Hey there demons, its me, ya girl 🌺 22 and likes to write sometimes 🌺🌺 hmu if you want, on the hunt for new friends 🌺 bi and horny MDNI https://ko-fi.com/shootingstar222
here's my may recommendations!! another beefy month of fics i loved!!
**some fics will not have necessarily been posted in may
IMPORTANT: please read the warnings on the fics before reading them. most will be 18+!! there is some series in there also but mainly all of these are one shots!
ᰔ indicates that this is a series / multi parts
۶ৎ steve harrington
in the summer sun by @tinfoileddd
wrapped around your finger by @vamptales
promise? and gold rush by @aecd27
oblivious by @munsonify
i almost do by @catherinnn
you don’t go to parties anymore and i’m scared i’ll never sleep again by @teheblue
ᰔ temporary fix by @discodjo
ᰔ one big favour by @luusygoosey
disarm by @stevenose
busy right now by @vader-anakin
never leave you by @whispersoflost
he knows better by @trizharrington
will you still love me tomorrow? by @levanswrites
ᰔ so high school by @swirledyouintoallmypoems
after midnight by @harringtonsugar
in the dark, you’re honest by @drownedinmelancholy
said i'm the love of your life (about a million times) by @catssluvr
the hawkins memorial hospital by @kensley-11
the second line by @calelundaa
daughter from hell and uptowngirl by @oohgeminii
slow hands by @s111ut
a conversation on nuggets by @bells-bookshelf
don’t sweat by @yeah-iveheardofbears
always ready to be left out in the cold by @thecreelhouse
what are you wearing? by @djopuppy
my desperate girl by @cakedupkeery
۶ৎ gator tillman
wanna hear you say by @keer-y
my boy only breaks his favourite toys by @xpeachsunsidex
everything shower by @levanswrites
۶ৎ kurt kunkle
boy next door by @stvswrld69
۶ৎ travis 'teacake' meacham
be quiet (no, don’t) by @keer-y
white lines, pretty baby, tattoos by @djopuppy
۶ৎ walter 'keys' mckey
officer mckey by @entrenoussir
ᰔ smashingkeys69 by @nowprettybbyimrunning
۶ৎ bucky barnes
tuesday night secrets by @aderna01
it’s not the same river by @goldiwrites
manchild by @houseofhyde
you make loving fun! by @superbassbuck
you earned it by @phoenix-in-writing
for all my recs, please see my fic rec account @moonstone-recommends
summary: Steve tries his hardest to make a move, but every time he gets close to saying the words, your younger brother Dustin interrupts him. Every. Single. Time.
word count: 9.3k+
pairing: steve harrington x henderson!fem!reader
notes: every time a new season of stranger things comes out, my obsession and love for steve harrington comes back. so, this is my first time writing for him! i've read pretty much every steve x shy!reader fic out there and since i have this account now i thought i'd try my hand at writing for him
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader is dustin's older sister, shy!reader, takes place at some point in between seasons (aka steve works at family video), dustin is accidentally cockblocking steve and his sister, yearning!steve, dustin is pure chaos, fluff, robin is done with steve's shit and excuses, steve is a bit awkward when it comes to romance
The Henderson house was always a little too full of noise, but it wasn’t the kind that grated on you. It was the kind you’d grown up with. Dustin’s voice carried down the hallway while you sat in the living room sorting through a pile of tapes Steve had let the two of you borrow. Someone had returned Back to the Future without rewinding it, and Steve would absolutely yell about “proper tape etiquette” the next time he saw Dustin. You smiled to yourself as you sifted through the stack.
Soft knocking sounded at the front door. It wasn’t frantic—not monster-knocking—just two taps and a beat. The kind Steve used when he didn’t want to startle anyone. You pushed up from the floor, dusted your hands on your jeans, and opened the door to find him leaned against the frame in that casual way of his that was way too intentional to be casual.
He gave you that lopsided grin, the one that always sat just shy of confident when it was directed at you. “Hey. Dropping these off before Henderson scratches them. I swear he puts the tapes in the VCR with the same enthusiasm he has for summoning demodogs.” He lifted a paper bag full of rentals and offered it out.
You stepped aside to let him in, taking the bag but not before his fingers brushed yours. The contact sent a flick of warmth up your arm, not the dramatic kind that makes people gasp in books, but the kind that catches quietly under your ribs. You weren’t sure if he noticed, but his hand pulled away a little quicker than necessary.
Dustin shouted something from the back room, loud enough to rattle the vents. Steve huffed a laugh and nudged the door closed behind him as he walked into the living room. He kicked his shoes off like he’d done it a thousand times, because he had. This place had become familiar to him. You’d become familiar to him. And somehow that knowledge warmed you more than the afternoon sun slanting across the carpet.
He flopped onto the couch, elbows over the back, letting his head fall back dramatically. “I swear, every time I pick something up from Family Video, Kline shows up to yell about our shelving. Every time. Like I chose the shelving. Like I personally installed the shelving.” He peeked at you through the fall of his hair, the grin returning. “Anyway. I figured you might need something new to watch, unless Dustin has you trapped in one of his weird sci-fi marathons.”
You settled on the other end of the couch, cross-legged, the tapes set between you. “It’s not that weird,” you said softly, though the smile gave you away. “And you survived the marathons, too.”
“Barely.” He let out a dramatic sigh, then let the act falter as he turned to face you fully. His knee brushed yours in a way that felt almost accidental but never quite was when it came from him. He always hovered near you—not close enough to overwhelm, but close enough that you felt seen. You’d gotten used to it. Maybe too used to it.
There was something different in his face today, something you couldn’t place. Not nerves exactly, but something halfway between steady and uncertain. His gaze lingered on you longer than normal before shifting to the tapes in your lap. “You find anything good?”
Your fingers drifted over the covers without thinking. “Trying to. He mixed everything up again. I’m pretty sure one of these cases has two different movies shoved in it.”
“Classic Henderson,” Steve murmured, but he didn’t seem focused on the tapes anymore. His eyes had softened in a way that made your pulse stumble. He looked like he was about to say something—something real, something heavy enough that he hesitated. “Hey, I was actually gonna—”
Dustin barreled into the hallway, a crash of sound and limbs. “Steve! You’re here! Good, because I figured out what was wrong with the antenna, and you have to see it, it’s so sick—”
Steve deflated in an instant, head dropping back against the couch. The moment snapped like it had never been there at all. Dustin launched himself into the room, completely oblivious, waving a broken piece of metal dangerously close to Steve’s face.
Steve sat up with a tight smile, rubbing his hands over his jeans like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. You felt the shift, that soft invisible thread between you pulled taut before disappearing entirely. He shot you a glance—quick, almost apologetic—before catching whatever Dustin was waving at him. “Okay, okay, dude, relax before you impale me. What’d you do now?”
Dustin launched into an enthusiastic explanation, words tumbling over each other. Steve tried to look interested. Mostly, he looked like a man who’d been shoved out of a doorway he’d just worked up the courage to walk through.
You sat quietly beside him, listening to your brother ramble, but your attention kept drifting back to Steve. It was in the set of his shoulders, the unfinished words still lingering behind his eyes. He’d been trying to tell you something. And whatever it was, he wasn’t done trying.
You weren’t sure what would happen when he finally managed to get you alone long enough to say it. But for the first time in a long time, the thought didn’t scare you. It sent that same gentle warmth rising in your chest—the kind you didn’t quite know how to name yet, but couldn’t ignore anymore.
---
The ride home from the Wheelers’ had always been a cramped, loud, chaotic experience, mostly because Dustin treated the back seat like a moving laboratory. Tonight was no different—he’d tossed a backpack stuffed with papers, wires, and half-built gadgets across the seat before climbing in, muttering about how he needed to reorganize everything “for efficiency.” Steve had glanced at you in the driveway with a weary, amused smile that told you he already regretted offering the ride, but he’d unlocked the car anyway. He always did.
You slid into the passenger seat and buckled in while Dustin slammed the back door shut with enough force to make Steve wince. Once everyone was settled, Steve started the car, the headlights cutting through the warm, late-evening haze that hovered over the quiet street. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the summer air, and you rested your hands in your lap, feeling that comfortable, familiar tension settle between you and Steve—the kind that was never unpleasant, only warm and awkward in a way you’d grown used to.
He glanced over as he pulled away from the curb. “So. Did you guys have fun or did you suffer through another round of Wheeler Monopoly hell?”
The question was casual, but the look he slid you was not. It lingered, soft at the corners, a little nervous in the middle. You felt the weight of it press lightly beneath your ribs. “It wasn’t that bad,” you said quietly. “Dustin tried to cheat four times.”
“Hey!” Dustin snapped from the back seat. “Three times. The fourth doesn’t count because the rulebook didn’t specify—”
“It absolutely specified, dude,” Steve said, shaking his head. “It’s a published game. There are rules. You can’t just invent your own stock market mid-round.”
“I was innovating,” Dustin insisted, already rummaging for something in his bag.
Steve exhaled through a laugh and shot another glance your way. He always did that—threw his jokes toward the air, but aimed his eyes at you, as if checking whether you were smiling. And you were, even if you looked down to hide it.
The road curved toward your neighborhood, streetlamps drifting past in golden streaks. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Steve tap his fingers nervously on the wheel, like he was working himself up to something. His shoulders were tight, his jaw flexing softly the way it did when he was trying to gather courage without drawing attention.
After a moment of silence, he tried again. “Listen, I—” He cleared his throat. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Actually, not tell you, more like… ask you? Or maybe—”
Dustin leaned forward between the seats so suddenly that both you and Steve flinched. “Okay, so imagine this,” he said, breathless with excitement, waving a notebook near Steve’s face. “If I rewire the antenna and get the gain up by just, like, one decibel—”
“Dude, hold on,” Steve said, swatting the notebook away gently. He tried to keep his voice even, but you could hear the frustration simmering underneath. “I’m talking.”
Steve inhaled slowly through his nose, gripping the wheel like it might keep him grounded. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing, because you could see the exact moment he abandoned his almost-confession and resigned himself to Dustin’s rambling.
“Just… go back to whatever you were doing back there,” Steve muttered.
“You mean saving science? Already on it.” Dustin retreated to the back seat and immediately started scribbling again.
Steve let out a long, slow breath, the kind he usually saved for demobat stories or Customer Service Nightmares at Family Video. He didn’t look at you yet. You didn’t look at him either. The interrupted moment hung between you, fragile and obvious.
When he finally risked a side glance, the faintest smile tugged at his mouth—a mix of embarrassment and something softer. “Anyway,” he said quietly, “I was just gonna ask if you, uh… had a good time tonight.”
He’d changed his wording at the last second. You heard it. You wondered if he knew you heard it. “I did,” you murmured, letting your gaze settle on him. “It was nice.”
That small smile of his grew a little, warming the dim car. He was about to say something else—you saw the breath he pulled in, the shift of his shoulders—but Dustin cut him off again. “Steve, turn left! You missed the shortcut!”
“It’s literally two minutes longer,” Steve snapped. “Two minutes! We’re talking blocks, man, not a cross-country trip.” You stifled another laugh. Steve shot you an exhausted, pleading look before turning onto the familiar street. When he parked outside your house, he put the car in park but didn’t immediately shut off the engine. His fingers tapped the wheel again, a restless rhythm. “Hey,” he tried once more, turning slightly in his seat. “I wanted to—”
“Steve, can you help me carry my stuff!?” Dustin bellowed as he launched himself out of the back seat, already grabbing for the door to your house. “I need both hands and probably yours too!”
Steve sagged back against his seat like someone had deflated him. He dragged a hand down his face, muttering something that sounded like a plea for mercy.
You reached for the door handle, hesitating for just a heartbeat. “You can tell me whatever it was later,” you said, voice soft enough that only he would hear.
His eyes found yours again. Whatever he’d been trying to say was still there, simmering just under the surface. A slow smile curved onto his lips, small but genuine. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Later.”
You stepped out of the car, the warm summer air brushing your face. Dustin yelled your name from the porch. Steve groaned, climbed out of the driver’s side, and shot you one last look before going to help your brother.
It wasn’t the confession he’d wanted to give you. But it was coming—you could feel it. And judging by the way he watched you walk toward the house, he wasn’t giving up yet.
---
Family Video was quiet in that late-afternoon way that made the fluorescent lights buzz louder than any customer ever could. The aisles were empty, the return bin was half-full, and Steve was leaning over the counter like a man whose soul had been wrestled out of his body. He kept folding and unfolding the same tape return slip, eyes unfocused, jaw set in that defeated angle that Robin recognized instantly. She flicked a pen cap at his shoulder. “Okay, what’s with the tragic slouch? Did someone rent all the good horror movies again, or are you just being dramatic for attention?”
Steve didn’t look up. He just made a noise that could’ve meant many things: frustration, embarrassment, existential collapse. Robin sighed, circled around the counter, and planted herself across from him with the posture of someone preparing for an interrogation. “Talk,” she demanded, snapping her fingers in front of his face.
He swatted her hand away. “Stop. I’m not a dog.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered. “Now spill it. Your energy today is… weird. And not the usual ‘I’m pretty but tired’ weird. This is ‘something happened and I’m repressing it like a coward’ weird.”
Steve groaned, then let his forehead drop onto the counter with an audible thunk. “I tried to talk to her again.”
Robin perked up instantly. “Oh! Finally! Great! So what’d you say? Did you ask her out? Did you actually form a full sentence? Did you—”
“I didn’t get that far,” he mumbled into the countertop. “Dustin wouldn’t shut up.”
Robin blinked once. “Like… interrupting you?”
“Like climbing over the front seat of my car with a notebook to show me a sketch of an antenna while I was trying to confess my feelings.” Steve lifted his head, eyes hollow with dramatic suffering. “It was like being attacked by a hyperactive raccoon.”
Robin snorted so hard she almost choked. “God, that’s beautiful. Horrible. Hilarious. But mostly horrible.”
“Thank you for your support,” he said dryly.
“Oh, I’m supporting you,” she assured, tapping the counter rhythmically. “Just not your terrible strategy. You need to stop trying to talk to her when Dustin is within a three-mile radius. He’s like a tiny tornado with opinions.”
Steve pushed his hair back with both hands. “I know, I know. I just thought maybe he’d… I don’t know, fall asleep? Or get distracted? Or explode?”
“He’s Dustin,” Robin reminded him, eyebrows raised. “He gets more energized as the day goes on. By midnight he’s seconds away from achieving orbital lift.”
Steve sighed again and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed tight. “I just… I’m not good at this stuff, okay? She’s not like those other girls I used to date. I don’t want to rush it or freak her out.”
“That’s sweet,” Robin said. “But also incredibly stupid.”
He glared at her. “How is that stupid?”
“Because you’re overthinking it, dingus,” she said, flicking his forehead as punishment. “She already likes you.”
Steve froze, blinking. “She—she does?”
“Oh my god.” Robin pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. “You’re helpless. You’re actually helpless.”
“That’s not an answer!” he hissed.
Robin dropped her hands and stared him down, speaking slowly for maximum effect. “She. Likes. You.”
Steve stared back, a flush creeping up the side of his neck. “You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely do.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You get all flustered and stupid around her, and she gets all quiet and wide-eyed around you. It’s like watching two baby deer try to merge onto a highway.”
Steve let out a despairing noise. “I can’t believe you compared me to a deer.”
“Oh, you’re both deer,” she insisted. “Deer in love. Pathetic. Adorable. Infuriatingly slow.”
He ran a hand over his face again, groaning. “I just… I want it to be the right moment. And every time it almost is—”
“Dustin blows it,” Robin finished. “Because that kid has zero awareness of anything except science and snacks.”
Steve laughed, but it was tired around the edges. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Robin planted her hands on her hips like she was about to deliver a lecture. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to ask her out. Soon. Not ‘eventually’ or ‘when the universe aligns.’ Soon. Before Dustin adopts you into his personal schedule for the week.”
“I’m working on it,” he insisted.
“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re waiting for signs and moments and dramatic lighting. What you need to do is open your mouth and say, ‘Hey, I like you. Want to go out?’”
Steve looked deeply scandalized. “That’s—no, that’s too blunt. I can’t just say it like that.”
“Well, you definitely can’t say it while Henderson is crawling on the car seat like a feral goblin.”
“Okay, that’s fair.”
Robin leaned her elbows against the counter, eyeing him closely. “Be honest. Are you scared because she’s quiet?”
He hesitated before nodding once. “I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. She’s been through… a lot. We all have, but she… you know.”
Robin softened. “Yeah. I get it. But trust me, she’s not scared of you. She’s scared of… saying the wrong thing. Or being too much. Or not enough. You two speak in the same dialect.”
Steve’s breath stalled at that, chest tightening with something warm and nervous. “So… what do I do?”
“What I’ve been telling you from the start.” Robin shrugged, smirking. “Ask her out, dingus.”
The bell above the door chimed as a customer wandered in, and Robin gave Steve one last pointed look before heading into the aisle to help. Steve stayed behind the counter, resting both palms flat on its surface, grounding himself. He took a deep breath and whispered to no one, “Okay. Ask her out. I can do that. I can do that.”
But even as he said it, he already knew one thing for sure: if Dustin showed up again, this plan didn’t stand a chance. And somehow, that made him smile anyway.
---
The Henderson garage always smelled faintly like dust, motor oil, and whatever science experiment Dustin had last abandoned on the workbench. That afternoon, the air was warm enough that the open door let in a slow spill of sunlight, brightening the cluttered space in strips. You stood beside one of the folding tables, sorting through the mess of screws and wires Dustin had dumped out “for easier access,” which, in reality, only made everything harder to find.
Steve hovered nearby with a half-hearted attempt at organization. He picked up tools, put them down, nudged wires into a neater line, and occasionally wiped his palms on his jeans like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. You noticed the way he kept drifting closer, every few seconds glancing at the house as if waiting for an opening that hadn’t come yet.
Dustin had barreled inside moments earlier shouting something about a “crucial component” and promising to return quickly. Experience had taught you that “quickly” usually meant at least fifteen minutes. The sudden silence left the garage feeling strangely private, a pocket of quiet neither of you were used to sharing without your brother’s voice filling it.
Steve leaned a hip against the table, crossing his arms loosely. “You’d think for someone so obsessed with organization, he’d, I don’t know… actually organize things.”
A soft laugh slipped out of you before you could hide it. “He says he has a system.”
“Yeah, well, his system is ‘pile everything in the same place and pray.’”
You didn’t mean to meet his eyes, but when you did, the warmth there caught you off guard. He smiled—not the big, charming grin he saved for customers or jokes, but the smaller one he used when it was just you. Something quieter, something that made your stomach tug downward and your breath lift higher at the same time.
For a moment you thought he might look away. Instead he took a step closer, letting his fingers trail lightly over the table until they stopped near yours. He didn’t touch you, but the space between you shrank until it was impossible not to feel the gravity of him. “Hey,” he said softly, more serious now, “can I ask you something?”
Your pulse jumped. He didn’t try to hide the nerves this time—his voice was careful, his eyes steady but uncertain, like he was testing thin ice. You tucked a loose screw back into the tray just to have something to do, but you nodded. “Yeah. What is it?”
Steve drew in a slow breath, shoulders rising, then dropping. He shifted so he was standing directly across from you now, close enough that you felt his warmth even through the small distance. “I’ve been… trying to find the right moment to say this. Probably overthinking it. Definitely overthinking it,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But every time I try, something happens, and then I lose the nerve, and—”
He stopped, hands falling to his sides. His gaze flicked to your lips before returning to your eyes, almost apologetically, like the glance had slipped out by accident. “I really like—”
He didn’t get the rest out because Dustin slammed the back door open so hard it ricocheted off the wall with a loud crack. “Found it!” he shouted triumphantly.
Steve jolted back like someone had yanked him by the collar. You startled, the sound hitting you like a small explosion in the otherwise quiet garage.
Dustin sprinted inside with a fistful of random parts, not noticing the way Steve took two hasty steps backward or the way your breath had caught halfway up your throat. He launched straight into an explanation, words tumbling over each other at impossible speed.
“Okay, okay, okay, so remember last week when the signal strength dropped? I swear it wasn’t my fault, but I triple-checked, and it turns out the grounding was off by like a millimeter, but I fixed it, and then I realized if we attach this—this right here—” He shoved the piece of metal inches from Steve’s face. Steve blinked rapidly, stunned, trapped in the whirlwind of Dustin’s enthusiasm. “—then the whole thing works even better! Isn’t that awesome?”
“Yeah,” Steve croaked, the word paper-thin. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, buddy. That’s—uh. Great.”
Dustin looked between the two of you, oblivious to the tension he’d vaporized. “Come on, we have to test it. Steve, you hold the end with the clamp. And don’t drop it this time.”
You watched as Dustin pulled Steve by the wrist toward the other table. Steve threw you a look over his shoulder—a silent, desperate I was so close—before letting himself be dragged into whatever experiment Dustin was constructing.
You swallowed, grounding yourself against the table as the adrenaline slowly ebbed. You replayed the moment in your mind, the warmth in his voice, the way he’d leaned in like he was finally ready to say the thing he’d been dancing around for weeks.
You didn’t need the rest to know what he’d meant. And even though the confession had shattered midair, it left a soft, glowing heat in your chest that didn’t disappear.
Steve shot you another look while Dustin explained the next step, his expression full of apology and frustration and wanting. He wasn’t done trying. And now, for the first time, you knew that for certain. Even if Dustin was determined to make it the longest confession in history.
---
The Wheelers’ basement was the kind of cramped, mismatched space that should’ve felt chaotic, yet somehow always managed to settle into its own kind of rhythm. Blankets draped over the back of the couch, half-finished board games littered the coffee table, and a small mountain of snacks threatened to avalanche off the folding card table by the wall. The worn carpet muffled footsteps, and the single lamp cast the whole room in a warm amber glow that made everyone look a little softer, a little more like themselves.
Mike sat cross-legged near the TV, fiddling with the dials like he was performing surgery. Will had his sketchpad propped on his knee, quietly drawing as he waited. Lucas and Max were arguing over whose movie pick was superior—which mostly meant Max was calling Lucas boring and Lucas insisting she had no taste. Eleven sat beside Max, combing her fingers through a bowl of M&M’s in strict color order. Nancy leaned against the far wall, arms crossed as she offered periodic commentary, half amused and half exhausted by the group’s indecision.
Robin stood behind the couch drumming her fingers along the backrest, eyes drifting toward you with the kind of knowing smirk that made you want to hide under a blanket. She’d been watching Steve all night like she was tracking wildlife behavior for a nature documentary.
And Steve—Steve had claimed the floor beside you the moment everyone settled. He hadn’t even pretended to consider another spot. He’d just dropped down next to you, close enough that your knees brushed whenever either of you shifted. Every now and then you felt the light press of his shoulder barely grazing yours, the warmth of him almost magnetic. He looked relaxed, but you’d known him long enough to recognize the tension coiled beneath the easy slouch. He wasn’t just sitting near you; he was waiting.
The chaos around you built into its usual storm of voices, and you let yourself sink into the noise until it felt like background static. You were comfortable like this—surrounded by people you trusted, tucked into a corner where nothing demanded too much of you. Steve must’ve sensed the way your shoulders unknotted, because he leaned in slightly, voice pitched softer than the rest. “Hey,” he murmured, letting the word drift just for you. “You holding up with all these maniacs fighting about cinema like it’s life or death?”
You smiled, looking down at your hands for a moment. “I’ve witnessed worse. Dustin tried to convince me Star Wars counts as a Thanksgiving movie.”
Steve snorted, head tipping just a little closer. “He tried that on me too. Henderson logic is a dangerous thing.”
The way he said it—soft and amused, with that small, private grin—made your cheeks warm. You felt it before you could control it, and you ducked your head slightly, pretending to focus on Max and Lucas arguing in the middle of the room. Max pointed her movie case at Lucas like a weapon. “This is a classic. You have no taste.”
Lucas folded his arms. “You say that about everything you like.”
“That’s because I’m right.”
Robin leaned closer to Nancy and muttered, “I’m taking bets on when this turns into a wrestling match.”
Steve laughed under his breath, then looked back at you. The basement noise faded as his attention settled directly on you, the air shifting in that fluttery way it always did when he got close. His knee nudged yours—gentle, deliberate. You looked up, and the moment your eyes met, something tender flickered across his face.
He angled toward you fully now, ignoring the group entirely. “Hey,” he said again, quieter this time, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to—”
“Oh my god.” Dustin’s voice ricocheted down the stairs like a missile.
Steve closed his eyes, shoulders slumping in a despair that bordered on spiritual defeat. You startled just slightly as Dustin burst into the basement carrying two bags of popcorn and a bowl of something that was probably too sticky to be allowed near the carpet.
“I got snacks!” Dustin declared triumphantly. “Mike, move over! Will, stop drawing sad trees! Everyone, I have news!”
Robin groaned. “Here we go.”
Nancy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do we want to know?”
Dustin ignored everyone and marched directly toward you and Steve. “Okay, so, you’re all gonna think this is genius, because it is,” he announced, setting the popcorn in the middle of the floor like it was an offering to the gods. “I mixed extra sugar into the caramel corn so we can stay awake through Lucas’ boring movie pick.”
Lucas sputtered. “It’s not boring!”
Max kicked him lightly. “It’s very boring.”
Steve tried to inhale, tried to restart the thing he’d been about to say, but Dustin plopped down between the two of you before he could get a syllable out, wedging himself with a full-body flop. Steve’s head snapped toward the ceiling like he was pleading for divine help.
“Dude,” Steve said weakly, “I—I was literally talking—”
“Great, you can finish later,” Dustin chirped while shoving popcorn into Steve’s hands. “Right now we need someone to test if the caramel-to-corn ratio is perfect.”
Robin snickered from behind the couch. “That’s the face of a man in agony.” Steve shot her a death glare. Robin only winked.
You sat very still, aware of how drastically the moment had shifted. Steve’s knee no longer brushed yours. His shoulder was no longer angled toward you. His expression, however, still carried that raw, half-exposed something he’d tried so hard to reveal before the interruption.
He looked at you again, a brief, fragile glance over Dustin’s head—apology, longing, frustration, all tangled together. You smiled gently, a small reassurance even if the moment was lost. His chest eased, just a bit.
Dustin, oblivious, leaned back between you both. “Okay! So. Who’s ready for a triple-feature?!”
Mike groaned loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. Eleven offered a polite but confused nod. Will kept drawing. Nancy debated walking out. Lucas and Max started another argument. Robin leaned over the couch, whispering something at Steve that made him mutter a threat with no real bite.
