hi!

my name is marina. i'm 29. i only post about joe keery and his characters. just a place for me to put some things out. english it's not my first language. 🇧🇷

[y2kmss]

Rate his butt. I’ll go first 8.8/10. Could be a little more toned out.

[kassy-djomunson]

something something ride a cowboy

via goldennataliie on tiktok

[lofi-fics]

[kassy-djomunson]

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

[valentine-night]

always always always thinking of djo on this tour night… so yummy

[emqqx]

hii so like it starts where reader and joe are both in bed lying down and they kiss and reader gets caught off guard cus shes distracted by joe’s nose always bumping into hers and she loves it. But what she loves more is joe’s nose whenever he goes down on her

"Nose bumps & midnight pleasures"

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Joe Keery x reader ⋆⭒˚.⋆

english is not my language please be kind and sorry if i wrote wrong :) requests are open if you want!

summary: Lazy kisses in bed with Joe lead to nose bumps that distract and arouse you...

warnings: : Explicit smut, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk. 18+

You lie in the soft tangle of sheets, the room dimly lit by the warm glow of a single bedside lamp. The city hums faintly outside the window, but inside, it's just the two of you, Joe 

and you. 

His long limbs are stretched out beside yours on the king sized bed, his body heat radiating through the thin fabric of his t-shirt and your oversized sleep shirt. You've been dating for months now, but nights like this still feel electric, like the first time every time. His dark hair is tousled from running his hands through it earlier during dinner, and those expressive brown eyes lock onto yours with that signature half smile that always makes your stomach flip.

Joe shifts closer, one arm sliding under your shoulders to pull you in.

 "Come here," he murmurs, his voice low and rough around the edges, the way it gets when he's relaxed and wanting.

 You turn toward him, your legs brushing against his under the covers, the mattress dips slightly as he leans in, and then his lips are on yours, soft at first, a gentle press that deepens quickly. His mouth is warm, tasting faintly of the mint toothpaste you both used after brushing your teeth together. You sigh into the kiss, your hand coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm.

But almost immediately, you're caught off guard; Joe's nose, prominent, perfectly imperfect, the one fans obsess over in every close up shot, bumps gently against yours. 

It's not a hard clash, just a subtle nudge as he tilts his head for a better angle. You pull back a fraction, eyes fluttering open in surprise, a small laugh bubbling up in your throat. "Sorry," he whispers against your lips, grinning that boyish grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. But you shake your head, pulling him back in. 

You love it.

 The way his nose brushes yours again and again as the kiss intensifies, like an accidental caress that sends little sparks down your spine. It's so him, endearingly awkward in the best way, a reminder that this isn't some polished movie scene. 

This is real, messy, intimate.

You deepen the kiss, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging lightly. Joe's tongue traces the seam of your lips, and you open for him, melting as he explores your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes.

 Another bump of his nose, this time against your cheek as he angles deeper, and you can't help the soft moan that escapes you. He notices, of course he does, Joe always notices the little things. He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through your joined mouths.

 "What?" he mumbles, breaking just enough to speak.

"Your nose," you admit breathlessly, your cheeks warming. "It keeps... bumping me. I love it."

His eyebrows lift in that playful, surprised way he has, like you've just handed him the best compliment in the world.

 "Yeah?" He nuzzles closer deliberately this time, letting the tip of his nose drag along the bridge of yours before capturing your lips again.

 The contact is firmer now, intentional, and it makes your pulse race. You press into him, bodies aligning side by side under the sheets, legs tangling, his hand slides down your side, fingers skimming over the curve of your hip, pulling you flush against him. You can feel him hardening against your thigh, the evidence of his arousal making heat pool low in your belly.

The kissing goes on like that for what feels like hours, lazy and heated all at once. Every tilt of his head brings another brush of his nose, sometimes grazing your upper lip, sometimes nudging your cheek. It's distracting in the most delicious way, pulling your focus from the slick slide of tongues to the unique texture of him. You love how it feels slightly cool at first compared to his warm mouth, then warms with shared breath. You love the way it makes the kiss imperfect, human, yours. 

Joe seems to revel in it too, now that he knows. He experiments, rubbing his nose against yours between kisses, laughing softly when you shiver.

Eventually, his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, palm flat against your stomach, inching upward. Your breath hitches as his fingers find your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it pebbles under his touch.

 "God, you're so responsive," he whispers, voice husky, he kisses you harder, nose bumping insistently now, and you arch into him, craving more contact.

 The sheets rustle as you shift, rolling halfway onto your back. Joe follows, propping himself on one elbow, his body half covering yours without crushing you. His free hand continues its exploration, mapping the familiar curves of your body like he's memorizing them anew.

You tug at his t-shirt, impatient now

. "Off," you murmur between kisses, he obliges, sitting up briefly to yank it over his head, revealing the lean, toned torso you've traced with your fingers a hundred times.

 The sight of him makes your mouth water.

 He returns to you immediately, lips crashing back onto yours. Nose bump, heart skip. You smile into the kiss, and he feels it, smiling back.

His mouth trails lower after a while, leaving a path of wet kisses along your jaw, down your neck. You tilt your head, giving him access, and he sucks lightly at the sensitive spot just below your ear, earning a gasp. His nose nuzzles there too, the combination of soft lips and firm nose tip driving you wild. Down further, he pushes your shirt up and off, tossing it aside. Cool air hits your skin, but his warmth chases it away as he lavishes attention on your breasts. He takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling, while his nose presses into the soft flesh of the other.

 The dual sensation, wet heat and that perfect pressure, has you threading your fingers through his hair again, holding him close.

"Joe..."

 His name falls from your lips like a prayer and he hums in response, the vibration shooting straight to your core.

 You're already wet, aching for him, but he's taking his time, building it slow. His hands roam, one slipping between your thighs to tease at the edge of your panties. You buck against his fingers, seeking friction, but he pulls back with a teasing grin, nose brushing your sternum as he looks up at you.

"Not yet," he says, voice low. "I want to taste you first."

Your heart pounds as he kisses his way down your body, over your ribs, your stomach, lingering at your hips. He hooks his fingers into your panties and slides them down your legs, discarding them. You're bare to him now, and he settles between your thighs, broad shoulders spreading you open. 

The anticipation coils tight in your belly.

 You've always loved this with Joe, the way he devours you like you're his favorite meal but tonight, your mind keeps drifting back to that nose of his. 

The way it bumped during kisses. What it might feel like here…

Joe starts slow, pressing open mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, his breath hot against your skin. His hands hold your hips steady, thumbs stroking soothing circles. Then, finally, his mouth is on you.

 A long, flat lick from your entrance up to your clit has you moaning loudly, back arching off the bed. He groans at your taste, the sound muffled against you.

 "Fuck, you taste so good," he murmurs, the words sending vibrations through your folds.

And there it is, his nose.

 As he buries his face deeper, working his tongue in slow circles around your clit, the bridge of his nose presses firmly against your mound, nudging with every movement.

 It's perfect. 

The slight pressure, the way it shifts as he eats you out, rubbing just right against your sensitive skin. You love the kisses, but this…this is something else entirely. 

The nose that distracted you so sweetly during that makeout session is now an instrument of pure pleasure, grinding subtly against you as his tongue delves inside you, lapping at your wetness.

"Oh god, Joe…your nose," you gasp, unable to hold back the words. 

Your hands fist the sheets, then move to his hair, guiding him without forcing, he looks up at you, eyes dark with lust, lips glistening. That nose, slightly shiny now with your arousal, bumps against your clit as he pulls back to breathe, and the friction makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

"You like that?" he asks, voice thick, he does it again deliberately, rubbing the tip of his nose up and down your slit before flicking his tongue over your clit. "Tell me."

"I love it," you whimper, hips rolling against his face. "The way it feels...fuck, it's so good down here."

Joe's response is a deep, satisfied hum, then he dives back in with renewed vigor, nose pressing harder, sliding through your folds as his tongue fucks into you in rhythmic thrusts. The combination is overwhelming, It's like he's everywhere at once, consuming you. 

You can feel the build up already, that tight coil winding faster than usual because of this new focus. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you slightly for better access, and he buries himself deeper, nose nudging insistently, rubbing side to side in a way that has you crying out.

The room fills with the sounds of it; your ragged breaths, his muffled groans of enjoyment, the obscene wet noises of his mouth on you. Sweat beads on your skin as you writhe beneath him. He switches techniques, sucking your clit between his lips while his nose continues that perfect pressure lower down, then flattening his tongue and letting his nose take the lead on your most sensitive spot. Every bump, every glide of that feature against your pussy sends jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

"Joe, I'm…I'm close," you pant, thighs trembling around his head. 

He doesn't let up, doubling down, his nose presses firmly against your clit now, rubbing in tight circles while his tongue laps at your entrance, pushing you right to the edge. You come hard, hips bucking wildly against his face, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as waves of ecstasy crash over you and he rides it out with you, nose and mouth working you through every pulse, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive.

But Joe doesn't stop, he gentles his touch, licking you softly through the aftershocks, his nose still nuzzling gently, almost affectionately now. 

"That's my girl," he whispers against your thigh, pressing a kiss there.

 His face is flushed, lips swollen, nose glistening. The sight of him like that makes fresh heat stir in you.

You tug him up, needing to kiss him, to taste yourself on his lips, he crawls up your body, and when your mouths meet, his nose bumps yours again. You laugh breathlessly into the kiss, still riding the high.

 "I love your nose so much," you confess between pecks. "In every way."

Joe grins, settling his weight on you carefully, his erection pressing hot and heavy against your stomach. 

"Good because I love using it on you."

 He kisses you deeply, letting you taste the evidence of your orgasm, his hands roam again, reigniting the fire. You reach between you, wrapping your fingers around his cock, stroking him slowly. He's rock hard, leaking at the tip, and he groans into your mouth at your touch.

The night stretches on… and by the time exhaustion claims you both, the sheets are twisted and damp, the room smelling of sex and sweat.

 You're curled against his chest, his arm around you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back, his nose nuzzles the top of your head, and you smile sleepily.

 "Best distraction ever," you murmur.

Joe chuckles, the sound rumbling under your ear. 

"Anytime."

 He kisses your forehead, nose brushing your skin one last time. Sleep comes easy, wrapped in him, dreaming of more nights just like this.

Taglist: @watercolorskyy, @deviousfaye , @watercolorskyy , @l33nlikeacholo @ophirei @leahfaith @bluehexagon8 @unclejeezysblog@sweatydjoshoes

masterlist

[xpeachsunsidex]

hiiii!

can i request a scene for the Harrington Household series? maybe one where the oldest son (or the oldest daughter) tries sneaking in (or out) their bedroom window, because hello! they’re steve’s kids and he was the stealthiest ninja back in his days and knows all about climbing through windows. but also bc they’re steve’s kids, he knows and catches them.

maybe if they’re sneaking back in, when they turn on their lights, steve is just sitting there in the dark.

or if they’re sneaking out, steve is already outside their window waiting for them to climb down and makes them climb back up instead of going through the front door.

Summary: Trying to steer your teenagers down the right path makes Steve’s memories of his past stir, and you help remind him that he’s the most loved person in your home.

WC: 3.6k

Warnings & What to Expect: hargrove!fem!reader, mentions of sex (having the talk w/ the oldest) parental struggles - Steve’s parents not demonstrating enough love to him and he’s feeling the weight of it 😢

Harrington Household Masterlist

putting reqs on pause so i can catch up on what i have. feel free to still send me chats! I adore talking to y’all! 🫶🏻 this fic would take place months after the dinner imagine, and before summer starts!

Main Masterlist If Interested!

Peach’s Note: hii anon!! omg Steve would be stressing over this, poor guy! im combining this w/ another request about the oldest and his gf. i definitely went a more angsty route with Steve being hard on himself, but tried to keep it lighthearted too. hope y’all enjoy ❤️

i feel like this song sums up Steve’s feelings for his kids 😭⤵️

Your seventeen year old boy may be the kindest teenager you know, but he’s still Steve Harrington’s teenager.

It’s why you shouldn’t be surprised by the situation you’ve just caught your son in, but you’re still completely thrown off - frozen in his doorway with a stunned expression on your face.

“Mom!” He yells at you, panic lacing his voice.

In your defense, you had knocked on the half open door before coming in to ask him if he could move his load of laundry in order to start yours.

And because he was supposed to be studying, you definitely didn’t expect to find him kissing his girlfriend on his bed.

He scrambles away from her, running his hands through his hair - a nervous tick he’s picked up from Steve, and he refuses to look at you.

“Uh, hi Mrs. Harrington,” his girlfriend says, looking down at her hands bashfully.

She’s curled in on herself a bit, clearly flustered at the interruption.

“Hi, sweetheart. Are you, um, staying for dinner?” You try to play it cool, not wanting to make her feel worse.

She picks at the fabric of her sleeve, “If you’ll still have me, I’d love to stay for dinner.”

You smile when she finally works up the courage to look at you, “Of course, you’re always welcome here.”

You can visibly see the tension release from her, but your boy isn’t off the hook so easily.

“Let’s keep the door fully open,” you quip, staring pointedly at him, “and move your laundry, please.”

