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it's actually safer to kiss...

⧽ bella. she/her. eighteen. harry styles fan girl. spencer reid apologist. joe keery love bot. music enthusiast. sagittarius. tea addict. daydreamer. avid reader. ftdt no.1 fan. winter baby. i, carrion defender. (unrequited) lover. criminal minds obsessed. late nights. early mornings. moon child.

[spr0utkeery]

Vow of Silence

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pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader ⭑.ᐟ

warnings: financial insecurity, health problems, mean!Steve (eventually) (like lowkey evil Steve), pining, poor self image, reader! is described as having getting period 5.2k

tags: best friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, mean!Steve Harrington, marriage of convenience, fake marriage, friends to enemies to lovers, slow burn, very, very slow burn

Living with Steve was easy. Sure you bickered sometimes, but all best friends did. Chores were always done, bills were negotiated, movie nights were always agreed on. Everything was perfect, existing around him was as easy as breathing. That is until he finds out that you don’t have health insurance. Mixed with the growing concerns around your health, Steve comes to the only solution he can think of. Getting married for the benefits. But somewhere in the madness, something starts to shift in Steve. something so rotten and cruel you can barely recognise him anymore, and you don't know if you ever will again.

chapter one →

Out of every day of the week, Wednesday mornings were your favourite. Not having work meant not having an alarm, which meant actually getting a good night's sleep for once. The first beams of sunlight were only beginning to filter through the mesh of your curtains, when you were awoken by the sounds outside your door. You knew without having to get up, that Steve was floundering through the house in his haste to get ready. Despite his claiming that he always tried to be quiet, his heavy footfalls and cursing under his breath told a different story. You roll over, eyes still half closed as you attempt to read the numbers glowing softly on your alarm clock. 7:30am. Not bad, considering you usually got up at 5am for work. 

Deciding that you probably wouldn't get back to sleep, you stretch your arms over your head, groaning in satisfaction at the soft pop of your joints. Steve’s footsteps falter where he walks down the hallway. Realising from your groan that he woke you up once again. Even when he was trying his hardest to be sneaky– like a ninja, he had said once. It doesn't take long before a tentative knock sounds against your door, opening to reveal the sheepish face of Steve Harrington.   

“Again?” is all he asks, silently hoping that he had nothing to do with why you were awake. 

You brace yourself against your elbows, smiling amusedly at his guilty expression. 

“Again” you confirm.

He curses under his breath, the corners of his mouth tugging down into a frustrated pout.

“But I was so quiet this time” he grumbles 

“I’m a light sleeper” 

He huffs out of his noise, a disgruntled little stream of air punctuating his indignation. 

“Steve- it's fine, really” you let the smile drop from your face, not wanting him to feel any worse than he already does for waking you up on your day off. His arms cross over his chest as he leans against your door frame, concerned eyes flickering over your form. He seems to be contemplating if he should drop it, believe you, and go about his day. But the stubborn part of him wins over in the end. It always does. 

“You always do that”  he sighs 

“Do what?” you ask, furrowing your eyebrows and pushing yourself into a seating potion “wake up early?” 

“No-” he drags a hand down his face, trying not to let his frustration show “--You know… Forgive me too quickly” 

“You woke me up, Steve. That’s hardly a punishable offence” 

He sighs again, accepting that it’s too early to argue, and pushes off of your doorframe. 

“Whatever” he grumbles “I’ll see you later” 

You’re glad his back is to you, making it so he can’t see the amused twinkle in your eye. It didn’t matter how grumpy he acted, you knew better than to take his temper at face value. 

Steve had never been taught how to show love– to ask if someone is okay, to offer his support openly, not through twisted back alleys and side streets. At first, it was hard to decipher what his exasperated sighs and sarcastic comments really meant. To see the are you ok? buried beneath aggravation for getting yourself hurt. But, once you knew what to look for, under the grumbling and the eyerolling, you'd see that Steve Harrington had more love to give than he knew what to do with. He was the first to show up when someone needed help, offering himself up as a chauffeur for the kids so they didn't have to walk home at night, cooking you dinner when he could tell you had a long day, or simply being a listening ear whenever someone needed to talk. Steve Harrington loved in gestures. Sometimes, you thought being helpful was the only way he knew how to be needed. 

-

You lay in bed for a few more minutes, letting yourself exist in that hazy between state where the whole world is soft and fuzzy around the edges. You think you hear the sound of keys jingling and the front door closing, before you finally decide to drag yourself out of the comfort of your bed, and onto sleep heavy legs. Looking around the floor, you find a discarded hoodie to tug on as you make your way to the kitchen.

The first thing you register when you walk in, is the pot of coffee. The rich smell filling your lungs, dusting away the remaining cobwebs of sleep that still cling to your consciousness. The steam rising in swirling patterns lets you know that Steve had made it just before he left, wanting you to wake up to something nice. The thought makes something warm and familiar bloom in your chest, your ribs aching with fondness. 

If you were still 17 years old, you might have mistaken that feeling for a crush. But at 21, you had learnt to tell the difference between romantic and platonic love. You thought you might have loved him once, a long time ago. He had been the first boy to ever treat you like a human being and not just some… thing. And for a while, there was a period when you thought he might love you back. His soft smiles and caring eyes got so muddled up in your head, you hadn't bothered to realize that he looked at everyone like that. Slowly, over time, you came to understand that it wasn’t you that made his face soften, it was everyone he cared about. He didn’t know how not to be the protector, to care about his friends more than he cared about himself. Realising this had set off a chain reaction in your head. You could finally step back from your crush on your best friend, and accept the one absolute truth of the universe. You and Steve Harrington would never work out. 

The feeling after coming to this conclusion was strange. You had expected to feel the world crumbling around you, all the plans of your future being pulled out from beneath your feet. Instead, you felt relief. You could exist around him without the worries of impressing him constantly at the back of your mind. You stopped comparing yourself to the girls he went for, stopped trying to be more like them and less like you. It was ridiculous to ever think you could be his type in the first place, the girls Steve liked were so fundamentally different to you, that you might as well exist on a different planet. Steve went for girls who looked like models from bridal magazines, girls who were gentle, girls who were brilliant in that quiet, understated way that would take you by surprise.

You were none of those things. In fact, you were so notoriously you, that Steve had given you the nickname Moxie way back in ‘84. Right after you pulled a gun on him in the woods thinking he was a demogorgon. At the time it felt like being branded– your skin searing with the sting of a redhot poker saying you were too much. But overtime, you grew into it, you realised that no matter how hard you tired, you couldn't make yourself smaller. It wasn't in your nature to be quiet, or agreeable or meek. So what if you were opinionated, or if you got excited too easily or acted before you thought. 

You’re pulled out of your thoughts by a soft thunk on the front door. You abandon your coffee on the counter, moving towards the sound to investigate. The cold licks at your ankles, sending goose pimples pricking across your skin. This morning’s newspaper sits on the welcome mat, its pages gently fluttering in the wind. You grab it quickly, eager to get backside to the warmth of your home. Steve had added your house to the paper route when you first moved in together, apparently remembering the time you said you liked crosswords in passing. 

There’s still a pen on the table from where you had sat yesterday. It had become a routine of sorts. A routine that mostly consisted of nagging Steve when you couldn’t work out a clue, and getting annoyed when he didn’t know it either. The blind leading the blind was how Robin described you. You didn’t think it was fair, you weren’t nearly as clueless as Steve. 

-

The sun has reached its peak in the sky when you feel it. The undeniable, dull ache that starts in your pelvis, spreading outward into the tips of your fingers. A frustrated whimper leaves your mouth before you can stop it. You had been so careful in tracking your cycle, convinced you had gotten it down to the exact day your period would arrive every month. But apparently, your body loves to blindsight you, so now it was here early, and you were severely under prepared.

If you were anyone else, this would be an easy fix. Take some painkillers, replace your tampon every few hours, and you're done. You however, were not so lucky. For the past six months, your periods had been getting increasingly worse, now to the point where you couldn't move for days. Your pelvis feeling like it’s splitting open inside your body, shocks of pain racking through every muscle until you are curled in a ball. Most days you couldn't even keep food down, your stomach hurting just as badly as your uterus did. 

Steve had noticed, of course he did. He never asked if you needed anything, instead he would make you a hot water bottle, or grab the good painkillers from the medicine cabinet, mumbling that you might need these, before slinking away to give you space. It was nice, being cared for, even with Steve’s weird, gruff sort of way. With him away at work, you had no choice but to look after yourself. 

-

The pills slide easily down your throat, the cool water soothing the bile that had already begun to rise up from your stomach. The hot water bottle is in the cupboard under the sink where Steve left it, still wrapped in its plush, fleece cover he insisted you use, convinced you would get third degree burns without it. You heat water over the stove, watching the rolling bubbles as it boils over, before making sure not to splash any on your skin as you pour it into the bottle.

-

Once you're settled in bed, curtains drawn and blankets pulled up, you somehow manage to fall into restless slumber. You sleep until 4pm when Steve gets home. The sound of his keys in the door rousing you back to the real world. You knew you had been dreaming, but the remnants of whatever world you had been living in were slipping through your fingers like sand. All that stayed was the strange, happy feeling you had woken up with, wishing you could remember the images that had just been flashing in your mind moments before. Steve calls your name, trying to locate you in the house. You can hear him mumbling to himself as he goes from room to room, something about your car being outside. 

Eventually, he knocks on your door, not waiting for you to answer before he’s pushing it open. 

“Mox?” 

You blink sleepily at him from your spot on the bed, watching his face soften as he takes in the scene in front of him. 

“Hey” his voice is careful now “you ok?” 

You nod, trying to sit up, but wincing at the sudden cramp in your side. 

“Woah- okay” he steps forwards, clearly trying to stop you from moving “you should, y'know, not sit up right now?”

“Wow Einstein-” you huff, flopping back against your pillow “-How’d you work that one out?” 

He smiles sarcastically at you, unamused by your teasing.

“Have you taken any painkillers?” you can tell by his tone that he’s gone into full mother-hen mode, preparing to hover for however many days your period lasts for.  

“Yes” you sigh in exasperation “that’s like, the first thing I did” 

“Can you blame me for asking? You always do that martyr shit” 

You shoot him a glare, making him hold up his hands in defence 

“But- do you like… need anything?” 

“I’m fine” you tug the blankets more securely around you

“Hot water bottle?” 

“I have one”

He huffs a laugh “yeah? When was the last time you refilled it?”

He knows the answer when you don't respond, silently holding out his hand with an expectant, albeit frustrated expression. 

You grumble, handing over the now barely warm rubber bottle. 

“You’re the worst” you complain, burrowing back into your covers. 

“Yeah because taking care of you makes me a real asshole” . As much as he tries to hide it, he can’t keep the fondness out of his voice. “Don’t move” 

“I’ll try not to” 

You think you hear him mumble smartass as he leaves your room.

-

You call out of work the next day. The strongest painkillers you can get without a prescription doing nothing to dampen the cramps tearing through your lower half. Steve is always nearby, worried but never pressing, not wanting to be on the receiving end of your hormonal rage. By the third day, he can't take it anymore. Constantly seeing you immobilized and in pain makes a pit of dread settle in his stomach. 

“Moxie?” His voice comes out tentative from where he stands in the doorway.

You look up from the couch, eyes landing on his nervous face.

“What?”

“Can I talk to you?”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, he’s never this anxious to talk to you about anything.

“Sure”

He sighs in relief, taking a step towards where you're sitting. 

“It’s about… this” he gestures to you, not knowing what to call your current condition.

“Steve, I already told you I’m—“

“—but you’re not.” He cuts you off, his expression hardening “you’re not fine. You’re not even close to being fine”

“Steve—“ you sigh 

“I’m worried about you.” 

That makes something in your chest twist, the sheer concern in his voice sending a wave of guilt through your body until your fingers hurt. 

“I know, I know I’m sorry” 

“Don’t do that, don’t apologise”

“I’m- shit”

You’re almost apology gets a small laugh out of him, before he apparently remembers what he wanted to ask you.

“It’s just… I don’t know why you won’t go to the doctor?”

You immediately turn to him with a blank stare, expecting him to burst into laughter and admit that was a joke. When he doesn't, you realise he’s being completely serious.  

“The doctor?”

“Yeah, the doctor?” His voice takes on a defensive edge “maybe they could, I don’t know, find out what’s wrong? Give you something for it?”

You laugh, making a scowl break out across his face. 

“What? What's so funny?”

“It’s just—“ you snort “—how would I go to the doctor?”

“Um… you call them and make an appointment? Like everyone else?”

“Right, because I have three hundred dollars to spend” you chuckle, not realising how his eyes had widened in horror. 

“Three hundred dollars?— Mox- I- what are you talking about?”

You blink at him, confused as to how he’s gone his whole life unaware how much a doctor’s appointment costs. 

“That’s how much an appointment is? How do you not know this?”

“But— how? Doctors appointments are like thirty dollars?”

Realisation dawns on his face, his eyes taking on their familiar, concerned edge. 

“You don’t have insurance?” His voice is softer now “why don’t you have insurance?”

“Because my job doesn’t have benefits”

“Neither does mine but- you don’t just like… have it?”

“Who just has insurance Steve? It’s five hundred dollars a month?”

“You’re not on your parents plan?”

“My parents don’t have insurance either” 

He’s staring at you now, trying to wrap his head around how different your lives really were. 

“So… you just don't go to the doctor?” 

“Not if i can help it, no” 

He's completely dumbfounded, his mouth opening and closing uselessly, unable to find the words he needs.

“I–” he stammers “I– I’m sorry”

“It’s fine, really. You didn’t know”

“No, I'm sorry you can’t go to the doctor”

“I’ll be ok” 

“But you’re in so much pain?” 

“It’ll be over in a few days”

“And then next month? What then?” 

Your retort dies on your tongue when you see the hurt etched into every inch of his face. 

“I don't know what you want me to do, Steve" you shift uncomfortably “I don’t have the money” 

When you glance back at him, he’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. 

“What if I paid for it?” 

“What? Steve– no way”

“Why not?” 

“Because it’s hundreds of dollars?”

“But–” 

“Please just– let me deal with this on my own?” 

He wants to argue, he wants to shake you by your shoulders and demand you get some much needed medical attention. But the look in your eyes gives him pause, realizing this isn't an argument he’s going to be winning anytime soon. 

“Fine.” His hands scrub down his face. “But if this gets any worse? I’m helping” 

-

Steve seems to have dropped the topic by the time your period is over. Your being able to stand for more than five minutes and keep actual meals down seems to soothe him enough that he doesn't bring the topic up again for a few days. 

That is until you get home from work one day, being greeted with the muffled sound of what you think is Steve on the phone. You don’t think anything of it, assuming it’s Robin from the way he hangs up as you pass. 

“Hey” you greet on your way to the kitchen, not expecting Steve to follow, and being a little thrown off when he does. 

“You’re home early” he leans in the doorway while you busy yourself with the coffee machine. 

“It was a super slow day, I was doing nothing for the last hour.” 

“At least they let you go” 

“Eventually” you grumble, still annoyed at being made wait around for an unnecessary hour ‘just incase’ 

“Youre home now–” he shifts on his feet “--thats all that matters” 

You turn to him with a suspicious look in your eye. 

“Youre being weird…” 

“What? Me? I’m not being weird you're being weird” his nervous stammering gives him away instantly 

“Ok now you're definitely being weird” 

“It’s nothing” he waves a dismissive hand 

“Steve–” 

“Fine” he huffs, crossing his arms across his chest like a shield “just promise you wont get mad?” 

“I promise, now what?” 

“I called my insurance company…” 

“Steve!--” you exclaim in annoyance 

“You said you wouldn't get mad” 

“Steve, I'm serious!” 

“Hear me out?” 

“I–” 

“Please?” 

Your face twitches, fighting every instinct to argue with him. He takes your silence as an okay, and continues with his explanation. 

“I called them to see how I could add you to my plan–” 

“--Your parent’s plan”

“Whatever” he sighs “can I speak or not?” 

“Fine.” 

“So I called them to see what my options would be…”

“And?” 

“Well, it would cost an extra couple hundred to add you, and I know you wouldn't want me to spend that much money on you” 

“And your dad would kill you” 

“Yeah, and my dad would kill me” 

“So, what? Were you just telling me I can't be added to your health insurance?” 

He fidgets uncomfortably with the string of his hoodie, refusing to look at you. 

“Steve?” 

“There is something else they said…” 

“Ok? Are you gonna tell me or just stand there awkwardly?

“Its–” he trails off, hands dragging down his face as he searches for the words. “It’s kind of crazy” 

“Crazy how?” 

“Crazy like they said spouses get automatically added to their partners health plan” 

You stare blankly at him, your brain suddenly deciding to move at two miles an hour, unable to understand what the hell he’s trying to say. 

“Why are you telling me this? You don’t—” You stop, finally realising what he’s implying. Spouse, as in you. As in getting married. To him

“What the fuck, Steve? You're not serious” 

“Just- think about it, ok?” he starts towards you, hands gesturing wildly 

“I am thinking about it, and it’s insane!” 

“We could go to the courthouse, sign a few papers and boom!” he snaps his fingers, as if that will magically make this feel like a totally normal thing for him to suggest. 

“And get married!?” 

“You’re making this into a big deal”

“It is a big deal, Steve!” you round on him “You’re seriously suggesting we get married for health insurance?" 

“You’re making me sound crazy!” “Because you're being crazy!” your hands rake through your hair, desperately looking for any sort of normalcy. 

“Just… think about it” 

“I’ve thought about it, the answer is no”

“Mox-” he sighs “-I’m serious” 

“What would we tell people? Huh?” 

“We wouldn't have to tell people” 

“You don’t think Dustin- or- or Robin or someone would work it out pretty quick?” 

“Not if we didn't tell them, no” 

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, hoping that the world might stop spinning for just a moment. 

“Youre serious? About this?” your voice has softened, still reeling from his ridiculous idea.

“Yeah–” he nods earnestly. “I’m serious, I've been really worried about you.” 

“I told you not to worry about me” 

I know you did, but I can't help it. Your periods have been getting worse and worse for months. I know you act like they’re not but I can see it in your face.” 

You look down at your hands, guilt suddenly prickling across your skin when you realize how worried you’ve made him. 

“Marriage though” Doesn't that seem a bit intense to you?” you ask, attempting to move the conversation away from your health problems. 

“Not a real one, just on paper” 

“Just on paper” you respond, testing out how the words feel “and what happens when one of us meets someone?” 

“I–” he falters “--I guess we worry about that if it happens” 

You study his expression, focusing on the way he’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, clearly scared shitless by this conversation, but wanting to have it anyway. You want to agree just so his face goes back to normal, the nerves and fear you so desperately want gone still written there plain as day. But you know you can’t, so you try to let him down easy. 

“Steve–” your voice is softer now, tentative “--I don’t want to marry someone I’m not in love with…” 

“We wouldn't be married, not in real life.” 

“You say that but you know it’s not true, there would be a piece of paper out there saying I'm your wife.”  

“You wouldn't have to think about it” 

“But I would. I would think about it all the time”

“Will you please just think about it? For me?” he pleads. 

You know you should shut this down. Put your foot down and demand he never brings this up again. But you also know that you need help. You couldn't keep pretending you were ok while your insides were quite literally tearing themselves apart. Still, the idea of a marriage devoid of the intimacy and realness that you so desperately craved, made something rotten– something you thought you had gotten rid of years ago– rear its ugly head inside your chest. You knew why it was easier for Steve to brush the idea of a fake marriage off as nothing more than a piece of paper. There had never been doubts in either of your minds that he would settle down one day. One of his dates would finally stick, he’d move into a three bedroom house and start his nuclear family. In the beginning, he’d visit you once every few months, until eventually, you’d learn about his life through Christmas cards and Robin. 

What he didn't know was that deep down you'd always carried the fear that you were fundamentally unloveable. It started back in eighth grade when you had started to notice that all of your friends were getting attention from boys. You tried not to let it bother you, pretended you didn't care, said boys were dumb and a waste of time. But after school you would go home, stand in front of the mirror and wonder what was wrong with you. What about you made you different from the other girls?  Why weren't you good enough? It settled like a dead weight behind your ribs, one that only got heavier with time. You thought you’d gotten a grip on it, tamed the beast back into its cage so you’d never have to think about it again. 

But Steve suggesting marriage like it was nothing, like it was something easy, and normal, something you could just get rid of with some paper work and a few signatures, made you feel sick. He didn't know about how you felt, about the fears that plagued your nightmares, how you once thought you loved him and that he loved you. How ever since you saw the type of girls he went for, it only cemented in your head how undesirable you were. You hated him in that moment. You hated how small his world was, how little he tried to break out of it, hated how he had everything handed to him, his future promised to him on a silver spoon. 

“I’ll think about it” is all you say before you’re brushing past him. The pot of coffee you made being forgotten by the machine. 

-

You do the only thing you can think of, and drive to Robin’s place. It wasn't unusual for you to show up unannounced. What was unusual, however, was for you to nearly break down her door with how frantically you’re knocking. 

The smile she had on when she opened the door dropped the second she saw your face. 

“What's wrong?” she sounds worried “Did something happen? Is someone dead? What’s–” 

You’ve known Robin long enough to understand that if you don’t cut her off, she’ll just keep talking forever. 

“Robin.” 

“Sorry- word vomit”  

She steps back to let you in, closing the door behind you. 

“So…?” she draws the word out into a question “you gonna tell me what's going on?” when you look at her, she’s rocking nervously back and forth on her heels. 

“Steve wants to get married” you say in a rush, not knowing how else to explain it. 

“I– What!?” 

“Not– I mean–” you stammer, pressing your fingers against your eyes as you search for the right words “that came out wrong”

“What’s the right way?” she’s staring at you, wide eyed and utterly thrown. 

“Well, you know how my periods have been getting bad?” 

“Yes?” Her voice is suspicious, confused as to how this relates to Steve apparently proposing to you out of nowhere. 

“Well, Steve thinks I'm practically dying” 

“So, is that…?” 

“No– not that’s not why.” you huff, frustrated at yourself for how poorly you're explaining this “he couldn't understand why I wouldn't just go to the doctor, so I explained that it's because of how expensive it is” 

She nods, following along but still suspicious as to where this story is going. 

“So today, after I got home, he said he called his health insurance company. We both know his dad would go crazy of Steve tried to add me to it, but–” 

“--If you got married” Robin finishes 

“Yeah…” 

Silence hangs between you, thick and poignant while both of you process Steve's idea. Your eyes flicker across Robin's face, trying to make any sense of what she might be thinking. All you can decipher is intense concentration, her brows kitting together so firmly you'd be shocked if she didn't get a headache. 

“I mean,” she breaks the silence, pulling you from your thoughts “It’s not the worst idea he’s ever had” 

“I’m sorry– What?” 

“Think about it, Mox. It’s not like you’d have to act married, all that would change is a piece of paper saying you're legally bound” 

“Does it not see, a bit… intense to you?” 

She chuckles, an amused puff of air blowing from her nose “it definitely intense” 

“But?” 

“But you seriously need health insurance” 

“I’ve told you and Steve, I’m fine” 

“You don't know that for a fact!” 

“Robin” you whine, wanting her to agree with you 

She points an accusatory finger at you “do not ‘Robin’ me” 

“You’re supposed to be on my side! Not telling me to marry Steve Harrington”

“I am not telling you marry him–”

“You literally are!” 

“I’m telling you to game the system, it’s like when people get married for greencards” she shrugs

You pause, not realizing that’s how you could think of it. Not as Steve treating marriage like some careless, meaningless thing, but as a big fuck you to the system that wouldn’t let you afford health care in the first place. 

You let out a resigned sigh, knowing she's won

“You really think I should?” 

“Why not? All you do is sign some paper and you get free health insurance" 

“Yeah but, marry Steve?” 

“On paper!” 

“Jesus christ you two sound like the same person sometimes” 

She laughs, before asking “so, you gonna do it?” 

“Im going to think about it” 

-

You hadn't lied about what you said to Robin. You do think about it. A lot. You think about it while you're eating dinner, while you’re brushing your teeth, when you’re getting ready for bed, and when you lie on your back, staring at the dark ceiling of your room. What you can’t understand is how normal everyone else was being about this. Was suggesting you get married to your best friend not a completely insane thing to do? It didn’t matter how sound Steve’s reasoning was, his suggesting it still made your head spin. 

You don’t get much sleep that night, plagued by thoughts of Steve as his stupid, perfect face, and his stupid, sweet concern for you. You go over every possible scenario of what could happen if you say yes. Would you go to the courthouse, sign some papers and never talk about it again? What would you do with the marriage certificate? Surely one of you would have to keep for when you finally get an annulment– but whose bed would it live under? It must have been three am when your eyes finally start droop shut, unable to fight off the restless sleep that’s pulling you under. 

You dream about Steve. His face in the mornings. The way he seems to soak in the sun when he's outside. The moles that scatter his skin, creating a galaxy across the soft expanse of his back. You dream about the girls he's loved before. The girls so unlike you, about how they could never be you. About Steve leaving to start his real life, the one that doesn’t involve you. 

The next morning you wake up crying. Something you haven't done since you were 17. 

a/n Thank you so much for 300 followers!! he's a gift for all of you!! future chapters will be coming out on Wednesday's, but I wanted to give you all this one a little early as a treat. But I also lowkey hate this and know I would delete if I didn't post it now... whoops! if you don't hate this, maybe consider leaving a like, reblog or comment 😋 ok bye thank you.

taglist ⭑.ᐟ (open) @offbrandhandymanny @emngray @discofairysworld @maevebloom @greyfiveninearmy @littlemisskavities @reidsjuno @loveslexi @pinkunicornhedwig @strangegirl26sff @swirledyouintoallmypoems

[iwanturvideobby]

i’m literally shaking in excitement for this fic. everyone go read nowww!!!

[cheugy-djobe]

yeah they hit the fucking pentagon

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort

warnings: confusion, prob eventual miscommunication! drunk sex... biting (for u maya) riding, unprotected sex............. angst mean!steve (like... u guys might not forgive him.......) mentions of heavy drinking... hot shot is feeling a lot... crying... sammy words: 14k summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it. a/n: i don't have a lot to say. please don't hate me. trust me masterlist | Rules/Playlist

Chapter 15

It's Friday, and you're sitting in American Literature with Robin, watching the minutes tick by with excruciating slowness. The class is lighter in numbers than usual—half the seats empty because students have already fled campus to start their spring break early. Even Professor Morrison seems aware that no one wants to be here, his usual passionate lectures about Hemingway reduced to a monotone drone that makes your eyelids heavy.

You're in the back row, your usual spot, notebooks open but mostly ignored. The afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, casting long rectangles of golden light across the floor that are slowly creeping toward the front of the room as the earth turns. Dust motes float lazily in the beams, and somewhere outside you can hear the distant sound of a lawnmower, the smell of fresh-cut grass drifting in through the cracked window.

Robin is antsy beside you. You can feel her restless energy radiating off her in waves—the way her leg bounces under the desk making the whole row of connected seats vibrate slightly, the way she keeps shifting her weight, the constant clicking of her pen cap on and off until you want to reach over and take it away from her.

You glance over and see her writing something in her notebook, but it's clearly not notes about "The Sun Also Rises." Her handwriting is messier than usual, more frantic, crossing out and rewriting the same lines over and over.

You lean slightly to peek at what she's written.

Nancy... I've been trying to find the perfect time to tell you...

Robin grunts in frustration, scribbling it out so hard the pencil nearly tears through the paper. She scratches at it with aggressive strokes, then throws her pencil down with more force than necessary. It rolls off the desk and clatters to the floor.

She puts her head down on the table with a soft thunk, sighing so heavily you feel the gust of air. Then she turns her head, cheek pressed flat against the fake wood grain surface, looking at you with those big, expressive eyes.

"How do you do it?" Robin asks, voice low enough not to disturb the handful of students actually paying attention up front.

"Do what?" you whisper back, genuinely confused.

Robin sighs again, breath stirring the loose papers on her desk. "How do you not feel things intensely?"

You're startled, brows furrowing together, a little offended by the question. You snort. "What?"