And you sat there, tucked between your friends and your brother, with Steve only inches away behind an accidental Dustin-shaped barricade.
Another moment ruined.
Another truth postponed.
But Steve caught your eye again, a small promise resting quietly behind the frustration. He wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Not at all.
And you found yourself hoping—maybe for the first time—that Dustin might eventually take a snack break long enough for everything to finally fall into place.
---
A Saturday afternoon at your place was usually a safe bet for quiet, especially when Dustin wasn’t home. He’d taken off earlier with Lucas and Mike, something about a “high-stakes campaign planning session,” which meant you finally had a few hours where the house wasn’t vibrating with teenage enthusiasm. Steve had stopped by under the guise of “checking on that toolbox he left in the garage,” even though you both knew he’d left it on purpose the last time he was here.
You were sitting beside him on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a gentle buzz of nerves threading through your chest. He was closer than usual—not subtle about it, either. His knee brushed yours whenever he shifted, and he kept glancing over with this determined little crease between his brows. You could tell he’d spent all morning psyching himself up to try again.
He cleared his throat and leaned toward you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he needed to keep them steady. “So I’ve been thinking,” he started, voice softer than the TV hum filling the room. “There’s something I’ve, uh… wanted to ask you. For a while.”
Your breath caught, your pulse fluttering. You met his eyes, and the look there—hesitant, hopeful, warm—made the room feel smaller. You felt him gather courage, felt something inside you answer it without needing words.
His knee bumped yours again, this time deliberate. “I just— when it’s us, like this… I feel—”
The front door slammed open so hard the hinges squealed. “There you are!” Max’s voice echoed down the hallway.
Steve’s shoulders sagged with the kind of dramatic despair that would’ve been funny if your heart hadn’t been thumping so hard a moment before. You both sat up straighter as Max stormed in, Eleven close behind her, both flushed from the walk and carrying enough urgency to power the whole house.
“Okay,” Max announced breathlessly, hands on her hips, “we need a ride.”
Eleven nodded with solemn intensity. “Very important.”
Steve blinked. “Why… why do you need a ride?”
“Because Robin said it was a good idea,” Max said, as if that answered everything.
You frowned. “Where is Robin?”
A beat later, Robin burst in through the still-open door, out of breath and dramatically pointing at the girls like an indictment. “They asked me first. But I don’t drive. And I told them that. Repeatedly.”
Eleven stepped forward with wide, pleading eyes. “Mall?”
Steve groaned into his hands. “Right now?”
Max crossed her arms, fully annoyed. “Yes, right now. We need new tape for Eleven’s headphones, a book I have to return, and Robin wants pretzels. Also, I’m bored.”
Robin raised a finger. “The pretzels are a necessary part of this trip. Not optional.”
Steve exhaled, long and pained, rubbing his face like fate had personally wronged him. You watched him, and even though frustration drew tight lines around his mouth, you saw the faint flicker of something else—desperation. Not for escape, but for the moment he’d been trying so hard to build. He’d almost done it this time. He had been right there, the words practically in the air between you when the cavalry burst in.
Max stepped closer. “Can you take us?”
You opened your mouth, but Steve sat up quickly, eyes wide. “Wait, she doesn’t have to. I can—”
“Nope,” Max interrupted. “We saw your car on the street. There’s a giant metal pipe sticking out the window and it looks like someone attacked your backseat with a screwdriver.”
Steve blanched. “That was Dustin’s… whatever. I told him not to—”
Eleven nodded solemnly. “It is broken.”
“It’s not broken,” Steve protested weakly, then looked at you with a kind of pleading horror. “Please don’t let them make you drive them. You don’t have to—”
Robin clapped her hands together. “You’re literally the only one here with a functioning car and a valid license.”
Max added, “also the only one we trust with directions.”
Eleven finished with, “Please? Please, please?”
Their combined staring was intense enough to melt steel. You sighed softly, looking at Steve with an apologetic tilt of your head. “It’s okay. I can take them.”
Steve’s mouth opened like he wanted to protest again, but something gentler ran through his expression. He softened, sitting back a little like he didn’t want to push. “Only if you want to,” he said quietly, voice low enough for just you.
“I don’t mind,” you said, even though part of you did—not the drive itself, but the interruption, the way the moment had slipped through your fingers again just when it felt like it might finally settle.
Max grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the door. “Yes! Thank you.”
Robin followed, muttering about soft pretzels and cinnamon sugar. Eleven smiled at you like you were the solution to every problem she’d ever had. You moved toward the doorway, keys in hand, but paused when you felt a gentle touch on your wrist. Steve had stepped after you, stopping you with light fingers that traced warmth across your skin. “Hey,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours with that same earnest something from earlier, “when you get back… can we finish that conversation?”
The question hit you softly, settling under your ribs in a place already warm for him. You nodded. “Yeah. We can.”
A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, not the charming one he used to flirt or joke, but something smaller, realer—something just for you.
Robin’s voice echoed from outside. “Let’s go, I’m starving!”
You stepped away from Steve and toward the chaos gathering around your car, but you looked back once. He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, trying and failing to hide the way he was smiling. This time, you knew the moment wouldn’t slip away forever. It was waiting for you. So was he.
---
The mall on a Saturday was a maze of sound — laughter echoing off tile, music thumping faintly from different stores, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the chatter of people weaving around one another like they were all part of some vast busy hive. The second you stepped inside with Max, Eleven, and Robin, it felt like stepping into a warm wave of noise and movement. Max immediately scanned the storefronts like a general surveying a battlefield, Eleven stayed close to your side with quiet determination, and Robin pointed at the pretzel shop with the single-minded hunger of someone who had already been thinking about it for hours.
The girls moved quickly, practically dragging you along, their energy sweeping you forward before you even realized you were fully inside. The light overhead was bright, reflecting off the glossy floor, and you adjusted to it slowly, breathing in the smell of cinnamon sugar and perfume samples drifting from the nearby department store. Even with the crowd, the moment felt surprisingly calm—nothing like the monster-hunting days, nothing like the chaos of Dustin’s science experiments or the loud clusters of voices in the Wheeler basement. Just… the mall. Just a typical weekend afternoon.
Max took the lead, weaving down the walkway toward the bookstore. “This won’t take long,” she promised, even though her tone strongly suggested she planned to browse. “I just need to drop off the return, maybe look at the new releases, maybe check the comics—"
Robin groaned dramatically. “I’m going to starve before the pretzels. And then who’s gonna explain to Steve that you let me die of hunger in a suburban mall? He’ll never forgive you.”
Eleven blinked up at you. “She needs pretzels first,” she said with the same seriousness she used when discussing mind flayers.
You smiled because you knew it was hopeless to try changing their priorities. “Okay. Pretzels first, then the bookstore.”
Robin fist-pumped like she’d just won a war. “Yes. Justice prevails.”
You led the way toward the food court, letting the steady hum of conversation settle around you. Eleven walked close enough that her sleeve brushed yours every few steps, her eyes darting between the crowds with a watchfulness that came from experience, not fear. Max strode ahead, confident and unbothered, her ponytail swinging behind her with each purposeful movement.
When you reached the pretzel stand, Robin stepped forward eagerly. “Four pretzels,” she told the teenager behind the counter. “One cinnamon, one butter, one salted, and one mystery pick for Eleven.”
The kid blinked, confused. “Mystery pick?”
Robin waved broadly. “Dealer’s choice. Make it fun.” Max rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Eleven seemed excited by the idea, gaze fixed on the warming racks with awe.
You helped gather napkins and drinks while everyone else debated who got which pretzel, though Eleven’s mystery pretzel was so coated in cheese that Robin declared it a masterpiece of culinary chaos. You all found an empty table near the railing overlooking the lower floor, and the four of you sat down, the air filled with warmth and chatter that felt strangely comforting.
Max took a bite of her pretzel before pointing it at you. “So what were you and Steve talking about before we barged in?”
Robin inhaled sharply and kicked Max lightly under the table. “We don’t ask those questions.”
“But I just did,” Max said, completely unapologetic. “I’m curious.”
Eleven tilted her head. “You and Steve were sitting very close.”
Heat crept up the back of your neck, and you tried to hide it by taking a long sip of your drink. “We were just talking,” you said softly, though you felt the weight of the truth under your ribs. You were almost talking about something else—something bigger—and that weight felt warm in a way that wasn’t unpleasant at all.
Max watched you knowingly, like she was piecing together a puzzle she’d already solved. “Uh-huh. Sure. Talking.”
Robin sighed with the posture of someone carrying too much knowledge. “We’re not interrogating her. We’re here for snacks, not emotional espionage.”
You wanted to thank her, but before you could, Eleven leaned in with genuine curiosity. “Do you like him?”
Your breath caught, and the world seemed to soften—not collapse, not tighten, just… soften. The noise of the mall blurred into a distant hum, and your hands stilled around the napkin you were folding subconsciously.
Max kicked her under the table. “El! You can’t just ask!”
Eleven frowned. “Why not? If she likes him, she should say.” Robin groaned but didn’t disagree.
You set the napkin down slowly, heart thumping against your ribs in that quiet, fluttery way it always did whenever Steve said your name a little too gently or leaned just a little too close. “I… I don’t know,” you said, though that wasn’t the truth. You knew. You just weren’t used to saying it out loud. “Maybe.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Maybe yes?”
You exhaled, looking down at your hands. “Maybe… yes.”
Robin slapped her palms on the table and grinned like she’d been waiting for this revelation for months. “Finally. Emotional progress. Steve is going to combust when he hears that.”
You stared at her. “Robin!”
“What? He’s still alive. Mostly. Probably pacing in your living room right now practicing a speech.”
Eleven smiled brightly, lifting her pretzel. “I am happy,” she said, content and certain.
Max leaned back in her chair with smug satisfaction. “Called it.”
Despite the embarrassing warmth on your face, you felt something untangle inside you—something quiet, hopeful, and strangely steady. Saying it aloud didn’t feel as terrifying as you’d expected. If anything, it felt like you’d opened a small door that had been waiting for too long.
Robin nudged your foot under the table. “Finish your pretzel,” she said playfully. “We should get back soon. Wouldn’t want to keep loverboy waiting.”
You groaned, but a smile tugged at your lips anyway.
And across the mall, beyond the noise and the shining floors and the crowds moving in every direction, you found yourself thinking not about monsters or interruptions or whatever chaos awaited at home—but about Steve.
And the conversation he’d asked to finish.
---
Dustin had invited Lucas, Mike, and Will over with the promise of “the most important campaign decision of their lives,” which meant the basement was already cluttered with graph paper, dice, snack wrappers, and an unnecessary number of pencils. They were mid-argument about whether the party should take the mountain pass or the hidden forest trail when Steve wandered down the stairs, hands shoved in his pockets, pacing with a restless energy that immediately caught Dustin’s attention.
“Why are you down here?” Dustin asked, squinting at him suspiciously from behind his Dungeon Master screen. “Aren’t you supposed to be home? Or at work? Or not pacing around my basement like you’re trying to burn a hole into the carpet?”
Steve ignored him, and that alone was weird enough that Mike, Lucas, and Will exchanged glances. Steve never ignored Dustin. Not unless something had gone very, very wrong.
Steve raked a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He crossed the room, turned around, crossed it again, muttering under his breath. “She said we’d talk later. Later. Which could mean anything. What if something happens? What if she changes her mind? What if—”
Will’s pencil rolled off the table as he slowly lowered it. Mike froze mid-chew with a pretzel rod sticking out of his mouth. Lucas leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. Dustin set his pencil down slowly, staring at Steve with an expression that drew gradually from confusion into dawning horror. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for the apocalypse?”
Steve stopped pacing. “I mean—it might be. For me.”
Mike slapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. Lucas elbowed him hard. Will quietly slid his chair just a few inches farther away from the table.
Dustin rose from his seat like someone being pulled upward by invisible strings. His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “Steve. What did you do.”
Steve swallowed. “Okay, so don’t freak out—”
Instant freak-out. Dustin threw his hands up. “Why would you say that? Why would you say that unless there is something to freak out about?”
Will stood. Mike stood. Lucas stood. It was like watching prey animals rise together, ready to bolt.
Steve ran both hands down his face and groaned. “I didn’t do anything. I tried to do something. But, like… the universe hates me. Every time I get close, someone interrupts. Mostly you. Actually, almost always you.”
Dustin blinked twice. “Interrupts what?”
Steve held up a finger like he was about to explain something complicated. “Okay. Just listen. I wanted to talk to her—”
Will paled. Lucas’s eyes widened. Mike mouthed oh no under his breath.
“—because I really like—”
“No.” Dustin cut him off, both hands raised like he was physically blocking the words. “No. No, no, no. You’re not—you can’t—that’s my sister!” He said it like it was a curse, a prophecy, and a threat rolled into one.
Steve exhaled, bracing himself. “Yeah. I know. Believe me, I know. But I—”
Mike took a step toward the stairs. Lucas followed. Will whispered, “should we… leave?”
Mike nodded slowly. “We should leave.”
But Dustin wasn’t paying attention to anything except the tidal wave of emotion crashing over him. He advanced on Steve like a general ready to declare war. “You can’t like her!” Dustin yelled, jabbing a finger into Steve’s chest. “She’s my sister! There are rules!”
Steve threw up his hands. “What rules?”
“The unwritten ones!”
Lucas tugged Will toward the stairs. “Back away slowly.”
“Already doing that,” Will whispered, clutching his sketchbook to his chest.
Mike didn’t even whisper. “Steve, this is gonna be bad. Good luck,” he said before sprinting up the stairs and abandoning him entirely.
Dustin kept going, and Steve kept retreating until his back hit the wall. “You can’t—you can’t just date her! What if you break up? What if things get weird? What if she gets hurt? What if you hurt her? I can't—I can’t be stuck in the middle of that!” Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Dustin didn’t give him a chance. “And I swear—I swear— if you ever hurt her, I will kill you.”
Steve blinked. “Dustin, you can’t even reach my neck.”
“I’ll use a ladder!”
Steve threw his hands up. “Oh my god—listen! I would never hurt her. Ever. I like her. I’ve liked her. For a long time. Okay? That’s why I’m freaking out. That’s why I’m pacing. Because I’m terrified. Not of you—”
“Oh really?” Dustin snapped, crossing his arms.
“—but of her.”
Dustin paused. “Her?”
Steve nodded emphatically. “Yes! Do you remember the demogorgon? Because I do. I watched your sister take a baseball bat with nails in it and swing so hard the thing went flying. I have nightmares about that moment sometimes. She was feral.”
Dustin hesitated. “…okay, yeah, that was cool.”
“It was terrifying!”
“Also cool,” Dustin corrected, but the fire behind his words had dimmed. He stopped pacing, shoulders dropping slightly as the panic drained from his face. “She really was awesome that day.”
Steve softened, his voice calmer now. “I like her because she’s… her. And she deserves someone who actually pays attention. Someone who cares about her, and wants to make her feel safe, and doesn’t push her to be someone she’s not. I’m trying to be that person. But every time I try to tell her how I feel, you interrupt and drag me to test an antenna or fix a wire or—”
“That was important,” Dustin muttered weakly.
“It really wasn’t!”
Dustin went quiet. He looked at Steve, really looked at him, as if seeing him differently for the first time. The frantic defensiveness slowly melted into something begrudging, conflicted, but not outright hostile. After a long silence, Dustin let out a tired breath. “You really like her.”
Steve nodded. “Yeah. I really do.”
“And you’re not gonna screw it up.”
Steve shook his head. “Not if I can help it.”
Dustin pressed his lips together, thinking hard, weighing his loyalty to you against his loyalty to Steve. Eventually he let out a groan loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. “Fine! Fine. But I swear, Harrington, if you hurt her—”
“I know,” Steve said quickly. “Ladder. Got it.”
Dustin pointed at him one last time. “And my point still stands!”
“Which point?”
“That she’s scarier than I’ll ever be.”
Steve actually laughed, shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours. “Yeah. She is.”
Dustin huffed, then turned toward the stairs. “I need a snack. And time to emotionally process this.”
From the top of the stairs, Mike’s voice drifted back down. “Is it safe to come back?”
“No!” Dustin shouted, slamming the door behind him.
And Steve let out a long, relieved breath—because the hardest part was over. Now all he had to do was actually talk to you.
---
You returned home before sunset, the sky outside tinted gold and pink as the heat of the day finally began to fade. The girls piled out of your car with arms full of pretzels, shopping bags, and the chaotic energy of teenagers loose in a mall. Max jogged ahead toward the front door, Eleven lingered close to you with a quiet smile, and Robin walked backward while lecturing both of them about “the importance of proper snack distribution in a household ecosystem.”
But the moment you stepped inside, the energy shifted. Something hung in the air—not tension, exactly, but a strange, anticipatory stillness. The lights in the living room were on. The TV was off. Steve was perched on the edge of the couch like he’d been waiting for hours and didn’t know what to do with his hands, his posture, or his entire existence.
Dustin stood beside him, arms crossed, nodding solemnly like he had just finished delivering a very long speech. All three girls froze mid-step.
Steve shot to his feet the second he saw you. “Hey. You’re back.”
You blinked, half smiling. “Yeah. We—"
“You,” Dustin interrupted loudly, pointing at Steve with one hand and at you with the other, “need to talk. Now. Immediately. Right now.”
You stared at him. “Dustin?”
Dustin nodded with the seriousness of a courtroom judge. “I’ve… reflected.” He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “And I have decided that I am granting you two permission to have a conversation without interruptions.”
Robin’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Oh god. He found out, didn’t he.”
Max elbowed Eleven and whispered, “told you.”
Steve’s face turned the shade of someone who had been emotionally waterboarded all afternoon. “Reflected,” he muttered. “He screamed at me for twenty minutes.”
Dustin glared at him. “Emotional reflection is loud sometimes.”
Robin snorted. Max barely held in a laugh. Eleven leaned close and whispered, “he must’ve been very loud.”
Dustin cleared his throat theatrically and stepped forward like he was taking center stage. “Anyway,” he said, arms spreading with dramatic flair, “I am officially leaving the premises. As are the rest of you.” He pointed toward the door like a tiny general evacuating troops. “Go. All of you. Get out. I need this to happen so my sister stops looking at Steve like a kicked puppy and Steve stops pacing grooves into our floor.”
Your face went hot. “Dustin!”
“What?” he said. “It’s embarrassing. For both of you. Fix it.”
Steve groaned into his hands.
Max shrugged and headed for the hallway. “Come on. Let’s leave the awkward adults alone.”
Eleven nodded gravely. “Important moment.”
Robin gave Steve a long, slow, knowing smirk. “Don’t choke, dingus.”
And just like that, the girls disappeared down the hall. Dustin lingered one more second, squinting at Steve like a overprotective watchdog. “Remember,” he warned, “I will absolutely end you if—”
“I know!” Steve snapped. “Ladder. Got it.”
“Good.” Dustin huffed, then looked at you, softened, and squeezed your arm gently. “He’s nervous. Be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” you murmured.
Steve made a strangled noise. Dustin pointed at him one more time, then marched off after the others. And then there was silence. The house felt suddenly huge. The space between you and Steve felt even bigger. He let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at you with a dozen emotions flickering across his face—fear, hope, determination, affection. “So,” he said, voice rough but warm, “we… finally have a minute.”
You stepped farther into the room, closing the door behind you. “We do.”
He didn’t sit. He didn’t pace. He stayed exactly where he was, like moving even a step might break whatever fragile, shimmering moment had finally landed in his hands. “Look,” he started, letting his arms fall to his sides, “I’ve been trying to tell you something for—actually, I don’t even know how long anymore. Weeks? Months? A while. And I kept messing it up. Or people kept messing it up. Mostly Henderson.”
You breathed out a soft laugh. “He does that.”
“He does,” Steve agreed. Then his expression shifted—softer now, more sure. “But I’m glad he’s not here right now. Because I… I don’t want to keep dancing around this.”
You looked up at him, and the way he stared back made your chest tighten with something warm and heavy and sweet.
He took a steady breath. “I like you,” he said simply, without theatrics or stumbling, every word shaped with sincerity. “I really, really like you. More than I meant to. More than I planned to. Definitely more than I told Dustin when he cornered me today.”
You blinked, startled. “He cornered you?”
“Oh yeah. Full interrogation mode. I thought he was gonna map out my emotional failings on a chalkboard.” He shook his head, then took another step toward you, closing the distance until he was right in front of you—close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating between you.
Your breath caught.
Steve swallowed, voice dropping softer. “And I know you’re… you. You get quiet. And nervous. And sometimes I can’t tell what you’re thinking. But I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes. The same way I probably look at you. And I just—I needed you to know. Even if it freaked you out. Even if it scared me to say it.”
Your heart fluttered in your chest, skipping unevenly as you tried to gather your voice. “It doesn’t freak me out.”
He smiled—small, startled, almost relieved. “No?”
You shook your head, letting your eyes meet his without dropping away this time. “I… like you too.”
The warmth that spread across his face was immediate—bright, soft, disbelieving in a way that made something inside you loosen and settle all at once. He let out a breath he had clearly been holding for far too long, his shoulders dropping as tension melted from them.
He reached for your hand slowly, giving you room to pull back. You didn’t. His fingers brushed yours, then curled around them gently—warm and steady, not asking for anything more than the space you chose to give. “I was really scared you’d say no,” he admitted quietly.
“I was scared you’d get tired of trying,” you whispered.
He laughed under his breath—a soft, breathless sound—and shook his head. “Not a chance.”
The moment stretched comfortably, a soft glow settling between you both like something that had been waiting a long time to finally land. Then, from down the hall, “is it safe yet!?” Dustin shouted.
Steve groaned, squeezing your hand. “He’s going to make this so complicated.”
You smiled—full, warm, a little shy but no longer afraid of the feeling settling inside your chest. “We’ll handle him.”
Steve grinned. “Yeah. We will.”
And this time, nothing interrupted the moment you shared—warm hands, quiet breath, and the certainty that this was only the beginning.
everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005
i'll be making a steve taglist! if you want to be added you can comment down below :)
Softdom!Steve maybe? I feel like even in his King Steve S1 days, he was still pretty vanilla and romantic. What's he like when he's a bit older and even more confident in what he wants, in even more of a KING Steve way?
i am not the best with this kinda thing but hey i tried
talk about kinks before you do them guys please
MDNI//SMUT- softdom!steve, praise kink, pussy spanking, vaginal sex, undernegotiated kink (but they do talk about it and it works out), clothed(steve)/unclothed(reader) sex
&&
A man can change, can grow out of a certain mentality. An attitude, a cockiness. A way of life, a way of interacting. But you can’t always rid him of it, not entirely.
They called him King Steve for a reason—maybe even rightfully so. You knew of him, of course—it was impossible to live in Hawkins and not know his parents, at least, and then Steve himself when he ruled the school.
You were a little older, but your younger sister had the world’s biggest crush on him, so you got to hear all about who he was dating this week and her play by play reports of every single basketball game she went to, until she finally grew out of it and got a real boyfriend, who actually paid attention to her. You were all too proud when she told you that she’d come to the realization that she only liked him because everyone else seemed to like him.
Things were different now—he’d graduated, worked an assortment of odd jobs around town, until finally landing a gig as a teacher at your collective alma mater.
Meaning he was now a colleague.
Meaning you now walked the same halls, ate in the same faculty cafeteria, taught the same students.
You had to admit you’d given him the cold shoulder at first. Even though your sister had gotten over him fairly quickly, you were the type to hold a grudge where she wouldn’t—and a thought-who-he-was pretty boy like King Steve definitely deserved your ire.
Except he didn’t.
He was polite, almost to a fault. He held doors for you. He asked if you wanted coffee if he happened to be blocking the pot when you walked into the teacher’s lounge, and handed you the cup he’d just poured for himself if you said yes. He always, without fail, greeted you (Ms., not Mrs.), with such a bright smile that you’d taken to replying “Good morning, Mr. Harrington,” while harboring a secret smile of your own.
So maybe you could see why your sister had been so smitten.
“Hypothetical question,” you asked her, one evening after Steve had ‘accidentally’ (he’d apologized for it, anyway) let his fingertips drag along your back as he held a door open for you.
“Shoot,” she said, and you heard a pan clatter on the other end of the line. You were glad you were on the phone for this.
“Say I… maybe… got reacquainted with someone you, possibly, had a thing for in high school,” you began.
“Uh huh…” she prompted you to continue.
“And say I, maybe, was considering… pursuing, um, him,” you went on.
“Yeah…?” she said. “Who is it? Not Robby?”
“No, not Robby,” you answered—her first actual boyfriend, the replacement she’d found for Steve. You wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole. “Someone else.”
“I didn’t date anyone else in high school,” she said. The pan clattered again, and then, she gasped. “Oh my god, do you mean Steve?”
“Well,” you said, but she cut you off with a laugh.
“You mean Steve Harrington?” she asked, fully laughing now. “The boy you said you wanted to kick in the nuts for not giving me the time of day?”
“I was just asking you to be—respectful,” you said, now wishing you’d just opted to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.
“I was never with him!” she said, still laughing as the pan clanged again. “Damn it. Yeah, it’s fine—go have the ride of your life and don’t get too upset when he ‘forgets’ to call. Guys like that don’t change.”
“All right, thank you sissy,” you said, rolling your eyes as she laughed again, but you knew if you did get involved with Steve and things went badly, she’d still be there for you, just like you’d been there for her.
“I’ll kick him in the nuts for you,” she said. And there it was.
&&
You’d thought that asking Steve out on a date would be harder than it ended up being. You’d asked him at the coffee pot in the staff lounge, saying that maybe you two could meet for coffee somewhere that wasn’t in the school, and he’d just met your eyes, smiled, and agreed. Easy as pie. Just like that.
“My treat,” he insisted, when you met at the bakery the next Saturday morning, the only place in town that also sold hot drinks along with their baked goods.
“I asked you here,” you said, and he just laughed. Just like your goddamn sister. What the hell was with people laughing in your face?
“That’s very forward-thinking of you,” Steve said, “but I’m a little old fashioned, if you don’t mind.” He gestured at the cashier, waiting for your order. “What would you like?”
You looked at the display cases, biting your lip. “A hot chocolate and, um… oh!” You pointed to one of the pastries. “Pain au chocolat.”
Steve quirks an eyebrow at your pronunciation as the girl working the register goes to plate your order. “Sweet tooth?”
“Oui,” you reply, and he smirks.
“Where’d you learn French?” he asks, as the bakery employee places a small plate with your dessert on it, then looks expectantly at Steve. “I’ll have a coffee—milk, no sugar—and one of those…big sugar cookies.” He pointed to the row of perfectly browned cookies, sprinkled with sanding sugar.”
