nora﹒୨𝑒 ﾟ˖

and i saw my reflection in the snow covered hills 'til the landslide brought me down

[laufeysvalentine]

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⎯⎯ about me / masterlist / recent: like gospel, r.l.

nora ✶ she / her. 8teen. matcha lattes. virgo. man's best friend. steve harrington’s wife. language & literature lover. lola young's #1 fan.

requests: open! (be forewarned i'm very slow)

[laufeysvalentine]

omg hi I love your blog sm can we please be mooties? 🫣 also I saw you like emily henry which of her books would you recommend? I've only read people we meet on vacation and beach read but I really loved them!!

omg yes hi!! i loveee beach read but book lovers is by far my fav. im embarrassed to admit i havent read her new one but im sure its good!!

also i see u like dtmf and youre an english major sooo we're basically twins now 🥳

[qucko-deactivated20151208]

reblog this for good luck

[luveline]

for baby blurbs maybe shy!reader wanting steve to lay his full body weight on her when she’s feeling overwhelmed 💗

“I don’t see how this’ll help,” Steve protests, pouting at you in the doorway of his room.

“It’ll help.”

“What if I crush you?” He has the self-awareness to cringe as he asks, “Won’t I hurt your, uh, your chest?”

“My boobs?” you ask, rolling your eyes. “Nah. You don’t usually hurt me, do you?”

“Fine, your boobs will be fine, but I’m not small. I feel like you’re underestimating the size of me.”

Steve, you think, staring into his eyes meaningfully, I have never, ever underestimated the size of you. He’s tall, broad, and he’s filling out. “It’s the whole point.”

Steve hums, as if to say, whatever you want, but don’t say I didn’t tell you so.

You lay down on his bed and wait. Steve frowns at you, getting his knee between your thighs and laying himself down carefully. But his hesitancy can’t detract from the reality of him, and soon his full weight is resting on you, his chest pressed to your chest, his legs to your legs. He presses a quick, surprising kiss against your nose as his forearms align with your shoulders, holding the tops of them in both of his hands.

“Okay?” he murmurs, too close now to talk.

“It’s gonna feel good,” you say. Right now, you’re aching and tense, with a pain in your head. It’s like someone’s pumped your brain full of air and the pressure inside needs to be matched outside. You clutch the back of his neck and pull him as close to you as he can possibly be. “Just need you.”

He makes another hum, this one pleased, slightly smug.

The pressure and weight of him above you begins to flatten you out. The ache in your spine turns to a more stringy sensation, not so red hot, while the noise in your head quietens a second at a time. Soon, things are quiet, and still. Steve smiles against your cheek unconsciously, drawing circles in your arm with his thumb.

“How’s that?” he asks.

“S’good.”

“Good,” he says, kissing your cheek long and softly. “Good. Tell me when I need to get up. I’ll crush you.”

You fall asleep beneath him before that can happen.

[danieletramet]

Lorenzo Zurzolo for BVLGARI

[formallery]

nothing i hate more than reading a fic and immediately being able to tell it’s AI, i’d rather read an absolutely trash fic that was written with passion

[laufeysvalentine]

this happens to me way too much now it pisses me off so badly

[laufeysvalentine]

running back to you is so good i'm DEVASTATED 😭😭😭😭😭😭 how's it feel to be the greatest writer of all time?

omg THANK YOU you don't know how much this means to me ily

[ddejavvu]

MAMA 😊 can i request a blurb for steve harrington where the reader has a really big and bold personality but when he's around she kind of shuts down and goes quiet which makes him all sad and confused because he thinks she hates him but everyone is like hello she likes u

Romantically, Maybe

pairing: steve harrington x reader

contents/warnings: fem!reader, pining, miscommunication, drinking (and subsequent vomit), angsty insecure steve, eventual fluff

wc: 9.1k / navigation / inbox

a/n: i wrote this all in one sitting... guys my legs are numb and my fingers are tired please enjoy this or i'll cry

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Steve goes through several stages of self-doubt when he finally meets the woman that those six walking disasters have been raving about for weeks. Apparently you're so cool that you've even won Max over, which is impressive to Steve because he doesn't even know if he's done that yet, and it's been four years since they've met.

It helps, of course, that you work at a movie theater. Steve tries to defend himself when Dustin says you've got the coolest job in the world, but the kid insists that the theater is better than Family Video because you give him free access to new movies, and you butter his popcorn halfway through instead of waiting until the end so that it's all on the top.

Apparently you're very versatile- you chat with Max about horror and chick flicks alike, and you even have a skateboard to match hers. But the boys eagerly recount the two hour gossip session they'd had with you about whatever nerd movie you'd snuck them in to see, and it seems like you'd given equal enthusiasm to both.

Will had even broken into a smile as he shrugged off the scrape on his arm, telling Jonathan he didn't have to worry about beating anyone up for shoving him because you'd already done it. Apparently you'd been tasked with picking the kids up from school because Steve was working, and you'd been there early enough to see Will get bumped into the brick wall he'd been sticking tight to. The boy says there's a bloodstain on the bricks that won't wash out from where you'd slammed the dick's face into it.

Additionally, he has reliable intel that you're gorgeous.

Robin said so, and she's always right about girls.

So, all things considered, Steve's happy to tell Mike he can invite you for movie night at his place. He's eager to finally meet you, the new addition to their ever-growing group of day-savers and monster-fighters. Words like amazing, awesome, and cool are thrown around constantly to describe you, and even Eddie nods thoughtfully, proclaiming you, 'pretty badass'.

It's why Steve's so thrown when you knock on his door looking like that.

You're shifting back and forth on your feet, eyes wide and nervous as they blink at him when he greets you. He's surprised none of the little shits draped all over his couch had gotten there before he had, but it's just the two of you in the massive entryway to his house.

"Hi," You smile, but it comes out looking like a grimace, like there's a dull ache in your back that won't go away, "Um, the kids said I could come to movie night? I hope that's okay."

Steve nods mechanically, his hair bouncing and dipping into his eyes on the upswing, "Yeah, yeah! You're Y/N, right?"

He's genuinely asking.

He hasn't once heard anyone describe you as timid but that's the only word for it, doe-eyed and cautious as you step in and your eyes flit around the foyer. It's a wide empty space, but it's dotted with photos and decor that makes it look like an art gallery more than a home. It's excessive to say the least, and Steve feels the urge to usher you through it before you think he's the curator.

He's about to say something, but it gets caught in his throat as you slowly inch towards the den. There's barely any lighting in the house, only the flicker of the tv from the next room over and the glow from the streetlamps outside that spills in through the front windows. But it's enough to see you with, and Steve curses the way he's such a sucker for girls.

He's so predictable. His eyes skate over your profile as you stare at a painting on the wall, watching the way your gaze hangs there like you're interested in it and not beelining for the den. He can tell it intrigues you because you gravitate towards it, body turning slowly and unconsciously, drifting towards the wall as you peer at the abstract, textured smears of paint. Steve's never thought it worthy of much contemplation before but he can admit it's visually appealing, and evidently it's working on you.

He glances at your hands, seeing them slowly curling into the fabric of your jeans and bunching them up at your thighs. He steps forwards like he's been beckoned, it's barely a conscious choice. He stops a foot behind you, but his voice carries enough that you still jolt, "I think that one's supposed to have some deeper meaning.

You turn bewilderedly, nearly bumping into his chest with how suddenly close he is. It means your eyes flare wide, and your lips part then squeeze shut with a gasp that turns Steve's heart to goop.

So predictable.

"Sorry," He breathes, smiling sheepishly, "The painting? I, uh- I think it just looks like a bunch of squares. Pretty squares," He cocks his head, finding immense difficulty in tearing his eyes away from you to nod pointedly back at the painting, "But squares."

"Oh." You nod dazedly, your hands resuming their scrunching of their jeans, "Yeah. I don't know if I can find some hidden message in it." You turn again, flashing the logo of the movie theaters whose vest you're still wearing, evidently straight off of your shift, "But it's really pretty."

Steve can't say thank you because he didn't buy it, or paint it. He also can't tell you that you're really pretty, because that would be fumbling, and he's determined not to do that anymore. So instead he reaches for the hem of your vest, the left front panel that hangs loosely off of your frame instead of sticking tight to it, "Did you want to take this off? You can hang it by the door."

You flounder when you realize Steve's got your vest in his hand. You do this awful side-step that pulls it out of his grip, like he's a mangy dog sniffing around you at a restaurant and you're gonna talk to the manager about him. His hand awkwardly drifts back down to his side, but you fumble for the meshy fabric of your vest with a deep swallow that sounds painfully dry.

"I forgot," You breathe out a laugh, "I didn't realize I still had it on. That's embarrassing." You note, then your eyes screw shut like saying it out loud was worse, "You don't have to hang it, it's- it's not that important." You bunch a corner of it up and tuck the entire thing into your back pocket, much like the way Eddie hangs a bandana from his, and you brush your palms off like it had been dirty.

"Movie room's this way," Steve gestures, pointing towards the flashing light coming from the den, "It's Risky Business. Hope that's okay."

"Mhm," Is all you say as you hightail it towards the den's doorway, a sudden urgency propelling you there.

Steve liked it better when you'd drifted through his foyer, giving him ample time to look at you.

He has to admit, everyone seems like they'd been wrong about you. Well, everyone but Robin, of course. He doesn't get chatterbox vibes from you, nor can he picture you punching out a leering high schooler for getting in Will's face. You seem like a spooked deer, one loud noise away from bolting and high tailing it down the street. But who knows- maybe you're not good with new people. Maybe all it'll take is some Steve Time to get you to loosen up, and he follows you to the den distinctly determined.

"Y/N!" El and Max shriek in unison as you pad over the threshold, and Lucas is promptly kicked off of the sofa to give you room. You apologize for it by squeezing the boy's shoulder, and when El and Max each drape themselves over one of your legs you draw them in closer with arms around their shoulders.

"Hey," Eddie calls, chucking a balled-up hershey's wrapper at you in lieu of a greeting. Steve stands by the doorway, surveying the room for a spot to sit. It looks like he's condemned to Robin's feet, but at least he'll be able to subtly glance at you out of the side of his vision.

Predictable. So fucking predictable, he fights the urge to scrub a hand over his face. He's got to get this under control, because he can't keep falling for girls that he's got no shot with. But if you're just shy, he reasons, that doesn't mean he doesn't have a shot. It means he's got to make one for himself, and he leans himself against the wall while Eddie scrounges around for another wrapper to chuck.

"Hey to you, too," You fling it back at him, and he's so caught up in finding more garbage that you hit him square in the forehead. He yelps, a garbled sound, and Steve snorts at the triumphant grin on your face. Your eyes dart to him at the sound, and widen as your smile dims.

Steve feels his stomach beginning to hurt.

"You were supposed to bring popcorn." Eddie gripes, "And unless you've got it in your bra I think we're all about to go hungry."

"I brought it!" You insist, nudging Max off of your shoulder carefully. You bend down, reaching into your bag with the arm that El has wrapped her own around. You retrieve a bag of kernels- a massive one, but definitely unpopped. There's a few groans that cut across the movie's dialogue but you defend yourself, "I know, I know! But I can't just steal from the popper, they'd totally know. And it doesn't take long to make," Your eyes flit over to Steve, and his stomach melts at the way you duck your head down a few degrees. Your voice comes out softer when you speak to him, "Um, do you have a big pan I could use to pop some? It'll take a few batches, but I can finish in about thirty minutes."

"I'll check." He bites his tongue, "I think so? I'll be back."

He rushes off towards the kitchen, bumping his shoulder into the doorframe on the way out and hissing at the pain.

Smooth.

He fumbles through a noisy cabinet of cookware, and finds a wide-mouthed pan that looks like it'll suit a big batch of popcorn. He even manages to extract a matching lid, and he's eager to provide you with them, even more eager to linger in the kitchen with you and try to sneak past that nervous air you've got about you. This will totally work, he decides, and he strides back into the movie room with a purpose.

You're standing when he enters. You've somehow extracted yourself from the gaggle of girls hanging off of your arms, and they're swinging wide, then joining to clasp your hands between them as you nearly shout. Everyone's gazes are trained on you, amusement tinging their features and Steve only catches nine measly words from you before you notice he's back.

"-so I'm like, sir, we don't sell movies, we-"

You turn to gesticulate in Steve's direction, and when you catch him there you freeze. It's heartbreaking, actually, the way the life leaves your body, your arms dropping back to your sides and your spine going stiff. It's like you've been turned to stone, and he marvels at the way he feels like an intruder in his own home. Now all of a sudden his stomach is dropping further, and not in a good way. How has he fumbled already?

He can barely speak, not while you're looking at him like you're a little afraid of him, "I- uh, I found the pans," He jerks a thumb backwards, "Can I show you to the kitchen?"

"Yeah." You murmur, your voice a far cry away from how boisterous it was mere seconds ago, and you scramble to grab the bag of kernels from El's lap before trailing after him back to the kitchen.

Your eyes rove across this room similar to the last, but they land on the pan and stay there. Before you can reach for them Steve grabs them himself, lid in one hand and pan in the other.

"These," He holds them out, like you couldn't see them before, "Will these work?"

You look cowed, perhaps because he's swinging around pans like he's trying to hit you with them. But you nod, a timid thing, and he sighs through his nose and prays you can't hear it.

"Perfect, I can- I can help you, if you want." He offers, setting the pans back on the counter and trying not to get his hopes up.

It doesn't work, because when you shake your head he feels a wave of shame roll over him like nausea. He's trying to pinpoint exactly what came across as too much to you- if he'd come on too strong with his greeting and triggered this cautious defense mechanism you've initiated.

"It's okay." You hum, voice still dim and low, "I do this all day at work. I don't need help."

"Right," Steve smiles, laughing off the awkward tension. But he pulls a barstool out anyways, sinking down onto the cushion and bracing himself on the counter, "No, I'm sure you know what you're doing. It's just- sometimes my stove is a little unpredictable," He lies through his grin, "So, I mean, I can hang out in case you need help with that."

"O-kay," You nod slowly, hands carefully arranging the pot over the burner, "Am I gonna, like, light myself on fire if I turn the dial?"

"No! No, that's not- it's fine." Steve shakes his head so hard it hurts, "Just- it's just, fire safety, y'know? I'll just stay."

"Okay." You repeat, head tucked nearly to your chest, "Sounds good."

It doesn't sound like it sounds good. It sounds like- it sounds like you're angry, almost, and Steve is hit with yet another wave of dread.

Are you angry at him? God, do you hate him already? This has gotta be the fastest that's ever happened, aside from that one time during the summer he worked at Scoops when he'd spilled a milkshake down a girl's new top just trying to hand it to her.

He's starting to feel hopeless.

Is there something wrong with him? He doesn't understand- he looks the same as he did when he was 'king'. Better, even, cooler hair and a fuller frame. What's wrong with him now that wasn't then? He thinks he's nicer now, even if he's lame, but are you really that put-off by his current demeanor to be irritated with him already?

Or, Steve thinks, and he's not sure which is worse, do you hate him because of his brief reign as king? Had he been rude to you? He'd been rude to a lot of people. The thought makes his chest sting on a normal day, but now it's all-encompassing, aching down to the tips of his toes as he tries frantically recalling if he'd messed around with you during school. He comes up empty, but there's gotta be a reason you're pulling so hard away from him now, and he stands up so suddenly that the barstool nearly tips over behind him.

"I actually- I gotta go make sure they don't break anything," He excuses himself, his voice tight with emotion, "Uh, let me know if you need me."

"Oh-okay!" You blurt, watching bewilderedly as he rushes for the door, "-thank you!"

He charges into the den fast enough to draw attention. Then he flounders, and Robin sits at attention when he nods towards her.

"Uh, can I talk to you outside?" Steve asks, and she throws a cautious glance to Eddie who shrugs minutely.

"Sure thing, dingus," She braces herself on Will's knee to stand, and Steve fights the urge to grab her hand and drag her outside so that she'll move faster and he can barf all the words in his brain out of his mouth.

"Yes, bozo?" She asks, when they're finally outside in the cold Hawkins night, "Why are you all jittery?"

"What did I do?" He asks expectantly, and her brows raise in the way that means sarcasm is imminent.

"What did you do, when?" She asks, "Are we playing this like Clue? Where, with what, what do you want me to say?"

"To Y/N," Steve sneers, "You didn't watch her, like, completely shut down when I walked in the room?"

"Oh. Yeah, I saw that," Robin's aloof posture slumps slightly, "But- she might just be tired after work."

"Only tired around me?" Steve asks, crossing his arms over his chest, "She seems fine around you guys."

"I know, but you barely know her! Just let her warm up to you," Robin shrugs, her voice far too light and airy for a situation of this magnitude, "I'm sure she'll be fine by the end of the night."

"I don't think i did anything to her." Steve speaks more to himself than to his friend, but she throws a sympathetic palm against his arm anyways.

"I'm sure she doesn't hate you." She reasons, "Seriously, not everyone can just jump into a conversation like you do. Even if you don't know what to say, you just- you just say it."

"What?" His brows furrow and his nose scrunches, "What are you talking about?"

"It's like a popular guy thing," She explains, "You can just talk to anyone like you've known them forever. I can't, though. And maybe Y/N can't either, maybe she just needs to get to know you first. So let her."

"Okay." Steve grumbles, because there's nothing else to do. He follows her back into the house still feeling discouraged, but he's softened slightly by the way you offer him the first bite of popcorn from the bowl you'd scrounged around for.

"I hope it's okay I'm using this," You hold up the bowl, and that downcast gaze you shoot through your lashes at Steve makes him forget anything but the way you're looking at him, "Try some?"

He reaches for the bowl, eating a few pieces as politely as he can. In the theater he might try shoving twelve above his molars but he savors the sparse mouthful, nodding appreciatively.

"It's good." He insists, and the smallest smile Steve's ever seen curls your lips at the corners, "It tastes just like the movies."

It's a stupid thing to say, considering that's where it came from. And Steve's glad that you don't say anything about it, though it's because you don't speak to him at all for the rest of the night. Nothing, not a single word, not a 'can you turn it up, please?' or a 'where's the bathroom?'. He's waiting for it all night, waiting to analyze your voice and see if it's brightened at all, strengthened, grown more confident but your mouth remains shut until you stand up to leave post-credits.

"Thanks for inviting me," You stretch out your stiff limbs, talking to the group as Dustin gravitates towards you for a ride home instead of making Steve leave his own house, "It was a good movie."

Steve knows he's fishing but he can't help it, not as you gather your bag to leave and he's about to lose you to the front door, "I can hook up with- I can hook you up with any movie." He offers, stammering over his slip of the tongue, "I mean- like, I can get 'em for you. If you want a tape, just call the store and I'll put something aside for you."

You don't thank him. You look at him, which is why he's such a blubbering mess in the first place, but all you grant him is a soft smile and a nod. It's better than nothing, but Steve's heart clenches as you deny him your voice, and he watches you leave helplessly with Dustin on your tail.

"Close call," Robin smacks his arm once the rest of the kids have migrated towards the door, "She definitely wouldn't warm up to you if you offered to hook up with her."

"I didn't mean to say that," Steve grunts, and Robin laughs, "Just- I figured she'd say thank you."

"I'm sure she meant to," Robin hums, "I mean, she kind of did. She nodded, that's enough."

Not for Steve. He wanted to hear your voice, he wanted you to ask for the store's number so that he could scrawl two down on a scrap of paper, hoping you'd call the wrong one first and his home landline would ring.

