[harringtonsugar]

Your Side Of The Bed

summary: your breakup with steve has been rough, and it only gets worse at night without him next to you.

warnings: angst, mentions of arguing, nightmares, steve and reader are both avoidants, cursing,

word count: 5.5k

In a reality where you fought inter-dimensional monsters and befriended a young girl with telekinesis, you would think there’s nothing worse than dealing with that.

But it’s pretty easy to say going through a breakup with Steve Harrington is infinitely worse.

You’re standing behind the counter of Family Video, eyes fixated on a small piece of fuzz swirling around the air. You’re trying really hard to ignore the customer flirting with your ex boyfriend ten feet away from you.

You’re grateful he doesn’t seem to be reciprocating her advances, but its probably because you’re nearby. Steve really grew out of being an asshole and flirting with her in front of you would put him right back at the top of the official asshole list.

It’s been a month since your breakup and just know whenever someone says it gets easier with time, they’re lying. The first week was spent on Nancy’s couch, surrounded by tissues and a family sized tub of ice cream. You called in sick from work the whole week and cried enough tears to fill an entire ocean.

The second week, she forced you to socialize more. She was considerate enough to start small – an invitation to have breakfast with her and Jonathan. The opportunity to take Mike and El to the new skating rink. Max spent some time with you too but she didn’t push you to talk about it, she just sat with you through four different movies. All horror, there was absolutely no room for romance or comedy.

By the third week, you really had to pull it together. There was no word from Steve and it was probably better that way. Eddie, Mike and Lucas did all the work to get your things from Steve’s house and pack it up to bring to Nancy’s. You really didn’t want to move into her apartment but it was a stepping stone after leaving Steve’s.

Looking back on it now, the breakup was .. well, it was stupid. It was a cumulation of arguing and stress and lack of space all in one. Petty arguments over chores and snide remarks about each others habits. It was something that should’ve been solved with one conversation but you were both equally stubborn and when you angrily shouted maybe you needed space, he didn’t argue.

Still, you missed him. You really fucking missed him.

And the worst part is he seemed to be doing perfectly fine.

Dustin swore he wasn’t taking sides but you haven’t seen much of him these past couple weeks. Whenever the kids hung around you, he and Robin were both missing and Mike let it slip they were at Steve’s. It’s not like you blamed them, you were all friends but Steve was their best friend.

Now, it’s day 34 without him and you’re wishing the ground will swallow you whole and save you from hearing this girl drape herself all over him.

“It’s just so good to see you, Steve,” She says. She wears a wide smile on her face, one palm resting on his bicep. Steve doesn’t seem to mind, he just fiddles with the tape in his hand and smiles back.

“Yeah, you too, Stacey,” He responds.

Stacey.

He never mentioned a Stacey when you two were together and now suddenly they’re a pair of good friends who wish they kept up with each other over the years.

You try not to stare but then she grabs his forearm and snags the pen he had clipped to his vest. Your stomach twists when she begins to write on the skin of his arm. Steve watches her, his brows pulled together and when she finishes, she raises his arm to her mouth – she presses her red lipstick covered lips against his skin, flicking her eyes back up to his and leaves a kiss mark.

You physically feel sick.

She removes her mouth, a quiet pop sound fills the store. You can see now she’s written her phone number on him, the kiss mark a cute little signature. Her thumb brushes over the lipstick stain and smiles up at him again.

“Call me tonight,” Her voice is low and sultry. Steve glances at you and when he sees you already looking, he swallows hard.

You can feel your eyes prick with tears and tear your gaze away from him. Your throat feels tight, you clench your jaw to keep yourself from crying.

Thankfully, a different customer approaches the counter with their own tapes to check out. You clear your throat and take a deep breath, then plaster on the best customer service smile you can muster.

“Find everything okay, Mrs. Langston?” You ask, typing in her information as you complete her sale. The older woman is easy to talk to and maybe for a few seconds, you’re able to forget all about Steve and Stacey.

You’re unsure how the conversation ends but when you hand the receipt to her, Stacey’s gone and Steve is carefully approaching the counter opposite of you.

You bid your goodbyes to Mrs. Langston and busy yourself with cleaning up the papers near the register. There’s nobody left in the store except you and him. Tension fills the air quickly and you can feel him looking at you.

You hope he doesn’t try to make conversation about Stacey. Aside from things related to work, you haven’t spoken since the night you broke up. If he tries now, you’re almost certain you’d burst into tears.

If he’s moving on – even though it’s only been 34 days – you won’t stop him, and you definitely won’t beg him not to.

“Hey, uh listen,” Steve’s voice breaks the awkward silence. “About Stacey, I just want you to know -,”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” You cut him off quickly. Your back is still turned to him and you’ve re-piled  the same stack of papers four times now to look busy.

“I know, but I want to.”

You freeze then. Steve notices and you hear the sound of his footsteps coming closer. He approaches you carefully, like he knows you’re seconds away from running away, and stops a few steps behind you. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth from his body.

He says your name softly but you still don’t turn. “I’m sorry you saw that,”

Sorry you saw that.

He’s apologizing it for happening in front of you, not that it happened in the first place. Because he’s not sorry. Clearly, the breakup and space has been good for him and while you’ve been a walking zombie, he’s been moving on.

You swallow hard and bite your lip. “It’s fine, Steve.”

He moves again. This time to stand beside you and his head bends to try and catch your eyes. You keep your eyes trained on the stack of papers and pray he’ll drop it.

Before he has a chance to say anything, the bell at the top of the door sings and the door swings up. You’re more than thankful for the distraction and you look up to greet the customer but you’re met with Eddie, Max and El.

Max and El are talking amongst themselves but Eddie’s eyes are stuck on you. You don’t miss the mischievous glint in his eyes as he looks between you and Steve.

“Look at my two favorite Family Video employees,” He sings and approaches the counter. Max and El follow.

“Hey guys,” Steve greets them, but you can feel his eyes still on you. Eddie clearly notices as well and smirks at you.

“We’re here to pick up the tapes Robin put on hold yesterday. Y’know, movie night and all,”

“Right, I’ll go get those,” You say quickly, taking any opportunity to get as far away from Steve as possible. You miss the way his eyes sadden but he doesn’t stop you.

As you scurry to the break room, Max and El trail behind you.

“You’re coming tonight, right?” Max asks suspiciously. You send her a sideways glance as you fish around the room for where Robin hid the tapes.

You already know your answer – no, you will not be going because movie night is always held at Steve’s house and you can’t bear the thought of being there again so soon. But you haven’t told anybody you weren’t going. Honestly, you planned to just skip out on the whole thing without a word. Clearly, Max knows you well enough to know that’s exactly what you intended.

“I don’t think so, Max. I’m not feeling great today,”

She sees right through you. “Bullshit.”

You scowl at her. “Language, Mayfield.”

“You feel fine, you just don’t want to be around Steve,”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You wave her off, and kneel to the ground in front of a crate of old tapes.

“Why don’t you two get back together?” El asks. You look up from where you’re shuffling through tapes. “Max and Lucas break up and get back together all the time. Even me and Mike have done it before. He still likes you,”

Her oblivious nature is cute and you can feel yourself soften. “Steve and I are a little different from you guys, El. And I don’t think he wants to get back together.”

“That’s bullshit again!” Max exclaims.

“Max!” You groan and finally find the tapes Robin hid. Rising to your feet, you head back up to the front. “It’s just movie night, it’s not a big deal, alright?”

You push through the beaded curtain, the girls following suit and nobody misses Max’s sour face.

“It is a big deal! Eddie, will you tell her it’s a big deal?”

Eddie pulls himself away from the conversation with Steve and looks at you three. “What’s a big deal?”

“Nothing.” You say.

“She doesn’t wanna come tonight,” Max says at the same time.

Eddie makes a face. “Why not? It’s the third time you’ve bailed on movie night.”

Max gasps, realization dawning on her. “It is the third time!” 

You glare at him. Damn him for keeping count.

“Can you two relax? I just feel sick today,” You grumble, punching in Robin’s phone number into the computer.

“Bull.Shit.”

“Maxine Mayfield, I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap!” You threaten, a finger pointed in her direction. She rolls her eyes but before she can respond, Steve speaks up.

“What’s wrong? Is it your head?” He asks. You look up at him and immediately regret it. He’s looking down at you with those chocolate brown eyes and they’re swirling with concern. “Have you been sleeping okay?”

You still for a moment because no, you haven’t been sleeping okay. Actually, you haven’t been sleeping at all.

“I’m fine,” You say quickly. “Can all of you relax? It’s just movie night,”

Steve ignores you. “But you said you were sick. What’s bothering you?”

“See?” El speaks up. “I told you he still liked -,”

“Okay, I’ll go!” You cut her off. She was one word away from completely embarrassing you. “Can everybody lay off now?”

Max and El look pleased enough, Eddie as well but Steve’s look of concern doesn’t disappear. Still, he doesn’t press you on it and you’re grateful.

The rest of your shift is spent carefully avoiding Steve and taking every opportunity to help a customer or stock shelves. You’re painfully aware of how he keeps an eye on you the whole time but he seems to respect your wishes to not talk.

By the time 8PM rolls around, the store is cleaned and ready to be locked up. Steve waits behind you as you lock the door before you both make your way through the parking lot. Three steps into the same direction, you realize he parked right next to you.

Thick tension surrounds you, and you’re silently wishing the birds chirping will be loud enough to make him not talk.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Steve’s voice is low and hesitant. Your heart pinches at that soft tone he carries – it’s something you got so used to but have been deprived of for the last month.

You nod without looking up at him, and pull the strap of your bag closer to your chest. “Everything’s fine,”

He looks torn between asking again or being quiet completely, and he chooses to be quiet.

This is the most you’ve spoken to him since the breakup and it’s even harder than you thought it would be. It’s taking every ounce of self control not to throw yourself into his arms and beg him to hold you. To come back to you and make everything better.

Your ego wins the battle. He didn’t fight for you to stay and hasn’t fought to bring you back either. If anything, he’s proving he prefers being apart from you.

You’ll get there, with time. Hopefully.

You make it to your car and surprising to you, Steve jogs ahead of you to open your car door. You finally look up at him and see him already looking down at you – he has one hand clutched around the handle and the other resting atop the door.

It’s hard looking at him, especially doing something to gentle like opening your door for no reason. Based on the look in his eyes, you’re sure he can see the pain in your eyes.

“Thanks.” You mumble softly and slide into the seat. He doesn’t shut it right away, so you glance up at him.

He takes a deep breath and moves to stand between the car and the open door. Carefully, he bends down to kneel so he’s eye level with you.

Gently, he says your name. “I don’t want you to miss out on things because of me,” He says and your heart sinks.

“I’m not,” You say instinctively. It was a lie and he sees right through you.

“If you’re uncomfortable being around me, I’ll skip out on tonight,”

You sit up, ready to argue that it’s his house and they’re his friends – he shouldn’t have to worry about your feelings. It’s not his responsibility anymore.

But he continues before you have a chance.

“I can find something else to do, it’s really not a problem.”

You frown at his words and your mind immediately goes back to Stacey.

He didn’t say he’d try to be around you, or that he won’t let it get weird – he was offering to leave completely. Maybe this was his way of finding an excuse to go out with her.

Your eyes flick to his arm and you see the faint trace of her phone number still on his skin. He follows your gaze and drops his arm from where it rests on your door.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He says quickly, almost defensively.

Maybe he didn’t. Or maybe he did.

Truthfully, there was no way for you to know. And it wasn’t like you had the right to know either. He wasn’t yours anymore.

When you look back up at him, your face is blank, eyes void.

“You can do whatever you’d like, I won’t make it awkward.” You say simply and Steve’s eyes sadden.

He can tell exactly what you’re doing – steeling yourself off from him and he hates it.

Before he gets the chance, you turn away from him. After sliding the key into the ignition, your hands curl around the steering wheel and you look straight ahead. “I already promised Max and El. I don’t want to let them down,”

He looks at you while you avoid looking at him again. From beside you, you see him nod before standing upright and shutting your door softly.

You don’t waste a second before you’re peeling out of the lot and making your way home, all without even glancing at him again.

Whatever he chooses to do will be on him and has nothing to do with you.

You want to cry – you can feel it about to happen – but you’re so tired of it. Crying and wallowing hasn’t helped you these past few weeks and it’s not about to start now.

Even then, you’re debating just breaking your promise to the girls and staying home. At least then you wouldn’t know if Steve decides to stay home or go do whatever he has planned with whoever.

But you miss your friends, and you’re tired of sitting on Nancy’s couch alone all night and tormenting yourself with your own thoughts.

When you make it home – Nancy’s home – you drag yourself into her apartment and avoid all her questions about how your day was, how it was seeing Steve, if you’re okay.

You give short and simple answers, making sure to skip over the Stacey incident, and tell her you’re going to shower before you leave. She’s happy you’re at least going tonight.

By the time you finish, you showered and changed into more comfortable clothes. You managed to talk yourself off the metaphorical cliff – you’ll stay for one movie and drive separately so you can make an early escape.

You haven’t figured out a way to feel normal once you step back inside his house and when you park on the curb, that feeling of dread consumes you.

You turn the car off but stay sitting for a few seconds as you stare at the house. A month ago, it was your house – your home. Now you’re knocking for someone to let you in. It’s a saddening difference and it just makes you regret coming even more.

You’re five seconds from starting the car and leaving before Nancy knocks on your window, Jonathan next to her. She urges you to get out and you can see the look on her face – the one that’s reading into your every move and it’s obvious she’s worried.

So you gather your things and pull yourself together.

Robin is the one to let you guys in and you glance behind you to see if Steve’s car was in the driveway.

Relief sits heavy in your chest when you see the maroon car.

You follow behind Nancy wordlessly but when you see El peak her head around the corner, Mike lingering next to her, it’s hard to fight your smile – because you really did miss them.

She rushes to you, practically dragging you further into the house and to where she claimed her spot on the floor.

Max and Lucas have their own setup next to El and Mike’s and they’re completely engrossed in their own conversation. Dustin has taken over the recliner on the other side of the room, and Eddie takes the end of the couch closest to him.

Nancy and Jonathan settle into the longer couch, and Robin sits on the obnoxiously big beanbag chair she begged Steve to buy her for Christmas last year.

You still haven’t seen Steve, and you wonder if he did choose to skip out and hide in his room.

You take the chance to look further around the living room. It almost looks like nothing has changed. The furniture is still set up the same way, the color palette is still warm and full.

The posed family pictures he once had with his parents are still replaced with pictures of the group across the room. But when you continue looking around, your heart sinks.

Because all the pictures he had of just you and him are still there.

A picture of you and him at the beach sits on the coffee table. One of you two hugging at graduation hangs on the wall beside the TV. Another one of just you, smiling up at the camera at your birthday two years ago is sitting front and center on the fireplace.

Your throat burns and you feel it begin to tighten. You never really let yourself think of the possibility that he hasn’t moved on either. Leaving of group photos was one thing, but the ones of you both? The one of only you?

It’s all too much and it’s slowly breaking your resolve. It’s only proving the fact that the breakup was all for nothing and if you weren’t so damn prideful, you could’ve fixed it.

Suddenly, Steve emerges from the kitchen with his hands full. He’s holding three different bowls of popcorn and bags of chips and candy tucked into his arms.

Your eyes meet and for just a second, he halts. He looks surprised you actually showed and you don’t blame him. Still, he gives you a half smile and you try your best to mirror it.

Dustin jumps from his spot on the seat and makes grabby hands at the snacks Steve holds. Eddie leans up and helps pass them out and you watch Steve swat Dustin’s hands away as he tries to steal everything.

Beside you, El talks your ear off and you’re eager to welcome the distraction. Otherwise, you would’ve spent the whole night staring at Steve.

Before long, Robin starts the movie and Mike begins to argue with Dustin about being quiet. There’s bickering, and laughing, and food being thrown but it feels nice. Happy even.

Steve ends up settling almost directly behind you on the couch. His elbow sits on the arm rest to his left and your back is directly against the foot of the couch. His legs are almost touching your shoulder. Neither of you say anything.

But even though you’re having a good time and aren’t completely regretting coming, you’re painfully aware of how close Steve is. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, the smell of his cologne is almost all you can focus on. Your hand twitches in your lap – begging you to hold onto his ankle and lean your head onto his thigh.

And as you watch the movie, your eyes keep finding the picture of you two at graduation. Steve has you pulled back into his chest, his arms iron clad around you. He’s resting his chin on your shoulder and you’re holding both your diplomas up at the camera. Your shared smiles gleam back at you and it’s enough to make you smile in real time.

It’s also enough to make you sad all over again.

Because it’s not your reality anymore, and you’re not sure it ever will be.

Somehow you end up staying through three movies. By the time credits roll on the last one, everyone is asleep. Mike’s leaning against the wall, his neck bent in a way that’ll leave him with a cramp in the morning, and El’s head resting in his lap.

Max and Lucas are sprawled along the floor across from them, one of his arms tucked under her head. Dustin has his face smushed into a pillow, one arm and one leg hanging off the side of the chair. Eddie is slumped beside him, drool pooling at his mouth.

Robin is curled into a ball on her beanbag chair, quietly snoring. Nancy and Jonathan are curled into each other on their side of the couch. You’re too scared to turn and look at Steve, but he hasn’t moved a muscle in an hour so you’re sure he’s asleep too.

It’s the perfect time to slip out undetected.

Carefully, you push yourself off the floor. It’s a mess around the room and even in a rush, you feel bad just leaving things the way they are. So you grab the bowls and snacks from the coffee table and move towards the kitchen.

“Let me help,”

Steve’s voice startles you so much that you drop the bags of candy to the floor, your palm covering your mouth to minimize the scream ready to slip out.

His eyes widen and he smiles. “Sorry, sorry,”

You exhale and it’s hard not to smile back.

He doesn’t look like he’d been asleep at all, which means he probably just sat there thinking the same thing you were. His hair is a little messy, a few pieces covering his forehead and you’re itching to fix it.

He leans down to pick up the bags and you go back to picking up the cups and bowls. You’re both careful not to wake anyone else as you carry everything to the kitchen.

It’s domestic – the way you fall back into rhythm of cleaning. Steve takes care of the dirty dishes and you begin putting the snacks back into the pantry.

When everything is cleaned, you’re unsure what to do next. At first, you figured you’d clean and leave without having to talk to anyone but now, you’re left alone with only him and he’s looking at you like that again and it’s hard to think properly.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, facing each other. He has one hand resting on the counter, tapping his finger on the granite. Your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth.

“I, uh, I should go,” You finally say.

“You don’t have to,” He replies easily. “It’s late, you shouldn’t be driving right now,”

You glance at the clock on the stove and it reads back 2:19AM.

He was sweet for offering but it wasn’t far and the last thing you wanted was to prolong the inevitable awkwardness that would come in the morning.

Steve notices your apprehension easily. “You can take the guest room and leave first thing in the morning,”

Your head is screaming at you to say no thank you. To bid him a farewell and get home as quickly as possible. Your heart, however, is begging you to accept and take the chance to be close to him – even just for one night.

And you’re sick of sleeping on Nancy’s couch.

“Okay,” You nod.

His face lights up, a smile covering his mouth. “Okay.” He repeats.

Quietly, he shuts off the lights and TV before setting off upstairs. You follow behind him and when you make it down the hall, you both stop in front of his bedroom door. He turns around to face you.

“Uh, guest rooms right there,” He points at the door across the hall. “Bathroom is just down the hall. Second door on the -,”

“I know,” You cut him off and he nods quickly.

“Right, yeah. Of course,”

It’s awkward to say the least, but it’s not unkind. It’s nice to hear him talk again, even if it’s just telling you where things were.

You stare at each other for a moment. The clock in the hall ticks loudly and you wonder if he can hear how loud your heart is beating.

You break first. “Goodnight, Steve.”

He gives you a soft smile. “Goodnight.”

You enter the room and seconds later, hear his bedroom door click shut.

The guest bedroom is dull. There’s no pictures along the wall, only a painting of a red Cadillac from the 70s. There’s beige curtains covering the window and a matching beige bedspread on the mattress. There’s a small lamp on the bedside table and a desk on the opposite wall.

It’s a drastic contrast from Steve’s bedroom – especially after you helped get rid of his matching striped curtains and wallpaper.

It feels cold and lonely.

But you climb into bed anyway and do your best to stop thinking about how much better you’d sleep with him next to you.

On the other side of the wall, Steve lays on his own bed and feels the same way. His room hasn’t felt like his room since the day you left and now that he knows you’re so close, he’s using all his strength not to climb into bed with you.

He’s spent the last month trying to convince himself if he let you have some space, things would get better and you’d come back to him. To him, it was never a breakup – just a stupid stepping stone in your relationship.

But as the days passed, you pulled further away from him, and next thing he knew, the boys were coming over and packing up your things. He wanted to fight them on it, actually he tried – but then Mike said it was your idea and suddenly everything felt too real.

Maybe he fucked up so bad you were fed up. He thought about showing up to Nancy’s, thought about begging you to come home, but he didn’t want you to feel cornered. So he backed off.

But then he saw the way you reacted when you saw him with Stacey.

It’s not like it meant anything – it took her writing her number on him to realize she was flirting with him, all because he couldn’t stop staring at you. After he tried to talk to you about it, he spent ten minutes in the bathroom trying to scrub it off his skin. And you saw the remnants stained onto his arm later that night.

He didn’t want you to feel jealous or upset over it, he didn’t plan on ever calling her, but a small part inside of him felt relieved you did feel like that. At least you still felt something for him.

And he knew what you were thinking all night as he watched your eyes filter back to the pictures of you two. He didn’t leave them up to prove something, he just couldn’t stand the thought of taking them down. You would always be his, no matter what.

Still, the argument escalated so quickly because of him and he had to make sure if – when – you came back to him, it was on your terms. He wouldn’t rush you.

So he offered the guest room and hoped that would be the first step into forgiveness.

It’s maybe an hour after he’s climbed into bed when he hears the faint sound of .. crying?  

His ears perk up and he leans up on his elbows, turning his head towards the door. He listens for a moment but all he hears is the ticking of the clock.

He thinks he must have imagined it until he hears it again.

It’s still quiet, and easy to miss if he wasn’t already awake, but he can hear it – and it’s familiar.

It’s you.

It’s a cry he’s heard a hundred times over the years. It’s soft, and not the same one that comes from you during a sad movie - it’s fear.

He knows what’s causing it – your nightmares used to be overwhelming but ever since you moved in with him two years ago, they’ve become less frequent. Having him next to you was enough to tether you to reality and comfort you.

But now he hasn’t been there. Have you been dealing with them ever since you left? All the while he’s been making you feel like you should be gone.

His feet are moving before he even has a chance to think – like his body was made with a built in magnetic connected to you. He pulls his door open and pads directly across the hall to your door.

He presses his ear to the door and can hear your crying more clearly. They’re still quiet but they sound more intense now. His hand curls around the handle but then he hesitates.

Should he be the one to comfort you? Should he get Nancy to instead? Would you want him?

When he hears you cry out again, this time louder, he pushes the door open. The light from the hall shines through the doorway and he finds her curled in on yourself, sheets skewed across the bed. He can see you shivering, your brows pulled tight, creasing the beautiful skin of your forehead. He sees your skin is flushed red and your cheeks are stained with tears.

Guilt sits in his chest and without thinking, he’s climbing into bed with you. The mattress dips below his weight and he slides one arm under your head and pulls you from your fetal position so you’re facing him instead. He pulls you into his chest, an arm curled around your shoulders and the other cupping your cheek.

His warmth transfers to you, and as if you were searching for him the entire time, your body instantly relaxes in his hold. Your shaking stops, a soft sigh escapes past your lips, and your hand raises to clutch the fabric of his t-shirt.

You watches the way you bury your face into his chest, the crease between your brows disappears, and he hears the soft melody of your voice.

“Steve..” You don’t say his name as a question – he’s pretty sure you’re still not even awake. It’s relief. Even unconscious, you were given comfort again and you knew with absolute certainty, that comfort was him.

He feels his heart contract in his chest and he tightens his hold on you. “It’s me, baby,” He says softly, lips touching your hairline. “You’re safe, I got you.”

As he holds you in his arms, he knows without an ounce of doubt, he’s never letting go again. Nothing is completely fixed and won’t be overnight but when morning comes, he’s going to tell you exactly this.

He won’t ever let you forget how much he loves you.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re practically shackled to the bed by Steve’s arms. They’re wrapped tightly around your waist and his cheek is resting against the top of your head.

Confusion takes hold of you immediately, but you don’t pull away from his hold. If anything, you burrow yourself deeper into his head but it’s enough to make him stir and groan quietly.

Internally, you’re cursing at yourself for moving even an inch but then his hold tightens around you – if that was even possible. You can feel his head lift from where it rested atop of yours and you hold your breath.

“Hey, you awake?” His morning voice is gruff and it makes your stomach swirl. You hesitate for a second before giving him a timid nod.

“Mhm..”

He pulls his arms apart but only enough to spread his palms over your arms, his thumbs brushing back and forth over your skin.

Silence settles over the room, only the sound of your  breathing and the sound of his heart beating in your ear. It feels normal again.

“You were having a nightmare,” Steve says suddenly and your stomach drops. “Last night. That’s why I came in,”

You sigh softly, eyes squeezing shut from embarrassment.

“I’m-I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up,”

Steve shakes his head quickly. “No, don’t apologize. Seriously.” His tone leaves no room for arguing.

You’re both blanketed in silence again but for the first time in weeks, it’s not uncomfortable. The feeling of his arms around you again, your body tucked perfectly against his – it feels warm and safe and grounding.

“Thank you,” You say quietly, fingers tracing shapes over his shirt covered chest.

“You don’t need to thank me either, baby,”

The pet name slips out so casually and your heart splits in two, but you grip his shirt even tighter. Steve picks up on your reaction and gently cups your face, encouraging you to look up at him.

You’re more than sure you look disgusting – bags under your eyes, and they’re probably puffy from crying in your sleep, cheeks flushed pink, hair a tousled mess – but he doesn’t look at you like you do, even for a second.

Steve looks down at you like you hung the fucking moon and stars. It’s intense enough to have you nearly shying away but he holds you firmly in place.

“I’m sorry about everything,” He says and you blink up at him. “This past month without you has been fucking hell. And seeing you last night, I don’t ever want you to deal with that alone.”

Tears well in your eyes almost immediately and when one slips down your cheek, he swipes it away gently.

“I love you so much and I don’t want to spend even another  second without –.” Steve makes a surprise sound when you cut him off by pressing your lips to his.

He recovers quickly, arms pulling you tighter into his chest and kissing you back just as hard. Every ounce of emotion you’ve kept bottled up are poured into this kiss and as he keeps kissing you, he’s gently wiping away the tears falling from your eyes.

When you finally pull away for air, you don’t go far – you rest your forehead against his and smile.

“I don’t want to be without you either.” You whisper softly.

Steve’s smile is bright and he quickly tosses you onto your back before he hovers over you, sweetly attacking your face with more kisses.

You’re giggling against him as his lips extend down to your neck and there’s not a doubt in your mind that you’ve ever been happier and as long as he’s right next to you, you always will be.

[lacedpages]

as a girl who suffers from sleep paralysis at least once a week, this was heartbreaking and perfect 💔 where is my Steve…

[aparalleliwouldlaymylifeon]

I AM YOURS IN THE END | Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader x F!Reader

Summary: When you're captured by the Empire and brought onboard his ship for interrogation, Anakin must face you for the first time since his betrayal.

Word Count: 8.5K

Warnings: 18+. Heavy angst. Betrayal. Lovers to enemies to ?. Anakin as Vader if the battle on mustafar didn't happen (he still wears the mask for intimidation). Truly insane levels of devotion (to the point it makes the poor guy stupid). Some graphic violence. Murder. Semi-public sex. Sex in a cell–there is a dead stormtrooper in the room but not near them and isn't really mentioned after death.

A/N: This is unrealistic as hell but we're going with it 🖤 also sorry if the smut and ending sucks, i was kind of unsure about it but if i looked at it any longer i would have deleted the whole thing

You were exactly how Anakin remembered. 

A little bloody. More than a little bruised. Features hidden beneath an unruly veil of gorgeous hair except for the all too familiar, blazing glow of your eyes searing into him the moment he stepped into your cell. 

It's ironic, a cruel voice in his mind whispered, that seeing you in this kind of state is what had driven him here in the first place all those years ago–to the dark-side of the force, to him.

He had just wanted the war to stop, delusional he knew, but the acidic fear that had scorched his throat every time you left his arms had grown too much. 

It had morphed, festered, into a vicious and gnawing thing that clawed through his veins like a sickness, a disease.

Devouring his morality and his good sense until both had obviously rotted from the inside out if he had been able to convince himself that death would stop when evil won.   

But there had been too many times where he had almost lost you for him to remain the rational boy Obi-Wan had cautioned him so often to be.

Too many times he'd clung to your limp hand whilst you'd lay unconscious and broken in the temple's medbay and he'd prayed to the force, please don't take her too. 

Over time it had devastated something vital within him, corroded away the remaining strength of his hope until it felt like he was constantly drained by fear. His lungs and his desperate heart choking on the darkness that loomed with the constant threat of your death. 

He'd foolishly thought his betrayal would unlock the stalemate of that never-ending war, that he would be the tipping of the scales that brought about the eventual prophesied stability to the galaxy.

Even if it was a wretched one paid for in the blood of those who had taken him in and raised him. 

But Anakin had been blind in his despair, and out of the ashes of the once great order, a faction of remaining Jedi had only grown more determined in retaliation– you had grown more determined. 

It had first been brought to his attention with whispers of your name spat like a curse, the sound of it striking terror and fury in equal measure as the frequency of those whispers grew. Inciting hatred in his new master until you were condemned to be hunted throughout the galaxy for the rest of your life.

There was no escaping your face plastered on the wanted posters alongside the man he had once called brother– the bounty on your heads that rose with every strike you made to tear this new empire down from its roots. 

He wanted to laugh, wanted to cry. He wanted to kiss you for it and then shake you so hard that your teeth clacked for being so fucking predictably noble. 

It made him furious each time. 

Any flawlessly disguised flicker of longing he felt, swiftly drowned out when he sensed the sharp spike of hate surging through those around him and cursed you for your recklessness. 

He was surprised they hadn't killed you the moment they had you rather than bringing you to him, and for a sickening moment Anakin thought that it would have been easier. 

Easier than having to face you like this.

To look directly into your condemnation, into the eyes that he still loved so much that now bore hatred beyond measure for who he had become, and not fall to his knees and beg that you understand. 

Because it was you, suddenly much closer than you had been in years and you were still so fucking beautiful that Anakin was stricken with it.

So glorious despite the years of hardship you had faced, as the grime and blood that painted your skin did nothing to hide the way you shone–to smother that light that lit you up from within whilst you glared at him with all the rage of an avenging goddess.

It was the worst kind of struggle to remain impassive in the face of it all– to hold himself quiet behind the helmet whilst you hissed and spat at him like a scorned animal. 

You always had been a sight to behold in your fury, he remembered. A firestorm bound within tissue and bone, excruciatingly beautiful and just as deadly. 

It had concerned many back when you were padawans, the flare of your anger on the occasion it was enticed, but it had been one of the things Anakin had found himself intrigued by.

Enamoured with it even when he occasionally found himself on the receiving end of it, uncaring if it reduced him to nothing more than a smoking husk if it meant he got to burn with you for only a moment.

And even then, all those years later, it still made his fingers twitch with the desire to take you in his arms, to seal his mouth to yours and drink the heat from your veins until he was a beautiful, smouldering ruin.

He didn't though–you'd have probably fucking bitten him. Mauled him into something bloody and torn in a flash of pearly white teeth the second he got too close, given the way you were looking at him. 

But fuck, he ached with just how much he wanted to. 

He missed you. 

**

They went round and round for days, every conversation, if it could even be called one, a dead end.

A completely infuriating disaster because by the time he had gathered his courage, swallowing his heart until it dislodged from his throat, and spoke to you, your disdain and spite for those around you had far outweighed any desire you had to live. 

You refused to say a single thing that wasn't dredged in insult. That hadn't been honed, sharpened to a needle point, and directed at the weak, fleshy parts of him so you could see if he still bled as you did, and Anakin, quite frankly, was close to ripping his hair out from the root in frustration. 

Each time he visited after that you grew that little bit worse for wear, clothes torn in new places, skin painted in the colours of the troopers’ violence and it made him desperate. It made him fucking wrathful.

There was suddenly the weight of a dooming time limit upon his shoulders because surely it wouldn't be long until he could no longer contain the fury that gathered around him like a storm. 

Not when every new part of you cut open and left to fester picked at him until he was a walking, breathing, raw nerve–the force crackling beneath his skin with a borderline deranged, volatile energy. 

It was getting too dangerous because he couldn’t leave you alone. 

He never had been able to shake your presence even after so many years apart, and now that you were so close again it was only made that much worse.

That innate sense of each other buzzing softly beneath your skins, like you had walked into the others chests one day long ago and decided there was home for the rest of your lives– burrowing in their tissue and their bones and the hearts that weren't yours, until they suddenly were, from the first time they felt your touch. 

If he was smart he would have stayed away, he would have eliminated any possibility of a considered remaining connection. 

But there was a fucking hook buried in the meat of his heart that kept snagging him back to you whenever he tried to keep his distance and it was only a matter of time before someone noticed how he lingered.

How he tensed at your pain.

How he was the only one who hadn't laid so much as a finger on your pretty little head and the ones who had soon ended up dead in mysterious accidents. 

He needed you out of there, needed you somewhere where the weight of your judgement and the danger you were in didn't constantly squeeze at his lungs until they popped like balloons and made him consider doing something so incredibly stupid. 

Reasoning with you was pretty much useless.

"You know you have to tell me something or he's going to kill you." 

"Is this the amazing interrogation techniques your precious master has been teaching you? Go to hell, Sith. I'm not telling you a damn thing.' 

"Why do you always have to make things so difficult?"

"Hm, I'm not sure–why did you turn out to be such a coward?" 

Your eyes were wickedly bright as you glared at him– sharp with a disgust that cut so deeply through his chest he wondered if you could see the gleam of bone, the frail, desperate beating of his guilt riddled heart. 

Not that he suspected you would have cared if you could. 

And of course he had been foolish to think you'd consider your own safety. 

You were one of the poster children of the Order after all. The self sacrificing, righteous to the end Jedi, bathed in a halo of angelic light, and now you looked at him like he was nothing more than a horror story. The hero turned monster who sold his soul to the devil.