The cashier left again, and you turned to Steve. “I learned French at Hawkins High,” you said, laughing. “You can actually do well in school if you apply yourself.”
“Hey, I graduated,” Steve said, leaning against the counter and pulling out his wallet, flicking through the bills to be ready to pay.
“I guess I can’t refute that,” you said, and Steve held your gaze, as he was served his cookie on a plate that matched yours, and then your hot cocoa and his coffee were also placed on the counter, large mugs on saucers.
He rushed to pay the total before you could protest about him paying again, and then you carried your drinks and snacks over to a table near the window, the morning sun shining through and warming you, even though you had steaming drinks in front of you.
The chatter was slow, but easy. You commiserated about students; you commiserated about pay; you complimented his baseball team, who were doing well, and he beamed as he thanked you.
The date—well, the coffee part of it—ended too soon, and you found that as much as you wanted to harbor some kind of irritation toward him, you simply couldn’t. He was too sweet, too cute, no longer the King Steve of adolescent female nightmares or desires (depending on your popularity status); no, Steve Harrington did, apparently, grow into a really nice fucking guy.
“Do you have to get home?” you asked, because normally, for you, Saturdays were prime errand-running days. But there was something about him, something about the energy between you, that you didn’t want to cut short.
“No,” he said. “I cleared my schedule for you.”
You scoffed in disbelief. “Your whole day? For me?”
He smirked—that felt more in line with his past self. “Not to…brag, but dates with me usually… well. Last. And last.”
You huffed a little. “That’s quite the attitude.”
Steve grinned at you, stepping closer. “I’m not trying to play myself up,” he said. “But it’s true. I know how to treat a woman.”
You met his eyes, but there was nothing reflected there but honesty, earnestness…and maybe a little mischief. But that had been there since you’d asked him out three days ago.
“So…if you were expecting this date to continue past coffee,” you said. “Then what’s next?”
“I thought maybe a movie,” he said. “And if it’s not too forward, and you feel up to it, dinner.”
You cocked your head to the side. “Where? Enzo’s?”
“A classic,” he said, pointing to you with both hands. “But no. Um… my place. I like to cook.”
You couldn’t help it—you stared at him. A man offering to cook you dinner at his home on your first date—when your first date was only supposed to be coffee? Who was this guy? How could he have done such a 180 since high school?
Unless your read on him had been completely wrong.
…
No fucking way.
&&
He hadn’t even made a pass at you at the movies. He’d sat with his hands in his lap the whole time, until you reached over and took his hand in yours, because it felt right and also your hands were a little cold. You cradled his large hand in both of yours, letting his skin warm your own, smiling a little when you glanced over at him the same moment he chanced a look at you. This wasn’t what you’d expected when you’d asked him out. Though, now that it was happening, you had no idea what you had expected. But it wasn’t this. It wasn’t actually liking him enough to consider going to his house and letting him cook you dinner.
The drive to his apartment was a little longer than you expected—he lived a bit out of town, on the edge of Hawkins, in a quiet building that he said was way better than he’d thought when he first started renting. No pets, no kids—he was the youngest tenant, at least that he was aware of—and when he brought you up to his unit, you were just a little charmed.
It was sparsely decorated, but cozy; very much a bachelor pad, but quaint. He took your coat and gestured to where you could kick your shoes, padding into the kitchen in his socked feet, so you followed. He refused to let you help him in the kitchen, so you hopped up on the far end of the counter to watch him cut vegetables and season chicken, measure out rice and water, and then cross over to the fridge.
“Wine?” he asked, and you laughed at him this time—finally, your turn to laugh at someone.
“Wine?” you countered. “You had wine?”
Steve shook his head. “I bought wine.”
“You bought wine, for this?” you specified.
“Yeah.”
“So you expected me to come back here with you.”
And the mischief returned to his eyes. “Well, kind. Like I said, dates with me usually—” he said, but you cut him off.
“You are such a cocky son of a bitch.”
His smile didn’t falter. “I mean…” He laughed, shrugging like it simply couldn’t be helped. “Like I said—the other time, I mean—I know how to treat a woman.”
You hesitated, because this could go one of two ways. The way your brain was telling it to go: Where you laughed it off, ate dinner, and asked him to drive you home after.
But the way you were leaning toward was the way your body wanted it to go. And that was what you went with.
“Prove it, then,” you said. And the mischief in his eyes gave way to something a little harder, a little more raw. A challenge, rising to the one you’d just given him.
“Well, if you want me to.”
“I do,” you said.
And your smirk matched his.
&&
Dinner was, unfortunately, delicious and he knew it. Everything about him had surprised you, so when he cleared the table, turned to face you at the sink, and met your eyes, you knew you were in for another surprise, though just what it would be—you weren’t sure yet.
You stood to meet him as he crossed the room back over to you, eyes half-lidded as he approached, and then he had an arm looped around your waist. He tugged you close, your hips against his, and he was holding you in such a way that, even though he was soft, you could still feel the thick line of his cock against your thigh.
“Still want me to prove it?”
And it was like night and day. The kind, somewhat bubbly Steve had been changed out for—whatever this version of him was. He wasn’t cocky. He was confident. Not smug; self-assured.
Not vain.
Just sure.
“Yes,” you said, already losing yourself in the headiness of his stare.
“This way,” he replied, guiding you with his arm still around you, down the short hall to his bedroom.
It was, in the most obvious ways, a guy’s bedroom. Cologne on the dresser, a few discarded ties beside them. One of the bifold closet doors stood open. The bed was made, but messily, like he’d just thrown the duvet back over the sheets without a care.
Steve stepped around you, turning the bed back down, then gesturing for you to follow him; you did. He leaned in close to you, and you turned your face toward his, and his lips met yours because he could tell that was what you wanted.
You melted into the kiss right away, his arms moving around you again, pulling you close again, your front flush with his as he pressed a thigh between yours, pressing it up against your clothed pussy as he licked the seam of your lips. You let him in with a sigh, and his hands moved over your back, tugging your shirt up with them as they did.
Steve undressed you slowly, his mouth exploring every inch of skin that he revealed as he took your clothes off, lips trailing over your stomach and your chest and then your thighs, lingering a moment with his nose against the front of your panties, tipping his chin forward to lick at you through the thin fabric covering you, sucking at you through your underwear.
“Steve,” you gasped, and he looked up at you, the same glint of trouble back in his eyes.
“Lie down,” he said, and you fell back from him, sitting on the edge of his bed, before you scooted yourself back, reclining on the pillows.
A smile spread across his lips as you did what he told you, and then he was bent over you, licking back into your mouth as his hand explored down your front, kissing you gently, his fingertips pressing between your legs, against your heat as you whimpered softly against his lips.
“This ok?” he asked, and you nodded. “Need an answer.”
“Yes,” you replied, and you felt him smile against your mouth.
“Good girl,” he whispered, at the same moment he slipped his hand inside your panties, not from the waistband but from the side, just pushing the gusset over and letting his fingers slide through your folds.
“Steve,” you said, a little confused at how good you felt at being praised for doing next to nothing, just giving him permission—but also beyond aroused. He was clothed—you weren’t—and he hadn’t even taken your underwear off before he started fingering you.
“Can I ask you something?” he asked, and you looked down at him, your hands moving over your front, not sure where to keep them.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding.
He leaned in closer to you, his fingers moving over your clit now, rubbing it in wet circles. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, and you shivered.
“Can I spank your pretty little pussy?”
You looked over at him, shocked—you’d never expected him to speak to you that way, but at the same time…
“...Yeah,” you replied.
“Do you want me to?” he asked.
You licked your lip, tongue also brushing over his as you did. “Yeah.”
He kissed you, almost as thanks, and then spoke against your lips, asking you another question. “How do good girls ask for something they want?”
“Steve,” you said, almost indignant.
Immediately, he broke character. “Too much?”
You almost laughed, his hand stilling between your legs—because of course he wasn’t just secretly the sexiest man alive. Or was he?
You shook the thought from your mind. “No, it’s—um, no it’s not too much.”
“We can stop.”
That, you did laugh at. “Your fingers are inside me,” you said, and he pulled them out.
“I just—I,” you said, taking a deep breath as you trailed off. “I didn’t know… I would like it.”
“I should have—explained better.”
“You should have explained at all,” you said. “But…I was enjoying it.”
He paused, cocked his head a little to the side. “Ok. If you want to stop, we’ll stop.” He kissed you again. “So—how do good girls ask for something they want?”
You giggled nervously, still not quite back in it yet, not like he was. “Jesus, I never thought I’d—like that.”
He didn’t laugh, he just looked down at you, waiting for an answer, and kept his hand over your cunt, your underwear pushed to one side, half of your pussy exposed, the other hidden beneath fabric.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you spoke. “Please.”
“Please what?” Steve prompted you.
A shaky breath from you, and then—“Please sp-spank my,” you said, voice low. “Pussy.”
“Good girl,” Steve said, and lifted his hand before bringing it right back down onto your cunt, not hard, but enough to make your body twitch at the feeling of it, his fingers landing right where he wanted them despite the fact that he didn’t look away from your face.
“Oh my god,” you uttered, and he leaned in to kiss you, swallowing your sighs and whimpers as he lifted his hand and did it again, this time a touch harder, and you moaned into his mouth, desperate. You tried to spread your legs farther apart, and when Steve felt that he had more room—because he hadn’t broken eye contact, still—he rubbed his hand over your whole mound, tugging your underwear even further to the side, exposing your labia entirely.
“You want more?” he asked, his hand still moving over your whole cunt, his middle and ring fingers in between your lips, pinky and index on the outside.
“Yes,” you said, then added on, “please.”
Steve took your lips in another kiss and spanked your pussy again, breathing in each whine and moan you loosed for him, muttering how good you were being, just for him, what a good girl you were, and every time he said that to you, you felt your cunt clench down on nothing.
“Would you,” you breathed, “Steve, would you—go inside me, again, please?” He pulled back. “Please.”
He pulled back from you entirely, wiping his fingers on your underwear leaving you on the bed as he rolled to stand up. “Since you asked like such a good girl,” he said, and curled his fingers into your underwear, sliding them down your legs, over your thighs and knees and calves, tossing them to the floor with the rest of your clothes. “Just be patient,” he said, caressing the side of your face with the hand that had just been inside you; it made you shudder, especially as he trailed his fingertips across your lips, your scent and your fluids still clinging to him.
“Fuck,” you muttered, as he dug around in the bedside table for a condom, handing it to you as he untucked his shirt, undid his belt and slid it from the loops. He slipped the button of his jeans, tugged down the zipper; you watched, worrying the corner of the condom wrapper between your fingers, as he pushed his jeans and briefs down just enough to get his cock out. He was already hard, and your mouth watered at the sight of him, wanting to taste him, feel him—you were so wrapped up in him now, that yes—you wanted to be a good girl for him and make him feel good the way he’d made you feel good.
But that, maybe, was for another time, because he clambered onto the bed to settle between your legs, and looked at you expectantly. You tore the condom wrapper, rolling the rubber onto him and then settled back against the pillows, looking up for him, reaching up toward him, feeling even more exposed since he was still clothed and you weren’t, his shirt pulled up just enough that you could see his stomach, some of the hair on his torso, and his pants pushed down to allow part of his thighs to be visible. His cock was hot and heavy in your hands, twitching a little as you touched him, stroking him with both hands through the condom, fingertips trailing over his length and then he was surging forward to kiss you again, and you were guiding his cock to your dripping slit, and he was pushing into you and you were moaning into his mouth and he was moaning back into yours and your tongues were moving together and he was biting at your lower lip and then he was fully sheathed in you and you shuddered.
“Steve,” you simpered against his lips, and he met your eyes, his hands gentle on you as he held you in place, pulling out and fucking back in roughly, enough that you moaned brokenly, wanton, your voice cracking. “Fuck—yes, yes, ok, oh my god.” Your body took him in as he fucked you, quick, hard, the bed creaking underneath you as you clung to him, your hands tangling into the front of his shirt before you took it upon yourself to push it up as far as you could, up to his underarms, letting your hands explore his front, threading through the hair on his chest, skimming over his nipples, his own whimpers landing on your tongue as you touched him everywhere you could.
“Being so good for me,” Steve muttered, “right?”
“Yes,” you answered him, rolling your hips up to meet his thrusts, wanting to feel him as deep as you possibly could, beyond aroused at the way he kept calling you a good girl, his good girl. He’d completely won you over, and it was in the basest, sickest way possible, and you still loved it.
“Say it,” he said, and you didn’t play coy, didn’t fuck around—you did what he told you.
“I’m your good girl,” you said, and he nodded, keeping his eyes on yours, making everything all the more intense—the eye contact, his hands on you, your hands on him, the wet slide of his cock into your pussy, the slap of his hips against yours as your body opened for him, as your walls clenched down on him each time his cock pressed back against them. “Please you—say it too?”
Steve laughed, not derisively, but like you were finally getting it, finally understanding his reputation, how he treated women. “You’re so good, baby,” he said. “So good for me. Good girl.” He kissed you again. “My good girl, right? All mine?”
You weren’t—but god, weren’t you?
“Yes,” you moaned, nodding, sucking his tongue when he kissed you again. “Would you—” you started to ask, gasping instead of finishing the question.
“Would I what?” he asked, fucking into you and then holding there, keeping you poised on his cock, his length stretching you around him.
“Touch me,” you finished, and he broke the eye contact for the first time, glancing down between your bodies, where he was disappearing into you, at where your swollen clit was hidden, nestled between your lips.
“For you?” he said. “Anything.”
You arched up off the bed as he ran his fingers back down through your folds, finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing over it in small circles.
“How do you like it? Like this?” He changed to move up and down, a straight line. “This, maybe?”
Inside you, his cock throbbed, your walls fluttered.
“Maybe this?” He changed, not a circle again but a longer oval, adding a bit of depth to just moving his fingers back and forth.
“Yes, yeah, yeah—that,” you nodded, and he smirked, continuing what he’d been doing.
“Are you close?” he asked, and you nodded again.
“Please,” you said, answering his next question before he even asked it.
“So good,” he muttered against your lips, lowering himself down onto you as he kept touching yout clit, kissing you deeply as he started fucking into you again, longer, drawn out thrusts this time, slow, earthshaking. You were about to snap, and he knew it. “Be a good girl and come when I tell you to, ok?”
“Ok,” you agreed, though you had no idea if you could even hold back.
“You gonna come?” he asked, not quite taunting you, but almost.
“Yeah,” you said, head a little fuzzy with it, ready to come, trying to keep yourself steady.
“Not yet,” Steve said, slowing his hand on your clit, but keeping the pattern the same. Just below, he was still fucking you languidly, deep, feeling every bit of you tighten around him. “Not yet.”
“Steve—” you squeaked out, because you were right on the edge, right there and fucking ready.
He said nothing, just kept moving, kept feeling your body milking it from him, and it was when he finished, filling the condom inside you, snapping his hips forward into you and burying his cock into you as far as he possibly could, he managed to mutter, “Go ‘head, good girl,” and you were finished too.
Your tensed muscles all released at once and your back arched up into Steve, fingernails cutting half-moons into his arms as you spasmed around his cock, your clit jumping beneath his fingers, swollen and sensitive, your breath catching in your lungs as your body forgot, momentarily, how to inhale, and when he pulled out of you, you were still shaking with it, still feeling it, the muscles in your legs twitching, your fingers shaking, and then Steve was laying beside you, kissing you eagerly, his hand rubbing your cunt through the aftershocks.
“You ok?” he asked, his nose against your cheek.
“Yeah,” you sighed, relaxing back into the pillow.
“Gonna get you some water,” he said, kissing your temple. He was back before you really even came down from your afterglow, and as you took the cup from him, sipping it, he took off his shirt and jeans, but left his briefs on as he settled down beside you.
“So what the fuck was that, Harrington?” you asked, almost laughing.
“The right way to treat a woman,” he said, and you gave him a sidelong look at which he just grinned.
“You need to learn to ask about boundaries,” you said, almost scolding him.
“You are… right,” he conceded.
“Maybe next time I’ll need to slap some sense into you…down there,” you said, pointing to his cock, flagging inside his underwear, but still tenting them a little.
Steve looked over at you, holding eye contact, just as intensely as he had all evening. Then, a grin split his face.
Single parenthood is no easy feat, but you and your daughter Abbey seem to be making it by just fine. That is, until the morning that you drop your daughter off for her very first day of elementary school and meet her teacher for the year: Mr. Harrington.
Contains - strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, early-mid 90's, teacher!steve harrington au, single!mom!reader, parenthood
*once the main story is finished, this au will be open for requests/blurbs/ thoughts etc!
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Epilogue
Bonus Features! -
your first official date with Steve
your first time with Steve 18+
you celebrate Steve's birthday with him
telling Abbey she's going to be a sister
the birth of your son, Lucas
steve comes to the rescue when you're feeling overwhelmed
I just finished the main series and I! Am! Obsessed! You know I’ll be coming back to read the bonus chapters. This is so so good, and I’ve really enjoyed reading it 🩷
SUMMARY: your friends think you're a loser because you don't have a boyfriend. good thing Steve is such a great friend, because now you're going to the fair together as a couple.
CONTENT: fake dating trope, some cussing (i know, horrible), toxic friend, like jealous kind of toxic, no fake-dating-kissing BUT kissing at the end, mutual long-term crush, yearning, reader has a fear of heights, reader gets into a fight (it's a slap and then one punch), reader sneaks out and steals her dad's car
WORD COUNT: 5K
A/N: fake dating trope my favorite in the world.. <3 Sorry if the ending seems a little rushed! :(
ミ★
Steve had a bad feeling about this.
A weird, tiny mite in his stomach, eating away at him as he knocked on your door.
And he felt the mite bite at his insides when you opened it, a nervous smile greeting him. When you asked him to come over, your grainy voice over the phone held a similar nervousness, which was obviously never good.
You pulled him inside, then down the hall to your room.
"Hi, Steve, how have you been?" The way you asked was rushed, like you were saying "let's get the pleasantries out of the way, I have much more important things to talk about."
"Uh, fine-" Steve barely had a chance to answer before you decided it was time to get to the point.
"Okay, listen- and I feel horrible asking this, but uh," you ran a hand through your hair, resting it on the back of your neck, "I kind of really need you to pretend to be my boyfriend tonight." Steve raised his eyebrows in shock, then pinched them together in confusion. You continued before he could ask anything.
"Because I'm going out with my friends tonight because they were talking about a double date with their boyfriends and I felt left out so I for some reason said that I had a boyfriend and that probably came from the fact that I feel like a loser for not having a boyfriend but that's not important- the point is they're expecting me in two hours and you're my only guy-friend so please pretend to be my boyfriend just for tonight. Please."
Steve stared at you, eyes narrowed and lips parted, trying to make sense of your ramble. God, could you talk fast.
"A loser?" he repeated, squinting at you. The sigh that left you was more than exasperated, it was more like a groan.
"That's not the point!" You threw your hands up. "But yes, my friends think I'm a loser because I haven't had a boyfriend in years, and if they find out I lied about it then I'll be a huge, massive, major loser, Steve!"
Steve sighed, running a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath.
"Okay, fine. You owe me majorly."
You broke out in a relieved smile, your shoulders dropping their tension.
"Thank you." You gave him a quick hug, throwing your arms around his neck, and then pushed him aside to start digging through your closet.
---
You only realized what an utterly horrible idea this was once you saw your friends in the parking lot.
Asking Steve to do this seemed fine in the moment. You could keep your crush at bay for a few hours, you had done it countless times before.
But seeing your friends with their boyfriends, small kisses and arms linked, put things into perspective. You imagined acting like that with Steve. Your cheeks flushed. You realized there is no way that you'll be able think of anything other than your crush. And there is no way you're going to survive tonight.
You should've just cancelled and accepted that you're a boyfriendless loser.
Steve put the car in park, looking over to you.
"Ready?" he asked, in his stupidly sweet voice. He looked stupidly good, with his stupid hair and his stupidly tight polo shirt. You sighed.
"No."
You opened the door anyway, walking around to the front of the car. Steve took your hand. You felt warmth climb up your arm, settling on your cheeks. Maybe you would be able to disappear later in the crowd of the fair. Hopefully you could stay lost forever.
You walked up to your friends. One, Nicole, waved, a sweet smile on her face, but the other, Sarah, was too busy gawking at Steve. You shifted your feet nervously, then thought to introduce him.
"Uh, this is Nicole," you gestured to the shorter girl with glasses and blonde hair, "and Sarah." You moved your hand towards her, now noticing the almost-smirk on her face. You moved your hand to rest on Steve's shoulder. "And this is-"
"Steve Harrington," Sarah finished for you. You let out a nervous laugh, subconsciously squeezing his hand.
Steve nodded. "Nice to meet you guys." He squeezed back.
Nicole's boyfriend, Josh, introduced himself first, then Sarah's, who was new to you as well. His name was Chris, and he looked like he was already in his third year of college.
The six of you made your way into the fair, chatting about what to do first.
---
"Do you guys want to go on any rides tonight?" Nicole asked, already pulling her boyfriend to get a ride wristband.
"We can go on the ferris wheel, but I am not going on that spinning death trap." Sarah followed, her boyfriend next to her with his hand in her back pocket.
You and Steve were behind the group, still holding hands. You had gotten sort of used to it, and your heart started to slow and your face cooled down. But then you thought about how it felt too normal, and how you wished that this was normal, and that you could do it every day. And you were sent right back to square one.
You glanced up at Steve. He seemed perfectly fine. Of course he did.
But, you noticed, his eyes were flicking around. Like he couldn't decide on what to look at, or he felt uncomfortable looking at one thing for too long. You figured he was just nervous about meeting your friends, especially because Sarah knew him immediately. And knowing him meant knowing his reputation from high school. Which was never good.
You squeezed his hand again. He blinked and his eyes darted to you. He was definitely nervous. You offered him a soft smile. He smiled back, softer, before he seemed to snap out of something and his eyes darted back away. Weird.
The two of you walked up to the wristband vendor. You started to pull some cash out of your handbag, but before you could count it, Steve had already paid for two. He stepped to the side to let the people behind you pay for theirs, you followed to the side of the booth and held out the cash to him. He glanced up at you while he was trying to peel the paper off of the sticky part of the wristband, then shook his head and glanced back down.
"Put that back in your purse."
"Steve, it was like fifteen dollars."
"What kind of boyfriend would I be if I let you pay for your own stuff?" He said it so casually, your stomach did a flip. You cleared your throat.
"My friends aren't looking."
He scoffed, reaching for your wrist that was still extended towards him. He slipped the wristband around you, securing it. Then, he took the money out of your hand, and you were relieved for a second, only a second, before he grabbed the handbag hanging off your shoulder and stuffed the money back inside it.
"Not the point." He gave you a smile, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and guiding you back to your friends before you could protest any more.
---
"Ohmygoshhh Chriiiissss!!!!" Sarah squealed, dragging her boyfriend to the ring-toss game. She excitedly pointed up to a huge Woody the Woodpecker plush hanging limp from the very top of the booth. "You have to win this for me!" Chris chuckled, sauntering up to the carny and handing him a dollar. He looked back to Sarah cockily before he was handed his rings, and then proceeded to miss every toss. He grumbled about the game being rigged and stomped back to Sarah, who also pouted.
"I'll just buy you one from Toys 'R' Us," you heard Chris mumble. Sarah sighed, very audibly, before locking her eyes onto you and Steve.
She watched the two of you while Nicole's boyfriend had a go, successfully winning her a small cat plush with button eyes. Nicole rewarded him with a big kiss on the cheek, and you would've thought it was cute if you could focus on anything other than Sarah staring at you.
"Well! I think Steve should try now!" Sarah suddenly spoke up, sharp enough to make everyone jump.
You and Steve glanced at each other, that was weird, and he stepped up to the carny to give him a dollar.
"I was going to..." he muttered under his breath, pulling a smile and a soft chuckle from you. You were too focused on Steve now to notice Sarah's eye twitch.
Steve was a little clumsy at first, but he managed to land the very last ring, and the carny presented you with a small sock monkey.
It was simple, something cheap that the carnival could buy and make a huge profit off of. But it was your favorite color, with white accents where the heel and toes of the sock would've been, with one button eye and one stitched, the same white yarn used to stitch its wide smile that almost matched yours. You moved your free hand to hold Steve's again, looking up at him with a fondness that couldn't be fake, and you could swear that you could see it in his eyes, too.
You didn't get too much time to ponder it before Sarah was dragging everyone to the next activity, though.
---
The rest of the night was full of stupid moments that were full of you wishing you and Steve were actually dating.
Everyone got photo booth strips, and you could only think of how Nicole and Sarah were probably able to be all cute and cheesy with their boyfriends, and how cute it would've been to be able to get one of you and Steve kissing each other's cheeks. How nice it would've been if you and Steve were actually dating.
But you weren't.
Your photo strip consisted of unserious faces, seated what felt like a foot away from each other. Because you were just friends, and this was fake.
The ferris wheel was similar, for the most part. When it started off, you imagined being able to get into a gondola with Steve alone, no triple-date, just the two of you. On a single, real date. But that's not what this was, nor would it ever be, because the six of you all crammed onto one gondola and you and Steve weren't dating.
Luckily, you couldn't think about it for as long as you did in the photo booth, because the moment you were raised more than twenty feet off the ground all your thoughts were replaced by-
"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod we're so high off the ground-"
-and you could only focus on staring at the floor of the gondola like a hypnotized chicken while you gripped the edge of the bench.
Steve's hand sliding over yours momentarily brought you out of your trance, and your eyes shot up to his. He gave you a sympathetic look, subtly lacing his fingers in between yours and scooting a little closer to you.
He had known about your fear of heights since the night the two of you were hanging out on the roof of his house. You both had crawled through the window onto the slanted roof, and his suspicion of your fear had started with how hesitant you had been to climb any higher. It had grown with how hesitant you had been to stand up fully or let go of the edge of the window. When you finally reached the top of the roof, you just sat with your knees pulled to your chest, rigid. Once you started scolding him for being "reckless," ("Steve, get away from the edge!" even though he was about five feet away from the edge, or "Jesus, Steve, sit down or you'll slip!" because he got up to grab another drink from the six-pack he brought up, which you were also very concerned about because he wouldn't have both hands free to catch himself) his suspicions were confirmed, and he learned to keep you away from heights.
He knew the ferris wheel would be a bad idea for you, but he couldn't think of an excuse for the two of you to slip away from it without possibly embarrassing you. So he opted for comforting you as best as he could while you were on it.