"I thought she was supposed to be this motormouth who likes everyone," Steve can't help but mumble, and the way that Robin sucks her lips between her teeth to bite them doesn't help the disheartening feeling Steve's throat is clogged with.

"Steve... she is," Robin sighs, "I don't know. She was- a little quiet tonight." She admits, "But that's not a guarantee that she hates you! Just give her time."

"How much time did it take you?" Steve asks, and Robin winces.

"Ten minutes."

Steve ushers her out within five short minutes so he can wallow in self-pity.

Clocking in at Family Video the next morning makes Steve's stomach churn. Part of it is dread, because he fucking hates the regular who comes on Wednesdays and he knows they'll be busting down the door as soon as he flicks the lights on. But the rest of it is because he'd found your vest on his couch when he'd turned the lights on to clean up stray popcorn kernels- it must have fallen out of your pocket the further you'd slouched into the cushions. It's your work uniform, and he'd brought it with him just in case you wanted to bound through the doors and reward him for returning it to you with a kiss. Probably not, but he's got it clutched in his fist anyways. It smells really nice, which is something he knows not because he'd smelled it on purpose, but because he'd flung it over his shoulder when leaving the house and a whiff of your perfume had hit him like a wave.

The morning is slow, and Steve suffers through the ramblings of their regular nuisance, but it gives him time to daydream, and he's so convinced that you're the one on the other line when the phone rings that he forgoes his company greeting and just blurts your name into the receiver.

"Y/N?" He asks, and a familiar sarcastic scoff comes from the other end.

"Is that how you answer the phones now?" Robin asks, and Steve rolls his eyes even if it's lost on her.

"Why are you calling your own store?" He asks, and Robin shifts around on the other end, muffling her words.

"What?" Steve asks, and she sighs into the phone like it's his problem.

"I said, Y/N asked me to ask you if she left her vest at your house last night. It's her uniform, she works in an hour."

"Yeah, actually," Steve glances at it under the counter, hope blooming in his chest, "I have it here. I figured she'd need it- tell her to stop by."

"Look at you, thinking ahead!" Robin gushes, and Steve has half a mind to hang up on her, "I'll send her over. Hey- I come in at four, don't leave a mess for me!"

The thirty minutes that it takes you to peel into the Family Video parking lot is agonizing for both parties. Steve's drumming his fingers against the counter, trying to keep them out of his hair that he's fluffed and ruffled ten times over. You're gunning it down the icy Hawkins roads, trying not to die from a car wreck before you get murdered for either showing up to work out of uniform, or showing up late.

The bell above the door jingles when you shove it open, and Steve smacks his thigh on the bottom of the counter in an effort to launch himself to his feet.

"Shit," He hisses, "Hi!"

"Hi," Your eyes flit wildly around the store, "Robin said you had my vest?"

Steve takes it as a good sign that you're talking to him now. But you're not as soft as last night, limbs tense and eyes wild. "Here-" He fumbles for your vest beneath the counter and as soon as it's in sight you snatch it up, halfway out the door before he can even register the way your fingers had brushed against his.

"Thanks!" You call, and Steve tries figuring out as he watches you speed away whether you'd been inside the store for more than thirty seconds, or less.

So definitely no reward kiss, then.

Barely any eye contact, either. You hadn't said anything you didn't need to, no small talk, no questions, no inquiries about movies. You'd run in, taken what you needed, and run back out again, and Steve feels frustration thick in his chest as he sits back down again.

He's really having trouble believing that you don't hate him.

"Rob," Steve scoffs, leftover popcorn ground beneath his teeth, a kernel lodged in his gums, "You don't understand. She ran in, she grabbed it, she ran out."

"And she didn't say anything?" Robin asks, balancing an armful of tapes that need rewinding, "Like, anything at all?"

"She said, 'hi' and 'thanks'." Steve recalls, "Oh- and! 'Robin said you had my vest?'. Seriously! Nothing!"

"She was running late for work, and she was panicked!" Robin shrugs, "I wouldn't read into it. Seriously, she's cool. She might just have to warm up to you like I said. It's not like she had time to chat. But she thanked you this time! And that's gotta mean something." Robin eyes him pointedly, "Don't start to spiral about this. Why does it matter, anyways?"

"Because!" Steve starts too strong, and has to rein himself back in, "Because, Robin, everyone's been talking my ear off about how fun and crazy she is, and whenever I walk into a room it's like someone takes her batteries out! I want to know why!"

"Why, though? Why do you care? Plenty of people in Hawkins don't like you," Robin reminds him, and Steve drops his head into his palm, blocking the light from his eyes.

"Yes, I'm aware. Thank you."

"I'm not saying it to be mean." Robin sighs, abandoning all hope of ever getting any actual work done and setting the tapes on the counter to rub a tentatively soothing hand down Steve's back. Their touches usually consists of punches or shoves, but she can tell the former king needs something nicer right now, "Just- don't let it bother you. Even if she does have some sort of crazy hatred for you, don't worry about it. Sometimes people just aren't gonna like you."

He gives her a despairing look, and one shared glance is all Robin needs.

"Oh, fuck." She declares, and Steve's brows furrow, "This again!"

"What?"

"You!" She gushes, "You fall in love with everyone!"

"What?" He sits ramrod straight on his stool, "What does that have to do with this conversation?"

"That's why you care," She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, "Because a new woman has entered your life and she's neither taken nor gay, so she's gotta be your girlfriend now."

"That's not fair," Steve tries, but it totally is, and Robin nails him with a deadly glare.

"Don't even start with me! Are you forgetting that I counted every swing and miss you committed at Scoops? You're a total player!"

"Not anymore," Steve argues, "I haven't done that in a while, okay? Because it wasn't working for me! And all I was ever really after was a date. You really think I saw my future in Jenny Bates or Christie Langfield? I just wanted to feel like I wasn't the biggest loser in Hawkins!"

"You literally never got one 'yes'." Robin reminds him, and he groans despairingly.

"Yeah, I know. Again, that's why I stopped doing it! And- okay, I have a tendency to crush a lot, I don't know! I like women, sue me! So do you!"

Robin's eyes flash wide; he's got her there.

"But I'm not just asking out everything with boobs anymore, okay? I'm trying to only engage in relationships I think might actually work."

"And you think that's Y/N?" Robin asks, collapsing onto her own stool, deep in thought.

Steve flounders, blushes, "It would- I mean, it'd be nice if it was. I think she's really pretty, and she drives the kids around so I don't have to, and she's- y'know, everyone says she's awesome."

"You don't even know her," Robin glares scrutinizingly at him, "We've had this entire conversation because she's not herself when she's around you."

"Which is why I'm trying to get to know her better! I'm not gonna propose," Steve huffs, "I just- I just want a chance. I want one chance, and I want her to like me."

Robin doesn't speak- not right away. She chews on the info, mulling it over while her eyes are glued to Patrick Swayze on the cover of the tape she'd neglected to rewind. She gnaws at the inside of her cheek, then drags her gaze towards Steve who looks entirely too downcast for her liking.

"Alright." She decides, "I'll help you. If you really mean this, and you're serious, and you're not gonna dump her and totally ruin our group dynamic, I'll try to get intel from her."

"Intel?" He asks, instantly nervous.

"I'm going to her place tomorrow," Robin nods, "We're having a sleepover. And sleepovers are, like, prime 'boy talk' time. I might not have anything to contribute myself, but I can definitely weasel something out of her. I promise," She offers a pinky to Steve, and he takes it with a soft, amused grin, "I'm gonna help you land this one, dingus."

"Y/N," El stares boldly at you from the backseat, meeting your eyes through the rearview mirror, "Why don't you kiss Steve?"

You nearly swerve off of the road, and Max snickers while you regain your composure.

"What?" You ask, and El cautiously explains.

"It said in Max's magazine that girls get shy when they like a boy. And you get very quiet around Steve. And that means you like him, and kissing is what you do when you like someone. So why don't you kiss Steve?"

"I don't get quiet around Steve." You defend yourself despite the heat in your cheeks, "I just don't know him."

"So?" Max scoffs, "You're all extroverted and stuff. It doesn't matter when you meet anyone else. It's just Steve that it happens around. You go dead silent and you stare at him with those ooey-gooey eyes, it's disgusting."

"That's so not true!" You're happy to pull into Max's driveway, the cool winter breeze filtering through the windows, "Now get out, before I lock you in here and torture you with bad music."

The girls fumble for the doors, but Max leans in before she leaves to gloat, "You're so, totally in love with Steve Harrington."

"I don't like Steve!" You shriek, clinging to the lie desperately like it'll come true if you say it with enough fervor.

Max blinks blankly at you. No- she blinks blankly behind you, and your head jerks to the side to see a maroon BMW that makes your heart sink.

Steve Harrington is leaning against it, and he's frozen in his tracks, eyes wide and cheek between his teeth. There's no way he hasn't heard you.

"Wow." Max snorts, and El shuts her door behind her, "What are you doing here, Steve?"

"Uh," He has trouble tearing his gaze away from you, his suspicions confirmed but at what cost? Looking away feels like a breakup, like shutting the door and never coming back, like throwing away a phone number. It feels like being alone, like a too-big empty house and no friends to fill it with. Like having no one that wants to be around him. "Your- your dad called, El, wanted to know if you were getting a ride home from me today or if you'd need one. And I said I could get you, so... so he said you'd probably be at Max's. So I'm here," He trails off, and you grip your steering wheel so tightly that you're surprised it doesn't snap, "And... I can drive you home."

There's got to be a reason. He just doesn't know what it is- maybe there is something wrong with him. Maybe he's unlikeable, like he'd always worried about, and maybe he is just a glorified babysitter. He honestly can't remember the last time Dustin called him to do anything but beg him for a ride, and the fact that he has so few friends his own age that he has to rely on validation from a kid hits him like a semi-truck, nausea rushing to his stomach and roiling there so viciously he pales.

El ducks towards your window before joining Steve, and you fight down your own nausea and rushing blood through your ears to hear her.

"That sounded mean." She notes, "Do you want me to tell him you do like him? And that you want to kiss him?"

"No," You seethe, panic making your heart pound, "Just- go! Go and don't say anything!"

You're really not sure how much worse that could have gone. Of course, the girls were right. Unfortunately, those teeny bopper magazines do have the formula down to a science, and you've been crushing on Steve Harrington since you first saw him wait until Max's seatbelt was buckled before driving out of the school parking lot. You hadn't met him for months, but you'd seen him around, sometimes through the window at family video, sometimes at the gas station filling his car up.

He's undeniably handsome, and the exasperated masquerade that he uses when dealing with the kids doesn't fool you. They're your little friends too, and pairing a pretty face with a heart of gold did you in.

Now, however, that you've gone and ruined everything, you're quite certain you won't get any more chances. You hadn't even been able to work up the courage to actually say anything to him, despite having been in his house, and now you don't have a shot in hell, because he slams his door so hard the car shakes.

El would follow your instructions, but it would be rather rude to ride all the way to Hopper's cabin in Steve's car and not say anything. So she settles into the seat, awkward silence thick in the air as your tires screech against the road, and hums, "She does like you."

"That's-" Steve chokes out a laugh, "That's nice of you, El. Really, thanks, but I don't think there's anything you can say to fix that."

"Really," El's brows furrow, "I read it in a magazine. She likes you." She holds up fingers for each piece of evidence, "She doesn't talk to you, and she talks to everyone! And she avoids you, and she tells people she doesn't like you."

"Yeah- thank you," Steve sighs, his own grip on the wheel tight enough to pale his knuckles as he begins the trip to Hopper's cabin, "Now that you put it that way, things are really looking up for me."

You think you have the salesman beat when you ignore the bell three times, but then Robin Buckley falls through your window with an overnight bag, and you realize you're fucked.

"Oh my god!" You shriek, sinking to the floor to help her, "Oh my god, you- that was you! Shit, you were gonna sleep over," You remember as she rubs her stinging elbow, carpet burn evident on her skin, "Robin, I'm so sorry-"

"Hey, don't worry about it," Any indignation she might have felt is gone as soon as she gets a glimpse of your face, tear-stained a puffy, "What's wrong?"

"What?" You ask, but when you're unable to breathe through your nose you remember, "Oh. Oh, god, don't even ask, I- I can't talk about it."

"Did someone die?" She asks, eyes blown wide.

"No," You snort wetly, "I wish."

"Then we can fix it." She declares primly, her cheeks flushed from her second-story window adventure, "Tell me about it."

You should. You know Robin's closer to Steve than anyone else, and you're sure if you don't tell her now, she'll know the second she gets home and gets a phone call from him. And you don't want to lie to her, so you muscle up the courage to smear a tear off of your cheek and admit, "I fucked up."

"I gathered," She nods at the tissues scattered around your room, "Did you trip and fall and split your pants open? Did you drop your favorite ring down the gutter? Did you use your mom's leg razor on your peach fuzz?" She sticks out a finger to poke at your upper lip and it startles you so much you have to laugh.

Her responding grin is toothy and adorable, and you hope that after everything you tell her tonight, Robin still wants to be your friend.

"I messed up things with..." You breathe, in, out, "Steve."

She pales slightly.

"Steve?" She asks, "What- Steve Harrington?"

"What other Steve do you know?" You narrow your eyes at her, unfairly perhaps, because she's set out to help you, "Of course Steve Harrington."

"Sorry." She shakes her head, tucking her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them as you two huddle on the floor together, "What happened?"

"He overheard me," You begin, a rather kind way to put it considering you'd shouted it to Max's whole neighborhood, "-saying that I didn't like him."

Her eyes dim.

"Oh. You don't- uh, you don't like him?" She asks, her voice forcibly casual, too tight and coiled like a snake about to strike.

"No, that's not-!" You struggle for the words, and accept defeat, "I do. I do like him, I-" You scrub your hand over your face, hiding behind it, "I said it because I was trying to keep it private, but Robin... I like him. Like- romantically. Maybe."

She's never been more grateful in her life than she is right now, because the way you're avoiding her gaze means you can't see the blinding grin she's sporting.

"Okay," She muscles it down, treading lightly, "Okay, so you like him! Who could blame you, what a guy!" She exclaims, reaching for your arms and tugging them away from your face, "I mean, he's got a nice car, he's got a steady job, he's got hair that's a foot tall- what else does a girl need!"

"Courage!" You wail, "I need to put on my big girl panties, apparently, because every time I'm around him it's like I'm all sweaty and nervous and blubbery," You recall the movie night where you'd absorbed maybe half of the dialogue, and even less of the plot, "He- like, drives me crazy or something. I'm a total loser around him," You despair, "And now he thinks I hate him!"

She neglects to inform you that he'd thought that from the beginning. It won't help. But she will, and she squeezes your hands with so much excitement they might bruise come morning.

"Okay, so, he heard you say something unflattering. But that doesn't mean he'll shoot you the next time he sees you! We can fix this!" She swears, "I'll call him right now, and you can-"

"No!" You gush, horrified, "Do not call him!"

"You have to fix this!" She moves her hands from your shoulders, shaking them violently, "You have to tell him!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes! You have to, I told him I'd help!"

Your brows furrow, and you push Robin's hands off of you.

"Help with what?"

Several silent seconds later, you snap, "Robin, now's not the time to develop the ability to shut your mouth. Open it, and tell me what you're talking about."

She groans low in her throat, "Fine. We were kind of sort of talking about you yesterday, and he was telling me that you seemed like maybe you weren't crazy about him. So today definitely didn't help," She reasons, "But the only reason he even cared about your opinion of him is 'cause he likes you too! Romantically," She gives you a suave smirk, "So call him, and tell him you didn't mean it, and then kiss!"

"You sound like El," You try griping at her, but the giddiness you feel at her words is undeniable. You're smiling, cheeks burning, chest heaving like you're a lovesick fool. "He really said that?"

"Oh yeah." She nods, tongue jabbing into her inner cheek, "We had a whole fight about it."

She reaches for your phone, finger spinning the dialer so fast she's not even sure she's hit the right numbers. She keeps it pressed to her ear, soothing your nerves with a hand on your knee.

"It's fine," She whispers when the line rings three times, "He's probably peeing or something."

"Oh." Your nose scrunches, and she eyes you pointedly.

"Hey, get used to it. You're about to get a boyfriend."

You shrug, the b-word igniting another wave of elation through you.

He doesn't answer.

"Okay," She hums, dialing again, "He's listening to really loud music, maybe?"

The third time, she guesses that he's taking a walk around the block.

"One more time," She speaks through gritted teeth, "Come on, Harrington."

"Hello?" A lazy voice answers.

"Steve!" She cheers, "Hey, are you busy?"

"No," He drawls, and her brows furrow, inching closer together, "No, I'm not busy. I'm never busy! Not unless someone needs a ride from me!"

"Are you drunk, Steve?" She asks, sharing a worried glance with you.

"Yep," He laughs, "Yeah, because- because why not? Because it's not like there's anyone around to stop me. I don't have any friends," He gripes, "Not besides you, and you're only still hanging out with me because we got tied together and drugged last summer!"

"You got what?" You ask, head rearing backwards.

"Later," Robin hisses, slamming the phone back to her ear, "Steve, listen to me, you're spiraling. You have tons of friends-"

"Yeah, that are all twelve years old." Steve's words run together, unsteady like you're sure he is on his feet, "Which is a great look for me. And nobody likes me, and I don't know why, because I'm trying so hard to be nice and good now, but nothing's working, so I'm drinking instead. And that's at least fun," He chuckles dryly, and your heart feels like it's being squeezed to the verge of pulverization, "Because when I lay on the floor, it feels like I'm spinning."

"Okay," Robin chirps, alarmingly cheery, "Stay on the floor, Steve. Don't drive anywhere, just stay there and spin around."

"Will do," He rasps dryly, "Buh-bye."

The line goes dead, and you share a petrified look with her.

"Let's go," You decide, springing to your feet, and she grins, racing after you.

"Hell yeah! Let's go." She grabs your keys and tosses them to you, "Are you squeamish around puke?"

"Why?" You stop dead in your tracks, so she beats you to your car."

"He's a lightweight," Robin reveals, her lips puffing out in a pout, "Come on! No time to waste."

You steel yourself against vomit, and speed to Steve's house.

It's just as ridiculously large as you remember it. You'd been so caught up in ogling the inside when you'd been here a few days ago that you hadn't remembered the outside much, but it's foreboding and empty with all of the lights off. You picture Steve laying alone in the dark, puking on the carpet, and you beeline for the front door.

"Ah-ah-ah," Robin grabs your elbow, tugging you to the side gate, "He always leaves this one open in case I stop by when he's out."

She holds open a sliding door for you, and you try not to stare at the gorgeous pool the opposite direction. You're here to help Steve, and if all goes well, you'll make it a point to have a pool party afterwards.

"Steve?" Robin calls, traipsing through the dark rooms and flicking lights on as she goes, "Steve, where are you?"

"Robin?" He answers, and you veer left to follow the sound of his garbled speech, "You- s'that you Rob? You come to- are you here my... house?"

You're the one that finds him, flat on his back in the bathroom, a trash can just out of reach. His head is pressed up against the bathtub, and you hope he hadn't hit it on the way to the floor.

"Steve," You breathe, and you wonder if Robin's on her way.

Steve's head shoots up, but the rest of him doesn't. He blinks blearily at you, neck craned, brows pinched in confusion, "Y/N?"

Then, he pukes.

