my friend just told me that there's a secret second dashboard that solely contains posts from people you've turned on post notifications for, and when i click the link in the messages it opens it within the tumblr app, so the tumblr app also has a secret second dashboard for post notification blogs, and the only way to access it is to open the link for it within the app.
synopsis – an unexpected layoff forces you to move in with a random man you meet on the internet—who just so happens to be ryland grace. a blind date forces the two of you to finally acknowledge your true feelings for one another—and just how deeply they run.
- getting slushees and gas station hot dogs with him at 1 in the morning as you talk about the things you want to do with each other
- tracing the patterns on his hands as you sit in front of him in a warm bath in his trailer after a sticky day
- staying in motels overnight after long drives through hawkins instead of going home
- eating in diners ONLY!
- mindless drives that involve singing incorrect lyrics to songs and he does nothing to correct you
- tia blake & the mamas and the papas on radio as your legs prop up and stick onto his dashboard
- buying ridiculous trinkets and weird shirts at the thrift for $1
- stealing glasses off his face and wearing his leather jacket in 90 degree heat. bearing through it bc it’s his
- bikini top and shorts on the ready. eddie’s bought you a couple cute pairs
- silly keychain souvenirs that add to wayne’s mug and hat collection
- day drinking at the beach and sobering up as you tan
- trying on his rings end up in you casually mentioning having matching ones to him (he folds like a lawn chair; you didn’t even need to beg )
- his hands being your tests for nail polish colors, makeup, stick n pokes, everything under the sun
- free massages after a tense day
- fingers in mouth. fingers in mouth
- causal slaps on your ass that linger as he walks by you
- teasing him by standing behind him, raking your nails from his back up to his head, putting his hair into a bun, kissing the back of his neck when you’re done
- him laying on top of you, pressing his weight down in practically a bear hug as he pounds into you in the summer heat. the sweat and warmth makes you guys take extra time bathing, which he loves
- he loves swiping specs of food and liquids dripping down your chin off your face and into his mouth with his thumb
- his thumbs favorite place besides your bottom lip is your clit. rubbing it and feeling you squeeze around him makes his hips stutter and whimpers escape his lips as sweat beads on his skin
- late night pillow talk that turns into endless kisses around your face, being the thing that drifts you into sleep <3
Summary: For the last three years, you’ve been working a repetitive Ministry job and wrapped your life around an unhappy relationship. After realizing how empty your life has become, you leave everything behind and stumbles across an unlikely job for you - Office Manager for Weaselys' Wizard Wheezes. There you wish to find something you lost in the war: hope.
Word Count (So Far): 79,939
Warnings: 18+, Dark Themes in later parts, Slowburn, Lots of Fluff, Smut at the very end, Past Infidelity (Not by Reader or George), Miscommunication, Coworkers/Friends to Lovers. Minors DNI.
“I knew from the beginning that the two of you were more than a couple troublemakers."
His face morphed into a wicked smirk. "More than a couple of troublemakers, eh? You know, if you were in love with me, you could just say so."
Links in PURPLE are bonus content based on the parts they’re next to.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five The First Time You Met George, Colin’s Photographs #1, Colin’s Photographs #2
Part Six Hearing The News
Part Seven The Plan
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve The Food Run
Part Thirteen
Part Fourteen Colin’s Photographs #2 (George’s Perspective), Seeing You Again
Part Fifteen
Part Sixteen The Yule Ball, Puking Pastilles
Part Seventeen Ravenclaw Tower, Preparing For A Fight, Retrieval
Eighteen
Nineteen
Epilogue
Looking for more George content? pearlsofme has some incredible stories!
what people don’t understand about how adhd is disabling is that it’s not just getting temporarily distracted from, like, school work or hobbies. it’s getting distracted/being unable to motivate yourself to go to the doctor, eat regularly, do hygiene tasks, etc. it’s not knowing when or how long it will take you to do something, ANYTHING, and in many cases that thing is taking a shower or keeping your house from turning into a biohazard. it’s about being fundamentally incapable of controlling your attention and focus on anything, even and especially things you need to do to survive.
a/n: this was purely inspired by the fact i totally interpreted that final kiss in the film as clark just being so enraptured he didn't even notice he was flying tehe
Working at the Daily Planet, you - like everyone with eyes - are particularly enamoured with Clark Kent. A meteor and a spilled secret later, he shows you just how enamoured with you he is. spoiler-free, fem!reader, 7k, all fluff babey <3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You always hear him before you see him—though the ding of the elevator is a dead giveaway.
A glance at the clock tells you it’s 9:07am. Not the latest he's been, but it's definitely getting there.
"You're late, Kent."
"Sorry, sorry."
There's a smattering of murmured apologies being given out behind you, soft, fast footsteps, and then something is placed beside you. An iced latte rings the beginnings of a water-mark on your desk.
You look up, already smiling. "Please don't tell me you were late because you were getting me this."
Clark, ruffled and clutching his briefcase in one hand, balancing a tray of coffees in the other, pauses in his hurried motions. He looks down at you guiltily.
His mouth twists, a poor attempt to hold back a smile. You're thankful, if only for the fact you're particularly prone to your most foolish moments when Clark Kent smiles at you.
"Alright," he says. "I won't tell you."
Your eyes track him as he rounds the desk, slanting up his briefcase to deposit it. His response has only made you smile harder. You hide it behind a sip of your coffee.
Upon first taste, a pleased sigh escapes you. The drink is perfectly sweetened, creamy and icy-sweet. You have to force yourself not to chug half of it in one go.
The logo, forest green, printed across the front catches your attention.
Just to check, you glimpse at the other cups in Clark’s tray. He delivers one to Jimmy, his head buried in his laptop, and one to Lois, who hums her thanks. Another to Cat and one to Ron.
Each of their cups are a boring beige - which he’s gone out of his way for you specifically.
“You shouldn’t have,” You say, as Clark sits down opposite you at his desk, his hands finally free. He looks up, expression innocent, and his glasses slide an inch down his nose.
You twist the cup to face him, the only coffee from a different store than the others. “Really.”
Clark shrugs, nudging his glasses back up almost sheepishly. You can almost convince yourself that his ears are a shade pinker.
“It’s the one you like, isn’t it?” He gestures with a pen.
“That’s beside the point.”
“Is it?”
He’s being unbelievably genuine. As if, of course he’d go the extra distance for you.
“Yes, Clark,” You say, much less firmly than you’re hoping for. Your smile weakens it even more. “It is.”
A ping on your laptop saves you from having the sputter through your exact reasoning on why it’s beside the point.
You tend to it hastily, pointedly ignoring your hot coworkers expression. It’s not smugness — Clark could never be — but it’s something damn close.
He knows he’s right. You know he’s also sort of right too. He's perfectly allowed to do nice things for you. It’s just…
Clark Kent is a man who is too good to be true.
First of all, he’s nice. Awfully nice. Clark goes out of his way to help others.
He opens doors, is always the one with his arm out, holding the elevator, and he never minds the awkward wait for the last person to catch up.
He offers to carry bags, insisting even, then loads them over his arms like they weigh nothing.
You’ve seen him hail a cab for an old lady. He gets coffee for everyone around your corner of the bullpen. He’s nice.
And he seems to do it for the sake of being nice too.
Then there’s also the fact that… Well, you have eyes.
That is to say, he’s handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair and light eyes. He’s double-take-on-the-street-handsome.
He’s a gentleman too, polite and never overstepping. In fact, sometimes you think he’s loud on purpose, rustling as he moves about so he never accidentally catches you off guard.
That combination— the kindness of his character and his attractive appearance —is killer to a girl like you.
And anyone with eyes and a brain, in your humble opinion.
It’s why you’re also 100% sure, without even asking, that he’s already snatched up and locked down.
A man like that, single? In Metropolis? Ha!
Nevermind that he’s never technically mentioned a partner. Clark’s on the reserved side. You know about the same as everyone else; a small town farm boy from Kansas turned big city journalist.
Though, he did mention he was looking after his cousin’s dog to you the other week—after he caught you scrolling the SPCA’s page. You wonder how many people he’s told that to.
Wordlessly, you glance up, peering over the dividers between desks.
Clark’s engaged in his work, as you should be, a furrow between his brows. Despite all that you’ve just outlined, despite him being your coworker, there’s still a tug. You can’t resist the daydream.
Besides, there’s no real harm in a sweet and secret work crush.
No harm other than to perhaps your own ego—which happens every time you catch yourself mooning over him like a muppet.
Nose twitching, you force your eyes down. A new email slides onto your screen, blinking its high priority at you. You sigh, resisting the urge to look back up. It’s a fun daydream, but you have work to do.
You take another sip of your coffee — and in doing so, miss the gaze that lingers on your lips.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Living in Metropolis, two things are a given for all citizens.
1. Some part of your life has been interrupted by intergalactic aliens and 2. You have an opinion on Superman.
These two things usually go hand-in-hand, often when the first thing crashes into your life, forcing the second.
Though, in your experience, most Metropolitans have a handful of words prepared on whether the metahuman is more menace or hero.
As a journalist yourself, you’re surprisingly middle of the road.
Alien attacks suck. Superman does his best to intervene, saving people first, buildings second. Fallout is mitigated, but ultimately inevitable.
You see more of it than usual. You’re the Daily Planet’s man on the ground — out in the fray, it’s generally your notes that veto whatever else is circulating around the news hubbub; Superman action included.
Of course, you’ve not quite managed to snag an interview with the man himself.
That is a Clark Kent exclusive, which infuriates you just a smidge. You suppose it’s good for Superman that Clark favours painting him in a good light.
Today, you’re not even out for a Superman-esque story — your tape-recorder, an old-school thing, whirs loudly on the table to get a quote from the Mayor’s office — but as you track the meteor heading straight for a skyscraper, you figure it’s just one of those days.
“Please excuse me,” You say, reaching out to pause your tape.
The man before you, focus stolen and solely on the incoming meteor through the window, doesn’t respond. His mouth has opened a fraction, in surprise.
You figure he’ll understand you stepping out.
The door chime announces your exit and you get a closer look at today’s threat.
The meteor is a concerning flaming purple colour. A trail, dark and murky, traces its path in the sky. If you strain your ears, you can hear it—a faint whistle, like a shriek picking up volume as it approaches.
You don’t bother taking notes. There’ll be footage streamed online within the minute.
Pocketing your tape-recorder, you straighten your jacket and try to map the trajectory. You squint.
If you had to bet money, you’d guess it’s heading straight for the Harmony block apartments on 7th St - if it’s not intercepted, that is.
Sniffing for the story, you tuck your hands in your pockets and begin to head in that direction.
Dotted throughout the street, people have begun to stop and stare, their worried mutters paired with pointed fingers. Cars screech to a halt and impatient drivers honk their unhappiness.
An odd apprehension tinges the air. A nervous hush settles down amongst the streets.
You wind through the crowds of people easily, keeping a close eye on the violet-coloured projectile. You don’t want to get too close. You’re not stupid — you just need to get close enough to scrape together the important details.
Regular ol’ meteor? Intergalactic version of a catapult flung towards Earth with intent to harm?
Your brows furrow in thought, mind whirring, as you sidestep a halted couple, murmuring your excuse me’s.
Without taking your eyes off the meteor, you fumble around to find your notepad in your bag, You hand bangs against your tape-recorder in your pocket, hitting record.
“Well, what is it?” An older lady remarks.
She’s too blind to see it properly you’d guess, evidenced by her thick-glasses and heavy squint. “Some sort of bird?”
“It’s definitely not a plane,” Someone else in the crowd mutters.
The shriek of the meteor gets louder, its burn transforming to an auburn colour as it tears through the atmosphere. You’re just a couple blocks away from Harmony apartments when you hear it, a familiar sonic boom! that sets you stumbling for a moment.
Something has taken flight.
Just in time as well. An awful crackling noise has pierced through the shrieking of the meteor. Shimmers of light, brighter than the flaming auburn, begin to reach out from within the rock like stretched out fingers.
It’s at this point you have the sense to stop walking toward it.
And as if on cue, the meteor fractures with a loud burst.
The structure crumbles, torn into a handful of pieces and they quickly careen out in various directions. They’re faster now, propelled by the delayed blast.
“Shit.” you say astutely.
There’s a funny thing about things falling right in your line of vision; they can appear to stop moving completely.
You watch, perplexed, as a large chunk of the meteor seems to hover in place, then rise up, then slowly, slowly it dawns on you that it’s rapidly growing in size. You realise with a spike of horror that it’s heading right for you.
“Shit.” you say again, more panicked this time.
This is not what you meant when you said you’re out in the fray. Feet backtracking, you stumble over yourself before realising going backward isn’t your best bet.
You course-correct, before finally realising you aren’t the only one in the crosshairs of this rogue rock.
Your head whips around, left to right. People are staring at the incoming meteor, but not enough have realised what you already had.
“Move,” you say, too quietly. People can’t seem to break their horrified stares. The strange roar of the meteor deafens as it gets closer.
“Move! Everybody move!”
Something in your voice overrides their frozen instincts. A frantic energy surges through the crowd around you, people beginning to move with haste, bleating their fear.
You swallow your relief as the space begins to clear out and you follow them closely, casting another glance around.
Your gaze catches.
A lone child stands in the middle of the rapidly clearing street, a little girl swathed in maroon and confusion. Her little face searches for the reason for the obvious distress washing over the street, despair beginning to sink in.
Limbs freezing, your eyes comb through the crowd desperately, hoping to spot a parent fighting their way back to them - to no avail.
Horror shoves up your throat at the thought of her alone, waiting, unaware of the danger. You move without thinking.
You manage all of one step, then there’s a blur of blue that stops you. Suddenly, the girl is right before you - and so is Superman.
“Hello.” He says politely.
“Hi.” you breathe.
He’s got one hand on the shoulder of the kid, who’s torn between the shock of travelling at super-speed and seeing Superman himself. Her distress has been wiped away by awe.
He looks back up at you. “I trust I can leave this little one with you til the danger is past?”
“Hi.” you say again, foolishly. Your face flames. “I mean- yes, you can.”
When you look back on this interaction, you’ll undoubtedly be beyond embarrassed. Sue you, you’ve never seen Superman up close before.
Superman smiles again, this time his perfect grin on display. He scans the street around you diligently, sweeping for danger.
“You did a terrific job clearing out the street.”
His focus locks onto the now much closer threat with a more serious expression. You secretly take the moment to appreciate the sharp line of his jaw.
“Now, I’ll be right back,” He assures, looking first at the kid, then up to you. You wonder if his curl just does that. “And then we can find this one’s parents together.”
And with a final friendly squeeze on the kid’s shoulder, he turns and launches into flight, heading right for the incoming meteor.
The next few minutes are a bit of daze after that. You snatch moments of the chaos in the sky as Superman juggles between the pieces of the meteor.
It’s unclear if the plan is to let them ground, but given their hideous continued shrieks, you’re rather relieved when he bats them back up into the atmosphere.
Huh, you think, almost amusedly; it’s almost like superpowered baseball.
Just as they had arrived, the pieces streak back up into the sky, their awful shrieks fading as they disappear from view. You spot a familiar blur tracing their paths. Keeping them out of airspace, no doubt.
The girl, who had taken your hand the moment you offered it, still holds it tightly.
“Is he coming back?”
You turn and smile down at her, stooping down to match her height. Truth is, you’re not sure - but Superman seems like a man of his word.
“He said he would be.” You hope that’s assurance enough. “What’s your name?”
“Maisie.” She tells you, smiling enough to show off a slight snaggle-tooth. Adorable.
“That’s a wonderful name,” You say genuinely. “Who were you with today? Who might be looking for you, hm?”
Somewhere across the city, an ambulance siren wails its cry. The crowds are dispersing from their panic, people getting back on track with the danger now averted. This is Metropolis, after all.
Maisie rattles off how she had been with her aunt, ‘cos it’s Tuesday and she spends every Tuesday with her aunt Tess, and they were on their way to get lunch at Alma’s, ‘cos they always get Alma’s on a Tuesday.
It’s a sandwich store only 2 blocks away. She points with a finger in the general direction.
“Hmm,” You hum, following her finger. “I bet if I was your aunt Tess, I would’ve gone to Alma’s to see if you were there. Do you think we should go see if she’s there?”
Maisie nods, her loose pigtails flying with the motion.
“But what about Superman?” She says before you can straighten up.
“Right here.”
You jump a little, having not heard his arrival. Superman at least has the decency to offer you a sheepish look as he steps up on the other side of Maisie, already offering her a hand.
“Alright there, Miss?” He asks her seriously. She openly gawps up at him and nods faintly, her mouth open.
He smiles. “Great.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours intently. “And you, Miss? I think I can handle getting Maisie here back to where she belongs, if you have somewhere else you need to be.”
Maisie’s petite head swings around to face you. She hasn’t let go of your hand. Or closed her mouth. You think she’s even more starstruck that Superman knows her name.
“Y’know, I think I’d like to see her back into safe hands if that’s alright?”
Something flits across Superman’s expression, but he still only smiles and nods. “Two chaperones are certainly better than one.”
So, the three of you walk the two blocks to Alma’s, with both of Maisie’s hands held the whole way. Aunt Tess is tearfully relieved at her safe return and when she blubbers her thank-you’s, you’re surprised when Superman redirects them to you.
“I had help today,” he says.
Between the sincere thankfulness from Aunt Tess and the warm look from Superman, it’s a challenge not to fluster too much.
Maisie waves goodbye to both of you, her little hands still going wildly as she rounds the corner out of sight — and you can’t help but chuckle.
“Thank you for taking good care of her,” says Superman.
You turn and blink, half-surprised he’s still here.
He surely must be busy with, like, …hero stuff, right? But still, he’s taking the time to thank you.
“Of course.” You say. The words stammer a bit as you’re taken aback by his sincerity.
You find he has a very intense gaze when it’s fixed solely on you.
“Not everyone would have stayed with her the whole time. Or stepped in to begin with.” He commends. “It was brave of you to put yourself in danger to help her, so thank you.”
Now you’re really stunned. You flounder for words and end up biting your tongue so nothing stupid comes out.
In the end, you just say, “Of course.” again.
That makes him smile again. Dimples press into his cheeks. It’s enough to threaten to make you swoon.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.” He nods to you, then steps back and readies himself to fly once more.
“Wait,” The sound of your name pulls you up short. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s, uh, on your case.” He nods to it.
Any other questions are swallowed up by the howl of the wind, air tunnelling around him loudly as he abruptly takes flight. He turns to a blur and you watch the sky, even when there’s nothing left to watch.
The street around you dims, softened, and then its noise filters back in slowly. Cars droning, traffic lights flicking, the murmur of conversation. You hadn’t realised how much all of that had quietened with Superman’s attention on you.
For a long moment, you’re simply stumped on how to feel.
If one’s things for sure, you have a much more concrete opinion on Superman than you did this morning — though nothing you can quite put a finger on.
Admiration? Maybe.
Something else twinges in there, unbidden.
You slip your hands into your pockets to mull it over, surprised when your hand bumps into something unexpected. Curling your fingers around it, you pull it out.
Still whirring away, your tape-recorder sits in the palm of your hand, record button blinking.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
The tape clicks as it pauses, then revolves back with a scribbling sound.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
You hit pause, then hit rewind. Your finger hovers over the play button, contemplating if you’re really going to listen to this part of the tape over and over like a lovesick teenage girl.
You certainly feel like one. The tape must be wearing thin by this point.
Eyes screwing shut, you hit play.
“Take care of yourself, y/n.”
Hitting pause, you groan. You chuck the tape softly to the other end of the couch you’re draped across so you can’t be tempted to play it once more. Then you bury your face in your hands.
“This is getting pathetic.” you mumble to yourself.
The rogue meteor and your subsequent brush with Superman had occurred two whole days ago.
You’re rather thankful it had all gone down on a Friday. It has certainly given you ample time to waste. All of yesterday and today has been spent on that god forsaken tape and the graininess of Superman’s voice.
The audio was a little muffled, given the device had been pocketed away. There’s lots of rustling, louder than anything else, when you’d been running.
But your whole easy conversation with Maisie as she dawdled her way to Alma’s had been captured — including her a million questions for Superman, that he’d dutifully answered.
That’s not quite the part you’re stuck on though.
Sighing, you deflate into the couch. The image of his dimples, his smile, floats in. You have to mentally bat it away.
Man, why do you feel almost like you’re betraying your crush on Clark right now?
You drag your hands away and huff again at your own dramatics. There’s no betraying. Those crushes fall into the exact same box: unfathomable and impossible.
Sitting up, your eyes fall on the tape recorder. You regard it thoughtfully for a moment.
Beyond the selfish reasons you’ve been abusing the tape, there’s also the question of using it for an article. The idea has been circling your mind since Friday, since your first listen.
There’s a reason you’re the man on the ground. Sure, you can write but, well, you’re not quite top quality like Jimmy or Clark or Lois.
This one though, this tape, has you particularly inspired.
Plus, you’re not exactly jazzed at the idea of passing off the recording to one of your coworkers.
Jimmy? He’d probably latch onto your part in it all, some Superman-inspires-citizen-to-do-good angle. The thought makes your nose wrinkle - you don’t want to be the focal point.
Clark? Who already got Superman interviews? It’s hardly worth his time.
And Lois? No chance you’d turn the tape over to her. She’s so sharp, she’d probably notice the scratch in the audio from where you’ve paused and rewound — and then you’d never know peace.
Given your choices, or lack thereof, it really only leaves you with one last option.
Feeling more set than you have all weekend, you push up off the couch and retrieve your laptop. You settle it in your lap and get comfy, folding the screen up.
After a moment, you lean across and grab the tape recorder too, rewinding once more — this time from the very beginning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
If someone were to describe you, you bet they'd say that today, you have a pep in your step. And screw it, maybe you do!
It's not every day that you get an article published in the Daily Planet, not with your more lackey-level job on the ground.
But it's more than that too. Not only is it published, but it's on the second page.
For some, that's all in a day's work. For you? It's nothing to sneeze at.
It's your most prolific article published to date in your whole year of working at the Daily Planet. You suppose you have some great inspiration to thank for that
And some of your coworkers are kind enough to take notice of your milestone.
Cat had squealed excitedly her congrats in the elevator earlier, whilst Jimmy had given you a nod of approval from across the bullpen. You're practically walking on air as you drop down into your seat.
For a change, Clark isn't late today.
Glimpsing the time, you watch him subtly out the corner of your eye as he spends the last few free minutes dropping a round of coffee.
The crush in you aches. You bury your yearning beneath your best attempt at looking busy, studying your computer screen.
It's broken instantly when Clark sits across from you and your eyes flit up at the movement.
He's already looking at you. With both hands on the cup, he holds your regular iced latte and presents it forward like a precious gift.
To you, it is. You wonder if it's written on your face, with how you can't bite back your smile.
"I'm sorry I can't get something better to celebrate with." He says as you relieve him of the cup. The condensation clings to your fingers, but you can only focus on the brush of his fingers.
"Celebrate?"
Clark's brow furrows. He regards you with a look that says you know what.
"It's only second page." You downplay.
Like you hadn't done a little dance when you got the email that Perry had greenlit it for the second page.
"Only?" Clark exclaims. If you didn't know better, you'd have no idea he'd copped multiple front page articles for the Planet. "C'mon, you must have some plans for a celebration."
If you're being honest, said plans included curling up on your couch and gorging yourself on Chinese food. Not quite a celebration, but still a treat for you.
"Not really." You admit honestly. The attention from him is making you bashful - and truthful.
Clark shakes his head at that. He plants his hands on the desk and leans forward, looking at you seriously over the rim of his glasses. "That just won't do. Let's do dinner."
After a moment, he seems to realise how pushy that might seem. Clearly (and thankfully), your glee is well-hidden as he retracts in a bit, sitting a bit straighter.
"I mean, that is- if you'd like. Would you?" He clears his throat. "Like to go to dinner?"
You have to wrestle to keep the grin from splitting on your face. Magically, you muster the calm to take a sip of your coffee, pretending to mull it over.
Across the desk, Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - almost nervously.
You get struck with the sudden thought that perhaps, crazily, your crush might not be as one-sided as you once thought.
"I meeean," You drag out the word as if you're still tossing it up. "I was pretty set on the #4 combo from Mr. Go's on my block."
Screw being a journalist, you should be an actor given the little twitch of Clark's brow. You don't let him stew for more than a moment.
"So, you could maybe join?" You offer, nearly holding your breath. "Come to mine?"
Your heart threatens to turn itself inside out from nerves. Somehow, Clark manages to sit up even straighter. He huffs out a breath, then he's grinning, dimples on show. He nods severely.
"To celebrate." He tacks on.
One of his hands has drifted up to fiddle with his tie, but you can't tell if it's tighten or loosen it.
"To celebrate." You agree with a nod. You have to press your lips together to contain your grin. It's a battle you're happy to lose.
And if you spend the rest of the day catching each other's eyes across the desk? That's your own damn business.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"I can't believe I've never heard of this place before!"
You laugh around your forkful of noodles at Clark's earnest excitement. He's had his first bite of food, and it's quickly been followed by his second, third, and fourth.
He looks up at you from the other side of your couch, eyes wide. "This has gotta be, like, Metropolis' best kept secret."
You laugh again and press a finger to your lips. That makes Clark laugh and the sound makes you feel a bit drunk.
He looks devastatingly at home on your couch. His suit jacket had been shed during your walk from the Planet, his tie loosened and stashed in his bag when you sat down to tuck into your food.
Now he sits, his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up. The top button or two of his dress shirt have been undone.
You're nearly undone with it.
This is nothing like the Clark you've gotten to know at work, proper and kept. Sitting in your space, he's casual. Relaxed. Domestic.
It's not a stretch to imagine doing this every night.
It's a particularly nice evening too — even the sunset had tinted the colour of love on your walk back to your apartment, reds fading to a blush pink. Clark had held all the food at his own insistence.
The evening is darker now. A coolness blankets your apartment, amber streetlights reaching through the windows. There's some show playing on your television, but it's on low, barely a murmur.
"Last wonton?" Clark says, holding out the box. "It is your celebration night, after all."
Right. It hasn't felt much like a celebration— mainly because it's been feeling like a date.
It occurs to you that that feeling might not be mutual. You spear the wonton with your fork to give you something to swallow the bad feeling that thought gives you.
You've barely started chewing when Clark starts moving, gathering the plates from your coffee table.
"You don't have tuh—" You protest through your mouthful before you think the better of it.