You didn't consider your life worthy of betraying a cause, you were too humble for that. Too noble. 

Anakin would just have to do it for you.

Again. 

**

He tried to plan it right, tried to do things the smart way this time around. 

The Empire was nothing like the Republic or the Jedi after all, if he'd been caught the first time there would have been questions– a trial, as democracy would have demanded, respectfully upheld by the Jedi.

They would have probably even wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe because they would have wanted to understand why their chosen one would deal them such a devastating blow. 

Most likely, because despite the horror that they saw daily, they were still a bunch of bleeding hearts that believed too much in forgiveness and second chances. 

Here, Palpatine would just kill him. 

Or worse, his new master would destroy him, mind, body and soul, by torturing and killing you in front of him before he finished him off. 

He didn't just want to do it right– he needed to.

But then, of course, everything went to hell. 

He thought he knew how it felt to be afraid, to be downright terrified, the kind that struck him still and flooded his belly with nausea, skin flushing cold because his blood had turned to ice beneath his skin. 

But he didn’t think his heart had ever stopped before. Couldn’t remember a time when fear had wrapped its fingers around the muscle and strangled it so tight behind his ribs that he felt every painfully weak stutter until finally, for one dreadful moment that seemed to span eons, there was nothing at all. 

That was the feeling waiting for him when he rounded the corner to your cell only days later to find you pressed up against the wall. Someone he didn't recognise, a new initiate drunk on power or trying to prove themselves maybe, crushing your throat in one hand whilst the other dug a blaster viciously into the meat of your stomach and Anakin saw fucking red then. 

The images speared through his consciousness in fragments– fresh blood smeared over your face, a split lip, a bruised jaw. The realisation dawning in your eyes and the defiant tilt of your chin as you prepared to face your own death head on without a flicker a fear.

They whirled faster and faster behind the burning amber of his own eyes until he thought he'd be sick with it, until an unholy rage roared so loudly within him that it shook his soul and he lunged, slamming his entire weight into your attacker's body with enough force to send them both sprawling across the cell. 

And once Anakin had him, that was it. 

The blaster that had clattered to the floor upon impact would be no help to him even if he had been able to reach it. No power or weapon or any god the worthless piece of shit might have prayed to could offer him salvation from the man who had come for him.

Anakin had turned too rabid for that, something primal and pulsing dark burst from his chest and he was on top of the man in seconds– hands clawing at his helmet until he found a solid enough grip to slam his head into the ground over and over. 

It was like he couldn't stop– he didn't see the man beneath him, the helmet that had splintered and caved from the force of Anakin ramming it against the ground until there was nothing but a mangled mess with crimson seeping through the cracks. 

It still wasn't enough to sate him. 

Not until he drowned out the sound of your desperate struggle for breath by reaching out a gloved hand into the air towards the cause of it and clenching tight until the sickening crack of bone echoed throughout the room. 

And once it was over, as soon as the body went limp beneath him , he found himself crawling over to you. His movements half frantic, his mind utterly gone except for thoughts of you as his gore-slick hands wrenched his helmet off and threw it away before scrambling for purchase against the cold stone floor once again.

He found you curled up on the floor, your back facing rigidly to him and your knees pressed so tight to your chest it made his own bones ache.

His face crumbling with self-loathing and grief when he realised that your frame was hunched in on itself like you had been shielding yourself from his violence– like you were trying to make yourself too small to be seen so he wouldn’t turn all of that monstrous rage upon you next. 

There was the feeling of something fracturing in his chest the longer he looked, guilt blooming like thorns upon his ribs to slice him open as he pet at you with trembling hands and lowered his head to yours with a soft whimper of your name. 

You shuddered against him, voice strained and devastatingly small. "Please stop. Stop pretending like you still care." 

It was like you didn't even have the energy left to fight, to be angry at him, to push him away or draw him close so you break him as only you could and it made his eyes burn with the threat of tears he wasn't sure he had the strength to swallow down. His throat already squeezing painfully tight as you whispered. "Just kill me now yourself or leave me to die, it'll be easier on us both."

"No." The word punched out of his lungs, ragged and violent, and you flinched when his arm wound over your stomach, gathering you against him as his body curved itself around yours before his voice dropped to something impossibly broken. "I can't." 

"Why?" 

"You know why, my love." 

It wounded you both in some way, the acknowledgement that he still loved you. 

He felt it the moment you went rigid in his arms, when the endearment slipped from his lips like the years of betrayal and torment had never happened– reduced to, for a single blissful second, nothing but a terrible dream. 

But then there was the ragged stutter of your breath as the reality of it all flooded back with renewed vigor, the painfully shallow gasps before the first sob managed to heave it's way from your throat as you broke beneath the force of it's grief. 

You turned in his arms then, not to seek comfort, but to beat weakly at his chest as if you desperately needed to place all that pain somewhere, anywhere, else. Quivering fingers barely able to form into fists but you were determined, at least, to try. 

It was dangerous to linger like this, Anakin knew.

Anyone could round that corner to your cell as easily as he had, they could see the door flung wide open from where he had charged through it without a single thought in his head other than protecting you. 

They could see the crumpled body of one of their own, the blood splattered across the floor and the walls that shone like tar in the awfully dim lighting. 

They could see Anakin, heartsick and in agony, as he took every blow you deemed worthy of delivering with nothing more than a tightening of his arms around you and soft mouth sounds meant to soothe pressed into your hair, mumbled among a litany of apologies that would never feel like enough.

For the first time in years he felt a twinge of fear at the fact death could be only seconds away and yet still, he couldn't will himself to move. 

How could he when he was finally holding you again? 

When you were in his arms after all this time and you still fit against him so perfectly that it felt devastating in its sense of rightness. When you were willingly touching him, even if it was only for the sake of laying hands on him, and Anakin was delusional enough to wonder if a part of you still cared because he'd seen you in much worse states, levelling a far harder blow. 

So why weren't you hurting him then?

He would allow it.

He would allow it as he allowed this to go on and on– quietly and without restraint because you needed it. 

He simply waited and curled you into him tighter as your sobs rose, his own tears streaking through sweat and the flakes of dried blood scattered over his cheeks as years worth of withheld sorrow burst like a dam. Words pouring from your mouth, fractured and devastated. 

"I hate you." 

"I know." 

"No you don't!" You cried out, your head jerking back from under his chin so he had no choice but to witness up close the agonised strain in your eyes. 

"You have no idea. No idea what it was like to love you so much that I could have happily drowned in it, to see a whole future with you and actually believe more than anything I've ever believed in, that we could have it. Only to then wake up in the medbay with no idea where you were before Obi-Wan eventually caved after days of me asking and told me you were gone." 

He hated hearing the way your voice hitched with the pain of those memories, the way your bottom lip trembled the same way he imagined it did when you were given the news of his desertion. 

He hated that he was the cause of it all and yet he didn't know if it was that new piece of suffocating guilt added to an already mountainous pile that made him fracture, or the fact you seemed to believe it was so easy for him to leave you, but he found himself getting defensive.

A hot flash of anger like a struck match flaring in his gut that he couldn’t douse before his own pain cracked him open.

"And you think that was an easy decision for me to make?" He fumed, his voice turning harsh, bitter, for the first time despite the way his brain screamed not to turn this into a fight. “You think I didn't love you just as much and want that future with you just as badly? Do you really believe I just threw everything we had away to willingly become this for no reason?”

“Why then? What possible explanation could there be for breaking both our hearts and becoming everything you always claimed to hate–” 

“Because you came back from yet another battle half dead!” Anakin exploded. “I told the council it felt like a trap, I told you it felt like a trap, and no one listened and you nearly died!” 

The words were ripping their way out of him and suddenly he couldn't stop, he couldn't shove them back anymore than he could shove his own guts back into his belly if you sliced him open.

“How many times did you expect me to helplessly sit by a bed and hold your hand whilst you fought for your life because you had followed their orders without thought. Because you were always so willing to sacrifice yourself. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

You shoved him away from you then, scrambling to put your back to the wall and your arms over your chest like you were determined to protect yourself from what he was saying. From the guilt that tried to latch itself to your skin and sink into your bones as you stared at the ruined boy you had once loved.

The boy who told you he had committed unspeakable acts all because he had loved you to the point of insanity. 

"So what then?” You scoffed but it wasn't nearly as derisive as Anakin suspected you were trying for. Instead it was heavy, full of hurt, heartbreak given form. “I nearly died a few times and you thought joining them, the ones trying to kill me, to kill us all, was the way to put a stop to that? Did all those times diving head first into endless fights yourself rattle your brain or did I just never notice how much of an idiot you are."

Anakin blanched, his jaw clenching as he copied you, pulling himself upright and looking away only for the few seconds it took to draw a shaky breath. He couldn't argue with you there admittedly, but still. 

“I wasn't exactly thinking straight." He snarked, his bare hand scrubbing over his face before he huffed a sad, mirthless laugh. “Funnily enough, nearly losing the love of your life multiple times will do that to you. I was grasping at straws and thought I could end the war sooner this way and keep you safe."

You sat watching him for a moment, silent, something flickering behind your lovely eyes that he couldn't quite decipher, not now, not anymore.

But he was worn down enough that he let himself hope, let himself believe that maybe it was a sign you were about to relent even just slightly, that you would believe he was trying to keep you safe if you believed nothing else and then maybe you would listen so he could get you out of here. 

It was stupid of him, really, to think you would slow down after only moments of anger when you had years of it hoarded and clutched closely to your chest like a newborn babe. 

Because you were suddenly regarding him with a dark kind of humour. A cruel smile kissing the corner of your pretty mouth before you laughed, the sound equally as hollow as his had been, as you rolled your eyes. "Over exaggerating your abilities there weren't you, Vader. Maybe you do belong here after all with that ego of yours." 

You were determined to wound him now it seemed, determined to ignore any mention of loving you, past or present, and fine. He could allow that for now if it meant draining some of that hate from you the way one would an infection.

"If I remember correctly you never seemed to think my abilities were over exaggerated before." He taunted, unable to help himself from swiping low if you were going to first.

It felt like falling back into old habits– the stretched curve of his smirk pulling at his lips with no other reason but to see if he was still capable of working his way beneath your skin. "In fact, you used to praise certain ones so enthusiastically that it'd be hard for any man to keep his ego in check." 

He watched like a hawk as you bristled, starving for a glimpse of the girl he once loved all too well, her steel and her rage and that tongue that was whip-sharp. It made him suck in a quick, quiet breath, when your eyes flashed, something swirling hot and hungry in them when they subconsciously raked over him that made his blood flame.

But then you were shaking your head, pressing your fingers harshly into the ground like you were stopping yourself from either grabbing for him or throwing a punch at him. 

"Shut the fuck up, Anakin." You hissed. "You don't get to talk about before or about us like that– like it's all some big joke to you." 

His brow rose then, as did something in his chest that had his heart thudding a little harder. Because yeah, maybe the use of his old name set his teeth on edge but god, he couldn't help but feel a stirring of emotion, something a little proud, a touch possessive and wanting, at the way you still guarded the history between you so fiercely. 

He swallowed hard.

If there was some part of your relationship, any part at all, that you still cherished, that you kept locked up safe in the warm corners of your heart instead of scorching it from your mind like any sane person would have, then maybe he had a chance to get through to you. 

Maybe you would let him save you. 

"If I thought our love was a joke, would I have betrayed everything I've ever truly believed in for it?” He asked softly all of a sudden, his heart aching like a bruise when your expression turned distraught, like you knew exactly what he was doing. What he was going to say next.

“Nothing else could make me join those who have caused nothing but pain in my life, and everyone's that I've cared for too, but the opportunity of the slightest chance of protecting you."  

You made a small, broken sound at that and shook your head wildly when he whispered your name, like you were desperate for him to stop. To keep a tight hold of the anger he was trying to pry from you with frantic fingers so you wouldn't fall apart. 

It hurt him to have to push on, to break down those walls you had thrown up so high around your wounded heart. But as he watched your lip tremble, your eyes that grew glossier by the second yet refused to part from his own, he knew that this was necessary. 

That he wasn't just being selfish in wanting so badly for your heart to be laid bare to him once more, he needed it to be if you were to trust him enough to go anywhere with him. 

"Would I be planning to turn traitor again, risking my life again, because no one from the cause we have both gave everything to is coming to save you. I can't do it anymore,” he admitted quietly, and he knew from that the expression on your face that he looked pained, that any effort at pretence had melted away and he appeared as broken to you now as he felt. 

“I can't see one more bruise or any more blood on that perfect face of yours and pretend that I won't tear this place apart with my bare hands and kill whoever put them there." 

You went painfully still as you stared at him, stunned. Eyes wide and your chest stuttering with each jagged breath as he crawled closer to where you had scooted back against the wall.

"Vader." The name expelled itself from your body in a rush, a panicked blurt as your hand flung up in a limp effort to discourage him from coming closer. 

And yet still he didn't stop until your fingers brushed his suited chest, the contact zapping electricity between you as you both shuddered.

He wondered if you could feel the erratic pounding of his heart, the way his chest lurched when it rose, as his fingertips trailed over the soft warmth of your skin before he curled his hand around your own. 

"You can hate me all you want." He promised though the words felt like shards of glass in his mouth.

"Please stop."

"But I love you." He croaked. "Even if you hate me to the day I die– I will still love you." 

Your face crumbled. Lashes fluttering rapidly like it was suddenly too difficult to look at him, to bear the pain and his love that he'd moulded together with his own hands and shoved deep into your centre.  

"Anakin." His heart lurched again at the sound of his name but your voice sounded so weak, so fragile, and the bittersweet taste of it was a different kind of agony all on its own. "You have no idea how much I miss you." 

"I'm right here." 

He cupped your cheeks, trying to soothe you with tender strokes of his thumbs over your tear-streaked skin but you were already shaking your head, frustration flashing over your pretty features for a moment. 

"No you don't understand. I miss you all the time, even when I shouldn't– even when your name is thrown around every time that monster uses you like his attack dog, like he wants me to know it's you who's enabling him to take us out by the dozens. Even when I recognise you despite that hideous mask and it makes me feel physically sick because it's like repeating the day I lost you again and again. I still miss you, no matter how hard I try I can't stop, and it's killing me. You're killing me, Anakin." 

“Don't say that, please– I love you.” He grieved, his forehead falling to press against yours and voice smeared with anguish. “I'm sorry–I'm so sorry–I never meant for this, I only ever wanted to keep you safe–”

There was the excruciating sense of something wrenching beneath his ribs and when you cut him off with the sudden, aching press of your lips against his, Anakin wasn't entirely sure that the pain of it all hadn't finally killed him.

Too afraid to move or make a sound lest the moment fracture and reveal itself to be nothing but a dream to comfort him in passing, born of his starved longing. 

But not even his most vivid dreams could ever replicate the taste of you, the way your mouth slotted against his like the stars that made up your beings had designed you both to fit together perfectly. 

It was that sensation, that feeling of half of his soul returning to him, that awoke him from his paralyzed state, a wounded sound clawing up his throat as he shuddered beneath the hesitant touch of your warm fingers against his face. 

His own hands found every inch of you that he could reach then, your face and your hair, the slopes of your shoulders and the lengths of your arms. Trembling with a reverence saved for the most devoted of worshippers whilst they relearned the curves of your waist and slid over your back, strong arms binding tight as he hauled you flush against him. 

And there he held you like he would die if he ever let you go for even a moment.

Like the galaxy could crumble down around you both and Anakin would gladly let it if it meant he could continue kissing you for just a second longer.

You whispered his name into the heat of his mouth, voice tender with a devastating kind of want, and his lungs hitched–every limb in his body falling pliant to your will as you pushed him back against the cold floor. More than happy to let you manipulate him in any way you deemed fit because you clearly needed it and he needed you and nothing else mattered.

Except, of course, your reassurance that this was what you truly wanted. That you could possibly still want him after everything he'd done.

With a shaky breath, he caught at your hands that had left a trail of fire from the broad width of his shoulders, down his chest and over his stomach, to the waistband of his pants. Trapping your fingertips there just before they had the chance to dip below and send his mind into a spin.

And when your eyes fluttered open to meet his, the beginnings of the frown that pinched your brow melting into a soft sort of surprise once you registered the sight of him, he wondered if the concern and desperation that he felt was visibly warring across his face for you to read. 

"Are you sure?” He asked hoarsely. His fingers drawing gentle, hesitant lines over your own as he swallowed. "You don't– I don't want to if you're not."

There was silence for a second, maybe two, and when during that time you only watched him, appearing unmoored by the question and visibly pained, he closed his eyes in shame as the sickly heat of guilt crashed through him.

Anakin moved to sit up and carefully lift you from his lap, to create some distance so that you could both breathe because of course this wasn't right, not when you were both so raw from a fight, a confession, that was the accumulation of years of heartache, spilled blood and betrayal. Suffering from newly established wounds that lay above all of those old ones that had never fully healed in the absence of each other. 

But suddenly you were reaching for him in protest, stubbornly holding on and winding yourself around him in an unyielding grip like the very idea of being separated once again, for even an inch, was too painful to bare.

Kissing him with a certainty that he felt searing deep in his bones, his heart pulsing violently behind his ribs at the sweet nudge of your nose against his as you murmured. "Please, Ani, I want to. Don't make me miss you for a second longer." 

A ragged noise spilled from his throat at that and then he was drawing you impossibly closer. Crushing you into his chest until he could bury his face in the warm crook of your neck and feel the pulse there fluttering against his lips.

He brushed his mouth over it once and then again a as your head tilted into his, a little firmer like he wanted to taste it, to swallow it down into his chest and feel the beat of it in rhythm with his own heart. Arms clamping tight and voice a low rasp when you shivered.

"Never again." He promised, and when he raised his head his eyes were shining, tears collecting in the corners and glittering in the weak light of the cell. "Whatever happens, I'll never leave you unless you will it. And even then, you'll have to kill me first and banish my ghost just to attempt keeping me away."

You let out a watery laugh and he felt something deep inside of him melt at the sound. That part of him that had grown so cold without you, glowing soft at first before it flared brighter with the way your gaze gentled, sweet and adoring, when he kissed the salt from your cheeks.

You caught his mouth with yours before he could say another word, kissed him deep and so full of love that it stole the breath from his lungs and made him dizzy.

It made him grip you that little bit harder, losing himself to your fingers in his hair and his curved around the nape of your neck and the dip of your waist, tightening once more when you jaggedly rolled your hips and whimpered at the feel of him.

“Anakin…please.” You breathed. 

So he pressed in close and rolled his hips a little harder, a little more deliberate, drawing back just enough that he could watch how your lashes fluttered and your mouth dropped open, trying his best to recall all the exact ways that he used to make you keen so he could do it over and over again. 

“I know, I know–” He gasped, chest tight and voice shot. “You feel so good– I can't–”

You both trembled as his lips ghosted across your cheek, each breath hot in your ear, as his voice quivered. “What else– what else do you need from me? I’ll give you anything you want, angel, please.” 

You drew his hands down then, pressing them to where the button of your pants rested against the warm curve of your stomach and when he groaned at your permission, the way it took barely a touch for that button to almost slide completely free, you took advantage of his distraction by kissing every part of him you could reach.

“I want you to take it off, want you to touch me” you murmured, shivering when he obeyed with quick fingers, worn fabric shifting in a soft rush the same way his own breath exited his lungs. “Please.”

And for a few hellish seconds there was the crushing absence of your weight in his lap, of your touch in his hair and all over his body, but then his eyes rose to where you'd hastily stood. Shoving down your pants with the kind of franticness that would have once made him laugh, made him tease you for your eagerness for him, but now, it just had him scrambling to help with equal desperation.

With them gone he found his hands trembling uncontrollably at the thought of touching you, at the thought of what the feel of your skin against his would do to him after all these years. He already felt like he was unravelling, everything he was unspooling like thread into a tangled mess of heartache and guilt and so much unyielding devotion at your feet.

It was magnetic, a pull at his soul, that yearning in his chest a living, breathing, starved thing howling through the spaces between his ribs, that pushed him to his knees before you. That drew his hands to your bare ankles and then led them to map over your calves, tracing every dip and mark higher and higher as he pressed his face into your warm thigh and let loose a shaky breath.

He kissed you there when words failed him, a soft, quivering thing that turned into a choked noise when you gently cupped his chin like he was the most precious thing in the galaxy and tilted it so he could look at you whilst your other hand worked the glove from his prosthetic hand.

"I said I wanted you to touch me," you breathed, the glove dropping to the ground with a barely there thud as you gently slipped your fingers between his metal ones. "That means all of you."

He could only stare at you like you were something heaven sent, like you were an angel in human form that in a hundred lifetimes, never mind this one, he would never be truly worthy of touching, of loving. Of having you love him so unconditionally.

But he would try to be.

Stars, for you he would never stop this time until it killed him.

Anakin matched your helpless moan the moment you lowered yourself back in his arms, when he finally slid his fingers through your folds, throat tight and something like pride flaring deep in his chest at the soaked heat he found there. At the soft, broken noise you made when he pressed gentle circles over your clit. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He whispered against your lips. “Tell me.”

Tell me what you like now. Tell me what still feels good. Tell me exactly how you need it so I can give you everything you want. 

Tell me, tell me tell me.

"Fuck, yes– please– don’t stop.”  You rushed out,  a weak and wounded sound spilling out past your lips as he slipped a finger inside you, a second.

It made your eyes glaze when he curled them just right, back arching lightly, made your forehead fall against his when his touches bloomed with confidence as the slick sound of you being fucked on his hand grew across the silence.

"I won't– I've got you." He promised hoarsely between slow, indulgent kisses that swallowed down every beautiful little sound you made before they could fully escape.

But it didn't take long for you to grow desperate for more, for an ache to grow faster than the pleasure could burn it away.

He could sense it in the way your eyes turned a shade too bright and your nails bit into his shoulders, the tremble in your mouth as you kissed him back like you were terrified he'd disappear from beneath your hands, and then there was his name– spoken on a cracked sob.

"Anakin."

"It's okay, I'm here." He soothed, ghosting a featherlight touch of his metal thumb over your cheek, your jaw, pressing it to the soft plush of your lower lip and letting out a low, wrecked noise when you instinctively lay a gentle kiss to the tip. "I'm right here, angel, what do you need?"

"I just need to feel you." You whimpered, so shakily that it made him ache, that he felt each stutter of his flayed raw heart as you pressed into the hand at your cheek. "Feels like I'm gonna die if I don't."

Something collapsed within his chest at that, because he knew that feeling far too well. He knew the specific pain of it slicing beneath his ribs, of it tearing through his mind until the ache of it tainted every part of him.

And god, if he didn't desperately want to take every ounce of it away from you then but there was something holding him back, making him hesitate as he drew his hand from between your thighs and curved it softly around your hip.

"I don't want to hurt you, let me make you feel good first–"

But you were already shaking your head and any argument died on his tongue when you snuck you hand between your two bodies and then down past his waistband to palm his length, stroking him soft and slow. Determined to have have him as you wanted and Anakin had lost enough battles with you to know when it was happening again.

"You won't hurt me." You argued gently, eyes shining in the low light as you watched him like you knew he was crumbling bit by bit with each pass of your hand over him. Like you knew you had him without truly needing to argue at all. "I just can't wait any longer–please–"

And then you were rising to hover over him, working at his pants whilst he instinctively lifted his hips until you could pull them down just far enough.

He could feel how ready you were when you settled back over him, pressed tightly against where he was achingly hard, flushed heat to flushed heat, and Anakin felt himself twitch at the gorgeous sound that poured from your throat as you rocked hips into his.

It made his jaw go slack from the pressure, brain fuzzy from the bolt of pleasure that skitted down his spine when you moved against him just right and then it was his turn to begin trembling, bucking up until his cock was sliding repeatedly through the mess of your slick, and mouthing wild kisses and obscene praise against your lips. 

It had been so long that he couldn't help the way your name tumbled out, the ragged groan that tore its way from his chest alongside it as he snatched up your hair in a tight fist and hauled you tighter into him.

But he could only allow it for a moment more before he was hastily stilling you as the pleasure burned sudden and white-hot, frantically soothing his thumb over your side when you squirmed and whined at the loss of friction. 

"I'm not going to last if you keep doing that." Anakin gasped and it was supposed to be chastising, albiet a half-hearted attempt at the most, but he was so far gone that even to his own ears he just sounded beyond desperate. "Let me feel you–please."

He cursed then, a wounded noise catching in his throat, when you knelt up and reached for him–notching him at your entrance before sinking down inch by inch until your hips were flush with his.

And then the the world was tumbling and fracturing until there was no blood-slick cell in a cold and terrible ship. There was no war, no Sith or Jedi and the weight of balancing good and evil in the galaxy.

There was only this– you in his arms and all around him. The overwhelming sense as you clung to each other, wide-eyed and breathless, that it was still so perfect after all this time.

When the intensity of it all started to feel a little too much, when the pleasure spiked too hot too soon and made you gasp at every pulse of him inside you, only then did you begin to move– slow at first and syrupy as molten honey.

Shaky hands tangling in his hair and pressing over his chest, his thumping heart, and each cresting roll of your hips gentle, like you were trying to learn how to move with him again before the memory glowed beneath your skin and made everything feel so suddenly familiar that it nearly wrecked you both right then.

He cradled your jaw as you rode him, swept his thumb reverently over the edge of it and whispered your name, pleasure-drunk and panting, before dragging you into a messy, burning kiss that only dazed you further as he angled his hips to thrust steadier, deeper.

"Anakin–pleasepleaseplease."

There was something insufferably hot beginning to bloat behind his ribs, a swelling pressure of emotion that felt seconds from bursting and shattering his bones, born from too many things he yearned to say but felt undeniably afraid to. Too many promises and declarations building up behind his teeth that Anakin wasn't sure if he had the right to utter.

They slipped out regardless before he could choke them down when you clenched around him, as the sterile, filtered air on the ship turned thick and molten and his soul attempted to ascend his body from the way you touched him, held him.

Pulling him close like you never wanted to let him go, like you could press him back into that place you had carved out for him years ago and keep him there forever.

He would gladly let you.

"I'm yours–I always have been." He confessed against your mouth, voice cracking as he felt the shudder of your chest against his own. "Even when I left–even through everything I did– I've always been yours. Never anyone elses."

"I know." You whimpered, gaze shining. "A part of me always knew. I could feel it– feel you."

Everything was simultaneously too much and not enough. He felt delirious, desperate, like that acknowledgement of the bond between you had made it flare all the more savagely until every touch, every movement you both made, teetered upon the line of pleasure and pain. Of a bliss so intensely overwhelming it would ruin him entirely if he didn't pull away.

But Anakin needed to be closer. He needed to be pressed up against every inch of you and inside you anyway, every way, he could be, lest the longing that had nestled beneath his skin from the moment he met you suffocate him entirely. 

It made you gasp when a strong arm wound it way across your back, the muscles of your thighs tensing as they clamped around his waist when he slid deeper and punched against something urgent and sharp. Making you pant into his mouth whilst needy fingers raked down your spine until he was pressing against the dip at the base to lock you into his lap.

"Oh fuck–" You sobbed at the slow, demanding grind of his hips. "Anakin–"

"I'm never going to leave you again." He murmured, pace stuttering a little whilst you fluttered around him, growing closer and closer and pulling him helplessly with you. Shaking with the restraint it took to make sure he didn't accidentally grip your face to tight with his other hand as he shoved his forhead against yours.

"M'yours and I'll spend my life proving it, making everything up to you. Just–fuck– come for me first."

You did.

You fell apart only seconds later with a noise so beautiful that he couldn't resist the frantic urge to lick it from your mouth, to drink it down and let it bloom heady and bright in the hollowness between his ribs. Trembling in his arms as he gathered you up against his chest and followed you with a wrecked groan that made you smile a soft kind of smug against his lips.

You held him tenderly as he regained the consciousness you had so easily stolen, fingers brushing over his hair, the broad sweep of his shoulders and down over his back and when his eyes slowly blinked back open, dazed, the sight of you was nearly enough to break his heart.

Because for the first time since you had stepped foot on his ship and met his disbelieving stare, you were completely unguarded. Gaze warm and shining, more trustful than it had been, letting him glimpse your fear and your determination, your grief, your love.

It was a look that Anakin had missed so vehemently that it briefly rendered him incapable of nothing more than drawing in a weak, shuddering breath, the ache in his chest growing so severe that his eyes burned and stung with the tell-tale threat of tears.

He kissed you again before they could fall, a lovely, desperate thing, brimming with apology and so much devotion that you melted into him. Glowing from it as you laughed quietly and breathed his name. "Stop kissing me for a second– we need a plan."

The sound of that laugh made something in him spark, made it fizz with a hope that he swore he hadn't felt in such a long time that he was suddenly dizzy with it. The first trembling hint of a real smile gracing his lips as they part from yours.

"I have a plan." He murmured, looking at you innocently when your eyes narrowed in that judging way he was so familiar with because you always knew his plans could be a little…farfetched. "First, I get you out of here, I'll sneak you into my fighter and take you somewhere safe. Somewhere I can take care of you until you recover your strength."

"And then?"

Anakin grinned. "And then we come back and we kill Palpatine."

[lacedpages]

This is so perfect im sickkk

[scarlet-bitch]

HEAD START

WC: 3k | Pairings: Steve x fem!reader Part 1 of ???! No upside down- but follows canon characterization for Steve. Part 1 is between s2 and s3.) *MDNI 18+ | Steve & reader are 18/19, little to no description of reader, no y/n - peach used as nickname. Themes: childhood friends, first love, soft angst, inadequacy, coming of age. A/N: dedicated to those of you that really wanted ESC to be Steve focused! The original idea came from Prom Song (Gone Wrong) - Lana Del Rey while I was writing ESC and then I continued to be inspired by Gold Rush - Taylor Swift and Shot In The Dark - Kingfishr. Since it's WIP Wednesday and this has been in my drafts since December, I figured I'd post this. Here's hoping it inspires me to continue because the heart of the story comes after this part. Feedback/likes/ reblogs are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading & as always, I hope you enjoy! XO, Scarlet 💋

“Meet me. Bathroom. —Steve.”

The note slipped out of your locker and fell into your hand.

Five minutes later, Steve had you pinned against the tiled wall, lips on yours, fingers tangled in your hair.

This was how you’d spent nearly every fourth period for the last few months — Steve walking you down the hall afterward, hand in yours, telling you that you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

And you’d say it right back because he was — you’d always known it.

It wasn’t like you’d been immune to fawning over King Steve. In fact, you were probably the first. And the first to call him that.

You’d said it after one of his first basketball games, a little jab at his ego after he scored the winning shot. You must’ve been overheard, because by Monday, it was his new nickname throughout the halls.

Which inadvertently led to this odd reality as he began to no longer resemble the boy you grew up with and instead morphed into this puppet of himself. Everyone wanted him, and you knew it. King Steve was all the rage. It was a little jarring to remember there had once been a time he was all yours. At least in that innocent way growing up together allows.

There was no malice as you drifted apart, just the gradual change that happens in formative years. He had his crowd, and you found yours. But even so, the absence lingered.

Which is why you so easily welcomed his presence at Tina’s New Year’s Eve party senior year.

You hadn’t expected it when Ronnie and Eddie dragged you along but there you were, sipping a lousy drink on the couch, when Steve dropped down beside you.

“Hiiii you,” he drawled.

“Hi,” you said, giggling at the pouty face he was aiming at you. “Well… don’t you look drunk,” you teased. And while that was true, he also looked prettier than ever.

“You look like you could use a drink.”

Not wrong. You were way too sober for your liking, sipping a Coke with barely a splash of Jack.

“Trade?” you asked, holding out your drink.

He cocked his head, eyebrows knitting, a small smile tugging at his lips. He took your cup and handed you his.

You took a sip and immediately winced.

“What the hell is this? Acetone?”

“Scotty’s twist on a Long Island iced tea, Hawkin’s Hell Raiser I think he called it.”

“Disgusting,” you muttered, grimacing.

“And yet, it does the trick.”

You rolled your eyes and begrudgingly took another sip, letting the alcohol burn as his eyes stayed fixed on you, a small smile beginning to curl on his lips.

“What?” you asked, a little sheepishly.

“Just haven’t seen you around for a while.”

You nodded, you knew he didn’t mean school.

“They uh, moved my grandma into a nursing home. I don’t really like going back to the house without her there.”

“Ah, right. I… I heard about that, I’m… I’m sorry. She’s always been great to me.”

You toyed with your cup, anything to distract from the ache in your chest.

“She used to bring me dinner when my folks were out of town,” he continued. “Always said she couldn’t stand watching me order another pizza.”

You laughed, meeting his gaze again. “She still talks about you. On the days she’s lucid, she rambles about the boy who used to tug on my braids.”

He moved his hand absentmindedly to your hair, your breath catching as he brushed it away from your face.

“She keeps getting stuck on that summer before sixth grade,” you said quietly.

“That was a good one,” he smirked.

“I don’t know… I had the shittiest kiss that summer,” you teased, nudging his hand away.

“Hey! It wasn’t that bad.”

“You missed my lips, Steve. You kissed my fucking chin.”

“It was my first kiss! I’ve gotten better since then.”

“Oh, I’ve heard,” you laughed, taking a sip of the drink.

“You don’t believe it?”

You rolled your eyes.

Of course you did — he was the sole reason Skull Rock became so popular.

“Be my kiss tonight,” he added before you could respond.

“Oh my god.” You scoffed, cocking your head at him.

He didn’t say it like a line, he said it like himself. At least the version you remember.

You weren’t sure if it was senior year coming to an end or his recent breakup, but lately you’d noticed a shift when you passed him in the halls.

Less King. More Steve.

And despite the alcohol on his breath, you could see it now.

“How drunk are you?”

“Enough to know why they call it liquid courage.”

You felt yourself getting warm, unsure if it was the alcohol or how serious he seemed.

“Be my kiss,” he repeated. “Unless you and Munson are, like… a thing?”

“Eddie and I, a… thing?” you laughed. “No.”

“Well, I don’t know. You’re always around the freak—”

“Still charming, as ever,” you scoffed. “I hate to break your fragile brain, Steve, but there’s this concept called friends.”

“Alright, alright,” he held his hands up in surrender.

“‘Always’ is a stretch anyway. Ronnie’s his best friend, and she’s mine, so by proximity—”

“Friends,” he cut in. “Got it.”

His eyes flicked back to your lips, his tongue wetting his own as he stared.

“Mmm-mh. Drop the idea — you’re not getting redemption. I quite like being able to say I kissed Steve Harrington and it was awful,” you said, dragging out the last word for emphasis. “Makes me feel special.”