You moved your hand so you could properly hold Steve's, lacing your fingers more securely between his and squeezing it while you concentrated back on the floor.
The ferris wheel stopped spinning again, and you knew you were at the top from your friends gasps of amazement. You squeezed Steve's hand tighter. You expected him to squeeze back, but instead he gently removed his hand from your grip, bringing it to rest hesitantly on your waist, scooting a little closer to whisper to you.
"You should look at the view, just for a second." His voice was too sweet, too caring and too considerate, there was no way you wouldn't do whatever he told you to. You looked at him once for reassurance. He nodded. You took a deep breath, looking over the side of the gondola.
It was breathtaking, partly because of how high up you were, instilling brief panic straight to your heart, but partly because of just how beautiful it was. There seemed to be a million lights, all different colors and all jumping in different patterns. Looking down at the crowds of people, some alone, some with a large group of friends, some with just one special someone, you could hear thousands of voices, each on a different subject, each experiencing their own version of tonight.
Steve returned his hand to yours, and you gave it a squeeze once more, looking back to him as soon as the height got to be too much. He was already looking at you, the lights reflected in his eyes, you reflected in his eyes, with that same look from the ring-toss booth. Your breath hitched, and it felt like exactly what you wished for when you got on the ferris wheel. It felt like just the two of you, no Nicole, or Sarah, or their boyfriends, no life-threatening drop outside the rickety cart, and no fake-boyfriend scheme. If only.
The ferris wheel motor kicked back on, jolting you out of your dream and back into reality, a hundred feet in the air and hopelessly in love with your best friend.
Your eyes darted back to the floor.
---
Chatter filled the local diner, not loud, just filling, and your table was no exception. Nicole led most of the conversation, bringing everybody into it. She was good at making people feel included.
Yet, it seemed that her amazing friendship powers could not pull Sarah out of her shitty mood.
She had been especially condescending after the ferris wheel, and her weird funk had not let up at all since then. She had always been a little mean, ever since you met her, but tonight felt different. Something must be seriously bothering her, but you didn't want to put her on the spot in front of everyone, and you couldn't talk to her alone. You didn't want to leave Steve alone, even if he had been getting along fine with mostly everyone so far. They were still strangers, and you roped him into this, giving him barely two hours to prepare. You decided you could put up with Sarah's attitude for the rest of the night, and you would ask over the phone tomorrow, or something.
The conversation had died down a little, and Nicole's boyfriend was about to start another story before Sarah suddenly spoke up.
"So, Steve," she began, and already you were anxious. "How did you and Y/N meet?" Her voice was thick with some type of venom, too thick to cover up with the innocent tone she tried to slap over it.
"Uh, school, I guess, but-" Steve started, but was promptly cut off.
"Wow, so you've known each other for a while? How come you started dating?" You stomach turned. Sarah must've picked up on something. You could've sworn you and Steve were convincing enough. Maybe it was the lack of kissing?
"I mean, it's hard to just pinpoint one reason. It would be hard not to fall in love, she's amazing." Steve looked at you with a smile, and was about to continue before Sarah took the opportunity once again.
"Really? I mean, I don't want to be rude, I just feel like she's, I don't know, out of your league." You swallowed, chewing on the inside of your bottom lip. Her sickening, condescending smile was still stuck to her pinched face, and her very obviously fake innocent tone was still stuck to her snide comments.
You couldn't bear to look at Steve as an uncomfortable silence stretched across the table.
"...Sorry?" He sounded genuinely confused, almost baffled.
"I just mean that you're King Steve, and she's... well, she's not 'Queen Y/N,' you know?" Her voice was really starting to annoy you, it was stupidly high and just so annoying.
Steve was quiet for another few seconds.
"Well, Sarah, if anything, I'm out of her league. My reputation wasn't... great... in school, but Y/N helped me. Even still, I'm only a quarter the saint she is." For the first time, Sarah didn't cut Steve off. She took a minute to process his words and think of the absolute most snarkiest thing she could say back.
She snorted. "Well, I wouldn't say Y/N's a saint. A massive loser, maybe." Her shrill giggles snapped something in you, and your head came back up to look her dead in the eye.
"How long have you and Chris been dating again?" Your tone was firm enough to cut off her annoying laugh, and she looked at you almost offended, as if saying you wouldn't dare.
"Two weeks. How come?" She tilted her head, innocently, annoyingly, again trying to intimidate you in the pathetic way she intimidated everybody else.
"Wondering how long it'll be before you break up with him. A week? Oh, but, you took him to the fair, so maybe by Wednesday." You started out feigning the same innocence as her before dropping into sarcasm, frowning as you held eye contact.
You could see her act immediately drop. Her eye twitched and she clenched her jaw. She didn't say anything for a while, nobody did, and you took the chance to get her back again. It seemed that Steve gave you the confidence, just by being there.
"Sorry, did I ruin the surprise?" You pretended to pout.
At that, Sarah stood up, pushing back her chair with a screech that sounded all to much like her voice.
"What is wrong with you?!" she screamed, her hands balled into fists. Half of the other customers in the diner went silent.
You couldn't push back your anger anymore, and you stood up too, still looking her in the eyes.
"What's wrong with you?!"
She rounded the table in short, furious steps, and stopped just short of you, slapping you clean across the face. You heard the other chairs scraping across the floor, and could see Steve stumbling forward towards you, but you paid no attention. Your mind blurred and before you could think about it you landed a swift right hook straight into her cheekbone. You weren't strong by any means, but neither was she, and she stumbled back, catching herself on the table. Before she could get back up, Steve was pushing you away and an employee was already at the table, kicking everybody out.
---
The car ride back to your house was dead quiet, other than the hum of the engine, which somehow made the silence even worse. You couldn't tell what Steve was thinking. You had been watching him out of the corner of your eye for most of the drive so far, but he was stone-faced, and he hadn't said a word since "get in the car."
You looked back to the dark road in front of you. Your cheek still stung a little, but not as bad as the ache in your knuckles. There was a soft purple blooming through your middle knuckle already, and you were sure that in the morning it would be worse. Some adrenaline was still swimming through your veins, kept alive by the anxiety the silence was causing. You ran your hand over the forming bruise, pressing on it gently, and pain sprouted back up. You sucked in a breath through your teeth.
Steve eased to a stop in front of your house. You thought that was good. If he was mad, he probably would've slammed on the breaks.
You went to open the door when Steve stopped you, grabbing your shoulder. Your stomach sank. He cleared his throat.
"Can we talk?" His voice was low and careful, and you couldn't tell what it meant. You thought you would be good at reading him by now, but evidently, you were not.
You sank back into the passenger seat, letting out a slow exhale to hopefully prepare yourself for whatever he would say.
"Tonight was really fun. I'm sorry that Sarah is a... well, for lack of a better word, a bitch. Whatever she said tonight, or apparently before tonight, she said because she's jealous of you. Even I was able to pick up on that, it was so obvious. So just, um, don't listen to her, she's wrong."
You looked at him with an unreadable expression, blank and slightly wide-eyed. He swallowed and took his hand off your shoulder.
"..What?"
"You- you're not gonna mention the... fight..?"
He looked at you for a second, then shook his head.
"No, no, she deserved that. I just wanted you to know that I think you're great."
"Oh." Your heart started to finally slow. Thank God. Why was he so quiet the whole drive? Just over him wanting to reassure you?
"And, I meant everything I said at the diner," he continued, looking at you intently.
You stared back, trying to figure out if there was something you were missing. Why did he seem so nervous about this? You tilted your head slightly. You just couldn't make sense of it.
"Okay," you nodded slowly. "Thanks, Steve. You're great, too. Especially great, for pretending to be my boyfriend, and standing up for me, and everything. Paying for my tickets. You know. Thank you," you awkwardly spewed out, Steve's evident nervousness rubbing off on you.
You both stared at each other for a while, until Steve finally looked away, down to his lap.
"Yeah," he seemed a little disappointed, which he realized and fixed his tone as he looked back to you. "Yeah, no problem." He fixed a smile to his face.
You took this as the end of the conversation, awkwardly opening the door and getting out of the car.
"Okay. Thanks again, I owe you big time. Goodnight, Steve," you said, walking backwards to your front door.
Steve nodded. "Night."
He made sure you made it inside before pulling away.
---
You couldn't sleep.
You tried, so hard, but you had thought about how weird Steve was acting while you were getting ready for bed, and still couldn't place your finger on it. And now, you were laying on your back, staring up at your dark ceiling like the answer would be spelled out in the shallow dips of the plaster. It felt like it should be obvious, but it just wouldn't come to you.
Frustrated, you rolled over, looking at the sock monkey he won you. You pulled it off of your nightstand, holding it between your arms.
You started the night over again in your head. Maybe you could remember something he said or did that stuck out. Or maybe you should be looking for something that didn't stick out.
You sighed, hugging the sock monkey tighter.
The diner must be important. That was really where everything happened. You went over every line of conversation you could remember, which wasn't a lot. Then you got to Sarah making backhanded comments about you. What had Steve said? We met in school. That was normal, nothing interesting about that. Then Sarah asked why the two of you were dating. He had said something like It was hard not to, she's so amazing. Then he had gone on about how you had made him a better person, something about saints-
It would be hard not to fall in love, she's amazing.
You shot up, the sock monkey falling to the side of you.
That's what he was talking about. How he meant everything he had said. You knew you weren't remembering incorrectly, because you remember exactly how your stomach turned as you wished it was real. But it was real. He did mean it. And he told you he meant it and you sat there staring at him like an idiot!
You pressed the heel of your palms into your eyes, swearing a string of curses at yourself, before realizing you had to do something about this, and you flung your bedsheets off of you, speed-walking down the hall to the phone.
You squeezed the handle as you pressed the receiver to your ear, your eyes squeezed shut as you prayed to whatever higher-power out there that Steve would pick up.
The phone finally stopped ringing, but instead of Steve's voice greeting you, the dial tone mocked you with it's flat laugh. You hung the phone back up, threading your fingers into your hair and pulling at it. You couldn't wait to call him back in the morning. Calling him was a bad idea anyway, your parents would definitely wake up and hear you.
Your eyes flicked to the keys hanging by the front door. Immediately, you reached for them, before you took a second to consider.
You had your license, you could drive, legally. But, you hadn't driven much, because your dad wouldn't let you drive his car without him. But you couldn't just wait until tomorrow.
You looked back to your parents bedroom. What would they do if they found out you took your dads car in the middle of the night? Ground you, definitely. Maybe for up to a month. But...
You cringed as the engine sputtered on. There was no way that didn't wake your parents up, so you had to be quick in getting out of there. You reversed onto the street, almost hitting the trash cans on the curb, then sped off.
---
You pounded on the door of the Harrington's house. Luckily, Steve's parents didn't decide this would be the one night they would be home. You knocked and knocked until you heard Steve shout out "Jesus, I'm coming!"
A second later the door swung open, Steve standing behind it in his pajamas, sleepy and annoyed.
"Y/N?" His annoyance shifted to confusion. "How did you..." he looked around until he found your dad's car, parked crooked against the curb, and his eyebrows raised.
"Steve," his eyes fell back on you, ready for an explanation. It was then you realized you didn't once think of what you were going to say when you got to his house and woke him up at one in the morning. "Uh..."
"Are you okay?" His eyes flicked over you.
"Yes, yes I'm fine, I just- um, when you said, earlier in the car, when you dropped me off, and you said that you meant what you said in the diner."
His eyes widened slightly and his mouth dropped open to explain himself, but you continued before he could, before you could lose your nerve.
"And, at first, I didn't get what you meant- well, I understood on a basic level but I didn't get what you were really, specifically talking about until, like, thirty minutes ago, which is why- no, nevermind, the point is, I realized that you were talking about that one thing you said to Sarah."
You stopped for just a second, Steve's mouth had closed during your ramble, but it didn't open again. Which you took as you misinterpreting the entire thing, which meant that you just stole your dad's car at one in the morning to drive all the way to Steve's house to wake him up and look crazy for no reason. So your mouth opened again instead and you kept rambling.
"Unless you really didn't mean anything by it and I'm really just overthinking the whole thing because I punched somebody and I'm going crazy-"
"Y/N," Steve cut you off, and you held your breath. "You're not crazy."
"Oh." You pressed your lips together. "Good. So you..."
Steve squeezed his eyes shut. Nodded once.
"Yeah."
There was silence for a second.
"Can you just say it? So I know we're really on the same page?"
Steve sighed.
"I... am in love with you."
You stayed silent, processing it, pinching yourself to make sure you weren't dreaming. You weren't.
Steve took your silence as rejection, and started trying to explain himself.
"I tried to stop it, I couldn't. I've got it bad. I'm sorry."
You shook your head frantically.
"No, don't apologize! Steve, I stole my dad's car just to hear you say that." You gestured to the poorly parked car behind you.
Everything very visibly clicked in Steve's mind at once, his mouth hanging open with a slow inhale. His eyes drifted across your face, trying to pick up on any hint of insincerity, but he couldn't find it. Then, he was very obviously staring at your lips, and his mouth closed so he could swallow.
"I love you too."
The sentence was barely out of your mouth when he kissed you, your lips meeting before he even remembered to move his hands, one sliding onto your jaw and the other settling for your hip. He didn't need to pull you closer, you did that yourself, pressing your hands onto his shoulders.
He pulled away for just a second, "Sorry- I couldn't-" planted another, messy kiss to your lips, "I've waited for too long." He didn't give you a chance to respond before he returned his desperate contact, not that you minded. There had been too much talking tonight, too much pretending, and you had also waited way too long for this.
When your legs started to get weak, and when the two of you had to breathe, you finally pulled away. The two of you stared at each other for a little, flushed and breathless.
"Do you want to spend the night?" Steve breathed, excited like this was the first love he'd ever experienced.
You laughed. "I can't. I have to take my dad's car back."
He glanced over to said car again, still holding you, before slowly shaking his head.
"...Yeah, I'm not letting you drive back by yourself."
Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? You’re almost certain you’d rather freeze to death. Almost.
WC: 18k+
Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steve’s trauma. reader’s trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.
A/N: Said I wasn’t gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if you’re sick of the van fics, but here’s one more 😅 title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine.
♪ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armor’s heavy, never suited me at all / but it’s the devil I know ♬
This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.
Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.
Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.
Leaving you- alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.
Yeah, lucky you.
This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.
You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.
It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.
And that's never your call to make.
Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."
"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.
He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.
Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"
"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."
"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.
"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"
"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."
"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."
"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."
"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"
"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."
Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."
"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"
"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.
Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."
There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.
Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.
Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?
It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.
Until you just… left.
Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.
No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.
You'd drift in, drift out.
Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.
In, out.
All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.
So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.
Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.
When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.
What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?
What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?
What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?
If you stayed… would it have been worth it?
The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.
It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.
That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.
No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.
Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.
Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?
Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.
You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.
Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.
Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.
That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.
Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.
The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.
That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.
You can only tread water for so long, though.
"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"
Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.
"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."
And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.
"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"
"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."
His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.
Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.
What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?
Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.
Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.
"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."
He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."
"God, you're such a bitch."
"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."
"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"
"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"
"Stop!"
"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"
"I meant the van, asshole!"
Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.
Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.
You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"
"Shit, shit, shit!"
Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.
"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"
Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.
His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"
You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.
Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.
"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.
"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"
He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."
Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.
She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"
You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.
"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"
Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."
"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.
In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.
Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."
"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."
So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.
Fantastic.
"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."
Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.
"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"
"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"
Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"
Hopper.
Oh, boy.
Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.
Well, can't say you didn't try.
Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."
You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.
"Okay, where are you exactly?"
The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.
You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.
Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."
"Language."
"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.
"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."
So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.
Way off.
"I- I don't know."
A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.
"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"
Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.
There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."
Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling a cold.
You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.
"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."
You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."
Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."
"I didn't lose the fucking—"
The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.
"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"
"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."
Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.
Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.
"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."
Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.
"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."
There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.
Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.
He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".
"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."
Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."
Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."
Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."
That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.
Together.
Alone.
"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"
A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.
"Yeah, kid. I got it."
In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.
It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.
Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.
"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"
"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"
Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?
"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."
Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"
"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."
"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.
"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.
There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.
Unless…
There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.
You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.
"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."
But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"
"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."
"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."
"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"
His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.
"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"
"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."
"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."
He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"
Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"
"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"
You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"
"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"
"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."
"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"
"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."
"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."
"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."
It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.
Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.
The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.
If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.
Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.
The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.
Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.
Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.
Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.
He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.
And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.
So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.
He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.
By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.
Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?
What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.
To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.
To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.
The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.
The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.
He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.
Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.
You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.
Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.
It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.
Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?
In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.
There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.
"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.
You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.
"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.
When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.
"Ow… S'loud," you groan.
"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.
"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.
It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.
Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.
Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.
"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.
Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.
And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.
Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.
Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.
"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.
He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.
Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."
"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."
"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."
The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.
Yeah, you're worse than he thought.
"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"
"M'yeah, s'kay."
If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.
Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.
Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.
He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"
"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."
"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.
He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.
"Okay, c'mon, boots first."
Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.
Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.
And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.
He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.
You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.
"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."
There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.
At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.
"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.
"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.
"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."
He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.
"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."
If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.
"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."
You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.
"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"
That's a dumb fucking question.
"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."
When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.
About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.
"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."
"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.
"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."
Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.
Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.
But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.
Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"
"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.
You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."
He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.
What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.
Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.
"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."
He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?
That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.
Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.
Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.
He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.
That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.
The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?
God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?
Whatever.
It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.
The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.
Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.
That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.
Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—
"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"
Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.
Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."
Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.
Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.
He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.
"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.
He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.
"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."
Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."
The words ache with more desperation than he intends.
"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.
"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.
"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"
He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"
"Fu- fucking cold."
"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."
You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."
"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."
You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.
Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.
Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.
Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.
"Be n- n- nice!"
"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"
"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"
The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.
Like a fucking fool.
"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."
The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.
"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."
"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"
You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"
"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"
"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.
He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."
"You could h- have some f'ya' want."
"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."
"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."
"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.
You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."
He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."
Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.
"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.
You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.
"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."
Oh, if only you knew.
"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"
"Make wh- what weird?"
Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.
The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."
"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."
"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.
The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.
"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."
"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."
You sound mortified.
"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"
"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"
He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?
"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."
"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."
He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.
There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.
Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.
Talk about something else. Anything.
"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.
"Hm? Wi- with what?"
"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."
"We still ended up in a ditch—"
"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."
You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.
"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."
Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."
"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."
Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.
"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."
"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.
"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."
It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.
"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."
He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.
"… What?"
Because since when do you care about letting him down?
"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."
Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.
"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."
And look where that got the two of you.
Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.
You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."
"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."
"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."
"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."
The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."
We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.
"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."
An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.
Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.
"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."
It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…
Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.
And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.
"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"
"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"
"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."
Scared is an understatement.
He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.
He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.
He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.
And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—
Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.
Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.
Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.
Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.
And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.
Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.
Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.
If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.
And you.
You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—
It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.
He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.
Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.
So much wasted time—
"Steve?"
Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.
Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"
"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"
A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."
"Oh my god, Steve."
"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."
"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.
"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."
Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.
"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.
"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."
"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."
Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.
"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."
A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.
The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.
"Fuck, shit, fuck—"
Yeah. He's hard.
He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.
Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."
"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"
Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."
Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.
"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"
Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."
He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?
"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."
"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"
"Not to death."
"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."
"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"
"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"
"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"
He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.
"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."
"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"
"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."
"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.
No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.
"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."
"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"
He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.
Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.
Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.
Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."
Not like this one's much easier to talk about.
Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.
"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"
"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."
You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.
It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.
"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"
When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.
"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."
For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.
"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."
It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?
There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.
The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.
"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."
Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.
Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.
You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.
He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.
The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.
"Shit, Steve…"
He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.
He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.
"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"
"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.
If, you know, you were into that.
His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.
The two of you just have to survive this night first.
"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."
You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.
Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.
"Finish. The. Sentence."
You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.
"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"
"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."
Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.
"Bet you were this wet before you left."
Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."
"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."
"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."
Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.
"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."
"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.
"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."
Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."
The smug expression falters, "Too much?"
"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."
Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."
Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.
He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.
Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."
"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."
"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."
You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."
"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"
"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."
He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.
And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.
The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.
Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.
"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."
Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.
"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"
Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.
"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."
The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.
"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"
The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.
"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"
Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.
"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"
You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.
This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.
Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.
And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.
He's missed you. So, so much.
The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.
"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.
"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"
Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.
"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."
Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.
"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.
"I- I want it."
"Want… what?"
Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."
"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."
"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.
Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.
Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.
"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."
As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.
You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.
"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"
Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."
He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.
"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."
Steve blinks as the words sink in.
Oh.
"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."
"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"
He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.
"One step at a time, okay?"
He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.
Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.
Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.
"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.
Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.
"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.
In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."
Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.
Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.
"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"
You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.
Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.
Oh, no.
"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"
Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"
"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"
"Steve."
"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.
"Were you— oh my god."
"What?!"
A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"
"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.
The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."
He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.
Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"
"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."
"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"
"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."
Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.
You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.
It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.
A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.
Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.
It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.
By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.
Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.
He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.
Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.
"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"
The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.
"S'okay?"
"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.
"But?"
Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.
Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.
He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.
"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"
"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."
Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.
As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.
You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.
Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.
"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.
"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'
Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."
And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.
"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."
"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."
"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."
Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.
"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"
Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.
With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.
"You done talking logistics yet?"
Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.
That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.
No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.
"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."
"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.
Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in.
Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.
Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.
What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.
Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.
It tightens.
Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.
"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.
The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.
"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."
Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.
But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.
Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.
That plucks at his heartstrings, too.
"Steve?"
Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.
"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."
Baby.
Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.
Wait, did you say he was crying?
"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."
"Steve—"
"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."
"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."
"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."
Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.
"St—"
He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.
You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"
"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."
And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.
You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"
He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.
"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"
"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.
You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.
"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."
Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"
"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."
Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"
It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.
His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.
And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.
No one's like you. No one could even compare.
"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."
"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."
Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.
"Steve," you whine.
"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."
You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."
"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."
"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"
"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."
You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."
"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"
"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."
"Please… what?"
"Steve, I s- swear to god—"
"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."
"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.
He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.
"Such a what?"
"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"
Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.
"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.
The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same.
"I… Yours?"
Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.
"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"
Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.
"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.
He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.
"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"
"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you.
"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."
"Y- you."
Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.
"I'm right here."
Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.
The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.
And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.
"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.
It's only fair to match his energy.
"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."
He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.
No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.
"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."
Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.
Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.
God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.
"Fuck, you're unreal."
You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.
Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck
"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.
"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"
He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.
Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.
Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.
Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.
That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.
"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.
All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.
"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."
Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."
"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."
Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.
The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.
"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."
And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.
There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.
"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."
"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"
Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"
"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.
Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.
It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.
"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."
"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"
"Okay."
"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."
This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.
"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."
He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."
"Steve."
The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will.
⤷ You need a fake boyfriend for Christmas, so your best friend Steve Harrington comes to the rescue. There are just three rules: No kissing, no sharing a bed, and no catching feelings.
[fake dating for christmas] [best friends to lovers] [college students] [found family] [modern day au] [smut] [porn with plot] [sex bets] [tension] [there was only one bed] [steve's a sweetheart] [but with a big cock]
Any Port in a Storm | Steve Harrington x f!Reader ✎📃 ❦
⤷ On a luxury cruise, you find yourself tangled up in a scheme to marry Steve Harrington. Only problem is: you hate him.
[childhood best friends to lovers] [second chance] [meddling parents] [luxury cruise modern day au] [smut] [only one bed (do you even know me?)] [hot tub is hot if you know what I mean] [angst with happy ending]
ONESHOTS
Sugar Rush | Steve Harrington x f!Reader ✍︎❦
⤷ Steve's determined to do Valentine's Day right. You, however, have other plans.
Composure | Steve Harrington x f!Reader ✍︎❦
⤷ The staff at your best friend's wedding are exceptionally eager to please.
Accidentally On Purpose | Steve Harrington x f!henderson!Reader ✍︎
⤷ A prank war between you and Steve backfires when a thunderstorm washes away your paint, leaving behind an accidental love confession scribbled across his car.
Knight Next Door | single dad!steve harrington x f!neighbor!reader ✍︎
⤷ The single dad next door is running late and in desperate need of a knight in shining armor. Preferably one who knows ballet buns.
Five Stars | (sister fics - same prompt, but one is fluff & one is smut) ✍︎
⤷ After coming back from a date with a bad review, Steve sets out to prove to himself that he really is good at some things...
⟶ FLUFF | Steve Harrington x f!coworker reader
⟶ SMUT | Steve Harrington x f!roommate!reader ❦
drabbles ˎˊ˗
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coach!steve harrington x single mom!reader
(18+; MDNI; 13.5k words)
And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”
(Your five year old daughter wanted to sign up for the newly established Hawkins Little League Softball team. To your surprise, the coach is your old high school fling, Steve Harrington.)
cw: pregnancy/shitty exes/custody; mentions of family death in a vague way; masturbation; p-in-v sex; sort of unprotected sex (reader has an IUD); tit worship; body worship; creampies; pussy eating; porn with plot!!!; reader has stretch marks from pregnancy; soft!steve; big dick!steve; yearning; reader and steve graduated high school together are both 25
masterlist || divider by @/saradika-graphics || ao3 link
Your life wasn’t meant to turn out this way.
Not that you would necessarily complain, but when you were eighteen and fresh faced, ready to take on the world, you’d had a very clear plan in your mind of how life was supposed to go.
College, then a career, marriage, and after several comfortable years, maybe children could enter the picture. You were, after all, eighteen, and the prospect of kids had felt astronomically far away.
(Isn’t life funny sometimes?)
Then the car crash happened.
You don’t remember much of it—bits here, pieces there, some flashes if you think hard enough that it makes your head hurt—just that one moment you were in the backseat of your family’s car, buckled in and drifting to sleep, and in the next, you were staring up at the ceiling of Hawkins Memorial.
You had survived with some broken bones and a nasty concussion.
Your family did not.
You were eighteen and alone, having graduated high school only a few weeks prior. And between all of the injuries that you’d sustained and the sudden lack of family to help pay for tuition, you were forced to drop out of college. Your days were instead spent planning funerals from a hospital bed, handling lawyers and life insurance and inheritance. You threw yourself into physical therapy and, once your leg healed, forced yourself into a car, refusing to let yourself vomit from the anxiety of being behind a wheel once more.
You survived it all, and you came out a stronger person on top.
Different, maybe, but stronger.
And throughout it all—through the long hours in the hospital and longer hours rebuilding your strength—was your boyfriend, Mark Lewinsky.
Mark was sweet. Mark was kind. He filled your recovery room with flowers, and once you were discharged, his parents allowed you to stay at their house as you healed.
But Mark also had a life outside of yours completely crashing down around you, and in August of ’85, he swept off to Purdue without a glance backwards.