Clark's already waving you off. The plates quickly form a tall stack and he scoops them up with one hand with remarkable ease.
"Please," He smiles. "I’ve left you with your share.”
He nods to the one plate and one fork still in use in your lap. Then he’s winding his way through the doorway to your kitchen before you can protest further — as if he owns the place!
You chew furiously through your wonton. "Don't do them all before I can help!"
No response beyond a laugh that makes you feel a bit melty. You slow your jaw, enjoying the food, and savouring the swallow.
You sit for a moment, soaking in the moment built around you. He’s here, in your space, and he’s taking care of you - seemingly quite happy to do so.
You’re reaching dangerous levels of hope now.
The plate clinks as you stack the fork atop it, climbing to your feet. You trace Clark’s footsteps to the kitchen.
He’s running the sink, bubbles foaming up in little tufts. He’s already rolled his sleeves back further, exposing the strong muscles in his forearm. His hands hidden are beneath the water, soaking your blue sponge and when he wrings it out, it manages to look extra tiny in his grip.
You take a moment to send a prayer for strength. Or luck. Insane luck. You’ll take either.
Adding your plate to the pile beside the sink, you grab the Garfield tea-towel hanging over the rail and sidle up to take the place next to him.
Wordlessly, Clark lets the suds run off the first plate and then hands it over.
You steal a glimpse at his face. This close you could count his lashes. They kiss together at the end, courtesy of his warm smile.
Side by side, the two of you work in comfortable silence. When passing the next plate, his elbow bumps up your arm and he leaves it there, pressed up lightly against you.
“You know,” Clark says idly, speaking as he scrubs at a pair of forks. “I’ve actually wanted to, uh,” He clears his throat. “Find a way to ask you out to dinner for, well, a long time.”
It’s a miracle you manage not to drop the plate in your hands. That prayer worked fast. Somehow, you recover enough to tease.
“You mean to tell me you hijacked my celebration night for your own gain?”
Without missing a beat, Clark says, “Maybe I did.”
He's completely sincere, nudging his arm against yours again. He rinses off the last plate and this time, instead of handing it over, he plucks the tea-towel out of your hands and starts drying.
With nothing to do with your hands, you’re left to deal with the conversation. You do your best to grasp your courage tightly. You wonder if he'll notice if you pinch yourself, to check if this is real.
“A long time, huh?”
Leaning your hip up against the kitchen counter, you echo his earlier words. Clark’s watching you, something that looks an awful lot like hope in his eyes.
“I…” You start. Your voice is getting quieter as your courage slips away and you can’t quite meet his gaze anymore. “I mean, I- me too.”
You hope he won’t make you spell it out — that he knows what you mean with just those words.
But Clark has never been cruel and he isn’t now. He places the final plate down gently, the tea-towel beside it.
Then he steps closer to you, bracketing you against the counter. It forces your eyes up, because staring at the hollow of his throat is almost as maddening as meeting his expression.
Clark’s smiling, a warmness in his blue eyes you haven’t realised is reserved just for you, til right this moment. His dimples, you bemoan silently. He’s beyond handsome.
He has no right to look like that - to look at you like that.
“Would it be improper of me then,” He begins. “To hope we might do this again?”
You have the sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him stupid. Your hands, which have moved to hold the bench for support, are shaking just a bit.
“Not improper at all.” It’s barely a whisper.
His eyes drop to your mouth and that alone makes you feel dizzy.
“Great,” Clark grins, matching your tone with a low murmur. “Because there’s this woman I work with…”
Slowly, he reaches up and gently tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his hand feels like it’s scorching the side of your face. Your heart is in your throat - and in your head, your stomach, pulsing at the end of every fingertip.
“She’s incredible at what she does,” He continues, hand still hovering. “Beautiful too. And whip-smart—though, I’m beginning to question that, given she said yes to going out with the likes of me.”
That laugh startles out of you and it breaks Clark into a grin too. His eyes roam your face, as if he’s drinking in your joy.
He’s entirely too gorgeous. You have to grip the counter tighter to remain upright.
“Shut up.” you say weakly.
Clark’s eyebrows raise. “And a bit bossy too—”
“Shut up,” you say again, a little more breathlessly. “And kiss me, Clark.”
To his credit, Clark doesn’t waste a second.
The hand that had been hovering finds your neck, burying into your hair, while the other finds the edge of your waist.
He tugs you forward, lightly, but even so it’s enough to make you laugh in surprise - so when he presses his mouth to yours, you’re already smiling.
It makes the first kiss clumsy. You’re too smiley to kiss back properly. That apparently makes Clark smile too, his glasses pressing into the bridge of your nose before you break apart.
“That-” He breathes. “Gosh, sorry, I meant- that is, for it to be less,"
He struggles to pick the correct word. You guess for him.
"Improper?"
Clark laughs at that, his eyes shining with an ardent affection. It's enough to make you shiver in his hold. God, those eyes, that mouth.
"Yes, improper." He says, though he sounds utterly pleased. "Will you let me redeem myself?"
In answer, you finally let yourself give in to the urge that's been building. Fingers curling into the collar of his dress shirt, you have to press up on your toes, but Clark's already there, meeting you halfway.
He's tugging you in again, the hand on your waist tighter as he sweeps you up in a kiss that you'll be dreaming of for years.
Clark is an infuriatingly good kisser you're learning.
Plush lips against yours, your head spins. Through an impossible series of events, in your little kitchenette, you're being kissed by Clark Kent like there's no sweeter taste than your mouth.
Your hands slide up, arms winding around his neck, feeling as though you're floating on literal air.
And it's with that thought that the abrupt realisation that your feet are off the ground comes.
Perplexed, you draw back, blinking in your confusion. Has he lifted you up-?
It takes one glance to realise that yes, not only are your feet off the ground—but so are Clark's.
It gives you a violent shock, but instinct has you clinging closer to Clark as a startled yelp escapes you. Then you're on the ground again, so quick you'd think you imagined it, if not for the shock in your legs.
You scramble back in bewilderment, hands clambering for purchase on the counter.
"I-! That-! You can fly!" You exclaim, pointing at the ground where you had just levitated.
Clark starts to stammer. "I-I, it's not- listen, I can explain."
You stare at him, waiting, but Clark only smothers a hand over his mouth. He still looks terribly blushed from the kiss, cheeks pink and mouth undoubtedly the same. His glasses are askew.
Somehow, you know you're staring at a huge puzzle piece.
Screwing your eyes shut, you attempt to process the rolling rampage of thoughts streaming through your mind.
Clark Kent can fly!
Clark Kent kissed you! (Less important, but still a thought.)
Clark Kent is... not human?
Your eyes open again and Clark's still there, his hands now hanging off his neck. He looks terribly stressed, his own eyes screwed shut in thought.
"Okay, listen-" He says abruptly, eyes still closed.
"—No, wait," You interrupt, holding a hand up. You're nearly there, you know it. The realisation is so close you can almost taste it.
Who else do you know who can fly? Technically, there's more than a handful of meta-humans with the capability of flight — but squinting at your hot coworker crush, a particular one is coming to mind.
The moment you consider it, you know it to be true. You straighten up with an incredulous look - and Clark knows that you know.
Clark Kent is Superman! You kissed Clark Kent! You've kissed Superman!
"Oh, man." you say dazedly. Something compels your feet to move and mindlessly, you're walking to the couch. It sinks under you as you flop onto it, still reeling in your disbelief.
That would certainly explains the absences at work. Knowing your name, that day on the street. The same dimples you go crazy for. Now you've figured out the puzzle piece, you can't stop marvelling at how well it fits.
"y/n?" Clark has followed you from the kitchen, a wary look on his face, unsure what to make of your silence.
You blink, taking in the sight of him perched nervously on the other end of your second-hand couch and a delighted laugh is tickled out of you. "Of course, it's you."
Clark tenses up momentarily before he shifts to sit closer to you. "Okay, but, really, you have to listen—" He's pushing a hand across his face, knocking his glasses. Without thinking, he plucks them off his face.
Woah. So, that's why you hadn't picked it - given how when you look at Clark's face clearly, without his glasses, it's obviously Superman staring back at you.
Without much thought, you're clambering forward across the couch, closer, and taking his face between your palms. Clark watches you closely, still distracted with speaking - "—you can't tell anyone, I'm serious- What're you doing?"
You're tilting his face from side to side is what you're doing. "Of course," You say again, this time sounding a little more awed. "I mean, I wouldn't have picked it— it's the glasses, right? They have some sort of—"
Your sentence is cut off, Clark's hands reaching up to encircle your wrists. He holds your hands still and says you name once more, softer.
"You don't seem to be hearing me. Or," His eyes roam your face, searching for something. "You aren't really... responding how I thought you would. You can’t tell anyone."
His worry finally reaches you. You stop your near-frantic moment of revelations and breathe, feeling the concern in his words, shown on his face.
His brow is furrowed, eyes stormy. You can't stop looking at him. It's like you've never seen his face before.
"Do you really think I would?" You ask quietly.
Clark swallows, throat bobbing. After a moment, he answers honestly. "No. I don't think you would."
The truth of his statement sits in the air, blanketing the pair of you in something warmer, tasting of trust. You're looking at Superman —looking at Clark — and all you can think of is how it all makes sense. This, him, you—all of it.
Somewhere within you, the baby crush from Friday’s brush with Superman merges with your feelings for Clark. It fizzles in you, rushing through your veins. God, you like him so much.
"So,” You breathe. “What now?"
"What now?" Clark echoes. He's still holding your wrists, but his grip has softened. As if he's holding them to keep you close this time round. "I mean, I- well, if you still—that is to say... Dinner?"
He sputters through the sentence, landing clumsily on the last word. You're grinning before he's even finished.
"Dinner would be—" You pause for effect. "Super."
"Alright," Clark declares, shaking his head dramatically. "Date invitation revoked for that one. Are you kidding me? Already?"
He's released your wrists, getting to his feet and making a big show of it. Still, he's grinning and you're laughing, hopelessly enamoured. The laughter threads through your words.
"No take backsies."
“Alright, fine,” Clark huffs, crossing his arms. The bulge of his biceps draws your eye and this time, you let yourself look. You think you’ve earned it.
An unexplained question piques your mind.
“You didn’t mean to tell me.” You comment, tilting your head slightly. “Why did you fly?”
Whatever reaction you're expecting, it's not the glorious one that unfolds before your eyes. A blush paints Clark’s cheeks, but it doesn’t stop there. You can see it crawling down his neck, beneath his shirt. His ears are tinted red.
He scratches the back of his neck bashfully, avoiding eye contact. His voice has dropped in volume. “That’s… I… it happenswhenIgetexcited.”
“What?”
“It hasn’t happened for years!” The words suddenly burst out, Clark's hands held out. “It was more, like, when I was younger, yeah, if I got, like,” He begins to stammer. “Too excited, or- or happy, it would- just, oh gosh.”
He buries his face in his hands. You take a moment to process his words, brows rising to your hairline.
“Oh,” You sound pleased as punch. “Oh, okay, that’s just adorable.”
Clark straightens up, dragging his hands from his face and placing them on his hips. His face is still pinker than you’ve ever seen. He seems to accept his fate. “Thank you. I think?”
If he was still beside you on the couch, you think you wouldn't be able to resist kissing him once more. Instead, you lose the fight against your grin. You tuck up one leg and drape your arm across it, pressing your smile into your skin.
“You gonna have that under control in time for our next dinner?” You say.
Clark perks up at you words, as though he assumed the reason for his accidental flight might’ve scared you off. Like being excited could ever be bad.
“Yes.” He nods seriously. "Absolutely."
"Then," you say lightly, as though your heart isn’t pumping molten lava right now. You give a little shrug, aiming for nonchalant and fooling no-one. "It's a date."
Clark nods again, straightening up. He folds his arms, his posture serious, but you can still see it in his face - the joy. The excitement.
"It's a date." He agrees - and it sounds like the promise of much, much more than that.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested <3 but no pressure @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes
⌞PAIRING⌝ steve harrington x socially awkward! weird! fem! reader
⌞SUMMARY⌝ in which steve suggests changing up your study methods to help you with your college finals.
⌞WARNINGS⌝ 18+ mdni fluff & smut, inexperienced reader, steve being annoying as hell, fingering, oral (f! receiving), soft dom! steve, sub! reader, breast play (big or small, this man loves boobs)
⌞WORD COUNT⌝ 4.2k
⌞A/N⌝ first time writing for steve, lowkey nervous lmfao. plus literally had to pull out my chem notes from last semester when i was taking chem for my nursing pre reqs.
'SOCIAL INSTINCTS' MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Jolting from your seated place on the quilted mattress, you snap your head to the window. Your shoulders relax when you’re able to confirm that the source of the sound hadn’t come from an animal nor an intruder.
Instead, it comes from none other than your idiotic boyfriend with his stupid full head of luscious brunette locks.
Steve flashes a boyish grin at you, fist rapping against the window once again. His voice is muffled through the glass, “Babyyy, lemme in."
You roll your eyes, tossing the handful of flash cards aside and push yourself off the mattress. Unlocking the latch, you slide the window open and interrogate him immediately, “And why exactly did you think this was a better idea than using the front door like a normal person?”
“Because where’s the fun in that?” Steve throws one leg over before the other, climbing inside your bedroom before he straightens, dusting off his jeans. “Plus, was just feeling nostalgic about old days I guess.”
You laugh despite yourself, clearing your throat quickly when you almost choke on your saliva somehow. The universe absolutely hates you with its every fiber it seems.
Distracting yourself with shutting the window closed, Steve trails around slowly, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. He looks over the cascades of browns and purples, floral details, and the collection of posters plastered on the walls and trinkets you lay out across your bookshelves.
Eyeing the monchhichi resting against the colorful tiffany lamp on your dresser, he strides on over. Your body temperature rises in embarrassment. "Hey, wait-"
“Now when did you get this little guy?” Steve lets out a low whistle, picking up the small plush. “He wasn't here the other day when I stopped by.”
Fidgeting with your fingers, you mumble, "Robin. She bought it for me the other day at the arcade."
Steve hums in amusement, the corners of his lip quirking up. Robin Buckley had her own personal addiction to unnecessary trinkets just as you did, that he knew for sure.
Noting your embarrassment, he turns to face you, doe eyed plush in hand with it's red bib, and jiggles it, making it's little arms wave. "I love you!" He adjusts his voice to a shrill pitch and puckers his lips to make exaggerated kissy noises.
"Ew, Steven. Stop it." You scrunch your nose, mortified.
"Oh god, not the full name card." A series of laughs escape him that trigger you to let out a huff, plucking the plush from his hand despite his sudden cry of protest.
Gently, you place the fluffy monkey back to it's rightful spot. "Now leave him alone before you get him dirty with your greasy bopper fingers."
He gasps in mock offense, hand to his heart. "Ouch."
Before you can shoot another smartass comment back at him, he drops his weight on your frilly bed, stretching out his long legs. "Sooo, what were you up to before my presence came and bothered you?"
You nod to the stack of flashcards he's now reaching for. "Oh, um, that chem exam I told you about? It's on Friday."
"You say that like you're not sure." He snorts, skimming through the flashcards scrawled with your handwriting.
You shake you head in annoyance, seating yourself next to him on your bed. To be honest, you weren't in the best mood for his teasing even though you know he means well. The past couple days, you haven't been able to think of anything else but the exam that was looming over your head. Every time you've attempted to take a moment of relaxation for yourself, worries of failure plagued your mind instead.
Steve's eyes soften at your demeanor. "Hey, what's wrong?"
Guilt stabs at your heart due to the gentle expression on his face. You know you haven’t been your usual self and have been incredibly cranky. He didn’t deserve to deal with your foul mood when all he wanted was to come visit you.
You hesitate, suddenly very interested in looking at your lap. The silence stretches as he waits for your answer, making your stomach knot. "I just-" You start, then stop. Exasperated, you give a shrug as you look at the flashcards in his hands that almost seem as if they were giving you a death glare. "I don't know, it's probably not worth talking about."
He lifts a brow, taking your hand in his free one, thumb rubbing gentle circles, "Try me."
After a moment, you sigh and give in. "Every time I think I'm understanding the material, I suddenly just don't anymore and my brain...shuts off. I always feel like I'm so prepared, but watch, the moment I sit down in that room I'm going to somehow mess up and forget all the answers. I feel so stupid sometimes-"
"Hey." He interrupts, his voice grounding you. "You're not stupid, like, at all, baby."
You half laugh, having half the energy to somewhat tease. "That's easy for you to say Mr. 'I, Steve Harrington have the ball.' "
"Okay, rude." He scoffs, mouth twitching at your reference to his college essay from three years ago. Steve sits up, shifting closer, his knee bumping lightly against yours. "But seriously, you're the smartest person I know and I'm not just saying that. You just get in your head."
"My head is kind of a nightmare."
"Well," Steve says, tone brightening. "Lucky for you beautiful, I can handle that and a little bit of chemistry."
You blink. Once. Twice. "...You can?"
"Absolutely not, buttt I can help you study."
The words hang there momentarily before you're deadpanning him. "Really? You failed your high school chemistry class, how're are you going to help with a college one if anything?"
"WOAH," Steve gasps, offended by the obvious truth you laid out for him. "First of all, I barely failed."
"With a C minus that you begged your teacher to curve."
"So? A pass is a pass." He retorted.
You sigh, "Look, Steve, I appreciate it, but I don't know if-"
"Ah-ah. None of that missy. " He's wagging his finger, already flipping through the flashcards again. "You don't need someone who's a genius or whatever. Well, actually, Dustin wouldn't agree but never mind that. What you really need is someone to keep you from burning yourself out. Which I am very capable of."
You open you mouth to argue, then close it. I mean, it wasn't like he was wrong. Him simply helping you by memorizing your flashcards was enough, motivating even when you had someone you loved to not let you face these challenges alone.
"...Fine," You grumble. "But don't make it weird."
He ignores you, smile widening playfully. "Alright! I quiz, and you'll just answer."
You nod, eyes glued to the first card in his hand like it were about explode any second now to turn you and Steve into piles of ash.
Steve presses a fist to his chest, clearly his throat dramatically. "Question one," He furrows his brows in concentration. "Define...uhhhh...oxidation-reduction reactions?"
Oh no. You know this, swear you do. Yet, somehow every single piece of information you've ever known as somehow left your mind as if there were a secret exit door you didn't know about.
You swallow, "It's...when...okay-"
"Take your time." Steve says patiently.
Halfway through, you give up knowing only word vomit would be an answer. You groan, dropping your face in your hands hopelessly. "See! This is what I meant!"
"Hey, hey, it's okay. That was only one question so far! Don't doubt yourself so quick." He reassures, lips tugging into a frown.
You shake your head, too far deep into your self criticism. "Well, I've been at this for hours with literally no progress."
Steve ponders for a couple seconds until it seems like a light bulb goes off in his head. "Fine, then. I have the perfect solution you might be up for."
That seems to pique your interest. You peek at him through your fingers, "...What is it?"
He leans forward, brown eyes sparkling with mischief, "We'll just make it more fun. Clearly, you need a new method of studying, so, let's switch things up a bit."
You narrow your eyes. "Fun, how?" Your boyfriend seemed to have a unique idea of what fun was, you'd been used to his nonsense for a while now.
He taps the flashcards against his palm, "If you get a question right," He then tugs at the collar of his jacket. "Then I'll remove a piece of clothing for each you get right."
You swear your brain short circuits at that very moment, hands dropping from your face. "Steve."
"Anddd," He ignores you, seemingly far too pleased with himself. "If you get one wrong...then you have to do the same."
You stare at him dumbfounded, heat crawling up your neck and settling deep in your stomach. "Oh." Your voice comes out weak. The logical part of your is telling you to focus, study the proper way, to be responsible. Yet, the way his eyes scan you whole makes any coherent thought fade away.
"Oh." He confirms with a smug expression.
A beat passes before you nod at the cards still clutched in his hands. "Fine, I guess."
"That's my girl." He grins and shuffles the deck again. "Right, so, question two. Define electronegativity."
His eyes flick up to you, waiting for your answer. Your mind thinks it over, as if you're mentally flipping through pages of your notes searching for the answer. Finally, you think you've got it. "It's... how much an atom can attract electrons in bonds?"
"Yeah, see! You're a natural, babe." He praises.
You barely have time to feel proud of yourself before he's shrugging his jacket off and throwing it at the floor casually.
"Oh god..." You mumble, diverting your attention. He hasn't even taken his shirt off and you already feel as if there was too much exposure.
He ignores you, ready to move on, "Next question, explain...er- Le Chatelier's principle...? Dunno if I said it right."
Oh. You looked into this an hour ago, you should at least have an idea, right? Inhaling sharply, fingers curling into the quilt, you answer, "Okay- um... something like when the system reacts to change by moving a different way to be against it?"
Steve reads over the card one more time before he's practically beaming at you, utterly impressed. "Holyyy shit."
"What?"
"You got it right! Why are you even panicking? It seems to me like you do know this stuff."
"I told you. I just blank and forget literally everything."
"Maybe because you're overworking yourself? Have you tried taking a break yet instead of reading all of this for hours straight?"
"I don't have time for breaks. I need to be ready knowing this stuff before Friday."
"Babe, honestly-"
"Let just continue..."
He almost seems like he's going to argue, but instead just shrugs. "I mean, okay, I guess." Steve is already tugging at the collar of his shirt. "Anyways, rules are rules."
He pulls his shirt over his head in one swift motion, tossing it behind him, revealing his bare chest and stomach. You can't help your breath hitching at the sight of the dark patches of hair on his chest, along with his happy trail peeking from his jeans to his bellybutton. Now, he's just sitting on your bed in only his jeans, hair slightly messed up, and his biceps annoyingly visible.
He catches you looking, pupils dilating as the corner of his mouth curves upward. "Focus, you're supposed to be studying chemistry, not staring at me."
You roll your eyes, but laugh softly under your breath. What a cornball. "This was literally your idea. Sorry, if I'm not the most focused when you're shirtless."
"Yeah, yeah." Steve flips to another card, squinting as he resumes reading. "What’s the chemical formula for…table salt? Jeez, this is what you’re learning?”
You ignore his comment, the answer immediately popping into your head with no problem, “Sodium and chloride.”
He nods, letting out a breathless laugh, “God, I love you. You're so smart, baby.”
Steve’s already reaching down to unbutton his jeans deliberately, pushing them down just enough to kick them off, leaving him in only his grey boxers.
You freeze at the sight of the print of his boxers. Steve had always been- well, blessed down there. That you knew for sure along with the fact it wasn’t like you hadn’t seen it before. Still, over the past couple months of dating Steve Harrington, you were still slowly adjusting to such intimate details of both of yours sex life, especially when Steve carried far more experience.
Expecting him to tease you, instead he asks tenderly, “Too much? We can stop if you want, baby.”
Steve had always made sure to not overwhelm you despite seeing each other's bodies numerous times. He'd been considerate of your virginity and lack of experience when you first met, sweet and reassuring. You remember how he'd taken things slow and at your own pace, how gentle he'd been. Still, even then you get flustered at times.
You shake your head far too quick, blurting. “No! I mean- no, it’s fine. Just- keep going. Please?”
He just smiles, pinching your cheek affectionately before nodding, “Yeah, okay. Just checkin’ ”
The next question is asked and horribly answered, it was only a matter of time before your winning streak ended you supposed. Your fingers hover at the hem of your swear, the air in the room feeling too warm and suffocating all of a sudden. Slowly, you tug it upward and fold it, placing it besides you. On instinct, you cross you arms over your chest sheepishly.
Steve's eyes flick up and down, staring without any shame. "You're enjoying this way too much." You point out.
"Maybe," He admits. "But also because you're at least having some fun now." You couldn't deny it, he was unfortunately correct. For once you weren't blindly rereading the same material for hours straight. At least Steve was trying to make a game out of it, despite his ridiculous ways to go about it.
Steve flips to the next card. "Explain the concept of Gibbs free energy. Okay, well, I definitely don't know what that is, but I bet you do."
Oh shit.
"It's...negative?" You cringe. Wrong, definitely wrong. Did you mix up that answer with another one? It'd been hours of studying that you wouldn't be surprised if you were actually starting to mix up the material.
"Nope. It's okay though, you can just, like, review that one later." Steve reassures, flinging the card away.
He doesn't have to tell you what to do next as you're already reaching behind the clasp of your bra. Before you can unhook it, his hands are already moving.
"Steve-" You start, confused, but you voice catches when his fingers brush against your skin, warm and careful as they caress the skin of your back.
"I've got you," He murmurs, already popping the band open, a shaky sigh leaving you. "Just breathe." Steve eases the straps of your lacy lavender bra down your shoulders, movements slow before it's discarded.
The air hits your bare chest, nipples hardening as the soft swell of your breasts sit for him to see. His hazel eyes linger, appreciatively, tracing the lines of your collarbone, your shoulders, your waist, and the way you chest seems to rise and fall faster now, sensing your nerves.
"Jesus," He says mostly to himself. "You're killin' me."
Your skin is buzzing, mouth parched as you search for a response, but nothing. Instead, you nod at him to continue.
“Right, anyways. What’s the difference between ionic and covalent bonds?”
You open your mouth to answer, but close it. You’re blanking, fuck, you’re blanking.
“Um- god…” Your tongue feels heavy like it’s about to fall out your mouth.
“Hey, relax, you got this-”
You snap then, all negative thoughts rushing back into your brain. If you felt like you could actually accomplish anything a minute ago, it was long gone now. “No, you don't get it, Steve. ”
"Don't get what?"
"That I don't 'got' this!" You exclaim, mind spiraling. "I can't even answer the easiest the questions, what makes you think I'm going to be able to do it when I'm actually taking the test?"
He was bewildered, eyes widening. “Baby, what? You were literally just killing it right now. So what if you get a couple wrong? That doesn't mean you're gonna automatically fail or somethin'.”
"It does when it becomes a pattern every single time!"
His brows furrow in deep concern, "Stop that, I don't like when you're so hard on yourself."
You feel a headache starting to form, "It's hard not too when I-"
"Alright, you're done."
"Wha-"
A gasp leaves your lips at the feeling of his hand reaching over to pinch your nipple in between his thumb and forefinger. His tongue slips out to trace over his lips, a rumble of satisfaction leaving his chest.
He breathes, “Change of rules, yeah?” You notice he's already throwing the cards away, no longer a priority.