“On it, Mom,” he replies, instantly grabbing the basket and booking it out of his room without so much as a backwards glance.

“Steve,” you whisper, grabbing at his elbow and gesturing for him to follow you into the downstairs bathroom.

He slips inside the tiny space with you, shutting the door firmly behind him.

“Hate to break it to you honey, but we’ve got hungry kids in the dining room ready to eat. We don’t exactly have time for you to feel me up in here,” he grins teasingly, hands coming down to rest on your hips.

You roll your eyes, pushing lovingly at his shoulder, “I didn’t drag you in here to get into your pants, Steve.”

You’d been waiting for a chance to talk to him without tiny ears eavesdropping, which was quite the feat when everyone was home.

He notices your expression shift, and he furrows his eyebrows, “What’s wrong, honey?”

You explain how you found your boy with his girlfriend, and Steve nods along - listening carefully to the concerns you have over it.

“It’s just, this is his first girlfriend, and I’m pretty sure he’s starting to feel more for her,” you say, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“And?” He prompts, knowing there’s more - hands sliding to cup your lower back.

“And, I'm worried about him being sexually active at his age,” you admit anxiously.

“We've talked about this with him before, honey. And don't forget he had to sit through a whole sex education class with me in seventh and eighth grade. Poor kid couldn’t look me in the eye the whole time,” Steve reminds you.

“Maybe I’m overthinking it. It’s stupid,” you bring a thumb to your lips, biting the skin there tensely.

Steve pulls your hand away, “Hey, none of that. Don’t want you hurting yourself, honey”

He presses a kiss to the tender skin you were prodding at, “And it’s not stupid. We can talk to him again if that’ll ease your worries, baby.”

“It would,” you reply, sighing in relief at the fact that he’s on the same page as you.

“Then we’ll talk to him after dinner,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, tugging you tighter to his chest, “I mean, we are experts after all.”

His teasing works, pulls a laugh out of you that encourages him to capture your lips with his - nose nudging yours, silently promising that the two of you will always be a team.

“Oh my god, are you seriously about to give me the talk? We’ve gone through this before, multiple times,” your boy emphasizes, wincing at the memories.

“Not necessarily the talk. We know you already know how it, uh, works,” Steve clears his throat.

“We just want you to be careful, hun,” you chime in, and you swear if your boy flushed anymore he’d be on fire.

“Mom, please stop,” he begs.

Steve cuts in, “You know we encourage waiting until you’re an adult. But we also know there’s going to be times where you have to make decisions on your own without our input."

Your son looks like he’s about ready to pass out from embarrassment, and you’d feel sorry for him if you hadn’t been the one that walked in on him, which is why you’re much more blunt about it than Steve’s being.

“What your father is trying to say is that, if you are having sex, which we don’t approve of you doing until you’re at least eighteen and as your parents, preferably even older than that. But if for some reason you are, you need to be using protection," you conclude.

His mouth flounders, jaw opening and closing - almost the spitting image of your husband when he does that.

“We aren’t,” he trials off, flailing his hands wildly like it’s supposed to fill in the blanks for you.

“You aren’t using protection?” Steve asks sternly.

“No! I mean, yes, if we were having sex. But I’m not,” he’s positively mortified now at the way you and Steve look at him in confusion.

“Not having sex, or not using protection?” Steve questions, wanting a clear answer.

“God, Dad, why do you have to keep saying it?” He groans, shutting his eyes.

“What? Sex? You know that’s in my job description, right?” Steve teases, trying to get him to lighten up.

He falls flat on his back on the bed and throws his hands over his face, “Believe me, I know.”

“Hun, I know this is an embarrassing conversation. Trust me, we don’t want to be having it either. But we love you, and it's because we love you that we want you to be making smart decisions,” you try to reassure him.

“I’m not having sex. I actually don’t think I’m ready yet,” he grows a little shy at the confession.

You feel yourself relax at the admission, “Oh. Well, okay then. It’s a good thing you recognize that, hun.”

“Mom, can you seriously not? I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he grits out, less self consciousness and more attitude seeping into his tone.

“Hey,” Steve says firmly, “Mom’s just doing her job, bud. It’s our job to help guide you with these things.”

He sits back up at that, “I’m sorry.”

You smile at him, patting his knee, “It’s okay, hun. I know it’s not a fun thing to talk about with your parents.”

“And, uhm, not that I’m trying to get out of this conversation, but do you hear that?” He points to the wall that borders your eldest girl's room.

The three of you fall quiet, ears straining to listen, and the tell tale sign of a window sliding open makes Steve jump out of his seat.

“If she thinks she’s sneaking out,” he grumbles, fleeing the room - stumbling down the stairs and through the front door.

Your boy looks at you in bewilderment, “How did he know that?”

“Maybe one day Dad will tell you about his ninja skills as he likes to call them, but today is not that day,” you grin.

“Not sure if I need to know why he refers to himself as a ninja,” he replies.

“Probably not,” you agree, “I’m gonna go check on them.”

You make your way downstairs and lean against the threshold of the door - peering out to look over at your girl’s bedroom window.

There’s a trellis that sits below it as it wraps over the first floor window. It allows her to swing her legs out and onto it - wobbling a little to right herself as she gently slides the window closed.

Steve’s planted himself under her window, hands on his hips - silently waiting for her to realize he’s there. You bite your lip in amusement at the sight, curious to see how he’s going to approach this.

When your girl turns around to start the climb down, she freezes at the sight of him.

They have a silent stare off before she gives him a sickly sweet smile - already trying to worm her way into the soft spot of his heart to let her off easy.

“Going somewhere?” Steve remarks.

“Nope, just uh, checking to make sure if there was an emergency I could get out,” she shrugs sheepishly, already knowing the excuse is weak.

“Uh uh, sure. Turn around,” Steve replies, standing his ground - making a circling motion with his hand.

“I’m sorry?” She tries, but it sounds more like a question than a statement.

“Appreciate that, sweetheart. But you’re still grounded,” he raises his eyebrows at her.

She sighs, “For how long?”

“How long would I have been sick to my stomach, worrying about where you were?” He inquires, folding his arms.

She closes her eyes in defeat, “Two hours. So, two weeks?”

“Sounds fair,” Steve nods.

She picks up on his cues that he has more that he wants to say to her, and she waits patiently for him to gather his thoughts.

“Please don’t ever try this again. Just ask Mom and I if you can go next time,” he pleads, frustration and fear lingering behind the words.

“You would’ve said no,” she grumbles.

“Maybe, maybe not. Guess you won’t know because you’re grounded and not going tonight,” he sasses her back.

“I really am sorry, Dad,” she says, eyes that look just like his begging him to forgive her.

“I love you. If anything had happened to you,” he trails off, not wanting to finish the statement.

She looks guilty at that, because she knows she put you and Steve through misery during her rebellious phase, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“That's all I can think of when you leave this home, that you return safely to Mom and I. And we can’t keep you safe if we don’t know where you are,” Steve clarifies, wanting her to understand the significance of why he’s upset.

She nods solemnly, “Okay, I understand.”

“Don’t think you’ll fully understand until you have kids of your own, sweetheart, but I appreciate you trying to,” Steve gives her a warm smile, communicating that she’s forgiven for scaring him.

“And I’m removing that damn trellis, by the way,” he calls out while she hauls herself back up into her room.

She narrows her eyes at him, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

You have to put a hand over your mouth to stop a giggle from slipping out at her quip - she always makes it glaringly obvious that she got her attitude from him.

“What the hell has gotten into our kids?” Steve asks you later that evening as the two of you relax on the couch, hand covering his face in disbelief.

Your legs were thrown over one of his parted thighs, and you were cuddled up under his arm - hand lazily tracing circles on the soft cotton of his sleep shirt.

Your younger babes were sleeping, and your oldest two probably weren’t, but at least they were safely tucked into their rooms. Steve was still jittery about your eldest girl, worried she was going to try to sneak out again - eyes flitting continuously to the front window.

“They’re teenagers, babe,” you remind him.

“Exactly, though. They’re teenagers, not adults. Why are they trying to do adult things?” He throws his hands up, raking them through his hair, before letting them fall back to rest on your legs.

“Steve, do you remember what you were like in high school?” You ask playfully, running your free hand through his soft locks that curl around his ear.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he sighs heavily.

“Then why are you surprised that your children are literally just like you?” You smile, bringing your hand down over his thigh that’s not tucked under you.

He laughs under his breath, “Yeah, guess that’s biting me in the ass.”

“They’re not purposefully trying to stress you out, baby. They’re just growing up,” you trace your hand up and down his thigh, trying to soothe the built up tension in him.

He’s quiet for a moment, before he sucks in a sharp breath, eyes starting to rim red from holding back tears.

“Where did our babies go?” He asks, tone laced with distraught.

You press a kiss to his shoulder, “They’re still our babies, honey, just older.”

“You know, I look at them and think about how there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them. I’d do anything to protect them from making the wrong choices,” he reflects, eyes flicking back up the stairs to where his children rest.

“That’s because you were meant to be a dad, Steve,” you press a kiss to his jaw, hand curling around his bicep as you snuggle closer.

“Meanwhile, my parents didn’t give a shit about what I was doing with how often they were gone,” he scoffs, fingers running up the calf of your leg absentmindedly.

You frown, not liking where his thoughts seem to be heading as he stares straight ahead - face twisting in unease.

“What’s wrong with me?” He asks thickly.

“What?” You ask incredulously, not quite sure if you can believe the words that just came out of his mouth.

Steve’s parents had left Hawkins a long time ago, though they kept in touch here and there. You knew they loved their grandchildren to some extent through the gifts and money they sent. But you also knew they thought your family was much too big, too loud, and too messy - not living up to their own standards.

“How can I feel this all consuming, unconditional love for my children, but my parents clearly never felt the same thing for me,” he remarks, lost in the ugly thoughts his mind is throwing at him.

You feel like the wind is knocked out of you from the harsh words leaving his lips, “Steve, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“There’s gotta be. Must’ve been some reason they couldn’t love me,” he replies dejectedly, still zoning out.

“Hey, that’s my husband you’re talking about,” you chide softly, reaching out to grasp tenderly at his jaw - trying to get him to look at you.

“I’m being serious,” he says, voice starting to wobble.

“So am I,” you shift, settling yourself fully in his lap, cupping his face tenderly.

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and you can tell he’s trying not to cry.

“Look at me,” you whisper, stroking at his cheekbones - ducking your head to meet his eyes.

“There is not a single part of you that’s unloveable, Steve Harrington,” you say it firmly, with a tone of finality - leaving no room for argument.

“But-,” he starts, and you cut him off - refusing to allow him to continue to think about himself in such a negative way.

“No. No buts. You were not hard to love then, and you are not hard to love now. You wanna know how I know?” You smile, starting to think of the mile long list of ways that makes loving him as easy as breathing.

He clenches his teeth together as the first drops of tears spill, “How?”

You lean your forehead against his, “When something goes wrong, do you know who every single person in this family turns to?”

He lets the words settle over him, trying to rub at his eyes. You stop him, replacing his hands with yours - fondly wiping the tears that trail his cheeks.

“You. Because we all know that you’re going to do whatever you can to make it better,” you tell him, and he sinks into your touch - head coming to a rest against your collarbones.

You can feel his intake of breaths becoming ragged, can feel the shake of his shoulders against you.

“And what about when you go watch their softball or baseball games? They run straight to you afterwards - no matter the outcome, because they know you’re going to be proud of them either way,” you add on.

Steve makes a pitiful sniffling sound, and it just about breaks your heart clean in half at having to hear those noises coming from him.

“Guess how many times they come home from school and ask me when you’ll be back from work because they’re desperate to tell you something about their day,” you wrap an arm around his back to hold him closer - free hand slipping into his hair to caress the back of his head.

He can’t answer with the way his throat has become tight, raw emotion bleeding from every part of him - breaking open at the unresolved pain that his parents caused.

“I honestly think you’re the most loved person in this house, baby,” you confide - nails running down the length of his back, trying your best to provide the dependable comfort he always shows you.

He makes a sound of protest, but you refute it, “You are, Steve. I’m so sorry your parents didn’t show you love the way they should have, baby. But that’s on them. Not you.”

You think about your next words carefully, trying to formulate what to say to ease his mind - aching at seeing him in distress.

“You know who does love you? Those teenagers - trying to act like adults because they know you’re gonna love them despite the choices they make. And don’t even get me started on the rest of them. God, they adore you, Steve,” your voice cracks, and your own eyes get glassy at the overwhelming gratitude that kicks up in your chest for him.

He breaks from your hold, leaning back against the couch to gaze at you adoringly.

You stare back, hand slipping to rest against the place where that radiant heart of his lies - feeling the steady rhythm it makes, “I fall in love with you more every day because I get to watch you be the best dad in the world.”

“Thought you loved me for my looks,” he mumbles jokingly.

“Oh well, that’s a given. You’re so hot, baby,” laughter bubbles up inside of you at his ability to lift the atmosphere.

He bites his lip, before gesturing to himself, “Even though I’m getting older?”

You smirk, “That just makes you more attractive, honey.”