Robin shrugs, as much as she can while still laying on the desk like a deflated balloon. "I don't know... even when you're mad or upset, you don't—" She pauses, searching for words. "I don't know how you're always kind of cool about it. Like, sure, you can say things that let me know you're pissed, but I don't think I've ever seen you yell. Or cry in front of people. Or have a total meltdown." She groans, lifting one hand to place it on top of your head like she's actively trying to merge your souls together through physical contact. "Can we share a brain? Or like, swap bodies? Just for one day?"

You laugh—awkward and slightly too loud. Professor Morrison glances back at you with a disapproving look, and you duck your head apologetically. You move Robin's hand away from your head, rolling your eyes but smiling despite yourself.

You lean in closer, voice dropping even lower. "Rob, saying 'I love you' doesn't have to be a huge deal."

Robin's face immediately transforms like you've said a curse word in church. Her eyes go wide, scandalized. "But it's my first time ever!" she hisses. "I want it to be special. I already have it all planned out." Her voice goes dreamy, wistful, and she props her chin in her hand, staring off into the middle distance with a soft smile. "A late-night walk on the beach. The waves crashing. Maybe the moon reflecting on the water. And I'll turn to her and say it, and she'll say it back, and it'll be perfect."

You pretend to pay attention to Professor Morrison, who's now drawing something on the chalkboard that might be a timeline or might be abstract art—you honestly can't tell. You chew on your bottom lip, not looking at Robin when you ask quietly, "What does it feel like?"

"What?" Robin asks, startled like she's been pulled from her daydream mid-kiss.

"Being in love," you clarify, voice even softer now, almost shy. "What does it feel like?"

Robin turns her whole body in her seat to look at you, eyebrows raised. "You've never been in love before?"

You shrug, shaking your head, suddenly very interested in the corner of your notebook where the pages are starting to come loose from the spiral binding.

Robin's expression softens, going tender in a way that makes your chest tight. "It feels like..." She pauses, thinking, then smiles. "Like coming home after a really long day and everything is exactly where you left it. Like being understood without having to explain yourself. Like laughing so hard your stomach hurts and knowing the other person thinks you're funny even when no one else gets the joke." Her smile grows wider, more radiant. "It's terrifying and safe at the same time. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing someone will catch you if you fall, so you're not afraid to jump."

You try very hard not to think about the way Steve flashes across your mind as Robin explains this. Try not to picture his smile when he sees you, the way his whole face lights up. Try not to remember how it felt waking up in his arms in the tent, or the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention, or the warmth that spreads through your chest when he says your name.

You fail spectacularly.

"You okay?" Robin asks, nudging your shoulder. "You look weird."

"I'm fine," you lie, forcing a smile. "Just thinking about all the packing I still have to do."

Robin accepts this with a nod, going back to staring at her ruined confession in her notebook, and you spend the rest of class trying very hard not to think about Steve Harrington and failing at that too.

After class finally, mercifully ends, you and Robin step out of the building into the warm afternoon sun. The campus is already half-deserted, groups of students loading cars with suitcases and coolers, excited chatter about beach destinations and ski trips filling the air.

Steve is waiting off to the side of the building, leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He's wearing his glasses and you can tell the exact moment he spots you because his posture changes—shoulders straightening slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting.

He catches your eyes first, and you both break into huge smiles simultaneously. Your heart does that stupid fluttering thing it's been doing lately, and you almost forget yourself—almost forget that you're not the one "dating" him, almost start running up to give him a hug the way your body is screaming at you to do.

But you catch yourself, stopping short when Robin brushes past you and goes straight to him. She plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and grinds it out under her sneaker with more force than necessary.

"What the hell?" Steve complains, looking down at the crushed cigarette with genuine mourning. "I just lit that."

"I'm not going to be stuck in a car with you smelling like cigarettes," Robin says firmly, brushing ash off her fingers.

"You've never complained before," Steve grumbles, pouting at the cigarette on the ground like it personally betrayed him. Then he looks up, and his eyes find yours over Robin's shoulder. His pout transforms into a smile—soft and private and meant only for you. "Hey, Hot Shot."

You feel your face heat up immediately, a bashful smile taking over your features before you can stop it. "Hey, you."

God, you want to mentally kick yourself. You've had this man inside you multiple times in multiple positions, and now—just because you've realized you have a crush like some ridiculous teenager—you're acting like this? How pathetic.

But also, how is he so attractive? Standing there in his navy blue polo that brings out the blue in his hazel eyes, that mustache you spent twenty minutes kissing yesterday, his honey-brown hair catching the sunlight and turning golden at the ends. His glasses gleam in the afternoon sun, and you can see the smile lines at the corners of his eyes.

He chuckles—low and warm and knowing—like he can read exactly what you're thinking. Then he turns to Robin, slinging an arm across her shoulders in that easy, familiar way they have. "Ready to go pick up your sweetheart?"

Robin beams, her whole face lighting up like she's been plugged into an electrical socket. She turns to you, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Hot Shot, you sure you don't want to come?"

Your eyes go wide, panic fluttering in your chest. Steve and Robin are driving to the bus station to pick up Nancy so she'll be in town for the weekend, and then you're all leaving together for the airport Sunday morning for Miami.

But the idea of being trapped in a car with Steve for that long sounds like actual torture. And that's not even considering the dread of the spring break trip itself. A whole week of this. Of pretending you’re not feeling what you’re feeling. 

You shake your head quickly, maybe too quickly. "Uh, no. I'm gonna finish some last-minute things before break. Laundry and packing and stuff."

You glance at Steve, who's still grinning at you, hazel eyes twinkling. There's something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or affection, or something else you're too afraid to name.

"Guess I'll see you at the party tonight?" he says, and you hate how much your stomach flips at the casual way he says it, like you're just friends, like you haven't memorized the taste of his skin. "It won't be that big, but some of the guys wanted to have one last blowout before everyone ditches town for the week."

You nod, not trusting your voice to come out normal.

Robin leans over and kisses your cheek, her lips warm and slightly sticky from lip gloss. "See you in two hours, babe! We'll come grab you before the party!"

And then you watch Steve and Robin walk off, hand in hand, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand the way he does with you when he thinks no one's looking. They're laughing about something, heads bent close together, and they look perfect. They look real.

You know it's fake. You know it's not real, that it's all an elaborate performance for parents and society and the future they're building together.

But standing there watching them go, a part of you wishes it was you holding Steve's hand in the sunshine, you making him laugh, you walking to his car with the promise of two hours alone together.

You turn and walk back to your dorm, and you absolutely do not let yourself think about how Steve's hand felt in yours, or how he smiles differently when it's just the two of you, or how many days you have left before this crush becomes something you can't ignore anymore.

Two hours later, Robin and Nancy show up at your dorm, but something is off immediately.

Robin's mood is completely different than it was earlier—all the nervous, giddy energy from class has been replaced with something darker, more agitated. She's snapping at nothing, moving with jerky, frustrated movements as she rifles through her closet looking for something to wear to the party.

Nancy, on the other hand, is still chipper, seemingly unbothered. She's sitting on Robin's bed, legs crossed, flipping through a magazine and humming softly to herself.

"How was the drive?" you ask casually, pulling your own outfit from your closet—a simple top and jeans, nothing special.

Robin huffs loudly, yanking a shirt off a hanger so hard the hanger goes flying. "Fine."

Nancy looks up from her magazine, gives you a look that clearly says don't ask, and goes back to reading.

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, but apparently it's not between Robin and Nancy because Nancy seems completely at ease. So what happened?

You open your mouth to ask, but Robin disappears into the bathroom with her clothes, slamming the door harder than necessary. You hear the shower turn on, the water pressure making the pipes groan.

Nancy catches your eye and shakes her head slightly. Later, she mouths.

So you get ready in silence, the only sound the running water and the occasional curse from Robin when she drops something in the shower, and you wonder what could have possibly happened in two hours to change her mood so completely.

.-.-.-.

Robin, Nancy, and you walk up to the Pike house as the sun is setting, the sky streaked with orange and pink. You can hear the muffled roar of voices and laughter spilling out onto the front lawn. The smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke hangs in the air, mixing with the scent of recently mowed grass.

You're shocked to see a miserable Eddie stationed at the front door, playing bouncer. He's slouched against the doorframe, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else, barely glancing at people as he waves them through. His usual manic energy is completely absent, replaced with a kind of defeated exhaustion that sits wrong on his features.

When he sees the three of you approaching, his frown deepens, carving lines around his mouth.

"I thought you wouldn't have to do this anymore since Steve became president," Robin laughs. She has her arms looped through yours and Nancy's—her excuse to touch Nancy in public without raising suspicion, though anyone paying attention would notice how her thumb keeps stroking Nancy's wrist.

"Yeah, well, your boyfriend is PMSing or something," Eddie grumbles, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and sticking it between his lips without lighting it. "He's been a total dick since he got back from dropping you two off. Snapping at everyone, drinking like it's his last night on earth."

Robin rolls her eyes, but there's tension in her shoulders that wasn't there before. "He's still pissy? Don't worry, Eds. He's mad because I told him something he didn't want to hear on the way to pick up Nancy."

"That's why he was acting like that?" Nancy asks, a small laugh escaping despite the concern evident in her voice. "What did you tell him?"

Robin opens her mouth, then gives you a sideways look—quick, furtive, guilty. "Nothing important. The truth about something. He didn't like it, so now he's acting like a baby." She tugs at both of your arms, pulling you toward the door and effectively ending the conversation. "Eds, where is he?"

Eddie shrugs, finally lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag. "Probably out back doing another keg stand. Been at it for the past hour."

"Oh my god," Robin says, exasperation coloring her voice with frustration and something that might be worry.

Robin cuts through the side gate to the backyard, pulling you and Nancy along with her. The moment you step through, you're hit with the full force of the party—the air thick and humid with body heat, drenched in the smell of spilled beer and weed and cigarette smoke layered so thick it's almost visible. The music thrums against the windows, bass so heavy you can feel it in your chest, vibrating through your ribcage. You wouldn't be surprised if the neighbors called in a noise complaint within the hour.

There's chanting and hollering coming from the middle of the yard, voices raised in drunken unison.

"Steve! Steve! Steve! Steve!"

You can only see a pair of feet in the air at first—New Balances with the laces untied, dangling loose. Robin pulls you and Nancy toward the crowd, bodies pressing close as you push through the ring of onlookers.

Closer now, you see Buck holding Steve up by his legs, Steve's face red from being inverted, his navy blue polo riding up from gravity to expose his stomach. His happy trail. The scars on his torso glistening with a mixture of sweat and amber liquid, like someone had sprayed him with beer. His arms hang down toward the ground, hands gripping the keg, throat working as he chugs.

Finally, he jerks his legs forward, signaling Buck to bring him down. Buck helps him right himself, and the crowd erupts in cheers. Steve is smiling—grinning, really—licking beer off his lips, more of it rolling down his chin and soaking into his collar. You can't deny how attractive he looks, flushed and pleased with himself, hair falling into his eyes.

But then you notice it.

His hair is shorter. Much shorter than you've ever seen it, cropped close on the sides and longer on top, parted down the middle instead of swept back. The blonde highlights are completely gone, cut away, leaving only his natural dark brown. And his face—he's clean-shaven again, the mustache you'd spent the better part of this week kissing completely gone.

He still looks attractive, objectively handsome in that way Steve Harrington has always been handsome. But you're grieving the old look, the version of him you'd woken up next to Wednesday morning, the one who'd made you Eggo waffles and kissed you goodbye in his car.

Robin lets go of you and Nancy, crossing her arms over her chest. A scowl settles on her face, jaw tight.

You're still staring at him—ogling him, really, unable to help yourself—when a girl materializes at his side. She's blonde, wearing a tight top and high-waisted jeans, and she places her hand on his chest like she has every right to touch him. Her smile is wide, practiced.

"Steve, that was so awesome," she coos, voice pitched high and breathy.

You can hear him through his smirk, words slightly slurred. "Hey, Amanda. How are you?"

The name clicks into place. Amanda. One of Steve's old hookups—you remember Robin mentioning her once, remembered seeing her at a party months ago hanging off Steve's arm.

You're waiting for him to remove her hand, to step back, to do literally anything to create distance. He doesn't push her off. Amanda sees Robin's glare and lets go of his chest, but she doesn't step back, doesn't leave. If anything, she moves closer.

"I'm good," she says, batting her eyelashes in a way that would be comical if it wasn't making your stomach twist. "How are you?"

He looks her up and down—slow, assessing—and even though Steve told you he ended things with all of them, Amanda clearly didn't get the memo. She's biting her lip, looking him up and down in return, playing the game they used to play.

You don't have time to fully process the sharp pang of jealousy that shoots through your chest, or to question why it hurts so much to watch, because Steve's eyes flicker over to Robin. His face falters, the smile slipping for a fraction of a second.

Then, for the briefest moment, his gaze shifts to you.

Your breath catches. His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them you can't read—something dark and hurt and angry all at once. Then he looks away.

"Yeah... good. I'll see you later, yeah?" He pats Amanda's shoulder dismissively and starts walking toward you, Robin, and Nancy, a grin spreading across his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

He immediately embraces Robin in a hug, and you're close enough now to smell him—that deep musky scent that is distinctly Steve, but mixed with beer and weed and something sharper, more acrid. Desperation, maybe. Robin grimaces when he plants a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek, his hands gripping her waist, only looking at her like you and Nancy aren't even standing there.

He puts his forehead against hers, swaying slightly.

"Steve—" Robin scolds, trying to pull back.

"What?" He draws the word out, lazy and defiant. "I'm playing the part, right?" His voice drops lower, meant to be private but still audible. "Isn't that what you want?"

Robin and Nancy exchange a look—awkward, uncomfortable, like they're witnessing something they shouldn't. Your stomach twists tighter.

Robin's jaw tightens, muscles flexing under her skin. "That's not what I'm talking about," she hisses in a whisper. "How much have you had to drink already?"

Steve blows a raspberry, the sound wet and childish. "What? You're the only one who can have fun?"

Nancy steps in, voice gentle but firm. "Steve, that's not why she's concerned."

He rolls his eyes, head lolling back dramatically. "Relax. I'm having fun, yeah? Not going to do anything stupid." He leans his head back forward, hands running up Robin's arms, squeezing. "Come on, let's go dance, Rob. You always want me to dance with you. I feel like dancing..." His words run together, vowels blending, consonants softening, and you don't know how he manages to sound drunk and coherent at the same time.

You realize with a sinking feeling, Steve has not once looked at you. Not directly. Not acknowledged your presence at all.

Robin sighs, defeated. "Okay, but you're drinking water first."

Steve kisses her cheek again—wet and loud—already pulling her away toward the coolers by the back porch. Robin looks over her shoulder at you and Nancy, and the expression on her face is pure apology, eyes saying I'm sorry and help me all at once.

"What was that all about?" you ask Nancy, unable to tear your eyes away from Steve and Robin. He's forcing down a bottle of water now, Robin's hand on his shoulder, both of them bobbing slightly to the music pumping through the outdoor speakers.

Nancy sighs, watching them too, but her expression is distant, eyes glassy with unshed emotion. "Apparently they've been fighting all day. She won't tell me what about. But she mentioned something about people noticing they've been distant lately, asking questions about whether they're okay."

You look over at them. Robin's back is pressed to Steve's front now, his arms wrapped around her waist, both of them swaying awkwardly to a song that doesn't match their rhythm. They're both staring off in different directions—Robin toward Nancy with naked longing, Steve toward nothing in particular with empty eyes. Neither of them looks like they want to be touching the other.

Your heart flips violently when Steve's eyes catch yours across the yard. His jaw flexes, muscles jumping under skin. Then he looks away again, pulling Robin closer in a way that looks more like desperation than affection.

"I thought things were better," you say out loud, voice small.

It was true. You thought everything had improved since you helped fix the spring break situation with Robin's parents. You thought it was better now that Steve was making choices for himself, declaring his major, standing up to his father in his own way.

Nancy swallows hard, throat working. "I think they forget they're not really together sometimes."

The words hit you like cold water.

You think about your own feelings—the ones you only admitted to yourself last night, staring at the ceiling of your dorm room while Robin snored softly in the bed next to yours. You don't know how long you've actually felt this way. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. Maybe since the first time Steve kissed you and you realized kissing him was different from kissing anyone else.

Last night you couldn't stop smiling, caught in the memory of the planetarium, of Steve's hands on your face, of the way he said your name like it meant something. And then you'd looked over at Robin sleeping peacefully, and the guilt had settled over you like a heavy blanket.

Nancy's observation sits uncomfortably in your chest because she's right. Even you forget they're not really together. It feels like betrayal—like cheating—to entertain the idea that maybe, possibly, you could change Steve and Robin's minds about their arrangement, about their promises to each other.

But you're not different. You're not special. Nothing will change.

"Can I tell you something, Nancy?" you ask softly, still watching the couple that's not really a couple swaying in the middle of the lawn.

Nancy looks at you, and when you turn to meet her gaze, her expression isn't pity. It's sympathy—soft eyes, gentle understanding, the look of someone who already knows what you're about to say.

"I know," Nancy offers quietly, saving you from having to speak it into existence. Because if you say it out loud, it becomes real. Undeniable.

You swallow hard against the lump forming in your throat. You've never been quick to emotion—or maybe you've never allowed yourself to be. The same way you've never allowed yourself to feel this way about anyone, to get close enough for it to hurt.

Your chest feels like it's caving in, ribs pressing toward your lungs, making it hard to breathe.

You think about the rule Steve made—that if either of you caught feelings, you'd end it. But then he'd said the rules didn't apply to you, that there were never really rules when it came to you. So does that mean all of them? Or none of them? Or only the ones that were convenient?

You chew on your bottom lip, tasting cherry chapstick and uncertainty. "I need to end it, don't I?"

For a second, you think Nancy might tell you no. Might tell you to go for it, to fight for what you want, to be selfish for once in your life.

But Nancy closes her mouth. Looks back at Robin and Steve—his arm slung over her shoulder now, talking to a group of Pike brothers like they belong exactly like this, like they'll always belong like this.

"Before you fall in love with him," Nancy says slowly, carefully, each word deliberate. "Before it's too late to turn back, then yeah. You should."

Her honest truth hits you like a million tiny blades, each one finding a different soft spot to sink into.

And then Nancy's eyes light up, something hopeful sparking there. "Do you..." She pauses, choosing her words. "Do you love him?"

The same clouded, confusing thoughts that ran through your head when Max asked you this question on Tuesday come rushing back. You look at Steve across the yard—at the way the string lights catch in his newly short hair, at the strong line of his shoulders, at his hands that know every inch of your body.

You think about the pieces of yourself that belong to him now. The ones you gave freely, the ones he took without asking, the ones you didn't even know you had until he found them. Pieces you've refused to give anyone else because they were his before you knew what you were giving away.

It started because of trust, because he was your friend, because it was safe and uncomplicated. Something he wasn't six months ago when he was someone you actively avoided at parties.

Your heart races looking at him. Your stomach flutters. Heat pools low in your belly even from across the yard, even angry at him, even knowing this can't go anywhere.

You open your mouth to answer—not really sure what will come out, not ready to hear yourself say it—when a voice calls out.

"Hey, Hot Shot! You want a turn?"

You look over to see Buck grinning at you, pointing at another keg that's been set up near the fence. The crowd around it is already chanting, waiting for the next victim.

Suddenly, the idea of standing upside down chugging cheap beer out of a questionable spout seems infinitely better than answering Nancy's question.

You see Steve look over the moment Buck touches you—Buck's hand on your lower back, helping you up onto the keg platform. Steve's face transforms, features twisting into something dark and possessive. His nostrils flare. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump from across the yard.

And it pisses you off. He let Amanda touch him. Let her flirt with him, look at him like that, put her hands on his chest. You're not dating—you've never been dating—but how could he say the things he said to you and then ignore you tonight? How could he touch you the way he touched you and then pretend you don't exist?

You don't only get drunk on the keg stand—though you do, Buck's hands firm on your stomach as you chug, the crowd counting, your vision swimming when he rights you and everyone cheers. You don't only get drunk on the cheap tequila shots that burn going down, or the beer pong game you lose against one of the Tri Delt sisters who's wearing a "Spring Break or Bust" tank top.

You get drunk on something worse, something more dangerous.

You get drunk on the pathetic, inevitable realization that you're going to have to talk to Steve tonight. That you're going to have to tell him this isn't working anymore. That you can't do this—can't keep pretending you don't feel what you feel, can't keep being his secret while he plays boyfriend to your best friend.

But finally—finally—he's looking at you.

You're dancing with Robin and Nancy now, the three of you pressed close, giving Robin and Nancy the excuse to touch each other, to be close in a way they can't be normally. Nancy's hands are on Robin's hips, Robin's head thrown back in laughter, and you're moving with them, lost in the music and the alcohol and the heat of too many bodies in too small a space.

And Steve is watching you from across the room.

His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, tracking your every movement. You can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, sliding over your exposed collarbone where your shirt has slipped off your shoulder, down to where your jeans sit low on your hips, back up to your face. The air between you feels electric, charged with something dangerous and inevitable.

You dance harder, throwing yourself into it, letting your hips sway in a way you know drives him crazy. You run your hands through your hair, tilt your head back, expose your throat. You're playing a game you know you shouldn't be playing, weaponizing your body against him the same way he's weaponizing his indifference.

His tongue runs over his bottom lip. His fingers tighten around the red Solo cup in his hand, plastic crinkling under the pressure. He shifts his weight, adjusting himself in his jeans in a way that would be subtle if you weren't watching for it.

The song changes—something slower, bassier, all rhythm and want—and you turn, putting your back to him, rolling your body in a way that's absolutely, unquestionably meant for him to see. Nancy and Robin are lost in each other now, foreheads pressed together, swaying more than dancing, and you're alone in the crowd but you don't feel alone because Steve's eyes are burning holes in your back.

You glance over your shoulder, find him still staring, and the look on his face is pure hunger mixed with something that might be anger or might be desperation or might be both.

Steve crosses the room.

He moves through the crowd like he has a purpose, shouldering past people without apology, eyes locked on you the whole time. When he reaches your group, he slides in next to Robin, his hand grazing across the small of your back as he passes. His fingertips find the sliver of exposed skin where your shirt has ridden up, and the touch is electric, sending shivers racing up your spine.

"I'm going upstairs to lay down for a bit," he tells Robin, voice rough and low. But his hand is still on your back, fingers pressing slightly, a message meant only for you.

He walks over to the makeshift bar someone has set up on the porch table, pours a shot of something clear—vodka or tequila, you can't tell—and shoots it back without a chaser. His eyes find yours as he swallows, throat working, and he jerks his head toward the foyer where the stairs are.

"Gotta... pee," you announce to Nancy and Robin, trying to sound casual even though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

Nancy and Robin nod, barely hearing you, completely entranced in each other now that the alcohol has lowered their inhibitions. Nancy's hand is tangled in Robin's hair, Robin's lips close to Nancy's ear, and you leave them to it.

Steve has already started making his way inside. You trail behind him, keeping enough distance that it won't be obvious you're following him, but close enough that you won't lose sight of him in the crowd.

Your core is already warm, heat pooling low in your belly at the thought of what's about to happen. Your heart hammers against your ribs—anticipation and dread in equal measure.

Steve says something to the two pledges guarding the stairs—PJ and someone whose name you don't remember—and they look back at you still a few paces behind. Steve must have said something convincing because they part immediately, letting him through, then stepping aside for you when you reach them.

You climb the stairs, legs unsteady from alcohol and want and the weight of what you know you need to do. Steve is ahead of you, taking the steps two at a time, and occasionally he glances back over his shoulder—checking that you're still following, eyes dark with intent.

Neither of you says anything. Not when you reach the second floor, not when he leads you down the familiar hallway to his room, not when he opens the door and holds it for you to enter first.

The moment the door closes behind you, shutting out the noise of the party below, you're on each other.

Your lips crash together with the force of tension finally breaking. It's not gentle—it's desperate and messy and tastes like beer and tequila and want. His hands are immediately in your hair, gripping, angling your head to deepen the kiss. Your fingers scrabble at his shoulders, his chest, trying to pull him closer even though there's no space left between your bodies.

He walks you backward until your back hits the door, the solid wood cool against your shoulder blades. His body presses against yours, and you can feel how hard he is already, pressing insistent against your hip.

He breaks the kiss to mouth at your jaw, your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks you'll have to hide tomorrow. His hands slide down your sides to grip your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

But then he stops. Pulls back slightly, breathing hard, and his hands move to the hem of your shirt. He pauses, fingers just under the fabric, eyes searching yours.

"Do you want this, Hot Shot?" His voice is rough, wrecked, but the question is genuine. Even drunk, even desperate, he's checking. Making sure.

And even though you're both drunk, even though this is probably a terrible idea, even though you know you should end this before it goes any further—you want him. You want this. You want him so badly it physically hurts.

"Yes," you breathe. "Of course I want you, Steve."

Something flashes in his eyes—relief or pain or something else you can't name—and then he's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking, biting, marking you as his in a way he has no right to do but you're letting him anyway.

Your feet don't work properly as he tries to pull your jeans down, fingers fumbling with the button. You're both too drunk, too eager, coordination shot. You stumble, and he catches you, but the momentum sends you both tumbling to the floor.

You land on the carpet with an "oof," Steve's weight half on top of you, and you should probably be more concerned about the fact that you're on his floor, but instead you're pulling him back down into a kiss, refusing to let the moment break.

"Where's your glasses?" you ask between kisses, breath hot against his lips. You're used to them now, used to the way they press against your face when you kiss, the way he pushes them up his nose when he's concentrating.

"They broke earlier," he says, and the casual way he says it—like it doesn't matter, like they were disposable—makes something pinch in your chest. "Fell off during a keg stand. Someone stepped on them."

The way he says it, the tone of his voice, the emptiness in his eyes when you pull back to look at him—it all feels wrong. Different.

He's touching you differently too. His hands are on you—sliding under your bra, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples—but there's a hesitation to it. A heaviness. Like he's memorizing rather than discovering. Like this is the last time.

The thought sends a spike of panic through your chest, sharp enough to cut through the alcohol haze.

"Steve—" you start, but he kisses you again, swallowing whatever you were going to say.

You ask if you can take off his pants, and he nods, helping you, both of you too eager to do it properly. You only manage to drag them down to his thighs—those thick, hairy thighs you've become intimately familiar with—his cock springing free, already hard and leaking.

Your bra is still on, your breasts spilling over the top, nipples hard and visible through the thin lace. Your jeans and panties are somewhere across the room, abandoned in your haste.

You straddle him right there on the floor, the carpet rough under your knees, and his eyes are drunk—from weed, from alcohol, from lust, from all of it. He bites his lip watching you spit into your hand, pump him a few times, watching the way his cock twitches in your grip.

Then you're sinking down onto him, taking him in slowly, and your head lulls back at the stretch, at the familiar burn and fullness. You sit there for a moment, completely still, just feeling him inside you. His warmth, his thickness, the way he twitches like sitting still is torture for him too.

His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, but he doesn't make you move. Doesn't thrust up into you. Like this moment—being buried inside you, connected in the most intimate way possible—is enough. Like he's trying to make it last.

It's nearly sobering, the intensity of it grounding you through the alcohol. The stretch of him, the way he fills you so completely, the way his eyes are locked on yours like he's trying to memorize your face.

Finally—finally—you lift up almost all the way off him, and then slam back down. The sound you both make is obscene—half moan, half sob, pure desperate pleasure. You bounce on him, setting a punishing rhythm, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest. You push his shirt up with your fingers, revealing his soft stomach first, then his chest, pushing the fabric all the way to his collarbone but not removing it entirely. Holding it there while you continue to ride him, his skin hot and damp with sweat under your palms.

The pace gets more erratic, sloppier, your thighs burning from the exertion but you can't stop, won't stop. He's hitting spots inside you that make you gasp for air, that make stars burst behind your closed eyelids, that make you forget why this is a bad idea.

The usual banter is lost—no teasing words, no challenges, no playful arguments. Just moans and whimpers and the obscene sound of skin on skin, of wetness, of your bodies coming together again and again.

You lean down, changing the angle, and the new position sends pleasure pulsing through you both. Steve's hips buck up involuntarily, back arching off the floor.

"Fuck!" he whines, voice high and wrecked.