And life moved on. Injuries healed, you moved back into your family’s home, and your days were spent with sorting through their belongings, figuring out which items you wanted to keep and which items would be better loved in another home.
Mark called often. Of course he called often! He was your boyfriend, the love of your life, and was even starting to talk about rings and weddings and marriage, and even if your life hasn’t gone the way that you thought it should, at least you could still have the other parts, right?
It was just as things were starting to feel normal again, that you were settling into your new existence, that the earthquake happened.
Mark spent the summer of ’86 bouncing between his parents’ house and your place, filling out the copious amounts of paperwork that the military required for him to be released to go back go college, and before you could wrap your head around it, he was gone.
He was gone, and you were left in this new, strange world by yourself. No Mark, no family, no friends.
Alone.
And it was fine. It was fine.
It was fine up until the military doctor informed you, during one of the mandatory checkups, that you were pregnant.
And then, suddenly, everything wasn’t fine, because it was October of 1986, the military was breathing down everyone’s necks, and you were scared and pregnant and alone and all Mark could say over the phone was, “Babe, are you even sure that it’s mine?”
You seethed. Of course you seethed—you were faithful! You’d been nothing but faithful for two years! You hadn’t even looked at another man, not since Mark asked you out during your senior year! And now you were pregnant with his baby, stuck in a nightmare scenario, he changed his phone number, his parents had moved from town, and you were alone.
Mark, clearly, did not care.
In fact, he didn’t really seem to care until long after you gave birth, not until your daughter, Mia, was nearly two, and he came skipping back into Hawkins after he graduated college, demanding a paternity test.
He demanded a lot of things, really, that you were too exhausted to fight him on. Not with the money behind the Lewinsky name. Not with the way you hadn’t slept for a full night since giving birth. Not with living through a military occupation, abandoned and scared, with a baby who depended on you for everything.
So you got the test done, and wouldn’t you know it? Mark Lewinsky was, in fact, the father. Except Mark Lewinsky was no longer your boyfriend, and he had a nice, new woman at his side with a nice, new shiny ring on her finger and a nice, new lawyer to demand shared custody.
The only thing you refused to budge on was changing Mia’s last name from yours to Mark’s. You were, after all, the person that carried her in your body, the only parent she knew for the first two years of her life, and you were the one she cried for after nightmares. You were the one that she snuggled up next to after you rented Cinderella from Family Video for the umpteenth time and you knew exactly how she liked her pancakes made.
She was yours in every way that mattered and nothing was going to change that.
And before you knew it, years passed, and Mia grew faster than you could keep up with. She developed thoughts and feelings and opinions—god, so many opinions that it makes you laugh—and, suddenly, an interest in sports.
(You’re not quite sure where that one came from, seeing as Mark’s athletic prowess had been comical at best and you were too busy in high school with other extracurriculars to even try.)
Which is how you find yourself here, the early June sun beating down on your neck, at Hawkins Middle School with an excitable Mia clutching your hand, surrounded by the newly formed Hawkins Little League Softball Team.
A team that had been spearheaded by none other than Steve Harrington, a familiar face that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.
Shock spreads across your body at the sight of him jogging towards your ragtag group, and the first thought that crosses your mind is that he looks good. Better than he did in high school, back when the two of you spent a summer fooling around with one another like there was nothing better to do with your time. His hair is a bit shorter than it was back then, a little less styled with the tips curling from humidity, and a white shirt already drenched with sweat sticks to his chest.
Your throat goes dry at the sight of what should be considered indecently short athletic shorts and hairy legs stopping in front of the crowd, and not for the first time, you find yourself regretting that the two of you drifted apart once Mark became a more stable presence in your life.
(Were you ever really friends? You’re not sure, but you gave a piece of yourself to him that summer, and you’ve never once regretted giving it away.)
You rip your gaze away from his legs, tracing the line up his body—which is both so similar and so different from your memory—and find that he’s smiling sunnily at you, recognition crossing his face.
And then, he greets the kids and practice is started.
You make yourself way to the stands with the other parents, watching with no small amount of amusement as Steve corrals a gaggle of five year olds who want to do nothing more than sprint in dizzying circles around him. He takes it all in stride, however, and you find yourself impressed at the everlasting patience he has for the girls with no attention span.
It would be a lot for any person to handle, you think, but somehow, Steve has a knack for getting the kids to listen to his instructions.
The first practice goes fine. Great, even, for a bunch of hyperactive, uncoordinated five year olds. And even though there isn’t a single kind who actually manages to hit the ball with the stupidly expensive softball bats, but afterwards, Steve gives each and every girl a high five, tells them that he’s proud of them, and reminds them all to drink plenty of water once they get home.
You watch Mia bound over to you, her twin braids flying as she yells, “Did you see? Did you see?”
“I saw!” you laugh, catching the bundle of energy in your arms as she babbles on excitedly about how much fun she had and how much she can’t wait for the next practice.
Your heart sinks, because despite how uncomfortable the metal bench was, you really enjoyed watching her tumble her way across the field. But… the next practice is next week, Mark’s week, and he was already reticent to pay for half of the fees. Would he even stay to watch? Would his wife—a lovely woman in her own right—stay to watch? Will there be anyone to cheer Mia on as she runs in circles? You’re not sure, and it makes your chest hurt to think about that.
Before you can dwell on it too long, though, a shadow crosses over the two of you, and you look up, up, up, to find Steve Harrington in all of his sweaty glory, your name dripping from his lips, and he asks, “Hey! It’s been awhile. How are you doing?
“I’m good,” you say at the same time that Mia, a clingy child on the best of days, does her best to burrow her way into your skin. “I was actually a little surprised to see you here. Didn’t know that you were moonlighting as a coach now, but it looks good on you.”
“Yeah?” he says, a little bashful as he pushes the hair from his eyes. “I coach the baseball little league, too, and was kind of annoyed that the girls didn’t have their own sport, so… yeah. Anyway, is this your niece?”
You open your mouth, ready to respond, but it’s in this moment that Mia chooses to peel herself from your arms and beat you to the punch.
“Uh, this is my mom, Coach Steve. Duh.”
“Mia!” you scold. “God, Steve, I’m so sorry, she’s a little—I mean—”
A booming laugh cuts you off. You watch, stunned, as his head tilts back, the evening sun catching on the column of his throat, the corners of his eyes crinkling from the force of his mirth. Everything about him screams All American Boy as the delight spills from him, and a knot in your chest that you didn’t even know was there eases.
“You’re right, Mia,” he says, holding a hand out to her as a peace offering. “I should’ve known better. Will you ever forgive me?”
Mia sniffs imperiously, eyes him a little warily, but clearly decides that he passes some invisible test when she places her little hand in his large palm. “I guess.”
You take this moment to pry her from your lap, instructing, “Go get a snack from the car, sweets. I’m going to talk to Steve real quick.”
She grumbles something under her breath, shooting you a sour look, but does as told, scampering towards your old sedan.
“So…” Steve starts, hands placed firmly on his hips and his gaze firmly trained on your daughter, as though he’s making sure that she doesn’t run into any trouble in the perilous twenty foot distance between you and her. “Daughter?”
“Long story,” you offer.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
You pause, thinking, and realize dimly, Oh, he should know. Especially if Mark drops her off next week. “Well… no, actually.”
You give Steve the abbreviated version—as abbreviated as it can be, anyway, for a tale that is both short and rather uninteresting. Knocked up at nineteen, gave birth at twenty, share custody with her father, Mark Lewinsky, so he’ll be the one at practice next week.
If possible, Steve’s brows raise higher at the mention of Mark.
“The bench warmer?” he asks, then flushes as if he wasn’t supposed to say that.
But it’s your turn to laugh. “Yeah, him.” Glancing to make sure that your daughter is still out of earshot, you add, “Wouldn’t have been my first choice in fathers, but I got Mia out of it, so… Worth it, in the end.”
“She’s a good kid,” Steve says. “Picked up on what to do faster than the other kids. And I’m not just saying that to, like, stroke your ego or anything. She’s smart.”
“Yeah,” you smile. “She is, isn’t she?”
Life persists and summer continues to grow, the heat swells until it presses into every corner of your life, and the humidity wraps itself around you like a second skin.
As always, Mia is at your house one week, goes to her dad’s the next, and inevitably she returns with her light a little dimmed and a trembling smile on her face, climbing into your bed every Sunday night after her dad drops her off.
(It breaks your heart, but what can you do? It’s not like they’re mistreating her or anything. She just doesn’t like going out over to Mark’s house, especially not since Mark’s wife announced her own pregnancy.)
And, against all odds, Mia sticks with softball, throwing her tiny little body into practice and drills. She takes to spending every evening with her bat in the backyard, swinging it around wildly as she asks, “Do you think Coach Steve can tell that I’m doing this?”
“Of course,” you reply amiably from your spot on the deck, a book propped open on the table next to you. “Coach Steve is very smart, you know.”
She preens under the thought of praise, and you heart clenches with gratitude that you get to be her mother.
Practices get bumped up to twice a week, too, meaning that every other week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your evenings are spent in the stands at your old middle school, watching your daughter flail across the field with the grace of a newborn kitten.
There’s a certain amount of affection that wells up in your chest whenever you watch Steve interact with her. He corrects her with a gentle efficiency, lifting her elbow into place, showing her how to stand. It’s hard not to notice just how much she blossoms under his roaring cheers from across the field when she manages to hit the ball, her little legs pumping as she sprints to home base.
And then—faster than you can process it—she slides her way to the home plate. Tries to slide her way to the home plate, and it’s immediately evident that it completely went wrong when a shrill cry pierces the air. Your blood freezes, and in the next second, Steve’s at her side before you can even stand, scooping her sobbing form up. His big hand settles on her small back as he jogs towards the first aid kit.
You scramble from the stands, forcing your way through the other parents, and as you make your way closer, you hear him say, “I bet it hurts a lot, Mia, but it’ll be okay. See? It’s just a little cut, don’t worry.”
“But—but—” Her lower lip wobbles, fat tears falling from her eyes. “What if I can’t run anymore?”
If this shocks Steve, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he reaches out gently, dragging a thumb across her cheek as he wipes the tears away, promising in a soft voice, “You’ll be able to run again, I promise. You think a little scrape can prevent that? Come on, Mia, you’re a strong girl. You can do anything you want.”
Your heart melts at the assurance as you slip onto the bench next to her, tucking Mia into your side as he finishes cleaning and bandaging her skinned knees, saying, “There, all done. Look! No more blood. How about you sit here with your mom for a bit, okay? If it hurts a little less, you can come back out, but no worries if not.”
She nods, presses her face into your shirt, and Steve offers you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the rest of the team.
You offer her soothing words and squeezes, smoothing a hand down her back throughout the rest of practice, trying desperately to ignore the way your stomach flips at the mental image of her coddled against Steve’s chest.
It’s inappropriate, you think, to feel so electrified after seeing how kind his is with your daughter.
(But is it really your fault? You’ve seen Mark with her when she’s injured, the way he tends to hand Mia off to his wife when all she needs is a hug, a kiss to the forehead, and an assurance that all will be well. Because Mark is awkward and never quite adapted to fatherhood, and Steve—)
(Steve just seems so naturally step into that role, even for kids that aren’t his own.)
After practice, you stay sitting on the bench, watching as the rest of the team disappears in the parking lot and drives off. It’s only once the last family has left that Steve makes his way back over to the two of you, checks on Mia’s knees and opens his arms up. “Will you ever forgive me, Mia?”
She giggles and throws herself at him, wrapping herself tight around his neck as she buries her face into the crook of his neck.
“I guess,” she says in a way that you know, from experience, means yes.
Your throat tightens at the sight, trying to remember the last time you’d seen her actual father treating her with so much tenderness.
Steve’s eyes, warm and brown, meet yours, and he asks, “Can I make this up to you? Both of you? There’s a new diner nearby that’s supposed to be good, and it’ll be my treat. I should’ve shown Mia how to safely slide before she ever attempted it, and…”
“Oh, Steve,” you say. “You really don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he says firmly. “Please?”
“Please, Mom?” comes your daughter’s muffled voice.
You glance down at Mia, at her face still filled with baby fat tucked into his shirt, and find yourself nodding. “As long as Mia wants to, I’m fine with it.”
The smile Steve sends you is blinding.
He leads the two of you towards his car, having insisted on driving, with Mia held close to his chest after she demanded that he carry her as payment—where she learned that phrase, you’re not quite sure—and you find yourself shocked to find a silvery blue pickup in place of a maroon BMW, and you blurt out, “You got rid of the Beamer?”
Steve pauses where he’s opening the passenger door, glancing back at you with something unreadable on his face. Carefully, with a tinge of sadness in his voice, he says, “Figured that it was time for something better.”
“Still, we had some good memories in that car,” you say without thinking.
Steve coughs.
You freeze, face burning.
“Oh my god,” you say. “I’m so sorry, that just—”
“It’s fine,” he wheezes, his cheeks turning a rosy red. “Can’t say you’re wrong, can I?”
And Mia, ever the nosy child, finally puts two and two together. “Mom, did you know Coach Steve before softball?”
“I did, sweets,” you say. “We were friends in school.”
(Which isn’t exactly the truth, but, well, you’re not exactly about to tell your five year old that you and Steve hooked up between relationships, are you?)
“Your mom was the prettiest girl in our grade,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, easing Mia onto the bench seat and nudging her towards the center.
“Mom’s the prettiest girl now,” Mia asserts.
“You’re right,” he seriously replies. Then, as your brain struggles to catch up with the conversation, he turns to you with a hand held out, saying, “Alright, Prettiest Girl, let me help you in.”
Your face feels hot as you slip your hand into his, an electric shock racing up your arm at the contact. His palms are warm and calloused, assured in the way he grips your fingers as his other hand settles on your lower back, helping you up into the passenger seat.
He lingers for a moment, peering up at you, the setting sun making his eyes appear more honey than brown, and he says, “Not so bad, is it? Not as nice as the Beamer, but she’s a sturdy gal.”
And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”
You blink, and you’re twenty-five once more, with Steve Harrington—who has long since fallen from his throne—giving you a shy smile as his hand slips from your back, and for a moment you have the delirious thought that he still sees you as you, not the role you’ve filled for the past five years. He sees you as the teenager you once were, stealing kisses in the summer sun, making the windows of his Beamer fog up. He sees the person who once stole seven of his shirts in one night—shirts that still sit in your closet—and the person who once snorted lemonade out of your nose in his backyard.
And then your daughter shifts next to you, clearly antsy, and his gaze dips down to her, reminding you of the person you are now, before meeting your eyes once more.
As if he can sense your thoughts, he quietly asks, “You alright?”
You force yourself to nod, saying, “Yeah, of course. Just, uh, hungry.”
Because if you don’t, you’re going to ask him, Do you still see me as me? Or do you only see me as a mother like everyone else does?
(You’re not sure if you could handle the answer, no matter what it is.)
The drive to the diner is filled with endless chatter from your daughter as she fills Steve in on how she’s starting kindergarten in the fall, every thought and excitement and fear she has pouring from her body, and you watch. You watch the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, you watch the way he leans over to ruffle Mia’s hair. You listen to the low, soothing timbre of his voice when he assures her that kindergarten isn’t hard, that she’ll have no problem making friends, that she’ll be okay no matter what.
And for a moment—
For a moment, you wonder if this is what your life could’ve looked like, in another universe.
But you don’t let yourself dwell on that long, because in another universe, Mia wouldn’t be your daughter, and the thought of that makes your chest crack wide open from pain.
Steve helps the two of you out of the truck, doesn’t comment when Mia grabs his hand as well as yours, and holds the door open to the restaurant, ushering you both in and settling you into a corner booth.
Mia orders a stack of waffles—and you note the anguish that flashes across Steve’s face when she announces this to the waitress, wondering but not asking—and you order a sandwich, cautious of not spending too much despite his insistence to not worry about it.
It’s… it’s fun. It’s fun in a way you haven’t felt in a long time, a burden that you didn’t know was there easing from your bones.
Steve, clearly, is phenomenal with kids, never flinching when Mia’s voice gets too loud or her stories too rambley. He meets her at her level like it’s the most natural thing to do, and you know from experience that it’s not. She’s a precocious child, too smart for her age and always getting into something, and it’s a common complaint you’ve heard from her father when he drops her off at your house. That she isn’t always controllable, as if it’s a crime to let a child roam free, as if a child is meant to be controlled.
(You can’t think about that one without righteous indignation burning through your veins.)
And when the food arrives, he waves you away when you move to cut up Mia’s waffles, saying, “I got it, just enjoy your meal.”
You think that you could cry.
Dinner passes without incident, and you’re nowhere close to surprised when Mia nods off onto your arm, her snores filling the space between you and Steve. He huffs out a quiet, affectionate laugh, goes to pay the bill, and when he comes back, he leans down to gather her into his arms, asking, “You ready?”
He’s quiet as he takes you back to your own car, contemplative, and he wordlessly helps buckle Mia into her car seat, biceps flexing as he protects the top of her head from bumping against the roof of the sedan.
It should be odd, you think, to let him do this. To let him take care of your daughter without question.
But it’s not like you don’t know him. It’s not like he’s never treated you with the same gentle reverence, either.
(Because you remember high school. You remember your first big breakup, sophomore year, and Steve finding you crying behind the bleachers in the outfield. You remember him sitting next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling some napkins from his coat pocket to dab at your mascara stained cheeks. You remember his kindness, back when he was King Steve and you were someone on the outskirts of his universe. You remember him driving you home afterwards and helping you into bed. You remember coming into school the next day to see your ex with a black eye and fat lip, and the warmth in your chest that, for the first time, someone had taken care of you.)
“Thank you,” you say, even if it falls far short of anything else you really want to say. “This… this meant more than you know.”
Steve straightens, gently shutting the door. “It’s no problem, honestly.”
“Still,” you say. “You don’t need to be so nice, Steve. I know I’m just your…”
Your former fling. Someone you filled your afternoons with before Nancy Wheeler broke your heart. A person you probably haven’t thought about in years.
“My friend,” he gently finishes. “You’re my friend.”
You blink, taken aback. “But we haven’t—”
“I know,” he interrupts, still in that soft, soothing tone of his. “But I never once stopped considering you a friend. And…” He pats around the pockets of his jeans, pulling out a scrap of paper. “I’ve been trying to figure out a good time to give this to you.”
You take it, looking down to find a phone number scrawled out.
“I live in a place up near Forest Hills Park now,” he continues on. “Up in northeast Hawkins? Not the trailer park that has the same name, it’s on the opposite side of town. So my number’s obviously changed, but if, you know, you ever want to talk, I’m almost always home around eight. To catch up.”
“Oh.” Your throat feels uncomfortably tight. “Oh, this…”
“You don’t have to,” he quickly says. “Just figured I’d offer.”
Something in your chest warms at the thought. Catching up. Even if you’re confident that there’s nothing in your life interesting enough to catch up on, he’s looking at you so earnestly, so ardently, that you can’t deny him.
“I will,” you promise. “I will. And—my phone number never changed, so if you still remember that—”
“I do.”
You pause, smiling. “You can call me anytime.”
A shy, sheepish grin peeks from his face. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah. And for what it’s worth, I’m still living in the same house I did in high school.”
“Really?” he asks, following you around the car as you reach for the driver’s side door. “What’s the story behind that?”
“I don’t know,” you say coquettishly, slipping into the seat. “You’ll have to call and find out, won’t you?”
Sunday comes, and Mia gets whisked off to her father’s house like she always does, and you’re once again left wandering around your house, trying desperately to fill up the time and space that’s usually allotted to parenting. It’s never easy to ignore the way that being a mother has been hardwired into each and every one of your molecules, a small tick tick tick that’s sounding off in the back of your brain like you’re somehow doing something wrong by curling up on the couch, watching reruns on the television instead of reading your daughter a bedtime story.
A few days pass, and Mia calls like she does every night when she’s at her dad’s, telling you about softball practice and feeling the baby kick and what she ate for dinner.
“I don’t think Dad likes Coach Steve,” she whispers over the line. “He always sits in the car at practice and never says ‘hi.’”
This doesn’t surprise you, but you’re not about to tell her that Coach Steve and Dad once got into it over Dad not being good enough at basketball to get off the bench in high school.
“I’m sure he likes Coach Steve just fine,” you instead say. “Anyway, what else did you do today?
She continues to ramble, you continue to listen, and eventually, Mark takes the phone, saying, “Hey, listen, I had a question for you.”
You sit up straighter. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“I know this is short notice,” he begins. “But my parents bought plane tickets for me, Lisa, and Mia to visit them in Florida next week. They wanted to see everyone before the baby comes, you know? Anyway, I told them that it was your week, but they insisted on it.”
Something in your gut curdles.
And here’s the crux of the issue:
You don’t dislike the Lewinsky's. Sure, they did threaten to sue you into oblivion had you not agreed to the current custody arrangement between you and Mark, and sure, they ignored your calls when you were pregnant, trying to get in touch with Mark after he changed his number. But you can’t forget how they took care of you after your family’s death, either, nor can you forget that they’re your daughter’s family.
(As much as you might think they’re reprehensible people, that’s for Mia to decide when she’s older, and you do your best to keep your opinions away from her.)
You stay silent long enough that Mark says, “And so you don’t lose your time with her, I figure that when we get back, you’ll get the next two weeks before we go back to our normal schedule.”
You purse your lips together. “I’m not happy about this.”
“I didn’t think you would be,” Mark replies.
“I’ll agree this time,” you say. “But don’t make a habit of it. Have you told Mia? She’s going to be upset.”
“Wanted to ask first,” he says. “Could you pack a bag for her, by the way? I’ll swing by Friday evening to pick it up, and she can say bye to you then.”
“Fine,” you tell him shortly. “Please take some pictures of her while you’re there and send me the copies.”
“You got it,” he says. “I’ll make sure to set some time aside for her to call while we’re down there, too.”
That’s the least you could do, you think bitterly, but force yourself say, “I appreciate it. Give her my love.”
And the line goes dead.
You let out an aggravated sigh, too annoyed to keep sitting. You make your way to the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing the scant dishes you’d left from breakfast. Laundry gets thrown into the wash before you climb upstairs, looking around your daughter’s room as you find a bag, tossing in clothes that Mark’s parents are the least likely to judge, tucking her favorite book in alongside in the fabric, and for a moment, you’re lost.
Adrift.
You’ve never spent two weeks away from your daughter. You had never gone more than seven days without her wrapping her small body around your chest, without hearing her mumble as she dreamed or watching her sleepily walk into the kitchen for breakfast.
Your life, since May 1987, has entirely revolved around the role of Mom.
Who are you when you aren’t that?
You aren’t sure, and that scares you more than it should.
The rest of your evening is spent aimlessly, listlessly, as you try to find something to fill your time. Your time away from Mia is generally spent catching up on laundry and cleaning and getting ready for her to come back, making sure you have enough food in the house for her lunches and some new books from the library.
What did you do for fun before you were a mother?
You genuinely can’t remember.
Before you can consider it too deeply, your keys are in your hand, sandals are slid onto your feet, and the next thing you know, you’re in the parking lot at Family Video, easing your way inside the familiar store and nodding at the bored teenager behind the register.
For a moment, you stare at the red curtain in the back, illuminated by the neon sign proclaiming ADULT above it, and you’re tempted. Really tempted. Honestly, when was the last time you had time for yourself like that? But the last time you’d been behind that curtain was the summer that Mia was conceived, when you’d snuck behind it with Mark, giggling like the children you were as you whispered the names of different titles, mocking and young and so, so in love.
If you go back there now, you’re not sure that you won’t meet the ghost of your former self, still being spun in a circle and covered in kisses with not a single care in the world.
So you pivot left, in the opposite direction of the pornos, towards the new releases and ignoring the door opening behind you as you search for something to fill your evening.
Rows of tapes surround you, some sticking out, movies you would’ve rented without second thought for Mia like 101 Dalmatians and The Brave Little Toaster. Films that are kid friendly, ones you can enjoy alongside her as you wait for a re-release of The Little Mermaid and fight half of Hawkins to snag a copy.
Just as a copy of Father of the Bride catches your eye, a warm voice behind you says, “Hey.”
You jump, spinning around, coming face to face with none other than Steve, who’s smiling down at you like it’s the most natural thing for him to do.
“Oh! Hi, Steve,” you say, clutching your chest. “What are you doing here?”
The second the words are out of your mouth, you feel like a complete idiot. What are you here for? What else would someone go into a video store for?
But he only shrugs, saying, “I caught sight of you walking in as I was driving home, so I figured I’d stop in. I was just about to call you, actually.”
Your heart beats harder than it should at the admission as you thump his arm softly. “Okay, creep.”
He laughs, and your gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he tilts his head back, carefree in a way you haven’t felt in years.
“You got me there,” he admits. Glancing around, he asks, “Is Mia at her dad’s this week?”
“Yeah,” you say. “And, uh, next week, too. Last minute vacation to Mark’s parents’ place in Florida, apparently, so she won’t be at practice.”
There must be something in your tone—a sadness you can’t force away—because Steve catches your wrist, his thumb pressing comfortingly into the pulse point where your heart flutters against your skin, his voice full of empathy as he says, “That sounds rough.”
You nod, blinking back the torrent of emotions threatening to overpower you. “It’s kind of weird having no kid around, if I’m honest.”
“Hence the movie?” he asks, tilting his head towards the racks.
“Yup,” you say. “Hence the movie.”
An idea pops into your head, then. And, well, Steve is the one who said that he still considered you a friend, right?
“Hey, uh,” you flounder for a moment. “Would you want to come by for dinner on Friday? If you’re free? I can cook, you know, to make up for you buying our dinner. We could, uh, watch—” Your eyes cut to the tape next to you, and you snatch it from the shelf. “—Father of the Bride together. Maybe drink beer or something?”
His shoulders soften, and he fixes you with a look that has your knees weak and your stomach flipping as though you were a teenager once more.
“I’d love that,” he murmurs, his thumb worrying a path down to your palm. “But let me get the beer, alright? I’ll feel bad not bringing something.”
“I can agree to those terms,” you say, suddenly giddy. “You said you’re usually home by eight, right? Or—if you want to come home—I mean, come by earlier—I get back from work around four.”
“Is five okay?” he asks. “I’m helping a friend build something during the day, so I want to make sure I can shower before I come over.”
“Five’s perfect!” A grin stretches across your face before you can stop it. “You haven’t developed any allergies since high school, right?”
He shakes his head. “No, and before you ask, I do still eat anything that gets put on a plate, so just make whatever you’d usually eat.”
