gestured down at himself before turning to the door.

"Don't!" The protest slipped out before you could stop it.

Shit.

"Uh... I mean..."

He turned back slowly, his eyes wide, surprised. "Don't what? You afraid to be alone in here?"

"No, it's not that," you said, feeling your cheeks flush. You bit your lip, trying to find the words that wouldn't make you sound like a complete lunatic.

"I mean, don't... not because I don't want you to," you stammered, your gaze dropping to his chest. "It's just... I've been looking at that stupid uniform all summer. And I have this stupid image in my head of you in it and I..."

You trailed off, mortified. What were you even saying?

A slow grin spread across his face, a flicker of the cocky Steve Harrington you knew, but it was tempered by something softer.

"Oh," he said, the understanding dawning in his eyes. He took a step back into the room, closing the door behind him. "So... this is a thing for you, then?"

"It's not a thing," you denied, but your voice was weak and embarrassed. "It just... fits...well?"

That was also a bad choice of words.

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole, but then he started walking towards you with a slow, deliberate pace.

"Fits well?" he asked, his tone low and teasing. He stopped directly in front of you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from him. His gaze was heavy, searching your face. "You think so?"

You couldn't speak. You just nodded, your eyes locked on his.

"Is it the shorts?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Or does the dumb little scarf thing get you going?"

"Steve," you whispered, a pathetic attempt at shutting him down.

But instead of backing off, he took a hold of your waistband, tugging you flush against him. His hands were confident but not rough.

"Because, you know…" he continued, leaning down so his lips were right next to your ear. "I was thinking the shorts are a little short. Show a little too much thigh."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You could feel the steady, rapid beat of his heart under your palm.

"I take all my nice words back, you are actually evil."

He chuckled, the sound a deep, warm vibration against you. "Only a little bit."

One of his large hands found the red tie of your own uniform and played with it a little, not quite touching your chest, but his eyes were there.

"You're one to talk, you know..." he confessed. He traced the collar of the blue and white striped top. "Gotta say, I'm more than a little curious to see what's underneath. Not really leaving much to my imagination here, sailor." He says pulling at it a little to see your neck line.

"You're the one who said it was tight on me last week," you reminded him, your own hands slowly, nervously sliding up to wrap around the back of his neck, your fingers brushing the soft hairs there. "Wasn't really a confidence booster..."

"Is that why you were quiet the rest of the day? You thought it was, what, an insult?" He was genuinely confused. "It wasn't. I was trying not to stare, god, I was trying so hard not to stare."

Your fingers stilled in his hair. "Really?"

"Yeah," he breathed, leaning in again. His lips brushed your jaw, a fleeting, warm touch. "I spent the rest of the shift trying to think up ways to get you fired, just so I didn't have to look at you in this stupid uniform anymore."

The laugh that escaped you was half-shock, half-desire. "That's the most romantic and simultaneously psychopathic thing anyone has ever said to me."

He nipped at your earlobe, and a full-body shudder wracked its way through you. "God, when I was patching up your knee? And you kept flinching and your shorts were riding up your thigh and I could feel you shaking... you have no idea what I was thinking."

"I have a pretty good idea," you gasped as his lips trailed down the column of your throat. His hand was still on the ridiculous scarf-thing, one thumb stroking the skin just above your collarbone.

"No, you don't," he murmured against your skin. "But I'll show you. If you let me."

You didn't answer with words. You answered by tilting your head back, giving him better access, and by pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies. He took the invitation, his kisses becoming open-mouthed and hungry against your throat.

His hands finally moved to the hem of your uniform top, warm fingers brushing against the sliver of exposed skin on your stomach. You sucked in a sharp breath. His touch was a brand.

"Is this okay?" he breathed against your skin, pausing.

You answered by grabbing the hem of your own shirt and pulling it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor.

Your eyes were searching his face, trying to gauge his reaction, half-expecting a flicker of disappointment or the detached calculation you'd imagined from the old Steve. Instead, you were met with clear want.

"Wow," he breathed, his gaze sweeping over you. He looked dazed. "Wow."

"Stop," you said, but it was a weak protest.

"No, I mean it," he said, his hands coming up to rest on your waist, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there. "Those are... wow."

He was looking at your breasts like he'd just discovered a new continent, but it was the reverence in his expression that did it for you.

"They're boobs, Steve," you said, your voice shaky with a nervous laugh.

"They’re great boobs," he countered, leaning in to kiss you again. This kiss was different. Deeper, more possessive. One of his hands slid up your back, his fingers tracing the clasp of your bra.

It was a simple, utilitarian, beige thing. Nothing lacy or special. You suddenly felt a pang of self-consciousness.

"This is the least sexy bra in the history of the world," you murmured against his lips.

"I'm not really looking at the bra," he said, a smile in his voice. He deftly unhooked it with one hand and you felt the straps fall loose.

He pulled back just enough to slide the bra down your arms and let it join your shirt on the floor. The cool air of the room on your bare skin made you shiver.

"Jesus," he breathed, his eyes wide, devouring the sight of you. He looked like a kid in a candy store who'd just been told he could have whatever he wanted.

He didn't say anything else. He just looked, his gaze hot and heavy, and it was somehow more intimate than if he'd touched you. You'd never had anyone look at you like that. Like you were a masterpiece.

Then he was kissing you again, and this time his hands were on you, warm and sure. They weren't tentative or clumsy. He knew what he was doing.

One hand cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple, and a jolt went through you so intense you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, as he rolled the sensitive peak between his thumb and forefinger.

You pulled his shirt up, your hands flattening against the warm, bare skin of his back. You could feel the muscles there, tense and solid. He helped you pull the stupid uniform shirt over his head, and then it was your turn to look.

His chest was smooth and defined, a patch of chest hair trailing down to a soft tummy that you wanted to lick. 

"Got a little soft from all the ice cream," he said, a self-deprecating note in his voice.

"I like it," you said, and you meant it. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. His breath hitched. "You're hairier than I thought though."

He let out a surprised laugh, a real, genuine burst of sound that rumbled through you.

"You been thinking about my hair distribution a lot?" he teased, his hands settling on your hips.

"You'd be surprised," you murmured, kissing your way up to his collarbone.

"Let me get my hands on you before I explode" he whispered, and he was tugging you towards the bed. He sat down on the edge, pulling you to straddle him. His hands roamed over your back, your hips, your ass, appreciating your shape.

Your breasts were pressed against his chest, the coarse hair a delicious friction. You threaded your fingers through his hair, tilting his head back. You kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that you felt all the way down to your toes.

"God, you feel good," he breathed against your lips, his hands squeezing your ass.

He was hard, you could feel it through the layers of fabric between you, a rigid, insistent pressure against you.

"Steve," you whispered, rocking against him. The friction was maddening.

"Tell me what you want," he said, pulling back to look at you, his eyes dark and serious.

You took a shaky breath. You weren't used to this. Guys usually just took what they wanted, assuming they knew.

"Touch me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "Everywhere."

He smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. "My pleasure."

He guided you onto the bed, your back sinking into the plush comforter. He followed you down, settling over you, propping himself up on his elbows so he wasn't crushing you.

He started slow. His lips traced a path from your jaw down to the hollow of your throat. His hands mapped your body, savoring every curve.

"I can't believe this is happening," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"Me neither," you admitted, your hands stroking through his hair as he kissed a path across your collarbones.

When he finally took one of your nipples into his mouth, you arched off the bed with a choked gasp. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive peak, his other hand coming up to toy with its twin.

"Look at these... God," he said, pulling away with a wet pop. His thumb and forefinger rolling the sensitive nub, pulling a little making your hips buck. "Fucking perfect."

The compliments, the reverence, it was overwhelming. It was too much, but also exactly what you needed. He wasn't treating you like a conquest. He was worshiping you. You were the only thing in this cavernous, lonely house that mattered.

He shifted, moving down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your hips.

"Can I show you what I was thinking about when I patched you up?" he asked, his gaze flicking up to meet yours from his position above your shorts. His fingers were hooked into the waistband, teasing the elastic.

You nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with anticipation.

He grinned, that wicked, knowing grin, and slowly, torturously, peeled your shorts down your legs. He tossed them aside, leaving you in nothing but your plain cotton underwear.

He settled between your thighs, pushing them apart. His gaze was heavy, and you felt a fresh wave of self-consciousness wash over you. You started to close your legs, to hide, but he held you in place, his hands firm on your thighs.

"No," he said, his voice a command. "Don't you dare hide from me."

He leaned down, and you felt his breath, hot and damp, through the thin cotton of your panties. Your hips bucked, a silent plea.

"God, you're already so wet for me," he murmured, his thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric.

You whined, a high, desperate sound you didn't recognize as your own. Your hands fisted in the comforter.

He took pity on you, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down.

"Look at you," he breathed, spreading you open with his thumbs. "Pretty. So fucking pretty."

He didn't wait. He leaned in and licked a flat, broad stripe up your center.

The world tilted on its axis. Your back arched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as you fought to keep your eyes open. He looked up at you from between your legs as he did it again, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of you. His perfect nose nudged against your clit. He groaned, a low, rumbling sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, and the vibration of it shot through you like lightning.

"Steve... oh, god..."

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a rough whisper against your sensitive skin. He settled in, alternating between broad, lazy strokes of his tongue and focused, precise circles around your clit. His hands held your thighs apart, his grip firm and grounding. He wasn't trying to impress you with some frantic, porno-worthy performance. He was trying to make you feel good. He was paying attention.

He watched you, his eyes dark and intense, cataloging every reaction, every twitch, every gasp. When your hips started to cant up, meeting the rhythm of his tongue, he knew he'd found it. He sealed his lips around your clit and sucked.

"Fuck!" you cried out, your hands flying from the bedspread to tangle in his hair, holding him to you. "Don't stop. Please, god, don't stop."

He didn't. He doubled down, flicking his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves in a relentless, perfect rhythm. He slid one finger inside you, then another, curling them in a 'come here' motion that made you see stars.

"Steve," you whimpered, his name a prayer on your lips. "I'm... I'm..."

He knew. He could feel it. The fluttering of your walls around his fingers, the way your thighs were starting to tremble uncontrollably. He was good at this. He'd learned a thing or two, a quiet voice in the back of your mind supplied, before the thought was obliterated by the coiling tension in your stomach.

And then you were falling. The world shattered into a million pieces. Your back bowed off the bed and a long moan was torn from your throat as the orgasm hit. He didn't stop, didn't let up, working you through it until you were a boneless, panting mess beneath him.

He finally lifted his head, his face glistening, a satisfied grin on his lips. He crawled up your body, pressing a kiss to your lips. You could taste yourself on him, the intimate flavor making your head spin.

"Your thighs are shaking," he whispered, the words a warm puff of air against your cheek. His hand came up to stroke your hair tenderly.

"Blame the sailor uniform," you managed, your voice hoarse. Your brain felt like it had been scooped out and replaced with cotton candy.

"And let it take all the credit? No chance. That was all me, baby."

Baby.

"You're insufferable," you whispered, but you were smiling, pulling him down for another kiss. You could feel him, still hard against your hip through the fabric of those ridiculous shorts.

"You don't seem like you're suffering too much." He rocked his hips against you, a deliberate, delicious friction that made you gasp.

"Conceited, too," you retorted, your hands coming down to cup his ass, pulling him tighter against you. The muscles were firm and perfect in your palms.

The move must have surprised him a little because he flinched away. Not in a bad way, he looked confused by the feeling of your hands there.

Truthfully, you hadn't been with a guy in a while, and your reflexes were a little rusty on the male body.

"Uh...sorry..." You whispered as you moved your hands back to the bed.

He just shook his head. "No, no. You just surprised me is all." The look on his face was a mixture of confusion and awe. "I... uh..." He was stammering again, which was weird.

"I'm not used to girls... well, touching my ass," he admitted with a little laugh. "Usually it's just been about what I can do for them."

You hadn't even thought about it. You'd been more interested in the feeling of him.

His smile was gone, replaced by that serious, searching look again. He was watching you, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"You've definitely had girls touch you before, Steve." You whisper, hands impatient back on his lower back. 

"Yeah... yeah. Just not like this." He leaned down, kissing your shoulder. "Not where it's about... me."

He had no right to look so vulnerable. Not with the reputation he had around Hawkins. Not with everything you'd heard. But as he hovered above you, all you saw was a boy who was used to being wanted for what he could provide, not for who he was.

"Also it's... been a while for me." he admitted, his lips against your neck again like it would help hide the confession. 

The idea that you were the one to make him this nervous, this unsure, was the most intoxicating thing you had ever experienced.

Your hands roamed over his back, feeling the muscles tense and flex under your touch. You wanted to memorize the slope of his shoulders, the ridge of his spine, the dip at the base of his back.

"I like it, for the record." He says after a moment of your hands playing with the waistband of those shorts, lost in the feeling of your hands on him. "I like how handsy you get when you're turned on."

You smile and your hands move back to his ass to push him more firmly against your core, you let out your own moan against his lips. He was still so frustratingly clothed.

"It's your turn," you breathed, your hands tugging at the fabric. "Lose the shorts."

He kisses you quickly before pulling back to take them off. There was a significant wet patch on the front from where he'd been pressed against you. You watch his eyes trail down to it. 

"Oops..." you whisper with a smirk.

He just shakes his head with a chuckle before he finally, finally slides them and his boxers down in one go, kicking them to the floor.

And then he was naked. All of him. And your brain had to recalculate.

You'd heard the rumors, of course. Locker rooms were a breeding ground for exaggerated gossip. But seeing him in the flesh... seeing the hard, thick length of him, curving up towards his stomach... the rumors hadn't been exaggerated. They'd been an understatement.

He followed the path of your eyes, and you watched a flicker of something- pride, maybe, or just deep-seated insecurity- cross his face.

"You're staring," he said, a nervous edge to his teasing tone.

"I can't imagine a person who wouldn't."

You reached for him, your curiosity overriding any lingering shyness. He was deliciously heavy in your hand, the skin velvety soft. He let out the prettiest moan as you gave a slow, tentative stroke, your thumb smearing the bead of moisture at the tip. His hips stuttered forward, an involuntary movement.

"Jesus," he breathed, his head falling back. His hands braced on the mattress on either side of your head, caging you in. "Okay. Yeah. That's... okay."

He looked wrecked already. His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted. It was a heady kind of power.

Your other hand slid up the back of his thigh, over the firm curve of his ass. You gave a little squeeze and he swore again, his hips bucking into your fist.

"Tell me what you want, Steve," you murmured, your voice low and sure.

He looked down at you, his eyes dark, a muscle working in his jaw. He's never been asked that. Not like this.

"Jesus Christ," he said again, as if that were the only coherent thought he could form. "I want... everything."

"Be more specific," you pressed, your thumb swirling over the head of him.

"I want to be inside you," he ground out. "I need to be inside you."

"Good," you whispered, pulling him down for a kiss. "Get a condom."

He blinked, then nodded, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes at the loss of your touch. He rolled off you, rummaging in the drawer of his bedside table. He came back with a little foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth.

You watched him roll it on, your own body revving with anticipation. He hovered over you again, one hand braced on the bed, the other lining himself up with your entrance.

"Just... go slow..." you say with a steadying breath. "I'm eager, yeah, but like I said, it's been a minute for me too. And you're... not exactly... small."

He looked genuinely relieved that you'd acknowledged it. "Yeah. I know. It's... it's a lot sometimes, for people. I'll be careful, I swear."

The vulnerability was back, but this time it wasn't about your reaction. It was about the act itself. He was scared of hurting you.

He pressed forward, and you felt the stretch, the welcome pressure of him entering you. It was a slow, deliberate push, and you felt him inch by inch. You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to grip his biceps.

He paused, giving you a moment to adjust. "You okay?"

"Just...really love touching you," you gasped out in lieu of a real answer. And it was the truth. Your hands were on him, feeling the toned muscle and the warm skin and the slight tremor in his arms as he held himself still. "You can keep going."

He kissed you, a slow, sweet kiss, almost overwhelming feeling of him filling you. He started to move again, shallow rocking that gradually built into a deeper rhythm.

"God," he breathed against your lips, burying his face in your neck. "You feel... you feel incredible."

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, silently begging for more. The feeling of your plush, soft thighs around his hips made Steve lose all train of thought. He was breathing into your neck and making these small helpless sounds, like he couldn't believe this was really happening.

He set a pace that was both leisurely and deep, rolling his hips in a way that made you see stars. One of those strong arms made its way under you when you arched into him, pressing your chest to his. The movement shifted you, and he slid deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out.

"Right there?" he asked, a smug satisfaction in his tone. He rolled his hips again, deliberately, grinding against that spot.

"Steve..." you whimpered, unable to form a coherent thought.

"Say my name again," he commanded, his voice a low growl against your ear. His lips moved along the shell of your ear, nipping gently. He was chasing the praise you gave him, hungry for it.

"Steve," you repeated, louder this time, your hands tangling in his hair.

"You feel incredible, fuck you're so soft everywhere" He panted.

He was losing control, the careful rhythm faltering as his hips began to snap harder, more erratically. Your hands slid down his back, your nails trailing just enough before grabbing onto his ass to keep him deep inside you. You didn't want this to end, but you were already climbing again, that coil of heat tightening in your belly.

"I'm..." you started, but you couldn't finish. The words caught in your throat as he shifted, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. "Holy fuck..."

The new angle was putting his cock impossibly deep, hitting that spot with every thrust. His name became a mantra on your lips, a prayer to the only god you currently believed in.

"I know, baby, I know," he panted, his face buried in your neck. "Doing so good f'me... taking it so good."

The praise was your undoing. Your world went white. You clenched around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that left you breathless and shaking. A cry tore from your throat, needy and real.

The feeling of your walls closing in around him, the sound of you crying his name, it was too much. He drove into you once, twice more, a whimper tearing from your own lips at the overstimulation. Then he stilled, burying himself deep as he came with a long, shuddering groan against your neck.

For a moment, you both just lay there, a tangle of arms and legs and heavy breathing in the oppressive heat of the room. 

Slowly, he lowered your leg back down to the bed, but not before kissing the inside of your knee like a silent 'thank you'. He brushed a sweat-damp piece of hair from your forehead, a gesture so soft and tender it made your heart clench. He was still breathing heavily, each pull almost leading in so a loft laugh.

"Usually I can last longer than that." he's quiet, confessing something you didn't even ask for. "You just..."

He didn't finish.

You just what?

You wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't come. You were too spent, too content. He carefully pulled out of you, and you both winced at the sensation. He dealt with the condom, tossing it in the small trashcan by the desk with perfect aim.

You expected him to roll over, to put some space between you. That's what the other guys had done. A moment of awkward silence, then the shuffle of sheets and a mumbled 'I'll be right back'. But he didn't. He shifted, pulling you into his arms until your head was resting on his chest, right over his heart. The beat was still fast against your ear.

His arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. One of his legs tangled with yours, a possessive but gentle weight.

"Your chest hair is sweaty." you mumble against him, but your teasing tone gave away that you didn't actually mind. In fact, you kind of liked it.

"I'm aware," he laughed. "You did this to me."

"Oh, so this is my fault?" You laughed with him, your fingers tracing abstract patterns on the soft skin of his stomach.

"Entirely," he confirmed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

The comfortable silence that settled over you was warm.

"So," he started, his voice quiet in the dim room. "Diner pancakes in the morning. You still on for that?"

You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. His hair, which you now realized was grown out a bit more than usual and slightly sunkissed, was fanned out on the pillow, a complete mess. His eyes were soft in the low light, a perfectly warm mix of green and brown.

"You're so beautiful." The words slipped out.

A faint blush crept up his neck, coloring his cheeks. He turned his head for a moment, a boyish gesture that was so at odds with the confident way he'd been looking at you earlier.

"Was that weird?" You asked, suddenly self-conscious. You hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"No," he said, turning back to you, his gaze catching yours. "Just... not what I'm used to hearing."

He reached up, his thumb stroking your cheek. "The girls I'm used to... they'd call me hot, or tell me they liked my car. They wouldn't say that. Don't really think I'd like it from them anyway."

"Maybe you've been talking to the wrong girls," you whispered, leaning into his touch.

"I'm starting to realize that, yeah," he agreed, his hand sliding around to the nape of your neck, pulling you down for a slow, gentle kiss. 

You shifted, settling more fully against him, your leg draped over his. Your body was pleasantly sore, a lingering reminder of the way he'd touched you, the way he'd moved inside you.

You were both slick with a cooling layer of sweat in the humid, still air of the bedroom. The window unit was rattling away, doing a valiant but ultimately futile battle against the heatwave and your combined body heat. The sheets were twisted around your legs.

"Your parents aren't, like, gonna come home, are they?" you asked, a flicker of anxiety cutting through the post-coital bliss.

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. "No. My dad's in Chicago until August. My mom's on some retreat on the east coast. Supposed to 'celebrate the woman within' or some phony shit." He paused, tracing the line of your spine. "I think the only thing within her is a tanned tennis instructor named Todd."

"Ouch," you murmured, kissing his collarbone.

"It would be, if my dad didn't spend so many late nights at the office with just his secretary," he said, the words devoid of any real emotion. It was just a fact of life. "This house has been a revolving door for their issues for years. But I'm used to being alone here."

He squeezed your shoulder. "So, no. We're not going to get interrupted."

You felt the weight of that admission, the casual mention of a loneliness so profound it had become normal. It explained a lot about him, the desperate need for attention, the endless parties. He was just trying to fill the silence.

"We could... spend more time together tomorrow. After pancakes," you offered, your own nerves fluttering. "If you wanted."

He went very still. You could feel the change in his breathing, the way he held it.

"Yeah?" he asked, his voice a little rough. "You'd want to?"

"Do... you want to? I don't want to get in the way of you, like, hanging out with your friends or..."

"At this point my friends are a group of preteen nerds I was forced to babysit," he said, a small smile in his voice. "I think I'd rather hang out with you."

"Preteen nerds?"

"It's a long, very weird story," he said. "Involved a lot of digging and a very big bat."

"A bat? What, were you playing baseball?"

He huffed a quiet laugh against your hair. "Something like that. If you keep seeing me, maybe I'll tell you all about it one day."

"Are we seeing each other? Is that what this is?" You tried to keep your tone light, but your heart gave a little lurch at the prospect of putting a name to this thing between you.

"I'd like to," he said, so quiet you almost missed it. "If you would."

"I would," you whispered back, the answer easy and true.

He rolled onto his side, shifting so he was facing you, propping his head up on his hand. The little bedside lamp cast a warm, golden glow over him, highlighting the soft curve of his lips, the earnestness in his eyes.

"Good," he said, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. "So, pancakes in the morning? Then maybe we could go to the lake? It's supposed to be even hotter tomorrow. We could go for a swim."

"Trying to see me in a swim suit?"

"Is it working?" he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Maybe."

"Should I try to convince you?"

"You're welcome to try…" you challenge.

A slow, predatory grin spread across Steve's face. He leaned in, capturing your bottom lip between his and giving it a gentle, suggestive nip. "I think," he murmured against your lips, "I can be very convincing..."

'ahoy, ladies!' [steve taglist]

@keer-y @aecd27 @snoopyharrington @mutual-future-repeat @djosfools @subtlesposts @cpnsteverogers @britt-mf @alimoiii @remorsefuul @bing72 @thehairharringtonsideblog @powerpuffedbjtch @ali-r3n @enchantedsharddetective @moonstoneandmoonlight @windowsshifts @bunnybunnns @cosmicjamieee @nowandajenn @cciessuzi @dreamerjj @calelundaa @nicherthanu @djobug @purplequeen64-stuff @starrlovee @ghostlyriddles @oohgeminii @ross-bunnybrew @micheledawn1975 @flashmountaindjo @buckyandlokirunmylife @argentinemango @mmmunson @winterwheeler @whatdjomeann @gutsnhugs @maaaachiii @treebabe @m-art000

[jinxispunk]

echoes

Steve Harrington x reader

Summary: When Steve's voice starts calling for help somewhere deep inside the Upside Down, your only instinct is to find him. That's exactly what Vecna is counting on.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, set around the events of season 4, psychological horror, canon-typical violence, anxiety, fear, fluff (lmk if i missed anything)

W/C: 8.3k

A/N: this one is HEAVILY inspired by a recent rewatch of hunger games: catching fire, specifically the scene with the jabberjays. this fic has been sat in my drafts, half-written, since, honestly, about march. i finally got round to finishing it this evening, and i feel incredibly proud of it. also probably not canon-accurate in any way, but we can all pretend. enjoy <3

Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]

If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!

The Upside Down is quieter than it has any right to be.

Not silent - never silent - but subdued in a way that feels almost expectant, as though the whole landscape is listening rather than breathing. Ash drifts lazily through the air, settling in your hair, your eyelashes, the shoulders of your jacket, while every now and then something groans somewhere overhead, the sound echoing through the skeletal remains of Hawkins before disappearing into the endless red-grey haze. Every shadow seems to linger a fraction longer than it should. Every abandoned house feels as though it's watching you back.

Nobody speaks unless they have to anymore. After everything that's happened over the past few years, you've all learnt that unnecessary noise rarely ends well in this place.

The six of you move carefully along what used to be a residential street, flashlights sweeping slowly across abandoned cars, collapsed fences and gardens swallowed whole by impossible roots. Your boots crunch through brittle leaves that never seem to decay, disturbing clouds of pale spores that drift lazily back towards the ground as though gravity itself behaves differently here. Somewhere nearby, something creaks - a long, drawn-out noise that could just as easily be an old house settling as something waking up - and without thinking, the entire group pauses for half a second before continuing on.

Nancy walks at the front, shotgun resting across one shoulder as she periodically unfolds the increasingly battered map tucked into her jacket pocket, comparing hastily scribbled landmarks against the warped streets around you. Robin stays close enough to mutter the occasional nervous observation whenever the silence starts pressing too heavily against her chest, her voice never quite loud enough to carry beyond the group. You fall into step just behind them, while Lucas and Max keep pace a few feet back and Mike brings up the rear, glancing over his shoulder often enough that it's obvious none of you are particularly comfortable being separated.

Splitting into two groups had been necessary.

Nobody had liked it.

Least of all, Steve.

Even now, you can still picture the expression he'd worn before you'd gone your separate ways, bat slung over one shoulder, jaw set so tightly you'd thought he might crack a tooth. Every instinct he possessed had been arguing against leaving you somewhere he couldn't immediately reach, and it had taken Nancy reminding him - twice - that covering more ground was the only way this plan stood a chance of working before he'd reluctantly given in.

"Yeah," he'd muttered, still unconvinced. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

You'd smiled despite yourself, reaching across to squeeze his hand through the fingerless leather glove he refused to throw away, reminding him that if anyone in Hawkins knew how to survive the Upside Down by now, it was probably the woman standing in front of him.

That hadn't impressed him nearly as much as you'd hoped.

Instead, he'd simply sighed, stepped closer, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Dustin wasn't looking, and pressed a quick kiss against your forehead.

"Be careful."

"Always am."

"Liar."

You'd laughed, nudged his shoulder, and watched him disappear into the crimson mist with Dustin, Jonathan, Eddie, Will and Eleven until the trees had swallowed them completely.

The memory still tugs at the corner of your mouth.

Until-

"...Hey."

The smile disappears instantly.

You stop so abruptly Robin almost walks straight into your back.

"What?" she asks, steadying herself with a hand against your shoulder.

You don't answer.

Your head turns slowly towards the trees to your left, every muscle in your body suddenly taut.

It isn't loud.

If anything, it's strangely distant, the sound drifting through the dead forest like smoke on the wind. For a heartbeat there's nothing else - only the soft hiss of spores falling through bare branches and the faint crackle of your flashlight.

Then it comes again.

"Hey!"

Closer this time.

Urgent.

"I'm over here!"

Your stomach drops so violently it almost hurts.

You would know that voice anywhere.

"Steve?"

The name leaves your mouth before you've consciously decided to say it.

Nancy's head snaps around immediately. "What?"

Before you can answer, the voice comes again.

"Honey."

The nickname punches the air from your lungs.

Nobody else calls you that.

Not Robin. Not Nancy. Not your parents.

Only Steve.

"Honey!"

There's something beneath it now that wasn't there before.

Fear.

Not the loud, frantic kind, but the tight, restrained panic of somebody desperately trying to keep themselves together. The kind of fear that makes your own pulse spike before you've even had time to think.

"I can't-"

The sentence breaks apart abruptly, swallowed by the trees.

Your heart lurches into your throat.

"Steve?!" you shout, already stepping forward. "Steve, where are you?!"

For a moment, the world answers with nothing.

Not even the ordinary silence of the Upside Down, but something heavier, stranger, as though the entire landscape has paused to listen.

Then, impossibly, the voice comes again.

Closer.

Close enough that you instinctively turn your head.

"Come find me..."

The words catch on a ragged breath before the final one arrives, quiet enough to almost disappear beneath the drifting ash.

"...Please."

Everything inside you seizes.

You've heard Steve angry before. Exhausted. Bleeding. Terrified enough to stand between monsters and children with nothing but a baseball bat clutched in white knuckles.

But you've almost never heard him sound helpless.

You don't think.

You run.

The forest surges towards you as your boots hammer across uneven ground, branches clawing at your sleeves while ash billows around your legs. Somewhere behind you, Nancy shouts your name, followed almost immediately by Robin yelling, "Wait!" but neither voice properly registers. Steve sounds hurt. Steve sounds alone. Steve needs you, and every instinct you possess drowns beneath that single overwhelming certainty.

"Steve!" you yell back, your voice tearing through the trees. "Steve, where are you?"

Nothing.

Then-

"Honey!"

Further ahead now.

You change direction immediately, scrambling over the twisted roots that split the road apart. He sounds closer this time. You can get to him. You just have to keep moving.

Behind you, Nancy's voice grows sharper.

"Wait!"

This time she's running too.

Robin isn't far behind, crashing through the undergrowth in your wake, and neither of them is trying to stop you anymore.

They're following. Because they'd heard him too.

Somewhere further back, confusion suddenly erupts.

"Wait - what's happening?" Mike calls.

"What are you doing?" Lucas shouts, his voice carrying faintly between the trees.

Max's follows a heartbeat later. "Guys?"

You never hear the answer.

The forest swallows their voices almost immediately, leaving only the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears, your breathing growing harsher with every step, and somewhere ahead, drifting through the ash like a lifeline you can't bear to lose...

Steve.

Calling your name.

Nancy doesn't waste a second.

The moment you're swallowed by the trees, she snatches the walkie-talkie from her belt without breaking stride, thumbing the transmit button as she runs, branches whipping against her sleeves and catching in her hair while Robin struggles to keep pace beside her. Both of them are still searching desperately through the dead woodland for any glimpse of your torchlight, but you're already disappearing deeper into the crimson mist, moving far faster than either of them can hope to match.

"Dustin," Nancy says sharply, breathing hard between each word. "Dustin, come in."

For one agonising second, only static answers her, the familiar crackle hissing through the speaker loud enough to make her grip tighten instinctively around the radio. Robin glances sideways, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and fear, before Dustin's voice finally bursts through the interference.

"Nancy?" he says, sounding perfectly ordinary. "You guys okay?"

"No." Nancy doesn't even attempt to soften the answer. "Where's Steve?"

There's a pause.

"...What?"

"Dustin." Her voice is tighter now. "Where is Steve?"

Another beat passes before Dustin replies, and this time the confusion in his voice is unmistakable.

"...Uh..."

The radio crackles again.

"...He's here."

Nancy almost stumbles over an exposed root. "What?"

"I said he's here."

Robin's head snaps sharply towards her, eyes already widening as Nancy presses the walkie harder against her ear, convinced she'd simply misheard. "What do you mean he's there?"

"I mean..." Dustin sounds genuinely baffled now. "...he's standing right next to me."

There's the muffled sound of movement, someone taking the radio, and then Steve's voice comes through the speaker.

"Nance?"

The blood drains from Nancy's face.

"...What's going on?"

She stops so abruptly Robin nearly crashes into her shoulder before managing to catch herself, both of them standing motionless amongst the twisted trees as the impossible settles between them. For a long moment neither woman says anything, because the voice coming through the walkie is calm, confused, completely steady. It bears absolutely no resemblance to the terrified voice that had been echoing through the forest less than a minute ago.

"...Steve?" Nancy manages eventually.

"Yeah?"

"...Are you okay?"

"...Yeah."

"You sure?"

Steve lets out a small, bewildered laugh. "I mean... considering where we are? Sure enough."

Nancy looks at Robin. Robin looks back. Neither of them says it aloud, but they both reach the same impossible conclusion at exactly the same time.

Robin leans towards the radio first.

"...Steve." Her voice comes out far quieter than she'd intended. "...We just heard you."

Silence.

Nancy forces herself to continue. "You were yelling for help. You kept calling out and..." Her throat tightens painfully as she glances in the direction you'd disappeared. "...and she ran after you."

Another silence follows, longer this time, until Dustin finally breaks it.

"...What?"

Steve sounds equally lost. "...What yelling?"

Nancy can hear her own heartbeat now, loud enough that it almost drowns out the radio. "You were calling her name."

"I wasn't."

"You said-"

"I never said anything."

There's no hesitation in the reply. No uncertainty. No searching through his memory to make sure he hasn't forgotten. Steve says it with the absolute certainty of someone stating an indisputable fact.