He barked out a laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “You are special, Peach.”

Peach. God, have you missed that. You hadn’t heard it since the end of sophomore year.

It all started when you fell off your bike at seven, bruised all over. Your grandma had laughed, saying, “I oughta call you Peach, you’re bruising just like one.” Steve thought it was hilarious, and from that day on, your name never fell from his lips again. Just Peach.

You nodded toward the cluster of girls watching the two of you. “You’ve got a line of people dying to be your midnight kiss.”

“Sure,” he said. “But none of them are you.”

The flutter in your stomach was undeniable at this point — tiny butterfly wings urging take off.

“Steve, don’t you know better than to save those honeyed words for the girls that actually believe ’em?”

“Aww, c’mon, Peach. I’ve only ever been honest with you.”

You swallowed, shifting to stand. “Well then… if you mean it, find me at midnight.”

And so he did.

During the sixty second countdown, Steve reached you with fourteen seconds to spare, smirk on his face, closing the distance just as the clock struck midnight.

He didn’t miss your lips this time.

Mouth claiming yours, stealing breath straight from your lungs as the cheers for 1985 rang around you.

The kiss wasn’t just his redemption, it was the beginning of making up for all the lost time.

And the more time you spent together, it became crystal clear that the boy you grew up with was still very much a part of him. It made you wonder whether people always return to who they were before life stripped away their innocence — or whether you two were just high on each other, on the nostalgia of it all. Undoubtedly, it felt like a fairytale.

But like most fairytales, there’s always a twist.

It didn’t happen all at once.

Kissing in the dark with the TV running low, Steve’s eyes transfixed on your reflection in the mirror as he watched you put on your makeup — sweet nothings spilling from his lips like worship. The awe on his face whenever he looked at you — it all remained.

Only something had wedged its way between you. A subtle shift in the quiet moments that had you wondering if the magic was slipping.

And it all imploded on prom night.

Back at Steve’s, the house empty except for the two of you. You intended to give yourself fully — finally — like some sort of cliche, only it didn’t feel anything less than perfect.

Steve was making sure of that.

Lips tracing your skin as if every inch of you was meant to be memorized. Your own lips numb from all the kissing. Down to only undergarments, sweat slick skin and heavy breathing as the dull, steady ache of what’s to come lingered — then halted.

Steve rolled off of you, breath quickening as he stared at the ceiling.

“Sorry. I just need a minute.”

“Everything okay?” you asked, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand.

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept staring.

Little did you know he was replaying a conversation from weeks ago.

“You lack drive, Steve. You latch on to these smart girls — and you’d think one of them would rub off on you by now. They’re going places. And you… you’re expecting I pick up the pieces to the mess you’ve made of your life.”

The words of his father hadn’t stopped circling since he first heard them.

He didn’t want to be thinking about them now — not when he wanted this moment to be special.

Steve had never been precious about sex. It just… happened. Fast, easy, thoughtless, except for Nancy. That had been different. Slower. Intentional. She’d forced him to look at himself a little longer than he liked — and he’d needed that.

But “King Steve” hadn’t appeared out of nowhere.

It had started freshman year. And, whether you knew it or not, it had started with you.

Hawkins had two middle schools feeding into one high school, and he’d counted the days until he could see you in the halls instead of just when you were at your grandparents’ house.

Only, he made varsity — a rare win for a ninth grader. A louder win for his ego.

The older guys took him under their wing. Told him girls were about to line up.

When he admitted he liked you — wanted his first time to mean something — they laughed.

They convinced him he’d make a fool of himself. Said he’d disappoint you. It was easy to believe when all he could think back to was that first kiss he’d colossally screwed up.

So when the sophomore cheerleader leaned into him after a game, he told himself it’d be practice. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being practice and became performance. And “King Steve” was easier to be than himself.

By the end of that year, you barely talked. A wave here, a hallway conversation there. And come spring of sophomore year, when you actually shared classes, the gap felt too big to close.

And even though he wanted to try, he didn’t know how. Then he began dating Nancy.

And she grounded him, pulled him out of the persona. Only he was too wrapped up in being better for her to mend his friendship with you. That is until five months ago.

It’s not like the past five months had been PG. Not even close. But you chose to wait — not incidentally, but intentionally. And when you told Steve last month you were done waiting, he’d been determined to make it perfect.

Only now, with his dad’s voice echoing in his skull, he couldn’t quiet it.

She’s going to leave, he thought. And I’m stuck here.

He used to think that was fine. A job at his dad’s company. A steady life.

What a fucking moron.

Without looking at you, he said it.

“I can’t do this.”

You pushed up on your elbow. “What?”

“I can’t go through with this.”

“Okay,” you said gently. “That’s fine. We don’t have to. But is everything okay?”

He swallowed hard. “This… us. It’s always had an expiration date.”

The resignation in his voice made nausea bloom in your stomach.

“Steve,” you said carefully, “what are you talking about?”

He finally looked at you. His eyes were glassy in a way you’d never seen.

“You’re leaving. A month, yeah. But then what? You go to the city. You start your internship. And I’m…” He let out a humorless laugh.

“Leaving doesn’t mean disappearing. I thought—”

“I can’t do long distance,” he cut in quickly. “And I’m not going to be the guy you sleep with before—” He stopped himself. “This feels cheap.”

“Steve, I’m so confused.”

“Sex changes things,” he said. “And I don’t want to muddy this before you go. You’re going to outgrow—“ he stopped himself again, jaw tightening. “This is all I’ve got.”

He huffed, sitting up.

“You’re all I’ve got,” he added quietly, like he hadn’t meant to let it slip.

You pulled the throw around yourself suddenly not wanting to be so exposed.

“I wasn’t going to sleep with you as some sort of farewell tour,” you deadpanned.

“I didn’t think that. It just— it complicates everything. It’s easier if we don’t.”

“Okay,” you said, sitting up.

“Don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not,” you replied.

You weren’t, you were hurt.

“I’m just being realistic, Peach.”

“No,” you chuckled softly. “You’re catastrophizing.”

Silence settled between you.

Steve felt nauseous.

You felt displaced.

“So let me just understand. You’ve decided,” you said, incredulous now. “That me leaving means I’m leaving you. You concluded this , us — was temporary?”

He didn’t speak just stared blankly ahead as the wall.

“You didn’t even ask me what I wanted.”

His voice dropped. “What do you want?”

You wanted him to come with you. You were going to ask him tonight. To get the hell out of this town and see what life looked like beyond Hawkins — together.

Instead, you stared at him.

“I just don’t want to be here, right now.”

He nodded. “Get dressed… I’ll take you home.”

Five months of hand holding and hallway kisses, backseat fondling and endless sweet nothings. Of being cherished so intensely you couldn’t imagine anything better.

And now you were being reduced to a cautionary tale in his head so he could soften a blow he’d invented.

“It’s fine,” you said, voice breaking as you pulled on your clothes. “I’ll go to my grandpa’s.”

You never go over there - you said it felt haunted with the absence of your grandmother a vacancy you can’t take.

“Babygirl-“ he whispered.

“It’s fine.” You doubled down.

Steve shifted, hands fidgeting with unease that sunk in his stomach.

“I just- we didn’t have to sleep together. That’s the last thing I cared about. But us - we could’ve talked before you—”

“I can’t ignore the expir—,” he said shakily.

“Got it.” You cut him of before you could finish. The words echoing in your head like a swan song.

“There’s nothing wrong with a head start,” he whispered.

“Unbelievable,” you murmured, grabbing your things to leave, neither of you bothering to say goodbye.

Three days later, you opened your front door to the sound of incessant knocking, only to find Steve standing with flowers in his hand.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted out. “I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

“I know,” you said quietly.

Relief flickered across his face.

“My dad he’s just been in my head - fuck — I’ve just been in my head. You’re about to leave and you have all these dreams and I’m…. Fuck im putting applications in at the mall.” He exhaled sharply.

“I wasn’t thinking straight, I mean Chicago isn’t even far. It’s an easy drive. We’ll make it work.

Your heart ached. That’s exactly what you’d imagined.

“Steve,” you sighed.

His face paled, “Don’t say it like that.”

The desperation in his voice made it feel like a knot was tightening around your heart, squeezing it in two.

“You said I’m all you have,” you breathed.

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“I know how you meant it,” you interrupted softly. “But you have dreams Steve. Even if you don’t believe in them anymore.”

He stared at you blankly, flowers trembling slightly in his grip as he nodded his head.

“If it’s any consolation, I wanted you to come with me,” you whispered.

“You did?”

“Of course.”

Hope flickered in his eyes then faltered, when he noticed your expression hadn’t changed.

“But you deserve more than just following me,” you continued.

He nodded once, swallowing hard. “So that’s it?” he asked quietly.

You gave a sad smile. “A head start never hurt.“

He flinched at that.

He hated you throwing that line back at him. How cruel it sounded. He didn’t mean for it to sound that bad when he said it.

The regret filled his body with a turmoil he’d never met before. The thought that if he had just stayed quiet that night he would've had at least one more month.

He looked down at the flowers in his hand, they were an offering for forgiveness but now a parting a gift.

His throat hurt, as he got the words out. “Well… these are for you.”

“Steve—”

“Please take them. You said they were pretty last time we drove by the stand.”

“Thank you,” you said grabbing the flowers, thought it felt more like grabbing a knife.

There was an awkward stillness in the air, and a horrible sense of sorrow.

“Should we—” he gestured vaguely.

You wanted to fall into him. Let his strong arms wrap you in his warm embrace, kiss him until your lips were numb and tell him it was you and him forever and always.

Instead, you shook your head, tears falling.

“If we do that, I won’t be able to let go.”

He nodded, tongue pushing against the side of his cheek.

“I’m really glad you asked me to be your New Year’s kiss,” you whispered.

He chuckled softly, “I’m glad you let me redeem myself.”

The tears in your eyes finally shed, just a few single tears wetting yours cheeks, and as instinctive as the motion to breathe Steve’s hands came up to your face to wipe them away.

“I’m so happy we gave this a shot, but I’m so goddamn sorry it’s all fallen apart.”

“At least we enjoyed it,” you breathed.

“I loved it,” he said before removing his hands from your face and stepping back.

“Promise me you’ll see me before I leave.”

He nodded, “Promise” he said before reluctantly walking back to his car.

You didn’t know it then, but he was going to break that promise.

In fact, you wouldn’t see him again until two years later, at your grandmother’s wake. You were sitting at the front, crying on your boyfriend’s shoulder, when his parents approached yours to offer condolences. That’s when you saw him — sunglasses shielding his eyes, holding the hand of a girl you vaguely remembered from high school, staying silent as his parent’s spoke to yours. From that moment, another three years would pass before you finally spoke to him again. 

[lacedpages]

this was so perfect ugh I love angst <3 part two!! pls

[ellecdc]

𝙳𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗'𝚜!𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚄 ᓚᘏᗢ enemies to lovers | this au doesn't follow any particular Stranger Things plot line or timeline | best read in order listed below | interconnected one-shots that focus on the progression of their relationship

her lore: ☞ troubled home life ☞ moves in with Aunt Claudia & Dustin ☞ very suspicious of perverts ☞ knows her way around a gun ☞ anxious/avoidant attachment style ☞ flighty ☞ ...more to come

THE TOWN FLASHER: Dustin's older cousin moves in with Claudia and Dustin at the beginning of summer. She's worried about how secretive Dustin has been and finds him hanging out with someone much older than him. Assumptions are made, accusations are thrown, chaos ensues. [meet ugly] 🌈🫧

THE BIG FAT CRUSH: Steve doesn't know why he bothered telling Robin, doesn't know what he thought he would get out of doing such a thing. Compassion, perhaps? Maybe some sympathy. Even indifference would have been better than this. Because she won't. stop. laughing. [steve's read to filth] 🌈

FIRST CRAWL JITTERS: You haven’t called him a pervert yet today, and Steve’s just delusional enough to consider that progress. You haven’t said much of anything else either, though, but that’s not the point. In fact, now that he’s had a good look at you, he can’t help thinking that something’s off. You're scared. Steve tries [heavy on the tries] to comfort you. [failed attempts]🌥

WAY TO GO, DINGUS: Movie night had been going well, but in typical Steve fashion though, the winning streak doesn’t just come to an end; it implodes. Spectacularly. Scene of the crime? The Harrington kitchen. Time of death? After the credits have rolled. Cause of death? One dingus and one stubborn girl. [argument]🌪🌈

A MATTER OF MISCOMM: Dustin, in typical Dustin fashion, totally overreacts when the comms fail during a crawl. The Party agrees to meet back up at the station and regroup. Steve, Dustin, and Eddie are the first ones back. You're second, and Steve knows something is wrong. [injured reader]🌥

THE 7-UP CONSPIRACY: You’re being petty, you can admit as much. But Steve showed up and you found yourself feeling like a territorial alley cat with its tail puffed up. You’re not even entirely sure why he’s here, anyway. He said he came to drop something off for Dustin. Well, consider the thing dropped. You try saying as much, but Dustin's had enough of it; this ends today. [forced proximity]🌪🫧

A HOLE IN THE WALL: “What’s going on?” “We’re about to die, that’s what’s going on,” Steve huffs, rising to his feet and forcing you up with him though he keeps you tucked into his side. That’s when you notice the demogorgon forcing its way through the wall. Things get explosive. [action] ⛈🌈

REBOUNDING: A gossip session with a glass of lemonade sends you reeling, wondering if you're the girl Steve really wants to go out with tonight, or if he's still pining after the one that got away. So, you do what you're best at. [miscomm]🌪

THIS DANCE OF OURS: Steve's gone looking for you, whether or not you wish to be found. He's got a bone to pick with you. It devolves into the typical dance the two of you are familiar with, but with a surprising twist. [the confrontation]🌪☀️🫧

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME: Eddie has been allowed to call you every nickname under the sun, but you fight Steve when he calls you 'babe'. He wants to know why, and you tell him. [public displays of flirting] 🌈

STEVE LOVES A WOMAN IN UNIFORM: Steve finds out that you've got a new job through your aunt, he shows up after your first shift to congratulate you. [fluff central] ☀️

STEVE BOWLS A STRIKE: the gang begin to realize there might be more going on between Steve and Dustin's cousin. [the big reveal] 🌈

THE PRINCESS TREATMENT: you won't let anyone tend to your wound but Steve, much to his utter delight and everyone else's frustration. [hurt/comfort] 🌥🫧

WITH A BIG FAT CAPITAL L: you might not be ready to hear those three little words sitting lodged in Steve's molars, but he can't not say it. so, he finds another way to pour his love into you. [smut] 🌶

STEVE x YOUR AUNT?: Steve really wants your aunt to like him, you know? It doesn't matter that she's known him for years, it's different now. No, it is not because he wants to fuck your aunt! [you & dustin gang up on your bf] 🌈

BOYFRIEND OF THE YEAR AWARD: Listen, Steve knows he’s not about to win any 'boyfriend of the year' awards, alright? But he thinks he might be delving into something close to sadism when he finds himself excited to hear that you’re sick. [sick fic] ☀️

EXTRAS: ☞ original request ☞ are they black cat & golden retriever? or something else? ☞ how would breaking the news go? ☞ does everyone know they're dating? ☞ would Steve tell Robin first? ☞ some couple headcanons! ☞ reader makes it so hard for Steve to be an acts of service guy ☞ more couple headcanons ☞ how do they say those three words? ☞ biblically accurate steve x dustin's!cousin, song edition ☞ physical affection between these two ☞ Steve <3's sleepy reader

join the chat!

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

GUILTY AS SIN | steve harrington

PART ONE | PART TWO (coming soon)

My bedsheets are ablaze I've screamed his name Building up like waves Crashing over my grave

You can't stop thinking about Steve Harrington when having sex with your boyfriend.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 7k contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) porn with a plot, female masturbation, oral (fem receiving), p in v, protected penetrative sex, dirty talk, pet names, reader being a bit of a perv and listens to steve having sex, lots of fantasying about steve, best friend/roommate!steve, use of y/n, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader, emotional cheating (i guess??), inclusion of ronance because why not!! eddie is also alive and well and also bi!!

author's note: it is finally here!! i've been banging on about this fic a lot and i'm glad that part one is here. you guys have been just as excited about this fic as me so i’m so happy that i’m finally sharing it as i thought of this idea in january!! full transparency, this was meant to be just one part fic but then i realised that i wanted much more of a story and sooooo here we are!

rec account: @moonstone-recommends

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“Oh—fuck—I’m so close, babe. Tell me you’re close, tell me you’re—”

You wished you could say you were. You wished your moans falling from your lips were genuine—that you were right there with your boyfriend but you’d be lying. You weren’t even close.

“Yeah, super close,” you tell him in a not so breathless voice.

James was too busy chasing his release to even notice.

You felt his cock twitch inside of you and you knew it was over before it had even begun for you.

Your boyfriend spills into the condom, with a loud grunt of your name—pressing his face right into the crook of your neck as his hips stuttered against yours.

You keep your hands on his shoulders, trying to keep the disappointed look off your face as James pulls his softening cock out of you.

James was—well, he was objectively a perfect boyfriend. He was kind, attentive, always there when you needed him. He loved your family and in return, your family loved him. But in the bedroom? He left you pretty high and dry.

He never took his time—seemed to look at foreplay as an obligation rather than something to be enjoyed. He never spent more than a few minutes with his mouth between your legs. He never let you set the pace, never made sex about you. It was always about him. And after care? Well, that was a foreign concept to James. He tended to fall asleep less than five minutes after finishing.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about your pleasure because he did—for all of ten seconds before his own needs started to outweigh yours. He’d press his fingers inside you and the moment it started to feel good for you—when you would let out a few soft moans or start to move your hips, he’d take it as a job well done. Or worse—instead he would start pumping his fingers too quickly, pistoning them in and out of you as fast as he could. As if it did anything for you.

You had tried to tell him this—gently, of course. Trying to let him know what felt good for you but he just wouldn’t retain the information. Or perhaps, when it came to your pleasure over his, he didn’t want to listen. You had tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the latter.

As James rolled over in bed—you felt that familiar sense of guilt build. The one that reminded you of the date he had taken you on tonight. How much money the fancy dinner had cost and how he had refused to let you pay for it. The guilt was a reminder how lucky you were to have a guy like James. In the past, guys weren't so great to you. In fact, you had dated some downright assholes. Guys who weren’t kind. Guys who didn’t respect you. Hell, some guys you were sure didn’t even really like you. And James was great. Really—he was. You were sure you loved him—sure that he was the kind of man you could marry. The kind of man who was a smart, sensible choice.

But as you looked over at the man you should love unconditionally—already falling asleep with the condom still on—you were beginning to question whether smart and sensible was the right choice.

A year ago, you had been in dire need of a roommate. Your previous roommate, Rachel, had moved out after landing her dream job in a different city. You had been happy for her but it had left you with a two bed apartment that you could not afford on your own.

James hadn’t wanted to move in at that point—you had only been together for a few months back then and neither of you were ready to take that big step yet. And so, you were without a roommate and a monthly rent that was haemorrhaging money from you.

That was until your co-worker Robin Buckley told you about Steve Harrington.

“Wait, Steve as in Steve?” You had asked her, a skeptical look on your face. “As in your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend—that Steve?”

Robin had rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the mug of coffee she had been in the middle of making. The sound of Every Breath You Take by The Police drifting into the radio station kitchen from the booth. You still had two minutes and a couple of ad breaks before you needed to be back inside for the remainder of the Rockin’ Robin breakfast show. You were tired from the early morning but mostly, you were stressed out about your current living situation and Robin could tell.

“Yes—that Steve,” she says, stirring in an unholy amount of sugar. “C’mon, it’s not weird. We’re like best friends. I can vouch for him. I’m like ninety eight percent sure he isn’t a murderer.”

You grimace a little, tired eyes flickering over to Robin. “Ninety eight percent isn’t enough for me.”

Robin huffs, turning to face you fully now with her hands on her hips. “C’mon (y/n)—you trust me right? You can trust him.”

You think about it, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet.

“But he’s a guy, Robs,” you say finally. “I don’t want to live with a guy.”

Robin lets out a snort of laughter despite herself.

“Point taken,” she says before looking at you again carefully. “Just—just think about it, yeah? His parents just kicked him out and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s been sleeping on my couch for the past week and I gotta say, I don’t think it’s good for mine and Nance’s sex life if her ex-boyfriend is snoring in the other room every night.”

You falter—make the mistake of looking at her face—at her big blue eyes that looked just the right amount of pleading to make you reconsider.

“I’ll think about it,” you told her.

Steve had moved in that Friday.

The first week had been a little awkward—tiptoeing around each other in the hallway and trying to keep out of each other’s space. But after Steve had returned from picking up the last few bits from his parents house—coming back empty handed with red rimmed eyes—you had wordlessly handed him a bowl of homemade macaroni and cheese and suggested watching a movie together.

After that, you stopped tiptoeing.

And living with him? It was pretty great. He was surprisingly neat and an excellent cook. He always took the initiative to go out and do the food shopping when you were running low on the necessities. He didn’t mind that you had way too many houseplants, that the refrigerator had too many magnets on it or that the couch was baby pink—Steve was just happy to be living with you.

Somewhere between making coffees for each other in the morning and watching old movies together on the couch—you had formed a friendship that was built out of a genuine connection to each other rather than out of convenience like it had with Rachel. You had even finally accepted Robin’s offer of going out with her friends now that you lived with Steve. You had met her girlfriend Nancy in the past but Jonathan Byers and Eddie Munson had been complete mysteries to you. They turned out to be just as Robin had described—Jonathan a little quiet but once you got to know him wouldn’t shut up about his short films when you asked how they were going. And Eddie was—well, Eddie was the kind of person who people noticed when he walked into a room. 

In time, they had met James. You had a feeling that they didn’t think much of him. The way Eddie rolled his eyes when James started talking about sports. How Robin would yawn when he bought up his job as a stock broker. How Nancy would bristle when James tried to explain the stock market to her as though she was stupid. How Jonathan would go quiet around him. How Steve glared at James when he would talk over you and would interject to say “actually, (y/n) was talking”.

And so, you had never told your friends about your borderline terrible sex life. Never told them that James had only made you come once. Never told them you had to get yourself off in the bathroom after he had gone to sleep. And you probably never would tell them.

“You know what I love?” Eddie asks the group one Friday night at your and Steve’s local bar. It was grimy, located only a few yards from your apartment—hence why it was your local haunt—but it was yours. Warts and all.

“Weed?” suggests Jonathan.

Eddie clicks his fingers, smiling at Jonathan.

“You know me, Byers,” Eddie says but shakes his head. “But no—that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Something Eddie Munson loves,” Robin muses, tapping the table gently as she considers the question.

“D&D?” Steve puts forward.

“Nancy’s mom?” You say with a wry smile—Nancy shooting you a glare as Steve tries to hide his laughter.

“That deli shop by the record store that is totally going to get shut down for health violations?” Robin offers.

Eddie groans, looking pained as he looks over at Robin.

“Why do you have to remind me?”

“Eddie, that place has given you food poisoning like five times,” Nancy points out.

“And it was worth it. Every damn time.”

You laugh, smiling at Eddie’s dramatics. Sometimes you wondered why he had never considered theatre.

“So what is it you love Eddie?” Steve asks, leaning back in the booth beside you. His arm resting behind your head—comfortable, easy, just like it always was between you two.

“Oral sex,” Eddie says simply.

You choke on your drink while your friends laugh at Eddie’s admission.

“Giving or receiving?” Steve asks while you try to regain composure, face warm and looking anywhere but at your friends. Any talk about sex you tended to not engage in—not wanting to admit to your friends that you rarely enjoyed sex with your own boyfriend.

“Both,” Eddie says, smiling. 

You tried your best to keep a neutral expression—to not involve yourself too much with the conversation. Trying not to recall the last time James had gone down on you—how it had lasted barely two minutes. How you had been thankful it was over. How you had ‘returned’ the favour with all the enthusiasm that James didn’t possess.

“What about you, (y/n)?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows wiggling as you look up at him.

“About me, what?” you ask, because you hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation for the past two minutes, too busy thinking of anything beside how terrible your boyfriend was at giving head.

Eddie laughs—loud and without much care who heard. “Oral—do you prefer giving or receiving?”

Your face warms—you’re sure that your friends can all tell how flustered you were by the question. 

“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve tells you, glaring at Eddie as he pats your shoulder gently. “Eddie’s just being intrusive—”

“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans and nudges your knee under the table with his. “We never hear about your sex life, (y/n).”

“Not everyone is as open as you, Munson,” Nancy says.

Eddie huffs—grabbing his beer and taking a swig. “I’m just curious to know which she prefers,” Eddie says innocently, hands up in surrender.

Your leg bounces beneath the table as you consider giving Eddie an answer or not. Generally, you didn’t discuss your sex life with James with anyone. You were too scared to give away your dissatisfaction with it. It made you feel shameful for even thinking of complaining. To actually voice those complaints? Well—that felt like opening Pandora’s Box. But there was a large part of you that couldn’t help but feel left out.

“Giving,” you say finally without looking up. It was the honest truth. You don’t tell them that the reason for this was because you hated when James tried going down on you. Hated to pretend he was good at it. Hated how much he clearly disliked doing it. “I-I prefer giving.”

You were not sure why you felt the need to answer anyway. Maybe it was how left out you felt during these conversations. How much you wished you were having as good sex as all your friends were. Maybe because you just wanted to be included for once. You feel your face warm but you try not to shy away as you look up at your friends—all looking at you in slight disbelief.

“What?” You ask, eyes flickering between each of your friends before landing finally on Steve.

“Nothing,” Steve says, blinking in apparent shock at your admission. “It’s just—”

“I’ve never known a girl who would choose giving head over receiving it,” Eddie interjects before glancing at Robin and Nancy. “Not a straight one anyway.”

Your face warms, taking a long swig of your drink and wishing you could blend into the furniture.

“I just—prefer doing it, I guess,” you say quietly with a small shrug.

“Well,” Eddie begins with a small smile and a wink sent your way. “Either you’re incredibly giving or James isn’t doing a good enough job.”

Everyone laughs and you know you should stand up for James—for your boyfriend, the man you supposedly loved—but instead, you go quiet. Your face somehow feeling even hotter than before. You seem to shrink back further in the booth. No one seems to notice how you don’t defend your boyfriend—Eddie was too busy already recounting the tales from his latest hookup with a bartender. But Steve’s eyes linger on you for a moment. Noticing the way your jaw tenses, your fingers flexing as though wishing to grip onto the table.

He doesn’t comment on it. Not just yet anyway.

At one in the morning, you walk back with Steve to the apartment as you always did. Both a little bit tipsy and laughing at things that weren’t that funny—the fact Steve had been wearing his shirt inside out the entire evening, how you had tripped over the curb outside the bar.

“Careful,” Steve warns you, laughing as his hands gently steer you away from the curb for a third time. “What would you do without me, huh?”

“Be miserable,” you reply with a tipsy giggle. Steve smiles, hooking an arm around your shoulders as you approach your apartment building. Being the slightly more sober one—Steve is the one to fish out the key from his pocket and open the door. He’s the one to drag you away from the front desk before you could get too distracted by the notice board (“but Steve apartment 9A is selling their microwave!”). He’s the one to manoeuvre you into the elevator and to stop you from pressing all the buttons.

“Okay—next week, I’m the one who is getting drunk and you can take care of me,” Steve huffs as he guides you down the hallway towards your apartment. One arm around your shoulders so you don’t try to escape.

“M’kay,” you murmur as you watch Steve unlock the door. 

Once you’re in the safety of your apartment, Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He watches as you wonder over to that damn pink couch—flop down onto it and kick off your shoes. 

“I’m going to get you some water,” Steve announces, taking off his own shoes and leaving them carefully by the front door before heading into the kitchen.

You simply hum in acknowledgement, head titled back and staring up at the ceiling.

Steve returns with two glasses of water a few moments later. He sets them down on the coffee table before leaning down to pick up your discarded shoes. You bite back a smile as you watch him place them neatly down beside his own shoes near the front door. 

“I was going to put them back eventually,” you tell him as he sits down on the couch beside you, the couch dipping a little under his weight.

Steve shrugs, as though it wasn’t a big deal before he picks up your glass of water and hands it to you.

“Drink,” he tells you gently. You send a small, grateful smile before you take the glass from him and take a generous gulp of water. Steve watches, amused before he sips from his own glass.

It’s quiet then between the pair of you—you tilting your head back up to glance at the ceiling while Steve thoughtfully taps his fingers against the glass in his hands.

“Hey, (y/n)?”

“Yeah?” You ask, turning your head to look at Steve.

He looks back at you, a slightly apprehensive look on his face—one that indicated that he was carefully considering his next words.

“I just—I noticed that you—that you didn’t say anything back to Eddie earlier.”

Even though you were still a little tipsy, still feeling the alcohol hum through your veins—Steve’s words cut through you. Instantly, you knew what he was referring to. That little comment Eddie had made about why you had said you preferred giving oral over opposed to receiving it. You swallow—you knew you had to play dumb. The truth was too embarrassing. It made that guilt take residence in your chest again.

“When?” You ask finally. “Eddie talks so much shit that it all kind of…blurs into one.”

Steve chuckles, leaning back against the sofa—his elbow knocking against yours. “Yeah, no—you got that right,” he says with a quick nod and another glance at you. “I just—it was that dig at James he made. You didn’t—you didn’t say anything. You didn’t—I dunno, stick up for him, I guess.”

You don’t say anything, you just stare wordlessly down at your lap as you try not to react.

When you say nothing, Steve hesitates for a split second before he presses on, “I just—I wanted to check if—you know, if everything was okay between the two of you?”

 “Yeah,” you say, a beat too quickly as you look down at the glass of water in your hands. “We’re good. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Steve doesn’t look convinced. He looks back at you with an expression that plainly told you that he did not believe a damn word you were saying.

“Because you just let Eddie say…what he said,” Steve says. “That James isn’t good in bed.”

Again—you say nothing. Not for any other reason than because you suddenly had the overwhelming urge to be honest. To tell Steve everything. How James couldn’t make you come. How he no longer seemed to care if you finished. How his pleasure was always placed above yours.

Steve seems to understand something in your silence—his eyes on you, watching you with careful consideration, as though he was choosing his next words carefully.

“You know you deserve better, right?”

The words pull at something deep in your chest. The alcohol makes it difficult to control the cocktail of guilt, shame and embarrassment swirling in your gut.

“I don’t,” you murmur finally—the words that deep down, you didn’t really believe. Because you didn’t truly feel as though you deserved James. He was good—not like the assholes you had dated in the past and you felt immensely guilty that you were doubting him all because he couldn’t make you come.

Steve looks at you in utter disbelief, opening his mouth as if he was ready to argue but you silence him by unsteadily getting to your feet.

“M’going bed,” you tell him, clumsily making your way into the kitchen with your glass of half-drunk water. Steve follows—just to make sure that you didn’t break anything (whether that be the glass in your hand or even an arm or a leg).

He watches you tip the last of the water into the sink and he continues to watch as you leave the empty glass on the drying rack.

“You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” Steve suddenly says, making you turn to look at him—eyes unfocused due to the alcohol and your world just a little bit wobbly. “Like seriously. Even if it’s about—you know.”

Your face warms, you avert your eyes.

“Just drop it, yeah?” You murmur back, not meeting his eye. “It’s fine—I’m fine, Steve.”

Despite how tipsy you were—the words were final and Steve understood that. He looked at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay,” he says simply before he forces a smile. “Get some rest, yeah? I’ll make sure to have a hangover breakfast ready for you.”

You manage a smile—a genuine smile—because Steve always did thoughtful things like this. Even if you were drawing a clear line in the sand on the conversation. 

“Thank you,” you say, finally looking at Steve’s face and seeing the concern in his eyes which did not help the guilt you felt deep in your gut. Because now you felt awful for not being honest with Steve. And so—before you head to your room, you give Steve a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

You slip away before you see how Steve’s face flushes. 

The thing about living with Steve Harrington meant that you heard him have sex. Like, a lot.

The moment you heard loud moans coming from his bedroom, you would grab your walk-man, some headphones and drown out whatever unholy sounds were coming from the other side of the wall.

Tonight was no different. It was a week after that evening at the bar and after a long day at work, you were in your room when the moaning started. You knew he had been out on a date and you also knew—judging by the giggling that you had heard when Steve had returned ten minutes ago—that him and his date had retreated to his room. And so, what you heard next was inevitable. Your hands reached for your walk-man and—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” you hear Steve say in a low voice. “Soak my fingers—just like that. Do you hear how fucking wet you are for me?”

The words shock you. Hearing Steve say such filthy words makes your breath hitch and then—

To your absolute horror—the words go straight to your core.

Your thighs squeeze together without permission.

Holy fuck.

This is wrong. This was so fucking wrong—

“That’s it. God—keep squeezing my fingers just like that, baby. You’re going to feel incredible around my cock.”

You bite the inside of your mouth. Your fingers closing around the walkman, eyes on the headphones and—

“You want my mouth?”

“Yes, Steve—please—oh, oh god—oh—”

The moans coming from behind the wall had become obscene. High pitched, mixed with Steve’s own muffled groans.

You closed your eyes, imagining Steve’s thick head of hair between your thighs as he sucked on your clit, your slick dripping down his chin—

Oh god, no. You couldn’t fantasise about that, about him—it was wrong, it was—

“You taste so fucking good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt warmth spread through you at those words. Hot—like lava seeping through your veins.

You felt an ache between your legs you hadn’t felt in a long time. As you squeezed your thighs together to try and ease the feeling, you let out a small gasp when you realised you were wet. Like really fucking wet.

Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own—dancing down your thighs until you feel your own slick coating your inner thigh from where it had trickled down from your cunt.

The urge to move your fingers higher was overwhelming. To plunge your fingers into your aching cunt and get off like you desperately needed to. The moans coming from the woman who was being eaten out by Steve Harrington was all you could hear. 

And that mental image of Steve—your roommate, your friend, the guy who was most certainly not your boyfriend—lapping at your soaked cunt was too much.

Your fingertips danced over the delicate lace of your panties before you knew what you were doing. That tiny bit of pressure was enough to make your hips buck up instinctively, stopping the whimper that threatened to fall out. You repeated the action, moving your finger around the damp spot in your panties and focusing only on Steve’s muffled groans. You have to bite down on your free hand to stop yourself from moaning as your fingers begin to circle your sensitive bud over the lace.

The nameless woman’s moans were only getting louder and louder.

And that’s when you gave in.

