crashout central

♡ mary ♡ 19 ♡ main blog ♡ ♡ purgatory silverstar enthusiast ♡

[mhoneyfieldz]

check out @maryrecs for some of my fave oneshots and fics<333

(it’s mainly for me to keep track of the fics i really really liked so i don’t lose them but hey who knows who might enjoy it)

also @marystbr for fics i have not read but want and/or plan to

[yeah-iveheardofbears]

unlearning

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: you and Steve Harrington collide at the worst possible moments, sparking a messy mix of anger, humiliation, and unexpected chemistry. what begins as sharp banter and years of buried resentment slowly unravels into vulnerable late-night conversations, apologies that actually mean something, and a fragile truce. as Hawkins grows darker and stranger, so does the connection.

wc: 19.2k

order up: canon universe, childhood friends to enemies to lovers

tw: explicit smut, King Steve era, p in v sex, bullying, body insecurities, chubby/curvy reader, bigdick!steve, my own clear want for him being way too obvious

masterlist

this story spans from pre season one to pre season four. i will say this is based on a request from @dreamerjj but I realized I put a lot of my own personal experiences and body insecurities into it, so I hope I did your idea justice. it is INCREDIBLY self indulgent, but i think i deserve a lil treat because real life has been stressful lately. also Hawkins High has a pool for the purposes of this story.

edit: I got some feedback that part of the sex scene made it feel non-inclusive, so I did edit out that particular descriptor. this is never intentional, (I often times picture the reader character for my Steve fics to be my OC Mac from my rewrite series and end up having to edit out certain things like specific hair color/skin color/eye color before posting) so I really do appreciate the feedback when something like that slips through, since I want everyone to feel immersed and enjoy. 🩷

You always hated the pool.

Not swimming itself, just the way the Hawkins High indoor pool made you feel like you were on display no matter where you stood. Bright lights reflecting off tile. Echoes bouncing everywhere. The smell of chlorine clinging to your skin long after you left. It was too much, especially after gym, especially when you were already exhausted.

So you did what you always did.

After towelling off a bit, you tugged a big shirt over your swimsuit, the cotton soft and familiar against your skin. It was oversized, stretched thin from too many washes, and it hid the parts of you that still felt too loud, too noticeable. Your curves, your softness. Things people seemed to think they were entitled to comment on.

It was the last period of the day. The kind of afternoon where the air outside was crisp.

You were halfway to the bleachers with your towel when you realized you’d been staring.

It wasn’t intentional. You weren’t even sure how long it had been happening. You just looked up, and there he was.

Steve Harrington.

Fresh out of the pool, hair darker and slicked back with water, towel slung low around his waist like he didn’t care who noticed. Which, of course, he didn’t. He moved like the pool belonged to him. Like everything did.

Your stomach dropped the second his eyes caught yours.

You looked away too fast. Heat rushed to your face as you pretended to focus very hard on folding your towel, your fingers suddenly clumsy. You could feel it though. The awareness. The shift in the air when someone realizes they’re being watched.

You heard him before you saw him again.

Water dripping onto tile. Bare feet. Unhurried.

You told yourself to keep walking. Head down. Locker room. Done. But when you glanced up, he was already there, leaning against the bleachers like he’d planned it that way.

“See something you like?”

The words landed easy. A smirk tugged at his mouth like this was all a game he was used to winning.

You stopped despite yourself, clutching your towel a little tighter. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “I was spacing out.”

One eyebrow arched slowly, deliberately. He looked you up and down, not bothering to hide it, and it made your skin prickle beneath the T-shirt.

“You were awfully captivated for someone who was just spacing out.”

You rolled your eyes, refusing to let him see how much that look affected you. “I just didn’t think they let the swim team have… chest hair.” You gestured vaguely at his torso, sarcasm sharp enough to give you something to hold onto.

He gasped theatrically, clutching his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Excuse you. Girls pay good money to see this.”

He ran a hand through it just to prove his point, smug and infuriating and very aware of himself.

Then his smile shifted.

“But hey,” he added lightly, “at least I don’t hide under a giant T-shirt like some people.”

His eyes flicked pointedly to the hem of yours.

The words hit harder than you expected.

Your chest tightened, something sour and familiar twisting in your stomach. “Wow. Body insults,” you said flatly. “Real creative.”

The irritation in your voice surprised even you.

His smirk faltered. Just a fraction.

“Didn’t take you for the type to punch down without your gaggle of hyenas behind you,” you added, already turning away. “But here we are.”

You scooped up your towel and headed for the locker room, suddenly very aware of every step, every pair of eyes that might be on you. You just wanted out.

Behind you, you heard him swear under his breath.

You didn’t stop walking.

“Hey, wait up,” Steve called, jogging after you. The girls’ locker room door swung open, empty for the moment, and you barely made it inside before he slipped in after you.

“Get out of the girls’ locker room, Harrington,” you hissed, trying to shove him back toward the door before someone came in.

He resisted easily, one hand braced against the door to keep it shut. Too close. Way too close.

“Oh, come on,” he said, leaning back against it, arms crossing over his chest like he belonged there. His gaze swept over you again, slower this time. “It’s not like anyone’s here.”

Your heart hammered. “You need to leave.”

“And I’m not moving until you hear me out.”

And that was where it hung.

Steve looked over your form again as the silence hung. He'd never been with a curvier girl before, and you had really grown into your body the past year. It was a new discovery for him. His usual type was all sharp angles and delicate features—girls who looked like they might break if you held them too tight. You were… different. Softer. Fuller. There was a certain warmth to you that made him want to get closer.

Before his mind can go any further, you open your mouth and sigh. "Fine, give me your speech."

He smirked, your defensive tone stirring something in him. "Look, I was just messing around, alright? I just... wanted to tease you a little.” 

You grimace and cross your arms as he looks you up and down again. "Cool. That it?"

Steve scoffs, lightly amused by your attitude, as if it only spurs his teasing on more. "Come on, girls like it when I give them attention."

He steps closer to you, his stare shamelessly dropping to your generous chest filling out the shirt before snapping his eyes up to yours.

It made you feel things you didn't want to admit, but more than anything it made you angry.

Did he not even remember the reason you couldn't stand him?

For years, he and his friends had made your life hell. They’d whispered about you in the hallways, knocked books out of your hands “by accident,” laughed just a little too loud whenever you gave a presentation in class. All because you’d developed faster than other girls, because your body refused to be small and discreet.

But for guys like 'King Steve' those moments were probably just part of an average Tuesday. To you, they were burned into your memory.

He seemed to think your silence was permission to keep talking. To keep touching. His hand came up, thumb brushing over your arm with a familiarity he hadn't earned. You flinched away, a small, sharp movement.

His confidence flickered for the first time and you audibly scoff. "God, you are so far up your own ass, huh? Not every girl craves your attention or validation."

He only smirked, leaning back on one of the rows of lockers behind him. "Mhm, sure. So if I stopped paying attention to you right now, walked outta here..."

He pushes off the lockers and takes a slow, deliberate few steps toward the door. "...you wouldn't care?"

He pauses mid step, glancing back over his shoulder at you.

"If you recall, I just tried to shove you out of here a few minutes ago." A sarcastic, saccharine smile plays on your lips, while your eyes narrow.

A chuckle escapes Steve, intrigued by your stubborness. But he has his own stubborn streak.

When he turns back to face you, he leans against the cool metal of the lockers again, folding his arms to match your stance. "I have a feeling that despite your bitchy attitude, you want me to stay."

It's teasing, paired with the salacious looks he gives your body.

You were annoyed, but within that, you saw an opportunity. Give the King of Hawkins High a taste of his own medicine.

Leaning back against the lockers across from him, the bench seat between you, your smile turns devilish. "Yeah? What gives you that idea?"

He pushes off the lockers, stepping over the bench seat and closing the distance between you. His taller frame towers over your shorter one as he places a hand on the locker door, inches from your head. He's effectively crowding you with his body.

"Just the fact that you haven't tried the shoving method again...and that little defiant glint in your eye..."

Got him.

You look up, giving your best performance of 'fuck me' eyes, a look you've only seen in film. "God, Harrington, you really just want me out of this shirt, huh?"

You could see his confidence soaring, like he'd just won the lottery. That's what made this so fun. His arrogance was a weapon you could turn back on him.

"You caught me," he practically purred, the sound vibrating through your own chest, his fingers ghosting over the hem of you shirt. "But can you blame me?"

"Take it off me then." You whisper, hoping it was believable.

The direct request makes a jolt of desire run through Steve's body. He doesn't hesitate to follow through, grabbing the bottom of your shirt, knuckles brushing against the soft skin as he slowly lifts it upwards.

"You're a bossy thing, aren't you?" He murmurs, your shirt halfway up, revealing your thick thighs and a hint of your soft tummy through the one piece swimsuit. Not breaking eye contact, you lift your hands above your head.

If people were going to treat your body as an object, you would turn it into a weapon. If Steve Harrington wanted to look at you, you'd give him something he'd never forget. He was so used to girls being shy, flustered. You were going to be a spectacle.

As the fabric clears your head, he lets out a shaky breath, eyes wide. He's transfixed, devouring the sight of you. 

A possessive part of him hums in approval, as he leans closer, his body nearly flush with yours.

"God... you're beautiful..." He murmurs as his hands slowly trail up your thighs and over your hips.

For a split second, you feel almost...bad, for what you're about to do. The sincerity in his voice makes your breath hitch, adding to the performance. But you don’t dwell on it for long.

Steve probably said this to every girl. It was a line. A throwaway. A way to get what he wanted. That’s what you told yourself. But the way he looked at you, like he was seeing something he’d been searching for, made the line in your head waver for a moment. But you pushed the thought away, locking it down with the rest of your hurt.

His hands stopped at your waist, his thumbs drawing small circles through the fabric of your swimsuit.

"This seems unfair..." You start, trailing a finger down his bare chest, before playing with the drawstring of his swim trunks. "You got to see what you wanted, but I haven't..."

You look up at him and you continue to twirl the string in your fingers. "There's a lot of rumors about you. Big rumors."

His smirk turns sinful as he catches your meaning, hands tightening on your waist, pulling you flush against him. "You're interested in the truth, then? You can find out for yourself, baby."

You felt him now, against your fingers at the waistband, a small twitch when your eyes meet his. This was the moment. You trail that hand back up his chest, eliciting a disappointed furrow of his brow before you're on your tip toes, whispering in his ear.

"Take them off then."

His breath actually hitches as the order. You can tell he's either used to being the one in control of these situations or something like this has never happened to him. The first option was more believable, based on his reputation.

Regardless, you know now for sure he's turned on.

"Insatiable, aren't you?" He murmurs back in your own ear as his grip releases to quickly pull his shorts down, then kicking them aside. Your eyes follow them, making a mental note of where they land on the locker room floor. Then trail your eyes to your backpack. Then to the door.

It was doable.

You play off your eyes wandering as nerves before biting your lip and looking down. 

Well, shit. Rumors can be true sometimes...

You don't have time to think about it. If you want to get this right, you can't spend too much time thinking about how that thing would even fit anywhere, or how good he smells or how warm he is against you...

Focus.

"Happy now?" His voice breaks your mental turmoil and you look up in his eyes.

"Sit down." You whisper back.

It's clear he was happy with your reaction as he complied with the command, taking a seat on the bench behind him. His eyes follow you with sharp attention. 

"Bossy..." he muttered with an almost fond– no, that had to be demeaning– smile. "Now, what?"

Now came the real show.

You bend, as if going onto your knees in front of him, trying to explain away his smirk fading. His hand reaches out, like he didn't even mean it to.

Shit, he would be a head pusher, just my fucking lu-

He pushes a strand of your still damp hair behind your ear so gently, thumb brushing against your cheek in a tender way that surprises even him.

"Hey," he says, the murmur no longer laced with need, but something else. Softer. Nervous even? "You don't have to..."

That softness, that moment of unexpected gentleness, almost made you falter. The sincerity in his eyes was a weapon you hadn't accounted for. It made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the performance. But then the memory of years of casual cruelty rushed back in, cold and sharp.

It had to be an act, another line he used to make girls comfortable with him.

Before sinking full down to your knees, you snatch the swim trunks from the floor in one swift movement, taking the opportunity to pivot on the ball of your foot and sprint.

You hear him curse, a sharp, indignant sound, as you make a break for your bag. You narrowly avoid slipping as you tug it over one shoulder, halfway out the door, yelling.

"Hopefully this teaches you not to be so cocky, Harrington!"

Once the door is shut behind you, you know you have some time while he figures out how to leave the girls locker room without giving everyone a full show.

What you don't account for, stupidly, is the entire boys swim team being by the pool. You catch the freckled face of one Tommy Hagan, and decide to throw the trunks at him. 

"Here, your king might be looking for these."

He catches them with a confused sputter as you continue your escape, a small, tight laugh bubbling in your chest. That'll show him.

You don't stop running until you hit the cool October air, pulling your hoodie out of your bag and over your head as you walk to your car. Your breath comes in ragged bursts, but it's not just from the run. There's a thrill there, a dangerous, electric buzz humming under your skin. You pulled it off. You turned the tables on the guy who'd made you feel small for years. But when you fish your keys from your bag, your hands are shaking. 

Meanwhile, Steve makes it out of the locker room as you're already outside, holding your forgotten shirt strategically in front of himself, face burning. The entire team is howling with laughter, Tommy H holding up the trunks like a trophy.

"Real fucking funny," Steve snarls, snatching them back and yanking them on.

"Oh, I bet it was," Tommy wheezes, clutching his stomach.

Friday came and went without any incident for you. By last period, you head to the library for your study period, wondering when the other shoe was going to drop.

You didn't have the satisfied sleep you thought you would last night. You barely slept at all, tossing and turning because of that stupid, unguarded look on Steve's face when he brushed the hair from your cheek. The gentleness that felt too real.

Shaking your head as you find a quiet table in the back, you open your history textbook, only for it to be slammed shut seconds later.

Your heart jumps to your throat as you look up. He's not angry. He's just standing there, hands braced on the table, caging you in.

"Enjoying your little victory lap?" he asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth even though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He looks tired.

"Just trying to study, Harrington."

"I think you and I need to talk."

That's how he always sounds, just before he makes some snide comment or some jab about your chest or your thighs. And so you steel yourself, a familiar, bitter taste rising in your throat. "I'm pretty sure we've said everything we needed to say yesterday."

You try to push your textbook open again with one hand.

He puts his hand flat on the cover, stopping you. "No. We haven't."

His voice is low, quiet enough not to carry. "You played me. Good for you. Hilarious. But you left your shirt."

He pulls it out of his own backpack and onto the table. You hadn't even realized. "And I've had to spend the last twenty-four hours listening to Tommy Hagan call me 'Commando' every five seconds, and let me tell you, it's not as funny as it sounds."

"Can't imagine," you say, your own voice a flat, unimpressed line. "Must be so hard to be you."

The words come out automatically, a well-worn defense.

He flinches.

It’s almost imperceptible, a tightening of the muscle in his jaw, but you see it. The smirk vanishes, replaced by something raw and unguarded for half a second before he gets it back under control.

"Right," he says, pulling back a little, straightening up. "Because your life is so fucking hard, getting all this attention from me."

The old Steve is back. The one you know how to hate. He leans against the bookshelf behind him, casual, like he doesn't have a care in the world. The easy posture doesn't quite meet the tension in his shoulders.

"Attention?" You repeat, incredulous. "Is that what you call it?"

"It's what it is," he says, shrugging. "You don't exactly try to blend in."

And there it is.

The casual cruelty disguised as a joke. The backhanded compliment that's really an insult. The thing he and his friends have been doing to you for years.

The laugh that escapes you is anything but amused. It's sharp and humorless. "God, you really don't get it, do you?"

"What's there to get?" he asks, genuinely confused. "You make a scene, you get attention. It's how the world works."

"A scene," you repeat, your voice dangerously quiet now. You push your chair back and stand, grabbing your backpack. "Is that what you called it when you and your court jesters used to trip me in the hallway? Was I 'making a scene' when your little friends made mooing sounds behind my back in eighth grade?"

His face blanks. All trace of the cocky smirk is gone, replaced by something that looks uncomfortably like guilt.

"Or was it a scene when Carol Perkins told everyone I stuffed my bra, right before the spring dance last year?" The words leave your lips, laced with a venom you usually keep locked away. "Is that what this is? Me finally getting the attention I've been 'asking for' all along?"

You expect him to laugh it off. To roll his eyes and call you crazy or dramatic. That's what he always does.

But he doesn't.

He just stands there, silent. The silence is worse than any retort could be. It hangs heavy between you, thick with the ghosts of moments you've tried to forget. You realize he actually remembers. He was there for all of it. He probably laughed.

"Or..." you begin, quieter, more hurt. "Did my foray into the spotlight start with the seventh grade Snow Ball?"

You feel sick even bringing it up. Your voice cracks on the last few words, betraying the cool front you've desperately tried to maintain.

His shoulders slump. Just a little. He looks down, away from your face, focusing on a scuff mark on the linoleum floor. The King of Hawkins High suddenly looks like a lost kid.

"I... that was..." He starts, then stops, clearing his throat. He can't even form a defense.

You steel yourself against the wave of nausea that threatens to rise. You shouldn't have said it. You shouldn't have given him that piece of you, that raw, tender memory he didn't deserve to know still hurt.

"I didn't..." he tries again, and the sound is so unfamiliar you almost don't recognize it.

You didn't want his apology, half assed and flimsy, the same kind you'd given your mom when you broke a vase. A weak 'I didn't mean to'. 

It's the worst kind of excuse, the kind that absolves the giver of all guilt while placing the burden of acceptance on the wounded party.

"Save it," you say, and your voice is flat again, but this time it's an achievement. "I think we're even, Harrington. You got your cheap thrills for years, I got my revenge. Now leave me alone."

You turn your back on him before he can say anything else, before he can try and fail to make it right, before your own stupid, treacherous eyes can betray you by welling up.

You don't look back as you shove past the library doors and out into the empty hallway, before heading out to your car. You want to run, to slam the car door, to peel out of the parking lot. But you force yourself to walk at a steady pace, to find your keys with hands that only tremble a little. You sit in the driver's seat for a long moment before you can make yourself turn the key in the ignition.

That moment in the library was the last time you really spoke to Steve Harrington for while.

He started dating Nancy Wheeler not long after, focused all his bullying on to Jonathan Byers, much to his new girlfriend's distaste.

Then the younger Byers kid went missing. Then Barbara Holland went missing.

Nancy and Jonathan started spending time together. Rumors spread.

It was only when your job got vandalized that you pieced together the truth.

Because outside the Hawk Theater, was one Steve Harrington, on a ladder cleaning off the red spraypaint he had painted the marquee with earlier.

'Nancy 'The Slut' Wheeler'

Yeah, no change on his part.

Your boss sent you outside to check on him, make sure he was actually cleaning it. You practically begged him not to make you, but it was a losing effort.

You wrapped your sweater tighter around yourself as you walked into the familiar chill of November.

"My boss wants to know if the 'pretty boy has given up yet'," you said, your voice flat.

He nearly fell off the ladder at the sound of your voice, wobbling before catching himself. When he turned, the casual cool he usually wore like a second skin was gone. In its place was a weary, ragged exhaustion.

He had a black eye and split lip. 

Right, the fight with Byers. Some kids came in earlier talking about it. Steve was lucky the cops showed up when they did.

He just stared at you for a long second, processing. "Oh. Hey."

Not a smirk. Not a joke. Just a quiet greeting that was more of a breath than a word.

"His words, not mine," you amended, hugging your arms around yourself. "Clearly."

His gaze flickered to the red paint smeared across the letters, then back to you. For the first time ever, you felt like he was actually seeing you, not just a target for a lazy joke. It was unsettling.

He looked away, scrubbing hard at a particularly stubborn streak of paint. The rag made a rough, scraping sound against the metal. "I'm not giving up."

"Good. My boss is a stickler for restitution."

Another silence stretched, filled only by the scrape of the rag and the distant hum of traffic. You should have gone back inside. You should have left him to it.

"Heard she slapped you. Nancy." You said it to the marquee, not to him.

He stopped scrubbing. "Yeah. She did."

"Good."

He actually laughed, a short, harsh sound that was closer to a cough. "Figured you'd think so."

"She deserved that? The spray paint?" The words came out sharper than you intended, a remnant of the library conversation still festering under your skin.

His sigh was heavy, weighing him down where he stood on the ladder. "No. It was stupid. I was… stupid."

It wasn't the world-changing apology you might have once dreamed of, but it was something. A crack in the facade.

"She was my whole world, you know?" The words were quiet, barely audible.

You didn't mean to let the snort escape you, but it did. "You dated for, like, five minutes."

The look he gave you then was devoid of any of its usual arrogance. It was just… tired. "Doesn't matter."

He went back to scrubbing, a frantic, desperate energy in the movement. You watched him, this boy who had tormented you for years, this boy who was now scrubbing the evidence of his own broken heart off a marquee in the cold.

"Nancy... she's different. She's serious about her studies and she can be bossy, sure. But I kind of like that in a girl. Plus, she's kind. She actually cares about people. Not just what people think of her." He paused, and you realized he wasn't really talking to you anymore. He was talking to himself, working it all out loud. "She's not just... she's not like the others."

You couldn't help but remember the way he called you 'bossy' in that locker room a month ago.

"Didn't think bossy girls were your thing." Your voice is softer when you say it, like maybe you're realizing his genuine gaze that day wasn't for show. Maybe he realized something that day. About himself, or maybe about you.

Steve stopped scrubbing again, the rag hanging limp in his hand. He turned, really looking at you, and for a second you thought he might remember that day in the locker room. Remember the game you played, the lines you blurred. But the exhaustion in his face was too deep, the pain too fresh for him to dig into that particular memory.

He just shook his head, a small, sad motion. "It's not about the bossiness," he said, his voice rough. "It's about... caring."

He went back to the marquee with renewed vigor, the scrape of the rag against the metal sounding like he was trying to scrape something off himself.

"I'm sorry, for what it's worth," you said quietly. "About her, and Jonathan, and all of it."

You weren't sure why you said it. Maybe it was the split lip, or the way the sadness settled in his brow.

He didn't turn around. "She's not coming back," he said, as if stating a fact he was still trying to convince himself of.

"Maybe you have to go to her." You shrug. "Byers too. If you mean it."

His shoulders went rigid. He didn't answer, and you knew you'd crossed an invisible line. That was enough advice for one lifetime.

"I've got to get back inside," you said, turning before he could see the complicated knot of feelings tightening in your chest. You were not a person who gave Steve Harrington advice. You were not a person who felt anything for Steve Harrington but annoyance and, on rare occasions, pity.

But as you pushed open the heavy glass door to the lobby, the warmth of the theater a welcome relief against the cold, you couldn't shake the image of him on the ladder, a solitary figure against the dark.

By senior year, Steve Harrington became a distant figure in your life. 

In the Hawkins social circle as well.

He ditched Tommy and Carol after the spraypaint incident. He won Nancy back, and then lost her again. He was quieter, different in a way that you couldn't understand, like he was wrestling with something deeper than the 'senior year scaries'.

And by December of '84, you had your own demons to battle.

Your sister was in 6th grade, and it was going to be her first real Hawkins Middle School dance. 

The Snow Ball.

Volunteering was something you usually did to pad your college applications, but this particular event felt personal. You wanted to make sure no little girl had the same experience you did, felt that same, specific ache of being a target before they even knew what they'd done wrong.

So you found yourself at the front entrance, paired with no other than Nancy Wheeler, giving out tickets.

A curly haired kid you recognized walked in, hair styled in a way that looked eerily familiar. Your gaze followed out the double doors of the school, to the equally familiar maroon BMW the kid had just walked out of.

Nancy took the kid's ticket and he headed into the dance smiling.

Outside you saw Steve Harrington in his driver's seat, just watching the kid go inside, then looking at Nancy. Your eyes met his from across the distance, and you could see the faintest, ghost of a smile from him.

Even now, even with everything that had happened, your first instinct was to retreat. To make yourself small. But your sister needed you here, needed someone to make sure this dance was magic, not misery.

An hour or so in, you watched the mini-Steve (whose name was Dustin, according to Nancy) approaching a group of girls. You couldn't hear the conversation, but it clearly didn't go well. Your heart sunk and before you could walk over and check in, you saw Nancy offer to dance with him.

It healed something in you to see it. The way Nancy just saw a kid who was hurting and stepped in, no questions asked. It was the kindness you'd always admired in her from afar, a kindness that seemed so effortless, so natural.

It was the kindness Steve had seen in her, too. You understood, suddenly, with a clarity that felt like a punch to the gut.

He had changed. Or maybe Nancy had just given him the vocabulary to name the change that was already happening inside him.

The thought was disorienting. You spent years carefully building a wall around the Steve Harrington you thought you knew, and now you were seeing cracks in the foundation. Cracks that let in a different kind of light.

You went out to the parking lot to get air, after checking on you sister with a little thumbs up.

In the corner of the lot sat that same familiar car.

You don't know what prompted you to walk towards it, but you did, wrapping your jacket around you a little tighter. You knocked twice on the passenger side window, startling a very zoned out Steve. When he saw you he rolled the window down. The sounds of some sad soft rock came from the radio of his car.

"Hey," he says. It’s quiet. Almost shy.

"Hey," you reply back, mirroring his tone. "Nice kid. That Dustin."

He gives a small, genuine smile. "Yeah. He is. A little weird, but... he's good people."

"Better than the company you used to keep," you say before you can stop yourself, the old bitterness leaking out like poison from an old wound.

He didn't seem angry or annoyed, just let out a soft huff of a laugh, running his hand through his hair. "Yeah. No contest."

You stood there for a moment in silence, an awkward truce settled between you, fragile as a sheet of ice. You looked up at the full moon, a perfect, indifferent disc in the dark sky.

"Nancy's dancing with him. Some girls laughed when he asked them and she just... swooped in," you said, filling the space. "She's just... good."

"Too good," he said, the words barely audible, the soft rock on the radio suddenly sounding too loud. He wasn't looking at you, just staring at the steering wheel like it held all the answers he was looking for. "For me, for anybody."

You shivered a little before speaking. "You can be good, too. Bringing him here. Doing all that." Your voice is softer. More genuine. "That hair must have taken a lot of product."

His eyes met yours then, and for a second you saw it again, that flicker of something unguarded. He smiled, a real smile, not a smirk. "Get in the car, you're cold."

The invitation hung in the cold night air. Part of you wanted to say no. To preserve the careful distance you had built brick by painful brick. But he was right. The cold was seeping into your bones, and the offer itself, so simple and devoid of any ulterior motive, was unexpected.

"Damn, no comment about the extra layer of blubber keeping me warm?" you mumbled, the old habit of self-deprecation a comfortable armor. "You really have changed, Harrington."

The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a look you couldn't quite read. It wasn't pity, which you would have hated. It was closer to… disappointment. In you, or maybe in himself.

"Get in the car," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Just for a minute."

You hesitated, then opened the passenger door and slid in, the worn leather of the seat cool against your thighs. The soft rock from the radio wrapped around you, a blanket of melancholy. You closed the door, and the world outside the car seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in the small, quiet space.

"Better?" he asked, not looking at you.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Silence settled, thick with unspoken history. You could feel the warmth from the car's heater starting to seep in, chasing away the chill, but doing nothing for the knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach.

He fiddled with the radio dial, searching for another station, and then gave up, letting the sad song play out.

"About that thing you said..." he began, then stopped, the sentence hanging in the air unfinished.

You braced yourself, waiting for a joke, a deflection, something to break this fragile moment.

"I was an asshole. In the library," he said finally, the words coming out in a rush, like he'd been holding them in for a long time. "What I said about... you know. Making a scene. And before that. All of it."

The apology was so unexpected, so direct, that it caught you completely off guard. You didn't speak yet, just let him keep going.

"I didn't really have a reason to care for much outside of myself and my own bullshit. For a while, I just... existed. Then I had to start cleaning up my own messes. Spray paint, fights, losing a girl I loved." He paused. "Turns out, being a dick all the time doesn't make for great company when you're all alone."

You watched him as he spoke.

"I probably said shit about a ton of different people at school and didn't think twice on how it made them feel. I mean, that's what we did. Tommy, Carol, me. It was... easy." He finally turned to face you, and the exhaustion in his eyes was matched by something you hadn't seen before in him. Humility. "I'm sorry for that. For making you the butt of some stupid joke more than once."

You didn’t really know what to say. A real apology. Not some backhanded 'I didn't mean to', but an actual, ownership of the words he spoke. For the past.

His words settled in the space between you, heavy and strange. You’d imagined this moment before, but differently—him cornering you, you delivering a withering comeback, winning some invisible war.

"For the record? Your little stunt in the locker room junior year?" He let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head like he couldn't quite believe it. "I deserved that. Kind of a dick move, but you..." 

He paused, a flicker of something almost like admiration in his eyes. "You've got more nerve than I gave you credit for."

You managed a weak smile, the kind that doesn't reach your eyes. "It's either that or let it eat you alive."

Another stretch of silence. The song on the radio ended, and the DJ's voice came on, too cheerful for the mood in the car.

"I think that's when I realized how much I like that in a girl," he said, so softly you almost didn't catch it.

He was looking at you again, not with the old, assessing gaze that made you want to hide, but with a quiet, searching look. Like he was trying to fit the girl who left him naked in a locker room with the girl sitting in his car now.

"Yeah well," you said with sigh. "Nancy has that in spades. And she's pretty and kind to boot. So I can see why you're still pining."

It was a defense mechanism, a way to steer the conversation back to safer territory. To the girl he was supposed to be thinking about, not you.

His smile returned, but this one was tinged with sadness. "You two are more similar than you think."

"Yeah, I find that hard to believe."

"You're both stubborn." He counts on his finger. "You both care almost too much about people." He ticks another one off. "And you both have a hard time letting people in."

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and uncomfortably close to the truth. It felt like he was peeling back layers you hadn't given him permission to touch.

You opened your mouth, a retort ready, but nothing came out. What could you say? That he was right?

"Well excuse me for not being eager to let in the first person to make me feel ugly."

And there it was, the vulnerable truth. The reason you had played that game, the reason you built those walls, said out loud in the warm quiet of his car. You hadn't meant to say it. It just spilled out, raw and unvarnished.

His face crumpled. Not in a dramatic way, but a subtle shift, mostly behind his eyes.

You could just leave, or let it hang, change the subject. But something made you want to be honest. To get it out, a few feet away from the scene of the original crime.

"I was confused when you asked me to the dance. Like, we were friendly. You always came to all my birthday parties, even when boys thought it was weird to go to girls parties. But I never thought of you in that way. I don’t really think I thought much about boys in that way at all yet."

You tucked a piece of hair that tried to escape your updo before continuing.

"My mom bought me that pretty blue dress. And she did my hair. And when I went up to you and your friends..." You didn't want the tremble to show in your voice, but you couldn't stop it. "You made that cow sound. Like an animal. And they all laughed, telling me they couldn't believe I actually thought you wanted to go with me. And I just remember thinking...'Oh. I'm the joke.'"

The words hung in the quiet car, each one a memory you'd packed away so tightly it had left bruises on the inside. You didn't look at him, just stared at your own hands in your lap, knuckles white.

"I had to run back to my mom, who was luckily still in the parking lot. She asked what was wrong and I couldn't even talk. I told her I felt sick, and we left."

The tears that fell were silent, a single, hot trail down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly, angry at yourself for this. For letting him see.

"I don't even think little me knew there was something wrong with her until then."

You finally chanced a look at him.

His face was chalk white. The easy, exhausted slouch was gone, replaced by a rigid stillness. His eyes were fixed on the dashboard, but he wasn't seeing it. He was seeing you. A smaller version of you, in a blue dress, hope dying on your face.

"I..." he started, and the sound was so hollow it was almost a gasp.

"It's fine. It was like, forever ago." You tried to brush it off, pulling down the overhead mirror to check your reflection, to make sure your makeup hadn't run. You were trying to rebuild the wall he'd just seen crumble.

"It's not fine," he said, the words barely audible. He finally looked at you, and the guilt in his eyes was just another thing you had never seen on him before. "I don't even remember why I did it. I remember telling Tommy H I had asked you to the dance and he just... lost it. And it was easier to go along with it than to be the one on the receiving end. I was a coward. I wanted people to like me. I wanted to be...popular."

He said the word like it felt embarssing on his tongue. He wasn't making excuses. He was dissecting a wound, and you were forced to watch.

"So I fixed it by telling them I only asked you as a joke. So I was the funny guy. The cool guy." He looked away from you, staring out the windshield at the dark, empty parking lot. "I didn't think about you. Not once. And that's... that's worse, isn't it? That I made you feel...that way... and I didn't even think about it."

The quiet confession was heavier than any apology he could have made. You could feel the weight of it pressing down on the worn upholstery of the BMW, on the fragile silence between you.

You straightened up in the seat, dabbing under your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. "Well, now you know," you said, your voice tight.

His hand came to your shoulder tentatively, like he was afraid you might bolt.

"You were never ugly."

His touch was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through you.

"I was a scared little shit who said something cruel because I was a coward. That's all that was." His thumb brushed a small circle on your shoulder. A hesitant, seeking gesture. "I'm sorry. For that. And for everything else I did that made you feel like you weren't... like you weren't good enough."

The dam you'd built around that memory for all those years finally broke. A choked sob escaped you, messy and undignified.

Before you could process it, he was unbuckling his seatbelt, shuffling awkwardly in the driver's seat to get closer. He hesitated for a second, then wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a clumsy, one-sided hug.

It was stiff and awkward, the angle all wrong in the small car.

"I meant it... in the locker room." His voice was a whisper, muffled a little by your hair as he settled against you. "When I said you were beautiful. It wasn't a line. I was an ass, but that part... that was true."

The words washed over you, a confusing mix of balm and salt. He was apologizing for the ugliest thing he'd ever done to you while simultaneously resurrecting the memory of the most confusing, empowering, and mortifying moment you two had ever shared.

"I almost didn't go through with it. Taking your shorts." You said through the tears, the confession feeling like a surrender. "You were just... so gentle. For a second. When you pushed my hair back. I thought maybe..."

You didn't finish. You didn't know what you'd thought. Maybe you thought he wasn't the monster you'd built him up to be.

"I mean I definitely wasn't going to go down on you either." You say with a watery laugh that sounds more like a hiccup.

He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Figured as much." He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. His thumb came up to wipe a stray tear from your cheek. "I was fucking terrified, if that means anything."

"When you were left there naked?"

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly, the words coming out almost like he was embarassed to say them. "When you got on your knees." 

That admission hung in the air, a strange, surprising reversal of the power dynamic you thought you understood. You'd been so focused on your own performance, your own revenge, you hadn't stopped to consider what was happening behind his cocky facade.

"Oh," you managed, the word small.

"Yeah," he said, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "I mean I had, you know, had sex before. But uh, not like... in such a public place, and definitely not... you were just... you were so confident. And I guess, so was I, in a different way. But I didn't know what the hell I was doing."

You raised an eyebrow at him. "Lisa P gave you a blowjob in the janitor's closet sophomore year."

He actully let out a laugh at that. "You believe everything you hear?" He shook his head. "God, no. That was all Tommy. I just let him say it because it was easier. Easier than admitting she changed her mind as soon as she, uh...saw it." He mumbled the last part.

You had a sudden flashback to your thought in the locker room: 

'Well, shit. Rumors can be true sometimes...'

A small, watery laugh escaped you, surprising you both. The absurdity of the situation, of years of misunderstanding and fabricated bravado, crashed over you. You two were just kids, fumbling in the dark, pretending to know what you were doing. You weren't some mastermind of revenge that day. You were a scared girl with a clever idea, and he was a scared boy whose armor had dents in it.

"Oh, that's funny to you? The one time I'm being honest about my penis?" He was teasing, but it was gentle. A new kind of teasing, one that included you in the joke instead of making you the punchline.

"Don't say penis," you managed, wiping your damp cheeks. "It's a terrible word."

"What should I say then? My manhood? My johnson?" He was grinning now, a grin that made your stomach do a slow flip.

"Just don't say it at all," you said, pushing lightly at his shoulder.

"Okay, okay," he conceded, still smiling. "No more talk about my... well, you know."

The comfortable silence that followed was a revelation. You weren't hiding. You weren't performing. You were just sitting in a car with Steve Harrington, a strange, new kind of normal settling over you.

"In Lisa P's defense, it is intimidating." You said suddenly, not looking at him.

"What is?"

"You know. The thing we're not talking about."

You felt the shift in him, the quick intake of breath. He was surprised. It was a dangerous admission, one that could give him a sliver of power back.

But he didn't take it. In fact, when you looked at him he almost seemed embarassed. "Thanks, I guess?"

It was your turn to grin. "Don't get a big head, Harrington. It's just an objective observation. Like noticing a building is tall."

He just laughed, a real, easy laugh that filled the car. "A building. Right."

"Yep. A very... architectural... building."

"Isn't every building 'architectural'?"

You were letting out the kind of laughter that felt like years of tension finally dissolving into the frosty air. The song on the radio changed, a slightly more upbeat track than before.

"You know," he said when the laughter subsided, "I'm glad you got in the car."

"Yeah, well. Don't get used to it."

"I won't," he said, but the way he was smiling made you think he might be hoping otherwise.

You heard the doors to the school burst open then, a flood of younger kids spilling out into the parking lot, their high-pitched chatter and laughter cutting through the quiet night.

You saw your sister looking for you. "I should go meet her so we can walk home."

He nodded, but he didn't look away. "Hey," he said, just as your hand touched the door handle.

You turned back to him.

"Can I..." He started, then stopped, searching for the words. "I can bring you guys home. Henderson's house is actually right near yours."

You didn't know which was more surprising, him offering a ride or him remembering where you live.

"Yeah...sure." You answer quietly, before buckling your seatbelt.

Steve pulls up to the doors and you wave your sister over. 

After an explanation of your ride, Dustin Henderson runs over to the car and gets in the back after giving you a very confused look for being in the passenger seat.

"I'm at a dance for a few hours and you already got a girl in here? Jesus, Steve." Dustin says with an over dramatic sigh, and you fight a smile.

"Shut it, Henderson," Steve mutters, but without any real heat. "We're giving them a ride home."

The drive was short, filled with Dustin's chatter about how dancing with Nancy was apparently was "so cool" and some weird thing that happened with a compass. You didn't really follow, but you watched the way Steve listened, the way he nodded and asked real questions, the way he didn't talk down to the kid. 

Steve pulled up to Dustin's house first. The kid unbuckled, then turned to you, his eyes wide with a sudden, fierce intensity. "Hey, you're the girl from the theater, right? The one who let us in to see 'Christine' without a parent?"

You blinked, surprised. "Uh, yeah. That's me." Steve gave you an eyebrow raise and you shrugged sheepishly. "I can't deny a horror fan."

"She's too cool for you." Dustin points to Steve as he opens his door to leave. Your sister giggles in the back seat. "See ya, Steve."

"Get outta here, Henderson," Steve grumbled, but he was smiling. The kid slammed the door, and you and your sister watched him run up to his front porch, a weird little flurry of curls and excitement.

Then it was just the three of you, the car feeling quiet without Dustin's energy.

Steve drove down the street and pulled into your driveway, your sister thanked him and ran inside, excited to tell your parents about the dance.

You sat there, not moving, the engine still rumbling a low, steady thrum beneath you. The porch light was on, a warm, inviting glow against the dark of the evening.

"She looks a lot like you. When you were little, I mean," he said quietly.

You didn't answer, just stared at the house, at the life you were about to walk back into.

He turned in his seat, looking at you fully. The streetlight caught the profile of his face, highlighting the new lines of exhaustion and a depth that hadn't been there a year ago. "I know this was weird."

"A little," you admitted, finally turning to look at him. The distance between the two front seats felt both vast and infinitely small.

"Henderson is right though. You are way too cool for me. He's got good taste," he says with a smile.

You couldn't help but mirror it, a small, tentative curve of your lips. "Like I said, don't get a big head about it. I've been told my taste is questionable."