“H-huh?” You bat your lashes at him in confusion.
Steve only leans close, his lips barely brushing your own, breath fanning against your lips. “How about this: I fuck you real good instead. Sound like a plan?”
Oh, fuck.
Instantly, your thighs rub together, heat pooling in your lower stomach. Shakily exhaling, you nod. There was absolute no better motivation right now besides this.
“Good girl,” His lips then mold with yours, one hand dipping underneath the waist band of your pants, fingers gliding against your clothed wet slit. “Well, would you look at that… Already so wet f’me.”
Before you can even catch your breath, his palm is gently pushing you back against the mattress, landing against the pillows, hair a halo around your head.
His fingers swiftly fumble with the button of your pants and sliding the zipper down before slipping them and your panties off with casual ease. Your brain can't process fast enough when his knee nudges your legs to spread open, his middle and ring finger pressing against your soaked entrance teasingly in circles.
"Don't think right now, yeah? Been doin' too much of that," He hums, sliding his fingers into your cunt. "Don't let that pretty head of yours stress you, just focus on how good it feels."
"Mmf- Steve-"
His fingers pumped deeply, your wet slick already dripping down his hand messily. The tent in his boxers grew, already so fucking hard that he felt the urge to shove himself into you and fuck you into the mattress, but no, he would be patient, make this about you.
Steve pulls his fingers out before pushing them back in repeatedly, the obscene sounds of wet squelching being the only sound in the room other than your soft moans and his filthy mouth.
The sounds made you want the earth to open up and swallow you whole, squirming underneath him until he shifted his weight to pin you firmly. "No, no, don't move, 'kay? Gotta let me stretch ya open, honey."
The feeling of the pad of his thumb pressing against your clit, rubbing deep circles, makes you shiver as if electricity had ran through your entire body.
A ragged whine leaves you, "Fuckkk- Stevie- mmf, feels s'good..."
"I know, I know, baby, bet it does." He coos, crooking his large fingers just right to hit that perfect spot deep inside that sometimes you still have trouble reach with your own hand alone.
Your hand then shots out desperately, clutching his wrist tightly as you grind up against his fingers, "Ah! Please, please, please, r-right there, right there, ri-"
A chuckle leaves him, speeding up the movement of his digits, “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”
You didn't have the energy to feel self-conscious of your own noises, all you knew you needed was for Steve to make you feel as if you were the only person in the world.
Fingers rubbing against your sweet spot, he leans down, tongue tracing your right nipple ever so gently before pulling it into his mouth, suckling softly. His free hand trails to your left mound, squeezing it gently before rolling the hard nipple between his index and thumb.
“Fuckin’ love these pretty tits,” He groans, teeth grazing teasingly.
You begin to feel the familiar hot feeling bubbling up in your lower stomach, your cunt clenching tightly around his fingers. “Ohhh, Steve- s’close, s’close-”
The feeling pauses, leaving you dumbfounded. The taste of relief had been on the tip of your tongue, until it wasn’t.
Eyes welling with tears, you meet Steve’s shit-eating grin as he removes his fingers, no longer giving attention to your tits. “N-no…why’d you- why‘d you stop?”
He gives you a sympathetic pout, tapping his fingers soaked with your arousal against your bottom lip, “Aw, ‘m sorry baby. Just needed my girl to know how good she tastes before I make her cum on my face. Now open.”
Without hesitation, you part your lips, allowing him to press his fingers against your tongue. Your lips wrap around them, tastebuds meeting the taste of your own wetness as you clean them off.
When satisfied, he pulls them out, pressing a sweet kiss on your swollen lips in apology, “Don’t worry, g’nna make you cum for real now, sweetheart.”
Sloppy wet kisses start from your jawline to your neck where he stays for a moment to suckle the sensitive skin to leave purplish marks. He admires his work for a second before he continues to trail his kisses down to your navel, and eventually, your dripping cunt.
His eyes are dark, full of hunger, and he doesn’t hesitate, placing his lips on your cunt, tongue pressing into you. Steve moans loudly at just the taste of you, enveloping your puffy clit, suckling it a couple times.
His hands grip your trembling thighs, forcing them to stay open for him as he devours you whole.
He was disgustingly filthy, leaning slightly back to gather up saliva before spitting directly on your clit, tongue pressing against it in wet, messy, continuous circles.
Lapping at the mixture of his saliva and the liquids leaking from your cunt, he groans, shaking his head. You cry at the feeling his fingers intruding once again, becoming overwhelmed by the sensation of his tongue on your clit and his fingers drilling inside you at the same time.
Steve’s fingers spread into a v, scissoring and stretching out your slick walls. The pads of his fingers repeatedly hit your sweet spot as he sucks on your clit, causing you to roll your eyes back in pleasure.
He groans against you, pressing the palm of his free hand against your tummy to keep you still despite your attempts to grind up into his face. “Mmf, that's it honey, doin’ so perfect for me.”
The familiar pressure he had denied you minutes earlier had begun to build up again, your cunt rapidly tightening around his fingers. “Oh- fuckkk!”
“Yeah, you there baby? Gonna cum?” He panted. “Go ahead and touch your tits f’me.”
Immediately obeying him, you immediately reach up to pinch and twist your own peaked nipples, nails grazing against them.
A sob racks through your chest, thighs tightening around his head and drawing out a guttural whine from him.
You can barely think past the flood of sensation that courses brought your body, your back arching off the bed as you come undone, whimpering.
“Fuck, fuck, let it out baby, let it out, s’okay,” Steve doesn’t stop though, swallowing your essence and his tongue greedily lapping to clean up the mess. His fingers continues to curl knuckle deep, riding you through your orgasm. Clearly, he doesn’t care if his jaw aches after this. If anything, he couldn’t get enough of you and your own pleasure.
Your pleasure was his own.
You sag against the mattress after a moment, catching your breath after your intense orgasm. A quiet mewl leaves your lips, lashes fluttering, mind like mush. Steve slows down his licks by then, pressing sweet gentle presses of his lips to soothe your sensitive pussy.
Finally, he eased back, out of breath. His hair was tousled in different directions, lips swollen, his chin and neck covered in your arousal.
Your mind catches up, processing what the hell just happened. Shame immediately floods through your body. Steve just smirks, crawling up on top of you to kiss you and shoving his tongue into your mouth, letting you get another taste of yourself.
“See? Wasn’t that hard to take a break.” You feel the hard tent of his boxers grind against you, making you curl your hips upwards in response, like a bitch in heat. You knew he was right, knew you had been overworking yourself. You wanted more, no, needed more. Needed to think of anything else but those stupid fucking chemistry questions.
“N-need your cock real bad, Steve” Your bottom lip trembles.
He just simply boops your nose affectionately, already pulling down his boxers to release his thick and heavy cock. “Oh don’t worry. ‘M not done with you yet.”
⋆.𐙚 ̊ cw — alcohol, weed, reader is a virgin and very inexperienced, reader has also never had a first kiss, sort of dry humping
⋆.𐙚 ̊ summary — unwinding with your best friend turns into your typical gossip about your love lives. except this time, you’re feeling bolder. and when a confession accidentally slips out of you, steve quickly takes the opportunity to act on his feelings.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ authors note — hi guys! welcome to my new blog! i love steve and eddie and i’m literally so excited to write for them. i also have a steve harrington fanfic on wattpad if anyone would like to check it out. i appreciate all comments and votes! you can read it here! also, please send in some requests! i am so excited!!!
⋆.𐙚 ̊ wc — 3.35k
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹ please do not copy, rewrite, or repost my works on any other platforms or pages.
nights like this with steve were your favorite. the ones where you’d sit in his backyard by the pool on warm summer nights, your glass half full with wine and the two of you passing a blunt back and forth from his stash. it was so relaxing after a long week.
you were best friends. the two of you talked about anything and everything on these nights and the topics only got more taboo the moment you ingested a little bit of alcohol. all thoughts of judgement were thrown out the window instantly.
the current topic was steve’s last hookup— heather james —the one he called you about right after because he just needed to get it off his chest that second. the entire phone call had you cracking up.
“nope. never,” he replied, chuckling to himself in response to your question. would you ever sleep with her again? he took another puff of the joint and handed it over to you in the sun chair beside his. “i mean, it was fine and all, but after everything i told you? i just can’t even imagine it.”
you let out a laugh as you grasped it from his fingers and took a long hit, adjusting your shirt so it landed on your upper thigh. you were in your bikini with one of steve’s shirts thrown on as a coverup. “what? you’re so dramatic, stevie,” you teased. “aren’t you the one who once said sex is sex?”
the boy smacked his lips and lifted the neck of his beer bottle to his lips, taking a swig from it. “yeah and i was also, like, what?— seventeen? things have changed. hooking up with her was a big mistake. i mean— i don’t even know anything about her!”
your eyes narrowed at him as you handed the thin roll back to him. “i think you’re just saying that,” you stated with a challenging tone. “i think you’ll have another girl who you know nothing about in your bed by the end of the week. it’s inevitable!”
he feigned hurt, placing a hand over his heart while the other brought the joint up to his lips. “i think you need to have a little more faith in me,” he stated, his eyes lingering on yours for a second longer than normally. “i’m tired of just sleeping with people. i’m ready to meet someone and fall in love and settle down already and—“
“have your six little nuggets. i know. i’ve heard about this a million times,” you finished for him, rolling your eyes like you were fed up. you weren’t. how could you be? it gave you the chance to envision yourself in that dream right by his side.
he glared at you— though there was no real malice behind it —and handed you the joint again as he shifted slightly so he could look at you easier. “okay, you tell me about your spectacular love life then since you seem to be tired of hearing about mine.”
you giggled to yourself and turned onto your side to face him. “i’m an open book. there’s nothing to tell,” your shoulders shrugged carelessly. “we already had this conversation last weekend.”
steve’s brows furrowed. “last weekend?” he asked, the gears physically turning in his head. “last weekend? as in the weekend i was absolutely trashed? you know i don’t remember any of that.”
you shrugged once more. “well. it’s not worth repeating. guess you probably should’ve listened the first time.”
his hand caught your wrist, pulling it across the gap between your chairs and closer to him. he snatched the joint from between your fingers but kept your hand on his side, his own playing with your rings. “don’t be like that,” he murmured, look over at you with eyes that were completely glazed over. “you know i like listening to you talk. whatever it is that you’re talking about.”
your heart began pounding in your ears. something about the mix of alcohol and weed was amplifying your feelings towards him like crazy. “i haven’t hooked up with anyone recently. or ever for that matter. remember?”
his eyes were locked onto your hand where his fingers were lightly tracing back and forth across your palm. he didn’t laugh at you or give you that weird look that everyone else does. he just nodded and placed the joint between his lips. “waiting ‘til marriage?”
a huff of laughter slipped past your lips. “no, we’ve talked about this a hundred times. just haven’t been with the right person yet.” you’d talked to one or two guys, but none of them were steve. not even close.
there was a beat of silence as he inhaled some of the smoke, keeping it between his fingers instead of passing it back over. “what about the last guy you kissed?”
a red flush splayed over your cheeks. “steve. are you serious?” you asked, hoping it would magically come to him so he didn’t have to verbalize it again. only it didn’t and he was still silently tracing shapes over your hand. “i’ve never had my first kiss,” you blurted out quickly. part of you hoped getting it out quicker would soften the blow on your ego. “are you gonna pass that or keep hogging it?”
a smirk tugged at his lips as he finally glanced up at you. “you’re done for the night,” he said firmly, a soft dominance and edge to his voice. “anymore and you’ll puke. weed and wine has never mixed well with you.”
“so you can remember that and not anything else i’ve ever told you?” you shot back, still no real bite to the words.
he couldn’t exactly tell you that he did remember. of course he did. he remembered every little thing about you. he couldn’t tell that he just liked hearing you say it— that you’ve never been with anyone else. it was like the sweetest music to his ears.
his bare shoulders shrugged as he shifted, his hips sliding further down the chair. the swim trunks he was in made a funny noise as he moved. “you’re tellin’ me there’s not a single guy out here that you haven’t thought about sleeping with? or even kissing?” he asked, his gaze scanning you face like he was looking for even the slightest falter. “that’s hard to believe
your brows furrowed like it was an insult. maybe that was your way or hiding your real answer from him. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
he gave you this knowing look. “oh c’mon, sweetheart. this whole town and there’s not a single guy? not even one?” he had this pretty, dazed look on his face with a soft strand of hair falling over his forehead that practically made you fold right then and there.
your eyes averted from his and looked down at your hand, the one he was now gently holding in his own like he was testing the waters. “there’s this one guy,” you began shyly.
steve perked up a bit at the mention. you couldn’t tell if he was more invested or annoyed by the potential of you finding someone you liked. “yeah? what about him?”
your shrugged sheepishly as your hand subconsciously held his a little tighter. “he’s sweet… and he’s fun. and he’s, like, the most gorgeous guy i’ve ever seen,” you said, looking up at the stars with this lovesick smile on your face.
he hated it. he hated seeing you cheese this hard over another man. though he didn’t want to hear anymore to protect his own heart, he kept going for your sake. “so, why not him? is he dating someone or something?”
you shook your head immediately. “mm-mm. jus’ don’t think he’d want someone like me,” you stated casually. “i think he deserves someone better— someone a lot prettier.”
steve wanted to punch whichever guy made you feel like that. “well, i think he doesn’t deserve you,” he snapped back, a little more passionately than he meant to. “you’re smart, occasionally funny, and you’re beautiful. he shouldn’t make you question your worth.”
a genuine laugh left your lips as you playfully slapped his chest for the middle part of his statement. the air between the two of you seemed to thicken and grow more tense as you thought of your next move. “i mean, sure… but i really like him.”
he was always starting to sound annoyed. “that right? and what makes this guy so special? ‘cause to me, he sounds like a total douche.”
you huffed out a soft breath and smiled to yourself at the thought. “well, i like the way he makes me feel. when he looks at me, i feel like the most special person in the world— even if that’s not what i am to him,” you explained, eyes scanning across the dark sky. “his smile is pretty, he understands me like no one else does… and he’s got this hair. it’s so big and soft.”
the realization hit him like a truck. his shoulders relaxed and his hand held onto yours. little tighter, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “hmph. i think i know a guy like that,” he whispered, staring up at the stars like you. “yeah, he’s a total idiot. a world-class moron.”
your heart began to race against your chest, pounding at your ribs uncomfortably. you finally built up enough courage to turn your head to look at him. “really? thought it was just me who thought that.” he was still watching the sky, his side profile looking as gorgeous as ever.
a quiet chuckle slipped from his lips. “heard he was, like, head over heels for this one girl,” he continued, feeding into it as his head turned. his gaze found your timid one again. “she’s smart, occasionally funny, and absolutely breathtaking.”
you couldn’t help but burst out into laughter. a grin spread across his face at the infectious sound. whether it was the alcohol, the weed, the mix of both, or the sweetness of the moment, you weren’t entirely sure. but you weren’t complaining by any means. “is that so?” you asked, cocking a teasing brow up at him. “i might know a girl like that too.”
he leaned in the slightest bit, that same soft smile displayed on his lips. “mhm. think you know her pretty well.”
the world around you two seemed to stop. it was like you were in your own little bubble. “well, i’ve been waiting for this idiot to take the hint. i always wanted my first kiss to be special. i wanted it to actually mean something,” you explained further, this hopeful glint in his eyes. “thought maybe i’d get to share that moment with him someday.”
something in his eye’s shifted. his expression softened and his big eyes scanned over your face for any sort of uncertainty. he didn’t find a single smidge. the hand that was holding yours tugged on it gently. “c’mere,” he whispered, extending his other arm, motioning for you to join him.
you nervously bit down on your bottom lip as you stood in the small gap between your chairs. his free hand grabbed around the back of your bare thigh and pulled your leg over him to rest on the outside of his quad so you were comfortably seated in his lap. you were just above eye-level with him.
both of your faces were flushed from the closeness of one another and the alcohol and weed. this position felt too natural with each other.
his hand gently untangled with yours and moved to cup your cheek, his big hand fitting engulfing the side of your face. the other came down to rest on your waist. the two of you were dangerously close already.
your head was starting to spin. “i don’t know what to do, stevie,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.
he nodded. “i know, honey. that’s okay. i’m right here to walk you through it,” he cooed softly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear before his hand retreated back to its original position. “we’ll take it slow, okay? it’s not about being perfect or doing it ‘right’, jus’ want you to be comfortable.”
the way he was looking at you was enough to make your knees buckle if you weren’t seated on top of his thighs. his eyes held a quiet hunger behind them. “okay,” you mumbled, eyes drifting down to his lips.
“hey, look at me,” he murmured with a quiet authority. “need you to relax. you lean in and i’ll meet you halfway. let me do the rest. don’t think too much about anything, i’ve got you.“
you nodded and took a deep breath, a shaky exale fanning over his lips. “what about my hands?” you asked nervously. him being so delicate with you was definitely help to calm some of your anxiety.
the hand on your waist gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “jus’ touch me. anywhere you want. whatever feels right to you,” he said, physically fighting the urge to kiss you in this moment.
hesitantly, you hands came up to rest on his bare chest, just barely under his shoulders. you could feel the firm muscle tense under your touch before it relaxed immediately after.
he could still see the nerves behind your big, glossy eyes. “we’ll go slow, i promise. let it build from there. we’ve got all night,” steve offered, a sweet smile on his lips to reaffirm his statement and he looked up at you. “jus’ trust me. i’m gonna take care of you.”
you nodded again and took one last deep breath. this was your best friend. you know him and felt safest with him. he always kept his word.
you let your eyes flutter shut and you leaned in slowly, just the slightest bit. there was a beat of silence where the world stilled before you felt the softest brush of his lips on yours. the hand on your cheek was gently guiding you close enough to him that he could press a long, tender kiss to your mouth. he placed gentle pecks to follow, his nose pressing against yours.
his lips were soft and plump and he tasted like the strawberry chapstick he always used. strawberries were your favorite fruit. you wondered if that was why he switched to that flavor from his usual cherry. the question alone was making your mind go haywire.
it felt so natural with him, like you’d been doing this for years instead of being taught a minute ago. he’d always had that charming way of making you feel comfortable in every situation.
once you started to feel a little more comfortable, your hands began to slowly roam across his shoulders and chest. you even allowed them to trail down over his stomach, your nails lightly scratching at the skin and light dusting of hair. it made him groan quietly as you tilted your head a little more and matched the gentle pressure of his kisses.
the hand on your cheek moved down to cradle your jaw instead, pulling away for just a second and tucking the loose strand of hair behind your ear again. “you doin’ okay, honey?”
a smile spread across your lips. “yeah, i’m okay,” you mumbled, your soft pants tickling his lips. “think i’m doing good?” you asked shyly, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth anxiously.
he thought that might’ve been the dumbest questions he’s ever heard. of course you were. he’d die very happily kissing you. it was like his own personal heaven. to make matters even better, he thought you looked stunningly gorgeous right now. your lips were pretty and pink— just like your cheeks —coated in a mix of your chapstick and his. “mhm. you’re doin’ perfect. wanna go a little further?”
you nodded eagerly like you were desperate and willing to take everything he was offering to give. you really, really were. he used the big hand on your jaw to slowly pull you back to him, his lips pressing against yours and his tongue prodding at the seam of your lips.
almost as if it was second nature, you opened up and let him in, gasping softly into his mouth as the wet muscle brushed against yours like he was cautiously testing your reaction.
once he was sure you weren’t overwhelmed, disgusted, or freaking out, he let his tongue swipe across yours with a little more pressure until the two were dancing around each other like you’d done it a thousand times before. his hand that was previously on your waist moved up into your hair, softly tugging at the roots to pull the prettiest, quiet whimper from you.
he swallowed it down hungrily, but that sound alone was enough to make his pants tighten a little bit. he had to pull away and stop kissing you for a second. just to look at you. just to feel how close the two of you actually were. “you lying to me?” he asked, slightly out of breath.
your brows furrowed as you looked at him quizzically. your slightly swollen lips pulled into a soft smile, one that made his heart stop. “what are you talking about?”
his half-lidded eyes were flickering between your mouth and your eyes. laughed quietly and nodded. he was completely drunk off of you. “is this really your first time?”
you laughed, a loud, genuine laugh as your head tipped back. your hands clutched his shoulders to steady yourself. he wished he could hear that sound over and over again. he leaned forward to press sweet kisses to the skin of your neck. “i promise, stevie.”
he hummed low in his chest in acknowledgement and kissed you again— much deeper and loving this time. a lot slower than previously. like he genuinely could not get enough of the way you tasted or the way your lips felt against his.
you let your body lean further into him as your arms wrapped loosely around his neck. your chest pressed flat against his front, his hands immediately slipping from your jaw and hair to wrap around your back, holding you impossibly closer.
as he tugged you flush against him, you let yourself sink fully into his lap, feeling a certain hardness below you that made you whine into the kiss. the pressure of you on top of him pulled a soft groan from steve. you eagerly swallowed down the sound and leaned a little further into him, practically trying to become one. the feeling of his mouth on yours was one you never wanted to part from.
your hips began to subconsciously roll into his in an effort to distract yourself from the uncomfortable pit in your stomach. you remember hearing your girls talk about doing stuff like this with their boyfriends all the time.
they were surely onto. his big hands slipped beneath your his shirt and found the plush globes of your ass, squeezing at the fat geny before moving up to rest on your hips. they followed your rhythm, ever-so-slightly aiding your movements.
you were in pure bliss. you couldn’t stop the soft moan that slipped past your lips. you have never in your life felt something as good as this. you would surely crave this feeling for every moment after this.
with one last peck to your lips, he pulled away for a second to breathe. “god, you’re so fuckin’ perfect. y’look so pretty,” he muttered quietly, looking at you like he was ready to devour you. his eyes dropped down to your body for the first time this whole night, staring at the way your frame was engulfed the big piece of fabric that belonged to him. “so perfect in my shirt.”
you smiled a big toothy grin, one that made your cheeks hurt, and surged forward to kiss him again. there wasn’t a single doubt in your mind that you could stay like this forever. that plan actually sounded pretty good right about now.
oh gosh i LOVED your recent work.. something about steve with a more timid, innocent girl is so special to me and he’s so sweet, he doesn’t want to mess anything up i was just thinking of her asking him how to give a hickey and of course she’s the test subject, but she wants to keep it hidden so the only place available is like the top swell of her breast and he’s just like 😵💫😵💫 but he’s still super sweet and actually explaining stuff, not making her feel belittled or silly, and he’s just like there’s no reason to be shy!!
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀𝑠how 𝑑on't 𝑡ell
✦ pairing : steve harrington x shy!f!reader
✦ synopsis : there's no evidence on steve's body that he's taken, and you're determined to change that.
✦ notes : +18. sexual content. minors don't interact. fluff. established relationship. same universe/continuation as this. got a bit carried away cause i love titplay whoops
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 thank you for reading .ᐟ
"i didn't do it right, did i?"
steve reacted instantly to your voice breaking through the hum of the engine, tilting his head just so towards the source. "what?"
"the hickey the other day. look," you clicked your tongue, a crease between your brows as you reached out for steve. the tips of your fingers grazed the faintest trace of pink on the skin of his neck. to say it looked like a blemish would be too generous. "i didn't even leave a mark. you can't tell."
"it's fine, baby," he tried to lighten up your mood with a little smile sent your way, his attention inevitably split between the road and you. he prayed that they would invent self-driving cars soon, so he could spend these little drives around town solely looking at you. "it's not like i can go around with hickeys anyways."
your shoulders slumped as you stared at the not-spot on his neck. you didn't want to sound petulant, but, fuck, you'd seen hickeys on steve before. back in high school, when he roamed the halls like he owned them— he kind of did— he used to sport a few of them, proudly peeking out of his polos. yes, you knew that the man driving you to his place was far from the boy you remembered, and he had a job to look presentable for now, but, still, something small and ugly settled on your chest.
"hey, hey," and just like that, a hand on your knee, a beautiful pair of brown eyes on you, breaking through the fog. "talk to me, baby. don't close up."
right. that ugly tendency of yours. steve adored your shyness, don’t get him wrong. he loved it like he loved everything that made you you. it was just… hard to read you sometimes. hard to give you what you needed. but he had tons of patience and willpower and love.
"i want to give you one," you finally dared to mutter. you were fiddling with your fingers, pinching and pulling almost as if to make them hurt. "one that lasts."
"right," he murmured, feeling his cheeks already catching color. "can i ask why?"
you’d rather crawl into the glovebox.
"i just want to, you know?," you began, words seemingly escaping you. the few of them that you managed to catch and put together did not make as much sense as you would like. you sighed, giving up. "just— i just want you to show me how. please."
steve hummed, fond and understanding. never pressuring you any further than you were willing to go.
"i'll teach you," he decided, tilting his head to smile at you. "it's easy, baby. you'll see."
"right now?" you murmured, hopeful, those big beautiful eyes making him swallow hard.
"’course, right now," he couldn’t help but agree. weak man.
it was hardly the time or place, having just picked you up from work. he’d planned to take you to his place, make you something nice for dinner, make out a little maybe. certainly not swerving down the familiar trail just before the turn of lovers’ lake. a quiet spot you’d made your own over time.
by the time he killed the engine, he spied you tugging off your sweater over your head out of the corner of his eye.
he turned off the headlights, and you reached up to toy with the top button on your blouse. you didn’t start undoing it until you were sure steve was looking at you properly, his attention zeroed in on the skin you were revealing.
"fuck me," he murmured, like it was his first time seeing them all over again.
see, steve never considered himself an anything-man. not a tits man, not an ass man. he loved women as a whole, and god, did he love you.
but your breasts.
he had never seen anything like them, and he never wanted to see anything like them again. he’d die happy if they were the last thing he saw, actually.
"here?" you pointed at the sweet swell of your chest, barely contained by that tight white bra you just knew he loved.
he had to swallow before he could speak again. "sure, yeah, there," he reached for you. "shit, just come here, babe."
you crawled over the console and plopped down on his lap with a giggle, instantly noticing the hard bulge under his jeans. your chest remained perfectly aligned with his wide eyes, and what did you expect him to do if not reach out to try and tug your bra down?
they'd almost spilled out when you smacked his hand away.
"teach me first, then we’ll see," you frowned, stern, at a petulant steve. you'd grown braver.
"okay, okay, geez," he muttered, allowing himself another lingering look before speaking again.