You lean further, putting your mouth right over his pec, and bite. Hard. Your teeth sink into his skin, and Steve lets you, lets you mark him, a moan torn from his lips.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispers under his breath, the words running together. He says your name—your actual name, not Hot Shot, not baby, not anything else. Your name like a prayer, like a confession, like goodbye.

You kiss the spot like you can fix it, like you can erase the damage, but you can already see the teeth marks in his skin, the tiny bit of broken skin surrounded by red that will absolutely bruise by morning. Evidence. Proof. A mark that says I was here.

"Baby," he whimpers, eyes squeezed shut as you put your hands back on his chest to steady yourself, to get more leverage.

Steve's grip tightens on your hips, fingers grabbing at the soft flesh there before one hand moves between your bodies to find your clit. He slaps it once—sharp and surprising—and you mewl, the sound embarrassingly needy.

He rubs it with his thumb, sloppy and uncoordinated but still good, still enough. The pressure builds in your core, winding tighter and tighter like a spring about to break.

You feel your walls start to clench around his cock, fluttering, and Steve groans at the sensation.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he pants. "So fucking good, baby. Come for me, please,” he begs. 

Until finally you can't hold back anymore, crying out his name, "Steve!" Your orgasm crashes through you. Your whole body goes taut, back arching, stars bursting white behind your closed eyelids.

Steve grips your hips hard, keeping the brutal pace, thrusting up into you through your orgasm, chasing his own. He groans, head lulling back, and you can see the tendons in his neck, the veins protruding, his mouth falling open as he gasps through his own release. You feel him pulse inside you, filling you with warmth.

His hand comes up to the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair at the base, gripping and pulling you down into a heated kiss. Desperate and messy and tasting like salt and want and ending.

Then, even though you're both still buzzing with alcohol and endorphins, the kiss settles into a steadier rhythm. Slower. Softer. Small pecks that feel more intimate than anything that came before.

You're still hovering over him, both of you breathing hard, when you look into his hazel eyes. He brushes a strand of hair back behind your ear, his touch gentle, reverent.

And you can see it. The emptiness in his eyes. The finality.

You have to tell him. Have to let him know what you're feeling. Or maybe—maybe you need to make sure this is the last time before you say something you can't take back.

"I'm going to go clean up," you say, voice shakier than you'd like.

You hurry to his bathroom, gathering your clothes as you go, not looking at him because if you look at him you might start crying and you refuse to cry over Steve Harrington.

You clean up mechanically, movements robotic. You sit on the closed toilet seat after, face in your hands, breathing hard—either from the exertion of sex or the dread pooling in your stomach or both.

When you finally gather the courage to leave the bathroom, your stomach drops at the sight that greets you.

Steve is fully dressed again. Sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded through his short hair. Clearly thinking. Clearly working up to something.

When he looks up at you, you know from his eyes—from the set of his jaw, from the way his shoulders are tensed—that he has something to say.

Your throat tightens. You lean back against the wall, not looking at him directly, focusing on a spot just over his shoulder because if you look at him you'll break.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, the gesture so familiar it hurts. "I think this is the last time we'll be seeing each other," he says quietly. Almost too quiet, like if he said it any louder he would mean it more, and he's not sure he can handle meaning it more.

And even though you were thinking the same thing downstairs with Nancy, hearing him say it out loud makes you realize you didn't actually want this to happen. That some part of you hoped you could have both—could keep sleeping with him and keep your feelings and somehow make it work.

Your defenses slam into place immediately—anger, deflection, anything to find blame in him rather than face the complicated mess you've brought upon yourself.

"But I didn't break any rules," you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

A curl falls on his forehead when he looks up, and he straightens, jaw tense. He's looking you up and down, evaluating you, scanning your face like he's trying to figure something out, solve an equation that keeps changing.

"Yeah, we did," he says slowly. "And we—I think we took it too far."

"You're kidding me." You can hear the venom in your own voice, the way it drips with hurt disguised as anger. "You told me—" You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I followed your rules. You were the one who told me it was okay. That I was the exception."

"Yeah, well..." He trails off, searching for the right words. He groans, putting his face in his palms before standing up to face you properly. "Maybe I said that so I could see what it was like to be normal for once."

The words hit you like a slap.

You nod slowly, mechanically. "So you wanted one last fuck? Is that it? String me along until you got what exactly?"

Steve shrugs, his expression stony, unreadable. His tongue presses into his cheek, a habit you've come to recognize as him holding back words he doesn't want to say. "Look, Hot Shot, I'm sorry. I really tried to see if it would work for me, but it doesn't. Can't."

You cross the room in three strides, closing the distance until you're right in front of him, close enough to smell the beer on his breath, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate when you get near.

"You don't get to call me that anymore," you snap, finger jabbing into his chest right over where you bit him.

Steve rolls his eyes, looking away, arms crossing over his chest in a mirror of your defensive posture. He lifts one hand in a placating gesture that makes you want to hit him. "Look, this doesn't mean we can't still be friends—"

"Oh, fuck off, Steve." You press your finger harder into his chest, feeling his heartbeat against your fingertip, fast and erratic. "Friends don't fucking cum inside other friends. Friends don't say the shit you said to me. Don't look at me the way you look at me." Your voice cracks, and you hate yourself for it. "Admit you're an asshole who can't decide what he wants."

"Or maybe I'm an asshole who's bored of you," Steve snaps back, and his eyes burn with something dark and empty and hurt all at once.

The words steal the air from your lungs.

Your face falls, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind only the raw, exposed hurt underneath. Tears brim in your eyes, hot and unwelcome, blurring your vision.

"Go to hell, Steve," you whisper, voice breaking on his name.

You take a deep breath, trying to hold yourself together for a few more seconds. Your lip quivers despite your best efforts. You take one last look at him—really look at him, memorizing his face because this is it, this is the end—and your heart breaks into a million pieces, each one cutting you on the way down.

Then you turn and walk out, leaving him standing alone in his room, and you don't look back.

.-.-.-.

Your eyes are caked with crust when you finally wake, eyelids heavy and stuck together like someone glued them shut while you slept. You peel them open slowly, immediately recognizing you're not in your own bed. The sheets are wrong—navy blue instead of your floral pattern, softer than the scratchy dorm-issue linens. The room smells different too—like laundry detergent and cologne you don't recognize, masculine and clean.

You know where you are before you're fully conscious. Sammy's room. The minimal furniture, the textbooks stacked neatly on his desk, the clothes strewn on the floor that aren't yours.

You sit up, still wearing your clothes from last night—jeans twisted uncomfortably around your legs, shirt wrinkled and smelling like cigarette smoke and spilled beer and something else underneath that makes your stomach turn. Steve's cologne. You can still smell him on you.

On cue, Sammy walks in, already dressed for the day in jeans and a sweater, hair a little messy like he slept on the couch and didn't bother with a mirror. He's holding two mugs of coffee, steam curling up from both. He smiles at you—awkward, uncertain, like he's not sure what the protocol is for this situation.

"Good morning," he says, handing you one of the mugs.

"Morning." Your voice comes out rough, throat raw from crying or screaming or maybe both. You can't quite remember.

The coffee is hot against your palms, almost too hot, but you hold onto it anyway because it gives you something to focus on that isn't the pounding in your head or the hollow ache in your chest.

"You sleep okay?" Sammy asks, hovering near the door like he's afraid to come too close, like you're a wild animal that might bolt.

You nod, not trusting your voice yet. "Yeah... thank you. For letting me crash here."

"Of course," Sammy mutters, looking down at his own mug.

The memories from last night come back in fragments, disjointed and painful. Leaving the Pike house through the back gate, tears streaming down your face, mascara probably running in black streaks. Finding Eddie smoking by his van in the driveway, asking him to tell Robin and Nancy not to worry about you. The look on his face—concern mixed with understanding, like he knew exactly what had happened upstairs even though you didn't say a word.

You didn't want to face Robin. Didn't want to see the pity in her eyes or hear her try to make excuses for Steve or worse—didn't want to hear her say she'd warned you this would happen, that getting involved with Steve was always going to end badly.

And you didn't want to face anyone else either. But someone who felt safe enough, someone who wouldn't ask questions or demand explanations, was Sammy.

You'd arrived at his frat house around midnight, still crying, and he'd seemed surprised to see you. Especially since you still hadn't really talked to him except for that one awkward encounter in the library and the brief exchange about picking up your things.

But he didn't ask questions. Didn't demand to know what happened or who hurt you. He pulled you inside, gave you a glass of water, and told you that you could take his bed. That he'd sleep in the common room downstairs.

You'd crawled into his bed fully clothed and cried into his pillow until you finally passed out from exhaustion sometime after two in the morning.

He slept on the couch in the common room, and you don't know whether to feel guilty, relieved, or disappointed about that. Guilty because he gave up his bed for you. Relieved because you couldn't handle anything more complicated last night. Disappointed because—

You cut that thought off before it can finish forming.

You rub your face with one hand, the other still clutching the coffee mug like a lifeline, and swing your legs off the bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and the shock of it helps clear your head slightly. You chew on your bottom lip, and your stomach sours at the memories flooding back.

Yesterday morning feels like a lifetime ago. Waking up happy, excited about spring break, thinking about Steve and the planetarium and the way he'd looked at you like you hung the moon. Everything had been honey and sweet and perfect, and you had no idea it was all about to crumble.

What changed? What did you do wrong? What did Robin say to him in the car that made him look at you like you were nothing?

Sammy clears his throat, pulling you back to the present. "I, uh... need to leave soon. Going home for spring break. Not trying to rush you out or anything—you can stay as long as you need. I don't mind."

You look over at him, really look at him for the first time this morning. He's a good person. Kind, patient, understanding. All the things you should want.

"Sorry, yeah. I'll leave now." You stand up, and the movement makes your head pound harder, dehydration and hangover and heartbreak all mixing together into one miserable cocktail.

You hate that you can still smell Steve on you—his cologne mixed with the smell of sex and sweat, clinging to your skin, your hair, your clothes. It makes you want to vomit. Makes you want to scrub yourself raw in the shower until every trace of him is gone.

You feel tears pricking at your eyes again, and you rub them aggressively, refusing to cry in front of Sammy. You put on your shoes—the ones you'd kicked off carelessly last night, now sitting neatly by the door where Sammy must have moved them.

"Hey," Sammy says your name gently, softly, like you're something fragile that might break. "Everything okay?"

"What?" You shoot up too fast, and your head pounds in protest. "Oh... yeah. I'm fine. I'm—" You look at him, really look at him, and you wonder what's wrong with you. Here's someone who is simple and easy and showed genuine interest in you. Someone who wanted to know you, who asked you out properly, who didn't play games or set up impossible rules.

"I'm sorry," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

"What for?" He tilts his head, still looking hesitant, unsure.

"For never really allowing us to have a shot." You mean it to a degree, though your feelings are so clouded and confused right now that you're not sure you mean anything you say. 

Sammy looks taken aback, eyebrows rising. He shrugs, trying for casual but not quite hitting it. "It's okay. Really."

"No... I..." And then you understand why you feel so horrible, why the guilt is sitting so heavy in your stomach. "It's not cool what I did to you. Making you feel disposable or used. I'm really sorry."

Sammy doesn't argue against it, which somehow makes it worse. He nods in acknowledgment, arms crossing over his chest. "Look, I... know I wasn't the best either. I wanted to know things about you, but I didn't want you to feel smothered or pressured or anything like that. I was trying to give you space, but maybe I gave you too much."

You can't help it—feeling vulnerable and raw and desperate for something that makes sense. "Do you still want to know things about me?"

Sammy laughs, a real smile breaking through the awkwardness. "Of course I want to know things about you." Then his expression shifts, going shy, earnest. "But... not like the way before. Not casual. Properly, like..." He pauses, gathering courage. "Like dating. Like... I don't know. Like a boyfriend."

Your breath hitches, caught in your throat.

You feel a flash of anger at Steve for breaking his own rules, for making "once a month" meaningless, for letting you get close enough to fall. If he'd kept his distance, if he'd stuck to the original arrangement, maybe you'd feel less confused. Maybe you could see yourself as Sammy's girlfriend. Sammy, who knows what he wants. Sammy, who isn't afraid to say it.

"I..." You don't know what to say. Don't know what you want. Don't know anything except that everything hurts.

"You don't have to answer now," Sammy says quickly, seeing the panic on your face. "Think about it. Over break. And when we get back, you can let me know."

You nod, grateful for the escape, and leave before he can say anything else.

When you get back to your dorm, Robin and Nancy are both there, and they visibly relax when you walk through the door.

"Oh thank god," Robin says, launching herself at you and pulling you into a tight hug. "Eddie said you left with him but wouldn't say where you went. I was worried."

"I'm fine," you lie, extracting yourself from her embrace. "Sorry I disappeared."

"Where'd you go?" Robin asks, and there's genuine concern in her eyes, no judgment.

For once, you're honest. "Sammy's."

Nancy, who's been sitting quietly on Robin's bed, perks up. "Who's Sammy?"

Robin grins, immediately latching onto the distraction, her voice going sing-song. "Hot Shot's boooyfriend."

Nancy looks confused, glancing between you and Robin.

"He's not my boyfriend," you say quickly, turning away to hide your expression. Then you sigh, because you need at least one thing out in the air, one burden not sitting solely on your shoulders. "But he did ask to be. This morning."

Robin gasps, bouncing slightly. "What'd you say?"

Nancy's expression stays neutral, but her eyes are sad, knowing.

You turn away from both of them, pretending to look through your suitcase for tomorrow's flight, organizing clothes you've already organized three times. You chew on your bottom lip, the skin already raw from nervous biting. "I told him I'd think about it over spring break and let him know."

Your words come out soft, uncertain, and when you turn back around Robin is squealing like it's the best news she's heard all year. But Nancy is looking at you with sad, sympathetic eyes that see right through you.

The next morning, everyone is packed into Eddie's van again—bright and early to drive to the nearest airport. The sun is barely up, the sky still that pale gray-pink of dawn, and you're all moving like zombies, running on coffee and determination.

Steve looks rough. Rougher than you've ever seen him. He's wearing sunglasses even though the sun isn't up yet, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, and he hasn't said a word to anyone. His jaw is tight, shoulders tense, and he radiates an energy that says don't fucking talk to me.

You hear Eddie tell Robin in a low voice, "He's got a hangover. Drank more beers than I could count last night. Found him passed out on the bathroom floor around three."

Robin winces, glancing at Steve with concern, but she doesn't approach him.

In the van, Steve puts headphones on and plays his Walkman, sitting in the front passenger seat with his head pressed against the window. You can see his reflection in the glass—eyes closed, jaw clenched, looking like he's in actual physical pain.

You're in the back with Robin and Nancy, trying not to stare at the back of his head, trying not to notice the way his shoulders curve in like he's trying to make himself smaller.

Before you take the highway to the airport, Eddie makes one last stop. Your heart sinks when you see bright red hair, a cheerful wave, a familiar face standing on the curb.

Polly.

Steve is the one who gets out, greeting her with a side hug that looks stiff and uncomfortable. He takes her luggage—a large pink suitcase covered in stickers—and throws it in the back of the van. The force of it hits the back of your seat hard enough that you feel it, and you snap around to look at him.

His jaw tightens when he sees you looking. He slams the trunk shut without a word.

Polly crawls into the van, all smiles and sunshine, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "Thank you guys so much for letting me join last minute!" She turns to you specifically, beaming. "Especially for letting me room with you! We're going to have so much fun."

You look at Robin and Nancy, and neither of them looks surprised by this news. They already knew. Everyone knew except you.

Finally, Steve turns and looks at you—still wearing those sunglasses so you can't see his eyes. "Shit, sorry. Must have slipped my mind to mention it. Hope you don't mind."

You could punch him. For putting you in this position, for making you the bad guy if you say anything. How did they even manage to find another plane ticket so last minute? Spring break flights are always booked solid.

But you can't tell Polly no. Can't say you do mind without looking like a petty bitch. So you force your best smile, the one that doesn't reach your eyes but looks convincing enough. "Of course not! We're going to have a blast."

Polly squeals and throws her arms around you, and you catch Steve's expression over her shoulder—something that might be guilt or might be satisfaction. You can't tell with the sunglasses.

Polly ends up sitting next to you on the plane, chattering away about how excited she is and how she's never been to Miami before. Steve sits next to Eddie several rows ahead, and Nancy and Robin are somewhere in the back—you can hear Robin's laugh occasionally, bright and happy.

You watch Steve flag down the flight attendant for his third glass of whiskey, even though it's not even noon yet. He and Eddie are the only ones old enough to order alcohol on the flight, and Steve seems determined to take full advantage.

Polly is a talker, and you find yourself not shying away from the conversation. In fact, you hate how much you actually like her. She's studying to be a STEM major, still figuring out if she wants to go into pre-med eventually. She's smart and funny and kind, and under different circumstances, you could see yourself being friends with her.

Which somehow makes everything worse.

The plane lands in Miami in the early afternoon, and the moment you step off and into the airport, you're hit with a wall of humid heat. It's different from the heat back home—thicker, wetter, smelling like salt and tropical flowers and jet fuel.

Outside, palm trees sway in the breeze. The sky is impossibly blue, dotted with white puffy clouds that look like they were painted on. You can hear the distant sound of car horns, music playing from someone's radio, the chatter of tourists in a dozen different languages.

They all pile into a bus that will take them to the resort, bags shoved into the overhead compartments. Nancy tells everyone that Jonathan will meet them for dinner that night—he's been on set all day but will be done by six.

The resort is huge, sprawling across what looks like several acres of beachfront property. It's packed with other college-aged students, all in various states of undress—bikini tops and swim trunks, sunglasses and flip-flops. The lobby is chaos, people checking in and out, bellhops rushing around with luggage carts, the smell of chlorine from the pool mixing with sunscreen and coconut.

It's not a fancy hotel, but it's not trashy either. It seems designed specifically to encourage partying—the staff all look young and fun, wearing Hawaiian shirts and leis, and there's already a group doing shots at the tiki bar even though it's barely two in the afternoon.

Eddie manages to flirt with a bellhop—a cute guy with dark curly hair and dimples—into sneaking a bottle of rum into his room without charging for it. Eddie winks at him, slips him a twenty, and the bellhop grins and promises to "take good care" of him.

You're able to forget about the tension and anger and sadness for a few minutes, caught up in the energy of the place, the excitement of being somewhere new.

Until you get stuck in an elevator with Steve and Polly, heading to the same floor because of course you are. Because someone—you and Steve—made the stupid decision to have his room and your room right next to each other.

The elevator is small, mirrored on three sides, and you can see infinite versions of yourself standing stiffly in the corner while Steve and Polly chat. He's taken off his sunglasses now, and you can see his eyes are bloodshot, the skin underneath dark and puffy.

Steve only talks to Polly, catching up about school, asking about her classes. She mentions his big test next Thursday, and he motions to the backpack slung over his shoulder that apparently contains his textbooks.

"Gotta study," he says, and his voice sounds rough, damaged. "Can't fuck this up."

You stare at the elevator numbers, watching them tick up. Third floor. Fourth floor. Fifth floor.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Polly bounds out first, already digging in her purse for the room key. You follow more slowly, and you can't help but watch Steve over your shoulder.

He glances at you briefly—so quick you almost miss it—and there's something in his expression you can't read. Then he turns and disappears into his room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a decisive click.

"Oh my god!" Polly squeals, and you turn to see her standing in your doorway, looking inside with wide eyes. "We have a balcony!"

She runs inside, and you follow, dropping your bags just inside the door. Polly is already sliding open the glass door to the balcony, the sound of crashing waves immediately filling the room along with the smell of salt and seaweed.

She steps out onto the balcony and leans over the railing, breathing deeply. "We don't have water this pretty in Texas," she sighs dreamily, looking out at the ocean—turquoise and sparkling in the afternoon sun, waves rolling in steady and hypnotic.

She turns back to you, beaming. "Do you want to go down to the beach with me? I'm dying to feel the sand between my toes."

You look at the clock on the nightstand. It's barely three. Dinner isn't until six. You should go, should say yes, should try to have fun.

"Oh... uh... I'm feeling a little tired. I think I might take a nap before dinner."

"Okay!" Polly shrugs, already stripping off her clothes right there in the middle of the room. "I'll ask the others."

You look away quickly, startled by her lack of self-consciousness.

Polly gasps. "I'm sorry! I should've asked if that makes you uncomfortable."

"Oh, no... I didn't expect it, is all." It's not like you and Robin don't get dressed in front of each other. But you and Robin are best friends. You barely know Polly.

Polly continues to undress, and you try not to look, try to give her privacy. But you catch a glimpse anyway as she pulls on her bikini top—a fresh purple hickey on her breast, just visible above the line of her swimsuit.

Your stomach drops. Tears prick at your eyes, hot and unwelcome.

"I think I'm going to take a shower first," you manage to say, stumbling toward the bathroom without waiting for an answer.

You run the shower as hot as it will go, strip off your clothes, and finally let yourself cry. Really cry, the way you've been holding back since last night. Ugly, gasping sobs that echo off the tile, mixing with the sound of running water.

Two hours later, the phone on the nightstand rings, jarring you awake. You'd fallen asleep without meaning to, curled up on top of the covers in your towel, hair still damp.

You grab the receiver, groggy and disoriented. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's Nancy. We're meeting at the restaurant downstairs in forty minutes. The one off the lobby. You can't miss it."

"Okay," you mumble, still half-asleep. "I'll be there."

You hang up and drag yourself out of bed, finally bothering to put on actual clothes. You wander over to the balcony, sliding the glass door open and stepping out into the warm evening air.

The sun is lower now, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. The beach is still packed with people—students playing volleyball, couples walking hand in hand at the water's edge, groups gathered around bonfires even though it's not dark yet.

The breeze is warm and smells like salt and sunscreen and grilled seafood from one of the beachside restaurants. Seagulls cry overhead, wheeling in lazy circles.

Then you hear laughter—familiar laughter—and your eyes are drawn down to the beach below your balcony.

Steve and Polly are walking together, close enough that their arms brush with every step. Steve is wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned enough that you can see his chest, and black swim trunks. His hair is messy from the wind, and he's smiling—actually smiling, not the fake one he's been wearing since yesterday.

Polly is wearing jean shorts and her bikini top—purple, the same one from earlier—and her breasts bounce perfectly with each step. She's laughing at something Steve said, head thrown back, hand coming up to touch his arm.

The jealousy bubbles up inside you again, hot and acidic and all-consuming. You watch Steve look up, like he can feel you watching, and your eyes meet for a fraction of a second before you quickly back away from the railing, heart pounding.

You're out of tears. All cried out. Nothing left but this hollow, aching anger.

Dinner with everyone is surprisingly normal, or at least everyone is pretending it is. The restaurant is open-air, right on the beach, with tiki torches and string lights and a live band playing reggae covers of popular songs.

Robin and Steve seem to have gotten over whatever they were fighting about—or at least they're pretending they have. Though you notice they're not sitting next to each other, not touching the way they usually do when they're playing couple. Maybe it's because they finally don't have to pretend here, where no one knows them.

Robin does lean over occasionally to tell Steve to slow down on his drinking, giving Nancy a knowing look whenever he mutters bitterly, "It's vacation, Rob. I can do what I want."

Before dinner started, Robin had pulled you aside and quietly informed you that Polly knows everything—about the fake relationship, about Robin and Nancy, all of it. "You can trust her," Robin had said.

And that makes more jealousy bubble up inside you. Polly gets to be in on the secrets now. Gets to be part of the inner circle. Gets to be close to Steve in a way you never will be again.

Why did she have to come? Why is she here, inserting herself into this trip, into your room, into your life? Why is she so fucking nice? 

Jonathan spends most of dinner telling everyone about what filming in Miami is like. Which is him spealing most of his day in a golf cart driving different crew members to different sets, but he seems to genuinely love it. He can't talk about the movie—signed an NDA—but maybe he could sneak them onto set one night if they wanted.

Eddie immediately perks up at that. "Hell yes. I want to see behind the scenes of a real movie."

"It's not that glamorous," Jonathan warns, laughing. 

Eventually, as dessert is being served, Polly leans forward with a conspiratorial grin. "So, a boy from UCLA told me about this party on the beach tonight. Like a huge one. Apparently they do it every year during spring break."

"Count me in," Eddie says immediately.

Robin and Nancy exchange glances, some silent communication passing between them, and they both nod.

"We're in," Robin says.

Everyone looks at you. At first, you almost tell Polly you're not going. The thought of going to some massive beach party, of watching Steve flirt with other girls, of pretending everything is fine—it sounds like torture.

But later, back in your room while Polly is getting ready, she insists. "Come on! This is the perfect time to let loose. Get drunk, dance, make out with random people you'll never see again."

She's slipped into another bikini top—red this time, equally small—and jean shorts that sit low on her hips.

And suddenly, the thought of making out with some random stranger to get the lingering taste of Steve Harrington off your lips sounds incredibly appealing.

"Okay," you hear yourself say. "Yeah. Let's go."

The beach party is exactly what you expected—chaos barely contained. There must be two hundred college students packed onto this stretch of beach, music blaring from speakers the size of refrigerators, a bonfire so large it looks dangerous, red Solo cups everywhere.

The air smells like beer and weed and salt water and smoke. The music is so loud you can feel it in your chest, bass thumping with each crashing wave. People are dancing, making out, playing drinking games, swimming in the ocean despite the darkness.

Nancy and Robin disappear into the crowd almost immediately, finally able to dance together and kiss without anyone batting an eye. You catch glimpses of them occasionally—foreheads pressed together, Robin's hands on Nancy's waist, both of them smiling so wide it makes your chest ache. They look free. Finally, truly happy.

Eddie has somehow already made friends with a group of stoners, sitting in a circle and sharing stories about the craziest people he's sold to before. You even take a hit of a joint being passed around, letting the smoke fill your lungs, make everything softer around the edges.

But your focus keeps drifting to Steve, who's drinking a beer and letting some girl roam her hands over him—fingers in his hair, touching his chest, his arms, his face. They're dancing, or what passes for dancing when you're drunk. More like grinding, really.

You notice Steve isn't really paying attention to her. His eyes are distant, unfocused, and he's not touching her back. She's all over him, and he's standing there like a mannequin, letting it happen but not participating.

You can't help it. Angrily, you stand up from the circle, brushing sand off your shorts. You need to get away from this, need to find a drink yourself, need to do something other than watch Steve let that girl touch him.

Instead of finding the makeshift bar, you find yourself walking toward the water's edge, away from the noise and the people and the chaos. You stand there staring at the empty dark sky—no stars visible through the light pollution and cloud cover—with the music still blaring in your ears but more distant now.

You wish you could melt into the water, let the tide carry you out to sea, drift away from all of this. You regret coming on this trip. Regret every choice you've made this year. Regret Steve Harrington and his stupid rules and his beautiful face and the way he made you feel things you didn't want to feel.

You see Jonathan off to the side, away from the main party, nursing a beer and looking out at the ocean. And you can't help it—you walk up to him, and he looks startled when you appear at his elbow.

"What did you mean?" you ask without preamble. "At the camping trip. You said Steve talks about me all the time. Why?"

Jonathan's eyes widen, and he looks like a deer caught in headlights. "Oh... uh... what?"

"You told me that he talks about me. Why does he talk about me, Jonathan?"

Jonathan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I... I don't think it's my place—"

"Please, Jonathan." Your voice comes out teary, desperate, and you hate yourself for it. You're buzzed from the drinks and the joint, and everything feels too big, too raw.

He looks at you for a long moment, clearly debating whether to tell you. Then he sighs again, deeper this time.

"I don't know exactly. He brings you up a lot when we talk. Tells me about things you do, things you say. How cool you are and you don't even know it. How you're different from other girls he's—" Jonathan cuts himself off, looking uncomfortable. "He told me that you're pretty. That if things were different, he'd ask you on a date. But..."

"But?" you demand, voice shaky, tears threatening.

Jonathan looks down at the sand, digging his foot into it. "You know why. Robin."

"But Robin isn't even—" You stop yourself, because Jonathan knows. He knows it's fake. "Right. Robin."

Jonathan looks at the ocean, giving you privacy for your pain. "I'm sorry. I really am."

You look out at the dark water, waves rolling in steady and relentless. "I fucking hate him."