You're quick enough to see it coming, but not quick enough to ensure there's no damage done. He coughs first, and you bolt for the trash can, but there's definitely going to be a stain on his shirt from the few precious nanoseconds you'd lagged in stuffing the can under his chin.

"Oh, fuck," You grunt, steeling yourself against your own queasiness at the sight and sound and smell, "Oh, Steve, how much did you drink?"

"I followed the sounds of retching," Robin declares, appearing behind you in the doorway, her mouth set in a firm grimace as Steve hurls into the bin you're still holding for him, "Well, look on the bright side. Romantic!"

"Robin," You hiss, and Steve hangs his head over the mouth of the trash can for ten seconds after he finishes puking, just to make sure there's nothing left. He dry heaves, but there's simply nothing else in his stomach, and you sympathize with the knotting his gut must be doing right now, uncomfortable and tight.

He groans, throaty and open-mouthed and pathetic. It's really the only sound that sums up the situation, and you wholeheartedly agree.

"Is there more?" You ask, and your voice comes out sweet and kind, doting, even, "Or do you want to go to bed?"

"Bed." He whines, head hanging even when you set the trash can aside, "It's so far."

"Walk with me, Harrington." Robin offers her arm, eyeing the puke stain on his shirt warily, "Just- don't try to give me a hug or anything."

You watch as Robin helps pull Steve off of the floor, giving him time to adjust to his new orientation before he starts barfing again. They inch towards the stairs and Robin calls back towards you, "Get water and pills! Meet us there, first door on the left."

You set off towards the kitchen, hands trembling as you root through the cabinets.

You feel ridiculously guilty.

Evidently you've sent Steve into some existential crisis about how no one likes him. That might honestly be the worst case scenario, the greatest fumble in the history of dating. Your heart gets choked out again as you think about Steve racing home and raiding the liquor cabinet, desperate to distract himself from his big empty house and from his own self-loathing.

You tuck two aspirin into your palm and fill a glass of water to the brim, making your way to Steve's bedroom.

It's... plaid.

Monstrously so, wallpaper and comforter and lampshade and curtains and rug. It's hideous, but you'll look past it for now. Later- if this miraculously works out, you're buying him some new drapes.

"There we go, big boy," Robin congratulates, propping him up shirtless against his headboard and dropping his stained shirt in the laundry, "Y/N brought you some medicine for tomorrow, and some water!"

"Y/N," He mumbles, eyes closed, head still hung, "Why's Y/N here? She- she doesn'even like me."

"That's my cue," Robin smiles sweetly, backing towards the door, "Hurry, before he crashes!"

"Steve," You step warily towards his bed, hearing the door click shut behind Robin, "Can I sit with you?"

"Yeah, sure," He breathes, his voice dull and lifeless, "I'on'care."

You purse your lips as you sit down, spotting a smear of puke on his chin.

"You're a little pukey, Steve." You note, "Do you want to brush your teeth?"

"I can't." He moans, "Bathroom's too far. And my arms don't work."

You march in, retrieve toothpaste and toothbrush and trash can, and march back out.

"Okay," You squeeze the toothpaste onto the bristles, wetting it with a splash of water from the glass you'd filled, "Open up, Steve."

"Huh?" He asks, finally lifting his head. You reach for his jaw, and he watches you with a dazed expression, his eyes half-lidded and dilated as he stares up at you.

"Open," You thumb across his lips, and they part to breathe a sigh onto the pad of your finger.

He widens his mouth, and you get to brushing.

You hadn't realized how awkward it is to brush someone else's teeth. But it's Steve, and he's narrowly avoided drinking himself to death because of you, so you scrub like he's about to see the dentist.

"Tongue," You say, "Show me your tongue."

He sticks it out, and foamy drool drips off of it into the trash can you'd stuffed beneath his chin again.

You scrub his tongue, and fight to keep it extended when he decides it feels weird and retracts it again.

"Steve, you've still got vomit back there." You coax him with another stroke to his jawline, "Stick your tongue out again."

"Why are you doing this?" He moans, but he does as he's told, and you ponder your response as you scrub away at his poor taste buds.

"Rinse," You hum quietly, holding the glass of water to his lips. When he's cleaned and rinsed and spit and swallowed you drop the trash can beside the bed, foreseeing a very nauseous morning in his future.

"I'm doing this because," You finally answer, "I don't- not like you. I don't dislike you, I like you," You insist, unable to stop yourself from guiding his upper body to the mattress and dragging the blankets up beneath his chin, "I was just embarrassed because Max was teasing me, so I said I didn't. And I said it loud, and you heard, and now we're here and you're going to have the hangover of a lifetime all week."

"Why was Max teasing you?" He asks groggily, a yawn eclipsing his features before they smooth again. You sigh, eyeing his hair and fighting to stop yourself from running your fingers through it to elicit a sleepy sigh from the man.

"Because I like you," You repeat, "Like- romantically. Maybe."

His brows raise.

"Romantically? That's-" He laughs, a puff of air from his chest, "'Cause, I like you, romantically. For sure."

"Yeah?" You can't help but grin, squeezing his hand when it erupts from the blankets in search of yours, "Good. I hope you still like me even after you heard me today. I'm sorry," You cringe, relishing the way his palm fits against yours, "I'm really sorry, Steve, I feel awful."

"No, I feel awful," He mumbles, "I've got- I'm drunk. But you- don't feel bad. We can- oh," HIs eyes widen, then scrunch shut, and he rips his hand out of yours to drag it down his face, "Oh, no."

"What? Steve," You reach for the bucket on instinct, "What's wrong?"

"I'm gonna forget this," He wails, "I'm gonna forget this in the morning because I'm stupid and drunk and you're not gonna tell me again because you're gonna run off and avoid me like you always do."

"Steve," You wince, "No, no that's- that's not what's gonna happen. I mean," You eye him carefully, "I'm pretty sure you're gonna forget this. But I'll tell you, I swear. And if I didn't," You reason, "Robin would. You know she almost shook me to death earlier trying to get me to confess to you? She wouldn't let me run away again. And," You sigh, "I'm sorry for running away earlier today. I was just embarrassed, and scared. You're a really good guy, and it's not your fault that I was afraid."

"Robin'll tell me," He nods along, and you wonder if he's absorbed any other information you've presented him with. But it doesn't matter, because it's a conversation better suited for tomorrow than tonight. And you'll have it- you will tell him, and he'll tell you, too, and you'll... kiss, hopefully.

It's an exciting prospect, kissing Steve. You're glad the feeling in your stomach is butterflies and not barf, and you stand up to re-smooth the covers around Steve's drowsy form.

"Go to sleep, Steve." You croon, "You'll need it, as much as you can get. And tomorrow, you can call me." You snag a pen and paper from his desk, "I'm leaving my phone number right here. Call me, and I'll come over, and we can talk."

"Y'swear?" He asks, squinting suspiciously at you. It's endearing, his eyes narrowed and his cheeks flushed.

You nod like a bobblehead, "I swear, Steve." You offer him a pinky, and his teeth gleam in the low light of his bedroom when he grins, hooking his around yours.

"I'm tired," He announces, dragging his arm back under the blankets, and he's out in no more than five seconds as you pad quietly towards the door.

Robin's sitting on the top step. She turns when she hears you, and springs to her feet, "He's out?"

"He's out." You nod.

"You told him?" She asks, her eyes shining.

"I told him," You confirm, your own smile growing, "And I left my number, so he can call me tomorrow."

"And you'll tell him again," She leads you down the stairs, "Because he's probably gonna wake up with no memory of us even being here."

"I know," You laugh softly, "He told me the same thing. But yeah, I'll tell him again," You promise, "And if things really work out, again. And again, and again, and again, 'cause I really do think I like him a ton. I wouldn't brush just anyone's teeth."

"That is intense," Robin nods, accompanying you back out the side gate and crunching gravel beneath her feet as she heads for your car, "But it's cute, in a gross way. Romantic, maybe."

"Yeah," You grin, glancing back at Steve's dark window as you tug open your car door, "Maybe."

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

[laufeysvalentine]

10/10 INCREDIBLE amazing perfect. only thing that could make it even more perfect would be getting more of them 🥹🥹

[sincerelystarry]

if its not too vague could u just talk about like. cuddling. steve harrington. i want to hug him really really really bad. or just like physical affection with him even. idk i just think he needs to be shown love. THANK YOU

steve is so. large. mmmmmmmmm. yeahh. cuddling w him is such a dream bc he’s like your own personal giant teddy bear it’s actually so blessed. and it helps that he like. LOVES cuddling. 

steve harrington is touch starved as hell. as a little kid, he was always clinging onto his mother. hiding behind her skirts at parties, latched onto her leg or balanced on her hip at grocery stores. he was made to sleep in his own room when he started kindergarten at age 5, but always managed to sneak his way into his parents’ bedroom in the middle of the night.

but then he was forced to grow up. his dad would lock the door at night, his mom stopped kissing him goodbye whenever he left for school and wouldn’t welcome him with a hug when he came home anymore. it was all so abrupt and sudden. one day he was loved, happily running into his mother’s arms when she came to pick him up from school, the next day, he was coming home on the bus to an empty house and cold food on the stove with instructions on how to heat it written on a post it note. 

steve harrington doesn’t really ask when he wants to hold you. not verbally at least, mostly because he’s never learned how. instead, during group movie nights, he’ll inch a bit closer to you so he can get the popcorn. he’ll stretch out and his arm will end up wrapped around your shoulder. he’ll press up against you so you can both fit under the small blanket. he’ll pick a piece of lint off of your pants and his hand will stay on your thigh. 

when you’re over at his place, alone and up in his room, sex is never the first thing he wants. he’ll just want to lay there, your head tucked under his chin with your back pressed up against his bare chest. he wants you as comfortable as possible but craves the feeling of skin to skin, so will ask for you to have your shirt off as often as possible. 

even if you want to keep your shirt on, his hands creep under, splayed over your stomach or reaching up to grope at your chest. it’s not in a sexual way, at least that’s not how he means it to come off. the warmth of your skin, the slight weight of your tit in his palm, is almost calming to him in a way. he’ll just… hold. no squeezing or teasing, his hand will just rest there until his breathing evens out and he falls asleep, pressed up against you like you’re his life source.

steve harrington masterlist — taglist 🏷️ : @classclowns @liz140569 @challengers4ev @emdure @cupidsblonde @stevetheharringtonsfamousgf @cherishyunah

[harringtonsugar]

this shaggy hair on him is his best look and i’m not taking any criticism on that

[luveline]

𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫? | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary steve finds out that falling in love can be really, really easy. you find out what it’s like when somebody wants to take care of you [10.5k]

warnings fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining, getting together, dustins next-door neighbour!reader, sick fic, hurt/comfort, reader is implied to weigh more than nancy, you’re upset one time and steve goes overboard, small s4 spoilers no major plot details, post s3 pre s4, feat. the lunch club, karaoke, rollerblading, sunbathing

𓆩❤︎𓆪

A vast green jungle, so damp the forest floor bathes your ankles in rainwater runoff. The air is thick with humidity and smells green. Earthy, the sweet scent of petrichor tickles your nose, and- 

A shadow distends over the yellow pages of your paperback, dark, eating up the image of the amazon and replacing it with reality – a normal summer's day in Hawkins. 

Steve Harrington stands in front of you, his body blocking the sun and its warm glow. The light throws a halo around his head and turns the ends of his brown hair golden. 

"Watcha reading?" he asks in lieu of ‘hello’.

"Ever read Journey to the Center of the Earth?" you ask him, leaning towards him invitingly. 

You love to mess with him like this, watch his cheeks slowly pink as you bend towards your knees with a demure smile playing on your lips. 

"Yeah, I did. In middle school," he says, trying his best to play it cool, hands pushing deep into the pockets of his pants. 

"Well, it's nothing like that." 

The grin he gets when he realises you're messing with him is adorable. He chuckles warmly and pulls a hand through his hair, looking down at the ground and then up at you again with a bashful pinch to his thick eyebrows.

"You're looking for Dustin?" you ask. You haven't seen your young neighbour since this morning. "He ran off earlier with his huge radio thing." 

Steve rolls his eyes. "Typical. I paid him fifteen dollars," he says, his frustration clear, "fifteen dollars, Y/N, to fix my Walkman like three weeks ago. Every time I come by he's out. Little shit probably hasn't even looked at it." 

You like Steve. He's a great looking guy who's more than nice when he sees you even though you're always pushing his buttons, and his poorly hidden fondness for Dustin is something you find heart-squeezingly attractive. You don't think twice about your next move. 

You stand up from your lounger and have to shield your eyes from the sun, tucking your book under your naked arm. "If you want… I have a cassette player I'm not using. I got a Walkman for my birthday." You don't give him an opportunity to say no as you start for the front door. 

"Are you sure?" Steve asks. You hold the door open for him, standing at the threshold with a grin. 

"Positive. It's collecting dust, at this point." 

"I mean, sure, if that's cool. Just until Dustin gets his act together," he says, pushing past you. His hand brushes your hip. 

"That's cool," you confirm, walking behind him through your open kitchen and living room. "It's on the left." 

Steve pushes into your bedroom. The window's open, breezing around the smell of fresh linens and the hydrangeas in the planter on your sill, shifting the gauzy white curtains. 

The suncatcher hanging from the window sprays rainbow kisses over your walls and posters, your laundry basket full of summer dresses and discarded night shirts. The carpet is freshly vacuumed and plush underfoot as you beeline for your desk. Steve hovers by the door before leaning his weight against your bookshelf, eyes taking it in curiously. 

"Cyndi Lauper," Steve says, eyes on a big poster of said singer with her iconic orange hair and hat. You raise your eyebrows at him, pleased, and he shrugs. "She's famous." 

"You like her?" 

"Nah," he says. "But I'll listen to anything. Except Depeche Mode; sharing a player with Robin all summer has sailed that boat." 

"Yeah?" you ask, kneeling down in front of your desk to dig through the cabinet underneath. You frown, up to your elbow in bric a brac and forgotten trinkets. "It's in here somewhere." 

"Yeah. I mean, maybe not anything. I don't think I have the palate for some of those rock and roll bands. Dustin made me listen to Black Scabbard in the car last week and…"

"Black Sabbath," you correct lightly, pulling out of your cupboard with a relieved huff. 

"Right," he says. 

You look over your shoulder to find him perusing your bookshelf, his hand running lightly over the shiny glass paper weight you use as a book end. He teases the spine of a hardback book curiously but must feel your gaze, turning to you with a sheepish smile. 

"Do you like to read?" you ask. 

Steve wrings his hands held at his hip. "Sure, I don't mind it. Bigger fan of movies." 

"Right, Family Video must get pretty distracting," you say, walking towards him on light footing to offer the dinged-up cassette player. "She's well loved but she works, I swear." 

He takes it from you, fingers brushing the backs of yours. "Thank you." 

You shift from one foot to the other — because oh my god there's a boy in my room — before smiling with teeth. You stop. "You're welcome. Want a drink?" 

"Uh…" 

"I've got pink lemonade." 

"Oh, then definitely." 

You lead him into the kitchen and install him at the kitchen table with two empty glasses. The carafe of lemonade is beautifully cold from the refrigerator with slices of lemon and strawberry bouncing around the top as you pour it. The condensation wets your fingers. 

Steve looks handsome and maybe slightly silly behind your homely oak table, all clean cut and well dressed. You feel bare beside him in your tank top and flowy midi skirt, too much skin. 

"Are you hungry? I make a mean BLT," you say, bringing your feet up onto the chair, knees digging into the table. 

"I'm good, thanks," he says. 

"Are you having a good time of it at FV? They denied my application, but that's 'cos Keith has a vendetta against me for wiping out his score on the Palace's Tempest." 

"You're a Tempest girl?" 

"Everybody plays Tempest," you say. 

Steve gives you a look. "Nerds play Tempest." 

"Fine, every nerd plays Tempest," you allow, rolling your eyes. "Lemme guess, you're a Centipede guy. No, worse! You play Pac-Man. I can tell."

His silence is enough to make you giggle in triumph, elated to have sussed him out so quickly.  

"How did you know that?" he asks finally. 

"You called Black Sabbath 'Black Scabbard'. You're not a nerd." 

"I could be." 

"But you're not." 

You share a steady look over the table. His eyes are bright with mirth, a sleek brown like fresh brewed coffee. You love the shape of them, deepest with the round under eye blanketed in straight black lashes. A red polo stretches across his chest. You find your eyes drawn down the length of his arm to his hand where he's drawing circles around the rim of his glass. He takes it into his hand and you watch his wrist bend, his arm flex as he brings the cup to his lips and a drop of condensation drips onto the table mat. 

"I don't look the type?" he asks after a rough swallow. He sounds almost incensed. 

"No, of course you don't. King Steve," you croon. 

He crosses his arms across his chest and leans back, looking you up and down showfully. "Neither do you." 

He's all charming smiles as he raises his chin and shakes his head, lips stretched up in an open-mouthed smile. 

"Tempest," he mutters in bemusement.

You burst into laughter, quick to defend yourself when there's a pounding knock at the door. You're still laughing as you stand, calling to Steve as you walk to the door, "Tempest isn't even that nerdy! It's the Dragon's Lair dorks you need to watch out for. Oh, hi baby. What's wrong?" 

"You haven't seen Steve, have you? His cars outside," Dustin announces, standing under the porch with his wild curls stuffed under a hat, his pulley cart ditched halfway between your yard and his.

"He's in the kitchen. You want some lemonade? You look frazzled," you offer, brushing your hand over his sunburned shoulder lightly as he scoots right past you.

"Thanks, Y/N." Dustin strides into the kitchen with purpose, glaring at Steve pretty heavily as he takes your seat at the table. "Why are you here?" 

"Fucking charming. I came to see you, Henderson, but you're never home. Too busy finding secluded knolls to radio your girlfriend and play karaoke." 

"Dick," Dustin says, though he defrosts as you fill a glass for him. 

"What do you want?" Steve asks him. 

"Why do you assume I want something?" 

"Don’t be coy, you're not Madonna. It's tacky." 

"Dick," Dustin says again, glaring. 

"Dustin, do you want something to eat? You shouldn't go out in the sun all day by yourself, you know? What if you get heat stroke?" you ask. 

Steve gives you a strange look like he's puzzled with you. You smile back at him, hand coming down on the back of Dustin's chair easily. 

"Steve, I need a ride to Mike's," Dustin says, completely ignoring you.

Steve kicks him under the table. "Manners." 

"Can I please have a ride-" 

"To her, dipshit. Jeez, what's wrong with you? She asked if you're hungry." 

Dustin beams at you innocently, soft cheeks rounding. "No thank you Y/N you're a godsend and I appreciate you very much," he says all in a rush, turning back to Steve, the act entirely dropped. "Now can we go?" 

"Christ, fine. I'm gonna get you one of those rewards cards for being a shithead. This incident would be a double stamp, by the way." 

"Uh-huh," Dustin says. 

The younger teen chugs his glass of lemonade and spins off, calling a thank you over his shoulder. Steve gets up to follow him, your old cassette player held carefully in his hands. 

"I'm sorry about him." 

"Don't be. I've known him his entire life. He's in a phase," you inform him with a small grin, shrugging as if to say, what you gonna do? 

"Long phase. Thank you. For the player and the lemonade." 

"You're welcome," you say warmly, walking him to the door. 

Dustin's already in the passenger seat, having taken his pulley cart back inside. He makes a hurry up motion from behind his window and Steve mutters expletives to himself, giving you one last smile before he trudges off. 

The two boys wave at you through the windshield. You wave back.

