I think Steve would be a little bit chubby post S5 ending I mean maybe he kind of was, we all saw him in that suit at the end? but I just think it makes sense. He's not a teenage boy anymore, fighting for his life on a daily basis. He's doesn't have to worry about stupid, vapid concepts like high school popularity and being liked by the cool kids. I think Steve gaining weight, having an adorable soft tummy as a sign that his body isn't in survival mode anymore. He's allowed to enjoy good food, he's allowed to treat himself to nice things.
He notices it over time, a sized up shirt here, moving up another hole on belt there, his reflection looking back at him in his bedroom mirror. Not a scrawny and scrappy boy anymore, but a fulfilled man. A happy man.
He's allowed himself to sink into the calm easy life, and if that included a few extra pounds on his frame, then surely that's something worth smiling for
given the current climate this pride especially i feel i must mention that i love my trans friends, i stand with trans people in the fight against transphobic legislation and those who would enforce it, and this blog is not a good place for you to be if you do not vibe with that
After a rather unforgettable one-night stand, you’re left scrambling to get you and your 3rd grade son to his new Little League baseball meeting, and even more scrambled when you see that the man who’d given you the best night since you’d moved from Chicago is, in fact, his coach. His really, really, attractive coach.
wc: 16,385
warnings: deadbeat dad, single parent, money issues, mentioned teen pregnancy, i think that’s all!
THISSSSSSS!!!!!!! curate your own internet experience. block them because they’re allergic to peanut butter, block them because they have what you don’t, block them because they dislike your favorite food, block them because you don’t like their layout, block them because you can.
blocking is NOT a personal attack against someone. it’s you curating your own internet experience and catering for your comfort, and you have every right to do that.
you, yes, you!!! you CANNOT tell other people to censor themselves for your own comfort and personal likings. you CANNOT tell them what they can or can’t post. you CANNOT tell them what they can or can’t write. you CANNOT tell them what they can or can’t draw. BUT you CAN block them for whatever reason.
that block button is offered to you for free. use. it.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
description: morticia and gomez addams if they survived the horrors of hawkins, got married, raised two equally dramatic children, and spent the rest of their lives being unapologetically obsessed with each other.
pairing: eddie x wife!reader
tags: eddie x reader, no y/n, husband!eddie munson, dad!eddie munson, morticia and gomez addams coded, tooth rotting fluff (they're obsessed with eachother), soulmates, edward jr & corvina, domestic bliss, slice of life, gothic romance, munson family, black cat x black cat, love as devotion and worship
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!, PiV, unprotected, mushy fluff
WC:7.3k
A/N: requested by @pierrotandsam AGH HERE IT IS!!! I HOPE YOU LOOOOOVE IT :))) reblogs are a writer's best friend <3
I'm so obsessed with this. **I proofread as best as i could...i got three hours of sleep last night, so my brain is straight mush
Eddie still remembers the day he first laid eyes on you. Summer, going into his third senior year at Hawkins, you walked into Larry’s Auto Body Repair looking like something pulled from the pages of a half-burnt gothic novel left to rot in an attic trunk.
The heat outside had been miserable; thick, wet Indiana air that made grease cling to skin and tempers run short, but you arrived untouched by it all. Draped in black despite the July sun, lace sleeves swallowing your wrists, silver rings glinting like tiny knives beneath the fluorescent lights.
Your perfume smelled faintly of clove cigarettes, old paper, and rain. Long dark hair spilled down your back in soft waves, and your eyes, God, your eyes, looked mournful in the way stained glass saints did. Beautiful enough to make a man confess every awful thing he’s ever done, truth or not.
Eddie had nearly dropped an engine part directly on his foot.
You’d stepped into the garage like you belonged in another century entirely, gaze drifting slowly across the room with detached fascination, lingering on rusted tools and oil stains as if they were artifacts in a museum.
Then you smiled at him. Not sweet, not shy, but devastating. Like you already knew every terrible thing about him and adored him for it anyway. From that moment on, Eddie Munson was ruined.
Years later, the people of Hawkins still spoke about the two of you in hushed, bewildered voices. The Munsons of the Creel House. The strange family on the hill with wrought iron gates, tangled in dead vines and black roses that somehow bloomed year-round.
Children swore candlelight moved through the windows at impossible hours. Neighbors whispered about organ music drifting through storms and the silhouettes dancing behind curtains long after midnight.
The truth was far less sinister, mostly. You simply loved beautiful things that others were too frightened to appreciate. And Eddie loved you enough to follow you anywhere, even the old Creel House.
At first, he’d refused to even step onto the property. Too many memories. Too much blood soaked into those walls. Vecna. Chrissy. The Upside Down. Every rotten thing Hawkins tried desperately to bury lived in the bones of that house.
But then you’d walked through the front doors for the first time, black dress trailing over dusty hardwood, staring up at the massive chandelier with wonder glowing across your face like moonlight.
“Eddie,” you’d whispered softly, almost reverently. “It’s perfect.”
And that had been it. Because you looked at the house the same way you looked at him, not with fear, but affection. Like ruined things deserved devotion too. So he rebuilt it for you.
Every creaking staircase. Every shattered window. Every rotted inch of wallpaper. Together, you turned the graveyard of Victor Creel’s legacy into something warm, strange, and terribly romantic. A home, your home.
Corvina, your eldest daughter, drifted through the manor like a tiny phantom in velvet dresses, all solemn eyes and unnerving intelligence. She collected moth wings in glass jars and read Poe beneath thunderstorms while Eddie watched with equal parts pride and concern.
Meanwhile, Edward Jr, though everyone called him Teddy, was chaos incarnate. Wild curls, scraped knees, and his father’s crooked grin. The poor kid had inherited Eddie’s dramatic flair and your complete lack of fear, which meant most afternoons ended with him attempting something mildly catastrophic somewhere on the property.
Eddie had been hesitant about naming him after himself. Truthfully, he was terrified.
He remembered sitting beside you in bed while rain battered the windows, your newborn son asleep against your chest. Candlelight flickered gold across your skin as Eddie stared at the tiny little thing wearing his name.
“What if he ends up like me?” he’d asked quietly. You’d looked at him then with that same devastating softness you’d always reserved for his ugliest thoughts.
“My darling,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his curls, “I should certainly hope so.”
And just like that, the fear dissolved. Because in your eyes, Eddie Munson had never been something to outgrow or overcome. He had always been something to cherish.
The Creel House came alive slowly in the mornings. Rain tapped softly against the tall windows that morning, the sky outside painted silver and gloomy in the way you adored most.
Eddie stood at the stove in silk pajama pants and a black robe hanging open over his tattooed chest, swaying dramatically to the music while making pancakes shaped vaguely like bats.
“Darling,” you called from your place at the kitchen table, long black sleeves draped elegantly around your coffee cup, “I do believe those are becoming progressively less edible.”
Eddie pressed a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Cruel. Wounded before breakfast.”
“You married me for my cruelty.”
“I married you because you looked at me like a Victorian widow cursed by the sea.”
You smiled over the rim of your mug. “And you looked like trouble wrapped in leather.”
“Mm,” Eddie hummed proudly. “Still do.”
Before you could respond, Eddie appeared beside your chair suddenly, dramatically dropping to one knee like a man overcome with passion. He took your hand delicately, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Then another to your wrist. Then another just beneath your sleeve.
You laughed softly, tilting your head as his curls brushed your skin. “Edward Munson,” you murmured. “The children are awake.”
“Good,” he replied against your hand. “They should witness devotion.”
Right on cue, Corvina entered the kitchen carrying three books against her chest, long dark braid hanging over one shoulder. She glanced once at the scene before deadpanning:
“You’re disgusting.”
“Thank you, my dove,” you said warmly.
Corvina moved to pour herself coffee like she hadn’t witnessed anything unusual at all. Then came the sound of slower footsteps, Teddy.
Edward Jr. appeared in the doorway wearing his Hawkins High hoodie, backpack hanging off one shoulder, curls sticking up wildly like he’d been running nervous hands through them for an hour.
And immediately, both you and Eddie noticed the expression on his face, and Eddie straightened a little. “Whoa. What’s with the funeral look, Theodore?”
Teddy hesitated, then slowly held up a folded yellow slip of paper. Your brows lifted slightly while Corvina sipped her coffee with the detached calm of someone witnessing an execution.
“It’s a summons,” Teddy muttered.
Eddie blinked once, then dramatically pointed the spatula toward him. “What’d you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“That’s exactly what I used to say,” Eddie nodded solemnly. “And I was usually innocent at least forty percent of the time.”
You extended your hand calmly. “May I see it, darling?”
Teddy crossed the kitchen and handed it over anxiously while Eddie abandoned the pancakes entirely to loom over your shoulder. His chin immediately dropped onto the top of your head while his arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind instinctively.
You unfolded the slip carefully:
REQUESTED PARENT CONFERENCE.
PRINCIPAL HIGGINS.
REGARDING: EDWARD MUNSON JR.
Eddie groaned immediately. “Jesus Christ. They started early this year.”
Teddy looked miserable. “Dad, I swear, I didn’t even do anything. It was those idiots from the basketball team—they kept messing with my stuff in gym, and one of them shoved me into a locker, and when I shoved him back, he started bleeding and—”
“Bleeding?” Corvina asked mildly.
“He ran into the trophy case!”
“Ah,” she nodded. “Natural selection.”
“Teddy,” you said softly, reaching for his hand. “Look at me.”
He did immediately.
And despite being nearly Eddie’s height now, despite the deepening voice and teenage awkwardness settling into his limbs, he still looked at you the same way he had as a child: like you could fix anything simply by speaking.
“You are not in trouble with us,” you assured gently.
Eddie nodded instantly. “Absolutely not.”
“But—”
“Nope.” Eddie waved him off. “Listen, kid, Hawkins High has been blaming Munsons for shit since before you were born. It’s practically a school tradition.”
Teddy huffed out a nervous laugh. You rose from your chair then, smoothing your hands over Eddie’s wrists where they rested around your waist. “We’ll attend the meeting.”
“Together,” Eddie added.
“And if your principal insists on being unreasonable,” you continued calmly, “your father does so enjoy making authority figures uncomfortable.”
Eddie grinned wickedly. “Baby, remember the vice principal in ‘89?”
You smiled faintly. “He looked moments from cardiac arrest.”
Teddy finally laughed properly at that, the tension melting from his shoulders almost instantly.
Without another word, Eddie reached over and grabbed one of the bat-shaped pancakes, shoving it onto Teddy’s plate. “Eat up, kid,” he said. “Nothing scarier than school administration on an empty stomach.”
Corvina glanced toward the stove. “Those are burnt.”
“They’re wonderful,” Eddie corrected.
You reached for his hand again, kissing his knuckles this time. “My talented husband,” you said softly.
Eddie practically preened under the affection, leaning down immediately to kiss you dramatically enough to make Corvina groan.
“Oh, my God.”
“Teddy,” Eddie said seriously against your mouth, “never settle for a love that doesn’t make your children physically ill.”
“Noted,” Teddy muttered through a mouthful of pancake.
By noon, rain had turned into a heavy mist that clung to Hawkins like a veil, which was the exact kind of weather you loved. The kind of weather Eddie insisted was “romantic as hell.”
The two of you walked through the halls of Hawkins High side by side like something entirely out of place amongst the fluorescent lighting and beige walls. Students slowed as you passed, conversations dipping into whispers almost immediately.
You floated through the hallway in a long black coat that brushed your calves, silver jewelry gleaming beneath the dim lights, while Eddie walked beside you in dark rings and leather, one hand firmly wrapped around yours, as if he physically couldn’t stand not touching you for more than a few seconds.
Which, truthfully, he couldn’t.
“Sweetheart,” Eddie murmured low enough only you could hear as you approached the office, “if Higgins pisses me off, are we thinking subtle psychological warfare or full public humiliation?”
You glanced at him calmly. “Let us see how brave he feels first.”
“God, I love when you threaten people poetically.”
The secretary barely looked up when you entered the office, though her expression tightened almost immediately at the sight of Eddie, still, after all these years. Eddie noticed too, squeezing your hand once before leaning casually against the counter.
“We’re here about Teddy,” he said.
The woman cleared her throat awkwardly. “Principal Higgins is expecting you.”
“Lucky him,” Eddie muttered.
You placed a gentle hand against his chest before he could continue, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his jacket. “Behave, mon amour.”
Eddie looked down at you like you’d hung the moon itself in the sky. “For you?” he said softly. “Always.”
The secretary looked deeply uncomfortable. Good.
Principal Higgins’ office looked exactly the same as it had when Eddie sat in it at seventeen; stale coffee smell, ugly filing cabinets, school banners hanging crookedly on the walls.
Only now, Higgins himself had more gray hair and less patience. He didn’t stand when you entered. Instead, he leaned back slowly in his chair, eyes moving between you both with poorly concealed irritation.
“Mr. and Mrs. Munson.”
Eddie sat down across from him casually, slinging an arm immediately across the back of your chair. “Higgins,” he replied. “Still alive, huh?”
You rested one elegant hand atop Eddie’s knee beneath the desk, feeling him relax instantly under your touch.
Higgins ignored the comment. “Teddy was involved in an altercation yesterday afternoon.”
“Involved,” Eddie repeated. “Interesting wording.”
“He assaulted another student.”
“He defended himself,” you corrected smoothly.
Higgins finally looked directly at you then, expression tightening slightly. “And how exactly would you know that, Mrs. Munson?”
“Because, unlike this institution,” you replied calmly, “our son tells us the truth.”
Higgins folded his hands atop the desk. “Mrs. Munson, with all due respect, Edward Jr. has inherited certain… behavioral tendencies.”
There it was. Eddie’s jaw tightened instantly beneath the lazy posture he wore like armor. But you? You simply tilted your head slightly.
“What an unfortunate thing to say aloud,” you murmured.
Higgins shifted faintly. Eddie watched you carefully now, eyes practically sparkling because he knew that tone and knew it well. It was the same tone you used moments before verbally disemboweling someone.
“The Munson family,” Higgins continued carefully, “has had a difficult history with this school. Your husband, especially.”
Eddie gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, because this town treated me like I was carrying the plague.”
“You developed quite the reputation.”
“And your athletes didn’t?” Eddie shot back. “Interesting.”
“Eddie,” you said softly, not looking away from Higgins. You folded your hands neatly in your lap, expression serene enough to be unsettling.
“Our son,” you said carefully, “was cornered by three boys larger than him.”
Higgins opened his mouth, but you continued before he could speak.
“One shoved him into a locker repeatedly. Another destroyed his sketchbook. And when Theodore defended himself after being physically provoked, suddenly, he became the problem.”
Silence, and Higgins shifted again. You leaned forward slightly then, dark eyes steady on his.
“And now you sit before two former students who know exactly how Hawkins High operates and imply there is some sort of inherited defect in our child because his last name is Munson.”
Eddie looked dangerously proud beside you.
Higgins cleared his throat. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“No?” you asked gently. “Then perhaps choose your words more carefully.”
The office went quiet except for the rain tapping softly against the windows. Eddie finally leaned forward himself, rings clinking against the desk.
“Look,” he said flatly, “I know exactly what this place thinks about me. Fine. Whatever. But you do not get to stick that shit onto my son because some meathead couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”
Higgins sighed heavily. “No one is suspending Teddy.”
“Very generous,” Corvina’s voice drawled suddenly from the doorway.
All three of you turned. Corvina stood there holding a hall pass and looking deeply unimpressed.
“She followed us?” Higgins asked incredulously.
“She’s observant,” you replied.
“And nosy,” Eddie added proudly.
Corvina stepped inside without invitation. “Also, for the record, Tyler Bennett admitted in chemistry that he started it because Teddy wouldn’t let them make fun of that freshman girl.”
Eddie blinked. Then slowly turned toward his son’s principal with the most insufferably smug expression imaginable. “Huh,” he said. “Would you look at that?”
You reached over then, brushing your fingers lovingly along Eddie’s jaw.
“My darling,” you sighed softly. “It appears our son inherited your unfortunate tendency toward heroics.”
Eddie practically melted into your hand. “Baby,” he whispered dramatically, grabbing your wrist to kiss your palm, “you say the sexiest things to me.”
Corvina stood near the doorway with her arms crossed, entirely too pleased with herself. Eddie lounged back in his chair again, one boot hooked over his knee while he admired you with open, ridiculous affection.
Meanwhile, you remained perfectly composed, which somehow made you infinitely more terrifying.
“Well,” Higgins said stiffly after a long silence, “I believe this matter can be considered resolved.”
“How fortunate,” you replied smoothly.
Eddie snorted under his breath, and Higgins ignored him. “I’ll speak with the boys involved.”
“You should,” you said. “Especially if the school wishes to maintain the illusion of fairness.”
The principal’s jaw tightened faintly. Then, as though remembering something unpleasant, his eyes flicked briefly toward a framed flyer hanging beside his desk.
Hawkins High Arts Expansion Fund: Sponsored by the Munson Mortuary.
Eddie noticed immediately, as did you. A slow smile touched your lips. “You know,” you mused softly, rising from your chair, “Edward and I have always cared deeply about the arts.”
Eddie stood the second you did, naturally gravitating toward your side like a shadow stitched to your heels.
“The theater department,” you continued thoughtfully, smoothing the sleeve of your coat, “the music programs, student scholarships…”
Higgins straightened slightly.
“Hell,” Eddie added casually, “the new ceramics kiln was us.”
You turned your attention back to Higgins, expression warm enough to unsettle.
“It would simply devastate us,” you said gently, “if the environment here became hostile enough that we no longer felt comfortable continuing such generosity.”
Higgins cleared his throat quickly. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“No,” you agreed pleasantly. “I imagine it won’t.”
Eddie grinned beside you like the devil himself. God, he loved you. Loved the way you could flay someone alive without ever raising your voice. Loved the way people underestimated your softness right until the moment they realized it had teeth.
You reached for his hand, and he took it instantly.
“Well,” Eddie sighed dramatically, “this has been deeply irritating.”
As the four of you started toward the office door, Higgins spoke again. “Mrs. Munson.”
You paused, turning slightly. “I assure you,” he said carefully, “Theodore will be treated fairly.”
You held his gaze for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “I should hope so.”
And with that, you left. The halls quieted again as your family walked through them together.
Eddie’s hand remained clasped tightly with yours while Corvina drifted ahead in a sea of black fabric, entirely unbothered by the stares surrounding her.
The second the front doors shut behind you, Eddie turned toward you with outright admiration burning in his expression.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Marry me again.”
You looked at him calmly. “I would a thousand times.”
Candles flickered low throughout the house, golden light dancing against dark wallpaper while thunder rolled softly somewhere in the distance.
Dinner had long since ended, dishes abandoned in favor of the far more important activity of Eddie dramatically sprawled across the velvet chaise in the sitting room with his head in your lap.
“Darling,” he sighed as you lazily combed your fingers through his curls, “if I die right now, know that I died fulfilled.”
“You’re forty years old,” Corvina deadpanned from the armchair across the room. “Not a dying Victorian poet.”
Eddie pointed accusingly toward her without lifting his head. “Your mother encourages this cruelty.”
You smiled softly down at him. “I find it endearing.”
“That’s because you worship me.”
“Correct.”
Corvina physically recoiled. “Can you two act normal for ten minutes?”
“No,” both of you answered immediately.
Teddy snorted from the floor where he sat building something suspiciously dangerous out of spare radio parts. Then, the doorbell rang, and everyone paused. Corvina moved first, way too fast for her character.
You noticed immediately. Eddie noticed immediately. Teddy noticed immediately. The three of you slowly turned toward her as she stood abruptly from the chair, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her black skirt.
“…Interesting,” you murmured.
Corvina narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”
Eddie sat up slowly now, a grin already forming. “Oh, my God.”
“It’s probably nothing.”
“Corvina Lucille Munson,” Teddy gasped dramatically. “Are you nervous?”
“I will kill you.”
The bell rang again. Corvina moved toward the front door with all the rigid dignity of someone approaching their execution.
You and Eddie exchanged a look. Then, silently, both rose from your seats to follow.
The front door creaked open, and standing beneath the porch light was perhaps the least expected person imaginable. A boy. Tall, clean-cut, nervous beyond belief. Bright blue varsity jacket. Hair neatly combed. Holding flowers.
The poor thing looked like he’d wandered into the wrong horror movie. Corvina stared at him; the boy stared at Corvina. Then his eyes slowly lifted, and landed directly on you and Eddie looming behind her like two beautifully dressed vampires awaiting explanation.
His face drained completely of color. Eddie blinked once, then immediately leaned toward you and whispered with genuine awe:
“He looks like he says ‘yes ma’am’ unironically.”
You nodded thoughtfully. “How refreshing.”
“Mom,” Corvina warned.
The boy swallowed hard. “H-hi, Mr. and Mrs. Munson.”
Eddie lit up instantly. “Oh, I like him.”
Corvina closed her eyes briefly like she regretted ever being born. You stepped forward gracefully, gaze drifting over the bouquet in his trembling hands.
“How lovely,” you said softly. “Funeral lilies.”
“They’re her favorite,” he blurted.
Then you looked at Corvina slowly, while Corvina looked horrified. Eddie looked seconds from losing his mind entirely.
“Teddy,” he whispered sharply. “Your sister has a boyfriend.”
“I KNEW IT.”
“He is not my boyfriend,” Corvina snapped immediately. “He’s an experiment.”
The boy blinked. “An… experiment?”
“You’re studying social dynamics?” you guessed politely.
“Yes,” Corvina said quickly.
Eddie crossed his arms. “By holding hands with the quarterback?”
“Second-string quarterback,” Teddy corrected.
Everyone looked at the boy while he awkwardly raised one hand. “We lost regionals.”
Eddie burst out laughing. “Oh my God, sweetheart,” he wheezed to you. “She brought home a jock.”
“He’s not a jock.”
The boy tried to help. “I’m also on the debate team.”
You gasped softly. “How multifaceted.”
Corvina looked moments from throwing herself from the staircase.
Eddie grinned wickedly at her. “Baby bat’s got a crush.”
“I do not.”
“He knows your favorite flowers,” Teddy sang obnoxiously.
“I hate this family.”
The boy, still somehow standing there despite the obvious psychological warfare occurring around him, looked toward Corvina carefully. And to everyone’s shock, his expression softened.
“She talks about you guys a lot, actually.”
Corvina froze.
Eddie immediately clutched his chest dramatically. “Oh, my.”
“Dad.”
“She told me,” the boy continued nervously, “that her parents are… intense, but very in love.”
You smiled faintly. Corvina looked like she wanted the floorboards to consume her.
“And,” he added carefully, “that her dad still leaves dead roses on her mom’s pillow every morning.”
Eddie looked at you instantly, utterly smitten. “Baby,” he whispered emotionally, “our love is inspiring the youth.”
You reached up, smoothing your hand against his jaw affectionately. “We are deeply romantic.”
“You’re deeply weird,” Teddy corrected.
“Thank you.”
Corvina groaned. “Can we please go before they start kissing again?”
Too late. Eddie had already grabbed your hand dramatically.
“You wound me, little raven,” he said, pressing a theatrical kiss against your knuckles. “Your mother’s beauty simply overwhelms me.”
The boy stared. Teddy stared. Corvina pinched the bridge of her nose. And you, you simply looked at your husband with soft, endless devotion while thunder echoed gently overhead.
“Oh, mon amour,” you sighed lovingly. “You are still the most handsome thing this house has ever held.”
Eddie nearly died on the spot.
The house felt different when the children were gone. Corvina had vanished off to some poetry reading with her painfully polite almost-boyfriend, while Teddy was staying overnight at a friend’s house after aggressively insisting he was “old enough to survive one night without parental supervision.”
Eddie had looked personally offended by the statement.
Now the evening rain had finally stopped, leaving the world outside soaked silver beneath the moonlight.
You stood in front of the bedroom mirror, fastening a pair of silver earrings, when Eddie appeared in the doorway, already staring at you like a man deeply unwell. His dark button-up hung half-open, curls still damp from the shower, rings glinting in the candlelight.
But his expression, my God. After all these years, he still looked at you like the first breath after drowning.
“Well,” he murmured, leaning against the doorframe, “there goes every coherent thought I’ve ever had.”
You smiled softly at his reflection. “You say that every time I wear black.”
“Because every time you wear black, I fall in love with you all over again.”
“You’re very dramatic.”
“You’re very beautiful. We all cope differently.” You laughed quietly as he crossed the room toward you.
The second he reached you, his hands found your waist instinctively, warm and familiar through the fabric of your dress. He buried his face briefly against your neck with a content sigh like “this—this right here—was the safest place in the universe.”
“Close your eyes,” he murmured.
You raised a brow. “Edward.”
“Please?”
Amused, you obeyed. You heard him moving around the room for a moment before something soft brushed across your palms.
Flowers.
When you opened your eyes again, Eddie stood before you holding a bouquet of black dahlias and dead roses tied together with velvet ribbon, just like your first date.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Eddie suddenly looked shy beneath all the tattoos and bravado. “I know they’re a little wilted, but Gareth’s florist cousin said—”
“They’re perfect.”
The relief on his face was immediate. You reached up carefully, fingertips brushing his cheek while he melted into your touch on instinct.
“Do you remember,” you asked softly, “what you said to me the night you gave me flowers for the first time?”
Eddie grinned a little. “Yeah.” He leaned closer. “‘Most girls want roses. You looked like you’d appreciate something half-dead.’”
“And I nearly married you on the spot.”
“You definitely wanted me carnally.”
You laughed again and kissed him gently. Eddie hummed happily against your mouth, already chasing after another kiss before you’d fully pulled away.
“Come on,” he whispered. “I’ve got a surprise.”
The graveyard sat at the edge of Hawkins beneath enormous twisted trees, moonlight filtering silver across old headstones and damp grass. Most people found it unsettling, but you found it beautiful, especially tonight.
