summary: five times you danced with steve, and the one time that mattered most.
words: 6.3k
warnings: little bit of angst but a lottt of fluff tbh, grinding at some random's house party, brief mentions of alcohol/drinking under age 21, reader is described wearing feminine clothing more than once
notes: this honestly was only meant to be like 1500w but i went overboard oops, i hope you guys like these lil moments between friends
It seemed out of place to hold such a celebratory event at a time when your town was barely holding onto the cusp of solidarity. Despite the gym at Hawkins High being decked out in sparkly embellishments and a whimsical story of banners and streamers, an eeriness still lurked in the shadows, mirroring the town's unsteadiness. Your heart stuttered at every flash of light, the room changing colours in time with the varying tempo of the music - it was as if your body was preparing, bracing for something to reach out and grab you, which is why you yelped, a sharp gasp strong enough to tighten your chest, when a hand grasped your shoulder.
"Shit - sorry, you okay?" Steve's voice was concerned as he leaned down, both hands now holding your shoudlers seatedy, the golden flecks in his eyes shining even brighter against the yellow tone encasing the room. He was studying you, the way your breath was held and how your gaze widened in shock. He knew he had interrupted something as he watched your gaze flicker between realities, "Where were you just now?"
A forced smile clung helplessly to your lips as you faced him, attempting to shake off the darkened thoughts. Your voice was strained, and Steve tried not to notice, "Somewhere I shouldn't be. But it's okay - I'm okay."
Brown strands of hair fell across Steve's face as he nodded, the inside of his cheek bitten raw to stop him from pressing further. He understood what you were saying. Nightmares have become real figures in your lives now, and it is hard to withdraw from that. The acknowledgement didn't make it any easier, however.
Steve cleared his throat with a gentle rumble, his stance straightening before his hand was held in your direction. The palm was facing up like an invitation to feel him, to ground yourself in the real world. It was an offered distraction for your mind to be taken elsewhere. His jaw dropped slightly, and his words caught.
But your widened eyes, filled with curiosity and trust, reached in deep and pulled out a smile for Steve to wear for you.
"Dance with me."
You blinked silently, but accepted with an absence of hesitation, the feeling of Steve's fingers flexing slightly from the contact before his hold embraced yours completely. The beginning notes of 'Heaven - Bryan Adams' began to play softly as he guided you toward an unoccupied space.
His large hand splayed over your hip, introducing a comfortable warmth to seep through your dress. It was a grounding touch, as much of an anchor as the way his fingers slid between yours before holding you with confidence. He wasn't in any way a professional, but Steve swayed you both gently in a small circle, his eyes absent-mindedly dropping to his feet to make sure he wouldn't step on you.
For the first time in a long time, you both felt content.
Steve's lips hovered by the shell of your ear, hilarity riding the tone of his voice, the rumbling from his chest close to pressing against your own, "I'm not much of a dancer, just thought I'd warn ya."
"Thought you were good at everything, Harrington?"
Steve laughed and chuckled, and the hand intertwined with yours offered you a slight squeeze. He had to hold himself back from pulling you completely flush against his front. "Yeah, well, fighting off interdimensional monsters really brings things into perspective."
Your bodies moved slowly, a union that harmonised easily with little thought. It allowed you to release a shaky breath, expelling fear as you instead chose to accept the safety of your new friendship with Steve. The hand that you had placed on his shoulder snuck around his neck, closely followed by the other one, until you were hugging him to you. Your cheek pressed carefully to his chest to revel in the steadiness of his heartbeat. The boy dropped his head, nose against your temple, hugging you back.
Your steps had slowed now as you settled into the feeling of Steve's embrace. He didn't want to scare you - to squeeze so hard that you'd crack, or to speak too loudly that the moment you found yourselves within shattered. He had developed a desperation to keep you protected, and right now, it was by holding you against his chest to shield the outside from invading your thoughts.
And it was as if you could sense it, "Thank you, Steve."
He didn't ask what for, but he had an idea. Your lives had now intersected in a cruel twist of fate, and the unknown hung dangerously over your heads every day. Finding people to band together with was crucial - and he had happened to now be your person, and you were his.
