Honeyed
Pairing: Steve Harrington x reader
Word Count: 10k (worth it, I promise)
Warnings: Angst, fluff, King Steve days, dual pov- Steve and reader, set before the events of season 1, no use of y/n
A/N: I'm really, really sorry for this. Hope you walk out of this sane, and if you don't, I'll pay for therapy.
Summary: When Steve Harrington finds himself failing his last three Physics tests, his teacher gives him two options: take her assigned tutor or fail her subject completely. And it just so happens: you're the assigned tutor in question. You're perfect for it: smart, intelligent, a great tutor, Steve will be passing his worst subject in no time. Only issue: you're hopelessly infatuated with him.
"Steve, I'd like you to stay back for a minute, please."
Steve Harrington pauses mid-sentence, having been in the middle of recounting an incident to Tommy and Carol that reinforced how much of an asshole his dad was, but the sound of his Physics teacher, Mrs. Miller calling him back in that no-good tone made him turn.
"Oho, you're done for, man," Tommy scoffs, slapping him on the back, a shit-eating green splitting his freckled face. Beside him, Carol blew out her bubblegum with a loud, mocking pop.
"Shut up," Steve mutters, a nonchalant smile playing on his lips, but inside, his mind was racing.
"Wonder what he's in trouble for now," Carol sings, resting her chin on Tommy's shoulder while he grabbed both their bags.
"Maybe he was finally caught cheating off of that four eyes he sits next to- what was his name again? Mark? Mace?"
"Mav-"
"Okay, shut up you two, get out of here," Steve says, playfully aggressive on the outside, smacking a hand against Tommy's chest as if the whole thing was one big joke- a mere inconvenience.
But as he watched them finally saunter out along with the rest of the class, the tiny room growing quieter by the second, he allowed some of his worry to show on his face.
Physics was one of his biggest weaknesses- no surprise there considering he could barely figure out Maths and Chemistry, so Physics was naturally out of the question.
What was concerning though, was that he had failed the last three tests in a row, and he may not be good with numbers, but he could very well guess three fat zeroes could not have done his year average in the goddamned subject any favours.
"Right, Harrington," Miller suddenly began in her clipped voice, and Steve realized with a dull jolt that they were now the only two people in the room.
Steve walked over to her, wondering if any of his 'King Steve' charm would work on the stern, spectacled, grey haired woman whose glare seemed to be as lethal as her subject. He decided to give it a shot- Carol was always going on about how she slept her way to passing her classes, maybe he could try the more innocent version of that.
"Mrs. Miller?" Steve asked, flashing her his award winning smile, one that coupled with his flowy, curled hair made all the ladies swoon.
"I'll get straight to the point, Mr. Harrington. You're failing my class."
Not this lady, it seems.
"You were barely scraping by earlier, Steve," she continues, tilting her head up to look him straight in the eye, "but now it seems you're only headed further south. At this rate, I do not see you passing Physics at the end of the year."
Steve's smile vanishes instantly, an uneasy feeling settling low in his chest. This is what he was worried about. He didn't particularly care much about his grades as long as he passed, but if he didn't- let's just say his dad would be promoted from just 'asshole' to a 'Grade-A Asshole'.
"You- you wouldn't fail me, Mrs. Miller, would you?" Steve asks, a little desperately, and a little futile too, considering she'd made it very clear she did not see him passing her subject this year.
"You know I would, Steve," she says forebodingly, looking up at him through her rectangular glasses. "Which is why-," she pulls out a small notepad from inside her desk and flips through it, till she finds the page she was looking for. "I think it would be best if you got yourself a tutor."
Steve blinks. He hadn't expected that.
Miller pulls out the paper from her notepad and hands it to Steve, who takes it from her wordlessly.
On it, a single name's written in scratchy red ink, next to his own.
Something stirs faintly in the back of Steve's mind. He may have heard the name before... maybe.... maybe Carol mentioned her as one of the annoying, nerdy girls in her Biology class, who knew all the answers and wasn't afraid to show that she did.
"She's one of the top scorers in Physics, Mr. Harrington- brilliant, if I may say so. I asked her if she'd be open to tutoring you three days a week, and lucky for you, she said she'd be happy to."
Steve looks up at Miller, a little unsure of what to make of all this.
"She said she's available today from 3 to 4. You'll find her in the library, and you can take it from there."
"Right..." he mutters, mentally cancelling the coffee date he was supposed to go on with Laurie... or was it Amy?
As if reading his thoughts, Miller's gaze narrows.
"If anyone can help you, Harrington, it's her. I expect you to take this seriously- whether you pass or fail my subject depends on this, after-all. I better hear that you met her in the library promptly at three, and spent a good hour studying. Don't waste your time, or hers."
For the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes, you look up from your textbook to glance at your watch.
Five minutes to three.
Your heart makes an unusual jump in your chest, which you immediately chide yourself for.