Your breath caught softly as Eddie led you through the cemetery gates hand in hand.
Because there, beneath the crooked oak tree where he’d taken you all those years ago, sat an entire picnic laid out atop black blankets and velvet pillows. Candles flickered inside lanterns. An old radio played something metal, low enough to blend with the wind.
Your favorite wine rested beside a basket overflowing with chocolate-covered strawberries and homemade pastries, which Eddie had very obviously burnt slightly. And in the center, a vase of black dahlias. Eddie rubbed the back of his neck suddenly, almost bashful. “I know it’s kinda stupid—”
“It isn’t.”
Your voice was so soft that it stopped him immediately. He watched as you stepped slowly into the little space he’d created, moonlight catching the emotion shimmering across your face.
“You remembered everything,” you whispered.
“Course I did.”
Eddie moved closer then, taking your hands carefully. “This is where I fell in love with you,” he admitted quietly. “Figured it deserved revisiting.”
Your chest ached. Because despite all his theatrics, despite the flirting and dramatics and endless teasing, Eddie loved with terrifying sincerity, always had.
You touched his face gently. “You never told me you loved me that night.”
“No,” he said softly. “But I knew.”
The wind moved through the cemetery trees around you, carrying the scent of rain and earth and candle smoke. Then Eddie suddenly dropped dramatically onto the blanket.
“Now,” he announced, patting the spot beside him, “come seduce your husband under the moonlight.”
You smiled helplessly and settled beside him. Immediately, he pulled you into his lap like gravity itself demanded it. You curled against him easily, fingers playing with the rings on his hand while his chin rested atop your shoulder.
For a while, neither of you spoke. You simply existed there together beneath the stars, wrapped in candlelight and old music and decades worth of devotion.
Eventually, Eddie pressed a slow kiss against your neck. “You know,” he murmured, “I was so scared to bring you here on our first date.”
You turned slightly. “You were?”
“Terrified.” He laughed softly against your skin. “Wayne told me if I took a girl to a graveyard, she’d think I was either a serial killer or possessed.”
“And instead?”
“You told me it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you.”
“It still is.”
Eddie looked at you then. And suddenly he was twenty again; grease stains on his hands, heart beating too fast, staring at the most hauntingly beautiful girl he’d ever seen while wondering how someone so lovely could possibly want him back.
Only now, he knew, because you’d spent decades proving it.
His hand slid carefully against your cheek. “My sweet girl,” he whispered.
You kissed him before he could say anything else. Slow and loving, the kind of kiss built from years and years of choosing each other over and over again. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled softly again.
Eddie smiled against your mouth. “Think the kids are behaving themselves?”
You smoothed your fingers through his curls lazily. “Not our concern tonight.”
“God,” he sighed happily, pulling you impossibly closer, “I adore you.”
“Eddie,” you whispered, tilting your head as his lips brushed the side of your neck. “You’ve outdone yourself, mon amour.”
He hummed against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. “Only the best for you.”
You laughed softly, and the sound made him tighten his hold, one hand sliding reverently down your side, tracing the black silk of your dress.
Eddie loved pleasing you more than anything, maybe even more than breathing. He lived for the way your breath would hitch when he touched you just right, for the way you looked at him like he was the only man in any world worth having.
His fingers found the hem of your dress and slipped beneath it, warm palm gliding up your thigh. “Let me worship you here,” he murmured, voice low and rough with devotion.
You turned in his lap, straddling him, your long dark hair falling around you both like a curtain. The cemetery was empty, the night yours alone. You cupped his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, silver rings cool against his skin.
“Then worship me, Edward,” you said softly, the command wrapped in velvet.
Eddie’s eyes darkened with hunger and endless love. He kissed you deeply, almost reverently at first, then with growing heat as your tongues met. His hands roamed, pushing your dress up around your hips. He groaned when he realized you’d worn nothing beneath it.
“Fuuuck me,” he breathed against your mouth, a crooked, adoring grin breaking through.
“Oh my love, I plan to.”
He laughed, the sound rich and warm, then lowered you gently onto your back atop the velvet pillows. The cool night air kissed your skin as he peeled the dress from your body, kissing every inch he revealed. Your collarbones, the swell of your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he looked up at you with pure reverence.
He settled between your legs, curls brushing your inner thighs as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue found your center with devastating patience; slow, worshipful strokes that had your fingers tightening in his hair.
He moaned into you like you were the finest thing he’d ever tasted, savoring every gasp and whisper of his name that left your lips.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against your slick flesh, voice thick. “Let me hear how good I make you feel.”
Your back arched as pleasure coiled tight inside you, and Eddie watched it all unfold like a man witnessing divinity. When you came undone beneath his tongue, thighs trembling around his head, he held you through it, kissing you gently until the waves subsided.
Only then did he rise, shedding his shirt and pants with reverent haste. His cock was hard and aching for you, but he took his time, crawling over you, kissing you so deeply you tasted yourself on his tongue.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, lining himself up. “More than life. More than death. More than anything in this fucking universe.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him inside you with one smooth thrust. Both of you moaned at the perfect fit; years together, and it still felt like coming home.
Eddie moved with slow, deep rolls of his hips, savoring every clench of your walls around him. His forehead pressed to yours, curls falling around your faces as he gazed into your eyes.
“Look at me while I fuck you, baby,” he breathed, devotion dripping from every word. “Want to see those saintly eyes when you come on my cock again.”
The cemetery felt alive around you; the wind whispering through the trees, the distant hoot of an owl, the scent of earth and night-blooming flowers mixing with sweat and sex. Eddie’s pace gradually quickened, one hand sliding between you to circle your clit while the other pinned your wrist gently above your head.
You came again with a soft, broken cry of his name, pulling him over the edge with you. He buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as pleasure wrecked him. Even then, he kept moving; lazy, loving thrusts to draw it out, kissing you through every aftershock.
Afterward, he collapsed beside you and immediately pulled you into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin. His fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine while your leg draped over his hip.
Eddie pressed a kiss to your hair, voice hoarse with satisfaction. “I’d desecrate every grave in Hawkins if it meant making you feel like that.”
You smiled against his chest, fingertips playing with the silver strands beginning to thread through his dark curls. “If we keep this up, Corvina and Teddy may have a sibling.”
“Would that be so bad? Another mini-Munson running around, raising hell?”
You rolled your eyes lovingly, planting a few peppered kisses along his chest and jaw. “Poor Principal Higgins wouldn’t know what to do with himself with a third Munson.”
Dinner in the Creel-Munson House was rarely quiet. Not because anyone particularly tried to be loud, it was simply impossible for four Munsons to exist in the same room without the atmosphere becoming theatrical.
Thunder groaned outside while candlelight flickered across the dining room, illuminating velvet curtains, silver dishes, and the massive candelabra Teddy insisted made “every meal feel like a vampire intervention.”
Tonight, Eddie had been suspiciously smug since five o’clock, you noticed immediately. Corvina noticed immediately. Teddy noticed immediately. Which meant all three of you spent most of dinner staring at him with increasing suspicion while he fought a grin behind his wine glass.
Finally, Teddy pointed his fork accusingly. “You’re hiding something.”
Eddie gasped dramatically. “What a horrible accusation.”
“You’ve been smirking for an hour,” Corvina added.
“You also called the garlic bread ‘historic,’” Teddy said. “That means something’s wrong.”
You smiled faintly from your seat at the head of the table. “Darling,” you said gently to Eddie, “are you planning a crime?”
Eddie looked delighted by the question. “No,” he answered proudly. “Something better.”
Then, with all the ceremony of a man revealing the crown jewels, Eddie reached into his jacket and slapped four tickets dramatically onto the table. Silence.
Teddy squinted. Then his eyes widened so violently you thought they might leave his skull.
“No fucking way.”
“Language,” you corrected softly.
“No FUCKING way.”
Corvina leaned forward slightly now, dark eyes narrowing in interest. Eddie sat back in his chair with unbearable smugness. “Iron Maiden,” he announced grandly. “Indianapolis. Front section.”
Teddy SHRIEKED, like actually shrieked. The sound echoed through the dining room while Eddie burst into laughter.
“Oh my God,” Teddy gasped, grabbing the tickets with trembling hands. “Dad—Dad, are you serious?!”
“Your old man still has connections, baby.”
Teddy launched out of his chair instantly.
You sighed knowingly. “Brace yourself, mon amour.”
A second later, Teddy practically tackled Eddie backward in a hug. “There he is,” Eddie wheezed dramatically as Teddy nearly crushed him. “My son. My flesh and blood.”
“You are the coolest person alive.”
“I know.”
Corvina, meanwhile, carefully picked up one of the tickets with much more restraint. But you noticed the tiny upward twitch at the corner of her mouth immediately.
“Dickinson is still performing?” she asked calmly.
Eddie clutched his chest. “That sounded almost excited.”
“It wasn’t.”
“She got the Munson concert gene,” Teddy informed you loudly.
“She absolutely did,” Eddie whispered emotionally. Corvina rolled her eyes, though there was the faintest flush creeping into her cheeks now. You watched your family fondly from your chair, chin resting against your hand.
This. This was your favorite thing.
Eddie glowing with happiness while the children inherited every loud, passionate, ridiculous piece of him without even realizing it. Teddy flopped back into his chair, grinning wildly.
“This is literally the greatest day of my life.”
Eddie pointed at him immediately. “That’s exactly what I said when your mother kissed me the first time.”
“You say that about everything Mom does,” Corvina muttered.
“Because your mother is extraordinary.”
You reached over and touched his hand gently, as Eddie looked at you like he’d been shot directly through the heart.
Then, Corvina cleared her throat, causing everyone to look at her immediately.
“…What,” she said flatly.
Eddie narrowed his eyes. “You’re about to ask for something.”
“I’m not.”
“You did the voice.”
Teddy gasped dramatically. “She DID do the voice.”
Corvina looked deeply regretful. “I hate all of you.”
You smiled softly. “What is it, little raven?”
A pause. Then, with visible reluctance: “…Could I possibly have one additional ticket?”
The room went silent, and Eddie blinked once. Then slowly lowered his wine glass.
“…For who?”
Corvina stared at her plate. “No one.”
“Corvina.”
Another pause.
“…Damien.”
Eddie’s entire body reacted as if he’d just been informed the government had finally collapsed.
“THE BOYFRIEND?”
“He is not—”
“The assistant quarterback?!” Teddy shouted.
“THE DEBATE CLUB ONE?” Eddie cried simultaneously.
Corvina groaned into her hands. You, meanwhile, were trying very hard not to smile.
“He likes Iron Maiden,” Corvina muttered.
Eddie looked genuinely betrayed. “The clean-cut child likes Maiden?”
“He listens to metal with me.”
Eddie stared at her for a long moment. Then suddenly leaned back in his chair, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Oh, my God.”
“What?”
“She likes him.”
“I do not.”
“She’s sharing music with him,” Eddie whispered hoarsely to you. “Baby, that’s intimate.”
Teddy looked horrified. “That’s like… sacred.”
“Exactly.”
Corvina looked ready to walk into traffic. You finally spoke, voice warm with amusement.
“Perhaps,” you said carefully, “she simply enjoys his company.”
Corvina nodded quickly. “Exactly.”
Eddie narrowed his eyes immediately. “Have you held hands?”
“Dad.”
“HAVE you?”
“No.” Too fast.
Teddy slammed both hands on the table. “THAT WAS A LIE.”
Corvina pointed at him. “You are dead to me.”
Eddie suddenly looked emotional again. “Oh, sweetheart,” he sighed dramatically, “your first love.”
“It’s not love!”
You stood then, gliding around the table toward your daughter. Corvina visibly braced herself for teasing. Instead, you simply smoothed a strand of dark hair behind her ear gently.
And very softly, you said: “If someone makes our little raven smile enough to frighten her this badly… we should like to know him.”
Corvina froze. Because despite all the drama and teasing, your family loved hard. Openly, and without shame, just like Eddie always had.
The house had long since gone quiet. Somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock groaned past midnight while rain tapped softly against the windows of your bedroom. Eddie lay sprawled across your chest like an oversized cat, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist while you lazily played with his curls.
This had always been his favorite place to exist, right here, with you.
Even after all these years, he still sought you out instinctively. Every night, somehow ended the same way: his head in your lap, or tucked against your chest, or buried into your neck while he mumbled half-asleep nonsense against your skin. Tonight was no different.
“You know,” Eddie murmured sleepily, eyes closed, “I think Corvina gets scarier every day.”
You smiled softly, carefully winding one silver-threaded curl around your finger. “She is your daughter.”
“Exactly why I’m concerned.”
“You cried when she said she held his hand.”
“I did not cry.”
“You absolutely did.”
Eddie cracked one eye open. “I became emotional.”
“You gasped loud enough to frighten Teddy.”
“That was fatherly grief.”
Your laugh came soft and quiet in the dark. God, he loved that sound.
Eddie tilted his head slightly against you just to hear it again. Then your fingers paused suddenly in his curls, a tiny thing, barely noticeable. But Eddie felt it immediately.
“What?” he murmured.
You said nothing at first. Instead, your fingers carefully separated one curl from the rest, then another. Eddie finally looked up slightly, finding your expression softened by something achingly tender.
“My darling,” you whispered.
“Hm?”
You gently pulled something free: a silver strand, then another.
Eddie blinked once. “Oh,” he said.
There was no fear in his voice, just surprise. You held the strands delicately between your fingers, studying them beneath candlelight like they were precious threads of moonlight themselves.
Eddie suddenly looked sheepish. “Well,” he muttered, “guess I’m getting old.”
You looked almost offended by the statement. “Edward Munson,” you said softly, “you have survived.”
You slid from beneath him carefully, crossing toward the antique vanity near the window while Eddie watched you in sleepy confusion.
Then you reached for the little silver locket resting beside your jewelry tray, the one you wore nearly every day, etched with the letter ‘E’.
Eddie pushed himself upright slightly as you opened it carefully. Inside rested tiny fragments of your life together.
A pressed black rose petal from your wedding bouquet. A piece of the guitar pick Eddie used the first time he played guitar for you. A photograph so faded it barely showed two young people grinning in a cemetery beneath storm clouds.
Eddie went completely still.
You placed the silver strands gently beside them, like they were treasures. Then you closed the locket softly and climbed back into bed.
Eddie stared at you for a long moment after you settled beside him again. “…You kept all that?”
You looked genuinely puzzled. “Of course I did.”
“Baby, there’s literally a piece of an old guitar pick in there.”
“The broken corner because you were nervous while playing for me.”
His expression cracked instantly. “You remember that?”
“You dropped it three times before speaking to me,” you replied calmly. “You were adorable.”
Eddie let out a weak laugh, suddenly overwhelmed in the way only you could overwhelm him. Because no one had ever looked at the broken, embarrassing, vulnerable pieces of him and treated them like sacred things before you.
Your fingers slowly returned to his curls. “You know what I see,” you murmured softly, “when I look at these?”
Eddie shook his head once.
“A life.”
His eyes burned immediately, so you kissed his forehead gently.
“The silver only proves you stayed long enough to grow old with me,” you whispered.
And that nearly destroyed him. Eddie suddenly pulled himself over you completely, burying his face into your neck while holding you tight enough to make you laugh softly again.
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled against your skin. “How are you real?”
You stroked your fingers through his curls carefully, silver strands and all. “I might ask you the same thing.”
“No, seriously,” Eddie groaned dramatically. “You put my gray hairs in a locket. That’s insane behavior.”
“You married me willingly.”
“I’d marry you in every lifetime.”
Your expression softened instantly. Eddie lifted his head, then just enough to look at you through the candlelight; older now, yes, lines at the corners of his eyes and silver threading through dark curls.
But still the same boy who fell hopelessly in love with a gothic girl in black lace all those years ago. Still yours, always yours.
“You know what the worst part is?” he murmured sleepily.
“What’s that, mon amour?”
“I still get nervous around you.”
You smiled. Then pulled him down into another kiss while rain whispered softly against the windows of your haunted little home.
AGH I HOPE YOU ALL LOVED ITTT:)))
Hell of a Summer pt.2 is currently in the works, GET EXCITEDDDD YUHHH
Summary: Steve knows what he wants. He just doesn’t believe he’s allowed to have it.
Warnings: friends to lovers. one bed. words of affection. yearning. no use of y/n.
——————
When Steve first met you, you had a boyfriend. He remembers that very clearly.
You’d laughed at something he said - head tipped back and eyes bright with joy - and he’d thought … oh no. He could feel his heart doing a somersault.
And then you’d said „My boyfriend loves that movie too,“ and just like that he shoved the feeling down. Because Steve Harrington, reformed idiot, does not cross this kind of line.
So he becomes your friend. Just your friend. And it’s easy somehow.
Movie nights with the whole gang and you teasing him about rewinding tapes at Family Video. Him stealing fries off your plate and pretending he doesn’t notices the way you look at him sometimes.
Then one day, casually, you mentioning you broke up with your boyfriend. Steve nods, says he’s sorry it didn’t work out and absolutely does not let himself think anything else. Because if he would … he would’ve been overstepping a boundary, he could not go back from.
A week later, everyone’s at your place. The kids are arguing about what movie to watch, someone spills popcorn, but at some point everything shifts from loud and chaotic to peaceful and warm.
By midnight, they’re all gone. Except Steve.
„I’ll help you clean up,“ he says, already stacking cups.
Your both laughing over something Dustin said earlier while washing the dishes together. Time passes like it’s nothing and suddenly it’s the middle of the night.
„I should go home.“
You glance at the clock on the counter. „It’s like three in the morning. You could just stay? I mean. If you want.“
He hesitates for half a second. „You sure?“
„Yeah. I’ll grab extra pillows.“
But your place was small. Too small to have a spare bed and your couch was drenched in sugary lemonade, that Dustin spilled by accident a few hours before.
„I don’t mind if you don’t mind,“ you say flinching at how stupid that sounds.
Steve smiles. „I don’t mind.“
You lay down on opposite sides at first, with a very obvious, polite distance between you. The darkness wraps itself around both of you like a safety blanket.
„Goodnight, Steve,“ your voice barely a whisper. Heart beating loudly.
„Night.“
Five minutes pass. Then ten. Neither you or Steve moved a muscle.
„You still awake?“, Steve asks suddenly.
„Yeah.“
You both laugh quietly like children sharing a secret. Then you start talking again, about stupid things and then about real things. Fears, hopes and childhood stories. The kind of stuff you don’t say in a crowded room.
At some point, the space between you disappears almost naturally. Your shoulders brushing, but nothing happens until you fall asleep facing each other.
But … it feels like something did happen.
And then it keeps happening. The late night talks, shared blankets and hands accidentally touching in the safety of the night, repeating itself. Steve never tries anything. He never pushes further or assumes that something has to happen.
Which only makes your crush worse, because he is so careful with you. So utterly good … so right.
One night, the house is quiet. You’re lying on your sides again, facing each other. The soft glow of your bedside lamp as the only light source.
Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. „Steve?“
„Yeah?“
„Can I ask you something?“
He sifts slightly closer. „Always.“
You swallow. „How do you… feel about me?“
The tension in the room shifts. He doesn’t joke or deflect. Steve just looks at you and for a second, he looks nervous.
„I’ve liked you,“ he says softly. „Since the day we met.“
Your breath catches.
„But you had a boyfriend,“ he continues. „And even after you broke up … I didn’t wanted to be that guy. I didn’t want you to ever think I was waiting around like some vulture.“
You blink, stunned. Unable to find words.
„I wasn’t keeping my distance because I didn’t want you,“ Steve says with a gentle voice. „I was keeping it because I respect you. I’ve always been loyal to you. I always will be.“
You chest feels like it might burst. „So you haven’t thought about …“ you start.
„Oh, I do,“ he cuts in softly. „Trust me. I do.“
You laugh a little breathlessly. „I thought I was loosing my mind,“ you admit. „I’ve liked you for months. I just didn’t know if I was imagining things.“
„You weren’t,“ he murmurs.
„So,“ you whisper, heart racing. „What do we do now?“
He smiles - that warm, slightly shy smile that makes you melt.
„We could,“ he says slowly while reaching for your hand. „Try this. For real. No rushing and without pressure. Just … us.“
Your whole face lights up. „Just us.“
He reaches up - hesitates for the briefest second - then brushes his thumb along your cheek. „Can I kiss you?“
You nod immediately and he leans in. Slow, to give you time to pull away. But you don’t.
The kiss is soft, careful even and a little clumsy in the best way. His lips calming yours and a tiny moan escapes his throat.
When you pull apart, you’re both smiling like idiots.
„That was worth the wait,“ Steve murmurs.
„Yeah,“ you grin. „It really was.“
He rests his forehead against yours and for the first time in weeks, the space between you isn’t filled with tension. Instead the warmth and certainty takes it‘s place.
You fall asleep that night tangled together. Steve’s arm wrapped around you like it belonged there from the beginning.
———————
Thank you so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated 💙
Pairing: teacher Steve Harrington x shy female reader
Summary: You are the new teacher at the Hawkins middle school and Steve notices you immediately. He can’t help but falling for you.
Warnings: shy reader. pet names. flirting. mocking (in a sweet kinda way). yearning. no use of y/n.
___________________
The first thing Steve Harrington notices about you is that you look lost.
Not someone call the authorities lost. Just standing in the middle of the darkened hallway at Hawkins Middle School after sundown with a stack of papers in your arms and the expression of someone who took one wrong turn twenty minutes ago and has been too stubborn to admit it ever since.
Honestly? Kind of adorable.
Steve watches through the glass doors for a second after leaving the baseball field, still carrying a crate of sports equipment against his hip.
The school’s mostly dark by now except for scattered classroom lights glowing warm against polished floors.
You disappear around the corner and Steve frowns slightly. Who the hell is still here this late?
He steps inside, letting the door shut behind him with a heavy clunk. The hallway echoes quietly.
Somewhere farther down, papers rustle. Steve follows the sound automatically. And then you suddenly step out of one of the classrooms directly into his path.
Both of you scream, papers fly absolutely everywhere.
“Oh my God!” you gasp, clutching your chest.
Steve nearly drops the equipment crate. “Jesus Christ ... sorry!”
You stare at each other in horrified silence for one beat. Then simultaneously burst into laughter. The tension breaks instantly.
“Oh no,” you groan, crouching quickly to collect your papers. “That was so embarrassing.”
Steve drops beside you automatically to help. “No, no, I think I screamed louder.”
“You absolutely did.”
“That feels false.”
You laugh again. And Steve’s kinda done for already.
Because you’re wearing this oversized university hoodie with your hair thrown into a messy bun that’s definitely halfway collapsed after a long day, and you scrunch your nose while you frantically gather worksheets from the floor.
Cute. Unfairly cute.
“You new here?” he asks, handing you a paper upside down.
You take it with a soft snort. “Yeah. History department.”
“Ohhh.” Steve nods seriously. “So you’re the brave soul replacing Mr. Jenkins.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Was he awful?”
Steve winces dramatically. “He once showed a documentary from 1973 for three straight classes because he forgot where he left his lesson plans.”
You laugh so suddenly and brightly that Steve actually forgets what he was about to say next. It echoes softly through the empty hallway. Warm and easy.
God.
“Good to know the bar’s low,” you say.
Steve grins. “I’m Steve, by the way.”
You tell him your name. And maybe Steve’s imagining it, but he swears something soft shifts in your expression when he repeats it back to you.
The next morning, he sees you again immediately. Mostly because you walk directly into a classroom door. Not hard but just enough to make Steve choke on his coffee trying not to laugh.
You whip around instantly, mortified. “You saw nothing.”
“I saw a tragic betrayal by architecture.”
“You’re annoying already.”
“And yet you’re smiling.”
Your face goes pink immediately. Steve beams for the rest of first period.
After that, it starts happening constantly. Little collisions. Tiny moments. You in the teachers’ lounge muttering furiously at the copy machine while Steve tries very hard not to laugh.
Steve walking into your classroom during lunch only to find you passionately ranting to an entirely empty room about medieval political propaganda.
“You know nobody’s in here, right?”
You nearly launch your yogurt spoon across the room. “Steve!”
“What?” he laughs. “You were waving your arms around like a history wizard.”
You point the spoon at him threateningly. “The Tudor dynasty was deeply fascinating.”
“I believe you,” he says solemnly. “You looked extremely emotional about it.”
And that’s the thing. You’re quiet around most people. Shy in staff meetings. Soft-spoken around parents. Nervous when too many teachers gather in the lounge at once.
But alone with Steve? You talk. And talk. And talk.
About history. About books. About weird historical facts that apparently keep you awake at night. And Steve listens to every single word like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard.
Because honestly? When you get excited, your whole face lights up.
You stop fidgeting.
Stop second-guessing yourself.
Stop shrinking.
And Steve thinks it might be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
One afternoon he finds you sitting cross-legged on your classroom floor surrounded by papers.
“You alive in here?”
You look up with the exhausted expression of someone three grading assignments away from losing consciousness. “Debatable.”
Steve steps inside holding two vending machine coffees.
Your eyes immediately soften. “Oh, you’re my favourite person.”
His heart does a stupid little somersault. “Oh yeah?”
“You brought caffeine. That’s basically romance.”
Steve almost walks directly into a desk.
And then suddenly it’s the winter ball. The gymnasium glows with cheap fairy lights and crepe paper decorations while middle schoolers scream and sprint around fueled entirely by sugar and chaos.
Steve’s been assigned supervision duty near the snack table. You’re helping chaperone near the dance floor. Which mostly means repeatedly telling twelve-year-olds not to climb things.
“This feels less like education and more like wildlife management,” you mutter as Steve joins you.
“You’re doing great.”
“I just confiscated six Pixy Stix from one child.”
Steve gasps dramatically. “You monster.”