When Steve's car has winked from view you take your lemonade and paperback outside again to lie under what's left of the sun. You try your best to fall back into the jungle and conjure its sights and sounds, only you keep finding your thoughts wrapped up around a certain boy's laugh and the face he makes as he does, that startled grin, a fist half raised to his mouth. 

-

"Y/N!" A familiar teen voice accompanied by battering knocking at your front door. 

You pull it open, still in your pajamas, hair a mess. His knocking had woken you up. You'd had about ten seconds to check you hadn't drooled too violently in your sleep before he was calling your name, and so you hadn't bothered getting dressed. 

You wish you had. Dustin stood at the door with Steve Harrington behind him, a happy smile on both their faces. 

You try not to flinch as you throw an arm across your chest subconsciously. "Hi?" you ask. "Is everything okay?" 

Dustin's dressed for the beautiful weather in shorts and a shirt with sleeves so short it may as well be a tank top, a hat perched familiarly over his cute curls. Steve is dressed in a tormenting pair of jeans paired with a denim jacket. Double denim. He looks hot, physically and figuratively. 

"Do you wanna come skating?" Dustin asks urgently. 

You blink at him, pulling the edges of your strappy vest down to cover your navel, plaid bottoms low on your hips – you're a mess.  

"Skating? I don't have one." 

"A skateboard?" Dustin asks, shrugging. "Bring your rollerblades." 

You err at the door, leaning your weight against it as you think. "When?" 

"Now!" he says.

"I don't want to hold you up," you say, aimed more towards Steve than Dustin. 

Steve smiles, hooking cheeks pink with the heat, and is about to talk when Dustin says, "He made me come ask you, he's fine to wait." 

You bite back a smirk at Steve's deer-in-the-headlights expression and nod happily. "Alright. Twenty minutes and I'll be ready. If that's okay?" 

"Totally," Steve says. 

You close the door most of the way and catch a look over his shoulder, finding his pretty friend Robin in one seat and a gaggle of Dustin's friends in the back.

You hear a sharp thwarping sound as you spin away followed by a "What the fuck, dude?" from Dustin and hope that he hasn't tripped over one of your flower pots. You get ready and spend at least ten minutes worrying after your appearance in the mirror before grabbing the skates and jetting into the kitchen. You gather as many impromptu snacks you can find and shove them into a grocery bag, struggling to lock the door behind you in want of a free hand. 

Steve jumps out of the driver's side to open the side door for you. You smile gratefully and dump the snacks and your skates in the footwell before climbing in, an empty seat between you and Dustin’s redheaded friend.

You're saved from the awkwardness of seeing people you've met but don't quite know by their ongoing debate, something about which Bruce Springsteen song is best. 

“It’s obviously Dancing in the Dark. I don’t really know why we’re still talking about this,” Robin says from the passenger seat.

“You’re just saying that because it’s his most popular,” the girl next to you says.

“Things are popular for a reason.” Robin shrugs. 

“Yeah, Max. Plus, popular or not, it’s his best.”

Max scrunches up her entire face. “Better than I’m on Fire?”

There’s a long pause where each child deliberates. Dustin and Mike dissolve into fierce looks. 

“Nobodies talking about Born in the USA,” Steve says into the quiet, eyes on the road but head tilted back.

“Shut up, Steve,” Mike says, looking as exhausted as he usually does when you’ve seen him coming in and out of Dustin’s. Though it's been a while, he hasn't changed. Perpetually done with people's shit. 

“Disrespectful,” Steve murmurs. His eyes flash to the rear view, catching you red-handed as you stare at him. “What do you think?” 

“About what?”

“About Springsteen."

You consider him, his smile, his gaggle of cruel children. “I like Born in the USA,” you say nonchalantly.

“That’s two points,” Steve says triumphantly.

The skatepark is pretty busy because of the good weather. You and Steve end up unpacking your snacks onto a blanket Robin lays out whilst the boys go look for their friend Lucas, who's supposedly already here. 

Max doesn't seem pleased with this revelation, sitting down heavily by Steve's picnic basket. Steve offers her a PB&J from the basket and a cold caprisun and she perks up, but not a lot. You want to spend time with Steve, you're not disillusioned into thinking you're anything but a flower under his attention, blooming and wanting, but Max's sad eyes get the better of you. 

Too late for introductions, you dive straight in. “What’s in the Walkman?” you ask, nodding at the player sticking out of her jacket pocket, the foam padded headphones around her neck. 

“Wild Things Run Fast, Joni Mitchell.” It sounds like a question. 

You’ve struck gold immediately. “I love Joni Mitchell! Have you heard her new stuff?”

Max seems alarmed and happy at once, red messy braids swaying as she lifts her chin. “I mean, only what they’ve played on the radio.”

“Her album came out this October, Dog Eat Dog? I have the cassette if you wanna borrow it. It’s amazing.”

“Really?” she asks. She’s peeling the crusts off of her sandwich, one side at a time, dropping them into the small pile of discarded Saran Wrap. 

“For sure. You’ve heard Shiny Toys?” Max nods. “It’s all as good as that one. Seriously.”

“Awesome,” she says, taking a huge bite of her sandwhich. 

You realise you might’ve come on a little strong and try to backtrack into cool territory again, hand brushing Steve’s ankles as you lean away from the poor girl, smiling sheepishly. 

“My mom loves Joni Mitchell,” Robin says.

“Robin," Steve chides lightly.

“What?” 

You and Steve share a look that’s so familiar it gives you pins and needles in your hands, something small between the two of you clicking into place. Or at least that’s how you feel.

Max has almost finished her sandwich by the time Mike returns. “Are you ready?” he asks her.

She clambers onto her feet and grabs her skateboard from behind Steve. The two walk away, a distance from Dustin and Lucas, who both seem to have acquired a pair of skates each. Dustin in knee pads and a helmet, Lucas without. 

“Why would you say Max listens to mom music?” Steve asks incredulously once they’re out of hearing distance. 

Robin shakes her head, similarly incensed. “I didn’t say that.”

“There were so many other things you could’ve said, Robs.” He sounds less mad and more pitying. 

"I didn't say that! I said my mom listens to her. She does!" 

"Don't take offense. Robin got dropped as a baby," Steve says to you offhandedly. 

You know the best course of action here and you take it – in what world would you make an enemy of a boy you might like's best friend who is a girl? Not this one. Plus, Robin seems super nice. 

"I'm not offended. My mom loves Joni too," you say cheerily, smiling at Robin, unabashed.

You're slightly disappointed when she looks away towards her lap, until she says, "Projections a bad look on you, Harrington. He has, like, a flat head," she tells you.

Steve starts yammering loudly. "Shut up! My head's perfect, you're being ridiculous. Perfectly round and ordinary, thank you." 

"Yeah, I'd definitely say your head's perfectly round," you agree through giggles, reaching for your skates.

You have a funny feeling that a silent conversation is happening as you slide off your shoes and into the skates, lacing up tight, but when you look up Robin's sifting through the accumulated snack pile and Steve's looking the opposite way, towards the kids. 

You clear your throat. "Are you guys gonna skate too?"

"Steve is." 

"I didn't bring-" 

"He's borrowing mine. It's too hot, I can't skate. And I don't have the coordination, anyway."

Steve looks at Robin, at you, Robin again. "I'm not good," he says. You take it for yes. 

Steve gets on his skates and straps out of his denim jacket, exposing the distracting lengths of his arms. He's better than he gives himself credit for, steady on his feet. He knows how to stop and start, and you smile to yourself when the two of you skate off towards Dustin and Lucas, following their journey around the skate park, careful to stay clear of the bowls and rails. 

"You're good! You said you weren't good!" you say to him. 

"I'm not good." 

"You're doing great!" 

He smiles gratefully, the expression at home over his warm features. He's not really a very smiley guy, you've realised, his lips often pulled up into a grimace or a cruel approximation of a smile, sarcastic. It suits him. You go to say as much, eyes eating up every little detail of him. 

"Hey Steve? You should-" and your foot pops over a rock. 

You shriek and throw your arm out towards him. Steve catches you with impressive strength and speed as your leg buckles. You've quickly righted yourself and he brings you to a slow but not quite stop. Stopping on skates is easier said than done, especially old skates with the front guards already worn down. 

"Are you okay?" he asks. 

You've taken his hand without thinking, the two of you widening apart and then coming together like the eclipse of a blinking eye. 

You pull your hand away apologetically, the warmth of his palm lingering. 

"I'm sorry!" you say. 

"Don’t be. Last thing I wanna do is have you crack your head open on my watch. I’m glad you didn’t wipe out." 

"Thanks to you." 

You slow and stop. Steve does the same, the two of you clumsy for different reasons. He watches as you calm your racing heart. 

"Shit, I really thought I was gonna fall. You're a lifesaver." You stare straight into his eyes, their sunlight honey brown, smiling with complete genuineness. He's more than pretty. "Thank you." 

Steve swallows and his smile is warmer, somehow, impossibly warmer. Maybe it's the beautiful weather, maybe it's the beautiful boy. You suddenly feel very, very hot. 

"I think I might need to sit down." 

"Oh, shit," he says, reaching for your arm. You're about to correct his touching – you're not dizzy, just a little nauseous. Only, his hand. His fingers clasped around your elbow, his face fiercely protective. 

You let him guide you back to the picnic blanket. One hand around your elbow, the other behind your sun-warmed back, and somehow his hand is the hottest spot. 

"Are you okay?" Robin asks, shielding her eyes from the sun. The book in her lap slips shut as she straightens. 

"She's okay," Steve says. “Too hot. Budge up." 

Robin moves over on the blanket and throws the basket open. Steve reaches in for a capri sun and passes it to you. It's lukewarm, though the day is so hot it's a relief to drink it. 

"Steve's really good," you tell her after a noisy suck, the orange plastic straw stabbing your lip. You frown down at it.

"I saw you guys whizzing around. Public menaces, both of you," Robin says, though she smiles as she does. You know she's joking. You don't want to think it in case it's not true, but you feel like maybe she wants to be friends. 

"We prefer speed demons," Steve says easily, still kneeling at your side. 

"They should lock you up." 

You snort and almost squirt juice from your nose, spluttering and coughing as you bend at the waist. Steve pats your back less than gently and then more so as you move your hand towards him. 

"I'm okay," you cough, embarrassed at how you must look hacking your lungs out. 

Steve's hand, again on your back, rubs a stern line. "Chill out, Y/N. You can't die before dinner." 

"We're getting McDonald's," Robin supplies. 

"Don't tell the kids," he says, smirking. 

He's still rubbing your back. You suspect you might agree to anything while he's this close. 

"You sound like such a dad when you say shit like that." 

Steve scowls at Robin's words and pulls his hands away, crossing them over his chest. "Don't say that. Babysitter is more than enough, don't you think? Y/N?" 

"An older brother?" you suggest to Robin's extreme delight. 

She laughs. Steve scrubs at his face with both hands until his eyes are red. 

-

Robin's sick and Steve's going crazy by himself, manning the desk at FV with almost no energy and even less enthusiasm. A week since he'd held your hand and he can't seem to stop thinking about it. 

He catches himself staring at his own empty palm and clenches his fist, bringing his eyes back to the door in case someone walks in and he has to pull off the headphones of your borrowed cassette player. 

Steve had discovered a forgotten cassette inside, listening to it out of curiosity the night you'd given him the player and then every night since then. He felt guilty about keeping it without saying anything but he was only borrowing it, he reasoned. He'd give it back when Dustin fixed his skipping Walkman.  

The tape was Van Halen II. And Steve's not stupid, he knows who Van Halen are, but he's never sat and listened through any of their full albums. Now he can't stop, constantly rewinding back to the same song, over and over. 

He does so now, fingers clumsy and too big over small buttons until the first line kicks in, powerful and high energy like a burst of fresh air. 

Have you seen her?

So fine and pretty.

He grins as it plays, thinking of you instantly. Your smile and your legs, the wind whipping at your skirt and exposing stretches of skin he can't stop remembering. You on your rollerblades, the second time after an emergency PB&J, skating in front of him without looking behind you. 

"Don't let me crash into someone, okay?" you'd asked, swaying from one side to the other as you shifted your weight. 

"It'll be too late to stop you if I see someone! Turn around!" he'd demanded, though his fondness had peeked through. 

You'd thrown your hands out. "You'll have to steer me!" 

And so he'd grabbed your hands and you'd laughed like a fool as you skated together, squealing through close calls and bumpy ground. 

He thinks of your hands in his, their weight and size, the magnetic pulse he'd felt between them, how happy you'd seemed to be with him. 

He was harbouring a crush on you. Too old to deny what it feels like to want a pretty girl, Steve wonders if this is entirely a good idea – letting himself like you when the possibility of rejection feels high. You are, as Dustin had promised him, out of Steve's league. "Don't try your luck, dude." 

Steve thought for a second that his thinking about you had summoned your image, your easy walk and the elegant way about your hands and how you held them, in a blue dress with matching strappy mary-jane's, white socks with the ruffle tops. He blinks. No way he could think up anything as pretty. 

You push open the door and grin from across the room, a large tupperware of some type in your hands. His eyes move up from your fingers where they clutch plastic, your wrist, your arms. The puff sleeves of your dress are short and cuffed, similar to the matching ruched neckline that shows enough to make him swallow. A necklace lays in the valley of your chest, a silver chain with a blue flower at the end, small but thick. Five round petals, a cutout missing that shows a circle of your chest beneath. 

"Steve," you say, like you'd been in mid conversation. "Please tell me you have a sweet tooth."

He pulls the headphones from his head and leaves them around his neck, fixing his hair as casually as he can when he says, "Sure, I like candy." 

You set your container down on the counter and crack it open, the rich, buttery smells of its contents quickly filling the room.

"I made penuche for Dustin's mom's birthday, but I made so-" you drag the word out, lips a gloss-sticky 'o', "much of it. I can't eat it all. And she said I wasn't allowed to give it to Dustin 'cos he keeps using the f-word." 

His laugh is startled but genuine. "Not the f-word." 

The fudge is a light brown, almost pink in the neon tinted lighting. It smells divine, and he's saved from an internal debate about what's cool when you push the tub towards him. "Do you like fudge?" you ask him.

He takes one and you take one, and he tries not to look at you as you eat, or when you scratch gloss and a crumb from the corner of your mouth. 

"You’re a modern Martha Stewart," Steve says happily.

"Only on special occasions. Where's Robin?" you ask, elbows braced on the counter and leaning in. 

"Sick. Apparently." 

"Apparently," you repeat, grinning. "What, she didn't look sick?" 

"She talked to me on the phone. She sounded sick," he concedes. "Good things it's Thursday." 

You look around the completely empty store. "This is what it usually looks like on a Thursday?" 

"It's Hawkins. Half the people here get their VHS from the library, the others drive out to Blockbuster. We get about as much foot traffic as an ice cream stand in September." 

"It's 'cos you take too long to get the new ones,'' you say. "No offense." 

"The tone of someone personally victimised by a Family Video wait list." 

"You got me. I've been trying to get the Breakfast Club for two months!" you complain, scratching your chest lazily. 

Steve crosses his arms over his chest until his hands are hidden, rolling his eyes. "Oh, so this is bribery penuche." 

You blink at him and then your lips part in horror, pretty eyes widening. "No!" 

"It totally is. You're trying to butter me up," he says, suave tone disrupted by the need to giggle at his own pun. "Y/N, how could you? Here I thought we were starting to be friends and you're using me for my video store?" 

His mock horror puts you eat ease when you realise he's joking. "I really wanna see that movie," you say dejectedly. You reach for another piece of fudge and bite it in half, your chewing morose. "It feels like everybody saw it at the movies but me." 

"Of course they did. Why didn't you?" 

You glare at him. "I was busy!" 

"For the month it was in theatres?" 

"Yes!" you defend yourself from his teasing. "I have things to do!" 

"Like what?" 

"Like school!" 

"Everybody has school." 

"You're picking on me after I brought you candy. This is so cruel." You don't sound like you've suffered any cruelty. Steve might say you're really enjoying yourself. 

"Sorry, sweetheart."

You glare at his insincere pet name. "Whatever. Oh, hey, how's she treating you?" you ask, eyes on the cassette player. "Steve, you have my Van Halen tape! Thank god, I thought I lost it."

"Right. Sorry, I meant to give it back," he lies. 

You shrug your shoulders. "Keep it however long you want to. It's good, right? Which one's your favourite?"

He pulls the headphones out and rewinds back before setting the player in front of you. You raise your eyebrows at him but click play, and the audio starts abruptly, loud and mid quality. 

Yes, it's love in the third degree. 

You grin, head bobbing, eyes flitting to his with approval written all over your face. You don't seem to hesitate before you sing along under your breath, high pitched but quiet.

"Ooh, baby baby. Won't-cha turn your head my way?" 

He feels a little enchanted by you, that same magnetism he'd felt between his hands, can't believe how pretty you are and how sweetly you move. You laugh at yourself as you sing the next line, an intense, almost theatrical look upon your face. Like you're swooning.

"Ooh, baby baby. Ah come on! Take a chance, you're old enough to-" You flare your eyes at him and nod, mouth open encouragingly. 

He won't join in, no matter how electric he finds you. You roll your eyes and your shoulders roll in a half-dance as you hum along to the chorus. 

Dance the night away. 

"You're no fun, Steve," you complain, giggling. 

"You're enough for the two of us." 

You peer over the counter, still moving with the music as you ask, "What were you doing? Before I came in?" 

"Looking through the computer at what's late being returned. Riveting, extremely hard work." 

"Do you get, like, secret intel on what new movies are coming in?" 

"Sure we do. Wanna see?" he asks. 

You creep around the counter and stand by his side. He scrolls through the system and translates acronyms for you. "This is the coming in," he says, drawing a line down a list of movie names. "These are what's being moved back to the headquarters."

"Headquarters," you repeat, leaning in to see the screen more clearly. You browse the new titles idly, slipping closer and closer to the computer. 

"You'll burn your retinas." 

"Invaders from Mars, Youngblood, Black Moon Rising," you list thoughtfully. You turn on your heel. "I don't know any of those. You got a chic-flicks section?" 

You're really close. Steve looks at you, this close, this pretty, his hands itching to touch you. He leans in and your arms fall to your sides, the space between you growing ever smaller. 

"We do," he says slowly, eye to eye, almost daring you to look at his mouth instead. He wants you to. He wants to look at yours. 

You're steadfast, not impassive but certainly unreadable as you say, "Show me?" 

Steve reaches for the mouse behind you like he was always intending to, hiding any smugness he feels when you exhale noticeably. You turn back around, his arm brushing over yours as he sorts through the tag system to show you "ROM-COM INCO". 

"These are all the ones we have coming in. You know any of those?" 

"Hannah and Her Sisters. I saw that one." 

"Finally had some free time?" he asks wryly. 

"Shut up, Steve." 

"You know… I can keep the Breakfast Club for you. Next time it comes in." 

The smile you give him is blinding. "Thanks, Steve." 

"Yeah, no problem." He hopes the sudden increase in temperature is mutual. 

-

Your backyard is a field of flowers. Maybe dramatic, but Steve's never seen so many, a heavy green spotted in chartreuse, vermillion, bright oranges and pink-white. You lay on a towel in the grass surrounded by them, the sun lighting you up, your skin glowing and perfect. 

You're in black, spandex type shorts and a bikini top. Steve feels like a perv for looking, so he clears his throat. You don't budge. 