Steve's nose buried against your temple, breathing you in as he tried to slow his heart's pace.
"Anytime."
ⅱ. ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ; ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• tainted love - soft cell
The strength of the bass made you flutter as it thumped, musical patterns reverberating up from the floor and settling in your chest. You weren't sure whose house Steve had dragged you to on this summery Friday night, but the place was crowded, and the beer was warm. The perfect concoction for letting loose.
He made sure not to stray too far - focus drawn to you and Robin as if second nature by now, whilst he mildly engaged in conversation with someone from your school days. Steve's head nodded in the right places, and his smile showed interest enough, but he still couldn't look away from you. Both of you. Unable to drop his protector status for even a mere moment.
Robin exuded confidence as she settled comfortably into your surroundings, using her energetic nature to ensure a full plastic solo cup always accompanied your palm. You both lost track of the drinks you had had, but Steve was counting them; not to be controlling, no, but because he has unconventionally learnt to be overly observant, to keep an eye out for danger, triggers, walking and talking caution signs.
You could've sworn the music got louder, or the bass had gotten deeper, feeling each note and tune so viscerally. Bone-deep, as if it were a part of you, etched deeply. Robin's mind was lost within a world of her own, quite like yourself, as her body swayed to a beat far from the song blaring across the living room, but her smile was still wide. Though maybe that was because of Vickie Dunne and her inability to look away from your joyous friend, and the longing looks Robin had been throwing back to her all night.
"You should go talk to her," you attempted to say, needing to repeat yourself as Robin peered at you with curiosity. When you spoke louder against the shell of her ear, you could feel the warmth flush her cheeks.
Robin stammered, "I-i mean, yeah, I.. but what about you?"
Although you'd love to think she was purely being caring, you knew your friend well enough to see the deflection, trying to conjure an excuse. Robin was one of the most assured people you know, but at this moment, she had never seemed shyer.
"I'll be fine, promise. better to try now before that liquid courage dries up." You cooed, eyes gesturing over your friend's shoulder. With a comically deep breath and a shake of her head, Robin hyped herself up before you sent her on her way. You watched as she stumbled briefly into a small console table, only to straighten up immediately, all without breaking eye contact with the redhead - and you stood back, thoroughly impressed, but now bored.
And that's when the thought of Steve popped into your head.
He always did, so easily these days. When you had a nonsensical thought, were unsure what to do next, unable to cure the monotony of your day, he would answer your beck and call. Steve was always the solution, and he never let you down.
You could feel his gaze watching over you across the density of the crowd. The room was thick with drunken bodies, much like the air, an almost suffocating atmosphere that you didn't realise until now. You found it difficult to see where Steve was as you stood tiptoed, examining your surroundings. It was as if he knew, however, already making his way to you. Like a magnet. An indescribable force. A taut invisible string.
The scent of his cologne wafted around you before steady hands were placed on your shoulders, a firm chest pressing to your back, a chuckling voice sounding by your ear, "You lookin' f'me?"
Steve could've sworn he stopped breathing as he watched you turn around and smile so wide at him. The excitement of your night mixed with relief to see him as it tugged between your cheeks, igniting a fire behind his ribs. He could stare at you all night if you kept looking at him like, probably even the rest of his life...
"Dance with me." Your declaration broke his thoughts, and Steve blinked back into reality before looking at your dainty hand held out to him. It brought back a memory from a year ago, where you attended somewhere as friends and left as something more intimate and trustworthy. Oh, how far you've both come since then.
"You know I'm not much of a dancer," he replied, his smirk deepening as he watched you prepare a comeback.
A scoff escaped between your lips, arms crossing over your chest. "Please, I've seen Steve 'the hair' Harrington dance at parties before." Your eyes squinted, nose crinkling in the way he loves. He rolled his eyes, pretending to think about it. Still, a crack formed in his teasing as he noticed you biting your lip, "C'mon Steve, I'm buzzed, and I wanna dance with you."
How could he say no when you were looking at him like that? As if he were the only one that mattered in this crowded, stale room. Steve sighed dramatically as his eyes rolled clockwise, fingers easily interlocking with your own as his palm slid against yours. He would be lying if he said that he didn't wish his hand could hold yours forever.