You already know that you are going to make something nice, and you’re pretty sure he can tell, too, but you lead him towards the register, slapping the tape down on the counter and digging through your purse.
But while you’re pulling your wallet out, Steve’s already handed a ten dollar bill over, telling the cashier, “Have a good night, man.”
“I was going to pay,” you say as he leads you from the store. “Seriously, Steve, let me give you money for it.”
“No can do,” he says. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman, honey. She’d rip me a new one if she knew I made someone as beautiful as you pay.”
You stumble, heat coursing through your body, and his hand quickly puts you right, a steadying presence as you choke out, “Hold on, are you flirting with me?”
“I’ve been trying to since I saw you without a ring on your finger,” he confesses. “But I’m glad it’s working now.”
You splutter incoherently. “Steve!”
Embarrassment flushes at your skin, and in the next moment, it feels as though your entire being is overpowered by him. He leans down, his nose brushing against your own as the smell of his cologne, something deep and woodsy, fills your head. Fingers skim down your arm, and you can practically taste the sweat on his skin as he murmurs, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you were the prettiest girl. And, well…” His gaze very obviously drops down to your lips. “I’d like to rectify that and say you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re just saying that to be nice,” you breathe, heart beating erratically against your rib cage.
“Am I?” he asks.
For a moment, you think he might do something more, and you feel like that sixteen year old who spent her summer wrapped up in his arms, but the only thing he does is press a chaste kiss to your cheek.
You touch it gently, blinking up at him, and he whispers, “See you Friday?”
And then you’re left standing in the middle of the parking lot, Father of the Bride clutched in your hand as you watch him drive off.
You don’t remember much of the drive home. You don’t remember much of anything, really, just that the second your front door is locked, you’re climbing the stairs to your bedroom, arousal burning it’s way through your entire body.
It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—since you had the freedom to feel this way—that it crashes into you all at once, almost blinding you with how much you want. Want Steve, want pleasure, want something.
Your shirt gets shed first, your bra is thrown towards the hamper in the corner, and you kick your underwear and pants off in one fell swoop before collapsing onto the bed.
There’s no slow buildup the way you might have once done it, no teasing of your breasts, no swirling around your clit, because god, you are wet and aching in a way that you haven’t felt in so long. Too long.
While one hand roughly grabs your own tit, your other creeps down to the apex of your legs, drifting through the thatch of pubic hair to swipe through your slit, gathering slick on the pads of your fingers.
You remember, suddenly, the first time you ever slept with Steve, a few months after that breakup in tenth grade. How he had gripped your hips with his big, warm hands—hands that were soft and free from callouses at the time—and brought his mouth down to your cunt, licking a stripe from your hole up, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks in a way that had you seeing stars. How you had never felt such pleasure before, how you’d never had someone pay so much attention to you wholeheartedly before, and it’s the image if him peaking up at you from over your pussy that has you plunging two fingers inside, using the heel of your palm to grind into your clit.
It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s mesmerizing, becoming reacquainted with a part of your body that has long lived dormant inside you, to have the thrill of desire run so freely through all of your senses. To have your breasts peak in the cold air of the bedroom, to be able to moan loudly and freely, to so unabashedly become reacquainted with yourself once more.
You pinch a nipple between two fingers, twisting it in a way you once remember Steve doing, gasping breathlessly as your hips jerk up into your hand.
It’s intense, and your orgasm builds fast, faster than it usually does in quick, stolen moments. Your toes curl as heat pools in your stomach, your core aching, and with one more circle of your clit, everything explodes.
You lay there, panting, as the aftershocks of pleasure fissures through your limbs, pulling your soaked hand from between your legs.
If there is one thing that you know, you cannot wait for Friday to arrive.
The rest of the week passes quickly, and you find yourself thrumming with anticipation at the thought of Steve coming over.
(Not that you’re expecting anything, but you can’t even find it in yourself to feel guilty for fantasizing about the feelings of his hands against your thighs.)
Mia still calls every evening, and any happiness of the thought of seeing Steve gets doused when she quietly admits, “I wish I could spend the week with you.”
“I know, sweets,” you tell her. “But you’ll have so much fun with Nana and Grandpa. And I’ll take a week off of work, so we can have a whole week to ourselves when you come back, okay? Plus I’ll give you such a big hug and so many kisses when you come to get your bag tomorrow that you’ll be set for a whole week of hugs and kisses.”
“Mom, I don’t think it works like that,” she whines. “Don’t be silly.”
“Uh, it absolutely works like that,” you say. “Are you questioning me? The same person you called the smartest person in the world?”
“You’re not being smart when you’re being silly!”
You sigh dramatically, shaking your head. “I love you too, Mia.”
It isn’t until later in the night when you’ve finished washing your face and have slipped into pajamas that it hits you.
Mark is coming over. Tomorrow. When Steve is going to be at your house.
Fuck.
You scramble for the phone on your nightstand, punching in the number to Steve’s house that’s sat by your alarm clock since he gave it to you, and you hope and pray that it isn’t too late for you to call.
And for once, luck is on your side.
His voice is a little rough when he answers with, “Henderson, I swear to god, I love you, man, but I haven’t gained any opinions on quantum physic theories since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”
“Well, good for you,” you wryly say. “I’m not here to ask your thoughts on quantum physics.”
There’s a silence, a spluttering, and then Steve chokes out, “Yeah, you weren’t who I thought was calling.”
“Clearly not.” You sit down on the bed, running a finger along a fraying thread on your quilt. “I, uh, needed to warn you about something.”
“Ominous,” he says. “Hit me with it, honey.”
Your face warms at the epithet, and you quickly explain the scheduling blunder you made, rushing to say, “Just—if you’re here when Mark and Mia come over, could you—uh—stay hidden? I’m not embarrassed or anything, but, well, you are Mia’s coach, and Mark has been kind of weird when I’ve had men over before—and you two do have a history—and you can park in the garage and everything so Mia doesn’t see the truck, and I’m so sorry to ask this of you, and—”
“Honey,” he gently interrupts. “I get it. You don’t need to worry about offending me.”
“Are you sure?” you ask, worrying your lip between your teeth.
“Am I sure?” He huffs out a laugh, soft and full of affection. “I was sure when we were sixteen and you pushed me into my pool. I was just an idiot back then, but, you know, I had to thump my head a few times to figure it out.”
“I just…” You press your eyes shut. “I haven’t… it’s been a long time, Steve, and I don’t want to mess this up, but… I’m not the same girl you knew then. ”
“You won’t,” he assures. “And I’m not the same boy you knew, either. I want the woman you are now, in whatever way you’ll let me have you.”
Something in your chest eases at the admission, and you whisper, “Okay.”
You can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “Maybe we can talk more about this tomorrow? In person, over some beers?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. Of course—just—I’ll leave the garage door open for you, okay? And you can come in through the side door. Just shout so, you know, I know when you’re in my house.”
“Anything for you, honey,” he says. “See you then?”
“See you then,” you promise.
The next day passes slowly, and you end up taking a half day, feigning illness convincingly enough that your boss lets you go without complaint.
Your house gets scrubbed from top to bottom, new bedding gets spread across your mattress, dinner is prepped, and you take a gloriously long shower, scrubbing every inch of your body until you’re satisfied.
You make your way back into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your body, digging through your dresser to find something, well, sexy to wear.
(Not to be presumptuous or anything, but… you didn’t want to be caught off guard, either.)
It’s as you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears when you hear the creaking of the screen door. Seconds later, Steve’s voice calls out, “Honey, I’m home!”
You roll your eyes, affection blooming in your chest, and you call back, “One moment!”
With one more glance in the mirror to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, you make your way down to find Steve in the living room, a six pack of beer in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, smiling nervously as you make your way closer to him.
“These are for you,” he says, thrusting the flowers towards you.
You take in the sight of him slowly, savoring it as your fingers brush against his, accepting the bouquet. His hair’s curled at the ends, like he’d taken a shower and didn’t dry his hair all the way afterwards, and he has a nice, linen button down tucked into dark wash jeans, clearly having put effort into looking nice.
For you.
“You look handsome,” you say shyly.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You look beautiful.”
You shake your head, moving past him towards the kitchen. “You have to say that,” you say. “I made you dinner.”
“I’d say that even without the promise of food,” he tells you, falling into step behind you. “But I won’t lie, the food is a motivator.”
It should be a little awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but the only thing you feel is safe.
It’s easy, you think, to share a space with Steve. Even if you hadn’t talked to him in nearly a decade, even if the shape of your life has changed so much since you first befriended him, he still knows you at your core. He knows what makes you laugh and what you like. He remembers how to work your oven, preheating it for the ziti that you prepped, and he slides an open beer across to you without prompt, bumping his foot against yours underneath the breakfast table you’re both sat at as you wait for the pasta to bake.
It’s almost enough for you to forget who you are outside of this small bubble you’ve created, for you to forget the person you’ve become in the years you didn’t see Steve.
Almost, up until the doorbell rings, and Steve hangs back as you bring the bag of Mia’s clothes to the front porch, easing the door shut behind you.
You’re not shocked when Mia throws herself at you, tears already streaming down her face as Mark taps his foot impatiently behind her, blubbering incoherently about missing and sad and Mom in a way that has your heart shattering into a million, tiny pieces.
“Oh, sweets,” you murmur into her hair, holding her tightly to your chest. “It’s just a week, sweet girl. You’ll be home before you know it, and you’re going to have so much fun.”
“But I don’t wanna,” Mia sobs, little hiccups bubbling from her. “I wanna stay here, Mom, I don’t wanna go to stinky Florida!”
Mark scowls. “Amelia, honestly. This behavior is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that we’re visiting Disney. Don’t you want to meet Minnie Mouse?”
You shoot Mark the nastiest glare you can manage.
“Not without Mom!” wails Mia, gripping your shirt even tighter.
“Baby,” you try again. “It’ll all be okay. You won’t even have time to miss me!”
“You’re lying,” she shouts, though her words are muffled from the way her face is pressed into your throat. “I always miss you!”
(And if that doesn’t make you want to pull her into the house and lock the door.)
Mark lets out an exasperated noise, glancing towards the idling car, and you know it’s time for them to go. Forcing yourself to stand, you gather Mia up in your arms—even if she’s just a bit too heavy for you to comfortably carry—and make your way towards the backseat.
She screams the entire way, tiny fists pounding on your back as you pull open the door. Mark’s wife, Lisa, gives you a sympathetic look when you’re forced to pry Mia’s hands from the fabric of your shirt, choking back your own tears as you buckle your daughter into her booster seat. You capture her face between your hands, pressing kisses to every surface of her face that you can reach, even as she screeches in protest.
You barely manage to utter out one final I love you so much, sweets before Mark nudges you out of the way, slamming the door shut as he says, “If you didn’t coddle her so much, she wouldn’t act like this.”
There are plenty of things you want to say. You could say, words that have been simmering under the surface for years. Insults, injuries, all sorts of horrible thoughts you’ve buried ever since Mia came screaming into the world on an early May morning, but you choke all of it back, snapping, “Have you considered that, maybe, if you’d wanted to be a father when she was born, she would have more of an attachment to you, Mark.”
“The town was in lock down,” he argues.
You shake your head, not pointing out the fact that he changed his god damn phone number so you couldn’t to reach him. “You could’ve tried, asshole.”
“Yeah, well,” he snips, stomping his way over to the driver’s side. “At least I’m not an uptight bitch.”
The only thing that stops you from losing it entirely is the knowledge that your daughter will hear it, and you refuse to be the parent who does that to her. Instead, you say, “You better call once you’re settled at your parents’ house. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, slamming the car shut, effectively cutting the conversation off.
You stand there, waiting in the driveway as he pulls out, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face pressed against the window, the way her little fingers claw at the glass, and you hold yourself tightly, trying desperately to not let her see just how much pain this situation is causing you.
(You would do anything to prevent her from shedding another tear again, and it kills you to be the cause of her anguish now.)
Once his car disappears from sight, and you force yourself back into the house, kicking the door shut behind you.
Steve looks up from his place on the couch, takes one look at your face, and opens his arms up in the same way he had for your daughter just a few weeks prior. It’s easy, then, to crawl onto his lap the way you once did in high school, to let yourself be held tightly, to press your ear against his chest and listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, dragging a hand down your back.
You sigh, pressing your eyes shut. “Mark’s just an asshole, and Mia hates spending more time with him than she has to, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s still so young, and even if I had the money to take him to court for full custody, it would be hard to when the courts wouldn’t take her opinion into consideration. I try my best, but… but seeing her cry, I don’t know. Makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not letting her choose now, you know? But despite everything, they’re her family, and she should know them.”
“What a douche bag,” Steve bluntly says.
A laugh bursts from you, unbidden. “Did I ever tell you that he accused me of cheating on him when I announced that I was pregnant?”
A scandalized noise erupts from his throat. “No.”
“Yes!” You sit up, meeting Steve’s eye. “And because he was at Purdue, I had to call him. He asked, ‘are you sure it’s mine?” then changed his number so I couldn’t contact him! He only showed up when Mia was two and demanded shared custody after the paternity test said that he was the father.”
“Seriously?” Steve scoffs. “What an asshole. You know, he never watches Mia at practice, either, and always looks annoyed when she tries to talk to him about it. I’ve even told him that she was really good and he just glared at me! Glared! He doesn’t deserve her.”
“No,” you agree. “He really doesn’t.”
“You know…” A small smile crosses Steve’s face. “I bet the reason he’s so pissy about it is ‘cause he’s mad that she’s better at softball than he ever was at basketball.”
“I bet you’re right,” you say. “He can’t handle the blow to his ego.”
A beat passes, his grin widens, and before you can stop it, giggles spill from your lips as all tension leaves your body.
It feels good to talk to someone about your daughter’s shitty father, to have Steve so easily validate every annoyance you’ve ever felt towards the man. It feels like you’re not as crazy as you're left feeling half the time after interacting with the man, to know that you’re not as alone in the world as you felt even five minutes prior.
The timer on the oven goes off, and the two of you make your way into the kitchen. Steve pulls plates from the cabinet, talking about the baseball team he coaches as you pull the baking dish from the oven, putting it on the breakfast table while he sets silverware down.
And dinner is…
It’s nice.
It’s simple, and it’s easy, and you feel like you, but in a way that doesn’t feel at war with your role as a parent. Like Steve sees both sides of you, understands that they are two sides to the same coin, and he likes you that way.
He talks about his life since high school. A shitty job at the mall, a shittier job at Family Video once the mall burnt down. The years spent working weird jobs, taking care of a gaggle of kids you vaguely remember seeing him with in high school. He tells you how he lied to his parents about how he couldn’t get into college, having not known what to do with his life and not wanting to disappoint them.
“I guess I thought they’d find it easier to accept that I was too stupid to be accepted,” he explains. “Though, as it turns out, they wouldn’t have had an issue with me just saying that I wanted to take a gap year.”
“Did you end up going?” you ask, sipping at your beer. “To college, that is.”
He leans back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. You don’t miss the flash of tummy, the trail of hair leading south that had not been there the last time you saw it.
“I did,” he says with no small amount of pride. “Graduated this past May, actually. Got a degree in physical education from Ball State. I’m starting at a gym teacher at the middle school in the fall.”
“Holy shit!” You reach over, squeezing his leg. “Congrats! That’s huge!”
He beams, but shrugs bashfully. “It’s no big deal.”
“Don’t be modest,” you scold. “That’s amazing. Mr. Harrington, gym teacher. Has a nice ring to it.”
“You think?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the wooden tabletop. “So… you told me to call and ask why you’re still living here. Do I still need to do that, or can I ask now?”
“Hm.” You pretend to contemplate it, dragging your gaze across the kitchen, your eyes catching on the fridge covered in your daughter’s drawings. “I guess I can tell you, but I have to warn you, it’s not a fun story.”
“Not everything has to be,” he says.
And that’s all the assurance you need.
He listens attentively as you describe the car crash you don’t really remember, the one that ended the lives of your family just a couple of weeks after you graduated high school. The physical therapy, the fact that you lost your spot in college from all the medical issues. The way you planned to go once you healed, just somewhere closer to home, somewhere more affordable so you didn’t blow through the money you inherited. But then one thing led to another—the earthquake, the quarantine, the pregnancy—and your life had once again flipped upside down.
You talk about the early years with Mia. The labor that had lasted for thirty-one hours, the nurse who all held your hand as you pushed, the one for whom you named Mia after. The exhaustion, the late nights and early mornings, how you felt so, so much love for the tiny creature that you created from nothing, who felt so alien and so familiar at the same time. You tell him about her first laugh and first words and first steps, her propensity to get into trouble even from such a young age. How you bawled at her first birthday party, an event that was only attended by neighbors because, at that point, all of your friends had moved on with their lives while yours was completely centered on Mia.
You tell him about the day that Mark came crashing back in, the fury that you felt, how you had screamed at him so loudly that a neighbor came over to see if they needed to call the police on him for trespassing. The way you felt so small when his parents came in with money and lawyers and more things than you could ever hope to provide your daughter on a meager salary, how you’d been bullied into giving up more of your time with Mia than you ever wanted.
You tell him everything that you can think of, and when you’re done, you steel your nerves, look Steve straight in the eye, and say, “There’s another thing.”
He nods. “Yeah?”
“I can’t…” You chew on your lip. “I won’t do anything to hurt her, Steve. I can’t have you in my life as… as someone who’s flirting with me, or doing something more. Not if you don’t understand that we’re a package deal. She’s everything to me, and I would rather die than have her hurt over a choice I made. And I know this is a lot, and I know this is intense, but—I’m telling you right now. You’re either all in or you’re out. We can be friends, and we can hang out, but if you want anything more… you have to understand that she will always come first.”
“I know,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, honey. Whatever you’ll let me have, whatever parts of your lives I can be in, I want that. I want you. Both of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.”
Something in your chest eases at the admission, a nervousness dissipating.
Slowly, he leans in, the gap between the two of you closing, and he whispers, “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut.
And his lips crash into yours.
Your fingers scramble up, gripping his chin as he pulls you forward, off your chair and onto his lap.
It feels as though you’re on fire, sparks shooting across your skin with every rough drag of his lips, with every nip of his teeth. You tilt his head so you can have a better angle, and when he lets out a wanton groan, you feel alive.
His calloused palms skim their way under your shirt, settling on your waist as you moan into the kiss, open mouthed, drawing his tongue in.
It’s messy, and it’s a little clumsy, but you find that you don’t care. Not when you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, and not when he whimpers against your lips as you tug on his hair.
“Honey,” he whispers. “Don’t torture me.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, pulling away. A trail of spit connects the two of you, and you take in just how incredibly wrecked he looks already, with his pupils blown wide and a heavy flush on his cheeks. “Would you… do you want to go upstairs?”
“More than anything,” he admits.
You stand and capture his fingers between your own, tugging him through the house and up the stairs.
It isn’t until you enter the expanse of your bedroom that the nerves start to get the better of you, and you put your hands on his chest, stopping him from ducking down to kiss you once more as you say, “I have something else to tell you.”
“What is it?” he asks, pressing his forehead into yours.
“Just… I…” You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment flooding your system.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me, honey. Are you having second thoughts? We don’t have to do anything—honestly, I wasn’t expecting—”
“It’s not that,” you quickly interrupt. “It’s not—it’s just that—I’m different now. My body—it looks different from how you remember it. It’s softer, and I have stretch marks, and—I’ve had a baby. I don’t look the same.”
A kiss, gentle yet effervescent, is pressed into your temple. “That doesn’t matter to me at all. You grew a person. You think I’m supposed to feel anything other than awe over that?”
“I’ve had—other people have told me it’s gross,” you confess. “I just… I wanted to prepare you, is all.”
“Oh, honey.” It’s said so softly that you barely hear it. “I could never be grossed out by you.”
Your eyes fly open. You see the honesty on his face, along with the unbridled desire as his gaze dips down, and before you lose your nerve, you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off and tossing it somewhere out of sight.
The reaction is immediate.
It’s gratifying, honestly, how clearly he wants you. How clearly he desires you, and everything that comes with it. Enough so that you’re pushing your pants down, asking, “Am I the only one getting undressed tonight?”
He grabs the end of his shirt with a fervor, completely and utterly uncoordinated, and you can’t help but giggle from his enthusiasm.
That is, however, until you see his chest. The way a forest of hair has completely taken over, yes, but the mottled silver scars that cover the tanned skin, tracing down his sides and stopping mere inches from his boxers.
You want to ask, but when you look back up at his face, you recognize the situation for what it is: A conversation for a different time, a different day, where you have the time and space to become reacquainted with one another on a deeper level.
He steps closer, then, and you remember thinking how much of a man Steve had seemed back in high school, back when you were just a girl yourself and he was the most grown person you’d slept with. All confidence and bravado and hard lines, a tendency towards your pleasure before his own like it was his solemn duty. But you had been utterly wrong about whatever masculinity that you assumed he had back in high school.
The boy he was then has nothing on the man he is now, the kind of man who has grown into his own body, who is comfortable in who he is above all else. One that’s softer, less toned, but somehow more powerful than before. Covered in the kind of hair that can only come with life experience and age, a surety in his hands that no one else has ever had as he reaches for your hips.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he warns, his lips brushing over your own.
You tilt your chin up, grinning, and he presses forward.
It’s softer now, less frenzied. He takes his time mapping every part of your face as he presses you back into your sheets, covering your body with his own. You reach behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it away, desperate to feel the wiry hair on his chest brush against your nipples, and you mewl at the sensation.
Steve huffs a laugh into your mouth, planting his lips down your chin, ghosting his teeth over the column of your beck and down to your collar.
He pauses, then, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your breast, his thumb dragging over the peak, and he whispers, “I know I keep saying this, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone more beautiful than you are.”
“You’re cheesy,” you say.
“Only for you,” he replies.
A kiss is pressed onto your sternum, then a little bite, and before you can process it, your entire nipple is sucked into his mouth, his tongue lavishing circles around the bud as his hand comes up to play with your other breast.
“Fuck, Steve,” you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair.
He peeks up at you, his brown eyes glowing in the darkness of your room, and grins with your tit still in his mouth.
It’s obscene, yet you feel so, so hot, especially as his hand travels down your body, making its way to your wet, aching core.
“So pretty for me, honey,” he murmurs, releasing your breast with a pop. “So, so pretty.”
He traces a path down, his tongue leaving a trail of spit as he goes, and for a moment, you think he’s going to just dive in, ripping your panties off and feasting the way he once did, but he doesn’t. He stops at your stretch marks, and carefully, begins to plant a kiss on every single one that he can find, mumbling beautiful and gorgeous as he goes.
Your entire head goes fuzzy at the sight, and you think he can tell by the dopey grin he shoots you as he asks, “Do you still think I don’t love this?”
“You’re a perv,” you moan, his thumb pressing down on your clit through your panties. “And a freak. I can’t believe—”
“Only for you,” he promises. “Only for you, honey.”
Fingers come up to the elastic of your underwear, and with your permission, he begins the torturous process of peeling them down your legs, tossing them to the side without a care before spreading you open once more.
You aren’t surprised when he pampers kisses along your inner thigh, easing his way towards your core, to where you want him the most. You can feel the mess you’re making despite the fact he’s barely touched you, and you see the delight on his face when he makes his way home, stroking a hand through your pubic hair before spreading your lower lips apart.
“I missed this,” he says, then dives straight in.
The next thing you know, his tongue is everywhere. Dipping inside your cunt, swirling around your clit. He flattens it, licking a long stripe up as he peers at you through the thatch of hair, and you feel completely and utterly incoherent as pleasure builds faster than you’ve ever felt before.
Two fingers nudge their way inside, curling, finding the spot that has your thighs squeezing Steve’s head. You can feel his laugh, rather than hear it, as it vibrates against your pussy in a way that has your hips jerking up, desperate, chasing—
“That’s it,” he says, twisting his hand. “Come for me, honey.”
And you do.
Loudly.
A moan is ripped from your throat, bouncing around the walls as you tangle your fingers into his hair, stars shooting across your eyes as he holds you in place.
You feel like you’re on fire, like you’ve somehow been born anew as he works you through your orgasm, brushing a thumb against your clit as you shake and shake and shake, coming down slowly from the highest high you’ve ever felt in your life, until slowly, finally, your limbs stop trembling, and every single one of your muscles goes lax.
“Wow,” you whisper, forcing your eyes open and down towards the man still planting kitten kisses against your pussy. “Wow, Steve. You got—a lot better at that.”
“Yeah?” He shoots you a lopsided grin. “I’m glad.”
You tug on his hair once more, pulling him back up your body. “Come here.”
He follows, and you pull him towards your mouth, savoring the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply.
It’s perfect.
You reach down, hooking your thumbs into the elastic of his boxers, and he pulls back suddenly, saying, “Uh, when I said I wasn’t expecting anything—I meant it. I don’t—I didn’t bring protection.”
“It’s alright,” you say. “I have an IUD.”
His eyes blow wide open at that, and the next thing you know, his lips are crashing into yours once more as he helps you shuck his underwear. You take him into your hand, finding him warm and somehow bigger than you remember, but still so utterly him and utterly real.
His hips stutter as you give a few, testing pumps, and he whimpers against your mouth, pleading, “Don’t tease.”
“Not teasing,” you say. “Just feeling.”
His forehead drops to your collar as you continue to stroke him, up and down and up and down, dragging your nails across sensitive skin, soaking in the way he moans so beautifully under your ministrations.
“Honey,” he groans. “Please, please, may I fuck you?”
“Well,” you giggle. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
You yelp when he catches you under your knees, pushing up, up, up until you’re practically folded in half, the tip of his cock dragging through your folds, gathering wetness. He looks up, locking his eyes on you, before slowly—torturously slow—he pushes in.
Your mouth drops open as a loud moan is punched from your throat, savoring the feeling of how he drags against your walls, filling you up in a way that you could go crazy over.
He eases out, testing, and gives a shallow thrust, testing, teasing, as he carefully fucks each and every single inch back into you until finally, finally, he bottoms out, his hips flush with your pussy.
And for one, small, excruciating moment, you know what it feels like to be home.
He leans over your body, capturing your hands in his own, winding your fingers together as he presses your foreheads together, the obscene sound of him fucking you gently filling your head.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your open mouth. “So, so beautiful, so mine—so lucky, honey, I’m so lucky—”
Tears of pleasure spring in the corners of your eyes, falling down your cheeks, and you let out a breathy laugh when he licks them up, loving the feeling of his tongue against your oversensitive skin.
It’s never, not in any of your years of sleeping with people, made you feel as whole and complete as you do now, with Steve making space in your body for himself, with the unbridled pleasure he gives you with each and every thrust.