"I never yelled."

The words settle over both groups like falling ash.

Nobody speaks.

Not Nancy. Not Robin. Not Dustin.

Even the radio seems to fall silent.

It is Robin who finally whispers the question none of them wants to ask.

"...Then who did we hear?"

Nobody has the chance to answer.

Very faintly, through the crackling speaker, another voice reaches the other group.

"Jonathan!"

Jonathan's head jerks upright on the other end of the radio. "Nancy?"

Again.

Closer this time.

"Jonathan!"

Jonathan is already moving before anyone can stop him.

"Nancy!" he shouts instinctively into the darkness. "Where are you?"

"No!" Nancy's voice tears through the walkie. "Jonathan, wait!"

He freezes mid-step.

"It's not me!"

The forest falls deathly quiet.

Jonathan lowers his flashlight by fractions, his eyes never leaving the darkness ahead, while beside him Steve has gone completely still, every muscle in his body suddenly taut.

Then the voice comes again.

"Jonathan..."

It sounds closer now.

More desperate.

"...Please."

Jonathan's face empties of colour.

"...That's..."

The sentence dies unfinished.

Chaos erupts almost immediately afterwards. Questions crash into one another from every direction, nobody waiting long enough for an answer before another voice cuts across it.

"What the hell is that?"

"How is it doing that?"

"It sounded exactly like-"

"Jonathan, don't move!"

"Steve, wait-"

Because Steve has already taken a step towards the sound.

Just one. Instinctive. Automatic. The sort of step you don't realise you've taken until somebody points it out.

Will's voice is so quiet at first that nobody hears him.

"...It's learning."

The panic rolls straight over the top of him. The radio continues crackling with overlapping voices while Steve stares into the trees, every instinct screaming at him to run after Jonathan before it's too late.

Will looks up.

"...Guys."

Still nobody listens.

Then, louder this time-

"It's learning!"

Everything stops.

Even Steve.

Will has gone frighteningly pale, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the trees as though he's finally recognised a pattern that's been sitting just beyond reach this whole time.

"It isn't just copying us."

Nobody interrupts him. Nobody even breathes.

"It's finding the voices we'll follow."

The words settle over the group with all the weight of a death sentence.

Steve feels something cold slide slowly down his spine as every conversation he's ever had in this place suddenly replays itself in his mind. Every frantic shout across a battlefield. Every nickname. Every desperate search through the dark. Every time someone had called Robin, Dustin, Nancy, Jonathan, Eddie, Max... every time somebody had shouted his own name, or called you Honey across a room without thinking.

The Upside Down had heard it all.

It had listened.

And somewhere, somehow, it had remembered.

Not simply the sounds of their voices, but the relationships behind them. The people those voices belonged to. The ones each of them would instinctively run towards without stopping to think.

It wasn't imitating them.

It was studying them.

The realisation lands with such force that Steve feels physically winded.

His head snaps towards the walkie.

"...Where is she?"

Nancy and Robin don't answer immediately. Instead they look at one another, horror spreading slowly across both their faces as they finally understand what had just happened. Robin is the one who finds her voice first, though it barely rises above a whisper.

"...She went after the voice."

Steve doesn't wait for another word.

He tears into the trees at a sprint, Dustin and Jonathan following without hesitation while Eddie, Will and Eleven race after them. Behind him, Nancy forces herself back into motion as well, raising the walkie while she runs.

"East," she says breathlessly. "She headed east, towards the old woods. She thought..." Her voice catches for the briefest moment before she forces the words out. "...she thought she was coming to you."

Steve doesn't answer.

He can't.

Because only one thought is repeating over and over in his head now, louder than his own footsteps, louder than the pounding of his heart, louder than the forest rushing past him.

It knew you'd come.

Steve is moving before Nancy has even finished giving the direction.

"...East-"

It's the only word he hears.

His boots are already pounding across broken tarmac before his mind has caught up with the decision, the walkie still crackling uselessly somewhere behind him as Eddie swears, Jonathan shouts something he doesn't quite catch, and somebody - maybe Dustin - is barking for everyone to stay together. It barely registers. As far as Steve is concerned, he is staying together. You're out there somewhere, alone in a place that has just learnt exactly how to separate people from the ones they love, and everything else falls away beneath that single, brutal certainty. The plan, the map Nancy had spent hours drawing, the routes they'd carefully agreed to follow, even Vecna himself - all of it is pushed aside by one overwhelming instinct. You are alone, and he has to get to you.

He tears through the dead woodland without slowing, branches whipping violently across his face and shoulders, leaving thin scratches he doesn't even feel as they catch against his jacket. Thick vines snake across the forest floor, looping around his boots often enough that he nearly loses his footing twice, while ash swirls through the beam of his flashlight so densely that the trees seem to dissolve into shifting silhouettes before reforming again.

Every movement in the corner of his vision demands a second glance he doesn't have time to give. Every twisted trunk looks like somebody standing just beyond the light until he gets close enough to realise it's only another dead tree.

"Honey!"

His voice tears through the forest, louder than he intends, echoing strangely through the endless stillness before disappearing into the red-grey haze.

Nothing.

He doesn't hesitate.

"Honey!"

Again, only silence answers him. Not true silence - the Upside Down is never truly silent - but the slow groan of old trees, the distant crackle of vines shifting somewhere beyond the flashlight beam, the soft hiss of ash drifting endlessly from a sky that has forgotten what daylight looks like.

Less than two minutes ago, something in this place had been shouting your name over and over again, loud enough to pull you halfway across the forest without a second thought.

Now...

Nothing.

The silence feels deliberate somehow, as though the Upside Down has already said everything it needed to say.

Steve runs harder.

He can hear the others crashing through the undergrowth somewhere behind him, Dustin already beginning to fall behind while Jonathan stubbornly refuses to let him disappear entirely from sight, but they're little more than background noise now.

His own heartbeat pounds so violently against his ribs that it drowns almost everything else out, each breath burning harder than the last as one thought repeats over and over with desperate, unbearable simplicity.

Please answer.

Please.

Please-

A scream tears through the forest.

Steve stops breathing.

It isn't his name.

It isn't even words.

It's one raw, involuntary cry, ripped straight from somebody's chest before cutting off so abruptly it feels as though the air itself has been stolen away mid-breath.

His stomach drops.

Not because he recognises the voice, though he does immediately.

Because he recognises the fear.

The voices that had lured you away had been almost unnervingly perfect. They'd sounded exactly like him, exactly like Nancy, every sentence carefully chosen, every plea just convincing enough to override reason. Looking back, they were almost too perfect, polished in a way real panic never is.

This...

This isn't like that.

This scream isn't performed.

It isn't trying to imitate terror.

It is terror.

"Hurry!" he shouts to the others behind him, though he barely realises the words have left his mouth.

He changes direction instantly, boots skidding across loose earth as he throws himself towards the sound with reckless desperation. Branches claw at his sleeves, vines wrap around his ankles, ash blinds him for a heartbeat at a time, but none of it is enough to slow him down. Every instinct in his body is screaming that he is running out of time, and he pushes harder, lungs burning, muscles protesting, the forest seeming to resist every step as though it doesn't want him reaching you.

Then, without warning, the trees fall away.

Steve bursts into the clearing so fast he almost loses his footing entirely, stopping so abruptly that Dustin crashes into his back a second later before Jonathan catches them both.

Nobody moves.

Nobody speaks.

Even the forest seems to hold its breath.

You're suspended several feet above the ground.

Your head is thrown back so far it looks painful, your eyes rolled white beneath half-closed lids, arms drifting slowly outwards as though invisible hands are pulling them wider inch by inch. Your feet hang limp beneath you, toes barely disturbing the ash swirling below, while your fingers twitch and curl into impossible, unnatural shapes that Steve has seen once before and prayed he'd never have to witness again.

His mind doesn't even need a second to make the connection.

Another girl.

Another impossible choice.

Another body floating helplessly beneath a blood-red sky.

Max.

"Oh, God..."

The words escape him before he realises he's spoken them.

Everything inside him turns to ice.

No.

No.

God, no.

He's too late.

By the time Nancy reaches the clearing, Robin is only a step behind her, Lucas and Mike close on their heels, all of them arriving breathless enough that the sight before them steals what little air they had left.

Dustin reaches for Steve's arm instinctively, fingers wrapping around his sleeve before he even seems to realise he's done it, while Robin says your name just once, so quietly it barely sounds like a word at all. It comes out as disbelief more than anything else, as though saying it aloud might somehow make what she's looking at impossible. Lucas swears under his breath, a sharp, horrified sound swallowed almost immediately by the dead forest, and Nancy doesn't waste a second. Panic has always made her practical. She's already scanning the clearing, already looking for an answer, already searching for something - anything - they can still do.

Everyone is talking at once.

"What do we do?"

"Get her down!"

"El-"

"Steve!"

"The music-"

The voices blur together into meaningless noise. Steve hears them, but they never quite become words. His entire world has narrowed to the impossible image hanging in front of him.

To you.

Your head is still thrown back unnaturally, your body suspended several feet above the ash-covered ground, but then he notices something that turns his blood to ice.

Your lips are moving.

Slowly.

Almost conversationally.

As though you're talking to somebody standing right in front of you.

No sound comes out.

For one terrible, endless moment, Steve feels completely useless.

He has always known what to do. Swing the bat. Get between the monster and the kids. Buy everybody enough time to run. Keep moving until the danger passes. Even when he was terrified, there had always been something practical to hold onto, some action that made fear feel manageable.

Now...

There is nothing.

He takes one step forward, instinctively positioning himself beneath you before stopping again, his hands lifting helplessly as though he might somehow be able to catch you despite the impossible distance between you. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, to pull you back, to fix this somehow, but he can't even touch you.

His gaze flicks desperately towards Eleven, searching her face for reassurance she doesn't have, and for the first time since this nightmare began, he realises he genuinely has no idea what he's supposed to do.

Then something clicks.

The backpack. His backpack.

Before anyone can even finish shouting over one another, Steve is already dropping to his knees, wrenching the zip open with shaking hands and throwing supplies blindly into the ash as he searches. Flashlights. Rope. Spare batteries. Bandages. Everything he'd packed because somebody might need it. Dustin starts to ask what he's doing, but Steve barely hears him.

His fingers close around cold plastic.

The Walkman.

Hidden beneath spare ammunition and first-aid supplies is the cassette he'd tucked away weeks ago without ever mentioning it to you, your favourite album carefully rewound and ready to play.

He'd packed it after Max. Quietly. Secretly. Not because he'd expected to use it, but because the idea of ever standing helplessly beside another person he loved without at least trying had become unbearable.

Of course he'd brought it.

Of course he had.

Somewhere else, somewhere that doesn't feel like a place so much as a memory that's forgotten how to end, you are running.

The world around you is wrong in ways your mind can't quite untangle. Streets fold into childhood bedrooms, school corridors open into empty forests, and every familiar place seems to shift the moment you look away from it, rearranging itself into something almost recognisable before slipping just beyond understanding again.

Faces appear in the distance - people you love, people you've known your whole life - but something about them feels subtly, nauseatingly off. Their smiles linger too long. Their eyes don't quite meet yours. Their voices sound as though they're being remembered by someone who has never actually spoken to them.

Ahead of you, Steve appears between two dead trees.

He smiles.

He lifts a hand.

"Come here."

Relief floods through you so suddenly your legs almost buckle.

You take one step-

The image tears apart like paper caught in a fire.

The smile vanishes.

The trees dissolve into darkness.

And from somewhere beyond the endless red horizon, something begins to move.

Vecna emerges slowly, impossibly tall against the crimson landscape, each measured step echoing through the empty expanse until the sound seems to come from every direction at once.

He doesn't hurry. He doesn't need to.

One grotesquely elongated hand stretches towards you, fingers unfurling with terrifying patience, while his voice settles around you like smoke.

"You've always been so willing to follow."

You stumble backwards.

He keeps coming.

"There was never any question."

His hand reaches your face.

Long fingers press gently against your temple.

Your vision whites out.

Back in the Upside Down, your body jerks violently.

Robin gasps.

Steve looks up just in time to see you rise higher, another few feet lifting you into the air until you're suspended almost twelve feet above the ground, your arms beginning to spread wider as though invisible vines are pulling every joint apart one careful inch at a time.

The cassette clicks into place.

Music erupts from the tiny portable speaker, far too small for a clearing this large, the sound fighting desperately against the endless groan of the Upside Down.

Nothing happens.

Steve turns the volume higher.

Still nothing.

It can't have been more than a minute.

It feels like hours.

He stares up at you, desperately searching for any sign that you've heard it - that your fingers twitched differently, that your breathing changed, that something, anything, reached you - but your expression never changes.

Around him, nobody says it aloud.

Nobody has to.

They're all thinking exactly the same thing.

They're losing you.

Inside the vision, everything begins to unravel.

Your memories spill around you in broken fragments, recognisable enough to hurt but twisted just enough to become unbearable.

Steve turns away from you without looking back.

Robin laughs as she walks past, pretending not to know your name.

Empty rooms stretch endlessly before you, years of your life collapsing into quiet apartments where nobody ever comes to visit, birthdays forgotten, phone calls unanswered, photographs fading one by one until every face disappears.

You try to run.

The world doesn't let you.

Invisible vines wrap themselves tighter around your ribs every time you struggle, stealing each breath before it can properly fill your lungs.

"I told you," Vecna's voice murmurs somewhere behind you, everywhere at once. "Nobody ever loved you."

The memory changes.

Steve smiles sadly.

"I just felt sorry for you."

Another.

You watch your own funeral.

Nobody cries.

"The others will barely notice you're gone."

"No..." you whisper.

"They'll move on."

"No!"

You fight harder now, twisting violently against restraints you still can't see, tears streaming freely down your face as panic overtakes reason.

Nothing works.

Every desperate movement only seems to tighten whatever is holding you in place, until your screams barely escape your throat at all.

This is it.

You're never getting out.

And somehow, impossibly, the worst part isn't even that you're about to die.

It's Steve.

You heard him.

He sounded terrified.

He needed you.

You never reached him.

As another tear slips down your cheek, all you can do is pray that wherever he is, whatever found him, he made it out.

Please let him be okay.

Please let him survive this.

Even if you don't.

Suddenly-

another voice.

So quiet at first you almost mistake it for another trick.

"...Hey."

Not Vecna.

Steve.

Real Steve.

It barely reaches you, no louder than a memory, but you'd know that voice anywhere.

Vecna's words continue, louder now, trying to drown it out, but Steve keeps speaking anyway, his voice weaving itself carefully through every lie.

"Remember Family Video?"

The darkness flickers.

"The day I asked you out? You spilt that whole thing of popcorn all over the floor, then looked me dead in the eye and tried to convince me it'd already been there before you got there. You were so serious about it, I almost believed you."

Another memory.

Your first date.

"Remember when I tried so hard to impress you that I spent twenty minutes pretending I knew what I was talking about, and then you asked one follow-up question and I had to admit I'd completely made it up? You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the bench. I thought I'd ruined the whole date. You told me afterwards it was the moment you actually started liking me."

The first time he'd kissed you.

"Do you remember our first kiss? I kept saying goodnight and then not leaving. I think I said it three times. You finally laughed and told me, 'Steve, either kiss me or go home.' So I kissed you… And then I still stood there for another five minutes because I didn't actually want to leave."

The first time he'd laughed so hard he'd nearly fallen off the bonnet of his car.

"Remember when we stayed in the Family Video parking lot for almost two hours after my shift because we kept saying, 'Okay, one more story,' and then neither of us ever left? You got halfway through telling me about the weird dream you'd had where Robin somehow became President, and you were doing all the voices. I laughed so hard I nearly fell straight off the bonnet of the car. You laughed because I was laughing, and neither of us could stop."

Every story arrives exactly as it happened, warm and ordinary and completely, stubbornly true.

Vecna's voice rises in fury.

Steve's doesn't.

It just keeps talking.

Keeps reminding you.

Keeps loving you loudly enough to be heard.

The vines around your wrists loosen.

Only slightly.

But enough.

You pull.

They give.

Suddenly you're falling forward onto solid ground instead of hanging helplessly in the endless red expanse, and for the first time since this nightmare began you can see it.

A tear in the darkness.

Beyond it-

the clearing.

Your own body suspended in the air.

Nancy.

Robin.

Max.

Everyone looking up at you in horror.

And directly beneath you...

Steve.

His face is streaked with ash and panic, his mouth still moving as he tells another story, another memory, another reason to come back.

You can hear him now.

Perfectly.

Each word grows louder as you begin to run towards him, the impossible distance between you shrinking with every desperate step across the crimson landscape. He's reaching for you, even though he can't possibly touch you from where he stands, and somehow you know exactly where the gap in this red hellscape leads.

You're almost there.

Close enough to see the tears in his eyes.

Close enough to hear him say your name.

Close enough that if you just keep running-

For one suspended, impossible heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then your body drops.

There isn't a graceful descent, no slow drifting back towards the earth. One moment you're hanging impossibly high above them, the next the invisible force holding you gives way entirely, and you plummet towards the ash-covered ground.

Steve is already moving.

He catches you before you can hit the forest floor, the force of your body slamming into his hard enough to send him stumbling backwards. His knees buckle beneath the impact, Dustin grabbing his shoulder just in time to stop both of you crashing into the roots behind him, but Steve barely notices. He's already wrapping both arms around you, pulling you instinctively against his chest as though he can somehow shield you from whatever has just happened simply by refusing to let go.

"Hey, hey, hey..." His voice is shaking so badly he barely recognises it as his own. "I've got you. I've got you."

He lowers you both gently to the ground, pulling you into the safety of his lap.

You don't answer.

Not immediately.

Your body is trembling violently in his arms, each breath catching somewhere high in your chest before dissolving into another sob, your eyes squeezed shut as though opening them might drag you straight back into whatever nightmare you've just escaped. Steve's heart lurches into his throat.

"Flashlight," Nancy says quietly somewhere behind him.

He barely hears her.

His other hand cups your jaw instead, carefully tilting your face towards him just enough to check your pupils, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly across the tears still clinging to your cheek.

"Hey."

Nothing.

"Honey."

His voice breaks completely on the nickname.

"Come on."

Your eyelashes flutter.

Then, slowly, your eyes open.

They don't focus immediately. They dart frantically around the clearing, pupils wide with panic, as though you're still trying to work out which world you're standing in. For a terrifying second, Steve isn't sure you recognise him at all.

Then your gaze catches his.

Relief floods across your face so suddenly it almost hurts to look at.

Your fingers seize handfuls of his jacket before he can say another word, clutching the fabric with desperate, shaking hands.

"Steve."

"I'm here."

"What..." Your voice catches painfully. "Why were you screaming?"

Steve freezes.

"I heard you." The words tumble out faster now, tripping over one another as tears continue spilling unchecked down your face. "You sounded scared. You kept calling me and I- I tried to find you, but..." You shake your head hard, still gripping him so tightly he can feel your hands trembling through the denim. "Are you hurt? What happened? Where were you? Steve..."

Every question lands like a punch to the ribs.

You still think you were trying to save him.

You have absolutely no idea what really happened.

Steve opens his mouth.

He almost tells you.

Almost explains the voices, the mimicry, the impossible horror of hearing himself call your name while standing half a mile away. He almost tells you how close he'd come to losing you, how he'd watched you floating beneath that ruined sky exactly the way Max had, how for one unbearable moment he'd genuinely believed this was the last time he'd ever hold you.

Then he really looks at you.

You're shaking so violently your teeth chatter between words. Every breath is too quick, too shallow, your chest rising and falling in uneven bursts that never quite seem to fill your lungs. Even now, even after everything, your hands are moving over him in frantic little checks, brushing across his shoulders, his face, his arms, searching desperately for injuries that aren't there.

You're still trying to make sure he's okay.

This isn't the moment for explanations.

What you need isn't the truth.

You need certainty.

Without saying another word, Steve slides one hand gently to the back of your head and pulls you against him, his other arm wrapping securely around your shoulders until there's barely any space left between you. He can feel your heartbeat hammering wildly against his chest, completely out of rhythm with his own, and so he simply holds you there, one hand stroking slowly through your hair as though reminding you, over and over again, that he's solid.

Real.

Alive.

"I'm here," he murmurs quietly, resting his forehead against yours. "You're okay."

You shake your head weakly.

"No, but-"

"I'm here."

"I thought-"

"I know."

"I couldn't get to you."

"You don't have to."

His voice is impossibly gentle now, every word spoken with the same quiet certainty.

"I'm here, baby. I'm not hurt. I promise."

Another sob catches somewhere deep inside your chest.

"I'll explain everything when we get out of here, okay?"

He waits until your eyes find his again before continuing.

"But right now..." His thumb brushes carefully beneath your eye, wiping away another tear before it has the chance to fall. "...I've got you."

Your breathing catches.

Then, slowly, almost without either of you noticing, it begins to change.

One shaky breath.

Then another.

Steve doesn't ask you to breathe with him. He simply breathes himself, slow and steady, holding you close enough that your body has something solid to follow. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the frantic rhythm of your breathing begins to match his own, each inhale a little deeper than the last until your shoulders stop shaking quite so violently.

Only then does Steve finally lift his head.

Over your shoulder, the rest of the group stand scattered around the clearing in complete silence.

Nobody speaks.

Robin's hands are still clasped tightly over her mouth. Dustin has gone unnaturally pale. Eddie stares fixedly at the place where you'd been hanging only moments before, while Nancy slowly lowers the shotgun she'd forgotten she was still holding. Even Eleven, exhausted as she is, looks quietly shaken.

None of them need to say what they're all thinking.

The Upside Down hadn't almost fooled them.

It had almost taken you.

And for one unbearable moment...

it very nearly succeeded.

By the time you all make it back to Hawkins, the adrenaline has long since burnt itself out, leaving behind only the kind of exhaustion that settles somewhere deeper than your bones.

Nobody feels much like talking.

The drive back is almost entirely silent, broken only by the occasional crackle of the radio somebody had forgotten to switch off and Robin quietly asking if anyone wants to stop for food before immediately deciding she isn't actually hungry after all.

You end up back at Steve's house.

Somebody makes tea. Somebody else disappears upstairs and comes back with blankets that don't quite match. Dustin spends five solid minutes insisting he isn't tired before promptly falling asleep in the armchair with his head tipped awkwardly against the cushions. Jonathan and Nancy sit shoulder to shoulder on the opposite sofa without saying much of anything, content simply to exist in the same room now that they're all accounted for.

Relief, it turns out, isn't loud. It doesn't arrive with celebration or triumphant laughter. It arrives softly, in mugs of tea gone cold before anyone remembers to drink them, in blankets tucked carefully around shaking shoulders, in the quiet reassurance of counting heads every few minutes and finding that everyone is still there.

You're lying along Steve's sofa, a blanket pulled loosely over you despite the warmth of the room, your eyes half-closed with exhaustion.

Every muscle aches. Your head feels heavy, your thoughts slower than usual, as though some part of you is still trying to find its way back from wherever Vecna had taken you.

Steve hasn't left your side once.

He's sitting on the floor beside the sofa, his shoulder resting lightly against the cushions, one hand absently cradling the back of your head where it hangs over the armrest, his thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles through your hair every now and then as though reassuring himself that you're still solid beneath his fingertips.

He waits.

Not because he's unsure whether to ask, but because he's spent the last hour watching you slowly return to yourself, and he isn't willing to rush whatever fragile peace has finally settled over the room.

Eventually, when everyone else's conversations have faded into comfortable background noise, he speaks so quietly you're almost convinced you've imagined it.

"...Can I ask you something?"

You turn your head just enough to look at him and give the smallest nod.

He hesitates for a moment, eyes dropping to where his hand still rests against your hair before he quietly asks, "...What exactly did it sound like?"

You know immediately what he means.

"The voice?"

Steve nods once.

"It sounded like..." You swallow. "...You."

He smiles sadly, shaking his head almost before you've finished.

"No." His voice is gentle. "Not who it sounded like."

A beat passes.

"...What did it say?"

You frown.

At first, all you can remember is the panic. The fear. The overwhelming certainty that Steve was somewhere ahead of you, frightened and alone. The details blur together, slipping through your fingers every time you try to hold onto them.

Then, slowly, one sentence surfaces.

Your expression changes.

"...It said..." You stop, hearing it again exactly as you had in the forest.

"'Come find me.'"

The room falls quiet.

Steve doesn't answer straight away.

Instead, he looks down at the floor between you for a long moment, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly as something clicks into place.

You see it happen.

The same realisation finds you a heartbeat later.

"...You'd never say that."

Steve looks back up. "... No. I wouldn't."

You keep turning the memory over in your mind, examining it from every angle now that you know it wasn't real, and suddenly the whole thing feels obvious in a way it hadn't before.

"You'd tell me to stay where I was."

Another slow nod.

"Yeah."

Silence settles between you again.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he quietly adds, "...Or I'd come to you."

You stare at him.

Because he's right.

Of course he's right.

If it had been true - if Steve had genuinely been lost somewhere in the Upside Down, terrified and unable to reach you - he would never have asked you to run blindly towards him. He'd have told you to stay put. To hide. To wait. He'd have found a way to reach you himself, even if it meant walking straight back into danger.

The voice had been perfect.

Every inflexion. Every hesitation. Every tiny detail that made it unmistakably Steve.

But it had made one fatal mistake.

It had copied his voice.

Not his heart.

You let out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sob.

"It knew how you sounded," you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. "It just... didn't know you."

Steve's expression softens.

"No," he agrees quietly. "It didn't."

Because that's who Steve is.

The Upside Down had understood your fear. It had understood your memories, your instincts, the people whose voices would make you run without thinking. But it had failed to understand something much simpler, and much harder to imitate.

Steve Harrington has never asked the people he loves to walk into danger for him.

He goes first.

Always has.

Always will.

For a long while, nobody says anything.

The house settles into one of those rare silences that only follows genuine fear, where nobody quite trusts themselves to speak because doing so would mean acknowledging how close they'd all come to losing someone.

The mugs of tea on the coffee table have long since gone cold, and outside, somewhere beyond the curtains, a car passes along the quiet suburban street, blissfully unaware that the world has almost ended again.

You find yourself looking around the room instead.

At Robin, curled awkwardly into the corner of the sofa with her knees tucked beneath her chin.

At Nancy, staring absently into her untouched cup of tea.

At Jonathan, who hasn't taken his eyes off Nancy since they got back.

At Max, quieter than usual, her expression unreadable as she turns an empty cassette case over and over between her hands.

And at Steve, still sitting beside you on the floor, his shoulder resting lightly against the sofa, as though moving even a few feet further away from you somehow feels impossible after what happened.

It is Will who finally breaks the silence.

His voice is quiet enough that everyone has to look up to hear it.

"...We need a new rule."

No one answers immediately.

Not because anyone disagrees.

Because they all know he's right.

The old rules had kept them alive this long. Stay together. Keep the radios on. Don't make unnecessary noise. Don't split up unless you absolutely have to.

Now those rules weren't enough anymore.

Will draws a slow breath before continuing.

"If you hear somebody calling your name..."

He trails off, unable - or perhaps unwilling - to finish the sentence himself.

Steve does it for him.

"...Don't answer."

The words land heavily in the room.

Nobody argues.

Nobody even questions them.

Robin swallows hard, her eyes fixed somewhere on the carpet as she quietly adds, "...Even if it sounds exactly like us."

Another silence follows.

Longer this time.

Because that is the part none of them wants to say aloud.

Not just don't answer a stranger.

Don't answer Dustin.

Don't answer Nancy.

Don't answer Steve.

Don't answer the people you love most in the world.

The room feels colder somehow.

You glance at Steve beside you, and for the briefest moment you wonder whether, if you heard him calling for you again tomorrow, you could really ignore it.

The thought alone makes your chest tighten.

Dustin is the first to move.

Without a word, he reaches for the battered Hellfire emergency pack that's been dragged through almost every disaster the group has survived, unzips the front pocket and rummages around until he finds a thick black permanent marker.

He hesitates only briefly before uncapping it.

Then, kneeling on the living-room floor with the backpack balanced across his knees, he opens the inside flap where every previous rule has already been scribbled in increasingly cramped handwriting over the years.

He doesn't ask whether everyone agrees.

He already knows they do.

Slowly, deliberately, he writes beneath the others.

RULE #8

IF YOU HEAR SOMEONE YOU LOVE CALLING YOUR NAME...

DO NOT FOLLOW THE VOICE.

The ink is still wet when he snaps the cap back onto the marker.

Nobody comments on it.

Nobody laughs.

Nobody suggests a better wording.

Because you all understand something they hadn't understood that morning.

The Upside Down hadn't simply learnt your voices.

It had learnt your hearts. Your trusts. Who you love most.

And from now on, surviving would mean learning not to trust them.

The weeks that follow are, by all outward appearances, wonderfully ordinary.

School starts again. Family Video reopens. Robin complains about customers with renewed enthusiasm, the kids fill Steve's house almost every afternoon as though nothing has changed, and somebody inevitably starts an argument over whose turn it is to choose the film.

Life, stubbornly and almost offensively, continues.

Some days you're almost convinced you're beginning to forget.

Not what happened.

Just the feeling of it.

The constant certainty that something terrible is waiting just beyond the next corner gradually loosens its grip, replaced by familiar routines and evenings spent piled into living rooms with takeaway cartons balanced on your knees, laughing over things that would've seemed impossibly trivial only a few weeks earlier.

It gets easier.

Not better.

Just... easier.

Until one quiet evening.

Steve's house is unusually still, the late afternoon sunlight spilling lazily through the bedroom curtains in soft golden stripes that stretch across the duvet. You'd meant to stay awake. You'd only gone upstairs to lie down for half an hour while Steve started making dinner, but somewhere between closing your eyes and listening to the muffled sounds of cupboard doors opening downstairs, sleep had begun to pull gently at the edges of your thoughts.

You're hovering somewhere between dreaming and waking when you hear it.

Your name.

Quiet. Unhurried.

Floating up the staircase from somewhere below.

For one impossible moment, your body forgets where you are.

Your eyes snap open.

Every muscle locks.

Your heart lurches so violently it almost hurts, adrenaline crashing through you before your mind has had the chance to catch up.

You don't answer.

You don't move.

You simply stare at the bedroom door, every instinct warring with itself as the silence stretches on around you.

Because you know that voice.

You know it better than your own.

But you also know where that certainty almost led you.

The room remains perfectly still.

Downstairs, you hear nothing more than the faint clatter of something being set on the kitchen counter, followed by footsteps crossing the hallway.

A minute passes.

Maybe less.

It feels much longer.

Then the floorboards outside the bedroom creak softly, and a gentle knock sounds against the half-open door before Steve appears in the doorway, one hand still holding a tea towel he'd evidently forgotten to put down.

He smiles when he sees you're awake, though it fades almost immediately when he notices the way you're sitting rigid against the headboard, your breathing still just a little too fast.

"...Hey."

You don't answer straight away.

He tilts his head, confusion flickering briefly across his face.

"I called you."

A beat.

"...Why didn't you answer?"

Your throat tightens.

You look at him.

That's all you do.

You look at him, and in the space of a heartbeat you watch the question disappear from his expression.

Understanding arrives quietly.

Painfully.

His shoulders soften almost imperceptibly, and something in his eyes breaks - not dramatically, not with tears or visible grief, but with the quiet devastation of somebody realising that a wound they desperately hoped had healed is still there beneath the surface.

"Oh."

The word is barely louder than a breath.

Neither of you says anything else.

There isn't really anything to say.

Steve crosses the room without another question, sits carefully on the edge of the bed, and opens one arm in silent invitation.

You move before you've consciously decided to, the tension finally leaving your body as you fold into him, burying your face against his shoulder while he wraps both arms around you with the same steady certainty he always has. One hand settles instinctively at the back of your head, his fingers slipping gently through your hair, while the other rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades until your breathing begins, little by little, to settle again.

He doesn't apologise.

He doesn't tell you that it was only him.

He knows none of that would help.

Instead, he simply holds you, solid and warm and undeniably real, allowing his heartbeat to become the only sound worth listening to.

Outside, the world carries on exactly as it always has. Cars pass along the street. Somewhere, a dog barks. The neighbours laugh over dinner in their garden. Hawkins continues with the blissful normality it has always pretended to possess.

Inside the house, though, something has changed forever.

The tragedy isn't that you failed to answer when Steve called your name.

It's that, somewhere beneath a blood-red sky, the Upside Down had managed to reach into one of the most instinctive acts of love a person can know - the automatic certainty that the voice of someone you love means safety - and twist it into something to be feared.

You escaped.

You survived.

But some echoes don't stay behind when you leave.

And every now and then, on quiet evenings when someone calls your name from another room, you still have to remind yourself that not every voice asking you to follow is trying to lead you into the dark.

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[moonstoneandmoonlight]

OUT OF TIME | steve harrington

You and Steve Harrington are out of time.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 1.6k contains: mature themes, heavy angst, apocalypse au, friends to lovers, hurt/no comfort, major character deaths, brief mention of unaliving self but does not take place witin the story, brief description of corpses.

author's note: i'm so sorry for this one. please do not read if you are uncomfortable with the above warnings!

to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page

"Do you think th-that—it's going to take a while?" You ask Steve quietly, the lump in your throat like a stone as you look at him sitting on the floor beside you.