He creeps closer. You're in headphones listening to your Walkman. He can hear the music from where he stands at your backdoor, so it must be loud. He stands over you and hopes his shadow will wake you up. When it still doesn't he gets concerned, kneeling down carefully with his knees digging into your towel. 

"Y/N. Hey," he says. 

Still nothing. 

He pulls your headphones off gently, looking over your face in worry. You must be sleeping. 

"Y/N, you shouldn't sleep out here. You'll get sun stroke," he says. He strokes your arm though he shouldn't. He can't help himself, his fingers pressing into the crook of your elbow.

You blink awake and then slam your eyes closed. Steve adjusts himself to block the sun from your face and you manage to pry your eyes open, confused.

"Hello." 

"Hey," he says. He can't help the fondness that plays over his smile.

"Shit." Your eyes go wide and you cover your chest with your arm. "I'm naked." 

"You're not naked," he says. 

"I'm naked. Stop looking at me." 

Steve turns away obligingly. 

"Stop laughing at me, Harrington." 

"Is there anything I'm allowed to do?" he asks, though he does stop laughing.

"I'm so embarrassed. I was sunbathing and I must've fallen asleep." 

Steve lets his eyes stray to your naked thigh. He stares at your skin, follows a stretch mark upwards and then swiftly peels his gaze away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a total perv. I can go wait in my car." 

"You're not a perv. I'm being a priss. Sorry. I know I'm not, like, a model and I wasn't expecting to have this much skin on show. I don't look like Nancy Wheeler."

You sound more nervous than Steve has ever heard you. Worse, you sound dejected, though you've tried for nonchalance. Steve stares at you until you raise your chin, your fingers pinching meanly at your thighs. 

"You're messing with me," he says.

"What?" you ask, incredulous. "I'm not messing with you." 

"You gotta know you're beautiful. That's, like, a stone cold fact. A hard truth. You're beautiful. Who cares if you don't look like Nance?" 

You sigh, though it's not very believable when you're smiling so much. "She's really pretty." 

"So are you." 

"You know what I mean, Steve. She's… small." 

"She's a small woman," he agrees. "That doesn't make her prettier than you." 

"You're sure?" you ask quietly. 

Steve means it a hundred percent when he says, "I'm sure." 

The two of you sit there for a few seconds. He can hear your breathing and he's wondering if you can hear his. 

"What are you doing here?" you ask. 

Your hand is still held across your stomach but you're thankfully looking more relaxed. Steve meant what he said, you're beautiful, he couldn't care less that you're taller or that you weigh more than his ex. You're fucking pretty, and seeing you all laid out and sun kissed has made him kind of crazy. 

"Steve?" you ask. 

"Oh. I brought you The Breakfast Club. Just got it back in this morning," he rushes to say, grabbing the VHS tape from where he'd left it on the ground. The Family Video spine is glaringly ugly compared to you and your flowers. 

"Woah, thank you!" 

"You're welcome. It's under my name though, so don't keep it late. Can't disprespect the FV name. I'm going for employee of the month." 

You giggle. "You are? Are you the top contender?" 

"Nope." 

You laugh some more, the sound delicate and sweet as spun sugar, in Steve's humble opinion. 

"Not that my fellow employees try any harder, but Keith just picks himself every month for the free credits." 

You rub your fingers across the front of the box. "I won't be late. I mean, I'll watch it today, I've been so excited to see it." 

Steve stands up. "Sorry to disturb your idyllic sunbathing." 

"Idyllic," you murmur, smiling. "You're good, Steve. Thank you for the movie." 

"You're welcome. I'll see you later?" he asks, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, slowly backing away. 

"No," you say. He raises his eyebrows and you look sheepish but not shy when you continue, "Do you wanna stay? Watch the movie with me? I have stovetop popcorn and soda and everything." 

"What about the great weather? You don't wanna waste it." 

You force your hands between your thighs and hunch forward slightly. "I do wanna waste it. I mean, I've had enough for today, don't you think? I'm a half hour from heat stroke." 

"You're looking pretty warm," he says. Anything to take you up on your offer without sounding too interested. 

-

You're trying not to give Steve the side eye. Trying, but he's very attractive and very close, and he keeps making funny jokes. It's annoying how hot he is. 

Steve has slouched back and his jeans have slowly edged down, exposing the flesh of his hip. Not that you've noticed, or anything. 

You cram a big handful of popcorn into your mouth and flick your eyes back to the screen. You'd really wanted to see this movie but Steve keeps capturing your attention, again and again, over and over. You can't believe you'd asked him to stay and he had, can't believe he brought the VHS for you in the first place. 

That's a dedicated employee right there. 

You shuffle closer to him under the guise of sharing your popcorn. Your shoulders touch. 

"Thanks," he says. His thigh hits your thigh as he takes a handful. 

"Steve," you say softly. 

"What?" 

"I don't feel well. I think the sun killed me." 

He throws his arm around the back of the couch and twists, careful not to upend the popcorn bowl as he looks over you searchingly. You've seen Steve play caretaker before, but being under his watch is different. He's almost a different person as he checks you over. 

"You feel sick?" he asks. He holds his hand out between you, his knuckles at your eye level. "Can I?" 

You tilt your head back and close your eyes. Steve presses the back of his hand to your forehead and pets down softly, feeling for your temperature. 

"You're still really warm. Let's get you cooled down." 

Steve springs up and knocks the bowl. You blink, slightly disoriented as he disappears into the kitchen, picking up spilled popcorn off of the couch and eating it with slow chews. Now you think of it, your arms hurt, too.

Steve returns and sits on the edge of the sofa, a bag of peas in his hand. "I raided your freezer. Lean your head back." 

"I'm fine," you say, but tilt your head back anyways, gasping when the cold hits you.  

"You might actually get heatstroke. Do you know how dangerous heat stroke is? You need to cool down. Where's the A/C?" 

"It's on." 

Steve feels along your cheek gingerly. "I can't believe you fell asleep outside. What's that about?" He pauses. "Are you sleeping okay?" 

"I'm sleeping fine." 

"Are you sure?" 

His wrist turns and you feel the pad of his fingers rather than the back, the palm of his hand as he cups your face. 

You peek through your lashes at him. His eyebrows are pinched and his bottom lip juts out in a concerned pout. 

"You can tell me." 

The way he says it – well, you imagine you could tell him anything. He sounds warm and worried. This close you can smell his cologne, something heavy with sage, a little bit of lilac hidden under unmistakable bergamot. It's all so comforting and the sun has loosened your tongue. 

"Maybe not so much. It's… it's hot. You know? And…" 

"What?" he murmurs. Your heart skips as his thumb rubs over your cheek. 

You close your eyes like your confession might take form. "I'm kind of lonely, lately," it sounds like a question, "and it's- it keeps me up sometimes. I don't know, it sounds stupid when I say it out loud." 

"It doesn't sound stupid." 

"No?" 

"No, I get it." He pulls away but doesn't move too far, his hand still holding the freezing peas to your forehead, the other brushing against your arm as he drops it in his lap. "These days Dustin doesn't leave me alone. I don't want him to, either. The same with Robs." 

You let your head loll to the side. Steve doesn't look shy or scared to tell you, talking almost matter of fact. "But my parents were never home when I was in high school. They still aren't. I felt it more back then." 

"Yeah. I don't know. I never see anybody. Besides Dustin," you say. "We have him in common." 

"You see me." 

"When I'm annoying you at work." 

"You don't annoy me." He's stern though he abruptly turns into a conspirator whispering secrets. "Robin's fuse gets shorter with me everyday." 

"How come?" you ask, co-conspirator. 

"I can't stop watching the door." 

You lift your head. Steve takes back his bag of peas and feels along your forehead, now cold enough to ache. 

"Here, hold these to your chest. I'd do it for you, but…" 

You take the peas and hide a terrible smile, heart racing between your ears. Your nausea has flipped  completely into butterflies and they're rabid, knocking at your abdomen insistently. 

You're trying to think of a way to make him say nice things again when there's a knock at the door. 

"Dustin," you both say. 

"Jinx, buy me a soda," Steve says. 

You glare at him and he laughs all the way to the door. 

"Why are you always here? Where's Y/N?" 

"She's got heat stroke." 

"I don't!" you call hoarsely. 

"You sound like you do," Dustin says. "Can one of you give me a ride?" 

"She has heat stroke." 

You climb onto the back of the sofa to look down the hallway. Dustin stands at the front door with a huge piece of engineering in his arms that you don't understand, wires and ciricuits and things. 

"Remeber when you used to bike everywhere? What happened to that?" Steve asks, sounding majorly pissed. You can't work out why he's so frustrated but it makes you laugh again. 

The two boys turn to you with twin looks of confusion. 

"I can't bike there, genius. This won't fit in the basket." 

You laugh again, twice as loud. 

"What's wrong with her?" Dustin asks, shaking his head. 

"What don't you understand about heat stroke?

"Potential heat stroke," you interject.  

"She fell asleep in the sun. I don't know how long she was out there her brain might be totally jellified, dude." 

"You should take her to the hospital."

You clamber onto aching limbs and walk until your behind Steve, reaching for his elbow automatically. "I'm fine, babe. What's your doohickey?" 

Dustin smirks and pulls the weight closer to his chest. "Prototype." 

"For what?" 

"Top secret." 

You giggle some more, wobbling with the force of it. Steve sighs and wraps his arm around your back, his hand under your arm to grip you at the ribs. 

Dustin gets wide eyes like a looney tunes character. "What's going on here?" 

"Nothing," Steve hisses. "Look, let me set Y/N up with the works and I'll drive you where you want to go, you brat." 

Dustin drops his suspicion, having got what he wants. "I'll wait in the car. Feel better!" 

"That's three stamps on the shithead card, shithead!" Steve calls after him. The two of you watch his retreating figure and then Steve is manhandling you (not too roughly) down the hallway and back onto the sofa. 

"I'm not dying, Steve." 

Steve puts your popcorn bowl in your lap and the frozen peas back on your chest. He fills your glass either the warming carafe on the coffee table and then bends down to talk to you, entirely too intense. 

"Are you good?" he asks. 

"Perfect. I don't even feel hot anymore." 

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Listen, I'm gonna go drop Dustin off, and then I'm gonna call you to make sure you're not dead." 

"You don't have to do that, Steve," you say, moving down into the couch, a cushion falling over as you do. He straightens it out, cups your face in his hand so fast you think you've imagined it and then squints at you. 

"Don't die of heat stroke." 

He starts to walk away and you're startled. Unfairly, you don't want him to go, and you call, "Steve?" 

"Yeah?" 

"What about The Breakfast Club?" 

He grins at you, a lazy, King Steve kind of smile. "I was always gonna leave that here. So you can come 'annoy' me at work when you return it." He pulls a hand through his hair and gives you a once over and then spins on his heel. "Make sure you answer when I call!" 

You lose sight of him as he leaves, the couch backing too tall. He shuts the door kindly and you can just about hear the crunch of gravel as his car pulls away. 

"He was definitely flirting with me," you say to yourself, pouring a sweet handful of popcorn into your mouth. You're smiling so wide it's hard to chew. 

-

Dustin bursts into Family Video with his small entourage, Mike and Lucas, and an urgent look on his face. Steve quickly stops his facade of being busy when he clocks them.

"What? Need to borrow ten dollars?" he asks, rolling his eyes. 

"Actually, it's about Y/N," Dustin says. 

Steve stretches across the desk on his elbows. 

"What about her?" he asks, suspecting a waste of time.

"She was crying her eyes out in her backyard last night." 

Steve blinks, feeling a pit open up in his chest. "What? Why?" 

"Well…" Dustin says. "I didn't ask." 

Steve pictures your pretty face crinkled with tears, sitting on the paving stones outside your house. He wonders what would make you cry, sob, whatever it was. You'd confessed to being lonely though he sort of hopes that the feeling has ebbed now that he's calling you every day. At first, under the guise of checking up on you, but, I don't think I'm at risk of heat stroke anymore Steve. It's been a week and a half. 

Better safe than sorry. 

"Nancy said she saw her outside outside Bradley's Big Buy last night looking miserable," Mike adds, in one of his worst outfits, a mismatch of colours and long socks, a visor that Steve once tried to bribe Dustin to destroy on a hot day with his magnifying glass. The small burned spot perseveres at the caps edge. 

Steve feels weirdly proud at their concern and better, their detective skills. The three of them look like they could solve crimes, a mystery gang. Lucas is the only one dressed well in Steve's opinion, though that might be because he's in similar fashion, a nice polo and blue jeans. 

"You don't know what's wrong with her?" Lucas asks.

His pride wanes. "Oh, you guys are here for gossip?" he asks scathingly. 

"No!" 

"You're her boyfriend, right?" 

"Not-" Steve swallows, "exactly." 

Robin, who had been listening from her stool a few feet back, strides over and falls into place by his side, braced by her elbows. 

"If Steve were her boyfriend, we'd know why she was crying," she says, earning a round of boyish chuckles. 

Steve nods and then understands her meaning, feeling stupid for assuming Robin would say something that wasn't mean while at work. "Fuck off, I'm a good boyfriend." 

Four sets of eyebrows raise. 

"I am! I'm romantic." 

"You smashed our trellis and dislodged a drain pipe," Mike says. 

Steve pins the dark haired boy with a smarted look. 

"Sorry, is that not romantic? Sneaking out to see a girl?" 

"Sneaking in to a young woman's bedroom," Robin says dryly. 

"Pervert style," Dustin agrees sagely.

"Jesus Christ." Steve turns away from his band of adopted heathens and takes the phone into his hand. "I'm gonna call her." 

"And what? Tell her we were spying?" Dustin says. 

Steve holds the cold plastic to his neck. "Were you?" 

"Girls lie about their feelings, anyway. You're never gonna get a straight answer," Lucas says morosely. "Trust me." 

He slams the phone down. "What am I supposed to do?" 

They stand in a heavy silence. Steve can feel a headache clipping his heels, approaching fast, stress and a sharp worry for you. He really doesn't see why he can't call you and check in. 

"Something nice?" Robin suggests, picking at her nails. 

"Like what?" he asks. Though, as soon as he says it, he already has the beginnings of an idea. Whether its a good one or not is anyones guess. 

-

Somebody knocks the door and all you can think is, oh god why me? 

You're in a bad approximation of pajamas - your comfiest and yet your sloppiest, old and worn and unattractive. Fresh out of a stress-cry shower, you've only just managed to catch your breath. 

It's like you told Steve, everything lately feels so lonely. You'd gone grocery shopping by yourself and had known without a doubt that you were moving unseen through the world. Something about deciding between TV dinners. Nobody knew where you were, what you were doing, or where you were going. The only people seeing you were the storegoers of Bradley's Big Buy and your disgruntled cashier. You doubt you'd made a good impression. 

It was maybe a silly thing to feel overwhelmed by, but you felt it anyways. Sick with loneliness and then panic. A thousand what ifs had filled your head; you couldn't stop thinking, what if it's like this forever? 

What if I feel this lonely forever? 

You'd finished grocery shopping with a peculiar numbness weighing you down and then you'd gone home to cry in the garden, comforted and horrified by your flowers. They were pretty and you'd planted them and it didn't matter, you were still alone. A ladybug had crawled over the nearest planter and you'd watched it until you calmed down, knees crossed and elbows digging into your thighs, pins and needles in your hands. 

Another insistent knock. You consider ignoring it and curling up into a ball. Something hooks you out of it. What if it's Steve? 

If it's Steve, you're gonna feel very embarrassed about your appearance. You check your reflection in the sheen of a photo frame and sigh, rubbing your face with one hand as you open the door. 

Steve stands a few feet away, leaning against the side of his car with a pair of shades slipping down his nose. He takes them off.

You're so happy to see him you forget your rumpled outfit. 

"Hi," you say, half-shouting to cover the distance. 

"Hey beautiful!" Steve shouts, properly, loud and unabashed.

The door digs into your tummy. You don't know what to say. His compliment flusters you from the get go. 

"Hi," you say again, laughing under your breath. 

"Hey." 

"What are you doing here?" 

"Somebody told me you weren't feeling well!" 

You frown, thoughts racing, and suddenly summon the image of your nosey young neighbour. You take a step back instinctively and Steve must see it because his face goes stony. 

"I'm sorry, I know you probably didn't want me to know. But- when I found out you were upset, I couldn't ignore that. You'll have to forgive me." 

You try pushing the smile off your face with your hand and stand there scratching your top lip. "No. No, it's okay." 

He raises his eyebrows and takes a few big steps towards your house. You step out onto the porch and he closes the space between you, holding his hands out. You take them and he envelopes you, warm hands pulling you along and up the path. 

He walks backwards. "Don't let me crash into someone, okay?" 

A memory. The two of you hand in hand, ground flashing under your skates. 

"Okay," you say weakly. 

He squeezes your hands and drops them, a foot from the car. "Stay," and he doesn't finish, turning away from you. He opens the passenger door, the door behind and then the trunk. 

The smell is beautiful. A floral wave. 

The sight is something else. A carpet of bunches, bell-shaped freesias and carnations, roses in darkest red, chrysanthemums, dahlias, tiny orchids and irises; gorgeous purple irises with white centred petals buffeted by frilly sweetpeas. 

"They didn't want to give me the buckets but I told them I had a really pretty girl waiting for me, and if they suffocated in the heat then I was gonna drive right back and complain loudly." He stands by your side and nudges you. "Break out in tears." 

"That's a lot of flowers," you mumble. 

"Half the store. The other half's on standby." 

"Standby?" 

"I worried you might not have the space." 

"I won't." 

Your gaze flits over soft petals and light green stems, thorns and leaves and greenery, baby breath tucked in by plastic wrapping. 

"Why did you do this?" 

"You…" he laughs at himself. "Okay, so. The day you had heat stroke-" 

"I didn't have heat stroke. I had heat exhaustion." 

"Semantics. You were lying in the backyard. Just… sleeping. I was waiting for you to look up and see me, and I couldn't- I still can't get the image out of my head. You looked unreal." 

You feel hot all over as he searches for words. He's smiling wide as he talks, like he can't believe how happy he is. It's infectious. 

He shakes his head. "Anyway, I know you like flowers. Obviously. So." 

"So you got me a florists?"

"Half." 

You hug your torso. The idea that somebody would do this for you, that Steve would do this for you, is so alien you can't comprehend it. 

"They're for me?" you whisper. 

"For you. All of them." 

You look at him, the flowers, him again, and start to laugh. You throw your hands up to your cheeks and giggle like a little kid. 

"Why are you laughing?" he asks, an undeniable affection in his curiosity. 

"Why would you do this for me?" you ask in a similar tone. 

He purses his lips and shrugs. "You could've called me. I want you to know that." 

You scrub your hot cheeks and shift from foot to foot. "I was being silly." 

"It's not silly. It's not stupid. And even if it was, I still want you to call me. These are 'call me' flowers. Call me first." 

You wrap your hand around the top of the door and lean in for a look at the sea of flowers. Pollen sticks sweet in your nose. 

"Do you like them?" 

The smallest hint of insecurity. You can't stop laughing, joy warping every word. "Yeah, I love them," you say over your shoulder, feeling as though you've become nothing but a vestibule of breathless wonder. 

"I didn't know which one was your favourite." 

All of them, you think. Not sure you could pick one, your eyes bump from bouquet to bouquet. 

You try to blink them away but tears form quickly, lashes heavy with them as you stand up straight and wipe under your eyes with the back of your index finger. 

"Thank you, Steve." 