"I'll risk it." He kept looking at you, and the air in the car grew thicker, charged with something that felt dangerously close to friendship.

"Goodnight, Steve." You say as you head out of the car.

You can see a small smile form, just at you saying his name. It was 'Harrington' ever since seventh grade. This was different.

"Night."

You shut the door and walked up your driveway, not looking back. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you until you disappeared inside.

1985 comes slow, then all at once.

Winter melts into a muddy spring, which blooms into a humid, unforgiving Hawkins summer.

You moved to working at the cineplex in the mall, unable to deny how much a raise would help you out.

Ever since that Snow Ball, you and Steve were friendly. Slowly but surely becoming more comfortable. You'd visit him at work, make fun of his uniform and his pathetic attempts at wooing the female race.

It wasn't until the beginning of July that you finally understood the weight Steve Harrington had been carrying all these years.

The mall fire cover up the late night news already started to spread and made you want to throw up. The fact that nobody but a few of you really understood the horrors that lurked under Hawkins. Monsters, other dimensions, the way loss followed these people around like ghosts.

You were in the Harrington's upstairs bathroom, cleaning up a very battered Steve. He almost looked like a cartoon, bloody and beaten in his stupid sailor outfit.

"I'm sorry." he mumbed as you cleaned his split lip.

You shook your head. "Don't. You don't have anything to apologize for."

"You shouldn't have had to learn about all this. You or Robin. Just gets you involved in all the bullshit."

"Hey," you say, tilting his chin up gently with your thumb. "None of that."

His brown eyes were so close to yours, you could see that they were more hazel. Even through the swelling and bruises, they held a universe of fear. Not just for himself, but everyone.

"You are... a mess." You say, and he cracks a weak smile.

"The ladies love a man in uniform."

"Not when it's covered in blood and spit." You quip back, putting the last bit of antiseptic on the cut above his eyebrow. "There. All done. Now get in the shower."

He raises an eyebrow and immediatley regrets it from the pain. "Trying to see my intimidating penis again?"

You move back so he can get up from the toilet he was sitting on. "I thought we agreed to never use that word."

"Penis? Or intimidating?" He says with a full grin now, leaning against the sink now.

"Ugh, just get in the shower. You reek."

He didn't say anything else, just smiled before shutting the door. You went downstairs, grabbing a bottle of water from the Harrington's impressively stocked refrigerator before going to the living room.

After you heard the shower stop you heard your name.

"Where are you?" A concerned Steve yelled from upstairs.

You went to the foot of the stairs to see him in just a towel at the top of the stairs.

"I'm down here, why?" You said, trying to keep your gaze from dipping. "Did you fall?"

"No...I just...thought you'd be in my room."

"Well, that's presumptuous. I'm a proper lady, Steven." You reply, and you can't hide the small smirk on your face.

"You're wearing a 'The Thing' t-shirt with ketchup on it," he says with a pointed look from the top of the stairs. "I think we've moved past proper."

"I actually think that's your blood… Whatever," you say, taking a swig of your water.

"Can you just... come up?" His voice is smaller now. "Please."

You sigh, capping the bottle. "Just be decent by the time I get in there."

He gives a small smile and pads to his room. You walk up the stairs slowly, giving him enough time to change.

When you reach his door and knock a little he tells you to come in.

It's very... plaid. And you say as much.

"Yeah, well, I promise I didn't pick it out. My dad did. So what does that say about him?"

You decide to not unpack that, instead sitting on the edge of his bed. You knew enough about Steve's parents to have a reasonable amount of distaste.

He's standing by his closet, in a pair of sweats and no shirt, pulling on a clean Hawkins High t-shirt. You've seen him shirtless before. In the locker room, obviously. But this is different. There's no posturing, no performance. He's just a guy. A guy who almost died.

"You want something to sleep in?" He asks, turning to you.

You feel your eyes widen before you even realize it at the assumption. "What?" The word comes out sharper than you mean it to. "I'm not sleeping over."

His expression falters, the casual confidence draining from his face. "Oh. Right. I just... it's late. And it's dark. I just figured you wouldn't want to..."

"Walk home by myself after I just spent the last hour cleaning your blood off my hands?" You finish for him, a familiar acid starting to burn in your stomach.

He says your name low and gentle. "Just... go take a shower. And then I can, fill in all the gaps from the past couple years, okay? God knows I'm not gonna sleep tonight."

"Yeah well, you probably have a concussion so you really shouldn't fall asleep anyway." 

"Wouldn't be my first." He grimaces and you frown. "Really, just go shower. I'll grab you some clothes."

You sigh but eventually nod, retreating to the bathroom.

The steam fills the small room, clouding the mirror and beading on the tile. You stand under the hot spray, letting it wash over you, trying to scrub away the image of him so broken and bloodied. You wash the smell of antiseptic and fear from your skin, the phantom sensation of his split lip and black eye under your fingertips. The image of Billy Hargrove getting pierced through the torso over and over. That look on that little girl's face when she found out the chief was dead.

You let the tears fall as the water rushes over you, silent and hidden.

When you get out, you wrap yourself in a towel, feeling oddly exposed as you walk down the hallway to Steve's room.

You knock before speaking. "Hey, can you turn around? The towel is... small."

It was another reminder of your body, of the way it had been a target long before tonight.

He turns to face his closet without a word. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. "Got you some stuff," he says, his voice muffled by the hangers. "It's just some sweats and a shirt. Should be comfortable."

You walk over to the bed, and snort. "These sweats aren't going to fit over my ass." You hold them up.

He shrugs, still not turning. "Guess you'll have to go commando."

The teasing lands all wrong. It's an echo of the old Steve, the one who reduced you to a body part, a punchline. The air in the room suddenly feels heavy, suffocating.

It's like he can tell and the flinch of his head reveals that.

"Hey, sorry, no... I didn't mean it like..." 

"I know." You snap. You know he didn't, not really. But it's hard to remember that when the old wounds are still so fresh. "Just... turn back around."

He does, his back to you a silent apology. You dress quickly, the soft fabric of the Hawkins High shirt a strange comfort against your skin. Its stretched tight around your ample chest and you thank whoever is out there that it isn't white like his.

When you go to try on the sweats, you were correct, they don't go over your hips.

"It's a no go on the pants, sailor." You throw them and they land at his feet.

You go to your pile of clothes and just tug your underwear back on with a silent thank you to past you for not picking a thong this morning.

"I'm just gonna... sleep in my underwear, so... don't be weird when I walk out of here."

"Walk out?" He says, finally turning around. He looks genuinely confused.

"To go in the guest room?"

"The guest room?" He repeats, as if the words are in a foreign language. He's just standing there, in the middle of his perfectly plaid room, looking at you like you've suggested you go sleep on the roof. "The guest room is downstairs. On the other side of the house."

"So?"

"So... it's like one in the morning. There's been... you know. There's been monsters. And you're gonna sleep all the way over there by yourself?"

It occurs to you that this isn't about you.

He doesn't want to be alone. And he's too scared, or too proud, or too emotionally constipated to just say so. So he's framing it as a chivalrous offer, a way to protect you.

The realization is so startling that for a second you just stare at him. His eyes, still a little wild with the events of the night, flicker from your face to the door and back again.

"You want me to stay in here?" Its tentative, soft. Like you're trying to talk to a spooked animal.

He shrugs, a casual gesture that is anything but. "It's a big bed. And I'll... I'll sleep on the floor."

The offer is so ridiculous, so transparently false, that a strangled laugh escapes you. "You're not sleeping on your floor, Steve. You have a concussion. And like, more injuries than I can count."

"I'm fine," he insists, but the way he sways slightly on his feet betrays him.

"Right. 'Fine' is your middle name." You walk over to the window, needing a moment to just breathe, to look at something other than his face, which is a confusing canvas of bruises, exhaustion, and something else you can't quite name.

Its this moment where Steve lets his gaze drag down the form of your back to the curve of your ass as it's hugged by your underwear. He's grateful your back is turned as he realizes the shirt barely goes to you hips, probably pulled up by your huge–

Nope. Stop, Steve.

Unfortunately for him, that's when you turn around and he can see exactly what he was trying not to think about. The shape of your nipples are hard and pressed against the thin, worn cotton of the Hawkins High Tigers shirt.

He's a healthy (generally) red blooded American male. It's not his fault.

He looks away, cheeks flushing, as you cover your chest by crossing your arms, probably realizing at the same moment he did that you were on display.

"Just... get in the bed." You grumble, getting in on the side by his window, under the covers before he can see anymore of you.

He nods, shutting off the light and climbing in on the other side.

For the next hour or so, you both keep a safe distance as he tells you everything. About Will Byers. A girl with magic powers. The Upside Down. All of it.

"And that brings us to... tonight." He finishes, the silence in the room heavy.

"Jesus Christ, Steve." You say into the dark, processing it all. "I think I'd rather deal with you being an asshole again."

He lets out a weak chuckle. "Yeah, well. The asshole was the easier monster to deal with." He shifts in the bed, and the sheet rustles. "Are you scared?"

"Terrified," you admit, your voice barely a whisper. "But I'm also just... tired. It's a lot of weirdness to take in."

"Yeah."

You lay in the dark, the only light from a streetlamp filtering through the blinds, painting stripes across the ceiling. You're acutely aware of the space between you, of the sound of his breathing, of the strange intimacy of it all.

"Let's just... talk about anything else."

It was quiet for a moment before he came up with a topic.

"You remember sophomore year?" He says softly. "When Carol spread that rumor that you stuffed your bra?"

"This isn't a better topic..." You pull the covers around yourself more.

"No, just....hear me out." He says, sighing. "She did that cause I was dating her friend, Stacey, at the time. And Stacey wasn't as... endowed as you. And I stupidly said something about not every girl being as... 'naturally blessed' as you." He said the words as if they tasted bad. "And I was so used to Tommy and Carol laughing at my dumbass comments about girls, I didn't even think about how they would take it. And it ended up with Carol being a bitch."

"So let me get this straight," you say, your voice dangerously calm. "You made a comment that compared my body to your then-girlfriend's, your girlfriend got insecure, and Carol, in her infinite wisdom, spread a rumor that I stuffed my bra. To make your girlfriend feel better?"

When you put it like that, it sounded even more stupid.

"Yeah?"

You laughed and it was not what he expected. "Oh my god, that is so stupid. They literally saw me in the locker room for0 years. And they still had to make that up to make themselves feel better?"

"You're not mad?" He turned his head to look at you, a little bewildered.

You lay there, staring up at the ceiling still. "I learned from a very reliable source that everyone is insecure about their body in some way. I just... never thought anyone would be envious about what I have going on." You gesture vaguely to your chest.

It wasn't that you weren't mad. But it was so absurdly, ridiculously high school that it felt almost funny now. After monsters and alternate dimensions, a mean girl rumor from three years ago felt quaint.

He's quiet for a long moment, just the sound of his steady breathing next to you.

"Steve?" You whisper into the dark.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you... you know. Look."

You feel the bed shift as he turns onto his side, facing you. The stripes of light from the window cut across his face.

"At your boobs?"

"Don't say boobs."

"Alright, at your... chest?"

"Just answer the question."

He sighs, a long, slow exhalation. "I don't know. Cause I'm a guy? And you're a hot girl. And I have a pulse."

"I am not a 'hot girl'." You snort. "I'm the girl who got made fun of for her body for years."

"That wasn't because you weren't hot," he says, and the words are so serious it catches you off guard. "It was because you were. It's easier to make fun of something you're intimidated by. I'd know."

"My boobs intimidate you?" You finally turn, glaring at him a little.

"My penis intimidated Lisa P." He shrugs. "And you."

You were about to say something about that word again, but you let it go. "Yeah, well. That's different."

"How is it different?"

"Because," you start, your patience wearing thin. "You can hide your... thing. And most guys get praised for that anyway. I can't exactly stuff myself into another shape. It's always going to obvious I have a tummy, and thighs that touch, and huge boobs. And I can promise you, its not something I get praised for." 

You hadn't realized how much you'd needed to say that until the words were out. You felt naked, more exposed than you had been standing in your underwear.

"Okay," he says quietly.

"Just... okay?"

"What do you want me to say?" he asks, and he sounds genuinely lost. "I don't know how many more different ways I can tell you you're attractive without just... saying it again. I'm not good at this stuff."

You sigh into the dark, the frustration ebbing away into a familiar exhaustion. "I don't know what I want you to say."

He shifts again, and this time the sheet rustles as he moves a fraction closer. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cool air in the room.

"My mom... she's obsessed with being thin," he says, the admission coming out of nowhere, sudden and raw in the quiet space. "Always has been. We have these, like, weird calorie-counting scales in the kitchen. She's always on a new diet. For a while I just thought that was something all women cared about. That it was the most important thing."

He paused. "You never seemed to care. At least, not openly. And I think that... bugged people. Girls like Carol. And Stacey. Because they were all so busy caring. And guys were probably afraid of being attracted to anything that wasn't the 'norm'. So people tried to knock you down a peg. "

You didn't know what to say to that. You'd spent years feeling like the odd one out, the girl who didn't fit into the neat, slender boxes of Hawkins High. The idea that your lack of obsession was the very thing that made you a target was a bitter, twisted irony.

"I was always bigger than the other girls. Even in elementary school," you admitted into the dark. "By the time I was in sixth grade, I was already wearing a bra. And the boys noticed. And they'd snap the straps. Or make jokes. Or moo."

"Yeah well, they were simultaneously popping awkward boners about it too." He offered, and you laughed.

"I guess so. I don't think we ever really see our own bodies in a vacuum, do we?" You say, trailing off. "I just always saw myself through the eyes of others. As a joke, or a spectacle."

He was quiet again, mouth twisted like he was trying to decide whether to say something.

"The first time I had sex... I wasn't even sure if it counted."

You turn your head quickly, confused. "Uh, what?"

He runs a hand over his face, a gesture of pure exhaustion. "It was a party. At that one house, out by the quarry. Beginning of junior year? I was really drunk. And so was she. And it was over in like, two minutes. In the back of my car. And she... we couldn't... it didn't fully fit."

It was your turn to be quiet, processing. "Fit?" You ask carefully.

He let out a shaky breath. "I got like...halfway in before she said it was too much and we kinda just did it that way? And I just thought... that's it then. This is my life. I have this... reputation to uphold. And I can't even do the one thing I'm supposed to be good at."

You'd never thought about it like that. The pressure on him, the invisible script he was forced to follow. You'd only ever seen the glossy exterior, the effortless performance of King Steve.

"So that's actually how the rumors started. And then more girls wanted to find out if they could... you know." He says with a huff. "Which just made it feel more like a chore after a while. They didn't want me, they just wanted Steve Harrington and whatever came with that."

The confession was a gift. A fragile, broken thing laid bare in the dark between you. He wasn't talking about sex anymore. He was talking about being a product, a brand, a trophy to be won. 

"So..." you start, your own voice barely a whisper. "I guess we have more in common than I thought."

He turns to look at you, trying to hide behind humor. "You have a comically large penis too?"

You let out a genuine laugh. "No, you idiot. The part where people see us as... things. As objects. As punchlines or trophies. I'm the 'chubby girl with the huge rack' and you're the 'stud with the... intimidating building.'"

The callback makes him smile. "Curvy. Voluptuous. A knockout," he says, the words coming softly. "There are a lot better words than ‘chubby’ to describe you."

You just look at him, watching the way the moonlight catches in his bruised eye. "And there are better words for you too."

The bed feels impossibly small and large all at once. There's miles of unspoken history between you, but the space where your shoulders are almost touching feels like it's buzzing with electricity.

He turns on his side, bracing himself up on an elbow, wincing slightly at the movement, before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His face is just as genuine as the first time he did it years ago.

"You're also smart, you know," he whispers. "You're way smarter than me. And you have better taste in movies. You're a good sister. You're kind of funny."

"Kind of?" you raise an eyebrow.

"You made fun of my uniform. That's a cheap shot, puts you down a few points," he teases gently. "But you're also brave. I mean, tonight... you didn't even hesitate. You just jumped in. You took care of me."

The compliment is so unexpected, so sincere, that it renders you speechless. His hand is still there, thumb brushing your cheek. You lean into the touch before you can stop yourself, a small, unconscious movement that feels both terrifying and right.

"And you're... so damn pretty," he says, the words barely audible, a confession meant for the dark. "I know I said it before. But it's not just a thing I say. It's the first thing I ever noticed about you, in third grade."

"Third grade?" you breathe, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Your mom always put your hair in these two little braids," he says, a small smile touching his lips. "And you had this bright red coat. And you always had a book in your hands. You never played with the other kids at recess. You'd just sit by the wall and read. And I thought... I thought that was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. That someone could just be in their own little world like that."

You're staring at him, completely captivated. You don't remember being that girl, but he does. He remembers a version of you that existed long before you learned to be self-conscious, long before you learned to build walls around yourself.

"I guess, as you get older, and the social food chain comes into play... somewhere along the line admiration just turns to resentment. Jealousy." He sighs, the sound heavy in the room. "I wanted to be like you. I wanted to not care what people thought. But it was easier to make fun of you for it. To make fun of the parts of you that made you different."

Tears prick at your eyes again, hot and unexpected. 

"Hey, no, don't..." he murmurs, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. He doesn't move his hand.

"I'm fine," you choke out, trying to pull it together. But it's too much. The honesty, the years of misunderstanding, the sheer, overwhelming closeness of him.

He looks at you like he doesn't deserve what he's about to do, but can't help but try. His hand on your face tightens, a barely-there pressure that holds you in place.

He leans in and gives you a moment to stop him. You don't. You can't.

Your lips met in the dark, a soft, tentative press that tasted a little like copper and antiseptic.

It didn't feel like the thrill of the locker room stunt. It wasn't frantic or performative. It was slow and a little clumsy, a gentle exploration. His lips were soft, and he kept his angle shallow, careful of his split lip. His thumb stroked your cheek, a steady, rhythmic motion that was more grounding than any kiss had a right to be.

He pulled back first, but only by an inch, just to search you eyes for more tears, for regret.

It wasn't like how you'd seen him kiss other girls before. Not in the hallways, not at parties. There was no showmanship, no possessive grab, no loud statement for an audience. This was just for you. A quiet apology, a fragile hope, all wrapped up in the gentle press of his mouth.

"So pretty," he whispered again, the words a warm puff of air against your lips.

You kissed him back then, deepening it slightly. A silent answer. An acknowledgment of the fragile truce being built in the space between you. He made a small, broken sound in the back of his throat, a mix of surprise and relief. His hands moved from your face to thread into your hair, careful not to pull. Your own hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him through the thin fabric of the t-shirt. You could feel the tension coiled there, the remnants of the night's terror still thrumming beneath his skin.

The kiss was a slow burn, a careful mapping of old hurts and new understandings. You could feel the slight give of his bottom lip where it was split, and you instinctively tilted your head to avoid it. He seemed to notice, pulling back with a wince.

"Sorry..." you whisper.

"No, it's fine," he said, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "I'm not made of glass."

You didn't know if that was true. You'd just spent an hour patching up the evidence that he was, in fact, very breakable.

"I'm not sure about that. You've just made a very strong case for having a very soft heart. And it seems your face took a pretty big hit protecting it." Your reply is soft, but it's more teasing than anything.

You can see the way that makes him smile. And then he's leaning in again, and this time the kiss is less careful, more certain. He's not asking anymore. He's telling you.

"I'm sorry." He murmurs between kisses. "That you get this version of me. The beat up one. The one who's seen too much."

You pull back, your hands still on his shoulders. You look at him, really look at him. At the purpling bruise around his eye, the scab on his lip, the way he holds himself like he's expecting another blow.

"I don't know," you say, your voice quiet but sure. "I think I prefer this one."

He searches your face, and now he's the one looking for the joke, the punchline. He doesn't find it. What he finds must be genuine, because the last of the tension seems to drain out of him. He lets out a long, shuddering breath and collapses back against the pillows, pulling you with him.

One of his hands migrates to your hip, as the other stays tangle in your hair. He kisses you again, and again, soft and sweet. One of your hands is on his chest, the other still gripping his shoulder. He's warm. So warm.

He shifts, deepening the kiss slightly, and the move brings his body flush against yours. You can feel the hard lines of him, the solid muscle of his chest and stomach. It's such a contrast to you own soft tummy and curves.

"I'm not squishing you right?" You manage to get out between kisses. Your old insecurities bubbled to the surface, desperate to ruin this.

The hand that was on your hip moves, sliding up your side, his thumb brushing against the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. He doesn't answer verbally. He just kisses you, a slow, deliberate kiss that seems to say, I like the way you feel.

His touch is a question, not a demand. He waits, giving you space to pull away, to say no. You don't.

Instead, you arch into him, a small, silent invitation. He takes it, his hand closing over your breast, a perfect, warm weight that makes you gasp into his mouth.

"God, you're so soft," he murmurs, the words a raw confession.

It's not a line. It's not a backhanded compliment disguised as a critique. He says it like it's the most wonderful thing he's ever felt. He says it like you are a secret oasis he's stumbled upon in a desert of sharp edges and hard planes.

"Feel so good against me..." His other hand moves from your hair to your thigh, squeezing the flesh there, a possessive, appreciative grip. He pulls your leg over his hip, and the new angle presses you against him in a way that makes your breath hitch.

He's half-hard against your stomach, a solid proof of his desire. You feel a surge of power, a dizzying, heady rush. It was so much better than the confidence you felt years ago in the locker room. This feels real and right. You adjust so your thighs are straddling him and his hands waste no time moving straight to your ass, with his smirk against your lips.

"Yeah, really glad this didn't fit in my pants..." He grabs a handful and you let out a small laugh, smacking him in the shoulder.

"You're an idiot." You say, but there's no heat behind it.

"But you like it." He's grinning as he squeezes again.

"I'm re-evaluating." You tease back, and then his hands are moving up your back, under the shirt as you sit up.

"Yeah?" He looks up at you, big doe eyes despite the swelling, messy sunkissed hair, split lip. Even battered and bruised, he looks beautiful. "Can I see you?"

Its a soft whisper, this moment a distant cousin of his hands skimming your shirt by the pool. And even though the thought makes your stomach clench with a familiar, old anxiety, you nod.

Slowly, you pull the worn Hawkins Tigers shirt over your head. The air in the room is cool against your bare skin, and for a heart-stopping second, you are sixteen again, back against the lockers.

But this version of Steve looks at you like he's seeing art.

He's smiling. A small, genuine smile. He sits up, careful, his hands on your waist. He doesn't stare at your chest. His eyes are locked on yours as he leans in and kisses your stomach.

"Steve..." You squirm a little, your body used to hiding itself in initimate moments.

"Shhh," he murmurs against your skin, pressing another soft kiss just above your belly button. "Just... let me look."

You do. You let him look. You let him trace the stretch marks on your hips with a gentle thumb, let him map the constellations of your freckles with a fingertip. His big hands make a slow journey up to cup your breasts, his expression one of pure, unadulterated reverence.

"Perfect," he whispers. "They're so... perfect."

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the valley between them, then to each nipple, which pebble in the cool air. You gasp, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

"Love the way you feel in my hands," he says, his voice a low rumble against your skin.

Every word is a direct assault on the arsenal of insecurities you've built over the years. Every touch is a demolition. He's not trying to fix you; he's trying to tell you you were never broken.

"I think they're too big... make my back hurt..." you manage to get out in gasps as he teases one nipple with his thumb, the other with his mouth. "And clothes don't fit right..."

His response is to pull back, to look you in the eye, a fire in his that you've never seen before. "Then I'll buy you clothes that fit." He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. "And I'll give you back rubs for the rest of your life if it means I get to touch you like this."

He switches, giving the other breast the same attention, his tongue swirling a pattern that makes your toes curl. You can feel the heat building in your stomach, a slow, steady fire.

"Steve..." You whisper, your hips starting to move against him of their own accord. "I need..."

"I know," he says, one of his hands moving down to grip your hip again, stilling your movements. "Lemme take care of you."

He maneuvers you gently, laying you back against the pillows. He hovers over you for a second, just looking, a look so intense it feels like a physical touch. Then he's kissing you again, a thorough kiss that seems to go on forever.

His hands start a slow, lazy exploration, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips. He teases the waistband of your panties with a feather-light touch that makes you shiver. You trail your hand down to pull at his shirt, needing to feel more of him.

"Off," you demand, your voice husky.

He grins against your lips, pulling back just enough to grab the hem of the shirt and pull it over his head in one smooth motion. And there he is. All lean muscle and skin. More freckles than usual from the summer sun. Too your surprise, more chest hair than junior year too.

"God...," you breathe, your hands moving to trace the lines of his stomach.

His body is a new map of the night's violence. A large, mottled bruise spreads across one side of his ribs, another darkening on the point of his hip where he must have landed. You can see the faint scars of older injuries, a memory of a past fight, a past monster.

"It's not pretty," he says, insecurity in his voice. He tries to cover himself, a reflexive move, but you stop him, your hands pressing gently against his chest.

"I'm not looking for pretty," you say, your thumb tracing the line of a fading scar above his eyebrow. "I'm looking for you. And you're... alive. That's what's pretty."

"Right now, I can definitely agree with that."

You lean up, pressing a soft kiss to the worst of the bruises on his ribs. A gentle apology for the pain he's endured.

"You've gotta let me touch you, baby," he whispers against your hair, the pet name feeling surprisingly natural and unforced.

The word hangs in the air between you, a simple statement that changes everything. He's not asking for your body. He's asking for your trust. Your surrender. The thing he stole from you, he's now handing back to you, wrapped like a gift in a gentle plea.

"Okay," you whisper back. "Okay."

His hands resume their journey, but now there's a new purpose to them. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, the worn cotton stretching against his knuckles. He looks at you, a silent question in his eyes. You answer by lifting your hips, a small, decisive movement that allows him to pull them down and away.

He doesn't toss them aside. He folds them, almost absently, and places them on the nightstand, a small, domestic gesture that feels more intimate than anything that has happened so far.

Then he's looking at you. All of you. The light from outside cuts a diagonal across the bed, illuminating the soft curve of your stomach, the way your thighs press together, what lies between them. He doesn't stare. He looks, and you allow yourself to be looked at.

You've spent so many years feeling like an exhibit in a freak show. But here, in his stupid plaid bedroom, in the quiet dark of the night, you feel like a masterpiece finally being appreciated.

He softly taps your thigh, leaning over you to whisper in you ear. "Open up for me, baby."

His tone isn't demanding. He's not asking you to perform; he's asking you to share.

With a deep breath that feels like the first you've taken all night, you let your thighs fall open more.

His groan is soft, a sound that goes straight to your core as he looks at the most vulnerable part of you.

"Jesus Christ, look what you've been hiding."

It's crass and blunt and so undeniably him that it makes a real, bright laugh bubble up from your chest. His head snaps up, a sheepish grin spreading across his bruised face.

"What? Was that the wrong thing to say?"

"It was a terrible thing to say," you confirm, still laughing.

"But it made you laugh," he points out, looking proud of himself.

"It was a laugh of pity, Harrington." You tease, running your fingers through his already messy hair.

"So what's the right thing to say?" he asks, genuinely curious, his fingers tracing patterns on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you shiver. "Am I not allowed to tell you your pussy is pretty?"

"Pretty?" You repeat, almost suprised by the word he chose. You expected something else. Something cruder or more generic.

"Yeah, pretty. Its... soft. And you're so wet." He leans down and runs a single finger through your folds, gathering your arousal. He brings it to his lips, tasting you, and you watch, mesmerized as you feel your cheeks heat. "And sweet. So yeah. Pretty is a good word."

He's looking at you like you're a revelation, a secret he's just uncovered and wants to keep all to himself. He leans down, not to kiss your lips, but to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss right where you need him most.

His hazel eyes meet yours. His breath is warm on your clit when he speaks. "Can I taste you?" You just nod, unable to form words. He gives you one final smirk before he leans in to lap at you.

You've never had anyone do this before. He starts with soft kitten licks, exploring your folds, tasting you. His hands hold your soft thighs open, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there, a grounding touch. He takes his time, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you arch your back.

"Steve..." you breathe, your hands tangling in the sheets.

He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body. He moves one of your thighs over his shoulder, the new angle allowing him to go deeper. His tongue finds your clit and begins to circle it, slow and steady.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hips bucking against his face.

He chuckles, a low, smug sound that would be annoying if it didn't feel so good. His hands are all over you now, one holding your hip, the other wandering up to toy with a nipple. The dual stimulation is overwhelming in the best way.

You're close, so close, the tension coiling in your stomach, your breath coming in short, sharp pants. He must feel it, because he doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. That's all it takes. The world whites out, your back arching off the bed as you finish with a cry of his name.

He works you through it, his tongue gentling as you ride out the waves of pleasure. When you finally come back to yourself, he's pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, looking up at you with those plush lips covered in you.

He crawls up your body, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You can taste yourself on him, a sweet, musky taste that makes you dizzy.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice soft.

You nod, still a little dazed. "No one's ever... done that for me before." The admission feels huge in the quiet room.

"Yeah?" He looks genuinely surprised, a flicker of something dark in his eyes. "Did you like it?"

You let out a breathy laugh. "What do you think?"

An unguarded grin that transforms his face. "Good." He settles next to you, props his head up on his hand, looking down at you as his other hand traces the curves of your body. "We don't have to do anything else you know. It's not like... its okay."

You become very aware of how hard he is through his sweats against your thigh. "Did you tell him that?"

"He has been known to be an idiot." He confirms with a small chuckle. "I don't wanna... rush this. Or fuck this up." He looks so earnest you feel your heart clench. "And also you called him intimidating, so..."

That coaxes another laugh out of you. "It was a joke, Steve."

"No, I know." He kisses your shoulder. "But I also want to be careful with you."

You're silent for a long moment, your hand resting on the warm, solid plane of his chest. "I want to," you say, the words quiet but sure. "I want to with you."

"Are you sure?" he asks, searching your face. "Wait... have you done this before?"

"Yeah...just..." you let out a deep breath before the emotional vulnerability. "Not like this. Where it...means something?"

His eyes soften at that. "Then we'll go slow."

He leans in, kissing you again, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of promise and everything you've been working toward. He tenses, then looks at you like he forgot a step. "This isn't just a one-time thing right? Because I can't go back to pretending like I don't want you. Haven't been able to for a while now."

Your breath hitches. "I don't want this to be a one-time thing."

"Okay." He lets out a breath he'd clearly been holding. "Okay." He kisses you again, deeper this time as your hands hook into his sweats. He lifts his hips, helping you pull them down. He wasn't wearing anything underneath.

You look at him, fully, and he's beautiful in the low light. He's long and thick, and the sight of him makes your own arousal spike again, a fresh wave of slick heat.

"Remember what you said about my pussy being pretty?" You whisper, a little awestruck.

He flushes, a deep pink that spreads down his chest. "Don't say stuff like that."

"Why not?" You reach out, wrapping your hand around him. He's velvety and hot, impossibly hard. "Not fair when it's turned around on you?"

"Something like that," he groans as you slowly stroke him.

"God, the way you look at me, Steve," you whisper. "No one's ever looked at me like that."

"How do they look at you?" he asks, his voice strained as you thumb the head of him, spreading the bead of pre-come.

"They don't," you say simply. "They look at my body. They don't look at me."

"Then they're all fucking idiots," he says, his breath hitching as your movements become a little more confident. "Every last one of them."

His hips jerk, pushing himself into your hand. One of his hands pushes your thigh over, fingers teasing your entrance, gathering the mess there.

"Gonna get you ready f'me," he groans, leaning in to press a kiss against the side of your breast. "Get you so wet."

You already are. He could slide into you right now and you wouldn't feel any pain, only a delicious stretch. But you let him play, let him explore. He pushes one finger inside, then another. He finds that spot inside you, the one that makes you see stars, and he rubs it, slow and deliberate.

"Gonna feel so good around me," he whispers against your skin. "You're gonna take me so well, aren't you?"

You can only nod, your hand still stroking him, your movements matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you. The room is filled with the sounds of your breathing, the slick sounds of your arousal, the quiet rustle of the sheets.

"Okay, okay..." He breathes out, gently moving your hand off of him. "Not gonna last if we keep this up."

He pulls his fingers out, and the sudden emptiness feels almost evil of him. Your pout catches his eye and he kisses you quickly before reaching over to grab a condom from his nightstand. "Gonna fix that pout real soon, baby."

You don't think you'll every get sick of how pet name word sounds coming from his lips. He fumbles with the wrapper, his hands shaking slightly. You take it from him, your own hands steady, and rip it open. You roll it down his length, your touch firm and sure, and he watches you, his eyes dark with a mix of awe and desire.

He positions himself over you, settling between your thighs. The head of him nudges against your entrance, and you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders.

"I've got you, I've got you," he murmurs, lowering himself to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Tell me if it's too much."

He pushes in, so slow it's almost torturous. He's a perfect, steady pressure, a delicious stretch that fills you up inch by inch. He's watching your face, his gaze intense, searching for any sign of discomfort.

You wonder if the faces you make are weird or unnattractive, but he only looks at you with reverence. "God, look at you..." he says, and you flush, the compliment both thrilling and mortifying. "So beautiful when you're all stretched out on my cock."

You can't help the laugh that bubbles out, a breathy, sound of surprise. He's bold, you'll give him that. But it's so authentic that you don't want him to be anyone else.

"You're almost there, pretty girl. You're doing so good." He's kissing the laugh from your lips. "Almost all the way in."

He bottoms out with a soft groan, and you both still for a moment, just breathing. The feeling is overwhelming, a fullness that is both a comfort and a challenge. He's a solid, heavy weight on top of you, his body a welcome anchor in the sea of strange events.

"Feel good? Am I hurting you?" he asks, pulling back just enough to look at you, his brows furrowed with concern.

"It feels... really good," you manage to say. "Just...gimme a minute..."

He moves a hand underneath you, resting it on the small of your back, a steadying presence. "All the time you need."

You take a deep breath, focusing on the feeling of him inside you, the way he's looking at you, the safe, quiet reality of his room. You experimentally roll your hips, a small, tentative movement that makes him gasp.

"Mmm, those hips of yours are dangerous..." He says, eyes closing as he pushes a stray piece of hair from your face. "Knew I liked them for a reason."

He was telling you something he wanted you to know. So you did it again. And again, establishing a rhythm that was slow and lazy. He starts to move with you, a counterpoint to your movements, and soon you're both lost in it, a slow, deliberate dance in the dark.

"My bossy girl, setting the pace. I like it." He pants a bit, sweat starting to form on his brow. "C'mon, baby, tell me what you need."

You can't find the words. You just tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper, a silent plea for more. He seems to understand, because he pulls one of your thighs over his hip, changing the angle, and you both groan at the new, deeper contact.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead resting against yours. "You feel like... heaven. Softest thighs I've ever felt. Wettest pussy I've ever been in."

The crude praise is so raw, so unfiltered, that it makes you clench around him. He hisses, his hips stuttering.

"You like that, don't you?" he asks, a smug grin spreading across his face. "You like hearing how good you feel. Y'deserve to know, baby."

It's an offhand comment, a bit of dirty talk that in any other context might have made you cringe. But now, in the quiet dark of his room, it feels like a revelation. He's not just tolerating your body; he's celebrating it.

The coil in your stomach tightens, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak, as he picks up the pace. The angle and the speed makes your breasts bounce in a way that makes you want to cover up. You move your hands from his shoulders, but he doesn't let you hide from him.

The hand not holding your thigh is quick to move your arms above your head, pinning them to the pillow. "No. Need to see you."

You whine, a mix of pleasure and the old, familiar shame. You can't help the way your body moves. "I don't... they move too much."

He leans down, pressing a soft, messy kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Please, baby. Your tits look so good when they bounce for me."

It's a struggle. A battle between the years of conditioning that tells you to hide and the overwhelming pleasure of the present, of the way he's looking at you, like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. The pleasure wins.

"Steve..." you gasp, your back arching, pushing your breasts closer to him.

"That's it..." he leans down, thrusting harder as his lips and tongue shower your chest with messy attention. "Prettiest tits I've ever seen. All for me." 

You believe him. In this room, in this bed, you believe him.

He's close, you can feel it in the way his movements become more erratic, in the desperate, breathy sounds he's making against your skin. It all feels so good you don't even register his release on your arms until his thumb is circling your clit with purpose.

"You can give me another one, can't you baby?" His husky voice makes you clench. "Just one more for me? You look so pretty when you come for me."

You're already teetering on the edge, and the added stimulation is enough to send you over.

"That's it, honey. Drench me." He groans, kissing you through the aftershocks of your second orgasm of the night.

No one has every made you come this much in one night. Hell, in one lifetime. You can hear how wet you are as he chases his own release, never stopping the rhythm that got you there.

"Hear that baby? That's all for me, huh? God, I'm so lucky..." He grunts, the sounds he makes getting more desperate as he starts to lose the steady thrusts he had.

"Steve..." you moan as he presses as deep as he can, filling you completely as he comes with a choked groan of your name.

The room is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing. He's still inside you, a weight that anchors you to the earth. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, and you can feel the frantic flutter of his pulse against your skin. The way his lips move to give the softest, sleepiest kisses to your neck, like he can't even help it.

For a long moment, you just lay there, two bodies tangled together in the dark, the world outside this room ceasing to exist. You can feel the gentle, slowing beat of his heart against your chest, the steady rhythm that lulls you into a state of drowsy contentment.

He shifts, pulling out of you slowly, the loss of him an unexpected ache. He deals with the condom, his movements a little clumsy, before collapsing back onto the bed, pulling you into the circle of his arms.

When  you look up at him, he's already looking at you, a small, soft smile playing on his lips. He brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face, almost a signature move just for you at this point, his touch impossibly gentle. The fight, the fear, the years of misunderstandings— all of it seems to have melted away, leaving only this quiet, tender moment.

"You're... wow," he whispers, the word a puff of air against your forehead. "I do not deserve you."

"I'm too cool for you. Dustin said so." You give a weak tease.

"Don't bring up the kids," he groans dramatically. "I can't be vulnerable if I'm thinking about Henderson's smug face."

You let out a small laugh, burying your face in his chest. He gives a squeeze before pulling back a lttle.

"Gotta get you cleaned up." The words are punctuated by a kiss to your hair as he gets up to get a wash cloth from the bathroom down the hall. You sit up a little to watch him leave. He didn't bother with any clothes, and your eyes catch the way the bruise on his hip is deep purple. He moves with a slight limp. He said he was fine, but he isn't. Not really. But when he comes back, he's smiling that familiar Harrington grin.

He's gentle as he cleans you up, his movements slow, deliberate.

"I know you were looking at my ass when I left the room, perv." He smirks as he finishes up.

"I was looking at the bruise on your hip, actually." You respond, trying to pull the sheet over your naked form. "The ass is just a bonus."

The smile on Steve's face softens at that, before he comes back to lay down, pulling the both of you under the covers. He's facing you, but you can feel him still. It's a lot of feeling.

"I'll be okay." He says, as if reading your mind.

"That's not what I'm worried about." You admit. "I'm worried about what happens tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, we wake up and I take you home all sneaky so your parents don't have a collective aneurysm. And then I pick you up later and we go check on some people." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Because now you're my girlfriend. And you're part of this. As much as I didn't ever want you to have to deal with it."

"What?"

"I mean, yeah that... human flesh monster is dead or whatever, but that doesn't mean its over. Theres the emotional part too, I mean Max saw–" 

"No, that part I get, Steve." You cut him off, not wanting to think about the horrors a thirteen year old girl saw tonight. "The other part."

"The part about your parents? I mean they've always liked me, so I really don't want to get on their bad side now--"

"The 'girlfriend' part, Steve!" You raise your voice just a bit, which is enough to make him stop and look down at you. "You don't just... declare that. You're supposed to ask."

"Oh." He blinks. "Right. Well. Can I... be your boyfriend?"

The question is so stilted, so formal and awkward coming from him, a boy who has probably never had to ask for anything in his life, that it makes a smile twitch at your lips.

"Is that really your pitch?"

"Were the orgasms not enough? Because I can give you a third. I'm a giver." He wiggles his eyebrows, a caricature of suave confidence that feels so much more like the Steve Harrington you know. It's a shield, you realize. A way to deflect from the terrifying vulnerability of what he just asked.