Steve glances back at you before his eyes shift down to the mark bite on your forearm—the one near identical to the one on his own. He shallows before he shakes his head.

"I reckon we have—half an hour at most. The infection's already spreading," he says, voice thick with emotion as he points to the dark veins that run up his arm, the skin that was blackening around the bite mark from the infected that lay only a few feet away with a bullet in its brain.

You look down at your own arm and see the darkness spreading through your veins too. Something heavy settles in your chest.

Thirty minutes. That was all you had left.

It was stupid really. Both you and Steve knew you shouldn't have left the safety of Hawkins. You knew that you shouldn't have left the small and tight knit community where there were people who loved you, running water and plenty of resources but Steve had wanted to get Dustin a new comic book for his birthday, for some semblance of normalcy for the kid and you hadn't wanted him to go alone. You had snuck out plenty of times before and you had both naively presumed that a walk to the town not even twenty minutes away wouldn’t be a problem.

But now—you'd never return home and the others would likely find your bodies when they would inevitably come looking for you in a few days' time. All because you had forgotten to check the basement. And now—you were both paying the ultimate price.

It was unspoken, what you both had to do in order to stop yourself from turning into an infected. The cyanide pills that were always tucked into your backpack just in case had been sitting on the floor in front of the both of you, taunting you.

“I’m—” you begin, your voice thick with tears.

“Don’t you dare,” Steve mutters, already anticipating what you were about to say. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. I’m the one who wanted to come here.”

“But I didn’t check the—”

“—I don’t want you dying blaming yourself,” Steve interrupts, his voice breaking slightly when he looks back at you.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you quietly accept it—the fact you and Steve Harrington were going to die on the floor of a comic book store. The fact you were going to die beside the man you loved.

There was no saving grace here. Just you, Steve and the inevitability of death. Inevitable because there was no cure. Nothing that could save either of you from the infection that was already spreading through your body.

"Least we're together," Steve murmurs, looking at you with a soft expression. You notice the tears in his eyes but you don't comment on them. "We're not alone."

You watch then as Steve holds out one of his large hands, palm up, for you to take. You swallow before you place your hand over his. His touch brings a warmth to you that not even the deadly infection could take away.

"That makes things a little better." You say, blinking away tears as you look back at him with a faint smile. 

"You think so?" Steve asks, nudging his knee with yours as he manages a small smile. "Wouldn't you rather Robin be talking your ear off or talking to Nance about that book you both like?"

You shake your head before you wipe away some of your tears. "No. There's no one else I'd rather be with you than you. No one.”

It was the most honest yet terrifying thing you could have said. And yet—there was not a single part of you that was scared because the only thing more certain than the fact you were going to die was the fact that you loved him. Not even death would take that away.

Steve blinks, his hand in yours stills for a moment before he asks. “What—does that mean that you—”

“Yeah,” you whisper back quietly with a small squeeze of his hand. A shared understanding in that gentle squeeze, in the look in your eyes. “Not the best timing for…confessing my feelings but if we’re going to—you know—I just, I wanted you to know.”

Steve says your name and you’re quick to shake your head. Because you didn’t want pity or for him to be sorry that he didn’t feel the same—

“It’s fine, Steve. You don’t have to—”

“—no, look at me. Please.”

You do. Because it was Steve and you loved him and you would do almost anything he said.

When you look at him you can see the sorrow in his eyes. The devastation that his and your life would soon come to an end. But also the flicker of something softer, something you couldn’t quite decipher but made the weight in your chest feel a touch lighter.

“There’s no one else I’d rather spend my last moments with than you,” Steve tells you, his other hand cupping your cheek. His thumb gently strokes across your skin, touching you as though you were more precious than gold.

Your face feels warm and you try to stop the smile from spreading across your face as you look back at Steve, tears falling down your cheeks, everything beginning to feel a little hazy as the infection continues to spread but none of that seemed to matter as Steve Harrington smiled back at you.

“You mean that?” You ask quietly. “You really—”

“—’course I do,” Steve whispers. “It’s you. It’s only ever been you. It’ll always be you.”

You barely have time to breathe, to comprehend what he had just said before Steve’s lips are against yours. You let out a soft, startled sound of surprise before you melt into him. There was no gentleness, no hesitation, just years of build up and unspoken words that had been burning between the two of you for years. His mouth was almost desperate to taste every inch of yours before everything came to an end.

Your fingers found themselves carding through his hair as your lips molded against his and for a moment, you could almost convince yourself that you weren’t going to die. That you and Steve would make it out of this, that you’d have years together. Maybe you’d even have a family or you’d live long enough for there to be a cure for the damn infection that had swept across the globe.

But it was with a bone crushing realisation when Steve pulls away from you in order to catch his breath that you don’t have time. You don't have years, you don’t have days. You barely have an hour. You would not live to know what a lifetime would have looked like with Steve. All you had was half an hour before the infection took over your mind and you would have to take the pills before you lost yourselves completely.

You let out a sob before you could stop it. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get more time,” Steve whispers, pressing his forehead against yours so his warm breath kisses your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper back, something in your chest twisting when you see a tear slip down Steve’s cheek. “Half an hour will do.”

It was a lie, it was a damn lie because whether it was an hour you had, or a day, a year or even a lifetime, it wouldn’t have been enough. No matter what time you had with Steve, it would have never been enough. But in that moment, it was a lie you both chose to believe.

“I love you,” Steve tells you, the words building a warmth you couldn’t quite describe. “I love you and I need you to know that before we—”

Your eyes flickered back down to the small box on the floor in front of you before looking back at Steve.

“I love you too,” you breathe out. “So much.”

“We’ll see Eddie again,” Steve says hopefully, wiping away your tears gently as he sniffles. “And Chrissy. El. Bob.”

“Eddie’s gonna give you an earful when you tell him you broke his guitar,” you say with a wet laugh.

“What’s he gonna do?” Steve asks. “Kill me again?”

It wasn’t funny, not even a little bit but it makes you laugh anyway. And it doesn’t take long for Steve to laugh too.

“If the last thing I get to see is your smile then it’s a pretty good way to go out,” Steve smiles, eyes shining with tears. “All things considered.”

“Hope the last thing I hear is your laugh. Or one of your really bad jokes.”

“My jokes are great.”

“Debatable.”

Steve’s hands shake slightly before you pull you back in for another kiss. Then another and another and another until you weren’t sure where you ended and Steve began, until you were surely to run out of breath.

“I love you,” Steve murmurs against your lips. “I love you, I love you, I love—”

“I love you too,” you tell him before you shut him up by pulling him back in.

Tears were still falling down your cheeks and Steve was clinging to you like you were his only reason to keep breathing. You weren’t sure how long you had before you began to lose your mind but you knew that you weren’t going to be alone. That Steve would be right there with you as you journey from life to the new adventure of death.

And days later, when Hopper found both you and Steve on the floor of the comic book shop, he’d found the two of you still holding hands—finally at peace, together at last.

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[velvetciders]

thinking about gator who’s fallen for the local farmers daughter 5k+

Since Roy was the way he was, he wanted the finest, freshest meat and dairy produce that was in town, taking Gators patrol time away to go fetch them.

He didn’t meet you the first few times he visited, only handing money to your father and collecting what he paid for.

It was always early in the morning, messing his schedule, and setting him in a terrible mood for the rest of the day.

He finally met you one morning where he had nothing to do, so he decided to get it over with. The sun was starting to rise and he felt a twisted feeling in his stomach, and not the good kind. His body was always guarded up regardless.

He pulled up in his big and flashy truck, hat firm on his head and eyes direct.

The tires skidded across the dirt when he turned and looked at the porch of the farmers house. White wooden walls, plants in the front, and a nice yellow bench swing just in front of the windows.

And you.

His eyes only widened slightly, mostly out of shock because he never knew the only well farmer in town had a daughter. One that looked close to his age, that was.

He started to fumble with the wallet on his lap, wanting to just drive away when he realized he was way too early. He didn’t want to talk to some girl. You probably didn’t know much about the farm, probably spent all day flipping through magazines like you were doing just now.

He cleared his throat and started to take off the thigh holster that had his gun. He didn’t want you scared, didn’t want you annoyingly screaming this time of morning. He didn’t care. He still bit the inside of his cheek.

His feet dragged as he hesitantly walked over to the front porch, leaning over the wood and peering over what you were doing. He tried not to smile smugly at how you didn’t even look up at him.

“Hello.” He says.

You look up, see his uniform and his badge, and blink your eyes back down.

“My daddy’s not here.”

He was taken aback by your voice. Well, not really. It was soft, gentle and practically laced by innocence- and you looked like the type. That morning you wore fuzzy socks, short and small plaid pj shorts that was peeking through your silk sleep shirt.

“Looks like it.” He mumbles, “can’t I just tell you what I ordered and ya grab it?”

You looked up at him again, eyes finally meeting his. You saw how they were hazel and filled with tension and rigidness. Like they’ve looked that way for years, never released or calm.

“I don’t know where he keeps his things.” Your eyes flickered back and forth with his. He did the same. “He’ll be here around lunch.”

“Fuck.. fine. Yeah. Just let him know I’ll be here round that time.”

“Okay.” You say before looking back down, flipping a page.

He stayed quiet and glared at you, watched you in a certain way. He didn’t know if it was good or bad. You were pretty, sure, your body and face so soft that it made him question the type of girl he desired. Something along the lines of you, he imagined. He watched you some more, expecting maybe a glance, maybe another chance for him to insist on getting his order.

This was all his dads fault, wasting his time and energy instead of working.

Gator huffed and quickly went back to his truck after that, not bothering to look at the porch again when he drove away. He didn’t know what to think, his mind clouded, but he for sure wasn’t expecting a girl like you.

——

A few months passed and Gator was convinced his life was changed for good. Some bad moments shined into his life, though, like always.

He found himself arriving at your farm while the sun rose, so he could see the lace curtains of your bedroom open and your warm lamp flicker on. He’d quietly wait for you just outside, leaning against the white wood while you routinely sat down on the bench across from him.

Conversations flowed about nothing, quiet but calming as your voice coaxed him from morning sleepiness.

You would talk about stupid things. What you two liked, sweet memories, and it was easy to joke around with him. Your friends painted a picture of Gator, a guy you needed to stay away from and who’s heart was stone cold. They were wrong, apparently. Because the Gator in front of you was smiling up to his eyes, his laughs a bit more high pitched.

It was hard at first, earning his way into your life. He was still snarky in some moments, still full of attitude. It slowly started to leave. But you never seemed to mind. It confused him.

He quickly learned the girl you were, and for the first time, he didn’t batter up his walls and pretend he didn’t care. Because he cared so much that it hurt his heart. Gator knew you didn’t deserve him. With your cute little socks and your babydoll dresses, compared to his rough hands and gun hiding in his truck.

He learned the sensitivity that always lingered in your personality, how you preferred quiet over loud, warm over cold. He stopped scowling like he usually did, and he didn’t think you were weak for being soft and codependent.

Deep down, he knew he wanted someone like that. He wanted someone to love and to come home too, kissing tears and comforting them to sleep. He’d never felt that before.

Some nights where his mind was clouded with his dad, he thought back to you. To the day something shifted.

It was early morning again. The farm felt still, the soft chimes on the patio singing delicately into the summer air. He saw you like usual, curled up in a ball, your lips parted and smushed to your knee. You were asleep.

Somehow you fell asleep with a book in hand, your pretty pajamas still on.

You stirred awake to the noise of his boots crunching on the ground, face flooding with embarrassment when you realized he saw how you looked fresh from slumber.

“Mornin’”. He said.

You blinked tiredly.

He only chuckled and gave you a smile that didn’t seem malicious.

When he said gruffly bye to you with bags in his hands, it seemed like he already forgot. He never mentioned it again days after, didn’t tease. Your heart settled at that.

He honestly surprised himself. It took almost years for someone to finally make Gator feel a tinge of happiness, of contentment outside of his job. He tried to stay tough every day though, regardless of this change. He knew his harsh demeanor wasn’t for attention, for pity, it was for himself.

He didn’t know how to navigate without it.

He was still stubborn when he wanted to be. It quickly escaped him the moment you fluttered your eyelashes up at him and gave him the most delicate smile he’s ever seen. For once, Gator Tillman’s cheeks turned pink.

“Hey honeybee.” He mumbles with a small smirk, when it was really a smile in disguise.

He managed to escape his afternoon patrol, something he would rather die than do, so he could drive over to the farm and see you. If his dad ever found out, he’d never let it go, yelling that he had gone to soft for some girl who never even left the house. He didn’t even have produce to pick up. He got it that morning.

He started to ask Roy about the orders, what time, how many days of the week. Gator cherished every given moment.

He knew why he was doing all this, waking up every early morning to the thought of you, your voice, how his voice changed around you.

He liked you. Deeply and scarily. Even after knowing you for 3 months.

Gator didn’t know what it was that brought you and him to this relationship, so close. Your different personalities clashed so beautifully and easily that it exploded into one.

“Hi Gate.” Your smile was so wide, it made your face glow.

He was leaning against the doorframe of your house, your dad not home because of some other business with property. Your father enjoyed the deal he had going on with Roy, and he found Gator respectful. But he’s obviously noticed the string between you and Gator, and it wasn’t rare when he reminded you over dinner to watch out for him. You’d agree and tell him empty promises, only for you to go up to your room and call Gator over the phone.

He would tell you he was thinking about you, and at first it was hard to believe, maybe he was just messing around with you out of boredom.

But the calls would extend late into night, simply listening to your breathing or your whispered goodnight.

It felt like he’s known you his whole life.

“Hm, I smell cinnamon.” He looks behind you.

You nod and shyly let him in.

“M’ startin to think you just come here for food.” You teased but you had a pout, “and my daddy’s gross meat.”

He chuckles. “Ya know damn well that’s not why I come here.”

“Oh, yeah?”

He spins around. Gator hums in response and laces his arm around you, skin warm against his. You two have had close touches like this, hand holding and hugging. But it was never out in public, out for others to see. It was on your porch early in the morning, just outside his truck, or moments like these. When no one was around expect him.

His fingers thread with your baby blue dress, slipping just under the strap.

“Bought this the other day.” You admit quietly after some seconds.

But he wasn’t even looking at the dress, not the way it clung perfectly to your hips like he’s always imagined you. He was looking at your face, your plumpy pink lips and your eyes blinking up at him.

“Looks real pretty on ya.” He hums again.

You couldn’t pinpoint what this tension was. It always lingered between you two, but your grasp escaped his whenever it felt too close. Too real.

“You know… I’ve actually never seen you outside of your scary uniform.”

He tilts his head and smirks.

“You sayin’ you want it off?”

Your face turns red and you gently shove him off you. “Shut up, weirdo.” Your hand was still laced with his as he followed you to the kitchen.

Quiet romantic music played on the radio in your kitchen, the dishwasher was running, and you sat on the counter with Gator standing right next to you. There was silence between you two as you ate your cinnamon buns, his fingers gently tapping to the music on your knee.

He was talking about his morning and how an officer spilled coffee on him, earning the sweetest laugh out of you. Gator thought it must’ve been physically impossible to look away from you.

“Holy hell, your smile hon.” He whistles, still a little shy. “Cutest I’ve ever seen.”

It grew wider.

“I like yours. The way your lips look when you do.”

“Nah, I look dumb as shit when I smile.”

“Not possible, Gate.” You peck his shoulder that was close to your mouth, “You’re very handsome.”

He looked down at the counter and bit the inside of his cheek to stop another smile creeping in.

It was always like this over the phone, or in real life even if it was just for five minutes. He cherished every word you said rather than ignoring it and denying. You two continued to talk here and there, mouths full with frosting and thoughts stormed your mind with him. How he smelled like deep piney wood, a strand of hair slowly falling over his forehead, eyes shinning instead of it’s dullness.

“When’d ya get this?” He feels your finger gently trace a bruise just under his jaw.

His eyes flicker to yours and he saw your frown. He usually didn’t feel bad when someone cared about him, because he never allowed it to happen. Somehow, he wish he never got hurt so he didn’t have to see the way your eyes fell at the sight.

“Just last night. Dad got me jumbled up with some guys on this case.” He says, “doesn’t hurt though.”

The lie was only proven wrong when he softly winced at how tender it was, even under your light touch.

“Does he work you a lot?”

“…No.” He huffs and looks down at his purple knuckles, stretching out his hand and squeezing air, “he doesn’t put me on enough. I want more.”

“I feel like you get hurt every single time.”

“Comes with the job, bee. Can’t do anything bout it”

You stay quiet, too quiet, so he looks back at you. Your eyes seemed to never leave his figure and he wasn’t sure how to react. All this time, he’s bottled his rage about his father, about how he desired to be admired and accomplished. He felt like expressing it made him seems like a daddy’s boy, following around his orders. Somehow, the way you seeped your way into his heart made him forget the reasons why he was like that in the first place.

That afternoon he left before your father got home, walking with you to his truck.

That was the first time you kissed him. Well, not on his lips, but a part of him wished it was. He pushed the feeling away. You kissed him just below his bruise so it didn’t press, and then another one just above it, your feet tipped in reach.

He was painfully aware of his tense shoulders and neck, unaware that a moment like this meant he could relax. He still didn’t, but god he wished it did. He wanted to be good for you.

His cheeks felt warm but you didn’t seem to notice.

“Just know that someone cares, Gator.” You whisper, reading his mind. “Call me like ya always do, okay? Don’t be stubborn and hold back.”

He smiled faintly at that because how could an innocent girl like you know him better than himself?

“I’ll try.”

Your frown from a few minutes ago was still there, but it slowly curved up, although it was hard to believe him. He knew you were a concerned, that’s just how you were when you cared deeply about someone. He felt lucky thst specific someone was him.

“…Okay. Be safe.”

He nods, squeezes your hand one last time before hopping up into the drivers seat. You give him a small wave as he drives off and he let out a shaky breath he’s been holding the moment he arrived.

He knew right then that he was done for.

——

It happened so soon, over whispers along town and discussions over the dinner table. That Gator Tillman was flirting with the farmers pure hearted daughter. That he was corrupting her and changing her path for the future, that he was too violent and snarky to be hanging around you.

Eventually, your dad found out.

You tried not to think about the night where he yelled at you like never before, banning you completely from Gator. Your dad called off his arrangement with Roy, little to know explanation being told to him, but he did it coldly.

You cried into your pillow that night, a warm lamp on and your door locked. Why’d it feel like a piece of you was ripped away? Had you fallen that easily, gotten so attached? It felt silly in a way, but so very right, because he was the one who truly understood you. The one who made you squeal like a little girl.

There was no possible way you could be seen with him again. The whole town was looking out for you, while they looked away from him. You felt helpless.

Your eyelids grew heavy when your phone started to ring. You quickly answered it and you heard it.

Gator’s breath shuddered.

In his room, out on the ranch, he felt a new feeling of devastation. Roy took his anger out on him, like always, and Gator did what was normal for him now. Call you. He just wished it was for different reasons.

“G-Gator.” You whine in desperation and you two knew what this was about.

“I hate this stupid fuckin’ town, always talkin bout other peoples business.” He immediately said, “I mean, w-who the fuck cares about us? We should only care.”

You stayed quiet on the other end and he noticed it, but he was so upset about the ties cut loose that he couldn’t stop. He took breaths in between, his fingers stained with salty tears that were slowly escaping him.

He didn’t know it’d hurt this much, especially since you two weren’t even dating. Hadn’t even confessed.

“I’m sorry.” You hiccup.

“What are ya sorry for, bun? Don’t be.”

“I- You were just a… a customer and I b-brought myself into your l-life. I feel awful.”

“Hey hey, no.” You heard his sheets shuffle and you knew you two paralleled.

Messy bed, tears staining the cotton, looking out the window for what could’ve been.

“Don’t think like that, ever, okay? I- hell… I’m glad how we turned out, ya know? I like what we have.”

He admits with hesitance in his voice. He’s never openly said he liked the concept of you and him, and it made your stomach turn inside out.

“You do?”

“Course’ I do. It’s the best moment of my day, seeing you sittin pretty on the porch with that smile, all for me. It makes me feel better, not like I got dragged in.”

You let out a sob at that, not even feeling embarrassed that you were crying over being separated like a teenage girl. Something in your gut told you that your daddy was wrong.

“You make me so happy, Gator. Happiest I’ve ever been.”

He groans.

“Shit, honeybee, don’t say stuff like that. Not right now.”

His mind couldn’t wrap around what was happening. He had this girl on the phone, sobbing her eyes out because she missed him. He missed you so badly, even if it’s been a day, but it made his heart ache and burn.

You seemed to have wanted him, needed him like air, just like he needed you. It was new and it suddenly washed over him way too fast. He felt like crying again.

“I don’t know what to do.” You say weakly. “D-Daddy’s got me stayin’ here. I can’t even go outside cus of us.”

He thought for a split second, already grabbing his keys that rested on his nightstand. He changed into some quick, not his uniform, and he didn’t even bother to slick back his hair. He felt raw, exposed, but in the best way.

“We’ll figure something out, I promise.” He says sternly, “Stay in your room. I’ll be there in 10.”

“Gator wha-” He hung up and you stared at your blank screen.

When he got to your house in five minutes, it was dark inside, except for the familiar orange light that peered just inside your room upstairs. It seemed like you’ve been waiting this whole time, lace curtains pushed back to see him. You’ve never snuck out before. This was wrong. Dangerous. Your dad’s reputation of being the best farmer could get ruined by a reckless daughter who snuck out with the sheriffs son.

You reached for your phone and texted him.

‘Meet me at the back door.’

You saw bubbles appear and disappear, only for him to respond with a thumbs up emoji. Despite your heart racing out of your body, it seemed to calm you down. It was Gator, after all. Your feet gently padded against the wooden floors as you tipped downstairs, wearing nothing but small shorts and a big shirt, shivers running down your spine.

“Hey- okay, okay.” He lost his footing when you rushed and lunged towards him, sobbing uncontrollably into his neck.

You’ve never been this close. With your bare legs brushing against his jeans and his warm hands sliding under your shirt. He breathed into your neck and he stiffened, trying to stay strong. He tried so hard.

“Don’t cry, bun, the world ain’t ending.” He pleas.

It seemed like his desperation wasn’t helping, so he gently tugged you to start walking, pressing his lips to the side of your head.

“Let’s go to my truck, yeah? I’ll take us somewhere quiet.”

You nodded and hiccuped between tears, his arm around you while wiping your wet cheeks with his thumb. You felt like your body was weighing down on you, like the whole world just collapsed over a boy. But he wasn’t just that, and you knew it. He was an opening to a life you’ve always wanted, romantically free.

——

It was quiet, still, cold. Gator brought you to a far expanded creek that was just on the edge of town, covered in trees and seeping into the moonlight. He’s told you about this specific spot the first month he knew you, confessing he’d often go at night to clear his clouded head.

Your legs were draped over his lap, feeling the gruffness of the denimn. His fingers trailed up and down your legs like feathers, gulping down all the words he wanted to say. That he’s gained feelings for you that he’s never felt before, that his heart flipped when he saw you.

“Was your dad upset?” You whisper timidly.

“That the deal cut off? Yeah. He was too disappointed to talk about… us, so he just ignored me.” He says, “Your daddy didn’t hurt ya, did he?”

“No.”

“…I’d go right now and end all of ‘em, the ones spreadin rumors bout what we got.”

You turn your head and look at him, the straight line of his nose and how it glowed under the moon. You wanted to ask him, tell him, what did you two have? It sure felt intimate right now, with his fingers trailing just under your shorts but never more. You noticed his two little moles that paired close to each other, his hair falling foward.

After looking at him, you said, “You’re not in your uniform.”

He wore normal dark blue jeans, a dark plain shirt over him with a brown jacket on. He looked soft, comforting. It made your lower stomach feel funny, legs pressed together.

He smirks faintly and gently squeezes your thigh, turning to look at you.

“M’ supposed to wear it anytime I go out. Doesn’t really bother me, it’s Roy’s rules. Heavy as shit, though.”

But from the gleam in his eye, the way his frown stayed, told you otherwise. Your eyebrows furrow at his response, slowly leaning foward and running your fingers through his hair, crusty and raw from day old gel. His eyes fluttered shut and his light touches stopped, like he became completely undone by you.

“You don’t regret it?” You whisper.

“What?”

“Comin’ back every morning. Before my daddy was even up.”

He scoffs and shakes his head, eyes opening again and squinting towards the water.

“Look at where were at right now.” He says softly but firmly, “I don’t have a damn regret. Haven’t had one these past few months.”

You sit there for a while. “I don’t regret it either. Getting- getting to know you.”

He hummed.

“I remember you said I was scary the second time I saw ya. Almost broke ma heart, bun.”

You swat his arm and he chuckled at that, his eyes flickering to yours. You two held eye contact for a split second, before you rolled them shyly and looked at the trees.

“That’s because you had a gun against you.”

“Ah, that stupid thing.” He mumbles, “I don’t really have a choice in this type of place.”

You two played and fidgeted with each others hands, listening to his soft voice as he recalled memories of childhood at that very creek. You could hear his small smile when he talked. You never looked away. He knew he needed this, needed his mind to be filled with the sight of your face and past stories that made him lighter.

It felt like it all happened in one second. The jacket that he here wore was eventually wrapped around you, his smell bringing a comfort you didn’t understand. He could still tell that you were upset, your hands tense like you needed something closer.

You ended up on his lap.

His nose brushed against your jaw as your face grew inches apart from his.

“So that’s where you got this from?” You giggle at the little scar just under his chin when he recalled an accident.

“Oh god honeybee, thanks for lettin’ me know you’ve noticed it this whole time.”

“No it’s not bad! It’s small but very… manly?”

He laughed at that, a genuine one, and his fingers twisted with yours. You wish you could stay in this moment forever, where your eyes danced around his in a long tensioned dance.

“I was the stupidest kid, really, whole town laughed at it. Still am.”

You shake your head and gently lean foward to cup his cheek, facing his gaze towards you.

“You’re anythin but stupid, Gator Tillman.” You whisper. “It’s the total opposite of that. I’ve seen it with my very own eyes.”

“Damn pretty eyes.”

“Gator, m’ serious!” You giggle, hair fallen foward to which he tugged behind.

“Fine, serious girl. Maybe I got the smarts from you.”

You roll your eyes and bury yourself in him, your shorts riding up and allowed his hand to rest there. You’ve never felt someone this warm. This good. He was like a blanket, and you were melting into it by the second. He seemed to notice the subtle shift, his demeanor growing quiet and soft, fingers tracing your thigh.

You slightly pull away to look at him, nose nudging his.

“You’re so warm.” You hum.

“My serious girl is warm, huh?”

“Mhm.”

For once in a while, he didn’t doubt you. Because he could see it in your eyes, the way you looked and sounded. You were actually craving his touch, actually tugging him closer because you liked it and wanted it.

He liked it too. He wanted it, wanted you. It scared him.

Before he could even respond, you dipped your head and started to place tender kisses along his jaw. They were deep and lasting, making a quiet sound each time you pulled away. All over his cheeks, his jaw, near his eyes, whispering what you wished you said before about how much you liked his face.

It was like he couldn’t take it anymore.

He slightly nudged his face away, scanned your features, and moved your hair away. Then, his lips met yours.

You let out a soft noise in surprise but quickly melted in his arms when you realized that this was very real. That Gator was breathing in through his nose by how deep he was kissing you, latching your upper lip into his mouth and softly sucking. It felt new to him, kissing someone with actual purpose and gentleness. But with you, it felt like he’s done this a thousand times.

“Fuck.” His voice vibrates down your throat.

And it felt physically impossible for him to stop. He kissed all along your jaw and around your face, your eyes fluttering shut in the pure pleasure of his warm lips on you. Your back arched beneath his hands and he tugged you closer, fingers just etching under the back of your shorts.

You two finally pulled back, and he almost wanted to cry.

You were glowing.

The moon was just perfectly behind you, but shinning you at the same time, highlighting the glisten of your lips. You looked kissed stupid, which you were, your chest heaving up and down. It was a soft, intimate moment, and he craved to press against you.

You slowly leaned forward and gently pushed back a loose strand of his hair, kissing his forehead in the process.

That’s when his eyes started to swell. So he quickly tugged you closer and kissed you again.

It was so slow. His lips slotted like a puzzle to yours, pillowing against you and purely taking his breath away, hands sliding deep into your hair. And when you continued to kiss him back, you tasted a mix of him and salt, your cheeks starting to feel slick.

You pulled away with furrowed eyebrows and saw it. His eyes were glossy and his face was wet.

“Oh, Gate.” You whisper, wiping them away with your thumb, “it’s just me, don’t worry.”

He started to sniff again at your understanding for him. He’s never felt something so real, so pure, and you could tell how deeply it was affecting him.

“Shit, I- fuck.. sorry.” He mumbles, “I’m not cryin’.”

“You don’t have to hide it, it’s okay.”

He shakes his head like all he’s ever done was wrong. “No it’s not. We’re over here kissin and ‘m actin like a baby.”

You stayed quiet and let his last tears fall down his pink cheeks. He hated when people saw tears, and just watched him as he grew more upset and emotional. It didn’t seem to wrong when you did, the way your eyes were gentle and patient.

“Let’s stay here tonight. Okay?” You whisper and all he does was nod, his bottom lip slightly sticking out.

“…Thank you.”

He stayed quiet for a long time, replaying all those sweet moments where you actually enjoyed when he was around. He remembered the way it made him feel seen, like him being there wasn’t something to scowl at.

It escaped him faster than light.

“I like you a lot.” He whispers gruffly.

You blink at him.

He takes a heavy deep breath, knowing that you were letting him continue. “And it… it scares me. I’ve never felt this safe round anyone before, like I can finally relax. I spent my whole damn life isolating myself to focus of work, on my dad. Now I have you, a part of you, and I’ve never wanted to be around someone more. I just… I wish I could take all those years back when I buried myself alone- and I.. I wanna open to you. I’ll try my damn hardest because you deserve that. I’ll try so hard for you.”

Tears started to form in your eyes now, and you looked away out of embarrassment. He just opened his heart out to you, his view, and it was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

“Gator…” You whisper proudly.

He gives you a flat, shy look. “I said something dumb, didn’t I.”

“No no god, no. You said everything just perfect.”

“Then why you cryin?” His lips reach to kiss them away.

“Cus I like you too.” Your voice shakes, “a lot lot.”

He chuckles quietly at that, his smile reaching his eyes and with his ears turning pink. He couldn’t strain his eyes away from you and you curled up like a flustered little girl.

“Stop.”

“What?”

“Doing that! Staring at me.”

“You wanna know somethin?”

“Oh no.” You bit back your smile.

He leans foward and gently cups your ear, his lips brushing against it, “…You’re pretty.”

The gesture, his rough voice, was so dear that you wondered if this was even real. You never imagined something this romantic would happen to you after staying at the farm. But there was Gator, looking untouched and himself all because of you.

With the nerve wracking confessions finally done, it was only left with one ending. Sealing the whispered words off with a kiss, so tender that he felt like the world was given to him right then and there.

It was around midnight when everything started to settle, when the summer heat turned mild and breezy. He was emotionally exhausted, filled with feelings for you, and it wore him down. You reassured him a lot after that, and he kissed you in between each word.

Eventually you fell asleep with your face nuzzled into his neck, wrapped in his jacket and listening to the sounds of crickets and gentle water. He held you tighter, eyes trained on the ground as he just thought. You were here, in his arms, away from all the drama at home that was slowly forcing him away from you. He kissed your forehead one last time. He lulled to sleep shortly after, making sure you were completely safe and sleeping against him, like he couldn’t relax until you were.

Gator Tillman knew you. He had you.

And he was finally ready to love.

——

𖦹 holy shit i genuinely reached a flow state because i just love gator so much like pleaseeee i need him

i also miss stranger things so much i tear up anytime i think about it come back to me

[midnox]

That's Not Your Cat | Steve Harrington

Summary : A stray cat starts showing up at your workplace. You begin feeding him. So does Steve. It doesn't take long for the two of you to realize you're somehow co-parenting an animal that refuses to belong to anyone. Warnings : idk Writers notes : English is not my native language; please excuse me if there are any mistakes or poor translations.  Steve Harrington x fem!reader

When Robin had to take time off from Family Video to visit her sick aunt, Steve hadn't expected it to be such a nightmare.

It was obvious he would never have the same chemistry with the new employee, nor the same easy friendship he had with Robin, but he hadn't expected this.

Nothing.

He could still smell the lingering scent of your perfume hanging around the register, see the obsessively organized shelves, and hear that damn chewing gum.

He shoots you a dark look that you completely ignore as you pop another bubble with a loud snap.

Steve doesn't know how, but he's convinced you do it on purpose just to annoy him.

Then again, there's nothing about you that he likes. Not the way you dress, which he considers way too rebellious, nor the overly familiar way you talk to customers.

It wasn't really about you.

Well, maybe a little.

But mostly because every time he looked up, he expected to see Robin sitting behind the counter with her ridiculous uniform and sarcastic comments.

Instead, he found you.

"See you tomorrow, Harrington!"