"You're welcome." Steve comes up behind you and takes your shoulder into his hand, thumb rubbing roughly over your shirt. "C'mon, don't cry. I got you all those flowers because I don't want you to cry, not to make it worse." 

"They're really pretty," you say, strained, pushing the bottoms of your palms into your eyes to stop from sobbing. That would be dramatic, you argue with yourself, so dramatic, but this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you. 

"Shit," he mutters. 

You tense up as his hand moves across your back to grip your other shoulder and he hugs you to his chest, left hand stroking the length of your upper arm, encouraging your hands from your face. 

"You're okay, baby," he says. 

You sniffle as his right hand climbs your shoulder to cup your neck. He pulls your face to his mouth and presses a kiss into your temple, warm and tingling, firecrackers under the skin. You turn your face to look at him and he pulls back, his chin jutting down. 

The shape of his lips lingers on your forehead, a burn. White hot.

Steve wipes the tear tracks from your face with the side of his hand.

"I know what'll cheer you up," he says. 

You miss his touch as soon as he's gone. He leans over the passenger seat, the chair and its footwell both bursting with flowers, and turns on the radio. You watch him click to the cassette player. He turns the volume up high and then pulls out. 

Slowly, the song builds into a zinging guitar. 

"Oh my god." 

"Have you seen her? So fine and so pretty," Steve sings with no hesitation. You're startled by his confidence.

"Fooled me with her style and ease," he continues, holding out his hand. 

You take it, listening to him fight his way to the right pitch, his voice cracking.

"And I feel her from across the room-" He takes your second hand, gaze electric. "Yes, it's love in the third degree." 

He tugs at your hand, nodding until you join in.

"Ooh, baby, baby," you sing weakly, searching for footing. 

"Won't-cha turn your head my way?" he begs. 

"Ooh, baby, baby," you both sing, Steve with more passion, pulling your arm one way and another in an awkward dance. 

"Come on, take a chance, you're old enough to," and here's where you both go weak and high and enthused all at once, glad the stereo's up so high you can't really hear it when you both shout, "dance the night away!" 

It's not quite night yet. You've a lot of dancing to do if you're gonna listen to Van Halen's instructions, the sun a half-disk of gold on the horizon, the sky raspberry pink bleeding up into darkening indigo. 

Steve grins at your growing enthusiasm and twirls you around. You only allow him this, too afraid to step on his toes as you come to a stop. 

He hums along and you clutch his hand. You covet the other where it's held to his chest, pushing your fingers through his. They fit together perfectly. 

"Am I ever gonna get that tape back?" you ask. 

"No," he says, laughing loudly. "No way. I love this song." 

"I love this song too. That's why I bought the album." 

"You said however long I wanted!" 

"I didn't think you'd stick around this long," you confess. 

"I did," he says. He leans down, stops. "Can I kiss you?"

You nod and beat him to it, hand at his collar as you step on your toes and press your mouth to his. You're both smiling, your eyes closed tight and your lips tight together until he pulls back, pulling his hand from your brushing grip to stroke the side of your face, rough in his rush. 

When you come back together it's slower, your lips parted mid-giggle as he moves in. You sigh, a high-pitched and embarrassing sound from the back of your throat that's quickly swallowed by his ardency. 

"Stop laughing at me," he admonishes playfully. 

"I'm not! I'm not, I'm really happy," you defend yourself, setting back on your heels. 

You've forgotten all about your pajamas and the icky feeling in your chest. With Steve's palms to your cheeks like this – like you're something worth being cradled in careful hands – you can't feel anything but happy. 

"I don't have enough vases for your flowers," you apologise as he chases you down, dropping kisses over the corner of your mouth and the apple of your cheek. 

"Good thing I begged for all those buckets," he says, brown eyes squinting with the force of his cherubic smile. His pert nose flares with a silent laugh. 

"Good thing," you agree. 

He holds you by the shoulders. "Good thing," he says again. 

You descend into another round of laughter that leaves you panting for air, your head dropping into his chest. "A really good thing." 

"I didn't go overboard, did I?" he asks, petting the nape of your neck.

"You did." 

"Sorry, I-" 

You wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him as hard as you can. He groans lightly as he encircles your shoulders, the tip of his nose a butterfly's wing against your forehead, impossibly light and skipping, back and forth and back again. 

"I'm gonna make you flower shortbread," you say eventually, soaking in his warmth, his closeness. 

"Yeah?" 

"I swear. And more penuche. What's your favourite? I'll make you whatever you want. What do you have a sweet tooth for?" 

"Could I get another kiss?" he asks quietly.

You tilt your head back and wait. Steve isn't quite smiling though his eyes boast an emotion you're afraid to name, unbearably fond. 

"Are you gonna kiss me again?" you ask into the gap. 

"In a sec, just… let me look at you," he says, hand cupping your cheek. 

You blink back a stinging wave of tears and smile, tracing over his features greedily.

"You're beautiful," he says. 

It’s funny. You were thinking the same thing about him.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thanks for reading!

[laufeysvalentine]

omg knowing this is part of the kbd universe makes me love it all that much more

[777heavengirl]

Bless the Telephone ; ##09

James Potter x f!muggle!reader word count: 1,521 warnings: bar, smoking, cursing, underage and of age drinking, ig mature themes? a/n: im back, baby, click here for my rapid-fire catch-up. all i know its not spring yet but i rlly wanted to do my theme now :3 series masterlist main masterlist

If James had the time to think about it, he’d probably guess that he was quickly falling in love with you, which scared him. 

He didn’t really know you after all.

He didn’t even know what you looked like. But the sound of your voice made his chest contract and his fingertips buzz. His cheeks would redden, and his gaze would unfocus if he thought about you for too long, Sirius had made sure to point it out. 

And how stupid he looked daydreaming about a woman he didn’t know at all. He hadn’t felt this way about anyone since Lily. Not that he liked to remember how that ended.

“Can you focus on what we are talking about for five bloody minutes, Prongs?” Sirius snapped his finger in front of James, “Are we placing bets this year?”

“Godric, let’s not,” Peter whined, “I still haven't financially recovered from last year’s loss.”

“It was fucking rough,” Remus said, a cigarette hanging off of his lips, fingers fiddling with a lighter.

“You guys place bets?” One of the younger boys chimed in. Even though the Marauders had graduated what felt like many springs ago, they still kept in contact with Harvey Bones, quickly recognizing their peer and his father (along with the band of younger kids trailing behind them) as they walked to where the portkeys were. They were quite familiar with a few of the boys as they shared houses for a couple of years.

“Yeah, don’t do it” Remus, ever responsible, cuts in. “It’s bloody stupid to be wasting money like that.”

“Unless you win large,” Sirius chimes through, leaning his arm on the boy’s shoulder. “Then it's fucking fantastic.” 

The group of boys chatted along as they walked, picking it up right after they stabilized from the portkey. 

“How you doing mate?” James walked slower, falling in line with Ben. 

“Really bloody excited, I‘ve never been to something like this.” The younger boy’s smile radiated excitement. 

Ben was a nice boy, a shy little Muggleborn who had been sorted into Gryffindor during the Marauders’ 5th year. James remembers McGonagall asking him to help him with extracurricular flying lessons… privately.

He slowly morphed into something resembling a younger brother for them, a friend. 

“Though my sister’s quite scared about all this,” 

“Is that why she didn’t come?”

“She’s a muggle…” A roar of drunk Chuddley Cannon fans cut through the conversation.

“Oh, right,” James struggled to find the words for a moment, popping another Bertie bean into his mouth. “What part is she afraid of?” James hoped he didn't sound rude.

“I don’t know anymore,” Ben smiles, his gaze locked into an empty sky as they began to settle around the campsite. “I think it's the fact that she’d be helpless to help me, I think she’s felt that way since we got my letter.” 

James hums in acknowledgement. He thinks of you—the mysterious Muggle girl on the telephone. He wonders if you’d feel afraid if you knew. If you’d still want to talk to him, if you’d still have the same amusement in your voice when answering the phone. 

He wondered if he’d have a chance.

With you.

Or if you would fizzle out in his mouth like a fizzing whizzbee, never to be seen again.

“So, what's your sister like?” James asked with a smirk, Ben laughed with a shake of his head.

-

“Cannot believe we still suck arse,” Peter said while he chewed on a candy rope, his fingers busy counting the money he lost to Sirius. 

“Speak for yourself, mate,” Sirius smiled wickedly, “I told you the cannons would lose, don’t know why you didn’t listen.” 

Half the group hung their heads in shame at the loss, 

“How’d you know though?” Ben piped up, counting his winnings. He only bet against the cannons because James and Sirius did, and he had seen them play Quidditch… they might look like idiots, but they knew what they were talking about. 

At least in his eyes.

“Gut feeling”

“Just knew.” James and Sirius both smiled innocently, their responses or lack thereof making Peter groan and drop his head on the table. Ben smothered a laugh.

“This deserves a drink, for cheering or grieving either way- whose up for a little pub run?” James piped up, and Harvey very quickly agreed along with the rest of the boys. 

“Have fun!” Ben smiled. The younger half of the group started to settle into the camp, slightly dejected by the ‘grown’ activities they would not be able to partake in. 

“Yer not coming?” Peter drawled from between more candy rope

“Thought we couldn't?”

“That’s bloody stupid, ain’t it, Pads?” James tskd, dropping an arm around Sirius, twin smirk on their faces. 

“I mean… we’re all adults here, are we not?” Sirius continued, “I don’t see any children in sight, do you, dearest Moony?” 

Remus sighed, a repressed smirk on his face as well. The small group of younger boys started to snicker

“I haven’t seen a child in ages. Get ready”

-

“She’s pretty,” James’ eyes scanned the room, trying to follow who Remus was talking about. The little muggle pub they had found, although farther away than they had intended to travel, was lively enough that their small group of 10 was able to blend in fairly easily. 

“Thanks, Moons, don’t know if I’m really on the prowl tonight,” James said, absentmindedly swishing what was left of his beer in the bottle. Remus raised an eyebrow. “Do you know if they have a public telephone here?”

The idea landed in his brain like lightning, and he got up as soon as the words left his mouth. Remus pointed towards the black phone on the other side of the bar. James was almost on autopilot. The three drinks he had down were nothing compared to the realization that he could call right now; it made him feel more buzzed than any drink could. He inserted the coins clumsily and turned each digit of your phone number with the rotary dial.

A beat of silence.  

It was ringing.

James took a deep breath; he could only focus on the ringing; everyone else faded into the background. What would he say?

“I miss you, I know it's only been a day and a half, but I am slowly approaching drunk territory, and all I can think about is you.” No, that sounded… crazy

“Hey, I know it's eleven at night, but I couldn’t wait to talk to you, and I finally could, and” okay, desperate James isn't very suave. 

It finally stopped ringing. 

“Hey, this is y/n-” James opened his mouth, “Please leave a message at the tone!” James closed it with a scowl. 

James scoffed at the phone as if it was it’s fault. He popped another coin in and dialed once more.

You didn’t pick up. He left a message this time.

“Hey, its me… um I was just giving you a ring to catch up, I’m at a bar, but I’ll probably be at a better place to call tomorrow… I just couldn’t stop thinking about calling you…” James took a sharp breath, “I miss you.” It was like he couldn’t help himself. 

“Anyway, have a good night.” 

“Godric, I’m an idiot,” James muttered to himself as he hung up the phone. 

-

If you had time to think about it, you probably would’ve walked up and punched whoever had the bright idea to bring a sixteen-year-old to a pub. Which at the moment was... James? You decided you were crazy, and there was a snowball's chance in hell that it was indeed your recurring caller. 

The alcohol and the flip-flopping, whether it was James or not, made your head spin, and your blood pump. 

You needed to sit down.

You stared straight into your brother's eyes ever so briefly before you retracted back, slowly walking back into the pub. 

“You aren’t going to do anything?” Charlotte asked, almost aghast. 

“What's the point?” You looked at your roommate, your eyes rimmed red. “I’m not his mom, Lottie, and I have enough on my plate.”

If you had been in a better mood, you would’ve intervened. But there was no energy for that today, not as the cold of the wind bit at your cheeks, not with the warmth of the alcohol starting to fade, the cigarette wasn’t enough either. 

Your brother was old enough, you guessed. You didn’t know anymore. 

The cold slipped through the layers of your clothes.

If you had time to think about it, you’d beat yourself up for not dragging your brother out of there by his ear. 

You’d think about the boys he was with. You’d think about if it truly was James. 

It’s impossible. You did not know this boy. 

The random voice on the telephone could belong to anyone; you had plastered this idea onto some poor random guy. 

Regardless, you decided you weren’t going to call James again, nor answer any future calls after this weekend. It was pointless. You decided, as you ordered another drink, to start pursuing better things for your life, concrete things, not disembodied voices on the telephone.

He had probably forgotten about you anyway.

tags ; @amynotsantiago @scne-vampire @ilovejamespottersomuch @ravisinghs-wife @hidontmindtheintrovert @stella-thestars @caspiankingofnarnia @lovelyteenagebeard @starkluvrr @hisparentsgallerryy @leilani13gc @katsusayhi @auroresce @lovemiss-vale @alessiaparigim @unconventional-lawnchair @moonydoodlez @eissaaaa @ailoda @nahhhwhatthefrick @notapoetjustscar @hiireadstuff @the-rat-king1902 @n1ght-vngel @littlewhitel1es @rreporterbby @santaasi @myheroworldandanimes @whimsical-mistakes @lalalandincraz @2dloveshp @loveyouprongs @beepboopcowboy @fiowerbeds @kneelforloki @noonenuts @urblondiebaby @cherry-cin @pprettyvisitorr @laniirackssss @abhootghiihii @sodavrr @berryhobi @that-b-word-lol @tgnvhp @laceandsuch @theoraekenslover @prongs-moon @eneywey @cumuluscranium @connn @padf00ts-l0ver @lmrwriter

(second round of tags will be in a reblog)

let me know if you want to be tagged in any future chapters!

[777heavengirl]

tags continued ; @zabcoin @nessaasstuff @scne-vampire @ex-altations @dearggntlereader @presidentoftheworld48 @the-song-of-a-siren @dearggntlereader @presidentoftheworld48 @rreporterbby @the-rat-king1902 @kiaslily @drowningreggie0 @sparklyheartharmony @spencers1nonlygf @xadenswhore @kkbooks0813 @laur13nn @shushbruv @imszh @visdumplings @lemongrasscows21 @myownevils @spencers1nonlygf @madisonosidam

permanent tag ; @laufeysvalentine @heyyyloverr @sunshinewhosketches @jamesweather @ex-altations @sparklyheartharmony

[laufeysvalentine]

my fav author and series is back 🥹

[moonstruckme]

request: was thinking about that one video that’s like “my wife, she’ll get upset if she sees you touching me like that on my chest” “i am your wife” and then the heart monitor starts going crazy and that put a doctor remus idea in my head after r gets out of surgery/is on anesthesia for something or other

Thanks for requesting!

cw: hospital, mention of surgery

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 855 words

Lots of people would probably be happy to have their significant other visit them at work, but as it turns out, Remus really doesn’t like it. He’s used to seeing patients post-op, and yet somehow when it’s you it feels sad, all those tubes and wires connected to his girl. The fluorescent lighting turns your complexion wan and the wary frown on your lips as a nurse checks your vitals makes Remus’ heart feel like a bruise. 

It helps some when you notice his entry and they stretch into a dopey smile instead. 

“Hi, dove.” His voice is soft and smitten, an automatic reaction to seeing you that he’s already heard the new residents commenting on in the break room. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m okay.” You tug at the sheets on your bed. Ball them in your fists like you might be nervous. “My stomach hurts a little.” 

“That’s normal,” Remus assures you, even as his stomach dips in sympathy. He sits on the edge of your bed, taking your hand and beginning to draw tight circles into the inside of your wrist. “If it starts to hurt worse, or badly at all, you should let me know, alright?” 

“Okay.” Your voice has quieted slightly, your eyes following the motion of his thumb on your skin. You glance at the nurse as though checking if she sees. Remus feels his lips tip up bemusedly. 

“Everything alright?” he asks the nurse.

She smiles at the both of you, passing him a clipboard. “She’s stable, ready to move when you’d like.” 

“Thanks,” he says, reading over your vitals quickly after she leaves. He sets the clipboard down and gives your hand a squeeze. If your heart monitor gives a quick beep, he pretends not to notice. “You’re all set, lovely girl. We’ll get you to your own room in just a bit.” 

You nod, not seeming to hear him. You look to be gnawing on the inside of your lip. 

“Hey, don’t do that,” Remus says gently, thumbing it free. Your eyes widen, and he drops his thumb to your chin, looking you in the eyes. “Is something the matter?”

You rub your lips together hesitantly. It’s normal to have a small fever after surgery, but your face feels suspiciously warm. “I just, um, I have a boyfriend.” 

Remus feels his face split into an irrepressible grin. He’d been wondering how the anesthesia would affect you. “Yeah, dove,” he agrees, delighted, “I know you do.” 

“I don’t…” Your eyes dart to where his thumb still rests on your chin, your shoulders gravitating towards your ears. “I think it would upset him if he knew you were touching me like this.” 

Truly, this could not be any better. Remus wishes he’d brought a video camera like James wanted him to. “I am your boyfriend, sweetheart.” 

Your expression freezes in place, but your heart monitor starts beeping loudly. Your eyes dart to it, alarm and embarrassment worsening, and Remus laughs, dropping his hand from your chin in favor of rubbing your shoulder until both you and the machine calm down. 

“You?” you ask. You appear nothing short of flabbergasted. 

“Yes.” He brings your hand to his smiling lips, kissing your knuckles as if to prove it. “Why, are you surprised?” 

“You’re serious,” you check. Remus has the opportunity to make a joke here, but he worries it’d only confuse you more. 

“I am,” he says. 

“But you’re so handsome.”

Another laugh startles out of him. “And what do you think you are? Of course,” he gives your knuckles another brief peck just to see your eyes flare again, “I would love you no matter how you looked, but you’re a far cry from hideous yourself.” 

You look taken aback by this news as well. Remus is half tempted to find you a mirror. 

Then you ask, voice soft as down feathers, “You love me?” 

Something in Remus’ chest goes all warm and mushy. “I do,” he says sincerely. “I love you so much, sweetheart, sometimes I don’t know what to do with it all.” 

You smile until your eyelashes kiss, and he can’t resist cupping your face again, smoothing his thumb along the skin of your cheek. 

“So that’s why you’re here?” you ask. 

“Well,” he hesitates, “yes, but I’m also here because I work here.” 

Your eyebrows raise. Your gaze dips to his white coat as if remembering it for the first time in a while. “Oh. You’re a doctor and my boyfriend?” 

“That’s right.” He squints at you amusedly. “Did you think I just snuck in here in a white coat so I could see you?” 

“My boyfriend is a doctor.” You don’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular, perhaps just asking the universe for confirmation. 

Remus decides to get back to business. “Right again, dove. I think it’s about time we get you to your room, yeah? Anything else I can do for you, anything you need?” 

“Nope.” You lay your head back on the pillow, looking somehow more dazed than when he’d come in. “I think I’m set. Like, probably for life.”

[colouredbyd]

sniffles and sneezes

steve harrington x reader

synopsis: when steve stops answering your calls, you expect the worst. what you find instead is a sick, miserable boyfriend who insists he’s dying.

word count: 2k

warnings: sick fic, steve is a huge baby, worried!reader, mentions of sex, typical hawkins violence mentioned, fluff, illness and fever, caretaking, anxiety and worry, profanity, domestic intimacy, not proofread.

