bug 🐞

19 | bass guitarist 🎸🎱 I turn back the time, I’m at the chateau and I feel alright steve harrington’s lovebug ❤️🐞 mdni PLEASE I am constantly thirsting on here

[djoledo]

i hope everyone has a fun and silly day just like joe and dalton <33

[rustedhearts]

every corner (steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: it's been 7 months since you said goodbye to steve. most exes that fell out of love move on and never speak. but you never really fell out of love, did you?

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♡ everytime (part one) ♡ the library ♡ the record store

tags: mention of past substance abuse; angst; hurt/not much comfort; pining and yearning; smut.

a/n: here we are, an entire year later. hope you enjoy. love you (and soft, sad everytime steve) forever!

ko-fi (because i graduated from college recently if you wanted to leave a tip!)

"nothing happened in the way I wanted, every corner of this house haunted. and I know you said that we're not talking...but I miss you."

— i miss you, i'm sorry, gracie abrams

halloween night, 1999

The familiar tune of Michael Myers' entrance has you clutching the knitted blanket closer to your chest, cowering behind your knees to shield the tv. The grainy picture glows through the living room, illuminating half-eaten Chinese takeout and four cherry Pepsi cans. You had a bucket of popcorn on the cushion beside you and a bag of Red Vines near your feet. A party for one, completely alcohol free.

It's been four months since you've had even a sip, and it pained you to say that maybe your friends were right. You did have a problem.

You were still gaining their trust and friendship back, tiptoeing around past mistakes and attempting to right them.

After that drunken night at Eddie's house over the summer—when Steve rescued you from stupor and tucked you into bed—your friends had an intervention. Sat you down—sober, grumpy, and lashing out—and fixed you with some tough love.

"Clinging to Steve isn't gonna help either of you move on," Robin said. "It's not gonna help you get better. And you need to get better."

You sat back on Eddie's couch with your arms crossed and your legs tucked up, glaring at the wall above her head. Back then, you took their stern attitudes as hatred. You thought they were being mean, coming down on you for your own heartbreak.

But they were ten steps ahead of you. They saw the spiral before you could even recognize it happening.

"You're not in it alone, Steve has some fault in this, too. But...I think you guys need some time apart. Real time, no contact. It's the only way I think you'll get sober."

You moved your eyes to Eddie, who was wringing his hands together and tossing you a furrow-browed look. Gwen massaged his bicep lovingly, and you turned your eyes away again.

"We love you," Gwen added. "But when you're drunk, or high...you're harder to love."

So you stopped drinking. Stopped smoking anything that wasn't nicotine, started sublimating with caffeine. It wasn't a complete cold break, but you had to start somewhere.

The only downside to sober life was the distance you felt from your friends. The parties and get-togethers didn't stop, but you had to stop attending most of them. Of course, you didn't expect your friends to stop drinking or smoking just because you did. Eddie Munson would always be a pothead—but he wasn't an addict. He didn't have to keep himself away from it, because he knew when to stop. That was the difference between you and your friends.

Your lack of control.

Which is why, when your phone rang every few weeks and Steve's voice came through the other side, you just...didn't tell anyone about it.

You figured they must've sat him down and had a similar conversation to yours. Told him to stay away, move on, find some other way to cope that didn't involve bothering you.

But they didn't get it. You grew up together. You can't just forget your first love.

And right now, you're sitting on the couch cushion closest to the end table where your phone waits. You find your eyes meeting the still and silent cradle every few scenes, and every time you get up to get another snack or use the bathroom, you're on high alert. Waiting for the shrill ring. Waiting for the call you know is coming.

Because Eddie and Gwen host a Halloween costume party every year, and Steve is always in attendance. Despite his distaste for getting drunk and stupid, he loves a competition—and he always wins best costume.

And right now Steve is 20 minutes away, sitting on a couch much like you are, nursing a lukewarm beer and staring at a couple cuddled in the armchair. He watches the man tuck her hair behind her ear, watches the girl kiss his jaw and nuzzle her nose in his neck. You used to do that. Used to tell him how good he smelled after working up a sweat, licking it from his skin without apology.

Steve pinches his eyes shut, inhaling sharply. He needs to stop thinking about you. He needs to stop remembering the way you touched his body, the way you loved him with your mouth and hands because you never knew how to use your words.

The blunt edge of his nail rips the soggy paper wrapped around his beer bottle. He's itching to call you. He quite literally feels sick about the thought of forgetting the way you pronounce his name, the way your voice wraps around words in their own special way. He can't remember which version of 'either' you used, and it's killing him.

He's forgetting you.

He can't forget you.

Eddie and Gwen are in the kitchen laughing and mingling with other couples. Robin's flirting with a girl in the corner, hand pressed against the wall above her head. They'll go home together, and Steve will go home alone.

No one's watching. So, he picks up the phone.

He dials your number with quick and eager fingers, gripping the phone with antsy hunger. His heel bounces on the carpet, fingers drumming his knee.

Your eyes slide to the phone a split second before it rings. Every nerve in your body began to buzz in anticipation before that first trill, and you almost knock over the popcorn in your hurried rush to receive the phone.

But you pull back. Sit back on the couch and retract your hand. You watch the phone shake on the cradle stand, rattle the lamp behind it on the table. It rings once, twice, three times. At Eddie's, Steve thinks about hanging up and grows sicker.

You pick up the phone before it stops.

"Hello?"

Steve exhales, lets a smile touch his face. He focuses on the beer bottle wedged between his thighs to avoid seeming too giddy.

"Hey."

You slide back against the couch, turning the tv down. You fondle a sticky Red Vine mindlessly as silence passes between the pair of you. It's been two weeks since you last spoke—the longest you'd gone. Pathetic, isn't it? You haven't been together in almost seven months, yet you can't go more than two weeks without talking.

You tried not to let the thick, sick feeling in your throat at the thought mean much.

"You at home?"

You try not to giggle at the obvious. But he was just filling the space. He just wanted to hear you speak again.

"Yeah."

Steve tears another rip in the beer label. "Which Halloween are you on?"

Your gaze moves to the tv again, where you grin at the movie playing. "The third."

"Blech," Steve groans. "That one sucks."

"I know," you giggle at his playful distaste. "But I don't like skipping through a series."

Steve waits a beat. He rotates the bottle between his legs to peel the back. The beer sloshes around, and he knows the next swig of it will be disgustingly warm.

"All the lights on, too?"

Your eyes bounce around the room at the various lamps glowing soft yellow light through the room. The light filtering through the hall from your bedroom, the one clicked on above the sink in the kitchen. Your lip turns upward.

"Yeah."

Your chest squeezes at the thought of Steve knowing you so well. It wasn't that long ago that he was curled up next to you during a Halloween movie marathon, soothing you when you'd shriek, chuckling when you hid your face in his chest. He always took scary movies as an opportunity to cradle and baby you, because it wasn't often you let him.

Maybe that's why they were his favorite now.

Steve tugs the beer free from his legs and tipped back a swig. He winces as the warm liquid slid down his throat, face soured with disgust. His eyes slide toward the corner of the room where Robin and her current infatuation are giggling. He can hear Eddie's voice squawking in the kitchen, but it's growing closer.

He runs a hand down his face and shakes his head, knowing the next words to leave his mouth will be stupid and another space filler. "You scared?"

You snicker through your nose. He hears a soft snap when your teeth tear at a Red Vine. "Maybe a little."

He gnaws on his bottom lip a moment, gripping the neck of his beer bottle tightly. His stomach is in the knot of all knots, sitting somewhere between his chest and his throat. The next words are weighing him down and he spits them out before he loses the gall.

"Want me to come over?"

The line buzzes. Your living room vignettes, the top layer of skin under your sweatshirt littered with goosebumps. Swallowing down the candy comes with difficulty. You can only seem to stare at the bright light of the television, switching between pictures.

At Eddie's, Steve drops his head into his hands and tugs hard at the top of his hair, tapping the phone against his forehead in self-reprimand.

"Steve?"

He puts the phone back to his ear quickly. "Yeah?" His voice is so much smaller, croaked.

"Is that...is that a good idea?" You trust his judgement more than yours.

Steve cranes his head over his shoulder, peering around the corner into the kitchen. Eddie and Gwen are leaning against the kitchen sink, the latter tucked under his arm. He has a polaroid at the bottom of his sock drawer of all four of you in that very spot when Eddie first moved into the apartment. It was July and you did all the heavy lifting yourselves.

"I don't know," Steve sighs. His hand is still in his hair, twisting at the roots until it hurts.

But it still doesn't hurt as much as the squeezing in his chest.

"I don't think it is," you whisper.

Steve lets go of his hair and scratches at his stinging scalp. "Yeah. Yeah, yeah, you're right."

He taps his finger on the other side of the phone. He tightens his grip on the beer bottle and it creaks under the weight. He imagines himself throwing it across the room just to hear the shatter, but he would never do such a thing. Not in his best friend's home.

"Would it be the last time?"

Steve perks up, lifting his head from where it's drooped toward his lap. His cheeks suddenly hold a heat that burns, and it's traveling down his neck.

"Y-yeah. Yeah, it...it can be," he fumbles, swallowing thickly. He doesn't want it to be the last time.

You pluck a piece of stray popcorn from your sweater and toss it back into the bowl. You eye the mess on your coffee table and wonder how long it would take you to clean up and light a candle to mask the fact that you haven't cleaned in over a week.

Steve hasn't seen your new place. He hasn't seen how well you've been doing.

If anyone asks, you were just showing him.

"Okay...grab some more cherry Pepsi on your way over?"

Steve leaps from the couch, tugging the phone cord with him and dragging the tablecloth askew. He curses under his breath, jolting to grab the cradle before it falls off the end table.

"Ye-yeah—yes! I will. I'll...I'll be there."

Your lips press into a smile. "Okay."

He can barely contain his grin as he slams the phone down and clumsily fixes the end table back into its original state. He snatches his jacket thrown on the back of the couch and rushes out of the room, toward the kitchen where his keys are sitting near the stove.

"Hey, buddy," Eddie coos as Steve scrambles for his belongings. "Where ya been?"

Steve shoves his keys into his pocket, jacket balled in his fist. He barely spares Eddie or Gwen a glance as he pushes past the bodies blocking the door.

"Uh...I gotta go. Gotta, um..."

Steve pauses, shoe squeaking on the kitchen tile when he turns on his heel to face his friends. Heat rushes to his face again, cheeks coloring a deep red. He hooks his thumb over his shoulder toward the door.

When Eddie and Gwen blink at him, Steve sighs defeatedly and drops his hands. He neglects any attempt at an excuse in his eagerness to see you.

"I gotta go, guys."

Before either can interrogate his vagueness, Steve is spinning around and rushing the door, nearly knocking everyone else over along the way. He fumbles over his feet down the stairs to the lobby, where he flings the front doors open to the parking lot. The BMW clicks open easily, and he's thankful for her reliability as he starts the engine and screeches toward the street.

At home, you're throwing all trash into the bin and spraying perfume to hide the smell. You rake through your appearance to throw it into something more presentable, but you know Steve likes a frazzled, "lazy" look more than anything. He always said he preferred you in your pajamas or one of his faded t-shirts.

You're bent over grabbing a piece of crust from this morning's toast under the kitchen table when the door rattles under a heavy fist. You jerk up, hurriedly tossing the toast into the bin before pushing it back under the sink. You stand in front of the door for a moment, fussing with your hair and adjusting the hem of your sweater. You can hear Steve's shuffling behind the door, and when you peek through the peep-hole, he's anxiously running his hand through the front of his hair.

It's shorter, a little lighter—but always handsome.

The door swings open just as Steve lifts his fist to knock again. He's holding a single can of cherry Pepsi in one hand and his keys in the other.

You realize as your eyes roam his appearance, that he isn't even wearing a costume.

"Hi," he breathes.

You smile, pushing the door open all the way. "Hi."

One foot enters the doorway, sneaker thumping on the linoleum tile. It crunches under his weight when he steps all the way in, keys clattering on the doorframe when he presses his hand there. He hasn't changed his cologne since sophomore year of high school and it sends you spiraling back to homecoming football games and prom night in his backseat.

Your teeth dig into your cheek, gnawing down the swirling in your stomach as Steve's eyes mimic yours and trace your body. They start at your shoulders, roaming down to your feet where your toes curl under a pair of fuzzy pink socks. In the other room, the television shrieks with a horrific scream. Neither of you even flinch.

Instead, Steve pushes off the doorway and takes another step into the kitchen. He swings the door shut behind him and you jump when it slams. He doesn't even move. But his keys skate over the countertop when he throws them, and the cherry Pepsi can hisses on its roll toward the other side of the kitchen when it falls from his hand.

And then they're on your face—those big, warm hands. Cupping your cheeks and propping your jaw, pulling you in with a familiar, firm grip. They're squeezing the back of your neck when he slants his mouth over yours and inhales sharply. Breathing you in—because finally, finally he can breathe again.

You whimper against his teeth when your back bumps into the counter, and he's pulling you off by the back of your neck to move his hold down to your hips, cushioning them from the hard surface. Always the giver.

When you pop away from his mouth, you bring your fingers to your own, slick with saliva and pulsing with bitten soreness.

"What if we made a mistake?" Steve rushes out, eyes wild and settled on your face.

"W-what?"

"What if we made a mistake? We were kids, and maybe...maybe things would be better now—"

"Steve—"

"Don't say anything. Not yet. We can talk tomorrow. Just...if this our last night, I don't wanna spend it talking."

You meet his eyes, softening once more. One hand leaves your hip to brush your cheek and trail down your neck. He ghosts them over the spot below your ear, where you shiver and giggle when he breathes hot air.

"Okay." You nod.

And then his mouth is back on yours. His hands are moving and squeezing and grabbing, and his throat is thick with moans and uneasy breaths.

This is the last night, you think, as he lays you down in bed.

The last time, you promise, when he leaves every inch of your body covered in spit-soaked kisses.

And when the phone rings as he's sucking on your neck and digging bruises into your hips, you let it go. You know it isn't him on the other line, because he's finally in your arms again.

For the very last time.

[djobug]

[upsidedownwithemmy]

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

[4.4K] loosely based on the movie float, lifeguard!steve, a summer full of swim lessons. mentions of drowning, eventual smut 18+

SWIM LESSON SCHEDULE

LESSON #4

Steve made Eddie leave.

Not immediately, not in any sort of cruel way; but eventually, after twenty minutes of the longer haired boy splashing around the deep end, Steve had levelled him with a look that could only be described as long suffering.

“You know,” Steve had sighed, arms crossed over his bare chest as Eddie floated on his back, his hair like seaweed on the pool surface, “some of us are trying to work here.”

Eddie grinned, entirely unashamed. Sunlight bounced off the water in fractured lines, turning the tattoos on his chest into moving pictures. “And some of us,” he countered, “are supporting our best friend through her aquatic trauma.”

“You’re cannonballing beside her every five minutes,” Steve squinted at him.

Eddie made a huffing sound, all faux offence and mockery. “It’s called exposure therapy, Harrington. Look it up.”

Steve looked to you for backup, brows raised expectantly, but you were far too used to this behaviour by now. Besides, the two boys were chest deep in the dark blue water now, Steve subconsciously floating further from you as he tried to wrangle Eddie towards the pool steps. And you found that the distance didn’t panic you as much as you once thought it would. You were still standing waist deep, happy to see your toes wiggle on the blue pool tiles.

Eventually Eddie checked the time on the cheap silver watch hanging from his wrist and cursed loudly, remembering he’d promised Gareth he’d help move some amps before band practice. He hauled himself from the pool in a shower of water, curls dripping onto the tiles as he shoved his feet back into his boots without drying them first.

“You two have fun,” he announced too loudly, pointing between you both. “No drowning. No weird sexual tension. Behave yourselves.”