He doesn't even acknowledge you as you walk through the store's doors, your oversized jacket swallowing your entire frame and your Doc Martens pounding against the floor. As if he needed that to know you were leaving.

The silence that settled over Family Video afterward was enough to tell him that the disruptive element had finally left the building.

Outside, you spot a black cat perched on the hood of your car, just like every evening since you started working here.

It waits patiently, its tail curled around its paws, until you pull a treat from your pocket.

While it crunches away on it, you absentmindedly scratch its head, and that small ritual is enough to soften the end of your day.

The evening drags on so much that you do your best not to yawn too loudly. Then again... you could do it just for the pleasure of seeing Steve's grumpy expression because you're making too much noise.

You cast a quick glance at your coworker, who is busy helping a father and his kids, then let out a sigh.

You thought Steve Harrington would be a little nicer than this. A little more fun, at least. But that definitely wasn't the case.

Robin had described him as a guy who laughed easily and never hesitated to strike up conversations just to get to know people.

You'd been a little skeptical, remembering the Steve from high school, but people could change, so you'd given him the benefit of the doubt.

On your first day, he'd barely looked at you, quickly explaining what was expected of you before returning to the register.

Maybe if you'd known in advance what an asshole he could be, you would've turned down Robin's offer.

But you needed this little summer job, and when your marching band friend had offered it to you, you'd accepted.

"Have an excellent evening!"

Pulling a face, you imitate Steve's overly polite tone and immediately bump into him when you turn around. The name tag clipped to his vest leaves a faint mark on your forehead, which you rub right away.

"Having fun?"

You stare at him questioningly, and he gives you a humorless smile.

"I can see everything in the reflection."

He jerks his chin toward the large front windows. Night has fallen, and the parking lot lights are bright enough to reflect everything happening inside the store.

Satisfied by the annoyed look on your face, Steve turns his back on you.

As a result, he completely misses the middle finger you raise in his direction.

And this time, he's the one who leaves before you.

His fingers toy with his keys as he steps into the parking lot, and he spots the black cat he's been feeding ever since he started working here.

More than once, he's been tempted to take it home with him, but the animal always disappears the moment it finishes the treat he gives it.

The rain keeps pouring down, and instead of making a run for your car, you wait.

The cat didn't show up tonight. The rain probably convinced him to stay hidden somewhere, but it still bothers you. You'd gotten used to seeing the elegant feline at the end of every shift, a small comforting ritual after putting up with Grumpy Steve all day.

"You're still here?"

Steve frowns, frozen beneath the awning as he prepares to lock up the store behind him.

Your eyes meet for a few seconds before you're the first to look away.

"I was waiting for... never mind. Bye."

He watches you jog toward your car as if the rain doesn't bother you in the slightest and then, suddenly, you drop to all fours to look underneath the vehicle.

He locks the store without taking his eyes off you, just in time to see half your body disappear beneath the car.

"What the hell is she doing?"

Despite the rain and the irritation you constantly provoke in him, he walks over and stretches his jacket above your heads to shield you from the downpour. His sudden presence startles you and a yelp escapes your lips.

"Shit!"

A sharp meow rings out immediately and a black shape darts into the bushes.

Annoyed, you straighten up, scraping your hands in the process, and shoot Steve a glare.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

"Me? Hold on, you're the one crawling under your car!"

"I was trying to get the cat! And you scared him away!"

The rain is no longer being held back as you face a completely confused Steve, his jacket hanging limply from his hands.

"A cat?"

"Yes, a cat!" you repeat as if he's stupid. "He waits for me every night and..."

"A black cat? Yellow eyes?"

Suspicious, you cross your arms.

"Yeah. And the tip of his tail is damaged."

Steve bursts out laughing.

"He's not waiting for you. He's waiting for me. I've been feeding him since I started working here."

The rain has soaked both of you completely, but it does nothing to calm the irritation that's slowly turning into anger.

He could ruin your days with his bad mood. He could be a disappointment after everything Robin had told you about him.

But he could not steal your cat.

"We're going to have a problem, Harrington."

You step forward, hands on your hips, lifting your chin defiantly toward him.

"His name is Salem and..."

"Oh, very original," he mocks, looking down at you. "A witch fanatic? That's surprising."

What an idiot.

"Oh, please. I'd love to hear what ridiculous nickname you've given him, Grumpy."

"I... he doesn't need a nickname to know who he is. We recognize each other. We know each other."

He crosses his arms.

"And stop calling me Grumpy!"

"You know what? Robin told me you were nice, but I guess that's buried underneath all that constant bad mood! Honestly, I wasn't expecting much, but I'm still disappointed!"

The sudden outburst catches him off guard. The number of words exchanged in a single evening already exceeds everything you'd said to each other over the past month.

"I'm starting to miss high school Steve. At least he was an asshole who owned it!"

And with that final jab, you storm off across the parking lot, leaving Steve completely stunned by what had just happened.

You avoid him as much as possible, even though you're both stuck in a small space where crossing paths is inevitable.

After all, you'd spent most of your time doing exactly that before the other night.

It's not like he's trying to talk to you either, although he does look at you a little more often since you yelled at him in the rain.

He's bothered that you compared high school Steve to the person he is today, the version of himself he's proud of because he's no longer that arrogant little jerk.

And yet, you'd sent him right back to that time, and he understands now that he didn't exactly give you the best impression of who he is.

He mixed everything up when Robin left.

Robin, who represents the first step in his change. The person who helped him become someone better.

To him, you were mostly the girl taking her place, forgetting that it was only temporary. That if Robin liked you, then you couldn't be just anyone. And that you certainly hadn't asked to be compared to her.

He'd really screwed up.

And every time he tries to apologize, a single look from you is enough to make him say something else instead, as if apologizing were somehow more difficult than facing a Demogorgon.

He could count the number of times you rolled your eyes, the number of bubbles you popped with your chewing gum, the songs you hummed when you thought nobody was listening...

And even the days you changed your perfume.

When you finish your shift before him, he watches you take your time with Salem—he still insists that name is ridiculous—and pet him the same way he does, especially beneath the chin where the cat's purrs grow louder.

He's a little jealous of the attention the cat gives you and is forced to admit that there are now two people taking care of him.

A sort of co-parenting arrangement.

One where he'd somehow managed to annoy the cat's substitute mother before he'd even really gotten to know her.

"Thanks again for covering for me. You really saved me."

"It's okay."

The detached way you answer Robin on her first day back is completely genuine because you're relieved to finally be leaving this place.

Your chewing gum pops loudly, and Steve watches the bubble stick briefly to your lip before you absentmindedly pull it back into your mouth with a flick of your tongue.

"So, did everything go well? Steve told me you know a lot about movies!"

You shoot Steve a vague look at that statement, considering there's no way he could know that when he'd never actually made an effort to get to know you, but you simply shrug.

"It was nice. You were right, Harrington is such a great guy."

Robin's eyes narrow as she immediately realizes something happened, but you don't give her the chance to ask any questions.

"I start my new job this afternoon. I don't want to be late!"

"Wait! Every Friday night after work, we all get together at the Wheelers' for a movie night. You should come! You can recommend something other than Back to the Future!"

"That's where I draw the line!" Steve cuts in, raising a finger. "Nobody talks badly about that movie, got it?"

"How many times have you seen it?" Robin sighs, crossing her arms.

"Who keeps track of that?"

"More than ten, I'm sure of it, because I was there every single time!"

"It's a really good movie!"

Watching them bicker, you almost find yourself smiling because, for the first time, you finally see the Steve Robin had told you about.

Too bad he never showed that side of himself to you.

"We'll see."

Robin waves goodbye as you walk through the store's doors, and Steve pretends to keep arguing with her while watching you stop in the parking lot, most likely looking for Salem.

August is quiet.

It makes sense. It's summer. People have better things to do than come pick out a movie for the weekend when there are so many parties and gatherings happening elsewhere.

But this kind of quiet is different from the one in July, when Steve spent most of his time being annoyed by all the noise you seemed to bring with you.

Of course, Robin was back. Their friendship and easy banter were still intact, making the days feel shorter.

But it wasn't the same.

Even Salem—because after a month of hearing the name, Steve had eventually given up fighting it—seemed to be waiting for you.

He would show up outside the store around the time your shift was supposed to end, only to find Robin there instead, who didn't interest him much despite all the attention she gave him.

You hadn't shown up for Robin's movie night invitation, nor for the trip to the mall she'd tried to organize with everyone.

"She's not coming back, buddy."

He slowly pets Salem, leaning against his car and chewing a piece of gum while the cat happily munches on his treat.

It’s the store door bursting open with a loud crash that makes him jump just as he’s about to put on his jacket and close up for the night.

« We're clo... »

« Steve! »

The panic in your voice brings him rushing out of the back room, and he’s left speechless at the sight of you standing there, tears streaming down your cheeks and your nose running.

« What the hell... »

« I didn't see him last night, so I got worried, » you sniff, clutching your jacket tightly against yourself. « And I found him on the sidewalk behind the store and... and... »

It’s only when he sees you looking down at your jacket that he understands.

Salem is curled up inside the fabric you're pressing against your chest, his eyes closed and his breathing visibly strained.

« I don't have my car and... I... I thought of you because... and you understand, right?! »

He doesn't answer, his heart in complete disarray at the sight of the cat in that condition, at the sight of your face ravaged by tears and, stupidly enough, because you'd thought of him first after all this time.

« Steve! »

« Fuck, yes! »

He shakes himself out of it and ushers both of you toward the exit.

« Go to my car! »

He hurriedly locks up the store—did he even turn the key properly?—and jumps into his car, peeling out of the parking lot the moment you're both inside.

The veterinarian isn't far away, but he still drives faster than he should, unwilling to waste any time.

The silence inside the car is heavy, battered by your sobs and the cat's pitiful cries.

When you arrive at the clinic, Steve rushes to the front desk to announce an emergency, and you hurry after him, careful not to jostle Salem any more than necessary.

The receptionist calls one of the available veterinarians, who takes the injured animal into his care before asking you both to wait in the lobby.

« It's going to be okay. »

Steve tries to reassure you as he sits down beside you.

« I mean... his name is Salem. He can survive this. »

A faint smile appears on your lips, though you still look lost, curled into yourself. Steve sees another side of you, a more fragile one.

You wipe away a tear with the sleeve of your jacket.

Without really thinking about it, Steve slides his hand across the chair separating you and takes yours.

It calms you a little, at least until the receptionist calls for the owners of the injured cat.

In a single motion, the two of you stand, your hands still intertwined as you walk toward the desk.

« The veterinarian says he has a broken leg, but he's going to be fine. »

Relief washes over both of you.

« May I have his name? »

« Salem. »

You glance at Steve, surprised that he's calling him that after making fun of the name for so long, but the expression on his face remains serious.

« That's very pretty. »

« Weird, but pretty, » he adds with a small smile.

« Very well. So you're both his owners? »

« Yeah... his adoptive parents. »

And you let him.

You let him say it.

Neither of you lets go of the other's hand, except to fill out the paperwork the receptionist hands you before sending you back to the waiting area.

Without thinking, his hand finds yours again—for your reassurance, he claims.

And then, finally, you see what Robin sees in him.

Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington masterlist  JJ Maybank masterlist  Rafe Cameron masterlist

Comments, likes and reblogs greatly appreciated✨

[invisibleangelx]

honeybee

steve harrington x fem!reader. tooth rotting fluff. inspired by the lyrics from olivia's song 'honeybee'.

after a long afternoon of sitting on the swings in the park, talking for hours on end and watching the sunset, steve has his hand in yours and his jacket over your shoulders as he walks you home. you're still laughing at something from earlier as you make your way to your apartment, stars shining down on the two of you in the darkness of the night.

"i'm so glad you're staying over tonight stevie," you say after a fit of laughter, wiping a tear from your eye. you've arrived at your door. "i don't want this night to end."

"aww, me too, sweetheart. and to think earlier you said i was 'being presumptuous' for bringing my duffel bag" he teases, as he takes the key you hand him and lets you in.

"yeah, bold of you to assume i'd want to spend all night looking at this face," you squeeze his cheeks together playfully. "but you would be right." you skip over to your room as steve shakes his head with a laugh.

steve sits on your bed and unpacks your bag for you while you sit down at your vanity and put your hair up, about to remove your makeup. you start absentmindedly humming to yourself as you work the micellar water into your skin.

steve's been uncharacteristically quiet for a while. you find him in the mirror still on the edge of your bed behind you. he's looking at you like no one ever has before. his puppy dog eyes shine as he watches you, transfixed on your movements. a warm smile spreads across his face when he realises you're watching him back. you feel warmth bloom in your chest, as if the pure adoration with which he gazes at you goes straight to your heart.

you get up and cross the small space to reach him. his gaze doesn't falter even as you stand between his legs and drape your arms over his shoulders, and those big eyes look up at you.

"god, i love the way you look at me," you whisper, as you lean down and kiss him. steve plants his hands on your hips and gently squeezes the soft skin, before pulling away.

"alright. you get ready for bed, baby. let me know when you're done," he says softly, kissing the tip of your nose before getting up and heading for the living room.

"what a gentleman," you chuckle. you press one more kiss to his cheek before he closes the door.

you try not to delay in putting on your favourite pyjamas, and soon call out to steve.

"stevie, i'm done. you can come in now." you call, as you take your throw blanket off your bed.

"hope you didn't rush on my account," he says, stepping in with his duffel bag and setting it on your vanity seat.

"no, not at all. i'll be out here, alright?" you say as you open the patio door at the end of your bedroom and close it behind you, returning the privacy steve gave you.

you wrap the blanket around your shoulders and take a deep breath of the cool, fresh night air. one of your favourite things to do is step out on your balcony and look up at the stars, and tonight they looked particularly lovely.

your eyes adjust to the darkness and you notice why—a shooting star. so far east it's almost obstructed by the other buildings down your street, but brightly making its way across the sky. this was a first, but you decide that after the magical night you've had with your boyfriend, it was only fitting that the sky also bask in it.

you close your eyes and make a wish: i hope i never see what your face looks like going.

right then you then hear the patio door open, his gentle footfalls coming up behind you. you feel his arms around your waist holding you close to him, a kiss pressed to your forehead, and you turn to look up at him. even the sight of a shooting star cannot compare to the man in front of you. steve's face is tired from the day out, but relaxed. his hair seems to fall perfectly, as it always does. once again, his eyes drag over your face, taking in your features under the pale moonlight.

you reach up to gently run your fingers along his face. he instinctively leans into your touch, and his eyes close as he gets lost in the feeling. time seems to stand still. you run your fingertips, with a feather light touch, over his temples, his cheeks, down his nose, ever so slowly down his jaw, and finally you reach his lips. his eyes blink open at the sensation, looking down at your lips. you close the gap and press your lips to his.

he kisses you slowly, gently, barely moving his lips against yours, simply taking in the feeling of his lips pressed against yours. you sink into his arms a little more, inhaling his scent which envelops you. feeling the warmth of his arms around you, his steady breath fanning your face contrasting against the cool night air.

the kiss is not rushed. it's not even deep. it's the opposite—unhurried, dreamlike, and filled with utter bliss. steve hums contentedly into the kiss, as you move your hands to cradle his head.

you realise you need air in your lungs and reluctantly pull back a few centimeters. you open your eyes and the sight is nothing short of art. his pupils blown out so much you can barely see the hazel surrounding them. to your surprise, his cheeks have a warm red wash to them, something that doesn't happen often with steve. and that gaze is the exact same one from earlier.

in this moment, although no words are exchanged, in the silence of the night, looking into your boyfriend's eyes, you understand.

you could spend your whole life knowing the perfect face in front of you.

a/n: hi! my first time writing fanfiction on here! been wanting to write for steve forever so i'm finally giving it a try. hope this doesn't suck lol this is possibly the most romantic thing i've ever written so lmk your thoughts. requests are welcome! xx

[zinainblue]

the family plan ✴ gator tillman

boyfriend!gator tillman x reader - wc 6.6k

summary: gator's sick of people pushing him about settling down. you'd understand a little better if he didn't take it out on you. and, well, if there's one thing the two of you know how to do, it's have a good fight-- and it's a good thing gator always knows how to make it up to you.

tags/warnings: gator x reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, suggestive content, grumpy x sunshine, hurt/comfort, possessive!gator, domestic!gator, manhandling, elements of casual sub/dom, overuse of pet names (baby, doll, mama), couple fights, drinking, unpacking trauma, gator is a sweetie but he still got issues, but lowk so do you, let's yell at each other with mama!

---

You’re sitting at a picnic bench outside your church, and the bridge ladies won’t quit jabbering.

The coffee hour has been moved outside to take advantage of the spring sun, and a balmy wind is kicking up napkins and delighting screaming kids across the grassy expanse. You’re really only here to maintain appearances, donate some baked goods, and chat with the few parishioners you can actually stand. Church isn’t really something you love– at least here in North Dakota. It’s something you do for your boyfriend’s benefit, at his dad’s insistence, and because in some ways, as Gator’s girlfriend, it matters what these people think of you.

You smile politely as the women drone on about neighborhood gossip and recipes they simply have to send you and how they dropped off a snickers salad for the preacher’s wife last night ‘cause she’s had so much trouble cookin’ lately. They’re old women, and they’re multitasking between their card game and keeping you shackled to their conversation. It’s like this every Sunday they can get their hands on you.

Sometimes you think it’s no wonder you and Gator were drawn to each other– despite how much better you mask it in public, you both share the affliction of being easily frustrated by nosy small-town people who won’t shut their traps. And speaking of your boyfriend…

Gator seems trapped in a dialogue of his own across the lawn, Roy standing before him, so clearly laying another lecture onto his son’s shoulders. Gator squirms like a kid when his dad yells at him, and you can see it now, that lack of attention span from the ADHD you keep telling him to get tested for driving Roy even crazier than he already is. Finally, Roy makes his point and relents, and Gator makes his way across the lawn toward you, the set of his shoulders still tense.

“Hey, baby,” he mumbles as he nears, dropping a kiss onto the top of your head. He smiles tightly and nods to the bridge ladies, who coo over his arrival, and slides onto the bench beside you, straddling it to face you. One of his hands goes immediately to your lower back like he needs the contact, or maybe an excuse to cop a feel in the modest sundress you’ve donned for church today. 

“Gator, honey,” one of the ladies– Mrs. Pearson, whose husband runs the hardware store near the diner where you work– greets him. “We were just tellin’ your little missus here ‘bout some recipes she should get her hands on.”

Gator nods and doesn’t reply further, unamused. You press your thigh into his leg, telling him silently to play nice. You know he’s only over here because you are, and that he’d always rather be long gone once the church service ends, but this is what it takes to be a part of a community, and even grudgingly, he knows that. Still, his constant frustration with these people is part of the reason they’ve always liked you more than they like him. He is the town bully who barely grew out of it, still brash and impulsive and rude at times, still hiding that sweetness behind his tough-guy face except when it comes to you. You are the town darling, the one who runs Sunday school when the preacher’s daughter can’t, the model future wife for the sheriff’s son. You always wear your church skirts to your knees, and from your pretty smile, no one can tell it’s Gator who’ll bunch them up to your waist when he bends you over later.

“She’s such a nice girl,” one of the other ladies croons, smiling widely at you. There’s pink lipstick on her teeth. “You know she’ll do a bang-up job as your little wife, mister.”

“That’s right!” Another one chimes in, placing down a card with a wrinkled hand. “I mean, geez Louise, forget about the cookin’! She’ll have that house spick and spam for ya, isn’t that right, sweetiepie?”

You laugh indulgently, although everything in you wants to roll your eyes and find a way to escape this table. Sure, you can cook, and you’ve always kept the house far cleaner than Gator cares to, but you don’t need these women telling him that. If he hasn’t figured out the virtues of keeping you around already, he’s certainly not gonna listen to them tell it.

“I’d say, with how handsome a couple you two are, you’d better get movin’ on those little ones!” Mrs. Pearson adds.

“Little ones?” Gator repeats flatly, and you step on his toe under the table.

“Well, I betcha your daddy wants another baby in the family soon,” Mrs. Pearson explains laughingly, then leans over to touch your cheek. “It’d be a shame to waste those cheekbones, anyway. You two better get crackin’ on those kids before the sheriff has to tell ya to!”

You hear more than see Gator’s jaw grind. He opens his mouth to say something you’re sure won’t be too flattering, but you cut in before he can, slipping your hand over his on his thigh. “You know, you ladies are too right. In fact, I think we’ve got a little business to attend to at home, come to think of it. Can’t let that house go too long without a cleaning, can we?”

The ladies laugh at the scandalous joke, waving you off. 

“You kids!” Mrs. Pearson smiles. “Go, enjoy the day, sweeties!”

You rise to your feet, smiling back at them, and pull Gator up by the hand, dragging him away from the table before he can say something the both of you will regret. He follows behind you, one of his hands sliding over your waist as you cross the grass again. You can tell he’s angry by how quiet he’s gone, the way he tugs at the collar of his crisp black button-up.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he mutters in your ear. “You put in your damn time.”

“Let me grab my purse,” you tell him gently, smoothing a hand down his chest— already having guessed from his mood you’d be taking off early. “You grab the tupperware from the scones, and I’ll meet you by the truck.”

“Don’t stop to chat,” he says gruffly, hand tightening on your waist. “I’ll blow my brains out if Mrs. Pearson finds me again.”

You bite back a smile and kiss his cheek, heading off swiftly to gather the rest of your belongings. 

You intercept him on the way back, two more of his shirt buttons already undone and his sleeves pushed up to the elbow. You slip your hand into his as you walk back through the parking lot together, not daring to check behind you to see if anyone’s noticed your early exit. 

Gator opens your door for you and waits for you to get in, a muscle in his jaw twitching. You worry about that expression on him– about what his father might have said to him to get him so fired up. 

It’s only when you’re speeding back down the dirt road from the church that you finally ask, reaching over and squeezing his arm as you do. 

“Gate.”

“Hm?” he replies, eyes on the road.

You keep your hand on his forearm, thumb brushing up and down

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” he mutters.

You snort. “Convincing.”

He shoots you a dirty look out of the corner of his eye. “Will you leave me alone, woman?”

You roll your eyes, removing your hand and shifting back to your side of the car with a quiet sigh. When he gets grumpy like this, you’ve found over the years it’s best to just leave him to mope.

You drive in silence for a while, staring out the windshield and not bothering to keep your face polite. Eventually, you hear Gator muttering to himself, and your attention snags on the noise.

“Nosy old hags.”

“What?” you ask, brow crinkling. 

Gator doesn’t repeat himself, but you heard him clearly enough the first time.

“You’re upset about Mrs. Pearson and the ladies?” you surmise, voice flat. For goodness’ sake, he could have just told you that.

“They’re sticking their damn noses where they don’t belong,” he finally snaps, the one hand he has on the steering wheel gripping the leather. 

“That’s just what they do, Gator,” you say mildly. “That’s who they are. They gossip about everyone in town, not just us.”

“Yeah, well, they can say what they want about all those other assholes, but not about me ‘n you,” he bites, his jaw ticking again.

You fight another sigh and take his free hand in both of yours, squeezing it. “They’re not being nasty. They’re just old women.”

The words have the opposite of their intended effect of calming him. Gator’s voice rises as he snaps, “Well, what goddamn business of theirs is it when we’re havin’ any fuckin’ kids? We’re not even hitched yet, and they’re breathin’ down our necks.”

You exhale through your nose, wishing silently he wasn’t so sensitive when it came to what other people thought. “Well, when you’ve been together for three years, those are the kind of questions people ask, Gate. Marriage, kids. I mean, we live together, baby. It’s not totally crazy.”

“So you’re on their side, then?” he demands, head whipping between you and the road.

You stare back at him, starting to be irritated. “I’m on your side, always. You know that.”

“Then why are you fuckin’ defending them?”

“I’m just saying they didn’t do anything wrong, Gator,” you huff, withdrawing your hands again. “They’re just nosy. If you don’t wanna hear any gossip, we’re gonna need to find another place to live.”

“Like hell they aren’t doin’ shit wrong,” he fires back at you. “Draggin’ themselves into our business like that, basically asking when I’m finally gonna man up and knock you up–”

“Well, you don’t seem to mind the idea so much when you’re inside me, now do you?” you cut in flatly.

Gator whips his stare to yours. “The hell’s that s’posed to mean?”

You look back at him coolly, your displeasure evident. “I just didn’t think you found the idea of settling down with me so terrible. My mistake.”

“Don’t be like that,” he grunts.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think, Gator?” you challenge him. “You’re practically jumping down my throat for suggesting people aren’t totally crazy when they ask if we’ll ever have kids.” “They’re not askin’, they’re tellin’.” Gator snaps. “And I’m sorry, but I happen to think a man has a right to privacy ‘bout a few things, and puttin’ a baby in his woman is one of ‘em.”

Your lips tighten, and you look back out the windshield. “How romantic.”

“A man should get to decide when he wants all that shit to happen, alright?” he repeats himself loudly. Y’should get to do it in your own time.”

“Fine,” you cut in, now more than a little pissed with him. “Next time, I’ll just tell sweet old Mrs. Pearson to fuck right off.”

“Now that would be bein’ on my fuckin’ team,” he bites.

You shake your head, knowing arguing with him again about how disagreeing doesn’t diminish how you feel about him would be a moot point. “Whatever.”

“Y’could drop the attitude, you know,” he adds bitterly. “Don’t ‘whatever’ me.”

“Well, I guess I’m not your fuckin’ wife, so there’s no sense in me being all respectful and proper, now is there?” you spit back at him, crossing your arms.

Gator seethes to himself as you pull into your driveway, not looking at each other. 

“I’ve got a shift at the diner,” you inform him flatly, jumping down from the truck without waiting for him to open your door for you– something you know full well will piss him off even more. “I’m off at six. Don’t wait on me to eat dinner.”

“Really?” he snaps, following you into the house. “That’s it?”

“Guess so,” you toss over your shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to actually settle anything, would we?”

Gator lets you slam the door to the bedroom, changing swiftly into your work uniform. As you throw on your clothes, still steaming with anger at your mule-stubborn boyfriend, you can hear him mutter something unflattering at you through the door.

You’re still wearing a frown while pouring coffee three hours later, and nothing at work is helping to lighten your mood. 

Two of your regulars have already told you to put a smile on your face, but you can’t help it. You hate fighting with Gator. As much as things have calmed down in recent years between the two of you, as much as you’ve settled into each other and smoothed over so many dangerous cracks, every now and again, something like this will come up and you’ll feel like the two of you are right back to square one. 

You move back through the diner and behind the counter again, coffee pot in hand. Your eyes sweep the tables for empty cups, which means you catch it when the door opens and the tiny bell above it rings, announcing the presence of your newest customer just as surely as the heavy tread of his combat boots.

Eyes pointedly cast down, you focus on refilling three more mugs as Gator strides up to the counter, sliding into a barstool and leaning on his elbows over the table. 

“Hey, mama,” he greets you, and you can tell from his voice alone he’s already over your fight. He’s grinning, actually, just like he always is when he stops in mid-patrol for a quick pour and a kiss or two from you. He’s always been so good at putting arguments like this behind him– like whatever tiny thing had had him cursing and spitting a few hours ago had faded completely to the back of his mind. You hate that he does that. It’s like he can’t understand how not to move on without resolution. 

“Hey, yourself,” you toss back flatly, still not meeting his eyes. You ignore the way he’s clearly leaned toward you and refill the coffee of the customer to his right. 

Gator’s eyes track you, scanning over your face. “What, you’re not gonna greet your boyfriend?” he asks, that shit-eating grin still painted on his lips. “Gimme a kiss.”

“I only kiss my boyfriends who are nice to me,” you intone, sliding the coffee pot back into the machine. It’s a low blow, and you know it– alluding to your made-up other boyfriends. But it still gets under Gator’s skin every time, that jealousy he can’t seem to stifle.

“So you’re still pissed at me, then,” he surmises, leaning back and digging in the pocket of his tactical vest for something. 

You point a finger at him, that heady anger rushing back to you. “Gator Tillman, if you pull that disgusting vape out of your pocket–”

He pulls free a different pen– one of the fake ones you introduced him to when he finally gave into all your pleading for him to quit nicotine. He holds it up as if in surrender. “Relax, babe. It’s just the bullshit one.” He takes a hit off of it, though if it actually calms him down, you wouldn’t know.

Unimpressed, you move over to the cash register, counting and stacking your receipts just to have something to do. 

“So, what, you never gonna talk to me again?” he teases you, clearly nonplussed by your bad mood. 

It works to piss you off even more– the fact he’s brushing off your annoyance like it means nothing. Like there was no reason for it in the first place. 

“Depends, are you gonna apologize for losing it on me earlier?” you muse, flicking between receipts.

Gator’s amusement finally fades, and he slips off the barstool to come around the cash register. “Don’t see what I’ve gotta apologize for.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “Yeah, you never really do, do you?”

“Hey,” he cuts in, “You were the one defending those old bags.”

You scowl, rounding on him. “Oh, will you just drop that? I wasn’t defending anyone.”

“Yes, you fuckin’ were,” he argues, glaring down at you. 

“Why can’t you ever just admit you were too harsh and apologize?” you demand, shooting daggers at him with your eyes even as he towers over you. 

“Maybe I would if you quit flappin’ your fuckin’ mouth!” he fires back. “God, d’you have to be such a bitch about it?”

Shock flashes through you, and you scoff, bewildered. Dangerously, you ask him, “You wanna rethink a couple of those words?”

“Nah, I don’t think I do,” he spits, looking you up and down. 

You clench your jaw, fighting back the sting in your eyes that’s telling you tears are coming whether you like it or not. God, this man frustrates you so much sometimes you could scream. “Great. Then I guess we don’t have anything else to talk about.”

“Great,” he says back, tone nasty. “I’ll finally get some peace and goddamn quiet.”

You huff an incredulous laugh, turning away. “Have a great shift, Gator,” you tell him bitterly, not meaning a word. 

“I’ll see you at home,” he promises, stalking away. 

You don’t check behind you after the bell rings– you know he’s gone. And you know he won’t look back.

Perched on a stool at the counter of the least shitty dive bar in town, you clutch your drink, the ice biting against your fingers. 

You’ve been here almost an hour, and your mood hasn’t significantly lifted, despite how you’ve been faking smiles with your friends and tossing down liquor to try and stifle the endless repeat track of your boyfriend’s callous words. It’s almost 7:30. He’ll be waiting up at home for you when you get back, and if you know anything about Gator, you know he’ll be furious. 

You don’t care. Let him have a taste of his own medicine– let him be the one getting hurt for a change. If he didn’t care to communicate like an adult, then you shouldn’t have to, either.

“Babe,” one of your friends calls to you, voice raised over the blaring music. “You’re being a total buzzkill. You sure you don’t wanna just head home?”

In times like these, even in your dismal mood, you can’t help but consider yourself exceptionally lucky for your friends. When you pulled the group of waitresses aside after Gator left the diner and asked if they wanted to grab drinks after work, they must have seen your expression and knew you needed it more than you let on. They agreed instantly, and now here you are– utterly failing at distracting yourself despite their best efforts.

You shake yourself, trying to escape your self-pity and lingering resentment. “No, no– sorry. Those shots just haven’t kicked in yet.” Your friend’s face tells you she sees through it, but she just sips from her colorful drink with a rueful smile. “That handsome boyfriend of yours isn’t gonna show up and kill us for stealing you away tonight, is he?”

Knowing Gator, that wasn’t entirely out of the question. You smile behind your glass as you tell her, “Don’t worry about it. If he’s got something to say, he can say it to me.”

“I hope I didn’t just hear the word boyfriend.”

A voice from behind you makes you twist slightly in your seat, and a man you’ve never seen before sidles up to you and slides into the barstool to your left. “Never seen you before, gorgeous. Where’d you come from?”

You flatten your eyes slightly, hoping he’ll take the hint you’re not interested. While you’re usually alright pushing your limits with Gator, appearing to flirt with another clueless guy at a bar would be about four steps over the final line. “My gunowner boyfriend’s house,” you supply mildly. “How ‘bout you?”

The guy points back to the other side of the room, unphased. “I came from over there once I saw that pretty little skirt on you. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Pretty sure my tag says ‘property of Gator Tillman’,” you tell him. The name alone should put some kind of nerves into this guy if he has any sense at all. “If found, please call 1-800-bite me, I’m taken. Nice meeting you.” You turn back to your friend, hoping he’ll just cut his losses and move on.

“Well, hang on a second, sweetheart–” the man goes on, reaching out and grabbing your forearm. 

Your head whips back to him, brows raising in shock he actually touched you. You make to rip your arm away from him, but it turns out, when you’re Gator Tillman’s girlfriend, you don’t have to. 

You watch as the man is yanked forcefully off his barstool and pulled to his feet. Gator’s standing there like an apparition, fury contorting his face as he grips the man’s shirt in his fist and shoves him up against the bar before he can regain his balance. 

“You heard her, shitbird,” he tells him, voice low and face inches from the poor idiot’s. “Now get lost before I put you in the fuckin’ ground.” The man pales, nodding once. Gator releases him with one last shove, watching as he hurries back across the crowded bar. And then he turns back to you, and all that fury finds a new target. 

Between the booze and your lingering anger, seeing him again is a head rush. You can’t tell if you’re grateful for the intervention or annoyed he’s here or anxious about the fight that’s building between you like an oncoming storm. 