Your laugh is bright and clear this time. "No. The orgasms were... a significant contributing factor. But I want to hear you ask me for real."

He looks at you a little confused, so you clarify despite the embarassment. "I've never been someone's girlfriend before. I want it to be... special."

The words hang in the air, and you're suddenly sure you've said too much. Too much honesty, too much want. He's going to laugh. He's going to make a joke and this fragile thing between you will shatter.

But he doesn't. His expression softens, the cocky smirk falling away.

He gets out of the bed, fully nude still, hands on his hips. "Okay, you're right." He paces to the end of the bed and back, a nervous energy thrumming through him. "Right. A pitch."

He's thinking. You can see the gears turning in that pretty head of his. He looks down at you, and you've pulled the sheet up to your chin. "Alright. Can you... not do that? Makes me feel like you're hiding from me again."

So you let the sheet fall a little, to just above your breasts. The blush on your face is a permanent fixture now.

"Okay," he starts, running a hand through his messy hair. "Okay. We're going to do it right."

He goes down on one knee by the bed, the move surprisingly graceful for a boy so battered. He takes your hand, his grip firm and warm.

"I want to take you on dates. To the movies, and to the diner, and to the fucking moon if you'll let me." He looks up at you, his hazel eyes impossibly earnest. "I want to hold your hand when we walk downtown and listen to all my shitty old friends make fun of me for being 'pussy-whipped'. I want to drive you to work every single day. You know, once we find new jobs."

He pauses, taking a breath, and you can see the nerves in the way his thumb strokes your knuckles. "I've... I've been kind of an asshole to you for a long, long time. And I know I can't just take that back. But I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it. I want to protect you from monsters, and from mean girls, and from any old version of myself. Not that you need it, you're very headstrong." He gives a small smile. "I want to know what your favorite book is, and what you're afraid of. I want to know what makes you cry and what makes you laugh so hard you snort."

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand. "So... will you... let me be your boyfriend?"

"You did all this while naked," is the first thing out of your mouth, a little breathless. The sincerity of his speech was overwhelming, and your brain latched onto the one detail it could process without short-circuiting.

He looks down at himself, a flicker of surprise on his face as if he'd forgotten he wasn't wearing any clothes. "Well, it's... symbolic. Of my vulnerability."

"It's symbolic of your exhibitionism."

"Let's call it both," he says with a grin, but then he sobers, his gaze fixed on yours. He's waiting. He's really, truly waiting for an answer.

You can feel the ghost of the old you, telling you to retreat. To push down all the vulnerability. To put the walls back up.

But, stronger, is the lingering presence of another old you.

The little girl with two braids and a red jacket. The little girl who remembers the doe eyed boy who gave her a Valentine every year. The boy who came to every birthday party. Who listened to her talk about books just to hear her voice.

It's clear to you in that moment, that she knew more than she realized.

She knew that vulnerability was far more powerful than closing yourself off.

"Okay," you say, the word a quiet whisper in the dim room. "Yes."

His whole body seems to relax, a wave of relief washing over him so palpable you can feel it. He leans up, bracing a hand on the mattress beside you, and kisses you. It's not a kiss of passion or desire, but one of profound, overwhelming gratitude.

"I'm going to be so good to you," he whispers against your lips. "I promise."

You believe him.

He climbs back into bed, pulling the covers over both of you. He wraps himself around you, his body a warm, solid presence that chases away the last of the lingering fear from the night. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart.

And from then on, you're just that. A boy and a girl, tangled together in a small town, trying to navigate the messy, complicated business of growing up. And sometimes interdimensional warfare.

He doesn't take you to the moon. But he does take you to the movies. He pays for your ticket and buys you a tub of popcorn so large you can barely wrap your hands around it. He doesn't try to put his arm around you in the theater. Instead, he holds your hand, his thumb stroking the back of it in a slow, steady rhythm that is more intimate than any public display of affection.

He takes you to the diner, and you sit in a sticky vinyl booth, sharing a chocolate milkshake with two straws without caring who sees.

He doesn't just listen when you talk; he asks questions. He wants to know why you like the books you like, what you think about the ending of the last one you read. He remembers the little things, like how you like extra pickles on your burger and how you hate when your ice cream gets too melted.

He's Steve Harrington, and he's your boyfriend. It feels like a dream.

But you no longer wait for the alarm to go off or the other shoe to drop. The nightmare is over. The one you had of being back in that decorated gymnasium is gone, because you know that the boy in that room is not the same boy holding your hand. He's not. He's grown, just like you have.

"You're thinking too loud," Steve murmurs one afternoon, pulling you from your thoughts. You're laying on his bedroom floor in the apartment he shares with Robin, a tangled mess of limbs on a worn-out blanket. The radio is playing low, some song you don't recognize but that has a good beat. His fingers are tracing lazy patterns on your stomach, just beneath the hem of your shirt.

"Sorry," you say, your voice a little breathless.

"What's the dial in there turned to?" He pokes your temple.

"The future."

He props himself up on an elbow, looking down at you, a strand of his hair falling into his eyes. "That's a big one. Any conclusions?"

"Just one," you say, reaching up to brush the hair from his face. "I think I'd like to see what mine looks like with you in it."

A slow, beautiful smile spreads across his face. He leans down and kisses you, a soft, lingering kiss that tastes of sunshine and the cherry cola you were both drinking.

"Yeah," he says, his forehead resting against yours. "We have that in common."

i really hope you guys like this, it was vulnerable for me to post too.

I want to start a taglist for each of the characters i write for, so comment if you'd like to be a part of the Steve one!

[ame-soeurx-deactivated20250906]

Kissing a cute brunette with beautiful eyes is basic needs

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

[merrrpppp]

I would like one large order of intimacy and affection pls. With fries.

[stuffedwithsteve]

[gaptoothluv]

Ever Since New York - masterlist

• • .·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

steve harrington x fem reader | best friends to strangers to lovers | slow burn... like 8 years slow burn | miscommunication | bestfriend!steve, neighbour!steve, rockstar!steve | set in 90s & 00s | eventual smut summary: you and steve were joint at the hip since birth - he had been your best friend for as long as you could remember. your neighbour, your confidant, your person. until high school when you got a boyfriend, and distance was placed between you - steve realised his true feelings. after graduation, you didn’t speak for six years, until you see him on stage performing in a band with your roommates new boyfriend. except when you’re introduced, he acts as if he doesn’t know who you are. pretending that he doesn’t write all of his songs about you. that he followed his band to new york because he heard through the grapevine you might be living there.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

OUT OF TIME | steve harrington

You and Steve Harrington are out of time.

pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 1.6k contains: mature themes, heavy angst, apocalypse au, friends to lovers, hurt/no comfort, major character deaths, brief mention of unaliving self but does not take place witin the story, brief description of corpses, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

author's note: i'm so sorry for this one. please do not read if you are uncomfortable with the above warnings!

to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page

"Do you think th-that—it's going to take a while?" You ask Steve quietly, the lump in your throat like a stone as you look at him sitting on the floor beside you.

Steve glances back at you before his eyes shift down to the mark bite on your forearm—the one near identical to the one on his own. He shallows before he shakes his head.

"I reckon we have—half an hour at most. The infection's already spreading," he says, voice thick with emotion as he points to the dark veins that run up his arm, the skin that was blackening around the bite mark from the infected that lay only a few feet away with a bullet in its brain.

You look down at your own arm and see the darkness spreading through your veins too. Something heavy settles in your chest.

Thirty minutes. That was all you had left.

It was stupid really. Both you and Steve knew you shouldn't have left the safety of Hawkins. You knew that you shouldn't have left the small and tight knit community where there were people who loved you, running water and plenty of resources but Steve had wanted to get Dustin a new comic book for his birthday, for some semblance of normalcy for the kid and you hadn't wanted him to go alone. You had snuck out plenty of times before and you had both naively presumed that a walk to the town not even twenty minutes away wouldn’t be a problem.

But now—you'd never return home and the others would likely find your bodies when they would inevitably come looking for you in a few days' time. All because you had forgotten to check the basement. And now—you were both paying the ultimate price.

It was unspoken, what you both had to do in order to stop yourself from turning into an infected. The cyanide pills that were always tucked into your backpack just in case had been sitting on the floor in front of the both of you, taunting you.

“I’m—” you begin, your voice thick with tears.

“Don’t you dare,” Steve mutters, already anticipating what you were about to say. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. I’m the one who wanted to come here.”

“But I didn’t check the—”

“—I don’t want you dying blaming yourself,” Steve interrupts, his voice breaking slightly when he looks back at you.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you quietly accept it—the fact you and Steve Harrington were going to die on the floor of a comic book store. The fact you were going to die beside the man you loved.

There was no saving grace here. Just you, Steve and the inevitability of death. Inevitable because there was no cure. Nothing that could save either of you from the infection that was already spreading through your body.

"Least we're together," Steve murmurs, looking at you with a soft expression. You notice the tears in his eyes but you don't comment on them. "We're not alone."

You watch then as Steve holds out one of his large hands, palm up, for you to take. You swallow before you place your hand over his. His touch brings a warmth to you that not even the deadly infection could take away.

"That makes things a little better." You say, blinking away tears as you look back at him with a faint smile. 

"You think so?" Steve asks, nudging his knee with yours as he manages a small smile. "Wouldn't you rather Robin be talking your ear off or talking to Nance about that book you both like?"

You shake your head before you wipe away some of your tears. "No. There's no one else I'd rather be with you than you. No one.”

It was the most honest yet terrifying thing you could have said. And yet—there was not a single part of you that was scared because the only thing more certain than the fact you were going to die was the fact that you loved him. Not even death would take that away.

Steve blinks, his hand in yours stills for a moment before he asks. “What—does that mean that you—”

“Yeah,” you whisper back quietly with a small squeeze of his hand. A shared understanding in that gentle squeeze, in the look in your eyes. “Not the best timing for…confessing my feelings but if we’re going to—you know—I just, I wanted you to know.”

Steve says your name and you’re quick to shake your head. Because you didn’t want pity or for him to be sorry that he didn’t feel the same—

“It’s fine, Steve. You don’t have to—”

“—no, look at me. Please.”

You do. Because it was Steve and you loved him and you would do almost anything he said.

When you look at him you can see the sorrow in his eyes. The devastation that his and your life would soon come to an end. But also the flicker of something softer, something you couldn’t quite decipher but made the weight in your chest feel a touch lighter.

“There’s no one else I’d rather spend my last moments with than you,” Steve tells you, his other hand cupping your cheek. His thumb gently strokes across your skin, touching you as though you were more precious than gold.

Your face feels warm and you try to stop the smile from spreading across your face as you look back at Steve, tears falling down your cheeks, everything beginning to feel a little hazy as the infection continues to spread but none of that seemed to matter as Steve Harrington smiled back at you.

“You mean that?” You ask quietly. “You really—”

“—’course I do,” Steve whispers. “It’s you. It’s only ever been you. It’ll always be you.”

You barely have time to breathe, to comprehend what he had just said before Steve’s lips are against yours. You let out a soft, startled sound of surprise before you melt into him. There was no gentleness, no hesitation, just years of build up and unspoken words that had been burning between the two of you for years. His mouth was almost desperate to taste every inch of yours before everything came to an end.

Your fingers found themselves carding through his hair as your lips molded against his and for a moment, you could almost convince yourself that you weren’t going to die. That you and Steve would make it out of this, that you’d have years together. Maybe you’d even have a family or you’d live long enough for there to be a cure for the damn infection that had swept across the globe.

But it was with a bone crushing realisation when Steve pulls away from you in order to catch his breath that you don’t have time. You don't have years, you don’t have days. You barely have an hour. You would not live to know what a lifetime would have looked like with Steve. All you had was half an hour before the infection took over your mind and you would have to take the pills before you lost yourselves completely.

You let out a sob before you could stop it. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get more time,” Steve whispers, pressing his forehead against yours so his warm breath kisses your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper back, something in your chest twisting when you see a tear slip down Steve’s cheek. “Half an hour will do.”

It was a lie, it was a damn lie because whether it was an hour you had, or a day, a year or even a lifetime, it wouldn’t have been enough. No matter what time you had with Steve, it would have never been enough. But in that moment, it was a lie you both chose to believe.

“I love you,” Steve tells you, the words building a warmth you couldn’t quite describe. “I love you and I need you to know that before we—”

Your eyes flickered back down to the small box on the floor in front of you before looking back at Steve.

“I love you too,” you breathe out. “So much.”

“We’ll see Eddie again,” Steve says hopefully, wiping away your tears gently as he sniffles. “And Chrissy. El. Bob.”

“Eddie’s gonna give you an earful when you tell him you broke his guitar,” you say with a wet laugh.

“What’s he gonna do?” Steve asks. “Kill me again?”

It wasn’t funny, not even a little bit but it makes you laugh anyway. And it doesn’t take long for Steve to laugh too.

“If the last thing I get to see is your smile then it’s a pretty good way to go out,” Steve smiles, eyes shining with tears. “All things considered.”

“Hope the last thing I hear is your laugh. Or one of your really bad jokes.”

“My jokes are great.”

“Debatable.”

Steve’s hands shake slightly before you pull you back in for another kiss. Then another and another and another until you weren’t sure where you ended and Steve began, until you were surely to run out of breath.

“I love you,” Steve murmurs against your lips. “I love you, I love you, I love—”

“I love you too,” you tell him before you shut him up by pulling him back in.

Tears were still falling down your cheeks and Steve was clinging to you like you were his only reason to keep breathing. You weren’t sure how long you had before you began to lose your mind but you knew that you weren’t going to be alone. That Steve would be right there with you as you journey from life to the new adventure of death.

And days later, when Hopper found both you and Steve on the floor of the comic book shop, he’d found the two of you still holding hands—finally at peace, together at last.

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[forkstabmepls]

Longtime Love

Steve Harrington x Autistic!Fem!Reader

Description: Steve and you; little descriptions from childhood to adulthood, and a snippet of life between venturing into a freezing hellhole and your hometown being monitored.

Warnings: established relationship, childhood sweethearts, minor asshole!Steve but like the canon bits and he knocks it off, I am not autistic; mentions of food, sex, cannabis intox, canon-typical violence, kids, Steve & reader want to start a family someday, aversion to oatmeal; mean behavior towards reader (referenced! from Carol and Tommy). Steve & Nancy never happened. Reader wants to play DnD but her and Steve don’t know a lot on it. She’s undiagnosed. Umm mention of Steve peeing on a wall.

Please note: Neurodivergency (of any kind) is different for everybody! I cannot claim my way of describing and writing this reader will feel fit for everyone.

Requested here.

WC: 1,837

You first met Steve in kindergarten.

At the time he was more reserved than most of Hawkins High came to know him. But he became your friend, and you his.

You would go over to Steve’s house to have playdates, sit with each other at lunch, hang together on the playground.

In middle school you two started going out, with your long-term best friend asking you to be his girlfriend. It began with smoothie dates, weekend visits to arcades, bowling, the pool if you had someone to drive you.

Going into high school you had struggles here and there; in previous grades, you always, assuredly had Steve, who made you feel secure if and when times got tough.

Then he met Carol and Tommy who you… weren’t excessively fond of.

They shared a tendency to be rude to you, despite you being Steve’s girlfriend and closest companion.

You disliked them, and shared that with him. In the beginning he brushed it off.

They were just kidding, he’d say. But you didn’t think they were.

It’s just harmless fun. But you weren’t having fun.

For a while you stopped associating with Steve in school, and were less affectionate with him outside of it as well.

But even with his popularity and disregard for some . . . you were his favorite person. To say he cares a great deal for you would be an understatement.

So one day when you were avoiding him—them, he told himself—he asked why they were always picking on you.

They simply found it funny. It wasn’t a big deal, and you shouldn’t have been taking it like such a baby; they just wanted a laugh.

According to them, the jokes went over your head anyway.

Steve realised that if so-called friends of his felt comfortable being nasty to you, with or without you there, that he didn’t want to be around them. Not to jeopardize your relationship; your place in his life.

So he told them off.

Then he went to you with cheap flowers and sincere but not very well spoken apologies.

It took a few weeks, showing you he recognized how his actions weren’t great, and prioritizing you from then on.

Really you didn’t mind Steve smoking weed, or wanting to stay out late in his car, fooling around at some cliffside spot where probably half of Hawkins was conceived; you just didn’t want him to treat others or you badly. And you chose not to accept his company doing that either.

And, actually, the marijuana you tried yourself on multiple occasions. You liked how it seemed to mute some anxieties. Ones Steve didn’t understand but genuinely tried to—and even you couldn’t quite make sense of.

You didn’t feel irregular. But at the same time, it was hard not to notice when Steve would laugh at something you missed, or you two would have fights as couples and friends tend to, and he’d try defending his emotions by saying things like “I’m not mad, I’m frustrated.”

They were the same thing.

It seemed almost like a language barrier.

But through years of communication and shared experiences, he picked up on a lot of these things.

When you’d spend the night—his parents being gone, and saying they ‘trusted you two’; either code for we don’t care, or, we’re naive—you declined oatmeal, apparently minding the texture.

Steve had rarely paid much mind to food beside taste, but he didn’t question your preferences.

Who gives a fuck if you don’t want the oatmeal? It wasn’t that good anyway.

So you two would eat cereal, or go out for breakfast at some diner for an average fourteen buck total.

You liked having him lay on you, feeling secure from the pressure of his body on your own.

It was a welcome, comforting weight.

And Steve most certainly took no issue with having your chest for a pillow. Or just being close to you.

Thus you spent your life with Steve, growing and making discoveries together from a young age.

When he first learned to drive, you were in the passenger seat, and he taught you himself not long after.

His favorite memories are with you. Appropriate and other.

It was with you that Steve realised he wanted a family of his own someday. And by talking to you, it was understood you both wished for the same things.

Eventually.

When he started working at Scoops Ahoy, you also had a job, outside of the mall since you disliked the constant noise.

The perpetually loud and crowded atmosphere.

Having a car of his own, your boyfriend would either visit you on lunch breaks, or you two’d wait until after work to spend your time together.

Meaning a certain five-language-speaking girl did not know of you, and did not believe her idiot coworker actually had a girlfriend when he’d mention—well, you.

Sure, he was wanted by a large amount of their school—annoyingly so—but commitment? Nah, you were definitely made up.

So, as she and him were loaded on mysterious drugs, upending their stomachs in the mall’s bathroom, she got the wrong idea.

It was funny, really.

Robin had believed Steve was coming on to her, and despite her finding him a jerk in school, she thought him nice enough then that she intended to spare his feelings.

And that was after she saw him piss on a wall.

But apparently in his inebriated stupor, he’d been referencing you, his aforementioned, supposed ‘girlfriend’.

Still, she had revealed to him her… secret… outing herself and gaining a surprising ally in Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington.

Then she met you, the famous lover of the retired jock.

Despite Steve’s protests—“worry” that you received as anger—you refused to stay away while he himself was in danger.

You hadn’t been too shocked before when you two learned there was monsters among you.

It didn’t come off too hard to believe, but did instill in you new layers of stress.

Life already felt… something of a threat to navigate.

You didn’t know why, but that was the case.

At least this had a reasonable explanation for being fucking scary. But it in no way soothed your fears of something happening to yourself, or those you care about.

Sitting in the bimmer you stare out the window, gazing vacantly at the passing trees.

Steve glances at you, not keeping his sights from the road for long though.

“You okay?” he checks in, turning his head again. Placing a hand atop your closest leg.

You nod. He nearly misses it.

“Are you hungry?”

Another nod.

It’s dark, late.

“Wanna stop for something?” he further asks.

“…No,” you say. It was the first you spoke in a few hours, but that no longer worried him. “Just go home.”

Home.

Steve knew you meant his place (even if it was his parents’. They didn’t stay there much anyway).

He’d been thinking lately about the future; actually moving out and getting something of your own, together…

The whole Upside Down mess would need to be sorted first . . . However that’d turn out.

And he’d probably need to save more. He hadn’t looked too deep into the housing market.

But ‘buyers market’ sounded good. Whatever that was. He could maybe try asking you.

Or Dustin.

Or Nancy.

For now, he’d just take you both back to his house.

When you got there, you two went inside and heated some leftovers, sitting at the counter to eat.

The place was quiet. It had been for a long time. But Steve had learned with you that not all silence equals isolation.

Once the dishes were put up in the sink, bellies full, you came close to Steve and put your nose to his clothed shoulder.

“You smell like sweat.”

Chuckling softly, he maneuvers to face you.

“Thanks.”

It’s not like you didn’t catch the sarcasm. In this case you did.

You didn’t see the problem though with saying it—you weren’t being mean, simply commenting; informing him.

Others labeled you rude sometimes.

Steve said he didn’t mind. And took no offense.

He just likes ‘teasing’ you, and, ‘thinks you’re cute’.

According to him.

“Can we shower before bed?”

“Yeah, baby, we can go shower.”

Once clean and tucked into bed (the sheets of which would probably never be changed if not for your influence) you lie close to your boyfriend, welcoming his touch.

Two pairs of his clothes, on two bodies snuggled beneath blankets. He found you liked the heavier ones, so he’d long-ago stolen them from the guest room.

“Do you think Robin would play?”

Giving a questioning hum, which is subdued in volume, he angles his gaze to catch yours.

It was up to you if you avoided it or not.

“Inside thoughts, babe,” he murmurs. “Play what?”

“DnD,” you answer back, realising you’d been having a mental note he wasn’t privy to.

“Ah.”

That was how you two first got involved in this whole ‘giant murderous monsters’ business.

You were about sixteen, just trying to ask Nancy Wheeler’s little brother Mike how to play since you’d heard about it and thought it may’ve been fun.

Steve did not share the sentiment, but supported your desires; you want to play some strange game that as far as he knew was nothing like Monopoly?

Sure, he’ll try it with you.

Instead, you two got redirected by a twelve-year-old who needed your boyfriend’s help to relocate or dispose of or trap some demonic dog thing.

Dustin later told you how to play, and suggested having more than just you and Steve since apparently four plus another was standard? or best? Something like that.

But then you were busy with . . . life, honestly. And evil entities. So you didn’t find much time for a while to figure that out.

“Maybe…?” the brunette supplies. “Probably. I’m sure she would, if you ask?”

“Yeah,” you agree, “maybe. We still don’t totally know how to play, though.”

He definitely did not know at all, but he assumed you likely held the general… rules.

You missed some social cues, but you retained knowledge very well in certain areas, particularly those interesting to you.

Many might be surprised that you do talk freely (and a lot) when you have something you want to ramble about to your partner.

Or Robin, as you sparked a lovely friendship with her too when you met.

She didn’t call you strange or ridicule you for speaking out of turn.

“Maybe Will would wanna play with us,” you wonder.

Steve wasn’t sure . . . but maybe if you asked him.

He probably wouldn’t say no, even if he didn’t want to.

It would likely have to wait, anyway; things were picking up. But Steve promised, and if you two’re still alive whenever this—situation is resolved, then he’d keep good on that and learn how to do tabletop roleplay.

For you.

“Goodnight, baby.”

“G’night.” You cuddle up closer to him, as he’s got an arm wrapped tenderly around your shoulders.

Hi so sorry (this is just a routine message by now when doing requests) for the late posting 😝 love you guys, please bear with me while I’m busy and inactive 💔 I should be posting more as of now…? Maybe? I’ve got fics I’m working on, at least.

Okay. Hope y’all could enjoy this?? Rest well and be awesome 🫶💕

And I hope this was okay; feel free to request more even though I’m slow!! I’m all right with it.

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[barnesonfilm]

tis the damn season

★ summary: the road you swore you’d never take again leads you back to steve, right back to your hometown. it always leads to him.

★ pairing: ex!fiance!steve harrington x reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, arguments, jealousy, illusions to cheating but none actually, toxic relationship traits (just as a treat) ,car sex, semi public sex, unprotected sex, p in v, oral, rough sex, breeding kink, size kink, dirty mouth steve harrington, CANON big dick steve harrington

★ word count: 13.8k

★ notes: we are a week behind. no we’re two weeks behind 😁 pretend it’s christmas!!! find my steve masterlist here!

The Holidays rolling around always left a bad taste in your mouth, the subtle shift in the seasons trudging up memories you’d rather leave dead and buried. Instead, the moment the air chilled and the leaves began to fall, you were thrown back into the highlight reel of the best times of your life that now hurt with every breath you took. He still haunted your once-shared apartment; the city echoed his name wherever you turned. Even when he moved back home, you couldn’t face it. Avoiding spots you frequented together was easy. You could lose yourself in the city lights. Going back to your small hometown, you shared with him?

Not easy, not in the slightest. Small towns chewed you up and left you for dead. Everyone would associate you with him, and the risk of seeing each other was the highest it’s ever been. Your friend groups overlapped, all of them no doubt hating your guts. You could see it now, their faux empathetic looks, the glares of disgust being sent your way. The girl who dragged her fiancé to a big city, only to leave him in the dust behind her, unknowingly. 

This was all you could dread while standing on your childhood home’s front porch step for the first time in a year. You tried not to think about a year ago when your left hand was heavier and your smile wider. Instead, you mustered up a pathetic smile, welcoming your family with open arms. Praying to drop the topic that was your personal life, which surely wouldn’t last as long as you’d hope. 

The first crack came at dinner that night, your mother pulled out all the stops, a roasted chicken with all the sides. Before you could finish your plate, she cleared her throat loudly. 

“I don’t wanna say much. But you need to know that I saw Steve at the grocery store the other day with all those kids. His parents left town again, so he’s all alone in that big house.” If she saw you flinch at the sound of his name, she didn’t address it. 

“Thanks for the heads up. And the pity party attempt, mom.” You managed to get out, dropping your fork. Your appetite now undoubtedly ruined. 

A few moments of silence passed before Mom took that as an opportunity to keep going. “You know they’re still family to you. They’d love to see you. I’m still planning on bringing them a pie. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without-” 

“Mom, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t.” You snapped, pulling the chair out more dramatically than you should have. 

“Y/m/n.” Your father sighed, pleading with his eyes for you to stay. “Let’s change the subject, shall we? How’s work been?”

Thankful for his diversion, you managed to get out some basics about work. The simple generic small talk. The only thing you could stomach. You just had to get through the next week, and everything would be fine. Right? 

Word of your arrival in town spread like wildfire; you knew it would the moment someone drove past your parents' house and saw your car out front. The first person to call came as a surprise, your mother holding out the kitchen phone for you. None other than Robin on the line. The last time you spoke to her, you were choking back sobs, screaming at her to tell you where Steve had gone. 

The night your life fell apart in front of your eyes was nearly 6 months ago. After 8 months of an engagement, the two of you decided to move, Chicago, calling your name. A fresh start, not too far from home. A place away from the expectations that lingered above his head, the ghosts that haunted underneath the town. You told yourself it was just stress from the move, stress from Steve having a hard time finding a job he loved. You convinced yourself that the distance that had grown between you two was normal. Wedding planning had been put on hold, simply trying to get through each day at a time. You weren’t in the city for 2 months before it came crashing down in front of your eyes. 

It was a normal day, until it wasn’t. You came home from work, your home absent of the joy it used to bring. In the same kitchen he used to pick you up and spin you around in, he sat against the table. Illuminated by nothing but the city lights peering in through the window. Your keys hitting the bowl on the counter echoed through the still house. 

“I can’t do this anymore.” He said, no pleasantries, no welcome home. Five words that tore open your chest, leaving you gasping for air. 

“What?” You laughed because what else was there for you to do? Shock had taken over your body, feet glued to the spot. Overcoat still on, work bag dangling from your arm. 

“This. Us.” He spoke through clenched teeth, tears staining his cheeks. “I can’t keep sitting in this apartment day in and day out, alone. Contributing nothing. You’re gonna end up hating me. If you don’t already.” 

The bag slipped from your arm with a heavy thud. Rushing over to him, standing across from the table. “What are you talking about? Where is this coming from?” 

“It’s been coming for a while, Y/n. We both keep dancing around it. I see it, you’re stressed out, pretending you’re not carrying me behind you like deadweight,” He sniffled, “I’m a fuck up, an embarrassment. Everything my dad said, I would be.”

You reached for him with shaky hands, knees falling to the floor beside him. Pulling yourself into his lap, holding his hands in yours. “Stop, stop.” You demanded, “I have never seen you like that. Ever. Steve, your father is an abusive piece of shit. Who cares what he thinks? It’s only been a few months; it’s going to take time. Everything is going to work out. I keep telling you that, and I believe it.” 

“I see myself like that, and I can’t unsee it. Day in and day out, I’m here in this city, alone.” He shook his head, barely responding to your begging him to look at you, to hold you back. To pretend he wasn’t okay with all that you built to slip through his fingers.  “Yeah, we were bored at home, but this is the alternative? Being alone in a city that doesn’t care if I exist.”

You scoffed. “We didn’t leave because we were bored. We left because we deserved better. Because after everything you’ve been through, after everything we’ve been through, we earned a fresh start.”

“And what if this fresh start is killing me?” He laughed, a horrible, dry laugh from the depths of his chest. His body rattles against your hands. 

Your breath stutters. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” He admitted, the air around you two changing. Your hands slipped from his, still sitting back on your knees in front of him. He still barely looked at you, content to stare at the wood grain on the table. Committing the pattern to memory. 

“So what, you want to move home?” You asked, the walls still smelled like fresh paint. The cardboard boxes you two procrastinated on throwing out lingered in the guest room. There hadn’t been enough time to make it home, the training wheels were still on. 

“We can..” You sighed, rubbing your face. “We can maybe sublet the lease until it’s over. I don’t know. We have to see if there are even any places for us to rent back home.” 

He turned in his seat, his eyes finally meeting yours. You could see his heart breaking on his face, and you knew. Something bone-chilling washed over you, nearly forcing your body flat on the floor. 

“You don’t mean us, do you?” You managed out, tears already welling in your eyes. 

His head shook, moving towards you. Joining you, knees aching on the floor you once rolled around in joy on. 

“I love you,” he says, voice breaking. “I promise I do. This isn’t me walking away because I stopped loving you.” His hands gripped yours for a second before you yanked them away. 

“Then don’t do this. If you love me, don’t leave me.” You sobbed, “If you loved me, you’d stay, or let me come with. I don’t care where we are; I want you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

He reached for you again, his touch burning your skin. 

“I have to,” he whispers. “Because I can feel myself holding you back. You deserve the chance to love this city the way you’ve always wanted to. I don’t belong here. I know I don’t. But you do. I’m not cut out for this life. Not this place, not this constant fight to prove I’m worth something. But you are. You shine here. And if I stay, all I’ll do is make you smaller so I don’t feel so lost.”

“So you go back alone,” you said, incredulous. “Back to the same streets, the same expectations from your father, the same ghosts?”

He gestured helplessly at the room, at the life you’d hauled here with too much hope and not enough certainty. “Better that than I stay here, pretending I belong.” 

“You’re really going to throw this away?” You asked, tears streaming down your neck. “You’re going to throw away all the years between us because you won’t give it a few more weeks?” 

“I can’t give you the life you deserve here.” 

Your chest aches. “I don’t want this without you.” His thumb rubbed over the ring on your finger, a choked sob escaping your chest. You remembered the day he proposed, the reminder of the happiest day of your life turning bittersweet in a matter of minutes. 

“I know,” he says, his own tears falling freely now. “And that’s why I have to let you go before I turn into something you resent.”

You sniffled, “If you walk out of that door, Steve Harrington, I will resent you. I’ll never forgive you for giving up on us, for walking out like a coward.” 

He flinched at your words, understanding he deserved it. “Don’t think I’m giving up on us for nothing, I’m doing this for you.”

Then his hand falls, the space between you unbearable, a chasm building between the two of you. 

“No,” You shook your head, a laugh tearing out of you like a mad woman. “You’re doing it because you’re scared. You let your father’s words get in your head, now you’re letting them ruin your life.” 

“You don’t understand, and that’s okay.” He gave you a weak smile, standing up slowly. “But I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone before.” 

“Bullshit.” You sprang to your feet, pushing his chest. He didn’t move, just stood there taking whatever you’d give him. “You can’t say you love me while you’re actively leaving me. You just don’t wanna marry me anymore? A few rough months and you’re tapping out? That’s not how the real world works.” 

“You’re not listening to me,” He seethed, “I am miserable here! I miss my friends; I am alone here with no one but you. If I go home, I have a job with my dad, and you can still live out your dreams.” 

“My dreams mean nothing if you’re not here.” You yelled, pushing him roughly again. His hands come out to grip your wrists. “You’re not even fighting for us. You’ve given up.” 

The realization hit you like a freight train, stumbling on your feet. “You’ve given up.” 

“Y/n..” 

“Out.” You sobbed, taking a shaky step back. “You want to leave so bad? Get the fuck out. Run back home to the people who thought you couldn’t do it. Prove them right. End up just like your fucking father. If you want to live and die in that town, don’t let me stop you.” 

He knew rationally your words were just your heart breaking, and it tore him apart knowing he was the one doing it. You’d move on, he knew you would eventually. He just wanted you to have the life here you deserved, the one you’d keep him up all night daydreaming about. It just wasn’t going to be with him. So he resigned and walked into the room, grabbing his bags. All you could do was stand there, shell-shocked. Tears streaming down your cheeks. You ignored his goodbyes, waited until the door locked behind him to throw yourself on the floor. Screaming until your voice went hoarse. The next morning, you called Robin, begging her to tell you where he was. She said it was best she remove herself from this, wishing you well. All it took was one conversation, one bad night, and your entire life had crumbled right before your eyes. 

Now, as you stood there lost in the memory, you snapped back, hearing her voice on the other end of the line. 

“Hello.” She asked, making you blink. 

“Hi?” 

“Y/n,” Her voice rang out, too cheery. “It’s good to hear your voice. I’m glad you’re home.” 

It was awkward, a painful awkwardness that sat in the middle of your chest. Your best friend, the girl you used to tell everything, was now someone you could barely have a normal conversation with. 

“Yeah, you too.” You mumbled, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’m not trying to be mean, but did you need something?” 

She paused for a moment, “Uh, yeah. I just wanted to invite you to our Christmas party tomorrow. It wouldn’t be the same without you. We miss you.” 

The honesty in her voice made your heart ache, but you couldn’t. “I don’t think that’s a great idea, Robin-” 

“Steve said it’s fine.” She yelled, and you could hear mumblings in the background. “You don’t have to stay for long, just get some food. The kids really miss you, and so do I, Y/n. We miss our friend.” 

You sighed, running your hand through your hair. “I don’t know.” 

“Just, Steve’s house tomorrow at 7. Don’t worry about bringing anything. If you don’t come, that’s fine too, just…. Think about it.” 

“Okay.” You said, before hanging up the phone. Your forehead banging the wall harshly. 

The next 24 hours were spent pacing around your childhood bedroom, nearly burning a hole in the carpet. You could go and be social, see your friends. Fill the gap in your heart that formed the moment you last heard from them. If they hated you, they wouldn’t have invited you. Robin didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. But if you did go and walk into the Harrington household again, you weren’t sure if your heart could take it. It was naive to believe you could come here and not have a run-in with the man, but you didn’t prepare yourself enough for this.

On one of your last paces, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The same mirror you got ready in for your first date with Steve, which felt like a lifetime ago. The mirror you cleaned both of your bloody faces in after the Starcourt Mall fiasco. You let yourself linger on your appearance, no longer recognizing the girl who stared back at you. 

“Fuck it.” You grumbled, your voice echoing throughout the empty room. You plopped down, dragging over your makeup bag. You would go, but you wouldn’t be happy about it. Your hands shook the whole time, nearly covering your chin in lipstick. They continued shaking as you drove to the store, picking out the most expensive bottle of wine the Hawkin’s supermarket had. The feeling only got worse when you pulled into the driveway. A black cloud dangling above your head.

The Harrington house was always extravagant, but dull. Lifeless in the way his parents decorated, only brought to life by the love Steve himself made. Today, it looked the opposite of that, with lights lazily strung up on the porch. The soft, warm glow of a Christmas tree peeking in through the front window. You thought back to your own home, where the tree sat untouched in a box in the spare room. What good was decorating if no one was around to see it but you? 

You weren’t willing to admit it to anyone, but Chicago was lonely. Steve had it all wrong those months ago; you were only thriving because he was there with you. You were so focused on providing a future for you two that you let him slip through the cracks. The city was big, big enough to hide your sorrows. But what was the point if the city didn’t care if you were there? You hated that he was right, you hated that things happened the way that they did. 

Once you had had enough of licking your own wounds, you tumbled out of the car. The wind was biting, soft snow still falling. You made a point not to look at Steve’s car on the way up the drive; you knew that BMW like the back of your hand. No point in ripping off another bandage. When you were face-to-face with the door, you clutched the wine like a lifeline, telling yourself you still had time to run. No one would even know you were here if you spun your tires fast enough. 

All of your daydreaming of running away vanished when the door swung open, your hand still up, going to knock on the wooden door. “Y/n?” Max spoke, her eyes wide.

Maybe you should have called, maybe you should have told Robin you were coming. Maybe Robin lied, maybe she didn’t tell anyone you were invited. Maybe you weren’t invited, and Robin was meddling again. 

All these fears vanished when Max basically leaped into your arms, wrapping them around your body tightly. You smiled in a way you haven’t in months, cheeks aching from the foreign movement. 

“Max.” You breathed out, squeezing the redhead back with just as much vigor. 

“Holy shit,” She laughed, her face still smushed in your trench coat, “I didn’t think you’d come. I missed you.” 

“I missed you more, kiddo.” The wine bottle nearly fell from your hand when she pulled back. You kept your gaze on her; she had grown so much since the last time you saw her. “God, you’re like a proper adult now, huh?” 

She rolled her eyes, taking the wine from your hand gently, “Not old enough to legally drink yet, but Steve said we can get a glass at dinner if we don’t break anything.” 

For the first time in months, you didn’t flinch at the mention of his name, too overwhelmed with emotion to even care. “That sounds like him.” 

You stepped forward, wrapping your arms around her once more, kissing the top of her head. “I’m so sorry.” It was a quiet admission, one for her only. When everything happened, Max quickly grew to be the little sister you never had. It wasn’t fair for you not to reach out as much, but she was in college now. She had a life outside of Hawkins, just like you; she understood more than most. 

“Don’t do that.” She shook her head, “All that matters is that you’re here now.” 

You opened your mouth to speak, only to get cut off by a loud squeal of your name. Your head shot up, peering into the house. Within seconds, a hurricane of overgrown teenagers were barreling towards the door. Dustin’s mop of curls was the first to appear out of the doorway, nearly pushing Max aside as he leaped into your arms. 

“Jesus assholes!” Max barked, the boys ignoring her as they crowded around you. 

Lucas flanked your side, Mike towering over the group, El behind him, while Dustin was squeezing the life out of you. 

“You smell good,” Dustin mumbled, making you roll your eyes. 

“Thank god you’re here,” Lucas breathed out, “Max has been nonstop talking about you-” He was cut off, no doubt, by a smack from the woman herself. 

Mike was rambling on about needing to ask you questions about school, something about wanting to intern at your job. 

El had snuck up, her hands tugging at the ends of your hair. “You cut it?” She had a soft frown. 

“I think it looks good!” Will spoke up, his arms wrapping around your side. 

You were lost in a fit of giggles, doing your best to keep up with all the overlapping voices. 

“Jesus, don’t overwhelm her!” Robin had now joined the party on the porch, her hands on her hips. That didn’t stop the kids from talking over each other; they eventually backed off a hair. Giving you time to hug each of them individually. 

“Seriously, you smell really good, you look like some rich lawyer.” Dustin rambled, making Mike smack him upside the head. 

“Jesus, you’re flirting with her?” He scoffed, “She works in publishing, by the way. Which is why I need to talk to her-” 

“I’m not flirting, dude, that would be against bro code-” 

You ignored them, wrapping your arms around El, almost picking her up off her feet. “Oh my sweet girl.” 

“Y/n, I only spied on you a few times.” She smiled, making you sputter out laughter. 