Tutoring. You were here to tutor Steve Harrington in Physics, your favourite subject. A subject he was failing, you desperately try to remind yourself.
But it was no use.
Your heart wouldn't let up on its unusual rhythm, and your nerves refused to stay still- your entire body felt like a ball of red, nervous energy.
Nothing you did could make you forget the fact that you were about to speak, for the first time in your life, to the boy you'd had a massive crush on for nearly a year.
And how could you not? Steve Harrington was one of the most handsome men you'd ever seen in your life. With those perfectly tousled brown hair, swept to the side in the way that a single curl always fell by his left eye like the most perfect imperfection you'd ever seen. Those coffee eyes you'd only ever admired from afar, and those beautiful, beautiful lips, stretched into a gleaming smile that made you swoon whenever you saw it.
When Miller had asked you to tutor him, you could barely hold in the startled gasp that threatened to escape your lips. Spending an hour a day, three days a week with the most popular guy in the school who you happened to hopelessly admire?
You couldn't pass on the opportunity.
You'd tutored others before too- you quite liked the job, in fact. Sharing knowledge about something you loved with others always meant a fun hour spent- atleast for you. But tutoring Steve was a whole other story.
You weren't unpopular or lonely, by any means. You may be a nerd, but you had friends, those who had the same interests as you, or were, at the very atleast, sincere about what they did. You weren't the shy type- you never had been. And you never gave a shit about what others thought of you, so the ones who did have an issue with you mostly left you alone.
But there was something about Steve Harrington that flipped a switch inside you. You'd never been brave enough to speak to him.
For one, you didn't exactly trust yourself to speak like a sane human being around him.
Secondly, you were scared of what you'd find if you did interact with him. Steve Harrington's reputation and friend circle preceded him- pompous rich kids who threw around their parents' money like water, frequented parties every other day, indulged in alcohol, smoking, drugs... You hoped Steve wasn't like that, you really did. Maybe you couldn't see his true personality through the heart eyes you always seemed to get as you looked at him. Or maybe he genuinely wasn't like that....
Whatever the matter may be, you weren't willing to test either of your theories, and merely contented yourself by writing about him in your diary.
But today? Both your theories would be tested.
The sound of your name being spoken snaps you out of your trance. You startle, and your open textbook falls to the ground with a loud crash and a tangle of pages.
"Shit," you curse, scrambling off your chair and bending down to snatch your book up from the ground.
"Sorry, did I startle you?" A warm, velvety, perfectly-ordinarily-attractive masculine voice speaks from above you.
A voice you know all too well.
Coming from the lips face you know all too well.
You rise hastily, your book clutched weakly in your hand, as your eyes meet ones that have featured in way too many of your dreams.
Your insides do a funny little somersault.
But you recover quickly enough, a part of your brain still functioning enough to remind you to not make more of a fool of yourself than you already had.
"Oh- uh no... well yeah, but I'm alright," you say... casually.... letting out a tiny giggle at the end.
Steve raises his brows, a half smile spreading over his lips. "Yeah? Well I'm glad to hear I didn't scare my tutor before we even started with the Physics." His voice was low, words you could only describe as flowing like liquid honey, his eyes boring straight into yours as he extended his hand. "I'm Steve," he says, "Steve Harrington."
You breathe out your own name, your hand automatically rising to meet Steve's.
You fight the urge to combust as your fingers touch his for the first time. His warm hand-so much larger than yours- feels like a blanket carressing, enveloping your skin, a firm, confident grip that sends tingles down your arm.
The touch lingers a moment too long.
Or maybe that's just your delusion acting up, you think, as you both finally let go off each other's hand.
Steve pulls out the chair next to yours and you're quick to follow, taking your seat carefully, all too aware of yourself so you don't accidently knock over something or bump your knees into the table or screech the chair too loud and appear clumsy.
"Right," Steve says once you're both settled. "So, ma'am, you're probably aware that I'm failing Physics."
You nearly shiver at the way he addressed you. Ma'am. But you can't show how affected you are, so you simply shrug, shooting him an apologetic smile.
"That's how Miller started the conversation. But don't worry," you add quickly, a teasing glint appearing in your eyes, "you're dealing with the best in the tutoring business. You'll be getting straight As in no time. Or atleast straight Bs."
Steve chuckles, and you feel a pang of victory in your chest. You made Steve Harrington laugh.
"Alright then, miracle worker," he says lowly, mahogany eyes twinkling. "I trust you."
The simple three words send a shiver down your spine. He trusts you. You know you won't be able to mask the shock on your face, so you quickly turn to your textbook, flipping it open to the index.
"So... what is it you're currently studying?" you ask casually. You expect him to pull out his own book then, but much to your second shock of the afternoon, Steve scoots his chair closer to you, leaning his head so he can read the topics in your book.
A delicious heady scent invades your senses, a musky leather that makes your toes curl and your one of your hands clench into fists underneath the table.