“Get out,” you and Steve snapped, looking anywhere but at each other.

Eddie barked out a laugh at that, eyes too bright with vindication before he saluted lazily and disappeared through the gate, humming a song you didn’t recognise under his breath.

Quiet settled in his wake. The low hum of the pool filter continued steadily from somewhere behind you, bugs buzzed lazily in the trees beyond the fence line. Water lapped softly against your ribs where you stood in the shallows, fingers now curled over the edge of the pool in lieu of Steve’s arm. Somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower started up.

Steve exhaled through his nose and made his way over to you, careful not to splash too much. “Fuckin’ finally,” he muttered.

You snorted, a decidedly unattractive sound and you looked down at the water to hide your grin. Steve moved a little closer, shoulder brushing yours underwater. It shouldn’t have felt like such a big thing. It was barely even a touch. But fuck, your breath still snagged somewhere in your chest all the same. It felt like the water should have rippled from your body, bones rattling, heartbeat loud enough to make waves in the water.

“You okay?” he asked softly. It wasn’t exactly pity, nothing too gentle, just quiet enough to make you far too aware that Steve cared. Like he was constantly checking the weather inside your head, making sure the skies were still clear enough to continue.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

Steve’s gaze caught your own, the steadily rising sun finally catching his features. Brown eyes turning gold, hair turning honey, skin turning bronze. “You sure?”

“Mhm.” You could only mumble, head nodding.

His eyes narrowed slightly like he didn’t fully believe you but he let it go after a moment, pushing himself away from the pool wall and motioning toward the middle of the shallows. “C’mon then,” he said. “Next lesson.”

You groaned immediately. “That sounds ominous.”

Steve grinned. “Nah. You’re ready.”

You wrinkled your nose, the distaste on your features more than apart t and the motion of it let you know your face was catching the sun, skin stinging. “People tend to say that before terrible experiences.”

The boy swam backwards, arms outreached, the water practically parting for him with every measured move. He grinned at you, watching you watch him. “You survived floating,” he offered helpfully.

“Barely.”

Steve barked out a laugh at that, loud and surprised, and god—it was addictive, making him laugh like that. His whole face changed when he did it. Softer and brighter, like summer had made him just for you.

“C’mon, when have I ever let you astray?” Steve held out his hands to you, water dripping from his forearms, beckoning you with his fingers in hopes you would follow him and after only the briefest hesitation, you did.

That alone felt monumental.

You sucked in a breath, resisted the urge to hold it, but you stepped forward all the same. Slow motion movements, like dragging yourself through a dream that was maybe once a nightmare, you followed Steve to the darker side of the pool. You gasped when the water hit your chest, a new cold lapping at your breasts until they were submerged too.

Your toes burned from staying up on them but still, you stayed, you didn’t panic. Steve noticed it too as he stood a foot away from you, his eyes warm, his chin dipped into the water. You could tell by the way his expression flickered into something almost proud.

“See?” he said quietly. “Already gettin’ better.”

The praise warmed you embarrassingly fast; faster than the sun, than the summer heat that was sticking to the skin that you hadn’t submerged.

“Alright,” he started, running a hand through his wet hair, “today we’re gonna work on going underwater.”

Your stomach dropped instantly, the quiet, gnawing ache turning into an open pit. Your heart fell into it, crashing between your ribs on the way down. “Oh absolutely not.”

Steve sighed like he’d expected that exact response. “C’mon.”

“No.” You didn’t have it in you to sound polite, to even attempt to make the word sound softer, more apologetic. The steps leading out of the pool looked like an ocean away. “Steve—.”

“You trust me, remember?” The boy’s words were much gentler than your own and he took a few steps towards you, hands up and laying across the surface like he’d catch you if you fell.

You felt the world tilt a little. “That was before I knew you were going to try to drown me.”

He rolled his eyes and scoffed but you knew him well enough now to see the fondness there, the lift of his mouth that almost made a smile. “You are not gonna drown from putting your face underwater for two seconds,” he told you softly.

You wanted to be home. You wanted to be on solid ground in dry clothes. You wanted to kick Eddie’s bedroom door open and demand to know why he set this stupid thing up in the first place. Instead, you swallowed the lump in your that and gave a weak laugh. “You don’t know that.”

Steve smiled then, an awfully pretty thing that made it much harder to deny him of anything. He shrugged, slipped deeper into the water. “I literally do. It’s my job,” he grinned at you.

“Look, why don’t we just—.” Steve made his way over to you, chest rising from the water and he took your hands in his own. His gaze met yours, his expression turning serious. “Hey, look at me, yeah? I’m not gonna let you go, okay? I swear to god, I’ll be here the entire time. Nothin’ bad will happen.”

Water dripped from his nose onto his lips as he watched and waited, his words tumbling over you as you tried to separate them from the irrational fear that was making your chest too tight. You thought back to lakes and dark skies and darker water. Deep and endless with fallen branches and weeds growing from the sand you couldn’t see.

Your pulse stumbled, your breath hitched. It was easy to remember the hands that pulled you out when the same ones were holding you now. You stared at the way Steve’s fingers wrapped around your own, his big palms engulfing yours. He was warm despite the cool water, an anchor in the middle of Hawkins community pool.

“Okay,” you whispered, the word getting stuck and twisted in your throat. But still, an agreement.

Steve’s brows shot up in surprise but he hid it well, replacing his shock with a smile that rivalled the sun above. “Yeah?” He murmured, double checking as his gaze travelled over your face, searching for anything that would suggest you were going to change your mind. He found none. “Atta’ girl.”

But still, your face must’ve shown your fear, because Steve tried another approach.

“How ‘bout you just listen first?” His voice was practically honey, melted butter on a open windowsill, softer than you’d ever heard. His thumbs stroked over the backs of your hands and you forgot about the water kissing at your collarbones. “You don’t even have to fully go under today, okay? We’ll just practice until your comfortable.”

You could only nod but the moment was firm and resolute so Steve took it as a good sign. But even though you knew Steve was there to help, the deep end glimmered darkly behind him, a seemingly endless blue that stretched beneath the surface and your chest tightened instinctively at the sight of it. Steve followed your gaze immediately.

“Hey.” Gentle again, achingly so. “Eyes on me.”

You looked back, blinking quickly until you felt the prick of tears that had threatened to show themselves subside.

“There you go.” His tone dropped quieter still. “That’s all you gotta think about, alright? Not the deep end. Not the lake. Just me.”

Your heart turned traitorous and you wondered if he’d hear it the way you did when you fell into the lake, if the drumbeat you’d heard in your own ears would be loud enough for Steve to hear too. Steve seemed entirely unaware of the effect he had on people sometimes. Or maybe just on you.

He moved closer again until your knees almost bumped beneath the water and the sun was suddenly too hot. You watched the muscles in his shoulders, watched the movement of them ripple and twist as he held you closer to him that you would’ve deemed necessary. But you didn’t mention it, you didn’t move away.

“First thing,” he murmured, “you gotta learn how to breathe properly.”

You scoffed, a little offended. “I know how to breathe, Harrington.”

He grinned at you, lopsided and boyish. His hands squeezed your own and he mumbled, “well, that remains to be seen.”

You glared at him halfheartedly, a weak attempt at best considering you were still stiff with fear, clutching his hands like a lifeline.

“When your face goes underwater,” he explained, ignoring your expression, “you breathe out through your nose slowly, okay? Little bubbles. If you hold your breath too hard, you panic.”

“Little bubbles,” you repeated skeptically. You stared at the surface of the water, as if daring something sinister to appear from its depths. Instead, you saw the wiggling outline of your legs and Steve’s, your feet close to his, toes almost touching. “Little bubbles. Fuck—“

“You’ll be fine, I promise,” Steve whispered. “It’s easier than you think.”

You nodded as if you agreed with him, chest rising and falling a little faster than before and you steeled yourself, hands holding Steve’s way too tightly but he didn’t complain. He only squeezed back. But still, you couldn’t bring yourself to drop any lower into the water. Frustration crackled in you, tears pricking at your eyes again but annoyance for yourself surpassed the fear and you swore, blinking harshly at the blue sky as you tried to pull yourself together.

Then Steve let go of your hands and lifted his own carefully, giving you every opportunity to pull away before he touched you. “Can I?” he asked quietly.

Hawkins seemed too quiet then, like even the cicadas had stopped their buzzing to hear your answer. The filters and generators were merely white noise as you stared at the boy and his hands that were reaching for either side of your face.

You nodded before you could overthink it.

One hand settled lightly at the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into the damp strands at the base of your skull. The other brushed your jaw, callouses rough against your skin, a gentle scratch that sent goosebumps over your forearms, across your chest, and you hoped to god that Steve didn’t notice.

“Relax your shoulders,” Steve said softly. “Good,” he praised instantly when you did, your breath coming out in a small shudder as your body went a little limp. His thumb brushed over the spot near your ear and you wondered if it was deliberate, you wondered if he knew. “Now, tilt your chin down a little.”

You obeyed automatically, a mortifying concept that you would dissect later in bed when you were alone and too warm but Steve’s eyes stayed fixed on yours the entire time, warm and honey brown and impossibly steady.

“You’re safe,” he told you quietly. “Okay?”

Something inside your chest ached at the sincerity in his voice and now more than ever, you believed him. You could only more once, heart hammering, your hands reaching to wrap around Steve’s forearms, clutching at him as he held you, as he guided you.

“Atta girl,” he said again, his voice so quiet it sounded hoarse, a little rough.

God. Fuck.

“Now,” Steve continued, “I just want you to put your mouth underwater first. Blow bubbles. That’s it.”

“That’s it,” you echoed weakly.

“Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart,” he smiled, voice dropping to an octave that was solely for you.

“And if I die?” You tried to sound serious, but maybe Steve knew you were just trying to buy some extra time. Your hands were tight around him, your fingers barely managing to meet as they held onto his wrists and his thumbs were stroking over the spots of skin they were touching, maddening circles that made everything seem a little fuzzy.

He snorted, the sound much more attractive than when you did it. “You’re so dramatic.”

“All I’m saying is, you’ll have to be the one to break the news to Eddie,” you shrugged. God, you felt like you were babbling, panic mixing with a dry humour that felt clumsy as the words tumbled from your mouth. The water was so close to your chin, your mouth, your nose. “Besides, you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

Steve didn’t say anything about breaking the news of your demise to your best friend but he did say: “I’ll miss you as soon as this lesson is over,” he murmured lightly. “Now, c’mon. Give it a try.”

Your heart nearly stopped functioning altogether. Because what the fuck was that supposed to mean and how were you supposed to focus on your breath now? You stared at him for a second too long before finally inhaling, careful and cautious, and then you started bending your knees.

The water crept toward your chin immediately. Every instinct screamed at you to jerk back upright, the shock of the water near any part of your face a sign of something awful to come. The bottom of the pool suddenly seemed too far down.

Steve’s hand tightened slightly against your neck. Not crushing but a gentle squeeze, his thumb rubbed over the damp hair there, his eyes fixed on your own as he bent down with you, following you the entire time. “You’re okay,” he reminded you. “Slow breaths.”

You tried. Really, you did.

The second the water touched your lips panic sparked hot beneath your ribs, but Steve stayed right there, close enough that your knees brushed his underwater.

“Blow out,” he encouraged gently. “That’s it.”

You lowered your lips beneath the surface and immediately sputtered. Chlorine filled your mouth, a too clean taste that was cold and sharp ans shocking against your tongue. You couldn’t help it, you sprung back up from the water, coughing and embarrassing amount.

Steve caught you before you could stumble backwards, hands leaving your neck and jaw to grip at your waist. “Easy,” he soothed quickly. “Easy, sweetheart, you’re alright.”

He was watching you with wide eyes, as if he was worried he’d pushed you too far. But he held on, the ripples you’d made from your dramatic exit from the water circling you both. The sun was beating down hotter now, higher in the blue sky above but mortification burned through you warmer than any Indiana summer.

“I hate this,” you croaked.

“I know.” His thumbs rubbed absentminded circles against your sides before he seemed to realise what he was doing and quickly let go. He stayed near, cheeks pink and flushed looking, from the sun or his proximity to you, you weren’t sure. But his voice was achingly gentle when he told you: “But you still did it.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.” He smiled, lopsided and soft.

You groaned dramatically, letting your forehead thunk lightly against his shoulder and you felt how he froze underneath you before his finger poked at your ribs. “You good there?”

His voice vibrated through his chest into your skin.

You wanted to die. Honestly, it seemed like the only reasonable solution to everything that had happened that morning. You wondered if today would’ve been easier if you’d taken Steve up on his offer to walk you home last night, if it would’ve been different now. If something would’ve happened. “M’gonna drown myself voluntarily now,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

Steve let out a breath of a laugh and warm hands settled carefully at your upper arms. He guided you backwards, just an inch or two, just enough so he could find your gaze with his own.

“Hey.” Sincerity threaded through every word. “You’re doing good. Seriously.”

“Really?” You asked reluctantly, brows crinkled, cheeks and neck warm. You hated how you sounded, how you felt. Weak and scared and a little bit pitiful.

But Steve nodded and grinned, thumbs tracing down your arms, leaving droplets of water in his wake. “Yeah, really. You wanna stop for today?”

You considered it, for a second, maybe five. But the surface of the pool had stilled, blue and calm and still very clear. You saw your toes, saw Steve’s. It wasn’t that deep, the logical conclusion was right in front of you. If you went under, you could stand and come straight back up.

You could.

You should.

Fuck.

You glanced at Steve, lips twisting as you thought about what to say, heart racing at the prospect. Fuckfuckfuck. “Uh, can you hold my hands again?”

Steve didn’t question you, but his brows rose all the same as he offered you both his hands. They engulfed your own, still amazingly warm despite the cool water and he waited for your next instruction.

He didn’t expect you to say: “I’m gonna just— dunk. Do it with me.” You swallowed tightly and then remembered yourself. “Please?” You added.

Steve looked too shocked to speak. He considered telling you to hold on, to wait, to maybe take some baby steps before leaping into the literal and proverbial deep end but you looked like you’d made your mind up. Determination set in your pretty features, your hands gripping his like they were your only lifeline.

So he nodded, held onto you a little tighter and moved close enough for his toes to touch yours. “Ready?” He whispered.

You nodded, too sick to speak.

“Three, two, one…”

Fuck. You bent your knees.

The water climbed your cheeks, cool against skin that was still warm from the sun. For a split second, panic flared bright and familiar, something instinctive and sharp and awful but then Steve squeezed your hands and the world disappeared.

Everything became blue.

The sounds of summer vanished. No incessant cicadas, no distant lawnmowers, no rustling leaves. The pool filter became a distant hum, softened into something that barely existed at all underneath the surface.

Your entire world was now just water and light. And Steve.

You blinked underwater, surprised that you could, wondering when the fear would spike, when absolute horror would set in, when things would turn too murky to see. But sunlight fractured above you in ribbons of gold, breaking apart against the surface. It turned Steve into something dreamlike, his features softened by the movement of the water between you. Not that there was much.

His hair floated slightly around his forehead, a wild thing and his eyes were on yours, his lips stretched prettily into a wide smile. Tiny bubbles escaped from your nose, little, tiny bubbles, exactly like he'd told you.

The realization hit slowly, rolling over you like a summer morning; warm and lazy, like you were just waking up from a too long sleep. You were doing it.

You were underwater and you weren't drowning. Your lungs weren't burning, an unblinking darkness wasn't reaching for you. There was no lake, no too strong current and fuck, weeds weren’t wrapping around your ankle, pulling you downdowndown.

Only blue tiles beneath your feet and Steve in front of you.

His eyes widened slightly as he saw understanding settle across your face, a pretty flicker of understanding in your own gaze and pride bloomed in him, an uncontrollable thing that broke free from his ribs. He couldn’t say it, not underwater, but you could tell. It made you smile too, big enough that water kissed your teeth and you jerked slightly at the coolness of it, but Steve just held you tighter.