“Jesus, okay. You’re lucky I love you, or I’d have a stern talking to you about boundaries.” You shook your head, the smile hurting your cheeks now. 

“Don’t worry, it was only because we were worried. Steve never knew.” Will spoke up, making you wrap your arm around the younger boy. 

“Sorry, I worried you guys, really.” You spoke, looking around all of them. Letting your eyes land on Robin. Her hair was longer, and she seemed more sure of herself. More carefree than you remember her. 

As if sensing the long-awaited reunion, they slowly shuffled back into the house. Leaving you and Robin alone for a moment. 

“Robs.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

“Y/n.” She smiled, tears welling up in her eyes. You weren’t sure who ran to whom first, but the next thing you knew, the two of you were in each other’s arms. Squeezing so tight you could barely breathe, your head was in her neck. Willing the tears not to slip out of your lash line. 

“I missed you.” You choked out, her hand gripping the back of your coat like you’d vanish if she let go. 

“Missed you more.” She sobbed, her back shaking. “God, I have so much to tell you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I picked a side. I promised I’d never do that, but I did anyway. Then I waited too long, and I figured you hated me-” 

“I figured you hated me.” A throaty laugh left your chest. Eyes thick with unshed tears.

She shook her head, pulling her head back to get a look at you. “I could never hate you. You’re my best friend. I’ll admit I haven’t been the best one lately, but if you’ll still have me…” 

“Robin Buckley…” You sighed, a toothy grin on your face. “I’ll have you. You’re never getting rid of me. Not really.” 

“I do hate to cut this reunion short, but I’m freezing my ass off out here.” She said, making you throw your head back in a giggle. She looped her arms with yours, pulling you into the warm house. She helped you hang your coat up, giving the same one over everyone had. 

“Dustin was right, you do look like a hot lawyer.” She whistled, making you roll your eyes. 

“Please,” You scoffed, “Look at you? I know the girls at Smith are just dying for a piece of you.” 

“Well doesn’t matter if they are; Vickie and I are finally going steady.” She grinned, you smacking her shoulder. 

“Oh my god? Robin, that’s so awesome.” 

“I’ll introduce you when I find her. I think she’s helping in the kitchen. Or in the cellar? I don’t know she’s been nervously running around preparing for today.”

You nodded, awkwardly following behind her into the living room. Nothing had changed in the house, but everything did at the same time. It was evident his parents hadn't been here in a while; it felt lived in. Warm and inviting, a stark contrast to how it was years ago. 

Max caught your eye in the kitchen, putting the wine bottle you brought in the ice bucket. You spotted Steve behind her, with his back turned. You darted your eyes away, walking over to the couch where the party was draped over it. A video game console was plugged in, abandoned as they chatted amongst each other. You could only avoid him for so long, but you were going to prolong the inevitable as much as you could. 

“So,” You started, plopping on the couch between Lucas and Will. “Tell me what I’ve missed.” 

And missed a lot you had. You listened intently as they all told you about their freshman year in school, thankful for the break. Dustin was already a semester ahead at Princeton, go figure. Will and Jonathan had settled down in NYC. Jonathan, you learned, was not visiting until Christmas Day. Too many obligations and not enough time to travel. But his mom and Hopper would be here tomorrow to begin more holiday festivities. 

Lucas and Max had just signed a lease on an apartment near Indiana State. Lucas made the basketball team, already gaining traction with recruiters. Mike was a year behind, letting El catch up with her schooling before they went to school near Montauk. Keeping Hopper and Joyce close. In the meantime, he picked up a passion for writing, no doubt why he was asking for pointers on publishing. 

“I barely finished my degree, Wheeler.” You admitted, doing school while the world was ending wasn’t ideal, but you made it work. Fresh out of college into the real world, you were still finding your bearings. “But I do have some work friends, I can get some numbers.” 

He seemed content with the answer, slinging his arm over your shoulder in a hug once more. It was then that the inevitable happened: Steve Harrington finally sauntered out of the kitchen. His eyes found yours in almost an instant, the room going still. 

He looked panicked, his footfalls freezing. You were sure you looked the same, frozen in shock. Your hands fumbling around with your bracelets, something to occupy your shaky hands. Nearly everyone looked away, glancing at each other with nervous eyes. Unwilling to watch the trainwreck unfold. Steve took the first step, his hand coming up in an awkward wave. 

“H-hey! Glad you could make it.” He stuttered out, nearly stumbling into the back of the couch. “Thanks for the wine. Do you want a glass?” He spoke too loudly, making Robin wince from behind him. It reminded her of his Scoops Ahoy days, talking too loudly when he was nervous. You stood up on shaky legs, the blood rushing to your head nearly making you dizzy. 

“Yeah, I can get it though-” 

“No!” He yelled, before running his hands through his hair, “No, I mean. You’re the guest. I can get it.” He was nervous, but in a way that had a pit forming in your stomach. 

“It’s okay.” You spoke softly, a tone that used to be reserved for just him. “I’ll get me and Robin a glass. You can’t uncork it right anyway.” 

Your words triggered a memory for both of you, one of you catching Steve shoving kitchen scissors into a half-broken cork, in an attempt to pour you a glass for dinner. He ended up pushing it further into the bottle. By the time you got it out, small pieces were floating around in your glass. You drank it anyway, straining out the small pieces with a grin on your face. Except this time, instead of the memory making you laugh, it made your heart stutter. 

“Y-yeah.” He grumbled, watching you walk past him with an awkward grin. The moment you set foot into the kitchen, you were taken aback by none other than Nancy Wheeler. She was standing against the stove, stirring a pot. 

“Hey?” You spoke, which sounded more like a question. 

She jumped, startled by your presence. “Oh, Y/n. Hi.” She gave you a wave, her eyes wide. You and Nancy were never particularly close; you weren’t the biggest fan of how she treated Steve in high school, but you had a lot of respect for the woman. You always considered her a good friend, but something about her standing in Steve’s kitchen made you regret ever coming tonight. 

“Nancy. How have you been?” You smiled, grabbing two wine glasses out of the cupboard, muscle memory taking over. But the cabinets had been moved around, you squinted. Before you could lean your head back to ask, Nancy was pointing at the cabinet next to it. 

“Wine glasses are in that one,” She spoke absentmindedly, unaware of your spiraling thoughts. “And I’ve been good! Boston is… nice.” 

You smacked your lips against your teeth, pulling out two glasses. Grabbing the corkscrew from the drawer. “That’s nice!” Your voice was a little too cheery when you uncorked the bottle, pouring yourself a larger glass than you needed. 

“How’s Chicago?” She asked, moving to check whatever bird was roasting in the oven. It was clear she wasn’t interested in awkward small talk, but you appreciated her attempt at it nonetheless. 

“Cold.” You gulped your glass, filling it up before setting it back in the ice. “Loud.” 

“Yeah,” She laughed, “Sometimes you forget how nice the quiet is until you’re back home. You really can get lost in the city life.” 

“Yeah.” You smiled at her, asking her if she would like a glass. She declined, but thanked you anyway. “Well, it’s been so good to see you.” 

Thankfully, you found Robin, shoving the wine into her hands. “Think Nancy Wheeler hates me?” You asked quietly, Robin’s demeanor going taut. 

She shook her head, taking a drink from her glass. That was all the answer you got from her before she pulled you back into the crowd. You mingled about, still not having caught a chance to meet Vickie. When Robin ran off to find her, you clung to Max’s side like following the light in the dark. You weren’t going to let her slip out of your life again; you weren’t going to let any of them. It was easy to avoid Steve, as he seemed content to step awkwardly around you most of the night. 

The tension was unspoken, but everyone felt it. It hangs heavy, just like the mistletoe in the bedroom hallway that mocked you each time someone came out of the bathroom. Memories of the two of you haunted every corner of this town, but this was the epicenter. The home that the two of you shared for months, the party that called you their parents. The house that would be yours the moment his parents decided to finally buy their beach house in Florida.

Maybe this would be easier if you pretended Steve hadn’t branded every part of your body. The tan line from the diamond that sat on your finger for almost a year wouldn’t fade, no matter how much you scrubbed. You both spent too much time in the sun last summer, lounging around the lakeside for days on end. Your hair, he loved, had been cut off, your hairstylist swearing hair held memories. With each snip, you willed Steve to leave your mind, but you instead just found yourself missing the parts of yourself he held in his hands. No matter how many times you changed your style or willed yourself to be anyone else. At the end of the day, you were always going to be his. There was a part of you that would never belong to yourself again. 

You turned to your left, and the redhead whom you thought was Max was now replaced by Vickie. The infamous girlfriend who had been running around all night, missing Robin at every turn. You smiled politely, “Vickie, right? Robin’s been looking for you.” 

She smiled widely, teeth showing at the mere mention of her girlfriend. “Yes! I was helping with the chicken, then the stuffing, then I had to go in the cellar for wine, but it’s so dark down there, and I’ve just been running around everywhere.” She was out of breath, nervousness rolling off of her. You could see now in startling clarity just how alike she and Robin were. 

“No, it’s okay. I’m fully convinced that the cellar is haunted.” You laughed, making her nod quickly. 

“Literally! Also, I’m not used to rich people, because why do you need a cellar full of wine in your house? It’s beyond me.” She whispered the first part, making another laugh slip through your lips. That laugh was cut short when your eyes glanced into the kitchen yet again. This time, catching Steve towering over Nancy. His body was nearly caging hers against the counter, his hand steady on the cabinet above her head. It was clear he meant to grab something out of it, but the two of them paused. Caught in the moment. Now you were caught in it too, staring like a fish out of water. 

It felt like you were intruding on an intimate moment, the way his eyes gazed down at her. Flicking back from her lips to her eyes. She did the same; it was buzzy. Even from far away, the tension between them radiated around the room, hitting you right in the chest. 

“I heard him and Nancy have been close ever since she came back,” Vickie smiled widely, somehow completely oblivious as to who you were. But she caught you staring quickly. It wasn’t her fault; you hadn’t been here when they started dating. Just through the tail end of Robin’s pining.  “He moved back home after he broke off his engagement. Real hallmark, you know? Holiday rekindling of old flames that never quite snuffed out, it’s sooooo romantic. Kinda like me and Robin if you think about it. High school lovers-” 

Her words made the wine you drank nearly come back up your throat, your eyes still locked on the pair. Tuning out her rambling, you let yourself look at him this time, really look. Steve looked the same, his hair a little longer. Undeniably, there was a spark lit back within him, one you had missed. A wide smile on Nancy’s face as they talked, his head leaned down to hear her better. If he moved down any closer, their lips would be touching. The sheer thought of you having to witness that made you look away, swallowing down bile that had risen. 

You supposed it’d make sense for him to move on; it had been months. Nothing was stopping either of you, but something about seeing it. About it being with Nancy, out of everyone. The same girl you’d compare yourself to late at night, the girl Steve swore he’d moved on from. It felt like someone had grabbed a knife and split your chest open. 

“Yeah, sure.” You managed, catching Robin’s eye as she walked over. She paused midwalk, staring from Vickie to you, back to Steve and Nancy across the way. 

“Oh fuck.” She said a little too loudly, all heads looking towards you all. Steve’s head pops up immediately, his eyes meeting yours. You knew this was a bad idea, a horrible, terribly bad idea. His body moved away from Nancy’s on instinct, but it was too late. Not like it mattered, not like anything mattered anymore. 

“Oh my god. You’re Y/n, aren’t you?” Vickie gasped, her hand coming up to grab your shoulder. “I’m so sorry. This is so not how I wanted to meet you, Robin told me to be on my best behavior-”

You cut her off with a wave, “It’s fine. It was really nice to meet you.” You gave her a practiced smile, stepping away from the wide-eyed ginger. “I’m just gonna go to the bathroom.”  

Your heels clacked against the floor loudly in the now quiet room, excusing yourself. You chugged down the rest of your glass, setting it on the table before stumbling into the bathroom. Your hand clenching your chest, searching for an open wound that wasn’t physically there. 

You leaned against the door, nearly falling to your knees in anguish. It felt childish; you had no claim over him anymore. Time had stretched a chasm between the two of you. But why did it feel like you were being split in two? 

You gathered your bearings, letting your hands grip the sides of the sink. Staring back at your reflection in the mirror. “Get over yourself, Y/n.” You all but slapped your own cheeks, psyching yourself up. “It’s fine. Have dinner, then leave. Have Christmas, then go home. You can just leave.” 

Within your own psychotic mumblings to yourself, you realized you weren’t any better than Steve, willing yourself to run away the moment things got complicated. 

Outside, back in the living room, the tension wasn’t any better. Vickie’s mouth was agape, Robin stumbling to her quickly. Steve was still frozen in place, eyes locked on where you had run to. Nancy simply crossed her arms, shrinking herself into the corner. 

“What was that?” Dustin broke the silence, watching Steve slowly regain control of his limbs again. 

“Vickie, honey sweetie baby. What did you say?” Robin’s voice was shaky, while Vickie continued stuttering out apologies. 

“Um. I just said- I don’t know.” She cried out, “I was just speaking. You know me. I just ramble sometimes, and she was looking at them, so I blurted out something-” 

“What did you say exactly?” Steve spoke up, Nancy closing her eyes. 

“Uh. I said something along the lines of ‘Wow, aren’t Steve and Nancy so cute? He left his fiancée and is back home with his ex. Like a bad Hallmark movie p-plot.” 

As soon as the words left her mouth, everyone in the room winced, “Vickie, sweetheart. Why would you say that?” Robin’s eyes closed. 

“I don’t know,” Tears were in the nervous girl's eyes, “I’m so sorry. It’s not my business. I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

“Yeah, it’s not.” Steve barked, a little too cruelly for Robin’s liking. 

“Hey, it was an accident.” She glared at her best friend, “Don’t blame her for misspeaking when you don’t even know what’s going on in your own life.”

Steve’s face fell, hating his business on display like this. 

“Wait,” Mike raised his hand, much like a child asking a question in class. “Are you and Nancy back together?” 

“No.” Steve and Nancy both scoffed in unison, the girl still trying to hide herself in the kitchen. 

“You guys have just been weirdly close,” he muttered, throwing his hands up in defense. 

“Okay, can everyone please get out of my business. Jeez.” Steve said, finally, holding his hands up. “Vickie, I’m sorry. Don’t feel bad. Besides, it doesn’t matter. We’re all adults here.” 

“Barely.” You spoke up, your voice making all of them jump. In the midst of the chaos, they didn’t even notice you slinking your way out of the bathroom. Posture upright, as if nothing had bothered you. A part of Steve hated how unbothered you looked, your lack of emotion sat heavily on his mind. 

“W-what?” He stuttered, looking at you. 

“You guys are barely adults.” You laughed, it was hollow. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, but no one noticed except for him anyway. “Jeez, who died?” 

“No one!” Nancy spoke up, opening the oven a little faster than she needed to. “Chicken’s done, can you guys set the table?”  

There was a mad dash around the room, everyone wanting to find something to occupy themselves. You found Vickie, wrapping your arms around the still trembling girl, promising her everything was okay. As soon as she steadied her breathing, Robin brought the two of you fresh glasses. You found a spot at the table between the couple and Max. You felt old helping Max pour herself a glass of wine. 

“You kids grow up fast.” You grumbled, sliding over the full glass to her. “Let me guess, everyone else wants one too?” 

A chorus of ‘yes mom’s’ made you chuckle, a flashback to just a year ago getting called mom at this same table. The bottle was emptied on Dustin’s glass, to which he gave you a playful wink, making your eyes roll. 

“How many girls are you wooing back at Princeton with that charm, huh?” You teased, sitting back down in your chair. 

“Oh, the ladies love me. I’m irresistible.” He purred, making the others groan playfully at him while sides got passed around. Everyone loaded up their plates, eating amongst quiet conversation. 

“God, Y/n, do you remember Tommy and Carol?” Robin asked, in between bites of a roll. 

You scoffed, “Unfortunately.” 

“They’re getting married. Steve got the invite last week. Twenty bucks says it’s a shotgun wedding.” She laughed. 

“Wait, what?” You gasped, “I didn’t even know they were back together?” 

“Yup, Tommy proposed on the football field,” Steve added, slowly joining in the conversation. “Think he’s trying to be a good person.” 

Robin just cringed, “Proposing on your high school football field to the girlfriend you consistently cheat on?”

“I hate the guy, but at least he’s trying.” Nancy shrugged, not meeting anyone's eyes. 

“But that’s total loser behavior.” Max joined in, “If Lucas proposed to me on the basketball court, I think I’d break his ankles so he could never play again.” 

Lucas just sighed, “And that’s why I love you so much.” 

“I think my dad did a good job proposing to Miss Joyce,” El spoke up with a smile. You remember hearing the news of that, tears prickling in your eyes as Joyce recounted the date he had set up. 

“Honestly, that was probably the best proposal to ever happen. Hard to top that.” You raised your glass. While it was honest, a simple nod to the two older parental figures in your life. It didn’t sit right with Steve, the words on the tip of his tongue. 

“I think my proposal was pretty good.” He grumbled into his plate, staring intently at the piece of chicken on his fork. 

How many times tonight were his words going to pause the room around him? An awkward silence fell once again, the tension rising from the floorboards. One you couldn’t blame on the haunted cellar below your feet. You downed yet another glass of wine. When the clink of the glass hit the table, you realized you shouldn’t have spoken, shouldn't have had that last glass. 

And El. Poor innocent sweet El Hopper just kept speaking, “How did you propose?” 

You forgot she wasn’t there, still being hidden away by Hopper in the Cabin during all the endless crawls. Murray had apparently spent weeks searching for the exact ring Steve wanted for you. Smuggling it inside an unsealed peanut butter bopper. The ring smelled like peanut butter for days after he slid it on your finger. It fit like a glove. You still felt empty without it, your hand subconsciously going to twirl the delicate band that was no longer there. 

Steve’s mouth fell open, his eyes darting to yours. You saved him from the awkward stumbling, giving her the softest smile you could muster. “It was sweet. He took me on a picnic to where we had our first date. Had candles. Robin made us a cake.” 

You tried not to let it show just how badly the memories hurt, instead smiling fondly at the table. There was no attempt at hiding your history together here; it bled into every memory. Being together with someone for years will do that to you; your lives are so interconnected that sometimes it is still hard to remember where he ends, and you begin. 

“I spilled wine all over her dress, and a bird ate the sandwiches I made while I was proposing.” Steve added, “It was a mess.” 

“It was perfect.” You shrugged, leaning over to grab another roll from the bowl. “So Mike, when are you proposing?” 

His eyes widen, and he stutters out a pathetic response. Max and El are giggling wildly at each other. Steve hated how well you were at changing the topic, deflecting the attention off of you two so smoothly. Hated how well the two of you worked in unison, in everything you did.

Dinner continued without another awkwardly timed comment, plates clattered as everyone took turns helping clean up. Dessert was cookies Vickie had made, the kids no doubt getting crumbles all over Steve’s overpriced couch. An hour of goodbyes later and the teenagers had scrambled back to their homes. Nancy left with Mike, giving you an awkward one-armed hug. You had all promised to see each other again before the break ended. Whispers of a New Year's Party, but nothing concrete. 

All while Steve’s gaze was burning into your back, watching your every move. It made your collar slick with sweat, your hands trembling with bundles of emotions. You needed air and a cigarette. Your effort to sneak out was thwarted by none other than Robin. 

“Leaving without a goodbye, Y/l/n?” Robin caught you, your hand still on the doorknob. 

“I know better than to Irish exit with you people, I’m just getting some air.” You promised her, two fingers came up to her eyes, pointing them back at you, signaling she was watching. You laughed on your way out, letting the cool air chill your skin. 

You walked out to his garage, leaning under the awning. To get away from the porch and prying eyes in the windows. You let your hands shake freely, dropping the nonchalant facade you held up for the past few hours. Letting that sickly sour feeling wash over you again. It was jealousy, anger, sadness, and something else you couldn’t quite place all wrapped around you at once. It was drowning in your own feelings, begging for one drop of air.

“So, about what you heard in there. With Nancy.” That was all he said, the back of your eyes prickling. You didn’t even hear him step outside, let alone stand beside you. You told yourself the tears were just from the cold air, but you knew better. 

“If I wanted to know, I would have asked.” You shrugged, “None of my business anyway, is it?” 

“It’s not what it looks like.” He pleaded.

All you could do was laugh, rummaging around in your purse for your cigarettes. A habit you picked back up again, the day after he left. You shoved the filter between your red painted lips, lighting it with ease. All while he stood and watched, eyebrows furrowed. 

“So it doesn’t look like you dumped me to come back home and fuck your high school ex?” You couldn’t help but let the words slip off your tongue. There it was, the anger of yours he had become familiar with. He knew it was there, boiling just under the surface. 

He sighed, “Nancy is still with Jonathan, you know. We’re just… friends.” 

“You seem real sure of that.” You scoffed, letting the smoke wrap around you like a security blanket. “Besides, doesn’t matter, does it? You’re single. You can do whatever you want.” 

He deflated, letting his hand rest on the porch. “Yeah. Guess so.” 

The silence was deafening, the snow still flurrying around the two of you. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you. In just the past few months, you’ve changed so much. Your hair was shorter, and your eye bags were evident. A hallowness was deep inside you, and the light drained from your eyes. And it was all his fault; he knew that. He watched your hand flick the cigarette, the absence of the gleaming diamond on your finger making his breathing stop. 

It didn’t even occur to him until now that this was the first time he’d seen you since he left. You were on his mind so often that it was as if he conjured up a new image of you every time his eyes opened in the morning. 

The guilt pressed down on his chest, thick and suffocating, and the silence between you stretched too long. Long enough for old wounds to start itching. Long enough for that anger to claw its way up your throat, hot and familiar. You’d learned how to survive by holding onto it, how to use it to pull yourself out of the days where feeling nothing felt worse.

“I wish you’d just tell me what you were really thinking.” He spoke up, his eyes drilling holes into the side of your face. 

You held onto tighter to the anger, the feeling comfortable in your hands. You’d rather feel angry than nothing else at all. So the insults began to slip out. If he was going to walk away and leave you again, you were going to make sure it was on your terms this time.

“Okay, do you really wanna know Mr. Peaked in high school?” You could barely believe the cruelty in your voice when you spat out the words, “I think you couldn’t make it in the big city. So to fuel your ego, you had to go home to our piss ant hometown and try to fuck your high school ex-girlfriend, right? Right back where you were in High School. Welcome back, King Steve!” 

He stuttered back a few steps, recovering quickly from the whiplash. 

“At least I’m not pretending to be happy. How is it up there on your high-horse? Because after this week, you’re going back to that lonely apartment.” He cackled, “Doesn’t matter how much money you make, how nice your clothes are, how much your snotty co-workers like you. You’re all alone out there. And I’ll be here, with my friends.” 

The emphasis of my didn’t get lost on you. You suppose he was right; they were his friends first before you ever joined them. His words pierced your heart, nearly knocking you off balance. You thought this was it, but oh, he wasn’t done.

“You can’t make the pain go away by treating me like a villain, Y/n.” He said, his voice softening. “I hurt you. I know I did, and I’m so sorry. I was only doing what I thought was right, for both of us. I was drowning.” His voice cracked on the word. Both of your resolves are crumbling around your feet like drywall. 

“We were supposed to drown together.” You snapped, “When you got down on one knee and put that ring on my finger, it was a promise. A promise to love each other through all the hard times, and you couldn’t even try. You just gave up on us. On me.” Your bottom lip wavered, staring down the man you loved more than life itself. 

“I was doing what I thought was right-” 

“Spare me the fucking bullshit.” You waved him off, “You could’ve sat me down. We could have talked it out like adults; instead, you ran home with your tail between your legs. Letting everyone feel bad for the boy whose fiancée left him in the dust-” 

“You don’t know anything.” He laughed dryly, his hands running feverishly through his hair. “When I came home, did you know the first thing everyone said to me? Everyone. Robin, the kids, my parents?” 

You stayed quiet, watching his chest heave. “They all said, “How did you ruin the best thing you’ve ever had?” He scoffed. 

“You left! That’s how!” 

“Remember that you let me leave.”

“What was I supposed to do, Steve?” You were in hysterics now, “Was me on my knees, begging and crying, not enough?” 

“You let me leave Y/n.” He repeated, “You changed your number, you stopped talking to everyone. The only thing left for me to do was to drive up there, but I knew you wouldn’t wanna see me.” 

“If you loved me, you would've.” You sighed, running your hands over your face. You were sick of the arguing, of the back and forth. 

“You could’ve visited too! You ghosted everyone. You didn’t just hurt me with the radio silence. You broke Max’s heart-” 

You stepped closer, pressing your finger harshly into his chest. “Leave them out of it.”

“You can’t even be honest with yourself.” He chuckled dryly. Watching you huff down the remnants of the cigarette that now stunk up his clothes. 

“You don’t know me.” 

“I think I know you better than you know yourself sometimes.” 

“My life is different now.” You let out a breath, stomping the cigarette butt underneath your boot. “Don’t pretend you know how I’m doing. Who I’m with. Because you don’t. You don’t know anything about me.” 

You knew what your words were implying when you said them, refusing to correct yourself. You wanted to see the hurt flash in his eyes, the same way yours did, seeing him and Nancy in the kitchen. But when the flash came, you couldn’t feel anything but guilt. Something shifted in those brown eyes of his; what started as hurt faded into something darker. 

“Is there someone else?” His eyes were ablaze, a darkness in them you hadn’t seen before. You stayed quiet, looking up at him through your lashes. Unable to speak, the closer he got with each step. “Tell me, is there someone else?” 

“And if there was?” You challenged, tilting your head at him. 

“Answer me.” He demanded softly, still walking towards you like a predator stalking prey. You took a step back, eyes never leaving his until your back from pressing his snow-covered car. He was inches away, still waiting for your answer. 

“It’s none of your business.” 

“Then why even mention it?” He chuckled darkly, his leg slotting in between yours. You were pushed further back into the car, his body now on yours. Nothing could change the chemistry between you two, not time. God himself couldn’t change the way your bodies drifted towards each other. You were the compass, and he was your true north. You’d always find yourself back here. On your way to him, in this town.

“Does it bother you?” You met his darkened eyes, “Thinking of someone else taking what you left behind?” 

“Don’t pretend-”

“Hey-oh whoa.” Robin’s voice broke you two out of your trance. The two of you were springing apart like there was a fire. Vickie’s hand was in hers, both clad in their coats, ready to leave. “Sorry. The snow is really coming down; we wanted to get back before it got any heavier.” 

Steve cleared his throat, leaning awkwardly against the hood of the car. “Yeah, course.” 

You walked forward, wrapping your arms around the two girls. Bidding them farewell, promising to see them soon. Robin left with a suggestive look towards you, making you flush. You watched her car roll down the road, feeling Steve’s eyes on your back. You don’t know how long you stood there, snow pelting your skin, before he spoke up. 

“At least get out of the snow, Y/n.” You turned back, stepping back onto his porch. 

“I should probably leave.” 

He didn’t say anything, simply walked ahead of you, opening his door. You looked around for your coat, scrambling around. Before you could get your second arm in your sleeve, he broke you out of your rushing trance. 

“Does he make you feel like I did?” 

You paused, letting the coat fall to the floor. “What?” 

He looked pathetic, his inhibitions falling when it was just you he was standing in front of. “Does he make you feel even a fraction of what I made you feel?” 

It took you a second to remember the way you avoided his question, letting him believe a false narrative he made up in his own head. It made every nerve in your body set ablaze, the idea of him being jealous. You let yourself fall into the feeling. 

“Does Nancy make you feel a fraction of what I made you feel?” You barked back, the tension rising. The two of you were playing with fire now, poking the bear just to see what would happen. This was foreplay, and after months of longing, the two of you were coiled tight. 

“So you are jealous,” He grinned devilishly at you. 

“You’re one to talk. You’re the one who pinned me to your car, ready to take me right there.” 

All he did was stalk closer, “And you liked it, didn’t you?” 

You were quiet, letting the air around you thicken. Yes, you liked it. It’s the first thing that got your blood pumping in months, a heat grew between your legs. A long-neglected aspect of your life you hadn’t thought of much until now.

“Yeah, you did.” He said cockily, watching your pupils go wide. Much like his. He knew your bedroom eyes well; he knew you were soaked underneath that satin skirt you had on.

“So what?” Your mouth was dry, meeting him halfway. The two of you are standing in front of the couch. 

“Did you miss me? Miss my cock?” His words made goosebumps rise on your skin. You forgot just how filthy his mouth was.  You remained quiet, the two of you in a standoff, to see who would break first. Your hands were clenched into fists, shaking wildly. 

“I missed your cock but not that mouth.” You regretted your words the moment they came out, because his eyes lit up. He knew he had you right where he wanted you. 

He then plopped onto the couch, his legs spread wide. You looked down at him in astonishment, “What-” 

“You want it so bad? Come get it.” He patted his lap, the bulge in his khakis prominent. 

“You’re such a cocky asshole, you know that?” You seethed, crawling into his lap regardless. Making yourself at home on top of his hips, “Acting like one taste of my pussy wouldn’t have you begging for more.” 

“Never said it wouldn’t,” he grinned. 

You weren’t sure who moved first, the next thing you knew, teeth were gnashing against skin. Lips pulled together tightly, hands squeezing and scratching wherever they could. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was hunger and frustration and longing wrapped up in heat, the kind that burned instead of soothed. It was animalistic. Every kiss felt like a confession, every desperate grab a way of saying what neither of you had managed to put into words.

“Did you fuck her?” You asked with a growl, pulling his head back by the hair on his neck. He let out a grunt at the movement, his eyes snapping to yours. Taking him by surprise at your sudden violence, the green monster tugs at you. 

“Bet you wanna know-” 

You yanked harder, his neck jerking. “I asked you a question.” 

“F-fuck, no. No, I didn’t.” He whined, “She loves Jonathan.” 

“Would you have fucked her? If she wanted to?” 

“Probably.” The admission was sharp, his eyes pleading with you. 

No words could match how you were feeling; instead, you brought your lips to his in a bruising kiss. As if you could will away any memory of her lips from his. Nails scraped against skin, leaving a painful reminder of you on his body.

No time was wasted in undressing; your shirt was pulled open. Your skirt pulled up over your hips.

“Baby, let me get you ready.” His hands slid up under your skirt, pulling your soaked panties to the side. His fingers were swiping at your entrance. He sensed your urgency, not wanting to hurt you. 

You shook your head, continuing to pull his pants down to his knees. Still straddling his lap, you pulled his hand away despite his protests. 

“Just need you, please.” The words were thick in your mouth, hovering on top of his hardened cock. Steve was well endowed; it took your body years to become used to his size. Now that it had been months, surely it would be difficult. But you were a masochist. You wanted it to hurt; you needed it to hurt. It’s what you felt like you deserved. 

He hesitated, but nodded. Trusting you to make your own decision, his breath hitching when your wet slit rubbed against his tip. His hands braced your hips as you slid down, taking a few inches in a fast thrust. 

The gasp that left your mouth was inhuman, your body falling into his hold. “Baby,” He hissed, “I told you to let me-” 

You shushed him, the stretch burning in a sick twisted pleasure as you moved further down. Taking all nine inches of him in a gentle swoop. “Needed this. Just like this.” You cried out, your clit rubbing against the coarse hair that sat above his cock. 

“Yeah? No one else can fill you up like this, baby.” He grunted, his hold on your hips sure to leave bruises. “Can they?” 

You shook your head, grinding down on him slowly. Letting your cunt adjust to the intrusion, soaking him in your arousal. 

“Have you been fucking other men, baby?” He mocked the slow, gentle circles he rubbed on your skin, contrasting with his evil words. 

You didn’t respond; you couldn’t not while you were still catching your breath. “Bet every time they fucked you with their tiny cocks, you thought of me, huh? Couldn’t quite reach where I can.” 

“Shut. Up.” You grumbled, pretending like you weren’t clenching around him at his words. 

You lifted your hips, pulling off of him except for an inch before slamming back down. This cut him off from his next taunt, letting out a guttural moan instead. He was quiet after, helping you find a gentle rhythm. Your hips stuttered each time they met his, his bulbous tip hitting your sweet spot each time. 

Neither of you was going to last long; you could feel it in the way his muscles tensed. Both of you hadn’t felt the touch of another since your last night together. You were both lost in the feeling, riding his cock like you’d die without it. 

“Take that fucking cock.” He sighed, throwing his head back into the couch cushions. 

“Do you ever shut up?” You stuttered, your fingernails digging harshly into his shoulder blades. Lost in the feeling of him, before he stopped you. Holding your hips down on him, you barely got a chance to speak before he lifted his hips. Thrusting up into you experimentally, your eyes rolling in the back of your head. 

“Tell me how good it feels,” He panted, ignoring how you struggled to bounce in his lap. “Tell me, or I’ll stop.” 

You were quiet, meeting his eyes. “You wouldn’t.” You called his bluff, but unfortunately, he was serious as he began to slide you off his lap, excruciatingly slow. 

“W-wait,” You cried out, placing your hand on his chest. “Please don’t stop.” 

He thrusted up into you slowly, “Be a good girl and tell me how my cock feels splitting you apart.” 

“God,” You sobbed, bracing yourself in his hold as he let you bounce on him once again. “Feels so good. S’fucking good baby. Please don’t make me stop.” 

“S’what I thought.” His hand slapped your ass harshly, gripping the flesh to help guide you in taking him with each swivel of your hips. In the chaos, he leaned forward, pressing sloppy kisses to your neck.

“Where’s the ring?” He growled, his teeth biting against the flesh of your collarbone. 

One of your hands was now laced in his hair, the other pressed firmly on his chest. “W-what?” You slurred, his pace still unrelenting. Fucking his hips up into yours without a care in the world. 

“The ring. I want it on your hand.”

“You d-don’t deserve it being on my hand.” You barked back, letting your fingernails dig into his chest. The pain only spurred him on. 

“I know.” He grunted, planting his feet.“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna fuck you with nothing but that ring on your hand.” 

“Jesus.” You grumbled, nearly losing your balance. His hands gripped your hips tighter, taking over your movements completely. Fucking up into you as if you weighed nothing, your head falling back. 

“This fucking pussy missed me, huh?” He grunted, as if the lewd sounds of your cunt squelching for him weren’t enough. Steve always had a filthy mouth; it only got worse when he had something to prove. 

“Fuck you.” You whined, blindly covering his mouth with your hand. In return, all he did was bite down gently on your digits, continuing on. 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” His words were muffled, your body coming apart on top of his. You screaming out his name only spurred him on, emptying his load deep inside your cunt. With each clench around him, you took him in deeper, holding onto him for dear life as you both rode out your orgasms with each other. 

Sweat lined your skin. Steve’s warm lips were against your skin. Relishing the feeling of you still around him. 

“You okay?” He mumbled, your eyes slowly fluttering back open. You didn’t know what you felt, now stuck in the after. After this complicated line was crossed. Where were you to go now? 

“It’s late.” You said shakily, lifting your hips off of him slowly. Tears prickling your eyes when you were faced with the emptiness when he slipped out of you. You ignored his worried eyes, pulling your skirt back down. Fumbling with your shirt buttons. 

“You,” He cleared his throat, pulling his boxers back up, “Don’t have to run out. You can stay. Wait a minute-” 

“No, I should go.” You said clearly, stumbling around to collect your things. 

“You’ve had a lot to drink, what we did-” He paused, “You need a minute to calm down.” 

“I haven’t been drunk since we argued outside. I can’t use the wine as an excuse for this.” You rubbed messily at your eyes. “I’ll be safe, I just can’t be here. I need to go.” 

He stopped you at the door, holding onto your hand. “Please call me when you get home. Or I’ll come over to check myself.” 

You did call him that night, keeping it short and sweet before you trudged up to your room. Screaming into your pillowcase. You didn’t expect the night to go as it did, your heart unable to handle it. You woke up the next day with an emotional hangover, trudging through the next few days like a zombie. 

You kept your promises, getting coffee with Robin. Going Christmas shopping with Max and El. You even spent lunch with your mother, ignoring her judgmental glares when you told her that you and Steve didn’t magically get together over one Christmas party. 

Christmas Eve night, and the house was quiet, aside from the phone ringing loudly off the hook at 10 before midnight. You nearly tripped racing to the phone, picking it up in haste. 

“Hello?” You spoke into the receiver quietly, praying neither of your parents would pick up the other line. 

“Hey.” Steve’s voice rang out quietly, “Sorry if I woke you.” 

“Couldn’t sleep.” You admitted, imagining him in his bed. The phone nuzzled between his cheek and neck. 

“Me neither.” His voice was deeper than normal. Thick with sleep, and an unknown emotion. Your teeth bit down on your bottom lip, refusing to make the first move. You knew why he called you, and you hated that he knew you’d answer. 

“Do you remember our old spot?” He finally spoke.

You were grateful that he couldn’t see your smirk through the phone, “I remember.” 

“You can say no, but I can be there in 10.” 

You should’ve said no. You should’ve told him you planned to drive home tomorrow, to leave this town with your tail between your legs. Unable to face what you’d done. But lines have already been crossed; what was one more time? So the words were leaving your mouth before you had the chance to reconsider the consequences. 

“I’ll see you there.” 

Minutes later, you had pulled your car into the abandoned parking lot, right between Hawkins High and Hawkins Presbyterian. It was here that you felt 17 again, sneaking behind your parents' backs to meet up with a boy. Going from one backseat to another. When the familiar rumble of Steve’s beamer pulled up beside you, it was the soundtrack to your teenage years. His engine turning off, his stumbling as he clambered into your passenger seat, as he belonged there. 

His cheeks were flushed from the cold. “Hey.” 

“Hey.” You replied, just as awkwardly as he did. “Merry Christmas.”

He made the first move, cupping your face in his large hand. Forcing you to look at him. “You’re so beautiful.” 

No makeup on, in ratty high school pajamas, hair a mess in the moonlight. You were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen; nothing would change that. 

“What are we doing?” You frowned, ignoring the way you nuzzled into his palm. 

He only repeated your words with a gentle tone, “You tell me.” 

“I don’t know.” You found yourself leaning in, chasing his lips with your own. 

You hated how well you knew each other, falling into a rhythm as if there wasn’t a chasm between the two of you. It took all but a few kisses before you were stumbling into the backseat, clothes getting pulled off in every direction. 

“Let me take care of you, please.” He was all but begging against your lips, his hands tugging at your pajama pants. Who were you to deny him? 

It took a while to get a comfortable position, grown-up bodies not quite slotting together in the leather seats as teenage ones once did. Your head was leaning against the door, cushioned by an old hoodie as Steve lay half on the floor. His lips were trailing messy kisses up your thigh, before his tongue hit your quivering clit. 

“Oh my god.” Your body immediately convulsed, head twacking against the car door by accident. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care as his mouth worked magic on you. Slowly inching his fingers deep inside you, curling them just enough to have you see stars. 

It was moments like this that you were reminded of just how well he knew your body, playing you like a piano. Knowing exactly how to make you scream. So there was no surprise when a short few minutes later, you were coming apart on his face, lazily grinding against his nose. Chasing every ounce of pleasure from him. He would’ve kept going if you hadn’t stopped him with a short pull of his hair. 

“I might get a concussion if we don’t switch.” You giggled, sitting up slowly. Having hit your head against the car door enough. “And you don’t need anymore head injuries.” 

He laughed, but paused when he saw you flip over. Settling on your hands and knees for him, your glistening cunt wide on display for him. 

“Jesus, fuck.” His cock got even harder if possible, as he balanced on his shaky knees. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, please.” You wiggled your hips at him, making more curses slip from underneath his breath. You wanted to wrap your mouth around him, but the limited movement didn’t allow for that. You heard him pull his boxers down, leaning forward with a cupped hand to your mouth. 

He didn’t even need to give you directions; you were spitting into his hand. He used this to stroke his cock lazily, not as if he needed it since he worked you open this time. 

Your hands were gripping the door when he slowly pushed in, the angle even deeper than the last time. His hand settled on your lower back while he pressed against your womb with each shift of his hips. 

“S’fucking deep.” You babbled, “I love your huge fucking cock.” 