Nothing could wipe the slanted smirk off Steve's lips as he watched you situate yourselves closer to the music, your lips moving as you mouthed the words to the current song, head moving side-to-side rhythmically. You were completely unaware of how cute you looked, and Steve had to draw a deep breath before looking away so that these new thoughts didn't evolve into something else. Something deeper.
The music took control of your body for the umpteenth time that night, hips now swaying, and Steve's hand that you were still holding now lifted above you both as you tried to entice him to join. He rolled his tongue at the gesture before his head began to bob with an accompanying smile that he couldn't bite back. His fingers tightened around yours before tugging you closer, your frame twirling gently under your arms, until you landed in front of him with a palm pressed to his chest.
Steve's smile didn't falter, not in the slightest, but it did soften.
You let him go so that your hands could slide up to his shoulders, finding their home at the back of his neck. Your lip was bitten again, the spot swelling with pink plumpness from the constant harassment of your teeth - and Steve tried not to stare.
"You can put your hands on me. I won't bite." You said, noticing how they had fallen to his sides. It made you giggle, gentle and sweet, when he realised he was stuck in an entrancement. But you moved before he could, your fingers taking hold of his wrists and bringing them to your waist. They flexed against you, tightening, savouring the feeling of your body under his touch.
Your hips were near flush to his now as they kept their momentum. Being so close to Steve brought a different thickness to the air - one that allowed you to breathe more, but you were merely breathing in him. It was like a bubble made just for the two of you, everybody else fading.
The tempo changed as 'Tainted Love - Soft Cell' sang through the speakers nearby, so you turned around, Steve's grip still tight as you twisted until your back was against his chest. You could feel it thumping, fast, hard. His breath quickening. You're not sure if the drinks you had were finally settling, but your mind felt lighter, and you settled among the carefree.
Your body rocked in cadence, and although you couldn't see Steve, you could tell that his hips were following yours like a lost puppy - desperate and dependent on you. The people around you shifted, and he instinctively pulled you closer after his grip dragged to your hips, guiding your movements, controlling how you grazed him. The pace. The pressure.
You could feel a carnal fervour lulling down your neck as Steve breathed. It forced a jagged inhale to gather in your lungs, hitching abruptly, and you didn't expect the beautiful boy behind you to make you feel so stirred. A sudden heat made your skin pebble, and you retreated forward like his presence had burnt you, his hands dropping from your frame. It was as if your bubble had been popped, and you both remembered where you were and who you were with. What you were doing. How it made you feel.
Steve cleared his throat. You looked to your feet.
ⅲ. ʜᴀʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ ᴋɪᴛᴄʜᴇɴ; ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• centerfold - the j. geils band
Steve couldn't sleep. More accurately, Steve didn't sleep. He was cursed with unforgettable scenes that haunted his mind whenever he closed his eyes. Which is why he preferred to sit within spaces bathed in light when he was alone; scared that the shadows would prey on him when he couldn't see, that they would sink in their claws and refuse to let go.
Three raps against the chipped-red wood of his front door made Steve jump, his mind broken from an exhausted trance. As one normally would, Steve didn't actually become concerned at a late visitor. In fact, he was used to it. He was used to you - and how you too suffered the inability to settle into a sweet slumber, how you would flinch at loud sounds and the creeping inch of darkness.
You didn't need to ask why he opened the door so quickly at one a.m, his living room bright with every globe aglow, your gaze drifting from the space behind him to the tired lines framing his eyes, "You too, huh?"
"Just the norm." He murmured back, a sympathetic smile shaping his lips and softening his eyes. Steve moved to the side so that you could walk inside, your shoes instantly kicked off by the door. He fell easily in step with you as he guided you both toward the kitchen, the room also lit up with nearly enough wattage to require UV-protected sunglasses. It made you squint, but you knew Steve needed it - the reassurance, the lack of shadows.
Steve's hands found solace around a half-drunken mug of tea, the aroma sweet and warm as it filled the space. It was complementary to the gentle hum of the radio on the island bench, and you could see where your friend had been propped up for most of the night as he leaned next to the askew bar stool with an upside down book nearby and a pair of discarded glasses. You didn't know that Steve had taken up reading, but you were sure it was out of boredom or avoidance that had prompted him to raid his father's forgotten stash.