"No, you don't," Jonathan says quietly.

You snap your head toward him. "Yes, I do."

He gives you a knowing look, sad and sympathetic. "Our brains can get hate and love mixed up sometimes, you know? The wires cross."

The tears burn hot against your cheeks, and you don't bother wiping them away. The ocean breeze is cool on your wet face.

"Let me take you back to your room," Jonathan says gently. "You look exhausted."

You don't argue, and you let him guide you back across the beach, trudging through sand that keeps getting in your shoes, making each step harder.

Polly spots you halfway to the hotel and runs up, slightly out of breath, giggling. "Hey, uh..." She looks sheepish. "Don't worry about me if I don't make it back to the room tonight, okay?" Then her expression shifts, concern creeping in. "Wait, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. I'm tired. Jonathan's walking me back." You nod, and you're not sure if you're pissed that Polly gets to enjoy her night with whoever she wants while you feel alone and miserable, or if you're grateful she won't be there to witness your breakdown.

Jonathan walks you all the way to your door, and you thank him quietly.

Before he leaves, he stops you with a hand on your arm. "If you need anything—anything at all—let me know. I'm in room 412."

You nod, watching him walk back down the hall toward the elevators, his footsteps muffled by the hallway carpet.

You end up actually taking a shower this time, sand everywhere making you feel uncomfortable and grimy. You scrub your skin until it's red, wash your hair twice, trying to wash away the feeling of Steve's hands on you, the memory of his skin against yours.

You take one last look outside from the balcony, down at the party still raging on the beach a few hundred yards away. You wonder if Steve is making out with that girl he was dancing with. Wonder if he's thinking about you at all, or if you've already been completely erased from his mind.

A feeling of resentment toward Robin arises—sharp and unexpected and unwelcome. But you quickly push it away, not ready to examine the complicated depths of your friendship with her, especially when she has no idea what's been happening. None of this is her fault. She didn't know. She couldn't have known.

You can't sleep. You toss and turn, tangling yourself in the sheets, punching the pillow, trying to find a comfortable position. You tell yourself it's because of the music from the beach, still faintly audible through the closed balcony door. But really, you can't stop your brain from thinking.

Around two in the morning, you hear the door to the next room—Steve's room—finally close.

You try to talk yourself out of it. Try not to get up, not to open your door, not to stare at the door next to yours. But you fail. You find yourself standing in your doorway in your pajamas, staring at Steve's door like it holds all the answers.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you knock three times. Quick, light, barely audible. You're already turning to run back to your room when the door opens.

Polly stands there in a towel, hair wet, face flushed. She looks surprised to see you, but she's smiling that bashful smile that means something just happened.

Inside, you can hear the bathroom door open, the shower still running. Someone—Steve—humming in the shower. Some song you don't recognize, voice slightly off-key, and it's so painfully domestic it makes your chest constrict.

Your eyes widen. "Oh... sorry!"

Polly looks at you questioningly, head tilting. "It's okay... do you need something?"

Your mind blanks. You can't tell her the truth—that you wanted to see Steve, to yell at him or kiss him or both. "Is there an extra pillow? There weren't any in our room."

It's a terrible lie. You have plenty of pillows.

Polly's smile widens. "Oh! Yeah, hold on." She closes the door, and you stand there in the hallway feeling like an idiot, listening to Steve's muffled humming through the wall.

She comes back with a pillow—one of the decorative ones from the bed. "Here you go!"

You stand there for a moment, both of you looking at each other awkwardly. You can smell Steve's cologne wafting out from the room, mixed with steam from the shower and something else. Something that makes your stomach turn.

"Right. Thanks. See you... tomorrow," you manage, and then you bolt back to your room like something is chasing you.

You wrap yourself in your bed, pulling the covers over your head like you did as a kid when you thought there were monsters in the closet. Hiding from things that couldn't actually hurt you, except this time the monster is real and it's wearing Steve Harrington's face.

You listen to the distant music from the beach party still going, gradually getting quieter as people filter back to their rooms.

And then you hear it.

The wall across from your bed starts thumping. The rhythmic sound of a bed hitting against thin plaster, over and over. Creaking springs. A high-pitched moan that definitely isn't Steve.

Then Steve's voice, low and rough, saying something you can't make out. Another moan, louder this time. The unmistakable sounds of two people coming together, of pleasure, of intimacy.

The thumping gets faster. The moans get louder. And you lie there in your bed, covers pulled up to your chin, choking on a sob you refuse to let out.

The sounds reach a crescendo— Polly’s whines, Steve groaning, the bed slamming against the wall one final time before everything goes quiet except for heavy breathing and low murmurs.

You know with absolute certainty now that you would never be the exception. That what Steve said was true—he was bored of you. That everything he made you feel was a lie, a game, a way to pass the time until something better came along.

And you know with equal certainty that you do fucking hate Steve Harrington.

You hate him for making you fall for him. Hate him for every soft word and gentle touch. Hate him for the planetarium and the tent and the way he looked at you like you mattered.

But most of all, you hate him for proving that you were right all along—that letting someone in, letting yourself feel something real, only leads to this. To lying in bed listening to him fuck someone else through paper-thin walls, your heart breaking into smaller and smaller pieces until there's nothing left but dust.

[iwanturvideobby]

nothing good to say about steve after this. wishing him the worst actually. but seriously one of the best fics and chapters i’ve read wowowwww

[deansdeer]

Hi really quickly sorry

FUCK TRUMP

FUCK ICE

FUCK FASCISTS

FUCK ISRAEL

FREE PALESTINE

FREE THE CONGO

FREE SUDAN

I LOVE IMMIGRANTS

I LOVE QUEER PEOPLE

I LOVE PEOPLE OF COLOR

HUMAN RIGHTS ARE BASIC RIGHTS

If you support ice, support the genocide, racist, homophobic, maga, or a nazi.

THEN YOU ARE NOT WELCOME ON THIS BLOG.

This isn’t a matter of “opinion” it’s a matter of are you a fascist or are you normal

[luveline]

i chose to believe mermaids are like seahorses in the sense that the men carry the children therefore mpreg steve is real 🎉

yes!!!! I always knew I wanted to get a cutieful brown eyed man pregnant

[whytheylosttheirminds]

･:*:･ﾟpinky promise? ･:*:･ﾟ

childhood best friends to lovers w/ Steve Harrington

summary: growing up, steve was your favorite person, your best friend. but now that you're older, he's calling less and less, fading away slowly. will your hail mary attempt to draw him back to you end with you in his arms, or has he given up on you for good?

content: fluff, angst, smut. pinv, strictly 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon steve au (upside down-less hawkins)

wk: 8.9k

:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ.✧:･ﾟ.✧ *:･:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ

“Promise me you’ll always be my best friend?”

Steve holds out his pinky finger, and you know exactly what that means. You’re on adjacent swings, legs dangling over the thin layer of woodchips that wouldn’t really soften the blow if you fell. But you know that Steve would be right by your side, lifting you from the ground, making sure you were okay. 

You’d moved to Hawkins a year ago, starting school in the same third grade class as Steve. You were so scared your first day, you didn’t speak to anyone in your class. You could hear the cool girls in the corner of the classroom whispering about you. Arms crossed on the desk and head hung low, you fought hard not to cry. The first tear broke through at the same time a chair pulled up next to yours.

A boy with brownish greenish eyes, and a disproportionate amount of hair on his head for such a scrawny frame, smiled from the seat next to you.

“Hi I’m St-” 

The tear rolling down your cheek caused him to lose his train of thought.

“Uh oh, are you crying?”

“No,” you replied. But it was no use, the second tear was already falling and you could feel a third on deck.

Steve pulled the sleeve of his sweater over his hand, bringing the fabric to your cheeks to pat them dry.

“Yes you are,” he pointed out.

“Please, don’t tell anyone,” you begged him.

He eyed the girls in the corner, sending them an angry frown, then turned back to you, his small voice dead serious as he vowed, “your secret’s safe with me.”

“Promise?” You asked skeptically.

“Not just promise,” he raised his pinky finger out to you, “pinky promise.”

And from then on he got all of your secrets, and you got all of his.

So there on the swings, you dragged your feet along the ground to inch your swing closer to his, looping your pinky around his like you had been doing all year.

“Pinky promise.”

The years went by that way. Your best buddy Steve by your side, even through the awkward middle school years. Like the time a boy in your biology class said you looked like the frog he was dissecting and Steve punched him in the face and got suspended for a week. Or when his parents told him they were getting a divorce and you snuck into his bedroom window and stayed up with him all night listening to records until he fell asleep. He laid his head in your lap, his tears dripping onto your pajama pants while you pushed his hair back from his forehead and whispered, “everything’s going to be okay, because I’m not going anywhere.”

As you grew up together, almost everything changed, except that promise you’d made each other on the playground - you were still best friends. Even when you got your first period and realized there were going to be some things in life you just couldn’t talk to him about. Even when he shaved off all of his hair the Summer you were fourteen and you cried when he showed you, which made him cry and he didn’t speak to you until it had grown back. Even when you were in high school and his dad started coming around less and less and he entered what you now refer to as ‘The Mean Steve Years.’

Even the night before junior year, when you were swimming at the lake. Steve took his shirt off and you noticed he was starting to grow chest hair, your surprise slowly melting into a warm feeling in your belly you couldn’t quite understand. Even when your fits of laughter while watching Spinal Tap on your basement’s shag rug turned into a giggly wrestling match until Steve was pinning you down and you felt something hard and strong against your thigh. Even when he ran out of your basement blushing, making an excuse about being home for dinner and then didn’t talk to you for a week.

Eventually, of course, he spoke to you again, but something had shifted between you. Then began the years of glances across the room, sneaking peaks at his strong hand on the gear shift while he drove, his lower lip tucked between his teeth when, getting ready for prom, you asked “zip me up?” like it was the most innocent thing in the world, like the brush of his knuckles on your spine didn’t send heat through you all the way down to your toes.

Through it all, you repeated over and over how you were best friends, just best friends. The oldest lie in the book. It had certainly been for you. And the day you found out it had been for him too, all bets were off.

College had come and gone. You’d gone far for school, he’d stayed close. Your once weekly phone calls with Steve grew fewer and farther apart. Last you’d spoken, you were moving in with your Psychology 101 TA boyfriend and you thought you could hear Steve grinding his teeth on the other end of the line when you’d told him.

Then, after only a few months of coinhabitated bliss, you and James the TA started fighting. The two of you were fighting so often that one day, you just stood up from your shared sofa and walked out. He lost you, and you lost your security deposit. Aimless and yearning for home, you took a job covering sports for the Hawkins Post.

Now, single and speeding down the highway toward your hometown, your whole body tingles with excitement every mile you get closer to seeing your best friend. You haven’t told him you’re moving back yet, you can’t wait for the delicious look of surprise and joy he’ll give you when he sees you. 

Only, in the seventh inning, when he finally looks up and spots you in the stands cheering him on, he doesn’t seem excited at all.

Waiting until every last fan left and the away team boarded their bus home, you sneak down to the dugout. Steve is cleaning up empty water cups and brushing sunflower seeds off the bench. His team lost, and he’s angrily muttering to himself about something you can’t quite hear.

“You’ll get ‘em next time, coach,” you say.

He looks up, though he doesn’t seem as startled as you’d thought he’d be, like he had expected you to make your way down here.

“Welcome home,” he says, his body tense.

“You’re not even going to give me a hug?”

“Sorry, I’m just thinking about…the game.”

When you don’t reply, he crosses the dugout and pulls you in for a hug. You sink into him, reveling in his familiar scent as your fists clutch the back of his shirt.

“I missed you,” you mumble, your lips brushing the warm skin of his neck.

Steve pulls back too quickly, your arms fall to your sides lamely as he puts space between you.

“Yeah, uh, you too.” He scratches the back of his neck, staring just past you to avoid your eyes.

“Is everything okay?” You frown.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Steve runs his hands through his hair, making the stringy ends stick up before falling back over his forehead. “Just didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”

“Oh. Well my grad school classes are over, so…I’m actually, uh, moving back.”

You’d practiced this little announcement the whole drive home, so why did this moment feel so anticlimactic?

“Right.” He nods. “Cool.

Oh, that’s why.

To avoid the sting of his indifference, you try to pivot.

“I sent you an invite to my graduation, but you weren’t there.” 

“Sorry, yeah, I just figured there’d be plenty of people there, I didn’t want to crowd you.”

“I mean, it was just my parents. I didn’t even use all of my tickets.”

“Really? What about Sigmund Freud?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname. “You mean James? We, uh…I left him.”

For the first time since you’d wandered into the dugout, Steve looks you in the eyes.

“Oh, well, good. Your head can only be shrunk so much, y’know, before the brain damage sets in.”

You crack a smile at his familiar sarcastic rambling.

“Why don’t you seem happy to see me?” You reroute the conversation away from James and back to the moment.

“I am. Of course I am, I just didn’t expect it.” He sets his hands on his hips, trying to come across as casual while acting anything but. “I’m in work mode I guess.”

“Okay, well don’t work too hard.” You smile softly. “Before you were Mr. Harrington, you were Steve. My Steve.”

Steve sighs, lips drawn tight.

“Yeah, well, I should get back to it. The custodians hate it when we leave this place a mess.”

Before you can respond, he turns and goes back to his cleaning duties.

“Hey?” You say, voice feeling small.

Steve turns back to you, “yeah?”

You step carefully toward him, your pinky extended.

“Promise you’re still my best friend?”

A thousand times in your fifteen years of friendship, Steve has wrapped his pinky around yours as you both swore to be friends forever. But this time, he just stares at your outstretched hand, forehead creased in…is it anger? No, something more like disappointment.

“Really?” You drop your hand as your voice rises. “What, have you outgrown me? You have a big grown up job now and no need for a best friend?”

“I don’t know.” Steve shakes his head and you feel your heart crack right down the middle.

“Okay. Okay, well that’s fine. I have other friends.” You try your hardest to sound unaffected, but you know he can see the way your chin is starting to wobble. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Steve huffs, muttering under his breath, “still dramatic as ever I see.”

Your hands ball up at your sides, shaking in fury. Steve knows there is nothing you hate being called more than ‘dramatic.’ Other than maybe when you’d been compared to that dead frog.

Too angry to speak, you just glare at him. He shies away from your anger by turning to throw away another cup.

“I’ll see you around, okay?” He sighs, ending the conversation. But you aren’t done.

It’s then that you notice the cooler of water on the dugout wall, lid thrown on the ground and dead gnats floating at the water’s surface.

Not giving yourself a second to overthink it, you grab the cooler and lift it over Steve’s head. Only, as you raise it up, the water sloshes over the edge and your grip slips, tipping the cooler so it covers you both in frigid water and bug guts.

“What the hell?” Steve turns on his heel and stares at you in shock, his locks of brown hair sticking to his forehead and coach’s uniform soaked through. “Why did you do that?!”

You blink the water out of your own eyes and gasp for air.

“Because! Coming back to this school has turned you back into Mean Steve!”

“I wasn’t being mean!”

“Yes, you were! And I didn’t do anything to deserve it. I want my best friend back, right now.”

“He’s standing right here! And now he’s cold, and wet, and probably going to catch a cold like this, so thanks a lot.”

“Oh my god, you’re being such a baby.”

“Oh I’m being a baby? You’re the one throwing a temper tantrum because I wouldn’t make you a pinky promise.”

Chin wobbling, your voice is small as you say, “that’s not why, and you know it.”

Before he gets the chance to distinguish the tears from the water still dripping down your face, you turn from him and run out of the dugout toward your car.

As you open the door of your old beat-up station wagon, a hand reaches around you and slams it shut. For a moment, there is just the quiet of the night, the sound of crickets, Steve’s breath behind you, and nothing else.

You turn and look at him, your makeup completely smeared from the water cooler, body shivering in the crisp night air. His hand stays on the door, head tilted down as he struggles for something to say.

He lands on, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You demand.

“For missing your graduation. And for tonight. I don’t know what my problem is.”

“Maybe you just outgrew me. It’s okay if you…” you swallow hard. “If you’re done with me.”

Steve’s eyes meet yours, a stunned expression on his face as if you just slapped him.

“Done with you? I’ll never be done with you. Never. I can’t. Not when I-”

“When you what?” Your hands are shaking again, this time for a completely different reason.

You can almost see the words forming on the tip of his tongue, but suddenly he drops them, stepping back and shutting down again. God, this is exhausting.

An exasperated growl leaves your throat as you throw your head back and look at the stars. You can feel the water drip from your hair down your legs to the backs of your ankles. You try to find the Big Dipper among the stars. Anything to keep your eyes off of him. But then he speaks.

“Why did you leave James?”

You thought he was going to say something to break your heart. You’d almost rather he do that than make you answer this question.

“Why does that matter right now?” You deflect.

Steve pulls his lips between his teeth. His hands go to his hips and then fly out in exasperation, finally landing with a slap against his thighs. He doesn’t need to speak, he just gives you that look. Eyes wide and a little frenzied. It’s the look he gives you when you’re annoying him, when he’s trying his best to love you but you’re pushing him to his limit. The familiarity that look, of fighting like you used to fight when you were kids, makes you smile.

“What’s funny?” He asks.

“Just…you.” 

Steve laughs but there’s no humor in it. He runs his hands through his hair in the way that you love, the way that makes it fly in all directions until he looks like a mad man. It’s so endearing you take some pity on him and decide to answer. 

The anger from earlier has been drained out of you. Everything he’s doing, every expression, every mannerism is so familiar, so very him, that your inhibitions go up in flames.

“Can I tell you a secret?” You ask him.

“Always.” He responds, the quickness of his answer wrapping you in comfort like a warm blanket over your wet, shivering shoulders.

“And you won’t tell?”

“Have I ever?” 

“No, you haven’t.”

You step toward him and he almost seems like he’s going to step back. His defenses are up, confused by your sudden change in demeanor. 

Once you’re close enough, you reach out and rub a palm over his head to straighten his hair, like you’ve done a million times. Like you did the night of the snow ball in eighth grade, giving him a pep-talk to ask Mindy Tompkins if she wanted to dance. Like you did before he appeared in court to testify in his parent’s custody hearing. Like you did before he interviewed for his first job. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s thinking of all those times, too.

“I left James because we got in a big fight. I was yelling, he was yelling…” 

At the mention of James yelling at you, Steve’s jaw tightens. “He yelled at you?”

“Don’t worry, any hell he gave me I gave him right back,” you wink at him. He fights back a smile because he believes you.

With a deep breath you continue, “we were fighting all the time, and then one day he said something that just…something I think he’d probably been trying not to say for a long time. And I couldn’t even fight back, because I knew he was right. So, rather than try to lie, I just left.”

Steve waits a moment, giving you the chance to keep going, but then; sensing you’re having a hard time with the rest, asks, “what’d he say? If he was mean to you I swear to God-”

“No, no,” you chuckle. “He wasn’t mean. He was right.”

You shut your eyes and breathe in deep, steeling yourself, willing yourself not to chicken out.

“He said that I would never be able to give myself to him fully. Not when my heart belongs to somebody else.”

Steve’s jaw tightens then goes slack. “Who does it belong to?”

You tilt your head and smile a sad, knowing smile.

“...c’mon,” you whisper, begging him not to make you say it.

For a long moment, you just look at each other. 

The air is tight between you, threatening to snap, only you don’t know if you want to find out what will happen when it does. Will you be drawn to each other, that delicate space between you that’s held you back for so long finally giving way? Or will you be propelled apart, any chance or ‘maybe’ that lives in the back of your mind dying in the dirt under you.

“Y’know, the morning of my first day teaching here, I was so excited,” Steve confides. “I woke up early.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You woke up early?”

“I know, right?” His lips twist into a smirk. “I was up before the sun, I tried on like four different outfits. I was so excited. And the day went perfectly fine, the kids seemed to like me. Even the teachers whose classes I used to cut seemed happy to see me. But when I got home that night, I just sat in the dark in my living room, sipping room temperature beer and feeling like, I don’t know…empty, I guess.”

You frown, hating the thought of him alone like that, wishing he didn’t have to spend even one second of his life not being his carefree, easygoing self.

“It took me a long time to figure out why I wasn’t having fun. The life I worked for was right in front of me, I have a job that I got completely on my own, without my dad wielding his influence. I even bought a house, it’s tiny, nothing like the one I grew up in. But it’s mine.”

“I’m so proud of you, Steve,” you interject.

“But see it’s not right. None of it is right. My life will never be right...”

You hold your breath, somehow knowing in that inexplicable way you’ve always known him down to your core, exactly what he was going to say next.

“...unless you’re in it. But you were with him. And I knew after him there’d be someone else, and that person would never be me. So I stopped calling. Stopped thinking about you, hoping if I moved on from you I’d finally find a life that makes me happy.”

His eyes glass over just slightly. He steps back, just an inch, just enough to study your face with pinched eyebrows, like he’s bracing himself for a fatal blow.

“And did you?” You ask, almost too quiet for him to hear.

“Do I seem happy to you?”

You study him, your lungs aching with the breath you’ve been holding.

“So you don’t want me to be your best friend anymore?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I want you to be my girl.”

“Steve.” You step closer, and this time, he doesn’t move away. “I’ve always been your girl.

Then it happens, it finally happens, the invisible string between you, always pulled taught, fraying at the edges, snaps. Like magnets, your bodies snap together.

His hands fly to your hair, yours to his shoulders. Your lips hover for just a moment, just one excruciating, exhilarating, delicious moment. And then they meet.

Steve kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. Like he’s been slowly and carefully mapping it out for years. But a groan escapes him when you finally part your lips and invite him in, realizing it’s so much better than he’d imagined. 

It is everything it’s supposed to be. Drenched confessions of love lead to screeching tires and running stop signs until he finally gets you back to your new apartment. Doorway kisses lead to hands gripping each other desperately as he walks you toward the bed.

You’d been kissing like that for what felt like days, laying across your bed, tangling together, rolling in the sheets in your now mostly dry clothes. After forever like that, Steve pulls back, tentatively beginning to unbutton your top. His fingers are shaking.

Placing your hand softly over his you ask, “are you nervous?”

“What? Nervous? I’m not…I’m definitely not…” he hangs his head and sighs, “yeah, okay. Yeah I’m really nervous.”

His cheeks are scarlet as he avoids your gaze. When he finally looks back up at you, you cover your face in your hands, peeking at him through your fingers.

“I’m nervous, too,” you confess.

The shared relief breaks you both into a fit of laughter. There had been so much build up to this moment, years of it, that now that you’re here, it feels impossible.

“Is this real life?” You ask him through your giggles.

“I honestly don’t know,” he croaks out, making your belly shake with another round of laughter. You’ve both lost your minds.

When the hilarity finally dies down, you look over at Steve, the golden glow of a streetlamp washing over his face.

“Maybe for now you could just hold me?” You suggest.

With a rush of relief, Steve pulls you into him, your back to his chest, legs tangled together. 

“Yes, I’ll hold you,” he whispers in your hair, “you’ve got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hold you just like this.”

“Hmm, I think I might have some idea.”

You fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other, and sleep more soundly than you have maybe ever.

The night comes and goes, the sun eventually rises. And though neither of you wants to, you eventually get out of bed. Steve’s team has an away game two towns over, and you have boxes to unpack. 

So he leaves, you shower, eat, spend the day distractedly unpacking books and clothes, only to rearrange them again and again, just killing the time until you see him again. Hours pass so slowly they feel like days, and as the clock ticks, reality hangs in the air outside your window, threatening to bring you back to earth. Just as you’re wondering if you’d really imagined it all, you hear a knock on your door.

You swing the mahogany open, standing flushed and expectant in the short blue satin dress you hope he’ll love, cheeks pink and not just from your rouge. Steve's eyes drift up and down like he hasn’t seen you in days, despite having his hands on you just this morning.

He leans against the door frame as he devours you with hazel eyes. He’s cleaned himself up, wearing a black sport coat over a black shirt, a single swirl of hair falling over his forehead despite his obvious attempt to hairspray it into place. It’s okay, you like him messy.

His gaze may be confident but his words come out in a clumsy stammer.

“You…it’s…just…aghhh.” He throws his head back, eyes shut tight as he tries to gather his thoughts.

“Yes, Mr. Harrington?” You tease, only flustering him more.

He just shakes his head, tongue poking into his cheek.

“It’s not fair.” He laughs.

Your smile finally breaks through, heart swelling. The arms that held you tight last night belonged to a man, but in front of you now he’s still the devilishly cute schoolboy you’ve been harboring a secret crush on since your playground days.

“Is that a compliment?” You ask.

“It’s a compliment.” He steps over the threshold and grabs you by the waist, finally finding his voice, “a compliment, a praise, a prayer-”

He cuts his own musings off with a kiss, arm looping around your back, crushing your body into his until you’re lifted to your tippytoes. You sigh into it, bunching his lapels in your hands as if you could possibly pull him in any closer. He kisses you so fiercely, his lips eventually slide off of yours, leaving a trail along the corner of your lips, your cheek, the sweet spot behind your ear. He sucks there, just slightly, until your knees turn to water and he has to hold you up for real.

“Speaking of things that aren’t fair,” you exhale.

Steve’s laugh is muffled against your ear and he pulls back to look at you. His lips are stained red from your lipstick. You grin wildly at him as you swipe your finger along each lip to clean him up. 

Seizing the opportunity, he holds your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles, then your palm, down to your wrist. If you don’t stop him, you know you’re seconds from ditching your dinner reservation. When his lips press to the pulse point inside your wrist, you consider never leaving the house again.

Then your stomach grumbles, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.

“Hungry?” He jokes, letting your hand fall only to lace his fingers with yours.

“Mhm, probably because I skipped dinner last night…” you remind him.

“Let’s get you fed then.” He tips his head toward his waiting car in the driveway. “You’re gonna need your energy.”

“Oh will I?” Your eyebrows raise, daring him to elaborate further.

“Oh yes.” He nods earnestly, though you still catch that teasing glint in his eye. “You’re gonna want to enjoy your dinner, ‘cause I’ve got big plans for dessert.”

You scoff and slap his arm, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your heart skipped a beat at the thought. Apparently, he wasn’t nervous anymore.

The restaurant is nice. Nothing like the dive bars and diners you’ve spent most of your friendship terrorizing. Your Friday nights usually consist of digging through Steve’s car for coins so you can play the same song on the juke box twenty times. On those nights, you take bets on how many people you can annoy out of the bar while you throw back cheap beers and sing badly to the bartender. 

But tonight, Steve is a total gentleman to everyone you encounter - the valet, the hostess, the waiter, even the busboy gets a crisp five dollar bill slipped into his palm as Steve tells him, “thanks for taking care of us.”

You stare at him from across the table, head tilted and eyes studying him.

“What?” Steve asks, wiping his face as if maybe there was a glob of chocolate left over from the soufflé you’d shared.

“Nothing, it’s just…” your lips scrunch, considering how to say what you’re thinking without hurting his feelings.

He leans closer from across the table, “tell me, baby. You can tell me anything.”

You know it’s true. He’s been your number one secret keeper your entire life. But something shifted last night, and now it feels like you’re holding each other’s bare hearts in your hands, everything tinted with a vulnerability that wasn’t there until he’d kissed you.

“I’m just wondering,” you lay your hand over his, “when you became such a…man.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek, considering your words. You’re nervous you offended him until he turns his hand over to hold yours, giving your fingers a reassuring squeeze.

“Do you not want me to be a man? Because I’ll be literally anything you want me to be. An animal, a vegetable, a mineral, you name it, and I’ll be it.”

Relief pours over you at his joking. It’s clear the same Steve you’ve spent your favorite days with is still the one who’s sitting in front of you tonight.

“I just want you to be you.” You squeeze his hand back.

“Yeah but maybe there’s parts of me you haven’t met yet,” he suggests.

You consider his words. They almost make you sad, like you’re jealous of anyone who's gotten to see any version of him you haven’t yet. Suddenly, you’re hungry again. Not for another five star meal, but for him. All of him. Last night you’d barely gotten a taste, but suddenly, sitting across from him, lights low and his eyes fixed on you, you’re not nervous anymore. Not at all.

You need to do it all again, to see if you can find the boy you love within the man. See if you can have both.

The toe of your shoes run up his calf, lifting the pleated fabric of his trousers as they go.