"Uhh, I think Miller was going on about some nucleus... atom... thingy.... alpha beta or-"
"Ohh, modern physics, right!" You say, recognition drawning over you, and you quickly flip through the pages, tapping your palm lightly against the worn text once you've found the chapter.
"Right, okay then," you breathe out. "Before we start, I need to know you know what you're studying. What do you already know of modern physics?"
Steve blinks. "Uhh.... physics that's modern... recently discovered stuff?"
"Which entails...?"
"Uhh... spaceships?... The recent space developments? You know, cause... all these were recently... invented... modern physics..."
You know then that this was going to be a long, long afternoon.
Slanted sunlight streaked through the long, patterned windows of the school library, falling across your table in rectangular strips. Dust motes danced in the illuminated area, buzzing with energy that Steve was almost certain they had leached from him.
You were still hunched over the thick, worn textbook, your brow furrowed in concentration as you read over a paragraph you would subsequently relay to him in simpler terms.
Cause that's what the past hour had been like. Steve being absolutely clueless as to half the things mentioned in the book, which could be in Russian, for all he knew.
But you were a champ about it. Never once did you snap at him, or mock his cluelessness, which was what he'd expected you to be like based on everything Carol told him when he had told her and Tommy that you were going to be tutoring him.
An nerdy, arrogant, insufferable know-it-all who looked down upon anyone she deemed stupid.
But so far, if that's what you were really like, Steve was yet to see it.
So far, Steve had known absolutely nothing about Modern Physics- unless you counted knowing atoms, electrons and protons were words in the English language.
Honestly, Steve wouldn't have blamed you if you'd quit halfway through when he said he'd figured atoms were the size of small marbles, like the model Miller had once shown them to make them understand some molecular structure. But you didn't even laugh at him, atleast not unkindly, or in a way that made him feel as stupid as he was.
No, you'd only let out a tiny adorable chuckle that lit up your whole face- especially your eyes, that shone like little stars as you looked at him, your head tilted to the side. At that moment, Steve felt like he could make a thousand more such stupid claims if it meant you would laugh like that once more.
Steve couldn't look away after that.
He listened to every word you said, actually retaining Physics for the first time in what seemed like forever.
You had a way of explaining every topic in an idiot-proof way, repeating things again and again till they they finally made sense in his brain. It's almost like you could predict exactly what implications he would make from what was written, and cleared away any doubts before they could befuddle him.
He tried not to think of how your voice reminded him of liquid honey, a thick, sweet ripple of liquid gold cascading over his mind. He tried not to stare at your lips as you spoke, coloured a pretty, berry red shade that suited the rest of your face impossibly well.
"Okay, so basically, this part explains why Rutherford's model of the atom failed," you stated, looking up from your textbook. "Basically, just like Thompson's model, there were things even Rutherford's model couldn't explain. One major fl-"
You pause when you see Steve roll his eyes.
"Seriously? This guy's model was also a failure? What's the point of teaching it then?"
You raise a brow, a challenging glint in your eyes. "Well, unless you know how something was developed, how would you be able to understand it fully?"
"Just teach the final product, that's the correct one anyway, isn't it?" Steve shrugs, resting his chin on his hands, leaning forward on the table.
"But what that really be beneficial at the end of the day?" You ask, a faint smile playing on your lips. "Think about it, Steve. You would know what the scientist discovered, not what led him to the discovery. You'd never know how these things work then, how future discoveries could take place. We wouldn't learn from their journey, their mistakes, know how to avoid certain challenges, or how to go about anything really. The goal of Science isn't to create passive beings with just knowledge fed into them like a vending machine. It's to inspire others to do greater things, and that's the beauty of it all."
Steve couldn't do anything but stare at you spoke- stare at the pure passion in your eyes as you spoke about something you loved. Your words wash over him, and he understands, he really does. How could he not, when you spoke of it so beautifully, with so much conviction in your honeyed tone, the warm sunlight catching loose strands of hair that fell around your face, framing it in the most perfectly imperfect way he'd ever known?
Some time later, as you two packed up your things, and you smiled at Steve as you agreed to meet up the same time tomorrow, Steve realized something.
Physics was a subject he could definitely grow to like.
In a matter of a couple of weeks, you couldn't remember what it was like to feel nervous around Steve.
All your initial jitters about meeting the boy you'd had a massive crush on were merely memories of a time when you hadn't known who he really was.
Not because you didn't like him anymore. If anything, your attraction to Steve Harrington had only multiplied tenfold every hour you spent in his company.
Back then, it was only physical attraction. Now?
Now you knew how Steve had a habit of colouring in the margins when he was actually focused on his work, how he only ever used a black fountain pen to write and the ball pens you preferred made his already scratchy handwriting practically illegible. You knew the secret to his iconic hair, which you managed to somehow coax out of him in conversation before he even realized what he had revealed.
You knew one of the tiny freckles on Steve's cheeks was actually a very inconspicuous mole.