His hands cradle your waist, thumbs slipping under your top - sweeping over the warm skin there as a serious expression takes over his features.

“Thank you for not letting me get lost in my head,” he says quietly.

“Would never let you, I love you,” you emphasize, reminding him once again because he deserves to be told so - deserves to know he’s worthy of every ounce of love that you could possibly give to him.

“Love you, gorgeous,” his lips curl up delicately, “c’mere.”

He tugs you to lay down against him, and the two of you listen to the sounds of your home - the hum of the refrigerator littered with drawings from your babes, muffled noise from the television that casts a soft glow across the living room, the creek of the stairs as little feet pad down them.

“Daddy?” The voice of your ten year old girl floats across the room.

“Yeah, babe?” Steve replies, turning his head to look at her.

“I can’t sleep,” she yawns tiredly, “can you read me a story?”

“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll be right up,” he answers, watches as she clambers back up to her room to wait for him.

“Told you,” you smile affectionately.

You force yourself to move off of him, so he can go follow his girl - sinking into the cushions of the couch.

“You wanna come with me?” He asks.

You shake your head, “She wants you. Go take care of your baby. I’ll be waiting here for you.”

He leans over to kiss you slowly - plush lips working against yours measuredly, trying to communicate his love for you.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers when he pulls away, pecking your lips once more.

You nestle deeper into the couch, watching him as he moves up the stairs, eyes trailing the muscles moving in his back - wishing that he could see himself the way you did.

He may not have been shown love the way he deserved as a child, but he certainly worked his ass off to make sure each and every one of his children never felt that way; and in return, he had a home full of these perfect little humans whose whole world revolved around him - orbiting their dad because they knew his heart belonged to them completely.

Divider credits to @pixopix

Harrington Household Taglist: @daveythorntonslocker @mutual-future-repeat @cciessuzi @enchantedsharddetective @aria1108 @ann-aatn @willyoucry13 @soapyysofi @scoopstroop0704 @offbrandhandymanny @sweatydjoshoes @sckmyk1ss @storietilman @shadogirl @foreverdjofan @keerymylove @finniewolfsoft @st4rg1rl88 @straystar-8

lmk in the comments or message me if you wanna be added to the HH taglist! this is separate from my main masterlist!

[kassy-djomunson]

if not puppy why so puppy shaped?

[hellfirehoe]

madwheeler coincidentally matching outfits on the same day twice makes me wonder if their periods ever synced up too

[sweetlikenonsense]

Under Your Fingertips

♡ Steve touches you as if he can press the truth directly into your skin.

Warnings : 18+ / MDNI! • Enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst (blood/injuries, fear of losing someone), smoking (cigarette), smut (unprotected sex, fingering, semi-public ie outside), emotional vulnerability, protective Steve Harrington, praise kink(?) with themes of trauma, self-worth, and comfort throughout

Pairing : Steve Harrington x impossible girl!Henderson!reader

Word count: 7.3k

Summary: After yet another failed crawl leaves you trapped beneath collapsing concrete, Steve Harrington finally snaps. Forcing you to confront what you really mean to him.

Chef’s Note: yes, the glasses stay on. Send any tips to this customer @roseswebcorner (Order in comments) ♡

The 1,000 followers menu

Rain spits against the windows of the station, turning the parking lot outside into a smear of neon reflections and black asphalt. The ‘WSQK’ sign buzzes red against the storm, flickering ominously over puddles and the van which Steve had abandoned at an angle near the curb, one wheel half up on the pavement. 

Wind rattles the broken gutter overhead, and through the rain-streaked glass you can just about make him out, standing beneath the awning. Barely sheltered. 

Head tipped back against the brick. White t-shirt damp beneath his cord jacket where the rain had soaked through. Hair curling at the edges, pushed back off his forehead evidently from running his hands through it. His wire-framed glasses catch the red every few seconds, briefly obscuring the exhausted look underneath them before the light flickers away. 

Steve. 

Steve with blood drying across his knuckles. Steve with a cigarette between his fingers despite the fact he told the others he’d quit months ago.

You push open the station door and step out into the damp night air, the storm immediately swallowing you whole. Instinctively wrapping your jacket tighter around yourself.

He spares you the briefest of glances when you step out, closing the door behind you. His eyes catch yours; sharp for half a second before he drops his gaze back to the cigarette between his fingers, jaw tight behind the slow curl of smoke.

You cross the narrow space between you and lean against the wall opposite him, back against damp brick. Rainwater drips steadily from the edge of the awning between you, hitting the pavement in uneven taps. 

Neither of you speak. Steve just takes another drag; choosing to focus on that and not the fact that you followed him out here.

“You know those things kill you, right?” you say eventually, voice so uneven you're not sure you sound like yourself. 

He lets out a humorless huff through his nose. “Think I’m aware.” 

The stick glows orange between his fingers. You just watch his hand. 

Swollen knuckles. Split skin. A faint smear of blood slowly drying near his wrist.

Without really thinking about it, only really to distract yourself from the way your stomach twists, you reach forward and pluck the cigarette from between his fingers.

Steve’s eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t move to stop you.

You take a drag before you can think it through, the smoke burning harsh down your throat. For a while no words pass between you. Just the cigarette.

Until eventually you realise you haven’t stopped staring at his hand.

The way his fingers keep clenching and unclenching at his side. The almost imperceptible wince every now and then that he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

“You should probably clean that up.” 

His jaw flexes.

“Yeah?” he says flatly. “You think?” The way he looks at you when he says it—tired, angry, something rawer underneath —makes you swallow harshly.

Steve takes the cigarette back from you, shoulders tenser than you’ve ever seen them. Then, quieter but just as sharp, he adds, “Maybe you should stop giving me reasons to punch things.”

“There it is.” You knew that was coming. The blame. Is it warranted? Probably. Do you want to hear it? No. 

You tilt your head back against the brick, forcing your voice to be lighter than you feel, forcing yourself to say your next words. “That wasn’t my fault.”

His head lifts slowly, eyes finding yours before skirting over you just as slowly. Rain-dark hair plastered messily around your face. Mud streaked across the knees of your jeans from where you hit the ground. The tiny cut near your cheekbone you hadn’t bothered cleaning.

Something sharp flashes across his face so quickly it looks physical. 

He grits his next words out. “You ran in there alone.”

Your jaw tightens instantly. “I had it handled.”

Steve actually laughs out that. Cutting. Slightly mocking. “You did, did you?” 

A flashlight beam disappearing around the corner before he could grab your hand. Your voice crackling through the radio—I’ll be fine, just cover the other side—

Then static.

You flinch. You don’t need reminding.

The floor giving out beneath your feet. Rust and concrete collapsing inward. Your shoulder slamming hard enough into the wall to make your vision spark white.

You force yourself to shrug anyway. “But I got out.”

“Because of me.” Steve steps forward as he says it, the words sharper and louder than everything else he’s said tonight before he visibly catches himself.

His voice lowers again, words scrapped raw. “You got out because I got to you in time.”

His eyes lock onto yours and don’t move. Don’t even blink. And for a second neither do you. Like you're in a trance.

Rain continues to hammer down around you. Neon red flickers across the sharp line of his jaw, catches against the lenses of his glasses, turns his soaked white t-shirt pink for half a heartbeat before fading again.

You look away first.

Your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. Steve’s breathing hard now, not from exertion but from whatever ugly thing he’s been trying to hold down since you all came back up. 

“You know what I heard?” he asks.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t give you time to. 

“You telling me to shut up, a loud crash—” His voice catches suddenly, wavering around the next part like he physically hates saying it out loud. “You scream.”

His eyes lock back onto yours, he swallows, hard, before continuing. “And then nothing.”

The words hit harder than they should. 

Because, yes, you remember it too.

The static swallowing your voice mid-sentence. The sick drop in your stomach when the tunnel floor gave out beneath you. The impact. Dust choking the air so thick you could barely breathe around it.

And then silence.

Deafening. All-consuming. Terrifying. 

Steve drags a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every little move he makes. “Do you have any idea what that was like?”

You hate this.

Hate the way he’s looking at you. Hate remembering the panic clawing up your throat beneath all that concrete. Hate remembering how helpless you felt down there. Hate the fact he saw you like that.

So you default to the only thing you know how to do in a moment like this: deflection.

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not the fucking point, Henderson.” 

You cross your arms tighter over your chest like a shield; voice raising to match his. “Then what is?”

For a second he just stares at you like he can’t actually believe you’re asking. As if he genuinely cannot comprehend how you don’t get this. And in your rational brain, maybe you do. A little. But understanding something and letting yourself feel it are two very different things.

He just laughs, again. This time it’s softer. Not quite so mocking anymore.

In fact it sounds a little wrecked.

Actually, it sounds completely and utterly wrecked. 

“I found you trapped under concrete,” he says, rough and low, every word a struggle for him to say. “And you were still trying to joke with me.”

Your stomach twists, you feel your hands grow clammy and shake by your side because suddenly you’re back there. 

Steve dropping to his knees beside you so hard the impact echoed through the building. Blood already running over his knuckles from the door he’d punched and kicked through to reach you. His hands shaking while he shoved broken debris away from your leg.

And you, dizzy and hurting and terrified in a way you didn’t want to name, still forcing out:

“Took you long enough, Harrington.”

Steve had looked at you like the joke physically hurt him.

And now, eyes glassy behind rain-speckled lenses, cheeks flushed, his jaw flexes the exact same way. 

“You looked at me like-like it was no big deal—“

You swallow harshly, cutting him off. “It wasn’t—”

“How can you say that?” His voice cracks this time. Barely, but you hear it.

“Jesus Christ, do you think I wanted to not be able to fucking answer Dustin when he’s screaming down the radio that you’re not answering? Cause I didn’t know why you weren’t. Cause you had decided to go off alone. Again.”

Rain rattles violently against the metal awning overhead. Steve looks away suddenly, dragging a hand over his mouth before shaking his head once.

“Do you think I wanted to be the one to tell him that you—” His voice catches hard enough that he has to stop. “That you…”

He can’t say it.

You realise with a horrible twisting ache that he physically cannot force the words out. Like saying them aloud might make them real. Might drag you right back beneath the rubble where he found you.

The storm presses in around you both, so loud now that it almost feels intrusive. Like the night itself is listening.

Steve stares out into the rain, chest rising hard beneath the damp white t-shirt, cigarette long forgotten. 

You don’t know what to do with this version of him.

Steve annoyed? Easy. Steve sarcastic? Easy. Typical. Steve looking at you like losing you would’ve broken him? That hurts. 

In a way you don't understand. In a way that makes your chest actually ache. 

“He would’ve been okay,” you say quietly, and you almost believe yourself. 

But Steve’s head snaps toward you so fast you instantly regret it. “What?”

You shrug even though the motion feels stiff. Defensive. False. “Dustin. He would’ve been okay.” You nod as you say it; like that will make it true. 

For a second Steve just stares at you. 

Then something furious flashes across his face. 

“No,” he says immediately. “No, he wouldn’t have.”

You open your mouth to say-to say—you don’t know. You don’t know what to say, what to do, where to look. 

“No.” Steve shakes his head once, sharp and disbelieving. “No.”

You look away on instinct—the look in his eyes, the rawness of his voice suddenly all too much. You try to make yourself smaller somehow. Fold inward. Retreat back behind the walls that usually keep people out before he can force his way through them.

But he won't let you. Not anymore. Not after today. 

He’s moving before you can. 

One second there’s space between you. And then the next there isn’t. 

Rain clings to his lashes. His glasses sit crooked from where he shoved a hand through his hair moments earlier. His chest rises hard beneath his soaked t-shirt as he steps into your space like he physically cannot stand this distance anymore.. 

And then before you can even blink his hand is grasping your jaw. Firm. Unwavering. His fingers curl against your skin and drag your face back up until your eyes are on him. Only on him.

No chance to run. No chance to hide from this. From him.

“Harringto—”

Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. Too thin. Too breathless. Like you’re begging for something you can’t even name. For him to stop. For him not to stop. For him not to make you stand here and let him see you like this.

“No. You’re not listening to me.” His thumb presses sharply against your jaw as frustration bleeds through every word. “You keep saying this shit like people would just get over it. Like losing you wouldn't-wouldn't mean anything.” 

Your pulse stumbles hard against your ribs.

“You think Dustin would’ve been okay?” he says incredulously.

“You think your brother wouldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering if he could’ve stopped you from running in there alone? That if he had done even the slightest thing differently that you would still be here. Going over and over and over it in his head wondering where he fucked up?”

“You keep acting like you’re expendable,” he says, voice cracking around the last word. “As if it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t come back.”

You try to pull away instinctively, discomfort clawing up your throat too fast, but Steve’s grip tightens slightly before immediately softening again when he realises it.

Not letting you go. Not letting you disappear. 

“And me?” It’s not only his voice that has broken but his expression, as he struggles to speak. “You think I would’ve been fucking okay?”

He’s staring at you like he needs you to understand this. Like it matters more than his pride. More than winning any argument. More than whatever this thing between you has become.

It's almost like he’s trying to show you something in his words, in his face, in the desperation in his voice. Something he’s been trying to show you for a long time now and you just keep refusing to see. 