“Well then why don’t you introduce me?”

Without another word, Steve motions to the waiter to bring the check.

Once home, you stand at your vanity, removing your earrings and the gold necklace you’d worn to dinner - a locket Steve had given you for your birthday in the tenth grade. He had told you he found it on the school bus, but later, his mom had let it slip that he’d spent all of the money he’d made mowing lawns in the summer to buy it for you. Your heart squeezes as you trace your fingers over it now. The signs that he was in love with you had really been there all along, you just hadn’t been paying attention. You’re done missing things.

“Steve, can you help me with something?” You call out.

He stops halfway through pouring your coffee - the flimsy excuse you’d made to invite him inside after he drove you home - and makes his way to your bedroom.

When he appears in the doorway, your eyes find his in the mirror.

“Can you unzip my dress for me?”

Steve swallows, stepping toward you slowly. When he pulls the zipper down, you swear you can feel his fingers shaking a little. Maybe he too feels the importance of this moment, that what happened last night was inevitable, but what happens next will be far more important. He’s never been this quiet before. The thought makes you miss him, even though he’s standing right behind you.

Once the zipper is as low down your back as it’ll go, you turn, meeting his eyes. He’s blinking back at you, both of you breathing shakily, unsure of what comes next.

“Do you still want this?” You ask him.

Steve’s eyes sweep over your face, landing back on yours with an almost aching intensity.

“I’ve always wanted this,” he swears. And you believe him.

“Me too.”

You lift your hands to slide off the straps of your dress. Steve sucks in a breath and doesn’t release it for several seconds, the anticipation nearly killing him. 

You take your sweet time lowering the fabric, torturing him as you let the silky threads fall away slowly. The straps finally slip from your fingers, the dress pooling around your hips, leaving you half bare in front of him. He tries to keep his eyes on yours, to be respectful, but he’s only human. 

Losing the battle, his gaze drops down your body. It’s only then that he finally releases the breath he’s been holding, exhaling through his nose as his forehead scrunches. At first, you’re worried he’s upset somehow, until you realize he’s not in distress, he’s completely wrecked.

Steve’s forehead falls forward onto your collarbone. His hand finds the small of your back, clinging to you like you’re the only thing keeping him on Earth.

“I…I just…” He tries to speak, but nothing comes of it. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, soothing his worry.

“Steve?” You say, low and comforting.

“Hmm?” Is all he can manage.

“Take me to bed.”

He stands to his full height again, which forces you to look up into his face.

“If you insist,” he says, wrapping his other arm around you and pulling you up to wrap your legs around his waist.

Steve lays you on the bed softly before standing to pull his suit jacket off.

“I think I promised you dessert?” He smirks. He’s trying to muster that bravado he’d shown at the restaurant, but that’s not what you want right now.

You pull the rest of your dress down over your hips, leaving you in just your bra and underwear, a matching lacy set you’d selected just for him. He looks down at you in awe, his whole body tight, from the tick of his jaw down to the firm grasp of his hands on your waist. 

“You too.” You nod to his clothes, the only thing standing in the way of getting what you so desperately want.

He stands at the end of your bed, and you rise on your elbows to watch. Slowly, he slides the suit jacket off his shoulders and lifts the black sweater underneath over his head. His trousers go next, pooling in a pile at his feet until he’s standing in only his socks, boxers, and white undershirt. He gives you a shy smile.

“All of it.” You insist.

With a deep, shaky breath, he pulls the shirt over his head, revealing his broad chest and that pillow of chest hair that’s been filling your dreams since you were seventeen. He’s bigger than the last time you saw him shirtless. His chest is solid, his stomach taut and chiselded. His biceps are defined, but not bulky, a pulsing vein running down them all the way to his forearms. He’s been working out, clearly, and selfishly you hope it was all for you.

Lip drawn between your teeth, your chest rises and falls with anxious breaths as he removes his socks one at a time and then finally hooks his fingers into the waistband of his boxers. 

“Wait,” you say, and he freezes instantly.

You rise on your knees, shifting toward him on the bed until your fingertips find the goosebumped skin on his stomach, “let me.”

He watches with wide eyes as you gently push his hands out of the way and slip your own fingers under his waistband. Your eyes stay locked to his, looking up at him with a smirk as you lower the fabric over his hips and let it fall away down his legs. In your peripheral vision, you can see him, hard and ready, just inches from brushing against your belly. But you just keep your eyes trained on him as you slide your hand between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his cock, your touch featherlight.

He twitches in your hand and you can’t contain your satisfied smirk. When you run the pad of your thumb over his slit - already leaking desperately - his head falls forward, hair hanging over his forehead and eyes screwed shut. 

“Th-that is…” He can’t find the words. You’ve got him speechless and it feels so damn good.

This is what you wanted. To watch all his efforts to seem cool and calm melt away and reveal his truest self. The self that’s desperate for you, the self that’s always been at your mercy, just like you are at his.

You run your hands over him a little firmer, and his whole body jerks forward. Laughing gently you rise higher on your knees, the hand that isn’t working up and down his shaft wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling his lips to yours. 

Steve kisses you hard and you squeeze around his base in gratitude. Then he whimpers into your mouth and every nerve ending in your body buzzes with pleasure.

Like a reward, you pull him down further, until you’re laying back on the bed, head resting on your pillow, and his body hovers over yours. One of his hands is on the mattress just next to your shoulder, and the other finds its rightful place on your hip.

He runs his fingers along the elastic of your panties, making to push them aside, but you stop him.

“No,” you command gently. “I get to go first.”

He obeys and pulls his hand back, though his eyes are squinting in confusion. Instead of explaining yourself, you lick your own palm before bringing it back to his cock. Twisting your wrist, you begin to stroke slowly, feeling his fist bunch up the sheets next to you.

“Oh, my god,” he breathes through gritted teeth. “Ah, shit, that feels incredible.”

You watch him in awe, your own mouth hanging open, adoring eyes sweeping over his features, taking mental pictures you know you’ll treasure for the rest of your life.

Steve groans, the growl in the back of his throat petering out into another whimper.

“Yes, keep making those sounds, baby,” you coo. “I love seeing you like this.”

With your encouraging words, you start to move your hand faster, twisting all the way to the tip and circling your thumb there until you drag your palm back to his base and squeeze gently. His eyes that have been squeezed shut fly open and he looks at you with pure panic.

“If you…I can’t…if you keep going I’m not gonna last,” he warns you with a breathy chuckle.

There he is. Your sweet boy. All pretenses dropped, telling you the truth without embarrassment. Your best friend, shaking above you, gasping against your skin when his forehead falls to the center of your chest.

“That’s okay,” you reassure him. “I want you to feel good. I want to watch you fall apart for me.”

“Can I…mmm - fuck - can-” he tries desperately to find his voice between needy moans, “I need to touch you.”

“Yeah?” You smile. “You want to feel me?”

“God yes,” he breathes. “I’ve wanted this for so long you have no idea.”

The hand not working him brushes his hair away from his eyes, palm caressing his cheek.

“Me too,” you admit. “I dream about this.”

“Do you?” He asks, and it melts you completely. 

Because it’s not cocky, not teasing. It’s a prayer, begging for your words to be true. Begging you to tell him he’s not alone, that you need him in the same way he needs you.

“Mhm,” you nod. “I dream about you coming undone for me. About the look on your face when you fall apart, about what sounds you’ll make when you give in.”

Steve’s eyes roll back at your words, shaking his head. 

“Okay, that’s it, I need to touch you. Now.” 

He drops his mouth to the crook of your neck, trailing down to your chest, sloppy kisses all the way down. You giggle as the last bit of his pride crumbles for you, fingers slotting in his hair to keep him anchored to you.

Once his mouth gets to the top of your breasts he pauses, tilting his face up to look at you as he pulls the straps of your bra down your shoulder. You lift off the mattress a bit to give him enough room to undo the clasp. When he pulls the lace away completely, his tongue runs over his lips, like he’s literally hungry for you.

“Are you kidding me? How are you even real?”

Steve tugs on your legs, dragging you down the bed, making you fall back onto the mattress until you’re underneath him again. You yelp in delight and his lips are on your neck again, mumbling between each kiss, “so beautiful…perfect…my dream girl…”

His words make you feel dizzy, completely drunk off this. 

“You’re so sweet to me,” you smile. He picks his head up to look at you, kissing the smile right off of your lips.

“‘Cause you deserve it, baby.”

He’s still kissing you when his fingers dance over the lace between your legs, feeling your wetness through the fabric.

“You’re also so fucking hot,” he whispers in your ear. 

Steve sits back on his knees to watch as he slides your panties down your legs. You shimmy to give him room, and then hold your breath as he runs his eyes over you, bare for him for the first time. It’s the first time you’ve ever been skittish around him, his stoic silence not relaxing you one bit.

“Listen, uh, this may sound lame but…I don’t know it’s like, sometimes I think I wouldn’t exist if you didn’t either. Does that make any sense? Like I was only put on this Earth because you were too. If I didn’t have this…I wouldn’t…I couldn’t-”

Two seconds ago you were laughing, and now he’s choking up. You sit up to bring your face close to his, making sure he hears you when you whisper, “we’ll always have this. You’ll always have me.”

You kiss his lips like it will somehow seal your words, make them permanent in his mind. He sighs into it, like he’s accepting them from you.

You try to keep him from noticing that your hand is drifting down between you again, reaching out for him, but it’s no use, he knows you well enough to know what you’re doing even when his eyes are closed.

“Yeah, no,” he scolds, pushing your hand back. “It’s still my turn.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“”We can argue about it later,” he tells you, “but right now…”

Steve grabs your shoulders, turning you so you’re on your knees in front of him, him on his knees behind you. He kisses along your shoulder and you tilt your head to give him more access, sighing in defeat. His tongue draws long stripes up your neck and up higher until they’re swirling over your ear, his tongue dipping in. You’ve never had someone do this before and you’re so surprised by how good it feels, warm and wet in the best way. You whine a little and he smiles against you.

“Your mouth is so good,” you say, not sure if you’re even making sense anymore.

“Mmh, later I’m going to taste you for real, but first…”

Without you realizing it, he’s snaked his arm down your front, his fingers finding the slickness between your thighs and sliding through it gently. The pads of his fingers drag achingly light over every sensitive nerve. Your body jolts in response, so worked up that even just this gentle touch overwhelms your senses. You’re shaking now, so much that he lays his other hand flat over your stomach to settle you. After exploring you for a few more seconds, he circles your clit, just once, and you gasp.

“There?” Steve asks in your ear when you shiver under his touch.

You nod and let your head fall back onto his shoulder.

“Yes, yes I love that.” You whimper.

“Love, huh? You love when I touch you?” 

You just nod again, knowing you look pathetic with your eyes shut so tight and your body quivering but you’re so far past caring. Steve picks up the pace, alternating between circling and tapping your clit until you’re so gone you start grinding down, riding his hand. 

Feeling that familiar tightness in your stomach, you realize you never want this feeling to end. You rise up on your knees, causing his hand to fall away. Just as he opens his mouth to protest, you reach back and wrap your fingers around his cock again. 

“Fuck.” The word comes out harsh and broken, like he’s just been punched.

Twitching in your hand again, Steve’s head falls forward to rest just between your shoulder blades. He looks down, mesmerized by the sight of your delicate fingers running over his thick length and the curve of your ass just inches away. He swears nothing could possibly be better than this, until you lean forward and guide the head of cock through your slick, dragging the tip through your folds and over your clit. 

“Jesus, fu -” Before he can get out another curse, you slide him down to your dripping hole, slipping him inside.

You both shiver in unison, frozen in place as you adjust. Steve grabs your hips but doesn’t pull you back, not wanting to force you to do anything. So you do it for him, rocking your hips back until he slides deeper inside.

“Ah…ah ah fuck, you’re so…” His breath is coming out in increasingly desperate gasps with every inch of access you give him. 

“Oh my god, Steve, can you feel how much you’re stretching me out? Feels so good,” you cry out. 

“Yeah, yes, baby, I feel it. I feel all of it.”

Once he’s fully buried inside of you, he pulls your upper body back against him. His hands are everywhere as you start to rock together - on your stomach, your tits, your neck, your hips - gripping and gliding like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll disappear. 

You’re so full of him that your mind is hazy, almost slipping away into yourself until you remember you’re supposed to be paying attention.

“Talk to me,” you beg him. “Wanna hear you.”

He groans against your ear, the vibration running down your neck. You’re grinding back onto him as he rolls his hips to hit you as deep as possible, and your breath is completely stolen. He takes a second to groan again and nip at your jaw before he speaks.

“Yeah? What do you wanna hear? That I’ve never felt this fucking good in my entire life? That you’re so tight and hot around me I’m afraid I’m gonna come already?”

In response to his perfect words, you lift your arm, hand rubbing the back of his neck. He takes the opportunity to kiss your arm before he keeps crooning.

“I’m gonna go harder now, honey. Is that okay?”

“Mhm, please,” you moan.

Steve’s hands land on your hips, pushing you forward just enough to bring you back again, testing your response. You cry out, a sharp squeal that tells him exactly what he wants to know.

“There we go. Better like that, right?” He asks.

“So good, please keep going,” you whimper.

“Well if you insist…” he jokes before bringing you forward and back again, thrusting his hips forward to meet you each time. 

The room fills with the sound of your bodies coming together over and over, the soft smacks of your ass against his thighs. The pressure of his thrusts is so good that you fall forward, supporting yourself with your hands on the mattress as he takes over the rhythm. Your moans are uncontained now, nearly crying from the pleasure.

“Gonna keep you just like this.” He hasn’t forgotten your request for him to talk you through it. “Under me, full of me. You deserve it, baby, you deserve everything. So patient with me, so good to me.”

You cry out his name, almost unable to bear the affection you feel for him. The moment is so tender you’re afraid you’re going to shatter, break into a million pieces underneath him. You can’t help the small sniffle that escapes you.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he draws you back up by your shoulders to hug you from behind, one hand tilting your chin so he can look you in the eyes. “You okay? Was it something I said?”

“Yes, it’s everything, you’re everything.” You’re afraid you won’t be able to find the words to explain it. “It’s just, I don’t ever want this to end.”

Steve’s face floods with relief, and he presses his forehead against yours. 

“It’s never gonna end.” He kisses your cheek, right over the tear that’s streaking your skin. When he kisses your mouth gently, it tastes like salt water. 

“Believe me, now that I’ve gotten my hands on you, God himself couldn’t pull them off. Never letting you go now.”

“Promise?” You ask.

He laughs once before his face goes dead serious, “pinky promise.”

As he says it, his hand is sliding down your stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps until his fingers find your clit again.

“Steve!” You sob.

It's the loudest you’ve been all night and you can tell by the way his free arm tightens around your waist that he loves hearing you just as much as you love hearing him. So you don’t hold back, words incoherent as you let out a string of moans and babbled praises.

Steve’s fingers pick up the pace on your clit as he rocks his cock in and out of you, making you tremble each time he hits that perfect spot deep inside you. Of course he’s the first and only man who has ever found it. You clench around him hard each time he does.

“Oh, shit, so tight.” He can barely grunt the words out with his jaw clenched so tight. “Are you gonna come? Please tell me you’re gonna come. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this, please don’t make me wait anymore.”

His voice is hoarse as he begs. Nobody has ever been this desperate for you before. Hell, no one has ever cared about your pleasure this much before either. The connection between you is so cosmic and intoxicating that the world is spinning around you, stars sparking behind your eyes when you squeeze them shut. You gulp down one sharp breath, and then you’re gone.

“Oh!” 

You’re shaking, body absolutely convulsing as you reach the peak, and then fall over the edge. You can’t speak, can’t even breathe, mouth wide in a silent scream as you’re hit with wave after wave of the sweetest ecstasy you’ve ever felt.

It’s almost too much, your hand grabs Steve’s, pausing his work on your clit as you pant desperately, “come with me. Please, need you here with me.”

It doesn’t take much convincing at all. It’s clear Steve has been right at the edge of it this whole time, because as soon as the words leave your mouth he’s breaking. A sound from so deep inside him, you swear its primal, rips out of his chest. The warmth of him fills you, beginning to drip down your legs where he’s buried to the hilt. Steve’s groan fades into a breathy whisper.

“I….oh my god…I love you. I love you. I love you so much,” he whispers as he twitches once more, pulling your ass flush against him so he can hit that spot you love one last time. 

When it’s over, he holds you there for several minutes. His arms are wrapped around your waist, head resting on the nape of your neck. You rub your hands gently up and down his forearms, both of you needing time to make sure that actually just happened, that it wasn’t a dream.

Only when you’re both sure this is real life does he let go. You slide down on your front and collapse into the bed. Your arms fold on the pillow so you can rest your head on your hands. You breathe the happiest sigh of satisfaction. Steve lays next to you, looking at the ceiling, one arm under his head, one on his chest. Your eyes flutter shut as you let this perfect moment wash over you.

“So…” Steve says, never one to let silence linger. “That was like, what? A five out of ten?”

Without opening your eyes you throw your hand in his general direction, smacking him on the arm as hard as your spent body can manage.

“Ow!” He fake cries. “I’m kidding!”

You turn your head to face him, cheek still smushed into the pillow. He shoots you a smirk and winks. 

You’re still completely naked and Steve doesn’t miss the goosebumps all over your skin. He lifts himself to pull the bedsheet up and over you. Giggling, you pull it higher until it’s over both of your heads. He finds you under the covers, your own little tent where only the two of you exist, just like when you were kids. 

Your lips twist, trying to suppress a smile that escapes anyway.

“What?” He asks, your smile making his cheeks go hot. 

“You said you love me.”

Bashful, he pulls the sheets back off, “okaaay, alright. That’s enough outta you.”

You laugh hard as he rolls away like he’s going to get out of the bed. You grab his arm to pull him back and he pretends he’s going to fight you on it for only a second before giving in and falling back onto the mattress.

When you turn on your side to face him, he follows suit, until you’re laying chest to chest, laughter fading slowly.

You reach out a single finger, running it over his jaw, across his cheeks, down his nose, even along the soft skin just under his eyes, caressing all of the features you’ve known for so long but never gotten to touch like this.

“I love you, too,” you whisper.

You thought after all these years, you’d seen all of Steve’s mannerisms. But this look on his face is something completely new, like he’d been waiting all his life to hear those words.

“Promise?” He asks.

When you lift your pinky out, he wraps his own around it.

You kiss his hand slowly and swear, “pinky promise.”

:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ.✧:･ﾟ.✧ *:･:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ

a/n: thanks for reading! i know i'm new to the stranger things au world, i hope y'all like what i came up with! may have more steve stories to come! xoxo

[iwanturvideobby]

they were literally written in the stars, you can’t convince me otherwise.

[suprclark]

things we don’t say to keep each other safe — ( steve harrington )

steve harrington x fem!reader

you spend days convincing yourself steve harrington chose distance because you were too much. turns out he chose it because he cared too much.

🏷️ 3.9k — mutual pining, reader overthinking ( as a full time job ), steve harrington being protective to a fault, best friend’s sister, angst, miscommunication, sibling bonding, bittersweet comfort, kinda rushed ending

request — [ anonymous ] hi! hehe, i saw that you were open for requests, and before anything, i just want to say that i’m literally obsessed with your fic rn. like, i just keep rereading your stuff 😭 but anyways, i was hoping if you could make a steve harrington x henderson reader hurt/comfort fluff, wherein she is a very feminine, whimsical gal. she and steve have something going on, but she can’t shake the feeling that steve hasn’t fully moved on and starts doubting and comparing herself because she isn’t like nancy. but it’s obvious that steve has moved on because he’s so down bad for her. please and thank you 😼🙏

author's note — hi hello. this absolutely ran away from me and i may have strayed a little from the original idea but the emotions took the wheel. this fic ended up being a lot more about reader and dustin than i expected, but i kind of loved letting that bond hurt and heal too. i’m heavily considering a part two where reader and steve actually sit down, talk everything through, and finally get that second date they deserve. let me know if you’d want that because i have thoughts.

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ────────

You stood in front of the mirror with your tongue caught between your teeth, hands lifted behind your head as you tried to tame a ribbon bow that had absolutely no interest in being tamed. It kept tilting to the left, like it was judging you. You tugged it, adjusted it, then sighed and leaned closer to the mirror.

The girl staring back at you looked put together enough. Dress smooth. Hair decent. Smile nervous. The bow stayed crooked anyway.

Your traitor of a mind chose that exact moment to wander.

It dropped you right back into the memory you had been trying very hard not to replay for the past three days. The day Steve Harrington had asked you out.

It had started innocently enough. You had gone to pick up Dustin from his friend’s house. Steve’s house. Which was already unfair, because you had found out exactly ten minutes earlier that the house belonged to Steve Harrington, former King of Hawkins High, former boyfriend of Nancy Wheeler, and long time owner of your hopeless, year long crush.

You had sat in your car for a full minute before getting out, staring at the windshield. You were not prepared for that. You had not dressed for that.

You told yourself it was fine. Totally fine. Steve had been dating Nancy forever, which meant he was safely filed away in the mental cabinet labeled “Absolutely Not Happening, Do Not Touch.” Except Dustin, with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball, had casually mentioned a few weeks ago that Nancy was now dating Jonathan Byers. You had tried to play it cool while asking follow up questions that were definitely not cool at all. You were pretty sure Dustin had narrowed his eyes at you at least once.

So you walked up to the door anyway, heart doing something inconvenient, and knocked.

Steve Harrington opened it.

Of course he did. Hair perfect (as always), smile easy, sleeves rolled up. He had greeted you like it was the most normal thing in the world, like you had not spent a year pretending not to stare at him in the hallways. He had thanked you for picking Dustin up, stepped aside to let you in, and just like that you were standing in his living room trying to remember how to exist as a human being.

You had survived it. Barely. You had collected your brother, endured a very pointed look from him when you tripped over absolutely nothing, and left with your dignity mostly intact.

Two days later, you had gone back.

That time, Steve had walked you to the door while Dustin grabbed his bag, and somewhere between polite conversation and you nodding too much, Steve had scratched the back of his neck and asked if you wanted to go out with him sometime. You had said yes a little too fast, then immediately worried you sounded desperate, then worried you sounded rude when you tried to correct it.

The date itself had been. . . good. Actually more than good. It had been easy. You laughed. He laughed. He told you a story about him and Dustin that sounded suspiciously like babysitting. You had watched him talk with his hands and thought, very clearly, that this was a mistake because you were absolutely going to get attached.

And then it ended with a promise to call.

But he had not called.

Which is how you ended up here, fighting with a ribbon bow and trying not to overthink the silence. You had avoided asking Dustin about it, mostly because the one time you had mentioned the date and if Steve liked you, he had made a face like you had just told him you were joining a cult. He had muttered something about Steve being awesome and then changed the subject to Dungeons and Dragons. You took the hint.

You let out a breath and stepped back from the mirror, hands dropping to your sides. Maybe the bow was too much. You tilted your head, squinted at your reflection, and felt the familiar itch of second guessing crawl up your spine.

Maybe the ribbon made you look like you were trying too hard. Maybe the summer dress was too soft, too hopeful. Maybe the whole thing screamed girl who thought this meant something when it probably did not. You smoothed the fabric anyway, fingers restless, heart louder than it had any right to be.

Maybe you had mistaken kindness for interest. It would not be the first time. You had always been very good at romanticizing moments that were never meant to be more than moments.

Maybe you had been too much.

You swallowed.

That thought settled in quietly, the way the worst ones always did. Maybe Steve Harrington had gone on one nice date, laughed a little, enjoyed the company, and then gone home and realized it was easier if you stayed exactly where you had always been. Dustin Henderson’s sister. You could not even blame him. It made sense in a way that hurt more because of how reasonable it felt.

The door creaked open behind you.

You turned, startled, and immediately felt guilty when you saw Dustin. He was taller. When had that happened? His hair was messier than usual, his backpack slung over one shoulder. You realized, with a small sting, that you had not actually had a proper conversation with him in days. Weeks, maybe. Everything lately had been rushed hellos and distracted goodbyes.

He looked less like the kid who used to burst into your room to tell you about every tiny detail of his day and more like someone who had started keeping pieces of his life to himself.

“Oh,” he said, lips twitching. “Is Steve taking you out?”

You shot him a glare. “Do not start with me, Dustin.”

That wiped the smile off his face. He hesitated (the sight made your heart sting a little), then stepped fully into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. “Okay,” he said. “Sorry. You just look nice.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, turning back to the mirror even though you did not want to look at yourself anymore.

There was a pause. You could feel him watching you.

“So,” he said, “is Steve taking you out?”

You groaned and spun around. “Oh my God, Dustin.”

“I’m just asking,” he defended. “You’ve been dressing up a lot lately.”

Your chest tightened. You had not realized it was noticeable. “I just. . . I thought maybe,” you started, then stopped. The words tangled in your throat. You laughed weakly. “This is silly.”

His grin faded just a little. “Wait. Did he not call?”

Your silence answered for you.

Dustin winced. “Oh.”

You sank down onto the edge of the bed before your legs could give out. “I know this is probably annoying,” you said quickly. “I know I shouldn’t keep asking you. I just. . . you’re around him a lot, and I thought maybe he said something. About me.”

You picked at a loose thread on your dress, not looking up. “Did he?”

You expected the usual answer. A vague “he’s busy” or “he’s just Steve.” Something to keep you afloat.

But this time it did not happen.

When you finally looked up, he was chewing on his lip, eyes fixed on the floor like it held the answer he did not want to give. He walked over and sat beside you.

“Dustin,” you said softly. “What?”

He sighed. “I think. . . maybe Steve still likes Nance.”

“Nance?” you repeated, a little numb. “Nancy Wheeler?”

Dustin nodded. “I mean, not like he’s trying to get back together with her or anything. She’s with Jonathan. But he still talks about her sometimes. Not in a weird way. Just. . . I don’t know.”

You forced a smile that did not quite work. “You’re close with her now?”

His face lit up instantly.

“Yeah,” he said, a little too fast. “I mean, she’s awesome. She’s like. . . really smart. And brave. And she doesn’t freak out when things get scary. She’s kind of the coolest person I know.”

You swallowed. You were close with Nancy. You liked her. Which somehow made it worse. Listening to the way Dustin talked about her, the genuine admiration in his voice, you realized he looked up to her. Looked to her in a way that used to be reserved for you. You wondered when that had changed. You wondered if you had missed it. And that realization made something twist uncomfortably inside you.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

Dustin kept talking, unaware of the spiral forming behind your eyes. “Steve talks about her sometimes. Not a lot, but he does. I think he just doesn’t know how to stop feeling stuff.”

That did it. The last bit of air left your lungs, leaving you hollowed out and aching. It was not just Steve anymore. It was the way Dustin had found comfort somewhere else. The way you had missed it. The way you wondered if you had not been around enough, if you had been too busy with your own life to notice him growing up and leaning on other people.

“So,” you said, forcing a smile that did not reach your eyes. “That’s great. Good for him.”

Dustin finally looked at you and his expression faltered. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied. “I’m fine.”

He nodded slowly, unconvinced, then stood. “I’m gonna go. You, uh. . . look nice. Even if it’s not for Steve.”

“Thanks,” you said, voice small.

He left, door clicking shut behind him, and the room felt too quiet afterward. You stayed where you were for a moment after the door shut.

Eventually, you pushed yourself up and walked back to the mirror.

Up close, the bow looked ridiculous. You reached up and untied it slowly, letting the ribbon slide free and pool into your hands. The moment it rested there, something in your chest tightened. It felt wrong, like it had never belonged on you in the first place. Like you had pinned on a version of yourself that wasn’t real and then acted surprised when it didn’t hold.

You stared at your reflection. The dress suddenly felt like a costume. It clung where it shouldn’t, hung where you didn’t want it to, like it had been designed for someone else that was definitely not you. Someone who didn’t have to think this hard about being liked.

You swallowed again.

You had always thought being soft was the answer. Smiling first. Listening more than you spoke. Being warm, understanding, positive even when it cost you something. You thought if you were gentle enough, people would want to stay. That they would choose you because you made things feel easy.

But Steve had loved Nancy. Still loved her, maybe. And Dustin, your baby brother, looked up to her now. Trusted her.