You knew how the impossible darkness of his eye colour wasn't absolute- his pupil was ringed with the faintest hazel tint, invisible until you looked close enough.
You knew the way those same eyes sometimes lingered a moment too long on yours even after you'd finished talking. Or how they'd sometimes drop to your lips as you'd explain something to him. Or how they'd watch when you were seemingly engrossed deeply in the text.
But you noticed. You noticed it all, and you tried to convince yourself this was all your delusion. It wasn't a far reach to think this was all in your head- maybe your brain wanted to make up something where there wasn't anything because God, you wanted it so much.
But instinctively? You knew.
You knew you weren't imagining things.
Steve Harrington, no matter how much he tried to conform to his 'King Steve' image, was not like the others he hung out with.
So when on a random Thursday afternoon, you got stuck in the rain- you considered it a sign from God.
It had been raining lightly since nearly 2pm, and you did not have an umbrella. It was barely a drizzle by the time you had to leave school, and you liked a little rain- after all, what damage could it do?
Turns out, a lot, if that little rainfall turned into a torrential downpour in the time it took you to walk one block: just the right amount of distance so that running back to school and running home would be equally dooming.
Just as you're contemplating all the shitty life decisions that have led you to this moment, trying to futilely shield your bag with your arms, a car pulls up beside you.
And not just any car. The latest burgundy BMW, the pride and joy of none other than...
The window drops down a few inches and a familiar face you absolutely adored peaks out through it.
... Steve Harrington.
"Ugh, sorry I'm making a mess over your floors..." you mutter, frowning as you pad over the marble flooring of Steve's bedroom, the embarrassment at leaving a trail of wet footprints and rainwater in his pristine mansion preventing you from realizing the sheer monumentality of being in Steve Harrington's bedroom.
"Don't apologize, it's not your fault," Steve says simply, closing the door behind him with a soft click, sealing you off from the rest of the empty house.
Steve's room was just as you'd expected it to be. Huge, spacious, twice the size of your own, a checked wallpaper adorning the walls- luxurious, beautiful.
"I feel bad enough that I ruined your car seats," you wince, sliding your bag- drenched despite your best (useless) efforts- to the ground, beside his rug.
"I'll.... deal with it, don't worry about it," he chuckles after a small pause. "In the meanwhile... we need to get you some warm clothes."
Steve strides over to what you presume is the door to his closet, and disappears into it. From where you're standing, you can't see into the space, save for the warm yellow light emanating from inside it, before Steve reappears a second later, holding a stack of folded clothes and a small red towel in his arms. An outwardly apologetic smile plays on his lips, but you can't deny the hint of... eagerness... teasing in his expression.
"Hope you're fond of oversised sweatshirts and sweatpants," he shrugs, extending the clothes to you.
You take it from him automatically, but inside, your brain seems to have short circuited, finally having caught on to fact that you're in Steve's bedroom.
Dripping wet.
And he's giving you his clothes.
His clothes.
"Steve," you whisper, but you don't know what you'll say after. No? You can't exactly refuse even if you didn't want to, cause you couldn't stay in your sopping wet garments without freezing to death. And you didn't want to refuse him anyway. You really, really didn't.
"You can change in the bathroom, it's right there-" Steve says, pointing to the other closed door in the wall, "-and you can put your clothes in the laundry basket when you're done, I'll get them washed and hand them over to you in school tomorrow."
You nod wordlessly, and somehow manage a tight, nervous smile, before hurrying over to the bathroom and locking the door.
Your mind is reeling. Spinning. Marvelling at how filmic all of this was.
Girl gets stranded in the rain. Boy picks her up in his car and takes her to his house because it is closer than hers and she is shivering and he doesn't want her to get sick. Boy is her hero. Boy gives her clothes. They get closer. By nightfall, those clothes are off.
You snap out of your musings with a jolt at that the last thought.
You're delusional, you think for the umpteenth time in the last two weeks, absolutely delusional with a capital.... D....
You quickly strip out of your sopping wet clothes, mentally commending your past self who decided on your cardigan as part of your outfit that morning, because underneath it, your white shirt is completely see-through, your dark bra starkly visible from underneath it.
You chuck all your clothes- cardigan, shirt, skirt- into the laundry basket, before grabbing the towel and quickly wiping yourself with it, marvelling at how soft it was.
Once you're done, you set it on the spacious washbasin counter- and then hesitate, staring at the neatly folded clothes stacked beside it. Steve's clothes.
While your thoughts earlier may have been stupid, there was still no denying how absurd this was.
Terrifying.
But a little exciting too.
You slowly pick up the plain pale blue sweatshirt and stare at it for a second. At the seamless, expensive blue material, and you find yourself imagining Steve wearing it. Casually sitting on his bed, his dark hair tousled from his usual style... and against your better judgement, you bring it to your nose, breathing in its scent. Much to your delight, it's his perfume- the same one you're all too familiar with now, and absolutely, absolutely love. The heady, musky, leathery scent invades your senses and your stomach clenches, fingers tightening around the fabric.