The water shifted between you as he drifted towards you a little more. Hands tugging at your own, knees bumping, chests impossibly closer. If you hadn’t already been holding your breath, you were sure you would’ve.

His fingers remained wrapped around yours, shifting from cupping your hand to linking between your own, a wholly intimate thing, far more so than the two of you half naked beside each other. The strangest thing happened then, a whole thirty seconds after you’d been brave enough to disappear under the surface. The fear that had occupied so much space inside your chest, that awful, burning knot that had lived in your chest for so long simply just… loosened. Like unclenching a fist you hadn't realized you'd been holding for too long.

It hadn’t disappeared, not yet. Not that quickly. But it unravelled slowly, unwound itself from the spaces between your ribs and your heart and your lungs and it gave you space to breathe. It let you feel the water on your skin, it let you blink against the chlorine and watch the way the sun danced above you.

The expression felt ridiculous underwater, but you grinned wider still, lips parting as if you could laugh, and Steve saw it. His own grin appeared instantly, bubbles leaving his lips, his nose. They popped and fizzed between you both, reaching for the surface that was only a short swim away.

God. He was beautiful. Even distorted through the rippling water, especially in the shifting light of the sun, shapes of yellow and light blue scattered themselves over his chest, his cheeks. They caught his eyes, turned them from brown to honey, his cheeks warm and sun-kissed, even under the water.

A stream of silver bubbles rose from your mouth too, racing toward the surface, floating upward between you. You waited for the water to rush into your throat, to floss your lungs but nothing happened apart from a slight burn, a reminder that you would need to breathe soon. But staying down here worn Steve, alone and in the quiet together, seemed worth the sting.

The moment into something weightless and for a beat, neither of you moved. You simply floated there, hands linked and suspended in blue. The surface shimmered above your heads like liquid glass and sunlight painted Steve in different shades of gold.

His eyelashes looked darker underwater. His freckles softer. Closer. Jesus Christ, everything felt closer and the world outside the pool seemed impossibly far away.

The party, the achingly awkward goodbye. The walk home Steve never got to give and the disappointment you'd seen him try to hide.

All of it drifted somewhere beyond the water you were floating in. And whatever you were feeling, thinking, Steve seemed to feel it too. His grin faded, not completely. It just softened into something else, the corner of his mouth relaxing as his gaze lingered on yours. Underwater, here with the boy, you found you couldn’t look away.

The sunlight moved across his face and your own, a shifting mosaic of gold and blue. Your pulse stumbled and water made everything feel too slow. Dreamlike and hazy and so not real.

Steve's eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. The motion was tiny, a barely there thing but god, you still saw it. Heat flooded through you despite the cool water surrounding your body and for one absurd second, you wondered if he could hear your heartbeat. You wondered if the water carried it, if it echoed between you.

Reality caught up with you then, a full fifty one seconds after you first sunk underneath the blue surface. You felt the burn in your lungs get too hot to ignore, reaching your throat and the panic that had lived inside of you for so long came back, a rattling thing that had you planting your feet on the pool tiles and pushing up. You burst from the surface, droplets flying as you sucked in a breath and Steve was there too, hands still holding yours, fingers intertwined.

Steve looked just as startled by the moment as you felt, his chest heaving although you were so sure he could hold his breath much longer and more comfortably than you could. He shook his head, not daring to let go of you to sweep his hair back and dark brown curls were plastered to his forehead instead.

It made him look younger, boyish. With freckles and water droplets stuck to his cheeks and you were breathing too hard as you stared at him, wide eyed and in wonder. You just weren’t sure what had you feeling more astonished: the fact that you had willingly gone underwater or that Steve Harrington looked like he wanted to kiss you.

And then the world crashed back all at once. Sunlight. Heat. Birdsong. The stupid hum of the filter. Your gasp. Steve's laugh.

Water streamed down your face as you broke through the surface beside him and you sucked in a breath so large it hurt. Steve was laughing openly now, head tipped back and the sound was a joyous, ecstatic thing that made you smile so hard your cheeks ached.

“I did it,” you breathed. The words sounded almost astonished.

Steve looked at you and his laughter softened, pride taking place over excitement and all of it was bright enough to rival the sun over your heads.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. You hadn't let go of his hand but he hadn’t let go of yours either. “Yeah, you did.”

The water lapped gently around your chest, the surface of it still moving from your exit from below, the trickle of water surrounded you both as it dripped from your soaked hair, the lobes of your ears, the tips of your noses. Steve’s eyelashes were spiked together, too pretty to look at

Neither of you moved, to be honest, neither of you seemed particularly eager to. And somewhere beneath the celebration and relief and your racing heartbeat, a different realization settled between you.

You'd gone underwater.

Somehow the part that lingered in your mind wasn't the fear or the dark or the suffocating memory of the lake. You didn’t think about the weeds and the sludge that caught you from below, ankles trapped, your shirt wrapped around your ribs, branches clawing at your feet.

All you could remember was that it was Steve who was waiting for you when you opened your eyes.

[djobug]

comma splices…comma splices no…

[nessa007]

Steve Harrington + putting himself down

[devilishloser]

I'm fine

[djobug]

I’m not

[harringtonstar]

I’m losing my mind over these pics of Joe

[jorkingtodjo]

NEW JOE KEERY PICS Y'ALL WAKE TF UP IM ALREADY LOSING MY SHIT HE LOOKS SO SEXY OHGOD

[chestharrington]

things can only get better || part five

Previous Parts: one || two || three || four

Fic Rating: Explicit (18+)

Chapter Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 19.7k

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Warnings: SMUT (unprotected p in v sex, m recieving oral, fingering, masturbation, denial?) slow burn friends to lovers, jealousy, depictions of grief, parental issues

Chapter Summary: as you and steve begin to navigate your new relationship, you have to find a way to reconcile your happiness with your baggage.

Fic Summary: You and Steve can't stand to be around one another... but you have to learn to coexist and raise your goddaughter together in the face of the apocalypse.

The first time you met Steve, you were new to Hawkins.

At nine years old, you had your own friends that you'd miss terribly, and you didn't want to have to meet anyone new. You moved across state lines for the good of your parents' careers and took a box of goodbye letters and friendship bracelets with you.

Your parents became members at the Hawkins Regency Country Club two weeks into moving, a recommendation from the head surgeon at Hawkins Memorial. The first community mixer was held in the event center at the club, a big ballroom overlooking the tennis courts.

You snuck away into the hot summer night knowing that you wouldn't be missed and sat on the patio with your legs tucked beneath your stupid, itchy dress. And, really, you didn't expect to be bothered, but you heard shoes scuffing behind you and knew that your isolation was short lived.

In some part of your mind, you thought you'd always remember that version of Steve— in ugly, corduroy pants and a green striped shirt, holding a plate of hors d'oeuvres. He'd sort of had a bowl cut too, which you suspected was the reason that he didn't keep too many pictures of his childhood around. Not until he had turned eleven and got his hair cut like Lief Garrett, at least.

"I didn't want you to be out here alone," he said. "It's dark."

You shrugged and turned out to face the tennis courts… and the woods beyond. It was so creepy and ugly here. The trees were big, and the woods felt so endless. Like you could just walk and walk and never escape. That's what being in Hawkins felt like.

But Hawkins, Indiana needed a cardiologist and had an opening in neurology with a path for advancement. It was like fate, your parents told you. It was the perfect place for them to go. Perfect for them, but… you weren't so sure.

"Do you… um… like to ride bikes?" Steve asked as he sat next to you. His nails were a little bloody around his cuticles, which you thought was gross, especially because he intended to eat finger foods. He was actively picking at them, which only made it worse, and you wondered why he was making them worse.

"No, I like to roller skate," you answered, nose wrinkling as he picked again and you watched him expose pink, raw skin. "Do you want a band-aid?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm fine." It went quiet then. You heard an animal calling in the woods, nothing you could identify. You wondered if there were entirely different animals here, or if anything overlapped. "I'm Steve. I live on Bradford Street."

"I live on Bradford Street." You turned to look at him, really look at him and gave a tiny smile before you told him your name. "I just moved here with my parents. They're doctors."

Steve offered you a small cocktail weenie. You declined. "I think you're the house next door," he said. "That's where the Thomases lived, but I heard my mom say that Mr. Thomas was having a baby with someone who wasn't Mrs. Thomas, so I guess they moved somewhere that they can all live together."

Your expression wrinkled. That didn't sound right, but Steve seemed so sure, so you jut went along with it. As you sat there, the music from the party was filtering through the crack in the sliding doors. Jive Talking, which you loved. You even had the 45. Steve didn't look particularly amused.

"Well, you live next door, so we can be friends," Steve said. "Maybe next week you can roller skate, and I'll ride my bike, and we'll see who's the fastest."

It was all so simple, it was exactly what you needed. A companion during parties where you were meant to be seen not heard, a friend to spend time with when the world felt so lonely. For a while, you tried to write your friends back home… but then Hawkins became your home.

It felt like all you needed was Steve, but then you got Carol and Tommy too, and that was perfect. You'd lost all of them in different ways, and you got them back in ones you didn't expect.

You woke up on the Friday of Sam's first birthday beside a sleepy Steve with his face smushed into a pillow, listening to the sounds of Sam breathing over the monitor. You moved closer, kissing his shoulder, right above the barely-there pink scars where he'd been dragged across the upside down version of Lover's Lake.

"Mmmph," Steve groaned into the pillow. He didn't bother opening his eyes for a while, but then he rolled over and blinked the sleepiness away. A fond smile played on his lips at the sight of you, even with your messy bed head and granny pajamas. "Morning, beautiful."

You rolled your eyes and laughed. "Good morning," you said with a tiny grin. He started to sit up, but you put a hand on his arm and tugged him back into bed. "Where are you going? I thought Robin cancelled the broadcast today for Peanut's party."

Steve grinned and kissed your forehead once before peeling himself off of you. "Yeah, but it's Peanut's birthday. I'm hosting the morning show so I can record it all on tape and show it to her when she's older."

You grinned and sat up. "That's cute," you replied. "Now I feel like my painted toy box is a stupid idea. It's not sentimental enough."

"No, it looks great and she can keep it forever. And who knows if she'll ever actually listen to the broadcast, y'know?" he insisted.

You followed him into the en suite and sat on the countertop while he got the shower running. He stretched, and your eyes flicked to the dark hair that trailed from his tummy and disappeared into his flannel pajamas.

He caught your gaze when you looked back up at him and rolled his eyes. "No. You're not showering with me." You laughed, cheeks burning hot as you tried to play coy. Just as you opened your mouth, he shook his head. "No way. Not to save water, not because you need one anyway. You're going to make me late."

A slow sigh escaped you. You hadn't actually slept together since the last time a week ago. And that wasn't to say you hadn't gotten close, but Steve kept pulling back before things could get too far, panting into your mouth with a gentle, I think we should slow down.

It was impressive, but generally frustrating. You wanted to sleep with Steve. Frequently. And you were confused about why every time that you tried to move beyond a heated make out, he politely rebuffed you.

I just want us to take our time, or, I don't want to rush.

But you hadn't taken your time. You had slept together after months of silent pining and jealousy and angst, and now… nothing. What good was taking your time when you'd already gone all the way? When, frankly, you'd missed a few bases on your way there?

But something about seeing him, with the grogginess of sleep still clinging to him, all unkempt and domestic… it was really doing it for you. You'd toe the line again and see if an entire week of behaving was slow enough for Steve. "I won't make you late," you insisted. "It's so cold today, a hot shower sounds really nice. And I don't want to go back to bed and be cold and alone."

Steve put his hands on his hips and sighed. A tiny smile played on your lips as he ran a hand through his messy hair and rolled his eyes again. "Fine. But it's just a shower."

Five minutes later, your hands were all over each other as you stood beneath the steaming spray. You panted, gasping into his mouth as he kissed you hungrily. His tongue dipped into your mouth, laving over yours like he was desperate to claim you inside and out.

But just as your hand moved down his stomach, following that dark thatch of hair, he pinned it to the tile. "Steve," you whined as he licked up your throat. "Let me touch you, baby."

And you swore you could feel him shiver against you. "You sound so hot calling me baby," he panted against your skin. And, Jesus, his dick twitched where it pressed against your hip. "But I want us to—" he hissed when you grabbed his ass to pull him closer, making him rut against you, "—to take this slow. Don't wanna cheapen it."

Huh. You'd need to unpack that later. For the moment, you pulled back just to meet his gaze. "Are you telling me that I can't suck your cock?" You asked with a pout.

"Oh, fuck me," he groaned. "No. I mean— not no I'm not telling you that. It's… yes, I'm… not yes as in—" He looked like he was being held at gunpoint, all soaking wet from the constant spray of water over the both of you, as pathetic as you'd seen him.

"Steve," you said, as gently as you could manage. "I am so fine with cheapening the moment. I'm literally begging to suck your dick right now, this is humiliating for me."

You kissed his throat, and he tasted like tap water and the remnants of his shampoo that had rinsed out. "Just…" You planted another wet kiss, sucking softly at the tender skin just beneath his pulse point. "Lemme take care of you. Please?"

He groaned, and you felt his cock twitch against your hip again. For just a moment, he gave in, rolling his hips almost imperceptibly against you. And then he sighed and pulled back to look in your eyes. "Can I take you on a date first?" He asked, tucking your wet hair behind your ear. "It's important to me."

You sighed softly, feeling an annoying sting of disappointment. Maybe he had a point— you'd done everything so backwards, maybe it was smart to cool off until you'd gone on a date and talked things out. So, with an annoyingly understanding and affectionate tug in your chest, you nodded. "Tomorrow," you said, meeting his gaze. "Promise?"

He smiled and kissed you again, slow and deep. Your eyes fluttered as he pinned you against the shower wall, groaning into your mouth. "Turn around, I want to wash your hair."

Steve's fingers moved over your scalp, combing through your wet hair as he massaged in the shampoo. You couldn't help the soft sighs that escaped your lips as he worked the suds through the ends of your curls.

A tiny laugh escaped him and you turned over your shoulder, brows furrowed. "Your perm is all grown out," he mused. "You should let me cut it."

"So you can get your payback?" You asked, raising a brow. He grinned and continued to work the shampoo in, until your eyes were half-closed and your knees felt weak.

He kissed your wet, soapy shoulder fondly once he'd gotten all of the shampoo rinsed. "I know the importance of a person's hair." He parted your hair and placed a gentle kiss at the back of your neck, sweet and tender. You listened as he lathered soap in his hands, then moved them to your slick skin.

A soft, shuddering sigh tumbled from your lips as his big hands massaged the soap onto your tits. One hand feebly grabbed at the slick, tiled wall. "Steve," you panted, almost a warning.

"Mmm?" He let his hands move, lower, sudsing up your tummy and ribs. "Just getting you clean."

Bullshit. His hands moved to your thighs, then squeezed your ass. He kissed the top of your spine again, pressing his forehead to your damp skin. He eased you beneath the spray, so all of the suds and bubbles rinsed down the drain between your feet.

"All better," he said softly. You opened your eyes and smiled up at him, feeling that stupid fluttery feeling that he seemed genetically engineered to instill in you. "Now get your cute ass back to bed. I have to take care of something before I leave."

A sly grin spread across your lips as you cast your eyes down, where his cock twitched, hard and flushed a pretty pink at the tip. You had a pretty solid idea of what that something was, and it wasn't something you really wanted to miss.

"Don't let me stop you," you said, and he groaned as you caught your bottom lip between your teeth and met his gaze once more.

"You're so evil," he muttered. But he couldn't stop his own eyes from wandering, falling from your eyes to your mouth, to your tits, to the soft curls at the apex of your thighs. He huffed and you watched his hand wrap around the base of his cock and squeeze.