Your praise only made him twitch deep inside you, dragging against your warm walls. “S’all yours. Your fucking cock, baby. Only f’you.” 

You cried out his name when he moved. It was hot and fast. Both of you were chasing your highs greedily as the car rocked. The only sounds were the pornographic moans slipping through your lips and the harsh recoil of his hips hitting against your ass. 

“Need you to cum again for me, baby.” He grunted through his teeth, his hand reaching between your legs to rub circles on your swollen clit. “Gotta feel it.” 

With a fast nod, your cunt squelched around him. Your hand slid across the frosted glass, cooling your warmed skin as he trailed kisses up and down your spine. Coaxing you through the orgasm that had your legs trembling. 

“Cum inside me.” You cried out, repeating it over and over. “Mark me as yours.” 

“All your’s baby. Yeah, oh fuck yeah- take that cum.” He stuttered, his hips stilling as he emptied inside of you. Filling you up once more, plugging your cunt full of him. His fingers kept rubbing your clit slowly, feeling each twitch of your cunt suckling in his cum. “Good girl, taking it all.” 

“Fuck.” You whined when he slowly pulled out, helping clean you both up. 

He ended up on his back, pulling you onto his chest, awkwardly cuddling in the backseat. Your face nuzzled into his side, hand trailing fingers through his chest hair. A place on his side that was once yours every night.

“If you love me here, why can’t you love me there?” You asked, his chest stilling. 

“I never stopped loving you. I haven’t even tried, I just know it’s not possible.” He admitted, his hand running through the ends of your hair. This hair now held memories of him, too. 

“Like it. Your hair.” He admitted. 

“Only cut it because it reminded me of you.” You admitted back, closing your eyes. Letting the beat of his chest echo in your ears. If this was going to be the last time the two of you were ever like this, you were going to cherish it. Even if it was in the backseat of your car, his head was awkwardly propped against the foggy windows. 

“I didn’t cut my hair because I knew no one else would cut it like you.” He sighed, his hands stilling on your scalp. 

“We’re hopeless.” He couldn’t help but agree, holding you even tighter. 

“Do you wanna go back to my house?” He spoke quietly, not wanting the night to end. Not here, not in the backseat of your SUV like lovesick teenagers. 

You didn’t even have to think when you nodded, the two of you dressing in comfortable silence. When you got to his house, he slipped your coat off your shoulders, a practiced motion you got down after years of Indiana winters. His hair was damp from the snow and sweat, tiny curls appearing on his forehead and the back of his neck. Your fingers ached to trace the spiral. 

“I have some cider.” He spoke up, “Could warm us up.” 

“You should steal some of your dad’s bourbon. I can spike it.” You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes this time. 

“I like the way you think.” He parted with a kiss on your forehead. Leaving you to grab two mugs, warming up the apple cider. Successfully spiking it with the decanter he brought back. You migrated to the couch, settling in the spot across from him. The drink burned your throat, the spice settling deep in your chest. 

“We’re gonna have to talk about it, you know?” He spoke, setting his mug down on the table. Leaning back on the couch, one arm spread against the back of it. “Like actually talk about it.”

He looked good, too good. The dark red cashmere contrasts against his pale skin, his still-damp hair falling across his forehead. Your fingers ached to run your hands through his locks again, to press your lips to his exposed neck. 

“Tis the damn season.” You said sarcastically, your hand still gripping your mug tightly. Willing the spiked cider to enter your bloodstream faster. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just a weekend where we let ourselves pretend everything was okay.” 

“It means everything, and you know that.” He spoke quickly, his eyes squinting at you. 

Your mouth went dry, taken aback by his words. You knew it did the moment you two crossed the line that it was more than just sex. It could never be just sex between the two of you.

“Okay..” You slumped in your seat, “What does it mean then? Tell me. Because on the same day you were giving Nancy heart eyes, you fucked me on your couch.”

“I don’t see Nancy as anything other than a friend.” He swore, “I’ll admit, it was nice to feel wanted, I guess. I was lonely, and she was here. It was easy to slip into old shoes, harmless flirting. At first, just longing for someone. But Nancy.. We’d never work out. She still loves Jonathan, and I’d never get over you.” 

“There’s no one else.” You admitted, answering his question from days ago. “I was just riling you up. Which was very toxic of me, but you’re hot when you’re making assumptions. I went on one date, snuck out through the back door of the restaurant, crying.” 

While the thought made his stomach coil, he couldn’t stop the loud laugh that left his lips. “You’re kidding.” 

“No, it was embarrassing,” You giggled, “He ordered garlic bread, hold the garlic, so it was just bread. And when I asked him why he didn’t just say bread, he said it wasn’t the same. The only thing I could think of was ‘Wow, Steve would make fun of him with me’. So I cried and left.” 

“I would’ve made fun of him with you, but he didn’t deserve to go on a date with you.” He frowned a little through his laughs, “No one does.” 

A sharp silence sat between you two. Snow was still falling from outside, and Cider still steamed in your mugs. The room smelled like pine needles and cinnamon.

“I don’t know what to do,” You admitted, feeling small under his gaze, “We both hurt each other, but have we hurt each other too much? Can we take back the things we said?”

“No,” Steve said.

 Finally, after a brief moment of silence, your heart sank. So this was it, after everything, this was the closure you were avoiding. The kind that snuffed out the last bit of hope you’d been clinging to, leaving you no soft place to land. 

“We can’t take it back. We said those things because we were scared and hurting, and pretending we didn’t mean it at the time isn’t gonna fix anything.” 

His words hit like a gunshot at point-blank range. You took a moment to let the words sink in. 

You swallowed hard, nodding. “So that’s it, then.”

He shook his head. “No. Not if you don’t want it to be.”

You looked up at him, confused. Unsure if it was the cider speaking, or him. But when you caught his eyes, they were clear and determined. 

“We can’t go back to how we were. That much is obvious. Too much time has passed. We’ve both changed, I know I’ve changed.” He let out a soft laugh, “But that doesn’t mean it’s the end.” 

Silence stretched between you two, no longer a sharp sting- just a heavy weight over the two of you. 

“I spent months convincing myself that I made the right decision. I hurt you, I know I did. And there’s not a day that goes by, Y/n, that I don’t regret that.” He admitted, “I was lost. I was so lost and in my head, and I thought the only way to find myself again was space. I just kept thinking that if I stayed, you’d end up resenting me. That you’d wake up one day and realize you’d slowed yourself down for someone who couldn’t keep up. That you’d hate me the same way my dad hates my mom for ever keeping him in this town.” 

His words were heavy with emotion, cut off by your shaky voice. “You didn’t have any right to make that decision without me.” 

“God, I know,” he said. “But at the time, I couldn’t breathe. I was just treading water every day. I didn’t know who I was anymore, and I was terrified you’d end up hating me. So I did the worst thing possible and sped up the process.” 

“I don’t hate you,” You spoke quickly, “Steve, I could never hate you. Trust me, I tried.” 

He cracked a sad smile at that, his thumb rubbing over the edge of his now-chilled cider. 

“I guess I just thought leaving would give you space to become everything you were meant to be,” he said. “And maybe give me time to figure myself out. Looking back, yeah. I’d go back in time and change it if I could, but I can’t.” 

“Did it?” You asked, “Give you time?” 

He shook his head, cruel amusement on his lips. “Just made me realize that losing you made my life so much worse than it was. You changed, you know?” 

You raised an eyebrow at him, “The hair isn’t that big of a deal.” 

“Not that. You don’t need me the way you used to. You’re more sure of yourself, I can tell. And that scares me, because I know we can’t come back and expect things to be the same.”

“I don’t want the same,” you sighed. “I just don’t want to lose you again.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Maybe we don’t decide everything right now.”

You glanced back at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… we take it slow,” Steve said. “No promises we can’t keep. No rushing back into forever just because we miss each other. Let me earn your love again. Let me earn you putting that ring back on your finger. I’ll do it all over again. I’ll even get back down on one knee.” He brought his hand to yours, lacing your fingers together. Tracing the empty spot on your left ring finger. 

You nodded slowly. “No running this time.”

“No running,” he agreed, bringing your hand up to his mouth. Pressing the gentlest kiss to your knuckles.

It wasn’t forgiveness, not in the traditional sense. No one tells you what to do when someone you love hurts you, so you hurt them back twice as hard. It wasn’t a clean slate; there was no pretending to patch over bullet holes with cheap plaster. Starting over didn’t erase the hurt or fix the cracks in the foundation. It just meant choosing each other again, knowing exactly what it could cost. But waking up every day, fighting for each other instead of against one another, felt like something worth risking the pain for. 

And maybe in a different lifetime, he would have stayed, maybe in another, you were the one to go. All you knew was that in this one, the two of you weren’t going to spend another second apart. 

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

YOUR STEVIE | steve harrington

coming summer 2026

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

Because no matter what, he will always be your Stevie.

pairing: steve harrington x mayfield!reader contains: 18+!! for mature themes including graphic depictions of physical injury, gore, death of a sibling, hospitals, grief, absent parents, reader being reckless and a little mean, drug use, mentions of childhood trauma, multi part series, season three to season five, HEAVY angst, slow burn, ex!boyfriend steve, canon level violence, heavy steve harrington yearning, light use of y/n, reader is mainly called mayfield, mention of reader having red hair (she’s a mayfield after all!), female reader, she/her pronouns for reader, eventual smut.

🍂 to be added to my 18+ taglist | masterlist | requests page

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[buckysbarnes]

WHY I WATCH STRANGER THINGS: THE “PLOT” - PART ONE 

[keeryhours]

who’s gonna drive you home tonight? - steve harrington

frat! steve harrington x sorority girl! reader

part one of ???

masterlist tag list steve masterlist

summary:

you’ve hated steve harrington since the day you met him. unfortunately for you, your sorority and his frat go hand in hand, and you can’t escape him. he gets no greater joy in life than to piss you off. when a frat party like any other turns into something heated with the guy you hate more than anyone else, neither of you are sure how to deal with it.

warnings:

smut (18+), protected p in v, dubcon? (they’re both high), oral sex (f receiving), thigh riding, fingering, messy, rough sex, big dick steve, mention of masturbation (m and f), drinking, drug use (weed), pervy comments, steve is actually insufferable at first

word count: 17.5k words

a/n:

there is soooo much left of this fic, i have the whole thing outlined and i’m so excited! it will def be 4+ parts but i really wanted to share the beginning with you and hopefully it will motivate me to finish it soon 😁 i really hope you like it!!

The first time you met Steve, you almost slapped him.

His reputation preceded him. Even your freshman year at Ohio State University, fresh out of rush week, you’d heard plenty about Sigma Chi pledge Steve Harrington. They were singing his praises from day one—he was handsome, a baseball genius, the life of any party. He commanded the attention of any room he stepped into. You were a little sick of him to begin with from how your Delta Gamma sisters wouldn’t shut up about him for two seconds even before that first party.

And when you walked into the Sigma Chi house for the first time, you didn’t even need to be told which one was the Harrington. The world gravitated around him like he was the sun itself, and he seemed to glow like it, too. He was handsome, devastatingly so. His smile was blinding. He had a stupidly good head of hair, gorgeous sun-kissed skin dotted with moles like constellations, and big hazel eyes that made him look deceptively sweet.

You’d met eyes from across the room, and at the time, it had felt like something clicking into place. Two puzzle pieces who had finally found where they belonged. Your breath hitched as he left the group he was talking to and sauntered over, that brilliant smile now directed specifically at you and you alone. Your heart had felt like it might burst from your chest.

“Oh my god,” one of your sisters, Margot, had said, grabbing onto your arm. “He’s coming over here.”

He didn’t even glance at her. He only looked at you. He wore a polo with jeans that fit him just right, a red plastic cup clutched in his large hand. When he reached you, you could smell his cologne, something intoxicating that made your head spin. He really was everything everyone had promised.

And then he opened his mouth.

“Hi,” he’d said, extending a hand towards you. “I’m Steve. And you are fucking beautiful.”

Embarrassingly, you’d giggled like a total fool, given him your hand, and introduced yourself. “Nice to meet you, Steve.”

He’d actually taken your hand and kissed your knuckles, like the prince he absolutely saw himself as. And then, that suave grin turned into something more like a cocky smirk, a look you’d grow to know and loathe. “You know, you look like a girl who deserves the very best,” he’d said. “And, wouldn’t you know it—by sheer coincidence, you’re looking at the best this frat has to offer.”

Okay, a little eye roll worthy, but that wasn’t abnormal for these frat guys. You’d raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what could you possibly offer me?”

His smirk had widened, and he moved in, grabbing you by the hip and pulling you against him. “Oh, things beyond your wildest dreams, baby,” he’d murmured, even as you gasped at the sheer audacity of this guy. “Why don’t we go up to my room and I can show you?”

You’d shoved him back by his chest, making him stumble, the beer in his cup sloshing over the sides and onto his light blue shirt. “You’re a fucking perv.”

Steve’s expression had immediately transformed into something harder, all traces of the charming smile from moments ago completely erased. “What the fuck?”

“You don’t get to just walk up and touch me. I don’t even know you.” You’d scoffed, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Does that actually work for you?”

“Yeah, actually,” he’d said, looking at you with pure distaste now. “With girls who aren’t an uptight cocktease.”

You’d laughed, but only in an attempt to keep yourself from punching this guy square in the jaw. “Oh, wow. Fuck you.”

“Fuck me, huh?” he’d said, that stupid smirk back in place. “You know, that’s a good idea, maybe it would help if I got that stick out of your ass and gave you something else—“

“Oh-kay, let’s go get a drink!” Margot had said, dragging you away before you could land the slap you were winding up. You heard him laughing behind you, the sound loud and infuriating.

“See you around, baby!” he’d called after you. Margot just dug her fingers into your arm, pulling you to a completely different part of the house as fast as she could.

Things with Steve did not improve after that. And, unfortunately for you, you couldn’t escape him. He was everywhere you turned. Not only the golden boy on campus—his photo was used on any and all promotions for the championship winning baseball team—but, soon, also the president of Sigma Chi. And your houses went hand in hand.

Every party you went to, Steve was there, holding court among his adoring subjects. The guys on campus thought he was the coolest guy who ever lived, and the girls were practically stepping over each other for a chance with him. You attempted to keep your distance, but Steve loved annoying you more than he loved the girls begging to go up to his bedroom.

Delta Gamma also partnered with Sigma Chi for just about everything. As the top houses, it was just a given. Every event, every fundraiser, every charity event and mixer and rager. As much as you adored everything about your sorority and had always felt like you’d made the wrong choice, Steve was the one thing that made you question it.

It was no secret, either. Everyone knew you and Steve hated each other. Steve’s frat brothers found it hilarious, while your sisters tried their best to keep you away from each other. You just couldn’t get along—being in each other’s space for too long always ended in disaster. A loud argument, heated insults, or sometimes even a thrown drink, if Steve was feeling extra mouthy that night. You were best kept far away from one another.

You’d grown close with another girl who’d pledged Delta Gamma, Nancy. Nancy was sweet and smart and although you loved all your sisters, you’d clicked with her immediately. Nancy also happened to know Steve well. They’d grown up together, even dated briefly in high school.

“Steve is an asshole,” Nancy had told you, confirming everything you already thought. “Seriously, don’t let him try to charm you. He’s full of it.”

It kind of seemed like you and Nancy were the only ones who saw it, though. Of course there were the girls he’d already scorned, but the vast majority of the Ohio State female student population were head over heels for Steve Harrington. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes every time you saw it.

That would never be you.

Your junior year had just begun, and by the end of September, homecoming season was well underway. Sigma Chi had already partnered with Delta Gamma, a surprise to no one.

What was a surprise was that you had a chance at being crowned queen this year. Homecoming court was something you’d never given much thought to. Your attention was already divided in so many directions—between your classes and honor society, track, event planning and sorority obligations with being Social Chair, and being a TA for the first time this year, you were booked and busy. The crown was the least of your concern. Even now, you didn’t stress about it. Everyone knew your chapter president, Lindsey, would be taking the crown anyway.

The week of homecoming itself was always busy and filled with excitement—stuffed full of events and activities, a good chunk of which you had a hand in planning. But still, courting had begun, and Tommy Hagan had been going all out to catch your attention.

It started with a bouquet of flowers so huge you had to divide them up into three different vases just to display them in a way that didn’t look ridiculous. Then, it was the food. Fruit baskets, a mini cake, so much of your favorite candy and chocolate you had to beg your sisters to eat some of it. The day you walked out of the house to the entire OSU choir serenading you on the front lawn, you’d been utterly speechless.

Tommy was nice enough, you guessed. If you had to partner with someone, he wasn’t the worst choice. That would be Steve Harrington, who, by expectations alone—because Steve didn’t put much effort into anything that wasn’t baseball or getting his dick wet—was courting Lindsey. He didn’t even have to try and he knew it.

There was a new gift or grand gesture from Tommy daily, while Steve had sent a single box of milk chocolates, a half dozen and definitely the cheapest on the shelf even though everyone knew the Harringtons were absolutely loaded—and Lindsey was allergic to dairy. You could tell she was annoyed about it, but she was going to partner with Steve regardless. Every time you brought another elaborate gift into the house, the look she gave you was cold and cutting. It was…awkward.

At least for now, you could push thoughts of homecoming from your brain. It was Saturday night, and you were ready to have some fun. Or at least try to, because you were about to walk right into King Steve’s kingdom.

You’d think you would have gotten used to his presence by now, but he never got any less annoying. It’s not like you could just skip every party. Everyone knew Sigma Chi threw the best parties of any frat on campus. Were you just not supposed to go because the president was a total pain in the ass? You could kiss your social status goodbye real fast.

Sometimes you’d get lucky and wouldn’t see him at all the whole night. Maybe just a flash of his stupid hair, or the sound of his laugh from another room. A glimpse at his cocky smirk as he led some poor girl up to his room. And other nights, he seemed hell bent on annoying you as much as possible.

You really, really hoped for the former tonight. You walked into the house with Nancy and Margot, the bass already thumping, the place overrun with college students in various states of intoxication. You looked good, you knew you did. Tiny skirt that showed off your legs, a top that displayed just enough chest to have guys staring every time they walked past. Not that that was hard.

“Do you want me to get us drinks?” Nancy asked, leaning over to yell over the music right in your ear. You nodded, and she gave you a soft smile before pushing her way through to the kitchen.

There was no sign of Steve so far, which you hoped was a good omen. Your eyes scanned the room, mostly familiar faces, but a decent amount of freshmen you hadn’t gotten to know well yet were there, too.

Nancy was back quickly, walking through the crowd holding the two red cups up high in an attempt to not spill them or get anything on her white blouse. She let out a sigh of relief when she finally reached you, handing you a drink.

“It’s a total madhouse in there,” she said. “Like, more than usual.”

“How many new pledges are there this year?” you asked, taking a sip of your beer. You linked hands with Nancy and began pushing through to the living room. You eventually found a place to stand against the wall, surveying the rest of the party.

“I have no idea,” she said. Her curls were pulled back on top with a bow, and she held her drink between both delicate hands. “It’s gotta be more than last year, right?”

It certainly seemed like it. The Sigma Chi parties were always intense, but it felt like you could barely move. “With Harrington in charge this year, who knows.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “God, I know. When I heard he was president, I almost thought about dropping out.”

You laughed, shaking your head and taking another sip of your beer. “At least in two more years, I’ll never have to see him again.”

“Lucky you,” Nancy grumbled. “I’m sure I’ll always be seeing him at some point when I’m back in Hawkins for holidays. It’s like I can’t escape him.”

The sound of your name being called caught your attention. You looked around, looking for the source—and saw Tommy Hagan on his way over, hand held up in a wave and a bright smile on his freckled face.

“Here comes your loverboy,” Nancy mumbled into her cup, looking away like she was minding her own business.

“Hey,” Tommy said as he reached you. He wasn’t as bad as Steve, but they were best friends and looked like they could have shared a wardrobe. He wore a dark red polo and jeans, one hand now in his pocket and the other holding his own drink. “Wow, you look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you smiled politely. “Um, thanks for the flowers this morning. Blue this time, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, his smile somewhat sheepish as he ran a hand through his short hair. “I was thinking, like, a different bouquet for every color of the rainbow, or something.”

You nodded, eyebrows raised. “Ooh, yeah. I see the vision.”

A soft blush colored the pale skin on his cheeks. “Did you like them?”

He was being so sweet, you couldn’t help but soften. You weren’t interested in Tommy romantically, but you were happy to partner with him if that’s what he wanted. “They were beautiful. Seriously.” His eyes lit up, and at the fear of yet another bouquet to make your bedroom look even more like a greenhouse, you added, “But I am starting to run out of room to put vases.”

Tommy laughed softly, looking down at the floor. “Yeah. Maybe I should try to get creative.”

A shout came from the sliding glass back door, drawing all of your attention behind him. “Hagan! Come out here and show the new brothers how a keg stand is done!”

Tommy turned back to you. “Sorry. Duty calls, I guess,” he said, although he didn’t look all that sorry. Sigma Chi took their keg stands very seriously. “I’ll catch you around later though, yeah? You’re not planning to turn in early or anything?”

“I’ll be here,” you confirmed, drinking from your cup again. “Go show ‘em, Hagan.”

His grin only widened. “See you later, beautiful.”

You watched him go, laughing softly as he immediately switched gears from gentleman to frat bro the second he reached the back door.

“Please let him be done with the bouquets,” Nancy said as soon as he was gone, done acting like she hadn’t been paying attention the whole time. “I’ve already got half of the flowers in my room.”

The party went on, and eventually you lost Nancy to the crowd. She’d started seeing this guy a few weeks ago, Vance, a transfer student who had her totally smitten like you’d never seen before. While Nancy had always been your partner at these parties—more like your shield from Steve Harrington—she’d started wanting to spend more time with Vance, and who were you to stop her?

It wasn’t until later in the night, when you were leaning against the wall with yet another drink, that you finally saw him. Or heard him, rather, because his obnoxious loud voice and laugh usually entered a room before he did. At least he had a warning bell, you thought.

When Steve entered the living room with his friends, telling some story that was definitely not funny enough to warrant how hard they were laughing, you thought about making a run for it. But then his eyes locked with yours from across the room, and he shot you that stupid fucking smirk that made you irritated immediately. And he knew it.

He stared at you even while he kept talking to his friends, and you stared back. He liked to do these little power plays. Even the women around him weren’t drawing his attention away. And finally, much to your disappointment, he turned away long enough to excuse himself before walking straight for you.

You really regretted not making your escape while you had the chance.

Steve greeted you by your last name, something none of the other guys did, since they cared about actually impressing you. “How sweet of you to grace my house with your presence. I almost didn’t expect you to show.”

You scoffed. “Just because you’re president this year doesn’t mean you’re special—“

“Actually, it does,” he smirked. “This is my kingdom, baby.” He held his arms out, as if the opulent house crammed full of sweaty, drunk college students was supposed to impress you. “And you’re talking to the king.”

You couldn’t have rolled your eyes harder if you tried. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk? It’s like everything you say comes from the official douchebag handbook.”

His smirk only widened. “Maybe it does. Maybe I even wrote it.”

“Steve, I’m not even sure you can read.” You shook your head, looking off to the side, searching for any lifeline out of this conversation with your least favorite person on earth. “Why are you over here bothering me, anyway? Don’t you have some poor girl to flatter long enough to get in her pants?”

“I’d much rather get under that skirt,” he quipped. When your head snapped back in his direction, eyes practically glowing with the fire behind them and the promise of pouring your drink all over his dark blue shirt and stupid khakis, he held his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay,” he laughed. “I came over because you looked fucking miserable. Why do you always look so bored? You’re at a party.”

“I’m not bored,” you retorted simply.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, leaning a hand against the wall next to you. “You look pissed off to even be here.”

“That’s because you’re talking to me.”

Steve laughed, which was maybe your least favorite sound in the world. “Every time I see you here, you look bored. Like you think you’re too good to even be here.”

“Well, unfortunately, Sigma Chi has the most annoying guy possible as their president, so…” you trailed off, a hand on your hip. You took a sip from your beer again, but you would need a lot more alcohol to make Steve’s presence bearable.

He hummed, as if he were considering it. “I don’t know. I think you feel like you’re above all this.” He gestured around the room. “Why would you join a sorority if you hate parties so bad?”

“I don’t hate parties,” you argued. And it was true—you didn’t. You could have plenty of fun at a party. You were Social Chair.

“Well, whatever it is, you’re bringing down the mood,” he said. He downed the rest of his own drink, sitting the empty plastic cup on the mantel, where it would surely sit until some poor pledges were tasked with cleaning the whole place tomorrow.

“I don’t think anyone cares what I’m doing,” you muttered. “Other than you, for some fucking reason.”

Steve grinned again. “I know what you need.”

“Yeah?” You raised your eyebrows. “Is it for you to leave me alone and never speak to me again? Because I could agree with that.”

“You need to get high.”

That made you pause. “What?”

His smile grew. “I think you need to loosen up. Like, a lot.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, back towards the staircase. “I could roll us a joint. I wanted to go smoke anyway.”

You just blinked at him. “You’re—“ You were genuinely stunned. “You’re inviting me to go up to your room and smoke? This isn’t, like, some weird attempt to have sex, right? Because that is never gonna happen—“

“No, Jesus,” he laughed. “I just think you need to stop being so damn uptight for once. It would help, believe me.”

“I’ve smoked before, I’m not some prude,” you mumbled, because you knew that’s exactly what Steve saw you as. “If you’re offering, why can’t you just, like…roll me one and bring it back down here?”

“I keep the good shit hidden in my room,” he shrugged. “Otherwise, these assholes would steal it all. They don’t need to know about it.”

You hesitated, because no matter how badly you wanted to accept the invitation for some free weed, it came with a worse cost—spending time one on one with Steve Harrington. He looked at you expectantly while you looked around the room, biting the inside of your cheek as you fought with yourself over it.

“Fine,” you said finally. “But we smoke, and then I’m coming right back down here and finding Nancy.”

“Deal,” he smirked. “At least you’ll be more fun. We have a reputation here, you know.”

You rolled your eyes yet again as he turned, leading the way back to the staircase. The crowd always seemed to part for Steve like he was true royalty, a deep seated respect that you personally would never understand. Your eyes darted around to every face you passed, absolutely mortified at the idea of someone seeing you following him upstairs, but no one seemed to notice.

The polished wood of the banister was smooth beneath your palm as you followed. You’d never even been up these stairs at all, the second floor a total mystery you had never been too eager to uncover. Steve’s shoes thudded against the shining hardwood floors, passing room after room occupied with couples, some of them not even bothering to close the door all the way. You scrunched your face up in disgust at one particularly shameless makeout session with the bedroom door wide open.

Steve reached a room at the end of the hall, turning to look at you over his shoulder before turning the doorknob, as if it were some grand reveal. You had to admit—only to yourself—but you were a little curious about what waited on the other side.

You trailed into the room behind him, closing the door behind you. You looked around as Steve kneeled by his bed, pulling out a shoebox. The bedroom was neat, bed made, clothes put away besides the ones piled in the laundry hamper. There was a desk with a lamp, soft light shining over a mess of papers and textbooks. His dresser was cluttered with hair products and a few bottles of expensive cologne. There were a few posters tacked to the walls, mostly sports related, a few of scantily clad women, and the year’s OSU baseball schedule. He had a bookshelf against one wall, holding his textbooks and a staggering amount of baseball trophies. A framed team photo sat on one shelf, along with one of all the Sigs taken at the beginning of the semester.

“Having fun?” Steve asked, making you jump slightly as you turned to look at him. He was sitting on his bed now, the shoebox open next to him. He was smiling at you as his fingers worked dexterously to roll the joint. “Didn’t know you could be so nosy.”

You scoffed, but your cheeks felt a little hot. “Shouldn’t have stuff sitting out if you don’t want people to look at it.”

He laughed. “You can look at whatever you want.” He licked along the seam of the joint, perfectly rolled. “Go ahead and search the whole room, if you want. The porn mags are in that drawer.” He nodded towards his nightstand.

You scrunched your face up. “Ew. You’re so gross.”

Steve laughed again as he put his baggie of weed and papers back in the box, pushing it beneath his bed again. You took a seat on the plush carpet, back leaning against his dresser. He placed a muscular arm on the end of the bed frame and lowered himself to the floor to sit across from you.

“You can do the honors if you want,” he offered, holding the joint out towards you.

There was a moment of hesitation before you reached forward, taking it from his fingers. “I don’t understand why you’re being nice to me,” you said, brows furrowed even as you placed the joint between your lips, flicking the lighter and holding the flame to the end.

“I’m not being nice to you,” he said. He still had that same look he always had when he looked at you, like it was one of his life’s greatest joys to piss you off, to get you worked up and upset. “Like I said, you’re ruining my party. Can’t have word spreading around campus that people are here looking bored. Sigs are the party kings of campus, and that’s not changing, especially not with me in charge.”

“Oh, right,” you said, exhaling that first cloud of smoke. “The new ruler can’t appear weak, and all that.”

“Exactly,” he smirked. He watched you take another hit, then leaned forward, accepting the joint back from you and taking a long pull himself.

“I don’t think anyone pays as much attention to me as you do, Steve,” you said. That warm feeling was starting to settle over you, and he was right—you were relaxing already. It was the first time you’d been in a room with him and didn’t want to scream or punch him.

His gaze was heavy on you as he hit the joint, looking at you with that intensity he always seemed to hold when you were in a room together. But now it was making you fidget, the room suddenly feeling hot.

“Who says I pay attention to you?” he finally asked. His voice was lower now, and when he leaned forward to pass the joint back to you, your fingers brushed together. It sent a jolt through your body, and you jerked your hand back quickly, bringing it to your lips to give yourself time to think before you spoke again.

“It’s kind of obvious.” Smoke billowed from your lips as you responded. The room was growing thick with it, a haze surrounding you both in and outside of your head. “Always staring at me, coming over just to annoy me…”

“It’s fun,” he admitted, laughing softly. He ran a hand through his hair, starting to lose its shape and flop into his wide hazel eyes. “Every time you get mad, you get that cute little furrow between your eyebrows, your lips get all pouty, and you roll your eyes about a million times.”

You paused—and then giggled, leaning forward to pass the joint back. “Seriously? I told you, you pay attention to me.”

Your laughter was starting to get Steve going too. He took another pull. “I mean, I notice things that are nice to look at. I’m only a man, after all.”

The laughter felt like something you could no longer control, bubbling up in your chest and filling Steve’s bedroom much like the smoke in the air. It was contagious, the two of you laughing together as you finished off the joint.

“You know you always say the cheesiest stuff possible,” you giggled, your body fully relaxed into the floor at this point. Your limbs felt heavy in the best way, like every bit of tension in your muscles had faded. “It’s kind of amazing how everyone thinks you’re so cool, because you’re kind of a total dork.”

Steve laughed hard, his head tilting back. You couldn’t help but notice the strong column of his throat, the way the muscles flexed in his neck and chest. “I have to get creative,” he said, fixing his eyes back on yours once again. “I aim to keep you entertained, after all.”

“I guess you do,” you smiled. “Annoyed, yes. Bored? Never.”

He watched you for a minute, something thoughtful seeming to cross his face. Your eyes locked in that way they often did, just staring. Seeing each other. Steve always had a way of making you feel like he could see right through you, and it made you wonder if he felt the same about you, too.

The fact that you were enjoying Steve’s company seemed to strike you all at once. It was confusing—maybe concerning—but for now, you were too high to care. He’d been right. This was what you needed.

Steve nudged your foot with his own. “I’ve never seen you look so peaceful,” he grinned. “Who knew there was more to you than being stuck up and…snobby.”

You snorted a laugh. “Fuck you, Harrington.”

The grin on his face grew. “Oh, would that help you relax some more?” he said, looking a little too proud of himself. “Because I’d be happy to help you with that, too.”

Your eyes widened, and Steve was pretty sure you were about to tell him off again—but then you tossed your head back, laughing harder than he’d ever heard from you. “Oh my god. In your dreams.”

Steve smirked, that same look you’d grown to know as cocky and insufferable, but right now, you didn’t seem to mind it. It was endearing, almost. Handsome, maybe. “Baby, you let me fuck you, and you’ll be dreaming about it for months.”

It’s like everything he said, every stupid, corny line that would usually have you irritated, was suddenly the funniest thing you’d ever heard. “You really think you’re god’s gift to women, huh?”

“I know I am.” He tilted his head to the side, body relaxed as he leaned back against his bed frame. “Never heard a single complaint.”

“That’s because girls know how to fake it,” you mumbled. “Guys can never tell.”

“Oh, I can tell.” His hands flexed where they rested on his thighs, the veins beneath his skin suddenly extremely distracting. “Some guys can’t, sure. But I know the difference between some fake pornstar moans to boost some pathetic dude’s ego, and how it really feels to make a girl fall apart.”

Your cheeks felt hot now. Your whole body did, even though your outfit didn’t cover much skin. “You’re not that good in bed.”

“How would you know?” he asked, looking at you with genuine curiosity and something like delight.

“I can just tell,” you answered quickly, looking down at the soft beige carpet beneath your bare thighs. “Guys never care about making girls feel good. Just themselves.” That’s how it had been with every guy you’d ever slept with. Not a single one had been different.

“I’m not other guys,” Steve said, voice lower now. It made your breath hitch in your throat, slowly raising your head to look at him. He was still smiling at you, but there was something different behind his eyes now, something heavy and burning.

You returned his smile, laughing softly even as you felt your heart speed up in your chest. “Yeah, well. I don’t think any guy is different in that department.”

“You wanna bet?”

That almost earned him another eye roll (playful this time, but still)—until he shifted, moving over to sit next to you. You tensed as you felt his shoulder brush against yours, feeling both electricity and heat even through the fabric of your clothes.

“Steve…”

His large hand came up slowly. Now he was looking at you in a way you’d never seen from him before. The familiar cocky smirk was gone, his soft lips parted slightly as his eyes raked over every part of you like he wanted to memorize the way you looked right now. Your chest rose and fell with your heavy breaths, watching his intense gaze travel slowly, taking his time. From your eyes, to your lips, down your throat. Lower, to your chest, but not in the pervy way he’d done in the past. No, it wasn’t that—it was…reverent. Like he was seeing something holy.

His hand finally moved, brushing your hair back softly. It made you draw in a sharp breath, chills spreading across the skin of your neck where he’d made contact.

“I like you like this,” he said, voice low and quiet. His eyes were locked on the side of your neck, where he’d just touched.

It took you a second to find your voice, although it came out more like a whisper. “Like…what?”

“Happy,” he said. His gaze finally moved to your eyes. “Comfortable. Real.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You know, you’re really pretty when you smile like that.”

You were pretty sure you had to be dreaming, because in no world were you sitting in Steve’s bedroom while he looked at you like that. Like he wanted to kiss you. Like he was actually moving in, leaning in slowly to close the distance as if giving you all the chance in the world to run away—

You didn’t. Your eyes fell closed and then, with the force of a meteor crashing into the earth despite how soft and gentle it was, his lips met yours. His hand rested against the side of your neck while yours moved up to grip onto his bicep. He tilted his head slightly and your lips slotted together perfectly, moving together with a practiced kind of confidence and a sense of rightness you never should have felt with Steve Harrington ever.

There was no time to think with the way he was kissing you, slow and deep but utterly consuming. It was careful at first, exploratory. It felt so good, your lips moving with his like it was second nature. Steve was a good kisser. You knew he had plenty of experience, and it’s not like you didn’t, but he was taking the lead and you were happy to let him.

His tongue traced along your bottom lip, and you parted your lips on instinct. His tongue met yours with a soft groan that had you digging your nails into his arm through the sleeve of his shirt, pulling him closer.

Steve laid you back on the soft carpet with way more care than you’d ever seen him show anything. He braced himself on a strong arm planted next to your head, never breaking the kiss for a single second. His body hovered over yours, one knee moving between your thighs where your skirt had fallen up around your waist, pressing against you through your panties. His free hand rested on your hip now, holding onto you. You let out a soft moan against his lips, delirious from every point of contact, rocking your hips down against his leg to feel that friction you craved so desperately.

He groaned, moving from your mouth to kiss across your jaw, down to your neck, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin, giving you chills. Your breaths were coming in hard and heavy now, holding onto his broad shoulders like a lifeline, eyes closed as you felt every sensation he provided.

“So pretty,” he murmured against your neck, grinding his knee against you to meet every needy movement. He nipped lightly at the sensitive spot below your ear. You could feel his smirk against your skin when you gasped, hips bucking against him in response. It made no sense how he knew exactly what to do, like he somehow knew your body better than you did.

“Steve…” you whimpered, the only word your brain could conjure.

“That’s it, baby,” he said. His breath was hot against your skin, sucking at your neck, biting then soothing the sting with his tongue. “Let me hear you. Gonna make you feel so good.” 

The hand on your hip slowly slid up the smooth skin of your side, rucking your shirt up. You sat up long enough to help him pull it off completely, leaving you in the lacy bra you wore beneath. He wasted no time lowering his head to mouth at the top of your breasts, practically burying his face in them, kissing and sucking and biting at the exposed skin.

“Always had the best fucking tits,” he moaned, losing himself in a way you could only describe as worshipful. He reached behind you to unhook your bra easily, pulling it away and tossing it to the side. He pulled back to look down at your body, the look in his eyes one of pure hunger. “Actually insane fuckin’ pair, Jesus Christ.”

You laughed, because yeah, there was the Steve you knew. That laugh turned into a gasp, then a moan, when he leaned down and wrapped his lips around one of your nipples.

“Fuck,” you gasped, hands shooting up to tangle in his hair. “Oh my god—“

He swirled his tongue around the stiff peak, groaning as he sucked on it. He grabbed the other, massaging your breast in his large hand, slightly calloused from years of pitching. The friction on your sensitive, hardened nipple was maddening, back arching and pushing your tits further into his face.

He never let up with the movements against your soaked cunt, either, even as he switched back and forth between your tits. Your clit was swollen and throbbing and begging for more, and you were pretty sure your panties were utterly ruined. You could feel the pleasure building in your core with an intensity that felt like it would completely take your breath away.

You’d never had a guy make you cum in your life, and now Steve Harrington was about to do it in five minutes, fully clothed, with his fucking thigh?

Steve could sense the tension coiling in your body—and he pulled away, taking away every delicious ounce of pleasure he’d been building.

Your eyes opened, still heavy lidded and hazy. “What—?”

“My bed,” he said, and you noticed he was breathing hard, too. “Not gonna fuck you for the first time on the floor.”

You didn’t give yourself time to think about his words. He helped you up, then pulled you into another frantic kiss as you both shed clothes as fast as you could with your lips still attached, utterly desperate for each other.

Steve’s mattress creaked softly as you fell back onto it, now in nothing but your panties. You moved back towards his pillows, leaning up on your elbows as you watched him.

God, he looked good with his shirt off, you absolutely hated to admit. He had thick hair covering his chest, which was muscular and strong, but his stomach was still a little soft. His skin was sun-kissed, those moles dotting his body all over. The desire to kiss every single one of them surged suddenly within you, but you pushed the thought away. That was…intimate.

His gaze remained heavy on you as he worked his belt open without drawing away his attention once. The way he looked at you was like a starving man preparing for a feast. Your thighs were slightly parted, and he didn’t miss how damp your panties were. For him.

Finally down to his boxer briefs alone, you could see more of him than you ever had before. He was fully hard, the outline of his dick visible as it strained against the thin, snug material.

And the rumors were true.

“Jesus,” you breathed. That cocky smirk returned to his face as he watched your wide-eyed stare. Truthfully, he was used to that reaction. “You’re…”

“I know, baby,” he purred, crawling onto the bed over you. He leaned down, peppering kisses along your legs as he moved higher along your body. “It’ll fit. I’ll be careful. ‘m gonna take care of you like you deserve.”

It felt like you were melting into the soft sheets and comforter surrounding you. Steve was taking his time, placing hot, open mouthed kisses against your calf, his hand roaming up the other leg in time with his mouth. He rose higher, over your knee, up the inside of your thigh.