Your friend must sense the tension, because she squeezes your shoulder and slips off her barstool with a farewell smile. You can’t bring yourself to care too particularly much when Gator’s still looking at you like that. 

“Been all over fuckin’ town lookin’ for you,” he starts, barely-controlled anger in his voice. “You don’t come home, and this is where you’ve been all night?”

“The girls and I were just getting some drinks after work,” you explain, a little quieter than you mean to. Oh, he’s mad– just about as angry as you’ve ever seen him. You can’t help the little thrill it sends through you. 

“And you didn’t think to call and tell me that?” he challenges, towering over you where you still sit on the barstool, muscles tight with anticipation. “Didn’t think you’d let me know you weren’t fuckin’ kidnapped? You know how worried I’ve been?”

“It’s been an hour,” you drawl, sipping from your drink. “I’m hardly a missing person's case.” 

You can tell from the deepening scowl that that was the wrong answer. Gator points to the bar door, eyes not leaving yours. “Get your ass in gear. Let’s go.”

“I’m not done with my drink,” you tell him stubbornly, fingers tight against the glass.

He rips it out of your hand and knocks the rest of it back, the ice reverberating through it as he slams it back down on the counter. “And now you are.”

You scowl at him, the liquor finally giving you some courage. “I’m not through here, Gator. I want to stay.”

He takes a shallow breath through his nose, in and out. “I wasn’t askin’, mama. Now get in the fuckin’ car.”

“No,” you tell him, firing the word between you.

His brows lift, and he laughs humorlessly, low and harsh. “Some fuckin’ attitude on you tonight. I ain’t gonna say it again, baby. Get in the car.”

The pet name in contrast to the sharp tone does what it always does and riles you. As you stare down your boyfriend, you decide that, today, you might just be angry enough to push back. “No,” you say again, plain and stubborn.

The corner of Gator’s mouth twitches up, his face still hard and set. There’s no humor to be found there, and that particular fact feels more thrilling than the liquor does. 

“I warned ya,” he sighs, like he’s giving in— as if he’s ever once done that.

And then his hands are on you, pawing your waist and throwing you over his shoulder.

You yelp at the sudden movement as he lurches you both to his feet, gripping your thighs as he hauls you back through the bar. 

“Gator!” you yell in shocked protest, not caring how badly the two of you are making a scene. “Put me down, you asshole!”

“Since you don’t wanna listen, guess you need a little help,” he tells you, his voice gratingly calm. His hands are a vice grip on your bare legs, even while you thrash around. You beat at his back, your hair getting in your face and the buzz of alcohol not helping with keeping your head straight any more than the rapid motion. “Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t let me go–”

“Yell all you want, mama,” he muses as he directs you both through the crowded bar tables. “These assholes aren’t gonna do shit. They know you’re with me.”

As arrogant as the statement is, he’s probably right. If they didn’t recognize Gator’s face and know better than to interject already, they’d sure recognize the Stark County Sheriff's Deputy badge pinned to his chest. Deep-rooted frustration roils in you, and you squirm even more against the arm he has pinning your legs.

“You’d better knock that off, pretty,” he tells you, a warning in his deep voice.

“Or what?” you spit.

You can almost hear the wicked smile in his voice as he replies, “Or I might just have to take you to the bathroom and fuck that attitude outta ya.”

“Pig,” you hiss at him, scowling even as warmth coils in your gut at the words– at what’s probably waiting for you at home as a punishment for your misbehavior. 

He doesn’t set you down until you’re right next to his truck, haphazardly parked in one of the first open spots in the bar parking lot. You wonder how long he drove around looking for you before he thought to come here– wonder how long he waited in the house pretending old wounds weren’t being poked by your absence. For a second, a flicker of guilt runs through you. Sure, your boyfriend isn’t exactly a paragon of emotional stability. But you could have done better than you have tonight to fight that.

Gator releases you and reaches around you to yank open your door. 

Your cheeks flushed, you stand before him stubbornly and cross your arms, refusing to move. He’s placed himself in between you and any possible escape, fencing you into the truck.

“Get in the car,” he orders you again, face entirely uncompromising. 

You’re a little drunk, and your resolve is cracking, but you still manage to glare up at him. “Isn’t there something you wanna say first?” 

“You want an apology outta me after the shit you just pulled?” he demands, brows shooting up. “You’re lucky I don’t lock you up after a stunt like that.” “You don’t own me, Gator,” you remind him, scowling into his stern face.

“That’s not what you were saying to that idiot back there,” Gator challenges, his dangerous voice purring.

You flush harder, wishing you had more faculty over your words. “I’m not going with you until you apologize.”

His eyes flash, all the pushback getting to him. “We’ll talk when you’re safe at home. Now get in the fuckin’ car.”

You falter slightly at the offer to talk. He’s learning– you know he is. A year ago, he’d have brushed this whole thing under the rug, chalked it up to some kind of female dramatics. But now, even if your ‘talking’ is probably gonna amount to another screaming match and some makeup sex… well, you suppose communication takes many forms.

He sees your hesitation and settles slightly, jerking his head to the seat. “Don’t make me throw you in there.” You shoot him one last dirty look and relent, climbing into the truck and taking your seat indignantly. 

Gator slams the door behind you, telling you through the open window, “S’like wrangling a fuckin’ bobcat with you.”

You’re still sulking when you pull into the driveway of your home, the lights in the living room still on like Gator didn’t bother turning down the house before he left. He must have been worried. That guilt flips through you again. 

Gator walks behind you into the house, and although he doesn’t say it, you know it’s probably so he can catch you if you drunkenly stumble. Always so protective, this one– even when he’s infuriated with you.

You sigh as you pad through the entryway, tossing the bag stuffed with your work clothes by the shoe rack haphazardly. You hear Gator’s keys hit the dish, but you don’t turn back to look at him– just make your way to the kitchen and pull a water bottle from the fridge, drinking from it deeply to clear your throat. 

Gator sheds his leather jacket and throws it over the hook by the door before stalking into the kitchen after you. You eye him coolly as he comes up to the counter, his hands resting on it as he watches you back. 

“So, you gonna tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing tonight?” he starts, his voice already harsh. 

“Drinks,” you tell him again, taking another swig of water. “With my friends. Told you.”

Gator runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. Out of his heavy uniform, when he’s as rumpled as he is now, he’s nowhere near as intimidating as most people find him. “You told me you were off at six,” he barks. “I get home, no call, no text, and you’re out with your fuckin’ girlfriends like it’s goddamn mardi gras.”

“It was one fucking hour,” you gripe, fingers locked around the plastic of your water bottle.

“I don’t give a damn,” Gator snarls, planting his hands on the counter and leaning toward you. “You don’t just run out on me. Plans change, then you call me and let me know and then I come and haul your ass out of the bar.”

You know where this fear comes from– know what he’s getting at, know why he’s ordering you so uncompromisingly. But maybe you’re too drunk and heady with anger to care, because once again, you can’t help but keep pushing. “Maybe I just didn’t want to talk to you, ever think about that?”

“You’re the one always harpin’ on me about communicating, aren’t ya?” he drawls, that dangerous edge still in his tone. 

“Well, forgive me if I don’t have a strong interest in sitting here and letting you call me names over things that aren’t my fault,” you spit, and to your frustration, you feel your eyes start to prick again at the memory of what he called you this morning. 

His jaw ticks, his lips pressing together. “You know damn well I didn’t mean that.”

“I have yet to hear you say so,” you challenge, face twisting. “I guess it’s just fine that you call me a bitch and tell me to shut my mouth? That’s just fine now?”

You see his hackles raise– see frustration and aggression fight for dominance in his expression before he finally relents– retreats just an inch for you. “I’m sorry,” he says firmly. “You bring it outta me when you push me like that. You know that.”

You shake your head, still not satisfied. “You can’t just lash out at me ‘cause you’re pissed with someone else. I’m not your proxy for the bridge ladies, Gator.”

“I know that,” he snaps, some of the softness fading. “I know you’re not sayin’ what they’re sayin’!”

“Then why are you yelling at me?” you spread your hands, incredulous.

He drags his hand through his hair again, aggravated. “I’m not–”

“You are,” you argue. “You are, Gator. I mean, why can’t you just talk to me about it?”

“I’m sick of fuckin’ talkin’ about it!” he yells. “I’m sick of all these people and their pushin’– all the little hints and nudges and tellin’ me what to do!”

“Who’s been saying that?” you plead with him, shaking your head. “It’s a couple of old ladies, Gator. It doesn’t matter what they think.”

“It’s not just them, it’s everyone!” he argues, still steaming. You can almost see that anger bubbling up in him– though, once again, you can tell you’re not its intended target. “Roy was on my ass about it this morning, too,” Gator spits out bitterly. “Talkin’ about makin’ an honest woman outta you. Carryin’ on the family name and all that horseshit.”

You fall quiet, the pieces clicking into place; the true reason for Gator’s bad mood this morning, his reason for coming over to sit with you in the first place. The pressure you can almost see in the set of his shoulders, the burdens he doesn’t realize he willingly takes on, the impossible expectation you’ve tried so hard to teach him to forget. But as long as Roy is here, some things will cut too deep into Gator for even you to mend. And this, the ‘pushing’ he keeps bucking, is about something bigger than the words you’ve thrown at each other tonight.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, and for the first time tonight, you really mean it. “He shouldn’t have said that. You’re right, it’s none of their business.”

You watch as Gator deflates slightly, the calmness of your voice finally working on him. 

“You can’t let it get to you like this,” you go on, brow creasing. “You can’t let him get in your head, baby, it’s—“

“You fucking try it,” he fires at you.

Your expression hardens again. “You don’t see me losing my shit when those people say I'm nothing more than a good housewife in the making.”

“That shit is different and you know it,” he says, thrusting a finger at you. “You know that’s not you. You play that game, but you know that’s not you.”

He’s still pushing— still fighting you. And, just now, it feels as heartbreaking as anything else he’s done, especially when it comes to this— to the little hopes you've fed each other, the plans you’d thought were in the making. That’s what finally gets you— finally makes you blurt it out. “Why is this such an issue for you?” you make out, and your voice cracks as you say it. You're reminded of the fact you’re still a little drunk as tears pool in your eyes, threatening to spill down your face.

Gator sees it, too. His expression creases, and he tears his eyes away, his resolve all but completely breaking. It’s the one thing he’s never been able to stand— you crying. The second he sees he’s pushed you there, the second your voice starts to wobble, he can’t take it– he always relents.

He heaves a sigh, his face falling and his shoulders drooping. “Baby– baby, why are you crying? Come on, don’t– don’t cry.”

The words do nothing to help matters. Tears fall swiftly down your cheeks, and you reach up to brush them away just as quickly. “Do you–” you take a breath, your voice weak with emotion. “I mean, do you… not want that with me?” You feel idiotic– naive. That quiet dream you keep locked away in your chest, that fantasy of a rowdy reception hall blaring music and a carseat in the back of the truck and tiny, sticky hands gripping a camo pant leg… maybe it was only ever that: a beautiful, foolish dream. But after three years, what else could you expect? How could you not have pictured it all with this boy who’s taken possession of you?

His expression contorts, confusion flashing in his eyes. “That’s what you think?” he demands.

“That’s how you make it sound, Gator!” You cry, hands flying to wipe furiously at your face. “That’s what it sounds like when you act like it’s so offensive that people think we’re gonna be a family one day!” You watch as that one word– family– hits him square in the chest. “You’re not gettin’ it,” he shakes his head, his voice infinitely quieter. “You don’t get it, doll.”

“You’re damn fucking right, I don’t!” you snap back, sniffing. 

“I just–” Gator turns from the counter again, frustration choking his voice. “I just can’t listen to any more of these fuckers tell me what to do. Not about this. Not about you.”

You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. 

“Listen,” he tells you, suddenly insistent. Like he can’t stand it any longer, he rounds the counter toward you, stopping just before you. His hand comes up to fit over your jaw, almost covering the lower part of your face. He’s holding you there, forcing you without pain or aggression to look up at him. It’s possessive in its utter gentleness. “I don’t have a lot ‘a shit that’s mine,” he tells you, and something in his eyes shifts, melts a little. “But you? You and me, baby? That’s just mine. That belongs to me, you understand?”

A pathetic noise, a tiny gasping sob, works its way out of your mouth. Gator’s fingers are firm and warm on your face as he holds you, rooting you in place with that one hand. 

“I want this because I want it,” he says, low and clear. “Not ‘cause I'm told to. Not as somethin’ my dad’s makin’ me do for him. I want you ‘cause I love you like nothin’ I’ve ever felt.”

You’re trembling, heart stuttering at the admission. Your hands come up to grip his arms, needing something to stabilize you.

“No one else gets to tell me to love you,” he says fiercely, staring down into your face. “No one gets to tell me what to want. I pick you.” His hand slips into your hair, cupping the back of your head, and he pulls you into him, crushing you into his chest.

You let out another sob, arms coming around him immediately. You clutch him back, your feet nearly lifted off the ground by the strength of his embrace. But you need it– you’ve always needed Gator’s force, his violence. You need his hands, his words, his love imprinted onto your skin in red lines like sleep marks, the intensity existing as the proof that it’s real.

“I love you,” you choke out, eyes fluttering shut. 

Gator’s fingers scratch at your scalp, his strong arms tight around you. “Don’t you ever run out on me again.”

You hear the desperation in his voice, much as he might try to hide it. “Couldn’t if I wanted to,” you whisper, drawing back to look up at him. 

He’s so serious when your eyes meet again– his face drawn and pensive. One of your hands comes up to brush over his cheek, marvelling at the unexpected softness of his skin. “Fuck ‘em all,” you tell him, a smile flitting across your lips. “You and I are on our own timeline.”

He turns his head into your hand, nuzzling your palm. “I love you,” he says again, the words a grumble in his chest.

That naive, perfect dream is back in your chest, stronger and more insistent than before. As you stare up at Gator, his face softer than you might ever have hoped, you feel it softly glow.

---

a/n: I really do love this but it was a bitch and a half to edit. going to reward myself by writing some truly vile smut about this man

[lisbondollxox]

hey!!! love ur fics i think i binged them in like 36 hours lol you’re really good 🩷🩷 anyway

can i request um reader going to surprise joe at the studio without him expecting it but likes he’s trying to record something that doesn’t come out exactly the way he wants and stars having one of those days, the kind where everything feels too heavy until reader shows up. one hug, smile or a kiss and he’s is instantly undone and completely softened and grabs her face and smooch it all over like cuteness overload heh thank uuu

“one of those days”

☆ joe keery x fem!reader ☆

hi !! thank u so much for reading my fics 🥹💗 english isn’t my first language, so i’m sorry if there are any mistakes !! requests are always open <3

summary: joe is having one of those days in the studio. the song isn’t working, adam is seconds away from losing his mind, and everyone in the room has accepted that the session is doomed. then reader shows up unexpectedly with coffee and a smile, and suddenly joe remembers how to be a functional human being again.

word count: 3.6k

warnings: fluff, clingy!joe, studio setting, lots of kissing, joe being dramatic, adam suffering, no use of y/n

The first sign that Joe was having a terrible day was Adam swearing before noon.

It wasn’t loud enough for the entire building to hear, but it was loud enough for everyone inside the studio to freeze for half a second, which said everything because Adam was usually the calm one.

He could survive endless takes, strange ideas, last-minute changes and Joe deciding at three in the afternoon that a song he loved at breakfast was actually the worst thing he had ever written.

So when Adam leaned back in his chair, rubbed both hands over his face and muttered something under his breath, everyone understood that the session had officially become dangerous.

Joe was standing inside the recording booth with one hand wrapped around the microphone stand and the other shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, staring through the glass at Adam like the song had personally betrayed him.

His hair was a mess from how many times he had dragged his fingers through it, the lyric sheets in front of him were covered in crossed-out lines, and Trent was sitting on the couch with his bass across his lap, looking like he had emotionally accepted that they might be trapped there forever.

The song had started as something Joe loved. By lunch, it had become his enemy.

“I hate it.”

Adam didn’t move right away. He just stayed in his chair, eyes closed, like he was trying to collect the last pieces of patience left in his body before answering.

“You do not hate it.”

Joe leaned closer to the microphone, his expression tightening.

“I do.”

“You loved it yesterday.”

“I was wrong yesterday.”

“You said it was one of your favorites yesterday.”

“Yesterday Joe was clearly unwell.”

Trent snorted from the couch, and Adam shot him a tired look that failed completely because even he looked like he wanted to laugh.

Joe, however, wasn’t smiling, and that was the problem. Usually, even when he got frustrated, there was still something playful underneath it, some little spark that made the whole room feel lighter.

Today that spark kept disappearing under exhaustion before it had the chance to become anything real.

Adam leaned toward the talkback button.

“Come out here.”

“No.”

“Joe.”

“No.”

“We’re not recording anything useful while you’re in this mood.”

“I’m not in a mood.”

Adam stared at him through the glass.

“You told Trent his bassline sounded emotionally unavailable.”

Joe pointed toward Trent.

“In context, it made sense.”

Trent lifted both hands slowly, still holding the bass.

“I wasn’t offended. I was confused, but not offended.”

Adam pushed his chair back from the console and stood up, grabbing his notebook like he was seconds away from either fixing the song or throwing it directly at Joe’s head.

He wasn’t actually angry, but he was tired in the very specific way people became tired when they cared about the final product almost as much as the artist and still had to survive the artist acting impossible for eight hours straight.

“You need a break.”

“I need the song to stop being bad.”

“The song is not bad.”

“It is.”

“It is not.”

“It is.”

Adam slowly closed his notebook.

“If you say that one more time, I’m calling your girlfriend.”

That finally made Joe pause.

It was tiny, barely noticeable, but Adam caught it immediately because he had spent the entire day trapped in the room with him and had started recognizing every micro-expression out of self-defense.

Joe looked down for half a second, then back through the glass, trying too hard to appear unaffected.

“Don’t bother her.”

Adam blinked.

“Oh.”

Joe frowned.

“What?”

Adam’s tired expression shifted into something far too smug.

“Oh, that’s what this is.”

Joe regretted speaking immediately.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I didn’t even say what it was.”

Joe stepped back from the microphone, already annoyed because Adam wasn’t completely wrong.

He hadn’t planned on missing you today.

He had woken up beside you that morning, kissed you goodbye when you were still half-asleep, and told himself he would be perfectly fine spending the day in the studio like he always did.

But somewhere around the fifth bad take and the third cup of coffee, the thought of you had started sitting quietly in the back of his mind, soft and persistent and impossible to ignore.

Before Adam could say anything else, the studio door opened.

Nobody looked right away.

People had been coming and going all morning, asking questions, dropping off equipment, bringing coffee or quietly checking if the session had turned into a disaster yet.

Joe didn’t look either.

He had already turned back toward the lyric sheet, apparently ready to hate-read the chorus until it personally apologized.

Then someone in the hallway laughed.

Your laugh.

Joe’s head lifted immediately.

Adam saw it happen and froze with his hand near the talkback button.

Trent looked up from his bass.

One by one, everyone turned toward the door just in time to see you step inside like you had done it a hundred times before, which at this point, you basically had.

You walked in confidently, balancing an iced coffee carrier in one hand and adjusting your bag with the other, greeting the assistant by name before smiling at Trent when he lifted his hand at you.

“Should I be scared?”

Adam turned toward you with relief so dramatic it looked rehearsed.

“Honestly?”

You glanced at the lyric sheets, the abandoned guitar, the tired faces around the room, and then at Joe through the glass.

His whole expression had already changed in a way that made your stomach do something stupid.

He was still inside the booth, still wearing the same tired hoodie, still looking like he had spent hours losing a fight against invisible ghosts, but the second he saw you, every sharp edge in his face softened.

You smiled.

“Hi.”

Joe stared at you like you had just walked in carrying the solution to every problem he had ever had.

“Hi.”

Adam made a strangled noise.

“Oh my God.”

Joe finally looked away from you.

“What?”

Adam pointed at him.

“That. That face.”

Joe narrowed his eyes, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he was already smiling a little.

Not enough that he would admit it if anyone accused him, but enough that everyone in the studio recognized it as the first real sign of life they had seen from him since before lunch.

You walked further into the room, setting the coffees carefully on the table before slipping your bag off your shoulder.

You knew where to put your things.

You knew which chair rolled badly and which cables to step over.

You knew Adam took his coffee black when he was stressed and pretended he didn’t want sugar when he absolutely did.

You belonged in the room so easily now that Joe barely remembered what it felt like before you started visiting.

“What did he do?”

Trent answered before Adam could.

“He called my bassline emotionally unavailable.”

You slowly turned toward Joe.

“Did you?”

Joe opened the booth door and stepped out immediately, which made Adam throw both hands in the air.

“Oh, now you leave the booth.”

Joe ignored him, walking straight toward you.

“In context, it made sense.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing.

“Right.”

Up close, the exhaustion was harder to miss.

The humor was trying to come back, but his eyes were tired and his shoulders looked too tense, like he had been carrying the entire session in his body.

He looked like he had spent hours trying not to need you because needing you felt too dramatic, and somehow that made your chest ache worse than if he had just texted you to come earlier.

Your smile softened.

“Oh, baby.”

The words were quiet enough that they should have been only for him, but the entire room heard them anyway.

Joe’s face changed instantly, and Adam covered his mouth like he was witnessing something too good to interrupt.

The second you opened your arms, Joe stepped into them without pretending to hesitate, wrapping himself around you so tightly that you almost laughed from the force of it.

The room erupted immediately.

Adam threw his notebook onto the table.

Trent started clapping once before someone told him to stop.

The engineer leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh of relief, like the power had come back on after a blackout.

Joe didn’t react to any of it.

He simply pressed his face into the side of your neck and held you like he had been waiting all day for permission to fall apart a little.

“Hi,” you whispered again, softer this time.

His answer was muffled against your skin.

“Hi.”

Adam pointed at the two of you like a lawyer presenting final evidence.

“Do you see what I mean?”

Joe lifted one hand from your waist and blindly gave him the finger without moving his face from your shoulder.

The entire room burst into laughter, and even you had to hide your smile against him because the gesture was so perfectly Joe that it almost made the whole day feel lighter by itself.

You rubbed one hand slowly up and down Joe’s back, feeling the tension beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie.

He was still too tense, still too warm from the booth, still holding himself like he expected someone to pull him back toward the microphone at any second.

You let your fingers slip into the messy hair at the back of his neck, and his shoulders dropped so completely that Adam actually stopped joking for half a second.

“You okay?”

Joe inhaled like he was about to say yes automatically, then seemed to think better of it. That alone told you everything.

“Not really.”

Your face softened.

“The song?”

He nodded, then shook his head, then gave a small helpless shrug.

“I don’t even know anymore.”

The room stayed quiet after that.

It wasn’t awkward.

It was more like everyone suddenly remembered that underneath the comedy of Joe being dramatic for hours, there was a real person who had been trying very hard and getting nowhere.

You reached up and brushed his hair away from his forehead, your thumb lingering near his temple in a way that made his eyes close for half a second.

“You’ve been listening to it too long.”

“I know.”

“And you’re tired.”

“I know.”

“And you probably forgot to eat real food.”

Joe opened his eyes.

“I had coffee.”

You stared at him.

Adam immediately pointed.

“I told him that didn’t count.”

Joe looked betrayed.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side. That’s why I’m agreeing with the people who want you alive.”

That got a real laugh out of him. Finally. The kind that loosened something in the room and made Adam visibly relax in his chair. Joe’s forehead dropped briefly against yours before he pulled back, smiling a little despite himself, and the smile wasn’t huge, but it reached his eyes in a way that made you feel weirdly proud.

Adam stood up slowly, grabbing the coffee you had brought him.

“I’m just saying, this is unbelievable. This man spent the last hour acting like we were forcing him to record inside a haunted basement. You walk in, call him baby one time, and suddenly he’s a functional human being.”

Joe turned slightly, but kept one arm around your waist.

“I was functional before.”

The entire room disagreed at once.

“No.”

“Not even close.”

“Absolutely not.”

You started laughing, and Joe looked around like every person in the room had personally betrayed him. The effect would have been more convincing if he wasn’t still holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

Adam noticed, obviously.

“You haven’t let go of her.”

Joe looked down at his own arm, then back at Adam.

“So?”

“She got here ten minutes ago.”

“Exactly.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile too much. Joe caught you immediately and narrowed his eyes, but even that looked soft. Everything about him had changed since you walked in. The day wasn’t fixed, not really, but the edges of it had been sanded down. He wasn’t fighting the room anymore, and he wasn’t fighting himself as much either.

Adam clapped once.

“Okay. Brave idea. We listen to the song with her ears.”

Joe straightened.

“No.”

Adam’s entire face lit up.

“Yes.”

“No, don’t play it.”

“You heard me.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You can’t.”

Joe looked down at you with genuine betrayal.

“You came here to help me.”

“I am helping you.”

“By making me listen to the song?”

“By making you listen to it with someone who hasn’t been trapped here all day.”

Adam pointed at you.

“Exactly. See? This is why we like her.”

Joe frowned.

“You like her because she brings coffee.”

“That too.”

The room settled into a more comfortable kind of movement after that. Adam returned to the console, the engineer adjusted something on the screen, Trent rested his bass against the couch, and you stayed exactly where Joe seemed determined to keep you, tucked against his side with his arm around your waist. When the track started playing through the speakers, Joe tensed beside you, so you slipped your hand into his free one and brushed your thumb over his knuckles.

The song played on.

And honestly, it was good.

Not perfect, maybe, but warm and aching and very him. You could hear why he was stuck on it, but you could also hear why Adam looked like he was ready to stage an intervention if Joe called it bad one more time. When the chorus came in, Joe watched your face instead of listening to the song, trying very hard not to look nervous and failing completely.

When it ended, everyone waited.

You looked up at him.

“I like it.”

Joe’s face shifted instantly, quieter and more vulnerable than before.

“You like it?”

“I do.”

“The chorus?”

“The chorus.”

“The bassline?”

You looked toward Trent.

“Not emotionally unavailable.”

Trent pointed at you.

“Thank you.”

Adam threw his hands up.

“THANK YOU.”

Joe ignored both of them.

“My voice?”

You looked at him softly.

“Joe.”

“What?”

“You sound like you.”

For some reason, that was the thing that did it. Not a technical compliment, not a detailed analysis, not the kind of music language Adam had been trying to use all morning. Just that. You sound like you. Joe looked at you for a long moment, and the whole room seemed to understand at once that nobody should ruin it with a joke.

His thumb moved across the back of your hand.

Once.

Twice.

Then he leaned down and kissed your forehead.

It was quick and soft and grateful in a way that made you look down immediately because suddenly smiling felt too obvious. Joe noticed, of course, and the affection in his face turned playful again, a little more familiar, a little more himself.

“Don’t get shy now.”

You laughed.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

Joe leaned closer, voice low enough that it almost felt like the rest of the room didn’t exist.

“You came in here all confident.”

“I am confident.”

“You are.”

His smile grew.

“It’s cute.”

Adam stood up abruptly.

“I’m leaving.”

Everyone laughed, and the room came alive again in the best way. The song was still open on the monitors, the lyrics were still a mess on the table, and the day still had work left in it, but something had shifted. Joe looked lighter. Not completely rested, not suddenly free of every doubt, but lighter in the way that mattered.

Eventually, Adam clapped his hands once.

“One more take.”

Joe’s smile faded a little, but he didn’t spiral. He looked toward the booth, then down at your hands still linked together. You squeezed his fingers once, and that small gesture seemed to do more for him than anything anyone had said all day.

“Go.”

Joe looked at you.

“What if it still sucks?”

“It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but I know you.”

That answer stayed with him. You could see it land, not loudly, but deeply enough that he stopped trying to argue. Joe leaned down and kissed your cheek, then your other cheek, then your forehead, then the corner of your mouth, until you were laughing and trying to push him away without actually pushing him away.

“Joe.”

“What?”

“Go record.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re attacking me.”

“I’m preparing.”

Adam pointed toward the booth.

“Prepare over there.”

Joe kissed your forehead one more time just to be annoying, then finally walked back into the recording booth. This time, though, he looked different as he stepped inside. The exhaustion was still there, but it didn’t own him anymore. He adjusted the headphones, glanced down at the lyric sheet, and then looked through the glass at you.

You were still near the couch, smiling at him like you had all the faith in the world.

Joe exhaled.

Adam pressed the talkback.

“Ready?”

Joe looked at you for one more second.

“Yeah.”

The track started.

This time, when Joe sang, nobody moved. His voice settled into the melody instead of fighting it, rough at the edges in exactly the way the song needed. Adam slowly leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, listening with the faintest smile on his face like he was already thinking about how badly he wanted to say I told you so.

By the time Joe finished, the room stayed quiet for one perfect second.

Then Adam hit the talkback.

“That was the take.”

Joe pulled one side of the headphones off, suspicious immediately.

“Don’t say that just because you want to go home.”

Adam pointed at him through the glass.

“I have wanted to go home since two p.m., and I still mean it.”

Trent lifted his coffee.

“That was good.”

The engineer nodded.

“Really good.”

Joe looked through the glass at you.

You smiled.

“I told you.”

He tried not to smile back and failed completely. When he came out of the booth, Adam was already saving files at the console, looking more alive than he had in hours. Joe walked straight toward you, which made everyone immediately start making noise again, but this time he didn’t even pretend to care.

“You fixed it.”

You looked up at him.

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I literally just showed up.”

“Exactly.”

Adam groaned from behind him.

“I also existed all day, by the way.”

Joe didn’t look away from you.

“Yeah, but she’s nicer.”

“I am going to quit.”

“You say that every album.”

You laughed, but Joe’s attention stayed on you. There was something almost shy underneath the affection now, something he probably wouldn’t have said out loud with the whole room listening. But you could read it anyway. Thank you. For coming. For staying. For noticing. For knowing he needed you before he found a way to ask.

You reached up and smoothed his hair again, even though it was beyond saving.

“I’m proud of you.”

Joe’s face softened so completely that the teasing around the room seemed to dissolve. He turned his head just enough to kiss the inside of your wrist where your hand had paused near his cheek, and the gesture was so gentle and absentmindedly intimate that even Adam kept his mouth shut for once.

For about three seconds.

Then he grabbed his notebook and pointed it at you.

“You’re hired.”

You blinked.

“What?”

Adam nodded seriously.

“Official emotional support producer.”

Joe laughed, pulling you closer before Adam could continue.

“She’s not available.”

“I’ll pay her in coffee.”

“She gets that already.”

“And gratitude.”

“Not enough.”

You looked between them, amused.

“What exactly would my job be?”

Adam gestured at Joe.

“This. Walking in, making him act normal, forcing him to eat, fixing takes with three sentences, preventing me from developing permanent stress lines.”

Joe looked offended.

“I act normal.”

Adam didn’t even answer. He just stared at the arm Joe had slid around your shoulders, then back at Joe. The silence was devastating enough that everyone laughed again.

Joe smiled despite himself.

“Fine.”

You tilted your head.

“Fine?”

He looked down at you, eyes warm and tired and completely gone in a way that made your heart feel too big for your chest.

“Maybe I needed you today.”

The room softened, even if nobody said anything. Adam pretended to be very interested in his notebook. Trent looked down at his bass. The engineer turned toward the screen with suspicious timing. For once, nobody teased him, because the honesty in Joe’s voice had shifted the moment into something too sweet to ruin.

You smiled gently.

“I know.”

Joe huffed a quiet laugh.

“Of course you do.”

“You’re not subtle.”

“I’m extremely subtle.”

“Joe.”

He looked around the studio, where every single person was pretending they hadn’t spent the last hour watching him become a completely different person because you walked in.

Then he looked back at you.

“Okay, maybe not today.”

You laughed softly, and Joe leaned down to kiss your forehead again, lingering there this time instead of pulling away immediately. His hand rested against the back of your head, thumb brushing lightly over your hair, and for a moment the studio disappeared into background noise. The monitors hummed. Adam saved the take. Someone moved a cable across the floor. Outside the door, voices passed in the hallway. But Joe stayed there with you, breathing easier than he had all day.

When he finally pulled back, he looked calmer.

Not fixed.

People weren’t songs. You couldn’t fix them in one perfect take.

But he looked better.

And sometimes better was enough.

thank u for all the love on my recent fics!! i wasn’t planning on writing this one so soon, but the request was too cute to ignore. i also think soft, clingy joe might be one of my favorite things to write ever. as always, requests are open !! thank u for reading, reblogging, liking and being so sweet to me 🥹💗 see you in the next one <3

[djobriens]

ꜱʜᴜᴛ ᴜᴘ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ ─⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─ ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʜᴀʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

summary: five times you danced with steve, and the one time that mattered most. words: 6.3k warnings: little bit of angst but a lottt of fluff tbh, grinding at some random's house party, brief mentions of alcohol/drinking under age 21, reader is described wearing feminine clothing more than once notes: this honestly was only meant to be like 1500w but i went overboard oops, i hope you guys like these lil moments between friends

─⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ─⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─ ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ─⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─

ⅰ. ʜᴏᴍᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ; ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• heaven - bryan adams

It seemed out of place to hold such a celebratory event at a time when your town was barely holding onto the cusp of solidarity. Despite the gym at Hawkins High being decked out in sparkly embellishments and a whimsical story of banners and streamers, an eeriness still lurked in the shadows, mirroring the town's unsteadiness. Your heart stuttered at every flash of light, the room changing colours in time with the varying tempo of the music - it was as if your body was preparing, bracing for something to reach out and grab you, which is why you yelped, a sharp gasp strong enough to tighten your chest, when a hand grasped your shoulder.