"see," his breath was oh-so warm on your skin when he leaned in, you couldn't help a shiver. "first, you kiss the skin, and around it. normal kisses."
he delivered a few pecks to the skin of your chest, descending to the swell of it, giving the lacey edge of your cup a little lick. you felt him hum before you heard it.
"then, you choose the place," his eyes flicked up at you, the tip of his finger grazing a spot just above the fabric that held your chest. "you said here, right baby?"
you felt a wave of heat reaching your cheeks, and a bundle of nerves grow in your stomach. but still, you nodded again.
and for steve to smile at you like that, you would've said yes to anything.
"it'll look so pretty on you, beautiful," he slurred, almost as if he was drunk. he nosed at your skin again, taking in the sweet smell of that vanilla soap you always showered with before licking at the skin again. "you just pucker up, here, and— suck."
he was gentle, like always, but it still pulled a whimper out of you. you cradled the back of his head, playing with his hair as he busied himself on your chest. when he was done, he was quick to move to your other breast, and if you'd let him, he would've left the whole expanse of your chest littered with marks.
by the time you managed to guide him off you, steve was flushed red, and three wet spots in the shape of his mouth decorated your cleavage.
"you're too beautiful," he mumbled to himself, reaching up to cup your breasts in his hands, admiring his work and making his own head spin as he brushed his thumbs over your skin. how many times had he fucked his hand with this in mind before you got together?
— your fake boyfriend breaks up with you for extremely stupid reasons, and you spend a few miserable days realizing you actually liked being his girl. turns out fake dating is very bad for your sanity but great for finally getting the boy who’s been in love with you the entire time.
🧷 13.1k — steve harrington x fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining but they share one brain cell, fake dating gone painfully real, steve “i’ll just suffer quietly” harrington, reader with delayed emotional processing, fake breakup → immediate overthinking → fix it with kissing, robin has been right since day one, hurt feelings but make it romantic, clingy steve supremacy, best friends to idiots to lovers, small town thinks they’re already married, a scene inspired by rachel and joey from friends
request — [ anonymous ] hiiiiiiiii! if you’re still doing requests, would you be interested in a man’s best friend-centric steve harrington fic? could be maybe based on when did you get hot, manchild, or my man on willpower ??? idk i have a soft spot for sabrina and steve hahaha. kind of down for whatever suits your fancy! your writing rocks :-)
author's note — god this baby is huge. i think this is one of my the fics. anyways, thank you so much for the request, i had the best time writing this because i, too, am deeply attached to both sabrina and steve, which is honestly a dangerous combination for everyone involved. definitely somewhat inspired by 'my man on willpower'. hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. enjoy <3
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gif by @keery-joe | divider by @/lavendergalactic
The first sign that your day was going to go downhill was when Steve Harrington came in before you and Robin, which was usually a reliable omen that something deeply embarrassing was about to happen to him.
You stood behind the counter at Family Video scanning returns. Robin was on the back counter, crouched on a stool and rearranging a tower of cassettes that did not need rearranging but were receiving her full commitment anyway.
Steve, meanwhile, was in the action aisle, moving tapes from one shelf to another. Every few seconds he would pause, squint at a title, then slide it over half an inch as if that would finally bring him peace. He had been like that all morning. Suspiciously productive.
You had already made a note to ask Robin if he was going through some kind of personal growth phase, because those usually ended badly for everyone around him.
The bell above the door chimed and a girl walked in, hovering just inside like she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to be there. She looked around the store. You straightened from the counter and gave her your best customer-service smile.
“Hey, can I help you with a few tapes?”
She shook her head quickly, hands clasped together. “No, I’m not here to get anything. I actually wanted to talk to Steve. Steve Harrington?”
Robin’s head popped up from behind the stack of cassettes. She squinted at the girl, then at you, then back at the girl with confusion, clearly not buying the idea that a girl was looking for Steve.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’re familiar.”
Then she turned toward the shelves and called out, “Dingus, you got a customer.”
There was a beat of silence, then Steve’s head appeared between two rows of VHS tapes. He blinked at the front counter, clearly not expecting an audience, then pushed himself upright and walked over with the cautious expression of a man approaching a trap.
You tilted your head toward the girl and stepped back slightly, joining Robin at the counter. Both of you leaned casually against it as you looked between the two.
The girl looked relieved and nervous at the same time. “Steve?”
Steve nodded once. “Yeah. Hi. That’s me.”
She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I’m from Karen Wheeler’s neighborhood. I was just wondering if you would be free for a shift tonight.”
Steve glanced at you and Robin, confused, then back at her. “For what?”
“For babysitting my little sister. Mrs. Wheeler told my mom that you take care of Mike sometimes, so. . .”
The silence that followed was so complete you could practically hear Robin’s brain short-circuiting beside you.
Steve stared at the girl like she had just informed him he was being drafted into a war. His eyebrows lifted slowly in disbelief. Meanwhile you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you were fairly certain you would leave a mark.
Steve turned his head toward you and Robin, eyes wide, silently asking if you were hearing this too. You and Robin, without missing a beat, immediately arranged your faces into identical masks of confusion and shook your heads as if this was brand new information.
Steve faced the girl again. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t babysit. I’m not a babysitter.”
“Oh. Oh, okay. I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just you’re always hanging around the kids, so. . . ”
Robin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “They’re his friends.”
You nodded gravely. “Yeah. He is friends with a lot of kids.”
The girl laughed nervously, giving Steve a look that hovered somewhere between suspicious and concerned. She nodded a few times, clearly unsure how to respond to that information, then murmured another apology before backing toward the door.
The bell chimed again as she left, and the moment it clicked shut behind her, the store fell into silence.
Steve stood there, still processing. You and Robin lasted exactly one second.
Then you both burst out laughing.
You had to grab the counter to stay upright as the laughter doubled over on itself. Robin clapped a hand over her mouth and wheezed, sliding halfway off the stool. Steve stared at you two, offended.
“Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the door. “Babysitting? Again? Why does everyone think I—”
“You literally drove them to school in your car,” Robin managed between gasps. “You packed them snacks. You have a designated seat for Dustin.”
“It’s called being a good friend,” Steve said defensively.
“You have a car seat indentation in your backseat,” you added, wiping at your eyes.
He pointed at you. “You are not helping.”
Robin leaned against you, still laughing. “I can’t believe someone actually came in to hire you for a shift. Steve Harrington, available weekends and holidays, comes with free hair tips.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”
You straightened, trying to compose yourself, though the grin refused to leave your face. “No, c'mon. Think about it. You could make extra money.”
“God knows you need it,” Robin said. “That’s how you get girls, you know.”
Steve groaned loudly enough that a customer browsing near the comedy section glanced over. He walked up to the counter and planted himself beside you, dragging a hand down his face again like maybe if he pressed hard enough he could erase the last five minutes of his life.
“Shut up,” he muttered.
Robin grinned, pleased with herself, and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder that was far more patronizing than comforting. “I’m just saying, dingus. You’ve got a niche. Lean into it.”
“I’m going to throw you out,” he said.
“You can’t,” she shot back. “We work here.”
Then she pushed away from the counter and wandered toward the back room, still laughing to herself under her breath.
That left you and Steve at the front counter. You picked up a stack of returned tapes and began scanning them in, sliding each one across the counter.
Steve leaned beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours as he crossed his arms and stared out at the empty aisles. Then, after a moment, he followed you as you moved around the counter to shelve a tape. And then again when you stepped toward the register. And again when you circled back to the returns bin.
“I just don’t understand,” he began, voice low and indignant. “How did I go from King Steve to some girl walking in asking if I’m free for a shift tonight. A shift?”
You nodded sympathetically, though the corners of your mouth kept twitching upward. “It is a big change.”
“I didn’t change,” he said immediately. “I did not change. I am still the same person. I just. . . happen to know some kids.”
“You drive them everywhere,” you said, moving a tape into its case and snapping it shut. “You helped Will with his project for three hours.”
“That was one time,” he insisted. “And he was struggling.”
You hummed thoughtfully, sliding another cassette into place. “Sounds like babysitting to me.”
He groaned again, louder this time, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Then he straightened and leaned closer. “I used to be cool,” he said. “I used to walk into a room and people would be like, oh wow, Steve Harrington. Now I walk into a room and people are like, hey, can you watch my kid for a few hours.”
You glanced at him, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked personally betrayed by the universe.
It was difficult to take him seriously when he was pouting in front of a shelf labeled Family Favorites, but you softened anyway, because beneath the theatrics there was always something earnest about Steve when he got like this.
“You’re still cool, Steve,” you said, nudging a tape flush with the row before stepping back toward the counter. “You’re extremely cool.”
He made a face that said he appreciated the effort but did not believe a word of it.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, following you as you moved. “You know yesterday I asked Henderson if he wanted to hang out, and he said he had a meeting with Eddie. This is how it starts, I’m telling you. First they stop needing rides, then they stop calling, then suddenly everyone forgets me and I end up dying alone.”
You leaned against the counter and folded your arms. “Well, that is a bleak projection for your future.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m aging out. I can feel it. I peaked in high school and now I’m. . . I don’t know. A former peak?”
You tilted your head. “I’ll tell you what, Steve. Get a girlfriend. That’s always a popularity boost.”
He blinked at you, clearly not expecting that response. “I can’t just date a girl to get popular,” he said, frowning. “That’s disrespectful to her. And also to me.”
You shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Well, looks like you are in fact going to die alone then.”
He let out an offended noise and turned away from you, pacing a few steps down the aisle. You reached for your water bottle on the counter and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip as he continued muttering to himself.
Then he stopped abruptly.
You glanced up just in time to see him staring at a display near the register, eyes narrowing in thought. He reached out and picked up a copy of Her Cardboard Lover from the return pile, turning it over in his hands. His expression lit up and you immediately felt a sense of dread as you realised he had just had an idea.
“Oh no,” you said, watching him. “That’s never good.”
He turned toward you, still holding the tape, clearly pleased with himself. “I just had an idea.”
You raised your bottle again and took another sip, bracing yourself. “That sentence has never once led to anything positive.”
He stepped closer to the counter, enthusiasm building. “Okay, hear me out. You said I should get a girlfriend, right?”
You nodded cautiously, swallowing your water. “Hypothetically.”
“So,” he continued, gesturing between the two of you with the tape, “you could be my pretend girlfriend.”
You choked.
The water went everywhere. It sprayed forward in a completely uncontrolled burst and hit him square in the chest before you could even process what had just come out of his mouth. You doubled over coughing, clutching the counter for support while trying not to inhale the rest of it.
Steve recoiled, looking down at his now very damp shirt with startled offense. “Okay,” he said, blinking at you. “I see you’re shocked.”
You coughed again, wiping at your mouth and trying to catch your breath. “You—” you started, then had to stop because you were still half choking. “You cannot just— say things like that while I’m drinking water.”
He held his hands up defensively, though he was trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you were going to—”
“You just proposed a fake relationship out of nowhere,” you said, straightening and grabbing a napkin to dab at the front of his shirt. “That’s not a casual suggestion, Steven.”
He watched you fuss for a second, then shrugged. “It makes sense. You literally just said I should get a girlfriend. This solves the problem. You help me look less like the town babysitter, I help you with. . . whatever you need help with. It’s mutually beneficial.”
You stared at him, napkin still in hand, trying to decide if he was serious. He looked entirely earnest. Hopeful, even. Like he genuinely thought this was a reasonable plan and not the beginning of a very bad plan.
“You are unbelievable,” you said, though there was a reluctant laugh tugging at your voice.
He smiled a little, encouraged. “Come on. It’s not that crazy.”
You stared at him for another second, still holding the napkin against his shirt. “You’re right,” you said. “It’s not that crazy.”
His face lit up immediately, hope flaring so fast it was almost impressive.
“It’s stupid,” you finished. “Completely dumb. I can’t date you.”
His expression fell with equal speed. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the immediate wounded offense. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why not?” he pressed. “Are you dating someone?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“It’ll be weird,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “And totally wrong. And honestly I’m still not seeing how this is benefiting me.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Uh. By. . . by. . . by—”
He trailed off, clearly searching for a reason and coming up completely blank. You watched him flounder for a moment, then slowly took a breath and leaned back against the counter, thinking maybe that was it. Maybe he would realize it was ridiculous and drop it.
You exhaled, relieved.
Then he straightened abruptly, eyes widening like a light bulb had gone off over his head.
“Your mom,” he said.
You turned immediately toward the front door. “Where?”
“No, not that,” he said quickly. “I meant your mom. You told me she’s always pestering you to get a boyfriend. And I’m in her good books.”
You looked back at him, suspicious. “How do you know you're in her good books?”
He gave you a look that was almost smug. “Sweetheart, she sent me home with leftovers last time I dropped you off and told me to drive safe and call if I needed anything. She literally said that I was the best thing you'd brought to their life.”
You blinked. “She did?”
“That’s not the point,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “The point is, this is a win-win situation. Your mom gets off your back. People stop trying to hire me for babysitting shifts. Everyone benefits.”
You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The logic was annoyingly sound. Still, you frowned. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, won’t people think it’s weird?”
He scoffed immediately. “Oh, please. We’re always together. You know the first thing Max asked me when she met you?”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”
He leaned in. “She asked how I got someone like you.”
Your head snapped toward him, surprised. “She did?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Looked at me like I’d pulled off some kind of miracle.”
You stared at him for a second, then folded your arms, trying very hard not to look pleased. “I always knew Max was my favorite.”
He grinned a little, encouraged by the shift in your expression. “See? People already assume we’re together. We just. . . don’t correct them.”
You looked down at the counter, tapping your fingers against the surface as you thought. It was ridiculous. It was definitely ridiculous. But it was also. . . convenient. And maybe a little tempting.
He watched you like he didn’t want to push too hard and scare you off. For once, Steve Harrington was being patient. That alone should have been a red flag.
“You’re really serious about this,” you said.
He nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”
You sighed, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then you looked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “This is a terrible idea,” you said.
He brightened immediately. “So that’s a yes?”
You pointed at him with the hand still holding the napkin. “This is temporary. Strictly pretend. And if this gets weird, we end it immediately.”
He nodded quickly. “Deal.”
You drew in a breath. “We should probably set some ground rules. . . before this gets weird.”
He straightened, suddenly attentive in a way that suggested he was taking this far more seriously than he had any right to. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Ground rules. Good. Love ground rules.”
You leaned your hip against the counter and folded your arms, already slipping into a very official tone. “Rule number one. This is only for appearances. Public settings, social situations, my mom, your reputation. That’s it. No unnecessary PDA when we’re alone.”
He nodded immediately. “Right. Only when people are watching.”
“Exactly. Rule number two. No using this as an excuse to mess with each other. No embarrassing stories and no making up fake details about my life for fun.”
He held up his hands. “I would never.”
You gave him a look.
“Okay,” he amended. “I would try very hard never.”
“Rule number three,” you continued, ignoring that. “If either of us wants out, we say so. No dragging this on for the sake of appearances.”
“Agreed,” he said.
“Rule number four,” you added, thinking it through. “No over-the-top physical stuff. Hand-holding is fine. Maybe the occasional arm around the shoulder. Nothing that’s going to make this weird.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded again. “Yeah. Okay. Is kissing on the table?”
You gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, no kissing.”
“Rule number five,” you said, tapping the counter. “We keep this between us for now. We tell Robin, obviously, because she’ll figure it out in five seconds anyway. But no big announcements.”
He nodded. “Right. Slow rollout.”
You took a small breath. “And finally,” you said, “we don’t let this mess up our actual friendship.”
He stilled a little at that, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
From the back room, you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.
Steve heard them too. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to you. “One more rule,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you were really listening. “No falling in love.”
You blinked once and then laughed and waved a hand like he’d said something completely absurd. “Trust me,” you said. “That won’t be a problem.”
He nodded, but there was a brief, unreadable look on his face before it smoothed over.
A second later, Robin rounded the corner from the back, arms full of tapes and eyes already narrowed in suspicion. She took one look at the two of you standing a little too close at the counter and stopped mid-step.
“Okay,” she said. “What did I miss?”
Four days later, everything had spiraled in ways you absolutely had not prepared for.
The news that you and Steve were dating had spread through Hawkins like wildfire. You had expected questions. Stares. Instead, people had accepted it with such normalcy that it almost felt insulting.
On your second day walking into Family Video together with his arm slung around your shoulders, you had overheard a girl near the new releases whispering to her boyfriend, “Oh my God, they’re finally official,” only for the boyfriend to shrug and say, “Haven’t they been dating since high school?”
You had nearly dropped the tapes you were holding.
Steve had just stared into the middle distance like he was trying to decide if that was flattering or deeply confusing.
The moms, however, reacted exactly as expected. They stopped asking Steve to babysit. Completely. Instead, they asked about you. Every conversation he had with a suburban mother now began and ended with questions about how you were doing, whether you liked pasta salad, and if you preferred carnations or roses. One of them had even sent him home with a container of cookies “for you both,” which he had delivered to you.
The party knew, of course. You had told them immediately, mostly because Robin insisted that if they found out any other way she would personally sabotage the entire operation. Their reactions had been. . . mixed.
Max had looked between you and Steve, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, that tracks. I would not, for a second, believe it was real.”
Dustin had demanded to know why you had not informed him sooner, because he felt like this was information he deserved as someone who had been “emotionally invested” in Steve’s life for years.
Mike and Will had exchanged one long, knowing look that made you deeply uncomfortable.
Lucas had just smirked. Jane had nodded once, like she had already knew what it would end in.
Nancy had been suspiciously quiet, which somehow felt more alarming than any actual reaction and Jonathan had raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
Eddie had laughed for a full thirty seconds straight and then clapped Steve on the back like he had just accomplished something monumental.
Robin, of course, had been the only one to say what needed to be said.
“This is a terrible idea,” she told you both flatly. “This is going to bite you in the ass. I am going to be there when it does. I will not say I told you so, because I'm going to be wearing a shirt that says that.”
You had both ignored her.
That, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.
Because right now, four days into this arrangement, you were sitting at your family’s dining table with Steve beside you, and the situation had escalated into a level of awkward that even you had not anticipated.
Your mother was thrilled. She had made enough food to feed an entire neighborhood and kept smiling at Steve like he had delivered wonderful news to the household. Every few minutes she asked him if he wanted more pasta, more bread, more salad, more of literally anything.
Your father, on the other hand, was silent, which was actually his worst reaction.
He met Steve’s eyes from across the table and slowly stabbed his pasta with his fork.
Steve visibly gulped.
You saw it out of the corner of your eye. He shot you a quick look. You gave him a small, encouraging smile that you hoped looked reassuring and not at all like someone who was also internally panicking.
Your mother set down another dish with a bright expression. “Steve, sweetheart, do you want more garlic bread?”
“I’m good,” he said quickly. “Thank you. This is great. Really great.”
Your father watched him take a bite of pasta.
You shifted slightly in your seat and, without thinking too hard about it, let your knee bump lightly against Steve’s under the table. He glanced at you again, and this time his expression softened just a little.
“So,” your mother said cheerfully, settling into her seat. “How long has this been going on?”
Steve did not even hesitate. “About two months,” he said at the exact same time you said, “Last week.”
Your mother’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Your father slowly looked up from his plate.
Steve froze, mid-chew, eyes widening as he realized what had just happened.
You felt your stomach drop straight to the floor, take a brief walk, and then sit down somewhere near the radiator to rethink your life choices.
You both turned to look at each other at the same time.
“Two months,” Steve repeated quickly. “I mean—no. Not two months. I meant. . . we started, uh, hanging out more two months ago. But dating like she said. Last week. Technically. But I’ve—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and then, as if something in his brain simply snapped into survival mode, blurted out, “I’ve just been in love with her for a really long time.”
You blinked at him.
Your mother blinked at him.
Your father did not blink at all.
Steve turned to you with an expression that said please go along with this or I will actually pass out at this table. You nodded immediately, a little too quickly, like a bobblehead that had been shaken with enthusiasm. “Yes. That. He has. For. . . a long time,” you said. “It was very. . . slow burn.”
Your father set his fork down with a clink that sounded like a warning bell.
“Look, Harrington,” he said, and Steve physically straightened in his chair. “Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you now. I used to like you when you were just a boy who came over to hang out with my little girl and watch matches with me. You were harmless then. Annoying yes. Very loud. But now that you're dating my daughter I don’t like you.”
“Okay,” Steve said immediately. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” He kept going, nodding faster with each repetition, like if he stopped agreeing he might be escorted out of the house. “That’s fair. Totally fair. I get that. Very reasonable position to have.”
You nudged him under the table, both because he was spiraling and because you needed him to stop saying okay before he said it so many times it lost all meaning. He startled slightly at the contact and glanced at you. You gave him a look.
“Dad,” you said. “Steve is very good to me. You know that. He. . . he never even lets me do any work during our shifts.”
Your father’s head snapped toward you. “Why?” he asked immediately. “I thought you wanted to get a job to be independent. Is he not letting you work? Is that what this is? That’s it. I’m going to get your job changed. Actually, you don’t even need to do a job. You can quit. You don’t need to work there at all.”
Your eyes widened in horror as you realized you had made a catastrophic error. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” you said quickly, nearly knocking your glass over in the process. “I meant he’s helpful. He’s very helpful. Too helpful, actually. Sometimes annoyingly helpful.”
“Honey, calm down,” your mother said to your father, placing a hand on his arm. “She clearly meant that Steve is helpful at work. He helps her. That’s a good thing.”
You nodded vigorously. “Yes. Exactly.”
Steve jumped in with enthusiasm. “Super helpful,” he said. “I am extremely helpful. If helpfulness were a sport, I’d have a trophy. Several trophies. A shelf, maybe.”
Your father stared at him.
You tried again. “He also. . . brings me lunch sometimes,” you added weakly.
“You can bring your own lunch,” your dad said. “You don’t need him bringing you lunch. You’re perfectly capable of bringing your own lunch.”
You closed your eyes briefly. This was going so badly. This was going so, so badly.
Steve must have seen the panic starting to creep into your face because he sat up a little straighter.
“Sir,” he said, and you almost choked because Steve Harrington never called anyone sir unless he was in very deep. “I know you don’t like this. And I get why. I really do. But I care about your daughter a lot. I always have. I. . . I love her. And I’m not going to let you maker her quit her job or stop doing anything she wants to do. I just try to make things easier for her when I can. That’s all.”
Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain everyone could hear it. You watched your father’s face, searching for any sign of what he was thinking. He held Steve’s gaze for a long, long moment. Long enough that you started mentally preparing a speech about how this was all a misunderstanding and also possibly a joke and no one needed to panic.
Then, finally, your father gave a small, slow nod. He picked up his fork again, twirled some pasta around it, and leaned back slightly in his chair. “All right,” he said.
That was all he said. But the fact that he had not thrown Steve out of the house felt like a miracle.
You exhaled so hard you almost saw stars.
You turned your head toward Steve and mouthed, oh my god I can’t believe that worked.
Steve looked at you, eyes still wide, and mouthed back, me too.
By the time your next shift rolled around at Family Video, the fake dating had apparently entered what Steve liked to call the “method acting” phase.
He held doors open for you, pulled out your chair during lunch, and had started calling you “baby” in a tone that sounded suspiciously natural. You were beginning to suspect he was enjoying this a little too much.
You were sorting through the new arrivals when he leaned against the counter beside you, one arm draped across the surface, looking far too pleased with himself.
Robin stood behind the front counter scanning tapes with the focused expression of someone trying very hard not to get involved in whatever nonsense you two were currently doing.
“Baby, can you hand me that pen?” Steve asked, even though the pen was literally in his own hand.
You stared at him. “You are holding a pen.”
He glanced down, then back up, unfazed. “Right. Just checking if you were paying attention.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why are you pretending right now? There is no one here. We are alone. Robin is emotionally unavailable to both of us and also immune to whatever this is.”
Robin, without looking up from the register, said flatly, “I am not immune. I am suffering. Internally.”
Steve leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We have to stay consistent,” he said. “If anyone walks in, we’re supposed to look couple-y. That’s the whole point. We can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch. That’s how people get suspicious.”
You opened your mouth to argue that no one in Hawkins was conducting a surveillance operation on your relationship, but before you could, the bell over the door jingled.
A woman walked in, scanning the aisles. Steve straightened immediately, posture shifting into what you could only describe as Boyfriend Mode.
Robin plastered on a customer service smile and went to help her find whatever tape she was looking for, leaving you leaning back against the counter while Steve hovered nearby with an air of suspicious fondness.
You were about to move away, because standing this close felt unnecessary and also mildly dangerous to your composure, when Steve stepped forward and placed his hands on the counter on either side of your waist.
You blinked up at him in confusion. He didn’t look away. He was looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the room, which was deeply unfair considering you were currently holding a stack of VHS tapes.
Then you noticed the customer.
She was watching the two of you with open curiosity as Robin searched for her order behind the counter. Her expression had that soft, knowing look people got when they saw something they considered adorable. You realized, with dawning horror, that Steve was performing.
You looked back up at him. He was still looking at you.
His expression softened in a way that did not look entirely like acting. Slowly, he reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle and so unexpectedly real that your brain short-circuited for a full second.
“Want to go on a date tonight?” he asked.
You stared at him. “What?”
He didn’t break eye contact. “I was thinking Enzo’s,” he continued smoothly. “My dad can get us in. Is 8 good for you?”
Your heart did something deeply unhelpful. You knew this was part of the act. You knew there was an audience. You knew this was for show. And yet the way he was looking at you made it feel. . . not entirely like a performance.
“It’s perfect,” you heard yourself say, smiling before your brain had a chance to catch up.
He grinned, that familiar, warm grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than was reasonable.
Your chest felt suspiciously full. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
The moment your lips made contact, your entire brain rebooted.
Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. Time paused.
You pulled back slowly, horror flooding in as you realized what you had just done. Steve looked genuinely stunned, like someone had unplugged him from reality for a second.
You stared at each other, frozen, while somewhere behind you Robin said, “Found it.”
You cleared your throat. “I—um—back room,” you said, to no one in particular.
Then you slipped out from between his arms with speed and walked—very calmly, very normally, not at all like you were internally screaming—toward the back room. The second the door swung shut behind you, you pressed your hands to your face and stood there in stunned silence, heart racing like you had just sprinted a mile.
Out front, Steve remained exactly where you had left him, one hand still on the counter, staring at the space you had just vacated with an expression that could only be described as completely and utterly shell-shocked.