"You want a mug? Kettle's still warm."
His voice drew your attention toward him, thoughts too loud and imposing to consider what he had said, and the furrowed brows you displayed were an indication enough to Steve. He easily recognised that expression of disorientation: astray from reality, stuck in a purgatory between fact and fiction. And it made his chest tighten.
The tender melody emanating from the speakers to his right filled the silence between you. It sounded comfortable - a tune that dared Steve to put down his mug and hold his hand out toward you. His eyes were tired, but they still managed to sparkle, "Dance with me."
It wasn't a question, yet it was neither a demand. It was more of a silent understanding between you both that always ended the same way - your hand slipping against his, and a large, warm hand splayed against your waist.
Steve guided you so that you were situated in front of him, your matching sock-clad feet opposite each other on the brown tiled floor. He desired your full attention, for you to tell him what was bothering you, because he could see that something was. He could tell easily, like a book he's re-read a hundred times. A movie he knows all the words to. A song that had embedded its melody so deeply in his mind.
After all, you were his person. And he was yours. It only made sense.
"Thought you weren't much of a dancer." You hummed, looking down at your socked feet.
His response was quiet as he spoke, scared to break the moment, "For you I am."
Steve slowly swayed as his fingers flexed around yours, the hand on your hip allowing his thumb to rub reassuring circles through your thin sweater. His eyes bored toward your crumbling facial expressions. "Tell me what's wrong." His voice was delicate, yet stern. Careful.
"I'm just tired, Steve - "
"C'mon. You don't need to bullshit with me. You never do."
You had told him that you had trouble sleeping, but you never properly explained why; the visions that controlled your nightmares were now seeping into the daylight and playing when you were awake, and you had been experiencing sporadic and painful headaches.
He would lose his mind if he knew, but he would lose it even more if he didn't.
You drew a deep breath, "The migraines are back, and they're always hurting."
Steve's steps faltered. He became uneasy too quickly. Knowing you were in pain and what it could mean was enough to turn his blood cold. He swallowed back the lump forming in his throat before absentmindedly pulling you closer, your arms instinctivly tangling around the back of his neck as his cheek pressed to your temple.
"You could've said something." He murmured, feeling you hum in agreement against his clavicle.
The song changed on the radio and the kitchen was soon filled with a soft ballad, a toned-down crescendo that bespoke mosaics bounced between four walls. It carried a melody you knew well, and Steve could feel your shoulders ease as you let it engulf you.
It was fitting for this moment - tender and delicate, like the way Steve was holding you, your bodies still swaying despite the minimal space that separated you both.
"This would be my song." Your words were spoken in a barely audible whisper, the confession licking at Steve's collarbone.
His brow quirked when confusion took over, "What do you mean?" Yet he had an idea, and he instantly wished he hadn't asked.
"If Vecna came for me."
"You know damn well I wouldn't let that happen-"
"But it could, Steve. And if it did, it would be this song." Your nose dragged gently by the base of his throat as you repositioned your head, shifting slightly, "I would think of now. This mere moment of peace. And it would bring me back."
Your admission hung like a safeguard, readiness for the unseeable. It made him think of Max, floating high above him, her mind lost. And how he would rather die than ever see you enter a similar fate.
Your fingers fidgeted with the hairs at the nape of his neck, nervous movements from such a serious revelation. The tension was thick but Steve knew that you trusted him with everything you embodied.
"Centerfold."
You pulled back at his word, only enough to see his face as he peered down at you, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk.
"By The J. Geils Band. That'd be mine." Steve confessed, his smile widening as you began to giggle, chest warming at the sight of you happy.
"Homeroom angel, that'd be your pick? Seriously?"
The boy scoffed before pulling your laughing form closer to him again, smooshing your face into his shirt as your jovality grew louder. There was no point in holding back the pleased grin he wore so well around you; pressing the smile against the crown of your head, the swaying movements you were making now became exaggerated, back and forth as he tossed you playfully.
"Not that we're gonna need 'em, okay? I got you, and I always will." Steve started, slowing once more, embracing you tightly, "And when this is all over, there will be time for us. Just you and me, if... ya know, you'd want something like that."