You laugh tiredly. God. There it is again. That warmth blooming in his chest every time he makes you smile.
A slow song starts playing unexpectedly. The kids immediately react with horror.
“EWWWW.”
“THIS IS GROSS.”
“WHY ARE THEY PLAYING OLD PEOPLE MUSIC?”
Steve snorts loudly. You hide your laugh behind your hand. And then without really thinking Steve holds out his hand toward you.
Your eyes widen slightly. “Oh?”
“C’mon,” he says softly. “One dance before someone throws punch at a seventh grader.”
You glance around nervously. The gym is still chaotic. Nobody’s paying attention.
Still ... “You serious?”
Steve smiles gently. “Very.”
Your face turns pink immediately. But after one tiny hesitant second you place your hand in his and Steve swears his heart physically stumbles.
He leads you behind the stage curtain where the lights are softer and the noise dulls into distant muffled music.
Private and hidden. Your hand still rests in his.
“You know,” you murmur shyly as he settles one hand carefully at your waist, “I haven’t danced with someone since high school.”
Steve grins softly. “Lucky me, then.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too hard for it to work properly. Slowly, you start swaying together beneath dim golden light while the song drifts softly through the curtain.
And Steve’s pretty sure this is what hope feels like. A shy history teacher in an oversized cardigan looking up at him like she can’t believe he’s real either.
“You smell like chalk dust,” he murmurs teasingly.
You gasp quietly. “Rude.”
“And mint.”
Your expression softens immediately. Steve’s chest tightens.
“You notice weird things,” you whisper.
“Only about you.”
The words slip out naturally. Honest. And suddenly the space between you changes. The air turns softer somehow. He watches your eyes flick briefly to his mouth. Then back up again.
Nervous an a little hopeful.
“Steve,” you whisper.
Steve’s hand tightens slightly at your waist. “Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. And then you give him the tiniest nod.
That’s all it takes.
Steve kisses you gently beneath the glow of cheap winter-ball lights while kids scream and laugh somewhere on the other side of the curtain. And it feels so sweet it almost hurts.
Your fingers curl softly into the front of his sweater as he kisses you carefully, like he’s scared to rush this. Like he understands that some beautiful things need patience.
When he pulls back, both of you are smiling helplessly.
“You know,” you murmur breathlessly, “this is dangerously close to feeling like an eighties movie.”
Steve grins. “Sweetheart, we literally live in the eighties.”
You laugh so hard you accidentally hide your face against his shoulder. And Steve wraps his arms around you instinctively, holding you close while fairy lights glow warmly through the curtain folds around you.
Outside your little hiding place, the gym is loud and chaotic and messy. But here in this tiny corner of warmth and music and shy laughter ... Something lovely begins.
____________________
Thank you so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated 💙
pairing: best friend!steve harrington x fem!reader
word count: 5k
description: he's beaten and battered, and you just want to help. you have always just wanted to help.
important warnings: 18+ content, MDNI!!, no use of y/n or descriptors, no smut just angst + some fluff, mentions of blood and steve's wounds post starcourt, he only really has the face cuts and a concussion, pretty much in canon universe with some slight changes, big blowout fight, mentions of suicidal ideations, talks of death, talks about anxiety and ptsd for reader, panic attack, using pain medicine, "i love you's" shared, some flirty steve, wearing steve's clothes, talking about dick, forehead kisses, mentions of sharing a bed.
authors note: welcome to the noah kahan x best friend!steve universe! this the second installment of it and this one is filling my angsty grieving heart. i have wanted to write a "fix it" kinda fic like this for steve post starcourt disaster. this one is quite heavy so please skip it if you are triggered by any of the warnings.
dividers by @cafekitsune - part one of this series is here!
There was something about the way Steve sat so still next to you.
Maybe it was the come-down from whatever drug he was injected with earlier in the night. Maybe it was the way his body was so badly beaten that he could not fathom even taking a deep breath. He was unwavering, unblinking.
You knew that your ribs hurt. Your legs burned from the amount of running you had been doing, especially the final sprint out of the mall, as it burned all around you.
The quiet buzz of the ambulance was shaken when Mike Wheeler hopped out of the back to reunite with his mother. You do not let your eyes linger too long on how comforting it must be to have a family looking out for you like that.
His departure allowed the spotlight nearby to shine a bit more onto the bench you and Steve sat on in the back of the ambulance.
His eye was swollen shut, and small speckles of blood mixed into the freckles on his face. They almost looked about the same color due to the hue of the interior lights.
You nudge him with your elbow, the slightest movement to finally get him to face your direction.
He just hums.
“I can drive us home,” You whisper, knowing that there was no way his parents would be coming to his rescue. Your parents were not that uncaring, but they were not in town.
His body shifts a bit, facing you completely, “Once they check you out one more time.”
You were not as bad off as him, but you did not have it in you at the moment to argue with him after the countless arguments you have had with him over the last few days.
You practically weaseled your way into his master plans with the crew. You were still trying your best to establish yourself in his sphere after he started distancing himself more in the last few weeks.
You could have walked away when you found out what they were trying to do. Crack a secret Russian code and expose nefarious intentions. Become American heroes? Somehow?
You didn’t walk away, though. Not when you notice some light in Steve’s eyes when describing everything with Dustin. The code was cracked with the help of you and Robin’s genius minds.
And instead of giving you a lick of credit, Steve advised you to go home and let them handle the rest. Them being a 13-year-old, a junior in high school, and a literal 10-year-old. You were not having it.
You selfishly wanted some glory, too. So you got Dustin to side with you, and Steve did not have a chance in hell.
From there, it was a snowball rolling downhill way too fast.
But now you sit here regretting ever stepping foot in Scoops on your lunch break at the Gap yesterday. Secretly, you just wanted to see if he and Robin were making eyes at one another.
You don’t know why it mattered to you. The moment you did notice the gooey look he gave her last week, it was like a flashback to him and Nancy.
What hell that was to endure and observe.
You did not need Steve falling for someone who also seemed emotionally unavailable.
So glory and a tinge of jealousy got you into a situation where you could have died.
Never again.
A paramedic eventually comes back by, looking into your eyes with a flashlight. When she assesses the scrapes and dings on your body, she seems pretty sure you’ll be fine. No signs of concussion. Nothing needs stitches.
Steve would be sent home with a paper giving him protocols for concussions and wound care. She hands you the paper first, telling you what you should look for in case he does not improve.
“If your boyfriend wakes up tomorrow confused or completely disoriented, call an ambulance.”
You just nod, not correcting her. Steve slips out of the back without another word.
-
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” You mumble, removing the key from the ignition. He has not said a thing since you left the mall, and you know it’s because he’s probably exhausted and in pain. So you stayed quiet, took turns slowly, and did not share your actual thoughts.
Saying you were traumatized was the understatement of the century. And the only person you felt you could be candid and upfront with is Steve.
“Don’t need your help.”
He says it so quietly and with the click of the door in unison, you swear to yourself that you just misheard. He limply gets out of the car as you swing the door open, peaking your head up over the roof of the Beamer.
“What?”
He winces when he has to force the door shut. He looks so awful, it’s almost painful watching him.
“I said I don’t need your help.”
You watch him slowly drag himself to the front door, not far from where you stood. You had his keys, so he was not getting into the house until you chalked them up.
“I’m not understanding.”
“Yeah, that’s a common thing with you lately, huh?”
It’s so bitter-sounding that it makes the bile in the back of your throat reignite. You had felt so nauseous the moment you found Steve and Robin in that interrogation room.
You had seen Steve battered before, but his being high and completely out of it made your stomach permanently churn.
You did not need to unpack all that in this moment. You slam his door shut, squeezing the edges of his house keys into your palm. The pinch makes you suck in a sharp breath.
Steve was mad at you. Still.
He made that obvious yesterday before you invited yourself along on the hunt for the Russians. The way he dealt out the plan and forced you to look after Erica and Dustin. All the while him and Robin took on the bigger role.
It pissed you off, but you were just glad you could do something.
But this venom he’s spitting now was unfounded.
You saved his ass and Robin from the Russians. Sure, you had to move away from the plan slightly to do so, but you still got everyone back above ground. You still managed to keep Dustin and Erica safe, which was his direct order.
Why was he so angry?
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
You stop dead in front of him, extending the keys out to him. Even with the resentment plastered on his face, you hold steady and try not to jump down his throat immediately. He turns his back to you the moment you drop them into his hand that still slightly stained with blood.
“You got yourself in a lotta shit tonight that was not necessary.”
He can hardly find the door handle to unlock at first. He’s swaying as he twists the key into the door, and you know it’s because of his concussion. He still somehow manages to get it open, and the rush of cold A/C almost shocks you back into defense mode.
“I wanted to help! I did help!”
He steps forward into the house, scoffing under his breath. When you follow, slamming the front door, he throws the keys across the foyer. You had never seen him get so frustrated that he throws something, so you brace yourself against the black entry table. He is practically panting as he faces you again.
“You could have died, you know? When you decided to throw yourself in front of Dustin when the Mindflayer came for him. Or when you stomped on the gas to prevent Billy from hitting Nance. Or how about when-”
“I saved them, Steve! You would have done the same!”
He bites, pushing some of his hair back, “I am different! I had it most of it under control, and you stuck your nose somewhere you didn’t have to. I don’t know why you can’t just listen to me!”
You and Steve have fought before. Plenty of times.
Two years ago, when he started dating Nancy, you had watched him turn the tough and cool guy persona up to a million. It made you sick watching the bitterness he had for everything wrong in his life bleed into how he treated people. By proxy, people started looking at you the same way, which made you kind of resent him.
After he allegedly caught Nancy cheating, you encouraged him to just talk to her. Instead, he and Tommy H decided to vandalize the movie theater, spewing misogynistic bullshit about Nancy. You didn’t talk to him for weeks, effectively cutting him off so he could figure his shit out.
When he did come back around begging for your forgiveness, you dished out a good wake up call and told him it better not happen again. Based on his stern expression back then, you knew he wanted to fight back, but he didn’t. He took it. And that was growth to you.
He apologized a million and one times, making it up to you by spending Christmas Day at your house, and offered gifts to you and your parents.
When life resumed, and it seemed like you could find normalcy again with your best friend, things with him and Nancy started to sour. Steve never disclosed the specifics, but Nancy had dealt with losing her best friend, so you empathized with her.
You kept your distance, managing friendships elsewhere. But you always came back around to Steve. He was constantly nearby, lingering when you needed him the most.
The last time hell came to Hawkins, you watched Steve fight demodogs while you sheltered the kids from being collateral in an abandoned school bus. But it took everything in you not to charge into battle and fight next to him with the machete you stole from your Dad’s garage.
He was protective but impulsive. And it got significantly worse when he and Nancy broke up, and she got with Jonathan. He was your best friend, though. While it may have seemed like an obligation to see him through his struggles, it was more of an innate need to. You cannot imagine doing any huge moment in life without him, so why push him away?
Which led to another infamous fight between you two.
It was actually a continuous fight that was usually prompted by Steve trying out a suicide mission on for size, and when he escaped by the skin of his teeth, he would act like it was necessary. When you called him out for being impulsive and stupid, he would bring up the times you confessed to feeling you should have done the same thing as him.
Wanting to help. Wanting to be there for him. Weaseling your way into plans just so you can keep an eye on him and possibly have your own heroic moment. You two were cut from the same cloth, but you valued your life more.
Back and forth you two went until someone said something a bit too far, leading to the week of distance and the make up movie marathon or long drive.
This time was different, though. This argument was going in a direction you had never trekked through, and you knew it before any more words were said.
You needed to decide if you were going to stick up for yourself or try to change direction and just allow Steve to sit with these emotions and discuss it at a later date.
You quickly decide to take a stand.
“You really just want me to sit around and watch you try to kill yourself every time you get caught up in this shit?”
The way he curls into himself when you say that makes you believe that he’s hurting way more than he’s leading on. His knees are wobbly, and his shoulders slouch.
“I do this to protect you! And Dustin! And Robin! And everyone else.”
You cannot fully make out his face because the house is hardly lit. The streams of light through the windows from the outside lamp posts are the only way you can see the flicker of his one good eye, but the rest is up for interpretation.
“We aren’t asking you to do that! Why can’t you accept that maybe you need protecting too?”
“I can handle myself!” His voice bounces off the practically empty walls, “And I cannot lose you, so yeah, of course I have to make sure you’re safe! And I tried to, but you disregarded it all because you’re… you!”
You finally decide to let your true feelings spill out. The real reason you decided to press the subject and not back away.
“You can’t handle yourself! And I’m sick and tired of acting like your martyr complex is normal! I watched what happened last year after Nancy. The spiral? The impulsiveness and the fight with Billy! I watched what happened earlier today when you stormed an armed Russian guard to get us out!”
He scoffs, but you don’t care. You continue.
“I have sat by countless times and let you take control of the situation, and every time it comes at the cost of you! I can’t pay that price, okay? I can’t. You want to die, and I cannot let you.”
“Here we go…” He rubs his face like he does when he’s frustrated, wincing when he realizes that he’s severely swollen and bruised.
“What?” You snap back, moving away from the table your hip had been practically glued to.
He shakes his head, “You and everyone thinking I’m some suicidal idiot.”
“Oh, so I’m not the only one, huh? Why doesn’t it click with you, then?”
“Because it’s bullshit!” His voice practically cracks, which only allows you to see through him further.
“Then what is it, Steve? Why do you do what you do?”
He’s silenced by your question. He wedges himself against the wall nearby.
That wall leads down the hallway into all the empty rooms his house is filled with. No one is ever there to occupy them. Except Steve and occasionally, you.
You watch as he slowly slides down the wall, hand bracing the floor once he makes impact with a small thud. He’s clumsy with the way he toes off his sneakers, kicking them away before finally inhaling a shallow breath.
“You have people who love you. Dustin has a mom who dotes on him. Robin has her parents and all her weird band friends. Every single person today has someone… someone who loves and cherishes them, and I have shitty ass parents who don’t even look twice at me when they are home.”
He looks so terribly small. Like a child trying to shrivel up and be unnoticed in the dark.
It tears you apart thinking about how Steve really thinks about himself. Unlovable. Someone to just brush past and forget about.
What he doesn’t know is that you would be fully willing to risk your life for him because you could not bear to live in a world that didn’t have him in it.
“I just wish they knew me. I wish I wasn’t on my own all the goddamn time,” His voice cracks, and his head tilts away from you.
You don’t waste a second, shuffling over to him, dropping to your knees very ungracefully, and pressing your shoulder into the wall next to him.
He doesn’t move when you guide your hand onto his shoulder. As your hand creeps across his collarbone, he lets out a shaky breath.
Steve has never cried in front of you. Ever.
You lift your pointer and middle finger up, pressing them into the left side of his jaw. You carefully turn his head in your direction, searching his face with narrowed but still earnest eyes. Steve and direct eye contact have never gone hand in hand. You are very conscious of his avoidance, but you won’t let him this time.
“I love you, Steve,” You whisper. The moment you say it, your eyes well up with tears knowing deep down, that statement means more than Steve probably realizes. His eyes finally dart to yours.
His busted lip quivers as he exhales, “You don’t have to…”
Your finger moves absentmindedly over his bruised jaw, ever so slightly, “I see you. That’s why I’m still here. I get you want to keep me safe, but I need you to be safe in order to be okay, alright? So please…”
You don’t know how he manages to gather the strength, but his arms creep up around your waist and pull you forward into his chest. The hug feels charged and heavy, like the words you dared to speak filled his arms with concrete. Your hands wrapped around him as you tried not to put too much weight down on his battered body.
His words were muffled in your shirt, but you managed to make out five words that you would hold onto.
“I love you so much.”
-
Once you manage to get Steve upstairs and in his bathroom, you advise him on how to shower. You ask if he wants you to help get undressed, but he declines and says he can handle it. You don’t push.
When he shuts the door, you plant yourself on the floor next to the wooden door and listen in. He groans out in pain as he undresses, but the sound is muffled once he turns on the water.
You are afraid to leave him alone.
The paramedic did say to stick by him in case he does have bouts of confusion or being disoriented, so you are not giving him many options when it comes to you sticking around.
He’s in the shower for about 5 long minutes. Once the faucet is cut off, you hear him wincing as he gets out and fumbles around in the closet for a towel. When the door creaks open, you look up at him, wrapped in his towel.
His ribs and stomach are terribly bruised, but glistening from all the water droplets. You suck in a harsh breath, finding your feet and stopping him from continuing to walk.
“Steve… shit…”
You don’t touch him, just hover your hands over his left side, where the black and purple is blooming in the worst way. He looks down where you are gesturing and hisses.
“I know, I know,” He mutters, taking a hesitant step forward, “I just need to get dressed and lie down.”
You step out of his way, eyes pulling away from body, “I am gonna find some Tylenol and ice downstairs. Yell if you need help getting dressed."
You pad down the stairs, waltzing through the house you have had memorized since you were 12. You search the cabinet in the half bathroom and manage to find some expired Tylenol that would have to do for the night. You grab an ice pack and a kitchen towel before retreating back upstairs. When you push open Steve’s door, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his bath towel.
“Everything okay?”
“I can’t bend down to my dresser. My ears start ringing and my ribs…”
You nod in acknowledgement.
You walk over, handing him the ice and medicine. His long hair is sticking to his forehead and curling around his bad eye. “What do you need me to grab?”
“Just some sweatpants from the third drawer and a t-shirt from the bottom.”
You smirk, silently thinking back to a month ago when you were practically pinned to his dresser as he slurred and flirted with you. You thought back to that night countless times since it happened.
You pull out what he asked for, quietly shutting the drawers. You toss them onto the bed next to him, waiting for him to say something. His eyes flicker up to you, then to the clothes.
“Can you help me with the pants?”
Your stomach twists with nerves immediately.
But you nod, snatching up the gray sweatpants. You kneel down right in front of his extended legs. If you looked up from this angle, you know your heart would probably give out. You work the pants over his feet first, bringing them up to his knees. His towel is still draped over him, only revealing some of the meat of his right thigh.
“You think you can get them up the rest of the way?” Your eyes avert away as you ask it because you don’t want to catch a slip of something more. He grabs the waistband of the pants and yanks them up to his mid-thigh before standing up shakingly. You keep your eye glued to his side table, acting very interested in the wood grain.
“You act like you’ve never seen a dick before.”
You stiffen immediately, eyes widening up before you even dare to look back over at your best friend. When you do, the smirk on his face tells you all you need to know. Classic teasing just to get under your skin.
“I don’t need to see yours, though,” You mutter, grabbing the bed frame and pushing yourself upward. Steve’s hand brushes over your stomach as your rise due to it hanging off his knee. It’s unintentional, but it still makes goosebumps spread across your skin under your clothes.
Steve grabs his shirt, a twinge of something making his expression shift, “Maybe you don’t need to, but maybe you want to.”
He’s concussed. Severely.
But also, sure. Yeah. You secretly did want to see if he lived up to the rumors that everyone threw in your face about his dick being big. You were just a girl, after all.
You snatch the pain meds from beside him and open the rattling bottle. As you pour out two pills, you practically force them into his hand. “It’s time you go to bed.”
“I’m trying to lighten the mood, Bug,” He murmurs, tossing the pills in his mouth and dry swallowing them. You cringe, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he forces them down his esophagus.
“Don’t think we need that right now. You can hardly move.”
The jokes were better than the arguing or the silence. You still felt a bit pressed about some of the words from earlier, but you would unpack all that later when you weren’t so desperate to sleep and lay down.
You walk around to the other side of his bed, helping him pull down the top covers.
He chuckles slightly as he pushes his right leg under the top sheet, “But you seem to be moving just fine."
You stand up straight, placing your hands on your hips. As you do, you become aware of a twinge of pain in your shoulder. Your faces twitches but he’s not looking at you to notice. “Yes, and?”
He wiggles his eyebrows, dropping himself back onto his navy blue sheets and pillows.
You drop your arms, using the momentum to drop onto his bed yourself, “Keep this up and I’ll make somewhere that doesn’t hurt, hurt real bad.”
He shakes his head, eyes finally shutting as his wet hair drapes around his cotton pillow case, “I don’t think that’s possible. Everywhere hurts.”
You furrow your brows at such a response, “Obviously not your dick.”
He clears his throat, staring up at the ceiling. He wastes no time sniffing your air and scrunching his nose.
“You should change your clothes.”
You cock your head towards him, admiring the side profile you have mapped out countless times. “I don’t have anything to put on.”
Another twist of his nose. “You smell like sweat and fireworks.”
You push yourself up, trying to get an angle on him where he will actually look at you. He finally does shoot you a glare when you are practically hovering over him. “Well then, I’ll sleep on the floor if it bothers you so much.”
“No, just take a shower and steal a t-shirt or something.”
His eyes are closing as he speaks. He is finally comfortable and at ease, and you are pestering. Meandering. Being difficult.
You still attempt to offer a rebuttal, knowing you stink and should not be messing up his blankets with your sweat.
“Steve-”
He puts his hand up, covering your mouth. You don’t know how he does it without looking at you. It’s like his hand could find any part of your body in complete darkness.
“I don’t make the rules. Shower, steal a shirt, bed,” His only good eye peeks at you, “That easy.”
His hand smells like metal and Old Spice body wash. You lock your weak hand around his wrist and gently yank it off your mouth. It falls quickly, immediately landing on your lap.
“I’ll be quick,” Is all you can say as his fingers dance across your leg. There’s no real intention behind it, it seems, just trickling down your thigh onto the mattress.
“I’ll be here.”
-
You scrub yourself furiously in the shower, managing to get all of the dried blood and dirt off your skin. You still somehow feel dirty.
In the newfound loneliness, you start to feel the emotions you were fearful would come about. The dread. The full body trepidation would cause a lingering and pressing spiral.
You watched people die. You saw a creature of biblical proportions, and it almost killed you. It almost killed Steve.
And as if that was not bad enough, you had to walk away knowing that people were walking away without their loved ones. People you did not fully know but had a direct connection to and fought side by side with. They lost, and somehow you had to be grateful that it hadn’t happened to you or Steve?
Guilt seeped so deeply within you that you forced yourself to throw up.
You needed to pull yourself together and get out of the shower. As you do that, you realize that you did not grab any clothes from Steve before you hurried in here. You groan, knowing you would have to trek across his room in a towel to find something clean to sleep in.
When you step in front of the fogged-up body-length mirror, you avert your eyes. You cannot even fathom taking in your appearance right now. You feel unrecognizable already and you haven’t even glanced at yourself.
You tie the fluffy white towel around your chest and take on the task of finding clothes.
The door is slightly ajar, and you see Steve on his side, facing you head-on. You halt in your spot when you realize he’s still awake.
“All good?” He asks quietly as you tiptoe into the room.
You just shake your head, acting like everything is fine. You pad across his fluffy carpet, avoiding much more interaction.
You pull open his dresser, grabbing the first t-shirt that would look like it would fit you. That ache in your shoulder only gets worse when you toss the shirt over your head and put it on. You really do try to be hushed about your whimpers of pain. You turn away from Steve even when his back is turned to you, facing the uncovered window. You stare out into the dark woods, feeling that familiar tension and anxiety in your chest from earlier. You are half expecting to see that giant spider creature to appear and kill you.
As you blink, you try not to let the overwhelming panic take over, but it’s practically leaking out of you. You cannot pull your gaze away from the sway of the trees in Steve’s backyard.
“Do you think it’s really over?”
You don’t move even when you hear Steve shift behind you. He’s rolling over to lay eyes on you, that you know. But the additional sounds afterwards, you don’t expect. Rustling of sheets and then the slowest, creaking footsteps.
The warmth of his palm spreads across your bad shoulder. The pressure makes you flinch, and as you blink, you feel a tear slip from your waterline. You didn’t even know you were crying; your body just felt an unfamiliar emptiness you had never experienced before.
“Yeah, it’s over,” He whispers, “I promise.”
When his hand pulls from your skin, his breathing hitches. “You’re badly bruised, do you know that?”
You manage to pull your eyes from the outside, looking back at him. He is staring at your shoulder blade, something you cannot really examine yourself.
“It’ll be fine.”
You wipe away the lone tears leaking out of you, finally spinning on the balls of your feet to look at Steve. He must have gotten a second wind because he looks more stable on his feet than he did 30 minutes ago.
You don’t know why, but you grab his hands and hold them close to your chest. As you tuck his knuckles right under your chin, you feel this irrefutable calm come over you.
He’s watching you, his hazel eyes hidden slightly by his puffy black under-eyes.
“I can stay up with you.”
You shake your head, knowing he needed sleep to heal that hurt head of his. “I don’t want you to.”
He does not let up, though. “If you lie next to me, do you think you could try and sleep?”
You look over his shoulder to his bed, keeping his hands close to your jawline. His thumb comes around your knuckles and timidly starts stroking your skin.
You don’t think you could sleep, but you would much rather lie next to Steve than sleep on the floor or stare out into the eerie woods lining Steve’s backyard.
So you nod.
Steve pulls you slightly forward, his busted lip pursing to press a soothing and lingering kiss to your forehead.
“I got you. You got me. We are good, okay, Bug? All good.”
About: You've been an Emergency Room nurse at the Walter Mondale Care Center in North Dakota for about a year now. You move up to the role of Charge Nurse in no time, and tonight you're training a new RN transferring from Indiana- a super sweet, charming guy named Steve Harrington.
Meanwhile, you're also navigating a tenuous coworkers-with-benefits situationship with the ex-Sheriff's-Deputy turned EMS Chief, Gator Tillman.
When these worlds collide, it's gonna be a hell of a shift.
You sip some coffee from a paper cup (it's not quite as sweet as you like but there were only 3 packets of sugar in the break room drawer) and look over the clipboard with your crew's assignments for the night.