If he can just make you see it—really see it—maybe he can stop you from slipping through his fingers next time.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat. Because the worst part is—

Some part of you thinks you do see it.

That maybe you always have. 

And that is infinitely more terrifying than pretending you don’t.

“Why?” you croak out before coughing lightly and trying again. “Why?”

The question seems to knock the air out of him for a second. His brows pull together hard as he almost spits out “What?”

“Why would you care?” You mean for it to sound sharp. Defensive. Detached. 

Instead it comes out small. Confused. 

Steve, for all his frustration and anger, just stares at you. 

It’s still raining heavily, wind now pushing cold mist beneath the awning, but all you can feel is the warmth of his body standing so close to yours.

Then he laughs once under his breath. But it's devoid of any humour.  

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, swiping the hand not cupping your jaw down his face and through his hair, shaking his head. “You really don’t know.”

Immediately your defenses slam back into place. “Know what?” you say quickly, trying for sarcasm mixed with anger and missing completely. “All I do is annoy you.”

Steve’s expression hardens instantly. “That’s not—”

“We fight constantly,” you cut in, words tumbling out faster now because if you stop talking you might actually have to hear what he’s trying to say—what he’s been trying to say for years now. “I drag you into insane bullshit, I nearly got myself killed tonight, I got you injured, I make your life harder basically every time I—”

Suddenly you’re cut off.

Not by more words.

But by a forceful pressure.

Specifically, Steve's mouth on yours.

He crashes into you. Moving like he's been holding this in for years—like if he doesn’t do it now, he’ll drown in the weight of it. Like he cannot stand hearing one more terrible thing leave your mouth.

It's not soft. Not careful.

It’s desperate and angry and messy, his lips pressing hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into your jaw to keep you there.

You gasp against him, and he takes full advantage, slanting his mouth over yours again, teeth scraping, breaths mingling sharp with the almost addictive combination of nicotine and rain. 

You stumble back a step, shoulders hitting the wall, but he doesn’t let you retreat. He uses his body instead of his words to cage you in, one hand still gripping your jaw, the other braced against the wall beside your head. His glasses dig into your cheekbone, the frames cold where they press against your skin, but you don’t pull away. You are not sure you could. 

You finally snap out of the shock of it, and in that moment all you want is him closer than humanly possible. Your hands fist in the damp cotton of his shirt, dragging him closer with a desperation that surprises even you. . 

Steve lets out a ragged moan against your mouth, the sound muffled by the sharp press of teeth and lips—half frustration, half surrender—before he mutters a broken, "Fuck," against your skin. 

It’s all hands and teeth and the dizzying press of bodies. 

His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to the scrape of his stubble.

You gasp at the feeling, and he fully takes the opportunity given to him to deepen the kiss, tongue hot and insistent, like he’s trying to rewrite every argument, every sharp word, every moment you’ve spent at each other’s throats. 

All in this one kiss. 

“You think I don’t care?” he murmurs against your mouth before kissing you again immediately. “Jesus Christ.”

Another kiss.

Another sharp inhale.

His lips drag against yours slower this time, but no less desperate.

“I punched through a fucking door for you,” he says hoarsely, words breaking apart between kisses. “When I heard you scream—” His voice catches roughly. “When I saw you trapped down there alone I-I couldn't breathe.” 

Your chest aches so hard it feels unbearable.

“Not till I knew you were okay.” His hands are still shaking even as they hold onto you.

Steve kisses you again before you can speak, like he already knows you’ll try to argue your way out of this too. 

He’s not wrong. 

“No,” he mutters against your lips, thumb trembling where it rests beneath your jaw. “No, you don’t get to do that anymore.”

Steve touches you like he can press the truth directly into your skin; then you might finally believe him. “You matter to me,” he breathes against your mouth.

And then, quieter. Rougher. “So fucking much.”

Another kiss, slower now, but somehow just as devastating.

“More than you’ll ever know,” he says hoarsely against your lips. “More than you ever could.”

Your throat tightens dangerously. And for the first time all night, maybe ever, you don’t call him Harrington. 

.“Steve…” 

The name leaves you like something fragile, like it physically hurts you to let him hear it. 

Hearing his name said by you, like that—soft, fractured, stripped bare—destroys whatever last shred of restraint he’d been clinging to. 

Steve’s breath stutters against your lips, his grip tightening in your hair reflexively. The sound of his name in your voice—not Harrington, not king Steve, not something thrown at him in anger or challenge–does something violent to his chest. 

He doesn’t just kiss you this time—he devours you. 

He drags you impossibly closer, his teeth catching your lower lip hard, his tongue sweeping in long before you can recover. There’s absolutely nothing gentle about it—this is Steve memorising your mouth like it's proof you’re real. 

That he didn't lose you before he ever got the chance to have you. 

“Been trying not to do this for so long,” he admits roughly against your mouth

Surprisingly, that brings a smile to your face—a real one, small and disbelieving but there—and you feel the tension in your chest loosen just enough to breathe. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming in your veins, or the way Steve’s hands are trembling where they’re tangled in your hair, but suddenly you can’t help it. 

You tilt your head back to break the kiss, lips brushing his as you murmur, “You’re telling me Steve Harrington, King Steve, has been pining after Henderson’s big sister? All this time?”

Steve freezes. 

For a second, he just stares at you, rain dripping from his lashes, mouth slightly parted like he can’t decide whether to strangle you or kiss you again. Then his grip tightens in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. 

“You’re fucking impossible,” he grits out, but there’s no anger left in it—just exasperation, fondness, something raw and aching beneath the words.

The grin tugging at your mouth only widens. “You need to work on your moves.”

Steve blinks at you, mouth not even an inch away from yours.. “Excuse you?”

“You heard me,” you murmur, lips still brushing his. “That’s a little bit embarrassing, don’t ya think? And not for days, or weeks—years.” 

Steve lets out a disbelieving laugh.

“You made me your enemy when really you just wanted to have me.”

Steve goes absolutely, completely, still.

For one glorious second Steve Harrington actually looks completely and utterly, beautifully speechless.

The wind changes direction causing the rain to hit the both of you. Rainwater slides down the side of his face as he stares at you, jaw flexing hard—actively trying not to react to that sentence the way he wants to.

You can practically feel the moment his patience snaps—his fingers twitch, his jaw sets, and his gaze narrows. “You,” he grits out, thumb tapping your chin, voice rough, “are pushing your luck.” 

You grin up at him, tilting your head to make his grip shift. “Am I?” 

His thumb presses into the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up further. “Yeah. You are.” 

There’s a beat of silence—then you hum, deliberately slow, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up. “I don’t think I am.” 

Steve exhales sharply against your lips, the heat of his breath mingling with the chill of the rain still dripping down his face. His fingers twitch where they’re tangled in your hair, grip tightening just enough to make it hurt. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters, voice rough—half protest, half plea.

You meet his gaze, eyes innocent—unaffected—rainwater catching on your lashes. “Then stop.”  

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. 

His thumb drags slowly along your jawline, pressing just shy of painful when it catches on the curve of your chin. Then it traces your jawline, slow and deliberate, before his fingers drop lower. Curling into the damp fabric of your shirt, then dragging downward until they catch on the waistband of your jeans. 

His gaze locks onto yours, challenge burning behind rain-speckled lenses. "You wouldn't care?" he murmurs, voice rougher than the storm overhead. 

You tilt your head, feigning indifference even as your pulse kicks violently against your ribs. "Mm?" 

He flicks the button open, fingers hovering over the zip. "So if I just—" 

His gaze is locked onto yours, daring you to stop this. Daring you to stop him. 

The zipper rasps open under his touch, cold air biting at exposed skin as his hand slides in. His fingers trace the dip of your hipbone, rough and warm against the bite of the wind. 

"You wouldn’t care if I went back inside?" he murmurs, voice scraping low.

Your breath hitches. You should push him away. Should say something sharp, something defensive but all you can manage is a shaky exhale as his fingers dip lower, skimming the edge of your underwear. 

Steve watches you with a focus that borders on predatory. His fingers pause, testing, waiting for you to bolt or shove him back. When you don’t, his lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but something darker. Something hungrier. 

"Guess that answers that," he mutters, and then his hand is sliding fully into your pants, palm hot against your stomach.

Steve’s fingers slide beneath your underwear with a precision that shouldn’t be possible given how badly his hands were shaking moments ago. His fingers dip lower, finding you already wet—impossibly so—despite the cold, despite the argument, despite everything.

His breath hitches against your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you.

You gasp, sharp and involuntary, your hands scrambling for purchase against his rain-damp jacket as your legs threaten to give out entirely. 

Steve doesn’t give you the chance to collapse.

His free hand slides around your hip, fingers digging into the curve of your ass, hauling you up against him like you weigh nothing. Your thigh instinctively hooks around his waist as he pins you against the brick wall.

All the while he doesn’t stop, his fingers working you with a rhythm that borders on punishing, his palm grinding against your clit with every upward stroke. 

You bite down on a moan, forehead dropping against his shoulder, nails raking down the front of his jacket, his neck—really anywhere you can reach. . 

The angle is awkward: the wall digging into you, his glasses still digging into your cheekbone, but none of it matters. Not when his thumb circles once—hard—and your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking against his hand. 

“Fuck—Steve—” The name tears out of you, ragged and broken, as his fingers curl just right, pressing deep.

Your gaze catches briefly on the split skin across his knuckles where his hand grips your hip. “Careful,” you breathe instinctively. “Your hand—”

Steve lets out a rough, disbelieving laugh against your throat, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder like the concern physically hurts him. “Don’t care,” he mutters. 

Before sinking his teeth into the curve of your neck hard; claiming the space between your pulse and your collarbone. Then his tongue follows, slow and hot, soothing the sting in a way that makes your knees threaten to buckle again. 

All the while, his fingers don’t stop moving inside you; dragging a choked, alien noise from your lips.

“Still think I don’t care?” he mutters against your skin. His thumb circles your clit again, deliberate, relentless, and you choke on absolutely nothing. 

You don’t get a chance to answer—not that you could even form words right now—because Steve’s mouth is back on yours. Fingers working you faster, rougher, until your breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps against his mouth.

He continues, this time his breath fans your ear, “Still think I hate you?” he repeats. 

You whine–it’s high, desperate and pathetic—in the back of your throat. His palm grinds against your clit; everything is too much and not enough all at once. 

“Honey—” Steve’s voice cracks around the word, rough with something that isn’t just frustration anymore. “I could never hate you.” His fingers curl inside you, pressing deep enough to punch out another pathetic whine. 

“You annoy the absolute shit out of me,” he admits hoarsely. “You drive me insane. You never listen to me, you throw yourself into danger without a single thought about yourself, and every time you do I just wanna grab you and shake some sense into you.”

His thumb strokes your cheek almost unconsciously as he says it. The softest he has ever touched you–by far. 

“But hate you?” Steve lets out a breathless laugh, the idea utterly ridiculous to him. “Jesus Christ.” He cuts himself off with a ragged exhale, forehead dropping against yours as his thumb circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. 

“You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t think properly.”

Your stomach flips violently.

“You argue with me about everything.”

“I do not—”

“You’re literally about to,” he says immediately, kissing the corner of your mouth when you glare at him.

It pulls the smallest unwilling laugh from you but you still can’t help but roll your eyes.

Steve’s expression softens at the sound instantly. And then more seriously, even more sincerely:

“I know what kind of mood you’re in by how hard you slam a door. I know when you’re lying by the scrunch of your nose.” His jaw tightens slightly.

“I knew you were in trouble tonight before anyone else even realised something was wrong.”

Your chest aches.

Steve swallows hard, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to make you understand something impossible. “You’re not forgettable,” he says quietly.

The words hit harder than they should.

His thumb brushes your cheek almost absently, tenderness bleeding through every movement now.

“You walk into a room and people look for you when you leave it.” His voice roughens slightly. “You’re loud and difficult and stubborn as hell and somehow you still make everything feel…” He breaks off with a frustrated breathless laugh, shaking his head once. “Fuck.”

Your pulse stumbles beneath his hand.

Steve presses his forehead against yours again before finishing quietly:

“You’re everything.”

Your breath catches to the point where you think you might stop breathing. 

He closes his eyes briefly as if he didn’t mean to say that part out loud. But when he looks at you again, he doesn’t take it back. He doubles down. 

“And I need- I need you to believe that.”

“I tried not to—” He cuts himself off with another rough laugh. “I really fucking tried not to do this.”

“But then you smile at me,” he says softly, almost accusingly. “Or you say my name and suddenly I’m done for.”

You stare at him speechless.

Steve brushes his nose against yours gently before kissing you again, nowhere near as frantic this time but somehow all the more intimate for it.

“So no,” he murmurs against your lips. “I don’t hate you.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“I think-” he pauses, taking a deep breath, his fingers slowing, “I think-I’ve been in love with you for a really, really long time.”

You whine—high-pitched and completely broken—as Steve’s fingers thrust just right, pressing deep, and suddenly the world fractures.

Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping tight around him, nails biting into the damp fabric of his jacket as pleasure crashes over you in waves so sharp you actually can’t breathe.