You didn't waste a second, "I would."
ⅳ. ʜᴏᴘᴘᴇʀ-ʙʏᴇʀꜱ ᴡᴇᴅᴅɪɴɢ; ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• time after time - cyndi lauper
It was odd; standing in a room bathed in pastels and florals, no resemblance to the darkness of any kind, surrounded by the people that you had spent years running toward the light with. Being on high alert for so long still left your bodies trembling at unexpected moments, compelled to always look over your shoulders, to view the world a little differently.
And yet, the party that you eventually built your life around had finally found relative happiness.
They say that some families only come together during weddings or funerals, and thankfully, today was the former. The turnout was small yet familiar and intimate, a perfect setting for the matrimony of Joyce and Hopper. It felt like years in the making; finally expelling into a contented deep breath, an introduction to the rest of everyone's lives, the capability to move forward.
You stood back, listening to the melody of laughter around the room, noting the matching smiles that complemented the serenity. Even after all this time, your gaze still trailed over the kids like a protective caretaker, but you couldn't help the softened grin that pinched up your lips when you saw their eased shoulders and joviality. Finally.
"You're staring." Humour voiced by your ear, the familiar scent of oakmoss and leather notes filling your vicinity. Steve was instant warmth as he settled beside you, his arm now wrapped comfortably around your back as you leaned into his side.
"How can I not? Look at them, our babies are all grown up." You cooed like a reminiscing parent, prompting Steve to chuckle heartily in return. He was the other half of your babysitting madness, earning just as much of a right to gush about those kids as if they were his own. And he often did.
He gently nudged your hand with a cool glass of champagne as he took a sip of his own, eyes dragging back over to you after monitoring the younger party members. Cheeks grew pink when he noticed your bottom lip pinched between your teeth.
"Trying to get me drunk on the first date, Harrington?"
Steve scoffed, completely enamoured, "Maybe I just wanted to make sure my girl was well looked after."
My girl.
The words struck something within you. A chord played just right. It was the first time you heard the sentiment fall from his lips, and you were sure that the warmth travelling up your neck was giving away how taken you were.
The glasses were soon abandoned as guests started to gather around cleared floor space, gentle notes of Cyndi Lauper drifting around Hopper and Joyce as they took their first steps together as a married couple. It was awkward to watch, yet endearing, as Jim Hopper tried to do a bridal waltz before giving up and simply swaying Joyce with all the happiness in the world.
It was then that you felt Steve's hand nudge yours. A touch, a feeling that you could never forget. Calloused and scarred skin mingling with your own. His hold safe, and loving. The floor was declared open, and he wasted no time before standing in front of you, eyebrow cocked, famous smirk shaping his lips.
"Dance with me."
Nothing could ever feel more right in this world than being in Steve Harrington's arms. They fell effortlessly to your lower back before he pulled you close to his chest, your own tangling behind his neck where fingers could lightly play with long brown tufts. Steve's cheek pressed to your temple as you both swayed, the chorus of 'Time After Time' being hummed gently into your hair.
You couldn't help the smile that contorted your facial features - wide lips, a scrunched nose, crinkled eyes. The embodiment of contentedness. A place you never want to leave.
"You know..." Your voice started after a change in song, your nails scratching lightly at Steve's scalp to coax him out of his comfortable trance, "It's pretty ballsy taking a girl to a wedding for a first date."
Steve snorted. As if you weren't already invited. But there was a difference in his tone a few days ago when he brought it to your attention; and asking if you'd go with him, was entirely different to asking if you'd go with him.
"Yeah, well. I've been into taking risks as of late." He sounded in reply, thumbs absently rubbing your hips through your dress. It was then that he pulled back, hazel eyes lidded in what one could only describe as love. His large hands warmed your skin as they slid up your arms, hands capturing your own, and pulling them gently between you both.
Your swaying continued, feet moving around in small steps, before Steve pressed a kiss to each of your knuckles.
"And how is that working out for you?" You asked, eyes remaining on his. Your voice was gentle among the budding crowd, but in the moment, it was just the two of you. No distractions. No intercepts. Just you and Steve.