It almost slips from your lips—an inappropriately timed expression of love—and you think he can tell, because he whispers, “I know, honey, I know.”
“Steve,” you gasp. “Steve.”
He picks up the pace, his hips snapping against yours faster, punching the air from your lungs as bliss lays claim on every single one of your senses.
“Please,” you babble, “please please please, come in me, please—”
“Fuck,” he grunts, then captures your lips so roughly that they’ll no doubt be swollen by the time morning rolls around.
He gives a last few, harsh, stuttering thrusts as warmth spills inside you before collapsing on top of you entirely.
It takes a few minutes, ones you spend stroking a hand down his muscular back, becoming reacquainted with the feeling of his skin, before he pulls out and rolls off, saying, “I could do that every day.”
You tilt your head, giving him what is no doubt a dopey smile.
“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”
It takes a bit for the two of you to clean up, with Steve insisting on carrying you to the bathroom and laughing when you slip from his sweaty grip.
He finds a wash cloth in the linen cabinet, taking care to be mindful of any sensitivity on your end as he drags the cloth through your folds, washing his spend from your skin.
He also, in the years apart, has apparently lost all sense of shame and insists on staying in the bathroom as you pee, holding your hand like you were at risk of flying away if he were to turn away for just a single second.
It should be embarrassing, but you find that you’ve long since moved past any sense of shame when it comes to Steve Harrington.
Back in your bedroom, he tugs soft pajamas from the dresser and insists on dressing you, kneeling on the ground as he helps you step into underwear, his hands warm against your legs as he pulls up the fabric.
The two of you move back to the bed, crawling under your old quilt, and instinctively you reach over to the alarm clock, flicking on the radio as Jimmy Lee’s Late Night at the Squawk plays.
“You know,” Steve murmurs against your cheek. “One of those weird jobs I mentioned earlier? One of them was at the radio station.”
“Yeah?” you ask, a little too sleepy to say anything else.
He nods, his hair ticking the soft skin of your face. “Uh-huh. Back during lock down, in ’87. I did the late night set at the Squawk, Monday through Friday.”
Everything in your body stills. “Are you serious?”
His eyes peel open, fixing you with a curious look. “Yeah. Robin—my best friend, she handled the morning show—always said that she had to put me late at night, ‘cause my music choices were too boring.”
“No, it’s not—” Your heart pounds erratically, and it feels as though flowers have wound themselves around your ribcage, blooming under the admission. “Steve.”
“Yes?”
“Mia was born in ’87.”
“I know,” he says.
“No, no, you don’t—”
A laugh bubbles from you, and he hitches himself up on an elbow. “I’m missing something.”
“That was you!” you say between giggles. “Oh my god! No wonder she likes you so much!”
“Honey?”
“After Mia was born,” you start, grinning like a madman. “When it was just me and her, the only way I could get her to sleep was by tuning the radio to the Squawk whenever your show was on. But I had no idea it was you—I was so exhausted, you know?—and your voice—oh, god, your voice—it was the only thing that ever soothed her to sleep without fail.”
“Are you…” He licks his lips, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Are you serious? She…”
There’s something in his expression—hesitation, wonder, affection—that brings tears to your eyes, because you know that look. You know it intimately, because it’s the same way you feel every single time your daughter does something that surprises you, every time she grows just a little more into her own person.
And it’s a look that you have never, not a single time, seen on Mark’s face when he looks at her.
Something in you bursts, a swell of tenderness, of hilarity, over the fact that it took so long to find someone who might even remotely feel the same way about Mia that you do. And that person—that man—the one who so carefully cleaned her scraped knees, is the same man who once applied the same, careful precision to wiping tears from your face when you were nothing but a stranger to him.
It took so long, and he’d lived so close the entire time.
“You know,” he says, sounding rather choked up. “I—don’t kill me for saying this, but—I wish I’d run into you sooner.”
You find his hand in the dark and squeeze, hoping and praying that it conveys every single thing that you feel.
He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes back.
“I’ve wasted so much time that I could’ve spent with you, with her,” he whispers. “I… I was serious earlier, when I said that I’ll take the two of you, in whatever way you’ll have me. I’m all in, honey. She’s just—god, she’s an incredible kid, and you—I don’t even know where to begin, but—fuck.”
— you spend months thinking steve harrington is just being nice because that’s who he is. turns out he’s been in love with you the entire time and literally signs up for tutoring, memorizes your favorite books, and color-matches his tie to your dress just for the chance to sit across from you.
👔 5.0k — steve harrington x fem!reader, fluff with a side of yearning, nerd!reader, oblivious girl genius x pathetic yearner boy, peer tutoring as a love language, steve matching his tie to your dress like a loser ( affectionate ), memorizing her favorite authors to impress her, mutual pining so obvious it hurts, everyone knows except you, happy fluffy fix-it ending
request — [ @g0lden-sky ] hii, my lovely! i humbly propose a steve harrington request because i am in love with the jock x nerd trope! except it's king steve harrington being completely and utterly in love with nerd reader and she just doesn't even realize until he has to spell it out for her 😭 and she's just like "huh? so you didn't match your snowball tie to my dress on accident?" stuff like that 🥺 i think it's so cute and funny!!
author's note — literally got a toothache writing this. eek thank you thank you so much for the request, sky, this is easily one of the cutest things i've ever written. i hope you all love it !
masterlist : navigation
gif by @sakura-haruka | divider by @/lavendergalactic
No one expected Steve Harrington, the self-appointed King of Hawkins High with his stupidly perfect hair and his stupidly perfect smile and his stupidly perfect life, to fall in love with you.
Not Tommy, who swore Steve didn’t even know how to spell the word “homework.” Not Carol, who said you were “cute in a studious way” like that explained anything. Not the basketball team, not the cheer squad, not even the teachers who still looked at Steve like he was one bad mistake away from detention.
And definitely not you.
But Steve was. Hopelessly. Embarrassingly. Down-bad in a way that would’ve ruined his reputation if he hadn’t already stopped caring about that months ago.
Because when you walked down the hallway with your arms full of books, chin tucked, lips moving silently while you memorized something under your breath, Steve forgot how to breathe. When you pushed your glasses up with your knuckle and frowned at a problem on your worksheet, he felt this weird ache in his chest like he wanted to fix it for you even though he didn’t understand half the stuff you studied. And when you laughed, he looked at you like you’d just invented happiness.
He was even worse at hiding it.
God, he was awful.
He bought strawberry milk from the cafeteria even though he hated strawberry milk, just because he’d once overheard you telling Nancy it was your favorite. He’d volunteer to run errands for teachers if it meant he might accidentally bump into you between classes.
He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.
He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.
Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”
“The what?”
“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”
He didn’t get it together.
If anything, he got worse.
The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.
Everyone knew.
Except you.
You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.
You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.
You had bigger things to think about.
Like getting out of Hawkins.
Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.
“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”
You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.
Anything that helped you leave.
You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.
Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.
Leaving didn’t feel sad.
It felt necessary.
So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.
Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.
Waiting.
For you.
For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.
Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.
Then he saw you.
And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.
“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”
“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”
His heart actually stuttered.
Lost. God. If only you knew.
“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”
“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”
You blinked at him.
Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.
You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.
“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”
You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.
God. He’d do anything to hear that again.
“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”
Everything, he almost said.
But not the homework.
He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.
Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.
“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”
You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.
And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.
“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”
Easy. Right.
Except nothing about this was easy for him.
Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.
You thought he was struggling with science.
He was struggling with you.
“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”
Trying.
If you only knew.
He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.
All because you were here.
Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.
He wanted you to fly.
He just selfishly wished he could go with you.
“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”
He swallowed.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.
Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.
He just couldn’t help it.
You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.
He tried, really tried, to look at the page.
Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.
None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.
“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”
Steve blinked.
You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”
Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”
God.
He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.
Pathetic.
He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.
You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.
By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.
“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.
He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”
Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.
The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.
The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.
“I got it,” Steve said.
“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”
You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.
Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.
In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.
And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.
He started getting good. Like, actually good.
He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”
“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.
“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”
Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.
You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.
Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.
“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.
You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.
He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.
He thought about asking you out a hundred times.
Every single session.
When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.
The words sat on the tip of his tongue.
Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?
Do you want to go to the movies?
Do you want to go out with me?
But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.
You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.
He was. . . Steve.
Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.
Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.
He felt lucky you even talked to him.
So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.
He tried harder.
He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.
Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”
“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”
You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.
How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.
The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.
You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.
You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.
Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.
He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.
Dance.
Dance meant dates.
Dates meant asking someone.
Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.
You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”
When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.
“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”
Nancy.
You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”
Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”
You blinked. “The dance?”
“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”
“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.
You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”
Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.
Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.
It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.
Steve panicked.
Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”
You smiled. “Have fun.”
She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.
The silence that followed felt deafening.
Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.
Just ask her.
It’s not that hard.
It’s literally just words.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He closed it.
Tried again.
“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”
“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
“You said you didn’t have a date.”
“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”
Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.
“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”
He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.
“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”
He stopped breathing.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”
Might as well.
It shouldn’t have made him that happy.
But it did. It really, really did.
The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.
Because Steve would not shut up.
He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.
“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”
“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”
“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”
Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.
They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.
When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.
And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.
Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.
You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.
“Hey.”
The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.
You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.
You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.
Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.
At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.
His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.
And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”
Friend.
It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.
Friend.
His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.
He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.
The door clicked shut.
He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?
He laughed once, bitter and quiet.
Idiot.
Absolute idiot.
But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.
Please don’t be her parents.
Please don’t be her parents.
Please—
The door opened.
It was you.
Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.
“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”
You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.
Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.
“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing.
Closed it.
His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.
“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”
Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.
“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.
Instead, he just looked at you.
God.
You were looking at him like you cared.
Like you were already bracing to help him.
It made everything worse and better at the same time.
“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”
You tilted your head. “What thing?”
“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.
“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”
“That’s the thing,” he blurted.
You stopped.
He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.
“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”
You blinked.
“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”
“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”
Your brain stalled.
“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”
Your mouth fell open a little.
“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”
“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”
You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”
Steve froze.
“. . . You noticed that?”
“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”
He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”
“Oh,” you breathed.
Oh.
All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.
Your stomach flipped.
Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.
“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”
You frowned immediately. “Steve.”
“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”
Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.
He swallowed.
“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”
For a second, neither of you said anything.
And then you stepped closer.
Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.
Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.
He short-circuited.
“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”
His heart dropped. “Oh.”
“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”
He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”
You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”
Your throat tightened.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Oh.
The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.
Everything did.
You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”
He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”
“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”
His brain stopped working.
“. . . What?”
“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”
The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.
“Wait. Really?”
“Really.”
“Like. . . like like me?”
You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”
He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.
“You’re serious?”
“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”
He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.
“Out of— are you insane?”
You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.
And then you were just. . . standing there.
Close.
Really close.
His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.
You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.
His breath hitched.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.
You smiled.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”
He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.
When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.
Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”
You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”
summary: After coming off a date with a bad review, Steve sets out to prove that he really is good at going down on girls.
tags: MDNI!! [roommates/friends to lovers] [smut] [oral fem receiving] [mutual pining] [he just needs an honest review] [friends help each other...right?] 2k words
a/n: While brainstorming this fic, I couldn't decide whether I wanted it to be fluffy or smutty, so I had you guys vote. And you wanted me to write both. (Here is the fluffy sister fic if you want to read it!)
It is your deepest held belief that Friday nights are, indeed, best spent in.
You’re on the couch, curled up with a book, basking in the soft lamplight as steam from your favorite tea reflects in the dark windows beside you.
All is peaceful. All is quiet. It’s perfect.
And then your apartment door opens.
You jump, looking over your shoulder just in time to see your roommate, Steve, storm through the entryway. His dress shirt is untucked, tie loose, and his hair is a wreck, like he’s run his hands through it a million times.
That’s not a good sign for a man supposed to be on a fancy date tonight.
He said, if things went well, he’d probably end up back at her place for the night. You thought that might be a little presumptuous, but hey, it’s Steve Harrington you’re talking about here.
Steve looks around wildly, and when his eyes land on you, the intensity in them takes you aback.
“I’m guessing things didn’t go well, then—?” you start, but he cuts you off, his words overlapping yours.
“Take off your pants.”
You freeze.
What the—
He must not register the utter shock on your face, because he’s already moving towards you. The silky tie snaps through the air as he rips it from his neck. God, he must really be wound up. He didn’t even take his shoes off at the door.
“Excuse me?” You manage to choke out.
“Don’t freak out, I just really need to try something,” he grunts, rounding the couch. “Just for a second.”
The moment his knees hit the carpet in front of you, your jaw goes slack.
“Harrington!” You scramble back into your mountain of pillows, nearly knocking your mug off the side table. You reach out and steady it with one hand, suddenly very aware of how your tank top has ridden up with the movement. “What the hell are you—?”
“…can’t believe she said that,” he mutters, ripping back the blanket thrown over your lap.
“Who said what?”
He doesn’t respond, eyes locked on your short sleep shorts. They’re a cute set you picked up recently at the mall. Navy blue with white flowers. Innocent-looking. Sweet.
But he’s staring at them like he’s going to rip them off with his teeth.
Heat rushes to your cheeks.
While you can’t deny what that look is doing to you, there’s something else trapped in his gaze. Sadness? Not quite. Disappointment, maybe? You’ve only been roommates for six months, but you already know him well enough to know when he’s upset.
Reaching down, you grab a fistful of his hair and tip his head back. His eyes snap to yours.
“What did she say?” you ask again, firmer this time.
Steve’s lips form a thin line before he sighs heavily. You drop his hair.
“She said I was bad at sex. Specifically, bad at...this.” He gestures unhelpfully between your legs and your stomach swoops as his finger almost brushes the seam of your shorts.
It takes you a second, but then your brows pull together. “She actually said that?”
“Not exactly,” he groans. “The date was fine. It was our third, so when she invited me upstairs, I figured…well, you know. And then we got to making out and it was hot. I guess…”
You swallow hard and gesture for him to continue, even if the thought of his lips trailing down some other girl’s neck feels like a knife in your side.
“And then I went down on her and she said—” He cuts himself off with a miserable little huff before resuming. “She said it wasn’t doing anything for her. At all. Like it wasn’t good enough or something. Can you believe that? I could’ve lived if she said my thrust game needed work or something, if we had even gotten to that point, but this? This is, like, my thing.”
Oh. Okay.
Yeah, you could’ve gone the rest of your lease without knowing that eating pussy is your hot roommate’s thing.
That is not good for your little crush you have going on that you refuse to talk about. Or think about. Ever.
You nod quickly and clear your throat. “S-so, what exactly does this have to do with me?”
Steve just shrugs. “We’re friends, right?”
“Right.”
“Right.” He levels your gaze, brown eyes soft and playful in the lamplight. “So…”
The moment stretches between you, an invitation, an ask, and a dare all rolled into one.
“So, because we’re such good friends, we just…give each other oral sex?”
Steve sighs. “Look. I just want a second opinion, okay? I mean, this is bad. Really bad. If Cindy didn’t like it, then what if other girls didn’t either? Then I’ve just been lied to all this time—”
Your gaze drops to his fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath you, and despite yourself, a smile creeps across your lips. “Oh my God, this really got to you, didn’t it?”
“What?” He balks. “No! It’s just…I need to set the record straight.” He taps your knees with a knuckle, playful but firm. “Spread ‘em.”
You bark an unbelieving laugh that ends in a sound too close to a whimper when his hands come down on your thighs.
You cannot let him do this to you. If you do, you’ll never be able to get over your secret-no-good-very-bad-crush on your roommate.
You force yourself to breathe. “I…I don’t want thinks to get weird.”
His eyes flick up to yours. “Weird?”
“Between us.”
Steve seems to take a second to understand what you’re saying, and you watch as an emotion you can’t place crosses his face.
Suddenly, he moves to stand. “You’re right. Sorry. God, I’m an idiot. What am I thinking, I just—”
Panic spikes and you snatch his wrist before you even really know what you’re doing, cutting him off. “No, wait. It’s like you said. We’re…friends, right?”
He nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah.”
“So, we don’t let it get weird.” The words spill out of you before you can take them back. But you don’t want to. “I’ll give you an unbiased review. A one time thing.”
You watch as his lashes drop again to your legs, and his pupils widen as your knees fall apart a little on instinct.
“You’re sure?” he asks, voice thick.
In an effort to appear nonchalant, you shrug. But you’re salivating when his tongue darts over his bottom lip.
“Yes,” you breathe.
He doesn’t waste a second dropping back down to his knees, and your legs widen immediately to give him space.
“So, you’ll tell me the truth, right?” he rasps, eyes jumping between your face and your hips. “Be honest. I can take it.”
“Honest,” you agree, but the word comes out in a whisper as his fingers slip under your waistband.
Your face burns as he pulls down your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, baring you to him. His hands gently ease your thighs farther apart, and you fight the urge to squirm under his gaze.
“Steve! Stop looking at it like that,” you gasp.
“Why?” he asks without glancing up. “It’s pretty.”
Shit.
You’re not strong enough for this.
But when he finally looks up, you recognize the silent question in his eyes. He’s asking for permission. You could stop this right now, and he would let you easily. He’s probably never even bring it up again. No harm done.
And you should.
God, you should.
But you don’t want to.
So instead, you just nod, not trusting your voice to speak.
As he leans in, you brace for the feeling of his tongue, but you’re surprised when he starts by just…kissing you.
His lips are soft against your folds, and your breath catches at the tenderness there. His eyes find yours before he goes lower, and the moment his nose bumps your clit, your body jolts in his hold.
He makes a muffled sound and his eyes drift shut, large palms moving to your hips, pinning them to the cloth couch beneath you.
Then there’s that wet heat.
His tongue slides over you with just enough pressure, starting slow and exploring your entrance.
“Oh, God,” you whimper.
His hair is so soft against your inner thighs, and when he makes a sound of encouragement against you, and his tongue swirls higher, catching the underside of your clit, your mouth drops open in a silent moan.
He’s hardly done anything yet, but the way he’s doing it, so confident, and steady, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
“See? Good, right?” he mutters, the words muffled and slick against your core. “I know what I’m—mmm, fuck, you taste good.”
Before you can respond, his hands wrap up and around your thighs, and he hauls you closer. Your tank top rides up even higher as you slide down into the cushions, but you don’t reach up to fix it.
Mostly because Steve Harrington is going down on you, and that thought alone is nearly making you lose your fucking mind.
His lashes flutter shut as he makes out with your dripping cunt, his throat bobbing as sucks gently, swallows, and goes back for more.
You’re surprised to find there’s no performance to his actions, but more of a genuine enjoyment.
Steve eats pussy like he wants to.
You watch, transfixed, and you can’t help but roll your hips once against his mouth, smearing your slick all over his pretty fucking face.
Too pretty for his own good.
A sound escapes his chest, something caught between a moan and a whine, and he nods against you, peeking up from beneath his lashes.
The carpet whispers as rises higher on his knees, mouth traveling up your mound and over the soft, sensitive skin below your belly button.
But you whimper at the loss, pushing his head back down.
His throat vibrates against you with a chuckle, but he follows you obediently. “Oh, yeah? So definitely doing something for you then.”
“Shut up,” you groan, but the sound dies out harshly when his mouth latches to your clit and sucks.
Hard.
You gasp, back arching as your core clenches instinctively.
Then, without warning, he pulls back.
You look at each other, chests heaving. Suddenly, you’re afraid he’s done. That you now have to give a report based on that.
“Is that it?” You squeak.
“What? God, you think I would just leave you like that? No, I was just thinking—” He draws in a breath, like he needs to physically rearrange his thoughts. “Well, I haven’t even kissed you yet.”
You just stare down at him, chest heaving, bare and slick from the waist down.
He takes one look at your face and clears his throat. “Right. Later.” He leans in again, but pauses before glancing up at you one more time. “Yes?”
“Yes, Harrington, I will kiss you, later,” you whine pitifully, canting your hips into his hands.
He seems pleased, and wastes no time picking up where he left off.
And this time, he doesn’t tease you.
Your head hips back, a moan tearing from your throat as two of his fingers spear deep inside and his mouth closes over your clit.
As you threaten to fall apart beneath him, Steve just watches.
Every little whine and whimper. Every jerk and arch of your back. Every wriggle of your hips and curl of your toes.
He studies you like a map, surveying everything that makes you soak his face, everything that makes you clench hard around his fingers, his tongue, and finding new routes to all those destinations.
The tension between your hips pulls tighter, and when he reaches up to palm your breast, slipping his hand underneath your tank top, you wonder if he can feel it.
The way your heart slams against your ribs.
A silent, helpless confession. A call for him to see that this will not, in fact, be a one-time thing.
That you’ve been thinking about this—about him—ever since the day you moved in.
That ache builds like a tidal wave, threatening to break, and your fingers fly to his arms for stability. He’s warm, and strong, and his muscles shift under his dress shirt.
It’s honestly impressive how quickly he responds, how easily he reads every subconscious signal your body gives him. Because when that breathy, urgent whine starts to leave your lips, his thumb replaces his mouth on your clit, rubbing firm, perfect circles that drive you higher. And then he dips lower, tonguing your entrance, devouring you in thick, broad strokes, pushing you to the fucking brink.
“Yeah, you gonna come for me?” He slurs against your aching cunt. “Just like that. That’s it. I’ve got you—mmhm—”
The second his tongue spears deep inside, the tidal wave breaks.
Your moan fills your quiet apartment, and you nearly come off the couch with the intensity of it. The rush is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You have no option but to surrender fully to it as it pulls you under, shamelessly riding your orgasm out on Steve’s tongue.
Steve’s ready for it though. He goes with you easily as your hips rise and fall, strong hands holding you to his mouth, unwilling to let you slide away.
When the pulsing eventually fades to shuttering jolts, he pulls back, but his hands stay on your hips, caressing you softly, bringing you back down to earth.
You bite your lip, looking down at him panting between your knees. Your body aches, but in a good way. Like you need more, but somehow, it still won’t ever be enough.
“God, Steve—” you whine, but you’re cut off by him lunging up across your body and pressing his lips to yours.
You laugh into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue as he kisses you eagerly.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” He murmurs, pulling back a little.
Something catches in your chest at his confession, and you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him back down for another kiss.
This one is different.
Deeper, and softer, and…meaningful.
He sinks back down onto his knees, squeezing your thigh, your waist, like you’re something precious.
“So, tell me , honestly, was it good?” He urged, gazing up at you.
You blink dumbly, throughly flushed. “Yeah, uh…no notes.”
He smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Five out of five stars.”
“I don’t know, Harrington. That literally means no room for improvement.” You’re not sure his ego is ready for that.
“Oh?” His lips tilt in a crooked smile that makes you want to kiss him again. “What would you have me do to earn that fifth star, huh?”
His lids go heavy as you tighten your hold on his hair and urge his mouth back down where you want it.
“You could do it again.”
a/n: It's my canon that his date, Cindy, was just hung up on her ex, and Steve was the unlucky rebound that night. Plus, Steve wasn't that into it. Because he was thinking about you, obviously. Also, here is the fluffy version sister fic if you care lol
ᥫ᭡ dividers by @cursed-carmine| steve masterlist | drop by my desk
Summary: Steve insists he's fine. Unfortunately for him, being sick turns him into the clingiest man alive.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fever/cold, clingy Steve, fluff, hurt/comfort (let me know if I missed anything)
W/C: 4.9k
Steve Harrington is not sick.
He says this very clearly. Several times, actually.
First, when he opens the door to Family Video with his hair slightly flatter than usual, his nose pink, and his voice doing a weird scratchy thing that makes Robin look up from the counter immediately.
“You sound like shit.”
Steve glares at her. “Good morning to you too.”
“It’s four in the afternoon.”
“Then good afternoon to you too.”
Robin narrows her eyes, looking him up and down with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for crime scenes. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
“You look sick.”
“I look handsome.”
“You look damp.”
Steve frowns. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you have the energy of a wet paper towel.”
He scoffs like that’s ridiculous, then immediately turns away to cough into his elbow. It lasts a little too long.
Robin just stares at him.
Steve straightens afterwards, clearing his throat like that somehow resets the entire conversation. “Dust.”
“In your lungs?”
“Air dust.”
“Air dust,” Robin repeats.
Steve grabs a stack of tapes and starts reorganising them with far more determination than necessary. “It’s a real thing.”
“It is not.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“Neither are you, which is probably why you think air dust exists.”
Steve ignores her. Which is fine. He can handle Robin.
The problem is you.
Because you show up twenty minutes later with a drink from the diner for him, like you do most Thursdays when you’re nearby, and Steve realises very quickly that he cannot handle you at all.
You notice immediately. Of course you do. You always do, which is usually one of his favourite things about you. Today, it’s inconvenient.
You step through the door, bell chiming above your head, and Steve turns automatically at the sound. His whole face does that thing it always does when he sees you - softening before he remembers to be normal about it.
“Hey,” he says.
Except it comes out rough. Too rough.
Your eyebrows lift slightly. Robin’s head appears over the counter behind him like a meerkat sensing violence.
You walk closer slowly, eyes moving over his face. “Hi.”
Steve shifts the tapes in his hands. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re looking.”
“I’m allowed to look at my boyfriend.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like Robin.”
Robin points at herself. “Rude.”
You ignore her completely, stepping into Steve’s space and pressing the back of your hand lightly against his forehead before he can dodge. He freezes. Not because he doesn’t want you touching him. That is never the issue. His body, unfortunately, is deeply embarrassing about wanting you to touch him. His eyes almost close on instinct.
Then your expression changes.
“Steve.”
“No.”
“You’re warm.”
“I run warm.”
“You’re clammy.”
“That’s just my natural glow.”
Robin makes a disgusted sound from behind the counter. “Ew.”
You tilt your head, still watching him. “How long have you felt ill?”
“I don’t feel ill.”
He ruins this immediately by coughing again.
You stare at him.
Steve coughs into his elbow and then lifts his head with as much dignity as he can possibly scrape together.
“…okay. Maybe my throat is a little weird.”
Robin snorts. “Oh, we’re starting there?”
Steve shoots her a look. “Don’t you have tapes to rewind?”
“Don’t you have a fever to lie about?”
You take the tapes out of Steve’s hands. He lets you, which is the first sign that something is genuinely wrong.
“Sit down,” you say.
“I’m working.”
“You’re leaning sideways.”
“I’m being casual.”
“You’re being ill.”
Steve opens his mouth, probably to argue again, but you give him a look. Not harsh. Not angry. Just the look. The one that says you know him too well and you’re not going to waste either of your time pretending otherwise.
He hates that look.
He loves that look.
He sighs.
“…fine. Five minutes.”