And you couldn’t stop the thought from creeping in, sharp and ugly.

Maybe being soft hadn’t made you approachable. Maybe it had made you forgettable.

Maybe you had made yourself too easy to overlook. Someone safe. Someone who didn’t ask enough, didn’t push, didn’t demand to be seen. Someone who smiled through things instead of being real about them.

Your reflection looked back at you, eyes a little too bright, lips pressed together like they were holding back words that had been swallowed for years. You barely recognized her. She looked like someone who didn’t know how to take up space without apologizing for it.

“I don’t even know how to be mad,” you whispered to the mirror. “I don’t even know how to want things properly.”

That hurt more than anything else.

You sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed the ribbon into your palm until it wrinkled. You thought about Dustin. About the way he had hesitated before answering you. About how careful he had been with the truth, like he was already used to protecting people from disappointment.

You hated that you had become someone he thought needed protecting.

You hated even more that you might have helped make that happen.

You knew then that you couldn’t keep pretending nothing was wrong. You couldn’t keep swallowing things until they turned into quiet resentment and self doubt. You needed to talk to Dustin. Really talk to him. And maybe, if you were brave enough, you needed to talk to Steve too.

The next day, when Dustin asked you to pick him up again, it still stung.

You stared at the note he’d left on the counter, your name scribbled. Yesterday, you had been spilling your heart out to him, and today he was asking like nothing had happened. Like maybe he assumed you’d already moved on. Like your feelings were something temporary, something that faded if ignored long enough.

The thought made your throat ache.

But then you realized something else. He didn’t think you wouldn’t care. Maybe he thought you’d already learned how not to.

Maybe he thought you were the kind of person who didn’t feel things deeply enough for it to linger.

You grabbed your keys anyway and after a heavy drive you pulled up outside Steve’s house with your hands clenched tight around the steering wheel.

You knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, and for half a second, your brain forgot how to work.

Dustin stood there, blinking up at you, but behind him was what caught your eye. Steve on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Mike and Lucas arguing over something in low, heated voices. Will perched on the armrest. Nancy sitting beside Jonathan, her hand resting comfortably on his arm. Max sprawled on the floor and a bald girl you didn’t recognize sitting cross-legged.

Everyone froze when they saw you.

You froze right back.

“Oh,” you said, dumbly.

Before you could even process what you were looking at, Dustin stepped outside and shut the door behind him a little too quickly. The sound echoed louder than it should have as you pushed down the heavy feeling settling in your stomach.

You straightened, the motion stiff. “Hey,” you said. “Uh. You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” he said fast, already moving past you toward the car.

You followed, heart thudding, questions piling up so fast they tripped over each other. You waited until he slid into the passenger seat and buckled in before getting behind the wheel yourself.

You started driving.

Silence stretched. It pressed against your ears, against your chest, until it felt unbearable.

“So,” you said finally, keeping your eyes on the road. “What was going on back there?”

“Nothing,” Dustin replied instantly.

“Oh,” you said. You nodded once, like that settled it. It didn’t. Your hands tightened on the wheel. You wanted to ask more. You wanted to demand it. Instead, you swallowed and cursed yourself for always backing down, for always being afraid of pushing too hard and breaking something fragile.

You took a shaky breath. Your throat burned. “Hey, Dust?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ll tell me if anything’s going on, right?”

You hated how small your voice sounded. Hated that it wobbled. Hated that your eyes were already stinging.

There was a pause. It was just a second long but it broke something inside you.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

You nodded again. “Good.”

You pulled into your driveway moments later. Dustin was out of the car before you’d even turned the engine off, backpack bouncing against his shoulders as he hurried inside. The front door shut behind him with a familiar thud, but this time it didn’t feel comforting.

You followed him in slowly.

He was already halfway up the stairs when you spoke again, your voice barely louder than a whisper. “Dustin?”

He stopped, turned around, impatience flashing across his face. “What?”

Your chest tightened painfully. You gripped the stand near the stairs, fingers digging into the wood like it might anchor you. Your lower lip trembled, and you bit down hard, trying to keep yourself together. It didn’t work. Tears blurred your vision anyway, slipping free despite your best effort.

“Would you,” you started, then had to stop and breathe. “Would you tell me something?”

His expression shifted immediately. Concern replaced irritation as he took a step back down. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, shaking. “Am I a bad sister?”

He stared at you like you’d spoken in another language. “What? No.”

You laughed weakly, the sound breaking halfway through. “I think I am,” you said. “I think I messed up somewhere and I don’t even know when.”

Dustin rushed down the rest of the stairs and stood in front of you, hands hovering awkwardly like he didn’t know where to put them. “You’re not,” he said quickly. “You’re not bad at all.”

Tears spilled freely now, sliding down your cheeks. You wiped at them with the heel of your hand, frustrated and embarrassed. “You don’t tell me things anymore,” you whispered. “You used to tell me everything. I used to be the first person you came to. And now I find things out by accident, or not at all, and it feels like I missed something important.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I see you looking up to other people,” you continued, voice cracking. “And I get it. I do. They’re amazing. They’re brave and smart and strong. And I’m proud of you for finding people like that. I just. . . I didn’t realize I’d become someone you didn’t need anymore.”

“That’s not true,” he said, immediately.

“Then why does it feel like it?” you asked.

He hesitated, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

That hurt more than anything else.

“That’s not your job,” you said quietly. “It’s not your job to decide what hurts me,” you continued, voice trembling now that you’d started. “Or to protect me from things just because you think I won’t be able to handle them. I’m your sister. I’m supposed to be in it with you. Even the hard parts.”

He swallowed hard.

“I just. . . I feel like I don’t know you anymore,” you admitted. “And that’s terrifying. You used to come home and tell me everything. About school, about friends, about things that scared you and things that made you excited. I knew who you were becoming because you let me see it.”

Your vision blurred again, tears sliding down without permission. You didn’t wipe them away this time.

“And now,” you whispered, “I see it in the way you rush past me, or in the way you stop yourself before saying something. Like you’re erasing your life around me. Like I don’t get full details anymore.”

Dustin’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His face crumpled, guilt written all over it. “I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

“I know,” you said, nodding. “But you did. And I kept telling myself it was normal. That you were growing up. That I should be proud and give you space. But it still hurts. It hurts feeling like I’m the last person to know things about you.”

You let out a shaky laugh that held no humor. “I feel like I blinked and suddenly you had this whole world I’m not part of anymore.”

“That’s not true,” he said again, but his voice wavered now. “You’re still important. You’re always important.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” you asked. “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

A tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away roughly, clearly upset with himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize I was doing that. I swear I didn’t. I feel awful. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t enough.”

You pulled him into a tight hug, holding him like you used to when he was smaller. He clung to you just as hard, burying his face into your shoulder as quiet sobs wracked his body.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated over and over.

You pressed a kiss to his hair, eyes closed. “I know. I'm sorry too.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ────────

That night he told you everything.

About Jane. About how she wasn’t just a girl with a shaved head but someone who could snap a person with her mind. About the Upside Down. Demogorgons. Vecna.

You nodded through it all.

You listened, even when your brain struggled to catch up.

But strangely, horrifyingly, the thing that shook you the most wasn’t the monsters or the danger or the way your brother had been risking his life while you thought he was just staying late with friends.

It was Steve.

Dustin hesitated before saying his name, eyes flicking up to gauge your reaction. “He wasn’t ignoring you because of Nancy,” he said. “That was. . . kind of an excuse.”

You stilled. “What do you mean?”

He rubbed his hands together, nervous. “Steve didn’t want you anywhere near this. Any of it. He said if something happened to you because of us, he’d never forgive himself.”

Your breath caught.

“He asked me,” Dustin continued. “Like. . . a lot. If you were okay. If you seemed upset. If you’d asked about him. He kept saying it wasn’t fair to drag you into danger just because he liked you.”

Your heart twisted painfully. “He liked me.”

“Yeah,” Dustin said quickly. “Likes. A lot. He just didn’t know how to explain why he was pulling away without telling you the truth. And we couldn’t tell you the truth. We decided it was too dangerous.”

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “So he ignored me to protect me.”

Dustin nodded. “Pretty much.”

You leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. Relief flooded through you so fast it made your chest ache. You weren’t imagining it. You hadn’t been too much. You hadn’t been a mistake. He had cared.

And then the anger followed close behind.

“You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that you both decided to lie to me. For my own good.”

Dustin winced. “When you say it like that—”

“I trusted you,” you interrupted. “Both of you. And you just. . . decided I didn’t deserve to know what was happening.”

“We thought you’d be safer,” he said, guilt heavy in every word.

You stood, pacing the kitchen, running a hand through your hair. “Do you know how stupid I felt? Standing in front of a mirror thinking I’d scared him off. Thinking I wasn’t enough.”

“I’m sorry,” Dustin said again. “I really am.”

You stopped pacing and looked at him. He looked smaller somehow.

“I’m relieved,” you admitted. “And I’m mad. And I don’t know which one is more.”

“That’s fair,” he said.

You exhaled slowly. “Next time,” you said firmly, “you don’t get to decide for me. I don’t care how dangerous it is. I don’t want to be protected by being pushed out.”

He nodded immediately. “I promise.”

You sat back down, exhaustion washing over you. Steve Harrington had cared enough to stay away. Your brother had cared enough to carry secrets alone.

You pressed your palms together and laughed softly. “I’m going to kill him,” you said.

Dustin cracked a weak smile. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ──────── © suprclark . all rights are reserved. copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or works as your own is prohibited .

[garrettswellsy]

Rip Steve’s beamer so many fics took place in the backseat of that car

[sanguineterrain]

let me know that it's real - s.h.

Summary: You get stood up for a date. Steve finds you first.

Pairing: best friend!Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings/tags: reader gets stood up, love confessions, and, wait for it... friends to lovers! shocking, i know.

****

Your skirt squeaks against the vinyl of the booth as you shift. Your butt had begun to hurt around the half hour mark, and now, creeping upon nine o'clock, your legs are asleep.  

Your eyes water and you quickly dab at the unshed tears, partly out of not wanting to cry in public but also, you've spent a hell of a time doing your makeup tonight. You had felt pretty in your daisy patterned blouse and your new flared skirt, but now, it doesn't seem worth it to have agonized over such a thing. Your lips are sticky with pink gloss that you anxiously reapply every ten minutes. 

You pull out your compact again, checking your mascara to make sure it hasn't run down your cheeks. Not that it matters. 

"Miss," comes a voice from above. The waitress is back. "You gotta order something if you wanna keep the table."

She sounds sympathetic, maybe a little pitying. You try to ignore it. 

"Right," you sniffle, sounding nasal. "I'll have a, um, basket of fries. And a Coke. What time is it, by the way?" 

She checks her watch, wincing. 

"Ten to nine. I'll get those fries for you. Do you want 'em with cheese? On the house."

"Oh. Y-yes, please. Thank you."

She takes your menu and disappears back to the kitchen. You stare at the empty seat across from you, quietly lamenting. You should've known better than to accept a date with Andy Beltran. You'd been so desperate though. Not for Andy—not in a million years—but for somebody to take your mind off the true object of your affections. Even for a night. You haven't been able to think about anybody else since the tenth grade. It's, in a word, pathetic. 

Your Coke arrives first and you sip it absently, chewing on the straw. Around you, friend groups and couples alike chatter away, spending their Friday night properly. You've just wasted a whole night on a guy you hadn't even liked that much to begin with. And isn't that just like the universe, smushing your face into the dirt when you're already down. 

A knock on the window startles you. Sweet brown eyes meet your own. Oh. Steve.

Wait.

Steve? Shit, fuck! 

You scramble for a napkin to dab your extra tears. Steve stares at you for a moment, brows pinched. Then he marches away. That's fine by you—welcome, even. Especially right now, in the throes of your plane crash of a date. 

"Y/N?" 

…And he only walked away to come inside and speak to you face-to-face. Shit.

"S-Steve, um, hey. Hi. Uh, what are you doing here?" 

You hurriedly wipe your nose. Steve's brows crinkle. You can't hide anything from him. 

"Feels like I should be asking you the same thing."

"Here's your fries, hon," interrupts the waitress, setting down a plate of gooey cheese fries and a wad of napkins. 

She glances in Steve's direction, brow crooked disapprovingly. 

"Not polite to make a lady wait like that, y'know."

Steve's eyes widen. "What?" 

You hope the booth splits open and swallows you. Somehow this is more mortifying than actually being stood up. 

"No, it's not him," you say quickly. "He's a friend."

She looks at you, then at Steve. 

"A friend, huh?"

You sink into the vinyl. Steve takes a careful step forward, eyeing the waitress like she might whack him upside the head with her notepad. 

"Well. Let me know if you need anything else," she finally says, and walks away. 

Steve takes the empty seat across from you. 

"Hey," he greets gently, more tender than you deserve. 

You give a watery smile. 

"Hi, Steve."

"You look really pretty."

Pins in your heart. Steve sounds so genuine you almost want to cry. He's looking at you like you're the only one in the diner.

"Thanks," you say softly. 

"D'you have a date?" 

"Well, not anymore," you scoff.

"What? Who in their right mind would ever stand you up?" 

"Andy Beltran," you mumble. 

Steve won't ever make fun of you. He's better than that, has good friends to keep him and his hair in check. Still, you don't want to see the pity written across his face as you admit that you can't even get Andy Beltran, who's a solid seven on the sleaze scale, to go out with you. 

"Beltran?" Steve's nose crinkles. "A box of cereal would make a better date."

"Yeah, well, at this rate, I think a box of cereal is my only option."

You take a fry, the grease and salt welcomed by your growling stomach. Steve pushes a lock of hair back. He's handsome, the glow of the OPEN sign outside dancing across the contours of his face. You bite your fry and ache. 

"You deserve way better," he says earnestly, baby browns boring into you.

"Thanks, Steve."

"I mean it," he insists. "You do. You're, like, the coolest person I know." 

"Cooler than Robin? Better watch yourself."

"I can keep a secret if you can," he winks. 

You push the fries closer to him, gesturing. Steve takes a fry, then frowns. 

"Are you hungry?" 

"Well, the fries—"

"No, let me buy you a meal. We don't have to stay here either. I'll get you anything you want."

He doesn't mean it how it sounds. Steve's not promising you the world. But it sure feels like it. 

"You really don't have to—"

"Y/N," he chides. "C'mon. Let me. You deserve a good night. You got all dressed up and everything." 

Steve gestures to his own attire. 

"I don't exactly measure up here, but you should at least get a good BLT out of me."

"Okay," you agree, cheeks suddenly warm. "Thanks."

Steve beams and flags down the waitress. You order first. Steve asks for a slice of Oreo cheesecake. At his beckoning, you order a strawberry slice. 

"It'll be out shortly," the waitress says, smiling at you. 

Steve picks up another fry as she goes, shaking his head. 

"All these years we've been friends and you still refuse to acknowledge chocolate superiority," he sighs. 

"Strawberry wins every time. Plus, it's a pretty color."

Steve throws a hand up. 

"Where did I go wrong?" 

You giggle. "Guess you shouldn't have become friends with me then.”

"Nah," he says. "Best decision I ever made."

You don't know what to say to that, so you pop a fry into your mouth and ignore Steve's eyes on you. 

"What're you doing out this late anyway?" you ask.

"Robin was out today so Keith had me lock up. I was gonna order to-go here, since it's close. Didn't know you had a date tonight."

It's not an accusation. Steve's stating a fact. You didn't tell him. Which is weird, because you tell Steve everything. Except if you'd told Steve you had plans with Andy, he would've told you to cancel because Andy's a jerk. And you would've done it because Steve's right. 

And then you'd be home right now, wishing you had a place to put all your love.

"I, um, didn't think it was worth mentioning," you eventually say. "Not like I'm winning any prizes with Andy Beltran."

"Do you like him or something?"

"God, no," you say before you can think about it. 

Now Steve is really puzzled. You and your big mouth. 

"So why did you go out with him?" 

"I…" you trail off. "I don't know."

You don't have a better answer than that. You wish you could be honest with Steve. He's never less than kind when you tell him anything. 

But that's exactly what you're afraid of. You can't bear the thought of vomiting your feelings for Steve, all for him to be kind about them. 

"Well," Steve says. "You could've called me, y'know. To pick you up. I would've taken you home."

"It's late. I didn't wanna be a bother."

"You're never a bother, Y/N,” he says. “Never, never, never.”

You smile and hide half of your face. 

“You’re a good friend, Steve.”

“Best friend?”

You laugh. 

“Yes, of course. There’s no competition.”

Steve beams at you, pink-cheeked, like you’ve just awarded him the highest honor there is. 

The waitress arrives with your food. You dig into your BLT, Steve his reuben. He takes a big bite and smears Russian dressing on his nose. You giggle behind your sandwich.

“Hmm?” he asks, cheeks full like a chipmunks.

That only makes you laugh harder and you take a napkin from the dispenser. You gesture for him to lean forward and wipe his nose. He scrunches his nose.

“You’d think the Harrington boy would know how to eat properly,” he says when he swallows. “Especially in such lovely company.”

You roll your eyes but your neck burns with nerves.

“Not lovely enough, apparently. Couldn’t even pull Andy Beltran.”

Steve’s brows furrow as he picks up his Coke.

“What’re you talking about? You’re the prettiest girl in Hawkins.”

“Steve.” 

“What?”

“Don’t lie to me, that’s what.”

“I’m not!”

“I’ve seen those girls who flirt with you,” you say. “I know a lie when I hear one.”

“I’m not lying!” he insists. “You’re beautiful, Y/N, I swear on the kids. It’s a fact. I’d much rather look at you than any of those girls.”

The lump in your throat grows.

“Even so,” you say, quieter than before. “It’s not enough.”

You drag a fry through your puddle of ketchup and avoid Steve’s eyes.

“Not enough?” 

“Well, yeah.” You scoff. “I mean, look. I wasn’t enough for Andy. I’m not enough for anybody.”

Not enough for you.

“Y/N,” Steve says, gentle and kind and you know that he’s trying to make you feel better, which only makes it worse. “You can’t really believe that.”

“I can barely score a date, Steve.” You laugh but it hurts. “I think it’s pretty obvious I’m not enough.”

You stare at your sandwich because you can feel the tears rushing in. And it’s so silly to cry over tonight. You don’t even like Andy. Most of you is relieved he didn’t show. But it just solidified what you know to be true: you’re not meant for this. And if you can’t even hold Andy’s attention, getting somebody you truly love is impossible.

“Y/N, you’re more than enough. You’re–you’re, God, you’re absolutely incredible. Out of this world! Not just for some guy but for anybody. Friends, family, dream job, whatever. You can do it all.”

You shake your head, tears sliding down your cheeks. 

“I’m not,” you rasp. “Oh, Steve, I’m plain. Nobody likes plain girls. I’m leftovers.”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“But it’s true!” you cry. 

Thank God there’s hardly anybody in the diner. The waitress is nowhere to be found. You draw your arms around yourself and cry into your plate.

Your booth dips. Steve gently coaxes you further into the seat. Then he wraps an arm around your back and one over your arms. He pulls your head into his shoulder.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes. “You’re not leftovers or plain or anything like that. You’re dynamite.”

You sniffle and shake your head.

“No—”

“Yes,” Steve interrupts. “Yes, you are. I’d never lie to you, honey. You’re the most amazing person I know.”

You fist his shirt. Steve’s neck is warm and soft. His hair tickles your ear.

“I’m no good.”

“You are,” he says. “You’re so good. You’re perfect. Anybody’d be lucky to have you.”

“Not you.”

It’s a tiny confession, one that can’t even begin to encompass your unfathomable love for Steve. But you might as well have announced your crush on cable TV.

Steve freezes. 

“Me?” he whispers.

You squirm. You need to run, but there’s nowhere to go.

“Never mind.” You try to pull away. “Forget it.”

“No, wait, hey. Y/N, honey, hold on.”

You cover your face. Stupid, you’re so stupid.

“Y/N, please. Please look at me?”

Steve manages to wrangle your hands away. You look at him, tear-streaked and mortified. Steve makes a soft noise and carefully brushes your tears.

“Oh, oh. No, don’t cry,” he pleads. “Please don’t cry. I don’t ever want to make you cry.”

“I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry, Steve, I don’t—”

“Y/N, hey. It’s alright, it–it’s more than alright, really…”

“Don’t do that,” you hiss. 

Steve’s eyes are wide. 

“Do what?”

“Don’t be all kind and understanding. I know you spare lots of feelings, Steve. Don’t spare mine.”

His hands go to the sides of your face. You sit and brace yourself. 

It’s okay, isn’t it? Steve will forgive you for loving him.

“I’m sorry,” you say again.

“Please stop apologizing.”

You shake your head.

“I can’t do anything more,” you whisper. “All I can do is apologize for how I feel, Steve.”

He traces the apple of your cheek with a knuckle, lips parted. He looks at you through his lashes and shakes his head.

“Never,” he says. “Never apologize for that.”

And he kisses you. He kisses you and it doesn’t taste like forgiveness at all. 

Your glossed lips stick to Steve’s. He puts a hand on your spine like you’re not close enough and butterflies flit in your belly. You loop your arms around his neck. 

You fit. How you thought any different, you don’t know.

Steve is warm and everywhere and you can smell his lemony shampoo and taste your vanilla lip gloss on his lips. He pulls back and holds your chin with his thumb and pointer finger.

“This is the best failed date ever,” you blurt.

Steve laughs, eyes dark and sweet. You want to kiss him again and again.

“Three years,” you say before you can convince yourself not to. “I’ve loved you for three years.”

Steve is stunned. You shift. Have you botched this good thing before you’ve begun? Have you–

He holds your face again like he can’t help himself.

“Four,” he says, because of course he has to have been in love with you longer than you have him. 

You lean back in for another kiss.

“Worth the wait.”

[headkiss]

upside down

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: using the (many) requested prompts: “how do we get out?” “if you die i’m gonna kill you” “i almost lost you” “you need to wake up because i cant do this without you” “do you want me to stay?” being trapped—and injured—in the upside down with steve leads to a new development in your relationship.

word count: 5.7k

warnings: some s4 spoilers, blood?, it’s angsty and fluffy

a/n: hiiii this one took a while to write so i hope u guys enjoy it!!! i also hope the anons don’t mind i combined the requests buuut they fit together so here u go :)

༄

You didn’t think being friends with Steve Harrington would lead you to feel so fond, so protective, over a group of misfit kids. You didn’t think you’d end up tangled with another dimension called the upside down. You definitely didn’t think it would bring you here, at Lover’s Lake, waiting for Steve to resurface after diving in to find a gate.

You didn’t think you’d be in yet another battle with the upside down, but you were. You cared about the people around you, about the kids, Robin, Nancy, even Eddie who you’d only recently met, and you cared the most about Steve. So, in a way, you were glad you were here, glad you could help. You just wished it was over.

You and Steve became close in freshman year of high school, even though you’d known each other for most of your lives. You’d always been civil, kind to each other, but in freshman year, you became friends. You were put together as lab partners in chemistry, forcing you two to be around each other for a period every single day for a year, and you just clicked.

You stuck by each other through it all. Through the angst of growing up and feeling awkward, through random crushes and relationships, through his time with Nancy and the fallout afterwards, through his ‘King Steve’ era. It was like nothing could push you apart, a friendship made to last.

You couldn’t help falling in love with him, really. When he was with Nancy, and your stomach would drop at their displays of affection, you brushed it off. But, when they broke up, and he really leaned on you to get him through it, you just felt him getting deeper under your skin. He cuddled with you and placed kisses on your head like a boyfriend would, but you were only friends.

Watching him dive down into the dark water of the lake in search of a gate to a deadly dimension was not fun for you. No, it had your hands shaking and your mind reeling with worst-case scenarios. You couldn’t take your eyes off of the spot where he dove in, even after the ripples had gone away. You thought maybe if you looked hard enough, he’d float up to the top, back where it was safer. Back with you.

It felt like ages before he finally surfaced, breathing in deeply before reporting back to everyone in the boat.

“I found it. It’s sort of like a baby gate, but still pretty damn big.”

“That’s good, now get back in the boat please.” You tugged on his arm, wanting to get him in the boat before anything bad could happen.

He smiled that Steve Harrington smile at you, “worried about me?”

“Yes actually, so can you get in?”

He pushed himself up, but before he could get in the boat, he felt a tug on his ankle, then he was being pulled. He tried to kick whatever was pulling him down away, but it was useless. He was through the gate, landing hard on his back and groaning in pain. Then, he was being attacked by some bat-looking monsters. Biting and scratching, even choking him and he was panicking.

All he could think about was that if he died, he’d never get to see you again, and he’d leave you behind. Something he promised he’d never do.

You audibly gasped when Steve was pulled away from you, back into the water. Your immediate reaction was to stand up and jump in after him, so that’s what you did. Despite everyone’s protests, you dove right in, no second thoughts. You swam as fast as you could, trying to get to Steve before he was pulled through, but you weren’t quick enough. So, you followed him through the gate.

You pushed yourself through the gate, barely noticing the others coming in after you because of how focused on Steve you were.

Once you got your footing on the other side, you searched around you for Steve. For your best friend. Your stomach dropped when you saw him, laying on the ground with bats attacking him. He was fighting for his life, pulling at the tail wrapped around his throat to try and get air into his lungs. You ran over to him, not even registering everyone else starting to swat at the bats with oars and other weapons.

“Oh my god, Steve.” You were panicking, trying to find something to help get the bats off of him. When that came up fruitless, you decided to just use your hands. You pulled at the bats biting his stomach, ripping them off of him and turning their attention onto you. They were scratching and biting at you as you moved onto the one around Steve’s neck.

Nancy ran over when she was able, using the oar to hit the creature enough to get it to loosen its grip on Steve. Once he could suck in a breath, Steve grabbed the tail of the bat, repeatedly smashing it against the ground before ripping it in half. He was panting hard and he spit a glob of blood out of his mouth.

You noticed his balance failing him, rushing to his side to steady him. “Hey, hey. Talk to me. Are you okay?”

Your voice was what brought him out of his daze, searching for your eyes before responding, “never better.”

You were staring into each other’s eyes then, not thinking about the three onlookers or the deadly things all around. You were so glad he was alive, but he wasn’t in a good state, and you were worried beyond belief.

Robin snapped the both of you out of it when she saw more bats coming your way, “uh, guys. I hate to ruin the moment but we should probably hide.”

Eddie was mumbling to himself before yelling out in frustration, “Jesus H Christ!”

Nancy, ever the responsible one, directed you all towards the forest, “Come on!”

You held onto Steve’s hand as you ran, not wanting to leave him behind. His pace was slower because of his injuries, and you weren’t going to let him stray from the group. You had to keep him right by your side, where you could see and feel him beside you.

After way too much running for your liking, the group had reached skull rock, or, the upside down version of it. The adrenaline seemed to wear off once you were all done running, especially for Steve. He was swaying on his feet, leaning against the rock for purchase as you held onto his shoulders trying to keep him upright. His hands were covering his stomach wounds, like if nobody could see them they weren’t really there.

You weren’t having that, though, so you maneuvered him so his back was against the rock, leaning on it with more stability. You then grasped his wrists in your shaky hands, pulling them away from his body so you could see the damage done. Everyone else was silent, trying to let the two of you have a moment because they knew the kind of connection you had.

You sucked in a breath at the sight of Steve’s injuries, “shit, Stevie. How bad does it hurt?”

“Oh this? It’s nothing, really.” He was trying to cheer you up, even though he was the one in pain. His eyes heavy, but focused on you and your face.

Robin decided to speak up, to try and break the tension in the atmosphere, because it wasn’t a good one. It was fear and pain. “Still as cocky as ever, Harrington. I’m amazed.”

He smiled at Robin, but you were still panicking over him, “does anyone have anything to wrap it with?”

Luckily, Nancy was levelheaded and a quick thinker, and she stepped up to you and Steve, ripping the bottom part of her shirt off to use as a makeshift bandage.

“Think this will work,” she looked towards you, “can you help him lean forward so I can wrap it around his back?”

Nancy had noticed how shaky your hands were, how you wouldn’t be able to be the one to do the wrapping that would cause more discomfort to Steve. She knew you loved him and she wanted to help you. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do if Johnathan was in this position.