He had always been a smooth talker, so it took you by surprise when that charm exuded into his movements as Steve suddenly spun you away from him, never once breaking eye contact. A stunned exhale pushed through you after you were pulled back in, your back now pressed to his chest and arms tangled over yours.
He could sense your shock, so he laughed against the shell of your ear before lips trailed down to a spot that he knew would make you sigh, "You wanna know how it's working out?" He whispered into your skin.
You nodded, breathlessly.
Steve placed a kiss. "Unbelievably perfect."
ⅴ. ʟᴏʟʟᴀᴘᴀʟᴏᴏᴢᴀ '92; ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• porch - pearl jam
You thought that Hawkins mid-Summer could be the hottest place on Earth, but nothing prepared you for Cincinnati. Maybe it was the intensity of the sun that cast its warmth ferociously over the festival, or perhaps it was the electrifying energy that surrounded you as you stood within a buzzing swarm of music-lovers.
Either way, it was far from a deterrent for Steve Harrington as he still found every opportunity to place his hands somewhere on your body. Or if his hands had already found refuge, his lips were quick to seek out the next best sliver of skin.
Spirits were high, as were many of the thriving patrons around you. The smile that tugged eagerly between your cheeks was reciprocated easily by your friends as your group stayed close to one another throughout each set. Vickie, at some point, climbed onto Robin's shoulders as their voices boomed with loud joviality to each song, whilst Jonathan captured every moment through his trusty lens, and Nancy moved so freely as she finally let loose.
And then, there was you and Steve. Your voice also carried alongside the crowd, but it began to falter the more you felt Steve's fingers absently fiddle with the shiny band and stone that now graced your left hand. It was an obsession he had - the inability to stop feeling for it, to remind himself of reality, to ground his thoughts and reassure his dreams that he proposed to you and you had said yes.
It had been three months since his knee found the plushy carpet of Enzos. Three months since the speech he had planned for weeks had dispersed because he couldn't stop smiling and crying. Three months since you dropped from your seat, dress crushed as you knelt in front of him, and fell happily into his arms. After all this time, he was still addicted to the thought of you as the future Mrs Harrington.
Hollers and cheers erupted as the large stage ahead sounded a new song; Pearl Jam setting the scene for another track from their new album, before Robin's excitement boomed in your ear when the opening notes of 'Porch' began to play.
The atmosphere was contagious like a fever that couldn't be held down. As one entity, the crowd was moving and singing - a unified moment between thousands of people. It was hard to feel out of place when you were in the middle of such cohesion.
The second you turned to your side, Steve was already looking down at you, the sun reflecting golden flecks from his hazel eyes in a mesmerising moment. It made him appear younger, as if the trouble you had all faced didn't exist within this brief instance of time.
"Dance with me." You said, your smile still worn well and wide.
He snickered, leaning in to peck your sun-kissed cheek before his nose grazed along the warmth. The man hummed in acceptance and smoothly wrapped his arms around your torso, tugging your body back until you felt the hard plane of his chest behind you. You were back in your favourite place, Steve Harrington's embrace, as your hands rubbed over his forearms before your head fell to his shoulder.
Steve guided your bodies from side-to-side. It was a momentum that you knew all too well, ignoring the heat and beading sweat that clung between you both so that you could immerse yourself in all things Steve. His cologne had yet to falter, adhering to his baggy tee and wafting further toward you the more his arms tightened.
You eventually grasped his wrists, wrapping around them with care before pulling them to your sides. It was always so invigorating whenever Steve's large hands splayed against your waist - their size making you feel safe and heated in a conflicted concoction. You craved for him to both protect and tear you apart at the same time. They slipped generously to your hips before his fingers tensed, blunt nails digging into you with calculated strength.
His lips fell next. They found their home below your ear, claiming the expanse of skin down to the base of your throat. Every drag of his tongue professed ownership, only justified by the control he now had as he moved you with his hands - your pace, your position, your pressure.
The festival had become background noise; all that you could focus on was your future husband and the significant devotion of love he had for you.