The emergency department at the Walter Mondale Care Center was only 20 beds and not terribly busy most nights. You had the occasional bar fights needing stitched up on the weekends, car accidents from icy roads, people needing a dose of Narcan, typical ED fare, so you usually only had 5 or so nurses under your charge on any given shift.
Tonight, however, you noticed a name penciled next to yours, which was new.
Steve H. -- training shift 1
Guess you've got a newbie tagging along tonight. You breathe a little sigh into your coffee cup, not necessarily abhorred by the idea of having a trainee; it just meant you'd really need to perk up since you'd probably be talking more than you're used to, and you didn't want to scare them away before they even got started.
Bodies start shuffling in, bags being tossed into lockers and the Keurig spurting to life as your crew gathers for pre-shift huddle. You give everyone a small "hello" as they sit down and start going over their assignments for the night. It was a solid group tonight, reliable nurses that you could trust to get their shit done, so it would make training the new guy easier for you.
Your eyes flick over the new updates that hospital management wanted you to share, and just as the clock ticked over to 18:45, huddle start time, the break room door swung open violently and a man came stumbling in.
He had long, dark hair, tousled in a way that looked effortless but stayed perfectly in place as he bounded in, so it was obviously a meticulously crafted masterpiece. He's got big, beautiful, hazel eyes, full of panic thinking he was late, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath.
"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. I couldn't find the fuc-- the darn break room." He stood straighter, adjusting his badge on the right corner of his scrub top where you saw the flash of his name - Steve.
"Well, hey newbie. No worries, we usually give ya about 5 minutes grace, traffic and whatnot. Usually you'll come in and grab your assignment, but you're with me tonight so why don't ya just take a seat and we'll get started?"
His eyes glitter and a wide smile splits his face, ever so slightly tilted higher to one side than the other. He was...okay, he was really, really cute.
He clutched the strap of his messenger bag and awkwardly scooched past some of the other staff to sit at the very back and observe. You couldn't help but notice how his blue Figs hugged his very tight ass.
18:48 PM
You shook the thoughts of Steve's ass out of your brain (at least for the moment) and went into leader-mode, giving your spiel, discussing the plan for the night, going over assignments, and stopping a potential meltdown one of the older nurses was about to have because her assignment was near the doors, and she didn't like sitting near the doors since they were loud and let in the chilly night air.
"Madgie, just sit at the central station, you can pull up your vitals on the main computer."
"Well, someone's gonna have to show me how."
"That's fine, we gotta train the new guy on it anyhow. You can watch. Speaking of which, everyone say hi to Steve. He's coming to us all the way from Indiana, so let's give him a nice welcome, 'kay? No biting."
You shoot him a quick wink and he smirks, giving the room a small, demure wave.
"Morning. Well, evening, I guess? I didn't really do nights before. That'll take some getting used to.
"No one really cares, kid." One of the gruff male nurses, Odie, grumbles from the corner. His massive arms are crossed, highlighting the tattoos scrawled all over almost every inch of visible skin. His thick, black mustache wriggles as he abuses the wad of gum between his teeth, chomping far harder than necessary. He's been trying to quit smoking this week, and the Nicorette just isn't cutting it, but you were proud of him regardless.
Odie was a damn good nurse, rough around the edges, but had a way with kids that was astonishing. One would think he would scare them off, but it was just the opposite. He'd walk in, blow up a glove like a balloon and throw a little happy face on there, and they were putty in his hands.
Steve, who didn't know yet that Odie was actually a huge teddy bear, looked horrified.
"He doesn't mean that, Steve. Odie just needs to chug that coffee and maybe go ahead and start a second one, hm?"
He grumbles something else that may contain a "Sorry" and Steve's shoulders relax a fraction.
"Okay gang. Shift change in 5. Get out there, wash those hands, get to your stations. And Claudia, please get your BLS done tonight. I don't want you to get locked out of the system, hon."
Claudia, a pretty, young, blonde nurse who started about 7 months ago, nods sheepishly.
"Got it, boss. Sorry, slips my mind every time."
"I'll try to circle back around 5 to remind ya, okay?"
"Thanks. Have a good shift, Steve." She wiggles her fingers at Steve in the corner and he nods eagerly, excited just to be acknowledged. It was honestly refreshing, you missed sometimes how much you used to bubble over about your job. Unfortunately it can wear you down fast, but maybe Steve some of Steve's positivity will rub off on you.
"Alrighty, Harrington. Got any questions to start? Ya get a tour of the place yet?"
He jerks to his feet, that golden retriever energy still very much alive.
"Yeah, tour's done, it's a nice place. I was in pediatrics for a little bit back home before I decided to haul ass to a new state and try something else. It was a lot bigger, but I like this. Easier to navigate for sure.
"What so you -- ya just packed up and moved to a completely different state? Just...because?"
You were jealous. You've been stuck in Stark County your entire life, dreaming of one day getting the hell out but never really seeing it as a possibility. Steve shrugs.
"My friends all split up and went their different ways after colleges and careers happened. I didn't really feel like being the only one stuck in Hawkins, so, yeah. Just took a leap."
The smile he gives you is warm, but there's a sadness behind his eyes. No one really prepares you for the very real possibility that when you grow up your friends just leave -- go out and live their own lives, make new friendships, and there really wasn't a lot you could do about it. Maybe you'd see each other around the holidays, maybe you'd send each other a funny text or an Instagram Reel that reminds you of them, but eventually even that becomes too much effort and they just turn into bittersweet, cherished memories. Childhood was short; adulthood was cruel.
And wow, you're sure a ray of fucking sunshine, aren't you? You shake off your melancholic musings and plant a firm hand on his shoulder, giving him a broad, welcoming smile.
"Well...I'm glad you leapt into our little pond, Steve. Now c'mon, get your stuff in a locker and let's go get started."
⚕️
"So you've got three training shifts before we boot ya out onto the floor, but anytime ya need anything ya can always reach out to whoever is in charge or -- well, anyone really. We're a pretty friendly bunch." You think for a moment, and add, "Maybe not Madgie. Don't -- don't ask Madgie for anything. But everyone else is perfectly pleasant."
Steve chuckles and nods, already having faced Madgie's miserly wrath when she caught him nibbling on one of the packets of graham crackers she kept in "her" drawer at the central nurse's station.
//
"The ones in the nutrition room are always expired, these are my personal crackers from home!"
"Madgie, I'm -- I can't tell you how sorry I am. I swear on my life I'll replace your graham crackers." Steve had told her, putting a hand over his heart and giving her the most sincere, apologetic look. You had had to turn your body away and bite your lip just to keep from bursting into a fit of giggles right there.
As soon as you both turned the corner of the corridor, leaving her grumbling about "all the crumbs he'd left, too," neither of you could hold it in. You both quietly wheezed, trying not to make a huge commotion. You smacked his shoulder and leaned into him breathlessly, mouth open in a silent cackle. He had caught you by the dip in your waist, holding you upright as you both tried to compose yourselves, tears in your eyes from laughing so hard.
//
That was probably close to 45 minutes ago, and the skin on your side was still burning from the feel of his hand gripping you there.
"So, got any questions so far, hon?" The pet name slips out without you realizing it, but you catch yourself. "Sorry, Steve. Please don't sue me for, like, harassment or whatever."
"For hon? My mom calls me hon. You'll have to do a lot worse than hon to get me riled up."
Well. That sounded like a challenge you could really have a lot of fun with...but, you just smile with a slight roll of your eyes, muttering, "Can never be too careful these days."
It's about halfway through your shift, and you can already see that Steve is an incredible nurse. He's just supposed to be sticking with you at the central station tonight, but he's started assisting when a new admit drops in, grabbing vital signs or just a cup of coffee for a family member in the waiting area. He's always courteous, kind, charming, and accommodating, even when people come in burdened by pain or anxiety. He's gentle in a way that's even soothing for you, and you're not even on the receiving end of it.
"I don't even know why they've got you training with me tonight, Harrington. You're a natural. A pro."
He beams at you, scrubbing down a countertop with sanitizing wipes while you QC test the glucometers for the unit.
"I dunno, I'm learning a ton. It's been fun hanging out with you, too. You're a good teacher."
"Oh, yah? What invaluable wisdom have I bestowed upon you tonight, Nurse Harrington?"
He pauses and thinks for a moment.
"You showed me where the bathrooms are. That's pretty important, I think."
You laugh so suddenly that you snort a little, hand darting up to cover your face.
"Goddamnit, I hate that stupid --"
"No! It's amazing, I love making you laugh. That's been the best part of the night."
He glances up at you and you feel heat rushing to multiple parts of your body, most noticeable visibly on your cheeks.
"Mine...mine, too. So thanks for that."
The small pause seems to stretch between you forever until he tosses the spent wipe in the trash along with his purple nitrile gloves. You catch yourself ogling every twitch and curl of his fingers as he tidies up.
"Hey, would you maybe wanna, like, stop for a coffee or something after our shift?"
The offer catches you completely off-guard. It hasn't even been a whole shift, and he's already asking you out for coffee? Or, maybe it was just professional courtesy. Maybe he just wanted to decompress after his first night shift in your ED. Best not to get your hopes too high.
"Oh, um...yeah, sure. There's a great little place a couple blocks from here. Bean There, Done That, I think."
His brow twitches and furrows.
"Bean There...Done That?"
"Yessir. We don't skimp out on the puns in this town."
"Oh, Christ. Is it too late to transfer down to Texas?"
"Oh, yah. You're stuck here with us now, Harrington."
You grin slyly and he laughs, raking his fingers through his gorgeous head of hair.
"I guess there's worse places to be."
His eyes are twinkly, making the harsh florescent bulbs above you seem appealing somehow. You're just about to come back with some more demi-flirty banter when the lights and sirens pull into the ambulance bay.
Both of your heads snap up in that direction, not expecting any kind of incoming trauma or emergency.
"Madgie, you know what this is?"
"How should I know?" She grumbles, smacking on one of her treasured grahams.
You jog outside to meet the paramedics, Steve not far behind. The doors to the back of the ambulance swing open as they unload a stretcher with a young man in his early twenties holding his fist wrapped in a blood-soaked t-shirt.
"Well, what do we got going on here?"
"Hey, Doc. Blew my fingers off with a firecracker."
You pinch the bridge of your nose with your thumb and pointer.
"Alrighty then. Well, I'm not the doctor, but go on in, they'll getcha sorted. Steve, ya wanna go with our friend and get the admit started?"
"Love to. C'mon, dude. So, fireworks, huh?"
He walks alongside the kid, chatting him up completely nonchalantly like two of his charred digits weren't sitting in a plastic baggie full of ice on his lap.
Yeah, he's gonna do just fine here, you thought.
You were pulled from your musings by a strong pair of hands snaking around your middle. You whip around, pushing at the chest of the ambulance driver and Chief of the EMS crew, Gator Tillman. His lip curled up into a wicked little grin, a half-healed bruise under his right eye from some recent scuffle.
"Helloooooo, nurse." He crooned, still trying to hold you against him by the small of your back as you weakly tried to push him away.
"Oh, yah, Gator, that never gets old."
"How's it goin' tonight? Who's the pretty boy ya came out with?"
"Hmm. Jealous? That's my new friend, Steve."
"Jealous? Please. Real men don't go into nursing, no offense."
Your jaw drops, and you shove away a little more earnestly, his hands falling away from your body. You cross your arms over your chest in a huff.
"Lots of offense, Tillman. Like, all of the fucking offense. Layers and layers of it. You tell that to Odie, he might actually strangle ya to death. Besides, what's wrong with a female-dominated career field? I think we kick ass."
He sneers and rolls his eyes, hands shoving into the pockets of his EMS vest jacket.
"Please, don't get all PC on me." He clears his throat and his voice gets a little smaller. "But, uh, don't tell Odie I said that, actually."
You snicker at that, and he gives you a softer smile in return.
"Sorry...didn't mean it bad."
"Well, it came out bad, Gator. Men and women alike can be amazing nurses. You've seen it, so don't even lie. You're just jealous of his hair, I think. Guys got an epic head of hair."
"Jealous? I'm not jealous a'that puss--"
You shoot him a look before he can make yet another sensationally sexist comment in your presence and his jaw clamps tight around the words. He sniffs and squares his broad shoulders, cracking his neck on both sides.
"Not jealous. He should be jealous. Cause I get to come here and do stuff like this..."
He closes the two steps between you both again, fingers slipping brazenly past the waistband of your scrub pants and gripping the flesh of your ass. Your breath catches in your throat as you cling to his shoulders, trying to keep your balance with him looming over you.
"Gator! Someone could see." You hiss.
"Mm-hm. I can tell how much ya like that, too." His fingers slide down the cleft of your ass and press against your core from behind, feeling the wetness soaking through the cotton of your underwear.
A shaky breath escapes your lips. You search around the ambulance bay wildly to check for any prying eyes, and, finding none, you grip the back of his neck and crash your lips onto his. He groans and hitches your leg up around his hip, then shoves his other hand into your pants and begins kneading and spreading your ass cheeks with his palms.
"Fuck I love this tight little ass." He mutters into your mouth as you grind your hips back into his grasp. He gives one of your flanks a little slap drawing a high-pitched squeak of delight from you. "So fuckin' dirty. Just lettin' me play with your ass while you're at work? Hm? You'd let me fuck ya right here, wouldn't ya?"
"Gator..." You growl, but he can tell his words are having an effect on you. He chortles, shaking his head and rutting his solid cock against your front, dragging it teasingly a few times over your throbbing clit.
"Nah, I know. I can't either, got shit to do. But, you'd still let me. If I wanted."
He straightens up, letting your leg fall from his hip as he withdraws from you completely. You roll your eyes and straighten your scrubs, fixing your ponytail in the ambulance side mirror. He adjusts his massive cock into the waistband of his work pants and slides his shades over his eyes.
Just as you try to decide what your next words would even be to this fucked up situationship you can't seem to shake no matter how hard you try (and believe me, you've tried), Steve comes walking briskly around the side of the ambulance to find you.
"Hey! Got the kid all settled in Room 6, Doc McKinley said getting the fingers on should be easy enough. Oh, hey man, what's up? I'm Steve."
Steve holds his hand out to Gator, and to your surprise he grips it without hesitation (although likely with far too much force) and gives it a hearty shake. He smirks in your direction, but you don't really know what that's about.
"Tillman. Gator."
Steve cocks his head in confusion.
"Which one of those...is your first name?"
You giggle and Gator glares at you briefly before returning the heat of his gaze back to Steve.
"Don't gotta worry about it. You can just call me Chief, cause that's what I am. Cool?"
Steve raises his eyebrows, flustered, and stammers,"Oh, yeah, sure, co--" before Gator cuts him off.
"Great. Alright, hon, watch it. I gotta get going."
Gator shuffles by you, purposely brushing his chest far too close to yours, and loads back into the driver's seat. With a wink and a click of his teeth, he turns the engine over and roars out of the bay. His presence is so domineering that you and Steve can't help but just stand there for a moment, basking in it. You turn to him and shake your head in disbelief.
"He used to be our county Deputy, if you can believe that. His dad is still the Sheriff. Roy Tillman?"
"Shit, yeah. I saw the billboard. A hard man..."
"...for hard times. Yeah, that's the one. Gator's...well, he's a lot. And his family is a hell of a lot. But, as much as it may not seem like it, he's a real great medic. Cool under pressure, quick-thinking, reliable. He doesn't quite have the compassionate care part down, but the backbone? He's nothing but." You give Steve a small, tight-lipped smile, not quite understanding why you felt the need to defend that man in front of this one, but you did all the same.
Steve nods but frowns, glancing down at his hand.
"...His, uh...his hand was wet."
You wrinkle your nose, cheeks growing warm with embarrassment at the realization of why Gator had that shit-eating grin on his face when he grabbed Steve's hand -- it was still slick with you. You jerk your head back towards the hospital.
"You better go wash that, hon."
A/N: okokokok this is a quickie but I wanted to get everyone introduced. This is gonna be so fucking fun, I can't wait.
Harrington Household request: when the kids finally ask where the babies come from
Summary: You and Steve navigate how to tell your girl where babies come from.
WC: 2.7k
Warnings & What to Expect: hargrove!fem!reader (doesn't matter too much to the plot), talks about babies, kids being curious, rude baseball moms, reader & Steve wish their kids weren't growing up so fast - this takes place in the harrington household au but can be read as a stand alone!
Harrington Household Masterlist
currently writing this series based on requests, so if you’ve got any ideas - please feel free to send them my way 🫶🏻
Main Masterlist If Interested!
Peach’s Note: what a fun request anon!! i enjoyed writing this a lot, so hoping you enjoy lovie 💚
tysm to everyone showing love on my works - it means the world. requests are open! feel free to send anything Steve or Gator Tillman related and I can certainly try my best 🫡
this one makes me feel sooo nostalgic 😓⤵️
“Daddy?” Your ten year old asks from across the kitchen island.
“Yeah, babe?” Steve replies, eyes flicking over to her.
You’re standing at the stove, finishing up breakfast. Steve’s sitting at the kitchen island next to his girl, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other. He offered to help you this morning, as he always does, but you knew he had a long day ahead of him with double header games scheduled for this evening.
You somehow convinced him to just sit still for once - probably coaxed by the lingering kisses you had planted lovingly at the base of his neck, ordering him to let you take care of him.
The rest of your babes are scattered, as the morning shift is always chaotic. Your eldest two are finishing up last minute assignments at the dining table. Your toddler woke up sick, and fell promptly back to sleep after you doused her with some medicine. Your ten year old and four your old boys are curled up on the couch together, watching reruns of cartoons.
“Where do babies come from?” The question comes out of nowhere, and thoroughly catches Steve off guard.
He chokes on his coffee, inhaling it the wrong way. You turn at the intensity of his coughing - sounding like he’s hacking a lung out as he wheezes into his elbow.
You shut off the burner, rounding the island to pat gently at his back - rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades.
Your girl looks at the two of you curiously, bright eyes staring inquisitively. She’s the only one who borders on having full on green eyes in the family, the hazel color from her daddy shining through.
“Yeah, Dad. You’re kind of an expert on that topic aren’t you?” Your eldest girl calls out from the dining room.
Steve sends her a withering look, and your oldest boy starts laughing under his breath.
It’s a right of passage as a Harrington kid - getting to middle school and realizing your father is not only the P.E. coach, but also the sex education teacher for the seventh and eighth graders.
Steve’s not shy about it - he can’t be with six children himself, but he also doesn’t want to make it weird for them. You’ve only had to do it twice now, but with each kid, before they entered middle school - you sat them down to have a talk about puberty and what dad’s job is really about.
But the two of you hadn’t planned on having that conversation with your twins just yet - still having two years of elementary school to go.
You answer for Steve, “What makes you want to know, Sweetheart?”
“Well, I know all of us were in Mommy’s belly, but Melody said that they have to get in there somehow,” she replies, confusion making her eyebrows furrow.
“And did Melody tell you how?” Steve clears his throat, praying that she didn’t learn about conception from another fourth grader.
She shrugs her shoulders, “No, but now I want to know about it.”
You and Steve make eye contact, knowing she’s not going to let it go. Steve drags a hand over his face, sighing heavily. You glance at the clock and realize time is ticking before everyone needs to be shuttled out the door.
“We can talk about it later, baby. Right now we need to get a move on before school starts,” you tell her softly, not wanting to shut her down, but knowing that’s not a topic to dive into right now.
“Okay,” she chirps, unphased that she can’t get an answer yet. She hops off the stool, grabbing her plate and joining the others at the dining table.
Steve releases a breath filled with relief, head falling to the crook of your neck.
“I thought we had more time with the twins,” he whines.
You run your hand through his hair, pushing back the strands that are falling in front of his forehead. He leans into the touch, pressing closer to you.
“We do,” you assure, “we can be honest while still being mindful of her age.”
“She’s going to keep asking," Steve warns, knowing his girl like the back of his hand.
“And we’ll tell her what we can,” you tilt his jaw up, capturing your lips with his.
You hear wailing from upstairs, a sign that your sick one has woken back up - forcing you to pull away with a groan, ready to go try to get her to settle down again.
Steve slides out from his spot and pats the empty chair, “Sit. I’ll go check on her.”
“But, you’ve got work in-,” you argue, and he cuts you off with another kiss to your lips.
His nose nudges yours when he breaks away, “Sit. I’ve got it, baby.”
Steve trods up the stairs, and moments later, he’s walking back down them with his girl cuddled up in his arms. He’s whispering sweet words of comfort in her ear, hand trailing up and down her back. You watch as her little fingers grip onto him tightly, tears from being uncomfortable rolling down her cheeks - Steve’s softly brushing them away.
It makes your heart swell, causes you to glance over at your youngest boy - still wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, and a beat of gratitude washes over you that not all of your kids are growing up too fast.
You’re sitting in the stands, cheering on Steve’s baseball team. Your eldest daughter willingly stayed home to look after your youngest, who was still nursing a slight fever. Your oldest was next to Steve in the dugout - he’s become quite the assistant coach, wanting to get in some volunteer hours to look good on college applications.
Your twins sit on either side of you, happily munching on popcorn - hands sticky and lips stained blue from the slushies they had earlier. Your youngest boy is playing in the dirt at the front of the stands, another mom watching him for you as he’s with some of the other siblings.
“Mom?” Your girl asks, wiping the buttery residue on her fingers off on her jeans.
“Hmm?” You hum out, not really paying attention because you’re distracted by Steve - who’s come out to give a pep talk to the team, squatting a bit to meet their level. Your eyes can’t help but travel the curve of his ass, the khaki colored athletic pants leaving little to the imagination.
“Can you tell me where babies come from now?” She asks, loud enough for the mothers on the bleachers behind you to hear. You immediately hear snickering, and your cheeks flush just a bit.
You rip your eyes away from Steve to look at her, nearly having forgotten her question from this morning.
“Not yet, babe. Daddy and I are gonna tell you about it together, yeah?” You remind her.
“Is it a secret?” She asks, a little suspicious now that you’ve dodged the question twice.
“No! It’s just,” you swallow, feeling nervous at the eyes of the parents staring holes into your head - dialed in to what you’re about to say, “it’s private. You remember we talked about the difference between something being a secret and something being private, right?”
She nods, remembering how you had to have that talk; that some things should not be shared outside of the family, because one time, her twin spent the night in the bathroom - full blown stomach bug raging against his system - and he was absolutely mortified when she told their classmates the next day.
“There’s certain things that we only talk about with the people we trust in our family,” she affirms, and you’re thankful she’s understanding.
“Exactly, and it’s okay to wonder about this. It’s normal, but it can also be a private topic,” you try your best to let her know without making her feel ashamed for asking.
“I think I get it. We’ll talk about it when we’re home?” She implores, and you reach over to pull the hairs that are sticking to her face from the wind.
“When we’re home,” you confirm, patting her knee.
It’s then that she sees her friend Melody from school, begs you to allow her to go say hi. You do, and turn to your son who’s busy playing with his Game Boy now - no interest in the topic that his sister just brought up.
You feel a shift behind you, one of the moms who’s eavesdropped on the whole thing. She leans forward, and gives you a look of pity. You clench your teeth - knowing what’s coming.
Hawkins baseball moms are ruthless, and you haven't made many friends with them because of it. They’re either all too forward about the fact that they think Steve is attractive, or too busy turning their noses up at the fact that you have six children.
“Lord, I remember when my Tanner kept asking me about that. Put it off as long as I could. You and Coach Steve must be quite lax to tell her at such a young age,” her tone is sweet, but you can hear the underbite of judgment.
“We don’t believe in lying to our kids,” you say, pressing your lips tightly together.
“Oh, of course not darlin’! Must be easy for the two of you anyway,” she quips back.
You take the bait - knowing nothing good is going to come out of her mouth - and still ask, “What do you mean?”
“Well, with all those little Harrington’s running around, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of practice telling them,” she snarks, still with a fake smile on her face.
You know it’s a dig at the amount of children you have - you’re used to it, used to people looking at you like you’ve grown two heads when you tell them. It shouldn’t hurt you anymore, but it does. It makes you angry that people don’t know how to keep their mouths shut; because really, people can judge you all they want - it’s your kids who you worry about hearing the wrong thing.
You force yourself to bite your tongue, ignoring her comment, and turn your attention back to the game at hand. Your eyes sting, feeling the build up of frustrated tears, and cross your arms to hold it together.
You feel a small arm wrap around your bicep - it’s your boy, who puts the game controller down and leans into you.
“I like that there’s a lot of us Harringtons,” he tells you quietly.
You can tell he doesn’t fully understand what just happened, but knows that the words that were spoken rubbed you the wrong way - can feel your sadness over it.
“Yeah, I like that there’s a lot of us too,” you reply, giving him a squeeze - can’t help but make your voice loud enough so that the rude mother behind you can hear it.
When the games are over, you finally work up the nerve to take a peek at the lady, rewarded with a sheepish look on her face at realizing your son heard her.
You’ll have to teach your babes someday soon that people are always going to have opinions on your family, but it’s their own that matters the most - for now, you need to go home and prepare yourself for how to tell your daughter where babies come from.
You and Steve peer around the corner into the kitchen, where your girl sits patiently at the island. You told her to wait there once she completed her bedtime routine - that the two of you would talk to her then.
“I was kinda hoping she wouldn’t be there,” Steve whispers to you, and you smack his shoulder lightly.
“Get over it. You’re taking the lead here, expert,” you tease.
“Real mature,” Steve’s hand reaches out to pinch at your waist playfully, and you yelp at the unexpected touch.
It alerts your girl, who turns to the two of you - she’s looking much more dejected than she did this morning.
“What’s wrong, baby?” You ask her, walking into the room to stand beside her.
“Am I in trouble?” She asks, lower lip jutting out in worry.
“What? Why would you think that, Sweetheart? Steve asks her, sidling up to the island. He leans on it with his elbows across from the two of you.