By the time evening rolled around, you had already changed outfits three times and rejected at least six more. You were not nervous about the date itself. You were nervous about the part where you had kissed Steve Harrington on the cheek in the middle of a work shift like a person who had completely lost control of her own motor functions.
You paced once across your room, then again, rehearsing under your breath. “Hey, about earlier,” you muttered. “That was. . . just for the customer. Obviously. Purely professional cheek-kissing.” You paused, grimaced, and tried again. “I’m sorry I kissed your face without warning. That was weird. I am weird. We are pretending. Let us never speak of this again.”
You stopped in front of your mirror and sighed, dropping your shoulders. Nothing you said sounded normal. Nothing you said sounded like something a person who had not impulsively kissed her fake boyfriend would say.
You were mid-practice apology number eight when the doorbell rang.
Your head snapped up. For a second you froze, then you moved quickly, slipping out of your room before your mom or dad could beat you to the door. You smoothed your hair back with one hand as you walked down the hallway, telling yourself to act normal. This was normal. This was a normal fake date with your very normal fake boyfriend whom you had definitely not kissed.
You opened the door and immediately stopped.
Steve was standing on the porch, mid-sentence, apparently delivering a nervous speech to absolutely no one. He had one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him and the other holding a bouquet of flowers that you recognized instantly as your favorites.
He didn’t notice you at first, too busy whispering to himself. “Just say it like a normal person,” he was muttering. “Hi, you look nice. Don’t trip. Don’t say anything weird. Definitely don’t—”
He looked up.
He stopped talking.
For a full two seconds, he just stared at you like his brain had temporarily left the building. You looked back at him, then at the flowers, then back at his face again. He was still staring.
You lifted your hand and snapped your fingers lightly in front of him. “Hello,” you said.
He blinked hard, snapping out of it. “Right. Hey. Sorry. It’s just—” He thrust the flowers toward you. “These are for you.”
You took them, the soft scent of them immediately familiar. “They’re my favorite,” you said, a little surprised despite yourself.
“I know,” he said quickly. Then he paused, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, “You look beautiful. Really. Like, totally out of my league, which you obviously are. Max has told me every single day for the past week. Repeatedly.”
You couldn’t help it. You smiled. You stepped a little closer and leaned in just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry into the house. “You don’t have to compliment me so much,” you murmured. “My parents are in the other room. No one’s watching.”
He looked genuinely confused. “No, what? No. I meant that,” he said, brow furrowing slightly like the idea that he wouldn’t mean it had not occurred to him.
Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps approached from the living room. Your father appeared in the doorway. He looked Steve up and down with the solemn expression.
“Harrington,” your father said. “Have her home by eleven.”
Steve straightened immediately. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Eleven or earlier. Definitely not later,” he said.
You gave your dad a quick smile, trying not to laugh at how stiff Steve suddenly looked. Your father held his gaze for another long second, then nodded once and stepped back.
You turned back to Steve. He exhaled slowly, like he had been holding his breath the entire time. You adjusted your grip on the flowers and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind you.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded, still smiling a little. “Ready.”
You sat across from Steve in a booth near the back, the flowers he brought resting in the center of the table between you.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Steve fiddled with the edge of the menu even though he had already looked at it three times. You traced the condensation on your water glass with your fingertip, trying to decide how to start.
The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, but it was different from your usual easy back-and-forth at work.
You cleared your throat softly. “Okay,” you said, leaning forward a little. “Before anything else, I should probably apologize for earlier. At work.”
Steve blinked at you. “What?”
“The kiss,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely toward your own face. “I didn’t plan that. It just kind of happened. Which is not a sentence people should have to say in general, but especially not to their fake boyfriend.”
He stared at you for a second, then shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, almost immediately. When you gave him a look, he added, “It was just. . . part of the act. Right?”
“Okay,” you said slowly, smiling a little. “Okay, good. Then we’re good.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We’re good.”
You leaned back in your seat, and then your smile shifted into something a little more mischievous. “Well,” you said, tapping your fingers lightly against the table. “Since we’re pretending this is a real date. . . I feel like I should get the full experience. Show me. How is Steve Harrington on a date?”
He blinked again, clearly caught off guard. “What?”
“Come on,” you said, gesturing toward him. “You cannot tell me you don’t have moves. You were King Steve. There were definitely moves.”
He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I do not have moves.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That is a lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” he insisted. Then he paused, thought about it, and immediately broke. “Okay, fine. I have. . . some moves.”
You leaned forward eagerly. “I knew it. Go on. Impress me.”
He straightened in his seat. “Alright,” he said. “Usually, I start simple. Eye contact. Maybe I lean in a little and say something like. . .” He paused, then tilted his head just slightly and looked at you with a soft, almost shy smile. “I was going to wait until the end of the night to say this, but you look really nice. I can't concentrate on anything besides your eyes.”
You blinked. “Okay,” you said, a little surprised. “That was actually good.”
He looked pleased. Encouraged. “Right? Okay, next one. Classic move. I casually bring up something thoughtful. Like, I remember a small detail you mentioned once. Favorite movie. Favorite snack. Something like that. Shows I’m attentive.”
You rested your chin in your hand, watching him with interest. “You’re very prepared,” you said.
He nodded, smiling at seeing you impressed.
You laughed. “Alright, my turn,” you said. “Let me show you how I work.”
He leaned back, folding his arms loosely. “I’m ready.”
You tilted your head. “So,” you said. “Where’d you grow up?”
He blinked. “That’s your move?”
“Just answer the question,” you said, trying not to smile.
“Hawkins,” he said.
“And were you close to your parents?” you asked, your voice softening just slightly.
He shrugged. “My mom, yeah. But only when I was little. My dad’s. . . around. In theory.”
You nodded sympathetically and reached across the table, lightly touching his wrist. “That must be tough,” you said.
He started to nod along, falling right into it. “Yeah, it is. Sometimes I think—” He stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “Wait. Nice move.”
You grinned. “Thank you.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good. That was really good.”
You sat back, satisfied. “I’m full of surprises.”
He watched you for a moment, still smiling, and there was something softer in his expression now. You didn’t notice. You were too busy feeling pleased with yourself.
“So,” he said after a second. “What’s your finishing move?”
You tilted your head, thinking. Then you smiled slowly and leaned in just a little. “Well, that is for another time,” you said as you winked.
He froze.
For a split second, he looked completely undone. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He swallowed and looked away, trying very hard to recover.
You didn’t notice. You were already reaching for your water glass, entirely unaware of the way he had just melted across the table from you.
You sat perched on one of the tall stools behind the counter, elbows on your knees, stacking VHS tapes into a tower that was already leaning at an angle that suggested it would not survive the next five minutes.
You were in the middle of adding what you were fairly certain would be the final, ill-advised layer when Steve walked in from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slowed when he reached the counter, watching you for a second with a look that hovered somewhere between fond and nervous.
“Hey,” he said.
You didn’t look up right away, concentrating as you balanced one more tape on top of the tower. “Hey,” you replied.
He leaned on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”
You nodded, still focused on the tower. “Sure.”
There was a pause. You felt his gaze on you in that way that made it clear he was choosing his words very carefully. “Last night,” he said slowly, “after the date. . . did you feel something?”
You glanced up at him, blinking. “Yeah,” you said.
His eyes widened immediately. “You did?” he asked, a little too quickly. “Because I got home and I was, like, really freaked out. I mean, not in a bad way. Just in a—”
“I think it was the noodles,” you said thoughtfully.
He stopped. “The noodles?”
“Yeah,” you continued, nodding. “They were really weird. My stomach felt weird for, like, an hour after. I thought I was going to have to lie down.”
He stared at you. “Right,” he said. “The food. That was what was weird.”
You hummed in agreement and turned back to your tower, completely unaware of the internal spiral he had just pulled himself out of. He lingered there for a second longer, watching you stack another tape.
Robin appeared from the back a moment later, carrying an armful of tapes. She set the tapes down with a soft thud and glanced between the two of you.
Steve straightened immediately. “Robin,” he said. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She narrowed her eyes. “That tone never leads to anything good, but sure.”
They disappeared into the back room together, leaving you at the counter with your towe. You added another tape. The tower wobbled dangerously.
In the back room, Steve immediately started pacing.
“I think I broke the rules,” he said.
Robin leaned against a stack of boxes, folding her arms. “You think?”
“No, I definitely did,” he admitted. “I have feelings. Like, real ones. And I know we said no falling in love and I wasn’t going to and then I did anyway and now I don’t know what to do.”
Robin stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she sighed the kind of sigh that suggested she had been waiting for this exact confession for days.
“Finally,” she said.
Before he could react, she shrugged off her jacket and pulled it over her head. Steve blinked in confusion.
“Rob, hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”
She tugged off the short-sleeved shirt underneath, revealing a long-sleeved one beneath it. Then she turned around.
Across the back, in bold marker, were the words: I TOLD YOU SO.
Steve stared. “You seriously had that printed on a shirt?”
She turned back around, looking entirely satisfied. “I like to be prepared.”
“Robin,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “This is not helpful.”
“This is extremely helpful,” she corrected. “You broke your own ground rules. You made the rules. And then you broke them.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It just. . . happened.”
She pointed at him. “That is exactly what I said would happen. I said this was a terrible idea. I said fake dating leads to real feelings. I said you two are idiots. And now look at you.”
He groaned. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Well,” she said. “Step one is admitting you like her. Which you’ve done. Step two is figuring out if she likes you back. Which. . . I’m pretty sure she does. Step three is not panicking and making it weird.”
He blinked. “You think she likes me?”
Robin gave him a look. “Steve. She built a rule system for fake dating with you and then kissed your cheek at work. Use your brain.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering that.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Cool. Cool. I get that. I understand what you’re saying. I see why you would think. . . that is a good option.”
Robin narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “There’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“But,” he continued, lifting a finger, “what I was thinking is that I’m just going to ignore her until the feelings go away. And then, maybe a few years later, when she’s married and I’m still alone, I’ll confess everything and it’ll be, like, a funny story.”
Robin stared at him. The kind of stare that was so long and so flat it felt like it should have been accompanied by a dial tone.
“Why do I even try with you?” she said finally. “I don’t understand. I genuinely do not understand.”
Steve frowned slightly. “Maybe be a supportive friend,” he suggested. “Like I was when I found out you were a lesbian.”
Robin threw her hands up. “I would be supportive if the idea wasn’t idiotic,” she shot back. “How are you even planning on ignoring her? She is your fake girlfriend. Who you have very real, growing-by-the-second feelings for. You literally work together.”
He paused, considering that. His eyes flicked toward the door like he could see you through it. Then his expression shifted as another terrible idea formed.
“Uh,” he said. “Okay. Okay. New plan. I’ll break up with her.”
Robin’s face went completely blank. “You will what.”
“I’ll break up with her,” he repeated, nodding. “End the fake dating. Problem solved. Then I can. . . you know. Emotionally recover in private.”
She pointed at him slowly. “You are on your own,” she said. “I am not a part of whatever idiocy you’re about to pull.”
He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.”
He started for the door.
Robin watched him go with the expression of someone witnessing a car drive slowly toward a brick wall and choosing not to intervene. As he reached for the handle, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called after him, “I hope she smacks you in the face.”
Out front, you were still crouched by the counter, restacking tapes into something that would hopefully resemble order. You didn’t look up right away when the back room door opened. Steve stepped out, stopped, and then immediately forgot every single word he had rehearsed the moment he saw you sitting there, completely unaware, humming softly to yourself while you worked.
He stood there for a second, frozen in place, the weight of his extremely bad plan settling in.
Steve opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He had walked out of the back room with a plan, a very bad plan but still technically a plan, and now he stood there in front of you with absolutely no words available to him whatsoever.
You were crouched by the counter, focused on restacking the tower that looked like it would collapse if someone so much as breathed in its direction. You were humming under your breath, something soft and absentminded, and the sight of you like that made the idea of breaking up with you feel not just impossible but actively stupid.
He swallowed. Tried again.
Still nothing.
You finally glanced up when you felt someone standing there, and your face brightened automatically when you saw him. It wasn’t even a big reaction, just a small, easy smile, the kind you gave him all the time without thinking. It landed somewhere directly in his chest.
“Oh, hey,” you said. “Did Robin finish yelling at you?”
He blinked. “What? No. I mean—yes. I mean, she always yells at me. That’s just. . . baseline.”
You nodded, accepting this as fact, and turned back to your tapes. “Makes sense.”
He stood there another second, staring at you, and then the moment passed. The words he had rehearsed dissolved completely. He cleared his throat, said something about helping at the front, and did not break up with you.
He told himself it was temporary. Just until he figured things out. Just until he stopped feeling like his entire internal system short-circuited whenever you smiled at him.
Except the opposite happened.
Over the next few days, instead of pulling away, he got worse.
Much worse.
He hovered. He leaned. He stood too close. He called you “baby” and “sweetheart” with increasing ease, like the words had always belonged in his mouth. If you moved around the counter, he moved with you. If you reached for something, he handed it to you before you could grab it yourself. He rested his hand lightly at the small of your back whenever customers came in.
You, for your part, shrugged it off as him being very committed to the bit. If anything, you found it impressive. He was excellent at pretending. In fact, he was so good at pretending that somewhere along the way you stopped thinking about the rules as much. You stopped noticing when his hand lingered a second too long. You stopped questioning why he always chose the seat next to you. You stopped wondering why he looked at you the way he did when you laughed.
Instead, you started getting used to it.
Then you started liking it.
You found yourself leaning into his side without thinking. You waited for him to walk in before starting your shift. You caught your reflection in the glass one afternoon with his arm slung over your shoulders and thought, distantly, that you looked. . . happy.
Because that was the strange part. Even though it was fake, even though you knew the entire arrangement was built on a ridiculous agreement behind a Family Video counter, you felt. . . special. Sought after. Like you were the center of someone’s attention in a way that was warm and constant and strangely comforting.
And sure, technically he was the only guy paying you that kind of attention. And yes, technically it was fake. But he was Steve Harrington, and he was very convincing, and after a while the line blurred in a way you didn’t examine too closely.
At group hangouts, it only got worse.
Steve always ended up beside you. On the couch, on the floor, at the counter in the Byers kitchen, leaning against the wall at the arcade. His knee pressed against yours. His arm draped across the back of your chair. His hand resting near yours, close enough to touch.
No one questioned it.
That was the wildest part.
One afternoon, you overheard two people at the grocery store talking about you and Steve like this had been inevitable. Another time, you caught a guy at the arcade nudging his friend and whispering something about Harrington being down bad.
And Steve’s feelings, meanwhile, were not going away. They were not being ignored into submission like he had optimistically planned. If anything, they were growing at an alarming rate. Every time you laughed at something he said, every time you leaned into him without thinking, every time you called his name across a room, something in his chest tightened.
He told himself to cool it. To pull back. To reestablish boundaries.
He did not do that.
Instead, he found himself sitting a little closer. Holding your hand a little longer. Looking at you when you weren’t paying attention and then quickly looking away when you were.
From across the room one evening, Robin watched him resting his chin on the back of your chair while you talked with Max and Lucas. She stared for a long moment, then dragged a hand down her face.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
She stared at Steve for a full ten seconds, watched the way he leaned over the back of your chair like some kind of lovesick housecat, watched the way his eyes followed your face while you talked to Max and Lucas, and then finally made a sharp beckoning motion with her hand.
“Steven,” she said. “C’mon. We need to talk.”
He blinked, pulled from whatever soft, dangerous thought spiral he had been in, and looked at her like she had just spoken in another language. “What? Why?”
Robin did not answer. She just kept staring at him with a look that suggested he had about five seconds before she dragged him out of the room by the collar.
He glanced back at you automatically. You were still talking, laughing at something Max had said. His expression softened for a second, something almost helpless passing through his eyes, and then he stood up.
“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.
He followed Robin into the kitchen, and the second they were out of earshot, she spun on him.
“Oh my God,” she said, hands flying up in the air. “Oh my God, Steve. I cannot watch this anymore. I cannot be a witness to whatever this is.”
He frowned, already defensive. “What is what?”
She stared at him. “This. The staring. The hovering. The yearning happening in real time every time she breathes in your general direction. Get your shit together.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do not lie to me,” she said immediately. “Do not lie to me in this kitchen where I have supported you through every single terrible romantic decision you’ve ever made. You are down bad. You are embarrassing. You are one soft smile away from writing her a sonnet which you do not even know how to write!”
He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Because unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong.
Robin stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You need to either ask her out for real or break up with her. Those are your options. Pick one. I am begging you to pick one.”
He looked past her toward the living room and his shoulders sagged.
“I can’t just ask her out,” he muttered. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if this is all just. . . pretend for her?”
Robin stared at him for a long moment, something like exasperated affection flickering across her face. “Steve,” she said, “she agreed to fake date you. She built a whole rule system with you. She looks at you like you hung the moon half the time. And you’re telling me you think she feels nothing?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know. I just. . . what if I ruin it? What if I say something and it gets weird and then I lose her completely?”
“You’re going to lose her anyway if you keep doing whatever this is,” she said. “You’re either going to confess and maybe get the girl, or you’re going to keep fake dating her until one of you dates someone else for real and then you’ll both be miserable and I will have to listen to you pine for the rest of my natural life.”
He let out a long breath, staring down at the floor. His mind ran through every possible scenario, every possible disaster, every possible version of you pulling away from him with that polite smile that would absolutely destroy him.
He knew what he needed to do.
He just. . . didn’t want to do it.
Robin lingered for exactly half a second after him saying it.
When he did not immediately sprint back into the living room and confess his undying devotion or fake-break up or do literally anything useful, she gave him a tight, expectant nod.
“I hope you chose good,” she said, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at him in a deeply unnecessary gesture. “Like, really good. Because if you mess this up, you're a dead man, Harrington.”
Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked off.
Steve stood there for another minute, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole out of pity. He ran a hand through his hair, then both hands, then rubbed his face in a way that suggested he was trying to physically push his feelings back inside his chest where they belonged. None of it worked. Eventually he let out a long, resigned breath and followed her out.
The living room looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, which felt deeply unfair considering his entire life had apparently changed in that time.
You were still on the couch with Max and Lucas, leaning forward as Max told some story about school. You were laughing, shoulders relaxed, completely unaware of the emotional apocalypse currently happening in Steve’s ribcage. The sound of your laugh hit him square in the chest and stayed there.
He stood there for a moment, just watching you, and his expression did something soft and miserable at the same time. It was the look of a man who had found the best thing in his life and was about to hand it back for entirely noble and incredibly stupid reasons.
He cleared his throat, which came out quieter than intended. Then he tried again.
“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Uh. . . if you could. . . I mean, if you’re not busy. We need to talk. For a second.”
Max and Lucas both went still in the way people do when they sense drama. You turned toward him immediately, still smiling, like of course you would go with him. The sight of that almost made him abort the entire plan on the spot.
“Yeah, sure,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Give us a minute?”
Max gave you a very slow look, then glanced at Steve with the kind of suspicious intensity usually reserved for crime investigations. Lucas followed suit, squinting slightly. Steve tried not to visibly panic under the scrutiny.
You didn’t notice any of it. You just walked over to him, still in a good mood, and nudged his arm lightly as you passed.
“What’s wrong?” you asked as you guided him a little farther down the hallway for privacy.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, then shoved them back in like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. For a second he just looked at you, and the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.
You tilted your head, smile softening into concern. “Steve?”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Right. Okay. So. I, uh. . . I think we should. . . end this. The relationship. The fake one. I mean.”
The words came out clumsy and rushed, like he was trying to outrun them. You blinked once, the smile on your face staying exactly where it was, polite and a little confused.
“Oh,” you said. “Okay. That’s. . . sudden. Did something happen?”
He felt like the worst person alive. “No. I mean, yes. Not bad. Just. . . I think we’ve done what we needed to do, right? For the whole. . . fake dating thing. People definitely bought it. Mission accomplished.”
You nodded slowly, still wearing that same friendly expression. It didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore, but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
“Right,” you said. “Yeah, that makes sense. We did a pretty great job, if I do say so myself. Very convincing.”
He forced a small smile that looked like it physically hurt. “Yeah. Exactly. So, we should probably stop. Before it gets. . . weird.”
There was a brief pause. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped loosely in front of you.
“Is that the only reason?” you asked. “Or. . . is there something else?”
He hesitated. This was the part Robin had told him to be honest about. This was the part that was supposed to make it better. He took a breath that felt like swallowing glass.
“I, uh. . . I kind of like someone,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. “For real. And I think it’s. . . I think it’s getting complicated, doing this with you while that’s happening. It’s not fair to you. Or them.”
The words hung in the air between you.
For a split second, something flickered across your face. It was quick. So quick he almost missed it. Then your smile returned, perfectly supportive.
“Oh,” you said again. “Well. That’s. . . good. I mean, not good for me, I guess, but, you know. Good for you. That’s exciting.”
He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I mean. I think so.”
You let out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Wow. Okay. So. We’re breaking up. Fake-breaking up. That we somehow made real enough to need a real breakup conversation for.”
He winced. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out.”
“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “Really. It’s fine. We always knew this wasn’t permanent.”
Inside, it felt like someone had quietly knocked all the air out of your lungs. He liked someone. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Steve Harrington liking someone was about as shocking as the sun rising. You had always known this would end. You had always known it wasn’t real. Still, the words sat heavy in your chest, confusing.
You kept smiling because that was what you did. You kept it light because that was easier than asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted answers to.
“So,” you said, clapping your hands together once in a bright, slightly forced motion. “We’re good? Still friends? Still. . . video store coworkers who argue about movie recommendations?”
He looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Always.”
“Great,” you said, nodding. “Then we’re good.”
There was a small, awkward moment where neither of you moved. Then you stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. He froze for half a second before hugging you back, arms tightening just a little too much, like he was trying to memorize what this felt like. You pulled away first, still smiling.
“I’m gonna head back out there,” you said. “Before Max assumes you murdered me in the hallway.”
He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”
You walked back into the living room like nothing had happened. Max looked up immediately, eyes narrowing.
“Everything good?” she asked.
“Yep,” you said brightly, grabbing your bag. “Just. . . remembered I have to be up early tomorrow. I think I’m gonna head out.”
Lucas frowned. “Already?”
“Yeah. Rain check on movie night. You guys pick something terrible without me.”
Max watched you for a second longer than necessary. “You sure you’re okay?”
You smiled,. “I’m fine. Promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You said your goodbyes quickly, waved once, and slipped out the front door before anyone could press further. The cool night air hit your face and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your smile faded the second you were alone.
Inside, Steve stood in the hallway, staring at the spot where you had been. He could hear the front door open and close. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go after you, to fix it, to say the thing he should have said in the first place. Instead, he stayed where he was, rooted to the floor by his own terrible decision.
He had wanted to do the right thing. He had wanted to be honest. Somehow, he felt like he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
The next few days were, in a word, terrible.
Not movie montage terrible where everything was set to a sad song and you stared out of rain-streaked windows looking beautiful. It was the much less glamorous version where you stayed in pajamas until noon, forgot to eat actual meals, and kept wandering into rooms only to forget why you had gone there in the first place.
You called in sick to work on day one with a voice that sounded suspiciously normal and then called in again on day two with a voice that sounded even more normal, which made you feel worse somehow, like you were committing a crime against customer service by not showing up.
You told yourself it was fine. It was fake. The relationship had always been fake. This was the plan. It had a beginning, middle, and end, and you had known the end would come.
What you had not known, apparently, was that the end would feel like someone had removed a very specific, very loud presence from your daily routine and left behind an echo that would not shut up.
You missed the way he hovered. You missed the way he reached for your hand without thinking. You missed the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room even when you were both fully aware that the entire thing was supposed to be an act.
It turned out that fake attention still registered as attention to your brain, and your brain had decided to get extremely attached to it in a very embarrassing fashion.
By day three you were pacing around your room with the phone pressed to your ear, rambling to Nancy.
She had called to check in once and had made the mistake of asking how you were doing, which opened a floodgate that did not appear to have an off switch.
“Okay, but here is what I do not understand,” you were saying, pacing. “He used to be all over me. In a supportive, very attentive fake boyfriend way. He was committed to the bit, Nance. And now suddenly he has this iron willpower and emotional restraint and I am supposed to just. . . adjust? Overnight? It feels like I went from being the most sought-after girl in Hawkins to the least sought-after girl in the land in the span of forty-eight hours.”
Nancy made a soft sound on the other end that might have been sympathy and might have been her trying not to laugh.
“I mean, I know it was fake,” you continued quickly, flopping onto your bed. “I know it. I was there. I signed the fake dating contract in my head. But it turns out that when someone spends weeks holding your hand and looking at you like you hung the moon, your brain does this really fun thing where it goes, oh, this must be real. And then when it stops, your brain goes, wow, you must be deeply unappealing actually.”
“You are not deeply unappealing,” Nancy said.
“I am currently sitting in what can only be described as my most unflattering pajamas,” you went on, staring at the ceiling. “These pajamas are not tempting anyone. And apparently he is out there on some love journey for another girl, and good for him, truly, but also, why now? Why after I got used to him hovering like a very tall, very concerned golden retriever?”
Nancy let out a small laugh. “You miss him.”
You groaned loudly. “I miss the attention. Which is worse. I miss feeling like someone was always a little bit focused on me. Even when I knew it was pretend. And now he is probably being very respectful and very normal and very emotionally mature about this other girl he likes”
There was a pause on the line, then Nancy said, “You could go back to work.”
You buried your face in a pillow. “I cannot. I cannot face him while I am like this. What if I look at him and my face does something? What if he is completely fine and I am the only one acting like we just broke up for real? Which, to be clear, we did not. We fake broke up. From our fake relationship. That somehow managed to hurt my real feelings.”
Nancy hummed thoughtfully. “You know he did not want to hurt you.”
“I know,” you said quickly, rolling onto your back again. “I know that. He was being honest. He likes someone. That is normal. People are allowed to like people. I am not the center of the universe. But also, this feels extremely inconvenient for me personally.”
Silence stretched for a second before you added, “It is just weird. He is not there. He is not hovering. He is not texting me about dumb things or asking if I want snacks. And now I am sitting here realizing that I got used to being. . . wanted. Even if it was pretend. And it turns out I liked it. A lot. Which is humiliating.”
Nancy’s voice softened. “It is not humiliating to like being cared about.”
You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, phone warm against your ear. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Maybe not. Still feels a little pathetic though.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you ask Robin?”
You blinked at the ceiling. “Ask Robin what?”