He laid on his stomach between your legs, kissing and nipping all along the sensitive skin of both inner thighs. Your legs trembled. The sight of him there, with his mouth all over you, was almost too overwhelming to even take in. Your head dropped against his pillows, just giving in to his every desire, your body coming alive with every touch. Trusting him.

“You’re so wet for me,” he breathed in pure admiration. His nose nuzzled against your core through the thin material, and you drew in a sharp gasp. He looked up at you from between your legs, fingers moving to dip beneath the waistband of your panties. “Has anyone ever tasted you before?”

You froze as you realized what he was asking you, what he was planning to do. By the time you found your words, he’d already slipped the delicate material down and off your body. You shuddered as you felt his breath against your pussy, cool against the wetness there, for him.

“I—“ You jolted when you felt him rub his nose against your folds, breathing in the intoxicating scent of you. Your whole body was flushed and hot. “…No.”

Steve groaned. The idea of being the first to pleasure you like this had his cock throbbing between his body and the mattress. “Fuckin’ idiots,” he grumbled, drinking in the sight of you for a little longer before he finally moved in, dragging his tongue against your cunt, moaning like he’d never tasted anything better. “You have the perfect fuckin’ pussy. Tastes so sweet.”

Your hips jerked against his mouth, crying out at that first unfamiliar contact. You heard his low chuckle, but there was no humor behind it, just pure want. He dove in, devouring you properly.

The feeling of his tongue against you was more intense than you’d anticipated. Your fingers tangled in his perfect hair, making a mess of it, pulling just hard enough to earn a groan from his chest that vibrated against your clit. You were nearly seeing stars already, hips rocking up against his mouth as he flicked his tongue against the swollen nub, sucking gently before moving down to your hole. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was pulling you apart piece by piece until you could hardly stand it.

You’d heard of this before, of course you had. Your sorority sisters had mentioned it a few times, and you’d seen it in that trashy porno you, Nancy, and Carol had spent the night giggling at after sharing a joint and some vodka crans. But you always thought of it as a myth. No man you’d ever been with had even offered, even if you’d gone down on him first. You figured it was something guys just didn’t do, or at least something they didn’t want to do.

Not Steve, apparently, because he was worshipping you like he could have spent hours with his face buried between your legs. His skilled tongue worked against you in all the right ways, moaning against you and grinding his hips against the bed, even harder if you tugged on his hair, which you were quickly learning he liked.

“Steve—“ you gasped, body writhing and arching beneath him. “Oh my god, I—-“

“That’s it,” he praised, pulling away from you just long enough to speak, eyes glazed and lips and chin shining with your wetness, before diving in again. “Doing so good for me, sweetheart. You’re so fucking hot.”

You whimpered when you felt his thick finger pressing against your entrance, moaning as he pushed inside while his mouth focused on your clit again. With how wet you were, he slid inside easily, fucking you before quickly adding a second finger. He curled them deep inside, pressing against something that nearly had you screaming his name loud enough for the whole party to hear.

“Steve!” you gasped, one hand still tangled in his hair while the other gripped onto the pillow, feeling like you would actually float away if you didn’t hold on. The pleasure he was giving you was nearly overwhelming, your body beginning to tremble harder as that coil tightened again, faster and more intense this time. He slipped in a third, fucking you deep, stretching you around his thick fingers.

“Gotta get you ready for me,” he panted, dragging his tongue through your folds one more time just to taste you. “Fuck. You’re so good, gonna take me so well, every fuckin’ inch, I know you will. Gonna stretch so perfectly around my cock.”

A whine crawled its way from your throat, hips rocking against his fingers as he fucked you deep with them, pressing against that bundle of nerves that had you losing your mind. “Steve…Steve…oh fuck, I’m—“

He didn’t let up with his fingers for a single second. But it was when he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking, while his fingers thrusted in hard and deep, that made it finally snap.

Your vision went white, your body tensing and mouth dropping open in a scream that was silent at first, before you let out what were probably the most pornstar-worthy sounds you’d ever made in your life. “Steve! Oh, fuck!”

Steve groaned at the sound, lapping up every bit of you, letting you grind your pussy against his tongue and working you through every shuddering aftershock until your body went limp beneath him. When he finally pulled back, you fully expected him to look up at you with that look he almost always wore, the one that made him look so proud of himself, so punchable. But instead he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before sucking his fingers clean greedily, looking down at your body with that same heated, wanting expression.

He sat up on his knees. You didn’t think it was possible before but he was even harder now, a wet spot on his boxers at the tip of his cock where he’d been absolutely dripping for you. His thumbs hooked into the waistband, pushing down just enough for you to get a glimpse of the hair that disappeared below.

“You ready for me?” he asked, voice a low rumble.

You let out a shaky breath, looking up at him with wide eyes. “…Yeah.”

Steve smirked down at you and pushed the material down in one go. His cock sprung free—and it was even more impressive than it looked before. He was thick and long, a slight right curve, vein prominent along the underside. His tip was flushed red like he was real desperate, and glistening from the precum he’d been leaking the whole time he was taking care of you. Another drop was beading at his slit. You’d never had a man look like he wanted you this bad.

You knew you were staring, and Steve certainly saw it, too. “See something you like, baby?”

You let out a breathless laugh, but truthfully, you were in no position to crack a joke or even deny it. You simply watched as he shed the last bit of clothing completely, leaving you both completely bare in his bed.

He leaned over you and reached to open the bedside drawer. There really were porn mags in there, which might have made you laugh if you couldn’t feel that thick length twitching against your thigh. He grabbed a condom and shoved the drawer closed, sitting back up on his knees. He ripped the foil packet open with his teeth and rolled it onto his cock.

When he leaned over your body again, one arm braced near your shoulder and the other stroking his cock slowly, your heart began to pound fast. There was that brief moment of I’m really doing this, right now, with him, but you’d never wanted anything more in your life.

Steve lined the head of his cock up with your entrance. You were still soaked, so he wasn’t worried, but you were. You’d heard rumors of how some girls couldn’t even take him, only getting him halfway in before giving up and jerking him off instead. You hadn’t believed them, because starting a rumor about the size of his dick was absolutely something you could see Steve doing. But now you were here in his bed, seeing firsthand that it was very true.

He traced his cock up and down through your folds, coating himself in that slick wetness, showing a surprising amount of care. He placed hot, gentle kisses along your jaw as he did, voice a soft, low rumble in your ear.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised, lips brushing against your skin. “You don’t like it, we don’t have to. But I’ve got you, baby. You’re so good, I think you can take it.”

You could hear the need in his voice, how badly he needed you to let him fuck you. But you also knew he was true to his word.

But, god, you wanted to take all of him. To show him you could, to feel him buried deep. To make him fall apart.

Steve kissed his way back to your lips, kissing you slow and deep, tongue massaging against yours. You felt the sting of the thick head of his cock pushing inside you, and you let out a soft whimper into the kiss. He moaned against you and pushed in just a little deeper.

“That’s it,” he whispered between kisses. He grabbed your thigh with his left hand now, spreading you wide for him. “Doin’ so good, baby, letting me in.” He rolled his hips in shallow thrusts, just that little bit inside of you, sinking in another inch with every slow, deliberate thrust, working you open.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, but he kept your attention on him, entirely on the way he was kissing you. You weren’t sure why or how but it was working, his slow, languid kiss distracting you from the sharp sting where he was stretching you around the girth of him, coaxing your body to relax.

The feeling of being filled was like nothing else. Sure, you’d had plenty of sex, but Steve made you feel absolutely stuffed full before he was even completely inside. He held your thigh up, keeping you open for him, your flexibility not lost on him. He rolled his hips in a few more slow thrusts—and then you felt his hips pressed flush against you.

“Christ,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to lean his forehead against yours. “So perfect, baby, you fuckin’—took it all, Jesus—“

You’d never heard Steve sound so utterly wrecked. He rolled his hips against you a few times, just enjoying the feeling of being completely sheathed inside your tight heat. And fuck, you were stretched around him perfectly, tight and hot. You felt like absolute heaven around his cock.

His cock throbbed inside you, so hard you could feel it. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, palms rubbing over his hot skin, a thin sheen of sweat coating it from the sheer effort of holding back from pounding into you.

“Steve,” you whimpered. Your cunt fluttered around him, and he dropped his head to your shoulder with a broken moan.

“Yeah?” he rasped. His hips rocked lightly against you, betraying his desperation.

“You can…” You gasped as the coarse hair at his base rubbed against your clit, still so sensitive but aching for him again. “…You can move.”

Steve moaned again, placing a few hot kisses against your neck as if thanking you. Finally he pulled his hips back, slowly withdrawing almost fully. Only his tip remained, and you could have cried at the loss of that perfect full feeling. But then he sank back in—slow at first, filling you to the brim again. Your desperate sounds of pleasure mixed together in the hot, charged air of his bedroom, a symphony intertwined much like your bodies.

“Shit,” he cursed. He set a careful rhythm, every thrust measured and slow and deep. “You’re taking me so fucking good. Fuuuuck. That pussy is fucking unreal.”

You could barely think straight. Your entire world narrowed down to the feeling of Steve inside of you, stretching you open perfectly. The sting was still there, but it was quickly fading into pure ecstasy with every movement of his hips. Your body was adapting to him like it was made for it.

Hands tangled in his hair again, you pulled him down into another messy kiss, all tongue and desperation, sloppy and hungry and hot. He groaned loudly into it, hips rutting into you faster.

Whines and whimpers and keening moans were spilling from your lips with little control. Your hips moved in time with his thrusts, meeting him every time. His cock was deeper than you thought possible, brushing against that spot that quickly had you gasping and babbling complete nonsense.

“Feels so good Steve, oh fuck, oh god, please don’t stop, don’t fucking stop I’m gonna cum again, Steve please, oh god—!”

Every word that tumbled from your lips was like fuel to the fire of his intense need. He couldn’t hold back anymore, couldn’t worry about if he might hurt you, too lost in the feeling of your body wrapped around him. His hips rocked against yours in a frantic pace now, his breaths coming in ragged pants, eyes locked on the way your tits bounced with the force of his thrusts. You arched your back and he leaned down to wrap his lips around a nipple again, moaning as he laved his tongue over it, eyes closed and completely pussydrunk, all because of you.

He sucked hard on your nipple one more time before letting go with a wet pop and sitting up on his knees. He held onto your waist and used your body, pulling you down onto his cock with every rough snap of his hips. His eyes were locked on the sight, watching himself disappear into your perfect cunt, seeing you stretch around him, take him whole.

“Holy fuck,” he panted. The sight of the muscles in his arms and chest flexing as he took what he needed from you, watching you with such heat, made you feel utterly delirious. He looked powerful and strong, like an absolute god. “Jesus. Look how you take me, baby, fuck. Knew you’d be good, but—“ His hips stuttered, eyes rolling back for a second. “—shit, holy fuck—“

“Baby,” you gasped, grabbing onto the pillow above your head. Your cunt was tightening, throbbing around him, soaking his cock. The sound of him driving into you was loud and obscene—the slick, wet sounds, the sound of his skin slapping against yours. You might have felt a little self conscious if you could think about anything other than his cock coaxing that second orgasm from your trembling body. “I can’t—oh god, Steve, please…”

“You can do it,” he was nearly begging now, his cock beginning to twitch within your tight walls, so close to his own end but determined to get you there first. “Come on, baby, give it to me. Let me feel it. Cum all over my cock, show me how good it feels, how much you like getting fucked by me.”

You turned your head, biting down on a pillow you held to your face in an effort to muffle the scream that ripped from your lungs. Your body arched, cunt clenching around him as wave after wave of overwhelming, perfect pleasure washed over you. Your ears were ringing, moaning and gasping and babbling his name again and again.

“Shit!” Steve cursed, hips pounding into you reckless and fast. “That’s it, god yeah, let me feel it—oh fuck—you’re so good, so fucking good baby, letting me fuck you like this, squeezing around me—shit—oh baby, gonna make me—gonna make me fuckin’ cum—“

His body pitched forward over yours, bracing himself on an arm and burying his face in your neck. His cock buried deep in you, hips snapping in a few more frantic, shallow thrusts before he tensed, his groan muffled against your skin as he spilled into the condom, repeating your name over and over, body shaking with the intensity.

Your head was spinning. You could hear your heart beating in your ears. Steve’s body was heavy on top of you, your sweat-slicked skin pressed together, as he tried to catch his breath. It was a minute of heavy silence before he finally slid his softening cock out of you, collapsing onto his back.

The loss of that glorious full feeling was disappointing, to say the least. But as Steve removed the condom from his spent cock, tying it off and tossing it into his trash can, the moment finally, properly, broke.

And you realized you were naked in Steve Harrington’s bed. That you had fucked him.

The effects of the weed seemed to have worn off, leaving you feeling suddenly cold and exposed and panicked. Even as you began to freak out more and more, Steve looked totally fine, laying back against the headboard with an arm behind his head. His chest still rose and fell with heavy breaths, skin still shining with sweat, but he looked satisfied. Proud of himself in that way that always pissed you off, but especially now.

“So,” he said, and like so many times before, he’d ruined it all the moment he opened his mouth. “You let me fuck you after all, huh?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, sitting up and reaching for your clothes. You felt like you couldn’t stand to be exposed like this to him for another second, holding every article of clothing you grabbed to your chest until you found it all.

Steve laughed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He didn’t seem to have any qualms about being totally naked in front of you, comfortable in his own skin the way he always was. “Those panties might be ruined. They were pretty soaked. You can leave them here with me, if you want.” He grinned wider. “I’ll keep them safe. Won’t even wash ‘em.”

“You’re a pig,” you spat back at him. He wasn’t exactly wrong, though. You didn’t want to put them back on, but you weren’t about to walk out of this room wearing that tiny skirt with nothing underneath.

“But was I right?”

“About what?” you asked as you hooked your bra, roughly pulling your shirt back on. The scowl on your face was a permanent fixture at this point, which was amusing to him.

“That I’m good?” he raised his eyebrows, and the grin on his face told you he knew the real answer no matter what you said in response.

“You weren’t that good,” you mumbled. You pulled your skirt back onto your hips, grabbing your shoes.

Steve laughed. “Oh, come on. That’s not what you were saying when you were practically riding my face, or when you were cumming on my dick, begging me not to stop.” His words made your face burn, unable to even say something smart in return. “You don’t have to lie to me, baby. I was there.”

Fully dressed now, you moved to his dresser mirror, trying to fix your appearance. “Don’t call me baby.”

He crossed his ankles, just watching you with that infuriating grin. He made no move to cover any part of his body, his cock laying against his thigh. It was huge even when he was soft, which you hated that you even noticed. 

“Aw, why’re you so mad now?” The condescending tone in his voice made you shiver with the effort of not losing your absolute shit. “Personally, I had fun. And I just gave you your first orgasm ever—“

“Not my first orgasm.”

“Sorry, your first orgasm that you didn’t give yourself.” He tilted his head, smirking. You could feel his eyes all over your body, shameless. “Two of them, actually. So really, you should probably be thanking me.”

You barked out a laugh as you wiped a lipstick smudge from the corner of your mouth. You turned around, noticing for the first time that some of it had transferred to his face. “I’m not thanking you for shit. This never should’ve happened.”

Steve watched you head for the door. He had no intention of stopping you. He’d never let a girl stay in his bed after sex, and he wasn’t about to start now. He moved lazily even as he sat up and began to grab his own clothes.

“You can pretend you didn’t like it all you want, baby,” he said, not even looking at you anymore as he pulled his boxer briefs back onto his legs. “But you and I both know what happened in here tonight, and I don’t think you’ll be forgetting it any time soon.”

You held back a frustrated scream as you walked out of his bedroom, slamming the door behind you. Thankfully the music was loud enough that it didn’t draw any attention. You stomped down the hallway and down the stairs, back into the chaos that now felt suffocating and overwhelming in a way it never had before.

You found Nancy in the kitchen, laughing with some of the other sisters. When she spotted you her expression turned serious, saying something to the girls before walking straight to you. 

“Where did you go?” she asked, reaching for your arm. Her hand was a little cold and every touch to your skin right now felt like a scalding burn, but you didn’t pull away. “I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

“Just got wrapped up talking to some people,” you mumbled, unable to make eye contact with her. “I’m gonna head home, though.”

Nancy’s brows furrowed. “Now? Already? It’s still pretty early.”

“I just don’t feel good,” you said. All you really wanted was to get back to the safety of your own bedroom and freak out about this in private. “You don’t have to leave.”

“No, don’t be silly. I’m going with you.” She drained the last of the contents of her cup and tossed it into the nearby trash can, intertwining her fingers with yours. “This party kinda sucked tonight, anyway.”

You smiled at her, genuinely grateful. Nancy was your best friend for a reason, and you loved her. But you could never tell her what happened tonight.

As you walked hand in hand to the front door, you felt a creeping feeling up your spine. Just as Nancy turned the doorknob, opening the door and letting the cool September air inside, you looked back over your shoulder.

Steve leaned against the railing upstairs, watching you. When you locked eyes, he lifted a hand in a wave, smiling down at you.

You left the house, letting the door close hard behind you.

Steve was haunting you.

Not even in the way he always had, constantly in the same places, an unavoidable physical presence. No, this was worse. He was in your head now. And for the first time ever, you felt you had actually been lucky before.

The night after that first fateful mistake, you’d gotten back to the house, told Nancy you didn’t feel good, and went straight to bed. You removed your clothes from the party, shoved that pair of panties straight in the trash. You didn’t think you could ever look at them again.

Sleep didn’t come easily. You laid in bed, thinking about Steve and what you’d done without a moment’s reprieve. It was miserable, but you figured it was normal. Something terrible had just happened after all; a horrible mistake had been made, so of course you were going to think about it. It would fade. You would feel better tomorrow.

The problem was that it never stopped.

You woke up thinking about Steve. Went to class thinking about him. Every time you saw him on campus—and he always saw you first, smirking at you and giving you that douchebag nod, or a casual wave that he knew was anything but—you averted your eyes and headed quickly in the other direction.

If the fact that you’d done it at all didn’t disgust you enough, it was nothing compared to the horrible truth. That you’d liked it. Loved it. Wanted more. He really was the best you’d ever had, and you didn’t think he’d ever done a single thing that had pissed you off more than that.

Of all the guys you’d been with, guys who were plenty hot and popular and well liked, not a single one of them had ever cared about your pleasure in any way. They were only interested in getting themselves off. You were pretty sure they wouldn’t have been able to find the clit if they’d even bothered to try.

But Steve? He had absolutely rocked your world exactly like he promised. The only orgasms you’d ever experienced had been by your own hands, and you figured no one ever would or could know your body better than you did. How did he know the exact right places to touch, the right things to do? Every girl was different, right? Did he have some kind of stupid fucking superpower?

He had you completely spiraling. You felt like you were losing your mind. Even Nancy and Carol and the other girls noticed there was something up with you. Nancy was the only one who asked, but you quickly made up some excuse about being stressed over classes and homecoming. Tommy was still doing everything in his power to win you over, but there was only one Sigma Chi member on your mind at all hours, day and night.

You laid in bed at night with the memory haunting you. His mouth, his tongue, his fingers, his stupidly huge dick that he knew exactly how to use, that he’d taken so much care with so he wouldn’t hurt you. How hard you’d cum when he went down on you, the way he made you cum again with nothing but his cock. The memories replayed through your mind nonstop until the ache between your thighs became unbearable and you couldn’t help it anymore, your hand slipping beneath your shorts and panties and burying your moans in your fist until you came moaning his name, picturing his face the way he looked staring up at you from between your legs.

That was the worst of it, the guilt and confusion and disappointment you felt when it was over. When you were laying there in the quiet dark of your bedroom, realizing that you were really, truly fucked.

You wanted Steve. You wanted him bad. And you didn’t think you could keep lying to yourself.

By the time the next party came around, you were done even trying to pretend.

You spent a little extra time getting ready in your bedroom, picking out a cute little dress after trying on nearly everything in your closet. It was form fitting, short, and a bit revealing. You knew it would catch his attention. You honestly weren’t sure why you were even trying, since you’d never had to try to get him to notice you before, even when you desperately didn’t want him to.

When you met Nancy and Carol in the front room, their eyes widened at the sight of you. “Woah. That’s the slut dress,” Carol remarked right away.

It made you laugh even as your skin flushed with embarrassment. It was true. This dress rarely ever came out, and when it did it was because you were going on a date you really wanted to end happily—hence the nickname your friends had dubbed it with.

“Is there something you wanna tell us?” Nancy asked, her brows raised. “I mean, you look great, but…who’s it for?”

The question made you freeze for a moment, even though you should’ve known they’d ask. Of course they would. But you recovered quickly, making up a lie on the spot that you prayed sounded believable. “No one in particular. Just…hoping to catch the attention of someone interesting, at least.”

That seemed good enough for Carol, who turned away and started digging through her purse to make sure she’d packed her lipstick, but Nancy watched you a little longer. She was always so analytical with everything, and as your best friend, she knew you too well for you to get away with lying to her about much. And you hated lying to Nancy, you really did, but how would you explain this?

The three of you left Delta Gamma as a unit, arms linked together. The walk to the Sigma Chi house wasn’t far, and it was a chilly evening, but nothing too bad. The bare skin of your thighs felt the sting of the cold the most, but before you knew it you were walking in the front door, the packed frat house instantly hot enough to make you grateful for the amount of skin you had showing.

For the first time, you were grateful to be separated from your girls so quickly. And, equally as unusual in this alternate dimension you’d somehow stepped into—you wanted to find Steve. Your eyes scanned each room for him, ears focused on listening for his voice. Something you couldn’t explain led you to the backyard, a place you didn’t often venture here.

The hot tub was on, and overcrowded. Some of the guys were in with a handful of girls, most sitting in someone’s lap. A larger crowd just hung out on the back deck, some even into the yard beneath the lights. You heard the sound of his laughter quickly, turning your head to the left at the exact time he looked in your direction.

And god, you hated to admit it, but he looked good. His hair was once again perfectly styled, and he wore a long sleeve dark green shirt with a pair of jeans that he wore…really, really well. They were tight, perfectly fitted, and you didn’t know how you’d never known about his size when he wore pants like that. His ass looked great, too.

Fuck.

You locked eyes with him. He held your gaze for a minute, smirk on his face even as he kept talking to his friends. Then, for the first time ever—he turned away. Going right back to his conversation as if you’d never even been there at all.

You were stunned.

Never in the history of your time at OSU had Steve seen you and not immediately approached to piss you off. He had never dismissed you like that. If the rage hadn’t already been boiling in your blood, it certainly was now.

You scoffed, turning around and walking back into the house. If he was expecting you to come to him, it wasn’t gonna happen. It had never happened that way before and wasn’t going to start now. Instead you pushed your way to the kitchen, heading straight to pour yourself a drink.

Just as you were reaching for one of the red plastic cups, another hand came around your shoulder and grabbed it before you could. You turned around, more confused than angry, to see Tommy Hagan standing right behind you, a warm smile on his freckled face.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, looking like he just realized how awkward of a move it was. “I just—can I get you a drink?”

You paused for a second. “Um…yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said, his expression becoming a little more comfortable at your acceptance. He moved around to the counter that held a keg and multiple bottles of liquor. It was surrounded by people, as it always was, but they moved for Tommy out of respect in the same way they did for Steve. “What’re you drinking?”

You scanned the selection—there was a bit of everything. Sigma Chi took pride in keeping the alcohol flowing at every party. “Tequila?”

“You got it.” Tommy grinned. He filled the red cup from the keg and passed it back to you, then reached for the bottle of tequila, pouring two shots. He handed one to you and held the other out in a toast.

You smiled softly as you gently tapped your cup against his, then brought it to your lips, downing the burning liquid with ease. Tommy laughed when you scrunched your face up in disgust for a second.

“You’d think Harrington would splurge for the good shit,” Tommy said, leaning back against the counter as he looked at you. “I guess I can’t complain about free alcohol, though.”

“True,” you smiled, even though you really didn’t want to talk or think about Steve anymore, especially right now. “Thanks. Again. For the drinks.” You held your beer up towards him before taking a sip.

“No problem,” he said, a soft blush touching his pale skin. “Pretty girls shouldn’t have to pour their own drinks.”

Even though you didn’t like Tommy as more than a friend, he really was sweet, and his attention made you feel good. Special. “What would I ever do without you, Tommy?”

He laughed, looking down at his shoes for a moment. “Hey,” he said, meeting your eyes again. “I was just thinking…if you’d maybe want to go out? Maybe…Monday?”

Your eyes widened. You hadn’t actually expected him to ask you on a date. Your lips parted, closed, then opened again, but you couldn’t figure out the right words to say.

“Nothing serious,” Tommy said quickly, noticing your hesitation. “It doesn’t have to be…y’know. I just thought we could maybe get some food, talk about homecoming…” His soft smile returned. “…and, you know, I’d really like to take you out.”

It was hard not to soften around him, especially with the way he spoke to you. Every Sig was great at turning on the charm, but there was something about Tommy that felt so genuine. And would it really be so bad to go out with him? “Sure. That sounds good. My last class ends at 4?”

“Great,” he said, the words leaving him in a breath of relief. “Yeah, awesome. I can pick you up from DG? Like…6?”

“That’s perfect,” you nodded. You drank from your beer again just as another Sig walked up to Tommy—Billy Hargrove. You hadn’t spoken to him much yourself, but he was nice to look at for sure. You knew a few of your sorority sisters had been out with him, and he had a bit of a reputation for being a ladies man. He had a gorgeous smile, tan skin, blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair that hung to his shoulders in soft, beautiful curls.

“Hagan,” Billy said, clapping a hand on the other boy’s shoulder. He looked like he was about to say something else, but then his eyes landed on you. “Well. You didn’t tell me you were busy entertaining DG’s most beautiful.”

Even though all these frat guys pulled the same cheesy lines, you still felt the heat rise to your skin. “Hi, Billy.”

“Hi, gorgeous.” He smiled down at you, showing off the dimple in his cheek. Something about it brought out the ‘smiling shyly, twirling your hair around your finger’, teenage girl-type feeling buried deep within you. Tommy’s confident smile had dropped, now shifting awkwardly on his feet.

“Uh, what’s up, Hargrove?” Tommy asked, trying his best to look unbothered.

Billy glanced at him for just a second before those clear blue eyes found you again. “No rush, Hagan. What, don’t wanna share her attention?” His smile was bright and friendly, the kind that would have any girl’s heart beating fast.

“It’s not—“ Tommy sighed, leaning back against the counter.

“We were just talking,” you said, glancing between the two boys. There was an unspoken tension there, but you didn’t dwell on it. “How’s basketball?”

Billy’s smile grew. “It’s great. We’ve started conditioning. Right, Tommy?” he asked, turning around to look at his friend for only a moment, a weak attempt at acting like he had any intent to bring him into the conversation. “You should come to some of our games this season. I think I play better when there’s a pretty girl cheering for me.”

You laughed, the sound light and airy and genuine. “Is that right?”

Billy shrugged. “Could be just a theory, but why take the risk? Wouldn’t be very good for school spirit if we didn’t do everything possible to make sure we take home that championship, right?”

You rolled your eyes lightly as you laughed again, but it was more amusement than irritation—not like with certain people. “I guess that’s true. We should all do our part.”

“Exactly.” He smirked. “And maybe I can come watch you run some time. See that record-breaking sprinter I’ve heard so much about in action.”

You weren’t sure why exactly, but it surprised you that he knew anything about your athletic achievements. It was talked about on campus—the school loved to celebrate their top athletes—but it’s not like most of the school cared about track and field the way they did about other sports. You were no Steve Harrington, star pitcher. “Yeah, that would be cool. I’d like that.”

“I’ve heard you’re good. Like, insanely fast.” He leaned against the counter next to Tommy with an instinctual swagger, exuding the confidence that came so naturally to him. “And, uh…long jump?”

“High jump,” you corrected, hiding your shy smile behind your cup as you sipped your beer again. “But, yeah. I’d love for you to come watch.”

“Maybe I’ll call you sometime.” Billy winked at you before finally acknowledging Tommy again. “Hagan. We’re waiting for you out back.” He looked back at you. “Sorry, came over here to grab him and didn’t expect to get…distracted.”

“Go do your thing,” you said, waving your hand in some kind of vague gesture. You were starting to feel a slight buzz, at least. “Have fun. Don’t let me hold you up.”

“I’ll see you around,” Billy said with one last flash of that charming smile. When he looked back at Tommy, his expression was more serious, nodding his head towards the back in a silent command that didn’t seem to have any other option.

Tommy smiled at you, but it was more forced, the comfort from before long gone. “I’ll see you Monday,” he said. “It was…good to talk to you. I hope you have fun the rest of the night.”

“Bye,” you said softly, but he was already gone. You watched him trailing after Billy towards the back door, where Steve and some of the other guys waited, a cheer erupting as soon as they walked out the door. Frat boys.

Left on your own again, you tried to enjoy yourself. Bouncing around the house, talking with people you knew from around campus, from sports, from Greek life. Still, you couldn’t shake the thought of Steve from your head. You knew what you’d come here to do, and even though you hated yourself for it, you hadn’t changed your mind. You didn’t think you could.

You saw him again a few times. Through the back door, in the living room, passing him in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, where he bumped into your shoulder and turned around long enough to smirk at you before walking on like it was nothing. Every time you saw him he saw you too, but he didn’t approach you once. It had you fuming.

A few hours into the party, unfortunately, you were getting desperate.

When you walked into the kitchen for another refill, you saw him again. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest with one hand holding his cup, talking to some girl you couldn’t name. You weren’t jealous—you were not jealous—but it just made you even angrier. Especially when he glanced at you for just a moment before turning back to her.

This was humiliating. It was demeaning. You hated it. You hated him. But you swallowed your pride, took a deep breath, and walked over to them anyway.

Steve looked at you again, and grinned wide, his eyes lighting up with an infuriating delight as he realized you were coming over. The girl by his side gave you a dirty look as soon as she noticed, but Steve’s attention was now entirely on you.

He said your name, a simple acknowledgement. “How are you enjoying the party?” He tilted his head to the side, his expression smug. He knew exactly what game he’d been playing all night, and he also knew he’d just won.

“It’s great,” you said, your deadpan voice doing nothing to hide your irritation.

“Good. I pride myself on my hospitality.” You didn’t think you’d ever seen Steve not looking proud of himself, but he certainly did right now. “Did you need something?”

You glared at him, biting the inside of your cheek as you refused to back down from the eye contact he was holding. The girl next to him looked between you. “I was…wondering if you had any more of that…weed.”

The grin that spread across his face was nothing short of euphoric. His hazel eyes seemed to shine with it. The girl next to him might as well have no longer existed. “Actually, you know, I might have a little more. I’d have to check.”

Your jaw clenched, looking off to the side before meeting his eyes again. Your whole body buzzed like a live wire. When he didn’t make a move, just kept looking at you, you raised your eyebrows at him expectantly. “Well?”

Steve laughed. “Now, huh?” He downed the rest of his beer and turned to the side, dropping the cup in the trash. You were momentarily stunned when he grabbed yours from your hand, too, doing the same. “Well, if it’s that urgent. Come on, we’ll go look.”

He pushed off the wall, walking in the direction of the staircase. He didn’t give the girl he’d been talking to another word or look, but she was certainly glowering at you when you glanced one last time before following after him. You felt ashamed, trailing behind exactly like he wanted you to. But worse than that was the relief.

Still, as you walked up the stairs behind Steve, you looked around to make sure no one was watching. You’d survived the first hookup without rumors starting, but you knew you had to be careful. If there was one student on this campus everyone paid attention to, it was Steve Harrington.

Even worse than some random students seeing and whispering would be Nancy or Carol. You didn’t want to have to even begin to figure out how to explain this to them. It was humiliating enough doing it, confusing even trying to justify it to yourself.

Steve led the way into his bedroom, although you’d dreamed about the same path so many times over the past week, you could have walked yourself there with your eyes closed. His room was still tidy, and the scent of the cologne he was wearing now permeated the air. All his usual hair products sat out on his dresser, and you could practically see the ghost of him there getting ready before leaving for the party downstairs, not putting it away.

He closed the door behind you, the sound of the lock clicking into place like a bomb in the silence. You turned around to face him. You hadn’t really thought this far ahead.

“So…” Steve began, walking over to you slowly. You felt like a rabbit that had run right into his trap—willingly. “Did you really want that weed? Or did you come back for something else?”

You gritted your teeth, fists clenching and unclenching at your side. Drawing in a deep breath, you tried to relax your muscles, your entire body tense. “I…”

Steve was still smiling at you as he approached. He knew you weren’t going to say it, but he had already won. You’d come. His hand came up to rest on your cheek, and you found yourself relishing in the warmth of his palm rather than flinching away.

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to,” he murmured, his voice low. No bravado, soft, meant only for you. His eyes were locked on yours. “I know what you need, baby.” His thumb stroked your cheek, then moved to rub slowly over your bottom lip. Your breath hitched, but you couldn’t break the intense eye contact if you tried. “Have you been dreaming about it?”

You didn’t know what to say. Your brain was short circuiting. Your hands hung loosely by your side, eyes wide, as he looked at you with pure heat. Goosebumps covered your skin, breath coming in strained.

“I already know,” he continued when you said nothing. His words were a low purr, a sound that had you hypnotized. You didn’t even react when he pulled down slightly on your bottom lip and slipped his thumb inside, pressing down against your tongue. “You’d never been fucked like that in your life. You’ve been thinking about it. Trying to recreate it with your own hand, getting off to the memory.”

Body on autopilot, you closed your lips around his thumb. Your eyes never left each others’ as you ran your tongue over the calloused pad of his finger, sucking on it. For all he tried to act unaffected and in control, you saw the shudder that wracked through him. You didn’t have to look to know he was hard already.

When he pulled his hand away, the trance was broken. But still, you both stood there, just looking at each other. The whole room felt charged with electricity, the air around you heavy enough to feel like a physical, oppressive weight.

Your lips crashed together in a kiss both hungry and frantic. It wasn’t slow and romantic, not this time. Steve’s hands dug into your waist, pulling you close, the kiss all tongue and teeth and messy desperation. He groaned into your mouth, and when he pulled your hips into his, you could feel the hard proof of what you’d already known.

He pulled back to pull his shirt over his head, your eyes drinking in the exposed skin shamelessly. He was breathing hard, eyes glazed over with unfiltered want. Shoes were kicked off, Steve’s jeans hit the floor, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you with ease and laying you on his bed.

“You wore this little thing for me?” Steve whispered in your ear as he settled over you. His lips attacked your neck, sucking at that spot he remembered was so sensitive. You wouldn’t be surprised if he left marks, but you couldn’t think straight long enough to care.

“No.” The denial was weak, even you knew that. You had watched him all night, approached him yourself after sucking up your pride, and now you were beneath him on his bed. But, fuck, hadn’t you given him enough satisfaction tonight?

“No?” He chuckled darkly against the hot skin of your neck. He didn’t believe you for a second. He was rolling his hips against you, the straining in his boxer briefs rock hard where it pressed against your dripping core. “That’s a shame, baby. It looks so good on you.”

The little whimper that escaped when he bit down on the skin beneath your ear would have been embarrassing if you were able to even process it. You arched your back beneath him, pressing your tits against his chest. Your nipples were hard through the thin material of your dress—a bra didn’t work with it, so you’d gone without—and the feeling of friction against them had a breathy noise falling from your lips.

Steve moved down your body, pushing your dress up roughly until it was up around your waist. He lowered himself between your thighs, pressing his nose against your already soaked panties, letting out a low, primal groan. “God, you’re so fucking sweet,” he growled. Unable to wait any longer, he hooked his fingers into the waist of your panties and pulled them off.

“Steve—“ you said in a voice that sounded more like a squeak than anything, spreading your legs for him, breathing hard. His big hands slid up your smooth thighs, opening them wider for him. His nose brushed lightly against your folds, making you draw in a sharp breath.

“Yeah, baby?” he murmured. He was looking at your cunt like he wanted this as badly as you did—maybe more. “What do you want?”

“Just do it,” you whined, your body writhing against his sheets with the overwhelming need. “Please, just…”

“What do you want me to do?” He was looking up at you now, smirking, even as his mouth was hovering an inch from where you needed him more than anything. “You’ve gotta tell me, sweetheart. I can’t read your mind.”

You groaned, eyes opening as you looked down at him. “You are such a fucking asshole.”

His big eyes widened with feigned innocence. “What?” You could feel his breath ghosting over your pussy, so wet for him, and it had you trembling. You couldn’t take much more of this and he knew it.

“Stop trying to make me say it,” you grumbled. You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes.

“Not trying to make you do anything,” he hummed. He moved his head, nose brushing against your clit and making your breath catch. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to know what you want me to do if you don’t tell me, and, y’know, I’d never want to do anything you didn’t want—“

“Oh my god, Steve,” you huffed, hands running through your hair where you laid against his mattress. “Are you gonna keep running your mouth all night or put it to good use again?”

Steve laughed genuinely, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’re so feisty. I always liked that about you.”

Before you could complain anymore, he buried his face against your pussy, diving in like it had been killing him to hold himself back, too. You cried out, loud, a hand moving to slap over your mouth a second too late. You could feel his lips curling in a smile against you.

He was good, so good, you didn’t have to have any prior experience to know that. It was no wonder he had girls lining up to get in his bed. You couldn’t keep yourself quiet, his tongue fucking inside of you, drinking in all the sweetness you dripped for him, rolling his tongue over your clit. It felt like he was everywhere at once.

“Steve, fuck!” you cried, gasping and clutching onto the pillows behind your head. “Oh my god, fuck, how are you—oh fuck—“

He groaned against your cunt, the vibrations going straight through your clit and to every nerve ending in your body. He flicked his tongue over the swollen bud, wrapping his lips around it and sucking as he sunk two fingers into your fluttering hole.

“God!” you choked. Your thighs were trembling around his head already. Your hand moved down to card through his hair before gripping onto the soft strands for dear life, pulling another moan from him when your fingers tightened in them.

Steve’s fingers fucked into you, nice and slow at first, slipping in a third finger before curling deep to hit that perfect spot. He was getting you ready for his cock again, your heart beating out of your chest at the thought alone. You could see it when you closed your eyes, just as you had for the past week, and it had you growing even wetter for him.

“Steve…” you whined, your hips starting to grind against his face. He let you, moaning and working you even harder, begging for it without any words. “I’m gonna…”

“Give it to me,” he rasped, pulling away just long enough to say the words before his mouth was right back against you, delving his tongue between your folds and focusing on your clit while his fingers worked you open.

Stars exploded behind your vision. Unable to hold it back, you cried out, mindlessly babbling combinations of his name and curses and desperate pleas of don’t stop don’t stop oh please fuck god don’t stop—

Steve worked you through every last aftershock, playing your body like an instrument he knew wholly, intimately. Your body was still shaking when he pulled away. The sight of him looking down at you like that, with his lips and chin glistening with your release, made you whimper. God, why did he have to look like that?

“So fucking good,” he said, eyes dark and awed. His cock strained hard against his boxers. You could see it twitching through the material, throbbing visibly.

His hands slid up your body, looking at you with a deep reverence as he slid the dress up until it was over your head, tossing it to his floor. His eyes raked over your naked body, every inch of it, the smooth skin and the way your chest rose and fell, how wide your eyes were looking up at him, your pretty lips parted.

“I thought about you, too,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your cheek, back to your ear. “Thought about how you tasted. How tight you felt around me. The way you said my name. The noises you made…god, I came so fucking hard playing those noises over and over in my head.”

You gasped, the throbbing between your legs starting up again at his words. You’d had no idea. Why would he be thinking of you when he could have any girl at this whole school? He wasn’t just saying it. The unfiltered heat in his voice made that clear.

Steve lifted off of you slowly, eyes staying on you until he turned away to open his bedside drawer and grab one of those foil packets he seemed to have an endless supply of. He pushed his boxers down, flushed cock springing free, and kicked the last bit of clothing off the bed with the rest.

You watched him rip the foil open and roll it onto his (impressive, huge, perfect, achingly hard) cock, your pussy clenching around nothing, your body itself begging for him. He settled between your legs, wrapping his big hands around your thighs, opening you wide.