God, get a fucking grip.
You change into Steve's clothes as quickly as you can. The sweatshirt falls past your hips to the tops of your thighs, and you have to tighten the drawstring firmly around your waist so the pants don't fall off even as they bunch up around your ankles, but atleast you're comfortable.
And you don't look half bad either, you think, as you look at yourself in the mirror.
Your hair are drenched, but once you pat them dry with your towel and squeeze out most of the water.... you certainly don't look like a raccoon left out in the room like you would have if your mascara hadn't been waterproof.
Huh. Some investments were worth it.
Once satisfied with your appearance, you unlock the bathroom door and step back out into Steve's bedroom.
He's still there, but his back is turned to you as he stands at his desk, fiddling with books... your books?
He turns around before you can properly make out what he's doing.
"Oh hey, I was just drying ou-"
Steve breaks off mid-sentence as his eyes fall on you, standing awkwardly by the door.
His lips part, and your heart skips a beat as his eyes run down your body and back up.
He's checking you out.
Steve Harrington. Is checking. You out.
"I- I was just drying out your books," Steve finishes lamely, his eyes drifting back up to yours, but his gaze is still a little unfocused.
For some reason, the sight gives you the confidence you need to behave as you generally do around him now- normally.
"Oh, thanks Steve," you reply, your voice steady and pleasant sounding. You walk over to where he is, your gaze falling over all your textbooks that he's spread over the table, the pages curling and damp.
"Shit..." you mutter, gingerly flipping through the pages of your biology notebook, the ink slightly smudged. But it's still legible, much to your relief.
"It could've been worse," Steve says from beside you. "If you used fountain pens like I do..." he trails off, the insinuation clear.
"See? Ball pens have their charm."
"Never denied it."
You giggle, while Steve lets out a soft laugh. There's a small silence.
"Do you want something to drink?" Steve asks. "You must be cold, I can make you a coffee, if you'd like?"
"Oh... I don't really like coffee."
"You don't like coffee?.... Wow okay... uhh... tea?"
".....No."
"Is this one of those moments where you'll come out and say you prefer whiskey?"
"That would actually be really cool. But I'm going to have to pass. A hot chocolate sounds nice though, if you have cocoa powder?"
"We have every possible ingredient for a good coffee, ma'am, and lucky for you, chocolate happens to be one of them."
Normally, when you want hot chocolate, you go to a cafe. Rarely do you venture into the kitchen to make yourself something more than a simple sandwich or get a glass of milk.
Never did you think you'd be in Steve Harrington's kitchen, with Steve Harrington, stirring some milk heating on a stove while he whisked a bowl of liquified chocolate powder till he was satisfied the mixture had no lumps.
To add to it all, the soundtrack to your evening was Bryan Adams on the turntable, because Steve insisted he couldn't work without some music to listen to.
So yes, all things considered, this was absurd.
"Alright, I think the milk is warm enough," you say slowly, squinting at the liquid for a second, before turning the stove off.
"The chocolate seems to be done too," Steve remarks, rapping the whisk sharply against the bowl to get the chocolate still stuck to the spokes into the main mixture, although it remained stubbornly stuck to it.
If you were alone, you'd just lick it off, but you wonder how Steve would react to that.
You spare him a glance, and he's staring at the chocolate with a look you can only assume is similar to yours.
Your eyes meet.
And you promptly burst out laughing, knowing you're thinking the exact same thing.
"You want to do the honours or should I?" You ask, biting your lip to control the laughter threatening to bubble out of you.
"Well, I am a gentleman, so I'll let you-," he extends the whisk to you with a low bow, "-the lady, lick the chocolate off the whisk."
"Why thank you, Sir Harrington," you reply, eyebrows raised in the most pompous expression you can put on. "Your graciousness is a... delight to witness." You pluck the whisk out of his hands, and looking him straight in the eye, you flick your tongue out and run it along the thin spokes, lapping up the chocolate into your mouth.
You don't know where this new found confidence is coming from, but like before, it seems to stem from and be fueled by the fact that Steve is staring at you with that look in his eyes. You can't quite place it, but the humour vanishes from them in an instant, the dark brown appearing nearly black.
You tilt your head to the side, the atmosphere all of a sudden sober.
"Ready to assemble the hot chocolate?" You ask softly.
Steve exhales, still looking at you with that same expression before nodding.
"Yeah, yeah, of course," he says breathily, finally breaking your stare to grab two mugs from a shelf on the wall. He places them on the counter, while you lift the boiler containing the milk and pour out equal amounts in each of the cups.
"Moment of truth," you mutter, as Steve grabs the bowl of chocolate, and with a few firm taps to the counter, he tips it over one of the cups.
The viscous liquid dribbles down the side of the bowl, swirling into the milk, before Steve moves on to the next. Once he's done, you grab a spoon and scoop any remaining chocolate from it into the cups, flashing him a sheepish smile.