Your fingers slipped beneath the lace material of your panties. The first contact with your bare, wet pussy sent shock waves of pleasure through your body. You try not to think about how James never made you this wet as you slide your index and middle finger through your wetness.

You try to imagine James—your sweet, caring boyfriend between your legs. How his big blue-green eyes would look up at you sweetly. You wished it was enough to get you off. You wished he was good. As good as—

“Steve! Oh—fuck—don’t stop!”

And that was it—all thoughts of your boyfriend gone. The image of James replaced by Steve. And the thought of Steve using his mouth on you was enough to make your head fall back in ecstasy as your fingers worked faster—using your wet slick to coat your clit. The sensation sent a surge of white hot pleasure through you. You bit back a moan—your first orgasm in weeks right there. You were so close, you just need a little more—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Steve’s voice rumbles through the wall. “Come for me.”

That voice—that fucking voice—is what pushes you over the edge. The wave of pleasure was so intense, so sudden that you almost failed to muffle your moan with your hand. You feel it in every nerve in your body. Your legs shake and you feel your release dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

You lay there, chest heaving, the bliss you felt moments before slowly slipping away as the sounds of Steve and the nameless women were drowned out by the shame that had started to creep through your body. You felt it in your very bones—you had just gotten off (for the first time in a long, long time) by thinking of someone other than your boyfriend. And it wasn’t just someone, it was Steve. Your roommate. Your friend. Sweet, kind and caring Steve.

You shouldn’t have done it—you know you shouldn’t have. And yet—you already want to do it again. Especially when you could hear the sound of skin slapping against each other in the next room. It made that feeling in your gut return. Hot, aching where your fingers had just been.

No. You couldn’t. It was wrong. So very wrong.

One time. You told yourself. Just one time.

The next time James went down on you, you were determined to come.

You had decided that the morning after you had been listening to Steve and that woman.

James’ roommates were out and that meant you weren’t confined to his room as you usually were.

He had laid you down on the couch—his shirt half off and belt unbuckled. You could tell he just wanted to fuck you. But you just wanted to see if he could—

“Eat me out,” you murmur against the skin of his neck. “James—please.”

James wasn’t one for talking dirty. Not because he disliked it but because it seemed to affect him too much. At your words he groaned and his hand that had been massaging one of your breasts stilled. You could feel his hardened cock through his jeans pressed against your thigh—swear you felt it twitch at your words alone. Admittedly, it turned you on. That was a start.

“Okay,” James says, leaning back to look at your face. “Okay—I can do that.”

You try not to think that he sounds like he’s talking business. As though going down on you was a meeting—an afternoon meeting? ‘Sure, I can do that’. Need that report by Monday? ‘Sure, I can do that’.

James didn’t take his time—you knew he was aching painfully from how hard he was—and so he just pushed up the skirt of your dress, hastily tugged down your panties before his mouth met your barely soaked folds. You felt his tongue slide between them and you let out a breathy moan. It was nice—not unpleasant just…nice.

His mouth is working overtime, altering between kitten licks and slow, languid licks at your entrance. Again, it’s nice but you get this feeling that he isn’t as into it as you want him to be. It takes you out of the experience entirely. You know he’s just doing it because you asked—that he’d rather be fucking with you with his cock rather than his tongue. He’s not moaning and groaning between your legs like Steve had been with that woman. The memory of your roommates’ groans was still hot in your mind and you were trying not to think about it, trying not to—

But when you look down, you find yourself imagining that James’ shaggy blonde hair was a mop of thick brown locks.

No, no, no—you shouldn’t be thinking about Steve right now. You should be focusing on your lovely, caring boyfriend who has his head between your legs. Not Steve—not Steve. 

But your mind went there anyway. Thinking of Steve’s moans, those filthy words you had heard him whisper. The way the woman he was with had reacted—

And suddenly, your hips were moving. Chasing friction, needing more. Bucking up to meet James’ mouth. Your fingers sunk into James’ hair and he groaned against you—sending a vibration through you that made you feel a spark of something. It was all the encouragement you needed, you moved his head slightly so that his nose would brush against your clit and the effect was instant.

You moaned out, unabashed and barely recognisable from your lips. Not exaggerated for once.

Again, you moved his head so his nose nuzzled your clit as his tongue continued to work in and out of you at a torturous pace. It worked—oh, god it was starting to work. Your head tilted back and moans fell from your lips without your say so. Hips following the movement of his tongue. Heat building in your gut, James’ own groans vibrating in a way that only added to the white hot pleasure that was building, building and—

James lets out a strangled moan against you that could only mean one thing. You blink as he pulls his mouth away from you. A hot look of embarrassment on his face as he glances down at his lap—a damp spot beginning to spread on his jeans.

“It’s okay,” you tell him quickly, breathless as you try to take his hand. “James, it’s—”

But he’s already pulling away from you entirely, face warm and determinedly not looking at you. 

You don’t try to stop him as he gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom.

You should go after him. Reassure him it was okay. But part of you—the part that had been so desperate to finish—was tired of pretending it was okay. 

And so, for the second time in a week, your fingers slip down between your folds—soaked from a mix of your wetness and your boyfriend’s saliva and think of Steve Harrington. You came right there on James’ sofa in less than three minutes.

Never again, you told yourself. Never again.

But it happens. More than you care to admit.

The next time it happened, it had been while James was inside you.

Your legs were thrown over his shoulders as his cock thrust in and out of you in a polite manner. He was holding back on his groans—his roommates were in the living room watching some ice hockey game. You wished that he didn’t give a fuck when his roommates were home. Wished he was proud to fuck you.

You tried not to notice how quiet it was in the room. The only sound being the squelching between your bodies—not due to your wetness but due to the lube you had needed to use. The sounds of his roommates jeering at the TV in the living room was distracting. And the fact James was making next to no noise while fucking you left you feeling a type of way. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong—the angle should be enough to make you feel good. But it was everything else.

And it was enough for your mind to wander into dangerous territory. Back to the guy you lived with who you shouldn’t be thinking about—shouldn’t be—

But of course, you do. You think of Steve as your boyfriend fucks you. It shouldn’t turn you on but it does. Shouldn’t make your walls clench around James’ cock. Shouldn’t make you moan out and claw at your boyfriend’s back.

“Oh fuck,” James groans out quietly, still mindful of his roommates as you lost your ability to keep quiet. “Sweetheart, you need to be quiet—”

But you don’t hear him over the moans you were now letting out. Too in your own head as you imagined Steve slamming his cock in and out of you—imagining him calling you pretty girl and telling you how fucking good you felt.

You should stop, you knew it was wrong. But as you felt that white hot pleasure build and build in a way it had never with James, you didn’t have it in you to stop.

And when it was over and James was looking at you in awe, you felt good. Confident. Sexy. Things you hadn’t felt before. James had even managed to fuck you a second time that night.

You’re aware you shouldn’t be thinking of someone else when you’re being intimate with your boyfriend. But it was the only way you could finish with James. It made you feel guilty after—immensely so. But it was the only thing that worked.

You were also painfully aware that you were fantasying about your roommate—of all people. But things between you and Steve remained normal. He still made you coffee every morning, still sat beside you on the couch while eating dinner and brushing his teeth by your side, completely unaware that you were fantasying about him during sex in order to get off.

You didn’t even feel awkward about it—not really. Not when your sex life was finally good. Not when you finally had your own fun sex stories to tell your friends.

And so, you didn’t stop. Weeks passed and you kept thinking about Steve as your boyfriend fucked you. Kept choosing not to put the headphones on when Steve had a girl over—your fingers pumping in and out of you as you listened to his moans and occasional whimpers. Your juices soaking your sheets and your body practically thrumming with pleasure. And then—the next morning you would accept a hot mug of coffee from your roommate.

And he had no idea what you had been doing the night before.

Steve was out—you think he was at baseball practice—and you had decided to make the most of it.

You invited James over and it didn’t take long before clothes were shed. You were on top for once, moving yourself up and down on his cock at a rhythm that had your head thrown back and listening to James’ muffled groans—his lips busy with your breasts that he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from as they bounced in his face.

Your hands were in his hair, his cock was inside you and yet—your mind was on Steve. Again. You found yourself wondering how big Steve was. You remember Nancy once being so drunk that she had told you just how big Steve was. “Monster cock,” Nancy had giggled to you as she poured herself another shot. Had told you how during her first time with him she had briefly wondered if he was going to split her in half with his cock.

The knowledge was coming back to you now—imagining Steve’s cock filling you so well that you would feel it in your stomach. Even imagined the stomach bulge it was cause—the outline of his cock nearly visible as he fucked up into you.

The mental image had your walls squeezing James’ not-so monster cock—a shameless, wanton moan falling from your lips as you grew closer and closer—

“I’m gonna come,” you gasp out, fingers gripping onto James’ shoulder as you try to keep yourself tethered to the image of Steve—of his cock splitting you open as he whispers the dirtiest words imaginable into your ear. “Steve, I’m gonna come.”

Your orgasm hits you hard. It hits you so hard in fact that you don’t feel how James’ thrusts cease entirely. How his hands fall from your hips. You don’t notice as your head falls into the crook of his neck, your body thrumming, legs shaking.

But you certainly notice how quick he was to pull out. How he didn’t finish.

You blink—heart still hammering, still a little blissed out from your orgasm—as you let him lift you off him a little more hastily than you were used to. You watch James, confused, as he hastily grabs his boxers and begins to tug them up his legs.

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” He snapped suddenly. “No, (y/n). I don’t want you to do anything.”

Bewildered, you began to grab your own items of clothing from the floor and started to dress. James had never snapped at you before and you were utterly confused at the sudden change of tone.

“What—what did I do? Is something wrong—”

“Gee, I don’t know, (y/n),” James resorts, a derisive laugh falling from his lips as he pulls up his jeans. “Does moaning out your male roommate's name while I’m inside of you count as something wrong?”

“I don’t—”

“Cut the bullshit ignorant act,” James interjects harshly as he looks at your face. “You just moaned out Steve’s name. Not my name. Steve’s.”

For a moment, there’s utter confusion. You don’t remember what you had said while you were mid orgasm. You want to deny it, laugh even but you can’t. You knew exactly what you had been thinking about, about Steve and you knew it was entirely possible you had accidentally moaned out Steve’s name in your moment of ecstasy.

“James, I’m sorry. It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything. It was—”

“Bullshit!” James cuts across you, his voice slightly raised. His face was flushed in anger—you could see that he was still hard through his jeans. You could practically feel the embarrassment radiating from him and you couldn’t really blame him. You feel awful—truly awful, feeling as though you wanted to be sick. “You don’t just accidentally say someone else’s name during sex. Especially Steve’s.”

You swallow, your face hot with embarrassment, shame and a growing sense of panic that you couldn’t control. You try to conceal it by pulling on your t-shirt over your head before you look at James again.

“James, I—”

“Save it,” James mutters, pulling on his shirt and not even bothering to button it up before grabbing his jacket and shoes by the front door. “I’m not going to embarrass myself a moment longer. We’re done.”

“James—”

But your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend now, rather—was already slamming the door to your apartment behind him.

What shocked you most was that you didn’t cry. You had the overwhelming urge to but not because James had left, not because he had just dumped you but because felt so embarrassed by the situation—by the fact you had moaned out Steve’s name instead of James’. Too deep in fantasies about your roommate. And so—when you began to cry you told yourself it was because you were sad. That it was because you had just been dumped by your boyfriend of nearly two years and you were heartbroken. But you were far from it—in fact, there was a part of you that felt relieved.

The tears of embarrassment—now mixed with a sick feeling of shame—had only just started falling when the apartment door opened again. You turned around, a small part of you hoping it was James who was returning to tell you it was all some stupid joke—but of course, it wasn’t.

Steve stood in the doorway, his eyes wide at the sight of you crying on the couch—only in a t-shirt and panties, your jeans slung over a nearby chair, your bra hanging over a lamp. But your state of undress doesn’t even seem to cross Steve’s mind as he rushes over to you—the bag he took with him to baseball practice falling to the floor beside him in his haste to reach you.

“Hey, hey—I saw James storming out—he looked—oh honey, what happened?”

The shock of Steve walking in at precisely this moment had left you lost for words. Tears flowed down your cheeks, your face still felt hot from embarrassment but you couldn’t speak. And Steve, seemingly taking your lack of being able to talk as heartbreak, gathers you into his arm and shushes you gently while you cry into his chest.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, his hand cupping the back of your head in an effort to soothe you. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

And because you felt too much shame and guilt to be honest with Steve, you simply nodded. Clinging to Steve as though your heart was shattered into a million pieces—as though James leaving have devastated you. When in actuality, you were making a silent promise to yourself. A promise to never—never ever tell a soul about what had just transpired between you and James. To never reveal the name you had subconsciously moaned out during your moment of bliss. 

Especially not Steve.

Especially not Steve.

dividers by @cursed-carmine

support banners by @saradika-graphics

[underoospeterparker]

chasing cars — part four ★ steve harrington

You're forced to relocate after you're found by men from Hawkins Lab. Steve worries when he visits the cabin and sees you gone.

notes — experiment!reader (reader is 009), mentions of Hawkins Lab, past torture/abuse, medical trauma, referenced experimentation, emotional distress, protective!Steve, angst, violence, guns, implied sexual assault, blood and injuries, death

Steve harrington x fem!reader, 3.1k words

link to series masterlist

The door splinters.

Wood cracks and breaks, pieces flying inward, and you curl yourself around El, your body a shield, your eyes squeezed shut. You wait for hands to grab you, for voices to shout, for the nightmare to start all over again. You wait for the worst.

But the hands don't come.

Instead, there is a voice. Rough. Familiar.

"Hey. Hey, it's me. It's okay."

You know that voice. Your eyes fly open. Hopper is standing in the broken doorway.

He's alive.

The relief that crashes through you is so overwhelming, so complete, that for a moment you can't move. You can only stare at him — at his chest heaving, at his dark eyes fixed on you and El.

"Hopper," you breathe.

You scramble out from behind the dresser so fast you nearly fall, your legs unsteady, your heart still pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. El calls out behind you but you can't stop, can't wait, because Hopper is there, Hopper is alive, and you need to touch him, need to make sure he's real, need to hold onto him because if you don't you might shatter into a thousand pieces.

Your arms wrap around his middle, your face pressing into his chest, and you hold on like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. You feel his heartbeat — fast but steady — and you press closer, closer, trying to crawl inside his ribs and hide there forever.

"Whoa, kid—" He stumbles back a step, catching himself, and for one terrible second you think he's going to push you away. But then his arms come up around you. Awkward at first, like he's not sure what to do with a crying girl attached to his front. Then they tighten.

"You're okay," he murmurs, rough and quiet. "You're okay. I got you."

You're crying.

You didn't realise until now, but you're crying, heaving sobs that shake your whole body. You can't stop. You don't want to stop. You just want to hold onto him and never let go.

You didn't know. You didn't know how much he mattered. You didn't know that in these few short weeks, this gruff man with the sad eyes had become something so important to you. He taught you how to make coffee. He left the lamp on. He looked at you like you belonged. He let you stay in his home.

And now he's here. He came for you. He saved you.

"You are hurt," you gasp against his chest, your hands patting at him frantically, checking for wounds, for blood, for anything that might mean he's not okay. "Blood—"

"It's not mine." His hand catches yours, stilling it. "It's not mine, kid. I'm okay."

You look up at him, your vision blurry with tears, your face wet and messy and probably ugly. You don't care. "Promise?"

His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away tears. "Promise," he says quietly.

Behind you, El appears. She's standing in the corner of the room, her face pale as milk, her eyes wide.

Hopper looks at her over your head. Stretches out his arm to make room for her. "Come here, kid."

El crosses the room in three steps and buries herself against Hopper's side, her face pressing into his ribs, her small hands gripping his shirt. Hopper's arm comes down around her, pulling her in. And then he's holding both of you, his two girls, his arms around you like he can shield you from everything.

"You're safe," he whispers, and his voice cracks on the words. "You're both safe. I got you."

For a long moment, none of you move. The cabin is silent except for your sobs and the distant creak of settling wood. The men are gone — dead or fled, you don't know and you don't care. All that matters is this.

Eventually, your tears slow. Your breathing evens out. You're still holding onto Hopper, still pressed against his chest, but the desperate panic has faded into something quieter. Something softer.

Hopper's hand is still in your hair, stroking gently the way Steve does. It's different — rougher, more awkward — but it's still warm. Still safe.

"Okay," he says quietly. "We need to move."

You pull back, looking up at him. "Move?"

He nods, his jaw tight. "Three of them are dead. The rest ran, but they'll be back. With more. This place isn't safe anymore."

El looks up at him, her dark eyes serious. "Where will we go?"

Hopper is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "I know a place. Another old hunting cabin, deeper in the woods. Off the grid. No one knows about it except me." He looks at you, then at El. "You'll be safe there. For a while, at least."

"Steve," you say suddenly, your voice sharp with panic. "Steve don't know. Steve will come tomorrow and we will not be here and he will not know where we are and he will think — he think they took us or we are dead or—"

"Hey." Hopper's hands cup your face, gentle but firm, forcing you to look at him. "I'll find a way to let him know. I promise. He's a smart kid. He'll figure it out." A pause. "And when this is over, he'll find you. Okay?"

"Okay," you whisper.

Hopper releases your face and stands, pulling you up with him. El rises too, still pressed close to his side.

"Grab what you need," he says. "Clothes. The sweater Steve gave you. Anything important. We leave in five minutes."

You don't have much. You never have. But you grab the sweater — Steve's sweater, the one that smells like him — and you hold it tight to your chest.

El is beside you. She's packed her most important things into a bag. You look at her, and for a moment, she's just your little sister, scared and brave all at once, her dark eyes wet with tears she won't let fall.

You reach out and take her hand.

Hopper appears in the doorway, a duffel slung over his shoulder, his gun holstered at his side. He looks at the two of you, holding hands, and something in his face shifts. Softens. Cracks, just a little.

"My girls," he says quietly, almost to himself. Then he clears his throat. "Ready?"

You follow him out of the room, through the wreckage of the cabin. The living room is destroyed — glass everywhere, furniture overturned, the lamp you love shattered on the floor. The kitchen is worse, dishes broken, food scattered. The front door hangs off its hinges.

You step over the bodies without looking at them. You don't want to see their faces. You don't want to remember.

Outside, the cold night air hits you. Cold and sharp and smelling of pine. The moon is high overhead, pale and distant, and the trees stretch out in every direction like dark walls.

Hopper leads you away from the cabin, into the woods. You follow without question, your hand still clutching El's, your other hand holding Steve's sweater.

The path is rough, uneven, full of roots and rocks. You keep walking, following Hopper's broad back through the dark.

After what feels like hours, he stops.

There's a shape ahead. Small. Wooden. Almost invisible against the trees. The hunting cabin. It's much like the one you're coming from — only a little smaller, more hidden in the trees.

Hopper pushes open the door and gestures you inside. It's warmer than you'd expected, tiny but cozy, with a worn sofa that's seen better days, a kitchenette in the corner, and a single door that probably leads to a bedroom.

"Not much," Hopper says, dropping his duffel by the door. "But it's safe. No one knows about this place."

El moves further inside, her dark eyes scanning everything, cataloging exits and hiding places the way she was trained to. You watch her and feel a pang of something — sadness, maybe. That she had to learn that. That both of you did.

"Bedroom's through there," Hopper says, nodding toward the door. "One bed. You two take it. I'll take the couch."

You look at the couch. It's small. Too small for a man his size.

"No," you say.

He turns, eyebrows raised. "No?"

You cross the room and take his hand. He looks down at it, surprised, but doesn't pull away.

"You stay with us," you say quietly. "Bed is... bed is big enough. For three." You struggle for the words, but your eyes say the rest. Please. Don't leave us. Not tonight.

His face does something complicated. For a moment, he looks like he might argue. Then his eyes flick to El, who's watching him with the same hopeful expression, and something in him softens.

"Yeah," he says roughly. "Yeah, okay, kid. I'll stay."

The bedroom is small, barely big enough for the bed and a dresser. But the bed is bigger than you expected — a full, at least, with thick blankets and soft pillows. You climb in first, still holding Steve's sweater, and El curls against your side immediately, her head on your shoulder.

Hopper stands in the doorway for a moment, looking awkward. Then he toes off his boots and lies down on the other side of El, his back to you, his body taking up as little space as possible.

You lie there in the dark, listening to the wind outside, to El's breathing evening out, to Hopper's steady heartbeat.

It's crowded. It's awkward. It's nothing like sleeping alone.

It's the safest you've ever felt, you think, as you rest your head on Hopper's chest and let his arm come around you.

You must have fallen asleep, because the next thing you know, soft grey light is filtering through the curtains. El is still curled against you. Hopper is already up — you can hear him moving around in the main room.

You slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake El, and pad barefoot into the living room.

Hopper is on the phone.

It's an old one, rotary, mounted on the wall near the kitchen. He's speaking in low tones, his back to you, but you catch enough.

"—need you to listen. Don't come here. It's not safe. But I need you to know they're okay. Both of them. We're at—" He pauses, listening. "No, I can't say. Lines might be tapped. Just... wait. She wants to talk to you."

He turns, sees you, and holds out the phone. "Steve," he says quietly.

Your heart stops. Then it starts again, faster than before. You cross the room in seconds and take the phone, pressing it to your ear.

"Steve?" you whisper.

"Angel." His voice crackles through the line, rough and frantic. "Oh god, angel, are you okay? I came to the cabin this morning and it was destroyed and there was blood and I thought — I thought they took you, I thought you were—"

"Steve." You cut him off, because you can hear him falling apart and you need him to be okay. "I am okay. El is okay. Hopper is okay. We are safe."

A shaky breath on the other end. "Where are you? Tell me where you are, I'll come get you, I'll—"

"I cannot say." You glance at Hopper, who nods grimly. "The phone... the phone might be... listen to. They might hear."

"Tapped," he supplies. "The line might be tapped."

"Yes. Tapped." You repeat the word, memorising it. "So I cannot say where we are. But—" You think, your mind racing.

Steve found you by the oak tree, three weeks ago, in the woods. That same oak tree is only a hundred meters, give or take, away from the cabin. You remember a tiny heart, etched on the inside of the wood.

"Heart," you breathe quietly. "Heart. Remember?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line. You can hear Steve breathing, can hear him thinking.

"Heart," he repeats slowly. "The—"

"No." You cut him off quickly, your voice urgent but quiet. "Do not say. They... hear."

Another pause. Longer this time. You can almost hear him putting it together, trying to connect the dots in his head.

"Okay," he says finally, his voice careful. "Okay, angel. It's okay."

You clutch the phone tighter, wishing you could reach through it and touch him. "Good. That is... that is good."

"But I can't — I don't know where you are, exactly. I can't protect you if I don't know—"

"You will find me." You say it with certainty, because you believe it. "You always find me."

A shaky breath. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You glance at Hopper, who's watching you with something soft in his eyes. "You found me in the rain. You will find me again."

"Okay." His voice is steadier now. "Okay, sweetheart. I'm gonna figure this out. I'm gonna find you."

"I have to go," you whisper. "Hopper says—"

"I know." He sounds like he's trying to be brave. "Go. Be safe. I'll find you."

You hang up the phone and stand there for a moment, your hand still on the receiver, your heart pounding. Hopper is watching you. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are soft.

"That was smart," he says quietly. "The heart. He'll know what it means."

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"Come on." He gestures toward the bedroom. "Get some more sleep. It's still early."

You pad back to the bedroom, crawl into bed beside El. She shifts in her sleep, curling closer to you, and you wrap an arm around her.

But you don't sleep.

You lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and you think about Steve. About the heart carved into the oak tree. About the way he looks at you.

You wonder if he'll look at you the same when he finds out what you've been hiding.

Your powers.

You could slip into someone's mind like slipping through an unlocked door. You could walk through their memories, their fears, their deepest secrets, and they would never even know you were there. You could feel what they felt, see what they saw, know what they knew.

And if you wanted to — if you really wanted to — you could change things. Plant a thought. Twist a memory. Make them believe something that never happened.

You remember the first time you did it on purpose. You were seven. A guard had been rough with El — shoved her against the wall for not moving fast enough. You didn't say anything. You just looked at him. And you reached out, found the edges of his mind, and you pushed.

Nothing dramatic. Just a tiny suggestion, buried deep where he'd never notice. You're tired. So tired. You should go home. You should sleep.

He'd yawned. Rubbed his eyes. And then he'd left, muttering about pulling a double shift.

El had looked at you with those big dark eyes, and you'd just shrugged. You didn't tell her what you'd done. You didn't tell anyone.

Because if they knew what you could really do — if they knew you could rewrite a person's thoughts like editing a page — they'd never stop using you. They'd never let you be anything but their weapon.

In the lab, they tested you for telekinesis like El. They tested you for sensory abilities, for pyrokinesis, for every power they could think of. And you failed. Every single time.

They called you a dud. A waste of resources. They were going to terminate you — you heard them talking about it once, through the thin walls of your room. Number Nine is non-functional. No viable powers detected. Recommend reallocation of resources.

You were seven years old, and you knew they were going to kill you.

But then something happened. A scientist — Dr. Ellis, his name was — left his journal in the testing room by accident. You picked it up, just to look at the cover, and suddenly you could hear him. Not his voice. His thoughts. Loud and clear, like he was standing right next to you.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Brenner will have my head if I lost that data. Where did I put it? Think, Ellis, think—

You dropped the journal like it had burned you.

After that, you learned to control it. To reach out and listen without anyone knowing. You learned which guards were kind (none of them) and which ones were scared of their own shadows (most of them). You learned that Dr. Brenner dreamed about his mother, that he cried in his sleep sometimes, that he was just as broken as the children he tortured.

You learned that knowledge was power. And you kept your power hidden.

When they tested you, you gave them nothing. You stared at the cards, at the objects, at the people behind the glass, and you let your mind go blank. You let them think you were nothing. A dud. A waste.

Even if they were to kill you, at least you wouldn't be their tool. A weapon for mass destruction.

Not even El knows. You've never told her. You've never told anyone.

You've kept your walls up so tight for so long that sometimes you forget there's anything behind them at all.

But lying here in the dark, with El warm against your side and Hopper's steady heartbeat somewhere in the other room, you feel the walls shifting. Cracking. Just a little.

It happened by accident, a few days after you arrived at Hopper's cabin. You were sitting at the kitchen table, watching him make coffee, and your mind just... slipped. Just for a second. Just long enough to catch a flicker of something.

Sara.

Her name. His daughter. You saw her — a flash of pigtails and a gap-toothed smile, a laugh that sounded like the chiming of bells. And underneath it, a grief so vast and so deep it nearly drowned you.

You'd pulled back so fast you'd given yourself a headache. But it was too late. You'd already seen. You'd already felt.

You didn't mean to. You never mean to. But sometimes your mind just reaches out on its own, like a hand stretching in the dark, searching for something to hold onto.

You haven't tried to read Steve. You've made sure of it. Every time he's near, you keep your walls so tight it hurts, because you're terrified of what you might find. Terrified that deep down, he might be like the others — pitying you, using you, secretly afraid of the broken girl he found in the woods.

You just hope — you pray — that when he finds out what you really are, when he finds out what you did to escape... You hope he'll still look at you the same way.

You hope he'll still want you to be his angel.

taglist — @maxverstappentwink @exooojongdaeee @hazzaisonfirelol @sunsetenthralled @starblushed @harringtonsboy @superlegend216 @madaboutjoe @digurcinema @lowmillions-lvr @middle-of-the-earth @mividaluka @charlston-chews @spr0utkeery @devotedlyteenagemusic @marcihq @selenewowww @m4iilvy @peterthehorseisinhere @madilyn-grace @middle-of-the-earth @scorpiodolll @ahead-fullofdreams @beautiful-wishes-for-all @sunsetenthralled @simsimstay2017 @mrtonystark @hello-nah817 @1011008 @bingsbitch @unalivebread @ohheyitmightberowan @sleepnsunrise @friendly-neighborhood-boricua @justiceforfoxface @kikixdee @mrwriterxc @gaylittleboi69 @twinklestarz999 @angelinabelovedballerina @giseyon @sturniolo-szn2 @purplerainx1 @keeryverse @gingergirl06 @creelvx @courtofdreams @aceshigh98 @lopang @powerpuffedbjtch @4ria790 @tezzzzzzzz @buttercuppy8 @ophirei

[underoospeterparker]

Pairing — Steve harrington x gn!reader, 1k words

Summary — You're exhausted from a horribly long day. Steve takes care of you.

The key turns in the lock and you're barely through the door before your bag slips from your shoulder, thuds to the floor.

You don't pick it up.

You just stand there for a moment, eyes closed, breathing in the smell of home.

From the living room, you can hear the low murmur of the TV, and nothing else — just the presence of someone else in the living room.

Steve.

The thought of him makes your chest ache. All day, through every awful, exhausting moment, you've been holding on to the thought of coming home to him. Just wanting to see his face. Just wanting him to hold you.

Your feet carry you toward the living room before you're fully aware of moving.

He's on the couch, sprawled comfortably, remote in one hand and a bag of pretzels abandoned on the cushion beside him. He's in his worn sweats and that old t-shirt you love, hair a little messy, eyes soft on the screen.

Then he hears you, looks up, and his whole face changes.

"Hey, baby."

His voice is warm, happy, so happy to see you — until he really looks at you. Then his brow furrows, his head tilting slightly.

You cross the room in a few shaky steps and then you're sinking, right there on the floor in front of him. You sit on your knees, facing him, hands resting limply in your lap. You can't even look at him because if you do, you'll really fall apart.

The couch creaks. You hear him shift, feel him lean forward. "Hey," he breathes, soft and worried. "Sweetheart? What's going on?"

You shake your head. You can't speak, or else your day will spill out in sobs.

He's quiet for a moment. Then you feel his hand on your head, gentle and careful, his fingers threading into your hair. He just rests it there at first, warm and solid, letting you feel him.

"You wanna come up here?" he asks quietly. "Come sit on the couch with me?"

You shake your head again, a tiny movement under his hand.

"Okay." His fingers start to move, stroking slowly through your hair. "That's okay. We can stay here for a bit."

After a long moment, he speaks again, softer still. "You had a rough one, huh?"

You nod, just a little. A tear slips down your cheek and drops onto your lap.

His thumb brushes against your temple, wiping away the trail it left. "I'm sorry, baby," he murmurs. "I'm sorry you had such a hard day. You wanna tell me about it?"

You shake your head.

"That's okay. You don't have to." His fingers keep moving, slow and soothing. "I just wanna take care of you, okay? Will you let me do that?"

You nod weakly.

"Yeah?" He shifts closer on the couch, leaning down toward you. "Then come up here. Come sit with me. Let me hold you proper."

You hesitate. Your body feels heavy, stuck. Steve's hand stills in your hair for just a moment, then resumes its gentle stroking.

"I know you're tired," he says softly. "I know it feels hard to move. But I think you'll feel better if you're up here with me. What do you think?"

You don't answer, not yet. Just sit there on the floor, letting him pet your hair, feeling the warmth of his hand. Moving is too hard, too much work for your aching bones.

He waits. Patient. So patient.

After a little while, though, he tries again. "Come on, sweetheart." His voice is barely above a whisper, coaxing and gentle. "Just for me? Let me hold you. I've been waiting all day to see you."

You manage to lift your head, just enough to look at him. His brown eyes are so soft, so full of worry and love, it makes your chest ache. "There you are," he breathes. "Hi, baby."

Your voice comes out small. "Hi."

Steve smiles, just a little, just for you. "Hi. You gonna let me hold you now?"

You nod. He guides you gently, his hands under your arms, helping you up onto the couch. You go boneless, letting him manuever you, and somehow you end up curled against his side, your head on his chest, his arms wrapped tight around you.

His hand finds your hair again immediately, stroking, petting, soothing. "See?" he whispers against your hair. "Better, right?"

You mumble something unintelligible against his chest.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

Shifting closer, you press your face into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. His heartbeat is steady under your ear.

"I was thinking about you all day," Steve murmurs, resting his chin on the top of your head, his voice soft and a little rough. "Kept looking at the clock, counting down the hours until you'd be home. Made me feel like an idiot, honestly. Couldn't focus on anything."

You smile against his skin. Just a little.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up." But he's smiling too, you can hear it in his voice. "Your boyfriend's a lovesick mess. That's funny to you?"

You nod weakly.

He huffs a quiet laugh and presses another kiss to your hair. "Yeah, okay. Fair enough."

His hands slide down to the small of your back, working in slow circles. You're so warm now, so heavy and relaxed, like you might sink right through him and into the couch cushions.

"You're getting sleepy," he observes softly.

You mumble something that might be "mmhmm" or nothing at all.

"That's okay. You should sleep. You need it." His lips find your forehead, your temple, the corner of your eye. "I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere."

You force your eyes open, just for a moment, just to look at him. His face is so close, soft and worried and so full of love it makes your chest ache all over again.

"Steve," you whisper.

"Yeah, baby?"

"I love you."

His eyes soften, and then he's leaning in to kiss you, tilting your head himself to allow him better access because you're so tired. "I love you too," he whispers against your mouth. "So much. You have no idea."

You fall asleep in seconds, lulled by the warmth of his touch and his love.

[angelicblondie]

★ american teenagers - a stranger things series ★ steve harrington x reader

0:00 ───|────── 0:00 ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

♪ say what you want, and say it like you mean it- ♪

★ summary: following the plotline of stranger things - steve harrington has been your best friend since you moved to the quaint town of hawkins, indiana, from the bustling city of new york in third grade, a move prompted by a familial tragedy. in your junior year of high school, you get swept up in a world full of monsters, other worlds, and strange little girls with powers. when standing in the face of death, will you do the impossible and face your feelings?