“Dreamed about this pussy,” he mumbled, wrapping a hand around his shaft and dragging his tip through your soaked folds. He pressed the thick head against your hole, pressing forward just slightly, just feeling you. You whined, rocking your hips down, begging for him inside. He smirked as he noticed, but didn’t push in yet. His expression was almost dreamy, pupils blown. “Best pussy I ever had. Fuck. Never came so fucking hard as I did inside you.”

“Steve…” you breathed, the word itself a plea.

“Tell me,” he breathed. It wasn’t a tease anymore. The need in his voice was staggering. He was begging. “Please, baby. Need to hear you say it.”

The sight of Steve, utterly wrecked like this, was almost too much to bear. You didn’t have it in you to refuse, not anymore. “Please,” you keened. “God, Steve, please fuck me.”

His eyes fluttered closed and he let out a ragged groan, even before he finally rolled his hips forward, piercing you with that perfect, thick cock. You nearly sobbed in pleasure as you felt it, that overwhelming fullness as he sank into you inch by inch. It was easier this time but still a stretch, still that distant sting until his hips pressed flush against you.

“Christ—“ Steve choked, falling forward on his hands, planting them on either side of your shoulders. “Oh, fuck.”

You rocked your hips up against him, telling him it was okay to move. Begging him to move. “Oh my god,” you moaned. Your walls throbbed around him, which was undoing him way faster than he’d care to admit.

He pulled his hips back before sinking back in. Starting slow, as if he were still trying to be careful with his last shred of restraint. It didn’t last long. The perfect clench of your heat around him was driving him mad, his thrusts quickly working up into a punishing rhythm.

Your name left his lips in a shuddering breath, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder. The sound of his skin meeting yours filled the room, your cunt so slick and wet around him you could hear it every time he drove in. He fucked you harder than he had last time, something you didn’t even know you’d craved until you had it.

“So fucking—god—you feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his body slick with sweat where it was pressed against yours. You hooked a leg around his waist as he reached down with one hand to grab your thigh and press it up against your chest.

The angle was devastating, his cock hitting deeper inside of you than you thought possible. Your eyes rolled back as he punched soft, mindless little “ah ah ah”s from your lungs with every thrust.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. His eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of how hard he fucked you. The headboard knocked against the wall, chipping the paint from the force of it, the sound unmistakable for anyone who happened to walk by. “Gonna make me cum so fucking hard again. Fuck. Oh, fuck, baby, you’re so perfect, so goddamn—oh shit—“

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling on it the way you now knew he liked. The desperate groan he let out was muffled as you pulled him down to your lips, his tongue immediately licking into your mouth. The kiss was utterly filthy, saliva dripping down the side of your mouth—yours, his, both.

The whines he was letting out were growing higher, needier. All signs of that cocky, insufferable personality were gone, nothing but pleasure and desire coursing through him. His fingers dug bruises into your thigh as he snapped his hips forward harder, and oh fuck, he was hitting that spot again—

“Steve!” you gasped, head tossing back against the pillows. Steve’s lips moved down the exposed column of your throat, placing hot, wet kisses everywhere he could reach. “Oh, fuck, Steve, I’m gonna fucking cum—“

“Please,” he begged, his voice a ragged growl against your throat. “Let me feel you. Squeeze my cock, milk me fuckin’ dry, please.”

That coil snapped again, hard, the moan it forced from you more like a scream. It was loud, you knew it was loud, but you couldn’t help it, completely delirious with the intensity of the pleasure. Your back arched beneath him, moaning and crying out and calling his name again and again.

Steve let out a choked noise at the feeling of you tightening around him, clenching and throbbing hard. His hips rutted into you with a desperate, frantic intensity, rhythm completely gone as he chased his own orgasm. He was right behind you, only a couple more shallow thrusts until he was stilling as deep inside you as possible. He groaned roughly, his head dropping to bury his face right between your tits as his body shuddered with release. You could feel him pulsing inside you even through the condom.

The room calmed, your heavy breathing the only sounds remaining. His weight was heavy over you, but you didn’t mind. You didn’t exactly want him to move, at least not yet. In the quiet aftermath, you relished in the feeling of him, his cock still throbbing inside as he slowly softened.

When he finally mustered up the energy to move he lifted off of you, pulling out and removing the condom, tossing it in the trash. You couldn’t bring yourself to look and see if there was proof of him having any other girls in here since you’d been with him. You didn’t know why you cared.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed, his arms resting on his knees. He was still catching his breath as you sat up, reality beginning to creep back in like unforgiving daylight after the safety of the night.

He turned his head to look at you, lips curling into a smile again. His skin still glistened with sweat. “Was it as good as the first time?” He asked, once again breaking the spell with his big mouth. “What you were hoping for when you showed up here tonight, dressed like that?”

You scoffed, sliding off the bed to collect your clothes again. Now that you’d gotten what you’d been craving, the desperation that had been clouding your brain was gone. That familiar shame was crawling over you again.

“What?” he laughed. “You can say it, y’know. Doesn’t mean you have to like me just because you like fucking me.”

You hesitated for a moment, then moved again, pulling your panties back over your legs. “Don’t.”

“Come on, baby,” he goaded, leaning back on the bed. He watched you, propped up on one arm, once again unbothered by being completely exposed to you. “Would it really be so bad to admit it?”

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel his eyes staring at your ass as you pulled your panties back on. “Fine,” you finally huffed, turning around. You clutched your dress in your hands, nearly throwing it at him when he didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze dropped down to your tits. “You’re good. It was amazing. Is that what you want to hear?”

He grinned. “I just wanted to hear the truth.” He shrugged playfully. “I mean, I already knew, just wanted to hear you admit it. Not for me, but for yourself.”

“Aren’t you altruistic,” you muttered, pulling the dress back over your head. The way his brow furrowed for a moment showed he didn’t know what the word meant, but he didn’t press.

Finally he sat up, beginning to replace his own clothes. “It’s okay that you can’t stay away. I get it. It’s good sex.”

“I can stay away—“

“Sure,” he interrupted, lifting his hips to get his boxers back on. “But you don’t want to, right?”

You paused. You hadn’t let yourself think about that. If it was okay to let yourself want this. Just because you hated Steve so bad, because you didn’t want anyone to know this was happening. But did that make it bad? Did it make you wrong? Weak, like you’d felt all week, and especially tonight?

Maybe he was right. It was good sex.

After buttoning his jeans, Steve stood to face you. He ran a hand through his hair, looking in the mirror behind you for just a second before focusing back on you. “Look,” he started, but it was hard to pay attention when he was standing there shirtless like that. “I think we could help each other.”

You forced your eyes back up to his face, the smirk sitting there evidence that he’d seen you staring. “Help each other?”

He walked over to you, hands resting on your hips again. You didn’t push him away, holding his gaze. “Yeah. Help each other. I told you I liked it too, didn’t I?”

You weren’t sure what to say. You’d heard him say it, when he was buried inside you, moaning your name, but you figured it was just…talk. Heat of the moment. Nothing real. Nothing you said or felt when you were fucking was real.

Your lack of a response didn’t deter him. His fingers flexed on your hips, but he didn’t pull you closer. “We could make this a casual thing,” he offered, finally putting the words out there. “You like it, I like it. Why not keep having fun together?”

You turned his words over and over in your head. It felt like far more than the seconds it actually took as you thought over his proposition. What it meant, what it changed, how it felt.

But the memory of the past week played through your mind on repeat. How miserable you’d been, the way you couldn’t get him out of your head. That he was right, the sex had been so good you’d craved it day and night, and the second time had been just as good, if not better.

Steve waited patiently, but he knew your answer before you finally forced it out. “…Okay. Yeah. I guess.”

He grinned, squeezing your hips one more time before moving back. “Okay then. Good.”

“But we keep this between us,” you added quickly. “I’m serious. Just us. You don’t tell your friends and I won’t tell mine.”

He looked amused, but he didn’t argue. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

You stared at him. “Steve.”

“Okay,” he laughed, pulling his shirt back on. “I won’t tell a soul. You have my word.”

You let out a sigh, both relief and anxiety at once. Turning to his mirror, you fixed your hair, cleaning up your smudged makeup. “It means nothing, and no one knows.”

The heat of his body suddenly behind you made you jump. But he just stood next to you, fixing his own appearance.

“It means nothing,” he repeated. “And no one knows.”

part two soooooon

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[emeritusemeritus]

Save your breath.

Ex-girlfriendReader x EddieMunson [Wife!Reader x Steve Harrington].

Returning to Hawkins after 25 years, you find yourself walking down memory lane, which inevitably leads you to Forest Hill’s Trailer Park. Once the home to your best friend & boyfriend Eddie Munson, the boy who had royally stomped on your heart. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to look around, for memory’s sake?

3.8.k- This is not a nice fic about Eddie. Minor cursing, drug use. Secondhand embarrassment and cringe behaviour (from Eddie). Eddie never grew up and realised the party was over. Deadbeat Eddie. Reader is married to Steve with children. Alternate timeline- no vecna or supernatural happenings.

After reading a fic where Eddie treated the reader horribly, I had to write a revenge fic. Imagine Eddie Munson never moved out of Hawkins, never grew up and never realised that the party was over. He became everything that everyone expected of him- nothing.

Walking through downtown Hawkins again felt entirely surreal. The memory of the town you grew up in always remaining in the back of your mind where you'd kept it hidden for decades. On the night you left, you never turned back once, vowing that you wouldn't get stuck here like so many others seemed to do.

It felt like a movie set you were visiting, so largely unchanged by humans or time that there was an underlying sense of eeriness that you couldn't shake. Somehow everything looked exactly as you remembered, like you'd crafted it all in your mind except it truly was real. It all seemed to exist under a near constant cloudy sky, rendering all the buildings muted in colour. Like an artist's palette that only contained three colours in various muted shades. Hell, even the grass around the public library seemed sage at best, rendering the town desaturated and subdued.

It had been 25 years since you'd last walked the paved streets of this town. There were good memories of course, it was never entirely bad. You thought of your friends, eclectic and strange in their own right but loyal and fierce in their love.

You thought of Robin and Steve, the unlikely duo that always told you the truth no matter how painful. Robin was a devoted friend, a little off-centre and quirky with no idea of social cues and absolutely no filter but you loved her for all of her faults too. Steve was the natural protector, the exact antithesis of an underdog, yet easily lovable and down to earth.

A smile breached your face as you thought of Dustin, invisible to boundaries and unable to talk at a regular decibel level, he was perhaps your favourite of all. He was sarcastic to a fault and never read between the lines to spare other people's feelings but you loved his honesty for what it was, a trait you thought showed his true braveness in the face of adversity.

Then there were Gareth and Jeff, the teddy bears of the metal world. Jeff was the straight talking, cool guy that made you grateful for his friendship on a daily basis. Level headed and filled with endless patience he was frequently your best chance of gaining good advice. Gareth had a boyish quality about him that was endearing to you, even if he did have the tolerance of a dynamite stick. A killer drummer and always welcoming, you were glad you had him in your life.

And then there was Eddie. If friends had hierarchies, Eddie would always be right at the top of the pyramid. He was your best friend, your biggest cheerleader in so many ways and perhaps equally your biggest distraction. He was easy to love in a way that had always perplexed you. He was loud and boisterous, sulky and impatient. But underneath his hard exterior, beneath the layers of anti-conformity and trauma deflection, he was the most generous and kind soul you'd ever met. Misunderstood by many, judged for his surname and predecessors, he never stood a chance in the small town. There was so much you could say about Eddie Munson, so much so that multiple chapters of your memoir could be reserved for him alone, not to mention the chapters in which he'd be a recurring character with a starring role. In hindsight, many of these chapters wouldn't end happily nor would they paint Eddie as a particularly good character, and explicitly not a good boyfriend. Disregarding the relationship that followed, the friendship before the downfall was pure and joyful, so you chose to remember him that way.

Still, as you continued your walk around the town square, you couldn't help but think of the memories attached to nearly every inch of Hawkins.

You smiled at once familiar street names, recounting the families that used you live on each street whilst trying to remember who lived where, looking for familiar markers on the homes. You let out a breath of a laugh when you saw the signs for Cornwallis and Mirkwood, memories of Harrington's parties flashing in your mind. You followed the street, seeking your old home up on Cornwallis, finding it less frozen in a time capsule than the rest of the town. Apparently the new owners had jazzed it up a little with their interesting taste and a part of you was thankful that it looked to vividly different. Like drawing a line in the sand, you could put that chapter of your life to rest.

You stopped dead in your tracks seeing the entrance to Forest Hill's trailer park up ahead of you. You'd been a little too focused in on the random flashbacks in your mind that you hadn't realised the direction of which you'd been walking, or how far you'd wandered.

More than any sight that you'd seen today, this one felt like a sucker punch to the gut. Entwined with a thousand memories, Trailer Hills was more than significant to you. It held some of your happiest memories of Hawkins and also some of the worst. Today you tried to focus on the good, of the happy times you'd shared with Eddie before everything went to shit.

For old times sake, knowing this would be the very last time your eyes ever settled upon your old playground of sorts, you turned in and walked the dirt roads of the trailer park.

The old Munson trailer caught your eye immediately, your body drawn to it like you were still on autopilot, a moth to a flame. For a brief moment you felt sixteen again, hopelessly in love with your best friend and totally carefree during a time in which the world demanded very little of you.

It looked practically the same if not a little more beaten up, the duck egg blue colour of the outer panels having faded to a miserable grey colour. The old beat up couch on the deck was unbelievably still there though the annex that kept it sheltered was now hanging by a thread onto the main trailer.

Your eyes focused in on the white door and the steps leading up to it, trying to calculate how many times you'd stepped in and out of there, estimating it would be in the high thousands.

A sudden noise ahead startled you, once again pulling you out of your reminiscence as you fought to calm your now pounding heart. In an unusual twist of fate, the door to the trailer that you'd been analysing had been thrown open, hitting the metal panel behind it with a resounding bang. You're suddenly hyper aware of your presence on the dirt road, the unmoving figure staring at the old trailer like a creep.

Your heart feels ready to leap from your throat as you watch the inhabitant launch a trash bag out of the door and into one of the metal trash cans outside, seeing that it just barely goes in after a terrible shot. The familiarity of the man suddenly makes your stomach clench, a wave of something akin to nausea building within you as you look upon the figure you once knew. Uncle Wayne.

25 years later and his form was still unmistakable, the natural gruffness in his demeanour exuding from him even from this far away. Like Eddie he was a sweetheart on the inside, the best kind of men, but his exterior was stronger than iron and almost impossible to break through. Luckily for you, his resolve had crumbled after years of close run ins and eventual introductions that had extended an almost completely open door policy to you. You probably spent more time in the Munson trailer during your teenage years than you ever did at your own home.

You're torn on what to do, feeling sheepish about the predicament you found yourself in. You watch as he lights a cigarette and takes a seat on the raised decking, realising that you were damned regardless. Perhaps if you kept walking forward, a slow circuit around the 'block', he might have finished his smoke and returned back inside by the time you circled around. Before you could make the decision to turn, it appeared that fate had already decided your next step for you as the man turned to look directly at you, no doubt sensing your intrusive presence.

You watched as the figure seemed to stumble ever so slightly, standing on shaking legs as their gazed fixed upon you. From the distance between you, you couldn't make out their facial expression but could tell by their actions that there was a glimmer of recognition followed by disbelief.

You decided to bite the bullet and step forward, getting ever closer to the trailer and the man that still lived there. Wayne was never the issue after all.

Only, as you got closer, you began to realise that none of it made sense. Wayne would be in his 70's now atleast, so surely he'd look much older than how you remembered him to be two decades earlier, unless he'd found the fountain of youth in Hawkins then it was completely implausible. Secondly, the distinctive scent of another staple of your youth began to fill your nostrils as you stepped closer and your confusion only grew, realising that what he had been smoking was not just a cigarette.

No. Surely not.

"Princess?"

The old nickname makes you cringe internally, your face fighting to scrunch into an involuntary frown of disgust upon hearing the words.

Eddie?

You reached the patch of dead grass directly in front of the trailer and paused, now standing face to face with none other than Eddie Munson. You were in complete shock, floored by the sight of him standing before you. His resemblance to Wayne was uncanny, though now you were within touching distance you could see the stark differences much clearer.

Where Wayne once had purposely facial hair of a thick moustache and a slightly bushy chin, Eddie simply looked like he was long overdue a shave. The grown out stubble created a distorted dark shadow on the lower half of his face, with flecks of white and grey throughout. His eyes were deep set with vivid bags beneath them, like he hadn't slept for a week. His once iconic and wild hair was now thin on top, his hairline indecipherable, clearly taking after the balding Munson bloodline. Though he still kept the back of his hair long, it was almost transparent at the front from the thinness where it once used to cover his forehead. It looked like there were certain things he also couldn't let go of from his youth too.

His smirk was much the same, though now it was surrounded by deep set lines, the folds of his face crinkled. His face looked sallow overall, his cheek bones much too prominent to how you remembered, his cheeks almost hollow.

It was gut wrenching to see him like this, to see the boy you'd loved for so many years to have taken the route you'd least expected, but which was always expected of him by everyone else. You'd spent over a decade constantly defending him, trying to build his own self-confidence and to assure him that he was nothing like his father, that he wouldn't get stuck in Hawkins living the life of a degenerate. Just because bad things had happened to him, it didn't make him a bad person. Over and over you'd tried to show him how you really saw him, all his talent and potential, affirming him and shooting him down when he'd enter the cycle of self-deprecation. You'd vouched for him and fought for him, but apparently none of it had ever gotten through.

"What are you doing here in little old Hawkins?" He asks, taking a long drag of his joint, his smirk still ghosting his face.

You're unsure how to answer that. A walk down memory lane? One final hurrah before you close this chapter of your life forever? Some sort of sadistic endeavour for absolution from all your past-life sins?

"I had a work thing in Indianapolis, figured I'd stop by on my way back," you say politely, yet remaining vague. It wasn't a complete lie after all.

"Cool cool," he says with a nod. He begins to raise the joint to his lips again before catching himself, flicking his gaze to the weed and then to you, before extending his hand out as an offering.

"I'm good thanks," you politely decline with a smile and a shake of your head.

"What about you?" You almost don't want to ask, but find the words tumbling out as if on their own accord.

His gaze diverts briefly before flicking back up to you.

"Working at the plant occasionally. Yeah, Wayne got me in few years after high school when he moved out, needed the cash you know," he says almost with a shrug.

"He moved out?"

"Yeah it was time yanno, he met a little lady friend and shacked up with her down in Aurora. Can't blame him for not wanting to stick around here forever," he smirks. The irony of his words makes your stomach roil unpleasantly.

"Oh, good for him," you say warmly.

"Yeah s'just me and my first sweetheart now in the old trailer. Second, sorry fair maiden, my first love t'was always you." He bows his head with an over dramatic flair and you fight not to cringe or grimace at the action. Thirty years ago you'd have swooned at his actions, amused by his dramatics but now it felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over whatever candle you may have still secretly harboured for him, deep deep down.

"Ha yeah, long time ago huh," you reply, the awkwardness seeping out as your facade breaks, wishing you were anywhere else now.

"So you still play?"

"Hell yeah, I mean corroded coffin died a long time ago. Jeff split to go to college and fell for a girl, stayed out there and got married the usual blah blah blah, Gareth moved away few years after. I still see Grant when he's around but it's not like the good old days. Ricky at the Hideout still lets me play occasionally on the quieter nights so I get my fill."

You simply smile and nod politely, not trusting yourself to reply. You could hardly believe the Hideout was still going, never mind Rick still being in charge.

"So, uh, how long are you staying around?"

There's a hopefulness in his voice that you force yourself to ignore, the ridiculousness of it considering your past together making you cringe.

"I'm leaving tonight actually, it was just the one day conference."

There's a beat of awkwardness that falls between you as it falls silent; the inevitable consequence of two lives so previously entwined with years of distance between them. It was clear that Eddie had not moved on from those times, his mind still stuck in a time warp of the late 80's whilst his face told a different story.

"You know-," Eddie begins to say, never one to accept the silence.

"There you are," a familiar, slightly breathless voice chuckles, power walking to reach you. "Had a feeling I'd find you here."

"Steve Harrington."

Your eyes flash up to Eddie's at the tone of his voice, the way he drags out Steve's name, as if testing it coming out of his mouth. You look towards him in disapproval of his tone but he's fixated upon Steve, eyes shooting daggers.

"Hey man," Steve smiles with a nod, his hands creeping onto his hips in his signature pose as he regains his breath from the jog over to you. His left hand comes up to swipe through his hair, pushing it back off his face from where it had fallen out of place. He's uncomfortable, you can sense it, but not for the obvious reasons.

"Heard a lot about you," Steve smiles towards Eddie, trying to break the sudden wall of ice and silence, but it doesn't land as intended.

Eddie snorts, but there's no humour there.

"In this town, I'll bet," he says with a sneer.

"From y/n," Steve interjects, his arm slipping around your waist and holding your hip. "Never heard a bad word about you from her."

Eddie's gaze burns into your side where Steve's hand is placed, until he finally looks at you but you can't place the look in his expressionate eyes.

"You acting as tour guide Harrington?" He snorts, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and fighting with a lighter to spark it up. Steve remains silent though you can feel his grip tighten ever so slightly, one clue that the undertone of Eddie's words had not been missed.

"Didn't think you'd have lost your way around Hawkins already, it's only been what 25 years?" Eddie sneers towards you after taking a drag of his cigarette, slipping the pack into his jacket pocket.

You're momentarily stunned by his sudden personality shift, the tone of his loaded words twisting to be much more sarcastic and clipped. From what you remember it was his natural defence when he felt threatened; apparently he hadn't changed at all in 25 years.

He stood distanced now, as if his attention was anywhere except on you and Steve, feigning disinterest. Suddenly you could see the Eddie you remembered right at the end of your relationship, the cold and unfeeling boy who had pulled a complete 180 on you, the one you had chosen not to remember this way.

"We better," Steve says gently, gesturing with his head to split, his hand briefly giving you a little squeeze upon sensing the increasing tension within you. This was supposed to be a nice visit, a healing of sorts, but instead what you found was just sad.

"Yeah," you say absently, your gaze flicking to Eddie once more who was kicking the dirt with his dirty reeboks.

"Honey," Steve prompts, pulling you from your consuming thoughts. His pet name for you has Eddie's head whipping around faster than lightning, a deep frown setting between his eyes. "We have to go pick up the kids from Claudia's."

"Kids? You two, uh, you're?" He stutters, ash from his cigarette falling to the ground in a clump.

"Married? Yeah," Steve nods, beginning to be wound up by the conversation and Eddie's actions, anticipating what was going to follow.

"Got a nice house with a picket fence somewhere?" He can hardly contain the snarl upon his face as his words bite at you.

"Just stop," you say, finally finding your voice. Eddie's eyes turn to you and momentarily soften to a look of surprise at your semi-harsh tone. "Just stop."

It's tense and awkward as no one speaks for a few moments, hardly knowing what to say in parting. It wasn't nice to see him at all and you had absolutely no plans to keep in touch, realising now that Eddie Munson was a chapter of your life that should have been closed a long time ago and should not be revisited.

"Bye Eddie," you say, keeping your voice neutral and your head up.

"Harrington," he almost sneers as he nods towards you, not even bothering to say your first name. He had to get in the last little quip, the way in which he spoke your married name told you everything you needed to know of how he truly felt. You bit your lip, wanting to say so much to him but knowing that it wouldn't change a damn thing.

Grow up, get a life, it's not the 80's anymore, the party's over...

You decided to just stay silent.

Whatever sadness you'd felt at seeing him like this had disappeared, the only thing you felt now was an underlying sense of pity for the boy that couldn't give up his youth. The failed rockstar, trailer park trash that never got his shit together. You cursed all the times you'd defended him, that you'd spoken up when people tried to put him down or when you tried to convince him he was better than his shitty circumstances.

You wished you'd saved your breath.

[hexyissy]

Take My Whole Life | Steve Harrington <3

Pairings: knight!steve harrington x accused!witch reader, soldier!steve harrington x nurse!reader, baseball coach!steve harrington x intern!pediatrician reader

Wc: 7.7k

Warnings: mention of deaths in past lives, WW2, near fatal car accident, coma scenes, emotional distress, drunk driving, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, healing, angst with happy ending. reincarnation au, soulmates au, fated lovers, SLOWBURN.

Summary: After years apart, you return to Hawkins for your brother’s graduation and find yourself drawn back into a life you don’t fully remember, but your heart does. As love rekindles with Steve Harrington, memories bleed through dreams, pain, and déjà vu, revealing a bond that has survived fire, war, and time itself. In this lifetime, you choose survival.

Part 1: Embers of Love

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

The fire took you slowly.

Flame swallowed linen, then skin—beauty giving way to flesh, flesh to bone, bone to ash. Smoke rose thick and black, carrying your name into the sky until even that was gone. The crowd did not stay to watch the end. They never did. By the time the last scream was swallowed by crackling wood, they had already turned away, satisfied, righteous, cruel.

Only Steve remained.

He stood where the heat still burned his face, where embers glowed like dying stars. He did not move as the night deepened, as ash settled over his armor, as guilt carved itself deeper into his chest. He stayed until the fire collapsed inward, until there was nothing left but a blackened stake and silence.

Dawn came softly, almost merciful.

As he turned to leave, the first light caught on something half-buried in the ash—a dull glint of bronze. Steve froze. He knelt with shaking hands and brushed the soot aside.

The necklace.

A thin bronze chain, scorched but unbroken. The rose pendant still intact, its petals darkened but whole. Yours. The same necklace he had pressed kisses to when he thought the world was kind. The same one he had whispered promises into, believing he could keep them.

His breath broke. He closed his fist around it, metal biting into his palm, grounding him in pain. He could not save you. That truth would never loosen its grip. But there was something he could still do: The children.

They hated him. They had every right to. But hatred did not keep them safe—this town would never let them be. When Steve came for them again, when he said they would leave, that he would take them far away, they did not forgive him.

They followed him anyway.

Because they knew the truth, the crowd had burned away: he loved you. He still did. And he would spend the rest of his life proving it.

The children grew, though the world had tried to break them.

William became a protector, standing where fear once stood, because once, someone had stood in front of him and said he was safe.

Maxine disappeared into whispers and shadows, forming quiet networks to shield women and children the way you had shielded her—fierce, unyielding, unheard until it was too late for their enemies.

And Holly became an inventor, building wonders with steady hands and fearless questions, dedicating every creation to the woman who had told her she was never broken.

In them, you lived on.

Decades passed, and the world moved on without him.

The sickness came quietly in a distant land—fever, shaking chills, lungs burning with each breath. Steve knew the signs. He had treated it in others, crushed herbs with steady hands, whispered the same reassurances you once had. But when it came for him, his hands faltered. He refuses treatment as penance. He lay pale against rough linen when his brother finally found him.

Dustin knelt at his bedside, tears blurring his vision. Steve pressed the bronze necklace into his palm, fingers trembling. “Give this,” he rasped, coughing hard, “to the woman you’d protect with your whole life.” A breath, broken. “Because I failed to protect mine.”

The fire in his chest faded. And then Steve Harrington was still.

1943 - somewhere on the battlefield

The knock came just before dawn.

Two sharp raps on the door, followed by silence so heavy it made your ears ring. When you opened it, a soldier stood stiffly on the step, helmet tucked under his arm, a folded flag held against his chest. He did not meet your eyes. He did not need to speak.

Your brother was not coming home.

His wife fell to her knees, clutching the flag, while you? The world cracked quietly after that—no screaming, no collapse, just a hollowing ache that settled deep in your bones. Grief became something you carried everywhere, like an extra limb you never asked for. And to survive it, you did the only thing that made sense: you volunteered.

The field hospital was a sprawl of canvas tents and mud, the air thick with smoke, blood, and antiseptic. Artillery thundered in the distance, close enough that the ground trembled beneath your boots. Groans, shouted orders, prayers whispered into trembling hands—it all blurred together into one endless sound.

You worked until your hands ached and your eyes burned. Bandage. Stitch. Press. Breathe.

Late one afternoon, they brought him in on a stretcher. “Bad hit,” a medic barked. “Bullet wound—shrapnel too.”

You nodded and took your place, fingers already moving as they cut away his uniform. Blood soaked through the fabric, dark and warm beneath your gloves. He was young, like you. Too young. Dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, jaw clenched tight against the pain.

As you cleaned the wound, his eyes fluttered open. He looked at you like he’d been searching for you his whole life.

“Have we met before?” he rasped.

You didn’t look up. “I don’t think so, Sergeant.”

He huffed a weak laugh, immediately regretting it as pain flashed across his face. “No… I think I’ve seen you before.” His gaze stayed fixed on you. “Oh. Right. In heaven.”

Despite yourself, your lips twitched. You shook your head, focused on your work. “Sergeant, I think the bullet damage reached your brain.”

“Shame,” he murmured. “Thought I was making you smile.”

You pressed fresh gauze against his side, firm enough to draw a hiss from him. “Save your strength.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said softly. Then, after a beat, “Steve Harrington.”

You paused just for a second before continuing your work. Outside, the guns roared. Inside the tent, for reasons you couldn’t name, the world felt strangely familiar.

Steve came back three weeks later, boots clean, uniform pressed, a thin scar pulling at his brow where death had almost kissed him. He stood at the edge of the tent like he didn’t quite belong there, cap tucked beneath his arm.

“Sergeant Harrington,” you said, not looking up. “You healed well.”

“Because I had a good nurse,” he replied. You could hear the smile in his voice.

That night, when the guns were quiet and the camp hummed with tired relief, he found you again. A local bar, he told you—dim lights, real glasses, jazz drifting through smoke and laughter. “Just for a night,” he said. “To remember we’re alive.”

You shook your head. “I don’t have time for dancing.”

“You deserve it.”

“My purpose isn’t to be happy,” you said gently. “It’s to save lives.”

He didn’t argue. He never did. He only smiled, softer this time, like he was memorizing you. He kept coming back anyway.

Then one night, the sky split open.

Explosions tore through the field, screams ripping through the dark. Stretchers flooded the tent, blood soaking the ground faster than you could clean it. And then you saw him—Steve, barely conscious, uniform shredded, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.

Your hands shook for the first time.

You cleaned his wounds with ruthless focus, stitched where skin refused to hold, pressed until your arms burned. When the last soldier was treated, and the tent finally fell quiet, you returned to him.

He hadn’t woken. You sat beside his cot, exhaustion dragging you down, and took his hand. It was warm. Still here.

You bowed your head, breath shaking, and whispered prayers you had not dared to speak since the day your brother’s name was folded into a flag.

“God,” you breathed, desperation stripping you bare, “take my sins if You must. Count them all—every doubt, every fear, every moment I failed. Just… spare him. Let him live. Let him walk away from this war.” Your grip on his hand tightened. “I’ll carry whatever punishment you choose, if You leave him here.”

Tears blurred your vision and spilled freely now. “Stay,” you whispered, forehead pressing to his knuckles. “Please… stay.” A broken laugh slipped through your sob. “I’ll go with you. To the bar. I’ll dance. I’ll do anything—just don’t leave.”

His fingers moved. Weak, trembling—but unmistakably alive.

Steve’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then finding you. With what little strength he had left, he lifted his hand and brushed the tears from your cheek, thumb warm and clumsy.

“Yo—” he croaked, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, “you can’t take that back.”

You laughed through your tears, clutching his hand to your chest as if letting go would tempt fate again.

Months passed, and the war wore on, but Steve healed. His wounds faded, leaving only the scars that told the story of survival. One quiet evening, when the camp was mercifully calm, he found you again—this time, not as a soldier needing rescue, but as a man seeking something more.

A local bar, dimly lit and smoky, hummed with music and laughter. The band played “I’ve Got But One Heart” by Frank Sinatra, a soft, warm melody that seemed out of place among the chaos of war, yet perfect for this stolen moment. Steve held out his hand. You hesitated, then let him guide you onto the dance floor.

You moved together like the world had slowed just for the two of you, bodies close, steps almost synchronized, laughter slipping between them.

“I promise,” Steve said softly as the song reached the bridge, forehead brushing yours, “after this war… I’ll marry you. We’ll survive it together. I swear.”

Your chest tightened, heart skipping in disbelief and hope.

He pulled a small velvet pouch from his pocket, hesitating. “I have this,” he whispered. “A necklace from my great-great-great-grandfather—a mighty knight, they say. I never imagined I’d meet the woman I’d want to spend my life with in the middle of a war. But when this is over… it’s yours.”

From the edge of the room, a young soldier named Dustin—one of Steve’s men—watched with awe. He muttered to a friend, voice quiet but certain, “She’s the only one I’ve ever seen him look at her like she hung the stars and moon herself.” 

Steve pressed the necklace into your hand, eyes soft but resolute. “And when I give it to you… it means I’m keeping my promise. For the rest of my life.”

You held it close, letting the music, the laughter, the warmth of the moment, and the weight of fate settle around you both. The war could rage outside, but here, just for tonight, the world belonged only to you two.

Steve’s hand lingered on yours, calloused fingers brushing against yours one last time. The camp was quiet at dawn, the faint smell of smoke and gunpowder still in the air, men hurrying to their posts. Dustin had just been captured, stolen into enemy hands. Steve’s eyes were dark with fury, but before he left, he pressed a desperate kiss to your temple.

“I’ll come back,” he whispered, voice ragged. “I swear, no matter what.”

You held his gaze, heart pounding. “I’ll wait,” you said softly, fingertips pressing against his cheek. He nodded, gripping his rifle, and was gone in the blink of an eye.

Night fell, the silence before a storm. Then came the roar of engines, the crash of bombs, the screams of soldiers and civilians alike. You ran, heart hammering, mud sucking at your boots, but Hopper and Murray were waiting—shadows in the chaos.

“Thought you could hide from us, little nurse?” Master Sergeant Hopper sneered, his boots pressing into the churned earth.

“You’ll pay for this, traitors,” you spat, trying to wrench free, but Murray’s hand gripped your arm with cruel strength.

“Quiet,” 1st Sergeant Murray hissed, rifle leveled. “This ends tonight.”

Pain flared as he struck. You gasped, collapsing to the ground, the flames of your camp reflected in your wide, terrified eyes. Hopper shoved you forward, boots grinding into your side.

“No mercy. No witnesses,” Murray said, voice cold. “Orders are orders.”

The shot rang out. One. Perfect. Final. Silence followed. The fire consumed what little remained of your world, smoke curling into the dark sky, carrying your screams away.

Weeks later, Steve returned—victorious, battle-worn, yet hollow. He saw the aftermath: ash, scorched camp. The news tore through him like a blade. His world was shattered.

The war ended. Flags waved, trumpets blared, and towns celebrated. Steve walked among them, armor gleaming, medals pinned—but his eyes were empty, the laughter of life long gone. He had won battles, liberated towns, survived the war… but the woman he loved, the one who had been everything, was gone. And the man who survived it all had become a ghost of himself.

Years passed. Steve married, had two sons, and a life that on paper seemed complete. But the man he had become was a shadow of who he once was. Anger simmered under every word, every gesture—quick to flare, slow to fade. Friends whispered of PTSD, of survivor’s guilt. They didn’t know the truth.

His wife, patient and perceptive, knew better. She saw the haunted look in his eyes when he thought no one was watching, the way his hand brushed the small velvet pouch hidden beneath his coat—the necklace, the necklace he had promised you but never gave. Nights were filled with whiskey and silence, the bottle offering a numbness that nothing else could.

And still, despite the life around him, the married life, the sons, the celebrations… his heart was elsewhere, lost in the smoke of a campfire, in the echo of a name he could never forget.

One cold night, the fire in the hearth guttered, casting shadows across the room. Steve’s breath hitched, shallow and uneven. His hand, clutching the necklace, fell limply to the side. His eyes closed, not with peace, but with the weight of decades of grief and love unspent. The man who had survived every battle, every war, every fire… finally did not wake.

She found the letter three days after the funeral.

It was tucked inside the old desk in his study, beneath war medals she never knew where to put and a velvet pouch she had never been allowed to open. The paper was yellowed, folded carefully, like he had rewritten it many times before deciding on these words.

Her name was written at the top.

My wife, I don’t know how to say this aloud, so I will leave it here, where I have always left the truth. I am sorry for being a poor husband to you. For the silence. For the anger. For the way my eyes were always elsewhere, even when my body was beside you. Our marriage was real on paper, but I fear that is where it ended. You deserved warmth, devotion, a man who could look at you and stay. I tried. God knows I tried. But there was a war inside me that never ended. He wrote of the nurse then. Not your name, never your name, but the way you laughed softly in the dark, the way you prayed with shaking hands, the way you held his life like it mattered more than your own. I have been searching for her ever since she died. In dreams. In crowds. In the quiet moments when the world slows and memory hurts the most. Loving you was never a lie, but it was never complete. I was already bound to a ghost. Her hands trembled as she turned the page. Please believe me when I say this: my failure was never your fault. You gave me patience I did not earn, and sons I did not know how to love properly. I was cold to them, it was because I was afraid of loving again and losing everything twice. At the bottom of the letter, he had written one final request. The necklace is not yours to wear. It was never meant for me to give while I still lived in the past. Keep it safe. One day, give it to someone worthy of it. Someone who loves fully, without fear, without war in their chest. Someone who will finish the story I could not.

She closed the letter with shaking hands and finally opened the velvet pouch. The bronze rose lay inside, worn smooth by decades of grief and longing.

For the first time, she understood. And for the first time, she forgave him.

1989 - Hawkins, Indiana

The morning smelled like cut grass and summer heat, the kind that stuck to your skin no matter how early you left the house. Today was Dustin’s graduation. The thought made your chest tighten, pride and something heavier tangling together in a way you couldn’t quite name.

As if that wasn’t enough, Hawkins Memorial Hospital had called last week.

We’re pleased to inform you…

Internship accepted.

You hadn’t told anyone yet. Well, to your Dad only, for this is a surprise to Dustin and to your Mom, who now lives two states away with a new address and a life split neatly down the middle by divorce papers and careful silences. You still wrote her letters. Long ones. The kind you never knew how to end. Dustin sent shorter ones. Messier handwriting. More enthusiasm. Less restraint. But that all changed because of the internship. 

The car sputtered just outside the edge of town.

“No—no, no, no,” you muttered, tapping the steering wheel as if intimidation might help. The engine coughed once more, then died completely. You pulled over, heart sinking, and climbed out to inspect the damage.

Flat tire.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” you hissed, kicking the gravel in frustration. Of all days.

A familiar rumble slowed behind you. Tires crunched to a stop. You straightened as a police cruiser pulled up alongside the road, red and blue lights mercifully dark.

The driver’s door opened.

“You alright there?”

You turned to find a broad-shouldered man stepping out, coffee in one hand, badge catching the sun. Chief Hopper, he introduced himself. Hawkins was small like that—you recognized faces even when you didn’t know names.

“Flat tire,” you said. “And I’m already running late.”

He nodded, surveying the damage. “Graduation day?”

You blinked. “How did you—”

“Lucky guess,” he said, gruff but not unkind. “Town’s buzzing.”

You hesitated only a second before sighing. “Yeah. My brother’s.”

He glanced at his watch. “I can give you a lift. You can’t fix that in five minutes.”

You shouldn’t have agreed so quickly. You knew that. And yet, urgency won out over caution. “Okay,” you said. “Thank you.”

The cruiser smelled faintly of old coffee and something metallic. As you buckled in, an uneasy prickle crawled up your spine. Not fear. Just… awareness. Like you’d stepped into a place where too much had already happened.

Your eyes drifted to the dashboard. A photograph sat tucked near the windshield—two girls, smiling, frozen in a moment that felt painfully permanent.

“Your daughters?” you asked gently. “They’re beautiful.”

Hopper’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “They were.”

“Oh,” you murmured. “I’m sorry.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the road. “Funny thing,” he said, almost to himself. “People tell me things. Things they don’t usually say out loud.”

You glanced at him, surprised.

“They do the same with you,” he added.

You let out a small, awkward laugh. “I get that a lot. Guess I’ve got one of those faces. People say I make them feel… safe.”