Steve, meanwhile, reaches for the sugar.
"Want any?" He asks, and you notice his voice is back to normal, but his eyes still hold that same darkened look. The sight thrills you more than the melted chocolate syrup had.
"Uhh I'll pass, this is gonna be sweet enough without the sugar," you chuckle.
"Looks like we won't need this then," Steve shrugs, putting it back.
"You won't take any?"
"Do I look like someone who takes a lot of sugar?" He raises his brow, sliding the sugar back into place before flashing you what you assume is a deliberate charming smile.
You laugh, a warm feeling growing in your chest. "You're an idiot, Steve Harrington."
His smile softens. "And you're beautiful," he says, followed by your name as if it's the prettiest word in the English language, and your heart skips a beat.
In the background, the old vinyl record began to play Straight from the Heart, the soft strums of the guitar filling the kitchen. You breathe out slowly.
"Steve..." you whisper, and for a second you two just stand there, staring at each other. For a second, you remember the two reasons you'd once had for never being able to speak to him. Your own nervousness was now a thing of the distant past, never to be spoken of again. And Steve's personality, that he'd be just like his friends- just as arrogant, air-headed, spoilt?
Maybe he was a little of all those things. But at that moment, as you looked into Steve's eyes, those impossibly dark brown orbs ringed with a faint hazel, you knew none of it mattered.
Because deep down, you knew none of those things defined him. If they did, you wouldn't be here right now, in his kitchen, licking chocolate off of whisks, listening to Bryan Adams, looking into his eyes and thinking of how every tutoring session with him had been some of the highlights of your week.
And maybe you always knew that. You always knew Steve Harrington was inherently good, and that's why you hadn't hesitated giving your heart to him long before you ever poured over your Physics textbook one afternoon in the library.
Within the next hour, you and Steve are seated in his living room, sipping your hot chocolates and nibbling on cookies, while the rain outside continues to patter against the huge French windows in the vast space.
"This has to be my new favourite thing to do," you mumble, wiping your face with the back of your hand to rid yourself of any residual cookie crumbs. "Drinking hot chocolate in the rain, listening to Bryan Adams...."
"In the company of Steve Harrington..." Steve adds with a wink. "Or is that not part of the 'favourite' experience?"
You pretend to think, tapping a finger against your chin in ostensible contemplation. "Hmm... let me see... Apart from the fact that this whole situation is kind of crazy," you smile at him. "Yes, maybe I do see you as part of my favourite thing to do." You realize what you've said a second after you say it, as Steve's brows rise.
Your eyes widen into saucers. "Wait no! Shit that came out wrong!" You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling your cheeks heat up. Great, just great.
"Well I'm flattered-"
"Oh, shut up!" You groan, running a hand down your face. "That just- that just come out wrong... I-I didn't mean doing you as in doing you, just as in you're part of my new favourite thing to d-... Ughhh shit-" Steve's hollering with laughter by now, and you're sure you're the colour of healthy, red tomato by now.
"I didn't mean that! As in- as in you're part of what makes this experience a favourite one! Not- not like thing to do as in conventional meaning of doing someone, because th-that would be crazy-" You're rambling now, and you don't notice Steve's calmed down by now, and he's saying your name again and again, willing you to calm down as well. You rarely get this flustered, but embarrassing yourself in front of a person you like is definitely grounds for an exception.
"I-I mean... us doing, that's... that's crazy cause like we're- we're us, from two completely different worlds. You're- you're Steve Harrington, King Steve of Hawkins High, Captain of the Swim Team and Basketball Star, and I'm- I'm me, nerdy, an unapologetic know-it-all, Captain of the Chess Club, and we're just entirely different and there's now way you'd ever be-"
Your ramblings die off abruptly, lips frozen in the ghost of your last word.
Your mind goes blank- no, it short-circuits, because it tends to do that when Steve's Harrington's face is inches from yours, body mere inches from yours where you two are on the couch, hands holding onto your arms.
He says your name again, eyes boring into your wide ones, and when he speaks, you can smell the sweet chocolate on his breath.
"I don't think it's that wild an idea."
If you'd thought you were shocked a minute ago, you don't know what you'd call this. Hearing Steve say doi- being with you was not a totally crazy idea.... Of course you'd suspected he sort of liked you judging by how he'd behave around you, but still. Thinking and hearing it out of his mouth are two very different things.
"Steve," you breathe out weakly. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"But-"
His grip on your arm tightens. "Don't tell me you haven't felt it too," he says your name again, a silent conviction in his eyes. You hadn't noticed that the constant, loud pattering of the rain against the glass windows had stopped, but now, the silence is louder than the noise had been, echoing through the huge room.
"But-"
"I don't care about who you are! Tell me you don't feel it and I'll stop."