“I saw Melody at the baseball game. She said her parents were upset when she asked them where babies come from,” she says nervously.
“We aren’t Melody's parents. We’re yours - and we’re never going to get upset with you for having questions,” Steve assures her, making her perk up.
She looks over to you for extra certainty, and you nod - taking a seat next to her. She shyly moves closer, and you know she wants to sit in your lap. She really is getting too big for it, but you pull her to you anyway, letting her legs dangle off your thighs, and she props her torso against the island. You wrap your arms around her, and communicate with your eyes that Steve should start.
“First of all, I want you to know that every family is different. There’s a lot of types of parents and how they get their babies,” Steve tells her.
“Like Auntie Robin? She adopted her baby!” Your girl says proudly for remembering the concept.
“Yeah, just like Auntie Robin,” you validate her.
“But, uh, Mom and I are going to tell you how we got all of you,” Steve scratches at his ear, a sign that he’s slightly anxious about the topic. It comes easy telling it to a bunch of random middle schoolers, but more important when it comes to the tiny people he’s trying to raise right.
“Part of you comes from Mom, and the other part of you comes from me. And those two parts came together,” Steve intertwines his hands for a visual, pursing his lips and it makes you bite your lip in amusement. Your girl nods seriously, tracking along.
“When those parts came together, they created you and your siblings,” Steve finishes.
“But, how do those parts come together?” She inquires.
“Well, there’s a part of me that connects with Mom, and then there’s this, uh, process. And the process is what creates the baby,” Steve tries to explain.
“And then I grew in Mom’s belly after that?” She looks over to you.
“That’s right, baby,” you agree.
She ponders for a moment, letting the words sink in and promptly says, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Steve asks, a little bewildered that she accepted that vague description without further details.
You see the little gears in her brain turning and can tell she doesn’t fully comprehend.
“There’s a bit more to it than that, hun. But I think your father and I would like to tell you when you’re just a smidge bit older,” you hug her when she leans back in your arms.
“And you have to be in love, right? Melody told me her mom said you have to be in love to have a baby,” she says eagerly.
Steve refuses to be dishonest, “Actually, babe, you don’t have to be in love to have a baby. But, your mom and I do love each other very much.”
“Is that why you did it six times?” She asks the question so innocently, it startles a genuine laugh out of you.
“Yeah, Dad and I love each other so much that we wanted to create six of you,” you say, throwing a grin at your husband.
Your girl gives a yawn, and it's a sign that the conversation is coming to an end. You whisper bedtime to her, and let her know that you’ll be up in a couple minutes to tuck her in.
She’s about half way up the stairs when Steve calls out, “Hey, Sweetheart?”
“Yeah, Daddy?” She pauses, turning around.
“If your friends at school bring it up, or you hear things from other people, we want you to come and ask us. Please don’t ever be afraid to ask,” Steve promises.
“Got it,” she smiles at him, running the rest of the way to her bedroom.
You watch her go before turning to Steve, “God, I love watching them grow, but I miss when they were actual babies.”
“We could always have another,” he replies coyly.
“Steve,” you laugh pointedly.
“Would you at least be down for practicing making another one?” He raises his eyebrows cheekily.
You smirk, leaning forward to cup his jaw, “Well, practicing is the best part.”
Summary — Ilya Rozanov claims he isn't clingy, but his actions prove otherwise.
Des talks — I need him hot to go. Feeling soft feeling cute feeling fluffy.
Steam from the hot shower trailed after Ilya from the en-suite bathroom, his skin glistening with moisture from the water and heat. He strolled into the bedroom, darkness enveloped him as he shut the door behind him.
You could swear Ilya was a Greek statue with the way the towel hung around his waist and the deep contouring of his muscles. Even the darkness of your bedroom couldn’t hide him away.
The faint lights that came from the bustling city below illuminated him enough that you could see the way the darkness flooded into the muscle indents, and the subtle lightness which accentuated them. A torture for you to see; only because he was so far away from your touch. Allllll the way across the room.
Your hands burned with electricity, they tingled and burned, and the only way they could be soothed would be by feeling his skin underneath your hands.
“Good shower?” You murmured from your position on the bed; laid lazily on your side with your head resting on your hand, one leg slung mindlessly over the over.
Ilya shook his head, “No, not a good shower,” his eyes remained on your face as he began to walk slowly over to you, “was cold.”
Was not cold. You could practically feel the heat from the hot water on his body still.
A sluggish smirk pulled your lips up, your own eyes following his, daring them to break contact as they narrowed teasingly at him. Challenging him in a way.
“The big strong Rozanov can't handle cold showers?” Your eyebrows raised with your teasing remark.
Ilya’s lips perked up at the sound of your mocking words. He stood by the end of the bed. The soft white towel that hung low on his hips clung to the deep indents of his v-cut. His wet, unruly hair dripped small droplets of water onto his muscular chest.
He tilted his head at your comment, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he slowly began to crawl onto the bed, moving over you like some predator closing in on its prey. He kissed his way up your skin, calming the fire that scorched within like ice soothing a hot burn.
“Was cold—” He reiterated between kisses, his darkened eyes darting slowly between the path of your skin and your eyes, “Because of you.”
Your small smile turned into a grin at his words and the feeling of his kisses, his soft breath which tickled your sensitive skin, his warm hands—which smoothed up your body as he travelled the length of it with his lips.
“I did nothing wrong,” You stated, an airy chuckle almost escaping with your voice.
Ilya gently shook his head again with a tsk sound, closing his eyes as he pressed another kiss to your stomach.
“You did,” He said, feeling his hands move under your shirt and slowly push it up; exposing your entire stomach to him.
With the shirt slowly lifted up, there was no doubt that Ilya was taking in the exposed skin that he was allowed to touch. His eyes devoured the display, a low grumble of appreciation making its way up his throat.
Ilya began to kiss your stomach gently, a few teasing nips being thrown in every now and then as he slowly made his way up. His large, warm palms moved to your hips; slowly, possessively gripping onto them.
“You didn't join me,” His teeth grazed lightly over your skin, nipping at it again as a way to punish you and express his disdain toward your abcense in the shower.
The playful bites sent little shocks of pleasure through you, making your fingers curl slightly into the sheets. You arched into his touch just a fraction, unable to resist the pull of his warmth.
"And you say you're not clingy," You teased, tilting your head down to watch him with half-lidded eyes.
“Because I’m not clingy,” His responding growl vibrated against your skin before he dragged his tongue over the faint mark he’d left—apologizing without words.
The city lights caught the devilishness in his eyes—always so much sharper when they were fixed on you.
"I don’t know, your words aren’t adding up," You murmured, voice a gentle challenge as your hand moved to his hair. You began to card your fingers through the damp strands.
Ilya huffed at your challenge, a quiet, disgruntled sound rising from the back of his throat.
"I'm not clingy," He repeated firmly, “Russians aren't clingy.”
A grin tugged at the corners of your lips at his adamant denial. The way he was currently draped over you, peppering your stomach with kisses, was definitely not helping his case.
Your fingers continued to move through his hair, massaging his scalp softly.
"Sure, not clingy," You drawled playfully. "Totally independent, you are."
Ilya lifted his head just enough to shoot you a look that said he wasn't impressed by your teasing. But the slight quirk of his lips gave him away.
He let out a soft hum at your touch, and despite himself, his eyes closed almost blissfully as you continued to massage his scalp.
He leaned into your hand, relishing in the feel of your fingers raking through his curls. The sound of your voice gently teasing him made his heart skip a beat.
But he couldn't let himself get completely distracted. He was still committed to his point.
"Shut up," He muttered without much of a fight, before falling into you; letting his head lay against your chest with a contented sigh at finally being in your arms. His eyes closed immediately at the feeling.
Training killed him today. He found himself thinking of collapsing into your arms since he had to leave them early this morning.
“Such a sweet talker,” You were the one to then lay your kisses on him; your lips gently pressing to his forehead.
He hummed contentedly and leaned further into your chest; his arms wrapping around your waist tightly.
He relished the feeling of your soft lips against his skin. He had been yearning for your touch all day, and now he was finally getting it. He could be giddy with excitement if he had the energy.
Despite all his earlier protests that he wasn't clingy, he was completely wrapped around your body.
His breathing slowed against you, the warmth of his body seeping into yours as he finally relaxed—his stubborn facade melting away completely. One hand slid up to lazily trace patterns along your side, fingertips lingering with a tenderness that contradicted his usual brash confidence.
"You taste like honey," he murmured against your skin, lips brushing your collarbone in slow, lingering presses. “But smell like vanilla,” His voice was thick with exhaustion, words slurring slightly as his grip loosened just enough to let you shift—but not enough to let you go. Not yet.
The dim glow from the city below painted his face in muted gold, highlighting the way his lashes caressed his face and the soft frown of exhaustion which creased his features.
"Tell me about your day, moya vozlyublennaya," he mumbled, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “Before I pass out."
You smiled softly at the way he clung to you, his usual sharp edges softened by exhaustion. Your fingers trailed down the nape of his neck, tracing idle patterns along his spine as you spoke.
This was Ilya. Your Ilya. Not Rosanov. The high-speed wrecking ball with a thick Russian accent and a terrifying blur of skill and violence, a man who physically punishes his opponents by pinning them into the boards until the glass rattles.
Away from the cameras, only around you, he loses his sense of personal space entirely, needing to be constantly touching you—a hand on your lower back, a head buried in the crook of your neck, or his heavy limbs draped over you like he’s trying to merge his skin to yours.
He uses his size not to intimidate, but to cocoon.
But apparently “Russians aren't clingy”.
"Well, our café was packed today—some group came in and ordered eleven drinks," you laughed softly, remembering the dreaded look on the staff’s faces, "And when they left they didn't even clean up after themselves. They left the table all gross and dirty—God, I felt so bad for the workers, and it was so busy too.”
Ilya snorted against your skin, his breath warm. "Bunch of Idiots,” he muttered sleepily.
You continued, voice lowering to a soothing murmur as you felt his weight grow heavier against you. "Then I found that stray cat again—the little grey one? So I brought her some cat food from the shop. She let me pet her this time, I can sleep easy at night now."
His hand tightened slightly around your waist—a silent, sleepy I love that about you gesture.
"Good," he slurred, words dissolving into a yawn. "...Tell her... she’s hired... as my nap partner... when you’re not..." His voice was cut off suddenly as a yawn escaped his mouth, “here.”
You let out a quiet laugh at the way he practically melted into your touch when your fingers began to trace slow circles across his shoulder, massaging the tension away. His muscles twitched under your fingertips—tense from the day's brutal training—then gradually loosened under your touch.
"Right there," he exhaled, voice thick and syrupy with sleep, “Fuck, yes." His forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder as he practically purred under your ministrations.
You arched a brow, teasing gently, "Soooooo clingy—sooooo needy."
"Shh," he muttered against your skin, "Talking is... nyet... sleeping is da."
You smiled, realising the position you two were still in. The both of you were still on top of the covers and he was still in his towel, and would no doubt wake up cold in the morning if he fell asleep like this.
Your hold on him loosened, “Come on, let’s get into bed.”
With a groan that was half-protest, half-resignation, Ilya lifted his head just enough to glare at you blearily—as if you'd personally betrayed him by suggesting movement.
"Nyet," he grumbled.
You gave him a look.
Ilya let out a dramatic sigh, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. “Fine,” He rolled his eyes, “Give me kiss first.”
Your soft smile deepened at his sleepy demand—still so Ilya, even when he was barely coherent. You leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead, then his nose, and finally his lips, tasting the faint mint of his toothpaste mixed with his usual warmth.
"Happy?" you murmured against his mouth.
His lips curled lazily. "Yes,” he sighed, finally relenting as he rolled off of you—but only just enough to tug you against him, dragging the blankets over both of you with one heavy arm.
And as the city hummed outside, you traced the curve of his smile in the dark.
The weight of Ilya's arm tightened around your waist as he pulled you closer, until you were almost completely flush with his body. His bare chest radiated warmth, contrasting with the cool night air and the soft fabric of your clothes.
Ilya snuggled his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in deeply, as if he was trying to absorb as much of your scent as he could.
His lips grazed against your skin in a slow, drowsy kiss, just above your pulse point.
His breathing steadied into slow, deep inhales against your neck, his exhales warm and rhythmic—the telltale signs that he was finally succumbing to sleep. His grip loosened slightly, but even unconscious, his body instinctively sought yours, curling around you.
The city’s distant glow cast faint shadows across his face—softening the sharp lines of his jaw, the usually dark glint of his eyes now hidden beneath heavy lashes.
You pressed one last kiss to his temple before letting your own eyes drift shut, lulled by the steady beat of his heart against yours.
You couldn't speak for all Russians, but you knew for sure that this one was clingy.
description: everyone in hawkins thinks you and eddie munson are already married. honestly? you can’t even blame them. between the shared garage, the constant flirting, and the way he cannot help but stare, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend there’s nothing going on between you.
pairing: mechanic!eddie x mechanic!reader (fem!reader)
tags: mechanic!eddie, eddie x you, no y/n, coworkers to lovers, unresolved sexual tension (until...), small town romance, flirtationship, mechanic core aftercare, old married couple energy, fucking on a '67 impala, workplace romance, tension tension tension, whimpering eddie, teasing each other mercilessly
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!!!, PiV, unprotected, needy eddie
WC: 4.1k
A/N: requested by my beloved @bitterestwillow I HOPE YOU ENJOY QUEEN AHHHHHHH. reblogs are a writer's best friend <3
yes, i had to use this gif for this fic...it does something to me idk......
The bell above the garage door jingled as Mrs. Patterson dug through her purse for her checkbook, glasses sliding halfway down her nose, while you leaned against the counter with a rag tucked into your back pocket.
“So,” you said, tapping the invoice with your pen, “the rattling sound was your serpentine belt. Thing was practically shredded.”
The elderly woman gasped softly. “Oh, dear.”
“Yeah, but you caught it before it snapped completely, which is good. We replaced the belt, topped off your coolant, changed the oil, and Eddie patched that little leak underneath your radiator.” You smiled reassuringly. “She’s good as new now.”
Beside her, Mr. Patterson squinted out toward the garage floor where the familiar sound of classic rock echoed through the open bays. “Which one’s Eddie again?”
Almost on cue, Eddie emerged from beneath a lifted pickup truck with grease smeared across his cheek and curls shoved back with a bandana.
Sweat darkened the collar of his black tank top, coveralls hanging around his hips, while he carried over a sweating tray of lemonade cups.
“There you are,” he said, setting them carefully on the counter. “It’s too damn hot outside not to hydrate.”
Mrs. Patterson practically lit up. “Well, aren’t you sweet?”
“Tell her that more often,” Eddie said, jerking his thumb toward you. “She’s mean to me.”
You rolled your eyes. “I told you to stop using the good shop towels to wipe down your van.”
“They’re towels.”
“They are expensive towels.”
Mr. Patterson laughed under his breath while Eddie handed them their drinks with an exaggerated flourish.
“Anything for my favorite customers.”
Mrs. Patterson smiled fondly at him before looking back toward you. “That husband of yours is such a gentleman.”
You nearly choked on your own spit.
Eddie froze for exactly one second before slowly turning toward you with the most insufferable grin imaginable.
“Oh?” he said. “You hear that, sweetheart?”
“Oh my God,” you muttered immediately.
The poor woman looked horrified. “Oh! I’m sorry, I just assumed—”
“No, no,” Eddie cut in smoothly, leaning against the counter. “Please continue. This is the best day of my life.”
You shot him a glare while he looked seconds away from laughing himself unconscious.
Mrs. Patterson pointed knowingly between the two of you. “You’ve got the look.”
“What look?” you asked suspiciously.
“The ‘been in love for years’ look.”
Eddie outright cackled. You grabbed the invoice and shoved it toward them. “Okay! Your total is—.”
The elderly couple left smiling to themselves while Eddie leaned against the counter, watching you with entirely too much amusement. The second the door shut behind them, he pushed off the counter and followed you toward the office.
“Husband, huh?” he mused.
“Don’t start.”
“I personally think it has a nice ring to it.”
You dropped into the squeaky office chair with a dramatic groan. “You’re unbearable.”
Eddie leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. “And yet you keep having me back every morning.”
“You work here.”
“Semantics.”
“Hey,” Eddie said suddenly.
You looked up, and he tossed something shiny toward you, and you barely caught it before it hit your face. Your keys, the little keychain Dustin made you years ago, swung between your fingers.
“You left ‘em by the toolbox again.”
“Oh.” You blinked. “Thanks.”
“Mmhm,” he hummed smugly. “Good thing your husband’s lookin’ out for you.”
You pointed toward the door. “Get out.”
Instead of leaving, Eddie just grinned wider, sunlight pouring in behind him from the open garage bays.
“Say it once.”
“No.”
“C’mon, sweetheart. Just one little ‘thank you, my husband.’”
You threw a balled-up receipt at his head while his laughter rang through the entire garage.
By noon, the July heat had turned the garage into a furnace.
Every bay door was rolled open, old fans rattling uselessly in the corners while the smell of motor oil, hot pavement, and cigarette smoke clung heavily in the air.
Foreigner blasted low from the radio perched near Eddie’s toolbox, occasionally cutting out whenever someone used the compressor.
You were bent over the hood of a Mustang, wiping grease from your hands while talking to a customer, your laugh carrying across the shop floor. And across said shop floor, Eddie was staring. Not subtly, either.
Steve had noticed immediately, mostly because Eddie had been holding the exact same wrench for nearly three minutes without moving.
Steve slowly lowered his sandwich. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hm?” Eddie hummed absently.
“You are down catastrophically bad.”
That got Eddie to blink. “What?”
Steve pointed dramatically across the garage where you were explaining something with animated hand gestures, sunlight catching the sheen of sweat on your skin.
“You’ve been staring at her this entire time.”
Eddie scoffed, finally looking away. “I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
“I’m working.”
“You’ve been holding that wrench upside down.”
Eddie glanced down, and sure enough, he was.
“Shut up.”
Steve barked out a laugh and leaned back in the lawn chair they’d dragged outside for Eddie's lunch break. It was honestly kind of ridiculous to witness at this point.
Everyone in Hawkins knew something was going on between the two of you, except apparently the two of you.
The lingering touches, the teasing, the way Eddie always magically appeared beside you whenever some asshole customer got too flirty.
The way you unconsciously reached for his cigarettes to steal one straight from his mouth…and the constant staring, especially the staring.
Steve watched Eddie’s eyes drift right back over toward you again.
“Oh my God,” he groaned. “There he goes again.”
Eddie ignored him completely. You’d just looked up from the engine bay, pushing hair from your forehead with the back of your wrist, and the second your eyes met Eddie’s from across the garage, you smiled.
It was quick, maybe two milliseconds, but enough to make Eddie smile back immediately without even realizing it. Steve made a loud fake gagging noise.
Eddie finally tore his eyes away. “What is your problem?”
Steve stared at him incredulously. “Dude. I genuinely thought you two would be married by now.”
Eddie choked on his drink. “What?”
“I’m serious,” Steve continued. “Like three years ago, I would've put money on it.”
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, trying very hard to act unaffected while heat crept up beneath the grease on his cheeks.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Hasn’t happened.”
“Why not?”
Eddie began to argue, but froze up. Because honestly? He didn’t fucking know.
Somewhere along the way, the flirting had become second nature. So had the late nights at the garage together. So had sharing fries at the diner after closing. So, had you climbing into the passenger seat of his van without asking. So had you wearing his flannels whenever the shop got cold in winter.
It had all become so normal that crossing the line felt weirdly terrifying. Steve watched the gears turning in Eddie’s head and sighed dramatically.
“You’re both idiots.”
“Says you.”
“I’m serious.” Steve pointed between him and you across the garage. “She might as well have personally invented beer by the way you stare at her. It’s honestly kinda sad, man.”
Eddie snorted. “That’s dramatic.”
Steve deadpanned, “You literally stopped mid-cigarette yesterday because she walked by in shorts.”
“That is such a lie!”
“It is the truth.”
Before Eddie could argue, your voice cut across the garage.
“Munson!” Both men looked over.
You stood beside the Mustang with your hands on your hips. “You gonna come help me, or are you too busy staring at me again?”
Steve immediately burst into obnoxious laughter while Eddie nearly dropped his beer. And from the way you smirked before ducking back under the hood, you absolutely knew what you were doing.
The next morning was somehow even hotter.
By ten a.m., the air inside the garage already felt thick enough to chew through, every fan working overtime while the sun beat down through the open bay doors. You had your coveralls tied around your waist, a cropped tank clinging to your skin with sweat, as you worked under the hood of a Jeep.
And Eddie was being an absolute menace. It started innocent enough; he’d complained dramatically about the heat for twenty minutes straight before finally yanking his shirt over his head with a frustrated, “I’m gonna die in this godforsaken town.”
You had looked up at exactly the wrong moment. Because suddenly there was just, Eddie. Shirtless. Hair tied back messily at the nape of his neck. Grease streaked across his stomach and chest. Dog tag and guitar pic hanging against tan skin. His jeans slung low on his hips while he wiped sweat from the back of his neck with a rag.
And the worst part? The asshole noticed immediately. You looked away so fast you nearly smacked your head against the underside of the hood. From somewhere across the garage, you heard another mechanic whistle loudly.
“Ohhhh,” he sang. “How the tables have turned.”
“Shut up, Mark,” you muttered.
Eddie, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself. For the next hour, he became absolutely insufferable. Needlessly stretching, standing too close, asking you to hand him tools he absolutely could’ve reached himself.
At one point, he bent over the engine bay beside you, and you caught the smell of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and his cologne and nearly forgot your own name.
“Wrench?” he asked casually, but you evidently handed him the wrong one.
Eddie bit back a grin. “Sweetheart, this is a screwdriver.”
Heat flooded your face. From behind him, Mark made an obnoxious gagging noise, and you narrowed your eyes.
Fine. If Eddie wanted to play this game? Two could absolutely play. Play a stupid game, win a stupid prize, right?
About twenty minutes later, Eddie was halfway underneath a truck when he heard your laugh ring across the garage.
That’s not unusual. However, what was unusual was the guy you were laughing with. Some customer leaned against the front counter while you smiled up at him, twirling a socket wrench lazily between your fingers.
Eddie immediately rolled himself out from under the truck on the creeper.
“What’s that?” Mark asked innocently from nearby.
“Nothing,” Eddie muttered.
“Looks like jealousy.”
“Not jealous.”
“Mhm.”
The customer laughed at something you said, briefly touching your arm, which caused Eddie to sit up straighter. Then the asshole smiled.
“Oh,” Mark murmured. “He’s flirting.”
Eddie stood immediately.
Mark burst out laughing. “THERE he is.”
Before Eddie could storm over there and make an idiot of himself, the rumble of an engine pulled into the lot. All three of you looked over automatically, and then Eddie froze.
“No fucking way.”
The car rolling slowly into the garage was gorgeous: black paint gleaming beneath the sunlight, chrome shining, low growl of the engine unmistakable.
A 1967 Chevy Impala. The entire garage seemed to pause.
Even you looked impressed. “Well,” you said softly. “Would you look at that?”
The driver climbed out, explaining something about rough idling and overheating, but Eddie barely heard a word. Because holy shit, it was pristine.
You walked slowly around the car, fingertips dragging lightly over the hood appreciatively. “She’s beautiful.”
And unfortunately for Eddie? The way you said it sounded dangerously similar to the tone you sometimes used with him. Mark caught the look on Eddie’s face and immediately started grinning.
“You alright there, big guy?”
Eddie ignored him entirely, stepping beside you near the Impala. “Think it’s the thermostat,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward you instead of the car.
You glanced up, and there it was again: that stupid tension. Especially when your gaze dipped briefly down his bare chest before snapping back up. A smug little grin tugged at his mouth.
“Oh, now who’s staring?” he asked quietly.
You held his gaze for a long second before reaching forward and grabbing the grease rag tucked into the back of his jeans. Eddie blinked, then watched you slowly wipe your grease-covered hands on it while maintaining eye contact.
Mark made a strangled noise somewhere behind him while the customer looked wildly confused. And Eddie? Eddie looked like he was about two seconds away from losing his mind entirely.
By the time the sun finally started setting, the garage had gone quiet.
The OPEN sign in the front window buzzed faintly before Eddie reached up and flicked it off with grease-stained fingers, plunging the office into dim golden light. Outside, cicadas screamed into the warm Indiana night while the last of the heat clung stubbornly to the concrete floors.
Most nights ended like this lately. Just you and Eddie lingering hours after closing, claiming there was still work to finish when really neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
The Impala sat in the center bay now, hood propped open while you leaned halfway into the engine compartment with a flashlight between your teeth. From the radio near Eddie’s toolbox, a slow rock song crackled softly through static.
And across the garage, Eddie was still shirtless, still. All damn day.
You tightened something with your ratchet a little harder than necessary before finally glancing over toward him. He was bent over the workbench this time, curls falling loose from his hair tie while sweat gleamed across his shoulders under the overhead lights.
Honestly, it was getting ridiculous.
“You know shirts exist for a reason, right?” you called.
Eddie didn’t even look up. “Do they?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
You rolled your eyes, ducking back under the hood. “Pretty sure OSHA would have a field day with you.”
That finally made him laugh. Then you heard the scrape of his boots as they crossed the garage floor. A second later, Eddie appeared beside you, leaning against the Impala with crossed arms.
Still shirtless, and still oh-so-very smug. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked innocently. “You don’t like what you see?”
You made the mistake of looking at him fully then. Big mistake, because up close was somehow worse.
Grease streaked across his stomach, forearms flexing where they crossed over each other, and his stupid hair half falling out of the tie from working all day.
Your eyes dipped for half a second too long, and Eddie caught it immediately with a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Oh my God,” he murmured. “You do.”