Steve Harrington never bailed.

Not on shifts at Family Video, not on movie nights, and not on you. He did not miss calls either, especially not yours. He was reliable to a fault, the kind of person who showed up even when the world was actively falling apart and interdimensional monsters were crawling out of the ground. If Steve was breathing, he was answering.

Which was why the silence felt wrong immediately.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing. He was probably stuck at work late, or Robin had roped him into some unnecessary crisis, or he had finally crashed after a long stretch of pretending life in Hawkins could be normal again. 

You left a voicemail anyway telling him to call you back when he got the chance. Except he did not.

The next morning came and went without a word. He did not show up at Family Video. He did not swing by your house orsneak through your window with a grin and an excuse already prepared. He did not even call to say goodnight.

By the second day, the quiet had begun to crawl under your skin.

You called Robin first, trying to keep your voice casual, like you weren’t counting the hours since you’d last heard him breathe on the other end of the line. 

Robin hadn’t seen him and neither had Dustin, who sounded more relaxed than worried and assured you Steve probably just needed space. Nancy hadn’t heard from him either, which finally made your stomach drop.

Forty eight hours passed with nothing. No calls, no messages, no sign of Steve at all. By then, the worry had settled deep in a way you could not shake. Hawkins had taught you too well what silence could mean. Fights turned ugly. People got hurt. Gates opened where they were never meant to, and monsters followed. 

That was when you stopped pacing, grabbed your jacket and keys, and left. The drive blurred past in a haze, every red light stretching your nerves thinner as you headed straight for his house.

Steve’s house looked the same when you pulled up, painfully ordinary in the late afternoon light. His car sat in the driveway, exactly where it always did. The sight of it sent a rush of relief through you, followed immediately by something sharper and more frightening.

If he was here, then why hadn’t he answered you?

You didn’t bother knocking. The front door was unlocked, just like always. The house was quiet in a way that made your chest ache, the air stale and heavy, as if it hadn’t been disturbed in days.

“Steve?” you called, your voice already tight with fear.

No answer.

You stepped inside anyway, your heart racing as you moved further into the house, every instinct screaming that something was wrong.

There is usually music playing somewhere, or the television running in the background, or Steve himself calling out when he hears the door. Now there is nothing. No lights on. No footsteps. Just the dull thud of your own heartbeat in your ears.

Your hand closes around the bat leaning against the wall by instinct more than logic. You hate how natural it feels, how easily fear slips into your grip. 

You call his name once, softly, then again a little louder, but the house does not answer you back. The stairs creak under your feet as you climb them, your breath shallow, your mind racing through every worst case scenario you tried so hard not to think about on the drive over.

Steve’s door is half closed.

You push it open only to find him in bed.

The sight of him hits you so suddenly you almost forget to breathe. Steve is buried beneath a mound of blankets, hair a complete mess, pillows shoved wherever they fit. For one terrifying second you think he is asleep too deeply, until he shifts. A pair of tired brown eyes peek out at you.

“Baby,” he says hoarsely, blinking like he is trying to focus. “What are you doing here?”

He does not get another word out before his face scrunches up and he turns away, sneezing once, twice, then again in quick succession, loud and miserable.

“Bless you,” you say immediately.

He sniffs, rubs at his nose with the sleeve of his shirt, and squints up at you like the light itself is offending him.

You sit on the edge of the bed and pull the blankets back just enough to look at him properly. He looks ridiculous and adorable and very clearly sick. Your hand goes to his forehead, then to his cheek, cool skin contrasting with the heat you can feel underneath.

“Steve,” you say softly. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were feeling ill?”

His eyes soften immediately when he looks at you, even now. “Didn’t wanna worry you,” he says, though it comes out more like, didn’t wanna worr yew because of his stuffed nose.

You stare at him for a beat, then reach out and press the back of your hand gently to his forehead.

“You’re burning up,” you murmur, palm pressing gently to his forehead.

Steve barely reacts, only letting out a miserable little sound as he sinks deeper into the mattress. You shift closer without thinking, worry tightening in your chest as you take him in properly. 

“Steve,” you say quietly, coaxing rather than scolding, “you can’t just… rot in bed like this.”

His face scrunches immediately, nose red and shiny, lips pulling into that pout that would look ridiculous on anyone else. On him, it’s infuriatingly cute. Endearing in a way that makes you want to kiss it and shake him at the same time.

“I’m not rottin’,” he mumbles thickly, voice clogged and slow. “I’m… restin’. ‘S cold and I’m sick. This is how people—” he sniffs hard, “—people die alone.”

You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself. “You have a fever and the sniffles. You’re not dying.”

He cracks one watery eye open to look at you. “That’s what they all say.”

You sigh, fingers already tugging the blanket down. “You need to get up and have a warm bath and actual food. Then you can get back in bed like a dying sick person.”

He opens his mouth to argue and sneezes instead three times in a row. “Bless you,” you say automatically between each sneeze.

You smile, even as the knot in your chest tightens. “That’s the fifth time in ten minutes, baby.”

“Not my fault,” he mutters, pushing himself upright with clear effort. “M’body’s turnin’ on me.”

“Which is why you gotta get out of bed and let me take care of you.”

“Don’t wanna.” He gets all stubborn as he pushes the blanket up.

You pull the blanket away and reach for the hem of his sweater and gently tug. “Come on, arms up.”

“If I take this off, I’m gonna freeze.”

“You’ll survive the walk to the bathroom,” you say dryly.

He pouts as you pull the sweater over his head, hair sticking up even worse than before. The sight makes your chest ache in the softest way. His nose is red, his eyes glassy, lashes clumped together slightly from sneezing so much.

“God,” you murmur without thinking, leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

He flinches slightly.

You pull back, confused, until you see the way he is looking at you now, worried instead of sleepy. “Hey,” he says quietly, hands coming up to your sides. “I don’t want you getting sick from kissing me.”

You soften, thumb brushing over his cheek. “Steve, I’ve already been worried sick for two days. If I catch the flu, it’s probably happening anyway.”

He exhales, then pulls you closer instead, arms wrapping around you tight and warm. You laugh quietly as he buries his face against your shoulder.

“What do you want, hmm?” you ask, teasing gently, fingers combing through his hair.

He sighs, voice small and earnest. “I want love and affection.”

You smile, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m hugging you right now.”

He shakes his head, stubborn even like this. “Not enough.”

You laugh again, kissing his cheek this time, then his temple. “Okay. Deal. You go take a bath. I’ll make you something to eat and change the sheets. Then you get back in bed and I’ll give you all the love and affection in the world.”

He considers that for a moment, then nods solemnly. “Okay.”

You guide him toward the bathroom, hand firm at his back. He shuffles his feet the whole way, dramatically miserable, pausing in the doorway like he might simply collapse there instead.

“I’m going to freeze,” he insists.

“You will be in warm water.”

“And then I’ll get out and freeze again.”

“I will have towels ready.”

“And then I’ll die.”

You roll your eyes. “Steve.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then softens, shoulders sagging as he steps into the bathroom. “You’re being really, really bossy,” he says.

You turn the water on for him, testing the temperature until it is comfortably warm. “Sit,” you tell him, pointing at the edge of the tub.

He obeys without complaint, watching you with open affection as you move around the room like this is second nature. When you straighten, he reaches out and hooks a finger through your sleeve, stopping you.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You look at him. “Yeah?”

He swallows, gaze dropping before he looks back up at you. “Thanks for coming,” he murmurs, voice rough and a little clogged. “I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I just… didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Your heart twists. You reach out, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Next time you’re sick,” you say softly, with a small smile meant only for him, “you call me. I don’t care if you sound ridiculous or weak. I want to know and I want to be there for you.”

He smiles faintly. “Deal.”

You squeeze his hand once before leaving him there, steam already beginning to fill the room. As you step away, you head for the kitchen, already thinking about the soup you’re gonna make for him.

You return to the bedroom with the bowl balanced between your palms, steam rising in soft curls that blur the room at the edges. The house is hushed in that suspended, late afternoon stillness, and for the first time since you arrived, the tightness in your chest finally loosens and you’re not worried anymore.

Steve is sitting on the edge of the bed where you left him. He looks freshly showered, hair still a little damp and curling at the ends, pushed back in a way that makes him look younger somehow. 

He has changed into one of his hoodies, oversized and soft, and a pair of worn sweatpants. What really gets you, though, are the socks. Two thick pairs pulled up almost to his calves like he is bracing for the arctic.

He is watching you with an attention that makes you slow without meaning to. Not hazy or unfocused like before, but steady and present, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely laced together as his eyes track you across the room like he is afraid you might vanish if he looks away. 

You set the bowl down on the nightstand beside the bed and glance back at him, quieter now. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

His mouth tilts into a smile that is still a little crooked from congestion, his voice coming out warm and stuffed. “Nothig,” he says, sniffing. “I just… really love you.”

Your heart does that stupid, immediate thing it always does with him. You step closer, standing between his knees, and he tips his head back to look up at you, hands automatically settling at your hips like that is where they belong.

“I love you too, Steve,” you say, leaning down just enough to brush your nose against his.

His grin spreads, way too pleased with himself for someone with sneezes and sniffles. “Sooo,” he drawls, leaning back like he is pitching a very serious idea, “is this the part where I get my love and affection?”

You laugh quietly. “Aren’t I giving you plenty right now?”

He shakes his head, dramatic as ever. “Nope.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding like he has thought this through very carefully. “I had something… more specific in mind.”

You narrow your eyes, already suspicious. “Which is?”

He smirks, or at least attempts to. “I think we should have sex.”

You narrow your eyes. “Steve, you're sick and—.”

“—Okay, rude because I’m not that sick,” he interrupts, sniffing. “I am mildly compromised. Big difference.” He leans forward a little. “Also, I have not fucked my girlfriend in fifty one hours.”

You blink. “You counted.”

“Obviouly,” he says, offended. "And this little guy really missed you.” He gestures to his crotch.

You cut him off before he can spiral any further, reaching for the bowl and the spoon with a patience that is starting to fray. 

“Okay. That’s enough,” you say, sitting beside him and angling the bowl into your hands. “Open your mouth.”

He immediately leans back, eyes widening like you have just threatened him. “No.”

You blink. “I swear to God if you do not eat it, I will shove this–.”

He immediately takes the spoon and swallows a bite.

“So,” he says slowly, thoughtfully as he chews the vegetables. “Does this mean after I eat we’re gonna have sex?”

“No, Steve,” you say, very calmly, as you scoop up another spoonful. “It means you eat your soup and get better.”

“But babyyyy—”

You shove the spoon into his mouth before he can finish, eyebrows lifting in warning.

He swallows, eyes flicking up to you again, still soft despite the pout tugging at his mouth. “…I love you,” he says, like it might change your mind.

You smile despite yourself and lift the spoon again. “I know. Now eat.”

He does, grumbling under his breath, and honestly, you have faced worse monsters than this.

[suprclark]

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨

— your best friend shows up at your house after breaking your heart a little, only to fix it a lot. turns out the boy you thought you lost is actually the boy who’s been in love with you this whole time.

🧢 5.6k — steve harrington x fem!hopper!reader, fluff, steve is the definition of pretty-boy delusion, reader cries once ( maybe twice ) but it’s character development, mutual pining so obvious, accidental heartbreak → immediate fix-it, best friends who refuse to use their brain cells, surprisingly competent romance, steve getting flustered like it’s his full-time job, angst like a lot, robin and dustin trying ( and failing ) to matchmake the two

author's note — okay so hi this is my first ever steve harrington fic and i swear i have not known peace since that man showed up on my screen. i love him so much it’s genuinely concerning. anyway here’s me coping through writing because i physically cannot concentrate on anything else when he exists. my requests are open. enjoy <3

masterlist : navigation

gif by @emziess | divider by @/lavendergalactic

Your milkshake was melting. You’d been staring at it for — God, you didn’t even know how long. Long enough that the whipped cream had started to slide off like it, too, had given up on you. Not that you could blame it. It was hard to focus on anything when your brain insisted on looping the same thought over and over again: Steve Harrington smiled at you today. And okay, fine, he smiled at everyone, but this one felt different. Hopefully.

You leaned your cheek against your hand, curling into the booth. It was stupid, honestly, being this far gone over someone who didn’t even know you were drowning. But every time he grinned at one of the kids, or spun the Scoops Ahoy hat around his finger, or said your name like it wasn’t just a word but something he liked having in his mouth… yeah. You were sunk. Completely, irreparably, down-bad sunk. It was embarrassing, actually. Almost impressive how thoroughly your heart betrayed you whenever he was in a six-foot radius.

“Hello? Earth to dingus number two?”

You jerked so hard your knee smacked the underside of the table. “Mother of all holy! Robin! You don’t do that to people!”

She was already grinning, already settling into the booth beside you with her chin propped on her palms, in the exact same pose you’d been in not ten seconds ago. Perfectly mocking you.

“Oh my God,” you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “I was thinking about him again, wasn’t I?”

Robin leaned over, grabbed your milkshake, and took a obnoxiously loud sip through the straw. “I genuinely don’t know why you don’t just ask him out,” she said, licking whipped cream off her lip. “It’s not like he can do better than you. Actually, scientifically speaking? He cannot.”

You opened your mouth to argue but Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “Speaking of the dingus,” she muttered, turning her head toward the counter.

You followed her gaze just in time to see Steve swinging his ice-cream scoop. A gaggle of ten-year-olds watched with awe as he attempted some kind of Scoops Ahoy–themed trick.

He spun it once. Twice.

On the third swing, it slipped straight out of his hand and clattered across the floor. The kids burst into laughter. Steve just stood there, hands on his hips like that had been the plan all along.

Robin pointed with the straw still between her fingers. “Really? That guy? That guy is the one you’re down bad for?”

A soft, helpless smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “Yeah,” you breathed, chin dropping into your hand again. “Isn’t he amazing?”

Robin jabbed you in the ribs with her elbow. “C’mon,” she said around another mouthful of your milkshake, “go. Hit your chance before the universe smites you for being a coward.”

“You really think—?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding so aggressively her hair bounced… though the effect was slightly ruined by how she was giving you a distracted thumbs-up while still sipping through the straw.

You pushed yourself out of the booth before your brain could stop you, smoothing your shirt. By the time you reached the counter, the ten-year-olds had dispersed, leaving Steve standing alone.

“Cool trick,” you said, leaning an elbow on the counter because Robin always claimed it made you look ‘effortless.’

Steve brightened immediately. “Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me?” he intoned in that ridiculous nautical voice.

You couldn’t help but laugh, matching his grin. “Depends, sailor. What flavor do you recommend sailing on today?”

His eyes flicked to where Robin was sitting with your half-finished milkshake.

“Uh—why don’t you just… have that one again?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

You tried again, leaning in just a bit. “But you haven’t told me your favorite. C’mon, what’s your go-to?”

“But you didn’t even finish that one,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward Robin with a soft frown. “You should try it properly this time.”

God. He really didn’t get it.

You watched his brows pinch in that soft, boyish confusion—like he thought he was helping, like he genuinely believed he’d cracked the code of what you wanted. And maybe that was the worst part. That he cared enough to try but not enough to see.

Your smile faltered for half a second. “Right,” you said quietly. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll just have that again.”

“Great!” Steve said, already turning to gather ingredients.

You turned your head just enough that Steve wouldn’t notice, giving Robin the smallest shake. Robin’s face fell around the straw. She mouthed what happened?but you only shrugged, because how were you supposed to explain something that felt stupid and small and somehow enormous all at once?

Your eyes drifted back to Steve, watching the easy way he moved behind the counter, the way his stupid hat bobbed with every step. He looked so completely unbothered, so far from the storm brewing in your chest. And the thoughts started piling up like dominoes you couldn’t stop tipping over.

Maybe he just didn’t see you like that, maybe he never had. Maybe every smile you’d memorized and every laugh you’d tucked away like a pressed flower had been nothing more than… friendliness. Harmless, casual affection he gave to everyone. Maybe you’d taken crumbs and convinced yourself they were a meal.

You tried to steady your breathing, tried to focus on anything else, but your brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept pulling threads until everything began to unravel.

Maybe he wasn’t ready for someone new. Maybe his heart was still snagged on something old, someone familiar. You remembered the way his voice softened every time Nancy’s name slipped into conversatio. How he never talked about her, not really, but the silence said more than any words could.

Robin had sworn up and down he’d moved on, but maybe she only said that because she hated seeing you hurt. Because she was trying to protect you from the obvious truth.

Because why else would he look so confused by your flirting? Why else would he never meet you halfway?

Your fingers curled against the countertop. Suddenly the whole picture felt painfully, humiliatingly clear. Of course Steve didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t see you trying. Of course he wasn’t picking up on hints, he wasn’t looking for any.

He was still in love with Nancy.

Steve turned around with a blinding, boyish grin and set the milkshake on the counter

“Here you go!” he said, like he hadn’t just unknowingly stepped on every fragile feeling you’d spent months trying to hide.

You forced your lips into something resembling a smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thanks, Steve.”

You carried it back to the booth, sliding into the seat across from Robin without a word. She sat up straighter, ready to ask a hundred questions, but you just nudged the milkshake toward her with two fingers.

“I’m… not in the mood anymore,” you muttered.

Robin stared at the glass, then at you, her expression softening as your gaze drifted somewhere far away. You tried to drown out your thoughts, tried not to replay every moment of confusion on his face, every hint he’d never picked up, every dream you’d apparently made up alone.

“Hey, Steve!”

Nancy Wheeler’s voice cut through the air like a needle scraping off a record.

You closed your eyes for half a second, exhaling through your nose. Of course. Because the universe didn’t just hate you, it wanted to make you suffer.

You looked over just in time to see Nancy walk up to the counter, and Steve—God, Steve—lighting up in that easy, familiar way. Like slipping into a jacket that used to fit perfectly.

You watched them talk, your heart deflating in slow, measured beats. That was it then. The conclusion you’d spiraled into was right, he wasn’t confused because he was oblivious. He was confused because he wasn’t looking for anyone. Because he’d already loved someone with everything he had once, and even if he wasn’t stuck in the past, he definitely wasn’t stuck on you.

“Rob?” you said softly, reaching for your purse.

She startled, glancing up. “Wait, where are you going?”

You stood, forcing another weak little smile. “I’ll… see you later, okay?”

You walked away, hearing Robin mutter Stupid dingus under her breath but you ignored it. Cause maybe this time, you were the stupid one.

You lay sprawled across your bed, the landline cord wrapped twice around your wrist because you kept fidgeting with it. Down the hall, your dad and El were in the middle of World War III over… cereal? curfew? Who knew. Their voices rose and fell like badly-tuned radio static behind Robin’s sighing in your ear.

“I don’t know, Rob,” you said, rubbing your temple. “Maybe he just… hasn’t moved on from Nancy yet. And even if he had, what’s the guarantee he’d ever like me?”

Robin made a noise like she’d just been stabbed. “Oh my God, I can’t do this. I’m actually aging, I hope you know that. I have wrinkles now. Actual wrinkles.”

“And besides,” you continued, ignoring her dramatics, “I don’t even think I’m his type.”

Robin sucked in a breath so sharp you could practically picture her clutching her imaginary pearls. “Not his—not his type? Are you kidding me? What type do you think he has? Do you think his type is ‘random girl who breaks his heart in a bathroom’ because that didn’t exactly work out for him!”