“I mean,” Nancy continued, warming to the idea, “I honestly do not buy that Steve just suddenly woke up one morning and decided to break up with you because he liked someone else. That feels. . . abrupt. Suspiciously abrupt.”
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, interest sparking through the fog of self-pity like someone had flipped on a light switch. “Wait.”
Nancy kept going, a little triumphant now. “Maybe she knows something. They tell each other everything. If there was a conversation that led to him making that decision, she was probably part of it.”
You swung your legs over the side of the bed, suddenly very awake. “Robin definitely knows something. Steve only decided to break up with me after talking to her. That is extremely suspicious. That is practically a neon sign.”
“There you go,” Nancy said, pleased. “See? Maybe I am good at giving advice.”
You grabbed the phone cord and started pacing again. “Yeah, sure, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but you might be onto something. I am going to call her right now.”
Nancy laughed. “Okay. Tell her I said hi.”
“Sure, bye, Nance,” you said quickly, already pulling the phone away to dial.
You hung up before she could respond and immediately started punching in Robin’s number. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. You paced a tight circle near your bed, free hand twisting in the hem of your sleeve as your heart did something annoyingly fast and anticipatory. On the fourth ring, the line clicked.
“Hello?” Robin’s voice came through.
You did not bother with a greeting. “Robin, what did you do?”
There was a beat of silence. Then, on the other end of the line, you heard a small, startled noise that sounded very much like someone who had just been caught doing something they were absolutely not supposed to be doing.
“Oh oh,” Robin said.
You pounded on Steve Harrington’s front door like you were trying to break it down. You knew his parents were out of town, which meant there was no one to shush you, no one to open the door halfway and ask you to keep it down. There was only him, and right now that was the entire problem.
You knocked again, your heart thudding in your chest with a mix of anger, relief, and something that felt suspiciously like nerves. For a split second you wondered if he would not answer, and you would have to yell through the door like a deranged person.
Then you heard shuffling on the other side, a thud, a muffled curse, and finally the lock clicking open.
The door swung inward and there he was.
Steve stood in the doorway looking tired and rumpled, hair sticking up in several directions. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his eyes heavy with sleep, and for a brief moment you might have felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of him if you were not currently fueled by the kind of righteous indignation that erased all other emotions.
He blinked at you, clearly trying to catch up. “Sweeth—” he started automatically, then stopped himself mid-word as he realised you two had 'broken' up. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
You did not answer. Instead, you stepped forward and hit him square in the chest with both hands, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make a point. He stumbled back half a step, eyes widening.
“You tell me, Steven,” you said. “How is that girl you like doing?”
He stared at you, still half-asleep and entirely unprepared for this conversation. “Good?” he said cautiously, like he was answering a trick question on a test he had not studied for.
You crossed your arms. “Uh-huh. Really? Because I know for a fact that she is doing terrible.”
He blinked again. “I’m. . . confused.”
You leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “You idiot. I talked to Robin.”
The change was immediate. The sleepiness vanished from his face, replaced by dawning horror. “Oh.”
His eyes widened fully now, like someone who had just realized the carefully constructed house of cards he had built was currently collapsing in real time. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more.
“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, wait, I can explain—”
“Explain what?” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Explain why you decided to break up with me because you ‘liked someone else’ instead of just saying that you liked me? Explain why you thought the best possible plan was to break my heart and your own at the same time? Explain why you are, in fact, the dumbest person I have ever met?”
He winced at that but did not argue. “I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I thought if I said it out loud and you didn’t feel the same way, it would ruin everything. I didn’t want to lose you. So I thought if I just. . . ended it first, then at least I could keep you as a friend and not—”
“You thought breaking up with me would make it less likely that you would lose me?” you interrupted, incredulous. “That is your genius plan? That is the master strategy you came up with?”
He looked deeply embarrassed. “In my defense, it sounded better in my head.”
You stared at him, equal parts furious and exasperated. “You should have just told me. You should have just said it. Especially because—” You stopped, took a breath, then glared at him harder. “Especially because I liked you too, you absolute idiot.”
He froze. Completely. Like someone had hit pause on him mid-motion.
“You. . . what?” he said.
“I liked you too,” you repeated, throwing your hands up again. “I was going to apologize for the kiss and then maybe tell you that I didn’t want it to be fake anymore and then you went and broke up with me because you ‘liked someone else,’ which, by the way, is apparently me, which makes this entire situation even more ridiculous.”
He stared at you, stunned, relief and disbelief warring across his face. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought you were just. . . being nice. Or pretending really well. Or—”
“Steve,” you said, exasperated. “I kissed your cheek at work. I went on a real date with you. I missed you when you stopped hovering. I called Nancy and spent an hour spiraling about how pathetic it was that I missed your attention. What part of that says ‘just pretending’ to you?”
He opened his mouth again, clearly trying to explain himself for the thousandth time. “I just didn’t want to mess it up,” he said. “You mean a lot to me and I thought if I pushed too hard—”
You did not let him finish. You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him.
He made a small, startled noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, hands coming up instinctively to hold your arms like he needed to make sure you were actually there and not some sleep-deprived hallucination.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little faster, standing very close in the doorway of his house.
He blinked at you. “So,” he said, still holding your arms. “You. . . like me?”
You gave him a look. “Yes, Steve. I like you. A lot. Unfortunately.”
A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I really, really like you too.”
You exhaled. “Next time,” you said firmly, pointing a finger at his chest, “we are talking about our feelings like normal people. No more terrible plans. Agreed?”
He nodded immediately. “Agreed. Absolutely agreed. I am done with terrible plans.”
You studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time. He smiled into it, and held your waist, pulling back just for a second.
“I swear if this turns out to be a dream, I'm killing myself.”
baby blurb accidentally kneeing eddie or remus in the balls question mark
“Holy shit.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Holy shit,” Eddie scathes.
“I said I was sorry!”
“Well, you don’t sound sorry!”
“I am!”
Eddie takes a deep breath, nausea having turned his pale skin a pallid green. “Can you stop yelling at me?” he asks finally, sucking in another breath, then another. “Fuck-ing Jesus. I have never been ball-punched so hard in my entire existence. That was an attempt on my life. You could go to jail for this.”
“I’m really sorry, okay?”
Eddie lays back on the floor with a pained groan. “Oh, god. I’m never gonna have kids now.”
“Yeah, like you’d want kids. Celibacy is sticking it to the man, right? Depriving capitalism of their suburban nuclear family?”
“I don’t know what’s worse in that sentence, the fact that you think this is the suburbs, or the idea that I’m celibate now because you hit me in the dick. You killed my swimmers, babe, you don’t have to shoot me in the back of the head too.”
“I didn’t mean to hit you, I just–” You flush with embarrassment. “I was gonna kiss you, asshole! I was trying to get into your space.”
“For the record, that’s way, way too into my space.”
You deflate, suddenly ashamed. “It is?” you ask softly.
Eddie finally stops clutching at himself, peering up at you with a skewed neck, eyes so wide in horror they’re half-white. “You were gonna kiss me?”
“Eddie!”
“Were you?”
“Yes!” you yell, basically agonised by such a sudden vulnerability, and embarrassed enough to feel tears burning in your eyes.
“Oh shit.” He cringes into a sitting position, hands already reaching for you, pulling you into his grasp, “You can still kiss me, I want you to kiss me. Kiss me?” He hisses as he gets you between his legs. “Holy shit, you gotta kiss me.”
“Eddie, did I break your dick?” you ask, horrified.
“No? No, I don’t think so, please kiss it better?” You stare. His cheeks begin to stain with a jammy blush. “My– my mouth,” he adds, “please kiss my mouth. I am so sorry.”
“I can’t kiss you while your dick hurts, man,” you say, practically whining as his fingers press into the soft creases of your elbows. “I’m thinking about it.”
“We can think about so much other stuff,” he promises, waiting desperate and pretty in front of you, eyes like puppy dogs all brown and wet from unshed tears.
“You scared me when you blew in my ear,” you say.
“I’m sorry.”
“I was trying to be all smooth and spontaneous about things.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve never seen someone fold into themselves that hard before.”
“Please stop torturing me.”
You squeeze your eyes closed. “You better do it. I’m keeping my hands right here,” you tell him, crossing them hard over your stomach.
A pleased sound and a crunch of movement. Eddie takes a wincing breath a hair’s width from your lips, his hand hot as a brand as he lays it over your cheek. You can hear him hesitating. You’re trying so hard not to think about how you touched his dick before you got to kiss him.
“Please stop thinking so loudly,” he says, almost solemn.
“I’m not.”
Eddie leans in and kisses you hard on the mouth. It’s spiteful without absolute cruelty, like the sting of a good slap and the dopamine rush after it —he crushes his nose into yours and his lips move slowly, so slowly, forcing yours open (not that you aren’t in a certain kind of paradise) from the pressure of them as they part, and he’s pressing his tongue against your front teeth with a huffing laugh.
“Sorry,” you mumble.
Eddie hangs his head, his forehead meeting your chin. “It hurts so bad.”
“Kiss didn’t help?”
“If it could have, it would’ve cured me, but this is a pain you can’t run from, bub.”
You kiss the corner of his eye anyways, and only flinch somewhat when he throws his head back up and demands he be kissed again, lest he die of dick-pain like some unkissed leper.
7 days of Valentine-themed fics & drabbles featuring a week-long Valentine's Special.
Written For: Bob Reynolds, Bob Floyd, Rhett Abbott, Jordan Weaver, Harrison Knott, Rocco Gauthier, Joaquin Torres, Bucky Barnes, Ava Starr, Yelena Belova, Peter Parker, Cameron Cade (Him), and Rafe Cameron (Outer Banks)
A/N: Took a much-needed break. I'm still overcoming my writer's block, but I've been planning/working on this event over the past few weeks. Please look forward to these fics! <3
If you want to be tagged, please comment on this post - fair warning, you will be tagged in three fics/drabbles a day starting Feb 7th-14th.
𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥: 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐛
Follow along with Bob Floyd and the reader as they tell a year-long love story told through letters. Friends-to-lovers. 7-part series
Synopsis: You sign up for a pen pal program and end up corresponding with a very sweet, very charming WSO. Too bad there are over 7,000 miles separating you and him. You fear the worst when your last two letters go unanswered.
Special shout-out to my bestest friend @haroldsdream for giving me this idea and challenging me to write this. Love you and hate you for this <33
𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐎𝐧𝐞
𝟏. 𝐂𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬 - 𝐑𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐀𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭
Rhett has a hard time expressing how he feels, but it's clear as day that he's in love with you and obsessed with you.
𝟐. 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐉𝐨𝐚𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬
Joaquin is a mess, and he can't find the right way to confess his feelings towards you. Johnny suggests writing his feelings down. You find the letter first and see it's addressed to someone else, your best friend, Kate. Roommates AU
💌 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 #1
𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐓𝐰𝐨
𝟑. 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 - 𝐁𝐨𝐛 𝐑𝐞𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬
You and your boyfriend have this stupid bet about who will say "I love you" first. Or all the creative ways you and Bob say I love you without saying those three words out loud.
𝟒. 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐃𝐚𝐲(𝐬) - 𝐀𝐯𝐚 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫
Your mood literally affects the weather, and New York has been experiencing some odd weather in February. Or you've been causing a nonstop downpour because of a heartbreak, and Ava is there for you.
💌 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 #2
𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞
𝟓. 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 - 𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫
Peter has a crush on a florist. He's not sure what will kill him first, the expensive flower bouquets he's been buying Aunt May, or your smile. Flower Shop AU
𝟔. 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐝 - 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐂𝐚𝐝𝐞
Cam wants to do something romantic for you, but it ends up being a slight disaster.
💌 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 #3
𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫
𝟕. 𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 - 𝐑𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐨 𝐆𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐫
You can't cook to save your life, so your boyfriend suggests taking a couples cooking class. Which ends with a trip to the ER and a very distraught Rocco.
𝟖. 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 - 𝐉𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫
Somehow Jordan talked you into a fake marriage, dating him for the weekend. Why? To scam his way into a swanky couple's retreat in Calabases.
💌 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 #4
𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞
𝟗. 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 - 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬
Your love life is non-existent, and that may be due to all the horrible dates you've been on. Your best friend, Wanda suggest turning to the dating advice column in your school's newspaper, Dear Molly. College AU
𝟏𝟎. 𝐏𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐬 - 𝐘𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐚
You introduce your girlfriend to the Jellycat plushies, and it ends with her getting hyperfixated on them.
💌 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 #5
𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐱
𝟏𝟏. 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 - 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧
You run into the last person you'd expect to see at a speed-dating event... your ex.
𝟏𝟐. 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐞 - 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐭
Your best friend tries to set you up on a blind date that goes horribly wrong. Too bad Harrison thinks the opposite, you're the girl of his dreams.
💌 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 #6
𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧
𝟏𝟑. 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐛 - 𝐁𝐨𝐛 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐝
The final 🩷
𝟏𝟒. 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐲 - 𝐁𝐨𝐛 𝐑𝐞𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬
What's worse than thinking your boyfriend forgot your birthday? Maybe the fact that your birthday is the same day as Valentine's Day.
A/N: These will be dropping Feb 7th-14th
tags: @haroldsdream divider: @/cafekitsune
tagging a few moots who may be interested in reading these 🩷: @abbottsdarling @of-apollo @lives-in-midgard @past-llife @haroldsdream @iristheplanet16
You ran out on Steve almost three years ago in the middle of a sweet fling, but now you’re back in Hawkins, and there’s a little girl on your hip that looks just like him. fem, 14k
afab reader, second-chance romance, girl!dad steve, slow burn idiots, no upside down au
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆
You realise how fucked you are pretty quickly.
It’s something in the way the kid is looking at you. He’s staring at you, not unfriendly but piercing, and his gaze keeps flicking to Leah like he’s trying to make sense of her, and his mouth is stuck obnoxiously with his tongue flat and pulled into that cruel letter ‘S’.
You freeze up like you’ve been caught, which doesn’t help.
And the kid spins in his Nike’s and races for the entrance, ditching a basket full of veggies and a pack of gum in the middle of the aisle.
“Okay, Lee,” you say, sweating despite the November chill. “Let’s get going.”
Leah grins in her seat in the shopping cart. “Meemaw’s?” she asks.
“Yeah. Let’s go make sure your meemaw had her dinner.”
Your ears ring all the way home. They don’t stop ringing. You spend the night waiting for a phone call you don’t get, awkward and clammy. There’s a certain way that rich families work in Indiana. You can see the coming hush money or the threat to leave town almost as clearly as you could see the loveless marriage years ago. You and Leah need to get out of dodge before you’re stuck having conversations you never wanted to have.
I mean, who could’ve predicted that? One of Steve’s teenagers recognises you in the grocery store three years after your fling, how’d they even remember?
The phone doesn’t ring, that night.
Or the next.
Maybe Steve didn’t believe the kid. Maybe the kid had an emergency completely unrelated to Leah. Maybe Steve believed it and didn’t care. You deem yourselves safe from harm in a venture to the grocery store when your mom asks for chicken noodle soup.
It’s there you recognise your mistake. Steve Harrington’s shiny BMW sits parked in the bay by the sign for the laundromat and the man himself sits inside with a paperback bent open on his thigh. He’s glaring at it like it killed his whole family.
You move bodily away from him with Leah clasped to your chest, wondering if you can beat him in, but then a chirp sounds near the door and you watch in slow motion as a young teenager brings a radio to his mouth and says, “Code milkshake!”
You hear a curse and can’t help looking back, right at the bimmer, where Steve is looking up through the windshield with a look of frozen trepidation on his face.
—
So.
How did you end up where you are?
You aren’t one for thinking about the past. Don’t like doing it. In fact, you try your very hardest not to think of the past when you can help it. Once Leah was born, that was easy to do. Babies are demanding, they take over your entire life, and your new life in Portland was already busy to begin with. You find thinking of the past incessant and unnecessary, but. Things are happening oh so fast —you had genuinely figured you could get through your homecoming without being spotted. You figured you could leave Leah at home with your mom while you shopped, but meemaw’s stroke has affected more than her body, and you couldn’t leave Leah there in good conscience in case an accident happened.
It’s not like you had many friends, before you left. Any, in fact. Steve was the first guy to ever show any interest in you, and as nice as he’d been in the quiet moments after, he hadn’t exactly brought you roses or promised you anything. You’re the dummy who got pregnant by the ‘washed out’ king of Hawkins High. It was probably going to be one of his peers, and it was never going to be Nancy Wheeler.
Things were obviously more detailed at the time, but you and Steve had come together in a fling. It’s not a relationship that you’d pictured for yourself, but it’s not as though you set your sights on him and thought, yeah, I’m going to fuck him. It was more that he was friendly, and you were both at the same bar at the same time sitting by yourselves, and with a little gin and a ton of mutual loneliness, it’d felt natural to let him kiss you against the hood of his car. When he drove you home, worried you’d get stuck in the rain, you’d offered him into an empty house. Things snowballed from there.
The sex was good. Steve was kind. He was a bit awkward from time to time and he didn’t know what to say without putting his foot in his mouth, but you liked it. Liked him.
Then the test. Then the memory of his Harrington name, how his mom wanted him to marry a socialite and his dad was priming him to get into the family business, whatever that may be. That silly conversation about kids. “I’d never put them through it,” he’d said, naked and tracing a star into your shoulder blades through the sheets, his hair damp at the nape of his neck with sweat, “are you joking? They’d be the loneliest kid ever.”
You remember laughing softly. You’d wanted him to say something different, but you aren’t sure what it is he could’ve said to make it right enough to stay.
In the end, you figured Leah could be part of a brand new start. You applied for a job in the classifieds and uprooted the rest of your life to go to it, and when you finally had your baby, you didn’t let yourself call Steve. What use would that have been, letting him smash the lingering, aching bit of your heart that wanted him to love you? You were smart enough then to recognise that your dream for the future was about as childish as getting knocked up at nineteen.
It hurts now, though, as he gets out of the car, how badly you want him to want you, and how stupid you’ve always been.
Steve shuts the door to the BMW and makes his way in a jog across the parking lot. He breathes your name. You’re nervous, not stupid. You don’t try to hide the baby.
She grumbles on your hip.
Steve stands in front of you. He’s remarkably not shouting at you, but he’s not smiling, either. He looks different than the last time you’d seen him for sure, fuller and broader, lip dark with stubble and his hair shorter (but not short). There’s a funny scar stretching unkindly against his throat, startlingly new to you but clearly healed.
He stands there in quiet.
Leah makes a fawning sound, like she’s tired and excited to see a new person.
“Hi, Steve,” you say, to get sound out in the air.
His eyes fall on Leah. She’s a good mix of you both. Got her dad’s eyes and her mom’s nose and a handful of his beauty marks, small dark freckles that sprouted all over her body a few weeks after she was born.
“Is she mine?” he asks, cutting straight to the fat.
You shift her closer to your chest. He’s impossible to read for once, not a lick of anything on his face as he waits for you to answer. The cold chaps your lips and the late-fall sunshine threatens to blind you where it’s rising from behind him.
“You didn’t want to have a baby,” you say carefully. Each word said with less enthusiasm than the previous.
He doesn’t speak. Leah whines at the pause, her hand spreading against your collarbone in protest.
“I know you didn’t. You said it’d be miserable, and you’d get stuck with a woman you didn’t love to save face, and I knew that. I didn’t see any good in… in making you go through that.”
To your complete and utter surprise, his face softens. His mouth puckers in sympathy and his arm twitches like he’s going to reach for you. His hair curls into his eyes in the cold breeze. He squints against it, gaze falling once again on Leah, who he can’t get enough of. He’s full-blown gawking at her, watching her sigh and sniffle and press her hand into your neck.
“Is she mine?” Steve asks again.
You clear your throat to answer, but you can’t summon the words. Your nod is jerky and embarrassed and annoyed, all at once. Of course she’s his baby. She looks so much like him, and you never let anybody else touch you.
Steve opens his mouth to finally speak and you cut him off. “Well, she’s mine,” you say tightly.
He nods like he understands. He doesn’t even look mad at the insinuation.
“Her name is Leah.” If he’d been angry with you, cruel, even agitated, which maybe he deserves to be, you’re not sure you could offer this to him now. “She… she looks a lot like you, huh?” you ask.
Steve manages a laugh, strained as it may be. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.” He swallows harshly. “I thought if I came by the house you’d turn me away. Uh. Because I thought there must’ve been a reason you didn’t want me to know, but now we’re… here.”
You glance around the parking lot. His tattle of a child has made himself scarce.
“Do you wanna come home with me?” you ask. Mostly for want of something to say.
“Yeah.”
You go to leave, but Steve makes a sound and brings you right back. Without comment, he curls an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into a half-hug, slotting his nose against your temple like he used to, even as you tense up in his embrace.
“I thought you’d be more angry at me than this,” you say under your breath.
“Yeah, that’s not really how I work.” He parts from you awkwardly and points to the car. “I’ll follow you?” he asks.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He turns very suddenly and makes his way to his car.
You meander to your own car and pop open Leah’s door. “Sorry, Lee,” you murmur, tucking her into her carseat.
“Why?” she murmurs.
“We’re gonna go to meemaw’s, okay?” If your mom could hear you calling her meemaw before her stroke she’d have knocked you up the side of the head, but it’s all Leah’s ever known her as, and meemaw doesn’t have much choice in the matter now. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel sick.
“Okay.”
You kiss her cheek, getting stuck there with your nose in her hair, all manner of panic and awkwardness and I’d-rather-nots thrumming through you. I should’ve stayed in Portland, you think.
Leah kisses your cheek while you’re stooped there. Your misery takes a backseat as you gather your bearings.
You climb into your own seat, close the door, lock it, and shove the keys in the ignition. Steve’s car idles a few spaces behind, waiting for you to go. You cannot put this off much longer, but you’d pictured the moment so differently, there’s a sense of unreality now. Is this happening? Did you really spill the truth to him the very first time he asked?
Where’s your backbone?
Where’s your common sense?
With a groan, you pull the car out of the space and begin the drive to your mom’s house. You were never close with her, as strange as it seems. She was a woman with interests and her kid happened incidentally. It doesn't bother you anymore. You came to Hawkins to take care of her. Nobody else was going to do it for you, but so far she’s been an easy patient. She needs help making dinner and she can’t walk more than the length of the hall without finding herself breathless, but she’s recovering slowly, so long as her mental faculties recoup with her body, she’ll be alright.
You, however, have screwed the entire pooch. You look at Leah in the rearview mirror and worry you’ve ruined her entire life.
“Chill,” you say to yourself quietly, almost missing the road to your mom’s house. Worst comes to worst and we go home to Portland, you tell yourself. Nothing has to change.
“Mommy?”
“Mm?” you ask.
Leah leans forward in her car seat, huffing with annoyance when the belts keep her in place. The jacket she’s wearing has bunched into a lump under her chin. “Off?” she asks.
“Two minutes.”
“Off.”
“Let me park the car, Lee. I’ll take it off of you as soon as we get home.”
She whines long and loud.
“Sorry, sweet girl. Two minutes and we’re there.”
Leah sulks the entire way there. You park in the space in front of the house and hurry out of the car, quick enough to see Steve in the bimmer pulling onto the sidewalk. You open Leah’s door and offer her a huge smile, hoping to cull a tantrum with bubbly affection. “Hi, off?”
“Yes!”
You laugh to yourself and bring her out, even as your heartbeat climbs up your throat. You can hear Steve getting out of his car as you unbuckle Leah from the car seat and drag her out. You sit her in the slight dip of the window and use your stomach to keep her up as your fingers search for the zipper of her coat. You pull it tight down and unzipper her, freeing her of the thing that had been irking her so bad and restoring her good mood.
She exhales dramatically in relief, which has you laughing again. “Is that better?” you ask through it.
“Better,” she echoes.
Leah sits up at the sound of shoes on gravel. Steve’s crossing the drive, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Who?” she asks.
Uhhhh.
“He’s gonna come in and have dinner with us, okay?”
“Y’okay.”
“Yeah?”
Leah nods enthusiastically. You can see Steve grinning in your peripheral vision, and it’s so much like Leah’s smile you find your heart going haywire.
“Okay,” you say, your full attention to Steve. “Is that cool?”
“Can we talk, first?”
You don’t blame him for asking.
“Yeah, we’ll talk first. But… my mom, she’s not doing the best right now, so. Maybe we should talk outside?”
“I’m not going to yell.”
“No, but. If you’re angry, I get it, but she can’t cope with that right now.”
“Are you angry?” he asks.
“No.”
“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” he says, the sound of his smile palpable as Leah gives one back. “I’m not gonna yell. I promise.”
You show him into the house. It feels like walking yourself to the gallows.
The room is narrow. The sides of your vision start to dissolve as you drop your car keys in the bowl by the door, then walk Leah to the kitchen. You hold her one handed as you palm off her shoes, dropping them and then her on the floor by the kitchen table. “Okay?” you ask her.
She wanders off toward the living room and the sound of TV.
Steve Harrington’s standing in your mom’s rinky dink kitchen waiting for you to talk. You’re standing there useless, taking sips of air that sting, waiting for him to cut the crap and berate you. It would make sense. If he’s upset that you didn’t tell him you were pregnant, or that you were stupid enough to keep her, to get pregnant in the first place, it wouldn’t surprise you. Men are cruel, and Steve had a reputation for popularity. It would make sense for him to be mean to you now.
“How old is she?” he asks finally.
“She’s turning two soon.”
Steve seems to be holding his tongue.
“Just– ask.” You try to look sorry. “Ask me whatever you want.”
“Can I–” He throws a hand out, the first sign that he’s not as genial as he appears. “Can I be her dad?”
You flinch. “What?”
“Like, I want to be her dad. A real dad. I want to be in her life, I want her to know me. Did you think I wouldn’t want that?”
“I didn’t think you wanted kids at all.”
“I want kids.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I always wanted a whole team of them.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“When? When you told me you were having my baby?”
This is more what you’d been expecting. There’s a cruel pleasure in being vindicated. “When you told me you didn’t want kids, Steve. You said you didn’t want a miserable kid in a miserable marriage, what was I supposed to glean from that?”
“Exactly, I didn’t want a miserable kid, which is exactly what I was, and I didn’t want it in an arranged marriage that my mom thought would be good for me.” His anger drains a little. “I never meant– I mean, even if I didn’t, you should’ve told me.”
“She’s my baby.”
“That’s not fair.”
“That’s totally fair, she’s literally mine.”