And Steve? Steve doesn’t let you ride it out in peace. His mouth finds yours again, kissing you through the aftershocks. His tongue licks into your mouth just as his thumb circles your oversensitive clit, dragging a sob from you that he swallows greedily. 

"That's it," Steve murmurs against your temple, lips brushing damp skin as your hands scramble clumsily over his shoulders. "Good girl." 

The praise sends yet another shudder through you, legs still trembling from the aftershocks. You're barely lucid, fingers twisting in his soaked shirt as you press impossibly closer with a whine—high and needy, the sound muffled against his collarbone where your mouth rests. 

"Steve—" Your voice cracks around his name, raw from earlier shouts now reduced to breathless pleading. "Please—" 

"What, baby?" His fingers stroke gently through slick heat, coaxing another weak jerk of your hips. Rainwater drips from his hair onto your flushed cheeks when he leans down. "What do you need?" 

You can't answer—not coherently at least—just rut against his hand with a broken noise, oversensitive but desperate for more after he just gave you the best orgasm of your life.

His chuckle is dark, warm against your ear as his free hand slides up to your jaw, cradling it. “Gonna need you to say it baby.” 

The words shouldn’t wreck you the way they do. They absolutely shouldn’t send heat coiling low in your stomach all over again—but they do.

They absolutely do, and Steve absolutely knows it. You can see it in the way his eyes darken behind his glasses, in the way his thumb presses just under your chin, tilting your face up slowly. 

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”

You swallow hard, your throat working around nothing, because god, this is torture. 

The way his fingers are still inside you, curled just enough to tease but not enough to give you what you need. The way his breath fans over your lips, warm and uneven, like he’s barely holding himself together. The way his glasses are fogged beyond repair, rainwater clinging to his lashes, his hair a mess from where you’ve dragged your hands through it god knows how many times. 

You hate the way you sound—whining, desperate, voice cracking around his name like some lovesick idiot—but god, you don’t care. Not now. Maybe later. 

"Steve," you murmur again, hands fisting desperately in the soaked fabric of his shirt, vying to drag him closer even though there’s not an ounce of space left between you.

He hums, considering, like he’s weighing whether to give in—and for one stupid, hopeful second, you think he will. But then he pulls his fingers out of you with a slow, deliberate drag that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively— chasing the loss, the sudden emptiness—only for his free hand to press flat against your stomach, holding you firmly against the wall. 

He lifts his fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them in a slow, obscene lick that elicits a moan from your throat before you can stop it. 

You could kill him. You will kill him. Later. After.

His gaze locks onto yours, dark and unreadable behind rain-speckled lenses, as he cleans every last trace of you off his fingers with agonising precision. 

Your face burns, your thighs twitch, and somewhere in the back of your mind you know you should be embarrassed—should really shove him away or snap something sarcastic—but all you manage is a weak, "Fuck."

Annoyingly causing Steve’s mouth to lift into a smug little smile.

“Want you,” you whisper helplessly, forehead knocking lightly against his shoulder. “Idiot.”

"That’s not very nice, now is it, baby?" Steve murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

You huff, fucking hell–what more does he want for you? 

His thumb presses into the delicate skin beneath your jaw, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. ”Calling me an idiot," he continues, voice dropping lower, "after I just let you come?" 

His other hand slides up your side, slow and deliberate, until his palm rests over your hammering heartbeat. "You’re such a brat," he mutters against your lips, breath uneven. "Always have been."

Steve exhales sharply before he relents. His hands dropping to his belt in rough, jerky movements. The buckle clinks too loud, his fingers fumbling slightly with the button of his jeans before he finally shoves them down just far enough to free himself. 

He doesn’t give you what you want, though, not quite yet. Instead, he presses the hot, heavy length of himself against your thigh, rocking forward just enough to make you gasp at the contact, the friction maddeningly light.

"Say it," he murmurs, lips brushing yours as his fingers tighten on your hip—not guiding, not forcing, just there, holding you in place while his cock twitches against your skin. "Say you believe me."

You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, hips jerking involuntarily against nothing, desperate for more. For him. 

Steve doesn’t let you. His forehead knocks clumsily against yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts between kisses that are more teeth than anything else..

"Say you’ll think twice next time," he growls, dragging his mouth down your jaw to nip at your pulse point. His hips roll forward again, the head of his cock catching against your clit for one devastating second before he pulls back, leaving you gasping. "Say it."

You whine, nails scraping down the skin of his neck as you try to pull him closer, but Steve resists, his grip ironclad. 

His laugh is dark, uneven, his lips curling against your throat while you buck against him fruitlessly. "Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Not until you—fuck—"

His words cut off abruptly when your teeth sink into his shoulder, his hips stuttering forward instinctively before he wrenches himself back with a muttered curse.

His grip tightens in your hair, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. "You think this is a joke?" he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip.

"You think I don’t fucking mean it when I say I can’t lose you?" 

You arch toward him instinctively, but Steve doesn’t budge. Just watches you with that same unreadable expression.

"Tell me you believe me," he whispers, voice rough with something that isn’t just want anymore. "Tell me you know how much I—" He cuts himself off abruptly, fingers flexing against your hip like he’s physically restraining himself from finishing that sentence. 

But it’s the look in his eyes that finally undoes you. 

Not the way his hands shake where they grip your hips, not the ragged edge of his voice when he says your name—no, it’s the raw, unfiltered fear behind those rain-speckled glasses. . 

Steve Harrington, who’s spent years pretending he doesn’t care about anything, looks at you like you’re the only thing left in the world that matters. 

And something inside you finally breaks.

Your hands move before you can stop them.

You grab his face hard enough to push his crooked glasses further up his nose, fingers cold and shaking against rain-damp skin as you drag him down toward you.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice cracking badly enough that Steve immediately stills. “Hey.”

Your forehead presses against his.

And for the first time tonight, you stop trying to pull away from what he’s giving you.

You let yourself feel it.

The fear. The relief. Him.

Your eyes burn suddenly, embarrassingly, and you let out one sharp, frustrated breath that sounds dangerously close to a laugh.

“I’m here,” you whisper brokenly, trying to convince the both of you.

Steve makes a wrecked sound at that. His hands tighten on your hips almost painfully. “Yeah,” he breathes instantly, nodding quickly. “Yeah, you’re here.”

Your throat tightens so hard it hurts.

And suddenly, the words are there before you can stop them. 

“I do.” 

The confession slips out in a whisper, barely audible over the storm, but Steve goes utterly still. 

His breath catches audibly, fingers twitching against your skin like he’s been shocked. For one terrifying second, you think he might pull away—might bolt like a spooked animal—but then his forehead drops against yours with a shuddering exhale. 

“Say it again,” he rasps, voice cracking. His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing rainwater. “Please.”

“I do,” you whisper again, voice cracking. His breath stutters against your temple, his fingers trembling where they grip your thighs—like he’s afraid you’ll take it back.

Then he moves.

There’s no finesse to it, just raw emotion. 

Just Steve’s hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he presses into you with a ragged groan that gets lost in the rain. The stretch burns briefly before giving way to a fullness that steals your breath. 

The sound punched from your throat is half-sob, half-laugh, the words spilling again without thought: “I do.” 

Steve’s hips jerk uncontrollably at that, his breath hitching like the confession is a physical blow, and then he’s moving in earnest. No rhythm, no ounce of control, just raw, shuddering need.  

Every snap of his hips drives the words from you again, fractured and breathless: “I do—Steve—I do—” His name cracks on a moan as he angles deeper, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. His teeth finding your pulse point, biting down just shy of pain as his pace turns punishing, the wet slap of skin lost beneath the storm’s roar.  

You’re babbling now, nonsensical; repeating it like a mantra between gasps, each thrust wringing the words out like he’s starving for them. 

Steve’s grip tightens, his other hand splaying over your ribs like he’s counting each ragged inhale, each stuttered “I do” that spills from your lips. 

The world fractures as pleasure crashes over you in waves so violent they steal your breath. 

Your back arches off the wall, thighs clamping around Steve’s hips, nails biting into his shoulders as you shatter with a sob he swallows greedily.

Steve follows with a groan so broken it barely sounds human, his forehead dropping against yours as his hips jerk erratically, his fingers tightening in your hair.  

For one suspended moment, there’s nothing but the ragged sound of your breathing, the rain still hammering against the awning above you, Steve’s pulse thundering beneath your lips where they rest against his throat.

Then reality rushes back in all too quickly—the cold brick against your back, the damp fabric of your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin, Steve’s glasses digging into your cheekbone where they’ve been knocked askew. 

He doesn’t pull away. 

Neither do you. 

Instead, his hands slide up your back, slow and unsteady, smoothing over the rumpled fabric of your jacket. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. Whispered so quiet you know he doesn't mean for you to hear it.  

One hand rises to card through your tangled hair, fingers gentle where they work through the knots. “You’re okay.” 

The words are less a statement than a plea, repeated like a prayer as his breathing gradually slows. 

When you tilt your head back to look at him, his glasses are fogged beyond recognition, rainwater and sweat streaking down his flushed cheeks. He looks wrecked. Beautiful. 

Your fingers rise to push his glasses up his nose, clumsy with exhaustion, and Steve catches your wrist before you can.

His thumb brushes over your racing pulse, his gaze dropping to your swollen lips, then lower—to the mark blooming on your collarbone, the rumpled state of your clothes. Something dark flickers in his eyes before he exhales sharply, forehead dropping to rest against yours again.

“‘M okay,” you murmur softly, fingers brushing back his rain-damp hair where it’s plastered to his forehead. 

Steve exhales sharply—half laugh, half sob—his breath warm against your lips as his hands slide up to cradle your face. His thumbs trace the hollows beneath your eyes with a reverence that makes your chest ache. 

“You’re not,” he counters, voice cracking, glasses still crooked, but you can still see the raw fear lingering in his gaze.

His fingers tighten fractionally, like he’s physically willing you to understand. “You were under a building, you idiot.” The words crack on the last syllable, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as his breathing stutters. 

You can feel him shaking—fine tremors running through his arms where they cage you against the wall, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips when you touch his throat. It’s unnerving. Steve Harrington doesn’t tremble. Steve Harrington doesn’t falter. 

But he is now. 

Under your fingertips. 

His glasses slip further down his nose when he tilts his head to press a kiss to your temple—clumsy, unpracticed, achingly tender. “Christ,” he mutters against your skin, voice thick. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Your chest aches at the honesty of it. 

Steve Harrington—loud, stubborn, impossible Steve Harrington—standing here shaking in your arms because of you.

Your sworn enemy. The bane of your existence. The boy who could rile you up with nothing more than the arch of an eyebrow and one stupid smug look.

And yet here he is, holding you like losing you would’ve destroyed him.

Slowly, carefully, you reach up and straighten his glasses for him. It’s the smallest thing. Basic decency, really.

But it hits him anyway.

You see it happen in real time—the way his breath catches softly, the way his eyes lose some of that frantic edge as they search your face. As if he can’t quite believe you’re touching him so gently. 

Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, softer now than you think you’ve ever seen it.

“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly.

This time when he kisses you, it isn’t desperate.

No teeth. No frantic grasping. No fear.

Just warmth.

His hands cradle your face carefully, thumbs brushing your cheeks while your fingers curl into the damp collar of his jacket. The kiss is slow enough that you can actually feel it this time—every soft press of his lips, every shaky exhale against your mouth, every lingering second of him choosing you.

Like coming home after being lost for a very long time.

And for once—

you don’t fight it.

You let yourself be held.

P.S. I do not recommend engaging in this type of behaviour after having a building collapse on you. Please seek medical attention first. Lots of love, the chef ♡

[keerystff]

V. Change

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Summary: You finally go on a date with Joe. And everything goes better than you expected.

Notes: Almost done! I'm already writing the last part and guys… 🥵🥵🥵🥵 I really want to try to post by the weekend, maybe Sunday or Monday… BUT I NEED TO WRITE MY FUCKING DISSERTATION TOO (but I already have 2 ideas for new fics and one is about Gator!!!!!!) Well, that’s it.

English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if anything sounds a little off.

@eller41 @djournalist

You really exaggerated how long it would take to get to the café. It was 3:45 p.m. when you spotted a small, nondescript door in the middle of bustling New York, with the name of the café Joe had mentioned. 

You took a deep breath, as if there weren’t enough air on the street to sustain you at that moment. Your heart was beating faster than usual, you could almost feel it pounding in your chest. There were 4 new messages on your phone:

1 from Joe: Hi! I’m already on my way. 

1 from your brother: Can we talk today?

1 from Laura and 1 from Julia—both wanted to hear about your date with Joe.

Date. The word felt strange when you read it, almost out loud. It had been at least six years and five months since you’d been on a date. The guys you’d gone out with in New York since you arrived had never invited you to do anything very interesting, aside from grabbing coffee on campus or going to their place to “watch a movie” and you didn’t really consider any of those things to be actual dates.

You found a table in the back of the café, a little hidden away and sat down. You weren’t sure how close Joe lived to there, so you took a book out of your bag and started reading. Although the hangover was still lingering in your body, you were able to  concentrate well on the small words on the pages, hoping to forget the nervousness, the slightly sweaty palms and the headache that had been bothering you since you left home.