His pretty eyes fluttered a bit, but when they locked on you, it sent a shot of pure electricity down your spine. It settled in your stomach, molten hot, and you gave a shaky exhale as his fist began to glide up and down his cock.

Holy fucking shit. Your mouth felt dry, and you swear you got a head rush just watching him. Rivulets of water streaming down his strong arms, the bulge of muscle as his hand worked over his length.

"This what you wanted?" He panted. His palm splayed against the tile beside your head, making him lean even closer to you. He smelled like the sweet honey of his shampoo and the spice of his body wash. You nodded quickly, and he fucking laughed. "Such a perv. Have you always been like this?"

No. God, no. He had a way of bringing out the most degenerate parts of you, it seemed. The angry, jealous rage, the toe-curling, horny need, the sappy, doting affection. So you just rolled your eyes and shook your head. "Shut up."

He tilted his head down, just enough that your noses pressed together and your lips were just barely grazing. Each of his panted breaths puffed over your wet mouth as he worked himself in his hand. You could hear the slick glide of his fist even over the spray of the water.

"Fuck, you look so pretty," he groaned, and his lips brushed yours in a cruel imitation of a kiss. So close, but still not enough.

You laughed weakly, holding his gaze. With his forehead against yours, you couldn't see much beyond the slope of his nose. That close, you could see every tiny freckle there, like pretty constellations.

"Wish you'd just let me touch you," you murmured. He groaned and pressed a sloppy kiss to your lips. He pulled back just to pant and moan, soft against the side of your mouth. "So stubborn."

He kissed you again, hungrier this time. His tongue moved over yours, careless and desperate, until he pulled back with blown pupils and flushed cheeks. "I'm really close," he panted. "You drive me crazy. I want you so bad."

"So bad?" You echoed. He nodded, knocking his nose against yours.

"Mhmm…" His nose nuzzled against your cheek as he sloppily kissed the side of your mouth. "So fucking bad, honey." The moan that escaped him sent a thrill through you— electric right down to your core. You felt his hot cum painting your thighs as he worked himself through his orgasm. It felt so intimate, seeing him come apart like that all on his own, that he'd done that for you, because of you.

His head slumped against your shoulder, wet hair sticking to your face as he huffed like he'd run a marathon. "Jesus christ," he panted. "Fuck." He kissed your shoulder, rinsed you clean, and kissed your forehead for good measure.

You slipped back into the bed and the cotton sheets felt like ice without him there to warm you up. And, frankly, you were still really turned on, enough that you had to slip a hand into your panties and get yourself off just listening to him humming and fixing his hair.

Just imagining him in his tight Levi's with the pudge of his tummy jutting over the waistband, with the dampness of the shower still clinging to the hair on his chest and his shoulders. The sounds he had made echoed in your brain, the smell of him close to you, sweet like honey.

You came embarrassingly fast, biting into the plush of your bottom lip as you worked yourself through it.

Steve stopped by the bed a few minutes later and planted a gentle kiss on your lips, totally oblivious. "Go back to sleep, dummy," he mumbled against your mouth. Then he stood and grinned. "The big broadcast is at eight, so make sure you have the radio on. I'll be back to help before the party, I promise."

Steve's broadcast started at 8AM, right as you eased a hungry Sam into her high chair and turned on the portable radio on the kitchen table. Sammie perked up at the sound of the station's jingle, or maybe it was just that you were bringing her a sippy cup of milk while you got ready to make her scrambled eggs on the stovetop.

Good morning Hawkins, I'm your host, Steve "The Hair" Harrington, and I hope you're ready for a very special broadcast in honor of a very special girl. My girl, my Peanut, turns a whole year old today.

You grinned at the sound of a cheesy cheering sound effect, followed by noisemakers. Even if he had a helping hand, that choice was all Steve.

Sorry to any parents listening, but compared to Peanut, your kids are total duds. She knows three whole words, and she has two teeth, both on the bottom. Her favorite food is oatmeal, and she totally hates all of the gross meat flavored baby food. She can walk a little, but prefers to be carried, and if you turn your head while she's on the ground, she's gone, because she's the fastest crawler on the planet. Her favorite Care Bear is Funshine, and I'm not ashamed to know all of their names.

And, you're probably thinking— Steve, you have a daughter at twenty, you're totally throwing your whole life away. But that's total bull. Honestly, it feels like I was just kind of aimless before I became her dad. I think now, I'm finally seeing things clearly.

Anyway, I hope she's listening to this someday on cassette, or maybe on hologram. Who knows? So Peanut, if you're listening right now or in the future— your dad loves you, your mom loves you— you're probably the most loved kid in the world. Happy Birthday, Sammie. This one's for you.

A dumb smile played on your lips as the bouncy bass riff of My Girl played through the speakers. You glanced over at Samantha, your girl, and felt such a strong tug of affection that your eyes went misty.

Stupid. You'd never been so sappy before now. A perk of motherhood, maybe.

Various party members and their families called in to leave birthday messages— for posterity. Auntie Rob was the first one to say her piece from the studio. And when the calls rolled in, they came in droves. Claudia and Dustin, The Wheeler's, The Sinclair's, Joyce and the boys.

Your girl, your peanut, was adored by everyone who was lucky enough to meet her. She smiled up at you with the few teeth she had as you put her plate down and fed her little bites. And every time she heard her dad's voice on the radio, you swore she looked a little happier.

The birthday party was later that day, with snow still falling in fat flakes that piled up in snowdrifts outside. It was a biting, nasty cold that no one would have wanted to leave the comfort of the indoors for.

And even so, the house was packed full of people who wanted to celebrate her. Soggy boots were left in the foyer, where they melted into snowy puddles that the beach towels on the floor did little to help with. Parkas overflowed the rack by the door and spilled onto Daniel Harrington's desk like it was a coat check at a fancy restaurant.

You'd attempted to frost the cake with little peanut shapes, but they turned into ugly brown blobs. Karen Wheeler stepped in to assist, easing the piping bag from your hands so you could, "enjoy the party."

You were doing your best to do just that, passing from group to group, trying to keep everyone entertained. You passed Sam being held by Mrs. Perkins, who was posing for a Polaroid. It was a full house— a combination of Carol and Tommy's families, yours and Steve's families (with large exceptions), and the family that he had found in the party.

It was nearly elbow to elbow, even in the large house, and it was far too cold for anyone to spill into the backyard. One of Steve's little cousins knocked into your legs as he ran to peek inside the dozens of gift bags that had spilled from the dining table and onto the floor. You hadn't really expected so much, but it was a welcome surprise.

You scanned the room, eyes furrowed, and frowned when you didn't spot either of your parents. They had called to tell you that they would be there, but the party was well underway and they still seemed to be missing. But you couldn't focus on that, just like Steve couldn't really think about his parents' absence, or whether they would have cared to show up in the first place. You just continued through the party, trying to keep things in order.

A smile played on your lips as you passed a table littered with pictures of Sam's first year. In the very middle, in a small metal frame, was a photo of Carol, Tommy, and Sam on the night she was born— red in the face and wrinkly. In a frame beside that was a framed photo of you and Steve holding Sam in her Halloween costume, with her full bucket of candy between you. It felt fair that all four of Sammie's parents were represented, and you couldn't imagine the day without them there in some capacity anyway.

As you passed the snack table, you felt a strong arm loop around your waist and tug you back, until you were held snug against a broad chest and felt lips peppering kisses onto your cheeks. "Hey, beautiful," Steve mumbled against your cheek, punctuating it with a final smack. "Did you fix the cake?"

"Mrs. Wheeler's got it," you answered, turning your face to plant a soft kiss on his lips. "Have you seen my parents yet?"

He sighed and shook his head. "Not yet, but they said they'd be here," he assured. He rubbed his hands over your arms like he and kissed the crown of your head. "And if they don't show up… that's their loss, right?"'

You sighed and nodded, then tilted your lips and accepted another chaste kiss, which was met by loud, exaggerated groaning. With a sheepish smile, you turned to look at Dustin and Robin, who were eating pinwheel sandwiches and peanut butter cookies that Claudia had brought.

"Can you tiptoe around each other again?" Robin asked. "I can't keep down my food."

"Yeah, this mushy shit is nauseating," Dustin said with a grimace.

Your brows furrowed and you tilted your head, a sly smile spreading across your lips. "Yeah? As nauseating as a certain song?" He swallowed, and had the good sense to look abashed. "A certain song about a certain story… It's on the tip of my tongue actually…"

Dustin's expression wrinkled and he shook his head. "You're both seriously evil people, you know that? You belong together." He grabbed the peanut butter cookie from Steve's plate and shook his head. "Don't eat my mother's cookies, you don't deserve them."

You shook your head and peeled yourself off of Steve so you could continue your rounds. The party was there, along with their families. You hadn't realized how much Steve was appreciated until Sue Sinclair was pulling you to the side to talk about how Steve had spent August of '85 practicing with Lucas to prepare him for basketball tryouts. How he'd never missed one of Lucas' games, so they wouldn't have dreamed of missing Samantha's birthday.

And it seemed like every one of the kids and their parents had a similar story. Steve let Mike wait out a storm inside of Scoops Ahoy after closing, and sent him off with free ice cream. He drove Will into the city to check out the one comic book store that had a comic he needed. Claudia had already told you about Steve helping Dustin get ready for every single school dance he's ever attended… and reiterated it any time she had your ear.

You just wished El could have been there. She was an angel in your eyes, and she loved helping with Sam whenever she came to visit. You'd always felt so lonely as an only child— it was part of why you and Steve bonded so quickly as kids— and being around El let you feel like a big sister.

You'd promised to save her a slice of cake for the next time you saw her, but it still felt a bit unfair that she had to hide in the shadows. A girl like her deserved life in the sun.

"There's Mama," you heard a voice say, and suddenly Sam was in your arms again. You weren't even sure who had handed her over, but you bounced her on your hip and carried her over to Steve.

He smiled at the sight of her, expression softening as he leaned in to kiss her forehead. She let out a happy dada, which Steve had been bragging to everyone about. You had definitely heard her say more and hi first, but you weren't going to ruin his fun.

You adjusted her dress and straightened the bow clipped to the tiny ponytail on the top of her head. A camera flash startled the three of you, and you gave Claudia a sheepish smile as she took more photos, until Dustin put a hand on her arm and guided her away.

"Baby parties are kind of boring," you said to Steve as you nodded back to the clusters of people just standing around and snacking. "Maybe we can knock out happy birthday, cut the cake, then open a few presents?"

He frowned. "You don't want to wait a little longer?" He asked. "We can hold out for your parents, if you want me to. I can stall for time, give a big, sappy speech."

Despite everything, you couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, you got that out of the way tenfold this morning," you said. "It was really sweet, by the way. I got a little weepy, which is totally lame. But, she's lucky you're her dad."

Steve's cheeks went a little pinker than they had before— you were around him enough now to notice things like that. And how he swallowed hard at compliments that really meant something, like he had to force himself to accept it.

"Yeah, thanks," he said quietly. "And we're both really lucky to have you. You're so…"

A sight over his shoulder made you stand up straighter, and the sound of whatever he had been saying was muffled in your ears like you'd been submerged underwater.

Because in the middle of the living room, with snow clinging to her hair and a beautifully wrapped gift in her arms was your mother. It was almost impressive, how little you'd crossed paths with her since your brief visit to the Hospital. Sometimes, when you would go with Steve to visit Max, you'd hear her voice down the hallway, but that was the extent of it.

You wondered if the nurses warned her— Maybe avoid that hallway, your whore daughter is visiting the comatose redhead with that boy she lives in sin with.

But that wasn't fair. Well, really, what they had done wasn't very fair either.

"Sorry I'm late. I was hoping your father would be out of surgery by now, but…" She gave a flippant wave of her hand. "I brought a gift for Samantha."

A strained smile played on your lips as you bounced her on your hip. "That's really sweet, Mom," you finally said. "I can go carry that into the dining room with the others. Do you want to hold Sam? She's an easy baby, really calm."

She gave a polite, but firm shake of her head. "You don't need to bother, darling," she insisted. It was her coded way of saying, I'm here, but not for that. So you took a deep breath and watched her disappear into the party again.

You looked towards the front door and let out a heavy sigh. "We should probably just get everything done," you finally said to Steve. "Because if we wait much longer, Sam's gonna get fussy, and people are going to get antsy and…"

Steve planted a kiss on your forehead and ran a thumb between your brows, smoothing the wrinkle there until you laughed softened your expression. He pressed a small kiss right where his thumb had just been. "I'll handle everything, don't even stress."

If there was one thing that Steve was good at, it was taking the burden off of your shoulders and moving it onto his own. So while you got Sammie into her high chair and made sure her bow was clipped on straight and her shoes were buckled right, Steve rallied the troops and brought in the cakes.

Steve counted the room off, and Sam wailed as the crowd around her sang happy birthday. Her face went strawberry red as she cried, so you and Steve had to blow out the single candle on her tiny, baby sized cupcake. It was unclear to you whether or not that counted as a wish, but you had one. Please let this all work out.

That afternoon, when the guests had cleared out and left only a few stragglers to help clean, you took inventory of Sam's haul. With the quarantine in place, the gifts hadn't exactly been top shelf, but there was a clear show of effort that made you happy.

Hand-sewn outfits, hand-me-down toys and books, baby gear that people had no need for and were willing to pass along. The dining room was filled with it all, and you were honestly a little worried about finding space to store everything.

As you counted the number of Care Bears that she had gained (two funshines, one good luck bear, one bedtime bear, and three cheer bears), you felt arms loop around your stomach and you laughed softly as you were tugged against Steve's broad chest.

"You did good today," he mumbled against your throat as he kissed the soft skin there tenderly. "The party was fun, the cake was delicious—"

"I heard Mike say the peanuts on the cake looked like balls."

"Mike's an asshole," he said. "Mrs. Wheeler fixed it either way, and everything was perfect. You're perfect." His palms splayed over your tummy, pulling you tighter against him as he continued to pepper gentle kisses.

"Steve," you murmured softly, as he moved your hair away to suck at your pulse point. For a moment, your knees threatened to buckle, and you couldn't do much more than exhale a shuddery sigh. "Steve, Claudia is right in the kitchen."

He smiled against your throat and you shivered as his teeth grazed over your jaw. "She's occupied." His voice vibrated against your throat, and you sighed weakly.

You laughed softly and turned around in his arms so you could look up at him. "Steve. What about our date tomorrow?" He groaned against you and the ticklish buzz of the sound made you shiver. "If the rules apply to me, they apply to you."

With a sigh, he peeled himself off of you and fixed you with a little pout. "That's too many Care Bears," he sighed. "Way too many. And she already has, like, a million upstairs."

You laughed and held the good luck bear to your chest. "I think you should keep this one," you said. "Put it in the van for the crawls. A real good luck charm."

He ran his fingers over a hand-sewn big bird pillow and laughed softly. "What'd your mom end up bringing, anyway?" He asked, meeting your gaze. "Baby's first MRI?"

You scoffed and shook your head. "No, uh… it was old baby things of mine that were in storage," you answered. "Mostly dusty, old clothes that Sam will never wear. And…"

You reached into the box and pulled out a curly stuffed bear with a big yellow ribbon around it's neck. With a big smile, you held him to your chest. "Do you recognize him?"

For a moment, there was little more than confusion behind his gaze, and then there was a flash of recognition. "Mr. Coco," he said with a grin. "I gave you that when we were, like, ten."

"Eleven," you corrected, squeezing the bear even tighter against your body. The top of its head smelled like the attic— ancient and musty, but it made your heart ache with nostalgia. "What are your parents sending?"