ⅵ. ʜᴀʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ ᴡᴇᴅᴅɪɴɢ; ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။• more than words - extreme
It had taken ten years in the making for this moment to happen. Bright flashes of light still trigger something within you, and pure darkness is more than enough to haunt - but standing, hand-in-hand, with what you could call your universe and more in a single person had easily rewritten the cruelty of the past. The suffering still existed; however, Steve Harrington's love made the fight and survival absolutely worthwhile.
You wore matching smiles with twin pinched lips, intertwined with devotion and warmth. They paired harmoniously with the two sets of eyes that were still slightly red-rimmed from the jovial tears that ran rapidly. And then, there were the words that were declared not too long ago that continued to sing sweetly in your mind - Husband and Wife. Steve and You. A pairing that outlived monsters and anguish, that sought each other through the dark with fumbling hands, that created their own light instead of waiting for it to come.
Steve's right hand was stubborn, refusing to let go of you. From the moment you two ventured back down the aisle, and through the audience of loving words delivered in toasts from your loved ones, he held you tight as a reminder that this was real. That you were now a constant in his life - like oxygen, and he was desperate to breathe you in and fill his lungs with this stunning promise of forever.
"I love you." His whispered words felt like a tattoo the more he whispered them against your throat, your pulse jumping and the proud turn of his lips grazed skin so stunningly before they pressed yet another kiss below your ear.
Your hand snaked up the side of his head as fingers carted through his hair, slight pressure forming as you made sure to keep his face in that position against you. Steve chuckled, the gentle huffs of breath tickling your skin. You could feel his glasses nudge the underside of your jaw before you turned slightly to smile at him. "I love you, too."
It was perfect. Even more so, when delicate sounds of music began to emit around the reception space.
'More than Words - Extreme' was a song that Steve picked. It was his only must-have requirement for the Wedding you two found yourselves the centre of. He proclaimed it a story that followed you closely, as if your journey together across all these terrifying and beautiful years had been summarised. As if the song itself were a neon arrow, pointing toward this moment of you both wearing matching rings.
He stood from his seat as if the notes were a trigger, hazel eyes widened with hope when he looked to you. You could read him like a book - the way his smirk cocked, how his gaze softened. He'd already encaptured your hand, but the invitation was still laid out. Steve didn't need to ask you aloud, not this time.
"I would love to dance with you. Always." You spoke gently, attempting to hold down the shake that followed your words and the happy tears that threatened to spill.
Steve guided you both to the dedicated space, family and friends watching on with endearment. He positioned his left hand on your hip, thumb already rubbing delicately into your side. His right still holding onto you, never planning on letting go. Your chests were close, and you cupped his cheek before Steve's lips pressed into your palm.
He took the lead.
It was more than a sway this time, more than intimate touches as two bodies moved clockwise. More than wandering hands that burnt with every drag of skin over skin. It was more than a distraction or a promise of safety, a budding romance from years of dancing around feelings rather than just dancing together.
The way he moved with you, and you with him, was a sentiment that vowed beyond longevity. Steve Harrington was holding you as if you were the most delicate thing he had ever touched, whilst also being the one thing that he craved more than life itself.
It was, simply, forever.
You could see the glassiness coat his eyes, contentedness settling so easily now within him. Carefully, your hand dragged up from his cheek to take hold of his glasses, removing them and placing them in his front jacket pocket before the lenses could fog up. He chuckled under his breath as a tear began to fall.
"You know, I'm still not much of a dancer."
You chuckled back, tears of your own falling once again, yet the smile between your cheeks had grown.
"Thought you were good at everything, Harrington?"
Fingers flexed against your hip before they trailed up your side, taking their time to map each curve. They eventually found solace on your back before splaying comfortably, and then he tipped you backwards.
The joyful laugh that pushed through you was Steve's version of angels singing. And he would do whatever, whenever, for the rest of your lives to always hear that noise. He didn't want to interrupt it, but the desperation to kiss you came first, his lips capturing yours as he swallowed your laughter, smiles pressing to one another.
When he pulled you upright, you laughed again, softer but passionate as your crinkled eyes and scrunched nose looked to him. Steve would never understand how you were both his oxygen and the reason for his breathlessness.