You snapped your gaze back to the engine. “Shut up.”
“Nah.” He leaned closer. “C’mon, tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re sweaty.”
“Thought girls liked that.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
Heat crawled up your neck as you tried very hard to focus on the engine instead of the fact that Eddie was standing close enough for his knee to brush yours every few seconds.
“You’ve been staring at me all day,” he said softly.
You scoffed. “You wish.”
“You handed me a screwdriver this morning because you were too busy looking at my chest.”
“That happened one time.”
“And then you wiped your hands on my jeans while making eye contact with me like a psychopath.”
A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. “That was funny.”
“It was hot.”
Your ratchet slipped loudly against the engine, then silence. Then Eddie laughed quietly under his breath. You pointed the flashlight at him threateningly. “Don’t.”
But Eddie just leaned further over the hood beside you until your shoulders bumped.
“You know,” he said casually, “if this is your way of admitting you’re into me, there are easier methods.”
You snorted. “Into you? Please.”
“Sweetheart, half this town thinks we’re married already.”
“That’s because old people are nosy.”
“That’s because you look at me like that.”
You frowned. “Like what?”
Eddie’s eyes flicked slowly over your face, enough to make your stomach flip and your face burn pink. “Like you want to kiss me every time I open my mouth.”
Eddie’s grin faltered just slightly when you stepped closer instead of backing away.
“Oh yeah?” you asked lightly.
His eyes flicked over your face. “Yeah.”
You crossed your arms, leaning against the Impala beside him now, shoulder brushing his bare arm. “What about you, huh?”
Eddie blinked once. “What about me?”
“You think I don’t notice?” you continued, voice quieter now. “The staring. Following me around the shop all day?”
“That is not—”
“You literally almost dropped a transmission last month because I called you pretty.”
“That was one time.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “Mhm.”
Eddie opened his mouth to argue again, but you stepped even closer first, close enough now that he had to tilt his head down to look at you properly. And suddenly, he wasn’t smirking anymore.
Interesting.
“You wanna know what I think?” you murmured.
Eddie swallowed visibly. “What?”
You reached up slowly, fingers hooking around the chain of his dog tags. The sharp inhale he took was immediate.
“Oh, you like this way more than I do.”
His eyes went dark instantly. “Careful,” he said softly.
“Or what?”
Eddie laughed once under his breath, disbelieving almost, like he couldn’t decide if you were trying to kill him on purpose. Then, the tension snapped like a fan belt under too much strain.
You tugged harder on Eddie’s dog tags, pulling him down until his mouth crashed into yours. He groaned into the kiss; raw, needy, and immediately pliant.
His hands hovered at your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch, even after years of circling this exact moment. You solved that for him by grabbing his wrists and planting his grease-streaked palms firmly on your ass.
“Kiss me like you mean it, Munson,” you growled against his lips.
Eddie melted. His mouth opened for you instantly, tongue sliding hot and desperate against yours while you backed him up against the Impala’s fender.
He tasted like cigarettes and the beer he definitely should not have had earlier, and he whimpered, actually whimpered, when you bit his bottom lip and sucked it between your teeth.
“Fuck… sweetheart,” he panted when you finally let him breathe. His cock was already straining against the front of his coveralls, obvious and aching. You shoved a hand between you and palmed him roughly through the fabric. Eddie’s hips jerked forward into your grip with a broken sound.
“Close the hood,” you ordered, voice low.
Eddie blinked, dazed. “Wh—”
“Now.”
He scrambled to obey, reaching over and slamming the heavy hood of the Impala shut with a solid thunk that echoed through the empty garage. The second it latched, you pushed him back, hopped up onto the glossy black hood, and spread your legs in invitation.
Your coveralls were already half-off, tank top shoved up, work jeans unbuttoned, and yanked down your thighs along with your underwear in one impatient motion. Eddie’s eyes went wide and dark, pupils blown as he stared at your exposed pussy glistening under the overhead lights.
“On your knees,” you said, hooking a boot behind his shoulder to drag him forward.
He dropped so fast his knees probably bruised on the concrete. The first drag of his tongue was tentative, almost reverent—then you grabbed a fistful of his messy curls and ground against his face, and Eddie moaned like he’d been waiting his whole life for this.
He licked broad and sloppy, sucking your clit between his lips exactly how you liked it once you told him, “Higher—there, fuck, just like that.”
His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, but he never tried to take control. Every time you tugged his hair or rolled your hips, he whimpered gratefully into your cunt and doubled down, tongue fucking into you while his nose rubbed perfect circles against your clit.
Sweat and grease streaked his bare chest; his cock was leaking a wet spot through his coveralls. You came hard on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head as you rode his face through it, moaning his name loud enough that it probably carried out the open bay doors.
Eddie kept licking you through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to stop. When you finally pushed his head back, his chin was shiny with your slick, lips swollen, eyes glassy and adoring.
For a second, you thought he was going to stay soft, sweet, and submissive, but then he grabbed your hips, spun you around, and bent you over the warm hood in one rough motion.
“Eddie—” you started, but he was already kicking your feet apart.
“Please,” he whined, voice cracked and needy as he shoved his coveralls and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavily against your ass, dripping wet. “Need to be inside you—fuck, I can’t wait anymore.”
He didn’t give you time to answer. He lined up and pushed in with one desperate thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The broken whimper that tore out of him was pure filth.
“Oh my god—oh fuck, you’re so tight,” he gasped, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. His hips jerked forward again, shallow and frantic. “Feels so good… so fucking good—”
You gripped the edge of the hood, moaning as he started fucking you harder. He was still whimpering and panting with every thrust, but he had you pinned now; big hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, cock driving deep and relentless.
“Eddie—shit—”
“I’m sorry, I just—fuck—” He sounded wrecked, voice cracking as he slammed into you again, the car rocking under the force. One hand slid around to rub messy circles over your clit, too desperate to be coordinated, but perfect anyway. “Can’t stop…wanted this for so fucking long—”
You pushed back against him, and he sobbed a moan, pace turning sloppy and needy.
“Please—please let me come inside you,” he begged right in your ear, hips snapping faster. “I’ll be good—I'll be so good for you, just—fuck, I’m so close already—”
You clenched around him on purpose, and his rhythm stuttered, another broken moan spilling out as his cock throbbed inside you.
He came with a loud, shattered moan, hips jerking as he pumped deep inside you, shuddering and whimpering through every pulse. Even after he finished, he stayed buried in you, breathing hard against your neck, cock still twitching.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “I think I just died.”
You laughed breathlessly and gently tugged his hair. “Good,” you murmured.
You sat on the edge of the workbench, now wrapped loosely in Eddie’s discarded flannel, while he rummaged through one of the lockers near the tiny office bathroom.
“You alive over there?” he called.
“Mhm.”
“Liar. You sound deceased.”
You laughed tiredly, resting your cheek against your shoulder as you watched him move around the shop, half-dressed and still unfairly attractive. Honestly, it should’ve annoyed you more. Instead, your chest felt warm.
Eddie finally turned around, holding a towel triumphantly over his head. “Ha! Told you I left one here.”
“You keep towels at the shop?”
“Sweetheart, sometimes engines explode on me.”
He crossed back over toward you, hair falling loose around his face again now that the tie had disappeared somewhere in the chaos.
Up close, you noticed how pink his cheeks still were, how his lips looked swollen from the relentless eating and hungry kisses.
“C’mon,” he said gently, nudging your knee apart so he could stand between them. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
The bathroom attached to the office was tiny and honestly kind of terrible. Half the lightbulbs buzzed, the water pressure sucked, and the shower curtain had little motor oil stains near the bottom from years of mechanics rinsing off after long shifts. Still, with Eddie in there with you somehow, it felt strangely intimate.
You stood beneath the spray, rinsing soap from your arms while Eddie sat on the little built-in ledge beside you, lazily rubbing shampoo through your hair with surprising gentleness.
“There’s no way you know how to do this,” you mumbled.
“I’m multi-talented.”
“You use dish soap on your hair sometimes.”
“That is slander.”
You snorted softly while he carefully worked his fingers through the ends of your hair. His touch slowed after a minute, fingertips brushing lightly along the back of your neck.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
The softness in his voice caught you off guard, and you turned slightly to look at him. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Then he reached forward, wiping a little mascara smudge from beneath your eye with his thumb. “Pretty girl,” he murmured.
You leaned against the tile wall while Eddie stood close enough for the warm water to run down both of you at once. Then, after a long, quiet moment, he grinned suddenly.
“So.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “What?”
“You think fucking on an Impala counts as our first date?”
anywayy... hope you all enjoyed ;) dean winchester fic coming later today if you're interested MUAHAHAHA
Summary: A collection of moments from the aftermath of Nov 1984 to the summer of '85. Strangers become friends. Friends become something a little more comforting. Prom and Graduation seem a little less daunting when there's someone to celebrate with.
Warnings/tags: MDNI 18+, one use of the 'G' slur used in ignorance and without malice. Bitchy Steve reappearing for one conversation with Eddie Munson, judgemental Robin at the start but ahe doesn't know better yet.
13.8k Words
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Dreamless sleep heaps over layers upon layers of unconsciousness. Piercing through it, voices that at first sounded like they existed in your mind, distant and distorted. But the closer you roused awake, it became clear they were around you.
"—No dickwad, I didn't do anything to her!" Steve?
"Shut up, Harrington." Billy?
"Should we tell her nothing happened if she asks?" This one's quieter, a murmur. Dustin maybe.
"Why the hell would that be a good idea?" Max.
"Sorry for having ideas, jeez."
"Well I'm not taking her home like this, her mom will kill me."
Billy.
His voice is groggy, the same raspy timbre as he had in the mornings at the breakfast table. Why is he here again? The nights events begin to unfurl in your mind in staggered order, through hazy holed riddled memories.
Max wasn't home.
"Get up." He's annoyed.
Both of you drove to Dustin's, then Lucas', then Mike's. No Max at any of their houses... Where were you again?
"C'mon, shithead." Your body jostles from a hand shaking your shoulder. Consciousness is within grasp only through molasses in a void with no way to know what way was up or down.
You were at Will's house, that's right. The fight. It all comes to you rapidly now. Billy was going to do what he always does to someone he thinks is beneath him, break them. And then... Steve — Steve stepped in to help Lucas.
"For fucks sake."
Pain registers from a slap in the face, not a gentle coaxing one to ease you into awareness and consciousness. The same side of the face that was tender and raw from Neil's hand earlier that night.
Shouting ensues, voices overlap with each decibel raised. All of them easily recognised; Max, then Dustin over the top of Lucas and Mike. Overpowering Billy's only on account of numbers, he must have realised how outnumbered he was so he settles to a lowly grumble.
"Hey... Sunshine, you okay?"
The loudest voice all, not by shouting but by how close he is. It slices through the noise, proximity permits it but it's the clearest sound, not warped or distorted in a way that makes you think you were unintentionally searching for it.
"Ouch," a soft groan tumbles from your lips, mind and body finally finding equilibrium. Your eyes flutter open as far as eyelids allow, but there's enough information in the half open slits you can see through. The prettiest eyes ever look back, even with the burst blood vessels and bruising. Walnut coloured with a spalted maple halo around the pupils.
Steve Harrington looks down at you, face all purple and bruised as evidence of Billy's violence and unmanaged temper. Something inside you recognises that for once, maybe it's too late for Billy to be saved from his dad. And himself.
But if no one could show him the light then he'd be worse. Much worse.
"Nice one, asshole," Max is angry, the tone directed away from your ears as there was only one assumption that it was pointed toward your step-brother.
"You're okay, it's a lot to take in. I get it." Steve brushes errant strands from your eyes, a surprisingly gentle voice after the night you think you’ve had. That is, if your mind is to be believed and it all wasn't just a fever dream.
More information gathers in the never ending stream of thoughts in your mind as you sit up slowly. Billy is sulking, Max and Lucas were watching anxiously close by while Mike and Dustin don't seem particularly comfortable standing the way they are. Upon closer inspection, it’s a poor attempt to conceal the mound of something slumped beneath the fridge behind them, covered only by a tablecloth.
"What happened?" It tumbles out awkwardly, through the fractured cracks of vowels. More reflex than searching for an actual answer.
The silence in the room was by all accounts — pregnant. Filled with an uneasy tension that was thick and suffocating. No one seemed to jump to give you an answer, merely looking at one another as though they were all passing silent conversation with looks alone.
Gently tugging you from the floor, Steve's hands steady the wobbly ascent, "let's get you some fresh air."
"— hey, I need to take these two shitbirds home." Billy snaps.
"Yeah yeah, asshole. Give her a minute okay? You're the one who did this." Steve rebukes, emphasis on the blame which seems to hit your step-brother in a way that causes pause.
You remember stepping in when the fight between them got a little too much, the shove and immediate impact of your head against the shelf made everything afterwards hazy.
The juxtaposition of Steve's hands being gentle and steadying versus the violence of the night wasn't lost on you. It was nice to have someone's hands on you that wasn't considered brutal or rough, something familiar and friendly to remind you that Neil and Billy are outliers.
Adrian never touched you with contempt or anger and you miss that — miss him in a way you hadn't entirely accounted for.
Outside of the house, the relief was instantaneous, cool air caressing clammy, warm skin. Tonight was a head rush in the sense that you could never have anticipated this was how the night would end. The whole thing in the tunnels was still up for debate in terms of being real or not, it could've been entirely fabricated in your mind still. No one was really jumping to tell you about the insane shit that was witnessed.
"Nice right?"
Steve was still hovering, not in a bad way, just close enough to make sure you were okay and far enough to give you breathing room.
"I think I'm going insane," you whisper, barely audible with a faraway look in the eyes. How does one begin to reconcile what they've seen tonight? It has to be all in your head. Surely.
He chuckles, breathy and non-pointed. It was reflex rather than making fun of you. At least that was how you choose to interpret it. "You're not, I promise... There's just... Well— Hawkins isn't what you'd call a normal town. But I think you should go home, get some rest first." His hand tentatively comes up to touch your elbow, barely lingering for a moment before dropping back down.
In not so many words, there was confirmation to some degree that the tunnels were something real. You were unsure if it was preferred to believe you had actually gone insane or not. Ignorance is bliss after-all.
"I dunno if I can sleep after that."
"Try. If you can." He looks over his shoulder back inside the house, then back at you, "sleep first. Then I'll tell you everything. Everything I know anyway — it probably won't be all…Right but... Y'know, it's something."
Sleep does come surprisingly easier than expected that night, exhaustion playing a part in how heavy your eyelids felt and how quiet your mind was. And as promised the following afternoon Steve picks you up, drives to a nice spot just on the outskirts of town and tells you everything.
Where Will went when he went missing last year, what happened last year, a giant monster with a face that opened up like a flower killing people around town, an entirely different dimension, why Dustin's cat is missing (you nearly threw up at hearing it was eaten), a girl allegedly with telekinetic powers?
Hawkins was not the quiet little Indiana town your parents thought they were moving the family to, as it turns out.
And naturally, in typical Mayfield fashion, you and Max befriended the one collective group of people in the town stuck in the middle of it all.
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
You feel completely and utterly out of your depth standing at the base of the driveway of a two tiered house in Loch Nora. Somehow worse off than being thrust into interdimensional hell. It was a mostly quick walk, though it would've been quicker by car except Billy had been very pointedly ignoring Max since last month and by-proxy; you.
Jonathan had been firm in his invitation. He wanted you there and reassured you three times that it would be nice to have a normal New Years gathering with the few people who understood that the town was a dormant nightmare, disguised as quiet neighbourhoods and the American dream.
It was kind of him to do that, to make an effort to include you after what happened that night. You still couldn’t help but feel like you were encroaching in on something that was halfway finished, but there was no one else to talk to about this. Billy didn't suspect anything, hell, he didn't even know Max had driven his car. Assuming the dinks in that car were from him at some point or other.
Things were... Tense between you and Max. An imminent argument was nearing the boiling point, all because she was going to leave you behind and it never quite sat right since then. You’d never do that to her so naturally you were upset. Justifiably so, with how progressively worse Neil was getting the nearer you were to graduating.
Jonathan maybe sensed this, he had that gentle perceptiveness that you recognised immediately, similar to your dads.
But here you were. At Steve's house. Steve Harrington. Steve, who will chat with you sometimes in the hall when you cross paths and if there was a free period. Other times, he just sits with you in the library for a little while. Neither of you particularly loquacious in these moments since there wasn't any need to fill the space that was mostly thick with quiet understanding.
At your knock, the door swishes open faster than expected. The surprise is evident by both parties as Steve stands on the other side of the door, eyes widening at your appearance. Neither of you say anything for a while, enough for a block of awkward silence to cement itself between you. His eyes start assessing, the arch in his brows and how whatever greeting he had prepared just came out in a long exhale was clearly indicative of one thing.
No one told him you would be here.
"Oh... You didn't know I... Jonathan he, uh, he asked—"
"—no! No, he did! He totally told me. I just... You look great! Sorry. Please come in." He steps aside, carding a hand through his locks. The compliment was nice but it was noise, something panicked to fill the space and fell flat in the process.
You step in, fiddling with the hem of your dress, standing two feet away from him, not wanting to be rude and start trawling through his obviously nice house. He masks his evident surprise when he turned, before giving a house tour with some flavour.
Flavour meaning he had a joke for just about anything regarding gaudy decor or anything expensive looking. Attempting to seem more grounded by rejecting his wealth as if that made him more relatable.
Whatever jerky and clumsy interaction happened at the door, had long subsided in favour of facetious sly remarks that were equal parts an attempt to get you to laugh and to mask the fact he was clearly bothered with his parents in some capacity.
Having lived with Neil long enough, you know what's not being said between the jokes and smiles that don't quite reach the eyes. Billy does it with being a jerk-off, you do it with overcompensating niceties just to feel a little brevity between moments of tension.
His record collection snagged your attention in his room as he walked you through, for someone so set in a rigid style, you don’t rib him for his musical tastes. Music was music and it was to be enjoyed by everyone regardless of what preferences, in your opinion. Not that he asked.
"Prince! My friend Sylvia ran through this album so much she needed to replace it." You held up the 1980 album Dirty Mind with a grin at the memory and fondness it fills you with.
"Oh? I kinda figured all your friends were like... Gypsy's or something."
"Hippies," you put the record down, correcting him quietly and smile, "they all were, except Sylvia — she's very... Put together, y'know academic and brilliant. She's gonna be the president one day."
He snorts, then stops when he sees your earnest expression. "Oh... Sorry... I mean, y'know everyone says that about their friends and stuff."
"I was joking, but she is gonna change lives."
"Don't— Don't do that." He scolds, lingering by his bedroom door, though the half suppressed smile on his face indicates he wasn't that bothered by it. "You looked like... Really sincere when you said that. I'm too stupid for that shit. C'mon."
The flippant way he dismisses his own intelligence was immediately caught by you. Frowning, you walk toward him, turning a weightless moment into something more.
"You're not stupid, Steve," a fact and a statement even if you didn’t know him super well. Your feet stop just shy of him, the distance didn't feel odd or invasive, not really since being crammed in the back of Billy's car and stuck inside questionably interdimensional tunnels beneath Hawkins.
"Yeah... Well, I think you haven't gotten to know me properly yet." His voice was so small, yet so sure that whatever friendship had started between them had an expiration date.
The reassuring words on your tongue never came out, on account of Nancy and Jonathan arriving and the moment disappears. Not completely, simply tucked away to re-appear at another time, filed away for safe keeping.
It was a little gauche at the beginning, clearly you were joining a movie cast halfway through the second act, metaphorically speaking. Naturally there was quiet assessment and judgement, the only ice breaker that existed between you and the others is that now, you were in the know.
Nancy was nice, reminding you all of the world of Sylvia. Not a replacement, never a replacement or placeholder. But someone who existed on a similar level.
"— Max is lucky to have you."
They were idly chatting while Steve manned the kitchen and Jonathan went to the bathroom. The conversation started off meaningless and static, the usual that came with small talk. Then that uncomfy small talk evolved to talking about that night last month.
"I'm lucky to have her," you countered with a shake of the head, the hem of your dress beginning to fray was the perfect thing to pick at while your mind ceases to slow down. "She's the strongest girl I know."
Even if she was going to leave and not say anything. Even if she acts like you’re the most annoying older sister to have at times. At the end of it all, Max, for all her faults and quirks, was still your sister and you’d never change a thing about her.
"It's sweet you two are close." Nancy says it with a reverent appreciation, almost as if she was a little jealous. Maybe she was.
"Not so much anymore... Y'know, those tween years really make everything more angsty than usual."
"You're telling me, try dealing with a younger brother... Jonathan's the one who really got lucky with having Will, he's a sweet kid."
Summoned by his name and impeccable timing, Jonathan sits back down on the couch, an arm comfortably resting over Nancy's shoulders. Not too much longer, Steve joins them all and the night's initial awkwardness seems long distant.
Before long, the four of you were easing into conversation that was far removed from tunnels, interdimensional monsters or different worlds. For a small snapshot of time, they really were just four teens hanging out, picturesque and universally interchangeable.
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
January 1985, the mornings don't feel as crisp around Hawkins High as they did last month. Cold still, even colder than San Diego winters but it was easing up slightly. Graduation was imminent and that factor had a nervous buzz around all the seniors. Billy and you? Not so much.
A handful of other seniors weren't too fussed or panicked about figuring life out immediately. Others were crying because they missed early application or outright had been denied. That frantic energy continued the closer to wearing those caps and gowns it got, and there was no sign of stopping.
Mr Hauser was late for homeroom this particular day which meant most of the kids were mingling in the meantime. Eddie, who was fashionably late, strolled past the teachers desk, pauses and turns when he sees it abandoned then keeps on walking.
He drops his bag onto his desk with a bang and instead of sitting down at his usual spot, he slinks over and leans on your desk which was always by the window and (perhaps unfortunately) two seats ahead of Eddie’s desk. He lays his palms flat over the chipped wood, shadow casting darkness over the book you were reading.
"Sunshine!" He grins, whipping his head over his shoulder and seeing the seat in front of you free. He drags it back, the feet screech and drag across the linoleum before he plots himself on it, arms folded over the back of the chair.
Of Mice and Men gets shut politely and slid aside, because you were good at doing that. Giving people your attention irrespective of whatever you were doing prior.
"Morning, Eddie."
"You have this... This aura about you, if you get what I'm saying." He gestures vaguely around you, fingers wiggling for extra flair.
"I'm not really sure, no." you laugh softly, eyes following his hands then back to his face.
"That's okay! Well, it's this essence, very calm and holy."
"Holy?"
"Holy." He nods, drumming his fingers on the back rest of the chair for a few moments, "you ever play D 'n D?"
Ah. He wanted something — that's why he was uncharacteristically talkative this particular morning. Usually you would exchange friendly greetings, he'd say something to make you laugh and then you’d follow up with a compliment about him or his clothes.
It was a very easy routine.
At his question, you shake your head, "that's the role-playing one, right?" Having caught very little comments and mentions of it from Max in passing, the crux of your knowledge barely extends past rolling dice and pretending to be magic... Or something.
"A girl after my own heart, sunshine! Look at you — Didn't even scrunch that nose of yours up when I asked. I'm working on a campaign — best one yet in my opinion — and my sad sack of a party are in dire need of someone priestly willing to be the backbone support of the party."
You knew Eddie could talk. But to be on the receiving end of his ramblings felt like a barrage of words thrown at you in a string of context you’re desperately missing.
Opening your mouth to say something helpful only words betray you in the moment, then you promptly close it before opening it again, tone gentle despite not really knowing what he's trying to say. "Hon, I have no idea what any of that means."
"'Course you don't. That's why you should sit in on a session. Really they just need a cleric or a druid, y'know a priest class, but the main point is I think you'd be great! You're calm and-and... All of this!" He gestures to you again, which does prompt the smallest huff of a laugh from you.
It wasn't that Dungeons and Dragons felt uninteresting to you. It was that this was Max's thing with her friends, a sacred and out of bounds activity for her, not for you. Things were a little better between you but this was something locked away tightly in a box that said 'keep out' in angry red lettering.
"I don't know..." You trail off, looking at his ridiculous puppy dog eyes and sighs, "I'd love to be like... A sounding board, but I don't really wanna play."
"Really?" He seemed happy enough at this compromise, even if it wasn't much at all.
"Totally."
"Cool." He nods.
"Cool."
He excitedly drums his hands on the back of the chair and stands abruptly, "great! Well if you ever get that wanderlust for adventure, you know who to call."
For all the quirks and little mannerisms, he was forever endearing in the best way. Since arriving in October, his hair had only gotten longer. Enough that Mr Hauser constantly warned him that an inch longer would be a detention unless tamed back in some capacity.
Before he stumbles back toward his own seat, he leans back down at your desk, "hey actually, you busy tonight? My band is playing at the Hideout, I think you should come. It's cool. For cool people. You're cool." He rambles lamely.
"That sounds fun, I like music."
"Ever heard of us? We're a pretty big deal, Corroded Coffin. We're a hit with the staff." He dusts off his shoulders jokingly, puffing his chest out. "We're like if Black Sabbath and Metallica and Motley Crue had a weird fucked up love child."
Those bands never really appeared in your rotation of music, but you’d listened to them before through the walls of the house coming from Billy's room. You almost consider asking if the band will sing songs about doing cocaine and having gratuitous sex with girls.
But that felt a little judgemental so you don't.
"I'll come." You say, with a smile because at the very least it would be something different to do after school.
Any attempts to school his surprise fail, "wait, you will?" It comes out in a half splutter, he truly hadn't expected you to agree which was a funny thought to you. Maybe not many people said yes when he asked.
"Sure!"
"I didn't even bribe you with drinks, I know the bartender, he's a catch."
At this, you laugh quietly at his charm. It was a pity most people didn't take a moment to actually talk to him, from what you'd heard he's already written off in most people's books.