He shrugged. "Well, snail mail and quarantine aren't exactly the best ways to communicate," he said with a wry laugh. "Three months ago I sent a letter with pictures of the three of us to them and reminded them of her birthday. And two weeks ago I got a heavily redacted letter that mentioned that they had shipped us a camcorder as a combo birthday-Christmas gift, with their best wishes for the three of us."

A tiny grimace twisted your expression. "Bleak," you said softly. "But useful? It'll be nice to have some home videos of Sam."

"Yeah, well that's if it makes it through the blockade, or whatever. Ninety-nine percent chance some bozo MP is fucking around with it right now."

Steve wrapped his arms around you again and kissed you slow and sweet, and you felt the tension of the day melt like the snow that dripped from the eaves outside. His hands moved up to your shoulders and you sighed against his mouth as his thumbs worked out the tension there.

"You should bail on cleaning," he said softly, mumbled against the corner of your mouth. "Why don't you go take a really long, really hot bath and relax for the rest of the night, hm? We have a big day tomorrow."

A grin twitched onto your lips as you peered up at him through your lashes. "Are you telling me I need to rest up before our date?" You asked coyly. "What are we gonna do? Run a marathon?"

"Something like that."

Before you could respond, you felt a presence at your left and turned to see a scowling Mike Wheeler. "Gross. Can you two stop sucking face long enough to tell us where the recycling bin is?"

Steve groaned in annoyance and stalked off with Mike in tow, dragging him into the garage where you kept the bins during the snowstorm. In his absence, you slipped into the kitchen and gave Claudia a grateful smile.

"You've done so much for us already, you don't have to clean any more," you insisted. "You should get home, Mrs. Henderson. Let the rest of us pick up the slack."

She looked reluctant, but grateful as she gathered her things and her son and headed towards the car. In the morning, you'd call the florist and send her a thank you bouquet, and even that didn't feel like enough. Without even meaning to, she'd become Samantha's unofficial grandmother, in a way. Whether she'd ever claim that title or not, it made you happy that even with your own and Steve's parents being absent in one way or another, your girl still had a family around her to give her love.

You tidied up what was left of the kitchen, then joined Lucas and Erica in the living room. They were trying to silently pop balloons with tiny pinpricks that they squeezed the air out of, which meant whenever one popped loudly, the offender got yelled at.

"There's a baby asleep upstairs, shithead," Erica snapped and slapped her brother's arm.

"You just popped one!" He argued back.

Nancy, Robin, and Jonathan were trying to make tidying the display of Peanut's baby pictures a three person job. Will was folding up the banners and garlands that he had painted for you to keep, while Joyce sat staring longingly at the snowy patio like she was craving a smoke.

You slipped into your bedroom and smiled at the sight of a tiny present on your nightstand. You chewed on your lip as you took the little box into your hands and read the small note on top.

To the best mom in Hawkins, from the okay-est dad in Hawkins. One year down, seventeen more to go. At least.

Inside the box, you found a little ring rattling about. A pretty gold setting with two little diamonds framing a dainty ruby cut into a heart shape. It fit perfectly on your ring finger, the one on your right hand.

You recognized it immediately— Valentine's Day of '80, Sylvia Harrington got the ring as an apology. Steve told you as much, when you had to sit through the Hawkins Regency Valentine's Day dinner and watch her showing the little ring off to the other ladies.

I heard Mom say he's screwing the secretary again. That's why she got that and not, like… a card and a bouquet.

The next time you went over, you found the ring shoved in the back of the jewelry box and tried it on. Still too big for your fingers, but so pretty that you just wanted to take it home. He said you could, if you wanted, but you knew if your parents caught you with it, they'd drag you over to return it by your ear.

Steve had remembered, after all this time. It was funny, how it had been a thoughtless gift from his father, but meant so much coming from Steve. One woman's sorry-for-cheating present is another's treasure.

You took Steve's suggestion and had a long, hot bath in Sylvia Harrington's pink bathtub. And you figured if you could have her ruby ring, you could use her fancy soaps and bath oils. You stayed in, decompressing until the water went lukewarm and you felt like a lavender-scented raisin.

It was still snowing out— you could see it from the big windows in the bedroom, so you pulled on your comfiest sweatsuit and thickest socks before braving the living room.

"Oh look, Mom's back," Robin said when you walked back in. It made your face heat up still, that stupid nickname. "We're watching Clue, if you wanna join."

You grabbed an extra slice of cake and slid into the free spot beside Steve. The second you were beside him, his arm found its place around your shoulders like it was second nature. And, really, you fit against his side like you belonged there.

No crawls, no monsters, no fears. Just one really good day— the best day. Steve and the rest of the party sprawled around the living room, a stupid movie on TV, your girl upstairs napping.

His lips pressed against your temple and you melted against him. You wished every day could be just like that.

Snow was still falling in fat, lazy flakes as Steve drove you into town the next day. The headlights illuminated them as they drifted down, landing in clumps atop yesterday's snow.

Steve had managed to strike a deal with Mrs. Henderson, or maybe he had just begged until she folded. Frankly, you weren't sure how he pulled it off, but you were baby free until the morning, which was as exhilarating as it was unfamiliar.

Your stomach fluttered with all sorts of strange feelings. Nerves, like any other first date you'd ever been on. Worry, because Sam was staying the night with Claudia and she'd never spent the night anywhere before. Giddiness, because you'd spent most of your adolescence dreaming about a date with Steve Harrington, and it was finally happening.

Enzo's was, as he put it, the only real option for your kind-of-first date. You didn't bring up that your last date had been to Enzo's as well, or how that date had turned out. All he knew was that it went bad, you didn't get to hook up, and he was stupidly smug about it.

The table he'd reserved was a little small, tucked into the corner next to the string quartet they had on Saturdays. They were playing Vivaldi— one of the songs that played from your childhood music box. You kicked Steve's shin as you tried to readjust your legs, and laughed bashfully as you mumbled a quick apology.

"You look so beautiful tonight," he murmured, and you melted a little as he brushed your hair behind your ears. "You got all dressed up for me, huh?"

Truthfully, you'd spent a stupid amount of time getting ready— flipping through Vogue and Cosmo for any inspiration for how to dress up while not freezing to death in the snow. Eventually, you copied an editorial as best as you could— a turtleneck sweater, a mini skirt, red tights, and black boots.

"I wanted to put in some effort," you admitted, a little bashful to have been called out for it. "Most of the time I'm just wearing sweats and a t-shirt covered in baby food, milk, and god knows what else. I thought you deserved me at my best for our date."

His brows furrowed at your words, and he shook his head quickly. "What? You're always at your best. You're— I mean, god, you're perfect all of the time, not just—" He exhaled hard and met your gaze. "I didn't mean to imply that you're… y'know, better, but—"

"Steve," you said gently. "I know what you mean, and thank you. I think you look pretty handsome yourself." He preened at that, and you grinned at his proud little smile as he read over the menu and tried not to look too happy about the compliment.

"Sam said milk today," you said, after a prolonged bout of silence. "Clear as day. So that's word number four."

His expression wrinkled a bit and he shook his head. "No, it's five. She said bye when we dropped her at Henderson's."

You were unconvinced. She'd said buh… and gah, and blew raspberries. But you shrugged and chewed on the crispy breadsticks the waiter had brought out with your waters. No wine— you tried to order their cheapest red and were promptly carded. That's what a fancy establishment got you.

While you waited for your food, the conversation was stiff. Talk about the station, about Sam and her newest milestones. About Robin, apparently dating someone new and totally stealing your thunder as the party's newest couple.

And then you just… sort of ran out of things to say. What was there that you hadn't said already earlier that day? Or that week? Or in the past nine months of living together?

There was so much balancing precariously on the shoulders of the date. It was your first full night away from the baby ever. It was your first real date with Steve. It was the requirement Steve had set before you could have sex again. And, in the back of your mind, it felt like a litmus test for the viability of your relationship.

"So…" you pushed your dinner salad around with your fork and the tomato on your fork mopped up the vinaigrette. "What's a normal first date conversation to have?"

Steve perked up at your attention and gave a small shrug. "I dunno… uh, where do you see yourself in five years?"

A snort escaped you and you couldn't help an amused smile that crept onto your lips. "What, like a job interview?" You laughed lightly as he ducked his head, but humored him. "Um… I would hope I've at least gotten my associates in nursing by then. I might think about trying to get a job at one of the schools when one of the batty, ancient nurses finally retire."

He looked at you expectantly, and you felt your face burn a little. "And in this very optimistic vision, your parents graciously hand over the keys to their place while still paying the bills so we can have a nice place to raise Sam," you joked, because it was the least mushy way you could communicate that he was still in your vision of the future. "What about you? Five years out, what do you want life to be like?"

You watched him think for a moment— brows drawn together, tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth. A soft, huh, escaped him, like he hadn't thought about what his own answer would be.

"I guess, y'know, I want all of the bad stuff in Hawkins to be over," he began. His thumb ran along your knuckles again, worrying over the ring as he thought. "I'd have a decent job doing whatever the hell I can get hired to do. That part doesn't matter as much as just, y'know, being a good provider for my girls. And Peanut would be in school by then, and she'd be doing really well because we'd be working with her at home too. And, I dunno… I think it'd be nice if she had a sibling or two by then, before she's too big and feels left out when we have more."

Oh. You took a slow drink of your water and tried to pretend like you couldn't feel Steve's eyes on you, studying your reaction. Steve wanted more kids. Steve wanted more kids before you even turned twenty five. Steve wanted to have kids with you. And maybe you hadn't schooled your expression well enough, because his eyes went a little soft and his throat bobbed nervously.

"If we… y'know, have more," he amended. "But have you thought about it? Having more kids, I mean."

"That's a… wild question for a first date," you said with a weak laugh, trying to brush off the seriousness of the question. "I guess I never really thought about it before everything happened, you know? I thought I'd decide whether or not I'd have kids when I was older and had everything else figured out first. But, uh… I guess it got decided for me."

Truthfully, you'd always wondered if you wanted kids at all. It seemed like everyone's parents let them down eventually. Your own, who hadn't ever really seemed interested in raising you in the first place, Steve's who tormented him with both emotional and physical distance. Carol's father whose benders drove her to your house for an escape, and Tommy's father, who pushed him aside to pour all of his attention onto his shiny new step-family.

It just felt like all parents did was fuck their kids up in some way. Whether intentionally, or as an unfortunate side-effect of just existing.

But you'd also seen Claudia doting over Dustin at the dinner table, encouraging his interests and hobbies even if she didn't understand them. You'd heard Steve singing Sam to sleep at three in the morning, exhausted but full of so much selfless love that it didn't even bother him that much. And you'd felt a new part of yourself growing and changing over the past year— like the muscle of your heart expanding to create a new space all for your girl. Full of pride and love and joy for every bit of her that you got to experience.

The odds felt stacked against you, in a way. Most parents messed up; everyone you knew had, at one point, slammed their bedroom door and just screamed into their pillow about how they hated their parents, or they just didn't understand. And you thought that, maybe, the inevitability of it was just part of life that you had to count on.

Because you still remembered how proud your father had been when you clumsily stitched your teddy bear's arm back on, and how your mother had beamed about how beautiful you looked before prom. You remembered Carol's father's slow recovery for his family's sake, and how he'd cried happy tears when they danced at her wedding.

"I guess I don't think it would be the worst thing," you said finally. "More, I mean. Like… two or three including Sam. If the circumstances are right."

"What about four?" He asked, and you couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

So you brushed your hair back and narrowed your eyes with an easy smile. "Do you always ask your dates how many babies they're willing to pop out for you on first dates?"

He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly and laughed. "Sorry, you're right, that's pretty intense, huh? Uh… it's been a while since I've been on a first date," he admitted. "Like a real, sit down, have a conversation date, you know? Not just…"

"Yeah, I know what a first date is," you replied with a tiny laugh. "Who was your last real one? Nancy?"

It was meant to be a teasing jab, but his cheeks went a shade of pink that might have been adorable if it weren't for jealousy roiling around your stomach. Which was stupid, really, but that didn't make it any less present. "I mean, yeah, pretty much," he admitted.

"Huh… Carol told me you were, like, really dating around after I left Hawkins," you said, raising a brow. "Like… constant stream of girls dating around. I guess I didn't realize she meant, like, fucking around."

He glanced at the tables on either side of you, but the string quartet was playing loud enough that it sort of muffled your conversation. "I took most of them out beforehand."

You laughed wryly. "Most of them."

His eyes narrowed, and you could sense defensiveness in the tick of his jaw. "Why are you being so weird about this? You're acting pissed."

You didn't know how to even begin to explain how you were feeling, because it was a weird feeling. This itch under your skin, a resentment. Of the girls, of him. Stupid, nagging, hot jealousy from a very loud, very tender spot you thought you'd outgrown.

"I'm not pissed," you insisted, because you were pretty confident that you weren't. "And I don't know what it is, okay? I just feel crazy when I think about you with other girls. It makes me feel like I'm in high school again."

Unfortunately, you were self aware enough to know where it all stemmed from. Carol's birthday party in the stupid basement closet and your first kiss with Steve (with anyone). How he had immediately confessed that he wished you had been Lisa.

It was watching his endless stream of girlfriends and going to parties where he'd disappear into the nearest door with a lock and walk out unkempt and smug. It was the mental image of Steve with pretty girls who he took on casual dates and hooked up with in his car, the same car that he'd gotten you in the backseat of.

It made you stupidly nauseous to think about. That you were one of many, that there was always a chance that you were being compared to some other girl he'd been with, for better or worse.

Maybe Amy was a better kisser. Maybe Laurie was better in bed. And Lisa had better tits, and Stacey had a better attitude, and, and, and. Maybe the only thing you had going for you was that, for now, he was in love with you.

"Hey, I can see your brain working," he said, and you thought it was sweet how visibly concerned he was, at least. "This isn't like high school, okay? After the wedding it was all just… meaningless. I was looking for something— for someone— that wasn't even in Hawkins."

Your chest fluttered a little at his words. There was a sick sort of pride you felt at being the one in the back of his mind while he was with other girls, just like he had been with you. It soothed that nagging voice in the back of your head, just knowing that you had been the one who he was comparing them all to.

Sure, it was immature and selfish, but it had always been a part of you, that jealousy. "Oh," you said softly, because you couldn't think of anything else to say.

"That's why this date means a lot to me, you know?" He said. His cheeks were dusted with the faintest ruddiness, the softest spray over his freckle dotted face. "I just… I needed this to be different than before, so you don't think that being your boyfriend isn't important to me. I didn't want you to think I just wanted to sleep with you, and that's all that mattered to me, because I wouldn't blame you if you thought of me that way."

You swallowed around a lump in your throat and nodded. "I don't think of you that way, and I know you really care about this," you said, lips twitching with a tiny smile. He took your hand from across the table, his thumb running over the ruby ring on your finger. Your heart was doing a funny, fluttery thing, one that made you feel like you were going to cry or laugh because you were so full of feeling that something had to come out.

You knew what it was, but you couldn't bring yourself to verbalize it. "Hey, about what you said before… I don't want you to just pick whatever job is available so you can be a provider, or whatever," you said. "Isn't there anything you want to do?"

He shrugged, brows knit. "I don't know," he admitted. "Remember that career aptitude test we took in senior year?" When you nodded, he sighed. "It told me I was best suited to be a, like, retail associate, which is just a fancy way of saying a schmuck who folds shirts for a living."

Your lips twitched with the beginnings of a frown at his dejected tone, like he'd given up on ever doing anything he cared about. "Steve, c'mon, they give you, like, twenty suggestions. They weren't all just retail."

He sighed, and the forced nonchalance in his expression was how you knew it really bothered him. "Alright, fine, they also said I should be an elementary school teacher."

Your brow knit. "Well, what's the problem with that?"