★ paring: steve harrington x bestfriend!reader

★warnings: violence, gore, angst, slow burn (like, very slow), fluff, suggestive content (MDNI - 18+), swearing, light substance use, steve is clueless for like, pretty much the whole story

♪ -with your fists for once... ♪

★ season one

chapter one: the vanishing of will byers

chapter two: the weirdo on maple street

chapter three: holly jolly

chapter four: the body

chapter five: the flea and the acrobat

chapter six: the monster

chapter seven: the bathtub

chapter eight: the upside down

★ season two

chapter one: MADMAX

chapter two: trick or treat, freak

chapter three: the pollywog

chapter four: will the wise

chapter five: dig dug

chapter six: the spy

chapter seven: the lost sister

chapter eight: the mind flayer

chapter nine: the gate

★ season three

chapter one: suzie, do you copy?

chapter two: the mall rats

chapter three: the case of the missing lifeguard

chapter four: the sauna test

chapter five: the flayed (coming soon)

chapter six: e pluribus unum

chapter seven: the bite

chapter eight: the battle of starcourt

★ season four

𐒘𝛠 christmas special

★ season five

taglist (CLOSED): @shouldakissedyouanyway @bambigirl10 @gengen64 @yellowcupcakes @madaboutjoe @ivorystarkey @animalcrossingshameless @person-005 @simplybarnes @green-lxght @beezusvreeland @blurrygir1 @lacywithdrawal @mirellef2001 @shanksstrawhat @multifandombliss @milkthfilth @northernightlights @mrs-starkgaryen @definitionwanderlust @jesschalamet @4jjsbank @sweetpoetssociety @torntaltos @ridinnjeanssdichhhh @manyotherpeople @harrystylesswif3 @4nza @cupidsblonde @melagem02 @amterasuu @batteryacid404 @magicalpactfang @cupidsblonde @johnricharddeacy @harringtonswift @mel164 @maddiebaddiehaha @loverslantern @spacelew @itmekelpy @wettbaby @liz140569 @curlicutie @lanadelray1989 @greyeyedmockingbird @fee224 @harringtonswift @s-solarisstar @fallingwallsh @i-zenin @newyorkangelbaby @spnmarvelsimp @gcfspice @dremnia @watercolorskyy @lololalalulu @onlyangel-444 @sparklecorn @thatredlipped-classic @isadessas2 @gogomgomg @1tsjustj @ez4ra @amourrangel @vcosette @pmmemei @cultish-corner @lilsweetpea777 @loverkiiller @kodzuvk @linaskywalker @buckysredhenleyincivilwar @ucallm3sunshine @strawbluna @kaitieskidmore97 @satorustorm @my--heroine

(all @ not linked properly will be put in comments instead!!)

a/n: supprise!!! im back 😉

[luveline]

Omg jade!!! Are we gonna get a kiss scene next chapter?!!? Im so excited <3

beyond the sea au | fem, 2k

“D’you wanna sit in the living room?” Steve asks, closing the door behind you. He doesn’t pretend that there are chores to be done or attempt to buy himself any time, not when his nerves turned to a bone deep want the moment you pulled out of the mall parking lot. 

“Bed? Hold and talk?” you ask. 

Steve smiles at you. A real one that he’s not as used to wearing anymore. “Yeah, okay. Hold and talk, we can do that.” 

Steve follows you up the stairs. You unbutton your denim jacket as you go, and hang it on the back of his door once you’re both closed away inside, reaching up to hook it and exposing the line of your back. Steve tosses his own jacket over the end of the bed, kicking out of his shoes, and climbing unceremoniously into his bed, the sheets already rumpled from this morning. 

You go on knees at the end and crawl up to him. There are still hints of makeup on your cheeks, but the lipgloss was gone by the time you finished your fried scampi, doubly gone after your raspberry lemonade. He can’t tell whether you like lemonade or if the fizz is novel enough to make you drink it, but you smell like soda as you settle in front of him. Raspberry soda and clothes detergent, the kind for babies, because Steve worried you’d be sensitive to anything more chemical-heavy. The closer you get, the more you smell like you, though. Like sand, maybe, the sun-warmed kind. Sweet like the end of a garden. 

“Kissing,” you begin, unafraid. “You want kissing with me, kissing with…” You meet his eyes, curiosity and wanting all wrapped up neatly in the dark well of each pupil. “Mermaid kiss, not kissing more.” 

“You do kiss?” he asks, not totally surprised. He only had to kiss your forehead once for you to start returning the gesture, it came to you easily. 

“Kiss give food, and kiss want kiss, want happy,” you tell him.

The image doesn’t fill Steve with confidence. “You don’t want to kiss just to share food, though, right? Humans don’t do that. I don’t think I’d like a kiss with food.” He tries to put it firmly but gently. 

You spread your legs where you’re kneeling to sink more comfortably into the sheets. “Not kiss you give food. Not if you not want.” 

“Okay.”

Your hands play restlessly with each other just in front of you. Steve realised belatedly that he’s left you in an awkward gap, though the longer the quiet stretches, the less awkward he finds it. He thought maybe you’d rush to kiss him once you were home; you’re always eager to do what it is you’ve decided you’d like to accomplish, and he figured his wanting to talk about it would confirm things to you. He practically jumped at the idea, hadn’t he? 

You want me to kiss you like that? he’d asked. 

“Kissing can be different for different people. And it can be kissing for different reasons.” Steve feels inadequate as he lays it out, but it must be lain. “Most people want to kiss, but you might like it less than you think, or more than you think. And it can be a kiss for nothing, or a deeper,” —his voice shudders with roughness— “kiss, or it can go further than that. I think I know what kind of kiss you want, but we need to talk about how to say no.”

“No?”

“If I kiss you, and you don’t like it, you can say no. You need to say no.”

You tilt your head to one side. “Okay.”

“You understand?”

“Yes. I understand… Steve say no, yes? If you not want.”

“I know how to say no, I promise.”

“Okay hold you, now?” you ask hopefully.

Steve sits back expectantly. You crawl forward until he can get his hand under your arm, half-dragging you over his lap as you use his shoulders for balance. You let your weight rest in his lap as Steve pulls you into place, not quite close enough to kiss, but enough to see you, to read your expression, to look for what you want in the face of his own desperation. 

Steve lets his feelings rise. “Do you want to know what beautiful means?” he asks after a minute, letting his hands run down your sides to rest lightly on your hips. 

“Beautiful. Yes.”

“You know what pretty means?” He squeezes your hip. “Pretty, it’s like. Almost every girl I’ve ever met is pretty. It means there’s something in your face that makes you pretty, it’s–” Steve lets his gaze wander from point to point. “Your nose… your eyes, your mouth. The pearl on your chin.” He brushes at it with his thumb, then lets his hand tumble searchingly against your upper thigh. 

“Beautiful?” you ask. 

“You are beautiful. Because you’re pretty, but you’re beautiful.” He says it with quiet weight. “It’s all of those things together. Your face, and your neck, and your hair.” He smiles to himself, squeezing at your leg. “Your legs.”

“My tail?” you ask.

He nods. “Yeah, honey. That was beautiful too. It’s not gone forever, is it? You’ll have it again?”

“Tail… I not want, tomorrow and tomorrow, but.” You hold your hand to your chest. “What word, me? Me, tail me.”

“I think that’s the only word for it. You’re you, and everything about you before you got your legs was still you… I think I thought you’d be more you now you can be back in the world, but you’re a little different, now, aren’t you?” He feels up your thigh, thumb in the crease where your leg meets your tummy, pushing with no want to go anywhere else. 

“I am happy,” you say, covering his probing hand with yours. “Ecstatic with you. With you make me happy, like. Word not know before.” 

Steve turns your hand. “Have you ever been in love?”

“In love?” you ask quietly. 

“You know what ‘in’ means, that you’re inside of things? We go in the pool, in the car, in the house. Being in love, being inside of love. It’s…” Steve pauses, taking a deep breath, the kind to fill his lungs and leave his chest aching as he empties them. “‘Love’ is want, and need, and like. It’s a big feeling.” 

“Love…”

“Do you have that at home? In the lake? People you love?”

“I love people.” You squeeze his hand absentmindedly, looking down at the sheets, at his side, somewhere in between. “People and people. Like Robin and Eddie. Like Nance and Jonathan. People know, people not know.”

“Close friends and neighbours,” he suggests, matching your quiet tone. 

“Not like me and you,” you say, looking up at him with the shyest smile he’s ever seen you wearing. 

“No? You’ve never felt it?” he asks, voice dropping still, afraid to speak too loudly and spook you. Or more, too afraid to scare himself. 

“Need you more. Need, not want. It feels like need.” 

There’s something there in your voice he’s getting more familiar with by the day. A confidence in what you’ve said, but an aching, too. Your last four words hit him like a freight train, because it’s the closest you could’ve come to telling him you love him without saying the word, and it’s the most assured you’ve ever sounded in your own voice. There’s no hesitation there. No stumble or slur. 

It feels like need.

“Do you wanna take your shoes off?” he asks, a lightness that’s impossibly similar to pressure building in his head and in his hands as he turns your foot enough to undo your shoelace. You let him untie them, loosen them, and ease out your foot. You let him do it to the second shoe on your other side, then readjust yourself in his lap to tuck your feet under your thighs. 

Steve holds your waist and drags you in, until your stomach lays against his own, and there can be no illusion of space, your hand slipping under his jaw. He grabs your elbow and holds you in place, in a middle distance now as he turns his face into your hand and kisses your palm. 

Kisses your wrist. 

Your breath comes out in a sigh as he presses his nose to your pulse and breathes against your skin, eyes closing now, too afraid to see you and make a noise that’ll distend the bubble that’s lapsed around you, his quiet room, the darkness growing outside and the hedging glow of sunlight that makes its way through, a slice of horizon glowing pink, and orange, kissing your skin and painting you in new colours. 

“Beautiful arm,” he says, nosing to your elbow, letting his lips part at the crook and closing them there in his most wanting approximation of a kiss. “Beautiful here.” He pins your shirt sleeve and kisses your upper arm, lingering there, close enough to you to feel your quickening breath ruffle his hair.

He raises his head, already missing your arm, the curve and slope of your shoulder hidden beneath thin blouse. His hand is greedy at your neck, taking hold of you, lining his thumb to your throat and pressing down gently. Your pulse capers. He can feel it jump. 

“Beautiful here,” he says, turning your head to kiss your neck, more chaste than the slow pull at your bicep, too impatient now to tease, “beautiful–”

You turn your face up so his kiss lands on your chin, rather than your jaw. “Steve?” you ask softly, looking at him through eyes half-lidded. 

“What, baby?” he asks, framing your face in his two hands. They feel bigger than usual against your skin. They look blunt over something so delicate. “What?

“Feel,” you say, bringing his hand to your chest, pinky finger nudging under your shirt. He almost can’t bear to have it moved, but he presses his palm flat to your heart within your chest and lets it batter against him. “Not know to do.” 

You sound panicked as your heart. “Yeah? You don’t know what to do?”

“Need to do, but– I need– I need–”

Your voice shudders close to tears, but Steve knows it’s not the kind that comes with fear. Fuck, if he could keep you here, away from his world and yours, if he could glue his hand to your chest to feel it trip as he rubs his thumb against your cheek, that soft skin. 

“Do you need a kiss?” he asks, holding your gaze as he tamps down a smile. It breaks through anyhow. 

“Please?” you ask. 

His hips kick as he straightens, as his thumbs line your jaw, an ache rocking through his stomach as a voice inside of him begs to turn you into the pillows and lay between your spread thighs. “Please?” he says, speaking into your mouth now as his eyes flutter closed, “So you’re polite now, yeah?” He kisses you so briefly he almost hates himself for it, worse when you make a needy sound so soft he has to hold back a sigh. “Beautiful girl, you need a kiss?” 

You part your mouth to answer and Steve leans in to take it. 

His hand slips behind your head, over hair, to the opposite ear, his arm laying across your shoulders as he turns his head to the side and opens you up. It’s a bump of a kiss, lips warm and soft and tongue warmer, such a hesitant, wanting little press of it that he makes a sound too close to pain and has to turn his head, has to move into the kiss like the tide pulling away. You push softly against him. Your hand balls tightly in the front of his shirt. 

He pulls away as quickly as he can. “Is this okay?” he asks, breathing hard in the curve of your Cupid’s bow.

“Okay, okay,” —you kiss him once, like a prompting— “please, I need–”

Steve laughs into your mouth and kisses you again. 

Somewhere downstairs, the front door whines open, and a person slips inside of the house without being noticed. 

[lacedpages]

they’re so cute 😭

[levanterhaze]

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬

pairing: steve harrington x hopper!reader summary: You've known about the prophecy since the day you were born. The curse of the older sister.  Ever since you and El were raised together in that sterile, white hell—shaped into weapons of war—you knew your life wasn't yours. Dying wasn’t brave. It wasn’t noble. It was simply the inevitable conclusion you had been walking toward since birth. wc: 3.7K warnings: mentions of violence, cursing, mention of y'know, since she choose to die, heartbreak and angst. if you don't feel comfortable reading this, even if it's a 'rewrite' scene from the tv show, please don't read and preserve yourself. a/n: I was obsessed with the idea of Steve taking Mike's place when El leaves. So, here it is. I think I cried a few times while writing it (help). I was inspired by Ethel Cain's Nettles and Purple Rain to write it.

To love me is to suffer me And I believe it.

The cacophony was absolute—a craggy wall of voices, the sharp clack of assault rifles being readied, and the guttural curses of men who had forgotten how to be human.

Steve was shoved forward, the momentum of the crowd carrying him along with Dustin, Mike, and Robin. He caught a glimpse of Robin’s hands, bound tight enough to turn her fingers white, before a soldier’s gloved hand slammed into the back of his neck.

His face was crushed against the cold metal of the transport truck. The smell of oil and old blood filled his nostrils. He couldn't breathe. Every gasp was a battle, his lungs struggling against the weight of a man twice his size pinning him down.

The problem was, he couldn't find you anywhere.

“Hey—hey,” He grimaced, a sharp, sickening pop echoing in his ears as his zygomatic bone groaned under the pressure against the metal panel. “Have you seen her?”

Dustin twisted his head as far as the restraints allowed, face pale but steady. 

“She was with El, they must've escaped.”

The relief hit Steve like a physical wave. Good. That was more than good, it was the only thing that mattered. If the plan had worked—if the girl he loved was somewhere safe, somewhere far away from the screaming and the cold steel—then he could endure whatever was coming.

So a small, genuine smile blossomed on Steve's lips. It lasted only a second, because when he looked up, the smile died where it was born.

Where the sky had torn itself open, where the portal to the Upside Down bled a bruised, pulsating violet into the world, he saw you.

You weren't running. You were standing at the threshold, your silhouette framed by the apocalypse, your eyes fixed on the military line with a gaze so deadly it looked like it belonged to a different person.

“No… no, no, no—” Steve’s voice rose from a whimper to a raw, jagged roar. The realization settled in his gut like lead: you had stayed.

You were going to fight a war you couldn't win.

With a strength that shouldn't have existed in his broken, battered frame, Steve threw his head back. He felt the icky thud of his skull connecting with the soldier’s chin. He didn't wait for the man to fall. Two other guards lunged for him, their hands like iron claws on his sleeves, but something had snapped inside him. It wasn't bravery anymore, it was an animalistic, primal instinct.

“Steve!” Robin’s scream was high and thin, a desperate warning as a soldier leveled the butt of a rifle.

Steve didn't hear her. He stumbled, his legs heavy and uncoordinated, and when he finally fell to his knees, he didn't hit the pavement. Cold water splashed against his skin. He realized then, he was in your mind.

You walked quickly toward him and he got up, running to you.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice broke on the words. “Please—please don’t do this.”

His hands gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket as if the sheer force of his touch could tether you to the earth.

He was shaking. There were tears welling up in his eyes, and despite everything, it was his broken expression that haunted you the most.

“Steve,” you whispered, swallowing the thick knot of grief in your throat. You looked into those deer-like eyes, your own vision blurring as the first hot tears spilled over. “You need to listen to me. We don’t have much time.”

He was hyperventilating, his chest heaving under his bruised ribs. His eyes searched yours, begging for a lie, begging for a misunderstanding he could desperately fix.

“What? No—no, whatever you’re thinking, we’ll find another way. We always find another way.”

“I need you to understand my decision.”

“No. No. I don't—Please.”

You kept going because stopping would mean breaking. “I need you to tell the others the truth. Tell Hop that Jane's safe. I need you to tell them—” Your voice faltered. You forced it steady. “Tell them how grateful I am. For being so kind to me. For loving me.”

Tears slid freely down your cheeks. Steve lifted his hand without thinking, brushing them away with his thumb like he always did, like it was a reflex built into him. He was crying too, silent and helpless, but still trying to take care of you. He always would put you first.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, pleading now, like if he said it enough times, reality might listen.

“I do. Steve, this will never ends. El will be hunted for the rest of her life. She’s just a kid. She deserves a chance to grow up without blood on her hands.”

You caught his hands, pulling them from your face to hold them against your chest. His fingers were calloused, covered in the fresh scratches and deep purple bruises of the fight. They were the hands of a protector, and they were the only things you were going to miss.

He stared at you like you were speaking another language.

“What about you?” The question came out with a sharp edge of accusation, a jagged shard of resentment born from pure, unadulterated heartbreak. “Don’t you deserve to live? Don't I deserve for you to stay?”

You've known about the prophecy since the day you were born. The curse of the older sister.  Ever since you and El were raised together in that sterile, white hell—shaped into weapons of war—you knew your life wasn't yours. Dying wasn’t brave. It wasn’t noble. It was simply the inevitable conclusion you had been walking toward since birth.

You were the burden that was meant to be dropped so the light could keep shining.

And Steve—sweet, stubborn, endlessly kind Steve—was the only thing that had ever made you wish, just for a moment, that fate might be wrong.

But then Hopper found you and Jane together in that forest, clinging to each other like a second skin, desperate and afraid of what fate had planned. And that changed everything.

He had reached through the brush and pulled you into a life you were never supposed to have. He was resilient, jaggedly caring, and he tended to your wounds with a gentleness that felt like an assault on everything the lab had taught you. He fed you, gave you shelter, and advised you—doing all the things a father was supposed to do. A father you and Jane had only ever seen in child storybooks.

You had been reluctant at first, a wild thing trapped in a cabin. You ran away a dozen times because you were convinced that this life—the warm blankets, the Eggo waffles, the safety—was for Jane, not for you.

But Hopper had been immovable. He insisted, with a gruff, stubborn love, that you deserved that comfort too. It wasn't a luxurious life, but it was a life full of affection.

And what was supposed to be just a life for three became a big dysfunctional family, but one that you loved with every shattered piece of your heart.

Joyce, Jonathan, and Will. The family that went through hell on earth when little Byers was possessed and captured by darkness. There was Joyce, who taught you what it meant to be a woman, who brushed your hair with a mother’s tenderness and hugged you until the cold in your bones finally began to thaw. There was Jonathan, the quiet observer, who always stayed close enough to make sure you were alive.

The kids, who followed you like you were something out of a comic book. They made you feel brave when you were anything but. They welcomed Jane like she had always been theirs, and through them, you learned what friendship really was, unconditional, loud, forgiving.

Nancy showed you worlds hidden in books and taught you how to hold a gun without flinching. She kept your secret without ever asking for anything in return. Let you sleep in her basement when Hopper’s house became unbearable. Robin taught you sisterhood—real sisterhood. Movie nights, bad jokes, honesty without fear. She made life feel lighter just by standing beside you.

“Every moment of my life has led me here,” you said softly.

“Bullshit.” His voice cracked, raw and furious. “This is all bullshit. You can’t—you don’t deserve this. You can stay, I—”

“Steve,” you whispered. “Look at me.”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands. His skin was cold, damp with sweat and tears. He pressed his lips together, a sob catching in his throat, and you felt the hot, thick tears roll down his cheeks until they pooled in the palms of your hands.

“From day one, you saw me. You saw beyond what I could see in myself.”

Steve let out a broken, animal sound and leaned into your touch, his eyes searching yours for a way out that didn't exist. He had spent years trying to convince you that you were worth saving, and now, he was watching you use that very life to save everyone else.

How could you ever forget that first night in the Wheeler basement? You had been a mess, bruised and soaked from head to toe, looking like you’d gone ten rounds with a nightmare. But even then, he didn’t look at you like a wounded animal. He didn’t look at you like a disposable tool of war. He looked at you with a careful, tentative affection that felt like the first warm sun after a lifetime of winter.

But the words had been written in the stars long before you met him and your story couldn't have been written any other way. If you were here now, it was because fate had allowed you to live. And if you lived, it was because Steve Harrington happened in your life.

It was because he accepted you for who you are. Because he fell first, pretending that all that fascination wasn't masked as love. Because he held your hand that Fourth of July and kissed you under the fireworks. It was because he saved you from near death and allowed you to still have some time together. It was the way he had knocked on Hopper’s door with a bouquet of flowers, his knees literally shaking with fear of your father, just to take you to a movie date. It was because he loved you devotedly, respected you, adored you with everything he had.

“If I know what it's like to love and to be loved, it’s because of you,” you whispered. “And you don't know how forever grateful I'll be to you for giving me that.”

“Please,” Steve murmured repeatedly, his hands trembling as he held your body against his. He was clutching you as if he could absorb you into his own skin, as if he could hide you from the fate that was coming for you.

“You made everything easier. All my life I believed I wasn't worthy of being loved, but then you came along and changed everything.” You smiled through the tears, a fragile, beautiful thing. “I wouldn't do anything differently, Steve. Not a single second.”

“Don't do this to me, babe—please, please—”

It was breaking your heart. Each plea was a physical blow. You felt your heart cracking, tiny pieces of it falling away one by one. 

“I need you to promise me something, okay? Look at me, Steve.” You sought his eyes and had to exercise a lot of self-control not to break down right there. “I want you to be happy. I want you to live the life of your dreams.”

His laugh was broken, almost soundless. “I fucking hate this,” he said. “How am I supposed to do that without you?”

“I’ll always be with you,” you said, even though you both knew what that promise cost. “You have a life ahead of you, Steve. A good one. Promise me you won’t stop. Promise me you’ll fight for it.”

He couldn't speak. He just looked at you, his chest heaving, his face a mosaic of soot, drying blood, and fresh, hot tears. He looked like he was physically dying, like his soul was being pulled through his ribs.

“I love you,” was all he managed to choke out between the jagged, guttural sobs that racked his body.

You smiled, even as your heart felt like it was being torn in two. 

“I love you, Steve Harrington.”

When you moved, you collided like lightning meeting thunder, violent, inevitable, and destructive. Your mouths crashed together in a disastrous mess of tears, salt, and terror.

Steve wanted time. God, he had wanted time so badly. He had built plans around it, trusted it like it was something guaranteed. The weight of his mother’s ring, hidden on a small chain beneath his shirt, felt like it was branding his skin. He had decided he'd propose the moment you got home, the moment the world was safe. He knew how much you dreamed of Alaska—of the frozen, silent mountains and the way the northern lights painted the sky—and he had spent every spare cent he had for a year to make that happen.

The initial plan was to propose to you with that breathtaking view as a witness to your youth, reckless, love. But Steve had always been haunted by the feeling that time was a thief. That was why he’d put the ring around his neck that morning. 

He just hadn’t known how little time he had left.

As he kissed you with a painful, bruising intensity, he reached for the chain. He ripped it from his neck, the metal snapping with a faint ping that was lost to the chaos. He pressed the cold silver into your palm, his fingers trembling as he closed your hand around it.

You felt it when he placed it in your hand, the cold metal against your palm.

You felt the weight of it, the history of a family you would never officially join. You deepened the kiss, holding him with a strength that defied your tired body. You were holding your first love, your only love, the boy who had made you human.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads touching, both of you breathless and ruined, you closed your fingers around the chain and held his hand instead.

“Please, please—” he whispered, the word barely there. “Don’t leave me.”

You wanted to say everything. You wanted to stay forever.

You were at the end of the road, and the time for promises had run out.

“Goodbye, Steve.”

The sound never fully left his throat. It caught there, raw and animal, and when reality slammed back into place, it did so cruelly. Hands dragged him backward. Boots scraped asphalt. Someone shouted orders he couldn’t hear because all he could hear was his own voice breaking apart as he screamed your name.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Everyone was frozen, witnesses to a sacrifice they were powerless to stop. Robin had collapsed to her knees, her sobs racking her frame until she was doubled over. Hopper stood paralyzed, his eyes brimming with tears he couldn't shed, his path blocked by a wall of military personnel. Nancy’s hands were pressed tight over her mouth, a single, silent tear tracking through the soot on her cheek.

These were your people. The one you had built out of chaos and survival and love. The one that had taught you what it meant to belong.

Steve fought like a caged animal, his boots scraping against the asphalt as he begged them to let him go, shouting your name until his lungs burned. He was thrown to the ground, the grit biting into his skin, but he never took his eyes off you.

You looked at Hopper one last time. Not to ask. Not to beg. Just to let him see that this was your choice. That you were at peace with it. That Jane would live. That she would grow up safe, loved, ordinary in all the ways you never got to be. She was now the age you had been when he found you in that forest, feral, terrified, alive. She deserved the life he had fought to give her.

“I'm sorry,” you whispered.

Then, the air crackled. You felt the surge of energy before the world white-outed—a hum that vibrated in your very marrow. A flash swept across the perimeter, a titanic force field that pushed the entire world back. The C4 charges detonated in a synchronized roar, and the Upside Down didn't just break, it folded. Everything was sucked into a violent whirlwind, a chaotic abyss that began to erase itself from existence.

The noise was horrifying, a primal scream of a dying dimension. You closed your eyes, letting go of the tethers that held you to the world of the living. In the fading distance, you could still hear them screaming your name.

But this was the end. This was your story, and as the darkness rushed in to claim you, you realized you were happy. You have lived. You have loved.

One last tear tracked down your cheek. And then, nothingness.

A deafening silence took over the place. Steve stared in sheer, unadulterated horror at the space where you should have been. There was no portal. Just a building in ruins, smoking under a normal, mocking sky.

You were gone. Truly, finally gone.

He dropped to his knees, skin splitting against dust, pain flaring uselessly through his hand. He didn’t feel it. There was no room for it. All he could see was you, every version of you he had ever loved, layered one on top of the other until it crushed him.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in broken hitches. It was then that he realized his fist was clenched tight around something cold. He raised his hand, blinking through the tears, and saw it: the silver chain, the wedding ring dangling from the end. He hadn't noticed, but you had put it back in his hands as a promise you were forcing him to keep. You wanted him to move on.

You wanted him to be happy. A future you were asking him to live without you.

Steve let out a sound that barely resembled a sob and curled forward, clutching the ring to his chest like it might still anchor him to you.

But it would never be the same.

Without you, there was no happy ending. 

“All right, all right—let’s go.”

Steve planted his hands on his hips, scanning the parking lot as the kids—who absolutely were not kids anymore—filed into the trailer. “Jeez, did you have to buy the whole store?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting as Robin struggled with a bag that looked one bad move away from tearing.

“In my defense,” she said, breathless but defiant, “we have, like, a small army to feed. And I needed a Kit Kat.” She held one up proudly. “I even brought one for you.” She tapped a second bar against Steve’s chest.

He caught it between his fingers, let out a long, grounded breath, and stuffed it into his pocket. “All right. Enough. Everyone here?” He poked his head into the trailer, performing the mental head-count that had become second nature.

Lucas glanced around. “Uh—Dustin’s not back yet.”

Steve opened his mouth to complain about the schedule when a familiar voice grumbled behind him.

“Jesus Christ, the bathroom in this place should be classified as a biohazard.” Dustin shrugged, his face twisted in a look of pure disgust.

“Everything okay, bud?” Steve took off his shades and patted Dustin’s shoulder, fighting back the laugh that threatened to break through his responsible adult mask.

“Barely,” Dustin said. “I stared death in the face in there, ‘cause—.”

“Biohazard,” Max interrupted, rolling her eyes with a smirk. “We get it.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“All right,” Steve said, gentle but firm, clapping hands to get everyone moving and get things in place. “Everybody, buckle up. Right now!” 

Max and Lucas were already arguing about who got to lean on whom for the next leg of the trip.  Dustin went back to his astrophysics book while Mike, Will, and El chatted happily in the back. 

Steve caught El’s eye in the mirror. She gave him a small nod, there was a depth of respect and gratitude in her eyes that always made Steve’s heart ache. 

When she had returned to Hawkins eighteen months after the Upside Down took you, it had been a bittersweet miracle. Hopper and Mike had known she was safe because of your final message, but for Steve, her return was the final, broken proof that you were gone.

He didn't blame her. He loved her. But looking at her was a constant, living reminder of the price you had paid.

“All right, dingus,” Robin said, already buckled in, watching him closely. “We doing this or what?”

Steve slid into the driver’s seat and fastened his seatbelt. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

He pressed play.

The familiar, melancholic chords of Piano Man filled the cabin, your favorite song. Billy Joel’s voice drifted through the speakers, steady and nostalgic. Steve turned the key, the engine roaring to life, and before they even cleared the gas station parking lot, the chaos in the back reached a fever pitch. Max was yelling at Lucas, Dustin was laughing at something Will said, and the air was thick with the life you had died to protect.

Beside him, Robin offered a small, closed-mouth smile: a look of pure solidarity. 

Before hitting the highway toward the long road to Alaska, Steve glanced in the rearview mirror. Hanging from the glass was the silver chain, the wedding ring catching the afternoon sun. It swung gently with the movement of the car, a North Star to guide him.

A small, genuine smile touched his lips. This was what you wanted. This was the life you would have led if fate had been kinder.

“All right, Alaska,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the music and the kids. “Here we come.”

He shifted the trailer into gear and pulled onto the open road. It was for the kids. It was for the future.

But most of all, it would always be for you.

[lacedpages]

my most favorite song and now my most favorite fic this was so gut wrenching I’m dying now thanks

[tomsparkyr]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 (𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄)

you turned into your worst fears and you're tossing out blame, drunk on this pain, crossing out the good years!

summary: steve harrington used to be the person you'd go to for anything but after the events of 86', the invisible string between you has been severed beyond repair. after vecna cursed you and max, perhaps luck was on your side as she lay still in hawkins hospital; but was it really luck if you're stuck between dustin and steve at each others throats in the upside down, voicing opinions you thought you could repress for the rest of your life?

warnings: set in s5 but briefly covers previous seasons, angst, loneliness, cursing, mentions of death, steve's a little mean but we cover why in the next part, generally sad reader, angsty-ish ending (for now!), slight change in plot, we love nancy wheeler in this house, 1K word intro / exposure whaaaattt

(this is pure angst i'm sorry (not really) but there will be a part two! ...and maybe part three idk i'm improvising / also i'm pro-yapper so everything is super extended it's becoming an issue lol)

word count: 4.7K

part two,, part three,,

steve harrington x fem!reader

(STRANGER THINGS S5 VOLUME 2 SPOILERS)

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 'good times' simply solidify the ideology that they’re never coming back. What was once the life you lived freely, unaware of the sheer jealousy your future self would feel, was now only a memory, something you wished you could live vicariously through.

But who could blame a girl for wanting the days where she wasn’t tormented by another being that she had failed, let down everyone she loved and the mere existence of her was at the expense of someone else, someone more innocent and had life behind her eyes. 

You’d prefer to say that Hawkins was like living in hell than go down the wormhole of suppressed feelings. And the fact that you couldn’t leave this mess of a town due to the military quarantining you and everyone you wished to avoid, validates your statement that Hawkins had it out for you.

Everyone suffered in the spring of 1986, the group was severed and discovered that everything they thought they knew about the Upside Down was wrong; everything they had already fought was just the beginning.

Over time, everyone moved on. Distanced themselves from the reality they lived out 18 months ago and focused on the now, how they could save Hawkins after Vecna had fulfilled his promise.

But it’s harder to move on when it should’ve been you lying in Hawkins Hospital, heart monitor steady and face pale, your body still as the doctor insisted you were in a coma. You should’ve been sick of the stench of the hospital, annoying everyone that came to visit you as you showed no signs of waking up anytime soon. 

It should’ve been your walkman resting on the bedside table, headphones draped loosely around your neck after everyone got fed up of hearing the same song on repeat, binning out the boombox and preferring to have the music reserved for your ears only.

But it wasn’t you. In some twisted reality you called normality, Max Mayfield was the one who suffered the fate that was designed for you.

You visited her often, not only because you babysitted her throughout her childhood and made it known to everyone that she was your favourite of the group, but because your endless guilt forced you to sit in the chair beside her bed, staring at the reminder that you had failed; and everyone around you was too nice to say it to your face.

In the time that you had held Max’s hand with your own clammy palm, you had grown accustomed to seeing Lucas almost every day and muttering the same mantra to his hopeless face: “I’m sorry. I did everything I could.”

And Lucas would interrupt you every time, “Don’t ever be sorry. I’m glad you’re here.”

At least someone could put a soft smile on your face as Hawkins crumbles around you.

You wished you could confide in him but he was still a kid battling with his own issues, high school still relevant as he tried to keep the town from falling apart, the love of his life was unconscious and his best friend had changed severely within the 18 months, much like the rest of you.

One name rang around your mind as you searched for an output, someone you wished you could let in and not feel so alone. But whatever friendship or connection you had with Steve Harrington was in the past, and it seemed adamant to stay there.

Oh, Steve Harrington. The man you would go to for anything, whether that was fighting inter-dimensional creatures or dragging someone along to the movie you had been dying to watch and knew you could convince him with the promise of paying for him; although he would never let you, he preferred to enjoy your company.

You remembered the way he refused to let go of your hand as you ventured below Starcourt Mall and how he promised he would keep you safe as you sat back to back, mind running a million thoughts as you dreaded what the Russians would do to you.

How could you forget when you sat on the bathroom floor, sandwiched in the stalls between Steve and Robin as their words were prompted by the ‘truth serum’. And how Steve admitted that he had fallen in love with someone else after Nancy Wheeler.

Of course, his admission was cut short by Dustin barging into the bathrooms, his posture reeking of stress and urgency, enough to get the three of you on your feet and any further words trapped behind the burning walls of Starcourt Mall.

Then as Vecna forced his way into your lives and targeted you and Max, you felt your sanity snatched out from under your feet and Steve’s hands to support you as you convinced yourself you were losing your mind.

He used to have your walkman and favourite song tucked into the backpack Dustin carried everywhere, refusing to let you leave the house or out of his sight without it in touching distance. You’d tell him that it was manifesting a bad outcome, but he’d scoff and say, “I don’t care. As long as you’re safe.”

To say you were fond of Steve Harrington was an understatement. You had been harbouring a crush on him for a while now, but who didn’t? 

How could you not fall for Steve “The Hair” Harrington?

Steve with his perfect hair and handsome face, with a laugh you could recognise anywhere. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you that made it easy to become enamoured with him, how his eyes would soften whenever you spoke up and how even in the darkest times, he would cup your face and make sure the only thing you saw was him.

You could feel the ghost of his hand brush against the small of your back whenever you stood alone in the group as they discussed the crawls, reminding you of the man that now stood on the opposite side of the room to you and how he used to be your anchor back to reality.

You were told good things never last, but you never put Steve Harrington into the category of things you could lose.