“It’s not fair to act like I wouldn’t have cared,” he clarifies, frowning at you. It’s so disappointed-looking it pisses you off worse, but you're trying to keep a level head. Nobody here deserves for you to blow up and say words you don’t mean.
You bite your lip. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I wasn’t convinced that you would. I wanted what was best for me and her.”
“I can be best for you both.”
You wait for him to hold it up. To prove what he means.
“If she’s mine, I want to be her dad,” he says.
“If?”
He waves a hand, like he could roll his eyes. He should thank his lucky stars he didn’t. “Not like that, I’m not saying she’s not, I just want to look after her.”
“She’s looked after.”
“I’m not saying she’s not,” he says, uneasy now, shifting to hide a hand in his pocket. He wasn’t expecting you to be difficult, you think. “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything about you, I’m asking you if I can do right by you.”
“You might not actually want her, Steve.”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the kids told me. I didn’t get a good look at her, but the idea? Just the idea of her? I wanted it.”
You sigh, frustrated, and set your sights on the fridge. “Can’t believe you had kids posted up at Bradley’s to stalk me,” you murmur.
“I needed to see her for myself.”
“Steve... You’re twenty three. We aren’t married. You don’t have to be anything to her, you don’t have to do right by me, we don’t have to play house until you’re miserable. In a couple of months we’ll go home to Portland and you don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you don’t have to worry. You can tell everyone you tried and I said no and you’ll still look good.”
“Why are you being like this?” he asks, leaving little air between your sentence and his. “What are you talking about? I’m asking you if I can keep you guys and you’re trying to run me out?”
“Keep us?” you ask indignantly.
“Yes!” He clears his throat. “I don’t get why you left without telling me and I am angry, but I also don’t understand what it’s like to have to make that decision, and I’m sorry you made it by yourself, and I don’t blame you for running away. Okay? Is that okay?”
He’s so loud, then, so tightly wound and upset, his voice a shade of pleading, that the protests you’d been making die on your lips.
“Yeah,” you say quietly.
“You didn’t think I wanted a baby, and I guess I didn’t give you a reason to think that, but I do want one. I would’ve— if you’d told me, I would’ve lost my mind. I’m still losing it.”
You pull out a chair at the kitchen table to take a wobbly seat. Your heart is racing, that stupid kiddie feeling of being in trouble for hurting him clouded by a lingering sense of mistrust. You’d thought… all these years, that Steve didn’t want kids, or marriage, or anything, and– and– maybe you didn’t run away because of him, maybe it was all you, maybe—
“Hey,” he says, a hand landing between your shoulders, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” you ask, sharper than you mean to.
“I don’t know. I wanted you to stop freaking out.”
“Well,” you say, licking your lips, your breath coming short and shallow, “it didn’t work.”
Steve Harrington rubs your back. You try desperately to chill out, Leah in the other room, your mom sleeping or listening, probably already wound up from all the ruckus, and Steve, who you haven’t seen in years, who used to kiss all over your face before he’d hug you in the dark of his bedroom, waiting for you to calm down so he can say what he needs to.
A chair pulls out next to yours after a while. Steve sits beside you, resting his hand on your knee.
After a few minutes, you cover his hand with yours.
“She’s beautiful,” he says.
“Looks like her mom,” you mumble.
“Yeah, she does. More like me though.”
You huff a weak laugh.
“Are you gonna throw me out?” Steve asks.
“You want to be her dad?”
For a few seconds, you worry he hasn’t heard you. But he rubs a small back and forth on your leg and says, “Please.”
“Okay. Okay, then. I’m not letting you meet her if you’re not serious, Steve. You have to mean it.” You raise your eyes to his and all his perfect lashes. “Promise?”
He offers his pinky, which is so dumb. This whole scenario is so stupid. Too bad it’s mostly (almost entirely) your own fault.
You shake his pinky. He keeps them tied for a long time.
In a rush, you sniffle yourself dry and usher Leah into the room with a hand on her shoulder. She is so, so small. At least your mom missed the commotion, sleeping sat up in the armchair.
“You promise?” you ask Steve, pausing at the table.
Steve nods emphatically. By the looks of things, he’s all in.
You pull your chair out opposite Steve and scoop Leah into your lap. You hold her wrist in your hand gently and lean down to talk in her ear. “Okay, Lee. I gotta tell you something, okay?”
“Y’okay.”
“This is daddy.”
You can tell he’s not expecting such a straightforward introduction, but after a moment, he cannot hide his smile. Leah looks at him with his almond shaped eyes, all smiles in return.
“Okay? This is daddy, and he’s gonna spend some time with us.”
“Huh?”
You point at Steve, smiling even as your hand trembles between you both. “This is your daddy. He missed you very much and wanted to see you. Can you say hi?”
“Hi,” Leah says, her voice raspy and high.
“Hi, Leah,” he says, ever so slightly choked up. Just barely.
“He was my best friend,” you say, “and he wants to be your best friend, too. Do you want to play a game with daddy?”
“Wam’ play game?” Leah asks Steve.
“Please, I would love to play a game. What game do you like?” he asks.
“Um…” Leah places her hand in his and you could probably weep, but he’s smiling at her with so much love as he waves it up and down you never get there. She shakes her fist up and down in his, giggling when he over exaggerates her strength.
“Woah, strong girl!” he says. “Don’t break my arm!”
Leah gives him a good shake.
—
“I do not understand why you’re so calm. How you’re so calm. This is not how I’ve seen you react to things.”
Steve pushes the shopping cart into Robin’s hip. She squawks and thrusts it at him, the crate of kiddie water bottles he’d balanced on the bottom rung hitting him clean in the ankle.
“How am I supposed to react?” he asks, wincing as he brings his leg up to rub at the new wound.
“Uh, to blow the fuck up?” She tucks her hair behind her ears, staring at him. “I was expecting more whining, if I’m totally honest.”
Steve gets back to the task at hand. The aisle they’re in is pink no matter where you look, full of Barbie dolls and ballerina tutus and teddy bears with hearts in their palms. “What would you want if you were two?” he asks.
Robin offers one of her kinder smiles. “I guess I’d want everything.”
“Well, Y/N’s not gonna like that.”
He wants to take care of you both. He doesn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t doing that already. So. The cart is full of stuff for him mostly, things he’ll need to look after Leah should he ever be allowed to take her by himself, which he assumes he will. He’s got diapers, sippy cups, wet wipes, rash creams, a mountain of clothes he has to remember to keep the receipt for, baby snacks, a changing pad, bath toys. He has a towel like a poncho with a ladybug hood and a great big bottle of bathroom cleaner to shape things up for his baby.
He also got you pajamas. He’s not sure why. He remembers that old pair you used to wear whenever he’d make it to your place with the pink and purple plaid, and he’d been wondering if you kept them, and a desire to see you in them again had come over him and now they’re in the cart. He’s hoping he can sort of slip them in between diapers.
Steve doesn’t want to show you up, but he does want to prove he’s being serious, emotionally and physically —financially. Leah is his baby. Kids are expensive, and she must’ve already cost you a small fortune, and you didn’t want his help but you can bet you’ll be getting it, not singularly because he cared for you (he has to gloss it into that one word, care, things being complicated enough as it stands without remembered notions of falling and love) but because Leah is literally his baby.
He pauses on the spot.
Leah is his girl. He’s allowed to buy her things. It will not be an insult.
He grabs a Barbie with a puppy dog on a leash, a box of stickle bricks, a teddy bear with a big cutesy grin, and purple bunny rabbit to be his best friend.
Robin watches him put it all in the cart in silence.
“Is that enough?” he asks, despite previous internal decisions. She’s his best friend. Everyone needs one.
Robin turns on the spot to look at the shelves behind them, grabbing a box set of storybooks bound with ribbon down the spines. “These ones are from me,” she says, dumping them next to the second jumbo box of diapers.
“I’m not, like, super angry,” he says, getting behind the cart to push for the checkout. “I want kids. I want Leah. This isn’t a bad thing.”
“You kind of missed out on a lot,” Robin says. Carefully, not to be cruel, but to present it to him in case he hasn’t thought about it. Obviously he’s thought about it, but.
“I mean, yeah. But do you remember being a baby?”
“It’s, like, a deep down thing.”
He swallows. “Sure, I don’t like that I didn’t get to be there when Leah was a baby, but… I’m finding it hard to be mad when she was protecting all of us from things we didn’t want, or, that’s what she thought.” Steve gives a jerky shrug. “I’m sure she got enough love from her without me, but I’m gonna make up for whatever she missed out on.”
“Okay. Well, when you explode, I’m literally right here.”
Steve is overcome with the urge to snuggle her in the middle of the store, but he hits her with the shopping cart again and feels the thanks get stuck in his throat. “I’m not gonna explode. I’m happy.”
Steve is thrilled. He has a baby. He has a child. Maybe it’s not the wife and six kids he thought he wanted, but Leah is his baby.
“She’s mine,” he says.
“I know, dingus. You’ve said it a hundred times.”
He parks his cart at the belt behind a grandma buying cat food. “I can’t wait for you to meet her, Rob, she’s–”
“She’s beautiful,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “We’re way too young for kids, Steven. You were supposed to go to college.”
“I’m still gonna go!”
“With what money?”
Steve will save again. It’s community college.
Robin holds his eye. He avoids it, starts putting things on the checkout belt. “You’re doing the only thing you can do,” she says, “I don’t wanna be friends with a deadbeat, but I wanted you to go. I’m too young to be an Aunt.”
“I’ll going, Rob.”
“Fine. I believe you.”
“Can you help?”
She pulls stuff out of the cart reluctantly.
Together, they pack what can be bagged and take it all to the car. Steve drops Robin off at home without much of a goodbye —either she’ll call him tonight or he’ll call her, ‘cos one way or another, they’re gonna talk. Then he takes the side road to your mom’s house and parks the bimmer behind your old blue Pontiac.
He grabs the toys and the bag of groceries. He’ll have to make another trip for the diapers, but he figures it’s best to see your reaction before he lugs it all up the driveway.
You answer the door. Parenting has been going better than expected considering you kept the baby a secret for two whole years, and you’re already smiling when you see him. Things were awkward that first week, but he’s been coming by every single day after work if he works, bright and early if he doesn’t. He can tell you’re growing more confident in his promises. He’s not gonna realise how big this whole thing is and run. He’s well aware of how world-changing his decision was to stay, but it wasn’t a decision at all.
“Hi, is she awake yet?” he asks. Leah naps every day at noon.
“Mm-hm. She was asking me for daddy all morning,” you say. Secrets you may have kept, but you’re glad for both of them whenever Steve and Leah get along. “I promised you’d be here after dinner.”
“Is it cool that I’m early?”
You eye the bags in his hands. “Sure. I already told you, I’m not gonna dictate anything. You can see her when you want to… What’s that?”
“I was thinking I’d make dinner?” He shakes the lighter bag. “And this is for Leah.”
“Right. Okay.”
You let Steve in. He, despite all things in his body that remember this song and dance and demand he kiss your cheek hello, powers through to the kitchen without making a fool of himself.
“Brought your favourite. Thought Leah would probably like it, since you liked it so much,” he says. “And those pastries you loved.”
“You want me to go grab her?”
“Where is she?”
“She’s sitting with my mom. Don’t think she heard the door, she would’ve come out running by now. She’s a little sleepy.”
“That’s okay. I can put all this away and I’ll go see if she’s awake.”
You cross your arms over your stomach, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t have to get stuff for me.”
“I wanted to.”
“You don’t have to, though. Leah’s your baby, but I’m…”
He feels achy in his jaw. He abandons the bag full of groceries to look at you fully. “If you’d turned up here without Leah, after two years of full radio silence, no letters and no clue where you went, if you came back, I’d want to see you. You know that, right?”
“I…”
“I asked your mom where you went, did you know that?”
“No.”
“Well, she wouldn’t tell me.”
“I don’t think she knew.”
Steve hates how much that annoys him, hates the way he relates to it. He dries his hands on his pants, not sure if he wants to hug you or tip your head with his thumb at chin, forcing you to look at him, to say the things he’s said in his head before bed a couple nights a week for years.
Steve Harrington does not love by halves.
“You’d tell me if you were gonna leave again, right?” he asks.
“We are leaving.”
“I know, I know, but. You’re not gonna disappear in the middle of the night.”
“No, Steve. I’ll tell you before we go home. I promise.”
His shoulders relax. “Okay, then, I’ll keep bringing stuff you like, too. Trade deal.”
“Mutually beneficial. I won't kidnap your baby again and you bring me raspberry turnovers.”
“Exactly.”
You surprise him with a laugh. “Okay.”
“Okay, good,” he says, grinning, wondering if he’s finally paving a path into your lap again.
From the doorway of the kitchen comes a pleased gasp. “Daddy?” Leah asks, her eyes widening in delight, feet stomping on the spot, “Hi, daddy!”
He was supposed to give this up for community college? Steve squats down in a half-second and holds out his hands, ready for an armful of sleepy toddler. Her hair is all puffy and her pajamas big at the neck like she’d wriggled for hours, but she’s soft, smells clean as he wraps his arms around her and she burrows into his neck.
“Hi, Leah,” he says softly.
Leah hums her content.
“Good nap?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? Did you have a good dream?”
She laughs as he strokes her back. He must’ve tickled her. “Da-ddy,” she says, a long, pulling word.
She’s so small Steve can’t hug her properly like this, so he hooks her in one arm and stands up to his full height, catching your unreadable expression from over her shoulder. Whatever you’d been thinking fades away, your smile strengthening as Leah pulls out of his neck to wave at you.
“Mommy,” she says, poking at Steve’s neck. “Look. Daddy’s for dinner.”
Steve laughs loudly. “I’m for dinner? You’re gonna eat me? I thought you liked me!” His head falls in a dramatic agony. “Leah wants to cook me up for dinner, I can’t believe it.”
“No!” Leah says, giggling as she grabs his face. She pulls at his cheeks, forcing his head up. “Not eating,” she says, like he’s silly.
Steve shifts her so she’s sitting braced on his lower belly, looking down at her. God, she’s so pretty. She’s perfect. She’s tiny, slim for her age according to you, but she isn’t weak. She holds herself up, her hands confident as they spread over his chest. Steve has to confess that this feeling is the strongest he’s ever experienced. Nothing compares to looking at this little kid who already treats him like he’s the best person she’s ever met, knowing that she’s his. He has to look after her. He gets to be loved by her without hesitation. Leah has no reason to love him, and yet here she is giggling in his arms from the excitement of seeing him. It’s like every day she likes him more, and every day, Steve gets to love her more. It’s so weird, but it's nice.
“I brought you something,” he says, shifting her again so he can cover her back with one arm, using the other to brush a stray bit of lint off of her face. “But– mommy, can she have it now?” he asks.
You flush. Steve recognises this look on you, pleased and startled. He’s seen it on you a hundred different times. You were always that girl who didn’t expect kindness, or to be considered. He remembers how endearing it was to surprise you with a kiss to say thank-you, or picking up the bill no matter how casual dinner felt, or something as small as helping you into your pajamas after you’d both showered. It was heartbreaking, but he’s never been unfamiliar with the bare minimum.
“Yeah, of course she can.”
“Alright,” Steve says, grinning. “Your Aunt Robin sent me with a gift for you, but daddy’s is better, so you can have mine first.” He twists for the bag it’s in and yanks it out, Barbie to him so she can’t see. “It’s only small, but I saw it and I thought you’d like it.”
“Can have?” she asks.
“Depends. Can I have a hug first?” he asks, checking your face to make sure he’s not being weird.
Leah nods erratically and throws herself forward. Steve gets a big kiss right on his smooth-shaven cheek, and he can’t stop himself from beaming, his punched out sigh poorly suppressed as he turns her to give her a much gentler kiss at the very top of her cheek. “Thanks, Lee.”
Her eyes squint with a smile. “Can I have, please?”
Steve brings the box up and tosses it to flip it, brandishing it right way round to her glee.
“Barbie!” she cries.
“With a puppy!”
“Oh gosh.”
Steve bursts out laughing. “Gosh! Should we get the box open? Then you can gosh at the accessories. She has two pairs of shoes, Leah. Two!”
Leah squirms to be put down, hands clenched tightly on each side of the box. You’re already grabbing scissors to get it open.
“Thank you.” You lean over Leah to start the dissection.
“Don’t,” he says, quiet but less shame-faced. “You don’t have to say thanks.”
You shake your head to yourself. “Yeah, well.”
“She deserves it, and it’s not up to you to say thanks. I’m serious.”
“It’s nice of you.”
He doesn’t know how to prove how certain he is about staying. He decides to keep his mouth shut for now, which is hard. Almost slips up that whole evening. You don’t look happy when he doubles back before he leaves that night with the bag of snacks and the huge box of diapers, but he catches you as you and Leah stand on the stoop waving at the bimmer. You’re smiling. A real one, teeth on display for the first time since you came home.
—
“Okay,” you say quietly, “up, baby. And another one. Good job.”
Leah demonstrates a unique level of concentration as she climbs up the stairs with you. You’d have carried her if she didn’t insist she could do it herself with a displeased squeal. Her eyes are nearly closed, her tongue slipping between her lips and a hand thrown out for balance, the other held in your own as she manages two, then three, the few shallow steps that lead into the WSQK building.
“Hi,” you greet a quiet man sitting at the door. “Is Steve in?”
“Think so. Why?”
“I wanted to talk to him, if that’s okay.”
The man gives you a suspicious look that eventually metes. “Sure. Gotta knock the booth before you go in, though, they might be on the air.”
“Sure. Thank you.”
Leah stumbles with you inside. There’s a wide wooden panelled room and smaller glass one within. You knock on it and wait for movement, too scared to look through the panels. You’ve learned that Robin has her very own radio show on the 94.5 called The Morning Squawk, and Steve, through best-friend nepotism, gets to be her sound guy. He has this WSQK van they drive around to do on the road interviews, and they’re both a hundred times happier here than they were rewinding tapes at Family Video.
It’s a pretty firm knot of roots to lay.
The door opens a good fifteen seconds after you’d knocked. You’re immediately greeted by a blondified Robin Buckley, her freckled cheeks slack with surprise. “Uh…”
“Hi, Robin.”
“Hi,” she says.
The last time you saw Robin, you’d been laying on Steve’s couch in his socks and what might’ve been Robin’s own sweatshirt, the three of you arguing on what movie to watch and what candy you were gonna tip into your popcorn. You’d laid your head in Steve’s lap.
“Leah,” you say, clearing your throat as subtly as possible, “say hi, bubby.”
“Hi, bubby,” Leah says.
Robin snorts.
“This is your daddy’s best friend ever, Aunt Robin,” you say, shooting Robin a sorry look as you mouth, “Is that cool?”
Robin culls your misery and manages a real smile. “That’s me, babe.” She bends at the waist. “Oh, you really do look like Steve. Shit, this is so cool.” Her awkwardness has melded to full-bodied delight. “You’re like his twin! Well, you do look like your mommy, duh, but this is trippy! Hey, did you get your books?”
Leah looks up at her with huge eyes.
“Did you like your storybooks?” you ask Leah, kneeling down behind her to hold her shoulder. “Aunt Robin gave you those ones, remember, daddy read one to you about the ugly duckling?”
“The duckies,” Leah says factually.
“Awesome,” Robin says. “I’m so happy you liked them, sweetie. And I’m so happy to meet you.”
You don’t question for a second that she means it.
You pat Leah on the shoulder. “Aunt Robin is your daddy’s best friend in the whole world.”
“Daddy’s here?” she asks Robin.
“Uh, not right now, he had to go get lunch.”
“Oh.”
“But you can totally come in!” she says, opening the door to the booth wide. “I can show you how the radio works! And then Steve– then dad can come back. I bet he’ll be here any second.”
“You’re not busy?” you ask.
“I mean?” Robin laughs, nervously incredulous, “if I ever have kids they’d be her cousins. That’s pretty important. And, like, she’s Steve’s, so? I’d die for her?” Robin scratches a hand through her hair. “Come on, baby Stevie, I’ll show you the keyboard. It’s your dad’s favourite gimmick.”
You hover in the middle of the small room as Robin slides a chair over to the desk with a keyboard and a mic balanced on top of it. She glances at you before she holds her hands out to Leah, and Leah goes into them willingly. Robin pulls her up and settles her in the chair. She can barely see the keys, but she’s already reaching for them as Robin starts to explain which ones do what, toggling a switch that you assume makes sure whatever sounds Leah plays are off air.
You sit yourself down on a loveseat by the door.
“We can play all of this stuff on the radio in the car,” Robin says, “do you listen to the radio?”
“The music, bubby,” you say.
Leah gives a neck-breaking nod.
“Well, me and dad choose what songs to play. Do you have a favourite song?”
“She loves ‘Save it For Later’ by The Beat. She gets super into it,” you say.
“Oh, we have that one! Let’s queue it up, Leah.”
Leah mashes the keyboard in a cacophony of introductions and funny sounds, then a long run of the Rockin’ Robin intro. She finds a sound bite of applause loaded up on the tape deck, hitting it over and over as she giggles.
“Be careful, Lee, don’t break it.”
Her hitting doesn’t slow.
“Lee,” you say more firmly, “baby, stop. You have to be nice. Don’t slap the buttons.”
Leah throws you a glare. “Mommy,” she whines.
“What? You have to be nice to other people’s things. Aunt Robin is letting you play with her keyboard, but it’s important. It’s okay to try all the buttons! But with nice hands. Yeah?”
The ajar door opens fully. “Is my Leah not being nice?” Steve asks, already beaming with all his teeth as he sees her behind the keyboard. “I don’t believe that for a second!”
Leah wiggles her excitement in the depths of the chair. Doesn’t bother calling out for him, there’s no need. Steve laughs, saying hi with a quick hand dropped on your shoulder, the gentlest squeeze anyone’s ever given with his thumb rubbing a half circle before he bends down by Leah’s chair. “Hi,” he says, your heart beating so loudly in your ears that you hardly hear him. “You’re at the radiohouse! Did Rockin’ Robin show you how to play a song? Do you wanna talk on the microphone?”
“Hi,” Leah says.
“Hi.”
“Hug me now?”
Steve’s like butter in the sun. He melts into nothing. “Yeah, babe, right now.”
She slinks forward and he picks her up, standing with a baby on his hip like he’s been doing it all his life.
“I’m gonna play her a song,” Robin says. “My queues almost empty.”
“Okay, thanks,” he says, to which Robin wrinkles her nose.
“Sure,” she says, sending you a look as she heads to her desk. Like, get a load of this idiot.
Steve presses his nose to Leah’s hair and smells her. Then he smiles, patting the small of her back.
Leah looks straight at you and says, “Daddy’s here,” in case you weren’t aware.
Steve blinks away a pained flutter, his brow pulling like he’d been in pain, quickly wiped away and hidden by the time Leah glances at him again.
You think maybe, for a second, he’d wanted to cry.
“Steve?” you ask quietly. “You okay?”
“Yeah. No, yeah.”
“You sure?”
He tugs Leah higher on his hip. “I’m okay,” he tells you, holding your gaze, his left sclera bloodshot but his nearly-tears blinked away. “I’m great, ‘cos Leah’s here,” he adds, pressing his mouth to Leah’s cheek, “at work! She’s a working girl now, we gotta get you on the payroll.”
It’s a little while later, sitting on the couch and waiting for Steve to ask you what it is you’re doing here, when the door opens. Leah perks up in his lap, the headphones she’d been wearing falling down around her neck in a heap that makes her cringe, giving a warbly cry as Steve offers assurances to her.
You’re focused on the teenager standing in the door. It’s the kid.
His eyes widen at the sight of you.
“Lucas Sinclair,” you greet, giving him a stony look. “You ratted me out.”
“Uh– did I?”
“I know it was you.”
Lucas grimaces. “Are we sure it was me?”
“I saw you.”
“Steve could’ve got the information from anyone.”
You glare for a few more seconds, then relax. “I’m messing with you, Lucas. I’m not mad. Even if you are a narc.”
“I am not! I told Dustin and it was Dustin that radioed Steve. He’s the narc. I said we had to wait for proof.”
“Well, thanks for trying.”
Lucas hesitates with you, though he comes further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “I am sorry. Kind of.”
“We’re working things out.”
Leah tugs the headphones off of her head and out of the outlet in a great show of toddler rage, Steve laughing where he holds her. He grabs the headphones before Leah can throw them at the floor. “Hey!” he admonishes through laughter, “Those aren’t mine, babe. Should we put them on the desk?”
Steve takes them from her and sets them high. He moves the chair, bumping Leah on his knee, forcing her eyes to the new figure in the room. “Look, Lee, it’s your Uncle Lucas.”
Lucas gives an awkward, endearing smile. “Hi.”
“Hi!” Leah says.
“What’s up?” Steve asks.
“Can I get a ride, tonight? I asked my dad but he’s going to that miniature car thing.”
“Where to?”
“Max’s.”
“Why are you being cagey?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“I’m not!”
“You so are, dude. What’s happening at Max’s?”
“Nothing! She doesn’t, like, know I’m going, that’s all.”
Steve leans in his chair in what would be a total act of casual derision if he weren’t also holding Leah to his front, his fingers waving patterns into her tummy affectionately. “So I’m gonna be on her shit list for whatever it is you have planned? No deal, dude.”
“I’m not in trouble. She’s not mad at me,” Lucas says.
“For once.”
“She’s not. I have a surprise planned? And it’s gonna get ruined on my bike, so.”
Steve’s suspicion wavers. “What sort of surprise?” he asks.
His smile is nice. Doesn’t it suit him? He’s calm where he sits despite the rumble of noise coming from Robin’s booth and Leah talking to herself in his lap. The red glow of the ON AIR light makes his brown hair nearly purple at the tops but leaves his face untouched, tan fading pale in the fall, his beauty marks the darkest bit of colour to him when you aren’t looking into the well of his eyes. His irises are like wet tree bark. His lashes look long from across the room.
And his biceps don’t look half bad when they’re wrapped around your baby. Her tiny stature emphasises the bulk he’s put on while you were in Portland. You’ve been noticing more of him lately—his weight gain, the change in his muscle, the cut of his hair, those reading glasses he keeps in the console of his car. But there are things about him that didn’t change. He’s pretty happy, as things go. He likes doing things for other people.
Their conversation drifts into focus. “…not too much, right?”
“Nah, I think that’s appropriate. Four years of dating is a long time.”
“Even if you’re broken up for half a year in the middle?”