A few minutes passed when you felt someone approaching the table, and, thinking it was the waiter, you didn’t quite look up from the book as you ordered a black coffee, with nothing in it—no milk, no sugar, nothing.

Joe chuckled a little and said:

“I can take care of that.”

You were slightly startled by that voice, which had become a comforting sound to your ears—a sound that, somehow, made you feel a little more relaxed. You smiled, a bit embarrassed by the situation and began to slowly close the book while looking into Joe’s eyes. You didn’t know if it was the hangover making you more sensitive, or if it was what had happened yesterday making you more sensitive, but you had the feeling that he was even more handsome at that moment.

“Hi,” you said, smiling at him.

He quickly pulled the chair in front of you and sat down.

“Hi,” he said, not taking his eyes off you for even a second. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, a book… Well… This might sound like I’m trying to show off, but Dostoevsky… I’m in a book club with my friends, and we decided to read something more intellectual this year.” You felt your cheeks flush as you laughed at the situation. Normally, you wouldn't read such classic literature or books that people consider so intellectual if it weren’t for your PhD or university in general. Sure, you’d read a lot in your life, but lately you’d been enjoying lighter reads. 

“I like Dostoevsky…” Joe said, a little smile on his face.

“Oh, me too. But don’t you find it a little annoying when people only talk about classic authors and go around carrying their little books around? Doesn’t it seem like they just want to show off?” You were silent for a few seconds, studying Joe’s reaction. “I don’t know, I get that feeling. But really… I’m reading it because my friends made me.”

“I think so. But I wouldn’t judge you that way—after all, you work with literature, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I think that’s exactly why I don’t like people who only talk about the classics… I don’t know, maybe I’m just a grumpy person at heart.” You smiled. That was your go-to way of testing the waters with someone. You said something self-deprecating about yourself, but not with the intention of receiving compliments or pity, but to see if the person could handle less-than-positive comments every now and then. And that’s exactly what happened. Joe laughed, shaking his head and called the waiter over so you could order.

“A black coffee, nothing in it—no sugar, no milk, nothing. Right?” Joe looked at you, smiling, and you just nodded, happy that even though it had only been a few minutes, he remembered word by word of what you had said. “A slice of chocolate cake and an espresso.” The waiter took your order and left right away, while Joe turned to look at you again. There was something in his gaze that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, but before you could say anything, he interrupted your train of thought and said, “You’re going to love the chocolate cake here. I only ordered one slice, we’ll share it… And then, if you want… No pressure… we’ll order another.” You just nodded, and silence fell over your table for a few seconds as you tried to read his expression. But it didn’t take long, because Joe couldn’t hold back any longer about what was bothering him.

“How’s your arm?” He wasn’t smiling anymore, instead, he looked at you seriously and you couldn’t tell if it was just concern, anger, or something else he was hiding.

“M-My arm? Oh, it’s fine.” You looked away from his gaze, your eyes now fixed on your hands, which were on the table, your fingers nervously tapping the surface.

“Y/N… I saw it this morning.”

You took a deep breath and felt your throat tighten, as if someone had squeezed it, preventing anything from passing through, including your voice. You pulled the sleeve of your jacket off your injured arm and rested it on the table. The friction of the jacket’s fabric made the bruise hurt a little, but you were almost getting used to the pain. Joe stared at your arm, unable to look away for a good few seconds. You saw his jaw tightening, his breathing becoming heavier and it was as if something were taking over his brain at that very moment.

So you put your jacket back on. Pressing your lips together, you mumbled “I’m sorry” so quietly that you thought Joe might not even have heard you.

Just then, the waiter came over with your orders, and you wondered if he’d seen the ugly bruise on your arm, and you felt ashamed. Your eyes felt heavy, you felt that if the waiter looked your way too much, you might start crying. But he didn’t stare and soon moved away from the table.

“Why are you apologizing?” Joe was still staring at you seriously, but now his eyes were a little more gentle.

“I-I… Because…” You couldn’t form a coherent thought. Why were you apologizing?

“The one who should be apologizing is the jerk who did that. And I should have called security to get him." Joe fell silent, now staring at the coffee in front of him. “I was so worried that I just ran after you. I should have gone back and made that guy pay for what he did.”

Something changed at that moment. You don’t know if it was the way Joe spoke or the way he looked at you, but something changed, and you didn’t even know what it was or how to explain it.

“You didn’t have to do anything. Not even take me home… I felt so embarrassed. I still do, actually. It had been a long time since I’d drank like I did yesterday.” You felt a weight lift off you as you admitted you were embarrassed. You were mortified. You wanted to dig a hole and stay inside it until you forgot everything. And it was while your thoughts were racing through your head that Joe took your hand—the one that was near the coffee cup on the table.

“I would never have forgiven myself if I’d left you alone yesterday.” His eyes were soft now, he had a gentle smile on his lips and his hand was caressing yours. You smiled back at him, and he, seeing this as a way to put yesterday’s events behind you, started asking you questions. He said he wanted to know everything about you. You laughed and answered some of the questions quickly, while others took you longer, telling stories and forgetting English words that could explain a specific situation or feeling. You talked about your families. You told stories about how your brother was a little too protective of you when you were a teenager, and Joe said he understood where your brother was coming from, since he himself had younger sisters to look after when he was a teenager. Joe laughed, then you asked him some questions too and he answered enthusiastically. His hands never stopped moving as he spoke, and you, resting your elbow on the table and your head in your hand, felt completely immersed in a world that seemed to belong only to you and him.

“Okay, but what about that ex of yours…”, He now adjusted himself in his chair, sitting up straighter and looking at you more directly. “I already told you about mine… What was he like?” He was silent for a few seconds. “Sorry, Julia told me you had a jerk of a boyfriend before you moved to New York.” Joe took bites of the chocolate cake as he spoke.

“Difficult. He was difficult. He wasn’t bad… He turned bad after a while. I can’t quite explain it.” You had now started to get more serious, staring at your empty coffee mug, and as you spoke, Joe asked for another coffee for you.

“Difficult how?”

You thought about how to explain the six-year relationship you’d had with a guy you no longer knew. 

“He was jealous, but not in the sense that I couldn’t have guy friends, but in the sense that I couldn’t be more successful than him. I didn’t tell him when I applied to come to New York. I didn’t tell anyone. I only told him after I got in… And he hated it. He broke up with me the same day I told him.” You shrugged, acting as if that hadn’t shattered you into a thousand pieces five months ago.

“He was a son of a bitch, then. Not difficult. Difficult is… I don’t know, solving a math problem. A guy like that is just a son of a bitch.” Joe was looking at you more seriously now too, but not in a bad way—maybe just wanting to see your reaction to his comment.

You took a sip of the fresh coffee the waiter had brought, and as you raised your cup, you agreed with Joe. “Yeah, he was. And your ex was a real bitch, too, wasn’t she?”

“Definitely.” Joe laughed at your comment, and you gave him a little smile.

The hours passed and the sun began to set outside. It was almost dark when you decided to start walking toward your homes. On the way, your phone started ringing, and you apologized to Joe but explained that you had to answer because it was your brother. You moved to the corner of the sidewalk and Joe created a sort of barrier in front of you, shielding you from the noise and people on the street. Now, you spoke in your first language:

“Hello? Is everything okay?”

“Yes… Auntie, it’s not Dad.” You heard the laughter on the other end of the phone, which warmed your heart. You could picture your nephew stealing his father’s phone just to call you. You smiled to yourself, and Joe was watching you. He had the feeling that there was no way you could be more beautiful than you were right now, at this very moment.

“What happened, sweetheart?” After a few minutes, you hung up the phone.

“That was hot.” You looked at Joe confused. “I mean, I’m sure there wasn’t anything hot about the conversation with your brother…” He started to blush and get all tangled up in his own words, and you, a little impressed by his ability to just keep talking, started to laugh a little. “It’s just that… Ah, you know… You were speaking another language and you were so focused… I don’t know. Shut up.” At that moment, he started laughing a little embarrassed too, and you laughed even louder.

“So, are you telling me you like it when women speak other languages?” you asked, now just to tease him a little. “You know, I can talk dirty to you in several languages,” and now you started to blush a little. In your head, that sentence hadn’t come across as flirtatious as it actually did.

Joe watched you with a smile on his face, almost delighted by the fact that you, apparently, had also gotten tangled up in your own words.

“And how many languages do you speak?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you, still wearing a smile that was starting to make your knees go a little weak.

“Four. My first language, German, English and a little Spanish… Not to brag.” You felt your cheeks flush as Joe’s eyes studied you intently.

“Why so many?”

“Well… English and Spanish were the basics; I learned them in school. I learned German in college… And I spent a semester in Germany doing my master’s degree.” 

“So, you really are a nerd?” Joe asked, laughing, and you made a shocked face, pushing him a little as you walked side by side now.

“Look who’s talking… The man who can play a million instruments.” And then you both fell silent, smiling to yourselves, both satisfied with this moment, with this walk, with this day. Neither of you wanted it to end. 

In the end, Joe asked what you had talked about with your brother and you explained that it was your nephew. He was 8 years old and wanted a new Lego set, and his dad had apparently told him that you were going to give it to him for Christmas. Of course, your brother had only said that to calm the boy down and then talk to you about it later.

Joe laughed and asked to see a photo of your nephew. You just held up your phone, showing him the lock screen. The photo showed a little boy with slight tan, standing at the beach, with a dog covered in sand, both with their tongues hanging out. 

“Oh, he looks so sweet.” You smiled at Joe and agreed, saying you didn’t know it was possible to love a human being as much as you loved Gabe. Joe said he understood the feeling and showed you his lock screen photo—it was a girl, maybe a little older than Gabe, giving the middle finger, looking serious. 

“I like her attitude,” you said, laughing. Joe told you that he also had nieces and nephews and that he also missed spending more time with them.

You kept walking until you reached the front of your building, where you started getting ready to say goodbye to Joe.

“Look… This week, I’m playing two shows outside of New York and spending a few days visiting my family. But I’ll be back next Saturday. Can we see each other when I get back?” Joe had a boyish look on his face now, but he still didn’t take his eyes off you. 

“Oh… You asked me out and now you’re going to run away?” You said, laughing, trying to hide a little of the disappointment you felt at having to wait so long to see him again. “Of course, Keery. We can see each other when you get back.” You hugged him—for the first time, you took the initiative to hug him—and kissed him on the cheek. Joe didn’t quite know how to react. It was as if his whole body was going into a frenzy. Then you entered your building and waved goodbye to him. 

Joe stayed for a few more seconds, pulling himself together, and then went home, feeling at once like a teenager falling in love for the first time and the luckiest guy in New York.

[djodesk]

Sorry Boyfriends and Teddy Bears

summary: gator tries his best to make up for making you upset, and you do your best to drag it out.

tags: gator is bad with emotions and pitiful and pathetic (whats new), reader is sensitive, reader has gator on a leash pretty much, lowkey ooc gator but shhh, briefly proofread

wc: 3.3k (got carried away whoops)

This was ridiculous. All because of stupid argument. Not even an argument.

All because of Gators stupid self saying something stupid just because he was frustrated after work.

And now being alone and being ignored for hours has Gator parking on the sidewalk outside your house at midnight.

He found out early on that even though you were shy, you got snappy too. You got mouthy with him, you had an attitude at times.

But he’d expect at least a goodnight text, no matter how annoyed you’d get with him in the past, you’d always send some sort of little text to remind him you were there, and that you were still upset.

Tonight, he got nothing. No call, no text, not even a little emoji, nothing.

You had argued somewhere after the dinner rush. He got back from cleaning up his dads dirty work and being scolded for not doing good enough for him. 

Right after being chewed out by his father, he stopped by the little library where you work, as he always does after his shifts.

And he promised. You hadn’t seen him in a few days due to him being ordered to run around doing whatever the hell he did, you didn’t like to think about it. He promised he’d make sure to see you today.

So, of course when he texted you as soon as you got on your lunch break saying he was outside, you rushed your way out, abandoning the rest of your chips and sandwich just to see him. 

You hopped in his truck and immediately crossed over the center console, sitting in his lap and wrapping yourself around him.

He hugged you back, but his arms were tight and tense around you.

“I missed you.” You smiled into his neck, pressing little kisses against his neck to his jaw to his lips. You continued all over his face, his lips were weak and loose when he kissed you back.

“Baby- hold on, hey.” He said as nicely as he could, he turned his face away and held your wrists. “Can you calm down with the touchiness?”

“What?” You mumbled.

“Baby- don’t get me wrong, It’s nice and stuff, but you’re doin’ a lot right now, like goddamn just give me a minute to fuckin breathe.” He muttered, wiping a hand over his face.

Then he saw the way your face fell, that crease form between your eyebrows, the way you gulped and clenched your jaw. You pulled away slowly.

You slid off his lap and back into the passenger seat quietly. It took a few seconds of sitting in silence and staring ahead before he heard the car door open. 

“My lunch break is almost over, I should go back.” You muttered the lie as you hopped out, slamming the door shut before he could get a response out.

Now, the only light outside is the streetlamps, and Gators phone is still void of any texts from you while he decides what to do.