"Shit - sorry, you okay?" Steve's voice was concerned as he leaned down, both hands now holding your shoulders steady, the golden flecks in his eyes shining even brighter against the yellow tone encasing the room. He was studying you, the way your breath was held and how your gaze widened in shock. He knew he had interrupted something as he watched your gaze flicker between realities, "Where were you just now?"

A forced smile clung helplessly to your lips as you faced him, attempting to shake off the darkened thoughts. Your voice was strained, and Steve tried not to notice, "Somewhere I shouldn't be. But it's okay - I'm okay."

Brown strands of hair fell across Steve's face as he nodded, the inside of his cheek bitten raw to stop him from pressing further. He understood what you were saying. Nightmares have become real figures in your lives now, and it is hard to withdraw from that. The acknowledgement didn't make it any easier, however.

Steve cleared his throat with a gentle rumble, his stance straightening before his hand was held in your direction. The palm was facing up like an invitation to feel him, to ground yourself in the real world. It was an offered distraction for your mind to be taken elsewhere. His jaw dropped slightly, and his words caught.

But your widened eyes, filled with curiosity and trust, reached in deep and pulled out a smile for Steve to wear for you.

"Dance with me."

You blinked silently, but accepted with an absence of hesitation, the feeling of Steve's fingers flexing slightly from the contact before his hold embraced yours completely. The beginning notes of 'Heaven - Bryan Adams' began to play softly as he guided you toward an unoccupied space.

His large hand splayed over your hip, introducing a comfortable warmth to seep through your dress. It was a grounding touch, as much of an anchor as the way his fingers slid between yours before holding you with confidence. He wasn't in any way a professional, but Steve swayed you both gently in a small circle, his eyes absent-mindedly dropping to his feet to make sure he wouldn't step on you.

For the first time in a long time, you both felt content.

Steve's lips hovered by the shell of your ear, hilarity riding the tone of his voice, the rumbling from his chest close to pressing against your own, "I'm not much of a dancer, just thought I'd warn ya."

"Thought you were good at everything, Harrington?"

Steve laughed and chuckled, and the hand intertwined with yours offered you a slight squeeze. He had to hold himself back from pulling you completely flush against his front. "Yeah, well, fighting off interdimensional monsters really brings things into perspective."

Your bodies moved slowly, a union that harmonised easily with little thought. It allowed you to release a shaky breath, expelling fear as you instead chose to accept the safety of your new friendship with Steve. The hand that you had placed on his shoulder snuck around his neck, closely followed by the other one, until you were hugging him to you. Your cheek pressed carefully to his chest to revel in the steadiness of his heartbeat. The boy dropped his head, nose against your temple, hugging you back.

Your steps had slowed now as you settled into the feeling of Steve's embrace. He didn't want to scare you - to squeeze so hard that you'd crack, or to speak too loudly that the moment you found yourselves within shattered. He had developed a desperation to keep you protected, and right now, it was by holding you against his chest to shield the outside from invading your thoughts.

And it was as if you could sense it, "Thank you, Steve."

He didn't ask what for, but he had an idea. Your lives had now intersected in a cruel twist of fate, and the unknown hung dangerously over your heads every day. Finding people to band together with was crucial - and he had happened to now be your person, and you were his.

Steve's nose buried against your temple, breathing you in as he tried to slow his heart's pace.

"Anytime."

ⅱ. ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ; ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• tainted love - soft cell

The strength of the bass made you flutter as it thumped, musical patterns reverberating up from the floor and settling in your chest. You weren't sure whose house Steve had dragged you to on this summery Friday night, but the place was crowded, and the beer was warm. The perfect concoction for letting loose.

He made sure not to stray too far - focus drawn to you and Robin as if second nature by now, whilst he mildly engaged in conversation with someone from your school days. Steve's head nodded in the right places, and his smile showed interest enough, but he still couldn't look away from you. Both of you. Unable to drop his protector status for even a mere moment.

Robin exuded confidence as she settled comfortably into your surroundings, using her energetic nature to ensure a full plastic solo cup always accompanied your palm. You both lost track of the drinks you had had, but Steve was counting them; not to be controlling, no, but because he has unconventionally learnt to be overly observant, to keep an eye out for danger, triggers, walking and talking caution signs.

You could've sworn the music got louder, or the bass had gotten deeper, feeling each note and tune so viscerally. Bone-deep, as if it were a part of you, etched deeply. Robin's mind was lost within a world of her own, quite like yourself, as her body swayed to a beat far from the song blaring across the living room, but her smile was still wide. Though maybe that was because of Vickie Dunne and her inability to look away from your joyous friend, and the longing looks Robin had been throwing back to her all night.

"You should go talk to her," you attempted to say, needing to repeat yourself as Robin peered at you with curiosity. When you spoke louder against the shell of her ear, you could feel the warmth flush her cheeks.

Robin stammered, "I-i mean, yeah, I.. but what about you?"

Although you'd love to think she was purely being caring, you knew your friend well enough to see the deflection, trying to conjure an excuse. Robin was one of the most assured people you know, but at this moment, she had never seemed shyer.

"I'll be fine, promise. better to try now before that liquid courage dries up." You cooed, eyes gesturing over your friend's shoulder. With a comically deep breath and a shake of her head, Robin hyped herself up before you sent her on her way. You watched as she stumbled briefly into a small console table, only to straighten up immediately, all without breaking eye contact with the redhead - and you stood back, thoroughly impressed, but now bored.

And that's when the thought of Steve popped into your head.

He always did, so easily these days. When you had a nonsensical thought, were unsure what to do next, unable to cure the monotony of your day, he would answer your beck and call. Steve was always the solution, and he never let you down.

You could feel his gaze watching over you across the density of the crowd. The room was thick with drunken bodies, much like the air, an almost suffocating atmosphere that you didn't realise until now. You found it difficult to see where Steve was as you stood tiptoed, examining your surroundings. It was as if he knew, however, already making his way to you. Like a magnet. An indescribable force. A taut invisible string.

The scent of his cologne wafted around you before steady hands were placed on your shoulders, a firm chest pressing to your back, a chuckling voice sounding by your ear, "You lookin' f'me?"

Steve could've sworn he stopped breathing as he watched you turn around and smile so wide at him. The excitement of your night mixed with relief to see him as it tugged between your cheeks, igniting a fire behind his ribs. He could stare at you all night if you kept looking at him like, probably even the rest of his life...

"Dance with me." Your declaration broke his thoughts, and Steve blinked back into reality before looking at your dainty hand held out to him. It brought back a memory from a year ago, where you attended somewhere as friends and left as something more intimate and trustworthy. Oh, how far you've both come since then.

"You know I'm not much of a dancer," he replied, his smirk deepening as he watched you prepare a comeback.

A scoff escaped between your lips, arms crossing over your chest. "Please, I've seen Steve 'the hair' Harrington dance at parties before." Your eyes squinted, nose crinkling in the way he loves. He rolled his eyes, pretending to think about it. Still, a crack formed in his teasing as he noticed you biting your lip, "C'mon Steve, I'm buzzed, and I wanna dance with you."

How could he say no when you were looking at him like that? As if he were the only one that mattered in this crowded, stale room. Steve sighed dramatically as his eyes rolled clockwise, fingers easily interlocking with your own as his palm slid against yours. He would be lying if he said that he didn't wish his hand could hold yours forever.

Nothing could wipe the slanted smirk off Steve's lips as he watched you situate yourselves closer to the music, your lips moving as you mouthed the words to the current song, head moving side-to-side rhythmically. You were completely unaware of how cute you looked, and Steve had to draw a deep breath before looking away so that these new thoughts didn't evolve into something else. Something deeper.

The music took control of your body for the umpteenth time that night, hips now swaying, and Steve's hand that you were still holding now lifted above you both as you tried to entice him to join. He rolled his tongue at the gesture before his head began to bob with an accompanying smile that he couldn't bite back. His fingers tightened around yours before tugging you closer, your frame twirling gently under your arms, until you landed in front of him with a palm pressed to his chest.

Steve's smile didn't falter, not in the slightest, but it did soften.

You let him go so that your hands could slide up to his shoulders, finding their home at the back of his neck. Your lip was bitten again, the spot swelling with pink plumpness from the constant harassment of your teeth - and Steve tried not to stare.

"You can put your hands on me. I won't bite." You said, noticing how they had fallen to his sides. It made you giggle, gentle and sweet, when he realised he was stuck in an entrancement. But you moved before he could, your fingers taking hold of his wrists and bringing them to your waist. They flexed against you, tightening, savouring the feeling of your body under his touch.

Your hips were near flush to his now as they kept their momentum. Being so close to Steve brought a different thickness to the air - one that allowed you to breathe more, but you were merely breathing in him. It was like a bubble made just for the two of you, everybody else fading.

The tempo changed as 'Tainted Love - Soft Cell' sang through the speakers nearby, so you turned around, Steve's grip still tight as you twisted until your back was against his chest. You could feel it thumping, fast, hard. His breath quickening. You're not sure if the drinks you had were finally settling, but your mind felt lighter, and you settled among the carefree.

Your body rocked in cadence, and although you couldn't see Steve, you could tell that his hips were following yours like a lost puppy - desperate and dependent on you. The people around you shifted, and he instinctively pulled you closer after his grip dragged to your hips, guiding your movements, controlling how you grazed him. The pace. The pressure.

You could feel a carnal fervour lulling down your neck as Steve breathed. It forced a jagged inhale to gather in your lungs, hitching abruptly, and you didn't expect the beautiful boy behind you to make you feel so stirred. A sudden heat made your skin pebble, and you retreated forward like his presence had burnt you, his hands dropping from your frame. It was as if your bubble had been popped, and you both remembered where you were and who you were with. What you were doing. How it made you feel.

Steve cleared his throat. You looked to your feet.

ⅲ. ʜᴀʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ ᴋɪᴛᴄʜᴇɴ; ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• centerfold - the j. geils band

Steve couldn't sleep. More accurately, Steve didn't sleep. He was cursed with unforgettable scenes that haunted his mind whenever he closed his eyes. Which is why he preferred to sit within spaces bathed in light when he was alone; scared that the shadows would prey on him when he couldn't see, that they would sink in their claws and refuse to let go.

Three raps against the chipped-red wood of his front door made Steve jump, his mind broken from an exhausted trance. As one normally would, Steve didn't actually become concerned at a late visitor. In fact, he was used to it. He was used to you - and how you too suffered the inability to settle into a sweet slumber, how you would flinch at loud sounds and the creeping inch of darkness.

You didn't need to ask why he opened the door so quickly at one a.m, his living room bright with every globe aglow, your gaze drifting from the space behind him to the tired lines framing his eyes, "You too, huh?"

"Just the norm." He murmured back, a sympathetic smile shaping his lips and softening his eyes. Steve moved to the side so that you could walk inside, your shoes instantly kicked off by the door. He fell easily in step with you as he guided you both toward the kitchen, the room also lit up with nearly enough wattage to require UV-protected sunglasses. It made you squint, but you knew Steve needed it - the reassurance, the lack of shadows.

Steve's hands found solace around a half-drunken mug of tea, the aroma sweet and warm as it filled the space. It was complementary to the gentle hum of the radio on the island bench, and you could see where your friend had been propped up for most of the night as he leaned next to the askew bar stool with an upside down book nearby and a pair of discarded glasses. You didn't know that Steve had taken up reading, but you were sure it was out of boredom or avoidance that had prompted him to raid his father's forgotten stash.

"You want a mug? Kettle's still warm."

His voice drew your attention toward him, thoughts too loud and imposing to consider what he had said, and the furrowed brows you displayed were an indication enough to Steve. He easily recognised that expression of disorientation: astray from reality, stuck in a purgatory between fact and fiction. And it made his chest tighten.

The tender melody emanating from the speakers to his right filled the silence between you. It sounded comfortable - a tune that dared Steve to put down his mug and hold his hand out toward you. His eyes were tired, but they still managed to sparkle, "Dance with me."

It wasn't a question, yet it was neither a demand. It was more of a silent understanding between you both that always ended the same way - your hand slipping against his, and a large, warm hand splayed against your waist.

Steve guided you so that you were situated in front of him, your matching sock-clad feet opposite each other on the brown tiled floor. He desired your full attention, for you to tell him what was bothering you, because he could see that something was. He could tell easily, like a book he's re-read a hundred times. A movie he knows all the words to. A song that had embedded its melody so deeply in his mind.

After all, you were his person. And he was yours. It only made sense.

"Thought you weren't much of a dancer." You hummed, looking down at your socked feet.

His response was quiet as he spoke, scared to break the moment, "For you I am."

Steve slowly swayed as his fingers flexed around yours, the hand on your hip allowing his thumb to rub reassuring circles through your thin sweater. His eyes bored toward your crumbling facial expressions. "Tell me what's wrong." His voice was delicate, yet stern. Careful.

"I'm just tired, Steve - "

"C'mon. You don't need to bullshit with me. You never do."

You had told him that you had trouble sleeping, but you never properly explained why; the visions that controlled your nightmares were now seeping into the daylight and playing when you were awake, and you had been experiencing sporadic and painful headaches.

He would lose his mind if he knew, but he would lose it even more if he didn't.

You drew a deep breath, "The migraines are back, and they're always hurting."

Steve's steps faltered. He became uneasy too quickly. Knowing you were in pain and what it could mean was enough to turn his blood cold. He swallowed back the lump forming in his throat before absentmindedly pulling you closer, your arms instinctivly tangling around the back of his neck as his cheek pressed to your temple.

"You could've said something." He murmured, feeling you hum in agreement against his clavicle.

The song changed on the radio and the kitchen was soon filled with a soft ballad, a toned-down crescendo that bespoke mosaics bounced between four walls. It carried a melody you knew well, and Steve could feel your shoulders ease as you let it engulf you.

It was fitting for this moment - tender and delicate, like the way Steve was holding you, your bodies still swaying despite the minimal space that separated you both.

"This would be my song." Your words were spoken in a barely audible whisper, the confession licking at Steve's collarbone.

His brow quirked when confusion took over, "What do you mean?" Yet he had an idea, and he instantly wished he hadn't asked.

"If Vecna came for me."

"You know damn well I wouldn't let that happen-"

"But it could, Steve. And if it did, it would be this song." Your nose dragged gently by the base of his throat as you repositioned your head, shifting slightly, "I would think of now. This mere moment of peace. And it would bring me back."

Your admission hung like a safeguard, readiness for the unseeable. It made him think of Max, floating high above him, her mind lost. And how he would rather die than ever see you enter a similar fate.

Your fingers fidgeted with the hairs at the nape of his neck, nervous movements from such a serious revelation. The tension was thick but Steve knew that you trusted him with everything you embodied.

"Centerfold."

You pulled back at his word, only enough to see his face as he peered down at you, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk.

"By The J. Geils Band. That'd be mine." Steve confessed, his smile widening as you began to giggle, chest warming at the sight of you happy.

"Homeroom angel, that'd be your pick? Seriously?"

The boy scoffed before pulling your laughing form closer to him again, smooshing your face into his shirt as your jovality grew louder. There was no point in holding back the pleased grin he wore so well around you; pressing the smile against the crown of your head, the swaying movements you were making now became exaggerated, back and forth as he tossed you playfully.

"Not that we're gonna need 'em, okay? I got you, and I always will." Steve started, slowing once more, embracing you tightly, "And when this is all over, there will be time for us. Just you and me, if... ya know, you'd want something like that."

You didn't waste a second, "I would."

ⅳ. ʜᴏᴘᴘᴇʀ-ʙʏᴇʀꜱ ᴡᴇᴅᴅɪɴɢ; ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• time after time - cyndi lauper

It was odd; standing in a room bathed in pastels and florals, no resemblance to the darkness of any kind, surrounded by the people that you had spent years running toward the light with. Being on high alert for so long still left your bodies trembling at unexpected moments, compelled to always look over your shoulders, to view the world a little differently.

And yet, the party that you eventually built your life around had finally found relative happiness.

They say that some families only come together during weddings or funerals, and thankfully, today was the former. The turnout was small yet familiar and intimate, a perfect setting for the matrimony of Joyce and Hopper. It felt like years in the making; finally expelling into a contented deep breath, an introduction to the rest of everyone's lives, the capability to move forward.

You stood back, listening to the melody of laughter around the room, noting the matching smiles that complemented the serenity. Even after all this time, your gaze still trailed over the kids like a protective caretaker, but you couldn't help the softened grin that pinched up your lips when you saw their eased shoulders and joviality. Finally.

"You're staring." Humour voiced by your ear, the familiar scent of oakmoss and leather notes filling your vicinity. Steve was instant warmth as he settled beside you, his arm now wrapped comfortably around your back as you leaned into his side.

"How can I not? Look at them, our babies are all grown up." You cooed like a reminiscing parent, prompting Steve to chuckle heartily in return. He was the other half of your babysitting madness, earning just as much of a right to gush about those kids as if they were his own. And he often did.

He gently nudged your hand with a cool glass of champagne as he took a sip of his own, eyes dragging back over to you after monitoring the younger party members. Cheeks grew pink when he noticed your bottom lip pinched between your teeth.

"Trying to get me drunk on the first date, Harrington?"

Steve scoffed, completely enamoured, "Maybe I just wanted to make sure my girl was well looked after."

My girl.

The words struck something within you. A chord played just right. It was the first time you heard the sentiment fall from his lips, and you were sure that the warmth travelling up your neck was giving away how taken you were.

The glasses were soon abandoned as guests started to gather around cleared floor space, gentle notes of Cyndi Lauper drifting around Hopper and Joyce as they took their first steps together as a married couple. It was awkward to watch, yet endearing, as Jim Hopper tried to do a bridal waltz before giving up and simply swaying Joyce with all the happiness in the world.

It was then that you felt Steve's hand nudge yours. A touch, a feeling that you could never forget. Calloused and scarred skin mingling with your own. His hold safe, and loving. The floor was declared open, and he wasted no time before standing in front of you, eyebrow cocked, famous smirk shaping his lips.

"Dance with me."

Nothing could ever feel more right in this world than being in Steve Harrington's arms. They fell effortlessly to your lower back before he pulled you close to his chest, your own tangling behind his neck where fingers could lightly play with long brown tufts. Steve's cheek pressed to your temple as you both swayed, the chorus of 'Time After Time' being hummed gently into your hair.

You couldn't help the smile that contorted your facial features - wide lips, a scrunched nose, crinkled eyes. The embodiment of contentedness. A place you never want to leave.

"You know..." Your voice started after a change in song, your nails scratching lightly at Steve's scalp to coax him out of his comfortable trance, "It's pretty ballsy taking a girl to a wedding for a first date."

Steve snorted. As if you weren't already invited. But there was a difference in his tone a few days ago when he brought it to your attention; and asking if you'd go with him, was entirely different to asking if you'd go with him.

"Yeah, well. I've been into taking risks as of late." He sounded in reply, thumbs absently rubbing your hips through your dress. It was then that he pulled back, hazel eyes lidded in what one could only describe as love. His large hands warmed your skin as they slid up your arms, hands capturing your own, and pulling them gently between you both.

Your swaying continued, feet moving around in small steps, before Steve pressed a kiss to each of your knuckles.

"And how is that working out for you?" You asked, eyes remaining on his. Your voice was gentle among the budding crowd, but in the moment, it was just the two of you. No distractions. No intercepts. Just you and Steve.

He had always been a smooth talker, so it took you by surprise when that charm exuded into his movements as Steve suddenly spun you away from him, never once breaking eye contact. A stunned exhale pushed through you after you were pulled back in, your back now pressed to his chest and arms tangled over yours.

He could sense your shock, so he laughed against the shell of your ear before lips trailed down to a spot that he knew would make you sigh, "You wanna know how it's working out?" He whispered into your skin.

You nodded, breathlessly.

Steve placed a kiss. "Unbelievably perfect."

ⅴ. ʟᴏʟʟᴀᴘᴀʟᴏᴏᴢᴀ '92; ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• porch - pearl jam

You thought that Hawkins mid-Summer could be the hottest place on Earth, but nothing prepared you for Cincinnati. Maybe it was the intensity of the sun that cast its warmth ferociously over the festival, or perhaps it was the electrifying energy that surrounded you as you stood within a buzzing swarm of music-lovers.

Either way, it was far from a deterrent for Steve Harrington as he still found every opportunity to place his hands somewhere on your body. Or if his hands had already found refuge, his lips were quick to seek out the next best sliver of skin.

Spirits were high, as were many of the thriving patrons around you. The smile that tugged eagerly between your cheeks was reciprocated easily by your friends as your group stayed close to one another throughout each set. Vickie, at some point, climbed onto Robin's shoulders as their voices boomed with loud joviality to each song, whilst Jonathan captured every moment through his trusty lens, and Nancy moved so freely as she finally let loose.

And then, there was you and Steve. Your voice also carried alongside the crowd, but it began to falter the more you felt Steve's fingers absently fiddle with the shiny band and stone that now graced your left hand. It was an obsession he had - the inability to stop feeling for it, to remind himself of reality, to ground his thoughts and reassure his dreams that he proposed to you and you had said yes.

It had been three months since his knee found the plushy carpet of Enzos. Three months since the speech he had planned for weeks had dispersed because he couldn't stop smiling and crying. Three months since you dropped from your seat, dress crushed as you knelt in front of him, and fell happily into his arms. After all this time, he was still addicted to the thought of you as the future Mrs Harrington.

Hollers and cheers erupted as the large stage ahead sounded a new song; Pearl Jam setting the scene for another track from their new album, before Robin's excitement boomed in your ear when the opening notes of 'Porch' began to play.

The atmosphere was contagious like a fever that couldn't be held down. As one entity, the crowd was moving and singing - a unified moment between thousands of people. It was hard to feel out of place when you were in the middle of such cohesion.

The second you turned to your side, Steve was already looking down at you, the sun reflecting golden flecks from his hazel eyes in a mesmerising moment. It made him appear younger, as if the trouble you had all faced didn't exist within this brief instance of time.

"Dance with me." You said, your smile still worn well and wide.

He snickered, leaning in to peck your sun-kissed cheek before his nose grazed along the warmth. The man hummed in acceptance and smoothly wrapped his arms around your torso, tugging your body back until you felt the hard plane of his chest behind you. You were back in your favourite place, Steve Harrington's embrace, as your hands rubbed over his forearms before your head fell to his shoulder.

Steve guided your bodies from side-to-side. It was a momentum that you knew all too well, ignoring the heat and beading sweat that clung between you both so that you could immerse yourself in all things Steve. His cologne had yet to falter, adhering to his baggy tee and wafting further toward you the more his arms tightened.

You eventually grasped his wrists, wrapping around them with care before pulling them to your sides. It was always so invigorating whenever Steve's large hands splayed against your waist - their size making you feel safe and heated in a conflicted concoction. You craved for him to both protect and tear you apart at the same time. They slipped generously to your hips before his fingers tensed, blunt nails digging into you with calculated strength.

His lips fell next. They found their home below your ear, claiming the expanse of skin down to the base of your throat. Every drag of his tongue professed ownership, only justified by the control he now had as he moved you with his hands - your pace, your position, your pressure.

The festival had become background noise; all that you could focus on was your future husband and the significant devotion of love he had for you.

ⅵ. ʜᴀʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ ᴡᴇᴅᴅɪɴɢ; ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• more than words - extreme

It had taken ten years in the making for this moment to happen. Bright flashes of light still trigger something within you, and pure darkness is more than enough to haunt - but standing, hand-in-hand, with what you could call your universe and more in a single person had easily rewritten the cruelty of the past. The suffering still existed; however, Steve Harrington's love made the fight and survival absolutely worthwhile.

You wore matching smiles with twin pinched lips, intertwined with devotion and warmth. They paired harmoniously with the two sets of eyes that were still slightly red-rimmed from the jovial tears that ran rapidly. And then, there were the words that were declared not too long ago that continued to sing sweetly in your mind - Husband and Wife. Steve and You. A pairing that outlived monsters and anguish, that sought each other through the dark with fumbling hands, that created their own light instead of waiting for it to come.

Steve's right hand was stubborn, refusing to let go of you. From the moment you two ventured back down the aisle, and through the audience of loving words delivered in toasts from your loved ones, he held you tight as a reminder that this was real. That you were now a constant in his life - like oxygen, and he was desperate to breathe you in and fill his lungs with this stunning promise of forever.

"I love you." His whispered words felt like a tattoo the more he whispered them against your throat, your pulse jumping and the proud turn of his lips grazed skin so stunningly before they pressed yet another kiss below your ear.

Your hand snaked up the side of his head as fingers carted through his hair, slight pressure forming as you made sure to keep his face in that position against you. Steve chuckled, the gentle huffs of breath tickling your skin. You could feel his glasses nudge the underside of your jaw before you turned slightly to smile at him. "I love you, too."

It was perfect. Even more so, when delicate sounds of music began to emit around the reception space.

'More than Words - Extreme' was a song that Steve picked. It was his only must-have requirement for the Wedding you two found yourselves the centre of. He proclaimed it a story that followed you closely, as if your journey together across all these terrifying and beautiful years had been summarised. As if the song itself were a neon arrow, pointing toward this moment of you both wearing matching rings.

He stood from his seat as if the notes were a trigger, hazel eyes widened with hope when he looked to you. You could read him like a book - the way his smirk cocked, how his gaze softened. He'd already encaptured your hand, but the invitation was still laid out. Steve didn't need to ask you aloud, not this time.

"I would love to dance with you. Always." You spoke gently, attempting to hold down the shake that followed your words and the happy tears that threatened to spill.

Steve guided you both to the dedicated space, family and friends watching on with endearment. He positioned his left hand on your hip, thumb already rubbing delicately into your side. His right still holding onto you, never planning on letting go. Your chests were close, and you cupped his cheek before Steve's lips pressed into your palm.

He took the lead.

It was more than a sway this time, more than intimate touches as two bodies moved clockwise. More than wandering hands that burnt with every drag of skin over skin. It was more than a distraction or a promise of safety, a budding romance from years of dancing around feelings rather than just dancing together.

The way he moved with you, and you with him, was a sentiment that vowed beyond longevity. Steve Harrington was holding you as if you were the most delicate thing he had ever touched, whilst also being the one thing that he craved more than life itself.

It was, simply, forever.

You could see the glassiness coat his eyes, contentedness settling so easily now within him. Carefully, your hand dragged up from his cheek to take hold of his glasses, removing them and placing them in his front jacket pocket before the lenses could fog up. He chuckled under his breath as a tear began to fall.

"You know, I'm still not much of a dancer."

You chuckled back, tears of your own falling once again, yet the smile between your cheeks had grown.

"Thought you were good at everything, Harrington?"

Fingers flexed against your hip before they trailed up your side, taking their time to map each curve. They eventually found solace on your back before splaying comfortably, and then he tipped you backwards.

The joyful laugh that pushed through you was Steve's version of angels singing. And he would do whatever, whenever, for the rest of your lives to always hear that noise. He didn't want to interrupt it, but the desperation to kiss you came first, his lips capturing yours as he swallowed your laughter, smiles pressing to one another.

When he pulled you upright, you laughed again, softer but passionate as your crinkled eyes and scrunched nose looked to him. Steve would never understand how you were both his oxygen and the reason for his breathlessness.

"I'm good at a lot of things..." He began, leaning down to brush his nose against yours. The two of you couldn't hear the cheers from the wedding guests; how they gushed and cooed, the way their applause echoed loudly throughout the room. Instead, you were focused on each other. More specifically, the way Steve's lips grazed yours, and the shudder that shook him,

"- But loving you is what I'm most good at, Mrs Harrington."

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

I KNEW YOU | steve harrington

Standing there in the light of the window Wearing that same smile Man, it's been a while But I knew it, I knew you

When your former childhood best friend climbs through your bedroom window with a bruised and battered face, you take care of him but you aren't quite sure if you can forgive him.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 6.4k contains: eventual fluff, angst, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, description of physical injuries from canon level violence, steve being a dick, elements of king!steve, mild bullying, mention of sex, unrequited (but not really unrequited) love, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

author's note: this was meant to be a blurb but i got into the story too much to keep it that way!

to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page

You met Steve Harrington at five years old—the day that your family had moved to Hawkins. Elizabeth Harrington had knocked on your door with a plate full of freshly made brownies and a young boy with his arms wrapped tightly around his mother’s leg.

It took barely any time at all for you to be introduced to each other. Before you knew it—your mom and his mom were letting you guys run riot while sipping on homemade lemonade in your backyard. His dad and your dad later became business partners. And you and Steve Harrington? Your lives intertwined and you became inseparable. He chased after the boys who pulled your pigtails in the park and you held his hand after the first time his dad had ever properly yelled at him. He was your best friend and you were his.

And somewhere along the way, you had fallen in love with him. You hadn’t planned on it, in fact, you had actively tried to stop yourself from developing any sort of feelings for your best friend. But it just sort of—happened. You constantly thought of excuses to go over to his house just to see him, you spent way too much time on baking his birthday cake and you had cried yourself to sleep after he had told you his first kiss had been Lucy Hayes behind the bike sheds.

You told yourself you’d get over it. That being best friends was enough.

But then high school happened. High school—where Steve had slipped into the popular crowd with ease while you remained in the shadows. Where Steve went to parties while you stayed home to do extra credit.

You slowly felt him slipping away from you. He stopped sneaking in through your bedroom window to watch R rated horror movies that he had stolen from his parents VHS collection, he stopped knocking on your door in the morning to take you to school and he didn’t come to the annual trip to the lake house the summer after freshman year, opting to stay home and throw a massive party instead.

You told yourself it was fine—that you were just growing apart but you’d eventually find your way back to each other.

But then in your sophomore year, he invited you to one of his parties and your friendship came crashing down over a game of truth or dare.

You had never seen the Harrington house look so messy.

The front yard was littered with beer bottles and red solo cups, there were several smashed glasses in the kitchen and you swore you even saw a couple rolls of toilet paper hanging from the chandelier in the foyer. 

All you could think as you sat on the couch in the basement, squeezed between Steve and a very intoxicated Carol was that you hoped for Steve’s sake that Elizabeth and Danny Harrington never saw their house in this state. You were pretty sure Steve would be grounded for life if they did.

You felt Steve shift beside you as he leaned back to take a long swig from his beer, eyes flickering over to you briefly before he looked away.

You weren’t entirely sure why Steve had invited you to his party, he had hardly said a word to you all evening and you felt like some pathetic lost puppy waiting for him to come back to you. You had a feeling that he had only invited you to alleviate some of the guilt he may have felt for ditching you last week to hang out with Tommy but you were beginning to wish that he hadn’t asked you at all. Parities were not at all your thing but you had wanted to try because it was Steve and your feelings for him made you do things you didn’t want to do sometimes. Especially when he looked so stupidly handsome in that green shirt of his.

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” Steve asks you with a gentle nudge of your arm. The subtle contact sends a jolt through you and you have to force yourself to act natural as you turn to look at him.

“No, thank you, I’m—”

“—of course she doesn’t want a drink,” Carol slurs from beside you, leaning over you to talk to Steve. You shrink backwards against the couch, mostly to put a little distance between you and Carol and the smell of vodka coming from her that was almost overwhelming. “She hasn’t—” she hiccuped. “She hasn’t drank all—” she hiccuped again. “All night. She’s such a square.”

You don’t say anything but you feel your face grow hot in embarrassment as Carol talks about you like you weren’t sitting right next to her. The worst part was that Steve didn’t even stick up for you. You hate the fact you weren’t surprised by that. 

Your leg begins to bounce, you were trying to quickly think of an excuse to leave. Not that you really needed one, Steve didn’t seem particularly bothered by your presence.

“Steve, I need to—”

The sound of jeering cuts you off and the words quickly die on tongue as Tommy and a few more of Steve’s friends stumble down the basement stairs.

All you wanted to do was leave but Tommy was already squeezing himself between you and Carol and you had no choice but to move closer to Steve, your thigh pressed against his and his arm flush against yours.

The uncomfortableness you felt was churning horribly in your gut, your leg was still bouncing nervously and yet, Steve didn’t say anything. He didn’t even ask if you were okay, despite his legs lingering on your knee as it bounced anxiously.

“Who’s up for a game of truth or dare?” Tommy asks, one arm slung around Carol while the other nudges you with a gleeful smile. “Maybe it’ll get Little Miss Goody Two Shoes over here to loosen up a little.”

“Tommy, let’s not—” Steve begins but the laughter around the room cuts him off. He glances at you, as though he was trying to reassure himself that you were fine—that this was fine.

You watched as Steve’s friends dared each other to take a shot of hot sauce, to strip off their clothes and jump naked into Steve’s pool. Your stomach turned as you heard them ask each other the most intrusive questions about each other's sex life and at parts, even Steve laughed.

And then, it was your turn.