You nodded, blinking hard to get rid of the tears you didn’t realize had gathered in your eyes. “Yeah. Of course.”

Your mind was going wild, you couldn’t lose Steve. You’d lose a huge part of yourself if that happened, and you almost did. All you wanted to do was help him but you couldn’t. You couldn’t take his pain away, hell you couldn’t even get your hands steady enough to wrap a piece of fabric around him.

You put your hands back on his shoulders, pulling him off the rock and towards you. His hands were on your shoulders, too. Finding purchase on you not only physically, but mentally. He thinks if you weren’t here with him, he’d have passed out already. From the pain, from the exhaustion. But he forced himself to stay conscious for you, to be able to watch over you and make sure you’re okay.

Nancy spoke up as she knelt down, “this is probably gonna hurt, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just do it.” Steve was taking deep breaths, trying to stay solid and still so she could wrap him up and help the bleeding stop.

You squeezed your eyes shut when Nancy pulled the fabric around him, not wanting to see the pain on his features or the blood seeping through. Though the bleeding had slowed a great deal, you knew it still wasn’t good.

Steve hissed when the piece of the shirt was tied around his waist, throwing his head back to deal with the pain in some way. His hands holding onto you tighter to let some of the pressure go.

“Too tight?”

“No, it’s good. Thanks.”

“Yeah, of course.” Then, Nancy was walking away, leaving you and Steve alone for another moment, motioning with her head for Robin and Eddie to do the same.

As they walked away, Eddie shot the pair of you a confused look, “I thought they were both single.”

Robin and Nancy shared a look; boys were so oblivious. The former spoke up, “they are. But they’re in love with each other, so we’ll give them a minute.”

You let Steve catch his breath, hoping he’d become more steady on his own if you did. You were so worried about him, and you wanted to let him know. Only, you didn’t know how to do that without confessing how you felt about him, and this wasn’t the time for that.

“Why do you always have to be the hero, Steve?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You just had to volunteer to go in. You idiot. I thought you were gonna die, Stevie.”

He cradled your face in his hands, leaning his forehead on yours before talking softly, “I’m alive. You can't get rid of me that easily, honey.”

Honey. It’s a nickname you’re used to. He’d been using it ever since your first year of friendship. It started off as something to tease you with, to remind you of one of the first things you said to him as his lab partner. You had looked at him, and it seemed like your thoughts just flew out of your mouth before you could control them.

‘Your eyes remind me of honey.’

He played it off then, teasing you for saying something with romantic undertones, when in reality he reveled in that comment. He had started calling you ‘honey’ to remind the both of you of that moment, but it’s a memory that's thought of fondly now. You were embarrassed at first, but as he continued to use it, you couldn’t deny its effect on you. It was sweet and you loved it.

“I know. Good, because if you die, I’m gonna kill you.”

It was quiet after that, just the two of you breathing in the comfort of the other. Foreheads still pressed together, his hands now on your waist, yours still resting on his shoulders. He was standing on his own now, though, which was a good sign.

You wished you could stay that way forever, but you were in the upside down and you weren’t safe, no matter how you felt in Steve’s embrace. So, you pulled back from him, looking him over and grabbing one of his hands to guide him towards the others.

As soon as you exited the shelter of the rock, Eddie threw his vest at Steve, who caught it easily. “For your modesty, dude.”

“Uh, thanks.”

Steve put on the vest, moving slowly and carefully to try and avoid aggravating his wrapped injuries. You watched as he did, eyeing his chest and his arms and the way they moved. You were so consumed by him, you couldn’t look away. Consumed by wanting to make sure he was still there, still alive. Consumed by his essence and how pretty you found him, even now. Just completely consumed.

You snapped yourself out of it, though, remembering where you were and that you weren’t alone. That you weren’t safe in his house in his room like usual. Far from it.

“So, how do we get out? We can’t go back there. ‘Cause, bats.”

You asked the question everyone was already thinking about. You were all on the same page: wanting to go home. But, that wasn’t going to happen without really thinking about what to do, and you were so concerned about getting Steve back home. Not yourself, not the others, no matter how much you cared about them. Steve would always take the top spot in your mind.

Robin spoke up next, “maybe we can go to the police station. Get some guns and grenades and stuff. Blow them up and we’re home free.”

“Yeah, Robin, I don’t know about grenades but guns, yes.” Steve spoke to her in his usual sarcastic way, in the way they always spoke to each other. You couldn’t help but smile at their banter and friendship.

“We don’t have to go all the way down town for guns.. I have some in my room.”

Eddie was shocked, but the rest of you had known, having had your share of upside down problems and seeing Nancy wield weapons like the badass she was. “Let me get this straight. You, Nancy Wheeler, have guns, plural, in your bedroom.”

She shrugged, like it was no big deal, “yeah. Let’s go.”

She was a natural leader, and so, everyone followed her when she started moving in the direction of her home.

With a reminder not to touch the vines, because ‘hive mind’ and all that, you were off.

You were all moving together, though the group had split off into pairs. Everyone was still within view, and that was how it would stay in a place like this. You decided to walk on your own, to try and clear your head and focus on getting out. You didn’t want to drag everyone down while you were stuck overthinking about Steve. The boy you were in love with. You just wanted to help, with your full attention.

Nancy and Robin were walking together, talking softly amongst themselves, heads bent slightly to hear each other. They’d become good friends, you thought. There was a balance between the two. Robin was super bubbly and talkative and that forced Nancy to relax a little bit. She was often an intense person, and it was nice to see her let go from time to time.

Steve and Eddie were treading along behind everyone else, watching over the girls and following Nancy’s directions. Steve’s eyes were focused on you, only flickering away to make sure he wasn’t about to step on any vines. He didn’t like seeing you by yourself, completely lost in thought and muttering to yourself frustratedly. He felt awful.

Of course, it wasn’t his fault that he got dragged down, or that he got attacked, but he hated to worry you. You were someone who cared about others so deeply, so completely, that seeing anyone else hurt messed with you for a long time. He wished he could pull you aside, to tell you he’s alive and his heart is still beating and he’s right here.

He just wishes you would talk to him about your fears and feelings. Ever since the Fourth of July at the mall, you’d been different. Slightly closed off compared to before. He couldn’t blame you for that, he only wished you knew that he would listen to anything you had to say. Anything.

Eddie noticed the look on Steve’s face as he watched you, and decided to give him a verbal shove to tell you how he felt. It was clear as day that you loved each other, Eddie couldn’t believe you guys weren’t dating already.

“You know, the only reason I came in here was because of those ladies.”

Steve furrowed his brows in confusion. The idea that people cared enough about him to put themselves at risk was so foreign to him. His parents didn’t even care enough to be at home for more than a couple days a month, let alone try to help him.

“What do you mean?”

“They came in straight after you. But y/n.. she didn’t even hesitate. She just dove in, not a second wasted.”

“She would’ve done that for anyone. That’s who she is.” He was looking at you in a softer way, now. Because it was true, you would risk yourself for anyone in the group. He hated you for it. But he loved you even more because of it.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but if I were you, I’d tell her the truth.”

“The truth..?”

“You know.. that you love her. ‘Cause she feels the same. That was as unambiguous a sign of true love as these cynical eyes have ever seen.”

Eddie gave Steve a lot to think about in that conversation, and he had a way of speaking that was very persuasive, believable. Now wasn’t the time for mushy feelings and love confessions, though. He wasn’t going to tell you something so memorable in a place so horrid. It had to be perfect.

The rest of the way to Nancy’s place was quiet, everyone lost in thought and focus to make it there in one piece. It was overwhelming to think that one wrong step could harm any one of you. It was terrifying.

The sight of the Wheeler house—well, it’s upside down twin—had everyone breathing a sigh of relief. You were all one step closer to getting home, that’s what matters. It was a collective feeling of hope, that maybe this plan would work out.

When you got inside, you walked over to Steve and forced him to sit down on one of the couches in the living room. He gave you a questioning look at that action, his eyes searching yours. Worried and soft and sticky sweet. Like honey, you’d always thought so.

“You’re still hurt. You need all the rest you can get, okay?”

“Aw, y/n, come on. I'm fine!”

“You’re not fine, Steve!” It was louder than you intended, and you softened your tone before continuing, “you’re not fine, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself more. We’re just gonna go upstairs, get the guns, and come back. Can you please stay here?”

As much as he wanted to help, he could see the pleading look on your face. He decided that for you, he’d sit his ass down for a few minutes. Anything to make you less worried.

“Okay. Fine.”

“Thank you,” you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, which was something you’d done before, but never like this. Never with the added emotion behind it, the lingering of your lips on his skin before moving away.

The others were already in Nancy's room when you got there, the atmosphere shifted. The hope you had before was gone.

Apparently, the house was frozen in time, the day Will Byers had gone missing, to be exact. A time before Nancy had her guns here. So, you were stuck. Once they’d caught you up on the lack of weapons, the room was silent. Nobody knew what to do next or what to say. That silence was broken when you heard Steve yelling from downstairs.

Your stomach dropped, because you thought he was in trouble again. Once you got down the flight of stairs, though, you discovered him walking around yelling for none other than Dustin. What?

“Steve?”

He shushed you, continuing to walk around yelling after his younger friend.

“Listen! Dustin!”

Eddie was the next to speak up, “What are you doing?”

“You guys don’t hear him? Henderson he’s here, like in the walls or some shit.”

You were all trying to listen, to hear what Steve was hearing. Then, you did. Dustin’s voice, sounding out in the room. Only, you had no idea where it was coming from.

The next thing you knew, all of you were yelling for Dustin, for help of any kind. You stopped when you noticed the soft glow, almost glitter, surrounding the light fixture in the dining room. You were all entranced by it, running your hands through it making it glow stronger.

Nancy pulled away, and you all followed, “does anyone know morse code?”

An echo of ‘No’s sounded out, until Eddie rethought his answer.

“Does SOS count? Is that- is that good?”

It all escalated after that. You had to communicate through a Lite-Brite, that was definitely Holly’s, and you had to deal with the classic Dustin attitude. That was a point for Steve and Eddie to bond over.

Now, you were all biking to Eddie’s trailer, where there was another gate that could be your escape. Nancy’s house only had four bikes, which left you sharing one with Steve. Despite all of your protests, he was the one pedaling, you seated on the handlebars.

Everyone was pushing hard on the pedals, trying to go as fast as possible towards the gate to avoid drawing the attention of the bats once more. You were surprised to see that the road was free of vines, when the forest was completely covered in them.

Or so you’d thought.

You and Steve both felt it when the bike hit a small bump, but you’d assumed it was a pebble or something of the sort. You’d been wrong. Terribly so.

Without realizing it, you ran over the tail end of a vine on the end of the road, and it was not happy about it. You felt something slimy wrap around your ankle, tug at it hard enough to pull you off the bike. You didn’t have time to react, to protect yourself, before you were hitting the pavement with a thud. Head hitting the hard ground, and then darkness.

Steve saw it all happen in slow motion. He felt the tiny jump of the bike but shrugged it off. He saw the vine reach out in his peripheral vision and felt the panic begin to set in. He saw it get its grasp on you and he saw you tumble to the ground. He saw your head making impact and he saw you fall unconscious. He saw you hurt. He saw his worst fear right in front of him.

Everyone stopped their bikes when they heard his yell of your name, scared and broken. Steve threw himself off the bike as quick as possible and rushed to get the vine off of your ankle, his hands trembling and vision blurred with tears.

The first person to run over to help was Nancy, but soon after, everyone was working together to get you free. They could all see Eddie’s trailer, you had been so close to being home.

Once your ankle was free, Steve lifted you into his arms bridal style, cradling your head to his chest trying to keep you as steady as possible. Everyone ran the rest of the way to the trailer, and Steve was holding you as tight as possible. He could feel your breaths puffing out against his bare chest under the vest, soft and small, but there. That’s what kept him going: knowing you were still breathing.

When they set eyes on the gate, they saw Dustin, Erica, Lucas, and Max looking back at them, excited that they found you all a way out. Their faces all dropped when Steve came into view holding you, though.

It was a rush from there, to get you through in the safest way possible. Eddie decided to go first, hoping to help catch you on the other side while Steve boosted you up. Once you were through and in Eddie’s grasp, Steve climbed through, needing to be beside you, making sure you’d be okay.

He couldn’t help but feel responsible for what happened to you. If he hadn’t been pulled under, you wouldn’t have swam through the gate. If he had been better at paying attention to the road on the bike, you wouldn’t have hit that vine. You wouldn’t have been pulled off and rendered unconscious.

He was so scared, more than he ever had been in his life. He couldn’t bear the idea that you might not wake up from this, that you would have permanent damage. And it was all his fault. He hated that he never told you he loved you, that he never took the chance. He supposes he should’ve listened to Eddie in the upside down.

When Steve landed on the other side, he rushed over to where you were being laid down gently on the carpeted floor by Eddie. Steve sat himself by your head, facing the same direction as your body. He pulled you up so your head was sitting in his lap.

He was pushing your hair off your face, noticing the cut on the side of your forehead that was still bleeding from your fall. He was full on panicking now. You were bleeding and unconscious and he couldn’t think straight.

Steve completely forgot about everyone else in the room, only focused on you and your condition.

“Hey, come on. Wake up.”

He didn’t know when the tears started running down his face, but they weren’t stopping anytime soon. He was in love with you and you were the only person who knew the extent of his pain and he had no idea what he’d do without you.

“Please. You need to wake up. I can’t do this without you. Please.”

Robin spoke quietly to Eddie, “tell me you have a first aid kit.”

Eddie cursed himself for not having one. He emptied it to use for storage for other items of his and he felt awful. “I don't.”

Nancy ran to the kitchen and grabbed a small towel, something to at least apply pressure to your wound until they could properly clean it up. She walked over to you and Steve, talking quietly, calmly to not freak Steve out.

“Here, to stop the bleeding. Your house isn’t far from here, right? And you have a first aid kit?”

Steve’s hand was sweaty and shaky when he reached out and grabbed the towel from Nancy, pressing it to your forehead right away. “Yeah. Yes I- I have one. I can’t-”

“Okay, come on. She’s gonna be fine, Steve. Let’s go help her.”

Eddie ushered everyone out to his van while he grabbed the keys, making sure there was plenty of room for you in the back seat. Nancy helped Steve carry you out, her hands around your legs and his under your armpits.

They settled you on the seat, with your head on Steve’s lap once again. He continued to press the towel to your head while Nancy sat in the front giving Eddie instructions on how to get to Steve’s house. The rest of the car was silent.

The kids were scared, they looked up to you and cared for you like they would an older sister, especially Max. Seeing you this vulnerable, this delicate, it really put into perspective the amount of danger they were in. Lucas and Max were gripping each other’s hands tightly, silently supporting one another in this moment.

At Steve’s house, he carried you into his room, knowing he had his first aid kit in his bathroom. Nancy went with him, deciding she’d be the one to tend to your head wound because Steve was too unstable to do it. Everyone else took seats in the living room. Heads bent, legs bouncing, nerves and fear surrounding them.

Nancy went straight into the bathroom to grab the kit, while Steve settled you on his bed. He was kneeling next to it, one hand still holding the towel to your head, the other gripping your limp hand.

“Steve? I’m gonna bandage it, okay?”

“Okay. Okay. Thanks.”

He moved the towel away, wincing at the sight of your blood on it. Nancy got right to work, cleaning and then dressing the wound the way she now knew how. Steve thought she was great, but she wasn’t you.

When Nancy was done, she walked out of the room, letting Steve have his time with you by himself, the tears still falling down his face.

He stood and grasped your face in his palms, pressing a kiss to the center of your forehead and breathing you in. Reminding himself that, yes, you were hurt, but you were also alive.

“Please wake up, I love you. I’m sorry. Please.”

Your face scrunched in pain, and Steve felt it under his lips that were still against your head. He pulled back, looking at your face for more movement.

You blinked your eyes open slowly, managing to utter Steve’s name breathily to let him know you were awake. “Ouch.”

“Hi, honey. I know it hurts. I’m sorry.”

He was still crying, but a lot of it was relief now that you’re awake. You regained consciousness steadily, gathering your surroundings and having your thoughts come back to you. What pulled you back the most was Steve, and the fact that he was crying.

“Stevie? Why are you crying?”

“I thought you weren’t gonna wake up. I was so scared.”

You sat up on the bed, moving to press your back against the headboard and patting the spot next to you so Steve would climb in. When he did, you turned to look at him, using one of your hands to cup his cheek softly, thumb swiping away the fallen tears.

“Steve, look at me. I’m alive,” you used your other hand to grab one of his, bringing it to your chest so he could feel your heart beating. “I’m okay.”

“You weren’t, though. I- I thought-”

“Shhh. I know. Breathe with me.”

You took a deep breath, his hand still pressed to your chest, and he did it with you. He was calming down now, but he was still reeling from what had happened.

“It’s all my fault.”

“Don’t you dare blame this on yourself, Steve. Don’t do that. I’m right here, if anything, you’re the reason I made it. Got it?”

He nodded, not finding any words to form a response. He was looking at you so intently now, eyes running all over your face before looking directly in your eyes. He loved you, he’d been sure of that before, but he felt it so deeply now. He’d almost lost you and the fear that shook him to his core wasn’t a platonic kind.

But he couldn’t tell you that. So, he went to get up and let you sleep, but you squeezed his hand hard. He turned to look at you again when you did, and you shook your head at him, signaling that you didn’t want him to leave.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay, honey.”

The two of you sat closer now, shoulders brushing and hands still intertwined. Nancy had come back up to check on you, and saw you in that position. She turned around before either of you noticed her presence and told the others you were okay. They all took their spots on the couches to sleep.

You wanted to tell Steve everything, and you decided you would. You don’t know if the head injury gave you extra courage, or if survival just pushed you to be open, but you started talking.

“Steve?”

He hummed in response.

“Today, being in the upside down and everything, it’s made me think a lot. I want to tell you something, okay?”

“Okay.” He was facing you now, closer together than before, ready and willing to listen to whatever you had to say.

“I love you. I’m in love with you.”

He was not expecting that. But he couldn’t help the smile that spread over his beautiful face at your words.

“I love you, honey. Today, I almost lost you. I’ve never been more scared in my life. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it first.”

You kissed him after that, gentle and soft. He kissed you back, shy with his movements because he didn’t want to hurt you or cause you any more pain. It was lazy, a slide of tired lips on tired lips. But it was perfect because it was you and Steve. It was a long time coming and now that the door was open, it was never going to shut again.

“You did.”

“What?”

“You did say it first. I heard you.”

“I thought you were still passed out. I didn't think you were listening.”

“I’m glad I was. I love you, Steve.”

“I can't believe this. I love you so much, honey.”

You knew you weren’t safe, that Vecna was still out there, and that there was still so much to do. More fighting, more danger, more fear.

But, there, in Steve’s room, finally having shared your feelings, you felt like everything was going to be okay.

[sanguineterrain]

Somebody to You - s.h.

Summary: You've never been kissed. Steve changes that.

Pairing: best friend!Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: first kiss, sweet soft Steve (lub him <3), inexperienced!reader, fluff fluff fluff. A reminder that Steve and the reader are always 18+!

divider by s-tarksintern

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"You're gonna get sick."

"No, 'm not," Steve insists petulantly, ice cream smeared on his chin. 

"It's fall," you sigh. "You didn't even zip up your jacket. You'll get a sore throat."

"I won't. I'm a trooper."

"You're an idiot."

"Yes," he agrees solemnly. "An idiotic trooper. God's bravest soldier."

"Brave or stupid?"

Steve licks his cone. A smudge of chocolate lands on his nose. 

"It's a fine line," he decides. 

You crumple your napkin, wiping away the ice cream. He grins, too goddamn cute for his own good. 

"How do girls like you? You eat like a toddler."

"I eat like a man." Steve thumps his chest. "This is how men eat ice cream."

"Definitely an idiot."

"Yeah, but who's hanging out with me, hmm? Riddle me that, Y/N."

"What was I thinking?"

"Hard to say."

"At least wear your scarf properly," you say, stopping in front of him. "Doesn't do much hanging like that."

"It makes me look cool."

You ignore his protests, handing him your own cup of ice cream so you can fix the scarf. It's nice: a ruddy red color, made of angora wool. You'd borrowed it many a time, but Steve is pretty horrendous when he gets sick and it's important to nip that prospect in the bud as early as possible. 

You wrap the scarf once, twice, then tuck the ends. Steve's neck is warm, jaw slightly rough with stubble. Plumes of breath fade into the air between you. When you meet his gaze, Steve is looking at you funny, lids heavy. You nearly trip on the sidewalk as you turn. 

"Your cup," he says, nudging your shoulder. 

You take your ice cream back without meeting his eye. Steve falls into silence beside you, matching your steps so he doesn't leave you behind with his longer strides. 

"So," he clears his throat after a few minutes. "You gonna tell me why we went for ice cream?"

"What do you mean?" you ask, scooping another bite of your treat. 

"Do I look like a sucker to you?"

You open your mouth. Steve hurriedly covers the lower half of your face with a big hand. It's cold from the ice cream, rough with calluses. You want it there forever. 

"Nevermind," he says. "Don't want you answering that."

"Mmfph!"

You bat his hand away. Steve's fingers dance across your arm. 

"The answer is yes," you say anyway. 

"Walked right into that one."

"Sure did."

Steve unlocks the car door, swinging into the driver’s seat. As soon as he turns the key, you blast the heat. 

"You're gonna eat up the gas," he groans over the roar of the heater, turning the knob.

"I'm cold."

"Who wanted to get ice cream in the first place? And who lectured me about wearing my scarf properly?"

"Dunno but she sounds really smart," you say, mouth full. "Maybe you should listen to her more."

Steve's cone is down to a nub because he inhales everything he eats. You take your time on your cup, stirring the melting ice cream with your spoon. 

"Y/N."

"Yes, Steve?"

He fixes you with a look.

"Don't yes, Steve me. You think I forgot? You had that big date planned tonight."

"It wasn't that big a date."

"Oh, I disagree," Steve says, turning in his seat. "Very much so. You were gonna pop your first date cherry. If that's not a big date, I dunno what is."

The entire week had been test prep for your first ever date. Steve and Robin had both lectured you on first date protocols, trying to soothe your nerves. In the end, it didn't matter. You hadn't gone through with it. 

"First anythings mean nothing," you mumble. 

"Did this guy do something? What's his name? Phillips, Philly, Philbin…"

"Fuller," you correct. "Jake Fuller."

Steve snaps his fingers. "That's the one! So, what, do I need to defend your honor and go rough him up?"

"And lose another fight?" you shoot.

"Oh, now you're gonna get it.” 

Steve puts his cone between his teeth to free his other hand and leaps over the console, sliding both cold hands under your shirt. You squeal, trying in earnest to bat him away. He lets you take his wrists, one knee perched precariously on the edge of your seat. 

"You're a menace," you declare.

Steve finishes his cone in one bite, crunching obnoxiously in your ear. 

"I'm a what?" he asks. "Come again?" 

"A menace!" you laugh, shaking his hands. 

Steve sinks back to his side. His hair is slightly tousled from his antics. 

"Seriously, Y/N." And this time, he really is serious. "What happened?" 

"Nothing!" Truth. "I don't even care." Half truth. 

"Did he cancel?"

You wince. "No. I did." 

"What? Why?"

You shrug one shoulder. 

"That's not an answer," he pushes. 

"I don't know, okay? Just didn't feel up to it. I—it would've been awkward. He's one of Nancy's newspaper buddies and I'm sure if she hangs out with him, he's probably not, like, a serial killer. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided I couldn't do it. I wouldn't have anything to say."

"But that's everyone's first date," Steve reasons. "My first date ever wasn't amazing."

"You? Steve Harrington? That's who we're talking about?" 

"The sass is unnecessary," he says with an eye roll. "Yeah, my first date was awkward just like everyone else's. But then you go on second and third dates and it gets better. You get practice. Like kissing, y'know?"

You sink into your seat, scratching the bottom of your cup with your spoon. 

“Right,” you mumble. 

“Wait.” Steve leans in, arm draped over your headrest. “What is that?”

“What is what?”

Steve’s so close. He smells like lemon shampoo and the expensive cologne you’d been clueless about buying for his birthday. He wears it everyday. You cross your arms.

“Why’d you respond like that?”

“I acknowledged your statement, Steve.”

You feel his eyes boring into the side of your head. 

"You've kissed people before, haven't you?"

"People? Am I planting one on everybody at the A&P?" 

“Holy shit," Steve says. "You've never kissed anybody?" 

Oh, this is torture. Spending the night locked in Family Video with Keith would be less painful.

“You don’t have to say it like that,” you huff. “Like I’m a spinster with eleven cats.”

Steve gently plucks the empty ice cream cup from your hands, setting it down in the cupholder. You tuck your hands under your thighs.

“I didn’t say it like that,” he says, softly earnest. "I just… I'm surprised, y’know?"

"Surprised that I'm a freak of nature? Well, you wouldn't be the first, Harrington."

"You're not a freak, Y/N. There’s nothing wrong with not kissing anybody.”

“Easy for you to say. Girls fall over themselves wanting you. Nobody's ever wanted to kiss me and–and I don't know. It felt like something that should be special."

"I seriously doubt nobody's ever wanted to kiss you, Y/N," Steve says quietly. 

You scoff. "What then? I'm just clueless?"

Steve shrugs. "Have a little confidence in yourself is all I'm saying. You're pretty, y'know? Guys would love to take you out." 

"You're serious."

His brow scrunches. "I said I was.”

"I'm not like you, Steve. Jake would’ve tried to kiss me and it would’ve been weird and gross.”

“That bad? You hardly know the guy."

"That's the point!" you groan. "I don't know him. You can kiss girls and it's fine, it's cool." 

"Well, I’m a great kisser," Steve smirks. "I've had a lot of practice to make it fine and cool."

“Great kisser, huh? That hair is getting a little too big, hotshot."

“Oh, baby, I only get five star reviews,” he grins, looking and sounding very much like the King Steve you remember and could hardly stand. The Steve who's good at this, good at making girls melt and kissing the air out of their lungs. The Steve who renders you shy and too quiet; who, despite his throne, has always been a pretty boy with pretty lips. 

“Hey.” Steve taps your temple with one finger. “You still there?”

“Yeah,” you say in a breath. "Still here."

"Okay. That's good."

You pull your knees in, fingers curling around the seat cushion. Steve slouches against his seat. His fingers lazily drum on the steering wheel. A sliver of freckled skin peeks underneath his jacket. You tear your gaze away. 

"Are you actually that good at kissing?"

Steve glances at you, brows raised slightly. 

"Haven't had any complaints. And most girls have no problem letting you know."

"Is it, um… fun?"

What a silly word. Fun. Like you're talking about a new video game. Why can't you be like other girls about it? Other girls make out with guys in their cars and then brag about it the next morning. I hooked up with Steve Harrington. He's so hot. Jealous?

"Yeah." Steve laughs a bit, not unkindly. "It's kind of my favorite part, actually. They become addictive when you're with the right person."

"Like Nancy?" 

Something flickers across his face. Nice, Y/N. Way to go. 

"At first," he replies quietly, because Steve never gets cross with you, even when you're the idiot, bringing up his ex. "Then it changed. Some things do." 

"Oh," you breathe. "You don't love her anymore?" 

"No," he says, staring at you. "Not sure if I ever did." 

You bend and pretend to tie your shoe. Steve sits up and unravels his scarf, tossing it into the backseat, then does the same with his coat. You steal a glance and watch his biceps shift under his pullover. Golden sunlight catches the outline of his Cupid’s bow. Your chest tightens. 

"Wanna get food? We did the backwards thing eating ice cream before dinner," Steve chuckles.

You sit up and lick your lips. Steve digs through the center console for stray cash. His long, long lashes fan over his cheeks. You flex and unflex your fingers.

"Hey, Steve?" 

"Hmm?" 

"What's, uh, what’s it like? Kissing, I mean."

He stops, lifts his head. You swallow. He squints slightly, like he can see every thought in your brain. You shake your head when he’s quiet for too long, nerves nosediving. 

"N-nevermind. Stupid question, forget it."

"It's not stupid," he says gently. "I was just thinking about how to explain it. It's kinda hard to. But you feel… connected? With your mouth. It's warm and a little wet but it shouldn't be that wet or you're probably doing it wrong."