"I.... I feel it too," you whisper. You've barely got the words out before he's closing the distance between you two, and his lips are pressed against yours- warm, firm, moving against yours with an insistence that steals your breath. A hot jolt like electricity zaps straight through your body, pooling low in your belly, and before you know it, your hands are flying up to his face and pulling his mouth down into yours, kissing him back with a heat that is a product of every moment you've spent thinking about him, every feverent word you've written about him in your diary, every smile passed between you two, and every time you've looked at each other like you've always wanted something more.
You feel his tongue slide across your lower lip and you can't control the soft whimper that parts your lips. Steve takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, a low groan emanating from his throat, and you feel the vibrations against your fingers where you're clutching tightly onto him.
Steve tastes like sugar, sweet, sweet sugar as his tongue explores your mouth, while his hands slide down your body, as if mapping every inch of it. Each touch, even through the thick material of his sweatshirt, sends tingles racing through your veins, till his hands settle low on your waist, fingers gripping whatever they can find.
It's only when the pressure of his hands on your waist becomes a tug, and he's lifting you up so you're seated on his lap, does some semblance of thought finally return to your brain, and you pull apart. Immediately, you suck in a deep breath and Steve does the same. Undeniably, breathing had been the last thing on your mind just a second ago.
Your body is buzzing. Your heart is going absolutely crazy in your chest, beating wildly against your ribs, and your brain seems to have melted from the heat coursing through you.
But when Steve's hands move from their place on your waist and slip under your sweatshirt, it's like a switch flips in your head.
Suddenly, you're all too aware of the fact that you're sitting in his lap, so close his hair tickle your forehead, his warm breath on your face, his taste in your mouth.
Your thoughts from before suddenly resurface in your mind.
Girl gets stranded in the rain. Boy picks her up in his car and takes her to his house because it is closer than hers and she is shivering and he doesn't want her to get sick. Boy is her hero. Boy gives her clothes. They get closer. By nightfall, those clothes are off.
And simple as that, you panic.
One minute you're clinging onto Steve like he's your anchor, and the next you're sliding off of him, stumbling to your feet.
Steve looks so taken aback that he's not quick enough to stop you before you're already off of him.
"What-"
"The rain's stopped. I should go," you quicky mumble, unable to look Steve in the eye.
"Wait-no-" Steve starts, but you don't wait. By the time he gets to his feet, you're already running up the stairs to his room, flinging open his bedroom door and barging inside. You grab your bag- still damp, but you can't do anything about that. Eyes unfocused, you haphazardly stuff your books into your bag in a frenzy. When you're done, you zip it closed and fling it over your shoulder and rush out the door, just as Steve reaches the top of the stairs.
"Wait-" Steve calls out your name, but you just shoot him a quick apologetic smile you're sure doesn't reach your eyes. "It's getting late, Steve, my parents are probably worrying. I should go home."
You rush past him, bounding down the stairs.
"Wait, I'll drive you home-"
"No need," you call over your shoulder. "It's close enough, I'll walk."
You reach the front door, and when your hand is the knob, you suddenly pause. You turn around, finding Steve standing a few feet away, his lips parted and red, hair a bit of a mess, cheeks flushed. He's never looked more handsome to you.
"I had a great time today, Steve," you manage to say, and he blinks.
"I did too..." he murmurs, and you give him a last quick smile, before pulling the door open and bounding out, past the tall gate, and out onto the road.
You run all the way back to your place dodging puddles, never stopping once to catch your breath. And when you're home, you rush upstairs to your room after quickly letting your mom know you're home, before locking yourself in your bedroom.
Your mind swirls all evening, first from pure, unadulterated shock, then disbelief and then a giddiness that fills you up with so much energy that you jump on your bed for a few minutes, before shrieking into your pillow.
By nightfall, you're regretting ever leaving his house the way you did. Or actually leaving his house at all.
It's only before bed that you realize your Chemistry textbook is missing. You look everywhere, in your drawers, cupboards, even under your bed, before realizing you'd taken it to school. But when you check your bag, it's not there.
Maybe you left it at Steve's home. Come to think of it, he had mentioned you'd had so many books in your bag his desk couldn't accommodate them all, so he'd kept some to dry on his nightstand. In your haste while leaving his house, you'd forgotten to bring home the ones on his nightstand.
You mentally curse yourself. You spend the next fifteen minutes taking inventory of all your books. Your chemistry textbook and notes were the only one missing along with....
Your stomach drops.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Your diary.
Your diary, that contained every single one of your thoughts, that you carried around with you everywhere you went because you didn't want to let something so sensitive away from your person.
Your diary, which contained every single thing you'd ever thought about Steve. Every embarrassing story, imagination, musing....
Now at Steve's house.
But Steve wasn't like that! The diary very clearly, had your name on it, followed by the fact that it was your diary, and to keep out, in bold letters.
Steve wouldn't invade your privacy.
Right?
Right. You trusted Steve.
Steve would return it to you the next day, along with your books and clothes.
You tell yourself that as you turn your light off and get into bed.