You shifted uncomfortably, Tommy’s elbow digging into your ribs as you looked to Steve for help. But he was too busy smiling over at one of the cheerleaders to even register your discomfort.

“Truth,” you say finally, figuring that it was the safest option. At least then they couldn’t dare you to skinny dip in the pool.

“Are you a virgin?” Carol asks you bluntly.

Your face warms, the answer is written on your face and all you wanted was for Steve to notice your discomfort, for him to help—

“I take that as a yes,” Carol mutters audibly as some of Steve’s friends laugh, making your face feel as though it was burning from shame. “Not surprised by that—”

“—Carol,” Steve says in a half arsed attempt to rein his friend in as you shift in your seat once again, your eyes flickering down to your lap as you avoid eye contact with everyone in the room.

“What?” Carol asks Steve as Tommy struggles to keep in his laughter beside you. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“—could you just—”

“—oh c’mon, Steve. We just wanna get to know her. S’only fair. You lost your v card last month so we were just curious about hers.”

Your entire body turns cold. Everything around you blurs, you feel a strange mix of feeling both too hot and too cold as you turn to look at Steve—who you find was already looking at you. Of course you were jealous, of course you were upset about Steve losing his virginity to someone who wasn’t you and of course it felt as though someone had twisted a knife in your gut at the mere thought of it. But it wasn’t just that—it was also the fact he hadn’t told you about it. It made that distance you had felt between you and Steve feel too loud to ignore. 

“Oh, are you jealous?” Tommy asks, nudging you as he takes note of the look on your face with glee. “You see that, Stevie? She’s jealous she didn’t get there first—”

“—dude,” Steve interrupts, the tips of his ears turning red as he looks away from you. “Don’t be a dick.”

Despite the fact that Steve had finally stood up for you, you couldn’t help but feel it was half hearted. Almost as though Steve’s heart wasn’t really in it, as though he was more concerned about what his friends would think of him than whether or not they were making you uncomfortable.

Tommy shrugs, the slight smirk tugging on his lips that told you he was absolutely not done being a dick.

“Fine. Whatever,” Tommy mutters with a quick glance your way that Steve doesn’t catch. “Your turn then, Steve.”

There was a brief pause where Steve didn’t say anything. You could feel his eyes on you and for a moment, you wondered if he was about to ask you if you wanted to leave, if he was finally going to put you before his stupid friends. But then Steve shifted beside and you knew that he had looked away.

“Dare,” he says.

You knew almost instantly that Tommy or Carol was going to give him a dare that would somehow upset you. Perhaps he’d dare Steve to make a move on that cheerleader right in front of you, maybe they’d even go upstairs and—

“I dare you to kiss the person sitting to your right,” Tommy says, a cruel smile tugging at his lips as he watches Steve’s expression shift. Because the person sitting to Steve’s right—was you.

The first thing that you registered in response to Tommy’s dare was the laughter from his and Steve’s friends, it was Carol’s small glance towards you and the way Steve had gone completely still beside you.

“No,” Steve says simply without even so much as a glance towards you. “Not her. No way.”

The way he said, the finality in his voice made something stir in your gut. Shame, embarrassment, humiliation—you weren’t sure. Perhaps it was a sick connotation of all three that was stirring in your stomach.

Not her, he had said. Like you were the very last person he would ever want to kiss, as though kissing you was in some way repulsive, even. The laughing didn’t help, Steve’s friends muttering to each other about your inexperience made it worse and all the while—Steve Harrington, your best friend since you were five years old, didn't say a damn thing.

And that was your breaking point.

You stand up from the couch, your legs feeling wobbly despite the fact you had only drank lemonade all evening. Your entire body felt hot from embarrassment but now also from the anger that was beginning to rear its ugly head. The anger you had felt towards Steve that you had quietly buried after months of him letting you down, months of cancelled plans, months of him putting his desire to be liked over his friendship with you. You suddenly felt so angry that your hands shook slightly and you knew you had to leave because you were seconds away from bursting into tears.

“Oh, look how upset she is Steve,” Carol cooes cruelly, gleefully watching you as Tommy tries (and fails) not to laugh. “She looks like she’s going to—”

“—fuck you, Carol,” you spat, white hot anger burning through you now as you turn to look at Steve a final time. You see the panic settle in his eyes as he half rises to his feet—before you walk away from him—walk away from him and his stupid friends, his stupid hair and his stupid handsome face.

You push through the sea of bodies that had congregated in Steve’s living room, not caring that someone had smashed one of Elizabeth’s priceless vases or the fact that there was a large stain in one of the rugs. All you cared about was getting out of Steve’s house and as far away from him as possible. 

You were almost successful. You were halfway down his driveway when the sound of Steve calling out your name as he stumbled after you reached your ears.

“Wait—” he calls out, almost frantic as he manages to catch up with you, his fingers slipping around your wrist in an effort to stop you from leaving. “Let me just—”

“—just what, Steve?” You snap, unable to keep the anger and hurt out of your voice as you turn to face him fully. You almost wish you hadn’t because the look on his face was so desperate that the thought of pulling away from him almost hurt.

“I just—I didn’t mean it like that,” Steve says quickly, his chest heaving as he looks back at you. In all the years he had known you, of all the years of friendship he had only seen you angry once before. That time you had spent all day making cupcakes for a bake sale just for Steve to accidentally drop an entire batch of the perfectly iced cakes. You had been so annoyed at him you didn’t talk to him for almost two days.

But that was nothing—nothing—compared to the look on your face as you stare at Steve and wait for him to explain himself.

“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, I just—”

“—oh my god, do you seriously think I’m pissed off about the dare?” You ask, unable to keep the anger out of your voice as you wrench your arm away from him.

Steve looks slightly hurt at the loss of contact and opens his mouth to respond but you’re quick to cut him off. “I don’t give a fuck about the dare, Steve. If the thought of kissing me grosses you out then it—it’s whatever.”

“But I—”

“—I’m pissed because—because you let your ‘friends’ treat me like shit and you didn’t say a damn thing about it!”

Steve looks stunned and that only makes the anger coursing through you grow hotter.

“I tried but they—”

“—well, you didn’t fucking try hard enough!” you exclaim angrily, your voice breaking as the first of your tears started to fall. You felt pathetic, humiliated as tears spilled down your cheeks but most of all—you were heartbroken that your best friend and the guy you were head over heels in love had become a stranger to you.

Something in Steve’s expression shifts at the sight of your tears. His face softens as he says your name and takes a tentative step closer but you step back. The dejected look on his face when he realises you had stepped away from him seemed to break something in you.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he tried to explain and you could almost feel his panic—the way he was looking at you, the way his fingers twitched as though he wanted to reach for you. “I didn’t think they’d go that far—”

“—but they did and you didn’t s-stop them,” you say, your bottom lip quivering slightly as you harshly wipe away your tears with the sleeve of your cardigan. 

“I’m so—”

You knew he was about to say sorry—you knew it by the look on his face and you knew that if he did, that you would want to forgive him. The way you had forgiven him for every other transgression over the past few months because he was your best friend and you loved him. 

And so, you had to stop him before you forgave him once more.

“—you’re a coward, Steve,” you say in a voice laced with anger, hurt and every emotion you had been bottling for the past few months while Steve Harrington quietly forgot about you. “You’re a coward and I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

The silence that greeted your words was one of the loudest you had ever heard.

You weren’t even sure if you meant it but you couldn’t take it back now.

Steve looked as though his entire world had come crumbling down around him, as though your words had been a dagger that you had driven directly through his chest. You knew it would hurt him, you knew it would upset him and perhaps that was exactly why you had said it.

“Oh,” Steve says thickly, swallowing a lump that had risen in his throat as he looked back at you, his big, puppy dog-like eyes almost pleading with you to take back the words that had just left your lips. “I—I see.”

I see. That was all he had to say. After well over a decade of friendship, after years and years of always having your back, years of ‘I’ll always be here’ and seeing each other's worst and best days—it would all end over two little words.

You waited. You waited for Steve to argue with you, for him to beg for your forgiveness like he had the last time you were mad at him. But he didn’t say a damn thing. 

“See you around, Harrington,” you mutter, his surname feeling foreign on your tongue as turn around and walk away from him before you could burst into tears.

And the days that followed, Steve didn’t even try to talk to you.

And so, from a distance you watched as Steve Harrington morphed into King Steve. You watched him be a completely different person, watched as he continued to surround himself with people like Tommy and Carol. You heard the parties he threw next door when his parents were out of town that carried on until the early hours or had to be shut down by cops, you heard the way girls he slept with spoke about him and eventually you heard all about him and Nancy Wheeler.

You couldn’t deny that hearing about Steve’s life through rumours hurt. Nor could you deny that the ending of your friendship had devastated you in a way that you hadn’t been expecting and that watching Steve carry on as normal, seemingly completely unaffected by the end of a decade-long friendship, hurt just as much.

You had almost knocked on his door on his birthday but had stopped yourself. You told yourself not to dwell on the past, told yourself that things changed despite the fact your feelings for Steve never seemed to waver and the fact that you still loved him despite everything.

But that all changed one night in your senior year.

You were drifting in and out of sleep, the rain hammering down outside, smacking loud against your window kept rousing you. But it wasn’t until a particularly loud smack against the glass that you finally jolted awake.

You blink, rubbing your eyes sleepily as you glance towards the window to see if it was hailing.

But you nearly scream at the sight of a shadowy figure standing on the garage roof just outside your window.

You open your mouth to yell for your mom but when you realise it was Steve Harrington—drenched to the bone, rapping his knuckles harshly against the glass—all thoughts of yelling out leave you.

Instead, you don’t move. You barely even breathe. You were in some sort of state of shock at the sight of him at your bedroom window after all these years.

You manage to stand on legs that feel wobbly and unsure of themselves, walking cautiously over your carpet and towards the window.

And when you finally see his face clearly through the window pane—at the dark bruise covering his eye, the blood spatter over his face and look of quiet desperation in his eyes, you unlock your bedroom window without much thought.

Steve stumbles into your room, water dripping down from his hair and his clothes onto your carpet. But you’re too busy gasping at the state of his face to worry about that right now.

“H-hi,” he stammers out, his teeth chattering and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold.

Hi? Was that all he had to say after years of silence? After forgetting about you like it was easy? After he didn’t fight for you?

You had the urge to yell, to scream at him but the sight of his beaten face stops you.

“Steve, your face—”

“—that bad, huh?” Steve asks, trying to smile but instead wincing in pain.

“Sit down,” you tell him, watching as Steve’s eyes flicker around your room, taking in everything that had changed over the past almost two years—the colour of your walls, the posters you had hung up, the polaroids of you and Steve you had taken down. “I um, I’ll get something for your face.”

Steve nods, wincing again as he sits down carefully on the edge of your bed, trying not to completely soak your sheets with rain water as he does so.

You take a deep breath before you turn and leave your bedroom to grab the first aid kit from your family bathroom. You’re careful to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake your parents who would certainly have a few questions about why your former best friend is sitting on your bed with a bruised and battered face.

You walk quietly back into your bedroom with the first aid kit in your hand to find Steve hadn’t moved from the edge of your bed. But he was holding your stuffed teddy bear in his hands—the one he had won for you at Hawkins Fair when you were twelve years old, the one he had called ‘Little Stevie’ before handing it to you with a bright smile on his face. 

You close the door softly behind you and Steve glances up, carefully placing Little Stevie back down onto your bed.

“You still have him,” Steve murmurs quietly as you sink down onto the bed beside him.

Your face warms and you hope it isn’t noticeable as you open up the first aid kit.

Truthfully, you hadn’t thrown out anything that was connected to Steve Harrington. The polaroids were tucked away safely in your jewellery box and even that shell necklace he had made you when he was seven was in a memory box in your closet. You just couldn’t bring yourself to throw anything away after the end of your friendship but you also couldn’t look at them anymore without something inside of you breaking every time you looked around your room. Little Stevie was the only thing you hadn’t put away—because truthfully, you couldn’t sleep without it.

But you don’t tell Steve that. 

Instead, you let the silence surround the two of you as you pull out several small gauze pads and antiseptic. Steve lets you work silently as outside, the rain continues to fall, the wind howls and there’s a distant rumble of thunder.

You start first by pouring a small amount of antiseptic onto a gauze pad before you gently dab it over the small gash on his cheek. He winces and hisses in pain but he doesn’t pull away.

“What happened?” You ask him quietly a few minutes later, the cuts and blood wiped from his face as you carefully inspect the bruise around his eye.

The sight makes something tighten in your chest. Though you hadn’t talked to Steve in two years, of course you heard the arguments that happened next door. Usually after one of Steve’s parties had left the Harrington home in a state. Steve had never had the best relationship with his father as Danny Harrington expected only the best from his son and Steve had never been able to live up to that, even from a young age. But though they argued, you had never thought it would escalate to something physical.

“It—it wasn’t your dad, was it?”

“No,” Steve says quickly, too quickly which makes you look at him carefully, wondering whether or not he was lying for your sake. “Really. It wasn’t my dad. I swear. It—it was Billy Hargrove."

You blink. You hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, ever since Billy Hagrove had strolled into Hawkins High like had already owned the place he and Steve had sort of rivalry going on but you weren’t aware it was bad enough for Billy to do something like this. 

“But why—”

“—it’s a long story,” Steve says, jaw tight and looking away from you briefly. 

“That’s it?” You ask him, pulling away from him as you look from his face to the bloody gauzes that sat in your lap. “You come into my room after two years of ignoring me—”

Steve’s expression falters and he says your name but you shake your head, getting to your feet and causing the first aid kit to fall to the floor at your feet.

“—no Steve, it—it’s bullshit! Okay? Do you have any idea what it was like for me to watch you slowly decide to just not give a shit about me anymore?”

Steve swallows at the sound of anger in your voice. He knew it had been coming and he knew he deserved it but he didn’t know what to say. Because there was no excuse, he knew that he had hurt you in immeasurable ways and he knew he most likely did not deserve your forgiveness. But he wanted—needed—to try anyway.

“I know I—”

“—and now you show up years later with a busted face and expect me to—”

“—I thought Billy was going to kill me tonight.”

That shuts you up. Your eyes widen and you look at Steve with a horrified expression and in your stunned silence, Steve decides to keep talking.

“I had a moment where he was landing hit after hit after hit I thought—I thought ‘this is it’ and all I could—all I could think about was—it was you.”

You’re completely taken aback, you were so stunned that you almost forgot to be angry. Almost.

“All I could think about was how—how I never got to make things right with you and how much time I wasted caring about stupid shit like being popular. Caring too much about what other people thought of me when it really didn’t matter. When I already had someone who liked me for me. And instead I—I treated you terribly, I strung you along and I should never have done that. Not to you. You didn’t deserve it.”

Your eyes stung and you had to look away, not wanting Steve to see how close to tears you were. Because the truth was that you missed him. You missed so much that it was almost a physical ache in your chest. You missed the way Steve could make you laugh even when you really didn’t want to, the way he used to sometimes snort a little when he laughed really hard and the way you could be completely yourself around him.

Steve says your name again but you don’t look at him, instead you sniffle and look down at the first aid kit you had dropped, at the various medical supplies that were now scattered over your floor.

But before you could even think about picking them up, Steve is already doing it for you. You swallow, taking the opportunity to wipe your eyes as Steve bends down, carefully putting the gauze, the bandages and antiseptic bottle back into the box.

He snaps it shut, placing the kit onto bed beside him before he finally looks back at you.

“I’m really fucking sorry,” he tells you, the sincerity in his face making your throat tighten. “For everything. For being an idiot, for trying to be someone I’m not. For letting you down, for making you feel like I didn’t give a shit about you. I’m sorry for not standing up for you that night. I’m sorry I didn’t try and fix things after and I—I’m sorry for not saying all this sooner.”

You nod, your bottom lip trembling slightly as you look back at him, slowly sinking back down onto the bed beside him. “You really hurt me, Steve.”

Steve swallows at that, his eyes turning glassy as he looks back at you. “I know. I was—a colossal idiot. There’s no excuse for it. I hurt you and I wish I could take it all back but I can’t. All I’ve wanted to do these past few years is make things right with you but—but you were right, I was a coward. I was scared—terrifed—that you hated me or—”

“—I could never hate you,” you tell him.

Steve’s eyes soften and he looks back at you with a hopeful expression.

“Really?”

You nod, flexing your fingers against your bedsheet nervously as you look at him. “Really. I was hurt, upset and I was angry but I never hated you. I don’t think I could ever hate you. Not even for a second. I just—I was worried about you. I didn’t want you to become like Tommy or whoever else you were hanging out with because I know that’s not really you.”

“I was still an asshole,” Steve says thickly, the shame evident on his face as he looks down at his lap. “I still did things and said things that hurt people and I can’t take any of it back.”

“No,” you agree quietly. “You can’t.”

It’s quiet then between the two of you—the only sound is that of the thunder rumbling outside. There’s a flash of lightning outside your window but still, neither of you say anything.

“I’m sorry too,” you tell him quietly as you look down at your lap. “For saying I didn’t want to be your friend anymore. That—that wasn’t true I just—I knew I would forgive you straight away if I didn’t.”

Steve shakes his head, corners of his mouth twitching as he hesitantly lifts a hand to rest on your shoulder. His touch alone sends something hot and electric coursing through your body. “Please don’t be sorry,” he tells you. “I should have grovelled for forgiveness and I didn’t. I was—fuck—I was such an idiot that night. I didn’t have your back the way I should have done and I’ll never forgive myself for that. For upsetting you, for making you cry, for letting people talk about you like that.”

“You have no idea how much I think about that night and hate myself for what I did and what I didn’t do. How fucking stupid I feel for letting the best thing that has ever happened to me walk away without a fight.”

You turn to look at him, your expression softening slightly. “Steve—”

“—no, I mean it,” Steve insists, turning to face you fully now as he grabs one of your hands and squeezes it gently. Water drips down from his hair and onto your skin but you couldn’t care less as his touch warms something in you. “You are and I’m sorry it took me losing you and almost dying to realise that. I was just—I couldn’t admit it to myself. I was stupid. So stupid. And I think—I think I was scared to be honest with myself.”

Your brows furrow at that while your heart pounds against your chest. “Honest about what?” You ask him quietly.

Steve looks at you for a long moment before he reaches for your other hand. You let him take it as the look in his eyes keeps you rooted to the spot. 

“That I was starting to fall in love with you and I got scared.”

All the air leaves your lungs at that admission. Out of all the things you had expected Steve to say when he climbed in through your bedroom window, you had never in your wildest dreams expected him to say that.

“I was—shit—it’s so fucking stupid now that I think about it but I just—those feelings scared the shit out of me. I mean—you were my best friend and yet, I was always fucking thinking about you. And so, I did all stupid shit to try and forget about you and it never worked. I partied, I listened to Tommy when I fucking shouldn’t have, I messed around because I thought I’d get over you.”

“I even lost my fucking virginity while wishing it was you beneath me the entire time. Nothing worked—nothing ever worked and so I—I thought distance would help but it didn’t and I let you down. I made promises and didn’t keep them. I made you think you were unimportant to me when you were the most important person in my life.”

“Steve—”

“—and that night—the night when Tommy gave me that dare—I didn’t kiss you because I was grossed out by you. God no, far from it—of course I wanted to kiss you. But I didn’t wanna do it if it was just a dare.”

“Steve—”

“—I just—I wanted it to be real and not at a party, not in front of Tommy and Carol or any one of those other assholes and—”

“Steve!”

Steve shuts up almost instantly. His eyes were wide and his hands were still holding yours tightly as though he was trying to ground himself.

You look back at him—at the guy you had loved for longer than you could remember—and you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him anymore.

“You know—I never threw anything away,” you tell him quietly. “I just—I couldn’t bear to look at things that reminded me of you because it hurt too much. Because missing you was like—it was like a constant physical pain. Something I couldn’t get rid.”

“Really?” Steve asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you say. “I even kept the shell necklace.”

Steve blinks once, twice before he laughs and the sound brings you the sort of warmth that even fire couldn’t ever bring you. You felt it in every pore, every nerve, every cell in your body. It made you feel lighter, made the storm outside feel insignificant.

“Why would you keep that?” Steve asks, still laughing quietly to himself. “It was so heavy and—”

“—because you made it for me,” you say simply with a small smile. “And that—that meant it was important to me.”

Steve blinks. He looks back at you with an unreadable expression as his thumb drags itself across the skin of your hand and seems to steal the air from your lungs.

“I made you it because the shells reminded me of you,” Steve murmurs fondly, eyes seeming to shine as he looks back at you. “I thought the shells were pretty and—I thought you were pretty too. Prettier than the shells, obviously.”

Your face feels hot and it was near impossible to fight back the smile on your face now.

“You told me you were practising for art class,” you say quietly, head tilting to the side as you look back at him. 

Steve smiles a little before shaking his head. “I lied. I was trying really hard to impress you but seven year old me had no game.”

You laugh then and you see the way Steve’s eyes light up, the way he can’t help but smile when he hears your laugh, when he was finally the reason behind it again.

“You didn’t have to do anything to impress me Steve,” you tell him after a moment with a soft smile. “You already did.”

There was silence again and then—

“Do you mean—”

“—yeah,” you breathe out, unable to look away from him as you squeeze his hands a little tighter. “I—I’ve been in love with you for a really long fucking time, Steve.”

The moment that follows felt as though it lasted for a lifetime. Steve was looking at you, seeming to forget how to breathe and you begin to wonder if you had been too forward when one of Steve’s hands slips out of yours to gently cup your face.

“The feeling’s pretty fucking mututal,” he murmurs before his lips seal over yours in a kiss that took your breath away.

Everything seems to slow down around you. You were vaguely aware of the first aid kit clattering to the floor as you kiss him back with no hesitation. your fingers sliding into his still damp hair while his hands gently cradle the back of your head.

You’re already breathless, unable to think of the world that existed out of Steve Harrington’s lips against yours—no thoughts about the rain splattering against the window or of the lightning that flashed across the sky outside. Because everything seems so dull in comparison to Steve’s lips moving against yours, against his hands that you were holding you like you were something sacred. 

He was the first to pull away—catching his breath as his eyes couldn’t help but flicker down to your lips that were wet, swollen and so inviting that he already wanted to dive back in again.

But he also knew he had to earn your forgiveness first and that wouldn’t involve being twisted in the sheets together.

“Let me take you out tomorrow night,” Steve murmurs, his thumb gently wiping away a smear of his saliva from your lips and trying not to give in. “Make up for lost time, yeah?”

You smile a little as you consider his offer, your eyes flickering over the bruise on his face. “Let’s wait until the bruise fades first, yeah?”

“Oh,” Steve says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his face as he looks back at you. “Yeah um, totally I—”

“—but I wouldn’t be opposed to a movie night,” you say with a small smile. “If you were to come up to my bedroom window again with a few movies I probably wouldn’t say no.”

Steve blinks but then—he smiles and he looked so devastatingly handsome that it was difficult to not pull him in for another kiss.

“It’s a date,” he tells you, leaning in to press a gentle but firm kiss to your forehead. “Little Stevie can join us too.”

You laugh and Steve can’t help but join you—thanking his lucky stars that you had opened your window for him.

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[aecd27]

♡ the pool of siloam ♡

part 3 of coward

pairing: blind gator tillman x fem neighbor reader

summary: new years eve was all about new beginnings. when you invite him to your friend's party, there's only one question on gator's mind. would this be the year he finally faced his fears? or would his cowardice be the death of him as well as the best thing he's ever had?

word count: 5.2k

warnings/tags: blind gator, explicit language, alcohol consumption, fluff, OCs (...or are they?), flirting, petnames, partying, NO use of y/n, first kiss, religious themes, blasphemy

a/n: oh. my. gator. this was originally supposed to be a little one-shot about blind gator being scared to kiss you, but i could not be more pleased to have turned that concept into my first series. i truly hope you all have enjoyed these two as much as I have. tys unbelievably m!! <3

'Twas the night before New Year's Day, and Gator was prepared to jump off a bridge.

Somehow, by the grace of God, you had convinced Gator to accompany you to your best friend’s New Year’s Eve party. 

Socializing, people, fun.

Gator was still deciphering whether or not you were sent to torture him.

It was no surprise that Gator still harbored a deep-seated hatred for social interaction. Even the thought of being amongst strangers was enough to send him back to bed. What could he say? The quiet safety of his own home sounded much better than the monstrous wasteland outside. 

There was nothing more to it. No secret code to crack. No mystery to solve. Gator Tillman liked being alone. Always had, always would.

Unless he was with you.

But that was different—frankly, you didn’t count. You weren’t a part of the danger awaiting him outside his front door. You weren’t affiliated with the mob that was surely tracking him down, or sent by the righteous hand of God to punish him some more.

No, you were the cathedral next door, offering asylum to forsaken sinners like him.

With your help, Gator uncovered sanctuary in the walls of his own home—in the walls of his own mind. You singlehandedly casted away every demon that lived in his head. You washed over his thoughts like holy water, cleansing him of his original sin.

You were Gator’s godsend—the savior he had begged for all his life. 

And he worshipped you every day.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t consider Sunday mornings to be the only time he believed. He no longer found restraint in religion, fear in faith. You didn’t confine him in commandments; you didn’t hold expectations over his head. 

All you asked was that he simply call you each day. It didn’t matter whether it was the first ray in the morning or the last star in the night. You just wanted to hear from him. From what he was doing, to what he was thinking, even to what he dreamed of the night before.

You never pushed him on his past. You didn’t demand details on his backstory. You approached his history like one would a scared animal. You let him come to you, get familiar with your scent before trusting your presence.

Time and time again, Gator convinced himself the next secret he shared would be the final straw—would be the thing that finally pushed you away. But you forgave all of his wrongs. You found the young boy behind all of his sins—the little kid who craved nothing more than love, who was only mean because of his daddy. 

You cherished every new puzzle piece he gave you—as if you were carefully binding every broken shard of him into a resplendent and breathtaking mosaic, one you planned to install on the walls of your heart.  

Gator had never been seen before. Not like this. Not like you did.

That must be why you were able to convince him to crawl out of his cave in the first place. Over a month ago, you managed to invite him over for Thanksgiving. Just you and him. The second you asked, Gator was as good as yours, for he caved immediately—physically incapable of letting you down.

Every instinct he survived on begged him not to go—too terrified of being vulnerable—but the second he knocked? You gave him a tour of your house, holding his elbow as you waded through every corner and hall as if he were there to make it his.

You confessed to having done research when he called you out on showing him where the light switches were—something he never thought about until he was blind. 

“I hope you’re not offended, or anything—I could understand if you were. I just—I thought asking you directly might—I don’t know—piss you off or something? I’m sorry, I just wanted to be prepar—”

“Sweetheart,” Gator interrupted. “Stop stressin’. I appreciate the thought.”

Gator couldn’t begin to tell you how much it actually meant to him that you so visibly cared for him—that you thought about him to begin with. It was more than anyone had before. 

And here you were now—still thinking of him.

Even if you were about to kill him doing it.

Gator’s watch beeped on his wrist, announcing the time.

10:00 P.M.

In sync with his watch, a familiar knock came from his front door. Dressed and ready, Gator unlocked his door, swinging it open with the biggest smile on his face. 

“There she is…”

A squealing set of arms embraced him in no time, invading his senses with that signature perfume that had leaked into his dreams. Another squeal escaped you as you pulled back to admire him. “You look so handsome!!”

He smirked smugly, slowly spinning himself on display for you. 

“Do I now? Gorgeous stylist picked it out fer me.” 

Thanks to you, Gator didn’t have to sweat about his outfit for tonight. The angel that you were, you had raided his closet earlier that week to find a suitable set of clothes to match yours. “Let me feel the dress?”

You sought out Gator's hands and brought them to your waist, letting him touch the sequin dress you were wearing for tonight—black, like his button-up. 

“Like it?” You chimed, no doubt wielding his favorite smile of yours.

“Fuckin’ love it, doll. Bet y’look like a million bucks,” Gator charmed, knowing exactly what to say to make you swoon. 

“Mhmm,” you hummed while Gator's hands trailed to your lower back, shamelessly nearing your ass. “You excited for tonight?”

Gator smiled. He had learned how to hold back his nerves a while ago. “Bet your ass. Can't wait t’show off my favorite girl.” 

That part wasn't a lie. He was fucking thrilled to show you off tonight. To flaunt you around the way someone as beautiful as you deserved. A long time ago, you had done Gator the courtesy of describing everything about yourself, even allowing delicate fingertips to trace your features. Gator carefully filed every detail of you into his memory that day, down to the very shape of your eyes.

Deep down, Gator knew you could've been lying about your appearance. You could've been painting a false picture for him so he wouldn’t be disappointed—so you could be someone you wanted to look like. 

But he didn't care. He wanted any version of you there was. The model, the bad hair day, the sinner, the saint—any iteration of you was celestial to him. 

The issue wasn't you. It was never you. The real reason for the turning of his stomach was none other than himself. 

Gator couldn't help but be mortified about something as simple as a New Year’s Eve party. A new environment filled to the brim with drunken strangers, paired with meeting your friends for the first time? 

Gator wasn't sure you were enough to keep him alive tonight.

But God help him, he wanted you to be. He wanted you to override everything that haunted him—to show him a life where he had nothing to worry about, where it was just the two of you.

You must have noticed Gator growing quiet. “Hey, my friends are going to love you. I promise,” you assured him. 

Gator bowed his head. “Y’dont know that.”

You found his cheek. “Yes, I do.” Your vow went deeper than any white lie Gator had grown accustomed to, cutting down every defense he relied on. 

“Hey…” You picked his chin up. “You trust me, right?”

Gator huffed. He hated when you did that.

 “Yes…” he muttered. 

“And you know I wouldn't hurt you?” You continued, running your hand through his hair—ungelled and loose. You once casually told him that you liked it better like this, when he looked more like himself than a drill sergeant. 

Gator's lips twitched in a sheepish smile. “Yea,” he caved, further thawing with your every word.

“So…” you straightened out his collar for him. “Trust me when I tell you tonight is gonna be just fine.”

Against his every instinct—every carefully developed layer of his shield—he believed you.

And come hell or high water, Gator Tillman would make sure that stayed true.

Ironically, the unlocking of the car clicked like securing handcuffs.

“Ya promise we can still run away if shit goes south, right?” Gator muttered as he followed you out of the backseat, his fingers trembling around his cane. Oh, how badly he wanted to ditch it and bolt out of here. 

You settled your fingers over his other hand, calming him before he could panic. “It's your call, Gator,” you promised. “Just say the word, and we’re gone.”

Gator nodded. He knew you well enough to know you would keep your end of the deal, but he also knew how important this night was to you. He couldn't ruin something so special to you. Not tonight. 

Gator used his cane to lead him up to the front door, your hand beside his the entire time. The music from the party was seeping through the door.

You squeezed his hand one last time. “Y’ready?”

Gator turned your way, presenting you with a gentle smile. “Course.”

“Alright then…” You allowed a brief pause between you before opening the door, freeing the music into the night. Right away, a chorus of cheers welcomed you into the party, screaming your name. Chills ran down Gator’s spine. 

Whenever he walked into a room before, he was met with disappointment, annoyance, or fear. He had never experienced what it was like to be celebrated for showing up—let alone by an entire room of people. 

It didn’t matter if the applause was for you; Gator still felt wanted, even through association.

“Hey!! Oh my god, girl! You look so gorgeous!!!” One of your friends squealed as they hugged you, taking your hand away from his. If Gator wasn't so happy to know you were, he was sure her high pitch could've given him a migraine. 

“Hi! Happy New Year's Eve!” You responded enthusiastically, joining Gator's side again. “This is Gator…” you dragged with a smile.

Gator extended his hand towards the voice. “Nice t’meet ya,” he greeted politely. Gator was determined to be on his best behavior. 

Your friend shook his hand kindly. “Gator,” she greeted back, a knowing tone in her voice. “Great to finally meet you! My name’s Drew.” Gator nodded, recalling what you had told him on the car ride there. 

“Drew’s like popularity in a bottle. I’ve known her since freshman year of high school. She's kinda one of those girls you would expect to backstab you in a high school movie, but she's actually one of the most loyal girls you'll ever meet,” you told him. “Oh, and she's always wearing this really sweet perfume—smells like the color pink.”

Shaking her hand, Gator could attest—she did smell pink. He noted the way her charm bracelet clinked as she shook his hand. “Heard a lot about you,” she chimed, letting go of his hand. 

Gator gave her another polite nod. “All good things, I hope.” 

“Oh, definitely,” she smiled. “Did you two want anything to drink? They have the place stocked.” 

You chuckled along with her as you squeezed Gator’s arm. “Sure, thank you.”

“Course, babe. I’ll see you later on the dance floor, kay?”

“You got it,” you agreed, laughing beautifully.

You led Gator to the kitchen island, running past random greetings the further you travelled through the house. 

“So, babe, huh?” Gator teased.

You laughed easily, releasing his hand to start fixing you both a drink. “Yep, that’s Drew for you.”

Gator smiled. “Long as she’s not tryna take ya away from me,” he teased, resituating his hand on your lower back.

“Oh, yeah. You’ve got a lot of competition, Tillman.” You ribbed back, placing a drink in his hand. You clinked your solo cups together. “To the New Year.”

Gator beamed back at you. “To the New Year.”