“I’m being serious,” you argued softly, curling onto your side. “He deserves someone… I don’t know. Someone like Nancy. Someone who fits.”

“You fit!” Robin practically shouted, then lowered her voice when she remembered your dad could be lurking. “You fit so stupidly well it makes me want to scream. I promise you, he—ugh—he likes you. Like, capital-L likes you.”

“Then why doesn’t he act like it?” you shot back, voice small. “If he really liked me, wouldn’t he… I don’t know… notice when I’m flirting? Or maybe flirt back? Or at least look at me the way he looks at—”

“Nancy?” Robin groaned. “Oh my god. We are back to Nancy. We’ve made a full lap.”

You hugged your pillow tighter, eyes stinging. “He still lights up around her, Rob. I saw it today. The way he smiled? It was so easy. Like they still just… clicked. And I—”

“You click with him too!” Robin argued. “Better than Nancy ever did! He goes dumb and sparkly around you!”

Your laugh came out tired and hollow. “He goes dumb around everyone. That’s Steve’s natural state.”

“That is true,” Robin admitted. “But he’s sparkly around you.”

“How can you even say it so surely?” you whispered, a pathetic little laugh catching in your throat. “You don’t know what he feels.”

“Yes I do!” Robin insisted, voice pitching high. “Because he to—”

A door slammed somewhere in the house, loud enough to rattle your bedroom window. You winced, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear.

Robin’s voice fuzzed on the other end, drowned out as Hopper’s booming bass echoed down the hall and El shouted back, something about ‘you never listen’.

You sighed, pressing your eyes shut. “Rob,” you murmured, “I’ll… talk to you later, okay?”

“No—wait, don’t you—”

But you’d already clicked the receiver back into its cradle.

Robin was already waiting for you the next morning at Scoops Ahoy, pacing behind the counter. You barely stepped through the door before she lunged at you, grabbing your shoulders like she was about to deliver life-changing news .

“Okay,” she whispered urgently, dragging you behind the counter so fast you nearly tripped over a mop bucket. “Today is the day. Today. I’m doing this. I’m setting you two up, and I’m not letting you run away, and I’m not letting him be an idiot, and if anyone tries to stop me—God help them.”

You blinked at her, still emotionally hungover from everything you’d spiraled through last night. “Robin… what are you talking about?”

She held up a finger. “Don’t. Don’t even start.”

You opened your mouth and Robin slapped her hand over it. “Shh. Do not ruin this for me. I am dying. A shell of a woman. But I will go out with dignity and possibly a concussion when I knock your two thick skulls together.”

Before you could respond, Steve emerged from the back room, hair perfect, swinging his keys around his finger like he’d never been the source of ninety percent of your emotional turmoil.

“Hey!” he chirped brightly when he saw you. “You’re early today.”

Robin lit up like a nervous bomb. She shoved you forward, “Yeah, because we have something to ask you.”

“Robin—” you hissed, mortified.

But she marched on, committed to the bit. “So! Dingus! She and I were thinking, you know, since you’re free tonight—”

“Oh!” Steve cut in, his face lighting up even more, if that were possible. “Right. I actually meant to tell you guys. I’m… uh… I’m not free tonight.”

You froze.

“Oh?” Robin said tightly, voice straining like a crack in glass. “Why not?”

Steve leaned casually against the counter, cheeks slightly pink. “I have a date.”

Your heart stuttered. Like something inside you tried to stand up and then immediately sat back down.

“A… oh,” you said, throat suddenly too small. “A date?”

Robin went rigid beside you. You could practically hear her internal screaming.

“Yeah!” Steve continued obliviously, grinning like he hadn’t just punched a hole through your ribcage without noticing. “She’s really cool. So I figured why not?”

Why not. Why not. The words echoed inside you, mocking, hollow, sharp around the edges.

Robin stared at him like she was seriously, genuinely contemplating committing a felony. “You… have a date,” she repeated, as if her brain needed time to reboot.

Steve nodded enthusiastically. “Yep! And actually—” He turned to you with that same bright, easy smile he always gave you, the one your heart stupidly stored like a treasure. “I was actually hoping you could help me get ready?”

The world tilted. Painfully.

“You… want me to—”

“Well yeah!” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. “You’re good at that stuff. You always tell me when my hair’s doing that weird flippy thing, and you know what shirts make me look less like a suburban dad, so I figured you could help me pick something out?”

Robin made a sound beside you that could only be described as the noise someone makes when witnessing a slow-motion train wreck.

You swallowed, smiling even though it burned. “Sure,” you said softly. “Yeah. Of course.”

His grin widened. “You’re the best.”

And with that, he went back to reorganizing cones like he hadn’t just peeled another layer off your already bruised heart.

Robin pulled you aside the second his back was turned, gripping your shoulders.

“I’m going to die,” she whispered. “I’m actually going to die. I can’t do this anymore. I’m retiring from matchmaking. I refuse to witness this level of obliviousness for one more day—”

You barely heard her. Because your brain was looping one thought, over and over, louder and heavier each time:

Of course he had a date. He wasn't in love with Nancy anymore. Of course he moved on. Just… not with you.

And you were going to help him get ready for her. You were going to stand in his room and pretend your heart wasn’t folding itself into smaller and smaller shapes just to survive being near him.

Robin stared at you, eyes softening into heartbreak for you and secondhand exhaustion for herself. “Please,” she murmured, “for my sanity, tell me you’re not going to make this hurt worse.”

But you already knew you would. Because it was Steve.

And loving him hurt no matter what you did.

Steve’s room looked exactly like you would think a boy-in-denial-about-his-feelings room would look. He held up two shirts—one blue, one a softer green—and looked at you with that expression that always, always managed to knock the wind out of you.

“Okay, so… which one says ‘cool but not trying too hard’?” he asked, brows raised, lips pursing.

You swallowed and pointed at the green one. It made his eyes brighter. Made him look unfairly good. Made your stomach twist into something sharp and stupid and agonizing.

He grinned, delighted, and tossed it onto the bed. “Knew you’d pick that one. You have good taste.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, fingers curling in your palms, “sometimes.”

He didn’t hear the wobble in your voice, of course he didn’t. Steve could hear a twig snap in the woods from twenty feet away and mistake it for Nancy calling his name, but he couldn’t hear you cracking right in front of him. He turned back to the mirror, running a hand through his hair, fussing with the collar, stepping back and forth like he was trying to solve himself.

And there you were behind him, reflected in the glass, sitting on the edge of his bed holding a pair of his sunglasses you’d been fidgeting with. You looked like someone pretending to be composed. Someone pretending they weren’t guiding the boy they loved into someone else’s arms.

You cleared your throat lightly. “So… what’s the plan? For the date.”

He nervously ran a hand through his hair. “Dunno yet. I want it to be good, though. Like… memorable? Y’know?”

Your heart turned over so painfully you had to look down at your hands. “Well,” you said, keeping your voice light and steady despite the ache climbing up your throat, “if it were me… I’d want something easy. Something that doesn’t feel like a performance.”

His eyes flicked up to the mirror, catching yours. He listened the way he always did. It almost made you dizzy.

“Like what?” he asked.

You shrugged, swallowing hard. “Just… I dunno. Something small. Ice cream, maybe. Or records. Or a late drive with the windows down. Stuff that feels like you… not something you read in a magazine last minute.”

He grinned again. “Yeah. That sounds good. That sounds really good actually. She’d probably like that.”

She. Of course.

You nodded, trying not to let your smile—or your chest—collapse. “Yeah. Most girls would.”

He turned back to the mirror, adjusting the chain around his neck. He had no idea that you were cataloguing every piece of him, burning each detail into your memory like you’d need it later, like you were preparing for a life where you didn’t get to see him like this anymore.

Your mind spiraled again, like it had been doing for days now. You thought about the way he would look at the girl when she would enter the room, how effortlessly they would talk. You thought about how easy it must be for someone like her to be loved. How simple it must be to be the girl Steve Harrington never had to question wanting.

You thought about yourself in comparison. You’d always been the backup dancer in your own life, and standing here next to him, watching him dress for a date with a girl who wasn’t you, made that sting with humiliating clarity.

He turned then and held out two jackets.

“Okay, so—help me out here. Denim or the bomber?”

You took a breath so deep it hurt your ribs. “Bomber,” you whispered.

He laughed like you’d made his night.

“God, what would I do without you?” he asked, slipping into the jacket with a grateful grin.

The question lodged itself in your throat. You knew the answer. He’d live just fine. You were the one who’d fold without him, not the other way around. But he looked at you with such fondness, such blinding affection, that you couldn’t force the truth out. You could barely breathe around it.

You stood. Smoothed the hem of your shirt. Wiped away any stray emotion that might’ve clung to your face.

“Well,” you said softly, keeping your tone tight and controlled, “you look great. She’s lucky.”

Steve blinked at you, something in his expression flickering—confusion? Or maybe that was just your wishful thinking trying to make itself useful. “Thanks,” he said finally, nudging your shoulder with his. “Seriously. You always know how to make me feel… I dunno. Like I’m doing something right.”

Your laugh came out thin and brittle. “I try.”

He grabbed his wallet, checked the time, and with a nervous energy you’d never seen him carry for anyone else, he made for the door. He didn’t notice the way your hands shook. Didn’t notice the way your breath stuttered. Didn’t notice the way you stayed in his room long after he’d left, staring at the empty space he’d occupied like if you stared long enough, maybe you’d figure out how to unlove him.

But you couldn’t.

Because you did. Too much.

You wiped at your cheek before the tear could fall, furious at it for slipping free. You refused to cry in Steve Harrington’s room. You refused to cry in the room of someone who couldn't see you hurting. You refused to cry anywhere except the one place where you could fall apart without witnesses.

The walk home felt endless and directionless all at once. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you block after block while your brain played a highlight reel of every moment you’d ever mistaken for something more.

You hugged your arms around yourself, the cool evening air stinging your skin as if trying to keep you awake, keep you from spiraling any further. But your thoughts swarmed, relentless and hungry. You pictured him sitting across from some girl wearing the jacket you picked out, smelling like the cologne you told him suited him best, using the words and plans you knowingly crafted for someone who wasn’t you.

By the time your house came into view, something tight and exhausted inside you snapped. You slipped your key into the lock and stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind you as though gentleness could keep the heartbreak contained.

And then the tears came.

Hot, furious, humiliating tears spilling over faster than you could wipe them. You pressed your back to the door, slid down until you were sitting on the floor with your knees tucked up, and sobbed into your palms. You cried like you’d been holding it in for weeks. Maybe you had. Maybe loving someone who didn’t even notice had been carving quiet, invisible cracks into you for so long that tonight was the first time you finally shattered.

You were grateful—so stupidly, overwhelmingly grateful—that the house was empty. If your dad had been home, he would’ve gone full protective-parent-mode, pacing the living room with a baseball bat, swearing vengeance on whoever broke you. If El had been home, she’d have gone full telekinetic vendetta before you could even choke out a name.

But it was just you. Alone with your aching ribs and your blotchy face and the sound of your own heart cracking in your ears.

You scrubbed at your cheeks, trying to get the tears under control—slow, shaky breaths, the kind that made your nose sting and your chest hiccup. You forced yourself back onto unsteady feet, ready to drag yourself upstairs and collapse face-first into a pillow.

And that was when you heard it.

A knock.

Your breath caught mid-inhale, your fingers freezing on their way to brush the last tear from your jaw. You stood there for a second, swaying where you stood, heart thumping unevenly as another knock followed.

You wiped your face with your sleeve, pushed your hair out of your eyes, and slowly turned toward the door, panic climbing your spine.

Your hand trembled on the doorknob as you cracked it open.

And then you froze.

Steve Harrington stood on your porch, shifting nervously from foot to foot, hair a little messed up from the wind, and in his hands—held awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to hold them—was a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

Your favorite. Down to the exact shades you always stopped to look at whenever you passed the florist downtown.

Your eyebrows pulled tight. Your breath hitched. “H-hey,” you managed, voice thin and scratchy from crying. “What are you… what are you doing here?”

Steve blinked, swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Uh… hey. Um, is your dad home?”

You shook your head slowly, confusion knitting deeper into your face. “No. He took El out to the carnival tonight.”

“Oh.” Steve nodded. Then nodded again. Then nodded a third time like he didn’t know what else to do with his body. “Okay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

You stared at him. He stared at you.

And then his eyes darted down to the flowers, and he jolted like he’d forgotten he was holding them.

“Oh! Right! Sorry, these are, uh… here.” He thrust them at you with both hands, almost dropping them in the process.

You automatically took them, looking down at the petals, then back up at him, utterly lost. “Steve… what? Why? You don’t have to give me flowers for helping you get ready. Seriously. You really don’t.” Your voice cracked in the middle, but you pushed through it. “It’s… it’s what a friend would do.”

The word friend tasted like metal in your mouth. You felt it slice something inside you just saying it.

Steve’s face twisted into the most baffled expression you’d ever seen on a human being.

“Uh, what?”

You hugged the bouquet closer to your chest, shrugging helplessly. “Friends help friends. You said you needed help, so I helped. And you don’t owe me anything for that, okay? I don’t need flowers, Steve.”

He blinked once. Then twice. Then his eyes narrowed, offended on a molecular level.

“Are you dumb?”

Your mouth fell open, outrage flaring hot. “Excuse me?!”

He winced immediately, raising both hands. “Wait—no—okay, that came out wrong. Really wrong. Horrifically wrong. Let me try again.”

You glared at him, still clutching the flowers like a shield, waiting.

“I meant,” he said, stumbling over his words, “are you… not smart? Like, in this one, extremely specific scenario? Because clearly something is not connecting here.” He gestured wildly between you and the flowers. “Because I’m not giving you these as, like— a thanks-for-the-fashion-tips thing. Or a hey-buddy-pal-champ thing. Or a cool-friends-being-cool-friends thing.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, exasperated, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted here.

You kept staring at him, brain buffering like a TV stuck between channels. Your fingers tightened around the stems of the flowers.

“Okay,” he said, dragging a hand down his face like he was seconds away from yanking his own hair out. “Right. I’m just, I’m gonna say it. Directly. Straight up.”

You nodded in the world’s slowest, most confused motion.

“I’m taking you out on a date,” Steve said.

For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe. Your mouth opened a fraction, mind blank except for a single thought: He didn’t say that. He did not say that. You hallucinated it. You’re dehydrated from crying. You’ve finally snapped.

“I… you… I—what?” you stammered, every neuron in your brain collapsing in on itself like a dying star.

Steve stared at you. You stared at him. His expression shifted from hopeful to confused to offended in under three seconds.

“I thought you’d get that,” he said helplessly, gesturing to the flowers like they were supposed to speak for him. “I mean, this is what people do, right? They show up at your house with flowers and ask you out and Dustin swore this would make sense!”

Your brain hiccupped. “I’m sorry— Dustin? Dustin Henderson? You took date advice from a thirteen-year-old?!”

Steve flinched like you’d physically slapped him with the truth. “Okay, probably not my best decision,” he admitted, waving his hands defensively. “But in my defense, he was very confident, and he used, like… charts! And color coding! And this whole thing about emotional wavelengths I didn’t fully understand!”

“That’s the worst decision ever,” you blurted out, too shocked to filter anything. “Who does that? Who goes to a middle-schooler for romantic guidance like he’s some kind of love guru?!”

“Apparently me!” Steve nearly shouted, equally mortified. “Can we maybe not focus on how much of an idiot I am right now? Can we circle back to that later? Like way later? Preferably never?”

You just stared, stunned and speechless and unbelievably overwhelmed. The flowers felt heavier in your hands. The knot in your chest loosened just slightly, like it wasn’t sure if it needed to hold on anymore.

Steve took a breath, steadier than before, and met your eyes with something soft and earnest that made your stomach flip.

“What I’m trying to say,” he said quietly, “is that I like you. And I’ve liked you for a while. And I… I really want to take you out. Like… properly. Like a real date. With me. And you. And not Dustin.”

You made a strangled sound that might’ve been laughter. Or maybe a sob. Hard to tell.

Steve stepped closer, but slow, like he didn’t want to spook you. “So… would you mind, um… getting ready? Really quickly? So we can go? Before I completely lose my nerve and Dustin ends up writing a breakup flowchart for me on Monday?”

You stood there in stunned silence, heart thundering, tears drying unevenly on your cheeks, flowers clutched to your chest like a fragile truth you’d been waiting your whole life to hold.

And for the first time all night, you didn’t feel like the universe was plotting against you.

It felt like it had just… finally let you catch up.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until your head was nodding. A breathy, startled laugh escaped you. And then you were smiling, the first real one you’d managed all day, the kind that warmed your cheeks and loosened your shoulders.

Steve blinked at you, wide-eyed and nervous, as if he wasn’t sure whether your reaction was good or bad. And before he could spiral into whatever anxious loop Dustin clearly trained him into, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

His breath hitched.

For half a second, he stood frozen. And then, with this tiny, disbelieving exhale, he melted. His hands found the small of your back pulling you in like he’d been waiting for permission. His chin nudged your shoulder; you felt the smile pressed against your neck. He smelled like the cologne you picked, and something distinctly, stupidly Steve.

You held him tighter, burying your face against his collarbone. The flowers were still clutched in one hand, crushed slightly between you, but you didn’t care. For the first time that night, you didn’t feel like you were pretending or trying or reaching for something unreachable. You felt… held. Wanted. Seen.

When you pulled back, your palms skimmed the sides of his neck, thumbs brushing barely-there along his jaw. His breath stuttered again, like you’d short-circuited whatever brain cells he had left. His eyes flickered between your eyes and your mouth.

You leaned in, barely a whisper of space between you, and murmured against his lips, “I like you too, Steve Harrington.”

He made a sound that punched straight through your ribs.

And then you kissed him.

Slow at first, because you were afraid if you pushed too fast you’d wake up in your room and realize this was all a grief-induced hallucination. His lips were warm, hesitant, a little clumsy, like he wasn’t used to wanting something this much. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, and something inside you sparked.

When you tilted your head and deepened it just slightly, Steve responded like he’d been waiting his entire life for that exact moment. His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. His breathing went uneven. His lips moved with this stunned kind of reverence that made your legs feel like water.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a hysterical thought flickered: Oh my god, he’s so hot. Which was insane because you already knew that, had known it for months, but apparently kissing him turned the volume up on that realization by about a thousand.

You pulled back just enough for your lips to brush his cheek, warm and flushed and stupidly soft, and pressed a quick kiss there. Steve made a noise that he immediately tried to swallow and failed miserably.

His face went pink. Actually pink. Steve Harrington looked completely undone and flustered and like his brain had officially left the building.

You smiled up at him, breathless and glowing in a way you could feel all the way in your fingertips. “I’ll be right back,” you whispered, brushing your thumb once more along his jaw before stepping away.

He froze again, watching you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics in front of him. “O—oh. Yeah. Cool. Cool. I’ll just—um—stand here. Not move. Or breathe. Or… whatever people do when they’re not… doing anything.”

You bit back a laugh, gave him one last kiss to the cheek and slipped inside to get ready.

Behind, you heard him exhale shakily and mutter, “Henderson is never gonna let me live this down.”

“Neither is Robin.” You called back and he visibly groaned.

© suprclark . all rights are reserved. copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or works as your own is prohibited .

[eddielove]

In 20 years he’s going to be to us what Tom Cruise was to our mothers

[laufeysvalentine]

why did he age so nicely im feral

[musingsofheaven]

thank god im alive to see this