Robin mutters, “History’s bravest man.”
Steve points at her weakly while you guide him toward the little chair behind the counter. “I’m remembering all of this.”
“Good,” she says. “Write it down in your fever diary.”
By closing time, Steve has stopped pretending quite so aggressively. Not fully. Obviously. This is still Steve.
But he’s gone quieter, which tells you more than his words ever would. He keeps rubbing at his eyes when he thinks you’re not looking. His movements are slower than usual, his shoulders slightly hunched like his own body has become too heavy to carry around comfortably.
Robin clocks it too.
Her teasing softens around the edges somewhere after six. By eight, she’s already grabbed his jacket from the back room and thrown it at him.
“Go home.”
Steve catches it badly against his chest. “I’m fine.”
“You sneezed on a copy of The Breakfast Club and apologised to it.”
You press your lips together to stop yourself laughing.
Steve looks betrayed. “It deserved an apology.”
Robin points at the door. “Out.”
“I’m scheduled until close.”
“Congratulations, you’ve been promoted to customer. Leave.”
Steve turns to you, clearly expecting support.
You smile sweetly. “She’s right.”
His face drops. “You too?”
“You’re ill.”
“I’m mildly inconvenienced.”
“You have a fever.”
“I have personality.”
Robin groans. “Oh my god, take him before I throw him into traffic.”
So you do.
Steve complains for most of the walk to your car, though his complaining gets progressively weaker the longer he has to be upright. By the time you get him into the passenger seat, he’s stopped arguing altogether and is just staring tiredly out the windscreen with his jacket zipped up to his chin.
You glance at him while starting the car.
“You okay?”
He nods.
A little too slowly.
“Yeah.”
Then, after a second, quieter, “Can we go to yours?”
That catches you slightly off guard. Steve usually defaults to his house when he’s not feeling great. Bigger sofa, his own bed, his own shower, his own everything. He likes familiar places when he’s trying not to be needy about it.
But tonight he’s looking at you from the passenger seat with heavy eyes and a pink nose, and your heart does something stupid.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Of course.”
Steve nods again, turning back toward the window.
A minute passes.
Then, “My throat hurts.”
It’s so small. So annoyed. So unexpectedly pathetic that you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to smile.
“I know, honey.”
He sinks lower in the seat. “Don’t like it.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then, even quieter, “Your place has the good blanket.”
Oh.
That explains it.
You glance over at him.
He’s still looking out the window, trying very hard to seem like this is a normal, practical observation and not an extremely transparent admission that he wants to be bundled up on your sofa and looked after.
Your chest warms.
“The blue one?”
He nods.
“And your pillow smells like you.”
You almost miss it. It comes out mumbled, half swallowed by congestion and the hum of the engine.
You look at him properly this time.
Steve seems to realise what he said a second too late. His ears go pink.
He keeps staring out the window.
You don’t tease him. Not yet.
You just reach across the centre console and squeeze his hand once.
He squeezes back immediately.
Steve becomes clingy approximately seventeen minutes after arriving at your flat.
At first, he pretends he’s not. He lets you herd him into your bedroom. Lets you make him change into one of the soft shirts he keeps at yours and a pair of old joggers. Lets you press a thermometer under his tongue while he sits on the edge of your bed looking deeply offended by the entire concept of illness.
When it beeps, you check the number and wince slightly.
Steve narrows his eyes. “Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“The bad face.”
“You’ve got a temperature.”
“I’m hot. We knew this.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
“I do. Which is why you’re getting into bed.”
He sighs dramatically but does it, shuffling beneath the duvet with the theatrical misery of someone being sent to war rather than tucked into clean sheets.
You bring him water, painkillers, tissues, and the blue blanket from the sofa. He watches you move around the room with increasingly droopy eyes, head turning every time you cross from one side of the room to the other.
The first time you notice, you think it’s sweet. The fourth time, you realise he’s tracking you like a sad Victorian ghost.
“Steve.”
“Hm?”
“Why are you watching me like that?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He sniffs. “You keep moving.”
“Yes. That is generally how getting things works.”
He frowns slightly, like this is unreasonable.
You set the water on the bedside table. “I’m literally two feet away.”
“That’s far.”
You pause.
Then very slowly smile.
Steve notices and groans immediately, pulling the blanket higher over his face.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I am thinking so many things.”
“I’m sick,” he says, voice muffled by the blanket. “You’re not allowed to bully me.”
“I’m not bullying you.”
“You’re smiling.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“It is when you’re doing it like that.”
You sit down on the edge of the bed, and Steve immediately lowers the blanket just enough to look at you.
His hair is flattened messily against the pillow. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are heavy and glassy in a way that would be concerning if he weren’t also glaring at you like an annoyed house cat.
God help you.
He’s adorable.
“You’re clingy when you’re ill,” you say softly.
“I am not.”
“You asked to come here because my pillow smells like me.”
Steve closes his eyes. “I was under duress.”
“You were in a car.”
“Emotionally, duress.”
You laugh quietly and reach out, brushing damp hair back from his forehead. His entire face changes instantly. The annoyance melts out of him so quickly it’s almost comical, his eyes slipping shut as he leans very slightly into your hand.
Oh.
Interesting.
You scratch your fingers lightly through his hair.
Steve lets out a tiny sound. Barely anything. But enough.
You freeze.
His eyes open slowly.
Both of you stare at each other.
Then you grin.
Steve’s face goes pinker.
“Don’t,” he says again.
“Did you just purr?”
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I’m feverish.”
“That’s your defence?”
“I’m dying.”
“You have a cold.”
“I’m dying of a cold.”
You lean down and kiss his forehead before you can think better of it. He’s too warm beneath your mouth.
“Take your medicine, drama queen.”
He grumbles, but he takes it.
Then, as soon as you reach for the glass of water to put it back on the table, his hand catches your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop you.
You look down. Steve is staring at your joined hands like he didn’t quite mean to do it.
“Stay?” he asks.
Soft. Raspy. Almost embarrassed.
Your teasing disappears immediately.
“Yeah,” you say. “Of course.”
You climb into bed beside him, still on top of the duvet, and Steve shifts toward you so quickly you nearly laugh again. He tucks his face into your side. Fully. Like a child hiding from the world.
“You’re really not beating the clingy allegations,” you murmur.
His arm slides around your waist.
“I’m asleep.”
“No you’re not.”
“I could be.”
“You’re talking.”
“Sleep talking.”
You thread your fingers into his hair again, slow and gentle.
Steve goes quiet instantly.
Within five minutes, he’s out.
When Steve wakes up again, the room is darker. Not fully dark. The little lamp on your dresser still throws warm light across the walls, and the curtains are cracked open just enough to let in the dull orange glow of the streetlights outside.
He feels awful.
This is his first thought.
His second thought is that you’re gone.
Steve lifts his head too quickly and immediately regrets it when the room tilts.
“Baby?”
His voice comes out rougher than he expected.
There’s movement somewhere beyond the door, then your head appears.
“Hey,” you say softly. “I’m here.”
Relief hits him so hard it’s frankly embarrassing.
He drops his head back against the pillow.
“You left.”
“I went to make tea.”
“That’s leaving.”
“That is being in the next room.”
“Still counts.”
You step into the room carrying a mug, your expression caught somewhere between fond and amused. “You are so pathetic right now.”
“I have a fever.”
“I know.”
“You have to be nice to me.”
“I am being nice. I made tea.”
Steve eyes the mug suspiciously. “Is it the gross one?”
“It’s honey and lemon.”
“So yes.”
“It’ll help your throat.”
“My throat doesn’t want help. It wants dignity.”
“Your throat sounds like it swallowed gravel.”
Steve sighs miserably. “Mean.”
You sit beside him and help him sit up enough to drink. He makes an exaggerated face after the first sip, but his hands curl around the warmth anyway.
You watch him carefully. Too carefully, maybe, because after a second he glances at you over the rim.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true when you say it.”
You smile softly. “You’re just very cute like this.”
Steve frowns. “This is the least hot I’ve ever been.”
“I didn’t say hot. I said cute.”
“That’s worse.”
“You’re feverish and cuddly and you keep looking personally betrayed every time I move three feet away. It’s cute.”
Steve groans and sinks back down under the blankets, taking the mug with him.
“I hate being perceived.”
“You love being perceived by me.”
He opens one eye. A mistake. Because you’re looking at him like you adore him.
And even feverish, even congested, even with his skin too hot and his head full of cotton, Steve feels that look hit somewhere deep.
He looks away first.
“…maybe.”
You don’t push.
You just take the mug before he can spill it all over himself and set it aside.
“Do you want soup?”
“No.”
“Toast?”
“No.”
“Medicine?”
“Already did that.”
“More water?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
Steve answers without thinking.
“You.”
Silence.
Not bad silence. Just silence.
He realises what he said only after it’s already sitting there between you.
Your face softens.
Steve closes his eyes again.
“…that was the fever talking.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Because it sounded a lot like you.”
“Fever me is dramatic.”
“Regular you is dramatic.”
He opens one eye again. “You’re really enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“Cruel.”
You laugh softly and settle back beside him, this time beneath the duvet. Steve immediately shifts closer, pressing himself into your side with a relieved little sigh he probably wouldn’t survive hearing played back to him later.
You let him.
Of course you do.
His head finds your shoulder. His arm goes across your stomach. His knee hooks lazily over yours beneath the covers, trapping you in place.
You stare down at him.
“Comfortable?”
“Mm.”
“I’m glad one of us is.”
“You’re warm,” he mumbles.
“You’re warm. Medically.”
He ignores that, nose brushing lightly against your collarbone as he settles further into you.
Then, after a quiet minute, “You smell nice.”
You smile into his hair. “Thanks.”
“Missed you today.”
“I was with you most of today.”
“I know.”
His voice is already drifting, softer and slower around the edges.
“Still missed you.”
Your hand stills in his hair for half a second.
Then keeps moving.
Steve doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and is simply too tired to be embarrassed.
“You get very honest when you’re ill,” you murmur.
“No I don’t.”
“You just told me you missed me while lying directly on top of me.”
He doesn’t answer for a while. Long enough that you think he might’ve fallen asleep.
Then, “Could miss you from anywhere.”
Your chest tightens.
Oh.
That one’s going to stay with you.
You look down at him, but his eyes are already closed.
Coward.
Feverish, clingy coward.
You bend carefully and kiss the top of his head.
“Sleep, Steve.”
His arm tightens around you.
“Don’t go far.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.”
By morning, Steve’s fever is lower. Unfortunately, this does not make him less dramatic.
If anything, regaining a tiny bit of energy only gives him more strength to complain.
He wakes up around nine, hair sticking up in five different directions, face creased from your pillow.
Immediately says, “I can’t believe you let me sleep like that.”
You glance up from the book you’re pretending to read while actually watching him. “Like what?”
“Ugly.”
“You were asleep.”
“I have a reputation.”
“You drooled on my shoulder.”
Steve looks genuinely horrified.
You grin.
He points at you weakly. “You’re lying.”
“I am not.”
“Take it back.”
“No.”
“I’m ill.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
He flops back against the pillow with a groan, then immediately regrets it and presses a hand to his forehead.
You’re beside him in a second.
The teasing drops out of you on instinct.
“Hey. Too fast?”
He nods faintly, eyes closed.
“Dizzy?”
“A little.”
“Okay. Stay still.”
You press your fingers lightly to his cheek, then his forehead, checking him carefully. Still warm, but not as bad. Better enough that worry loosens its grip around your ribs.
Steve opens his eyes after a moment.
He looks up at you, quieter now.
“Sorry.”
Your brows pinch. “For what?”
“Being annoying.”
“Oh, honey.” You sigh softly, brushing his hair back. “You’re always annoying.”
He huffs a weak laugh.
Then you soften properly.
“You don’t have to apologise for being ill.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Steve looks away.
There it is.
That little vulnerable edge underneath all the comedy. The part of him that still doesn’t quite know what to do with needing things. With being the one tucked into bed instead of the one bringing the blankets, medicine, and bad jokes.
You sit beside him and let your hand rest against his chest, right over the worn fabric of his shirt.
“You’re allowed to be looked after, you know.”
Steve’s throat works slightly.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to be useful first.”
His expression changes.
Just a flicker.
Small enough that someone else might miss it.
You don’t.
You never really do.
Steve looks back at you then, eyes still tired, but softer than before.
“I know,” he says again.
This time, he sounds like he might actually be trying to believe it.
You smile gently. “Good.”
A beat passes.
Then his hand comes up, covering yours against his chest.
“…can you keep doing the hair thing?”
You laugh.
There he is.
“Demanding.”
“Sick.”
“Convenient excuse.”
“Effective though.”
You roll your eyes and shift closer, fingers slipping back into his hair. Steve’s eyes close immediately, his whole body relaxing into the pillow like you’ve pressed some secret off switch.
“Ridiculous,” you murmur.
He hums.
Then, barely audible, “I'm your ridiculous.”
You pause.
“Did you just call yourself my ridiculous?”
Steve’s eyes stay shut.
“No.”
“You did.”
“Fever.”
“Your fever’s mostly gone.”
“Residual fever.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Air dust is a thing too.”
You burst out laughing.
Steve smiles without opening his eyes.
Proud of himself.
Annoying man.
Ridiculously lovable, annoying man.
By the afternoon, Steve insists he’s “basically recovered,” which lasts until he tries to stand up and immediately decides sitting is actually a noble lifestyle choice.
You make him soup. He pretends to hate it. Eats all of it. Then asks if there’s more in a voice too casual to be believable.
You don’t comment.
Much.
“You know,” you say later, carrying the second bowl into the living room, “for someone who didn’t want soup, you’re very committed.”
Steve is curled on the sofa under the blue blanket, one of your jumpers held against his chest.
Not worn.
Held.
Like a hostage.
You stop in the doorway.
“…Steve.”
He looks up.
“What?”
“Is that my jumper?”
He glances down as if noticing for the first time.
“…maybe.”
“Why are you holding it?”
He shrugs, immediately pretending to be very interested in the TV.
“It was there.”
“It was on my chair.”
“Exactly. There.”
You set the soup down on the coffee table and sit beside him, trying very hard not to smile too openly.
Steve keeps his eyes on the screen.
The screen is showing a toothpaste advert.
You lean slightly into his side. “Does it smell like me?”
“No.”
“Steve.”
He lasts about three seconds.
“…a little.”
Your heart does that stupid soft thing again.
You try to keep your voice light. “You are never beating the clingy allegations.”
“I’m choosing not to hear that.”
“You’re cuddling my jumper.”
“I’m keeping it safe.”
“From what?”
“Air dust.”
You laugh, and Steve glances over at you.
There’s something pleased in his face. Still tired. Still pale. Still a little miserable. But pleased. Like making you laugh has improved his condition more than the medicine.
You pick up the bowl and hand it to him. “Eat your soup, jumper thief.”
He takes it, then immediately shifts so his shoulder presses fully against yours.
You look at him.
He looks back innocently.
“You have the entire sofa.”
“This is my spot.”
“Your spot is on top of me?”
“Pretty much.”
You sigh like this is a hardship, even as you settle closer and let his weight lean against you.
Steve eats his soup slowly with the kind of focus usually reserved for dangerous tasks. Halfway through, his head starts to dip toward your shoulder.
“You are not falling asleep into hot soup.”
“I’m awake.”
“You’re blinking one eye at a time.”
“That’s efficient.”
You take the bowl from him. He protests weakly, but only until you set it down and pull him gently against you. Then he gives up all at once, folding into your side with a sigh so content it nearly hurts.
Your hand finds his hair again.
Obviously.
He’s trained you now.
“You’re spoiling me,” he mumbles.
“Good.”
“I’ll get used to it.”
“Good.”
His eyes open slightly at that.
You’re looking down at him already.
His expression flickers in that same quiet way again. Like some part of him expected you to joke. To call him needy. To make him earn the care by being charming about it.
Instead, you just keep touching his hair.
Steve swallows.
“You really don’t mind?”
“That you’re ill?”
“That I’m being…” He gestures vaguely at himself. “This.”
You look at him for a second. Messy-haired. Blanket-covered. Holding your jumper. Trying very hard not to sound as vulnerable as he feels.
“No,” you say softly. “I don’t mind.”
His eyes search your face.
“You’re sure?”
“Steve.”
“What?”
“You once held my hair back while I threw up for twenty minutes and then told me I still looked pretty.”
He grimaces. “You did.”
“I looked like a corpse.”
“A pretty corpse.”
“My point is,” you continue, smiling despite yourself, “you don’t get to act like letting me take care of you for one cold is some enormous burden.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
Then, “I like it when you take care of me.”
It comes out so small you almost think he didn’t mean to say it.
Your face softens.
Steve immediately looks mildly panicked.
“I mean- not like- I don’t need-”
“I know what you mean.”
He stops.
You lean down and kiss his forehead.
“I like taking care of you too.”
Steve stares at you.
Then slowly tucks his face back into your shoulder.
“…cool.”
You smile into his hair.
Very smooth.
By evening, Steve’s fever is almost gone, but his clinginess has somehow evolved. It’s become less desperate and more shameless.
He follows you around the flat wrapped in the blue blanket like a haunted burrito.
To the kitchen.
To the bathroom door.
To the hallway while you change the sheets.
At one point, you turn around with an armful of pillowcases and nearly crash directly into him.
“Steve.”
“What?”
“Why are you standing there?”
“Helping.”
“You are wrapped in a blanket doing absolutely nothing.”
“Moral support.”
“You’re in the way.”
“I can move.”
He does not move.
You stare at him.
He stares back, blinking slowly.
“…you’re lucky you’re cute.”
His face brightens slightly. “You think I’m cute?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I knew it.”
You step around him, shaking your head, but he follows immediately.
You stop again.
He stops too.
“Steve.”
“Hm?”
“I’m literally just putting sheets in the wash.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t need to come with me.”
He says nothing.
Just looks at you with those big, tired brown eyes.
You point at him. “That is manipulative.”
“I’m sick.”
“You’re barely sick anymore.”
“I’m emotionally sick.”
You laugh despite yourself.
He smiles.
Victory.
You abandon the laundry basket in the hallway and turn toward him fully. “You want attention?”
Steve looks offended by the directness.
“No.”
You raise an eyebrow.
He lasts four seconds.
“…maybe.”
“There it is.”
“I’ve been abandoned all day.”
“You have been physically attached to me for almost twenty-four hours.”
“That’s not all day.”
“That is exactly all day.”
He shrugs beneath the blanket. “Felt shorter.”
God, he’s impossible.
You step closer and tug the blanket around him more securely, fingers lingering at the edge near his chest.
Steve watches you quietly.
Some of the humour softens between you.
“You feeling better?” you ask.
He nods.
“Yeah. Still gross, but better.”
“Good.”
“Thanks to you.”
You smile slightly. “And honey lemon tea.”
“Mostly you.”
There it is again.
That fever-honest softness, even now.
You glance down, suddenly a little shy under the weight of it.
Steve notices immediately.
Of course he does.
He always notices eventually.
His hand slips out from under the blanket and catches yours.
“Hey.”
You look back up.
He’s watching you with a tired little smile.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I’d be dead without you.”
“You would not.”
“Emotionally dead.”
“You’re always emotionally dramatic.”
“Yeah,” he says, squeezing your hand. “But you like that too.”
You smile.
“Unfortunately.”
He leans forward, careful and slow, giving you plenty of time to dodge.
You don’t.
His kiss is soft. A little warm from the tail end of his fever. Still tasting faintly like honey and lemon and Steve.
You kiss him back anyway.
When you pull away, he looks very pleased with himself.
Then immediately coughs.
You laugh. “Very romantic.”
He groans. “Don’t ruin it.”
“You coughed on the moment.”
“I enhanced it.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You love me.”
You do.
So much it’s stupid.
That night, Steve refuses to go home.
Not in words.
Words would be too obvious.
Instead, he sits on the edge of your bed in borrowed clothes, freshly showered, hair damp and curling at the ends, and watches you move around the room with the quiet hopefulness of someone waiting to be invited.
You pretend not to notice for approximately thirty seconds.
Then sigh.
“Steve.”
“Hm?”
“You staying?”
His expression brightens before he can hide it.
Then he immediately tries to act casual.
“I mean. I could. If that’s easier.”
“For who?”
“For… logistics.”
“Logistics.”
“Yeah.”
You cross your arms, amused.
Steve runs a hand through his damp hair, clearly aware he’s losing whatever cool points he thought he had left.
“You know, in case my fever comes back.”
“Of course.”
“Could be dangerous.”
“Very.”
“Medically irresponsible to send me away, probably.”
“You’re so brave.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re making fun of me.”
“A little.”
“Mean.”
You walk toward him and step between his knees.
His hands settle automatically against the backs of your thighs.
The contact is immediate.
Familiar.
Like muscle memory.
You brush his damp hair back from his forehead, checking his temperature one last time with the back of your hand.
“Better,” you murmur.
Steve looks up at you.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I still stay?”
Your chest squeezes.
As if there was ever a version of this where you’d say no.
You lean down and kiss him softly.
“Yeah, honey. You can stay.”
The relief on his face is almost embarrassing.
Almost.
Mostly, it just makes you want to kiss him again.
So you do.
Later, when the lights are off and the room is quiet, Steve ends up exactly where he apparently intended to be all along - half on top of you, face tucked against your chest, one arm wrapped securely around your waist. He’s warm, but no longer worryingly so. Heavy in a way that feels grounding.
Every now and then, his fingers twitch lightly against your side, like even in sleep he’s checking you’re still there.
You think he’s fully out until he mumbles something against your shirt.
“What was that?” you whisper.
Steve shifts closer.
“Don’t go far.”
Your hand stills in his hair.
Then softens.
“I’m right here.”
A slow breath leaves him.
“Good.”
You wait a few seconds.
Then, because you can’t help yourself, “I’m literally in the same bed.”
“That’s far,” he mumbles.
You smile into the dark.
Then press a kiss to his hair.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I won’t go far.”
Steve hums, satisfied, already drifting again.
And despite the tissues on your bedside table, the half-empty mug of gross honey lemon tea, the medicine wrappers, the borrowed jumper he still somehow has tucked under one arm, and the fact that he will absolutely deny half of this tomorrow, you think you could get used to him like this.
Soft.
Needy.
Yours.
Not that you’ll tell him that. Not yet. You’ll wait until he’s well enough to be properly embarrassed.
For now, you just keep your hand in his hair and let him sleep.
hi! neeeeeeeed a smutty guilty as sin drabble telling the story of the weekend after they finally got together (aka the two of them christening every surface of their apartment... after her bed: his bed, shower, against the wall, hallway floor, kitchen counter, kitchen table, window, the whole works 🤤) love your writing btw!
𑣲 guilty as sin drabbles
"Steve! That was my favourite mu—oh, fuck, fuck!"
Your scolding of your boyfriend smashing your favourite mug was cut off as he slammed his heavy cock back inside of your dripping cunt from behind.
"What was that, baby? What were you saying?" Steve grunted as his fingers dug into the flesh on your hips. He leant over your body so you were fully bent over the kitchen countertop as he pulled his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back home again. You let out a wanton moan, his name falling from your lips as your hands scramble for purchase and only finding the chopping board.
"What's wrong, baby?" Steve coos gently, a stark comparison to the way his thick cock was thrusting into your needy hole like it was the last thing he would ever do. "Use your words. C'mon, baby, you can do it."
You try, you really do but the thick head of his cock had just kissed your cervix and all words had suddenly failed.
"Fuuuuck," you moan out, fingers scraping the edge of the chopping board as the power behind Steve's thrusts made his balls slap against your ass, made you arch your back a little more, made the lewd sounds of your soaked cunt echo throughout the kitchen. "Fuck, Steve. Don't stop. Please, don't stop."
You and Steve had officially been together for maybe six days. In those six days, you had pretty much had sex in almost every square inch of the apartment. Both your respective beds, on the floor, against your apartment door, on the pink couch, in the shower, the hallway and Steve even had you bent over the washing machine this earlier this morning. Your pussy was sore and you should probably be beginning to be sick of it. But honestly? You couldn't get enough. Because sex with Steve Harrington was nothing short of life changing.
Steve let out a guttural groan, feeling the way your walls pulsed around him—warm, wet, sucking him back in like you never wanted him to leave.
"Shit, you're so fucking hot," Steve tells you breathlessly as one of his large hands ghosts over the skin of your inner thigh before he finds you aching clit with ease. "Fuckin' made f'me, takin' my cock so fucking well, baby."
Your reaction was instant. You let out a loud, needy noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan—one that you would have been embarrassed about had Steve's cock not been slamming into you at a punishing pace. The chopping board slides off the countertop to join your smashed mug on the floor as your pussy flutters around him.
"Steve, I'm gonna—"
You can't even get the words out, your body consumed by an overwhelming pleasure that shook your entire body. Your orgasm rips through you—from head to toe, every nerve on fire.
Steve follows right after you, your sobbing pussy soaking his cock as he spills inside of you, holding you close through every last pulse of his release.
"Fuck," Steve murmurs against the skin of your shoulder as he presses soft kisses there. "You make me fuckin' crazy. Can't get enough of you. I'm not even tired yet."
You laugh, your body still humming beneath your skin, your legs still feeling as though they were made of jelly and a mix of your releases beginning to drip down your thigh but there wasn't a part of you that wanted to stop.
"Back at you, Harrington," you turn your head so you could look at him over your shoulder. His cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, lips wet and swollen and eyes on you like you were the only thing that mattered. "You want to make dinner or—"
"—we can order in," Steve interrupts, his cock already hardening inside of you once again. "Not done with you yet, roomie."
"Steve Harrington is annoying, smug, and tragically tan — but if fake-dating him is what it takes to get Robin and Nancy to finally make out, then so be it."
Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!reader | Background Robin Buckley x Nancy Wheeler.
Status: Ongoing
Note: Rated M for now, but I’ll tag + rate clearly if (or, more likely, when) things escalate. Pinky promise.
i feel like after hollanov goes public they absolutely get asked who bottoms, and while shane has a perfectly professional “that is a deeply personal question and i would prefer my relationship not be boiled down to cheap stereotypes” statement prepared (if he even dignifies them with a response), ilya just says shit like “is me, i am bottom, love to get dicked down by hollander, what you don’t think big tough russian can take it like a man?” and nobody quite knows if he’s kidding or not
I like to imagine Rose’s brothers gave her shit for not sticking it out with Shane Hollander long enough for him to meet the family then when they find out it’s because Shane is gay they give her shit for not passing him along to one of them and she’s like??? you’re not gay??? to which they’re like !!!! everyone’s gay for Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov ain’t special