His laugh was bitter and dry. "Maybe that I'm a goddamn idiot," he muttered. He looked up and saw pure concern on your face, which made him quickly shake his head and try to look unbothered. "I'm sorry it's just… it doesn't matter what I'm suited for. I just want to be good to you, and good to Sam. I'm happy when I know you're both healthy and happy. And you're both healthy and happy so..."

"You're not an idiot, Steve," you pressed. "And I'm not going to be happy if you're killing yourself every day at some soul crushing job, just for my sake."

Across the table, his nails dug into the soft skin around his cuticles and pulled. It made your stomach turn just to watch it, especially when you had to look at the raw, tender flesh. "Do we have to talk about this?"

"Well, if you can ask how many kids I'm willing to give you, I think I can tell you that I want you to have a job you care about," you countered.

It struck you then that this wasn't a first date. It wasn't even a fiftieth date. While you were avoiding your feelings for Steve, your lives had grown around one another whether you wanted them to or not. Tightly woven, completely inextricable.

Nothing was as simple as just being each other's boyfriend and girlfriend when you'd been playing house since March. Mom and Dad. Samantha's Parents. Hello, this is the Harrington Household, we can't come to the phone right now, but—

Boyfriend felt too casual for what he was to you. It felt small and childlike. You were talking to Steve like your future together had already been written in permanent marker. And, really, you knew that feeling wasn't just about Sam. It was a choice you made daily, that you'd been actively making since March.

A choice to wake up and see things through, to live with hopefulness instead of anger. It was the harder path, you were more than sure of it, but the funniest sense of certainty settled over you as you looked at Steve across the table.

It had never felt so obvious until that moment.

"I think you're smarter than you give yourself credit for," you said finally. "And I think you're funny, and charismatic, and shockingly selfless. And if you ever can't decide on what to do, I vote that you stay a DJ, 'cause your voice sounds really sexy on the radio."

He laughed and shook his head incredulously, but the tiny smile on his lips as he stared at the tablecloth told you that you'd managed to cheer him up a little.

The waiter brought out your plates, which gave you both a healthy buffer to push thoughts of the future aside for another time. The conversation moved away from heavy topics like how many kids will we eventually have and what job will you have to support them and don't be jealous that I was sleeping around before we reconnected, I did it because I missed you, and into safer places like wow, these mashed potatoes are really good and I think the menu actually called it a potato puree.

Your fork dragged against your plate, and it suddenly felt very… calm. Sweet and well intentioned, but so much more grown up than you were used to. It reminded you of being twelve and having a babysitter come over so your parents could go have a date night. They went out, had a nice meal, and got home exactly at nine so they could hand over the cash to the babysitter.

You didn't want to feel like them— not now, not ever. Besides, the mention of a future career outside of interdimensional monster hunting had bummed your boyfriend out.

"Do you wanna do something fun after this?" You asked as you finished your last bite. "Like… maybe we can hit up Big Town and see if that bartender who always sold us drinks still works there."

"Big Town?" He asked, brows furrowing. "You want to go bowling?"

You nodded. "Yeah, why not? When's the last time either of us did anything fun?" Really, your lives had become a series of end-of-the-world emergencies, child-rearing, and brief moments of respite in each other. But fun… the kind of fun that you'd had before the world ended, had been a rare occurrence in your lives as of late.

He gave you a guilty look look, like like a puppy that had just been caught chewing on your favorite shoes. "This isn't fun?"

"No, it's great, Steve, and I appreciate that you planned all of this," you insisted. "But… I think we should take advantage of our baby-free night since it's only, like, half past eight. And I want to see if I can kick your ass in bowling still."

The promise of a little competition lit a spark in his eyes, and his guilty, disappointed expression disappeared. "I always went easy on you," he said with a grin. "And you're right, this isn't the most exciting date of all time. I just wanted it to be kind of fancy, I thought you deserved to be treated to something nice."

You leaned across the small table and planted a soft kiss on his lips, not caring that your blazer was at risk of dragging across your plate. "It's very sweet," you said against his lips. You gave him another slow kiss and sat back. "You're very sweet. And very, very bad at bowling."

Steve flagged the waiter for the check, unable to sit back while his athletic prowess was called into question. On the way to the car, after he had paid for the meal (a meal which you thought was way too expensive, but you weren't going to tell Steve that), you linked your fingers with his and tugged your jacket a little tighter around yourself.

But thoughts about how the conversations inside had gone kept nagging you with each step away from the warm glow from the windows. You didn't want to leave that part of the date with unsaid words or a dark cloud over it.

"Okay, to start, I'm sorry for getting weird about you dating around," you began, pausing at his car. You leaned against the passenger's side door and peered up at him. "It's totally fine that you did, y'know, and I'm not ever going to think lesser of you because you did, or judge you for anything, because that would be totally hypocritical. And it's not even about you it's—"

The soft warmth of a kiss on your cheek made you shut up and take a deep breath. He stepped back and brushed your hair out of your face with a an amused, if not understanding smile. "It just made me think about how much time we've wasted, y'know?" You asked, meeting his gaze. "I don't even know if there's anything we could have done to change how things ended up, or if this is just what we were meant for, but sometimes I catch myself thinking about all of the places we could have fit back together before."

You thought about senior year, and if Steve would've come to your window after Billy beat him senseless— cold tile under your knees as you cleaned the blood off of his face and stuck pink bandaids on the deep cuts. How easy it would have been then to just apologize for your fight before you slept together and things got more complicated.

Or, maybe, Fall break of your freshman year of college, when Carol and Tommy sent you to return a couple of tapes to Family Video. You had thought it was a simple favor because she was way too pregnant to deal with the asshole manager bitching her out about late fees, but, no. Steve was behind the counter like they'd planned it all. Honestly, they probably had.

Maybe if you'd just talked it out then. If he hadn't been so avoidant, if you hadn't been so angry.

"I'm glad it's now," he said finally. "I'm glad you got to stay away from… everything I come with for a little while." His eyes shifted over your shoulder and you turned, looking at the football stadium glow of the military base in the square. A shiver ran through you, not from the snow. "Let's get you in the car, you're freezing. And I don't want you to blame it on frostbite when I kick your ass at Big Town."

A smile played on your lips as you nodded. You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him again, slow and sweet, then got in the car.

Honestly, you didn't hate the Beamer that much anymore. It smelled like Steve's cologne, and a little bit like the strawberry applesauce that you'd spilled into the floor mats in the backseat when you'd tried to appease a crying Sam on the drive home from a doctor's appointment.

The radio was turned to WSQK, as it usually was. As Steve cranked the car, you heard Robin announcing her next track— a throwback by Depeche Mode. Steve made a face and turned the radio up.

"I put her onto that one," he muttered, without much venom at all. He flipped down the visor to check his hair in the mirror and your heart fluttered at the sight of the pictures of you and Sam clipped inside. He brushed his fingers against the pictures briefly, like it was a habit, before he shut the visor and gave you an easy grin.

That was your Steve. The Steve you felt that aching affection for that you couldn't bring yourself to place. He held your hand over the center console and drove into the snowy night.

Big Town Bowling Lanes was the one respite from Steve's carousel of women when you were in high school. It was like it had sacred wards carved into the foundation, forbidding him from bringing annoying skanks along whenever you went bowling with Carol and Tommy.

Or, maybe, it was just because it was four people per lane and Carol wouldn't let him kick you out to bring some girl. Either way, you relished in your weekends spent at the lanes. Tommy and Steve always took it way too seriously, and you always wound up barely edging Steve out in scores.

Darrell, who worked the concessions stand, would pour beers into styrofoam cups so you could pretend they were sodas, just as long as you tipped him nicely. It was a pleasant surprise to find him still behind the counter, and still willing to sell beers to underage drinkers like you and Steve.

A few teenagers were trying their hand at the open mic night while you waited for a lane to open up— singing Madonna and Paula Abdul and a few other top 40 songs. It wasn't the best background music, but the liveliness reminded you of your friends. It was a welcome reprieve from the constant sobriety of the end of the world and parenthood.

"Pinball while we wait?" Steve suggested. You fished around your purse for a couple of quarters and leaned against the machine while he played. Tommy had always been better than him at this exact machine, but Steve knew all the targets and how to get multipliers. Plus, it was nice to look at his handsome face lit up by the flashing lights.

You used a quarter to try the claw machine beside him— another thing Tommy had excelled at. He'd taught you all the tricks to get a prize every time, and even though you were out of practice, it was a bit like riding a bike. While Steve got a second ball in the playing field, the claw caught on a gorilla's arm and carried it to the prize chute. You put in another quarter and won a second one for Sam.

The bowling alley was packed— there wasn't much else to do in a quarantine. To make up time, you signed the two of you up for the open mic, where you fumbled your way through You're The One That I Want from Grease. Steve still hated Travolta, and still had a much better singing voice than you did. When the lanes still stayed full, you sang Don't You Want Me very, very badly.

Darrell poured you both beers, and you were about to just give up and call it a night when the lane you'd been desperately waiting for opened up. Already, enough time had passed that you were itching under your skin with anticipation about getting home, so you weren't exactly focused on bowling.

You watched Steve step up to the lanes each frame as you sipped at your beer, eyes on the way his jeans clung tight to his ass, the way his fingers slid into the bright green house ball. Your pulse fluttered at the sight, and your brain went a little fuzzy.

God, you needed to get laid.

You took another drink as he threw the ball down the lane and the pins crashed at contact. Strike. He spun around, a smug grin on his lips, and marked an X on the scorecard.

"That's three in a row, baby. I'm going for a perfect game," he insisted, smacking a kiss on your forehead. You blinked yourself from your horny stupor and nodded. You took another drink of beer and took your turn.

You were distracted by his stupid hands and handsome face. Frankly, you were regretting bringing up bowling as an option, because you were stupidly needy and eager to get him back home so you could get your hands on him. You knocked down seven pins, then threw into the gutter on your attempt to pick up the spare.

"You're not giving me much competition, honey," he said as you sat back down, grinning smugly. You shook your head and rolled your eyes, leaning into his side, but as soon as you had cuddled up against him, he was back up and on the lanes.

You gave a strained smile and a thumbs up, and watched as, sure enough, he threw a clean strike. His excitement was palpable, as was his ego. He looked like he was back on the basketball court in high school after he'd shot a successful three-pointer.

When he sat down, you leaned into his side and put a hand on his thigh. He kissed your forehead, then nodded towards the lane. "Stop stalling 'cause you know I'm going to beat you," he said, completely oblivious to your intentions.

You sighed and stood, heading back to the lane. This time you managed to get a spare, which was met by a very sarcastic clap from your boyfriend. He stood, not even giving you time to sit beside him before he was up again.

Steve took competition very seriously, and you knew that. He had barely even sipped at his beer so he could keep his focus. Partially, you appreciated that he wasn't going easy on you as a form of flattery, but you also wanted a little more attention.

There was something cute about him getting all worked up and focused about it. The way his tongue peeked out in concentration as he wrote scores, how he'd turn around and give you a smug smile at the end of each frame. You were bowling in a technical sense, but really you were taking it as your opportunity to relish in the ghost of King Steve before you.

"Why don't you help me correct my form?" You asked him as the game neared its end, slipping your fingertips inside the V-neck of his collared shirt. His heart thrummed against your touch, beneath the soft chest hair and spattering of beauty marks hidden beneath. "Hm? Give me a fighting chance."

He swallowed hard, his warm brown eyes going wide. "You want me to… oh! Yeah, I'll just… yeah, I'll help you."

With a grin, you stood and pulled him to the lane and grabbed the ball. "Okay, so… you want to line up with the dots on the ground," he began.

You nodded and sighed contentedly as he fit himself against your back. "Start back here, and you walk to gain some momentum. And before you're at the line, you pull your arm back, and throw."

He guided your motions as best as he could with a twelve pound ball in your hands. But it wasn't the actual advice you wanted— you knew how to throw a bowling ball down a lane— you wanted the close press of his body against yours.

"Got it?" His breath puffed over your ear and you shivered. You nodded and he stepped back. "Show me."

You rolled the ball down the lane and grinned victoriously when nine pins came down. You turned on the balls of your feet and met his gaze, hands clasped behind your back.

He sat back, seemingly less interested in the actual sport of bowling now that he had you blatantly flirting with him, in a cute little skirt and an oversized blazer that you definitely stole from his dad's closet. You'd even put a little brooch on it— two interlocking gold hearts and a dangly little pearl.

"What are you gonna give me if I make the spare?" You asked with a coy smile. "I think I deserve a prize for my hard work."

He shrugged casually and nodded back to the prize counter, where a bored employee sat with her chin in her hand and read Seventeen. "Maybe you can get one of those slap bracelets."

You rolled your eyes. "Hm… not quite what I was thinking."

"I just think it's a waste of a prize if whatever you're asking for is something you're going to get anyway." He gave you a smug smile and you could do little more than laugh and shake your head.

You picked up the spare, and your temporary reward was a slow, hungry kiss when you joined him on the couch. Really, you should have been a little embarrassed by the fact that you were french kissing Steve in the middle of the bowling alley, but you were too drunk on him to care. His hands slid under your jacket, teasing the waistband of your skirt where your sweater was tucked in.

"Hey, I should probably finish this game," he pulled back suddenly, glancing at the lane. His thumb brushed under your bottom lip, tidying up your smudged lipstick. "I'm, like, five strikes from a perfect score."

You sat back, brows furrowed, bottom still tingling from the way he'd bitten it. "Wait, what?"

He held up the score sheet. Sure enough, while you'd been staring at his ass and drooling over the veins in his hands, he'd managed to pull off seven strikes in a row. Fuck… maybe he had been letting you win in high school.

"Wow… sexy," you deadpanned, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he looked really proud of himself when he bowled another strike.

"You must be, like, my lucky charm," he said, planting another kiss on your lips. "This is the universe telling me you're the one."

By the time you finally made it back to the car, Steve had his picture framed on the wall of Big Town Lanes, a tiny plastic trophy, and a rainbow slap bracelet he'd asked for from the prize counter.

"Hold out your wrist," he said. With an amused huff, you held out your arm and tensed in anticipation. "C'mon, don't be a baby, it's just a bracelet." He slapped it onto your wrist and you shrieked, yanking your hand back.

"You were right, bowling was fun," he said. "And I did totally kick your ass. I'm gonna have to ask Henderson the odds on bowling a perfect game. Maybe we should go buy a scratcher or something."

You laughed, shaking your head. It was something else you loved about Steve— he was naturally funny. He could make you laugh until your sides hurt, especially now that you weren't denying your feelings for him. Well, not like you were before, at least.

"Alright, champ, let's get home," you said with an affectionate eye-roll. "It's freezing."

The house felt a little less like home when you walked inside. It was cold and still, like a dollhouse. You wondered if it was how Steve felt growing up alone most of the time. You couldn't ask, because Steve hated feeling pitied, but you could wonder.

As you got settled, Steve put his trophy down on the counter and you eased off your coat and went to check the answering machine. "Hi sweethearts. Samantha was a perfect angel. She had some meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner, then watched the Care Bears movie on tape with Uncle Dusty. She's just gone down for the night, and I know she can't wait to see you in the morning. Enjoy your night, you two!"

You smiled fondly at the message and turned to face Steve with a smile. "Hear that? We've raised a perfect angel," you said with a tiny laugh. He was pouring glasses of wine into the pretty crystal that typically sat unused in the china cabinet. The deep red looked so inviting behind the etched glass, especially after cheap beer.

"Of course we did, you're a great mom," he said, and handed you the glass. Your fingers brushed against his as you accepted it into your own hand, just for a fleeting moment. "Feels weird having the house empty, huh?"

You brought the glass to your lips and took a slow sip. "Really weird," you agreed. "Not bad, just different."

He nodded and took a drink of his own. You both stood in the dark kitchen, lit only by the street lamps outside the window— a pale yellow glow. You finished your glass and felt a pleasant warmth all over— a buzz under your skin. His parents' wine collection was fancy enough that you actually enjoyed drinking it, unlike the cheap boxed stuff that you and Carol used to share.