He was eccentric, lovably so and he'd thrive in a place like California where every second person dressed similarly or behaved similarly. Hawkins was no place for a guy like Eddie Munson, it would sooner chew him up then spit him out than nurture his potential.
Which was a funny thought, because you remember him saying something similar to you on the very first day of school.
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
If someone had to ask Steve how to quantify getting over Nancy Wheeler, he simply wouldn't be able to do any of that in an eloquent way. Guilt still settles, leaden and heavy in his gut when he thinks about asking the new girl out two days after the breakup then subsequently forgetting her name a day after that. You — not the new girl, you deserved more than to be shelved aside in his pea sized brain.
Graduation was around the corner and he decided that he knew nothing about girls. If Nancy fundamentally rearranged what he thought he knew about them, you had made him realise he never really understood a thing about them at all.
Because it was easy to reconcile that with all the shit that happens in Hawkins, Nancy stepped up and was a complete badass in the process. You stepped up in a way that he didn't expect but mattered just as much. Maybe on account of the fact you admitted that you were convinced it had been a dream until the cold reality settled.
Even then though, through the inability to tell reality from hallucination, the kids were a priority to you. And that meant something to him in a way he didn't think counted.
Hell, up until November, he didn't care about those little shits but now everything has changed. For better or worse, he couldn't tell.
There wasn't really a time Steve could pinpoint when you stopped taking up a small part of his brain, in favour of taking up more space than he should've allowed. But he sees you everyday at school, and this lunchtime he decided that he wanted to sit with you.
The smallest table in the cafeteria, sequestered around a pillar and closest to the window. Almost the same table every day, facing the sun like a sunflower. He's seen drifters come and go since you started, which seems more embarrassing to admit in his head than he thought. That he actually noticed that.
He had been watching you subconsciously after everyone went through hell together, and it wasn't just him that found your warmth... Nice... The word feels inadequate, but it matters all the same. Eddie Munson regularly floats around you, annoying, buzzing — like a mosquito.
Today it was just you and one of the Junior girls he recognised from Nancy's chemistry class.
Surprise was evident on your friend's face, but you just seemed to look up and smile as if this was an everyday occurrence.
"Hey, Steve," you greet in that easy and sweet tone, "sitting with us today?"
Not an invitation that incited embarrassment, it was far too simple but somehow you managed to get him not to flush red with shame when he clambered down in the seat beside you.
Then after a beat, "I really like that sweater, it's nice." you say it as plainly and easily as one would comment about the weather.
Across the table, your friends' eyes flicker back and forth between the two, piecing together when or how they'd become friends. When did Steve Harrington and you become friends? A question that could be answered easily until he works through all the mental bullshit.
"We were just talking about seeing Footloose, apparently it's really good." Your friend immediately includes him in the conversation, doesn't make him feel outcast for randomly deciding to join them for lunch. Or make him feel that the crown of 'King of Hawkins High' fell off, even if it did, but at this table it felt more like he'd willingly uncrowned himself.
"Oh! Yeah, we might go on Friday night if you wanna come." You smile and shake the juice box in your hand idly as though Steve had been part of the conversation all along.
Lunch with you and Jude didn’t become an everyday thing after this, not at first, he liked to sit with you to decompress after basketball practice or when he didn't feel particularly chatty with his usual table. Neither you or Jude never prodded unnecessarily and never really egged him on for a reaction which settled something heavy and warm in his stomach.
Followed with a sinking feeling that he spent years of his life wasting time and effort on people like Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins who never regarded him with the same reverence you did. And by association; Jude.
It was one of the nicer days in February, the sun was out and the chill in the air didn't seem to reach for bone. Half the school was off sick intermittently, just because it was time of year. You were sat outside for lunch to enjoy the sun, basking in it no different to how a reptile will bask.
Steve wanted to know what Spring looked like on you, he supposed this was as close to it as possible. And in his mind, it suited you well.
Jude was off with the dozens of other sick kids with the Flu, a social weight lifted off his shoulders knowing he could talk to you alone. Not that he didn't like your friend, there was just something different about being alone with someone who knows what really has been going on in Hawkins.
And part of him knew deep down he could be himself around you, a side to himself no one was worthy enough to see. He didn't have to try to engage with you, that was surprising, and you’ve never forced him either.
"Hey you," you smile, looking up from the current book you were reading. The sunny glare forces you to squint when glancing up at him. Without thinking, he shifts to the left to eclipse the sun and cast a merciful shadow over you. "You look nice in that green," you add effortlessly as always and nod toward his green henley sweater.
He tries not to smile too hard at the compliment.
"Hey, sunshine. Want some company?" There's artefacts of his bravado, but it feels more real. He stopped asking if he was allowed to sit with you at some point, because you’ve always made him feel welcome. And now he started asking if you wanted the company.
"Always, hon." Easy, simple, like breathing or blinking. And then you shift to the side of the bench, moving your tote over and making space for him without fuss or attitude. Maybe that was what drew him in, how easily you made space for someone like him.
He thinks it's selfish to crave that, but he's terrified to force it so he never will. Eventually, like everyone else, you’ll see the real him and high tail it the furthest away from him. Besides, you’re a senior too and smarter than him in ways that will see you off to some fancy Ivy League college.
And he'll be stuck here. In Hawkins. Forever.
"— saw the last of the game last night. I won't pretend to know a thing about Basketball, but you guys did great." He hadn't even registered that you were talking to him, catching onto the last of the praise and feeling guilty for the way he hangs onto it.
A snort pushes past his lips, "Hillsboro creamed our asses, I don't know if that's playing good." He's still bitter about it, about a lot of things actually, being mediocre at basketball was definitely one of them.
"Just because you don't win doesn't mean you played badly, it just means the other guys were better. Can't be perfect all the time, hon."
Of course you would say that, in a saccharine tone that gentles honesty into wisdom instead of a weapon. It's something he expects his mom to say, not look at him with thinly veiled contempt. Another thing he can't help but be bitter about. His parents — yikes.
So instead he just shifts his bitterness, "yeah well, what doesn't help is our whole team balance is off." He doesn't say it was Billy's fault explicitly, doesn't need to in the way your lips twitch into a knowing frown, brows following in a quirk and then a short final nod.
"His sisters are off limits so he's taking it out on everyone else. I'm sorry," because you take his bitterness for blame and that lands in him all twisted and wrong.
"Hey— I didn't... That's not what I meant."
"I know. It's not fair either way. For what it's worth, you play really well." You smile to lighten the mood, sunshine personified with simple kindness. It’s disarming enough that the tension eases and he can see an out to make the conversation more light.
"Thought you didn't know a thing about Basketball, sweetheart." And just like that, sunshine becomes sweetheart and he isn't sure why but it felt natural.
Normal. Yet unintentional. Nancy still haunts the very tight recesses of his brain, not quite ready to let go of that right now.
"Oh I absolutely do not but every time you threw the ball it went into the hoop. That's impressive, no?"
He never considered this, how it would look to someone who spectated on the sidelines with little to no technical knowledge. He supposed it was impressive, in simple terms, but it made him feel good you seemed to think he played well.
They talked until the first bell rang to conclude lunch, and more until the travel bell rang. Even then, walking together to their lockers and then you walked him to his class.
From then on it threw him off course, a constant vertigo that disrupted the balance he'd known and walked the line along without questions. You took up more space in his mind without meaning to, by just being present and attentive.
It was pathetic, really — the way his brain lingered on it, on you. If you said off handedly at lunch that you’d bring in those cookies he liked, you would. Or the time when you offered to read his tech school application, then gave it back with two pages of the nicest notes he's ever read.
And the compliments, oh God the compliments. You always greet him and then follow it up with something sweet about his appearance. Not the same way girls praise him for existing, predatory eyes masked by false innocence. Just pointing something out, his smell, or watch (which took him by surprise that you even noticed he changed it), or benign little things no one noticed.
But you always did somehow.
Late February rolled around languid and unrushed, the finishing line of High-School closer and more impending. A chapter about to close and nothing waiting beyond scared Steve more than he thought it would. The best years of his life were about to wrap up in a lacklustre celebration, a hand shake and nothing to show for it.
Not to mention Senior Prom loomed over him, demanding critical thought but he didn't want to look. If he didn't acknowledge it, then it wouldn't exist, right?
Wrong. Flyers, posters — every little fucking thing to remind the entire school (and Steve Harrington) Senior Prom was happening in gaudy gold letters. He asked Nancy last year to be his date because he was stupidly optimistic that their relationship would last.
He catches moments when he wishes it did, and then with distance he knows inevitably it would've been a second coming of what he grew up hating. Nancy deserved better. So did he, even if he didn't think he deserved much better. Anything would be better than marrying the equivalent of a colleague and having a kid only to resent that very kid for existing—
"You think if you stare hard enough it'll catch on fire too?"
That voice — grating and nasally. Eddie Munson.
"The hell do you want, Munson?" He tries not to grimace, tries to be the new reformed Steve who wasn't like Tommy or Carol or Billy. Though upon further inspection he has no idea who the hell that is anymore.
"Making conversation, Harrington. You've been staring at the wall exorcist style for a while. Thought maybe all that hair product finally soaked into your brain and liquefied it." Eddie's insults were similar to Dustin's. Too smart to feel like an insult, and the delivery almost feels far too jokey than serious.
Then Eddie claps him on the back twice, a self satisfied smirk on his face, "welcome to being one of the bottom feeders of the school, Harrington. Ostracising is a slippery slope and before ya know it, prom feels like the end of the world, right? Want some advice?"
"I wasn't asking," Steve huffs, annoyed that the freak of the school is talking to him on principle and that he felt entitled enough to give him advice.
The comment just eggs Eddie on, "you wound me. Fine — I'll keep the trade secrets to myself." He holds his chest in faux heartbreak, blowing him a teasing kiss, and nearly walking into you in the process which bristles Steve. Who had moved to grab Eddie, hands moving on their own accord to yank him back.
"Watch where you're going—"
"Hey Eddie, sea legs again?" Your voice envelopes his, sweet and kind.
He looks between you and Eddie, once then twice. How you both smile at each other with ease and without the presence of expectation. His hands drops by his side, silently grateful the intervention happened. That could've gotten embarrassing very quickly.
"You know me, sunshine! Big weekend as always. Have fun with him, he's no fun today." Eddie pouts mockingly, winking at Steve then turning back down the hall.
"Hey," you turn, slowly and take him in. Eyes always first, then you drag your gaze down to his chest, then hands then back to his face. "New necklace? It's nice," you point to the silver chain adorning his neck.
His hand comes up to touch, verifying it was where he put it this morning and tries not to let your lightness make him blush so aggressively, so he looks away.
"Hey," it comes out airy, with an expelled breath and feels a little too much for such an insignificant moment in the hallway between classes. Clearing his throat, he attempts again, "hi... Uh— yeah, thanks." He doesn't tell you where he got it, doesn't need to bore you with details of how his mom thinks buying him things makes up for the fact she doesn't like him.
It's unnecessary to say so he doesn't say anything.
Everything about you is intentional, purposeful in the way you go about life. He envies the ease of which you’ve carved a spot for yourself in Hawkins and how at ease everything seems to you. Somehow, you’ve been a better friend to him in a handful of months than any one of the sycophants who clung to him for no reason had their entire lives.
"Oh! I totally forgot, but I got new headphones for my walkman over the weekend, and I know you were on the market to replace yours..." You chuckle and dig through your tote, pulling out a loved pair but still in better condition than his.
The gesture cements itself, rooting deep and stubborn inside him somewhere he doesn't dare try to name. It wasn't brand new hardware by any means, the cable had braided thread along it and the thin plastic band that tapered out at the foamy earmuffs had several apple stickers stuck to it.
It had personality, it was loved and lived in, a part of yourself put into something silly and plain. Here you were handing part of yourself over to him, without expectation of compensation or something to trade of equal value.
That and you remembered last week when he lamented in the library about his walkman being on the fritz since his headphones got bent in his sports bag. Carrying that small grievance of his into your weekend enough to do this for him.
"Thank you," he just stares at them, waiting for you to add a condition, a term, but nothing comes. No additional 'i need them back before graduation' or a request for a favor following up the action.
"Hey, no problem!" It’s simple. You smile.
Something in his brain short circuits, the impending conclusion of High School, the personification of the sun in front of him giving out your warmth and gifts without anything in return, the mocking poster of the Senior Prom burning a hole at his back. It all just becomes too much too quickly, those things just kicked off a chain reaction he was struggling to work through.
The girl he thought he'd marry didn't want him, his parents didn't want him, his ‘friends’ only needed him with conditions, he's only needed when there's conditions. He isn't good at anything, not really.
And there's fucking Walkman headphones in his hands.
From a girl who makes choices, words and actions feel simple and easy yet intentional all the same.
His mouth already begins to move, clumsily working around the words he's half thought through into a wobbly, "we should go to prom together." Like a moron. He didn't even ask properly, with care or consideration in a way you deserved.
Man he absolutely sucked at this.
A giggle stifles past your lips, bubbly and bright. He almost thinks you’re laughing at him which is humiliating to think about so he swallows the immediate nausea down and exhales sharply, "Sorry. That was... Shit — I'm really bad at this."
"Take your time, honey."
Honey shoots through him like lightning and suddenly he feels his knees wobble. When you called him 'hon', it nested in his chest and provided a gentle pep in his step for the day. But honey?
His brain stutters.
"I'd like to go to prom with you," you smile and of course assists him work through the gnarled thoroughfares of his mind.
Like before, his mouth moves before his mind catches up, "as friends, though." He's a moron. Confirmed.
"As friends." You echo, nodding and smiling. Because unlike him, it looked like you weren’t torturing yourself with a thousand and one ways to overthink a friendship. "We can go shopping together if you want?"
"I'd like that." He breathes, anticipation fizzling.
"Yeah? Cool."
"Very cool." He nods lamely.
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
"—well, petal. I s'pose that's just about it." Ruby puffs out a breath, hands on her hips and looking around the stores interior. The new one. Boxes apparent everywhere, there was still a mountain of work to be done but the stock was moved.
The new Mall, Starcourt, was bustling with tradesmen and store owners, some franchise owners were milling about and talking about hiring for the incoming Spring opening. It was all very boring, so you had been grateful that the extent of your social interactions were with Ruby and Fae. The flower shop owner, who you came to meet and adore all the same.
Sharing the first floor of the mall with Ruby's store was the beginnings of a Spencer's, what looked like a Kaufman's, an ice cream parlour and a Burger King. There were a dozen more stores having facades set after electronics and basic structure finalised.
"Take a break, lord knows I need one." Ruby adds, plopping onto one of the sturdy cardboard boxes filled with books and tomes. Reaching across to one of the opened ones she pulls out one of the tarot decks inside, "go on, petal. Let's see if you've got the magic touch."
She tosses the sealed deck across the room, you barely catch it, despite the fumble, you secure it from dropping on the floor embarrassingly. The artwork is eye-catching, the first thing you notice when unravelling the deck. Golden gilded edges, metallic foil on the cards with striking imagery. You’ve dabbled in tarot loosely, not enough to know what spreads are the best or how to interpret the cards. Though you supposed Ruby would help with that.
"Do I ask them a question?" You stare at the cards, The Hierophant looks back at you with that distant and cold look of superiority.
"Sure, that deck's been burning a hole in my drawer for a year. Never wanted to open them, but I feel like they might be for you, petal." Ruby says unhelpfully not answering the question. Then looks at you with a look somewhere between pitiful and amused, "well instead of asking an explicit question — just think about things, your life, who your friends are, if there's a special someone, career prospects.. Let a card fall out for everything you think of and we'll go from there."
That seemed to inspire a little more thought, and so you clumsily begin to shuffle the cards and let your mind wander. Your stream of thoughts are usually in abundance, highways overlapping one another and noisy in a way that can be overwhelming.
But you try to focus on one thing at a time without drifting so it was easier to think about something easy and close to home — Max. A crack in the sisterhood that was barely healed, and like glass, it was still visible and overall weakens the foundation. Things were better but you still feel somewhat let down that your sister was on the precipice of leaving without saying a word.
A card falls out — more like flips out from the shuffling and flops onto the floor at an awkward diagonal angle. Six of Pentacles, but the angle of it is upside down.
Ruby leans forward and hums with a short amused huff, "well I could've told you that... Keep going."
And you do, letting thoughts bounce from person to person. Billy came to mind next, barely a fully formed thought about him had begun when a card jumped out of the deck. You flip the card and The Tower looks back, also reversed.
Your eyes flick up to Ruby for any affirmation that this was correct, until figuring the elderly woman probably couldn't read your mind. However, the imagery on the card and the way it fell didn't sit well. The Tower made you uneasy, and maybe it was because you hadn't been able to reconcile any thoughts with Billy properly.
There was this stern refusal to write him off. However, since November it was hard to see him the same.
For about ten minutes, you just let your mind think and hands do all the shuffling. You thought of yourself and what you’re doing or where the journey of life wants you to go. Ace of Cups falls out upright. Then your mind sits on Steve, who has become someone close in the last few weeks progressively.
Two cards fall out for Steve; The Lovers and The Knight of Cups. Upright. Ruby had been quiet until those two fell but couldn't help and audibly reacted to seeing them with a hum of assent.
Finally, you think of your mom and this one takes a while to get a card out. But eventually, Four of Wands falls out, reversed.
All of the cards sit in a line and truthfully you have no idea how to begin working through what they mean. Thankfully, Ruby slides off her box, walking over and sits on the floor beside you. "Quite the spread. Which one makes you feel the most?"
Without hesitation, your finger unfurls from the fist it was in and points at The Tower.
"Yeah... It's not a good card. Most people get scared with the death card... This one is the one to look out for." Ruby hums and picks it up, examining the artwork, "tell me about who you were thinking of when this card fell out."
You do it with surprising ease. Telling her everything about Billy from the day you met and parts of that night in November and everything in-between. The tangle of your conscience when it came to him, stuck between wanting to help him and being afraid of him.
By the end of it, you’re in tears.
Ruby merely rubs your back and listens until it's quiet, "you put a lot of mental energy in him. Emotional too. Sometimes people can't be saved, petal. Even the Sun can be ignored when people decide it so."
"I don't know if I want to save him. I just want him to know he can be better. I can see it, he can be good but I don't know how to reach him." You wipe your eyes and sniffle.
"Again... Even the Sun can be ignored, and it's the brightest thing in our sky during the day. This in reverse is uneasy to me, and I know you feel it too because you had a reaction to it. Disaster for him is coming, and you can't get involved in that. He needs to walk that path alone."
Disaster shelves itself poorly, it was vague enough it could mean anything benign but looming enough that it felt like a serious warning. Either way, you don’t feel good about what it means and represents.
Six of Pentacles soon became the focus and like with Billy, you talk about your sister in earnest and with honesty. There's love between you two always, it was the two of you against the world after all. But there was an undercurrent of tension, a rift, small yet not insignificant, that had been building long before Max decided she was going to leave but only stayed because of happenstance.
"This card is a giver card, you share and expand kindness without anything in return and that can be gifting physical things. But for you, it's love. I can see it. Giving and not taking. Or if you do take, it doesn't feel right. But it's reversed because everyone else's cup is being overfilled and your resources aren't infinite... Your sister isn't closing you off, I don't think. She wants you to fill her cup, but you do too much. Take a step back, let her come to you. And she will."
They move onto the Four of Wands — Ruby drifting toward the cards that seem to be in reversal and the ones that weighed heavier emotionally. Just like the other two, you talk about your mom with care and love but with an undercurrent of worry. Something simmers in your words, not quite resentment, but frustration manifesting as rebuke for the way your mom has mentally and emotionally stepped back from her daughters.
Ruby huffs humorlessly, "sounds like your house is a riot." It's half a joke and pure observation.
"Yeah... It's... Well I've never spoken much about it to anyone. Hearing it all out loud makes it sound worse—"
"Don't minimize, petal. Feel how you're supposed to feel, let them ebb and flow on their own and don't linger on it too long." Her hand extends out and nestles into yours for a brief but supportive squeeze. "Your mom thinks that laying back on water means the current will take her where she needs to be. But calm waters mean rough undercurrents beneath. She thinks a stable home life might be the key to happiness, but instead invites these negative energies which in turn impact herself and both her daughters."
That was... A lot to hear at once. Confusing and complex feelings aired out loud by a woman who effectively doesn't know anything about you yet somehow does. No you didn't hate your mom, it wasn't possible to hate someone in your eyes. But the overwhelming pressure and disappointment of having to be the glue that held a fickle household together was reaching a breaking point.
Brevity comes eventually, when she slides the three remaining cards across. Ace of Cups, The Lovers and The Knight of Cups.
Your cheeks flush without permission at The Lovers card, knowing it came out when you were thinking about Steve. He was sweet, too hard on himself for things that weren't his fault and oblivious to things that were. He gave off this air of someone who thought themself an impostor, unworthy of affection regardless of what type and uncertain where his place was in the world.
Naturally, you understood that, the inability to find a purpose outside of the immediate obvious; for now it was to look out for Max. But she’ll be old enough to do that on her own soon, then what? Aimlessly ping pong around life without prospects?
"Well this isn't nothing... I need you to know that." Ruby chuckles, not missing the way your eyes were darting away and evading her playful gaze from the implication of the cards.
"I don't know if I want that, though." A half truth. Your mind was always a lot slower to the punchline than your body, it was that way with Adrian. Was he objectively attractive? Sure. You’d kissed at a gathering and then you supposed that decided you two should be boyfriend and girlfriend.
Steve was the same — he was objectively attractive, unfairly so. Funny, sweet, quiet in moments that didn't ask for it, loud in moments that begged for silence. And he stuck himself in your mind unapologetically since learning the truth about Hawkins.
With Adrian, you were positive you weren't soul mates but you also knew that you would've been happy with him. And that was okay too.
With Steve, he sparks nervousness when distance is apparent but excitement with proximity. Somehow he was so similar to Adrian yet the complete antithesis and unfamiliar.
"Well they aren't saying go kiss this person right now. There's a loose thread ready to be pulled but there's always an expiry. A door open will close eventually, but there's time. The universe hasn't figured us all out to the minute details and micro-decisions we make, petal. There's a strong bond with this person, or the foundation of one. And whoever it is, this masculine energy is grounding. For both of you." She points to The Knight of Cups then back to The Lover's, "you're both unknowingly looking for each other but — here's the part you'll get annoyed at — romantic and platonic love aren't too dissimilar. That decision is for you to make."
Which seemed like an awful decision to make, and a time pressure added to it makes it feel all the more urgent.
"Now Ace of Cups implies maybe you are ready, but, stay with me. This thing is in its infancy, a bud in need of sunshine and rain and all the elements for it to thrive. Let your intuition take charge and if now doesn't sit right with you then wait for it to feel right."
Ruby lets you absorb the messages, the symbolism and meaning for a few moments before sweeping the cards up and placing the deck in your hands, "these are yours now, sunshine. I've got a good feeling they'll be good for you."
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Senior Prom had always been a bigger event than it should be, even for the people who claimed they didn't care about it, or the people who despised the idea of it. You never had major strong feelings about it, you were happy to participate because it was always an event to hang out with friends, even now in Hawkins that would still be the case.
Halfway through curling your own hair, Billy appears in the frame of the doorway. Awkward, taking up space that he knew he wasn't allowed to but today was a better day than usual.
Neil wasn't home. That's why.
In typical Billy fashion, he doesn't ask for help, he just hovers. Shirt buttoned right up to the neck, royal blue tie dangling around his neck precariously. Your hands pause mid air, catching his eyes in the reflection of the mirror.
He hadn't approached you in a while, like this; unguarded and seeking help.
Granted, the distance has been gaping since Ruby made you do that tarot reading. The unease that followed it when you think about the card imagery, then about Billy, then about what it means. 'Disaster for him is coming.'
Finishing up the curl, you walk over to him and do his tie with swift and gentle efficiency, "there..." you murmur and do a few more micro adjustments, then flatten his shirt over his shoulders and fixes the collar properly.
"Thanks." He huffs, inconvenienced.
And then he's gone like he hadn't been there at all. Billy wasn't stupid, maybe that was the part that made it hard to justify his actions. He never did anything without thinking or calculation. Beating the shit out of Steve didn't come from a blind rage, he was far too purposeful than to behave like that.
His masculinity was challenged in front of kids and in front of you, so to combat the embarrassment he needed to make the cause of it hurt. That's how you understand it anyway.
But these quiet moments, insignificant to him but everything to you; 'Asking' to tie his tie, dancing around the subject of asking you to cover for him, wanting help with his hair for dates. It came off as someone who wanted to try and be someone different.
Only in the circumstance where you were watching. No one else. You wondered why that was the case. Dozens of hours were spent pouring over the why and the how but it was pointless if he wasn't attempting to be better for anyone else.
With Billy milling around the house, Max at the Wheelers with everyone else, the two of you get ready respectively. Finishing up your hair and makeup before eventually being circled by Billy again to help him with his hair. You do it without question, sitting him down on the edge of your bed and get started on his hair.
"— so, you and Harrington."
A statement, one that implies his curiosity for intel not really because he was interested in hearing about it. Despite this, your cheeks flush with warmth and your hands stop in his hair, "we're friends."
"Right." He pauses, like he doesn't quite believe the statement, "he's not over Nancy. Not completely."
It sounded like a warning, in his own roundabout way. A simple observation passing off as quiet caution. Once again, showing that unguarded side you know he's capable of having but shows to no one else.
"We're friends," you repeat gently with emphasis and continue to work product through his hair. Steve was a friend, absolutely. Your very handsome friend who has pretty hazel eyes and understands the quiet parts of you as you do in him.