He sighs, both your parents' cars are in the driveway. From what it looks like from the windows, every light is off in the house. 

Except for the small rectangle of warm light on the side of the house, where your room is.

If Gator wasn’t so pissed off right now, he’d feel like a teenager again as he sneaks out to the side of the house, rapping his knuckles lightly on the window.

He can see that your door is closed, the doorknob is locked, you are nowhere to be seen in your room, and there is a small slither of your window left open with no screen on it.

He really should have never taught you how to take the screen off your window.

But now he’s worried, not panicking, he doesn’t panic. He just doesn’t like the idea of you being out this late at night by yourself. You already nearly made him pass out the other week with the spider.

Gator only clenches his fists and stomps as he mutters out curses. He whips out his phone and starts sending even more pathetically apologetic texts to you.

He’s on his second attempt of calling you by the time he’s back in his truck seat. He’s bouncing his leg enough to the point the vehicle is slightly shaking along with the movement. 

Your voice appears but it’s only your voicemail telling the caller to “leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you soon!”. And you sound so fucking sweet in it, it’s killing Gator.

The slicked back style of Gators hair has been long destroyed by now with the amount of times he’s ran his hands through it and his excessive stomping. The next best thing he can do is try and find you himself, he is not waiting. 

The truck pulls off the sidewalk and he keeps his foot on the pedal with enough weight for him to be going at a slow but tolerable pace, he’s impatient. He’s worried, but he doesn’t like to say that. It makes him feel like he’s saying he’s scared, which he is, but it makes him feel weak.

You couldn’t have gone far? It’s a small neighborhood. You’re probably just walking somewhere farther down the sidewalk? Maybe you were walking the other way when he was coming down your street?

He’s nearing the end of the street and he’s on the verge of smacking his horn, but a few more feet and you’ve appeared.

You’re at the playground that got built not too long ago at the end of your neighborhood, you’re sitting on the swingset. You’re in an old hoodie and pajama pants, your using the toe of your sandal to sway yourself back and forth.

Gators headlights practically blind you as you look up. He can see you squint, recognize it’s him, then grimace and look away.

He doesn’t even try to attempt to park nicely in between the freshly painted white lines. His truck is slanted and taking up three parking spaces.

You’re still swaying, you know Gator is walking up but you keep your eyes on the ground. Keeping that pouty look while you let your head lean against the chain on the swing.

Gator sighs and slides his hands into his pockets, he’s doing his own swaying now too.

Goddamn, he feels like a piece of shit.

“Planning a getaway?” He tries to joke. It falls flat.

“‘M not talking to you, Gator.” You mumble.

You didn’t mean to be so sensitive, you were just excited to see him. Gator is still getting used to physical touch being a good thing. Your hands have been the first to feel like his skin isn’t stinging when you touch his.

“Yeah. I kinda..noticed that.” He sighed. For the first time in awhile, Gator has no smart comebacks.

“Thought you wanted space. Thought you wanted to be alone.” Your eyes are burning holes into playground dirt, digging the sole of your old closed toe sandal into the woodchips.

“I wanted to say…that ‘m sorry.” He winces, it sounds pained. He doesn’t apologize much. “Sorry” is a word that’s becoming more common in vocabulary now that he’s met you.

God, you hate him. You’re considering taking your shoe off and throwing it at him.

You’re considering telling him to leave. But you won’t. You don’t want him to.

You’ll torture him a bit more.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” He says clearly. Pitfully, pathetically. 

“I heard you.” You finally look up at him, your pink and slightly puffy eyes feel like a million tiny daggers into his body.

“So…you’ve got nothing to say about that? Nothing to say back?” He sticks his neck out. You roll your eyes and look away. You’re not looking at Gator, it’s making him ache.

“What is there to say? I heard you.” You shrug, pursing your lips together.

Gator sighs again, sliding his hands out of his pockets and pressing them against his back. He lets out a little groan as he stretches, he’s torturing you now.

“I guess you won’t be gettin’ my apology gift then.” He shrugs.

He catches the way your eyes shoot up. You’re a sucker for gift giving. Giving and receiving. Though you don’t get the latter much often from others.

Gator does his best to make up for it.

“Guess I’ll just return it, I got the receipt somewhere in my glovebox.” He shrugged. “It’ll just go back on the shelf and some other sorry boyfriend will buy it.” He sighs, kicking a few rocks. He’s putting on the most dramatic act to win you over.

And it’s working. God, you hate him.

He turns slowly and walks back to his truck, he can feel your eyes on him. He turns on the engine, but he’s not moving anywhere. He’s counting down. 

Waiting for it. 

It takes a little over 30 seconds. And then there’s the light knocking on his passenger window. Your silent way of asking to be let in. You can’t help but be polite.

He reaches over to push the door open, letting you see the surprise sitting on the passenger seat.

It’s a teddy bear with a little bow wrapped around it’s neck, as well as a fake flower that you can slip from its arms. There’s two party sized bags of your favorite candy along with it.

Worst of all, he’s buckled the bear in. The seatbelt is fastened right around its stomach and over its shoulder. 

You almost smile, you have to fight it, really fight it.

Yeah, he’s won you over. But you won’t let him know what yet.

Gator’s got one hand on the steering wheel, clenching and unclenching. His bottom lip is tucked under his teeth. He’s nervous. 

You purse your lips and clench your jaw, tilting your chin up as you inhale. 

You unbuckle the seatbelt and grab the bear from it’s spot, you hold it in your hands and stare at it like you’re analyzing it. You’re pretending to decide how you feel.

The poor teddy's little beady eyes are staring right back at you. You swallow your pride happily.

Gator’s already moving the bags of candy out the way so you can sit. His eyes stay on you while you hop into the seat. You shut the door and keep your eyes on the bear.

Gator tilts his head, he’s trying to look at you, get you to look at him. You rub one of the bear ears between your thumb and pointer finger, the fur is soft and a little silky against your skin.

“I’m still mad at you.” You let him know sternly, you still haven’t smiled yet.

“I know.” He sighs. He lets his hand fall from the steering wheel.

He grabs the bar under his seat and pushes his seat back, all the way back.

“C’mere.” He murmurs, laying slack against the seat. His hands lay flat on his thighs.

You slouch down into your seat and look at the side mirror, pretending to ignore him.

“Don’t make me ask you again.” Yet there’s no demand in his tone. But fuck, he’s worried he’s being mean again.

“You’re not even asking me. You’re just telling me.” You grumble.

But you go and you sit in his lap anyways, leaving the bear back on your seat and crawling over the center console to get to him. Lips jutted and eyes looking down and away from his face. You can see the cocky little smile blooming at the ends of his mouth in your peripheral vision.

“You’re so pouty.” Gator squishes your face between his fingers while his other hand lays against your waist.

The thing that’s changed in your personality now that you’ve gotten more comfortable with Gator. You pout a lot, you’re sensitive, you’re still quite shy. Just pouty too. Gator brought out the mouthy side of you that’s been hidden for years.

And Gator takes any chance he can to tease you for it. Because he’s Gator.

“I’m not pouty.” You grimace.

“Yea? Then what’s all this about?” He squishes your cheeks more and shakes your face lightly in his grasp.

“You.” Now you’re getting annoyed. You shove his hand away and move your head back. Your face seems to be stuck in a scowl.

Gators face slowly drops, he feels like an asshole again.

“Hey.” He says as softly as he knows how to, “Hey, ‘m not mad at ya.” The hand that you shoved away comes up to rub at your upper arm. Your fiddling with his hoodie strings, eyes focused on the way the gray cords of fabric twirl around your fingers.

Gator runs his hand down your arm and stops at your hand. He takes it into his, the rough pad of his thumb skates over your knuckles. He tilts his head down again, trying to get you to look at him. You give in.

Your eyes meet his and you swear you can see his face soften with relief.

“Look, ‘m pretty pissed you snuck off this late in the cold in this lil pair of shorts.” He mumbles as he tugs at the hem of your pajama shorts with his other hand, rubs at the fabric. “But ‘m not mad at you.”

A little sigh leaves you, you’re not sure how to respond. So he takes his chance to keep talking.

“Baby, I love you touchin’ me. I love your hands on me, all over me.” He takes your hands in his and presses them against his chest. You can feel the rump of his heartbeat under your palm when you press. “I love you touchin’ on me, yeah?” He brings up one of your hands to his lips, he presses kisses over your fingers, your palm, your knuckles, your wrist. 

He’s really trying to make it up to you.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just- I had a shit day, I’ve been surrounded by asshole and fuckin idiots and- I was pissed off and I should’ve let myself cool down real quick before I saw you,” He’s rambling, this is new. “I should’ve told you I was pissed off and I could’ve- I should’ve been nicer ‘bout it. Should’ve been nicer to you.” His eyes are wandering all over as he fumbles through his words, looking everywhere but your face.

He takes a breath to swallow his own stubbornness.

“And I’m sorry, baby.” He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head a bit.

Good fucking god, he’s embarrassed. He can feel you looking at him and he wishes you weren’t, at least not in this moment. He can’t let you see him like this.

When he opens his eyes, you look away again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek.

“C’mon baby.” He murmurs, cradling his hand against your face, giving it a little push of encouragement to get you to turn your face to his. “I’m sorry.” You still avoid his eyes, he knows you’re waiting for more, you’re making him beg. This is a humiliation ritual for Gator.

He gets an idea and reaches over to the passengers seat where your new bear lays. 

“Gator’s sorry, yeah?” He picks up the bear, brushes the face of it against yours. The fake fur tickles your nose. Your face spreads into a meek smile. “You gonna forgive Gator? Gonna stop torturing him?” He keeps pressing it against your cheek until you can’t hold back and let out a little giggle. 

You grab the bear and he takes his chance to press a kiss against your cheek while you’re occupied. 

“Fine, fine.” You say through another giggle, Gator could faint at hearing your voice again. “I’m done torturing you. For now.” 

“Good.” He smiles. “You can get fussy with me all you want, I deserve that, but don’t go running off ‘cus of it.” He holds your chin gently, tilting your face down to give you a kiss to your forehead, the tip of your nose, then your lips.

You just smile and kiss him back before you wrap your arms around his neck, you smush yourself against him.

“I’m sorry you had a bad day.” You speak into his shoulder.

“You don’t gotta apologize, ‘s nothing. You made it better.” He feels like a cornball saying that outloud, but he can feel you smile against him, so it’s not too bad.

The two of you stay like that for a little while. Gator strokes his hand up and down your back while pressing little kisses to your neck here and there. Your shoulders loosen after some time, your chest rises and falls more slowly against his.

“You falling asleep on me?” He nudges you.

You absolutely are.

“Mm-mm.” You give him a lazy shake of your head. 

Gator pulls you away from him like he’s trying to take tape off a piece of paper without ripping it. Once he gets a look at your lidded eyes and pouty lips, he knows you’re about to knock out.

“Alright, time to go home.” He rubs his thumb against your cheek and you groan.

“Why can’t I just stay with you?” You whine.

Last time you fell asleep in his car, smushed against him, your neck hurt the rest of the following day.

“Next time.” He promises with a kiss to your lips. “Gotta get back to the ranch.” He holds onto your waist as you slip off his lap and onto the passenger seat, he’s pretending to guide you, he really just wants to hold you.

“I thought you were patrolling?” You yawn, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Only to find you.” He kisses the top of your head before turning on the engine. You smile to yourself.

Once he’s parked outside your house again, he walks you to your window and lifts you just a little bit so you can sneak back in through your window.

“Get your little sneaky ass back in there.” He gives you a small swat to your ass and he can hear the little giggle you try to hide.

He passes you the two bags of candy he bought for you, you already carried your bear with you crawling through your window.

Gator finishes off giving you his gifts by leaning in and pressing one last kiss for the night to your lips, he lingers.

You’re just about to say goodnight and close your window when he stops you.

“Uh uh, screen back on the window.” He tells you with that stupid cocky grin. You roll your eyes but you listen anyway, you pick up the window screen from where it’s laying against your wall and shove it back into the windowsill. 

It’s annoying having to look at each other through the thin grid, you feel like some princess locked in a tower.

“I better not see you running around this late again.” He's still got that stupid grin on his face. He shoots a wink at you before walking away from your window.

“Uh huh. Later Gator.” You say with a sweet sweet smile, you know it pisses him off. 

And before he can fully turn around, you’re shutting your window and closing your blinds. You laugh behind your hand, you love torturing him.

Gator drives back to the ranch in silence. He yawns and runs his hand down his face to his neck, rubs at it.

He wishes he crawled through the window with you, wrapped his arms around you and stayed in your bed for the night. Feel your arms tucked around him and legs lay over his under the covers, feel your hands twitch the way they always do and listen to the little breaths you always make when you’re asleep.

His phone vibrates on the dash. 

It’s a text from you.

goodnight 💕

He’s so amused by you.