"Wanna listen to some music on the couch?" He asked finally. "I have some pretty great mixes. Working at the station means I get access to all of the good stuff."

You snorted at the thought of Steve slacking off and making mixes on the clock. "Your big move right now is asking if I want to listen to music on the couch?"

"Well, it's a really good mix," he insisted with a stupid grin. You shook your head and put your empty glass back on the counter with full intentions to revisit it later.

You knew this move in his playbook, and you were totally shameless about the fact that it was actually going to work on you. So you let him lead you over to the couch, and sat patiently while he messed around with the fancy sound system hidden in the bookshelves.

He clicked the tape into place and joined you on the couch just as the sound of a synth started playing. You bit your lip to stifle a laugh as he slung an arm across the back of the couch, so his fingers brushed against your shoulder. It was just so obvious.

You shivered as his fingers played with the ends of your hair, twirling them around his fingertips. That was the invitation he needed. You grinned as he tugged you into his side, wrapping his arm tight around you. "Cold? Need me to warm you up?"

It was so corny. You figured this was a move of his, tried and true, but you didn't mind. Really, you had always wondered what the Steve Harrington hookup experience was like.

So you nodded and let him pull you into his lap where he was nice and warm beneath you. "'S that better?" He asked. Big hands settled on your arms, moving up and down in a showy attempt to warm you up.

"Mhmm… but maybe I'm a little hot now," you said, playing right into his hand. At that, his expression perked up, and you could sense his excitement in the way his eyes lit up.

"Yeah? Gotta get this off then, huh?" He tugged at the thick fabric of your sweater, right below your ribcage. As soon as you nodded, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your skirt and untucked your sweater so he could pull it over your head and toss it mindlessly aside.

It totally fucked up your hair, but neither of you seemed to mind. Steve's eyes flicked to your breasts, the soft flesh encased in delicate black lace. You ran a hand over your unkempt hair in a nervous attempt to make yourself presentable again while he just stared.

"Where'd you get this?" he asked, meeting your gaze. "Did you send Murray out for it?"

Your expression scrunched in distaste. "Ew, no, why would I ever ask him for that?" You muttered. "I got this at school."

He swallowed hard, and you sighed softly as his warm hands moved up your ribs to cup your breasts through the lace. "You wore this for some college guy?"

You really had to steel your expression to keep from grinning. There was something exciting about the hint of jealousy in his gaze, the tiniest tick in his jaw. "I wasn't exactly celibate in college," you said slowly. His fingers flexed and you exhaled shakily as he played with you. "If you'll remember, I was heartbroken and trying to put this total asshole in Hawkins behind me."

His lips turned into what you could only describe as a pout, just before he moved his mouth to your sternum, pressing soft kisses to the flat of your chest. You would never tell another soul, but giving Steve a taste of his own medicine was immeasurably cathartic.

"If the fact that another guy saw this bothers you so much, you can just take it off," you added. He sighed against your skin, and you moaned softly as his lips trailed hot, messy kisses over the thin fabric.

He shook his head, nuzzling his face deeper into your tits. He mumbled something that you couldn't understand and met your gaze. "I'm not jealous," he insisted. "I just feel like they probably didn't appreciate your effort."

You couldn't keep the smug grin from your lips. "No?" You asked, cocking your head. "But you appreciate it fully, right?" He nodded and sucked a bruise onto your exposed cleavage.

"I appreciate it so much." His voice vibrated against your skin, making you laugh softly. When he pulled back from your tits, his pupils were blown with desire. He gave a tiny nod towards your skirt before dragging his eyes back to yours. "Do they match?"

In lieu of a response, you stood up and unzipped your skirt, so it joined your discarded sweater on the floor. Steve groaned at the sight of you in your sheer red tights, barely concealing the promise of more black lace beneath— high cut and pretty.

Before you could slip your fingers under the waistband to roll the tights down, Steve grabbed your wrist. "I've got it," he said. "It's like unwrapping a present."

He kissed your stomach once, twice, then eased the tights down your legs. His hand came under your knee, easing it into a gentle bend so he could pull one leg off your feet, then he repeated for the other.

There was a certain intentionality to every one of his touches— a confidence that showed in the steadiness of his hand as he ran his hand up your thigh. It was gentle and sure— intimate.

His hands slid up your thighs and pulled you in closer, so his mouth was level with your lower stomach. You sighed when he ducked his head and kissed the front of your panties, nice and sweet.

"Wait," you said suddenly. He looked up at you with flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, and you swear you got a head rush. "Just sit there for me, okay?"

You swore you could hear his pulse kick when you sank to your knees between his thighs, or maybe that was your own. Your palms slid up his thighs, moving over the dark-wash denim. He was already hard, you could see the thick shape of him straining against the fabric.

"Can I?" You asked. One hand rubbed at the bulge beneath your palm, the other toyed mindlessly with the button to his jeans.

"Fuck— yeah, 'course you can, honey. You can do whatever you want to me."

You smiled prettily up at him and popped the button of his Levi's. He groaned at even the lightest amount of pressure against his dick as you eased the zipper down and freed him from the confines of the denim.

You'd seen his dick before— in the shower, while he was changing, even how it looked in your hand. Even so, you'd never seen it so close before. You spit into your palm before you wrapped your hand around the base of him, relishing in the warm pulse beneath your grip.

With just the slightest glide of your hand upwards, you watched precum dribble from the ruddy tip. He groaned, hips thrusting up into your grasp. He squirmed as he kicked off his jeans and briefs, then tossed his sweater to the side. Your hand caressed his now-bare thigh, soft and downy to the touch.

"You have the cutest little freckle right here," you said with a tiny grin, and relished in the way his cheeks went red with embarrassment. Your lips moved to the base of him, where there was a small beauty mark. He shivered above you as you planted a soft, wet kiss there and looked up at him through your lashes.

"Fuck," he groaned, chest already heaving. "You're killing me, honey."

Your lips trailed up his shaft, until you wrapped your lips around his tip and suckled. He moaned, deep and pretty, head lolling back against the cushions. It was hard to fit much of him inside of your mouth without triggering your gag reflex. Your hand had to pick up your slack, stroking the inches that didn't fit with slick twists.

"God, you're good," he panted. "So good for me." You nearly preened at the praise. His fingers threaded into your curls, twisting your locks into a loose ponytail. Not so he could guide your pace or force you to take him deeper, but to keep your hair from getting in your face.

You pulled off, just to spit the drool that had collected in your mouth back onto his cock. It dripped messily down his shaft and over your fingers, collecting at his base and dripping down his balls. You moved your mouth down to them, licking up the mess you made just to hear him cry out above you.

He swore under his breath as you licked up the underside of his cock once more on your way up, tasting the slick mix of his precum and your spit. You pressed an almost chaste kiss to the head— once, twice before you teased the precum-slick slit with your tongue.

He exhaled sharply through his teeth. hips bucking up towards the wet heat of your mouth. You licked around the tip, teasing a pretty moan out of his lips. When you finally wrapped your lips around him and took him deeper into your mouth, his thighs tensed on either side of you.

You were incredibly grateful that you had the experience you did before Steve, otherwise you'd probably humiliate yourself. Your lips stretched to accommodate him as you tried to take him deeper, and you had the experience to know exactly how to fight your gag reflex as his cock nudged your soft palate.

"Keep going, just like that," he panted, tummy tensing as you let your tongue massage the underside of his shaft. "God, you've got a perfect fucking mouth."

When your jaw began to ache, you pulled back, lips puffy and sticky with spit. You pumped his cock in your fist as you took a second to catch your breath. His free hand moved to your face, where he stroked your cheek tenderly.

You wet your lips before you took him back into your mouth, suckling softly on the head of his cock briefly before you swallowed him deeper.

You were sure the sight was obscene— your lips stretched wide around his girth, spit bubbling around the spot where your mouth and fist met with each messy bob of your head and twist of your wrist. His moans we're constant, and the taste of his precum was heady on your tongue.

When his fingers tightened around your hair, you moaned around him, eyes fluttering. He panted out a pathetic moan at the sound, at the feeling of your own noise vibrating against him. He was so close, you knew it. His thighs tensing, his moans getting breathier, his hips canting up as they tried to bury his cock deep into your mouth.

You looked up, meeting his half-lidded gaze as you swallowed around him, and he was done for. He barely had time to give you a weak warning of, "gonna cum—" before he was spilling into your mouth.

You did your best to swallow every spurt of cum that painted your tongue and work him through every last aftershock. You were panting like you'd run a marathon when you finally sat back and wiped your sticky lips on the back of your hand.

Steve's eyes were closed, one arm tossed over them as he caught his breath, cock flagging between strong thighs as he came down. When he finally opened his eyes, you kissed a beauty mark on his inner thigh and stood.

"Sick of me already?" He asked with a grin. He grabbed your hand and tugged you onto his lap, but you shook your head and leaned back.

"I was gonna grab some mouthwash before we do anything else," you explained with a sheepish laugh. "So it's not gross for you, I mean."

He shook his head and let his arm move to the small of your back to ease you closer. You sighed softly as he pressed his lips to yours, licking slowly into your mouth. "I don't care," he murmured. Then, like he was trying to prove his own point, he licked your pouty bottom lip with a grin. "That's, like, the least gross thing you could ask me to do."

"Yeah?" You asked with a grin. "You're such a slut."

You watched him close his mouth and swallow, pupils blown as his eyes flicked from your lips and back to your eyes. He laughed weakly, but you knew he was so gone that he'd agree with anything you said. You leaned in, laving your tongue over his as you kissed him slow and deep.

It was messy and desperate, but you didn't care. His head tilted back, and you took every opportunity he gave you to kiss deeper, to lick into his mouth and claim the space for your own. His hands slipped down to palm your ass over the lace, squeezing and tugging you closer on his lap.

"Are you gonna let me touch you?" He murmured against your lips. You nodded, and he licked your bottom lip before a smile spread across his lips. "Yeah? I bet you're soaking through your panties right now. Probably why you're sitting up like that— so I can't feel it."

He eased you back so you were laying on the couch beneath him. His mouth went to your throat, suckling softly on the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. With his knee between your thigh, you couldn't help but squirm, seeking a little bit of relief where you needed it most.

You hated to be so easy for him all of the time. You wanted to look a little more composed and in control, but Steve had a way of making your inhibitions melt away and drip down your thighs.

"You drive me crazy, Steve," you murmured, your words little more than desperate pants in his ear. As his hand moved down your torso, you arched into him, seeking the heat of it against your body.

The feeling of his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties pulled a whiny mewl from your lips. The rough pads of his fingers rubbed over your sensitive clit, just barely grazing it before dipping down to your slick entrance.

"So wet and I've barely even touched you." His words vibrated against your jaw, and he punctuated them with a soft kiss. He nudged your thighs apart with his knee, giving him better access to toy with you.

A shudder ran through you as he slid his slick fingers up to your clit, only to circle his fingers so he totally avoided giving you any real friction. "C'mon, Steve," you whined. "I didn't tease you."

He laughed, a low, pretty sound that tickled your throat. "You're always a tease."

"You jerked off in front of me yesterday," you panted, bucking your hips with the feeble hope that you might catch the pad of his fingers where you wanted them. "Didn't let me touch you for a week. Fuckin' tease."

You could feel his smile against your skin, but, sure enough, he relented and gave you what you wanted. You gasped softly as he finally rubbed your clit, a pretty noise that he swallowed up in a hungry kiss.

His tongue slipped into your mouth, lapping up each whine and moan as he played with your pussy. Thick fingers rubbing through your slick folds, curling deep inside of your aching entrance.

"That's what you wanted, yeah?" He murmured against your lips. His fingers flexed, curling until your walls squeezed around them. "Mhmm… I can feel it. You're always so sensitive for me."

The sound of his fingers plunging in and out of your sopping cunt made your cheeks burn. It felt pointless, being so embarrassed at the effect that he had on you. He was just as affected by you as you were of him… but you couldn't hear how turned on he was with every single thrust of his fingers inside of you.

You grabbed onto his shoulders with one hand, blunt fingernails digging into the firm muscle there to ground yourself as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. Your other hand moved down, squeezing his wrist in an impossible choice of needing more but feeling too much.

The heel of his palm rubbed against your clit, giving you relentless friction and pressure that you couldn't squirm away from. Your thighs trembled, walls fluttering around the intrusion as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

The lap of his tongue into your mouth kept you from slipping away entirely. Sweet, sensual kisses that kept you there with him, relishing in the full-body high of being worshiped by Steve Harrington.

You felt that warm buzz in the pit of your stomach, a pressure just building and building until you couldn't deny its pull anymore. Gasping into Steve's mouth, you squeezed his wrist and bucked against his hand as he brought you over the edge.

"That's it, pretty girl," he hummed. Your eyes fluttered, rolling lightly as he curled his fingers, toying with you as the final waves of pleasure wracked your body. "That's what you needed, huh?"

When he pulled his hand from your panties, his fingers were slick with your juices. He wasted no time sucking them between his lips, cleaning every trace of you off.

He laid beside you, tracing spit-damp fingers along your tummy as his mixtape played on. You'd been so wrapped up in Steve that the music had gone fuzzy in the background. But now that you were fully back in your body, all fuzzy and content, the sound of saxophones struck you fully. With a giggle, you met his gaze. "Careless Whisper?" You asked with a grin. "You're so corny."

"Hey, it's the best," he insisted. "It's sexy."

You rolled your eyes and grinned up at him before you leaned up an kissed him again. He smiled into it, meeting your lips with the ease and confidence of a man who knew he had all of the time in the world with you.

You didn't want to wait another second. You shifted, pinning him beneath you on the cushions. He was hard already, and you had a feeling he had been for a while. As you stripped off your bra and tossed it aside, you watched his cock twitch where it rested against his stomach.

"Looks like you really want me," you teased, like you didn't want him just as bad. "Do you have it in you, baby?"

He swallowed hard and nodded. "Fuck, yeah I do," he breathed. His hands moved to your hips, and you didn't resist as he guided your hips in a slow grind. It was a little obscene, the sight of your clothed pussy rubbing over his bare cock. Precum beaded then dripped onto his stomach, making a slick little pool beneath the head that only seemed to grow with each lazy rut. "You gonna give it to me?"

Steve's pupils were blown wide as he looked up at you, swallowing up the honey-brown of his irises. He really did drive you crazy. Really, how was it fair that he could just look at you like that? Desperate and doting in equal measure.

You detached from him to wiggle off your panties, balancing against the back of the sofa as you kicked them off, then settled on his lap once more. His big hands went right back to their place on your hips and you couldn't help but give a testing roll of your hips.

Even with that tiny motion, you felt his fingers flex, dimpling your soft skin. Your eyes fluttered at the feeling of the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit, still sensitive from the first orgasm he'd pulled from you. You felt your cunt pulsing with need as you continued to slowly grind down against him.

"You're torturing me," he whined. His eyes were half-lidded and lazy, his mouth parted as he watched your slick pussy gliding along his length. One of your hand rested on his chest for stability as you moved, giving him the perfect view of your tits as they moved in time with your hips. "God, you're so hot, honey. Just wanna make you feel good, baby. You've gotta let me, 'cause I know you need it."

A breathy laugh escaped your lips as you looked down at him. "I barely have to do anything and you're begging," you teased. He groaned, grinding up against you, unabashed in his need.

And, yeah, it would've been fun to keep torturing him, but you were still just as impatient as he was. So you lifted your hips just enough that you could guide his cock to your entrance and begin to slowly sink down.

He felt even bigger with you on top, something you'd blissfully forgotten since your wedding hookup. It made you wonder if he had gone easy on you the week prior and hadn't tried to go all the way in. It felt like a challenge to prove you could take it— every single inch.