The next morning, you wake up wanting nothing more than to kiss Steve again. To sit on his lap and have his lips against yours, his tongue in your mouth, his hair tickling your forehead, hands gripping your waist.
You don't just want him. You crave him like he's the air you need to live.
You practically skip your way to school, your mood the best it's been in a long time, a giddy, stupid smile playing on your lips the entire time.
And as you enter through the school gates into the hallways, you have only one goal in mind.
Find Steve.
Find Steve and tell him yesterday was the best kiss of your life and that you'd very much like to do it again and again everyday for the rest of your-
"Hey-" you hear an unfamiliar voice call your name and you turn, to see Chad Andrews walking over to you- a jock you vaguely remember from Home Room.
"Uhh... hi?" You say uncertainly.
"Always knew you were a nerd," he starts, "But I didn't know your true calling was romance author!"
....
Huh?
What in the- Before you can ask him what he means, he's already walking off down the hall, chuckling to himself.
Weirdo, you think to yourself, and you're about to continue to look for Steve, but before you can, you hear your name called once more.
You flip around to see Becky Willis, member of the cheerleading squad and bitch extraordinaire, walking towards you, her posse in tow, a smirk plastered on her face.
"Look, girls, it's the stalker," she says, her wide doe eyes filled with mirth as the others around her laugh.
You look over your shoulder, wondering if there's anyone else in this school with the same name as yours that you're only finding out about today.
"Aww, look how innocent she seems," Becky pouts, finally face to face with you. The other girls around her giggle once more.
You're still too confused to speak, your mind struggling to come down from the Steve-high and catch up to what was going on.
"What are you talking about?" You finally get out, your brow wrinkling in perplexity.
"Uhh... what a creep you are?" she exclaims, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I always knew nerds were just wannabe freaks, but you take it to another level."
You blink.
Was she high? You seriously consider it.
"She's got a real future as a writer too," one of the girls adds.
What WRITER? What famous writing had you done recently that everyone seems to be talking about?
You're about to voice those thoughts, your patience wearing thin, when one of the girls scrunches up her face, throwing her head back dramatically.
"His eyes, oh his eyes," she cries out. "His eyes the colour of ground coffee, and his voice, his honeyed tone falling on my ears-"
"Blessing my very existence!" another one cries out, with the same dramatic flair. "I see him across the cafeteria, talking, laughing, leaning back on his chair with that oh-so-sexy smirk!"
A cold dread begins to creep up your spine. A trickle of familiarity pours into your brain, but you try to force it out, refusing to accept that reality. You can't.
"What are you on about?" You spit out harshly. "Did you fall off the top of the pyramid while cheerleading and hit your head?"
"Oh dear diary," one of the girls continues mournfully, ignoring you, her eyebrows wound together as she cups her cheeks with her hands. "I'm having trouble sleeping tonight, sleep refuses to come to me. So naturally, as I lie here idly, he comes to mind. I think about him, his hair, his eyes, that beautiful smile, that beautiful body, and all of it just. makes me. so. wet!"
You didn't write that last part. You know you didn't. You never wrote anything remotely disturbing or disgusting. But the rest of it?
It doesn't matter whether you want to accept that reality or not. Either way, it's hitting you in the face right now.
"That ring a bell, honey?" Becky sings, her voice mockingly sweet. "Go take a look at the notice board in the hallway if you need more of a reminder."
Your legs feel weak, as if your knees could collapse any moment, but as soon as you hear 'notice board', you're pushing past the girls, running down the hallway, their laughter and shrieking following you.
"Hey, nice handwriting, Shakespeare!" Someone throws your way, but it all just translates to a buzzing in your ears. The hollering, the laughter- till you're skidding to a stop in front of the large notice board.
All the usual content it's supposed to have- flyers, pamphlets, club practice times, posters, everything's hidden.
Hidden underneath snowy white pages roughly ripped from their margins and stuck to the board with pins, over everything else.
You see it. You see loopy words and sentences written in your own steady hand as you poured your heart out about Steve Harrington. Because that's what it was. Pages upon pages of everything you'd written about him in the past year, torn from your diary.
The diary you'd left at Steve's house yesterday. The same day you'd made hot chocolate with him, worn his clothes and kissed him in his living room.
Your feet feel frozen to the ground.
But maybe it's adrenaline- the same one that's making your hands shake- that fuels you.
That forces you to move your feet down the hall and run. Far, far away from here.
You run.
A/N: Let me know your thoughts on this, I'd love to hear them, and leave a comment or ask if you'd like a Part 2, although I feel a bit evil and may just leave it here.
A gentle reminder that likes, comments, reblogs, asks, all make me realllllly reallllly happy.
And didn't think I'd have to add this but if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all. While you may think your words are harmless, you don't know how sensitive the person reading them is or isn't. So unless I've personally harmed you or your lineage, keep your fucking negativity to yourself.
In case you missed it when I posted it at the odd hour!