Hopper snorted softly. “Hell of a thing to be.”

The car rolled on toward town, graduation banners already visible in the distance. Your heart beat faster—not just from nerves, but from that strange, familiar sense that something important was already unfolding. You didn’t know it yet, but this was the beginning.

The open field buzzed with noise long before the program began—banners dancing in the wind, parents calling names across rows, the echo in speakers. Banners reading CONGRATULATIONS CLASS OF ’89 hung crookedly.

You spotted your mother immediately.

She was sitting in a bleacher, twisting a tissue between her fingers, eyes already shining. The moment she saw you, her face crumpled.

“Oh—no,” you laughed softly, stepping into her arms before she could fully fall apart. “Please don’t start yet.”

She hugged you tight, like she was afraid you might disappear again. “I just—look at you,” she whispered. “You came all this way.”

“I wouldn’t miss this,” you said, then hesitated before adding, “And I got accepted.”

Her head snapped back. “Accepted?”

“Hawkins Memorial. Internship. Staying for good”

She stared at you for a second, then promptly started crying harder.

“Oh my God,” she sobbed. “I knew it. I knew you’d do this. I’m so proud of you.” She wiped at her face, laughing through tears. “I’m never going to survive today.”

You smiled, chest warm and aching all at once, and guided her to her seat. You took the one directly in front of her, close enough that she could reach out and grab your shoulder whenever emotion overwhelmed her again.

Two people slid into the row beside you a moment later.

A man about your age, dressed neatly in a suit that looked worn but well-loved, dropped into the seat next to yours with a quiet exhale. Beside him, a woman in a jumper layered over a dirty white off-shoulder top leaned in to say something under her breath that made him snort.

You caught only fragments—easy familiarity, shared history—but you didn’t look too closely. Not yet.

The speaker stopped. The chatter softened.

When Dustin’s name was finally called, your heart kicked hard against your ribs. He walked onto the stage grinning like he’d already won something, adjusting the microphone with exaggerated seriousness.

His speech was… Dustin. Rambling, earnest, wildly off-topic. You laughed. You cried. You lost it when he flipped off the principal on his way back to his seat.

The field exploded in confetti and cheers.

You were already on your feet when the ceremony ended, weaving through the crowd with the bouquet you’d bought earlier—last-minute, slightly wilted, but perfect anyway.

“Congratulations, Dusty!” you said, arms opening wide.

Dustin froze.

His eyes went wide. His mouth fell open. “Holy shit.”

Then he ran at you full speed, nearly knocking you over as he wrapped you in a crushing hug. He pulled back, stared at your face like you might vanish, then hugged you again.

“You’re real,” he said breathlessly. “You’re actually here.”

“I told you I’d come,” you laughed, blinking fast.

“So,” one of his friends said nearby, eyes flicking between the two of you, “Dustin has a sister. I thought that was a joke.”

“That’s why he never brought it up again,” a red-haired girl added dryly, crossing her arms. “None of us believed him.”

Dustin scowled. “You’re all dead to me.” You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest—brief, bright, and precious.

From a few steps away, you felt it again. That pull that made your heart ache for a moment.

Dustin left for college at the end of August.

You helped him pack the last box into the trunk, hands lingering longer than necessary as if touching the car might keep him close. He hugged you hard before getting in, muttering something about writing every week and definitely not crying. He cried anyway. You did too, once the car disappeared down the road.

After that, life settled into something quieter.

You worked as an intern in pediatrics at Hawkins Memorial Hospital, days blurring together in antiseptic white and soft-colored walls. Children learned your name quickly. Parents trusted you without knowing why. You were good at sitting on the edge of beds, explaining things slowly, making the pain feel smaller just by staying.

Derek and Thomas were your favorites.

They were both ten, both stubborn, both convinced hospitals were evil places filled with needles and lies. Derek liked dragons. Tomas liked dinosaurs. Neither liked staying still.

“You have to come,” Thomas insisted one afternoon, swinging his legs off the exam table. “Coach Harrington says we’re gonna win this time.”

Derek nodded solemnly. “He promised.”

You raised a brow. “Your coach promised?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “He always does.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Alright,” you sighed. “I’ll come. One game.”

That was how you found yourself sitting on the metal bleachers on your day off along with other mothers, the sun warm against your shoulders, the smell of grass and dust thick in the air. Children shouted and laughed across the field, sneakers kicking up dirt as the game began.

You clapped when Derek hit the ball. You cheered when Thomas stole second base. You waved back when they spotted you in the crowd, grinning like you were the best thing that had ever happened to them.

And then, across the field, you felt it.

Your breath caught.

Your gaze lifted without thinking, drawn to the man pacing near the dugout, baseball cap pulled low, whistle hanging loose around his neck. He was laughing at something one of the kids said, clapping a hand on a small shoulder, voice carrying just enough to be heard.

Steve Harrington—your brother’s best friend. 

The sound of your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. A sharp, hollow ache bloomed in your chest, sudden and disorienting, like you’d misplaced something vital and only just realized it was gone.

What is wrong with you? you thought.

He glanced up then. Your eyes met across the field.

The world tilted—not dramatically, not loudly but enough that you felt it in your bones. His smile faded into something quieter, more focused. Like he was trying to place you. Like he already knew you, somehow.

The game ended with cheers and dust and high-fives. Derek and Thomas ran toward you the second it was over, faces flushed, voices overlapping.

“Did you see that?”

“Coach says I’m getting better!”

“We won!”

“I saw everything,” you laughed, crouching to their level. “You were amazing.”

They ran off again a moment later, tugged away by parents and teammates.

You straightened—and nearly collided with someone.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said.

Steve stood in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint scar near his brow, the crease between his eyes when he smiled.

“You’re Dustin’s sister, right?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. That’s me.”

He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought so. He talks about you like you’re some kind of legend since you swhoed up on his graduation.”

You huffed softly. “That sounds like him.”

He nodded toward the field. “So—how was the game?”

“It was good,” you said honestly. “I only came because Derek and Thomas begged me.”

Steve laughed. “Yeah. That tracks.”

His eyes softened as he looked back toward the kids, now dogpiling each other near the fence. “They talk about you all the time. I heard how cool and chill their doctor is. You know that, right?”

You blinked. “They do?”

“Constantly,” he said. “They trust you. Means a lot.” Something warm settled in your chest, easing the ache just a little.

“Well,” you said quietly, “they’re good kids.”

Steve met your gaze again, something unspoken passing between you—recognition without memory, familiarity without reason. “Yeah,” he agreed. “They really are.” For a moment, neither of you moved.

Your shift ran long.

It always did.

By the time you stepped out of Hawkins Memorial, the sun was already dipping low, the parking lot washed in that dull orange glow that made everything feel slower. Your arms ached from carrying pediatric supplies down from storage—boxes of donated toys, spare linens, and laminated posters meant to make hospital rooms feel less like cages.

You unlocked your car with your elbow and popped the trunk, staring at the pile like it might magically organize itself.

“Okay,” you muttered. “One trip.”

You lifted the first box and immediately regretted it.

The cardboard bent slightly under the weight, edges biting into your forearms as you shuffled forward. The box wobbled. You sucked in a breath, trying to adjust your grip.

“Hey—careful.”

You startled. The box tipped—

—and suddenly, hands were there. Strong, steady, taking half the weight without hesitation.

“I’ve got it,” Steve said.

Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs. You turned, breath caught halfway in. “I—sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“That’s okay,” he replied easily, already guiding the box into the trunk like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Those look heavier than they should be.”

You let go slowly, fingers tingling. “They always are.”

Steve straightened, brushing his hands against his jeans. He looked… out of place and not at all. Jacket slung over one shoulder, hair a little mussed, like he’d just come from somewhere emotional rather than practical.

“I was visiting someone,” he said, nodding toward the hospital. “One of the kids. Broken arm. Nothing too serious.”

You blinked. “Let me guess. One of your kids?”

Steve smiled. “You know him?”

“I know all of them,” you said softly.

That ache bloomed again—sharp, sudden, deep. You pressed a hand to your chest without thinking, fingers curling into your shirt.

Steve noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, concern slipping into his voice.

“Yeah,” you lied, breath uneven. “Just…long day.”

He hesitated, then reached for the next box without asking. “Here. Let me help.”

You didn’t stop him. The two of you worked in quiet rhythm, unloading the trunk piece by piece. Your hands brushed once. Then again. Each time, it felt like touching something familiar you weren’t supposed to recognize.

When the trunk finally empty, you leaned back against the car, exhaling.

“Thank you,” you said. “You didn’t have to.”

Steve shrugged. “Seemed like I was supposed to.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

You met his eyes. For a moment, the parking lot faded—the cars, the lights, the hum of the building behind you. Just him. Just you. That strange pull tightening between your ribs.

“Well,” you said quietly, breaking the moment, “I should—”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, though neither of you moved right away. “Me too.”

He stepped back first this time. “I’ll see you around?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

As he walked away, you watched him go, heart aching with the sense that something important had almost surfaced—and slipped away again.

Steve took a step back, then another, like he was about to leave—and then stopped himself. “Hey,” he said, turning around.

You looked up from where you were still leaning against your car, fingers hooked around your keys. “Yeah?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit you’d noticed more than once now. “So… this might be weird. Or maybe it’s not. I’m bad at telling the difference.”

You smiled faintly. “You’re doing fine.” That seemed to help. Just a little.

“I was thinking,” he continued, gesturing vaguely between the hospital and the parking lot and the space the two of you seemed to keep circling, “maybe we could grab a coffee sometime. Like—actually sit down. Talk. No boxes. No chaos.”

Your heart stuttered.

Coffee. Simple. Normal. Terrifying.

You hesitated—not because you didn’t want to, but because something in you whispered this matters. That familiar ache stirred again, quieter now, almost hopeful. “I work weird hours,” you said slowly. “And I’m not great at… normal.”

Steve smiled, soft and understanding. “That’s okay. I’m only good at stranger things.”

You laughed, the sound surprising both of you. “Okay,” you said finally. “Coffee.”

His shoulders relaxed like he’d been holding his breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed.

He grinned, real and unguarded this time. “There’s a place on Main. Not fancy. But the coffee’s good.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

He nodded, stepping backward toward his car. “I’ll see you then.”

“See you,” you replied.

As he drove away, you stood there for a moment longer, hand pressed lightly to your chest—not in pain this time, but something warmer. Something opening instead of breaking.

The coffee shop was quiet in the late afternoon, all chipped mugs and humming machines, sunlight slanting through the front window. You sat across from Steve, hands wrapped around your cup more for grounding than warmth.

“So,” he said, smiling a little. “Any hobbies that don’t involve saving kids and carrying heavy boxes?”

You huffed softly. “I sleep. When I get the chance.”

“Any good dreams?” he asked. You hesitated.

“I’ve been having… weird ones,” you admitted, eyes dropping to the surface of your coffee. “Ever since I got here to Hawkins.”

Steve leaned back slightly, giving you space without pulling away. “Weird how?”

You hesitated again, then laughed under your breath. “This is the part where I sound a little insane.”

“I promise not to run,” he said lightly.

You took a breath. “Sometimes I dream I’m being burned. Like—at stake. I can smell it. Feel it. And other times…” You frowned, searching for words. “I’m young. Wearing a nurse’s uniform. Wartime. I know it’s the forties. I wake up knowing things I shouldn’t.”

Steve didn’t interrupt. “That’s… intense,” he said carefully.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “It’s probably stress. Or my brain being dramatic.”

“Doesn’t sound dramatic,” he said. “Sounds… vivid.”

You nodded. “That’s the worst part. It feels familiar. Like I’m remembering instead of imagining.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just thoughtful. Steve finally spoke. “Do they scare you?”

“Sometimes,” you said honestly. “Sometimes they just make me sad. Like I lost something important and can’t remember what.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”

You looked up. “You do?”

“Not the dreams,” he clarified. “The feeling.”

 Your chest ached again, softer this time. “Guess we’re both a little weird,” you said.

Steve smiled. “Good. Normal’s overrated."

It didn’t happen all at once. It happened in small, ordinary ways.

Steve started showing up at the hospital on his days off, sleeves rolled up, paint on his hands, following your instructions like they mattered. Together, you turned sterile pediatric rooms into something softer. Fun posters. Brighter curtains. A crooked mural, one of the kids insisted on changing it.

“You missed a spot,” you teased once.

He squinted at the wall. “That’s intentional.”

“You painted over a cloud.”

“Abstract.” You laughed more than you had in years.

And you started showing up too.

Rain or shine, win or loss, you were there in the bleachers, cheering louder than you meant to. The kids noticed first. Then the parents. Then Steve, glancing toward the stands like he was checking that something important hadn’t disappeared.

After games, he’d walk you to your car. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t. The silence never felt empty.

Dustin called from college, voice bright and excited, teasing you about your “boyfriend.”

“He’s not my—” you started.

“I can feel your smile,” he interrupted. You didn’t argue after that.

Somewhere along the way, you realized the ache was gone. No tightness in your chest. No phantom grief. Just warmth. Steady and grounded, like your body had finally decided it was safe to stay.

Steve asked you out on a Tuesday. Nothing special about the day. No fireworks. No signs that this moment would matter more than most.

You were sitting on the hood of your car after a late game, legs swinging slightly, the field lights clicking off one by one until the world narrowed down to just the two of you and the quiet hum of night.

“So,” Steve said, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “I’ve been thinking.”

You smiled. “That sounds dangerous.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. But I think it’s worth the risk.” Then he looked at you. Really looked. Not rushed. Not unsure.

“We already do everything together,” he said. “I just thought… maybe we should stop pretending it’s not something. Go on an actual date. Make it official.”

Your heart didn’t pound. It didn’t ache. It settled.

“I’d like that,” you said softly.

Steve exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached for your hand, slow and careful, like he was giving you every chance to change your mind. You didn’t.

Your fingers laced together easily, naturally, like they’d done this before.

Steve stepped closer.

For a second, he hesitated—eyes flicking to yours, searching. Then he reached up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was grounding himself.

And then he kissed you.

It was gentle at first. Almost uncertain. But something shifted the moment your lips met, something deep and instinctive, like recognition snapping into place.

You felt him tense.

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer, like he was afraid that if he didn’t hold on, you might slip away. The kiss deepened, unhurried but intense, his grip tightening just enough to say stay.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath uneven.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I just—”

“It’s okay,” you said, fingers curling into his jacket. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, holding you a second longer than necessary, like he needed the proof.

And standing there, wrapped in his arms under fading stadium lights, you realized something else too. For the first time since coming back to Hawkins, nothing felt unfinished. It felt like being exactly where you were meant to be.

1993 - Hawkins, Indiana

Three years of dating Steve Harrington felt both impossibly long and nowhere near enough.

When he called and said he had a surprise, you knew—somehow—that this wasn’t small. He sounded nervous in that quiet way he got when something mattered too much to joke about.

The restaurant was warm and elegant, candlelight softening the edges of the room. A small band played near the corner, the notes slow and familiar. You froze when you realized what song it was.

“Steve,” you murmured, almost laughing. “This is my favorite.”

“I know,” he said gently.

And suddenly, your chest tightened—not with ache, but with recognition. The music carried softly between you.

Like a river flows,

Surely to the sea…

Steve reached across the table, taking your hands. His thumbs brushed your knuckles, grounding, steady. “There’s something I’ve wanted to give you for a long time,” he said. His voice wavered, just slightly. “Something that’s been waiting.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch. Your breath caught. When he opened it, the world narrowed to a single object.

A necklace.

The one you had seen in your dreams of firelight and candle smoke. The one that rested against your skin in dreams of stone walls and bloodied fields, of whispered vows and wartime prayers. The one that had followed you through centuries, always just out of reach.

“Stevie…” you whispered, tears already blurring your vision.

“My grandmother gave this to me,” he said softly. “She told me it’s been in my family for generations. That I should only give it to the woman I want to protect, save, love—and build a life with.”

The band played on.

Darling, so it goes,

Some things are meant to be…

“This necklace holds decades of love,” Steve continued, eyes shining. “Fire. Wars. Hard years. Joy. Survival. My grandmother believed it carries warmth, care, and laughter.” He let out a shaky laugh. “She even said six kids.”

You laughed through your tears.

“I want decades—centuries if that's possible, with you,” he said, voice breaking now. “I want a life that survives everything. Will you let me give this to you? Will you make me the happiest man in the universe?”

The lyrics swelled around you.

Take my hand,

Take my whole life, too…

You nodded before you could speak, tears falling freely now. “Yes,” you breathed. “Yes.”

Steve stood, moving around the table, pulling you into his arms as you kissed him—slow, deep, reverent. Like a vow spoken without words.

He lifted the necklace from the pouch and fastened it around your neck, fingers trembling as the pendant settled against your chest.

“I know it’s not a ring,” he whispered against your temple. “But I wanted it close to your heart.”

You pressed your forehead to his, smiling through tears. “It’s perfect.”

Because it was.

The necklace had crossed centuries, survived fire and war and loss. And now, finally—It had found where it belonged.

Tomorrow, you are getting married.

Your mother said it was bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other the day before the wedding. You told her it was superstition, that the future didn’t work that way anymore, that love wasn’t so fragile it could be ruined by a glance.

She only smiled sadly and kissed your cheek.

So you left the hospital late, chart notes unfinished, heart full and impatient. Tomorrow you will walk toward Steve in white. Tomorrow, everything will finally be allowed to be happy.

The road was quiet. Too quiet. You never saw the truck until it was already there.

Headlights.

Metal screaming.

The world is spinning sideways.

The impact snapped your body forward, then back, then into glass and steel as your car spun and slammed into the storefront on the corner. Sound vanished, replaced by a high, shrill ringing that swallowed everything else.

Pain came second. Your vision blurred, lights smearing into color and shadow. Somewhere, someone was screaming. Somewhere, people were running closer. You tasted blood.

Sirens.

Hands.

Shouting.

Your chest burned. Your body felt wrong, heavy, unresponsive. As darkness crept in, the only thing you could think of was him.

“Steve,” you whispered, the name barely more than breath and then there was nothing.

Steve was laughing when the phone rang.

Robin had said something ridiculous. Dustin was mid-rant. Nancy and Jonathan were pretending not to smile at each other from opposite ends of the room. There were empty bottles, cheap decorations, the quiet joy of a life about to change.

Steve almost ignored the call. Almost.

When he answered, the world ended.

He didn’t remember dropping the phone. He didn’t remember falling to his knees. He only remembered the sound his chest made when it collapsed inward, like something vital had shattered beyond repair.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “No—no, you have the wrong—”

Robin was beside him instantly. Dustin was frozen, pale. Jonathan caught Steve before he hit the floor again.

At the hospital, everything smelled wrong. Too clean. Too bright.

Steve saw the man first.

Murray. He’s sitting, alive and being patched up by a nurse. “The driver,” someone said quietly. “Drunk. Says he didn’t see her.”

Steve didn’t remember crossing the room.

He only remembered his fist connecting with Murray’s face, the sickening crunch of bone, the way Jonathan’s arms locked around his chest too late.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Steve screamed, voice breaking apart. “You said you were sober. You said—” He choked.

“That’s my wife,” he sobbed. “That’s my wife in there. We’re getting married tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

The word meant nothing now.

The hospital room was dim and quiet, machines humming softly like they were afraid to be loud. Tubes and wires traced your body, keeping you here in ways Steve didn’t understand and didn’t trust.

You looked small. Too small.

Steve sat beside your bed and never left.

Days blurred into nights. Nights into weeks. He stopped coaching. Stopped going home. Stopped being anything but the man holding your hand and begging the universe not to take you. Your fingers were cold in his.

“I know,” he whispered one night, voice raw. “I know what I did.” His forehead rested against your knuckles. Tears soaked the sheets. “I remember now,” he said. “All of it. The fire. The war. The way I failed you every time.”

His breath shook violently. “You gave me this life to make it right,” he pleaded. “I know you did. And I’ll be honest, God—I’ll be selfish. Please. Please don’t take her.”

The machines kept breathing for you.

“She saves lives,” he whispered. “She’s spent her whole life saving people. Please save hers.” Steve squeezed your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. “She’s the girl in my dreams,” he sobbed. “The one I burned. The one who held my hand while I bled out. The moment I sat beside her at that graduation, I dreamed of the stake. When she watched my games, she was the nurse. It’s always been her.”

His voice broke completely.

“I can’t do this again,” he begged. “I can’t lose her in every lifetime. Not again. Just this once. Please.”

Inside the dark quiet of your body, you heard him. The sound of his voice cut through centuries. Tears slipped from the corners of your closed eyes, warm and unmistakably real.

Because now you knew.

The nameless knight.

The faceless soldier.

The boy who had loved you badly and lost you every time.

Steve Harrington.

Your fingers twitched in his grasp and Steve felt it.

Present - Hawkins, Indiana

“Wow,” Michael said softly, blinking a little too fast. “That’s kind of tragic.”

He paused, then added, almost reverently, “But also… really inspiring.”

The living room was warm with late afternoon light, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The school assignment sheet lay abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten in the aftermath of the story you hadn’t meant to tell all at once.

“For our activity,” Dustin said, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, “we had to share our favorite love story.” He grinned, sniffing. “Dude, we are definitely getting that award.”

Your four girls—Jane, Willow, Lucy, and Maxie, were tangled together on the carpet, arms wrapped tight around one another. Jane cried openly. Willow tried to pretend she wasn’t. Mxie clung to Lucy like she was afraid letting go might break something.

“It’s not fair,” Maxie muttered through tears. “You went through all of that.”

You smiled softly. “I wouldn’t change it.”

Steve sat beside you, quiet, eyes red, jaw tight like he was holding back a thousand memories all at once. When he finally looked at you, it was with the same expression he’d worn in every lifetime when he realized you were still here.

He leaned in and kissed your temple, slow and steady.

“Every fire,” he said quietly. “Every war. Every loss.” His voice wavered, but he didn’t look away. “It was worth it.” Your fingers laced with his, familiar and sure.

“I spent lifetimes afraid that loving you meant losing you,” Steve continued. “But now I know that we always find our way back.” He smiled through tears. “And this time, we got to live. The way we wanted.”

The kids watched him with wide, reverent eyes.

“This is the part where we exist,” you said gently. “Where love survives.”

Steve squeezed your hand. “Where it lasts.”

Outside, the world went on—ordinary and beautiful and safe. Inside, surrounded by proof of every choice you’d ever made, you understood something simple and profound.

Some love stories don’t end.

They endure.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

Read Steve Harrington did not sign up for this (but he will do it again) for a glimpse of their domesticated life.

Requested by: @peterparkerdilf Tag: @massivelystupidlevisimp

a/n: first of all, thank you so much for reading embers of love. thank you for every like, reblog, and kind message. your support truly means more to me than i can put into words. i poured my whole week into writing this part, heart and soul, and i hope you can feel the love, pain, and healing woven into it. please enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed (and suffered a little) writing it. and lastly, i hope we all find our steve harrington — in this life, and in every lifetime. 🤍

[hexyissy]

Embers of Love | Steve Harrington <3

Pairing: knight!steve harrington x accused!witch reader

Wc: 3.3k

Warning: heavy angst, forbidden love, major character death, blood/injury /surgery (minor medical gore), child endangerment/trauma (themes of abuse, kidnapping), mob violence, execution, romantic content (kissing explicit). Read at your own risk.

Summary: In a hidden forest, a healer known as a witch shelters lost children and saves a wounded knight. As forbidden love blossoms between them, duty, fear, and prejudice tear their world apart, leading to heartbreak, betrayal, and fire.

Part 2: Take My Whole Life

Your brother, pressed a kiss to your forehead before dawn broke through the trees. His satchel was heavy with dried herbs, crushed roots, and glass vials of medicine you had made together by firelight.

“A month,” he promised. “No longer.”

You nodded, though your chest felt tight. A month was a long time in a world that feared what it did not understand. That was why your parents had brought you here, deep into the forest—because some people could not be trusted. Because knowledge, especially in a woman’s hands, was often mistaken for witchcraft.

When Henry disappeared between the trees, the forest felt quieter than usual.

Later that day, dressed in white linen that brushed against fallen leaves, you wandered through familiar paths. That was when you heard it—soft sobbing, broken and frightened.

A boy sat beneath an oak tree, knees pulled to his chest. Eight, perhaps nine. His face was smudged with dirt and tears.

You crouched before the boy, careful not to frighten him. His shoulders trembled as he cried, small hands clutching at torn fabric.

“Hey… you’re safe,” you said gently. “What is your name?”

He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. “William.”

“That’s a good name,” you told him. “What are you doing all alone in the forest, William?” He told you he had run away. His mother’s words were cruel, her hands worse.

You offered him water. Then bread. Then, eventually, a place by your fire—just for a while, you told yourself. The forest has a way of bringing the lost to those who understand loneliness.

Near the waterfall day later, you found a girl with hair like burning copper. She stood barefoot on slick stone, eyes sharp despite the fear beneath them.

“Maxine,” she said defiantly.

“Why are you out here alone?”

Her jaw clenched. “My brother said I was a burden. Said I could be… useful.” Her voice faltered despite her effort. “He wanted to sell me. To an old man. Said I should be grateful.”

Her hands began to shake then, anger giving way to fear. “I ran before he could lock the door.”

That was when the tears came, hot and furious, streaking down her face as she pressed her palms to her eyes. You didn’t hesitate. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight as she cried, her sobs loud against your chest.

“You were right to run,” you whispered fiercely. “You don’t belong to anyone. You are not something to be sold.”

Then came Holly—quiet, strange, brilliant Holly, who spoke of stars and mechanisms and dreams too big for the village that called her mad. “They say I’m wrong in the head,” she said quietly. “Because I like things that don’t make sense to them. Because I ask questions.”

You moved closer. “What kind of questions?”

“Why do the stars move. How things work. Why I don’t feel like other girls.” Her voice trembled. 

“They said I was cursed.” Her breath hitched, and suddenly she was crying—soft, broken sounds like she was ashamed of them.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you breathed, pulling her into your arms. She smelled of smoke, pine, and fear.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” you said, holding her as she cried. “You are clever. You are curious. And the world is cruel to girls who dare to be more.”

The children’s laughter echoed through the trees while you crushed herbs at the small wooden table. For a brief moment, peace settled over the cottage.

Then it shattered. They came running—branches snapping beneath their feet, breathless and pale.

“There’s a man,” William gasped, clutching your sleeve. “In armor,” Maxine added, eyes wide. “He’s hurt,” Holly whispered. “Badly hurt”

Your heart dropped.

“Where?” you asked, already reaching for your satchel.

They led you deeper into the forest, farther than you liked to go. The air grew thick and damp, shadows stretching long between the trees. And then you saw him.

A knight lay against the roots of an old oak, silver armor smeared dark with blood. One arm hung useless at his side, his breathing shallow and uneven. His sword lay a few feet away, half-buried in leaves.

“Oh gods…” you breathed. You knelt beside him, hands steady despite the fear curling in your chest. Blood soaked through the gaps in his armor—too much. Far too much.

“Stay back,” you told the children gently. “Please.”

 With effort, you loosened the straps of his helmet and carefully lifted it free. Your breath caught.

He was young—far younger than you had expected. Dark hair, damp with sweat, curled against his forehead, lashes resting against bruised skin. Even battered and pale, there was no denying it.

Beautiful, your traitorous mind whispered. You shook your head sharply. Now is not the time.

“He’s just a man,” you murmured to yourself, already working. You pressed cloth to his side, uncorked a vial with your teeth, and poured the bitter-smelling tincture over the wound. He groaned softly, head turning as if he could feel you even in unconsciousness.

“Easy,” you whispered, though he could not hear. “I’ve got you.”

Getting him back to the cottage was no easy task. With the children’s help—Maxine steadying his shoulders, William holding a lantern—you dragged and supported him through the trees, every step a race against time.

By the time you laid him on the narrow cot, your arms ached, and your hands were stained red.

You cut away what remained of his armor and tunic, revealing wounds that made your stomach twist—slashes and bruises earned in battle, the kind meant to kill.

You worked with practiced precision—cleaning the wound, pressing cloth to torn flesh, stitching with steady hands, binding it all tight before the bleeding could steal more from him.

He stirred then, a low sound slipping from his throat. His eyes fluttered open—deep brown, unfocused, glazed with pain.

“Don’t move,” you said firmly, placing a hand on his chest to keep him still. “You’re safe.”

His gaze lingered on your face, searching, confused, as if trying to understand how he had survived at all.

“Who are you?” he rasped, voice raw and thin.

You huffed softly despite yourself. “Just someone who knows herbs.”

His eyes drifted shut once more, breath evening as unconsciousness claimed him again.

When the worst of it was done, you leaned back on your heels, fatigue settling deep into your bones. The children lingered in the doorway, watching in silence.

“He’ll live,” you said quietly.Relief swept through the room like a breath finally released. 

You had brought a knight, sworn to hunt beings like you into your home. And you had no way of knowing how deeply that choice would change everything.

He woke slowly this time. Not to pain though it lingered, but to warmth. Firelight flickered against wooden walls, and the scent of herbs clung to the air, sharp and earthy. His chest felt tight beneath the bindings, every breath a careful thing.

“You’re awake,” you said, turning from the table.

He shifted, wincing. “Seems I’m difficult to kill.”

“That or very stubborn,” you replied, setting a cup beside him. “Don’t try to sit yet.”

He obeyed, studying you. “I never thanked you.”

“You can,” you said lightly. “By staying still.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Steve,” he said after a moment. “Steve Harrington.”

You hesitated just a heartbeat then answered with your name.

The children hovered nearby, peeking from behind one another. Willian waved shyly. Maxine crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. Holly watched him with open curiosity.

“They’re yours?” Steve asked.

“No,” you said softly. “They found me.”

You told him their stories in pieces, runaways, broken homes, fear dressed up as duty. He listened quietly, jaw tight, eyes softening every time one of them laughed or spoke.

“They’re safe here,” he said finally.

“As safe as the world allows,” you replied.

Days passed slowly after that.

When he was strong enough to sit, you showed him your work—bundles of dried leaves, crushed roots, small glass vials lined like soldiers on the shelf.

“This one,” you said, holding up a pouch, “for pain. Too much and it dulls the senses. Too little and it does nothing.”

He watched closely. “How did you learn all this?”

“By my mother,” you said, grinding herbs with a mortar. “She used to say plants tell you what they are, if you listen long enough. People just prefer not to.”

He glanced at you then. “And they call that witchcraft.”

You shrugged. “They fear what they can’t control. Knowledge is easier to burn than to understand.” Steve was quiet after that.

Later, as he helped you hang drying herbs by the window, he said, almost to himself, “You saved my life.”

You didn’t look at him. “No,” you said gently. “I just made what the earth already knew how to give.”

And somehow, in that small cottage filled with laughter, firelight, and growing trust, a knight and a so-called witch began to blur into something far more dangerous to the world outside. Something human.

It happened quietly. Not all at once, not like the songs claimed—no thunder, no sudden devotion. Just small moments piling atop one another until Steve realized he was looking for you before he knew he was doing it.

You showed him the forest in the way only someone who belonged to it could.

One afternoon, when his strength had returned enough to walk without swaying, you led him deeper than he had ever gone. The children ran ahead, laughing, disappearing between the trees like spirits.

“This is my favorite place,” you said, softer now. “No one comes here. Only us.”

The trees opened into a hidden clearing, sunlight spilling through the canopy. At its heart lay a pool fed by a narrow stream, water clear and slow, smooth stones lining its edge.

Steve stopped short.

“It’s…” He searched for the word. “Peaceful.”

“That’s why I love it,” you replied.

The children were already kicking off their slippers, splashing into the water without hesitation. Their laughter echoed freely here, unafraid.

You hesitated only a moment before loosening the ties of your dress, stepping into the water beside them. Steve looked away at first, out of habit, out of respect, but when you laughed, free and unguarded, he couldn’t help himself.

You waded deeper, skirts floating around you, hair catching the light. The forest seemed to lean in, as if even it wanted to watch you.

He joined you soon after, clothes borrowed from your brother abandoned, the water cool against his skin. You swam together, slow and easy, the children splashing between you, the world reduced to sunlight and water and breath.

At one point, you drifted closer, close enough that Steve forgot how to speak.

“You know,” he said finally, voice low, earnest, “I’ve ridden across kingdoms. Seen courts and towns, women dressed in silk and gold.”

You raised a brow, amused. “And?”

“And none of them compares to you,” he said simply. “No woman in any land I’ve crossed holds your beauty.” You stilled, water rippling around you.

“That’s a dangerous thing to say,” you murmured.

“I’m a knight,” he replied, eyes fixed on you. “Danger comes with the oath.”

The air shifted then—something unspoken pulling tight between you. He reached out slowly, as if giving you time to pull away. When you didn’t, his hand brushed yours.

“You make the world quieter,” he said. “Like it finally makes sense.”

Your breath caught.

Before doubt could rise. Before titles or warnings could remind you who you were supposed to be—you closed the distance between you.

The kiss began gently, hesitant and reverent, as if he feared the world would rush back in if he pressed too hard. But when you leaned into him, when your fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulder, the space between knight and witch dissolved. In the forest, it meant nothing—no oaths, no accusations, no hierarchy. Just two souls choosing one another.

A knight, trained to stand unmoved before blade and fire, let his guard fall.

A woman, who had learned that safety only existed among the trees, stepped beyond it for him.

The forest seemed to still around you, water hushed, light trembling through the leaves as if it, too, understood the weight of the moment. And there, in that hidden place surrounded by everything the world had tried to steal from you, Sir Steve Harrington fell in love.

Now, after having dinner the night before, you and Steve both lie awake, the fire reduced to glowing embers, shadows stretching across the wooden walls. Steve stared into the dark, the weight of his armor and his duty pressing against his chest.

“I must return,” he murmured, voice low, almost a whisper. “It is my oath… my duty.”

You reached for his hand, fingers brushing his. “Promise me you’ll be back.” you said softly. 

He gave a small, solemn nod, pressing his lips to your forehead. “A week,” he repeated. And with that, he left, stepping into the cold night, cloak drawn tight, boots silent on the forest path.

Along with the children, you waited. Every dawn, every rustle in the trees, you hoped it was Steve returning, keeping the promise he had made.

But night after night, he never came.

One evening, a shadow moved at the edge of the clearing. Your heart leapt. You bolted to the door. “Steve?” you called, breath catching.

The torchlight revealed not him, but a mob of townsfolk, faces twisted with fear and fury, weapons in hand, rakes and pitchforks glinting. “Get the witch!” someone shouted.

“Where are the children?!” another cried, pointing toward the cottage. “We know she’s hiding them!”

The children screamed, clinging to your skirts. You tried to gather them, to push them behind you, but the mob surged forward. They struck you, hands and sticks, driving you to your knees. Pain flared across your arms and back as they grabbed you, dragging you from the safety of your home.

Your arms, once strong and steady, fell limply at your sides. The children cried out, tiny voices breaking your heart. You tried to shield them, tried to plead, but they were ripped from your grasp.

The mob set fire to the cottage as you were hauled away, flames licking the walls, smoke curling into the sky. The place you had built with care, the only home you had ever known, burned to ash. The scent of your herbs, the children’s laughter, Steve’s promises, everything that had been safe and bright—it vanished in smoke and fire.

They bound you roughly, bruising and cutting as they went, dragging you through the dirt toward the village. Exhausted, broken, and weeping, you had no fight left to give. And so they brought you to the stone prison, cold and unyielding, to stand trial by fire.

Days—weeks, maybe—had passed, though time in the capital felt different from the forest. Steve had tried to return. He had meant to. But duty weighed like iron. Orders, skirmishes, patrols, and the king’s endless demands kept him from the forest, from you, from the home you had shared.

Every night, he had whispered your name under his breath, swearing he would return, even as battles, councils, and the crown’s demands tore him further away.

And then came the court.

King Hopper’s hall was vast, every torch casting long shadows across the stone floor. Steve knelt, armor heavy, heart heavier. The king extended a scroll, wax still warm from the seal. “These,” Hopper’s voice cut like steel, “are the witches who must burn.”

Steve broke the seal. His eyes skimmed the names—until the air vanished from his lungs.

Yours.

It was like a bucket of ice thrown straight into his chest. Blood seemed to recede from his veins, leaving a hollow chill. The world tilted, torchlight and stone blurring around him. No… no, it cannot be.

“The woman… in the forest?” he asked, voice hoarse, trembling despite the training that had kept him calm in a hundred battles. “Why… why her?”

General Murray stepped forward, expression grim. “A hunter saw her with the children reported missing. Folk say she lured them deep into the forest… to enslave them.”

Enslave them. Steve’s stomach lurched, heart clenching. Every memory of your laughter, the cottage, the hidden pool, the herbs… it crashed down, broken and gone.

King Hopper’s eyes bored into him. “You are trying to defy me, Harrington?”

“No… no, Your Highness,” he said, swallowing hard. “I—”

But inside, he was already breaking. A knight, trained to steel himself against pain, against death, against chaos… he could not steel himself against this.

You woke to the harsh light of dawn, the smell of smoke, and the muffled shouts of a mob. Your body ached from weeks of fear, of hiding, of hopeless waiting. You blinked slowly, eyes raw, exhausted, finally surrendering to the inevitable.

The stake loomed before you. Smoke and heat mingled with the shouts of villagers, torches held high, eyes burning with righteous fury. Your arms hung uselessly at your sides. You could fight no longer. You had given up, long before they dragged you here.

“No!” William shrieked, trying to get to you in the crowd.

“Stop! Stop! She’s not a witch!” Maxine’s voice cracked, raw with panic and fear, higher than the roaring fire, yet swallowed by it.

Holly’s small hands beat against the mob, shrill wails piercing the smoke. “You’re wrong! She’s not cursed!”

But no one heard them. No one stopped. They were only children—helpless, their voices meaningless against the tide of fear and anger. You tried to look at them one last time, to smile, to promise safety, but your body was failing. Your strength had abandoned you. 

Then you saw the armor. You would have known it anywhere. You had traced it with your fingers, memorized the way it caught the light. Your heart gave a broken, useless lurch.

Steve.

He held a torch, but his hands shook, shoulders quivering, a knight brought low by the weight of his own heart. A knight, proud and fierce, with sword in hand and heart alight with love, and yet powerless. He had the sword and pride—but not the power to change their minds.

 When your eyes met, the world narrowed. All the villagers, all the shouting, all the flames—they vanished in that instant.

“You did not dare to save me,” you said softly, your voice thin but steady. “And I will never have the courage to hate you.” His breath hitched.

“I know,” you continued, tears slipping free at last, “that in your heart, you never meant to fail me. So I will wait for you… in my next life.”

“I’m sorry,” he broke, the words tearing out of him.

You smiled—small, broken, full of love. “I forgive you.”

The torch touched the wood. The torch in his hand trembled as he lowered it to the stake. Your scream ripped through the air, swallowed immediately by the cheers of the mob.

He pressed the torch to the kindling. Fire leapt, smoke curling around you, heat washing over your face.

And no one knew, could not know—that the knight standing there, the one who had sworn to serve king and kingdom, wept openly as the flames rose. His tears mixed with sweat, burning eyes fixed on you, and the weight of love, loss, and impossibility crushed him utterly.

The world roared, fire and voices and terror surrounding you.

But in that instant, your gaze met his one last time. And even as the flames swallowed everything you had built, even as your lungs filled with smoke and ash, your heart whispered the same truth it had known all along: you had loved him.

That day—the day his beloved was burned alive—Steve Harrington understood the truth of the kingdom he served.

A crown that demanded love as sacrifice was no kingdom worth defending. A realm that took from a man the one thing he cherished most did not create loyalty—it forged monsters. And when they took you from him, Steve Harrington ceased to be a knight.

What rose from the ashes was something far more dangerous because a man who has lost everything he loves no longer fears fire.

He becomes it.

[kingofscoops]

Endless Gifs of Steve Harrington (134/?) Stranger Things • 5.07 The Bridge

[upsidedownwithemmy]

ONESHOTS MULTPARTS BLURBS MINI SERIES

[stevehair-rington]

HARRINGTON WEEK day seven ♡ free choice