You scrunch your nose. Steve grins. 

"But it's good. Really good. And you can put your hand on their face. Like this."

Steve shifts in his seat so he's facing you. Then his palm slides onto your jaw, thumb resting on your cheek. Your heart knocks against your ribcage. Steve has that half-lidded look again. He draws tiny circles into your cheek. 

"It’s—it’s nice,” you squeak.

"Yeah?" 

You nod. Steve glances at your lips. The leather groans as you squirm. 

"Steve." Your voice is barely a whisper. 

"Uh-huh?" 

Your brain is sludge. The longer you look at him, the hotter you burn. 

"Are–are you going to kiss me?" 

Steve goes very still. His hand doesn't move from your cheek. 

"Not if you don't want me to."

The light makes his cheeks glow, hair framing his face like a halo. Steve's hair always looks so soft. You ache to run your fingers through it. 

"I want you to."

Steve inhales sharply. He leans in, his other hand coming up to gently hold your jaw. 

"Tell me if I do anything you don't like," he says. "Okay?" 

"Okay," you promise, eyes closing instinctively. 

Steve tastes like chocolate ice cream. He kisses you with his whole being. You fumble against him, trying to follow his lead. And Steve—sweet, best friend Steve—is forgiving, patient, hungry. He presses you into the seat. You make a soft noise, grip tight around his bicep. Your arm curls around the back of his neck and you tug him in a little too hard. Steve grunts, catching himself on your hips. 

"S-sorry," you sigh into his mouth, eyes fluttering open. 

He shakes his head lightly and the mistake is forgotten. Steve sweetly squeezes your hip, drags his hand up your ribcage like he needs to be everywhere at once. Then his teeth graze your lower lip. Addictive. The word slips from his tongue to yours.

Steve pulls back first. He seems to know instinctively you both need air. But he doesn't go far, hands clutching your waist. You breathe on his shoulder, clinging like he might disappear if you don’t. And what if he does?

But you know Steve. You know he won't.

“Wow,” is the first thing you hum.

Steve’s laugh is shy. He pushes a lock of hair behind his ear, looks at you through his lashes.

“Did you like it?” he asks.

There’s a million things you can say to that. You settle on:

“I don’t want to kiss anyone else.”

Steve’s grin is blinding. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confess. “Will you do it again?”

Steve can only oblige.

[b6rntosdiee]

[palmerzy]

thank you robin, of all people, for confirming big dick steve harrington

[caxde]

wintering | Steve Harrington x reader

summary you're Dustin's older sister, your friends decide to have a Christmas dinner which lead you to invate Steve to your family Christmas lunch, and eventually confront your feelings

word count: 5.5k

warnings fem!reader, , fluff, mutual pining, yearning etc, slowburn bestfriends to lovers, idiots in love!!!, pretty tipical Chsristmas stuff, english is not my first language so I apologise if there’s some mistakes, not proof read!!

-

Every time the air got a bit too cold, and the tip of your nose turned red as soon as you stepped out on the street you had the same thought, nothing changes. 

You were still in that same town that had seen you grow up. You were still living with your mom and your brother. You still took care of them, and still, nobody took care of you. 

But in these little moments, you had a sense of calm, where your brain got quiet. Sharing a room with the people that you care the most, and that -as far as you were aware- cared about you, that was as close to happiness as you thought you might get. Robin was frantically moving form the kitchen to the living room, decorating a small table, set for six. 

It started as a joke. “What if we celebrate Christmas a week early? And we get absolutely trashed?” Eddie huffed after work late one day. While you were busy cleaning the floors of the Hideout and he was avoiding cleaning the overused coffee machine. A call later and a promise that you’d get the alcohol from that provider that always tries to make you laugh at his sexist jokes you ended up here. 

A week before Christmas, with your friends dressed up and playing the grown up game. 

Your hair was out of your face with a high ponytail, which you couldn’t stop messing up every five seconds. Your tongue was constantly going over your teeth, in case some of the red lipstick Nancy begged for you to apply found its way there. You felt a bit ridiculous, especially since Steve couldn’t take his eyes off you, and every time you caught him he’d shake his head with that short laugh that was characteristic of him. You hate to admit it, but he looked good. Intentionally good. His hair was always well kept, so seeing it fall a bit in the center caught your attention as soon as he opened the door to his house. The blue button-up shirt made him look like a real grown-up, he didn’t seem like he was wearing a costume, it really looked like he dressed up. You didn’t have the same sensation when you looked in the mirror, black was always your comfort colour, but that skin thigh dress was a bit too there for you. “You look hot.” Was the first thing that escaped Eddie’s lips as soon as he saw you coming through the door, handing you his half smoked cigarette which you accepted with a nod. “You don’t look too bad” You answered quickly. He laughed as he shook his head. It was his usual, black jeans with some washed-up shirt. Only this time he had a wool jumper that he was holding with his arm as soon as he saw you looking with your eyebrows furrowed he added “Nancy wants me to dress up nice” You chuckled as you passed by. Steve’s eyes looking in your figure. 

But that was before. 

You were all sat on the table now, and the food was coming out slowly. Jonathan had a big pan on his hands which he proudly announced was his roasted chicken, with some potatoes that smelled of rosemary and heaven. Nancy followed in closely with the gravy and a tray of spotted mac and cheese that made you smile. The sight of them made you remember how close they were to being actual hosts in their recently bought house. They were about to move, closer to the city, closer where Nancy would have real opportunities as a journalist, and closer to where Jonathan could feel the pressure disappear and enjoy his life taking pictures, and finally attend culinary classes, which he found out recently he enjoyed, and now you were tasting the benefits. 

“I’m so glad you’re into cooking” Robin expressed the thought everybody had at the same time. A river of soft yeses followed. 

Eddie started to serve everybody wine before he served some for himself. You sat between him and Steve, whose eyes would more often than not land on you, even if you weren’t aware of it. 

Time passed by quickly. The conversation was flowing without interruptions, little sidesteps occurred between them and you gleaned happily at the sight of your friends enjoying each other's company. Your right hand rested on your cheek, while your left found the half empty glass, bringing it to your lips. You could help but smile earnestly. These times are the ones you enjoy the most. Nancy and Jonathan having a strong argument about some nonsense with Robin and Eddie while you all laughed. It was always about the latest movie, or book, or record that came out and their opposing views on it. It was chaotic. It was heaven on earth. 

“What are you smiling about?” Steve whispered closely to your ear, leaning a bit closer. Your arms were touching now, you noticed. 

Your eyes quickly looked at him up and down, stopping where they usually stop, his pinkish lips, his beauty mark on his neck, his two day stubble and that wild hair. You fought a chuckle from escaping when you saw a glow invade his cheeks. 

“This.” You gestured with your head to your friends quickly, before returning to his eyes. “I wish this was how my Christmas looked” You whisper more to yourself than to him, but given the closeness of his body, he hears you. 

He also notices the note of melancholy in your tone. 

“Believe me, I get it.” Steve looks back at Robin, and the way she is laughing, loudly and without a concern. “I don’t feel alone with you guys.” 

“You feel alone?” You’re caught off guard by that comment. There’s concern in your voice and in the way you form a crinkle in between your brows that makes Steve smile softly. That type of smile where only one of the corners of his mouth curves upwards. 

“You know… Big house, and they always go away for Christmas.” He admits through gritted teeth, avoiding your big compassionate eyes for the first time this evening. “Not that I look up to having a painfully long quiet meal with them but… I’d be nice for a change.” 

“What are you doing for Christmas, then?” You can’t help yourself, every time Steve has a problem or seems down your first instinct is always the same what can I do. 

Eddie quietly noticed that look you had in your face. It was one of true devotion. He knew for a while, that you were developing feelings for your friend, he knew you better than anyone, and in this particular case, he knew you better than yourself. You don’t quite realise that your compassion and your feeling of melancholy is accompanied by true admiration and even a soft warm growing love. He smiled quietly to himself, his finger tapping Robin’s arm, nodding to your general direction. Robin smiled back at Eddie. They both knew at that moment, it was just a matter of time. 

Steve had his soft eyes fixated on the point of the table where your arm met his, and he was aware of the reaction it was having in his skin, the warmth it left. But neither he or you were conscious of the way your bodies faced each other, about the magnetic field you could create around the both of you. Robin couldn’t wait to nag Steve about it later. 

“I’m uh… I’ll stay here, probably watch Labyrinth or something and have some of these leftovers and go to bed.” He admitted, his soft voice interrupted by the wine falling down on his throat. 

“Well, I’d advise you to clean that shirt.” You had already made a decision. You smirked at his confused stare. 

“What's wrong with this shirt?” 

“Nothing, it’s a great shirt.” 

“Then why do I have to wash it?”

“Because you’ll have to wear it for Christmas.” 

“I’m wearing pajamas." He was confused and decided at the same time. 

“No, you’re not.” You finally let your laugh escape from your lips, which in turn made Steve’s lips curve even more. “You’re coming home, and you’ll have stuffing, and danish potatoes and pork and everything you want. You’re not staying here.” 

“I couldn’t” He was adamant to accept your offer, even if his smile was brighter than you had ever seen. “It’s your family.” He tried to argue as if it made a difference. 

“And my brother loves you more than he loves me” You added in return. “Besides, if you come my aunt Kathy won’t ask why I’m not bringing anyone.” 

“What, like a date?” He was flustered. And so were you at the idea of it. 

“She’s always asking about my love life, and I can’t really tell her that its a fucking disaster because she’ll say that’s because she swept my feet when I was little.” Steve furrowed his brown trying to hide an amazed chuckle. “Don’t ask.” 

“What, so I’m your…?” that tinge of hope filled the silence. It grew as you thought about the possible ends that sentence could have

“You’re my friend. Let her focus on your love life for a while.” You shut your moth as you drank, feeling that coldness of the wine in the back of your throat, not wanting to think of that image that came to your mind for a millisecond. 

An image of you walking holding his arm, entering your house with all the lights on, while you looked like the happiest pair, all sealed with a quick kiss that felt familiar. 

not real. You had to remind yourself as you swallowed another quick sip. 

“Are you sure?” Steve asked for confirmation, a single ounce of doubt in your tone or a flinch in your eyes and he’d know if he should leave his house. 

“Please.” You whisper back as your fingers play with the rim of your glass. A soft playful roll of your eyes makes him grin. “Anything for you, Harrington.” 

-

“Did she really say that?” Robin inquired as she whipped the leftovers of the plates on the bin. Slowly and focused on the wrong thing. 

“The eyes were the worst thing.” Eddie continued, splashing them with water before starting to clean them by hand. “You know those soft puppy eyes?” 

“The glassy kind?” Robin added before looking back at him and stiffing a laugh. “Dude, Steve’s parents are rich, use the dishwasher.” 

“Yeah– what dishwasher?” He lost his trail of thought for a moment. Robin turned around, quickly pointing to the hidden machine, reclining her body against the counter so she could continue theorizing about her friends, one of her favourite hobbies. “Fucking Harrington.” 

“Yeah.” Robin waited for a beat before trying to get back on track. “So, Steve’s spending Christmas with the Hendersons?” 

“By personal invitation of our drunken friend” He added as he looked back at you for a second, you were sneakily going through Eddie’s jacket. “Dude!” He yelled as soon as he realised what you were doing. 

“Duuude” You mocked him, holding the palms of your hands up. 

“The fuck are you looking for?” 

“I just wanted to smoke and I can’t find mine.” You tried to justify yourself. 

“That’s because you gave them to me, they're in my pack pocket.” He said as he dried his hands on a rag he found hanging from a wall. He shook his head with a side smile before looking at Robin. It was a quick glance, but enough was said. Get information, regroup. “I’ll come” He finally added while he walked to you, patting his back pocket and handing you your blue camel pack. “You’ve got a light?”

“Yeah.” You lead the way out of Steve’s house, letting the cold hit you right on your chest, enjoying the sharpness that invades your lungs as you breathe in. 

It takes a while for Eddie to say anything. You enjoy the warmth that the flame of the lighter leaves on your fingers, and the comfortable silence that was about to be broken, listening carefully to Eddie sighting before lighting his own cigarette. 

“So…” He analyzes how to start the conversation, stepping from behind you. He can see that you’ve had a little bit more to drink than usual, your cheeks are red, so is the tip of your nose. Your eyes are heavy and half closed, he can’t help but grin as he tries to find the right words. “Harrington..?” He looks at the ground, not really sure why he’s not capable of saying anything else. 

“What about him?” You almost sound defensive. You turn around slowly to face him, enjoying the way the smoke comes out of your lungs, not really sure when it stops and becomes your breath. It all looks the same in the cold, you briefly think. 

“You invited him to your family’s Christmas?” He inquires, his eyebrow raised as he inhales again. 

“Yeah” 

“Why?” 

“Why not?” 

“Dude.” Eddie was amazed by how much you tried not to show your feelings in this second, it was only made worse by your nervous swinging, your left hand playing with the fabric on your waist, as your right fiddles with the end of the cigarette. It was endearing. “When have you ever brought anybody to your Christmas family bullshit?” He sounded cynical, yet he had those sincere kind eyes that let you know he was being legitimately sincere. 

“I haven’t really, but c’mon, it’s Steve.” You tried to argue, not really listening to yourself. Taking a small breath in before continuing. “And who cares? He’s by himself on Christmas, nobody should.” 

“Except, it is a big deal, and a lot of people are going to care.” He counters, taking a step into your direction, with a serious expression. “If you look at me, deeaad in the eyes and tell me you feel absolutely nothing for dear old Harrington, I’ll drop it.” Eddie used that over the top voice he usually used when he knew the narrative was on his side, accompanied by the usual head tilt that shook his entire hair. 

You felt the strings being pulled. 

The single heartbeat that you skipped. 

The cold getting to your skin. 

The small realization that he might be right. 

That you might have a second intention that you weren't aware of it yet. Was it possible? Did you actually have some deeper more difficult and complicated feeling for Steve than you thought? 

It wasn’t an insane thought. Not really. 

It was actually a very real possibility. 

Especially when you thought of him, and you paid attention to the way your body reacted. You think back to the dinner, and how your skin felt hot and tingled every time your arm made contact with his, or his knee bumped into your leg. 

Your eyes darting between his and his lips. 

The urge you had to run your fingers through his hair. 

You ended up saying the only thing you thought of. 

“I can’t. I might.” 

-

Back in the living room, a very similar conversation was happening between Robin and Steve. Nancy had hushed Robin out of the kitchen once she realised she was cleaning the greasy plates with cold water. 

A very bored Steve was sitting on the couch looking out the window, more specifically at you. 

Steve turned his head around as soon as he heard that familiar chuckle. 

“Hey loverboy.” She teased as she let her body fall into the couch, all of a sudden, bumping his body a little bit. 

“Fuck off.” He scoffed in an attempt at self defense, a last plea for his dignity. He knew deep down, he was about to crumble. 

“How deep are you in?” Robin didn’t give in, she continued pushing. She recognised that look in his eyes, that gleam of hope you only get when you’re deeply falling for someone. 

“Pretty fucking in.” Steve knew it was no use. If he tried to lie Robin would know. If he tried to hide his feelings, he might burst  right here and there. 

“When?” She demanded, a look of compassion now that she saw the way his eyes dimmed when they were not looking at your back. 

“About an hour ago. When she invaded me and she had that look that she gets. You know the one. That melting into her hand thing. I dunno, I’ve liked her for a while but that… fuck, Robin. I dunno.” He whispered to her, afraid that anyone would hear. He was being incredibly sincere, he wasn’t fidgeting, there wasn’t a trace of nervousness on his voice. Robin had never seen such calmness and decisiveness in his friend. 

“How can you know in an hour?” It was the only thing Robin was sure she could ask, or the only reassuring thought she could offer in a time like this. 

“I’m not. I just know I wanna see her smile like that again.” 

With that they both knew something was blooming there. Robin didn’t say anything else, she just laid her head on his shoulder and muttered softly. i get it, which in Steve’s opinion, was the best thing that could happen. 

-

“Dear, can you come help me?” You looked straight into Dustin’s eyes, begging for him to answer. 

“I’ve been in the kitchen for four hours, please?” You tried to beg, holding your hair with both of your hands, trying to pin it up and away from your face in a way that looked good. 

“Five bucks.” He answered without hesitation. 

“Two and I don’t tell aunt Shelly about camp.” You bargained, just as fast as he answered. 

“What about camp? She knows I went to camp, she let me sleep in her house the night before.” 

“Yeah, but I bet she doesn’t know the bedrooms were mixed, and that you were in the same cabin as your dear Suzie Poo.” He cut you off before you could continue, you left a chuckle a soon as you saw him shake his head through the mirror. 

“Okey, jeez.” He added before quickly glazing at you for a second. “You’ve got lipstick on your teeth.” 

You frantically inspected, finding not a single red stain on them. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Why are you getting so dressed up anyway?” 

“Dunno, felt like it.” You tried to push him away, not wanting to answer more questions about your behaviour today. He caught the shift in your demeanor and quietly left the room you were in, raising his hand apologetically. 

You were far from feeling like it, you were usually nauseous before family gatherings, so that wasn’t necessarily anything new, but knowing that Steve was about to come in, knowing that you hadn’t actually figured anything out, knowing that you were unsure of every ounce of feeling you felt, made your head spin. So you obsessed over every single detail you could control. 

You had helped with the preparation of half of the menu, in anticipation for the various comments, that way you could divert them into the food, and deflect by giving compliments to the organization of your mom and her sisters. 

You locked yourself away in your room laying different options on top of your bed, painstakingly trying them on again and again, looking at every angle on the mirror. You wanted to look nice, but were terrified of the comments your family could make about your body. You were always too skinny for someone, too full for someone else, ate too much or too little. In the past, you’d wear an oversized shirt and call it a day. But that same black dress hung in your view. 

You took it, with a little red jumper over it. Just in case. 

Nancy had gifted you the lipstick. So you went to the bathroom, where Dustin was fixing his hair. 

And that’s where you were left, obsessing over how your hair fell on your back, and how much of it you could pin up, keeping it out and away from your face. 

As fate would have it, as soon as you stepped out, a soft nervous knock could be heard on the door. 

You slowly walked up to it, even if you already knew he was on the other side, you couldn’t quiet your heart, it beat loud and fast. It slowed once your eyes met his. He had a red flower plant on his right arm, and a couple of small boxes on his left. 

“Hey” 

“Hi” You answered before stepping out of the threshold. You glanced at the flowers quickly before returning to his eyes. He had that usual grin,  though his cheeks were more flushed than usual. 

“These are for your mom.” He admitted shyly, hiding his face behind them for a second, so he could compose himself. He chose the shirt you liked, and panicked with his hair for five minutes before getting out of the car. 

“They’re lovely.” Steve flushes at the way your eyes are shining, and how sincere your voice is. You on the other hand are touched he even had the thought to buy something for your mom. 

You both walk quietly to the kitchen, where your mom is frantically going over all the preparations with her older sister. It wasn’t a big fuss, he politely gives her the flowers, thanks her for letting him be in her house on Christmas and she reacts the same way you did, reassuring him that nobody should be alone on these days. 

He still thanked her profusely and introduced himself to your aunt Kathy, you were busy looking at him with a wide smile to notice that she smiled once she saw you next to him. 

You quietly walked to the living room, the fireplace was cracking softly as you both sat down on the couch. 

“What’s that?” You point out, your hand gracing the back of his, you flinch it back quickly once you feel that electric feeling growing right on the spot you touched. 

“Oh. Uh, this is for Dustin, this one’s for you.” Steve tries to not have a modulation on his voice, as if giving it to you didn’t make him feel like a little kid. 

“I didn’t get you anything…” You blurted out feeling ashamed you hadn’t thought of it, your cheeks were getting warmer by the second, it didn’t help feeling him that close, the cushions underneath you giving to both of your weight, making your hips touch. 

“You already did. I’m happy I’m not eating badly reheated turkey” He scoffs, cracking a joke that makes both of your lips curl upwards. He hands you the small box, allowing his fingers to rest on your palm for a second longer than they should. 

You didn’t say anything, you just looked at him. You lids half closed as you could help but let your cheeks rise up, a thruthfull smile that made Steve chuckle, it was a weird feeling. He was enjoying being the reason you smiled so sincerely, and it was a high he was determined to chase for the rest of his days. 

He just realised. If this is what it feels like, I don’t want to feel it for anyone else.

He just stayed there, careful not to move too much while he watched you carefully inspect the wrapped box, as you tilted and moved it, trying to guess what it was. 

Before you were able to open it, you were called to the table. You left it behind the tree where nobody could see, a quick glance to Steve, whose crinkled eyes gave you a feeling of calmness that you had been chasing for a while. careful. Something deep within you begged. don’t give in yet.

-

It was smooth sailing. 

Nobody really questioned anything, seeing how familiar Steve was with Dustin, watching how he was treated as one more of the family, it put you at ease. Aunt KAthy pushed to see if he had someone, which he adamantly admitted he did not. Not without looking at you first, which echoed a cackle between your extended family that you just blew off. Even if your cheeks matched the colour of your lips by now. 

It was all going well. The conversation flew, the food was good, you dodged some questions you didn’t feel like answering and the wine was poured. Steve had closed the distance between your ear and his lips in that moment. The warm breath that his words left on your skin made you try even harder not to appear nervous, squeezed your thighs harder for just a moment, until his cologne wasn’t as present, once you stopped feeling as if you could swim in it you could breath again. All of it just to say that he was happy you invated him, and that he could see the wine getting into your eyes. Which in return made you turn around quickly, your eyes still fixed onto his, he smiled shyly, softly and carefully biting his lip as he listen to you closely. As if the world didn’t exist. “What do you mean, the wine is in my eyes?” You hushedly asked, your chin resting on your hand. “You have the same look you did on our dinner. You just look more beautiful today if that’s even possible.” He tried his luck. 

It worked quickly. His grin grew bigger when he realised that you averted his eyes quickly. Flustered. Enjoying the way you took another sip. Memorising every single movement you made. “Fuck off” Is the only thing you managed to say. 

You left your hand hanging between the both of you, enjoying the feeling of it hanging in the air for a second. Steve noticed. And with a clear decision of making you realise his feelings for you this evening, he decided his hand should hang in that exact manner. 

Only his was bigger, and his little finger caressed yours. He quickly gleaned at the interaction, and the way you stretched your hand, so your fingers could be interlinked. It was quick, it was secret. what now? You screamed to yourself as you enjoyed the way his skin felt against yours, trying not to get caught by your mom, or even worse, Dustin. 

One thing was evident. 

You were in deep shit. 

Your heart had made a decision without asking permission. 

-

Everyone had opened their presents, everyone was distracted, showing each other their new things, playing and being amazed. Yet that little box sat anxiously in your palms. 

Somehow, it felt intimate. 

Somehow, it felt private. 

Steve -who hadn’t stopped looking at you, not even for a second- noticed the way in which your fingers played with the folded paper while your eyes and mind seemed elsewhere. 

“I won’t be mad if you don’t like it.” He whispered into your ear once again, leaving that effect on you once again. Your skin was now covered in visible goosebumps, and you felt as if your heart would beat out of your chest. You yelled to yourself get yourself together. 

“I thought you’d kill me.” You decide to play into it, in an effort to deflect the effect he was having on you, or the way your pupils invaded your iris. It was no use. 

“No.” Steve sounded convinced and sure of himself. A confidence in him that pulled you in even harder. “I’d miss you too much.” 

You can’t help but scoff a chuckle, yet a grin appears on your face. Steve’s satisfied with himself as soon as he catches you brushing your nose with a nervous movement. You quickly scan the room and notice no one is looking, so you decide to lay your hand on his forearm, softly caressing it. You smirk once you realise you have the same effect over him as he does on you. After a minute, you decide to slowly get up. Knowing his eyes won’t leave you or your figure, you started walking upstairs, the box still in your hands. 

You feel like you can breathe again once you hear his footsteps following you. 

You decide to stay at the top of the staircase, not wanting to lock yourself away in your bedroom with him. Not yet. Not now. 

There weren't any words spoken. Just glances between the both of you. You were having a whole conversation without even opening your mouth. It was a new feeling, a reassuring one. As if that had always been the way. You relished for a few seconds longer. Not making a sound. Just his eyes on yours, softness clear in them. The smell of his cologne mixed with his aftershave, which only made you feel warmer.

It all looked like a picture, like a scene out of a movie, like a lyric of a love song that would eventually destroy you. but why shouldn’t I enjoy it? You caught yourself thinking. For once, you let your heart guide you. 

Your fingers broke the paper, Steve was gleaming with excitement. 

You found a little cassette tape, with a polaroid badly cut to fit the cover of the both of you, taken on that dinner you had a few weeks ago. His hand rested on your shoulder and you looked up at him as if time had stopped. You felt the way you were squinting your eyes, the back of it was handwritten. Your songs. And he listed every single one that made him think of you. 

“Open it” He whispered, closing the distance between your bodies, the tip of his finger bumping into yours. If you swang, your hip would immediately crash into his. It created an electricity that was inviting and comfortable. 

Inside you found a little necklace. It wasn’t anything too fancy, or decorative. It’s simple nature made you smile. You had one just like this one, but the chain broke two years ago. You felt seen. 

You felt known. 

You felt loved. 

You whipped a little tear away, quickly holding the tape in an embrace. 

“Thank you.” You managed to whisper before burying your face in his chest, your hand still holding thigh to the cassette tape. 

His hands quickly wrapped around your waist, pressing you in tightly. He felt lucky he got to hold you like that. You quickly held onto him too. It was intoxicating. After a few seconds Steve rested his head on top of yours. You felt his chest move as you heard him chuckle. 

“Is that…?” He asked breaking the embrace to point at a pointy green leaf that was glued to the ceiling. 

“Yup.” You answered quickly, flustered and embarrassed your house has that much of a chiché- 

“Should we?” He asked. Though Steve’s voice was more close to a plea, or a beg. You shook your head quickly, which made his eyebrows furrow. He was getting lost in your mixed signals. 

“I don’t want you to kiss me because of some plant…” You start saying before gathering the courage to finish the sentence looking him deep into his eyes. “ I want you to kiss me because you actually want to.” You explained as best as you could, as best as your nervousness and uncharacteristic shy demeanor allowed you to. 

You saw the way Steve left his head hang to the right as he evaluated his options, his eyes couldn’t stop looking at your lips. He didn’t have another choice. 

“In that case” He whispered in a hush voice, with an urgency in his tone. His arms held you tightly as he stepped out under the mistletoe, your back almost bumping into the wall, your arms travelled all the way to the back of his neck, your thumbs grabbing his jaw softly. 

Those seconds before he closed the distance where the closest you thought you could get to heaven without being dead. The way his eyes looked at you, the hunger, the neediness in them made your head spin. 

As soon as his lips were on top of yours you felt like you just found what you had missed with every other kiss you had ever had. 

Sparks. 

Warmth. 

Respect. 

Need. 

You begged it wouldn’t end. His hands buried in your body as much as he could, holding you tightly, even more than you thought possible. Your hands got lost in his hair, enjoying how soft and the tangles you created and separated at the same time. 

What was better, you could feel each other smiling, deciding to continue kissing despite of it. 

Even once it finished, it didn’t. Steve kissed the tip of your nose before his forehead rested on yours, and you kissed his chest before holding him again. 

“You have to be fucking jokeing” Dustin’s voice appeared out of thin air, with the sound of the flushed toilet and the opening door than banged a little too hard. 

You couldn’t help but laugh as hard as you could, burring your head in Steve’s Chest while he hid his face on your hair, both of you way too happy to be faced by that type of energy right now. 

You decided to enjoy each other’s company for a second longer before going back to reality. 

You had time. 

You had made a decision of trying, of giving in. 

And so did him.

-

if you enjoyed (i I really hope you did), please reblog! i promise it makes a difference

-

<3

[cherryst4rg1rl]

Oh to be a girl in the 80s waiting for her boyfriend to climb through her window is my dream

[iwanturvideobby]

steve harrington…how i yearn for you

[onh0neymoonavenue]

guys i’m working on the tsitp steve fic i pinky promise it’ll be out soon but i kinda want to write something festive right now. kinda feeling something s5 steve? or dad/husband steve? anyways he’s top of my christmas list…