You both slammed your empty cups down in victory. “I totally won that, by the way,” you challenged.

“Oh, no fuckin’ way, sweetheart.”

“I’m serious!”

The two of you began to play around with each other until a new female voice called your name from far behind you.

“Sophie, hey!” You cheered as the voice came over to hug you.

“Sophie’s my lifelong friend. She’s pretty much my sister at this point,” you had told him. “She can get a little… enthusiastic when she’s drunk. She doesn’t really have a signature scent I can think of, but her voice is rather distinct.”

“Hi!” She screamed back. “When did you get here?! They played all of the good songs already! I had to do Wanna Be all by myself—”

“—No!” You shouted in utter despair. “Are you kidding?!” Gator had no idea what was going on.

“I know! Come on, you gotta get out here before you miss something else!” Sophie insisted, calling away from Gator now.

“Soph!” You laughed, startled. “Give me a second, okay? I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Okay! Just don’t take too long, or it’s on you if you miss Freek-A-Leek!” Sophie warned before returning to the dance floor.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Gator muttered, speaking for the first time since she came over. You laughed nervously. 

“Are you okay if I go on the dance floor for a little while?” 

The cruel part of Gator wanted to tell you no—to keep you all to himself. But he was trying to be better. He didn’t want to be a dick when it came to you. It didn’t matter if you were for only him to worship—Gator knew he would hate himself if he took you away from the rest of the world, if he was the reason why your smile was gone.

“Course,” he assured, finding your hand. “Have fun.” He pressed a featherlight kiss to your knuckles.

You responded by pressing a kiss to his cheek as you departed. “You’re the best.”

Gator felt the tips of his ears grow warm. He choked on nothing, his heart racing at lightning speed. The declaration, the kiss. You’d think after everything he survived before he met you, he wouldn’t be scared of someone as sweet as you.

Yeah, no. Gator was sure that at any moment he would find himself on a coroner's table, cause of death: you.

Before Gator knew it, it was ten minutes until midnight. Ten minutes before he left this year behind. Ten minutes before he lived in a year where he wasn’t alone. Ten minu—

“Yooo!! My man!” A loud and charismatic male voice howled in his direction—jubilant in a way that was foreign to Gator. A hand clapped him on the back shortly. “Gator, right? Oh my God, it’s so good to meet you, dude. I’m Alex.”

Alex. Right. 

“Alex is my best friend. He always throws the most insane parties. I can’t wait for you to meet him. Oh, and he’s always wearing like really expensive and unnecessary cologne.”

Gator granted him a tight smile, outstretching his hand. “Gator,” he returned politely. Alex’s hand was hefty—his handshake firm and commanding. Seconds into meeting him, and Gator already couldn’t help but feel intimidated by his strong personality.

Alex laughed heartily. “Man, I cannot begin to tell you how stoked I am to finally meet you.” It was as if Alex were a ball of energy, bursting at the seams with excitement. “Let me tell you—you sir, have been all she’s talked about since fucking Halloween, bro.”

Gator smiled briefly, the apples of his cheeks instantly growing warmer. “So!” Alex clapped. “You enjoying the party?!” Gator offered a curt nod to which Alex scoffed, obviously unconvinced. “C'mon, Gator. Hey, you say the word and I got you.” 

Gator couldn’t help but take notice of how Alex was so unashamedly himself—unafraid of anything. 

Gator envied it. 

“Nah. Thank ya, though.” He shook his head, graciously rejecting the offer—or at least, as graciously as he could. 

Alex sighed, notably disappointed at Gator's reluctance to warm up to him. “Not much of a party guy, huh?”

Gator ruffled a hand through his tousled hair. “Guess not,” he muttered.

Alex patted him on the back again. The force behind it felt scarily familiar, enough to set Gator on alert. He couldn’t begin to count the amount of times he had felt that very same hand.  Fortunately, Gator had spent his life discerning between danger and a warning shot. There was no callousness here, no hazard or caution. 

Gator knew he wasn’t in danger with Alex and his lavish cologne. The only danger was his own mind.

“You know, that’s a shame, man. She loves ‘em.”

Gator perked up with the new information. “...Really?” It wasn’t all that shocking to Gator. You were charming and confident. It wasn’t hard to imagine you would thrive in this environment. 

Gator just liked hearing about you. 

Alex snickered. “Uh, yeah, dude. You should see her right now.” Gator—oddly enough—directed his attention to the dance floor. He could vaguely hear you screaming along to the lyrics of whatever song was playing. “I swear, get her a little tipsy and she thinks she’s Britney Spears.” 

Gator snorted at the thought. God, how he wished he could see you right now. To see your hair swinging back and forth. To see you bursting with your unabashed confidence—the very thing that made him fall for you in the first place.

Fuck, he felt ridiculous with how much he wanted to admire you the way everyone else could. He wanted to worship the ground you walked upon. To degrade himself down to nothing more than your disciple—awaiting your every word as if it could grant him an explanation for all this suffering.

As much as he tried, Gator still couldn’t understand why he had been punished so severely—why he had been barred from bearing witness to the angel he was sent. For fuck’s sake, what God could be that heartless to deliver him such a message?

“I will show you everything, my son. Yet, I will deliver you a piece of heaven that you will never bear witness to.”

“—You are one lucky son of a bitch, you know that, Gator?” Gator could’ve laughed—out of everything he had been called, he had never been thought of as lucky. 

But Gator being Gator, took Alex’s statement as a threat—a burning feeling arriving in his chest. “Whadya mean by that?” He instigated, squaring his shoulders.

“Christ, man—” Alex exhaled in something akin to awe. Gator’s clenched jaw quickly turned into a scowl. Fuck it, if he was blind—that wasn’t gonna stop him fro— 

“—I have never seen her this happy.”

Gator halted, stopping in his tracks like a deer in headlights. 

“I swear to God, man—you are all she talks about. Twenty-four seven it’s Gator this, Gator that.” Alex exhaled through his nose in amusement. “She's so obsessed with you, she’s even got my boyfriend asking about you when I come home, wanting to know if there’s any updates on you two.”

“Oh.” Gator was sprawled across the pavement—those headlights seeing him to his death.

Alex didn’t falter, soldiering on with an unshakable smile. “I’m just saying—for someone who's known her since we were kids… I have never seen her fall this hard.” 

Gator’s heart constricted in his chest. His tongue felt dry, suddenly running empty on a tank he just filled.

“Are you?” Alex directed.

Gator stammered. “Am I…?”

“Falling for her,” Alex filled in. 

Gator swallowed roughly. He ducked his head backwards, facing the ceiling as if some merciful God would give him the right answer. How was he to pour out his shielded heart to a man he considered a stranger until two seconds ago?

Alex registered his hesitation. Setting his drink down on the counter next to Gator, Alex leaned closer, his voice coming out lower. “Listen, I don’t know about you, but that girl dancing out there, she loves like its breathing.” The soft statement reverberated somewhere deep in Gator’s chest. 

A sigh escaped Alex. “Gator… don’t let her fall for you if you’re just gonna let her down,” he added, more sincere and direct than he had sounded all night. “You and I both know she doesn’t deserve that.”

“‘S not that—believe me, I’ve…” Gator exhaled, shaking his head. “Never—in my entire life—have I felt so certain ‘bout anyone before. I can’t—I can’t imagine an honest life without her by my side.”

Gator was never one for confessional. When he was a kid, his father once beat him senseless for confessing to his other that Roy was responsible for the bruise on his wrist. He didn’t mean to—he just wanted to tell God he was sorry for breaking his mother’s glass, even if his father already punished him for it.

That was how Gator learned guilt was dangerous—that confession was suicide. After all, when you were a Tillman, secrets led to cemeteries, whether it was yours or someone else’s.

But the words fell from Gator’s lips before the noose could break his windpipe. “I like her so much it scares the shit outta me.”

Alex let out another sigh from beside him. He followed by leaning his shoulder against Gator’s. “Can I ask you something?”

Gator shrugged. Might as well go for broke. Not like his father could hurt him now.

“Why haven’t you kissed her?” 

Gator straightened immediately. “Hey, girls talk,” Alex instantly defended. Gator could almost see his hands up in the air in surrender—the bastard.

Gator swore under his breath. How much did your friends know about him? 

“...I mean, it’s obviously weighing on her,” Alex continued cautiously. “It’s not like she doesn’t want you to—”

“—I.” Gator hesitated. For shit’s sake, why was it so hard to admit something as trivial as the truth—the real reason for all of his hesitance? 

The confession floated in the air delicately, avoiding every point sharp enough to shatter it.

“I’m scared I’ll miss.”

Alex's voice came in closer, hushed amongst the chaos of the party. “What?”

Gator groaned. “I’m scared that I’ll miss,” he repeated, raising his voice enough to stick. “‘M scared I’ll lean in t’kiss her, an’ end up kissin’ her fuckin’ cheek or somethin’.” He stressed.

“I'm sure it's not as bad as you thin—”

“—Y’ever been blind?” Gator challenged, facing Alex straight on now. “Y’ever been so fuckin’ humiliated just existin’? Havin’ t'walk with a fuckin’ cane just t’get around?”

Gator exhaled roughly. “Ion't need eyes t’know everyone's staring at me like ‘m some fuckin’ circus freak.”

Alex had gone silent, obviously not knowing what to say. Gator knew this was a bad idea. There was a reason why he didn’t tell anyone what he was scared of. Gator Tillman was not scared. Gator Til—

“She doesn't.” 

Alex’s interruption caught Gator's attention. “What are ya talkin’ about?” 

Alex puts a hand on Gator's shoulder. “Listen, I—I know a thing or two about what it's like to be… stared at.” Alex started solemnly. “To feel shamed for something you can't control—for something you can't get rid of. Fuck, man. Just—I know what it's like to have something you didn't expect to come onto you change how people will see you for the rest of your life.”

Gator stayed silent. He could only assume what Alex was referring to.

“But, Gator, she doesn't stare at you… She sees you—she sees past what everyone else does. She did with me, and she does with you, too.” 

Gator freed a breath he didn't know he was holding hostage.

“When she looks at you, Gator, I swear—she shines at you.” Alex's voice was warmer than any man’s Gator had ever heard. “I promise you, man. She doesn’t see a freak—she sees a future.”

Gator’s thoughts stalled. Could it really be possible that you looked at him as anything more than a monster? 

Another tap on his shoulder returned him to the moment. “Speaking of…” Alex mused, his voice a step further away than before.

Gator’s eyebrows furrowed. “What—?” Before he knew it, he recognized a tender brush of fingers on his arm. 

“Hey…” 

It was you. You were back. The faint alcohol on your breath contradicted your soft, concerned whisper. “Are you okay? I thought I heard you getting upset—?”

Gator shook his head, smiling on instinct. “Hey… there y’are.” His hands found your forearms. “I’m okay, sweet. Nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

Gator imagined a pout on your lips. “You sure?” He nodded, wrapping an arm around you—savoring the closeness.

“‘M all sure, pretty girl…” You pressed closer into his side, warming Gator’s body for reasons that had nothing to do with your body heat. 

“So…” he teased, accent drawling. “Heard y’were havin’ fun on the dance floor?” 

Gator chuckled when your head dipped into his shoulder.

“Shut up,” you muttered into the fabric of his shirt. “You're not supposed to know when I look stupid…”

Gator shook his head, laughing. “What, y’thought bein’ wit a blind guy meant I wouldn't know when yer bein’ cute?” he teased. “Joke's on you, doll. I got eyes everywhere.”

You giggled as he whispered in your ear, making you shiver. “Guess I was mistaken.”

“Sorely,” he affirmed, smirking. You pushed him on the shoulder, making him hold you closer. 

“Countdown’s coming up soon,” you informed him. “Got any resolutions for next year?”

“I got one,” he mumbled, still smiling at you.

“Yeah?” You fished. “What is it?”

He shook his head firmly. “Nope, can't tell ya.” 

You laughed in confusion. “What do you mean you can't tell me?”

He solemnly shook his head again. “Too risky. I tell ya, and it might not come true,” he shrugged—as if his hands were tied. “Sorry, teach. Can't compromise it.”

You huffed. “You know that's not how New Year's resolutions work, right?”

Gator just smiled. 

Someone proceeded to scream from the living room. “Ten seconds, bitches!!” Cheers followed around the room, a giggle falling from your lips.

“Ten seconds…” You repeated lowly. “Better act now, Tillman. Time's running out.”

A sudden feeling of action spurred in Gator’s bones. You were right. Alex was right. Who cared if he missed? He wanted to kiss you at midnight.

“Ten!”

Gator focused in on you. Recalling everything he knew about your features, his hand carefully found your cheek.

“Nine!”

Time stilled between the two of you as he mapped your position, cupping your other cheek as well. You were close. There was no way he could mess this up. All he had to do was lean down. 

“Eight!”

Your fingers morphed around his wrist—gentle as ever. 

“Seven!”

He guided his thumbs to your lips, mapping the corners like a cartographer.

“Six!”

One touch of your lips, and Gator realized all of his dreams were bullshit. 

“Five!”

They weren’t just soft—they were sticky from your lip gloss that no doubt reflected amongst the party lights.

“Four!”

Gator's tongue slipped out to lick his lips. It was now or never.

“Three!”

He cleared his throat, “I wanna—” 

“—Do it.”

“Two!”

Gator smirked at your assertive permission and finally bent down to find your lips.

“One!”

Layered cheers of Happy New Year echoed throughout the house like a drunken cacophony. But nothing got past the drumming in Gator’s ears. 

Everything was boiled down to you. The crowd, the screams, the scents battling for attention—all of it was gone. There was nothing else Gator could’ve been bothered with other than the flavor of your lips.

The alcohol coating your tongue did nothing to overshadow your true taste. You rivalled every vape he ever put to his mouth. Every hit, every puff—nothing could compare to this. He found himself addicted before he could even open his mouth. 

Gator almost choked on nothing when your other hand fisted his collar, heaving him closer—kissing him harder, your tongue breaching past his lips.

Holy fucking shit, you were something else.

He groaned into your mouth as your tongue waltzed with his. Fuck, he hoped you were always this confident when you kissed. One of Gator’s hands forked between the silk strands of your hair, as heavenly as an angel’s.

As Gator slowly began to tune back in to the world around him, he realized the applause that surrounded you both no longer had anything to do with the countdown. 

Your friends were cheering for the two of you. 

Something about the revelation made Gator’s head rush. He kissed you harder, deeper—taking pride in the action. You were his to kiss. Blind or not, you were Gator’s.

You smiled against his lips as you pulled away, clearing your throat. “Was wondering how long it was gonna take you to do tha—”

Gator didn’t dare hesitate before bringing you back, kissing you like it was a mission—like it was a show of faith. 

“Happy New Year, teach,” Gator smirked, the words falling into your open mouth. A soft exhale entered into his own. 

“Happy New Year, Gator…” Gator couldn’t stop himself from kissing you again. Could you blame him? It was you, and he was addicted. Whatever. Fine him, sue him, send him to the chair—he would still die the happiest he'd ever been.

“It was you, you know…” he breathed into your mouth. “Y’were my resolution.”

You tugged on his collar once again, shorting his breath briefly. “Yeah? How so?”

He nodded quickly—as if he was begging for mercy. Or for you to never stop. Honestly, he wasn't sure anymore. “Wanted t’kiss ya,” he muttered, breathless. “And tell ya I like you.”

He could feel your smile in front of him. “Well, you got the first part done…”

Gator almost snorted. God, you were relentless. 

“Might as well knock the second part out, right?” You hung your arms around his shoulders instead, granting relief to Gator's lungs. 

Gator smirked, shaking his head. You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

And he lived off of it.

“I like ya, teach,” he finally admitted. “‘N I wanna be yours.”

“Mine?” You chimed.

“Yes. Yours.” His hands found your waist again, head dipping near your ear. “I want t'be all yours, baby. Wanna worship the ground ya walk on, kiss you senseless every morning’...” Gator relished in your shiver.

“...I want to stop being scared,” he confessed, retreating from your shoulder to face you. 

Your hand brushed through his locks delicately—as if he were the most precious thing you had ever touched. “I want that, too, Gator.”

In all of Gator's dreams—all of his fantasies about this exact moment—he imagined the sounds. He pictured the softness of your voice, the fragrance of your perfume, maybe even the taste of your lips.

The one thing that always stayed the same, though, was the darkness. The lonely void he was sentenced to—as familiar to him as the oxygen in his lungs. 

But he was wrong. There was no more darkness. 

For the first time in what felt like years, he could see again. 

He saw it all. More than he ever saw before—more than he ever knew was there. 

Cleansed of all of his demons, bathed in your faith, he was reborn—the mud washed from his eyes.

It was only you. His start, his end, and every beautiful breath in between.

Gator Tillman was many things. 

But he would never be a coward again.

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masterlist

divider credits: @strangergraphics

[swirledyouintoallmypoems]

i want you more than any stupid song could ever say

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader (3.2k words)

summary: steve wants to tell you how he feels, but he can’t find the right words. robin gives him the idea to dedicate a song to you on the wsqk radio station, but not a single stupid song can explain just how he feels about you.

tags/warnings:  fluffff!!!! yearning loverboy stevie my fav ahhh. just cute stuff and love confessions and kissing and fluff and happy endings yay!!! set june 1987. eddie's still alive cause idgaf!!! alcohol and drug usage (weed), mild suggestive themes. i love the new olivia album sm!!!

–

steve harrington hasn’t been the luckiest with love, that much is certain to anyone who has as much as glanced his way in the last four years, but, god, he’s in love with you.

he can’t quite place the exact moment he started feeling this way, all he knows is that one day he glanced over your way, met your eyes, and it felt like his entire stomach twisted inside out and his body turned to goo.

he doesn’t have a clue how it started, maybe it was the way you always seem to laugh at his jokes, or the way you huff with an eyeroll whenever murray said something a little too distasteful. it could’ve been the fact that you come into the squawk every morning with coffee for him and robin from the cafe you work at, always just the way he likes it, and you hand it off to him with a small smile every time.

it could’ve been how funny you are, or how smart, or kind, or pretty, but steve thinks it must’ve been a mix of all of those things, because he loves everything about you. it’s been almost six months of feeling this way.

and, yeah, he’s definitely in love with you.

robin groans loudly as steve watches you leave the squawk one friday morning after bringing them coffee, as per usual, giving him a glance over your shoulder and a little wave as you walked out the door.

steve raised his hand to wave back, a dumb smile making it’s way onto his face easily before you slip from view, and he sighs.

robin shakes her head disapprovingly, murmuring under her breath, and steve looks away from the glass front doors and over at her.

“what was that, buckley?” he questions, not aggressively, but as if he’s challenging her to repeat whatever snide remark she had muttered to herself.

“all i said was, ‘god, you are pathetic, harrington.” robin repeats and steve shoots her a glare from his place by the soundboard, surrounded by tapes of different comedic sound effects.

there’s a record spinning by robin’s side, playing a song steve never would’ve picked but robin had insisted was ‘better than anything he listens to’. robin spins around on her chair to face him properly, shooting him a look from across the room.

“i mean, how long has it been steve, really? six months?” she asks and he sighs, reaching for his coffee and raising the paper cup to his lips.

“eight.” he corrects quietly before taking a sip and robin’s eyebrows shoot up.

“eight months. so you’ve been in love with her for half of this quarantine we’ve been stuck in, and the most you’ve done is smile at her a little differently?” robin shakes her head and steve scrunches his nose.

“who made you the love expert, huh? what happened to me being the one giving you advice?” he asks and she snorts.

“uh, how about the fact that i’m the one with a girlfriend here, meanwhile you’ve been pining for the better half of a year and have gotten nowhere.” robin spins around to face her microphone and adjusts a dial in front of her. “anyway, i think she’s going to eddie’s party tonight.”

“who, vickie?” steve asks and robin rolls her eyes so hard it looks like they might fall out of her head. and when robin says your name as if it was obvious, steve’s tummy fills with warmth and a smile appears on his face.

he wishes you could feel how he feels when somebody says your name. it’s almost like he’s going to be sick, but in a good way.

“really?”

“yes, dingus. maybe tonight’s your chance to work up the courage and finally say something.” robin says. “you know, confess? or, at least, ask her out.”

steve bites the inside of his lip and thinks for a moment, then groans because of course robin’s right, but he has no idea what he’d even say. he can hardly talk to you past a basic greeting or some small talk.

but then again, a party hosted by eddie means alcohol, and pot. maybe something there can help steve find the right words. no, that’s stupid.

he sighs and drops down onto his chair. “robin, i can’t do this. what if i say something and she’s just totally weirded out? i can’t risk that, it’ll kill me. like, actually, kill me.”

robin stares at him mid motion as she places a new record on one of the players, then sighs again.

“robin!” he exclaims but she quickly shushes him, holding a finger to her lips as the previous song dies down and she pulls her microphone down towards her mouth.

“goooood morning hawkins! glad you could join us on this beautiful friday morning.” robin shoots steve a glance over her shoulder and a mischievous smile slips onto her lips. “this next one goes out to my partner in crime, soundboard stevie, who’s been feeling a little lovesick as of late. who’s the lucky girl to have won steve ‘the hair’ harrington’s heart? well, we’ll have to wait and see if he has the guts to say anything to her…”

“robin!” steve hisses across the room, not caring that they’re on air, and she just giggles in response.

“take it away, olivia…” robin says and the opening to ‘hopelessly devoted to you’ by olivia newton-john fills the small sound booth. steve shakes his head and robin just grins over at him. “what?”

“what if she was listening to that, robin?” steve huffs, crossing his arms over his chest a little dramatically, similar to the way tantruming toddler would. “then what?”

“then i could be doing you a favor!” she points out but steve runs his hands through his styled hair, tugging lightly as he exhales.

“i feel like i’m going insane.” he tells her and she shrugs.

“save it for tonight.”

–

the air at eddie’s place is thick, a mix of smoke and heat from the large number of bodies filling the small house, and steve is perched on the couch between eddie and jonathan as they smoke, his eyes scanning the party, searching every face for yours. his nails dig into the denim of his jeans, and his friends seem to notice.

“what’s wrong with you, harrington?” eddie asks, holding out his blunt like an offering but steve shakes his head.

he opens his mouth to answer, but robin cuts in as she walks over with two cups and you right by her side.

steve’s mouth goes dry as he looks up at you, his eyes lingering on the cut of your shirt for maybe a moment too long before they reach your face. you’re smiling down at him.

“hi, steve.” you greet brightly and steve finds himself rubbing his palms against his thighs, like he’s wiping away imaginary sweat. he practically jumps to his feet and gives his best attempt at a charming smile. his friends all share glances behind his back.

“uh, hey,” when your name leaves his mouth, steve hears a quiet ‘oh,’ come from jonathan behind him and he’s immediately reminded that the two of you aren’t the only people in the room and, in fact, you’re standing in the middle of a party quite literally surrounded by your friends. steve awkwardly gestures toward the spot he had just been sitting in. “uh, here.”

“oh.” you stare at him for a moment and steve’s eyes flick over to robin’s in a brief moment of panic before you smile. “thanks, steve.”

“uh, yeah, sure. no problem.” he thinks he’s playing it cool, but everyone can see the way he shifts nervously on his feet.

“well, i’m getting another drink.” nancy says, standing up from her place on jonathan’s other side and pulling her boyfriend up with her. “anyone else want anything?”

“i just got a drink.” robin raises her cup. “but i’m gonna go find vickie, anyway.”

“i’ll come.” eddie jumps to his feet, winking at steve as he does so, and steve shoots robin a glare. she holds her hands up in surrender, mouthing that she didn’t say anything.

“can you guys get me a drink?” steve asks before taking jonathan’s seat on the couch and sitting down beside you. someone nods and soon the others all disappear, leaving the two of you sitting there alone.

to steve, the moment feels so right, the two of you sitting side-by-side, close enough that your legs are touching, but he also feels so wrong. his heart won’t stop beating, his stomach flips with each brush of your hand and when you look his way he forgets his train of thought.

he feels insane, worse than he had this morning, because now you’re next to him. now he’s not imagining what you’ll say if you speak to him, because right now you’re telling him about your day at work and your voice is like music to his ears.

the two of you sit there and talk for what feels like hours but was likely just 15 minutes before steve stands up.

“i’ll be back in a second.” he tells you before hurrying off, heading towards the kitchen first. he weaves his way through the sea of people filling the room, searching the house until he finds robin. she’s holed up in a corner, giggling with vickie, but still looks up when steve stops before them.

“what’s up?” she asks and he takes a deep breath, close to hyperventilating as he stares at her. he looks over his shoulder and back to where you’re sitting on the couch, giggling at something eddie’s saying as he holds two cups in his hands, one of those likely steve’s drink.

he faces robin and takes a deep breath. “how do i tell her?”

–

he’s given himself until monday morning. he’s got until monday morning to come up with a plan, because he’s going to tell you he loves you then.

the idea robin gave him is as follows, pick a song that explains how he feels about you, dedicate it to you on the squawk on monday morning, then when you come by with coffees he can actually talk to you and ask you out.

go big or go home, right?

the only issue is that steve has no idea what song to pick. it has to be perfect, it has to encapsulate exactly how strongly he feels for you, how you make him feel.

he wants you so badly that it feels like he can’t breathe when he’s away from you. his body feels like it’s been lit ablaze whenever you touch him, and he’s melting the moment your eyes meet his. you’re everywhere, even in his dreams.

he’s in love with you, he knows it. but is there even a song that can describe the way he feels about you?

steve’s been thinking, trying to come up with song ideas, while he’s been tossing and turning in his bed, unable to sleep because he can’t stop thinking about you.

he spends his entire weekend writing lists of song ideas, scanning the shelves of vinyls at the wsqk radio station for ideas, but none of them are right. none of them are perfect.

robin tells him he’s gonna regret it if he doesn’t have a song soon, the longer he waits to confess the less chance he’ll have. but how is he supposed to do this when every song he listens to doesn’t even begin to describe his feelings?

by the time monday morning comes around steve wakes up in a sweat, and not just from the summer heat.

he had a dream about you and now his boxers feel too tight. he slides a hand down, brushing against the scars healed over on his tumny, before squeezing his clothed bulge for some kind of relief.

but then he realizes. he still doesn’t have a song.

he makes it to the squawk tired, a little horny, and pissed off. and when he pushes open the glass front doors open and is immediately met with robin’s wide smile.

“so…” she starts as he drops his backpack by his chair in the booth. “today’s the day, loverboy. you got a song?”

he just groans in response, dropping down in his chair before immediately standing back up and walking out of the booth, over to the shelves of records.

“i’m taking that as a ‘no’?” robin says.

“how the hell am i supposed to do this?” he asks and robin stares at him in confusion.

“what do you mean? just pick a love song and—”

“but it can’t just be any love song, robin, it has to be perfect!” he exclaims frustratedly, hands finding their way to his hair immediately. “i feel like i’m going insane here, because the song has to be perfect, it has to tell her exactly how i feel and how in love with her i am but that seems impossible because i want her more than any stupid song could ever say and i have no idea how to explain that!”

“oh.”

the sound of a voice behind him makes steve freeze, then slowly turn around. you’re standing inside the squawk building, holding two coffees in your hands, and staring at him with wide eyes, like you just witnessed something you shouldn’t have.

“uh, hey.” steve slips a hand into his pocket in an attempt to seem casual. “i, uh, didn’t realize you were… you’re– you’re early.”

“yeah.” you say, and your eyes shift over to robin. “uh, robin asked me if i could come by a little earlier today…”

steve shoots her a glare over his shoulder and she just shrugs, walking towards you and asking which coffee is hers. then she takes it, thanks you, and leaves the room saying, “i’ll leave you two alone.”

the silence is awkward immediately. steve’s panicking internally, and you’re just watching him.

“so, uh, how much of that did you hear?” he asks and you chuckle.

“well, all of it.” you reply. “i was kinda pulling into the driveway when you got here. i think you might’ve been just a little distracted.”

“right.” steve nods and you do the same, a little awkwardly, before you step forward and hold out his drink. “yeah, thanks.”

he takes the coffee and stares down at it. he has to say something now. he has to.

“lucky girl.” you speak first and he looks back up at you.

“hm?” he looks puzzled.

“the girl you were talking about.” you clarify. “the one you said you were in love with. you know? ‘i want her more than any stupid song could say’? she sounds lucky. you’re a good guy, steve.”

you give him a small smile, different to the one you usually give him, this one’s sadder, and it takes steve a moment to process exactly why as you turn back towards the front doors.

“she’s you!” he blurts out and you spin around.

“what?” you stare at him, you blink once, and steve feels sick.

“you’re the… the ‘lucky girl’ you were talking about.” steve swallows before setting his coffee cup down and walking over to you. “i’m in love with you. i love everything about you, and i’ve just been scared to tell you for months because i don’t want to ruin anything between us. i was gonna do this thing, robin said to, you know, dedicate a song to you on the radio but…”

you haven’t said a word the entire time he’s been talking, but you also aren’t running and screaming, so that’s a good sign.

“not a single stupid song can even scratch the surface of how i feel about you.” he says, and then he waits. he watches you carefully, and you don’t give him a reaction. 

then a smile cracks through your features and relief floods steve’s body.

“well, that’s very lucky for me.” you chuckle breathily. “you know, considering the fact i’m in love with you, too.”

“really?” he asks and you nod rather enthusiastically.

“you kinda make it hard not to.” you confess and he just grins. “i mean, you’re funny, brave, kind, i mean, you’ve definitely grown up a lot since high school and, well, you’re hot.”

he laughs, dragging a hand through his messy brown hair before looking back down at you, your eyes meeting. “so are you.”

a soft chuckle escapes your lips and a moment later you’re both just standing there and staring at each other, now closer than before. steve reaches out to carefully grab your waist.

“can i kiss you?”

“yes.” you say as if it’s obvious and steve’s mouth connects with yours within seconds, probably setting some kind of record with that speed. your hands slide up his body immediately, one gripping his shoulder while the other slides around his neck.

steve pours his entire heart into it, melting into you, moulding into something that’s yours and only yours. he’s not thinking of anything else, just the warmth of your body against his hands and the feeling of your lips on his.

he lifts one hand from your waist to cup your cheek instead, pulling back slightly just to kiss you again, aiming a little higher so he can take your entire upper lip into his mouth.

it’s uncertain exactly how long the two of you just stand there kissing, but the sound of a hand slamming against glass is enough to break you up.

steve looks over to see robin in the soundbooth, tapping her wrist to mimic a watch while saying something neither of you could hear through the walls. looking down at his watch, steve realizes he’s got about five minutes until they’re supposed to be on air.

“shit, i gotta go.” he groans and lowers his wrist. your arms are still linked around his neck. “can i take you out on a date tonight?”

“mm, no.” you say and he frowns. “i think we should skip that step and you should ask me to be your girlfriend.”

the frown disappears just as quickly as it had appeared and steve chuckles. “will you be my girlfriend?”

“yes, of course.” you reply, clearly trying your hardest to hold back a smile and stay composed. steve doesn’t hide his own smile.

“great.” he leans forward and kisses you once more before stepping back, closer to the door to the soundbooth. “i’m gonna pick you up from work later, alright?”

“yeah, alright.” you smile and he nods, opening the door. “steve.”

he turns back quickly. “yeah?”

“your coffee.” you gesture to the cup he had set down a moment earlier and he hurried over to grab it.

“thanks, honey. i’ll see you later, yeah?” he calls out as you head for the door. “i love you!”

“i love you, too!”

steve closes the soundbooth door and takes his place in his chair before he looks over at robin, who’s staring at him with an ‘i told you so’ expression. he gives her a shrug and she rolls her eyes before they’re on air.

“good morning, hawkins! this is wsqk 94.5 fm, ‘the squawk’ and i am your dj, rockin’ robin, and ladies and gentlemen, love is in the air this morning because our very own soundboard stevie has made a move! that’s right, folks, steve’s got a girlfriend. so, to celebrate the very new relationship we’re starting this morning off with a little love song…”

steve queues up a sound effect, but even robin’s teasing and antics can’t wipe the smile from his face.

–

a/n: just a little oneshot before i start posting my new series ahh!!! hope u guys like this one i think it's cute. everyone should go listen to 'you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love' by olivia rodrigo right now!!!

taglist (comment to be added/removed): @karolinesvrsion @djopuppy @redvelvetcupcke @notmily @jamietarttdodo @beaut1ful-stranger @kanabefairy @glittermermaid222 @glittrrx @boldlyfadingdinosaur @riddlersoupwrites @jamieexistss @marvelgirlie-4 @strangegirl26sff @dyanasaur @mortqlprojections @napofaprincess @dr0wsy-m00ns @rocklandhoax @foreverdjofan @lacywithdrawal @oohgeminii @imani4reading @angxlg0dz @sunflowergir62 @d4yanalav3nder00 @discodjo @nowprettybbyimrunning @pleasecallmeunhinged @sugartalk-ing @hutaotao @carpetmumcher @peterthehorseisinhere @laufeysvalentine @harringtondarling @marcspectorondeeznuts @strawberryloveyy @onenightafewmoonsago @beedew @jadoredjo @ilikereadinghardcoresmut @pzxielz @dwindella @lortheswiftie @exooojongdaeee @moonjellyfishie @jinxispunk @sloppyjoesandwich @balladpoem