You found yourself pushing him away the second Max closed her eyes and they never reopened. The last words Steve spoke directly to you were reassurances whispered into your hair, his arms wrapped around your frame as your body shook from hearing the final chime of the clock, confirming your fears that Max had been cursed one final time.

You shut yourself out from everyone. It was expected, but no one made the effort to drag your past self back to the surface, leaving her drowning in the sorrow that the spring of 86’ provided.

You understood that it shouldn’t be you standing here listening to the group relay ideas for the crawl, it should’ve been a redhead tucked under Lucas’ arm who mocked any stupid ideas that Mike would throw out.

To remove yourself from the equation was easier than accepting that the past cannot be changed.

If your lack of inclusion in the group was the closest you could reach to the fate that was written under your name, then it was what you would conform to. No matter how much it hurts to feel pitying eyes on your form.

"𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋, 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 really promising.” Steve sighed as his flashlight scaled the walls of the lab, falling behind Dustin’s hurried steps.

How you found yourself in the Upside Down’s version of Hawkins Lab with Steve, Nancy, Jonathan and Dustin and tensions high was a question you wished you could say was unanswered. But after driving Steve’s precious beamer into a wall and following Dustin’s throw-in-the-dark idea, your day had already decided to suck.

“We’re in the lobby.” Dustin huffed. If you thought you were outward with your uncomfortable situation with Steve, Dustin made sure he won that argument. 

You walked beside Nancy as she furrowed her brows at the surroundings, “And… where are we going exactly?” She tilted her head.

“Right. Like, what is it we’re looking for?” Jonathan asked as he looked at Dustin. “You’ve all seen Return of the Jedi?” Dustin said.

You stumbled to a stop as your heart clenched uncomfortably. You were the one who introduced the franchise to Steve. When he secured his job at Family Video beside you and Robin, you made sure he knew some recent films and found yourselves brushing shoulders on movie nights and watching his brows screw up as he tried to understand the plot.

You felt a pair of eyes burning into the side of your face. “The one with the teddy bears?” Steve mumbled.

“Ewoks.” You and Dustin said in unison, “Yeah, it’s the best one.” Steve responded.

Nancy raised her eyebrows, “Is it?” Dustin scoffed, “No, but every child loves it, so tracks.” You pressed your lips together to prevent a small smile from appearing on your face. Nancy’s eyes flickered to you and noticed, her eyes softening as she watched a glimpse of your past self slip out.

“In the film, if you recall,” Dustin stepped forwards, “the rebels need to destroy a second Death Star, but it’s surrounded by a protective energy shield, which is created by a shield generator.”

“Yeah, cool. Thanks for the summary of a movie we’ve all seen.” Steve’s voice echoed around the lifeless lobby. Of course he remembered the film, despite watching it to satisfy you only, he understood the context to some extent.

“It could be relevant, Steve.” You cleared your throat, eyes glancing his way as he turned around to face you, his expression unreadable.

Dustin nodded in your direction, “Thank you!” He gestured to you before continuing his analogy, “Look, I think this circular flesh wall is Vecna’s version of an energy shield, except it’s not sci-fi.”

“It’s supernatural, created by Vecna’s dark magic. And this dark magic shield is what’s preventing us from reaching him and saving Holly.” You crossed your arms over your chest as the group huddled around Dustin. “But if my math is correct, the generator for the shield has to be in this lab.” He finished.

Jonathan stood between you and Steve, “So if we find this dark magic shield generator…” Even hearing the words come out of someone else’s mouth felt strange, you couldn’t believe you had been roped into this again.

Dustin nodded, “We destroy the wall.” You fiddled with your flashlight, “Find Vecna.”

“Save Holly.” Nancy finished your sentence, her sister being at the forefront of her mind.

“Medals for all.” You offered Dustin a tight smile as his sarcastic enthusiasm had you wanting to find this shield generator as soon as possible, needing to breathe after being suffocated in the uncomfortable tension.

Steve placed his hands on his hips, “And it looks like what?”

“How would you expect me to know that?” Dustin rolled his eyes and turned his back on the group. You let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed your face with your hands, squeezing your eyes shut and hoping that when they reopen, it’ll all be some sick illusion.

Steve scoffed as he watched the tension build in your shoulders, “If you’re gonna complain then you should just leave now. This wasn’t exactly our ideal location.” 

You lifted your head and realised Steve’s annoyance was directed at you. Your face screwed up with confusion and your eyes darted between Nancy and Jonathan, “I’m not complaining. Where’d you get that from?”

Steve opened his mouth to retort but Nancy took a step forward to follow in Dustin’s trail, “We don’t have time for this.” She ordered and nodded for you to follow, not seeing her shoot Steve a disappointed gaze.

Jonathan cleared his throat to diffuse the tension, leaving Steve behind the pack and eyes trained on the back of the person he used to call his best friend. 

Dustin shouldered the door open and you suppressed a groan when you made eye contact with two flights of stairs. “Up or down?” You asked.

“I say both. Search in two teams. Cover more ground.” Nancy concluded, keeping a tight grip on her bag thrown over her shoulder.

Steve nodded beside you, ignoring the way your shoulders touched in the tight space, “Yeah, that’s cool with me, but can we just switch the teams up?”

Your jaw clenched as you remembered all the times everyone would assume you and Steve were paired together in these situations. You suspected that he would want distance from you but to hear it out loud and under unfortunate circumstances made you want to bash your head into the wall.

“Nance, you and me to go up?” Nancy’s head snapped towards the brunette, her eyes wide, “Oh, I mean…” She shook her head.

“Are you serious?” Jonathan scoffed. You almost laughed at being situated in the middle of Steve and Jonathan as they battled it out for who could be more ‘macho’, as you and Nancy liked to call it.

“Us three,” Steve gestured at you and Dustin, “We need some space.”

Jonathan shrugged, “Fine. How about me and you? Then her and Nance?” You raised your brows, suddenly on board with the pairing options.

“I think we need some space too.” Steve shut down your ideal groups rather quickly.

“So everyone but Nancy. That’s just… It’s convenient.” Jonathan’s voice dropped as he glanced over at you staring at the floor, “I don’t get it. What are you trying to prove to her?” He jutted his thumb out in your direction.

You widened your eyes, “Me?” Steve closed his eyes and shook his head, “This has nothing to do with her.”

“How about this?” You raised your voice, hand rubbing your temple as their bickering started to give you a headache, “I’ll go alone. Three groups will be more beneficial.” 

You lifted your flashlight and went to take a step in the other direction, but Nancy’s hand tugging you on the back of your shirt sent you stumbling back and crashing into Steve’s chest.

“You’re not going alone.” Nancy said firmly, refusing to let you out of anyone's sight. 

You readjusted your footing and brushed your clothing as you leaned out of Steve’s touch, “Of course you wanted to go alone.” You heard him mutter under his breath.

Before you could respond, Nancy cut you off. “Hey, we don’t have time for this. Let’s just keep it simple, stick to the usual teams.” She shot you an apologetic look.

“Nance, please--” You groaned as Steve and Dustin offered her the same pleas, “I can’t--”

“End of discussion.” She raised her voice, her feet taking her up the stairs and avoiding the three frustrated looks directed at her. Jonathan patted you on the shoulder and whispered an apology under his breath as he brushed past you and followed Nancy, leaving Steve and Dustin to sigh in the wake.

Steve sighed and looked over at Dustin, “Awesome.” He said sarcastically. Dustin raised his brows and dragged his feet down the extensive amount of steps.

Steve turned to you and you looked up at him. You could recall the days when his eyes would soften when they met your own, a smile gracing his flushed face and hands raised to fix his hair, desperate to constantly look his best whenever you saw him.

Now those eyes felt like a void, you couldn’t decipher what he was feeling. “Just awesome.” He repeated and barged your shoulder slightly as he passed you.

You took a deep breath and rolled your shoulders, easing the tension and headache that was brewing. You reminded yourself that this was for the greater of Hawkins because if it was up to you, you would have sprinted out of the lab at the first chance than explore with your ex-best friend and the kid that hates his guts.

With each step you took, you felt the throbbing pain in your head get worse. It wasn’t unusual to get migraines with the stress you found yourself under constantly, but this one felt different. 

It felt familiar.

The pain caused you to feel lightheaded, tripping on the last step and forcing a hand out on the wall to catch your fall. You clenched your teeth together and pressed the heel of your hand against your temple.

Steve heard heavy footsteps behind him and turned around, the beam of his flashlight shining right in your face, “You alright?” He asked, voice teetering on edge of concern.

You nodded and stuck a hand out to block the light shining at you, “Yeah, I’m good.” You lied through your teeth, pushing through the ache to follow Dustin who led the pair of you.

Steve nodded slowly and retracted his flashlight, “Okay, that was too many stairs.” He joked weakly, trying to diffuse the worry that flooded his body.

Dustin, unaware of the torment you were experiencing behind him, quoted, “Treasures are always hidden in the deepest depths of the dungeon.”

“What is it, a treasure or a magic shield generator? Keep your metaphors straight, dude.” Steve said as he turned his back on you.

You sighed, “Analogy.” You whispered to yourself, correcting his statement but lacking the care to fight with him once again.

Steve and Dustin strode forward, pushing on the double doors to reveal a room designed for kids. Rainbows were painted on the floors and walls and games were scattered all over the floor.

“Did not expect to find a daycare in this hellhole.” Steve felt his heart rate pick up at the dystopian room, “That’s a perk.”

You entered the room and leaned your back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut as it felt like someone was toying with your brain, prodding at it until you cracked. You didn’t even notice begin to leave the room until his frustration boiled over.

“While I search the rest of the basement, why don’t you stay here and play with your balls?” He chucked the object back at Steve, “Perfect, yeah.” Steve clenched his jaw.

The pair bickered back and forth before Dustin left with a scowl on his face. You leaned over to watch his figure retreating and turned to Steve who hoisted himself up to sit on one of the desks.

You interrupted the silence, “So I take it you two don’t get along anymore.” You crossed your arms over your chest and pushed yourself to stand upright.

Steve scoffed, “What would you know? You haven’t been here.”

Your movement halted, “I’ve been here.” You squinted at him as he rested his elbows on his knees.

“You’ve been here,” Steve gestured to your figure, “But here,” He tapped the side of his head, tongue wedged between his teeth in frustration, “You’re somewhere else. And you have been for the last 18 months.”

Your breathing shallowed, “That’s called grief, Steve. We all go through it.” 

“But what are you grieving? That’s what I don’t get.” He snapped, eyes meeting your own as you shrunk under his hard gaze.

“Max.” Her name felt wrong on the tip of her tongue. You refused to say it for months after she was admitted into hospital, the reminder of the redhead had you wanting to hurl on the floor of the lab.

Steve let out a loud laugh, “You’re grieving someone that’s not even dead! What are the chances that Max wakes up during all of this? Pretty damn high if you ask me.” He ran his hand through his hair and watched your face screw up in sheer disgust at his words.

Steve licked his lips, “You know, I think you secretly wanted this.”

You felt your heart stop in your chest, “What?” 

You watched the brunette nod, “I think you’ve been spiralling for a while now and used this whole Max and Vecna situation as an excuse. You were barely affected during the curse and now you’ve decided to make it everyone else’s problem.” The difference is, you were affected. And Steve knew it.

Who was the one who held you as you recalled your first vision, hands shaking and kisses peppered along your hairline. The same man who basically told you that you had it easy that spring, that you’re living off the thrill of being cursed a handful of times.

You turned your back on him, “I’m not doing this right now.” You heard him shout as you pushed the double doors open, “Shutting me out once again!”

You hurried out the room, not baring to stand the sight of his face again. You feel a bile rise in the back of your throat, the noises of the dormant lab suffocate you, and the throbbing pain between your skull intensifies.

You hadn’t noticed anything was wrong until you saw a drop of red stain your sweater. Your head snapped down and tugged at the material to gain a closer look.

Your eyes widened and you lifted your hand to touch under your nose. Retracting your hand, you saw that the tips of your fingers were painted red.

“Shit.” You cursed and tugged the sleeves of your sweater over your hands, wiping the blood that streamed from your nose onto the material. 

You furrowed your brows as you racked your brain for the last time your nose decided to spontaneously bleed. It was so out of the ordinary that you couldn’t remember. 

A light behind a door caught your eye. It looked out of place, like whatever was behind it was not meant to be there. Your feet carried you towards it before your brain comprehend what was going on.

Just as you placed the palm of your hand against the door, inches away from pushing it open, you heard a loud crash from the room you were previously in.

Your mind running a million different worst case scenarios, you sprinted towards the noise. As you got closer, you heard familiar yells and curses, the sound of items cluttering to the floor made your heart pick up.

Skidding around the corner, you stumbled into the room panting. Your eyes locked onto Steve as he sat up, groaning in pain, “You know what, man? I’m done.” He slowly clambered to his feet, ignoring your worried gaze.

“I’m done!” He shouted and barged against your shoulder as you stood in the doorway, eyes flickering between a beaten Dustin on the floor and Steve who had a fresh bruise forming on his cheek.

Putting two and two together, you tugged Steve back by gripping onto his jacket, “What the fuck just happened?” You raised your voice, on the heels of Steve as he tried to shake off your hold.

“None of your business.” His voice broke as he refused to spare Dustin a second glance, hearing his voice echo down the hallways, “You dumb, fake asshole!”

You let out an exasperated sigh and swallowed your nerves, “I think it’s my business when you scare the shit out of me!” You yanked him to a stop and he looked past you, “Is that a bruise?”

Your fingers gently brushed the underside of Steve’s jaw before he slapped your hand away, “No--” “Did you get in a fight?” You furrowed your brows.

Steve placed his hands on your shoulders, “Can you stop?” His eyes locked onto the blood staining the sleeve of your sweater, furrowing his brows as he wondered when you had gotten hurt.

Through your concern, you failed to hear him, “Tell me what the hell happened--” “God! You’re so ungrateful!” Steve yelled and you flinched slightly at the tone of voice, one he had never used on you before.

You squinted up at him, “Ungrateful?” You voiced your offence as your hands dropped from tending to his recent wounds, and his own dropped off your shoulders, finding home in gripping his jeans.

Steve bit down on his bottom lip as if what was spewing out of his mouth was the filtered half, “You’re standing here and breathing just fine by yourself! But guess who isn’t?”

Your breath hitched as your mind went to Max who lay still, hooked up to anything the hospital could find to classify her condition to be a coma, “Where are you going with this?” Your voice wavered.

“I’m saying that Max would’ve been grateful.” Steve’s response was enough to sever any chance of redeeming what you had. You could barely recognise the man standing in front of you, the one so overcome with anger that he wouldn’t understand the severity of his words until moments later.

You took a deep breath, “And I’m saying that you’re being a dick.”

“You got lucky that spring and you know it.” You took a step back from him, “You’re being mean, Steve.”

Steve looked down and huffed out a laugh, “And we’ve been telling you this whole time, ‘It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have done anything.’” You felt tears prickle at your eyes, “In my opinion, I think you could’ve done more--” “Shut up!” You shouted and shoved him in the chest. “And if you hadn't left Max alone that night…”

Tears blurred your vision, “Are you saying that it should’ve been me?”

The silence should’ve been your answer. You should’ve left the second Steve didn’t immediately shut down the ludicrous statement. But your heart yearned to know the truth, to know what he had really thought about you since that night; if everything between you was simply a wrinkle in time, something that was never meant to exist but would ultimately be crushed by the harsh reality.

“Your interpretation. Not mine.” Steve mumbled.

You felt like you had been doused with cold water. It turns out Steve Harrington was the same man he was all those years ago. And to confirm your worst fears, to admit that he’d been lying to you the entire time you thought you could be falling in love with him; this was definitely the worst moment in your entire life.

You nodded weakly, a forced smile etched across your face, “And I’m the one who’s changed, right?”

Your words hit Steve like a truck, and if you disappearing out of his sight with tears cascading down your cheeks didn’t hurt enough, then the realisation of his words did.

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐘, 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍, 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 and Dustin had all found each other after. They were hunched over the book Dustin had found before he could warn Nancy to not shoot whatever force they located in the sky.

Nancy chewed on the skin around her thumb, “No sign of her?” 

Dustin shook his head after peering around a corner, “I haven’t seen her since…” His voice trailed off as he remembered his fight with Steve, regret forming in the pit of his stomach as a bruise formed on his friend’s cheek.

Steve looked like he could throw up any second. His face was pale and his hair was matted. He hadn’t seen you since he had said the words he wished he could forget, the way he had spoken to you and the way your face crumbled.

He didn’t mean any of it. Not one word.

He wishes to never relive the feeling he felt when he watched you walk away from him, and how he rounded the corner to meet Nancy and Jonathan and you were beside them.

You were alone in the lab. And it was all Steve’s fault.

His ever present guilt was cut off but a guttural scream outside the lab. Nancy rose to her feet immediately and gasped, “What was that?”

Jonathan copied her movement, “What was what?”

Silence fell over the group as they listened in, “Holly.” Nancy whispered and dropped the items in her hand, sprinting towards the door with Jonathan hot on her tail.

Dustin made a move to follow them but Steve grabbed him by the arm, “Holly. She’s out of Vecna’s reach.” His chest tightened.

Dustin furrowed his brows, “What do you mean?”

“There’s 12 kids. If Holly’s out…” Steve muttered and Dustin’s eyes widened in realisation.

“Who’s in?” Dustin’s voice wavered and watched Steve’s eyes dart around the room.

Steve knew who Vecna was targeting the second his suspicions were confirmed. He remembered the blood staining the sleeve of your sweater, the headaches that made you feel dizzy and the way you looked uncomfortable the second you found yourself in the Upside Down.

You were Vecna’s next target and Steve Harrington had no idea where you were.

LOL

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[levanswrites]

𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

pairing: steve harrington x reader word count: 12k summary: five-year-old steve harrington hates the hamptons—until he meets a barefoot girl with a bucketful of shells and becomes stevie. a coming-of-age story about first friendships, pinky promises, and falling in love, one summer at a time. warnings: 18+ mdni, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), childhood best friends to lovers, oldmoney!steve, coming-of-age, vignette storytelling, first kiss, loverboy baby steeb!, heavy angst, slow burn, canon divergence, his parents are godawful in this one, character study as always, happy ending | playlist | moodboard

Steve Harrington is 5 years old when he decides that the Hamptons are the worst place in the entire world.

He knows this because he’s been here for one whole hour and he already wants to go home.

At least, he thinks it’s been an hour. The numbers on his new watch are shiny and hard to read, and the leather strap feels too heavy on his arm. It keeps sliding down like it’s trying to escape.  

Steve kind of hopes it does.

If it slides off completely, down through the cracks in the porch and into the sandy dirt below, then maybe the ocean will take it. The ocean takes lots of things. Shells, seaweed, shiny bits of glass, baby turtles.

Maybe it could take him, too.

Maybe he could float on the blue waves all the way back home.

Not Hawkins—Hawkins is full of grown-ups who bend down too close, their eyelashes like moving spiders as they pinch his cheeks and say, Oh, Catherine, he looks just like Daniel already, doesn’t he?

No. Steve wants to go home to his room. Where all his dinosaurs live. Where his blue night-light makes everything soft and underwater-colored. Where no one tells him Smile, Stephen, or Be polite, Stephen, or For heaven’s sake, Stephen, stop fidgeting.

His new sandals hurt. Bad. The buckle is sharp and keeps poking the soft part of his ankle every time he moves. His shirt itches him everywhere—his neck, his sides, his armpits—and no amount of wriggling seems to help.

He tugs at the collar, trying to make it stop.

His mom’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“Stephen, sweetheart, keep still.”

He tries. He really, really does.

But all around him, the grown-ups are being very loud. They stand in little circles, laughing these big, sharp HA-HA-HA laughs that poke straight into his ears. Every time his dad says something, it’s like someone presses a button and they all explode at once.

Someone tells his mom how tall Steve’s getting. Someone else winks at his dad and keeps saying the word “Princeton,” which Steve thinks might be a kind of car, but it makes his dad laugh loudly and look at Steve with a funny smile.

Another woman bends down and tells him he’s going to “break so many hearts one day.”

Steve frowns.

Why would he do that?

He likes hearts.

Hearts are for loving, not hurting.

He looks past the grown-ups—past the chairs and tables and the flowers that smell too strong—toward the tiny slice of ocean peeking between the dunes. Blue and shiny and very, very far away.

He wants it.

Wants to touch the sand with his bare feet. Wants water he’s allowed to splash in.  

Wants a summer that belongs to him instead of everyone else.

His mom squeezes his shoulder again. “Posture, Stephen. Stand up straight.”

He thinks maybe that’s his name now: Posture Stephen.

“I am standing straight,” he mutters.

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.”

He wants to run.

Run until the HA-HA-HA sounds disappear. Run until nobody’s watching him. Run until he hits the water.

So when his mom gets called over by someone waving a fancy glass, and his dad tells another joke that makes everyone explode-laugh again—

Steve sneaks away.

He’s fast and light, like a ninja.

He slips between chairs, tiptoes down the wooden steps, and as soon as the dunes come into view, he runs.

The sand squishes under his feet, and Steve sighs so big his whole chest feels lighter. He breathes in deep, holding as much salty air as his lungs can fit.

The beach is huge. Bigger than his school playground. Bigger than Hawkins, even. Tall grasses wave on the dunes like they’re saying hello, and beyond them is nothing but water—blue and green and silver, stretching all the way to forever.  

The ocean roars, but it’s a good sound. A soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that fills his ears without hurting them.

On his way toward the water, he finds a stick.

A really good stick. Long and a little pointy on one end.

It could be a cool pirate sword. He’s gonna use it to make the biggest hole in the world.

He plops down, criss-cross-applesauce, and starts digging. Sand sticks to his shorts, but that’s okay. He can say he tripped later.

He stabs the stick into the ground and drags it out.

The sand slides back in.

He digs again.

Slides back in again.

He huffs and tosses the stick away.

“This is dumb,” he mutters. “You’re dumb.” He means the hole. And the stick. And the sandals. And maybe the whole world.

He’s just about to flop onto his back and stare at the sky, because that usually gets someone to notice him—

When a shadow falls over his hole.

“What’re you doing?”   

Steve looks up.

It’s a girl. About his age.

You stand there, barefoot, hair wild like you ran through ten windstorms. Sand is smudged on your cheek like face paint. He stares at your toes curling happily in the sand and feels a sharp pinch of jealousy.

You drop a bright plastic bucket beside him. It’s full of shells and rocks and something that moves.

A crab lifts its tiny claws and clicks at him.

Steve jerks back. You don’t.

Instead, you plant your hands on your hips and squint down at him like you’ve known him forever.

“You’re not diggin’ right.” you announce.

He blinks. “…I’m not?”

“Nope.” You point at the hole with your whole arm. “Sand’s too dry. It just falls in. You gotta use wet sand.”

“Oh.” He feels silly for not knowing that. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do.” You plop down beside him. Your knees are dirty, covered in scratches and tiny dots from the sand, but you don’t seem to care. “Wanna see how?”

Nobody ever asks him that.

Nobody ever asks him if he wants to see something.

He nods fast. “Yeah.”

You grin and grab his hand, yanking him up so quickly he stumbles.

“I-I’m Steve,” he blurts as he gets dragged toward the ocean, because he knows he’s supposed to introduce himself to new people.

You tell him your name proudly. Then you tilt your head, thinking.

“Can I call you Stevie?”

“Stevie?”

“Yeah! My mom’s favorite singer’s named Stevie.”

Steve thinks about it.

Nobody’s ever given him a nickname before.

It feels special. Like a secret.

“Okay,” he nods, smiling.

You beam and tug him toward the water. “C’mon, Stevie!”

Stevie.

He likes it.

Loves it.

It feels like the sun just turned on inside his chest.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 6 years old when summers suddenly mean everything.

The Hamptons stop being itchy shirts and sharp laughs that hurt his ears.

They become you.

Summer means you. It means your laugh, your bucket full of strange treasures, your hair decorated with seashells “because it looks cool.” It means your brave, bossy voice telling him what to do, but always in a fun way.  

Every month of the school year, Steve waits.

And every night before bed, he lines his stuffed dinosaurs up by his pillow and tells them stories about the beach. About the girl with the crab bucket and the sand-matted hair the wind couldn’t catch. About how you call him Stevie because it’s the name of your mom’s favorite singer. About how you don’t care when he wiggles, or gets dirty, or says some words wrong.

When his mom asks if he’s excited for the Hamptons, he just shrugs. “I guess.”

But inside, his chest feels all tight and fizzy, like a soda can he’s not supposed to open yet: Coca-Cola, his favorite.

The whole flight to New York, Steve squints at the numbers on his watch, trying to decide if the big hand is halfway or not. He’s still not very good at telling the time, but he knows enough to know the flight feels like forever.

He ends up staring out the little oval window instead, at clouds that look like giant dinosaur eggs. He wonders if you’d think so, too. He’ll ask you when he sees you.

If he sees you.

What if you aren’t there this year? What if you forgot him?

The thought makes his stomach feel all wiggly and twisty. He doesn’t like it.

He hopes you’re there. He hopes you didn’t forget him.

The moment the car turns onto the long, winding road toward the summer house, Steve scoots forward as far as the belt lets him, pressing his face to the window. When he sees the ocean shining in the distance like a giant blue secret, his chest gets so tight he can hardly breathe.

He can’t wait. He can’t.

He barely waits for the car to stop.

“Stephen! Shoes! Your shoes are going to—oh, for heaven’s sake…”

He doesn’t listen. He takes the steps two at a time, sandals smacking hard against the wood.

He’s taller now. A whole two inches and a half, thank you very much.

He’s faster, too. Knows he is. He’s been practicing during recess, racing Tommy H. behind the swings.

He leaps off the last step and skids into the sand—

“STEVIE!”

He spins around so fast the world blurs.

You’re barreling toward him at top speed. Sand spraying behind you, hair flying everywhere. Your bucket bangs against your knee as you run, rattling and clanking and sounding even fuller than last year.

Steve’s face splits into the biggest grin he’s ever had.

You crash into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, and the force of it nearly knocks him onto his back.

“HI! Stevie, Stevie—you gotta see this shell I found! Wait, hang on—”

You pull back just far enough to dig frantically through your bucket, dumping half of it into the sand. Rocks tumble out. Then a string of green, slimy seaweed. You grab something big and lumpy and shove it up toward his face.

“See?”  

Steve blinks.

The shell is huge, bigger than his whole hand. Pale pink and creamy white, spiraled tight at one end and opening wide at the other. The outside is dotted with rounded little spikes that feel rough when he traces his fingers over them, but the inside is smooth and shiny.

“That’s really cool,” he says, because everything you do is cool. “It kind of looks like…” He squints hard, turns it sideways. “…a horn?”

Your eyes light up. “Yeah! Like a unicorn.”

He smiles. “Or a dinosaur.” 

“That’s better,” you nod seriously. “Okay now listen!”

Before he can ask what you mean, you press the wide end right against his ear. It’s cold and sandy against his cheek.

“…What’s it do?”

“Just listen.”

He holds very still, not sure what he’s supposed to be listening for.

And then—

Whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.

His eyes go huge.

“Whoa,” he breathes.

“Cool, right?”

“It’s loud.”

“That’s the ocean.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s stuck in there.”

You drop the shell into his hands and curl his fingers around it. “Keep it.”

He frowns. “But… you found it.”

“It’s okay.” You shrug like it’s obvious. “I’ll find another one. The beach has, like, a million.”

He looks down at the shell again, then back at you. His chest feels funny, all warm and full. It feels good. Really good.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, squinting out toward the water. “Wanna see something even cooler?”

Of course he does.

⚓︎

You drag him everywhere.

To tide pools where little fish zip and hide under wet rocks and the seaweed shimmers in the water. Look, look, a crab!

To a secret hideout between the dunes where the grass grows taller than your heads. This way, Stevie!

To the treasure spot, because every beach has one if you know how to look. You draw an X in the sand with a stick and make a crooked map with squiggly lines and arrows. Quick, Stevie, dig! We have to find the gold before the sea monsters come!

You show him your jar full of hopping sand bugs. One brushes his thumb and he squeaks.

You laugh. He stands up straighter and pretends he wasn’t scared.

You even show him your Very Important rock collection. which is a big deal because you don’t show anyone your rocks—not even your cousins, who are “mean poop-heads who don’t appreciate cool stuff.”

Later, you’re sitting in the sand, sorting shells by color—white pile, pink pile, stripey pile—when you tell him you’re flying back to California when the summer’s over.

“Cal-ee-for-nee-yah,” you say proudly.

Steve blinks. “Why?”

“That’s where my house is.” You shrug. “I stay here with my aunt in the summer.”

“Oh.” He digs his toe into the sand. “So… you’re goin’ away?”

“Just for school.” You glance at him. “I’ll come back. I’ll always come back.”

He looks at you fast, careful, like maybe it’s a trick. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When?”

“Next summer.”

He thinks about that. A whole year sounds really long, but summers always come back. They have to.

“You promise?”

“Promise,” you nod, sticking out your pinky.

He hooks his around yours immediately, serious as anything. Pinky promises are the strongest kind. Everybody knows that.

“Okay,” he says, finally breathing again. Then his forehead scrunches.

“Where’s… um…” He sticks his tongue out, trying to remember how you said it. “Cal… Cal-uh-for-nee… Cal-uh-for-na?” He shakes his head, mad that he can’t say it right.

You smile. “Yeah! It’s super, super far. You gotta take two planes.”

“Oh.” He nods slowly. Two planes sounds like forever.

You tell him it’s hotter there. That the trees are huge and tall, with giant leaves like green fireworks stuck in the sky.

You tell him the beaches there are bigger. Way bigger.

Steve looks out at the miles of Hamptons shoreline and frowns. “How?”

“They just are,” you insist, tossing a shell onto the striped pile. “And people surf there.”

“What’s that?”

You squint up at the sky. “It’s like… flying. But on water. They stand on boards and go really, really fast.”

Steve blinks, tries to imagine it.  

Flying… but on water.

He knows you can’t fly. Birds can. Planes can. People can’t.

And you definitely can’t stand on water. He tried once in the bathtub. You just sink.

His mouth twists.

“That’s not real,” he says, sure of it.

You scrunch your nose, lip jutting out. “It is too!”  

You shove him—not hard, just enough that he flops backward into the sand with a surprised oof.

For half a second, his stomach drops. Maybe he did something wrong.

He stares up at you, eyes wide, waiting for your face to go tight like grown-ups’ faces when he messes up.

But you’re laughing.

Bright and easy, like nothing’s wrong at all.

Sand sprays as you jump up and spin away, yelling over your shoulder, “Race you to that big rock!”

And you’re gone before he can say wait up.

The tight feeling in his chest disappears.

He scrambles up, laughing too, chasing after you with everything he’s got. Legs burning, sandals slipping, but he doesn’t care.  

It’s perfect.

It’s the best day of his whole life.

Until you fall.

It happens so fast.

One second you’re running ahead of him, laughing, hair flying everywhere.

The next, you stumble over a hard patch in the sand and go down hard.

“Ow!”

Steve skids to a stop so fast he almost falls too. His heart leaps into his throat.

He drops beside you right away. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Oh no, oh no—” His eyes dart all over you, scared and frantic. There’s a smear of red mixed with the sand on your knee. His breath catches.

“Your... your knee,” he whispers.

You sniffle, lip wobbling. “H-hurts.”

It’s the worst word he’s ever heard.

“It’s okay,” he says fast, even though his hands are shaking. He reaches for your arm, then stops, afraid he’ll make it worse if he touches you wrong. “It’s okay. I can fix it. I know how.”

You look up at him, eyes shiny. “…You do?”

He nods hard. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t really know. But his mom fixed his knee once after he fell off his bike. He remembers the cold wipe. The sting. The band-aid after.

“I’m gonna get the band-aid box,” he blurts, pointing up at the house. “I’ll be super fast. I promise.”

“O-okay.”

Before he runs, he leans in and gives you a quick, careful hug around your shoulders, making sure not to touch your knee. It always makes him feel better when you hug him.

“I’ll be fast,” he promises again. “Really fast.”

And then he sprints.

He sprints like he’s never sprinted in his life.

Across the beach, up the steps, through the house, ignoring the sharp call of “Stephen! Shoes!” as he dives into the bathroom.

He drops to his knees and yanks open the cabinet under the sink. He grabs the entire first aid kit, almost the size of his head, and runs back with it rattling in his arms.

You’re still there when he gets back, sitting exactly where he left you.

“I got it!” he pants.

He flips the kit open, hands clumsy, trying to remember how his mom did it. He finds a wipe, tears it open, and gently presses it to your knee—

You hiss and pull back.   

“Sorry!” His eyes go wide. “Sorry, sorry! I’ll do it softer.”

He leans down and blows carefully on your knee.

“Better?”

“…Yeah,” you sniff. “A little.”

He nods, relieved. He wipes as fast and gentle as he can, tongue poking out while he concentrates. Then he grabs a band-aid, peeling it open with his teeth because his fingers won’t work right. He sticks it on crooked, pressing the edges down with both thumbs.

“There,” he breathes, nodding to himself. “All done.”

When he looks up, your eyes are huge and your mouth is open like you just saw a unicorn.

“Hey, are you oka—oof!”

All the air is knocked out of him when you lunge forward, both arms wrapping tight around his neck.

A warm, squishy, full-body hug.

“You’re the nicest boy ever,” you mumble into his shoulder.

Steve freezes.

His ears go hot. His whole chest feels too full, like it might pop.

No one’s ever said that to him before.

“Oh... okay,” he whispers, because he can’t think of any other words.

He hugs you back, being careful and gentle.

And inside him, something huge and glowing starts to form.

Something he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he knows he will carry it with him forever.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 10 years old when he realizes he’ll never forget you.

It’s the end-of-the-summer fireworks festival.

He sprints down the familiar sandy path, sneakers thudding, two glass bottles of Coca-Cola clinking together in his hand. A crinkly bag of potato chips is tucked tight under his arm—salt and vinegar, your favorite, even though they make your mouth pucker and your nose wrinkle.

His heart thumps in that way it always does during the very last week of summer, when everything fun is happening all at once—and also ending.

He knows you’re there, waiting for him.

You always are.

Your spot is exactly where it’s been for five summers now: a small dip between two grassy dunes, hidden from the rest of the beach. The sand curves around it like arms, blocking the wind and the noise from the crowd.

You’re sitting on your blanket, legs crossed, tongue poking out as you carefully tie pieces of sea grass together into a bracelet.

When you see him, your whole face lights up.

“Stevie! You got it!”