Your fingers twitched against his chest, curling into the downy hair there as your mouth fell open. He moved one of the hands resting on your hips to lay on top of yours, frustratingly affectionate. "C'mon, honey, just take it nice and slow."

"Shut up," you panted, which only made him grin up at you. "I've done it before."

It wasn't like riding Steve was some herculean task, even if he was stupidly hung. But you were more than a little out of practice, and after you finally managed to pick up a decent rhythm, you kind of just wanted him to flip you over and fuck you into the cushions.

You weren't a quitter though, and Steve's blissed-out reactions beneath you were all the encouragement you needed to keep going, aside from your body's need for release. Your thighs ached slightly from months of celibacy, but the room filled with a chorus of both of your moans each time you sank back onto him.

"You feel so good, baby," you moaned softly, giving your hips a little swivel that made a drawn out groan spill from his lips. "I love how you feel inside of me. So deep."

It wasn't just to fluff his ego— you swore you could feel every ridge and vein of his cock where it was buried within you. Every pulse, every twitch was just confirmation that he felt as good as you did.

The hand that was gripping onto your hip moved, flattening just beneath your belly button. It's as tender as it was debauched, just like him. His thumb stroked over your soft skin, sweeping back and forth in a display of affection. "Feel me here?" He asked, and it was a marvel that he could look so earnest when asking something so filthy.

You nodded, giving a slow rock of your hips. He was so deep that you could hardly think of anything else except for the drag of his cock against your fluttering walls, the way his tip nudged against your G-spot as you sank down on him again and again.

"Steve," you whined, looking down at him. "I want you to fuck me."

 A lazy smile spread across his lips. "We are fucking." As if he was proving his point, he began to thrust up so he could sink deeper into your wet heat.

Your brows knit together as a soft moan fell from your lips. "Yeah, I— fuck, Steve— I know but I just want—" Your eyes rolled back as he fucked you nice and deep, stealing the words and your breath right from your lips.

"I know what you want." You almost regretted asking to switch positions when he pulled out, leaving you empty and wanting. But then he was shifting you beneath him and hooking your legs over his shoulders. "How's this?"

You swallowed hard. "It's good, it's so good," you said eagerly. You could feel the head of his cock nudging your puffy folds as he rutted against you. It would catch at your entrance and you would gasp in anticipation, but he didn't sink in yet.

"Can you bend a little more?" He asked, and moved so he was pressing your thighs into your chest, his body imposing above you. "Is that too much?"

When you shook your head, reached between your bodies and began to slowly push inside. You groaned, head lolling back as he moved. With the way he'd folded you in half beneath him, you felt every inch splitting you open. Thick, stretching you out obscenely around his girth.

"Oh god," he groaned, and you swore you felt his dick twitch inside of you. "You're squeezing me so tight. Perfect fucking pussy."

Your face went hot at his words. "Steve," you whined. He'd never said anything so dirty to you before, and it thrilled you as much as it made you feel a flash of embarrassment.

He grinned down at you, pulling out so he could glide back in nice and slow, just to torture you. "What? You don't want me to talk about how much I love your pussy? 'Cause the way you're gripping me makes me think you do."

"Fuck, Steve," you moaned. "You can't say stuff like that, baby. You're killing me."

"I think you like it," he said, pushing in again, so deep that his balls pressed tight against your ass. "I think you fucking love knowing that I'm obsessed with you."

He pulled out again, only to set a dizzying pace. Hips snapping against yours again and again and again, while you just laid there and took it. Your feet dangled where they rested over his shoulders, shaking each time he bottomed out.

"Oh my god. You're so wet, honey. Sound so fucking pretty."

His words made you conscious of the tacky, slick sounds of his cock plunging into your cunt. The slick sound of your walls swallowing him, the plap plap plap of his balls against you. You didn't particularly think the sounds of him fucking you were pretty. They were pornographic and obscene, sure, but not pretty.

He was heavy on top of you, rutting more than thrusting so each movement made him grind against the sensitive spots inside. Your eyes rolled back and you felt your walls squeezing around his cock. "Steve, just like that—"

"C'mon, beautiful, tell me how it feels."

You whined, toes curling. "So— ngh— so good, baby," you managed. "God, I feel you everywhere."

It wasn't the most coherent description, but it was true. He was inside you, so deep it felt like your body was moving to accommodate him. He was on top of you, pressing you into the bed, into him. Around you, holding you close. It was like your world started and ended where you touched him.

It was so easy to lose yourself to him. His head buried into your shoulder as he ground deeper, harder inside of you. A choked sob slipped past your lips, and you trembled as the pressure built up inside of you. His tip nudged your sweet spot over and over, until you weren't sure you could take much more.

"God, I fucking love you," he panted. Your pussy fluttered around him at those words, and he moaned at the feeling. "Want me to say it again? I love you so much."

It hit you suddenly then. Your cunt clenched around him as euphoria washed over your body. "Oh, fuck, Steve—" you gasped, until your words dissolved into keening moans and whines. You mewled, eyes rolling back as he continued fucking into you as you lost yourself to the pleasure.

He lifted his head just enough to capture your mouth in a messy kiss— tongues sliding against one another, licking into his mouth to swallow each other's cries. His rhythm grew sloppy and clumsy, until he swore into your mouth.

"Oh, fuck, honey, shit— I'm— fuck fuck fuck—" He barely managed to pull out before he was painting your cunt with hot ropes of his cum. His cock twitched with each spurt of cum, until there was nothing left to give. He exhaled sharply, looking more than spent as he eased your legs from his shoulders and caught his breath.

The tape had long since ended, leaving you in silence, save the chorus of your shaking breaths. You giggled weakly and peered up at him with a dopey smile. "Holy shit."

Steve took a shaky breath and met your smile with one of his own— equal parts exasperated and lovestruck. "God, we really can't go raw anymore, baby. I almost didn't make it."

Your heart did a funny little skip at that, but you nodded. "Yeah, probably shouldn't," you agreed. He leaned down to give you one more kiss. "Let's go to bed, yeah?"

Steve couldn't keep his hands off of you, even when you were just washing your face and brushing your teeth. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and dribbled minty foam down his chin. You hated how endearing you found that.

When you were taking your vitamins and medicine, he stood behind you, chin resting on the top of your head as you washed them down. "You're so clingy," you accused, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

"I just love you," he replied, and kissed your temple for good measure.

You climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling as Steve dozed beside you. The soft cadence of his breath rising and falling. But you didn't want to sleep yet. You just wanted more time with him.

So you grabbed the shabby quilt from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around your body as you crossed the room to your turntable. Behind you, there was the soft rustle of blankets as Steve sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"What're you doing?" He slurred sleepily. You glanced at him over your shoulder, at his half-lidded eyes and his messy hair, and felt such a strong tug of emotion that you had to look back at the task at hand— flipping through your crate of records.

"Trying to find something good to listen to," you replied casually, pausing to eye Purple Rain before flipping onward. "I'm not tired yet— don't really want the night to be over, y'know?" You grabbed your old Super Trouper album and smiled fondly as you set it on the turntable and put the needle to the vinyl.

Steve groaned at the choice in music, but you rejoined him in bed, curling up against his chest with a contented sigh. His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His fingers tangled with yours, playing with them as you laid in the quiet of the room.

"I want you to tell me something no one else knows," you whispered. "Even if it's just something small."

He leaned over, kissing the crown of your head briefly. You felt the warm puff of his breath over your scalp as he thought, a hum buzzing against your skin.

"I made you a tape, in case Vecna got in your head and started digging around," he said finally. "This was, like, a month after Hawkins split open, so we thought he might just start popping people into trances all over town. And I was so scared for you, y'know? I didn't want anything to happen to you."

A tiny smile played on your lips. Even when you felt like your whole life had shattered around you, he was still working to make things better, even if you didn't know it. You hated that it had taken you so long to see that, when it was something so beautiful about him.

"What song?" You asked after a beat, brows furrowing.

He laughed softly. "Well, I asked you what your favorite song was over breakfast, you glared at me, asked why I cared, and told me Baby I'm a Star. And I didn't really know if that was true, but I made the tape anyway. And then I made a second one with How Deep Is Your Love, because you used to say if that song was played at your funeral, it'd wake you right up."

A snort escaped you at the memory. You could remember him asking, and it felt like such a cheap attempt to bond that it had soured your mood for the rest of the morning. You felt a world removed from that moment, even though it hadn't even been a year since then.

"It actually would," you agreed. You squeezed his hand and brought the back of it to your lips to plant a soft kiss there. He had a tan line from his watch that was only just starting to fade from the winter gloom. It was so strange, to be so utterly seen by someone, and to see them just the same.

"What's your song?" Your lips brushed against the back of his hand as you spoke. "If you got lost, what would pull you back?"

"Under Pressure," he replied simply. "Sometimes I'll play that tape in the van just 'cause. I could listen to that song forever, y'know? Drives Dustin crazy."

A small laugh escaped you at the image. Maybe it was just that it was late and you were exhausted, but you were endlessly amused by the thought of Steve making Dustin listen to music on replay on top of the monotony of the crawls. "Tell me something else. Talk to me about anything, I just want to hear you."

He sighed, relaxing beside you. He was so warm where he pressed against you, accommodating the nudge of your knee between his thighs and the slip of your arm under his. The soft thud of his heartbeat was like a metronome where your ear rested against his chest.

"Mrs. Wheeler said she'd start babysitting Sam for us, if that's what we wanted," he said. "I was going to tell you tomorrow, after we'd had the date and everything. I know you never wanted to just sit around this big house all day, so I told her we'd talk about it."

You swallowed hard, and felt a strange mix of excitement, gratitude, and the strangest ache in your chest. "I mean… yeah, we could use more money," you agreed. "But I don't even know what I'd do, Steve. Like… bus tables at Enzo's? Work with Murray at Bradley's? Gross."

Both of your bodies shook as he laughed. "God, you're so dramatic. You could do whatever you wanted," he insisted. "You could help us at the station."

You snorted. "Mm… doesn't really solve the money problem, huh?" You curled even closer into him, like you just wanted him to envelop you completely. "And I dunno… maybe I don't want things to change just yet."

Hawkins was like a world frozen while life moved around it. It was all real life with real consequences, and you knew that, but it also felt like you were holding your breath until all of the interdimensional horror was over. Once that happened, the day to day problems would feel bigger.

You didn't want to leave Sam with Mrs. Wheeler during the day, but you knew that was probably best. Rip off the proverbial bandaid and start the slow process of detaching from your routine before things really changed for good. You were never meant to be a housewife forever— it wasn't what you wanted, even if you'd gotten good at playing that role.

Steve kissed the crown of your head and squeezed your hand. "They don't have to change," he insisted. "But they can if you need them to. I just don't ever want you to feel like you're trapped, or you're making yourself smaller to fit here."

"Thanks," you whispered. "I just feel like I need a little more time with her. When things go back to normal, I don't know if I'll ever have this much time again. I feel like she deserves it."

The record played on while you continued to talk about anything you could think of. Steve had been watching the Bulls whenever he could catch a game on TV, and was eagerly trying to explain why he thought this was their year. You told him about the Danielle Steel novel you'd borrowed from Nancy and were totally devouring. He played with the ends of your hair, you planted the occasional kiss to his chest and shoulders.

You closed your eyes, listening to the sounds of ABBA playing from your speakers. "In five years, I want to be doing this exact same thing," you whispered. "Listening to an outdated record, laying in bed, just talking until we run out of things to say."

"Why don't we make it ten?" Steve mumbled against the crown of your head. You smiled and chewed on your lip. Ten could work. Or twenty-five, or fifty. Forever, even.

The needle of the record stopped, raised, and returned to its cradle, leaving the room quiet. "Steve," you whispered. It felt louder in the stillness of the bedroom— breaking through the silence of the house the same way a scream would. "I love you too."

The words hung heavy in the air, and Steve froze at your side, barely even breathing. Waiting for him to say something, anything felt like torture. And you knew you'd squeezed the proverbial toothpaste out of the tube, but really, you didn't mind. Life was already so messy that it felt natural.

"You love me," he echoed. Not a question, exactly, and not self-important enough to be a statement… just sheer disbelief.

And you wouldn't stand for that, so you rambled on. "I was just scared to say it, and I kept telling myself it was too soon because we've only been official, for, like, one week, but, y'know, things are different for us. I don't want to hide behind walls to protect myself anymore, and I know that y—"

Your words were muffled by the pressure of Steve's lips on yours. You barely had time to kiss him back before he leaned away to meet your gaze. "You love me?" He beamed down at you. "You don't have to. I mean— I just didn't expect you to reciprocate so soon."

"How could I not?" You asked gently, meeting his gaze. It was so soft and hopeful, warm enough to melt away your fears and reservations about opening up. "Even when I wasn't saying it, I felt it, y'know? This… rightness. And I felt bad for a while, but I don't want to feel bad anymore."

It was this circular logic that you kept falling into— the idea that fate had brought you to that moment. You'd never been a big believer in anything before, except in yourself, Carol Perkins, and that things usually went wrong for you somehow. Fate was new.

Carol got pregnant with Sam, which meant she had to get married, which is where you slept with Steve and dredged up all of those old teenage feelings again— the yearning and angst. Carol and Tommy made you and Steve godparents, Carol and Tommy died when the rifts opened, you and Steve raised Peanut, you and Steve fell in love.

Good things happened which led to worse things. Horrible, painful things happened that led to beautiful ones. How could you ever move on if you let guilt and anger keep you from being happy?

You believed in a lot more now. You believed that there were good people who would give up their peace thanklessly to save a world that would never even know they needed to be saved. You believed in psychic powers and monsters. You believed that your daughter's near-toothless smile was the best medicine on a really hard day.

And you believed, as corny as it was, that you were always meant to be with Steve Harrington from the moment he sat with you out on that patio.

"Oh my god, you love me," he repeated, smiling even wider. Before you even had time to roll your eyes and insist that, yeah, that's what you just said, he had shifted on top of you so he could kiss you fully. "I mean, I probably should have known when you came just from me saying it, but—"

You rolled your eyes and pulled him in again, relishing in the full weight of his affection as your lips met. You'd worried before that it would feel like a burden on you, some awful weight to carry on your shoulders, but it felt right in a way few things ever had.

A/N: Thank you so much for your patience and continued love for these characters + this fic! As many of you know, I've been getting treatment for my OCD which took a lot of my headspace away from being able to get this out sooner. I appreciate your love and encouragement SO so much and I promise not a single day passed that I wasn't actively working on it!!

I hope you love this chapter as much as I do! Part 6 (the ACTUAL final part) will be a wombo combo of the events of the final season + epilogue from what I have planned now, but I think we all know by now that my plans vs what I actually write don't always align perfectly <3

Worst comes to worst... seven or eight parts. Who knows! But I'm hoping I can tie this story off with a little bow in this next chapter.

Please send me an ask with your thoughts/hopes/opinions on this chapter and the story so far!! Give me a like/reblog/comment if you see fit as well <3 And thank you so, so much for reading! XOXO

[harringtonsugar]

steve harrington gives girls tummy bulges …. i need a cigarette

[djobug]

I HATE WHEN TUMBLR REFRESHES AND IM IN THE MIDDLE OF A FIC KILL ME KILL ME KILL ME I CANT FIND IT and I’d dont even know the author GUH

[djobug]

oh my god he is so pretty literally everything about this photo is perfect

[djobug]

still not over this

[djoledo]

this is my favorite joe look. he was so skrunkly here.

[janehartt]

GIVE HIM BACK HIS STICKY BANGS RN !

[oohlillie]

i’m so obsessed with this picture without knowing why

he’s just so perfect

[djohours]

[this-is-purgatory-silverstar]

i also just found this gif and helloooo, why is this so cute 🥲