That tarot reading materialises synonymously with your thoughts of Steve, but you’re still certain that right now you weren’t sure if there was space in your life for that. Because Billy was right, Steve wasn't fully over Nancy yet, apparent in lingering looks, days where he's low energy and tries to engage in conversation but ultimately is caught not really listening.
You never holds it against him, in the best way possible you understand that he's an emotionally motivated person. That’s what makes him so sweet and empathetic. So when he doesn't listen to you, there’s no need to be mad at him, you just smile and let him take his time.
"—Uh-huh and you're going to Tracy's afterparty with him?"
It sounds accusatory, he wants to be proven right to make himself feel better. That Steve is this asshole that double handles girls or doesn't respect you. The implication of his question doesn't sit right though, coming off more as projection than sibling teasing.
The question remains unanswered, Billy seems satisfied by the silence and lazily trudges through the house after you finish styling his hair. When your mom gets home, both of you are ready and she’s eagerly getting down the family camera for pictures.
Without impeding your own sense of style, your dress was a vintage seventies number, originally white but hand dyed green and pink in a gradient. Of course, you accessorise as if it were any other day, multiple rings, bangles clinking on the wrist and a double stack of necklaces.
Your mom takes two of you in the entrance alone, one of the Polaroids to be sent off to your dad which was thoughtful yet entirely unexpected. Then both Billy and you get a few taken together, not the picture perfect sibling look but close enough to normal.
Steve arrives in the afternoon shortly after, anxiously checking his appearance in every reflective surface and a box in his hands. His eyes settle over you and for a while he doesn't say anything, just soaks in your appearance before barely getting out, "you look great— beautiful. Really pretty."
At his clumsy compliment, you already feel warm and clammy, twisting from side to side and looking down at your handy-work. You both had driven to Indianapolis a few weeks ago to have a better chance of finding something good, he'd seen the dress in a thrift store and pointed it out.
And here you are, giving it a little touch of you and happy to be his prom date for the night.
"You look gorgeous, hon." You nervously play with the tie in your hand and approach tentatively. No one else was important in this seemingly significant moment for the two of you. Billy leaves at some point without a word to anyone, his absence only evident by the roaring engine of his Camaro, tires skidding down the road in the distance.
Raising your hand to present Steve the once white bow tie, dyed the same colour of your dress so there could be some cohesion across the outfits.
"Thanks," he breathes, gaze remaining fixed to your face until moving in close. Fixing the bow tie around his neck, the cologne crowds your senses with the aroma of sandalwood, cedar and citrus.
"I also got you..." Stepping back, you reach over to the side table and pick up a flower. Big, white, not subtle whatsoever and not a rose. A Gardenia. To sit in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. It's meaning is apposite; ‘You're lovely’.
He lets you fix it to him and holds out the box in his hands, "and I got you these."
Your fingers brush in the passing over of the box, opening it with unhurried care where a Sunflower corsage sits blanketed with baby pink tissue paper. Significantly it's a Dwarf Sunflower. The meaning sits plainly, but you don’t think Steve thought about its meaning outside of when he got you one last time, when he thanked you for helping him pick flowers for Nancy.
Beside it, a small jewellery box lay open, a necklace tucked inside. The gesture alone was sweet, but the pendant — a silver crescent moon, meant a little more than just a sweet and thoughtful gift.
It meant he listened, he was attentive enough and aware of your style, what you like and don’t like. It meant a lot more than he probably thought it did.
"Can I—"
"Would you—"
Talking over each other, both of you laugh quietly. Steve is already moving to place the corsage on your wrist. Neither of the flowers really match the outfits, but that was the joy of it. Not because everything synced, but because everything had meaning.
Fingertips graze over the skin of your wrist, lingering for a fragile moment long after he places the corsage. "Turn around," he murmurs, quieter than expected but you heed his direction, understanding what he intended to do.
Gathering your hair over one shoulder, it gives him enough room to place the necklace around your neck and clasp the small latch. His thumb delicately skirts the skin underneath it, "beautiful."
The moment dissipates, on account of your mom trying to get more pictures but for a little while it was nice. Just the two of you and barely there touches, an unspoken conversation happening without meaning to.
Before going, you tug him toward the entrance and situates him so you could take a picture of him on his own. You didn't ask, didn't need to, but somehow had a feeling that his parents didn't think to take one of him because they were happy or proud of him.
"Just one for you, y'know for when you're old and when you have kids — you can show them this." You say it so simply, a light laugh as if it didn't weigh a thousand pounds of pure feeling.
"I'll have one of you and me," he says it like its obvious.
"What if we have like... A big falling out or something. Or you're mad at me in twenty years because we moved to different cities and don't talk as much as we should?"
"That's an insane hypothetical, sweetheart." Sweetheart. You can't remember when he started saying it, just that he did and you didn't mind. He opens his mouth to say something else but shuts it, humouring you and letting the camera flash.
Before handing it over, you pen on the back of the polaroid:
𝒮𝑒𝓃𝒾𝑜𝓇 𝒫𝓇𝑜𝓂 '𝟪𝟧
𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝓍𝓍
"There... And the background is pretty vague," you add quietly. Without saying it, you’re telling him— no — giving him permission to pretend for a while that the picture was taken at his own house. That his evidently absent parents cared to share in the joy of his Senior Prom.
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The sun was mercilessly out for blood today, descending spiteful rays of pure needling heat down on the graduating class of '85. A forlorn energy settles across long-term classmates, bittersweet endings to a chapter of novels between friends, family and neighbours.
Eddie was absent today, which bummed you out, mostly feeling bad for him than anything else. He was smart in a way that education didn't like, but he didn't seem too dejected by having to repeat. Or well... Choosing to repeat.
Parents mingle in the afterwards, your mom had left after getting a few pictures of you with Billy and a couple of you alone. Instead of feeling like an accomplishment was made, it just felt like something you just experienced and did. No tears were shed, the promise of something new and exciting didn't fill you either.
College wasn't something that came to mind, not when Max was still in that house with Neil and Billy. Good thing you were already working a handful of shifts a week now that the mall had opened during the tail end of spring break, so at the very least you were earning a wage. Albeit, a small one but it was something.
Beneath the shade of a tree that sat on the property line of the school, Steve and you lounged together quietly. Robes still on, caps discarded without care, diplomas forgotten alongside them.
His parents were physically present for the platitudes and handshakes, but the distance was immediately noticeable. Emotional distance. A much crueller type, because on paper they were great parents. You saw the impact it had in the way Steve struggles to articulate why he doesn't like them.
Because any rebuke is met with accusations of ungratefulness. The way he beats himself up for not meeting fictional expectations, because to his parents, having a kid is just a thing people did.
"I didn't even get into tech school." He breaks the silence and with his morose words; your heart breaks a little.
He rips up the grass between them, something to keep his hands busy and emotions regulated.
"Honey," you start, shifting closer to provide a modicum of comfort. Shoulders touch, then your knee bumps his before settling. "We can't even drink legally yet, it's okay not to have everything figured out... Y'know... I'll be around until Max graduates."
"Yeah?" He turns his head slightly, mahogany eyes turned caramel in the sun.
"Yeah."
"Dad wants me to find a job, since I royally fucked up all my chances to get out of the house... Won't even let me work for him until I 'learn how to make an honest mans living' or some bullshit." The grass he rips up, sprinkles out when the light breeze carries it. Some of it gets on your legs. Not that it seemed to bother you much with all the focus on him. "Thought they were gonna kick me out..." He laughs humorlessly.
Distant chatter gets quieter, college plans, job prospects and potential engagements fade in the background between the dissipating crowd of newly graduated seniors. Now the woods just surround them, quiet and willing to hold their secrets.
"Try the mall, they're getting swamped by Hawkins and every other town in Roane County. Someone will get you in, even casual or temp work." The solution seemed simple in your eyes, but judging by Steve's reaction he might seem to think otherwise.
He huffs, something between a scoff and an attempt at a laugh. "And have to see people from school all summer in a Burger King uniform? Uh yeah... No thanks. Unless your cool old lady boss wants to hire me. You don't have to wear a uniform."
Then he pouts, actually pouts, never lamenting too long on his own woes and tries to keep himself regulated with humour.
Instead of teasing him, or adding to the joke, you just look at him with all the sincerity of the world as if the joke went over your head, "I can ask her."
"What?" A pause, "no — no, I just... You don't need to do that." His hand cards through his hair for no reason other than to do something with it.
"It's okay, it might be one shift every now and again. And you'll have to deal with kinda weird moms and twelve year olds that think every trinket is unbreakable... But it’s nice."
Then for a while you both just sit and talk, about anything that came to mind. Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins whispering about an engagement, then the Social Studies teacher getting fired for inappropriate behaviour. With summer around the corner on account of the glaring sun, you naturally talk about your respective plans.
"Well...I'm off to dads for the first week, but when I'm back, I'll be around. Mostly working, s'pose a new car won't pay for itself. And it beats getting the bus or asking to be driven everywhere." Like having to ask Billy for lifts, something gave you the impression he'd be more prone to saying no now you were both done with school.
"I'd say don't miss me too much, but I know you'll be popular going back." He bumps his shoulder against yours playfully.
Once there might have been a time where the absence of Steve wasn't felt or didn't feel significant. But considering how often you both hung out now more than ever this year, understanding each other on another level in that quiet and unspoken way — not seeing him for a week lodged a deep sense of dispirited glumness inside you.
"S'gonna be nice going back to see everyone. Mikayla and Sylvia are already planning a big night on the beach..." You trail off and think about how it was a little too late to extend an invite, feeling guilty for not even asking if he had plans. It felt obvious now sitting in the moment.
The smile on his face is small, not too happy yet not sad either, just plain content, then he sighs after a pause, "my parents are going to their Florida house for the summer, if you... Well if you ever need to get away for a little bit." He doesn't sound too bothered about their absence, but the way he turns his head and looks out in that distant sort of way. It was clear he was bothered.
Clearing his throat, as if catching himself in something embarrassing, he swallows and looks down, "y'know, I think the kids will be over a lot. Dustin keeps already bringing them over for the pool on the warm days. Little shit thinks it’s better than the actual pool."
At this, you chuckle and nods, "well Billy working at the pool means that the place is apparently tainted."
"Yeah — Can't believe that asshole took my summer job. Now I have to play lifeguard for free in my own house."
Some weekends, Max will skate off with Lucas, and if the Harrington house is free, then the kids would go. You’d hear about it in passing when Max would walk past your room, poking her head in with a teasing smile that follows up a knowing look.
Things were better between you two now, not a hundred percent, probably never a hundred percent anymore but she was talking to you more at least.
Silence settles for a while, nothing but breeze cutting through leaves and branches. Your bodies still press against one another, tender and comfortable. It didn't go further, didn't need to in order to feel meaningful. For now this was just the right amount.
"You're gonna be okay, Steve." Reassuring him with a smile, that things will work out for him. Not because there was an opportunity waiting around the corner for him, but because he'd make things work out for himself.
"Yeah?" He turns to look, mottled shade over his face does little to hide his freckles. Subtle, but apparent. Ruby's first observation of you echos in the back of your mind;
'A favourite of the sun.'
Right now, beneath a canopy of leaves and an overenthusiastic sun, you feel that sentiments meaning with him. Beside him.
"Yeah." You nod.
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Turns out, the Burger King uniform was fine. More than fine, actually. Perfectly normal and acceptable even with the hats and hair nets. Steve wished he could go back to his past self and tell him to stop being a whiny loser and take the Burger King job. Because wearing that uniform paled in comparison to the blue monstrosity of Scoops Ahoy's company mandated uniform.
Why the hell was this city franchise doing so far out in middle-of-nowhere Indiana anyway?
And the hats — oh god the hats, not only did they leave a ridiculous mark on his forehead, but they flatten his hair and completely conceal his perfectly styled hair. It was humiliation of the highest order, more humiliating than having to clean the vandalised Hawk sign in '83, or when Fiona Simpson puked cherry cola on him at the fair in middle school, or when he failed his drivers test the first time.
This was the pinnacle of mortification, packaged neatly in a sailor uniform, topped with a stupid hat.
Better yet, every time he worked or opened usually coincided on schedule with you, who - bless your heart - didn't laugh the first time you saw him. No, it was much worse. Pity. You took one look at him across the mall one morning and just cringed ever so slightly, like every girl has looked at him since donning the sailor fit.
At least thats how he decided to decipher her reaction. Convinced that whatever was starting to happen between you two, the closeness and gentle moments, had immediately been squandered since Scoops Ahoy ruined his life.
Since you got back from San Diego, you’d been unreachable. It felt that way at least. You hadn’t even come inside the parlour yet, which might be a blessing in disguise because if the uniform didn't kill any romantic prospects for him, Robin would've done it by opening her mouth.
"You're staring again." Speaking of Robin, she points out flatly, following his eye-line to the parlour entrance, as if he could magically see down the mall to the Mystic store where you were probably working.
Maybe you met someone in that week to your dads, or worse. What if you saw your ex? You’d seemed pretty serious from what little information he’s heard about it. You turned him down out of respect for that guy once before, yet another humiliating strike on the board for old Steve Harrington. So maybe you reconnected with him and whatever was starting to happen between you and Steve just fizzled out.
"Dingus." Robin tries him again, snapping freshly polished fingers in front of his face.
"What?" He snaps, a frown tugging his lips down as a scoff passes through.
Her arms are folded, in that annoyingly matter-of-fact way thats already beginning to grow old. "Do you think if you stare hard enough at the wall, she'll get a shiver down her spine and walk in? That's not how those bogus psychic things work, shitbird."
Since he started, Robin had been relishing in the apparent downfall of the once King of Hawkins High. It must be nice, to find joy in this, and he can't blame her for it because as it turns out; he was a big asshole before Nancy.
He rolls his eyes childishly, "its not... Bogus," the lame defence comes out uncertain and fickle. Any attempt to protect the interests of you made him come off as a loser, he knew that but it didn't feel right to let someone cast judgement without context. While you were gone for that week, he tried looking in the store and found absolutely nothing of interest for him. His venture to try and find common ground with you blowing up in his face when the shop owner mistook him for one of the hooligans knocking over the front displays and shooed him off.
She probably cursed him on the way out too.
Maybe it wasn't bogus at all.
"Uh-huh. Well palm reading doesn't require reading comprehension, and somehow you'd still find a way to suck at it."
"You are mean today, like... Cutthroat. What the hell did I do?" Because sometimes she needles a little too much, and he knows he kinda sucks at work. He's late, all the time. He takes two twenty minute breaks, always at the worst times of the day. He doesn't like going in the deep freezer to count stock because its cold and refuses to wear the freezer jacket.
Today he was on time though, had only taken one fifteen minute break before the lunch rush and stock didn't need to be counted today. So why was Robin being difficult today?
"Give me your hand." She holds her own hand out, making a grabby motion.
"What? No." He splutters, unable to stop himself from going red because it's been months and a girl is asking to hold his hand. Even if it was Robin, and she was so... Ick.
"Watch and learn, dingus. You just trace lines on a hand and pretend it means something," she snatches his hand without permission and demonstrates roughly what she means.
Then her face falters, brows knit together and she takes a closer look, "oh... Oh actually — this one right here. It's called the hairline, it says you'll be bald by twenty-five."
"Oh bite me, Robin." He tries to get his hand back, but fails when she holds her grip firm.
"Wait, I'm seeing something... Mm..." She concentrates on his hand, the way one would when a book starts to get juicy.
"Mm? What's 'mm', mean?" He's desperate at this point, for anything, an answer to the complex emotions surrounding himself, you, hell even his new friends. There was a lot to unpack, it would be nice just to have someone tell him what to do instead.
"She... Yeah you're gonna see her real soon." Robin looks up and drops his hand, an impish grin pulling at her lips and then flicks her eyes over his shoulder
"Hi Steve!"
He jumps a half foot into the air at your voice. Shooting a withering glare at his coworker who merely found that entire interaction amusing, he tries to school his expression. And more importantly, his nervousness. "sunshine, hey— hi." He started off a little too loud and enthusiastic, having to reel it in.
Lest he be humiliated in the break room later over it.
"Were you guys palm reading?" You look between the two of them, inquisitive eyes and that warm smile. He doesn't have the heart to even throw Robin under the bus and say she was making fun of you.
"Yeah! Oh y'know... Robin's new to it and all."
At the implication, his coworker turns to rebuff that claim, though he looks at her, barely shaking his head as a clear unspoken directive. Don't say anything. And for once, his request is heeded, by miracle or mercy.
Not a second sooner, because you’re literally beaming, a wider smile splits across your face and you just look so devastatingly excited by this. "Robin! Hi! I think I saw you around school."
"That's me. You probably did." She humours back, barely.
"Cool — well... If you'd like I can help you learn. I'm not super across it yet but I'd totally be happy to help if you'd like."
He watches it happen, in real time the way Robin can't help but let you charm her. She gives him a look, an acknowledgement; That could've been bad.
A potential disaster is avoided, Robin even lets Steve take his second break, which he does eagerly despite how much of a dork he must look saddling in the booth of the parlour beside you.
"Robin is cool," you nod between mouthfuls of the strawberry sundae he made you. Topped with dehydrated fruits and fresh mixed berries. Sweet and Fruity — just like you.
He looks over his shoulder, watching the way Robin addresses customers — horribly, he thinks. At least his customer service was better. One of the only saving graces of his prolonged employment. "She's annoying," pausing for a second to look back at you, "and mean."
When a gentle laugh falls from your lips, he feels like a pathetic loser for how it makes him feel. All warm on the inside, like milk and honey before deep sleep. He worried himself into oblivion waiting for you to come back, as embarrassing as that was to say out loud, so he doesn't.
His little secret then.
Over sickeningly sweet ice cream, you talk about the trip to San Diego, about your friend group there and anything else of importance. Sylvia and Mikayla were planning a trip for Christmas in Hawkins, which meant the rest of the group would come. Your ex-boyfriend included.
But then you moved onto talking about what you got up to the following days after getting back, which was mostly work when you could and look after the house for your mom and Neil. They'd gone on a road trip up to Chicago for the weekend.
Max did mention that when the kids were over the other night destroying the sanctity of his parents theater room with candy, crisps and Pizza.
"You look cute." Cuts through the silence that fell over the two of you, he wasn't entirely sure that was what you actually said, it was loud in the mall after all.
"What?" It comes out pathetically, airy and jumbled with a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
"The uniform..." Nudging your head in his direction as if the context was obvious, which seemed like a sick joke because he absolutely did not look 'cute' at all. He looked ridiculous. Your hand reaches out and tucks a wayward strand of chestnut away from his eyes, which would have felt good if it didn't make him feel wholly inadequate. He should be doing that to you, not the other way around.
Embarrassment burns hot in him, all consuming and angry. His body moves before his mouth, rising abruptly, "my break is up, I should go back." He didn't need to go back yet, really he had five more minutes before Robin would be shouting at him to come back.
You’re surprised, not quite registering the moment as it flashes over your face. Mouth opening then closing again before a smile covers what you were going to say. But it's not one he's seen before, not the wide smile where it’s like you’re practically beaming. This one is hesitant and small.
"Sorry," you eventually get out quietly, "that probably came out wrong."
Because somewhere in his hastiness to get away from shame, you’ve misread it as discomfort by your words and actions. He'd kick himself if he could. When you get up he's praying this is one of those moments where his mouth moves quicker than his mind, but words turn to ash on his tongue.
"Thank you, for the Sundae... I'll see you around, Steve." You play with your rings, twisting them around delicate fingers and linger for a second longer, when his impulsivity fails him, you wave awkwardly and leaves the parlour.
He groans and rubs his face. He blew it— he totally, unequivocally blew his chance. Because of this stupid uniform and stupid job and stupid co-worker.
The rest of summer was sure to blow if this was anything to go by.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Drabble requests are open if you guys wanted anymore insight on some of these lil moments!!
would love a steve harrington fic with an eldest daughter reader who helps raise her younger siblings. i’m the oldest of five and i barely see fics that capture that kind of responsibility/exhaustion.
canon or au, doesn’t matter. just something emotional and comforting :)
love your writing btw!
A Place To Exist
Steve Harrington x fem!reader 1k words
Warnings: exhaustion, fluff, comfort, Steve being the most understanding bf,
Being the eldest daughter meant sacrificing princes of yourself for everyone else, but somehow Steve always remained a call away whenever it became unbearable
The guilt was gnawing away at you, sharp and relentless every time you remembered how long it had been since you’d last seen Steve. You hadn’t had the time to count the days, but they were felt through the chaos you experienced on a daily basis—the rushed morning school dropoffs, making meals you barely had the energy to eat yourself, helping out with homework at the kitchen table, and getting all your siblings settled for bed. By the time the house was finally dark and quiet, the moment of peace translated into exhaustion, the aching realization of how much you wished to see Steve’s face again.
And he was the most understanding person in the world, bless his heart, but you could see it in his eyes—how much he wished to spend a second longer with you, to take the burden off your shoulders.
It was difficult explaining to him about your situation, how with your parents constantly working all day, you were tasked with picking up the slack of raising your siblings. There were moments, when resentment quietly crept in, not towards your siblings—never them, but toward the weight of responsibility that had been placed upon you long before you were ready to carry it.
Sometimes it felt unfair, watching everyone else your age live so carefree, while every part of your life revolved around taking care of someone else. But despite it all, your love for your siblings outweighed every bitter feeling, there wasn’t a thing you wouldn’t do for them—you’d sacrifice sleep, your times, pieces of yourself if it meant keeping them safe and cared for.
Surprisingly, Steve related to the exhaustion that came with constantly putting others before yourself. He explained it was because of the kids—the party, and the way they naturally gravitated towards him as something like a father figure. So when you apologized for being distant, he never made you feel guilty for it, if anything, he thanked you for giving him time out of your day to spend together.
Which is why you slowly found yourself picking up the phone, dialing his number.
“Sweetheart, is that you?” He picked up almost instantly, his voice immediately sending a warmth that spread through your body.
“Yeah, it’s me Steve.” You spoke quietly, as if not to disturb the quiet environment.
“How was your day?” He eagerly asked, probably having just finished a shift at Family Video.
“The same old.” You shrugged, not really wanting to talk much about it. “Are you heading home? Or…would you be okay with picking me up, just for a little bit.” The words left you hesitantly, like you were used to swallowing your needs in order to avoid inconveniencing others.
“Of course, honey.” His tone dripped with something genuine. “I’ll be there in five, that sounds alright with you?”
“Mhm.” You hummed, a smile already tugging at your lips.
And exactly five minutes later, you heard the familiar crunch of tires against the gravel outside, catching your attention almost immediately.
You glanced down the hallway instinctively, making sure everyone was still tucked away in their beds sound asleep, before slipping on your shoes and tipping out of your front door quietly.
Steve was already leaning over to push open the passenger door by the time you approached his beamer, and by the time you entered his sweet scent enveloped you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, and Steve didn’t push—only looked at you like he always did, soft brown eyes scanning over you with gentleness. A silent “I’m here” communicated without words.
Then he carefully leaned over the console, one hand bracing against the seat as he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, you let out a soft sigh in response.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He murmured, and your chest tightens embarrassingly at his voice alone.
Then, Steve leans back and reaches forward for the radio dial, static crackling for a moment before a familiar song fills the car—the same one you relentlessly tease him for enjoying every time it came on.
“Seriously.” You scoffed, though a smile fought its way onto your face.
Steve grinned, “don’t pretend like you hate it, it’s a good song.”
“It’s already giving me a worse headache.” You groaned, pushing your head back.
“Well now I’m gonna play it on purpose.” Steve remained adamant on his decision, and you just shook your head.
Steve started driving, no particular destination in mind—just the dim glow of the streetlights passing overhead as you rode through the streets of Hawkins. Steve tapped absentmindedly against the steering wheel while his other hand rested softly on your thigh, rubbing comfortably.
It felt like what’ve you been searching for all week, everything felt nice and easy with him—like you could unclench your muscles and melt beside him without doubts.
Eventually, he turned into a parking lot of a small diner near the edge of town, a neon sign flickering above.
“You hungry?” Steve asked casually, already predicting your answer.
You opened your mouth to deny out of habit, but stopped shortly when Steve gave you that look.
“Don’t even start with me, honey.”
You pressed your lips back together sheepishly and he smirked smugly. “Thats what I thought.”
A few minutes later, he returned to your booth near the back carrying two ice cream cones—vanilla ice cream with fudge drizzled on top, and mint chocolate chip, alongside a basket of fries neither of you technically ordered.
“One vanilla, and one mint chocolate chip—for you.” He extended it forward with a triumphant smile.
“You remembered?” You raised a brow.
Steve genuinely looked offended, “baby, I remember everything.” You knew better than to question your boyfriend.
You ended up sharing both anyway, stealing bites while arguing over which flavor was better. At one point, Steve nearly choked with laughter at you getting some on the tip of your nose, and the conversation dissolved into ridiculous stories that had your stomach hurting from laughter for once.
Steve’s expression grew tender as he nudged your foot beneath the table.
“You know,” he started. “If you ever need a break…like really need one, you can call me, right?”
Your eyes lifted to his, your breathing slowing down.
“I mean it.” He continued seriously. “If you need help with kids, or errands, or just wanna get out of the house so you can have some time for yourself—I’ll come over. I really don’t mind babysitting.”
Emotions you couldn’t describe tightened painfully in your throat, becoming at a loss for words.
“Steve—”
“No, really” he cut you off. “Besides, it’s good practice for the future.” He hinted.
“Future?” You blinked.
He grinned crookedly. “Yeah y’know. When I inevitably become everyone’s favorite suburban dad.”
You couldn’t help but laugh so loudly a snort came out of you, Steve only beamed at the sight.
While sitting there across from him, melted ice cream between your hands and warmth pooling in your chest, you forgot all about the sensation of feeling like you carried the weight of the world. Because with him, you didn’t need a role or a label, you could just simply be yourself.
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