“’Course I did,” he grins, holding up the chips. “My mom wouldn’t stop talking to Mrs. Aldridge about… I dunno. Hair stuff? It took forever.”

“That’s ’cause grown-ups love being boring,” you say, scooting over. “Sit, sit! The first one’s gonna happen any second.”

He flops down beside you, and you shuffle closer until your shoulder presses against his.

Closer than last year, he thinks.

Your hand brushes his knee when you reach for the snacks. Steve pretends he doesn’t notice, but he notices like crazy.

The first firework explodes with a loud crack, red sparks bursting across the sky.

You gasp, sharp and happy, and grab his hand without thinking.

Your fingers slide between his.

Steve looks down, startled.

Your palm is warm, a little sweaty. His own hand is rough in spots, scraped from climbing the rope at recess back home and picking at scabs he shouldn’t. Your thumb rests right against it.

You don’t let go.

He definitely does not let go.

“Whoa,” you whisper as the sparks fade. “Did you see that? It looked like a flower.”

“Yeah,” Steve says.

But he’s not looking at the sky at all.

The fireworks flash over your face, turning your eyes all sorts of bright, pretty colors: blue, then gold, then pink. Your nose scrunches when one pops extra bright. Every time a big one crackles, you squeeze his hand tighter.

So he squeezes back.

Carefully at first. Then a little braver.

Green fireworks shoot out like tree branches, spiraling high into the dark, but he only really notices because they shine in your eyes.

You’re brighter.

You’re always brighter.

When the sky goes dark for a second and everything is quiet, you turn to him.

“Hey, Stevie?” you whisper.

“Ye-ah?” His voice cracks halfway through. That’s been happening a lot lately. He clears his throat fast and hopes you didn’t hear it.

You smile at him.

“You’re my best friend.”

His stomach flips, like that time he went on the biggest roller coaster at Indiana Beach and thought he might fly right out of his seat.

He sits up a little straighter, squeezing your hand.

“You’re mine too,” he blurts. “Like—like the most. Outta everyone. In the whole world.”

Your face breaks into the biggest smile yet, and before he can think about it, you lean in and wrap your arms around his neck.

A hug.

It feels familiar. But also different.

Bigger. Like it means more than it used to, even if he doesn’t know why.

He hugs you back right away, pressing his nose into your hair. You smell like sunscreen and grape popsicles and the ocean.

“You’re the best, Stevie,” you whisper into his shoulder. “The best ever.”

That fluttery feeling in his stomach comes back, stronger this time. He swallows, nods even though you can’t see it.

“You too,” he says quietly, squeezing you just a little tighter.

Then, just as you pull back, you press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Barely there.

But it feels like something exploding inside his chest.

His face goes burning hot. He’s really glad it’s dark, because he’s pretty sure his cheeks are as red as the fireworks.

Up above, the finale roars to life: fountains of silver streaking upward, bursting into brilliant gold that lights up the entire beach.

You turn back to watch like nothing happened, scooting closer until your head tips and rests against his shoulder.

Steve freezes.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

When he finally has to, he does it slowly, careful not to move an inch. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your breath is warm against his neck when you let out a small, sleepy sigh.

The fireworks crash and boom overhead, sparkling like giant flowers.

Steve stares at the sky, heart pounding, feeling something change inside him.

Something big.

It’s the first time he understands something he’s never felt before.

Steve Harrington is ten years old when he falls in love with his best friend in the whole world.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 12 years old when everything gets... weird.

He’s a lot taller now, second tallest out of the boys his class. He’s faster, stronger. His shoulders are broader, his arms a little longer than he expects when he stretches them out. His hair brushes the tops of his ears, and he kind of likes it that way, even though his mom keeps telling him it’s time for a trim.

And his voice... his voice keeps doing that awful, traitorous squeak. Especially when he’s around you.

But none of that really matters.

Because you’re here.

You’re back.

And you’re different, too.

Not in a big, obvious way. You still run like you’ve got rocket boosters strapped to your ankles. You still crouch by tide pools and whisper to crabs like they’re old friends. You still call him Stevie in the exact same way.

But now...

Now you lean on him sometimes when you sit together. You don’t move away when your knees touch. Now your eyes flick to his mouth when he’s talking, and Steve doesn’t really know what that means, but he knows it means something.

The wind is steady and warm today, bending the dune grass in lazy waves. The two of you sit cross-legged in your secret spot, the same hidden hollow you’ve shared since you were five. Piles of shells and weird rocks you swear might be fossils are scattered between you.

You hand him a perfectly round one with swirls. “This one looks like Neptune,” you declare.  

Steve nods, even though the only thing he knows about Neptune is that it's blue.

He’s not looking at the rock, anyway.

You’re telling him a story about a crab you swear was as big as a dog. You stretch your arms out to demonstrate the size, ridiculously wide.

“Stevie, I swear,” you insist. “Its claws were this big. Could’ve snipped your big toe off.”

Steve nods along, trying to focus on the part where he should laugh.  

But he can’t stop staring.

At the color of your eyes in the sunlight. At the way the breeze lifts strands of your hair and drops them back against your cheek. At the curve of your mouth when you get excited.

He feels weird all the time now. Fluttery and unsteady, like the moment at the top of a roller coaster right before it drops. It happens every time he looks at you, or thinks about you, which is basically always.

He’s thinking about how pretty the sun looks reflecting off your skin, how it catches the little beads of water on your cheek and makes them glint like tiny stars, when suddenly—

You go quiet.

Really quiet.

Steve’s stomach tightens instantly.

You’re never quiet unless you’re asleep or thinking about pulling a prank on him. He stiffens, glancing around for whatever bug or crab you might’ve hidden.

There’s nothing.

You’re just… looking at him.

“Hey, Stevie?” you say softly.

His throat makes a weird clicking noise. “Yeah?”

You scoot closer. Your knee presses against his leg and doesn’t move away.

Your voice drops to a whisper. “I’m gonna do something. Don’t freak out.”

He’s already freaking out. He doesn’t think he’s ever freaked out this much in his entire life.

“O-okay,” he manages.

You nod once, take a tiny breath, lean forward—

And you kiss him.

Right on the mouth.

His first kiss.

Your lips are soft and warm. They press against his for just a second, shorter than a blink, gone before he can react.

You pull back, eyes still closed. Steve is frozen, eyes wide open, mouth puckered.

Your nose crinkles when you open your eyes and see him.

“Stevie,” you giggle. “Close your mouth!”

He snaps it shut so fast his teeth click together.

You completely lose it, laughing as you fall sideways into the sand.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “You looked like a fish!”

He groans, mortified, covering his face with both hands as he flops down next to you. “Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry!” you say, laughing harder. “I’m not—it’s just—”

He peeks through his fingers, smiling despite himself. He loves the sound of your laugh, even when it’s at his expense.

When your giggles finally soften, you scoot closer on your back until you’re nose to nose, lined up from shoulder to ankle.

Steve turns his head to look at you.

Up close, he can see the little grains of sand stuck to your forehead, the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. His face burns.

“Is…” His voice cracks again, and he swallows. “Is it okay if we… do that again?

Your smile is huge and immediate. “Yeah. I wanna.”

This time, he leans in first.

And this time, he’s ready.

He closes his eyes. Keeps his lips together. Moves slow and careful. His nose bumps your cheek, squishing awkwardly from the angle, and you break into giggles again, turning the kiss wobbly and messy.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling the exact same way.

“Oh my god, your face is so red.”

“It’s—it’s because it’s hot out,” he stammers.

“Nope. It’s you.”

You reach up and ruffle his hair, messing it up completely.  

“Hey!” he sputters, batting at your hand.

You climb halfway on top of him, not really tackling, just laughing, squirming, wrestling in that loose, joyful way where nobody’s trying to win, and he'd let you anyway.

You’re both out of breath by the time you flop back onto the sand, laughing so hard it hurts.

Steve throws an arm over his face, smiling wide, everything dizzy and bright.

The wind brushes over him. The sun hums overhead.

After a while, you stretch your pinky toward him.

He feels it tap against his hand and hooks it without even looking.

“Promise we’ll hang out every summer,” you say.

“That’s easy,” he answers immediately. “Promise.”

Then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, suddenly serious.

“Actually, next time, I’m gonna bring something.”

Your eyes go bright. “Like what?”

“It’s a secret.”

You shove him lightly. “What? Tell me!”

“Nope.” He flops back onto the sand, grinning. “You gotta wait.”

You groan dramatically at the sky, pinky still tangled in his. 

“I hate you.”

He closes his eyes, smiles at the sun.

“No you don’t.”

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 13 years old when his world stops for the first time.

It happens on a warm June morning, with sunlight slanting through tall windows and the smell of pancakes drifting through the house.

He starts the day happy.

He hums as he packs, can’t help it. He doesn’t even care that his room’s a disaster: swimsuits tossed over the chair, T-shirts half-folded, socks everywhere.

On his desk sits a small shoe box.

He pauses in front of it.

Inside are the things you’ve given him over the years. Precious, timeless treasures.

The spiral shell shaped like a dinosaur horn. The seaweed bracelet, brittle now, faded pale from time. The smooth blue stone you said looked like Neptune.  

He picks up each thing carefully, touches it, turns it over in his hand.  Then he puts them back exactly how they were and closes the lid.

The box goes into the bottom drawer, where it’s safe.

Then he picks up his gift.

It’s clumsy. Strung together with twine, wrapped messily in torn comic-book pages because he couldn’t find real wrapping paper. The corners are taped crooked, the edges uneven. He’s worked on it for years, adding to it bit by bit every summer, telling himself next year every time.

But this year feels different.

This year, he thinks he can give them to you.

He’s even written his address on the top one—carefully, in his neatest handwriting—so maybe you could write to him in California. You’re smart. You’d know how.

He smooths the edges with nervous fingers.

He’s practiced what he’ll say all week.

Hey, these are for you. Too boring.

You can have these, or whatever. Too nothing.

You mean everything to me. Too much. Way too much.

He settles on a smile instead.

You always say he has a nice one, that he smiles with his whole face, that his eyes squish up “like a happy chipmunk.”

No one else ever says things like that to him. Not the way you do.

He’s halfway through folding a beach towel when his mom’s voice floats up the stairs.

“Stephen? Breakfast.”

“Coming!” he calls, already jogging down barefoot, taking the steps two at a time, giddy.

His mom is in the kitchen, stirring her coffee neatly. His dad sits at the table with the newspaper spread wide.

“Hey, Mom,” Steve says, breathless. “Have you seen my hat? The one with the red stripe? I can’t find it.”  

She doesn’t look up.

“Stephen,” she says evenly, “we aren’t going to the Hamptons this summer.”

The world stops.

“...Huh?”

She sets her spoon down. “We’ve decided to do Europe instead.”

For one second, he thinks it’s a joke. He lets out a short, confused laugh and looks at his dad.

His throat goes tight when nobody smiles.

“What?” Steve croaks.

“You’re thirteen now, Stephen,” his dad says, turning the page. “It’s time you saw culture. Real culture.”

“But...” Steve shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “But we always go to the Hamptons.”

“This will be good for you,” his mom says, smiling lightly. “Europe will be lovely.”

Lovely.

Like the sound of your laugh.

Like the colors of fireworks in your eyes.

Like the warmth of your hug when you called him the nicest boy ever.

“N-no, but—” His voice cracks. “But I have a friend.”

“You’ll make new ones.”

“You don’t understand,” he says, words tripping over each other, panic rising fast. “I have to—I promised—I told her I’d—”

His dad sighs, newspaper crinkling. “Stop whining.”

Steve flinches.

“I’m not whining,” he whispers.

His mom steps closer and smooths his hair back like he’s still little. “You’ll love Europe, darling. Now eat your breakfast. You can finish packing after.”  

Something hot and awful swells in his chest.

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to throw the coffee pot at the wall and watch it shatter.

Instead, he tries again.

“Please,” he begs, voice breaking completely now. “Please, Mom. We have to go. She’ll be waiting. I told her I’d come back. Just this year. Please.”

He promises to be good. That he won’t run off to the beach without permission. That he won’t complain during parties. He swears he’ll do more chores, stop arguing, get better grades. He’ll be perfect. He’ll be anything.

Anything.

“Stephen,” his father snaps, voice like a slammed door. “Drop it.”

Something inside Steve drops with it.

Falls.

Cracks.

Shatters.

⚓︎

He runs upstairs, slams his door and locks it. Drags his dresser in front of it with shaking arms. Slides down onto the carpet, breaths coming in sharp, broken pieces.

He doesn’t come out the rest of the day.

That night, he sleeps with your shell clutched in his hand, pressed tight against his ear. The ocean hums inside it. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s there—pretend you’re tugging his hand, pulling him toward the water.

Stevie, look!

He cries until his pillow is soaked.

⚓︎

The Hamptons house stays closed all summer; curtains drawn, doors locked, a whole season going on without him.

On the way to the airport, Steve presses his cheek to the car window and watches the world blur past.

He doesn’t know how to send a letter. He doesn’t know where in California you live.  

He can’t call. Can’t write. Can’t find you.

There is no treasure map back.  

Just sandcastles washed away by tides and a pinky promise he couldn’t keep.

He pictures you standing in the dunes, bucket in hand, looking over your shoulder.

Waiting.

Maybe you’re mad.

Maybe you’re worried.

Maybe you’re thinking he forgot you.

That thought hurts so badly he has to bite down on his knuckle to keep quiet.

⚓︎

In hotel rooms across Europe, Steve lies awake at night, staring at unfamiliar ceilings.

He tries not to cry.

Some nights, he fails.

But he does it silently, face shoved into a pillow, because boys his age aren’t supposed to do that anymore.

In Florence, he stares at the Arno River and thinks of the ocean. Wonders if you’re there right now, toes buried in the sand, waiting for him to complain that the water’s cold just so you can grab his wrist and drag him in, laughing.

In Paris, he watches fireworks bloom over the Eiffel Tower and feels sick.

Red, gold, and blue explodes across the sky, but all he can see is your eyes. Your hand laced through his, your head heavy and warm on his shoulder.

You’re my best friend.

He cries himself to sleep on expensive hotel sheets, muffling his sobs into Egyptian cotton until it’s dark with salt.

In dreams, he is flying.

The wide blue waters of California stretching endlessly below him, carrying him closer to you.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 15 years old when he learns how to disappear.

The hallways are packed tight with shouting and shrill laughter. Boys slam into each other on purpose. Everyone pretends they’re bigger, tougher, cooler than they were three months ago.

So Steve pretends, too.

He discovers the power of hairspray, learns how to make his hair work for him.

By October, everybody has an opinion about him. Mostly girls.

“Oh my god, Steve Harrington is so cute.” “Right? He looks taller than last year.” “Did you see his hair? Total dream.”

He smiles. He flirts. He jokes. He learns to be charming the way his father is at dinner parties—making people laugh, making them lean in close.

It works.

High school is a costume. And Steve Harrington wears it well.

⚓︎

One afternoon in P.E., Tommy Hagan decides Steve is “my best bud, actually.”

It happens after the 100-meter sprint. Steve wins without really trying, legs strong and fast from years of racing barefoot across sand dunes.

Tommy slaps him on the back hard enough to knock the air out of him.

“Harrington! Jesus, dude, you move.”

Steve grins, even though his shoulder stings.

Harrington. Not Stevie.

Tommy hooks an arm around his neck like they’ve been friends for years. Carol Perkins tells him she likes his hair.  

And for the first time since losing you, Steve feels something close to relief.

He’s not alone.

⚓︎

Sophomore year, someone calls him King Steve for the first time.

He laughs, because it sounds stupid.

But the name sticks, like gum on a shoe.

He’s captain of the swim team now. Sixteen years old and he’s already broken the state record for the 200-yard freestyle. His body does what he tells it to, and he likes that. Likes the rush of being good at something, the roar of the crowd every time he touches the wall first.

His parents are almost never home anymore. No more summer trips to Europe, or anywhere. They leave him with a credit card and a spotless house.

Steve makes it his personal mission to ruin that.

He throws the loudest, wildest parties he can, every chance he gets. Music shaking the walls. People jumping on furniture, spilling drinks, diving into the pool with all their clothes on.

Everyone loves the parties.

Everyone loves King Steve.

⚓︎

Steve has a drawer that no one opens.

Not his parents. Not the housekeeper. Not even him, most days.

The wood sticks when it’s pulled, swollen from years of humidity and neglect.

Inside it is a shoe box.

Shells. Rocks. A bracelet that doesn’t fit anymore.

Remains of summers he pretends not to remember.

Most nights, he leaves it alone.

But sometimes—when the house feels too big, when everyone’s gone home and the silence presses in—he opens the drawer.

Lifts the lid.

He doesn’t touch anything.

Just looks.

He wonders if you remember him.

If you still call him Stevie in your head.

If you ever think of those summers: the dunes, the fireworks, the scrape on your knee.

Then he closes the box. Slides it back into the dark.

In the morning, he is Harrington once again.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 18 years old when the letter finally arrives.

It sits on his desk for three days, unopened.

The envelope is thick, cream-colored and heavy. He knows what it says. He’s known since the phone call, since his coach clapped him on the shoulder and grinned, since the guidance counselor told him he should be so proud of himself.

He isn’t sure if he is.

On the fourth day, he carries it downstairs.

His father takes the packet without ceremony, skims the first page, and scoffs.

“California,” he says flatly.

Steve nods, throat tight. “They’ve got a really strong swim program.”

His father exhales through his nose and sets the packet down like it might stain the table.

“A public university. On the other side of the country.”

“It’s—” Steve clears his throat. “They offered me a scholarship.”

The look he gets says more than words ever could.

“Stephen,” his father says, tone perfectly level, “state schools are for kids who don’t have better options. California is lazy, full of idlers. It’s not the kind of place where you get serious about your future.”

Steve feels a familiar pressure building up in his chest, hand around his ribs, that same old relentless squeeze.

“Real academics are here, on the East Coast," his father continues. “Institutions with standards. History. You don’t see men running this country who went to beach schools.”

“Dad,” Steve says quietly. “I worked for this. I earned it.”

His father doesn’t even look up. “You were recruited. Because you can swim.”

Steve’s fingers curl around the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening beneath the table.

“I’m not paying for you to run off to California,” his father says, voice precise, final. “Just so you can throw parties and chase girls and waste your life on nonsense.”

The room shrinks.

For a moment, Steve is thirteen again.

Bare feet on cold tile, begging for one last summer.

Promising he’ll behave. Promising he’ll try harder. Promising he’ll be whatever they want him to be.

He really thought this time would be different. Thought being older meant they’d finally listen.

Something quiet settles inside him.

“Fine,” he says, pushing his chair back. “I’ll pay for it myself.”

His father lets out a short laugh. “With what money?”

Steve picks up the envelope. Feels its weight.

Possibility, distance, risk.

Hope.

“I’ll figure it out.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He goes upstairs and starts packing that night.

⚓︎

Numbers race furiously through his mind as he clears his room.

The scholarship covers some of the tuition, but not housing. Not books. Not fees.

He’ll start lifeguarding again in the summers. Take early morning shifts during the year, work weekends. Take out loans under his own name.

It won’t be easy.

But it will be his.

⚓︎

He loads his entire world into the BMW.

It doesn’t take long.

For someone who’s grown up with so much, there isn’t much that’s actually his.

Clothes. Swim trophies. His alarm clock. A framed photo from a family vacation he’s too young to remember: his parents smiling, arms around each other. He hesitates, then slides it into a box face-down.

The last thing he opens is the drawer.

It sticks, like it always does.

Inside is the shoe box.

And beneath it, the gift he never got to give you. Built slowly, carefully, over summers that feel like they happened to someone else now.

He tucks them both into his duffel bag, wedged between folded clothes so they won’t shift.

His father doesn’t come outside.

His mother stands at the edge of the driveway, watching him pack the car in silence. When he’s finished, she steps forward and smooths his collar the way she used to when he was little.

Then she presses a folded envelope into his hand.

It’s heavy.

He doesn’t open it. Just nods, gives her the best smile he can manage.

Closes the trunk.

Gets behind the wheel.

Looks west.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 20 years old when his world stops for a second time.

He likes California.

The weather, the people, the food. He likes the way the air always smells like the ocean here, the way winter barely exists. He never liked the cold anyway.

College is different in ways he didn’t know to expect. He’s found classes that actually interest him, professors who ask questions and wait for real answers.

He has friends now who say they’ll see him tomorrow and mean it. Who sit on the floor with him at two in the morning talking about nothing and everything: music, stupid theories, what they want to do after graduation, whether anyone really knows who they are yet.

He still gets tired sometimes.

Tired of himself. Tired of that old, hollow echo that never fully went away. But that weight isn’t constant anymore. It shifts. Recedes. It loosens its grip when he’s laughing with his roommates, tossing a beach ball across the sand, swimming lap after lap until his muscles burn and his mind goes quiet.    

The house is packed tonight.

Last party of the school year. Spilled soda, cheap perfume, summer sweat and warm beer. Music thunders through the walls. Bodies press together, shouting and laughing over the noise.

An older teammate claps him on the back. “Harrington! Hell of a party, man.”

Steve smiles, nods, laughs along.

Can’t shake off that feeling, still. That faint sense of displacement that hums under everything.  

He drifts through the crowd, eyes unfocused, letting motion and color wash over him. Someone nearly spills a drink on his shoes. Someone dances too close. It all registers. None of it sticks.

Then, he hears it.

A laugh.

Clear. Bright. A recognition that tightens his chest before his brain can catch up.

Steve turns slowly, frowning, not sure why his body is moving toward the sound.

Near the doorway, head tipped back in laughter, hair catching the light—

There’s a girl.

Not quite a stranger. Not quite someone he knows.

Familiar in the way a dream is: sharp in feeling, slippery in detail. Memories flicker past him, too fast to grab—the curve of a smile, the tilt of a head—dissolving like sand through his fingers.

He stares without meaning to.

You turn.

Your eyes find his.

Your drink freezes halfway to your lips. Confusion flickers across your face, soft and fleeting.

Then recognition.

Disbelief.

“...Stevie?”

Something in his chest detonates.

The hollow feeling he’s been carrying shatters into a thousand fragments of warmth and longing he didn’t know he’d been saving.

You step closer, eyes wide, face lit with a smile he hasn’t seen in years but never truly forgot.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, half-laughing. “It’s you.”

Steve can’t speak.

His throat closes. The world narrows.

He’s thirteen again, standing barefoot on cold tile, begging for a summer that never came.

He’s ten, sunburned and breathless, watching fireworks bloom in your eyes.

He’s six, running barefoot toward the sound of your laughter, sand sticking to his ankles.

He’s five, staring up at a girl with a bucketful of stolen seashells, telling him he’s digging wrong.

He’s a lonely kid on the beach, carving crooked shapes into the sand, waiting for someone to come find him.

And you did.

You always did.

The cup slips from his hand. Beer splashes across the floor, unnoticed.

He whispers your name.

A decade of wanting, released in one sound.

⚓︎

“...Hi.”

“...Hi.”

“How—”

“What—”

He laughs, scrubs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous in a way he hasn’t felt in years. His palms are damp, heart stumbling over itself.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I just—I can’t believe you’re actually—”

You surge forward and wrap your arms around his neck, tight enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Oh my god,” you whisper against his ear, voice breaking. “I missed you.”

For a second, Steve just stands there.

Stricken. Breathless. His brain lagging behind what his heart already knows.

Then his arms come up—slowly, instinctively, carefully folding around you. He lowers his head, presses his nose into your shoulder, breathing you in like proof.

He doesn’t say I missed you too.

It wouldn’t be enough. Wouldn’t come close. Wouldn’t touch the years, the distance, everything he’s lost and carried and never learned how to put down. How your memory has lived inside him like a second spine, holding him upright when nothing else did.

Instead, he tightens his grip and whispers:

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t say it’s okay.

But you let out a soft breath and pull him closer, arms firm around his shoulders.

And that, more than words, feels like forgiveness.

⚓︎

The place is called Scoops Ahoy. 

Steve hasn’t been inside it in years, but the second he steps through the door, it all comes rushing back.

The headache-bright fluorescents. The aggressively nautical theme: ropes and anchors, boat-shaped displays that never quite made sense. The faint, permanent stickiness of the floor, no matter how often it gets mopped.

He worked here his freshman year, back when he was desperate for cash and all the good jobs were taken by upperclassmen with better timing. It had been fine. Mind-numbing, but fine. The ice cream was decent if you ignored the décor and the way the lighting made everyone look a little sickly.  

At this hour, it’s dead.

Completely empty except for the girl working the register—short, sandy-brown hair, half-slouched over the counter as she flips through a comic, clearly counting down the seconds until closing.

But Steve can't bring himself to focus on any of it.

Because you’re here.

You’re actually here, leaning over the glass case, eyes flicking back and forth between flavors like this is the most important decision you’ve made all day. You bite your lip and his eyes follow the movement, unbidden.

He can’t stop staring.

The whole thing feels surreal, like a fever dream his brain stitched together out of old memories and wishful thinking.  

Like he might blink and you’ll disappear.

But the details are all the same.

The way you tilt your head when you’re thinking. The faint crease between your eyebrows when you’re overanalyzing something that really shouldn’t matter this much. The way your mouth presses into that familiar line when you can’t decide.

And when you glance back at him, eyes warm and expectant, that exact same light glows there. 

You smile. “What’re you getting?”

Steve blinks, realizing he’s been staring for way too long. He clears his throat and forces himself to look down at the ice cream like he hasn’t seen this exact lineup a hundred times before.

“Uh,” he says, squinting thoughtfully. “The salted caramel’s usually pretty good.”

“Ooh.” You nod, completely serious. “Yeah, that does sound good.”

He smiles before he can stop himself.

His eyes flick up to the menu on the wall, scanning for something he half-hopes they got rid of. But no—there it is, in all its over-the-top glory.

The Triple Decker Extravaganza.

“Why don’t we just get the sundae?” he offers. “That way you can pick whatever you want.”

You turn to him, eyes lighting up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “Go nuts.”

Your face brightens instantly, and something in his chest goes warm as he watches you lean forward again, picking out flavors, debating them out loud.

Steve just stands there, smiling like an idiot.

When he pulls out his wallet without thinking, you don’t stop him.

“Thanks,” you say softly, glancing at him.

“Don’t mention it.”

He shoots the girl behind the register an apologetic look as he pays, knows this order’s a nightmare. Hot fudge, caramel, whipped cream, cherries. Those stupid little sail-shaped cone pieces that always break in half. He slips an extra ten into the tip jar, and her expression improves instantly.

The sundae arrives in a ridiculous plastic boat, wobbling under the weight of it all.

You laugh, delighted, as Steve carefully carries it over to the counter by the window. You hop up onto a stool, legs swinging as you settle in.

Outside, the street is calm, washed in neon and soft sodium light. The glass reflects both of you faintly, past and present overlapping in double exposure.

Steve sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.

You start asking questions the same way you always did, listening like every answer matters.  

“What’s your major?”

“Business,” he shrugs, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “But… I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about switching. I like my psych classes way more than econ.”

“Really? What kind of psych?”

“Developmental stuff, mostly. Kids, families. That kind of thing.”

You nod, thoughtful, spoon hovering midair. “You’d be really great with kids.”

He lets out a surprised laugh. “Yeah? I mean... I don’t know.”

“No, I’m serious,” you insist, turning on your stool to face him. “You’ve always been patient. You’re a great listener. You care.”  

He blinks, goes quiet. Looks at you for a beat too long before remembering to glance away.

“Thanks… uh, what about you?”

You tell him about your classes, your roommates. The professor who assigns too much reading. The weird smell in your dorm hallway no one can identify. How the ocean never really gets old, even when you see it every day.

“So,” you ask eventually, tilting your head. “How’d you end up picking a school all the way out here?”

Steve stirs the melted ice cream with his spoon, not meeting your eyes.

“I don’t know. I mean, the scholarship helped, but I guess I just wanted somewhere warmer. Closer to the water.”

He doesn’t say how much of it was quiet, impossible hope.

Doesn’t say how a tiny part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d find you here.

“You know,” he says after a moment, voice lower, “I should’ve asked for your phone number back then. Or your address. Or... something.” He huffs out a breath. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“Hey,” you slide your hand over his, squeezing once. “We’re here now. Right?”

He nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”

You smile and return to the ice cream. He does too.

A new song crackles over the speakers, and you start humming along absentmindedly. It takes him a second to realize what it is.

Edge of Seventeen.

Stevie Nicks.

He meets your eyes.

Feels something click, then.

He’s never really believed in fate.

But if there were ever a reason to try, a reason to hope in a world that so often disappoints, he thinks that reason would be you.

⚓︎

When the ice cream’s gone and the girl behind the counter starts wiping things down a little too pointedly, you hop off the stool.  

June nights in Santa Barbara are warm, carrying faint traces of salt from the ocean. You stop beneath the neon glow of the marquee outside, the lights painting your silhouette in soft blues and pinks.

Steve’s heart stutters.

What happens now?

He's dreading the ending; there are years stretched between you now, whole versions of you he’s never met. So much left to ask, to know. To say.

He rubs the back of his neck.

“It’s late,” he says. “I should probably let you go. Maybe I could get your dorm’s phone number? Or we could grab lunch someti—”

You’re smiling when you kiss him.

Up on your toes, fingers clutching the front of his shirt as you pull him down. Your lips taste sweet: strawberry and chocolate, cherry and vanilla. Every flavor, because you couldn’t decide. Because he wanted to share.

The neon hums above you. The world narrows again.

This kiss lasts longer than the last one he shared with you. Long enough for him to cup your cheek, to brush his thumb along your jaw, to realize, distantly, how much better he is at this now.

He knows how to angle his head just right, slant his lips to deepen the press, to pull you closer by the small of your back and have you flush against him.

When you pull back, he chases your lips all the way until you've dropped back onto your heels.

You blink your eyes open, tongue darting over your lip like you’re tasting him, too.

He has to force himself to step back, fight the urge to lean in again.

You both speak at once.

“So—"

“Would you—”

He laughs. “Sorry. You first.”

You laugh too, shaking your head. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine. My roommates are gone for the weekend.”

He stares at you, stunned. Hopes the neon glow is bright enough to wash out the red rushing to his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he manages. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

You smile and reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

You don’t let go.

He definitely does not let go.

⚓︎

You’re kissing him the moment the door clicks shut.

There’s no pause, no awkward second-guessing—just the soft thud of the door and then you’re there, hands fisted in his shirt, lips warm and insistent against his. It’s messy and eager, teeth knocking, breath tangling, soft laughter trapped between two mouths as he murmurs, We should—we should probably slow down, even as he’s nudging his sneakers off with his heel.

Your apartment is small in the best way, quiet and lived-in. Soft amber lamplight, a throw blanket folded over the couch, lingering scents of citrus and cinnamon. Steve takes it in only in flashes, details flickering at the edges of his vision before your fingers slide back into his hair and the rest of the world drops away.

Clothes come off in a scattered trail to your bedroom.

Your jeans get kicked aside in the hallway. His shirt gets stuck halfway over his head and he has to pull back, laughing breathlessly while you help tug it free, your hands warm against his sides. He keeps his lips pressed to yours as he guides you backward, hands around your waist, bumping his shoulder in the doorframe and grinning like an idiot.

It’s not until you’re straddling him that he really stops.

Until he’s sitting on your bed, your sheets rumpled under his hands, your pillow pressed against his back.

You’re in his lap in nothing but your underwear, knees snug around his hips, solid and warm and real.

Steve looks down.

Feels it hit him all at once.

He hasn’t done this in a while. Hasn’t had a real girlfriend in college, too busy chasing grades, covering rent, picking up shifts whenever he could. A few dates here and there—awkward dinners, polite kisses—nothing that ever stayed.

Nothing that felt like this.

Your hand comes up, soft and sure, brushing along his cheek.

“Hey,” you murmur. “You okay?”

He swallows.

Steve doesn’t know if there is a word for what he’s feeling. Okay feels laughably small for what’s sitting in his chest right now, this swelling mix of affection and disbelief and something like gratitude.

“Yeah,” he starts, instinctively reaching for easy words. Fine. Good. All good.

Then he stops, shakes his head. Why hold back? Why say anything less than the truth?   

“God, I just—” He exhales, voice thick, heart full, "I can’t believe I found you.”

Your expression softens, eyes shining as you lean down to kiss him again.

And that, more than words, feels like being found right back.

⚓︎

What happens next is a slow unlearning of loneliness.

A careful dismantling of habits built around absence, years of swallowed affection and muted instincts.

Steve Harrington has learned to hush the restless stirrings of his heart, to press down the parts that ache too loudly, that reach too far, that insist on wanting. He’s gotten good at filling his days with noise, instead. Convinced himself that wanting too much is the same as wanting wrong. That loneliness is a failing, something you earn by expecting more than you’re allowed to have.

He's blamed himself for it for as long as he can remember.

But being with you is like a light dropped straight into the darkest hollow of him, the deepest pit in the sand, a sudden clarity that leaves nowhere to hide. He realizes, with quiet devastation, just how far down the emptiness goes. How much he’s learned to live without.

And now, here, with you, he has to unlearn it.

It happens slowly. In inches. In pauses.

A quiet rediscovery of loving you in this new, intimate way.   

He wants to know everything.

He wants to know what makes your breath hitch. What makes your fingers curl into the sheets. What makes you go quiet in that way that tells him he’s doing something right.

He kisses you constantly. Your mouth, your jaw, the soft place beneath your ear, the hollow at your throat—familiar paths he remembers tracing once upon a time, and new ones he maps with reverent patience.

He slides down over your stomach, kissing his way lower, gaze fixed on the heavy flutter of your lashes, the swell of your ribs when you let out a pleasured sigh. He takes your hand and fists it into his hair, hoping you’ll guide him—let him learn you, let him get this right.

And when he buries his face between your thighs for the first time—nose pressing into your mound, breathing you in, tasting you—it feels like coming home.

He’s missed this, being on his knees, giving. It used to be his favorite thing, always loved the way it quieted his mind, narrowed the world down to a single purpose. It made him feel useful, wanted.

But with you, this ritual turns into something else entirely.

He tracks your reactions with obsessive devotion: the furrow of your brow, the slow roll of your hips. The way your mouth falls open when he does something just right, when you want him to stay still, right there, exactly where you need him.

When he kisses his way back up your body, when he lines himself up with shaking hands and presses inside you, it’s face to face.

There’s no other way he could do it. Mouth to mouth. Forehead to forehead. Kissing, kissing, never not kissing; he needs the contact, the anchor, the constant reassurance that this is real.

That you’re here.