[athenas-rose]

hey!! i saw a fic like this but it was super duper short and i was kinda unsatisfied ☹️☹️ i feel like you would do a great job writing this so im asking you!! can i request a fic where the party has to drive somewhere, it can be like during a crawl or it can just be to the movies, whatever you want! but there isn’t enough room in the car so reader has to sit on steve’s lap and let’s just say it isn’t easy for him hahaha

thanks so much!! i love your work with all my heart💗💗 talented is an understatement

Rocky Rides

Steve Harrington x fem!reader 1k words

Warnings: friends w feelings, suggestive, fluff, tension,

Through the chaos of a last minute rush, you’re forced to sit on Steve’s lap

“We should’ve left twenty minutes ago—we’re gonna miss the previews!” Mike screamed as everyone tried scrambling out of the house as quickly as they could.

“Then maybe you should’ve been ready twenty minutes ago!” Steve yelled back, grabbing his jacket but still moving the slowest out of everyone.

You had arrived at the Wheeler house earlier that afternoon for a group outing to the cinema, but unfortunately, going anywhere with the party meant you were doomed to be late no matter what. And according to Mike’s calculations, you’d be lucky if you didn’t miss the whole introduction of the movie.

“I can barely breathe back here—open the window!” Max exclaimed.

And the other problem was that Steve was the only responsible adult with a car to take you all there, meaning there were currently about six teenagers stuffed in his Beamer.

Steve froze in his tracks midway out the door, patting his back pocket repeatedly. “My keys—shit—where are my car keys!”

Robin was already ten steps ahead of him leaning against the car door, twirling his keys around her fingers. “C’mon Harrington, we’re gonna be late.” She said with a smug smirk.

Steve leveled her with a threatening glare. “Oh, absolutely not.”

“What was that?” Robin quirked her head, already sitting in the driver's seat.

He ran over and gripped the edge of her window, “Robin. You are not driving, you don’t even have a license, the last thing I need is for you to scratch up my car.”

“Too late!” She grinned, starting up the engine.

Steve huffed out a sharp breath, if she wanted to drive he was going to be watching the whole time. Just as he rounded the corner, Dustin swooped into the passenger seat.

“Shotgun!” He yelped.

“Out, Henderson. I’m older.” Steve shook the door, but Dustin had already locked it cautiously.

“Which also means you’ve gotten slower. Sorry old man, but to the back you go.” He gestured.

Having no other choice, Steve joined the rest of the kids in his already beyond cramped backseat. You were the last one to join the crew, standing unmoving in front of the car door as you observed the occupied seats.

“Oh, there’s…no space.” You muttered.

“Sure there is—just scootch over,” he instructed Lucas, but when you tried getting in, the door wouldn’t even shut.

Dustin groaned from the front, “This is what happens when you only have one car!”

Steve rolled his eyes, “couldn’t you guys just bike there?”

Dustin turned around to look at him like the suggestion was crazy. “Who bikes all the way to the cinema?”

Robin honked the horn, getting all of your attention once again. “Jesus—just sit in his lap, it isn’t that complicated!”

Your eyes widened immediately, you couldn't imagine having to put all your weight onto Steve’s lap for the duration of the drive. But, it did seem like the best solution, plus you were friends—it’s normal, right?

Steve swallowed thickly, nodding shakily. “Y-yeah, yeah, I can—just c’mere.” He avoided your gaze, worried if you looked close enough you would see the pink flush climbing up the side of his neck.

You hesitated, but any more time wasted and the kids would throw you out all together. Very slowly, you attempted not to bump into him as you gripped the seat, lowering yourself onto him.

He let out a low grunt, not because you were heavy, but because the effect was instant. Your soft hair was tickling his nose, the smell of your coconut shampoo and perfume invading his senses without warning. Steve didn’t know what to do with his hands, placing them around you might make you feel uncomfortable, he resolved to just hold the edge of the seat.

You didn’t dare turn around, you could already feel him, his warm breath hitting your shoulder, the broadness of his chest behind you, trying not to focus on how badly you wanted to lean against it, feel his body underneath your head.

The car started moving and you kept your mouth shut, grateful that the others were loud enough for them not to notice you and Steve’s unusual quietness.

Steve was taking short uneven breaths, your thighs were splayed over his and he couldn’t think straight. He was fighting the urge to pull you closer to him, the light fabric of your clothes weren’t stopping him from feeling your skin touching his.

Robin was severely under qualified to be driving, out of nowhere she swerved the car to the side, everyone letting out screams as they bumped into each other. The force jolted you to the side, and before you could hit your head against the window, Steve’s hands wrapped protectively around your waist, pulling you back until you were glued to his body.

He let out a curse at the close call, but your mind wasn’t on Robin’s reckless driving skills, it was reeling on how tight he was gripping you—his large veiny hands almost completely spanning the entirety of your waist.

“You alright?” Steve breathed quietly into your ear.

You took a couple of breaths before speaking, afraid you would only be a stuttering mess. “Mhm, better than ever.” You said unconvincingly.

You missed the way he smiled against the back of your neck, Steve was right where he wanted to be.

Feeling like you were undoubtedly crushing him, you shifted forwards and attempted to situate yourself so that you could sit upright. Suddenly, his hands squeezed you—his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“Stop moving.” He whispered low into your ear. You frowned in confusion, why would he want you to be laying on him?

Oh.

Steve cleared his throat heavily, and you could feel how hot his body was now. The car felt more cramped than earlier, it seemed like there was no place to go but closer.

After many missed turns, Robin eventually pulled into the theater’s parking lot, everyone praying in relief that they hadn’t died on the way. They all stumbled out until it was only you and Steve left, climbing out of his lap begrudgingly.

You looked back to see him still sitting, “Aren’t you coming?” You asked, waiting.

His body stiffened, arms held together in the same spot you had been recently sitting on. “Just give me a minute.” Steve responded tightly, unable to get up in public in his current state.

You bit back a smile, secretly hoping there wouldn’t be enough seats in the movie either.

[kassy-djomunson]

mind you these are grown men in their thirties

[sc3ptre]

Hiiii I don’t know if requests are open but I can’t stop thinking about history teacher Steve 😓 or Joe even, saw him answering a question about what he’d do if he wasn’t famous and he said he’d probably be a teacher

But I think Steve would be secretly a history nerd and not even on purpose and I can totally see him becoming a teacher ☹️ and and and English teacher reader

Lessons in dating history

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-0424

Classification: Fluff

Word count: 1,5k

Divider by me ;)

Kids had very vivid imaginations. They could make up monsters during playtime, their own best friends and see love where you believed there was none.

Yours and Steve’s classrooms faced each other, so in the mornings as you stood by the door welcoming in the children to class, your gazes often met in shy glances. The old brick building of Hawkins Middle School still carried the faint scent of chalk dust and floor wax even after the town had tried its best to move on from everything that had happened years ago.

You taught English in room 212 and Steve Harrington had somehow ended up right across the hall in room 211, teaching history to the same group of energetic sixth graders. It wasn’t something either of you had planned but life after the nightmares of Hawkins had taken strange turns for everyone.

Today the hallway was quieter than usual between periods. You had been wrestling with a lesson plan on early American literature when you realized your notes on colonial timelines were a mess because the dates refused to line up neatly with the stories you wanted to share. 

Steve’s voice drifted across the hall, steady and warm, explaining something about the Louisiana Purchase. You glanced at your watch, his class still had twenty minutes left but the question in your head wouldn’t wait.

You smoothed your simple dress and stepped across the hall. The door to room 211 stood open. Inside, desks were arranged in neat rows but the students were anything but neat. A few boys in the back were folding paper airplanes under their desks, while two girls near the window whispered and giggled behind their textbooks and one kid was balancing a pencil on his nose, clearly testing how long it would stay there before it clattered onto the floor.

Steve stood at the front near the blackboard, chalk in hand, drawing a rough map of the Mississippi River. His hair was still that same perfect swoop, though a little shorter now for practicality. He wore a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and khaki dress pants that somehow made him look both professional and like the former King of Hawkins High who had never quite lost his charm. When he spotted you in the doorway, his brown eyes lit up in that familiar way that made your stomach do a small flip.

“Miss,” he said, using the polite title the kids knew you by, “everything okay?”

A dozen heads swiveled toward you as the paper airplane folded itself into stillness and the pencil clattered to the floor. Suddenly every sixth grader in the room found the interaction far more interesting than westward expansion.

You smiled, trying to ignore the way your cheeks warmed. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Harrington. I just had a quick question about the colonial period. My notes on the timeline for the Salem witch trials are all jumbled and I thought since you covered the Puritans last week…”

Steve set the chalk down without hesitation. “Of course, come on in. We were just finishing up anyway.” He turned to the class, his tone easy and confident. “Everyone, eyes up here for one more minute. Who can tell me why the Louisiana Purchase was a big deal for the United States?”

A few hands shot up. While one boy answered proudly, Steve stepped closer to you near the front desk and the kids watched like hawks. You could practically feel their imaginations spinning stories already.

He leaned in just enough to keep his voice low but still audible. “The witch trials stuff lines up around 1692, right after some of the earlier settlements. I’ve got a good map in my desk if you want to borrow it. The timelines match better if you tie them to the religious tensions from England carrying over.”

You nodded, genuinely grateful. His explanation was clear and enthusiastic in that subtle way he had when he forgot to play it cool. You had always suspected Steve was a history nerd at heart, the kind who read extra books not because he had to but because the stories stuck with him. It was endearing.

“Thanks, that helps more than you know,” you said. “I owe you one.”

One of the girls in the front row sighed audibly, a dreamy little sound that made her friends elbow her. Steve’s ears turned faintly pink but he kept his focus on you.

“Actually,” he said, glancing once at the clock, “class, start packing up. Quietly.” Then, softer to you, “If you have a free minute after the bell, maybe we could talk in the hall? I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

The room erupted into whispers the second the dismissal bell rang a few minutes later. Students shoved notebooks into backpacks with exaggerated slowness, clearly hoping to catch every word. You and Steve stepped just outside into the hallway between your two doors, the flow of kids parting around you like a stream around rocks.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit you had noticed over the months. “So, this is probably not the smoothest way to do this, but I’ve been thinking about it for weeks…Uh would you want to grab dinner sometime? Not school cafeteria mystery meat, an actual dinner. Maybe that little Italian place on Main Street this Friday?”

You blinked, heart picking up speed. The hallway smelled like pencil shavings and the faint lemon cleaner the janitors used and a few lingering students hovered near the drinking fountain, pretending not to eavesdrop.

You could not help the teasing smile that spread across your face. “Dinner? With me? Are you sure this isn’t just to keep your kids happy? The kids have been pairing us up since the first week of school. I even heard one of them say we’d make a cute ‘history-English power couple’…whatever that means.”

Steve laughed, a warm, genuine sound that made the teasing worth it. “I swear it’s not for them. Though they’d probably throw a parade if they knew…This is for me. I like talking to you in the mornings, I like how you get excited about books the same way I get excited about old maps and battles and I…I really like the way you look at me across the hall even when you think I don’t notice.”

Heat rose in your face again. You glanced toward your classroom where a few of your own students were already settling in for the next period. “Alright, Harrington…dinner sounds nice, but what if this doesn’t work out? We’re literally across the hall from each other every day. Who between us will be transferring then? I can’t exactly move my whole English library in one go and you’d have to haul all those heavy textbooks and maps…I’d feel bad.”

He grinned, nodding. “I’d transfer…History can go anywhere. Besides, I’d never make you give up your window view. You like watching the birds out there during planning period...I notice things too.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Smooth, very smooth…Okay, Friday…but if the kids start making heart-shaped cards for us by Monday, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” Steve said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll pick you up at seven…And don’t worry about the timelines, I’ll bring that map.”

You both turned to head back into your classrooms at the same time. The moment you stepped through your doorway, a wave of applause and cheers erupted from both rooms. Your students and Steve’s had clearly been watching through the open doors and the windows facing the hall. One boy in Steve’s class let out a loud whoop while a girl in yours started clapping so hard her bracelets jangled.

Steve paused in his doorway, turned back and gave you a quick, private smile before disappearing inside. You closed your own door gently, cheeks warming but heart light.

As the applause died down and you tried to settle the class into the next lesson, your mind wandered to the possibility of two Harringtons at Hawkins Middle School. The thought made you smile wider than it should have and the kids would lose their minds in the best way. They already saw love everywhere, spinning stories out of shy glances and hallway conversations. 

So, maybe this time they were right.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a pleasant haze of discussions about short stories and stolen glances across the hall whenever you both stepped out to monitor the corridor. Steve caught your eye once and mouthed “Friday” with an exaggerated wink, to which you rolled your eyes playfully but nodded.

By the final bell, the rumor mill had already started. A group of students waved at both of you as they headed for the buses, whispering excitedly. You stood by your door again, watching the flow of backpacks and laughter and wondered what the school would make of it all if things turned out right. Two teachers, two classrooms facing each other and a whole lot of young imaginations cheering you on.

It felt like the start of a pretty good story. 

One you would not mind writing together, one ordinary school day at a time.

a/n: If you enjoyed this, consider saving the archive. More stories are coming, and requests are always welcome! Likes, reblogs and comments help others find my work and mean more to me than you know. Thank you so much for reading 💛

[fa3riecore]

handsome boy i adore you

[lustfaeeryy]

oh to be the kitty

[pixxxiepoop]

you’ll never see me skipping a vid of djo singing egg live