Steve chuckles. Leah looks up at the sound. “I wouldn’t mention that part,” he says. “Look, I’ll come get you after I’m done here–”
“You’re not coming tonight?” you ask, entirely sincere in asking. Not a lick of judgement in it, but surprise, and a second emotion you aren’t eager to name.
“I was– I was gonna come,” Steve says. “If that’s cool.”
“Oh, sure. Sorry. I thought you were– Yeah, it’s fine,” you say.
Steve looks at you for a long second. “I can’t miss out on dinner,” he says, dipping down to speak in Leah’s ear, “can I? What am I making tonight, Lee, do you remember?”
“S’getti,” she says, with a vindication bordering evil.
Steve presses his lips together. Shrugs at Lucas smugly. “S’getti,” he says. “I’ll be there at six, okay?”
Lucas shoots an “Awesome, thank you, sorry,” over his shoulder as he leaves.
“Thank you sorry,” Leah repeats.
Steve has to lock into work and he doesn’t ask you to leave, moving Leah around in his arms and plugs the headphones in. She enjoys the novelty enough to sit there without complaining, bathed in attention. It’s weird to have Leah with you without having to look after her. Like, she gets uncomfortable and Steve moves her. She whines in his arm and he opens a drawer to uncover a bag of chips. He does ask if it’s alright for her to eat them, but you say yes and he doesn’t need guidance after that. He wipes her dirty face in his sleeve and twists a knob on the keyboard.
He is startlingly capable.
You are startlingly hot.
You pull at your neckline, wishing you’d brought a book to read or a zip tie to garrote yourself with for thinking such stupid shitty thoughts.
—
Steve packs his shit up at five with Leah on his hip, happy to stay with him. You’ve been quiet bordering silent and he hasn’t summoned up the bravery to ask why. He didn’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘cos you’re here, and you brought Lee without any begging on his part. He shows her off to everyone they pass on the way out, less subtly to the smiley cleaner Cindy who loves to call him handsome in the morning. Who’s this? she asks.
This is my baby, Leah.
The problem arises when he’s trying to pass Leah to you to part ways in the parking lot.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard something that loud,” Robin laments, blinking fast. Because, despite years and time to learn, he’s her ride home.
Leah screams another ear-splitter. “No!” she’s shouting. “No, no!”
She sobs.
You try to disentangle her from Steve’s chest. He can feel your individual fingers pressing into his pecs. “Lee, come on!” you say, laughing nervously. “Daddy has stuff to do, we’ll see him for dinner!”
She sobs louder.
Robin shakes her head as though dislodging water from her ears.
“Baby, please,” you say, apparently possessing the patience of a god, “it’s okay, I promise, it’s not long. We’ll be okay for a bit.”
Leah sews her hands in his hair tightly, yanking until it stings. Steve flinches and you immediately stop trying to make Leah disengage.
“Sorry, honey,” you say, and Steve realises with a full body start you’ve spoken to him, your hand resting open on his upper shoulder. It’s an obvious slip of the tongue. You lean forward with a slight stammer, “I– Leah, don’t pull, you’re hurting.”
“Not going,” Leah says.
“Just for now!”
“No!”
You give Steve a wide-eyed frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t do this… usually.”
“That’s okay, it’s fine, maybe you could come with me?”
You nibble your lip. “I gotta go check on my mom, I haven’t been home all day, I don’t know if she’s eaten yet.”
Steve tries to pass Leah into your arms with renewed purpose. The snap of hair behind his ear gives him pause. “Uh, can she come with me?” Steve asks, loud now, his head angled against her hand. “Ow, Lee!”
Leah stops pulling his hair with a sob.
“I’ll take her with me and I’ll drop Robin off, pick Lucas up early, and we’ll come straight to the house.”
You falter.
The thought of you not trusting him hurts his stomach, but you say, “Steve, can you deal with that? She might not get any happier for a while.”
“Sure I can, you’ve had to do it a hundred times. I’m mostly patient. If she doesn’t calm down, I won’t yell–”
“I didn’t think you would.” You pout, wrinkling your nose. “You’d have to move the car seat–”
“Yeah, I got one.”
“You got a car seat?”
“Installed it last week. Jesus Christ, Leah, not the hair!” He reaches up to force her hand as gently as he can away from his scalp. “Baby, owwww. Not the hair.”
Leah shudders away to check he’s not angry. He can see it on her tiny face, the worry. He brings his hand to her cheek, finds his hand is too big, and has to rub her cheek with his thumb alone. “You wanna come with daddy to drop off your Aunt Robin?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Come with you,” she says, a crocodile tear rolling down her cheek.
“But mommy has to go home, is that okay?”
Leah shudders again. “Y’okay.”
“Okay. Give mommy a big kiss,” he says, repeating one of your favourite lines when it’s time for Steve to leave.
You get a kiss. You’re startled, he thinks, almost expressionless in how slack you’ve gone, but Steve smiles at you and you smile in turn. “You know how to do the car seat?” you ask.
“Sure. It’s got the two mechanisms, right? Her arm goes through each of the triangle strap thingys?”
“Yeah. Okay. Are you sure you can manage?”
“Are you okay with me taking her?”
You shrug. He can see why Leah does it as much as she does. “I guess I am. I mean, when we go home… like, you’ll have to have her for summers, I guess?” you ask, and you’re as beautiful as you usually are, the awkward twist of you and your tired eyes don’t touch it. You were beautiful when he walked into the sound room and found you in the loveseat, beautiful when you told him you’d stay for now without saying goodbye, beautiful when he spotted you across the parking lot with his surprise on your hip. You’ve always been beautiful. He knows you don’t feel strongly about your looks, but he does, and now you made his girl? And she looks so much like the two of you?
Steve stares at you, not even in hopes of any realisation, but he stares at you and thinks I cannot let this girl go back to Portland without me.
He doesn’t expect you to stay. All he needs is to beg a ride.
Because yes, Steve will become your awkward cling-on. He’ll find a shitty apartment close to you and he’ll build his life around Leah if that’s all he can have.
But it’s not everything he wants.
“You go take care of your mom, and we’ll meet you for dinner at 6? 6:15 at the latest?”
“Okie dokie.”
Steve rolls his eyes to stop from kissing your cheek. “Say see you later, mommy,” he tells Leah.
“See you later, mommy,” Leah says.
You use his shoulder as an anchor to kiss her cheek. He swears you rub his arm as you pull away, but Robin would call that delusional thinking. “See you soon, bug.”
He watches you walk away. Every step is perfect. “Your mom’s such a bombshell,” he murmurs, “holy sugar, she’s everything.” You turn over the top of the car and give him a wave, blowing Leah a kiss. He wants to catch it. He finger waves back.
Then he spins and finds Robin judging him hard.
It takes them twenty whole human minutes to figure out how to get Leah safely secured in her car seat. Then he spends four minutes framing her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks, enamoured beyond anything to see her in the bimmer. Robin laughs at how lame he is and he strokes a hair off of Leah’s forehead rather than feed into her ridicule. His baby laughs up a storm as he chucks her under the chin.
“Steve, I’m gonna starve!” Robin warns.
“Right, right!”
He kisses Leah’s small forehead and clambers out.
Robin talks a big talk, but she bends around in the passenger seat to chatter to Leah the whole way to her neighbourhood. “And then dad got us stuck on the side of the road! It was crazy! I told him we were in trouble and he kept laughing! But nothing is that funny, Leah, nothing. I think it’s ’cos your dad has a bunch of screws loose from that time he slipped on melted ice cream at work.”
“Don’t listen to her, Lee!” Steve protests, laughing at her rolling giggles.
“He busted his head! Luckily I saved him, because I am very very smart and I went to camp–”
“You went to Girl Scout’s sleep away camp, that’s not real camp! You were there for a week.”
“But they taught me what to do when your dingus gets a concussion,” Robin says, in her silky radio voice that Leah’s magnetised to. “And that’s why dad only looks a bit wonky, as opposed to a lot.”
“I’m not wonky, am I, Lee?” Steve asks, checking the rearview for her.
“Wonky?” she asks.
“Does daddy look wonky?”
“Mm,” she says.
“What! That is so mean! Baby, I thought you liked dad?”
She giggles and goes all shy. Robin, bless her clumsy, alternative, mixed-up huge heart, goes soft as taffy against the seat. “We don’t like him at all, do we?” she asks, reaching out to rub Leah’s arm. Steve nearly hits a curb trying to watch. “Stinky dad. You can be my girl instead, if mom wants to share. I don’t mind your Harrington blood.”
He drops Robin off, but her mom comes out and wants to meet Leah and that’s a whole thing. She’s squarely heartbroken when she first sees her, going, “Aw,” and “Oh,” as her eyes fill with tears.
“Mom!” Robin says.
“Sorry, but she’s beautiful. Well done, Stevie.”
He murmurs a Thank you, Mrs. Buckley and gets the usual It’s Melissa, Steve.
It takes another ten minutes to get Leah in the car after her quick trip. He heads straight for Lucas’ and finds him freaking out about the bouquet he got Max —Erica told him to put salt in the water to keep them fresh. Steve drives him to the florists ten minutes before they close and they end up with two smaller bunches combined into a vibrant hodgepodge.
Steve buys a handful of daisies for Leah, tucking one behind her ear.
Max likes her flowers, but she’s far more interested in the baby. Lucas stands behind her rubbing his mouth.
“She does look like you,” Max says thoughtfully.
“Right? She has my eyes.”
“Yeah.” Max leans into the car. “Hi, Steve’s baby,” she says quietly.
“This is your Aunt Max,” Steve says.
Leah, who has taken all these new aunts and uncles in her stride (or is too young to get what the hell is going on), offers Max a huge smile with her tiny baby teeth. “Hi Am’ Max,” she says.
Max grins despite herself. “Hi. Are you having a good day?”
“Yessss.”
“Yeah?” She glares at Steve momentarily before standing in front of him, like she’s annoyed he’s seen her being normal, like he doesn’t catch her in a good mood all the time. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to lie. Did you have dinner?”
“Max, I am perfectly capable of looking after her.”
“I’m just checking!” She shakes Leah’s hand nicely. “This party had enough boys,” she says.
Steve ruffles Max’s hair, unbound and bouncing behind her. He’s lucky he makes it to the car with his hand.
Steve sighs when they’re on the road to your place. “Okie dokie,” he says, clenching the steering wheel to listen to the leather creak, “let’s go see your mom. It’s only–” He checks his watch. Blinks big and wide. It’s 6:37PM already, and it’s a five minute drive to your side of Hawkins. “Oh, my god. You’re mom is gonna kill me dead.”
“Kill?”
“Kiss!” he says, cringing. “Yep, she’s gonna kiss me! No other words.”
“Y’okay.”
“Who taught you to say that so cutely?” he asks, fully stressed now, the tightness in his voice surprising a giggle out of Leah. “Stop laughing!”
She giggles worse.
He can’t be more anxious as he pulls up to the house. He climbs out of the car, grabs Leah from her car seat, and in his rush to get her home before you murder him, slams his head so hard into the roof of the car he sees stars.
“Oh, fuck,” he says, holding Leah to his chest as his vision fades out.
Your laugh sounds out from behind him. “Every parent has to do it, Steve, I’m sorry to say,” you call, jogging down the path to the car. “I was wondering where you guys went. It’s… Steve?”
He blinks hard as he stands up, his arms around Leah shaky as his head pounds and pounds and pounds. “Sorry,” he says.
“Steve, what’s wrong?” You rest your arm behind his shoulders to hold him. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
He urges you to take Leah.
The pain is radiating from the centre of his skull outward, into each eye and down the nape of his neck. It’s such a sudden sharpness he loses his breath, spotty vision fading in and out as he curls into himself.
“Lee, can you go inside, baby?” he hears you ask. There are a few steps, your dark shadows on the ground drifting further away before one returns, all alone. “Steve, what happened? How hard did you hit your head?” you ask softly.
“It’s– I got that–” Every word pulls at the nausea brewing in his stomach. “I’m gonna–”
Steve gags. He aims for the grass. Everything goes white.
—
Steve does a valiant job of keeping himself upright long enough for you to sit him down inside, but after that, he’s useless.
“Okay, it’s okay,” you’re saying, a ringing in your ears you can’t cope with, “it’s alright, Steve, you’re okay. Come forward, honey, let me see–”
You aren’t sure he’s conscious, but he slumps forward regardless to expose the back of his head. You feel through his hair and pull your hand out quick to check for blood on your fingertips, but they come away clean.
“Daddy?” Leah asks, wandering into the living room with her little smile and a daisy drooping behind her ear.
“How was meemaw, bub?” you ask.
“Sleeping.”
“Why don’t you go snuggle with her for a minute? I’ll bring you a buppy?”
Leah hugs your leg from behind. “Buppy?”
“Yeah, do you want one?”
Leah shoots for the bedroom. You take her absence as an opportunity to pull Steve’s head up, meeting his droopy gaze. “Steve, baby,” you say, so softly it’d be a wonder if he could hear you, “are you okay?”
He groans. “Just a migraine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Feels like one.”
“You get them a lot?”
“More since you left.”
You swallow roughly. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”
“No.” At that, he sits up, holds his own head up to plead, “You don’t have to. I’m fine, this just happens sometimes. After I hit my head at the mall, I get these killer migraines.”
“You hit your head, though. I think you have a concussion.”
“Not my first one.”
You hold his cheek in your hand. Your thumb brushes over his beauty marks. “No?” you ask.
“Had three.”
“You never told me.”
“I know. Didn’t want you to think I was– some loser? I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know why it was hard to be honest with you, guess I thought– it’s not like it’s ever done any good before. I always say the wrong thing.”
You get on your knees in front of him. To cope with the strain of looking up at him, but more to see him face to face. “Steve, you nearly yacked in my yard. I think we’re past appearances.”
Steve covers his mouth with a big hand.
You tuck as much of his hair behind his ears as you can. “Can you look at me? I want to check your pupils.”
He opens his eyes properly, pouring his gaze into yours without hesitation. You check the size of each pupil and find them normal, though the longer he looks, the bigger they become. “I think there’s something wrong, Steve. Your eyes are blown.”
“It’s fine. It’s not ‘cos I hit my head. It’s a headache.”
“You almost knocked yourself out. You’re throwing up. What if I don’t call the ambulance and Leah’s dad dies on my couch?”
“I don’t need an ambulance. I barely puked, it was all spit.”
“Steve.”
“I’m serious. I didn’t even go for the first two concussions, and the third one, they said this could happen. Turns out that taking a couple of bad knocks to the head makes you fragile, I’m fine.” He cups your cheek. “Jesus, don’t feel sorry for me–”
“I do feel sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Seconds of stringy silence follow. He squints at you through the pain. “It’s okay,” he says, his own thumb rubbing at your veins. “I’m sorry, too.”
You pull his hand off your face. Not without care.
“…Can I please call an ambulance?” you ask, uneasy.
“I don’t need one.”
“How do you know?” you whisper.
He turns his hand in your grip to hold yours. His eyes are brown and teary with pain, but they’re so familiar. “I just do. Can you trust me, please?”
You try to stand. Steve squeezes your hand in his and makes you sit on the couch beside him as his eyes shutter closed and his head tips back, the column of his throat there and pale and working as he swallows his pain. You stare at the length of it with your hand too hot in his grip, wondering when it’s acceptable to pull your hand away, and if you’d even want to when the time came.
You told me you didn’t want this, you think, your two joined hands rising and falling where he’s pulled them to his chest. You swear you can see his heart in his chest. The gentle bump-bump of it against skin. A miserable wife.
“Can I get you anything?”
He croaks a hum. “Mm, no.”
“Are you sure? I have aspirin.”
His fingers flex. “It’ll go away.”
“When?”
“It depends. It can take a few hours, sometimes, but I don’t get the worst of the pain for long.” His voice is hoarse with its quiet.
“The other times?”
“They can last for days.”
You’d seen the physical change in Steve. He went weak and sweaty in seconds. His nausea was obviously extreme. You can feel the tremor in his hand as he talks like every word spurs pain.
“It won’t, though,” he says. “Don’t worry. I need five minutes and I can make dinner.”
“Uh, no you can’t. You can sit right here until you feel better, thanks.”
He sinks impossibly further into your mom’s old couch. “Okay. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” You lower your tone. “I don’t mind. I’m sorry if you thought I would.”
“I didn’t mean to–”
“To what? Give yourself a concussion on the roof of the car? I gathered that.”
“Didn’t mean for it to become your problem,” he says.
“You’re not a problem, Steve. I promise.”
You fight for better judgement and lose, letting yourself caress a piece of hair away from his pale neck.
“I think I really screwed up,” he says. “Think I made out all the wrong things. You didn’t think you could tell me about the baby–”
“We don’t have to do this again–”
“Yeah, we do. We do. Because I made you think I wouldn’t want you. I lied to protect my ego and I could’ve had everything I wanted,” —his brow pulls tight and glared, his jaw rigid— “and I hurt you.”
“I hurt myself. You didn’t make me run away, Steve. I did it all alone. I’m good at that.”
“I don’t want you to be alone.”
“I don’t want you to live a life that you hate.”
“I don’t. I won’t. How could I ever hate anything about her?”
You have to give him that. But. “I didn’t tell you for a bunch of reasons, Steve,” you confess, hardly wanting to let it out. “I was scared of everything, you and your parents, making you into the reluctant husband, or– or at the least the reluctant father. I didn’t want to deal with it. And I didn’t wanna be that stupid girl who got knocked up by the prom king. I ran away and nobody had to know.”
“It wouldn’t have been like that.”
“I realise that now.”
His head lolls to see you. He pulls his lashes apart enough to peek through them, that dark hedging a line you’d like to count. You tip your head toward his and face him across the couch cushions, hands joined and hot as a hearth.
“It was never messing around, to me,” he says quietly. Sweat wets the hair at his temples.
“You don’t have to–”
“I got my heart stomped on pretty hard over and over and I stopped trying. I put all my cards on the table every time. But with you, I couldn’t do it again. I thought I couldn’t, so I acted less into you than I was.”
You remember all his kisses and tight armed hugs, his affectionate nudges, his nose lined to your temple as he bore down. It hadn’t felt like less. But you’d never thought it was more, either.
“I pretended we were this summer fling, told you I didn’t want kids, that I wanted to live in the city and get a full time job at a firm with a company car, like that stuff mattered.” He frowns at you deeply. “I’m sorry. I wish I could change it.”
His throat bobs.
“S’it still hurting?” you murmur.
“So much,” he murmurs too, holding your hand against his heart. “I can’t get it to stop.”
“I can’t do this with you.”
He shakes his head minutely. “M’not asking you for anything you can’t give me. I’m just sorry.”
You want him to lean in and align his mouth to yours. You imagine it vividly, the press and taste of him, the scratch of the stubble on his upper lip and his hand slipping behind your neck, squeezing your nape gently, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw trying to open your mouth. You want him so badly it’s a palpable ache in your teeth, like he’s already kissed you harsh and quick, that clack of a collision and the subsequent metallic on your tongue.
But you aren’t lying. You can’t do this.
A thudding noise echoes from your mom’s room, compelling you up and away from his warm touch. Your hand sings with pins and needles as it falls out of his.
“Lee?” you call. “Sorry. I have to go make sure she’s okay.”
He frowns again as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine. I’ll be here.”
—
The bedroom throw blankets haven’t changed since you were here last. Your mom didn’t waste much time turning it into a guest room, but the sheets and blankets are the same, soft with wear in your hands as you lay them out. Leah waits for you to finish before climbing into bed, her bottle teat bitten between her teeth. It slips out of her hand with a rush of air as she slips into the pillows. You pick it up and offer it to her again, your shoulders aflame with the weight of an uncommon gaze.
“What side do you sleep on?”
Steve, at half-mast but less obviously pained, takes his time answering.
“Left.”
“Left side’s all yours.”
He shuffles forward in a polo and a pair of his old sweatpants. You, in a horrible stroke of great luck, had them in the bottom of the chest of drawers.
“Make room for me?” he asks Leah.
She grins around her bottle.
You’re pretty sure that if Steve can’t open his eyes for more than ten seconds at a time, he can’t drive, and you don’t want him to fall asleep at home and never wake up. Hence your impromptu sleepover. The bed is a queen and you have a shared child as a buffer, but you’re already annoyed with yourself. Your arms keep remembering what it felt like to stretch out over him whenever he ended up on his front. It is not helpful.
You put the big light out and the nightlight on, a ladybug on a mushroom that glows a warm orange on Steve’s side of the room. In your own sweatpants and a vest, you climb into the right side of the bed and nearly fall straight back out at the lack of space.
Steve curls an arm around Leah tentatively, encouraging her into his side to make room for you.
“You okay?” he asks Leah quietly.
“You okay, daddy?” she asks.
“I’m fine, beautiful. I’m good.”
“Sleep?” she asks.
“With you, if that’s cool?”
“Cool,” she says decidedly.
When you lie down, Leah immediately rolls out of Steve’s grip and makes herself comfortable in the curves of you, her nose digging hard in your arm, the bottle warm on your chest.
“I’ll move her when she falls asleep,” you whisper, nodding to the foldout cot next to the bed with its padded interior.
Sleeping in the same bed as Steve Harrington is a long gone artefact of the past. It’s odd to be face to face with him, to smell him so close, the toothpaste on his breath and the salty, earthy sting of sweat mixed with allspice. You don’t strictly mind it, but you didn’t think you’d ever be this close again. It hurries the heart. You miss him like a slap.
Refusing to think on it is the best way forward.
“You sure you’re okay?” you ask him under your breath.
Leah suckles at her bottle, breaking the quiet, though it’s a monotone sort of sound. Steve doesn’t answer. You glance at him and find him dozing already, not a blanket over him nor a sheet untucked.
“Steve.”
He blinks to attention. “Huh?”
“Pull the blanket up over yourself.”
He must like your tone. You’d gone soft by accident, too used to lulling Leah to sleep via sweetness and dulcet murmuring. He kicks it down and then pulls it up to his ribs, a tight white parcel with the pink throw laid over his feet.
“It’ll be cold tonight. Does that make the migraines worse?” you ask.
“No. I’ll be okay.”
You let him fall asleep. Leah snuggles under your chin. This isn’t the daydream. You aren’t being cuddled and coddled by warm kisses along the side of your face, his big arm around you, your baby between you. Steve keeps a good distance and he’s exhausted.
Leah takes a lot longer to fall, but when she does it’s for keeps. You give her ten minutes tucked up on your chest but decide to move her when you feel your own eyes drifting shut. A rush of unnecessary shushing and a soft kiss later, you creep toward the bed and lay down on your side. Steve sleeps as your mirror, one cheek and eye hidden by the pillow, the sheets pulled haphazard over his hip. You yank them from under you and pull them up to cover him to the shoulder, tempted to tuck his hair behind his ear again. It’s long enough.
“Can feel you staring,” he whispers.
Your heart leaps in shock, though thankfully you don’t jump. “Hm?”
“Staring at me.”
“Trying to gauge whether you died in your sleep.”
“Still ‘live.”
You do reach for him, then, stricken by how badly you want to take care of him. “I can see that.”
He peeks down at your hand on his cheek and grins dopily. “Missed you,” he says.
“Missed you, too.”
You wouldn’t tell him if it weren’t dark, if he weren’t in pain.
“You did?” he asks.
“I always miss you,” you say. You pull your hand away like it’s him that’s said the wrong thing, annoyed at your own boldness, moving onto your back to stare at the ceiling.
He feels at your wrist, up your arm. Steve slides his palm over your stomach and holds it there. When you’re starting to think he might’ve fallen asleep again, your breath aching in your throat to be expelled, he presses down carefully and sighs. “I wish I got to see it. Don’t know why you were alone.”
“I wasn't.”
“Would’ve looked after you, though.”
“Steve…”
“I would’ve.”
“I know.” You know now. You could’ve stayed here and had him look after you, but it’s not what you wanted. “I wanted… more, than that.”
He stares at you across the pillows. Your breath catches as he brings his hand up to your cheek and encourages your head toward him, as he lifts himself up off the pillows to bear down over you.
“Do you still want that?” he asks.
You laugh, weak and weary. “Not when you’re concussed.”
He laughs in your face. It’s quiet to leave Leah sleeping, and to stop from hurting himself again, but it’s a genuine laugh of joy leaning over you. His hair falls in his face and he’s beautiful. All freckled and gold in the dim amber light sunning in from behind him.
“I am not concussed,” he says, leaning down.
You don’t kiss. Won’t lift your lips to his where he waits, though waiting might not be the right word. It’s like he’s alright with anything you’re about to do, or not do, sharing your breath.
“I don’t believe you,” you tease lightly.
He’s moved so much to be over you. It is unquestionably the position of a man who’s going to kiss you.
You press your forehead to his chin.
“We should sleep,” you say, because you shouldn’t kiss.
Portland feels very, very far away as he trails his fingers down the front of you and takes a handful of your hip.
“I’m not concussed,” he says, though it’s not asking for anything; Steve’s already pulling away. He sits up and slightly away from you, rubbing a wave into your abdomen lovingly, like you never went to Portland at all. Like it’s the sleepover after a night spent kissing slow and watching shit TV. “Get some sleep, angel,” he adds, so quietly you’d doubt he spoke if you hadn’t watched his mouth shape the words.
—
In the morning, you wake to find Leah chest to chest with Steve, his hair like water on your pillows.
“An’ my hand an’ my nose as my mouth,” she says factually.
“And your ears,” he says back to her quietly, stroking a path from her shoulders to her lower back and up again. “Your eyebrows, and your hair, and your neck.”
“Yeah.”
“Your tummy, and your legs, and your little toes.”
“Am’ my toes,” she says.
“Even your toes are pretty,” Steve agrees. “‘Cos duh. Leah’s the prettiest girl I ever met, right?” His voice drops low enough to rattle hoarsely. “Just as pretty as mommy. I didn’t know that was possible.”
You hide your face in the pillows, pretending to sleep.
This is not going to go how you’d first thought.
—
thank you for reading!! so excited I love steve and I know he could be bitchier and angrier here but I’ve decided to make him whipped instead cos he’s cute when he’s in love and if it’s not implied enough he’s still whipped for the reader lol. hope you enjoyed it thank you very much for reading and taking the time
me: *puts on playlist I made myself, perfectly curated with all my favorite songs*
me: *skips song*
me: *skips song*
me: *skips song*
me: *skips song*
me: Who the fuck made this bullshit playlist?