He wants to swallow the sounds you’re making, the way you gasp his name, and lock it inside himself. Let it sink deep, press it into bone and marrow. Carry it into that hollow place in his chest and let it bloom, fill him up until there’s no room left for doubt.

He knows he’s not going to last very long. You’re so soft, so wet, so impossibly beautiful, he can already feel the tension gathering low in his gut.

He only fights it long enough to get the words out.

Words that have been there for years. Pressed down, swallowed, buried under caution and embarrassment and the certainty that he always feels too much, too fast. Nobody ever wanted that kind of intensity for very long.

But he’s tired of pretending.  

And with you, he doesn’t have to.

He holds your hand against the bed, brings his forehead to yours.

The words cling to his throat, years of longing coiled tight—but this time, he doesn’t force them down.

With his lips brushing yours, he finally lets them go.

“I love you.”

The fear is instinctive. Familiar. A split-second flinch where he waits for the recoil, the moment someone decides it’s too much after all.

But it melts clean away when you answer him without hesitation, arms tightening around his neck as you kiss him back.

“I love you, too.”

And the hollow place in his chest turns into the sun once more.

⚓︎

The rest of the night is spent talking.

Kissing, touching, holding, kissing some more, just because he can.

He starts with the easy things. The dumb things. Stories about bad roommates, the worst job he ever worked, the time he locked himself out of his car in the rain and had to wait two hours for a tow.

Eventually, the jokes thin out. The pauses stretch.

He shifts, breathes in, and starts talking about the things he doesn’t like to think about. The quiet fears he keeps folded away. The weight of expectations, some inherited, some entirely his own. How surreal it feels to wake up as someone his younger self could never have pictured. To realize that the future he imagined so clearly once—simple, linear, inevitable—never actually existed.

He admits, quietly, that sometimes he worries there’s something wrong with him.

That everyone else seems to know how to be casual about life in a way he never has. Like they can want things lightly, hold them loosely, walk away without it costing them anything.

He’s never been built that way.

He feels things fast and deep. And for a long time, he resented it. Resented how much it hurt, how impossible it felt to turn it off.

You don’t interrupt. You just listen, fingers laced through his, thumb brushing slow circles over his knuckles. Every so often, you squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

Once the hardest parts are out, his thoughts drift forward.

He talks about wanting a job that matters to people. That helps. Something that lets him look at himself at the end of the day and feel like he showed up right, even if he hasn’t figured out what that’s supposed to look like yet. He wants to believe there’s a place for him in this world where caring isn’t a weakness.

When the conversation lulls into silence, you tilt your head back to look up at him.

“Did you ever learn how to surf?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“Surf. I remember you always wanted to see what that was like. When we were kids.”

He lets out a small smile. “No. I mean, I thought about it, but... just never had the time. Or the balance.”  

You hum and settle comfortably against his chest. “Tomorrow.”

He blinks. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” you repeat. “There’s a part of the beach I want to show you. You have to squeeze between some rocks to get there, but it opens up into this hidden alcove. Could be like our new secret spot.”

Steve smiles into your hair, already imaging it. Doing what he’s always done: throwing himself into the picture, letting it fill him up.

Tomorrow, you’ll take him to the beach.

Down between the rocks, your favorite spot.

You’ll show him where to step and where not to. You’ll rent two surfboards from that tiny shack down the road. You’ll laugh when he wipes out the second he hits the water, sputtering and embarrassed.

You’ll teach him how to stand. How to trust the water.

How to fly, just a little.

Tomorrow, he’ll show you the shoebox.

The one tucked into the bottom drawer of his dresser. The one that followed him through moving days and borrowed apartments. Filled with pieces of you he never let himself leave behind.

Tomorrow, he’ll give you what he couldn’t at the age of thirteen.

A stack of letters, one for every year since the summer he met you. ’72 all the way through ’79.

He always wrote them the night before he left for the Hamptons, lying awake with his heart pounding, thinking about the long stretch of coast waiting for him—and the best friend he’d get to share it with.  

He never found the courage to bring them with him when he was younger. But he kept writing anyway. Promising himself that, one day, he’d be brave enough to give them all to you.

He imagines sitting beside you while you read each one out loud. Smiling, shaking your head.  

Maybe you’ll tease him, call him cheesy, a hopeless romantic.

He doesn’t think you will, though. He thinks you’ll be gentle. He thinks you’ll love him more for it.

And once that thought takes hold, the future comes rushing in—faster, fuller, harder to stop.

He starts imagining days that stretch far beyond tomorrow, days where he wakes before you and watches the sunlight move across your face. Burnt toast and cheap coffee. Walking you home after class, fingers laced, listening to you talk about your day.

A shared place down by the water. Small, probably. Close enough to the beach that the sand never really leaves. Grocery lists on the fridge. Music playing while you cook together, bumping hips, stealing kisses.

He catches himself, shakes the thoughts loose with a soft, embarrassed breath.

Eight years is a long time to be apart. He knows there’s still so much about you he doesn’t know. True to form, he’s moving too fast, chasing desire before reason can catch up.

But eight years is also nothing.

Nothing measured against a lifetime. Nothing but a detour that still carried him back toward the main path. It only ever led to one place.

You stir softly in half-sleep, nestled beneath his arm, and Steve presses a little closer.

Sleep pulls at him too, heavy and kind.

He surrenders to it, lets it take him, because for now, it’s enough.

For now, he has tomorrow.

⚓︎

In dreams, he is thirteen again.

He is twelve, he is ten, he is six, and he is five.

He is walking down a wide, endless expanse of blue, waves whispering at his feet, the sky stretching forever overhead.

And beside him, hand in hand, is his best friend in the whole world.

June 24th, 1979

Hi!

I know I’m going to see you tomorow but I wanted to write this anyway. Sometimes when I try to say stuff out loud it doesn’t come out right. I know what I meen in my head but it gets all messed up or I forget what I was going to say. Writing it down makes it better.

I wrote you a letter every summer. One for every year. So you won’t forget me and all the fun things we did and the stuff we talked about. I keep all of them in a box, kind of like how you keep all your rocks and shells. Some of the older ones are really bad and there’s a lot of drawings and speling mistakes but maybe you’ll still like them.

I think about you a lot when we’re not together. Like when something funny happens or when I see something you like. Last week I saw a picture of a crab in my science book and I thought about what name you would give it.

I really really like you. You’re funny and nice and you understand me better than anyone else. You listen to me even when I talk too much or can’t say some words right. You make me feel special. I don’t have to pretend to be different or cooler or anything when I’m with you.

Sometimes I wish I lived in Californiya so we could see each other every day. I think about that a lot. Like we could just hang out whenever we wanted. Go to the beach and do surfing and stuff. Maybe one day I could come visit you or you could come visit me.

I’m really excited to see you tomorow. I hope you like this and I hope you don't think it’s dumb. I just want you to know how much you mean to me.

P.S. This is my adress so you can write me back if you want. 1590 willow creek lane, loch nora, hawkins, indiana 46001

P.P.S. I listened to that band you told me about. I really like the song You Make Loving Fun. It makes me think about you. Maybe we can listen to it together when I see you tomorrow?

Your best friend, Stevie

[bbywhitefox123]

HUSBAND!RAFE

MASTERLIST

RAFE x CATHERINE

~young, wild, and free

how i met your mother (18+)

can't get enough of you (18+)

diamonds (18+)

side piece (18+)

hook-ups in school bathrooms (18+)

drive me dirty (18+)

charleston (18+)

bonfire (18+)

smile for the camera (18+)

backseat of a cop car (16+)

movie night (18+)

sexting (18+)

the camping trip/mason (18+)

-teenage pregnancy

guess who's pregnant? (angst)

Nosebleeds (angst)

I love you (angst)

prom night (angst)

one bed, one bath, million fights (angst)

coffee cups & coffee fights (18+)

labor - pt.2 (18+)

after hours (angst)

treat or treating (smut)

jealousy on aisle three (18+)

bradley (18+)

the most beautiful girl (fluff)

marry me (18+)

mrs. cameron (18+)

-mr. & mrs. cameron

lara (18+)

burning calories (fluff)

laundry room (18+)- pt.2(18+)

kitchen (18+)

dress to impress (fluff)

baby shower (18+)

plumber (18+)

game night (18+)

MILF (18+)

birthday cake (18+)

quickies that ruin mornings (18+)

ovulation (18+)

zoom call (18+)

neighbor (18+)

dreamt of you with another (18+)

back home (18+)

kids, kicks, and bad timing (16+)

football match (18+)

camping with the camerons (18+)

neighborhood moms (18+)

cookies and cream (18+)

the fundraiser (18+)

dad’s science (18+)

lara’s first period (fluff)

high on the beach (18+) - pt.2 (18+)

the birds and bees talk

escaping math w/ mason 101

like mother, like daughter (18+)

nerds in love (bradley brings a girl over)

lara's tiktok trends(fluff) - lunchbox prank(18+)

grown-up love (18+)

chasing nora (mason literally chases her) - pt.2

captain save my ass (angst)

aftercare (18+)

headcanons

rafe x catherine as parents

chats

young - 2, 3

married

[starrvsn]

ꕮ ˚₊ ꒰ STEVE HARRINGTON ⁾⁾ PHOTOBOOTH CONFESSIONS

PAIRING ⠆steve herrington x gn!reader (no pronouns are used)

CATEGORIES ⠆fluffy, another steve harrington confession (i got more, just you wait) i just wanted to write a makeout (if you want to call it that) in a photo booth lwk.

WC ⠆1.3k (just a wee lil guy)

requests are open!

loosely based on the prompt: “yeah, okay, so what if i dreamt about kissing you? don’t we all do that to our best friends? …no? what do you mean no?”

steve is once again stuck playing babysitter and has dragged you along for the ride.

after dropping off the kids to a movie showing of the latest release of back to the future, you and steve wandered to the arcade across the mall.

after a handful of tokens spent and three more wins up your sleeve from air hockey later (though steve insists that he gave you the last win, best out of three- which he had no chance of winning, that he would never admit) you find yourselves in the back of the arcade where a photo booth sat, sitting like a bookend at the end of some arcade games.

it caught your eye immediately, remembering how steve complained about how there was no photos of the pair of you together. (though johnathans film camera says otherwise) steve's gaze is stuck on the pac-man machine with a crazy high score he doesn't think is legit, you wordlessly tug his arm into the direction of the booth, flinging the thin black curtain aside before sliding onto the barely comfortable seat, scooting to make room for steve, patting the space next to you, he hesitates before sitting beside you, the curtain swishing shut.

the space is tight, and far to intimate than steve would want to admit. you both can barely fit on the narrow bench, his side was pressed against you, warm and comforting. he was sitting so close to you that he could smell your shampoo and the perfume you were wearing, it was overwhelming in the best way possible– his mind is blank, he shouldn't be thinking things like that– but if he's honest he's thought a lot of things about you, things he should never admit aloud. the air in the booth is warm, partially from the bright light above and the poor air condition from the arcade but mostly because you're so close to him, so blissfully unaware that his heart is practically going to beat out of his chest. a flush creeping up his neck. he licks his dry lips, throat bobbing as he sits stiffly next to you, hands enlaced between his legs.

you pull out a crumpled bill from your pocket before feeding it into the machine. you're already fixing your hair, leaning your head close to steve to smile for the first photo “okay, smile!” a practice smile eases on your face, hair tickling steve’s face but he doesn’t move, still stiffly sitting beside you. when you look over at him his eyes casted away, totally gazing off.

then the flash goes off.

you frown slightly, wondering what's gotten into your best friend. looking over at him, your arm now laced under his.

"helloo steve," waving your free hand in front of his face, he’s seemingly knocked out of whatever trance he was in, wide eyes darting to yours "do you have stage fright or something? what's up with you?"

his jaw flexes, throat dry. rapidly blinking, desperately thinking of something to say. your face is mere inches away from his, one lean and his lips would be presses against your soft ones. his hands are clammy and heart practically ringing in his ears.

his mouth gaps opens, then closes before he speaks.

"is it crazy that i had a dream about kissing you? d-don’t we all do that to our best friends?"

the words tumble to fast from his mouth, neither of you can process them, steve is practically wanting to melt into the floor right, good one harrington, messing it up once again! eyes scrunching shut, hand dragging over his eyes. too embarrassed to see the look on your face.

the flash goes off again.

the photo catching you looking at him with wide eyes and his eyes completely barring his eyes and his lips strewn tight.

you look at your best friend stunned, words hanging heavy in the air between flashes of white light. for a second, you think maybe you misheard him, because sure steve says crazy things all the time but this? you’d never imagine him saying that. but the way his hand is braced against his face, leaning away from you like he's going to tumble out of the booth tells you, you heard him completely fine.

“steve…” your voice comes out soft, careful.

he groans quietly, his voice wincing. “yeah, i know, just–pretend i didn’t say that, okay?”

“pretend you didn’t say you dreamt about kissing me?”

he groans louder, dragging a hand down his face. “okay, no need to repeat it.”

“steve,” you start again, leaning in front of his face, trying to get him to look at you, a grin splitting on your face as he turns his head away from you, cheeks flushed pink.

“you dream about kissing me?” voice light and teasing.

“i said a dream,” he mutters defensively, still turned away. “one time. it doesn’t mean anything.”

the machine whirs again. the flash going off in a bright flicker.

your head partially blocking the camera as steve looks away, you would be made you wasted five dollars for a film but no amount of money is worth of what's unfolding right now.

“uh-huh,” you hum, leaning a little closer. lips close to his ear “and out of all the dreams you had, that's the one you choose to remember?” your heart beating fast, nerves growing in your stomach.

your breath catches, when he turns to look at you. his eyes finally flick up to meet yours, just barely. “because i wished it was real.”

silence falls between you, faces inches apart. a shaky breath leaves him as he watches your eyes briefly dip to his lips then back to him, he can feel your breath fanning against his lips, your expression unreadable. your eyes still wide and slightly parted– a faint flush on your cheeks, he wants to lean in, to make his dream a reality. but he’s dug a deep enough grave of your friendship and he didn’t want to make it worse. before steve can backtrack on what he said, but then you reach your hand over his cheek pulling his face to yours.

the machine whirs again. the flash going off in a bright flicker.

your lips press against his soft and firm, a gentle pucker sounding between the two of you. your nose bumps his clumsily before you pull back slightly. hearts racing, your eyes flutter open to see steve looking at you, soft eyes and pouted lips. he swallows, breath hitching, then he leans in again, hand cupping your cheek before connecting your lips. he kisses you again this time with more intention, deeper. your hands thread his hair as he his hands land on your thigh, pulling your leg up his lap, pulling you close. he's eager, tilting his head to kiss you deeper, tongue gliding into your mouth smoothly, exploring your mouth. you sigh when his mouth catches your bottom lip, tugging his hair gently in response. his hand on your cheek wanders down to your waist, pulling you impossibly flush against him.

steve feels like he's reliving his dream, except in his dream you were kissing him on his bed, not in some tight, rundown photo booth but he'll take what he can get. his thumb caresses your thigh as he kisses you, deep and slow like he's trying to remember every inch of your mouth. he smiles then, in the kiss- giddy and unbelieving he's actually kissing you.

then the a little dink of the photo strip hitting the metal encasing breaks you from the moment. giving you one more deep and feverish kiss, he pulls away. eyes fluttering open to see you, cheeks flushes and lips slick. your eyes are dazes and lidded. he mirrors your expression but this time with a dopey grin on his face making you laugh softly.

"better than your dream huh?" you ask, brushing his hair down from where you were tugging at

he chuckles, slightly breathless "most definitely."

𑣲the photo is now kept on his dashboard.

ownership of starrvsn. please do not repost, modify or translate. ﹙ photos and gif from pinterest. dividers from @/cursed-carmine﹚

[salem-s]

18+ mdni.

PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN ─ RAFE CAMERON

SERIES MASTERLIST

𓇼 ⋆.˚ SYNOPSIS ── When your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron (your friend-with-benefits) in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin’s upcoming wedding in Italy, and even more out of control when he says yes. ── fake dating, friends with benefits, she fell first but he fell harder, college au. ── contains fluff, angst, smut (chapters marked*).

𓆉 ⋆.˚ CHAPTERS 01 ─ 02* ─ 03* ─ 04* ─ 05 ─ 06 ─ 07* ─ 08 ─ 09* ─ 10 ─ 11 ─ FINAL* | WORD COUNT 101.6k

𓆉 ⋆.˚ BLURBS ─ FEELING EACH OTHER | more coming soon…

𓆡 ⋆.˚ NOTES ── This is a Rafe x fem!reader story. No use of Y/N. ── The only OC-leaning detail is that she has an Italian speaking grandmother (or grandmother-like figure) and can speak the language. ── This story is 18+. Do not interact if less than.

© 2025 salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission from me. mdni.

[allthingsjoeq]

Snap

Steve Harrington x Reader

“You looked hot,” you say, then grin, lazy and mischievous. “Hot scared.”

Its been a while, but since its Halloween season I couldn’t resist just writing something small…

Its cute…until its not. There’s a house party, there’s a soft!steve and theres You…

Word count: 2k

Enjoy…if you can 🍁🎃🦇

Are you tipsy? A little merry? No, you are definitely drunk. The kind of drunk where you feel the urge to lock yourself in the bathroom just so you can pull faces in the mirror while whispering every supermodel mantra you can remember. In reality, you look a mess.

A mess that has decided to stray from the crowded house and stumble into the backyard. The midnight air whips a little serenity back into your swaying body, while the muddy earth leaves its mark on your shoes, soaking through with dew and sending a grounding chill to your toes.

Steve watches. He follows your small, uneven steps, your slightly tangled hair swaying as you go on your little garden adventure. He is still wedged in the kitchen, surrounded by bodies bouncing off him like pinballs, the bass line drilling into his skull. He is not drunk. The old Steve would have downed anything in sight, no matter the color or the smell. Now, he likes being present. He likes control. And right now, he would like to be present anywhere except this kitchen.

With a sigh, he pushes through the sea of vodka-soaked zombies until he reaches the patio doors. Outside, you have already wandered deeper into the unkept grass, brushing the edge of the forest behind the house. Steve starts to jog, ignoring the hollers from behind and welcoming the cool air against his face.

He is close enough to see your toes digging clumsily into the earth, close enough to watch you trip over a rock you never noticed. He breaks into a sprint but still does not catch you in time. By the time he reaches you, you are already on the ground, sitting in the damp grass, giggling. Steve finds it adorable, even with the twigs sticking out of your hair and the streak of lipstick smeared across your cheek.

“You okay?” he asks carefully, unsure if teasing you would be a good idea.

You blow a raspberry in response, still laughing, before falling back until all you can see is Steve’s grin above you.

“Sit,” you say softly, tapping the ground beside you. You feel like your bones have turned to jelly, but the thought of lying here next to Steve feels right.

He crouches down, far more gracefully than you did, but loses some of that grace when you grab his sleeve and pull him down beside you. The bold move leaves you closer than either of you expected, your legs touching, your hand still gripping his jacket. You are actually pinching his skin a little, which earns you a quiet “Ouch” before he shifts you under his arm and lets you use his arm as a pillow. Princess treatment.

Here you both are, lying in the grass.

“Did you have enough?” you mumble, words thick but curious.

“Enough of what?”

Your foggy mind stumbles over the question. “People. Hot, sweaty people.”

You start to slip from his arm, but Steve catches you, chuckling at your lack of coordination. He does not answer, but he does not need to. You tap his shoe with yours, your small silent agreement.

“Did you see the state of the bathroom?”

“Yes, yes, the shower curtain is doomed.”

You start rambling. “They had that fancy shampoo on display, and honestly, one more drink and that would have been coming home with me.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“No, never.”

“Wait,” Steve says suddenly. “Did you take mine after Robin’s birthday? When you were completely blacked out?”

You pause. Shit. Busted.

Steve smirks. He remembers the strange, alien-shaped bulge under your top that night. You were never subtle.

“Yeah, I knew I recognized that scent,” he says dramatically. “Your hair has never looked better. I cannot believe I fell for it.” He runs his hand through your hair with mock betrayal, shaking his head.

A sharp snap cuts through the air.

Steve freezes. Sits up straight.

“What was that?” His voice is no longer playful. There is something uneasy in it now.

You blink up at him, missing the warmth of his hand in your hair.

“Do you think something’s in the woods?” he asks quietly. His eyes don’t leave the tree line.

You hadn’t heard anything. Probably a twig, maybe the wind. But the way Steve’s gaze stays fixed on the darkness, the way the trees seem to hold still, makes the air feel heavier.

Then, somewhere beyond the shadows, something moves.

It is small at first. A flicker. Maybe a trick of the light. But Steve sees it again. A shape, quick and low, slipping between the trees. He squints, holding his breath. The breeze has stopped. Even the music from the house feels further away, muffled, as if someone has turned the world down a notch.

“Steve?” you mumble, your voice half-asleep, unaware of the silence that has folded around you both.

He does not answer. His hand tightens on the grass beside him. He swears he can hear something else now. Breathing. Soft, uneven, not yours.

The shape shifts again. Closer this time.

Steve blinks, trying to focus, but the longer he stares, the less sense it makes. The outline keeps changing, flickering between solid and nothing, as if the dark itself is trying to take form. His chest feels tight.

“Probably a fox,” he mutters under his breath, though he does not sound convinced.

You laugh weakly, already drifting into a tipsy haze. “Told you it’s nothing.”

But Steve does not look away. His eyes stay locked on the trees, every instinct in him pulling taut like a wire. Because whatever is standing just beyond the tree line…

It is still watching him back.

You shift slightly, your movement pulling him out of his trance. Before he can even blink, you reach up, cup his jaw, and kiss him. It is clumsy, unplanned, and tastes faintly of whatever cheap vodka punch was inside. For a split second, Steve forgets how to breathe. His brain is still caught between the shadow in the woods and the warmth of your lips.

When you pull away, his eyes are wide.

“What was that for?” he manages, voice caught somewhere between startled and flustered.

“You looked hot,” you say, then grin, lazy and mischievous. “Hot scared.”

Steve blinks, then lets out a disbelieving laugh. “That is extremely cheesy.”

“You love it.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“You do. You so do.”

“I- no. No, I don’t.”

“You’re smiling, Steve.”

“That’s because it’s ridiculous.”

“Admit it.”

He shakes his head, but he’s laughing now, that real kind of laugh that slips out before you can stop it. You shove his shoulder, and he pretends to fall back, overplaying it like some terrible actor. The two of you dissolve into quiet laughter, the kind that hums between breaths and lingers in the air.

For a moment, everything feels light again. The house in the distance. The night sky stretching above. The damp grass beneath your hands.

Then it happens.

Snap.

Louder this time. Closer.

Steve freezes mid-laugh. The sound comes from the tree line again, but nearer, too near. His expression changes so suddenly that it steals the smile right off your face.

“What was that?” you whisper, half playing along, half serious now.

He does not answer. His eyes are back on the dark, and this time, they don’t move.

The wind picks up, just enough to stir the branches, but the sound that follows is heavier than that. A footstep. Slow. Careful.

Steve leans forward slightly, his whole body tense again. The air feels thick, pressing down, and the laughter that had filled the space a second ago has been replaced by silence.

You whisper, “Tell me that was a fox again.”

He swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says softly, though his voice is barely there. “Yeah, sure. A fox.”

The sound drifts out again from the trees. At first, it’s only air moving through branches, then something sharper threads through it. 

Steve’s name.

Soft. Drawn out. The syllables stretch too long, bending at the edges like something not used to speaking.

“...Steeeve...”

He jerks his head toward the sound, heart thudding hard enough that he can hear it in his ears. The voice is wrong. Too familiar and too far away at the same time, as if it’s being played back through water.

You don’t flinch.

You just sit there, still staring at the darkness.

Then slowly, impossibly slowly, your lips begin to curl. The smile that forms doesn’t reach your eyes. It’s small, eerie, and deliberate.

Steve’s throat goes dry. “What... what are you doing?”

You don’t answer. The smile widens, your cheeks twitching with a kind of mechanical precision, and then your head turns toward him, not in a natural motion, but in one smooth, too-even rotation, as if pulled by invisible strings.

Moonlight catches your face. Your eyes look inky now, reflecting the black of the woods behind him.

“Hey,” Steve whispers, voice breaking. He feels you let go of his hand, your fingers slipping away slowly, cold against his skin.

“Come on,” he pleads, barely able to find his breath. “Don’t-”

The whisper cuts through him again.

Closer this time.

Right behind his ear.

“Steve.”

The whisper hangs in the air, soft and close enough that he feels it brush against his ear.

Then, your voice joins it. But it doesn’t sound like you.

“I like you, Steve.”

He freezes.

You’re still sitting there, eyes fixed on him, but your voice feels hollow, like it’s coming from somewhere deeper than your throat.

“I liked you a lot.”

Steve’s stomach twists. “What are you talking about? Liked? This isn’t-” He reaches for your hand again, but you don’t respond. “Come on, we’re leaving. Let’s go.”

You tilt your head slightly, as if listening to something only you can hear. Then, without a word, you start to rise. Your movements are slow, dreamlike, each motion too fluid, too certain.

“Wait” Steve’s voice catches, but you’re already stepping away from him.

You move toward the woods.

The darkness seems to bend around you as you walk, the trees swallowing the edges of your body until only your outline remains. Steve stumbles after you, the wet grass dragging at his shoes.

“Stop! Please!”

You don’t stop.

Then, something moves between the trees.

For a moment, Steve thinks it’s you again, until his breath catches in his chest. Because you’re still in front of him, walking steadily into the forest, yet there’s another shape emerging from the shadows beside the path.

Same height. Same hair. Same walk.

It’s you. And it isn’t.

The second figure drifts past in the dark, just close enough that moonlight grazes its face. Steve can’t see the details, only that something about it feels off, as if its features don’t sit right in the light, as if the shape is pretending to be you but can’t quite get it right.

He blinks, and it’s gone.

But the air is colder now. The woods are whispering again.

And ahead of him, you keep walking, one step after another, deeper into the dark.

Steve manages to turn around, wanting to head back to the house.

 But he can’t. The house is no longer there. 

It's just trees, the dark and SNAP.  

Thanks for reading <3 Happy Spooky seasy

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[luveline]

Jade!!! Pls can we have a movie au fic, where it’s a quiet place (the movie) with Steve, he and the reader are established together and learning to be quiet where they need to be? thank you!! 

luveline’s 51k halloween party!

ty for your request <3 fem, 1.7k

The grass out here is greener than anything you’ve ever seen. Like the core of a pencil, or the deepest pigments in a tube of oil paint, everywhere you look is just green. 

Steve lays silently within it. 

You step over worn patches, feeling thick grass and spongy earth under your toes. He hears the shifting, sitting up on his elbows. 

Coming back soon? you sign. 

Steve struggles a little with sign language and he wasn’t paying attention. It frustrates him considering he’s hard of hearing in one ear, and he’s making a face as he signs back, What? 

You gesture to the house with a hopeful smile and sign again. 

Steve’s eyes drift over your shoulder. Too tired to move. Lay down with me? 

He rubs the grass as though you’re a cat in need of enticement. You move with as much urgency as the circumstances allow, letting out the slightest sigh as he catches your arm. Steve covers your mouth with his hand. 

You kiss it softly. 

That lights him up. 

Who made you beautiful? he signs. The beautiful is emphatic, a big grasp motioned at his own face. 

Just lucky I guess. 

Luck is not true. 

Who made you so beautiful? you sign. 

Steve pinched the hinge of your jaw in a big hand. Your lips part, his eyes shining, pupils wide and dark against honey-brown irises. He kisses you slow, not clumsy, but unpracticed, maybe. Kisses between you both are rarer than they ever were before, too afraid of that wet smacking sound it’d make when you part. 

You climb away from his lap before you can miss anything deeper, offering your hand, smiling hard when he pantomimes a sore back. He hobbles the first few steps out of the field, but he’s tall and proud again by the time you reach the house. 

Inside, Dustin and Mrs. Henderson are engaged in a sign battle of the ages. What Mrs. Henderson lacks in proficiency she makes up for in enthusiasm; none of the adults in the house are very good at sign language besides you and Robin, but you’d had a head start. If Steve hadn’t been reluctantly coming to terms with his developing disability before landfall, you wouldn’t have known how to communicate now, and you wouldn’t have been able to teach the others. 

You catch flashes of words. Dustin’s saying This is ridiculous, I’m almost seventeen, I’m not a baby! so you can guess that Mrs. Henderson is arguing how untrue that last bit really is. You’re my baby, and you’re not going!

Dustin scowls. 

Steve waves a hand. 

Dude, you know you can go again, just not today. We’ll take you next week.

Dustin’s scowl deepens. I don’t need a babysitter. 

Nobody thinks that. It’s just not safe. Steve offers a rare, vulnerable smile, soft at the edges. We need you safe. 

Dustin shoves at Steve. Steve catches his hands, mirthful now, pretending to knee Dustin in the stomach. They can’t rough house today, the weather too quiet, the house too far from the lake, so they sort of fizzle out into a noogie that’s far too gentle. 

Thank you, Mrs. Henderson mouths.

Steve whispers something right into the shell of Dustin’s ear. 

Dustin turns back to his mother, slouched. Sorry. 

She looks like she could cry. It’s okay, baby. 

You step around Steve and Dustin to peer into the kitchen. There are only six of you living in the house. Some of Steve’s other friends (or family) are living in another two further down the lakeside. You’d all stayed together at first, but the risk of having so many in one place got to be too much for Chief Hopper. You live with Steve, of course, Dustin and Mrs. Henderson, as well as Robin and Max Mayfield. 

Max is sitting on the couch nestled in the long end of the kitchen, away from the stove, beside the patio doors. The stove is awake and hot, a loaf of bread proofing under a paper towel on top of it. She looks up when you come in, giving you a quick smile. 

You love Max Mayfield. Maybe it’s living with her, knowing she doesn’t have anybody else, not her mom or her other friends (she and Dustin get along better now they have only each other for company, and are obviously still friends), nobody to give her the love she must sorely crave. You’re going crazy wishing you had your loved ones with you, even if you're lucky enough to have Steve. 

Hi, beautiful, you sign, what are you reading? 

She holds up the book. It’s Finders Keepers by Stephen King, battered and taped together. 

Any good? 

You cross the room and sit yourself down beside Max. She wears her grief without knowing it, affecting like it doesn’t bother her, and not realising that her showful indifference to it only makes it more obvious. Max is fine, if you ask Max. 

She doesn’t realise how brilliant she is, either, spinning a little summary for you in sign that rivals you for speed and competence. She’s more animated than she would be writing it out. 

You nod along to her explanation, before sliding into the first pause with a, Did you eat? 

Not yet. 

You can’t help yourself, reaching up to wrap your arm behind her neck, her hair soft and curled under your mouth. She hugs back with her empty arm. 

“Okay?” you utter. 

She nods slowly. 

“Promise?”

She pats your back. You take it for a Duh, but struggle to pull yourself away from her. Max probably knows that these hugs are for you, sometimes more than they’re for her, and she’s a kind, brave girl, so she doesn’t rush it along. 

After a moment, the padding of feet alerts you to another presence. 

Two strong arms wrap around you, his hands sliding along yours to spread out over Max’s back. 

You can almost hear Max rolling her eyes. 

The hug is over much quicker, then. Max’s cheeks blush pink as Steve crouches down in front of you both, hands already poised to sign, Did you have food?

Not yet, mom. 

He touches her knee. You better be nicer to my girl than you are to me. 

Max is always nice, you sign. 

No, I’m not.

You have to fight not to laugh aloud. 

After everyone’s done ribbing, you eat a small dinner with fresh bread and salted fish. Then you and Steve saddle yourselves with supplies and begin the trek to the Hopper house to retrieve your Robin. 

The Hopper house is next to a mouth. Water from the rivers rush into the lake, creating a light roaring sound that covers the sounds of a bigger party. Four Wheelers, three Sinclairs, three Byers, and the Chief and Eleven all stay together, though Jonathan and Will have to sleep in a shed that’s been insulated and padded with pillows in want of a mattress. The shed is where you find the older ‘kids’ Jonathan and Nancy sprawled out over a blanket, Robin in the middle, a deck of cards scattered by a plate of cut veggies and what looks to be Mrs. Wheeler’s best attempt at hummus. 

“Hi,” Steve says. 

Nobody’s stupid enough to shout, but talking here is usually alright in the day.

“Hi, Steve,” Nancy murmurs. 

“You ready to go?” he asks Robin. 

“You don’t wanna stay a while?” Jonathan asks. 

“Dustin’s angry enough that we wouldn’t bring him to stay the night.”

“You could’ve,” Nancy says. 

Steve shakes his head. “Mrs. Henderson…” He shrugs. Signs, She’s anxious after the last time it came. Doesn’t want him leaving the house. Knows he won’t be careful with the boys. 

Poor boy, Nancy signs. 

Something outside makes a great noise. 

Nancy's hands stop. 

Steve grabs yours in a vice like grip. 

Then, again, another great sound, one you don’t recognise until a flash of light bangs from outside. Then the heavens open, and the rain begins. 

“Oh my god!” Robin whisper-yells, grinning. “I knew it was gonna rain.” 

–

Steve races back to the house to collect Dustin. You aren’t sure Mrs. Henderson will let him come —there’s no way to know how long the rain will last, it could be over by the time everyone’s back— but they arrive quickly, soaked to the bone and beaming. Max is with them, less happy to be wet, but happier when El rushes down the stairs in the main house to squeeze her in a tight hug. The kids corral their way into the main room with Will’s huge Dungeons & Dragons manual, leaving you and your sopping wet Steve in the hall. 

Steve smiles at you. Really smiles. 

“I love you.” 

You nudge him with your elbow. “Love you, too.” 

“I like getting to say it out loud,” he says, hooking you by the back of your shirt to draw you in. “I miss your voice all the time.”

You hate how shy his affection makes you, turning your head from him. It usually works. If he’s signing sweet nothings at you that border saccharine, you can look away, but the rain gives him license to pester you. 

“I love you,” he says, the tip of his nose under your ear. “So much.”

“I’m gonna let the runners eat you if you don’t stop.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“No, but you should still stop.” 

He kisses your cheek. “I can’t.” 

“Steve.”

“Stop acting like you don’t like me and kiss me already.”

You turn your head up to be kissed, and you bite his lip as penance for teasing you. The sound he makes– you could cope with dying for it. So stupid. He can see it on your face, and the kisses only get louder from there, three, four playful smackers pressed to the apple of your cheek, then moving down, so many kisses that they start to tickle. 

[lacedpages]

this is so cute😭❤️