"I'm good at a lot of things..." He began, leaning down to brush his nose against yours. The two of you couldn't hear the cheers from the wedding guests; how they gushed and cooed, the way their applause echoed loudly throughout the room. Instead, you were focused on each other. More specifically, the way Steve's lips grazed yours, and the shudder that shook him,
"- But loving you is what I'm most good at, Mrs Harrington."
Synopsis: When you wake up, your husband is nowhere to be found. Turns out, Steve is making pancakes for his girls and you can't help but admire the view.
Rating: Mature/ explicit
Warnings: Dad!Steve, fluff, baby fever, smut, dirty talk, hand job, getting freaky in the kitchen, desperate!Steve, reader is THIRSTY, POST SEASON 5
Wordcount: 3.6k
Co-written with @atropa-digitalis
Steve wasn't in bed.
That was the first thing that registered in your sleep-fogged brain when you woke up. Normally, the man was a huge teddy bear and would be clinging to you like a limpit, refusing to let go.
You groaned, blindly reaching out for your husband in the dark room. The side next to you was empty, the sheets were rumpled, and the blanket was gingerly tucked around you like a lovers embrace. It was still warm, so you knew he had left recently.
Minuets later, you were in your dressing gown, leaving the bedroom to find wherever he had wandered off to.
First you checked Dia's room.
It was a habit. Your baby- well, she was already four and growing fast, but she would always be your baby- was face down in her bed. Small tufts of thick, brown hair were sticking up at odd angles and the covers were tangled around her feet.
She had a tendency to move in her sleep.
Dia had her father's hair. It was something both your children shared with Steve to the point you were convinced there was something magical about his glorious locks; the way it framed your children's faces perfectly, the way it made Dia look like a little cherub instead of the menace she was growing up to be.
The four year old in question was snoring softly. Her short little breaths could be heard in the early morning quiet and it was a miracle she was still asleep.
There was still no sign of Steve. Sometimes, he could be found squashed in with either one of your children. Stevie was with his girls more often than not and was the most loving man you had ever met.
You crept silently into the depths of the small room and made sure the drapes were shut tight, not letting any sunlight in, before making your way over to her bed. Leaning down, you placed a soft kiss to the top of her head, inhaling that comforting baby smell.
The faint scent of the ridiculously expensive shampoo Steve had bought was buried deep in her hair. It was the only shampoo he used on the kids. The excuse he used every time was always: 'only the best for my girls'.
The memory made you feel all fuzzy and warm inside. It reminded you that you had yet to find him and should probably keep looking.
You stood back up and walked to the door, glancing once over your shoulder just to check if Dia was still sleeping. Seeing that she was, you stepped into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind you.
Next was Jane's room.
Jane was nine and tall for her age. She too had Steve's case of a bedhead, and even in the dark, her tresses could be seen splayed across her pillow.
Steve had named your first child.
It was one of the only things he refused to meet you halfway on, not that you didn't like the name. You loved the it and knew what emotional depth it held for Steve. It was an honour to be able to name your child after El and a way to keep that girl embedded in your lives forever.
Jane was an early riser and had given both you and Steve a run for your money when she was younger. Still, Steve had been up with her from the moment her eyes opened with no complaints. He would quietly lead her out of the bedroom and into the living room, granting you a few more hours of rest. He was truly the best man you could ever ask for.
Her room was littered with toys- evidence of her tea party held last night with you and 'Prince' Steve, who had 'courageously' saved you from the evil dragon (cough, cough Dia). Steve had played his part adorably and remained passive even when the 'Great Bad Dia' had yanked his hair a little too hard.
No wonder both girls were still unconscious. Steve always had a hard time saying no and they had stayed up way past their bedtime playing make belief.
You slowly peeled back the covers, careful not to wake up your darling daughter. But, no luck. Stevie wasn't tucked up with this one either.
Gently, with the most care and skill you can muster this early, you pulled the blanket back over Jane. You smoothened her crazy locks back down out of her face and smiled at the beauty you and Steve made.
Then, as you did with Dia, you crept back out, careful not to trip on any items left on the carpet, and closed the door on your way out.
It had now hit you that you still couldn't find Steve.
Though, you had no worry and made your way downstairs where the smell of pancake batter hit you full force.
You snuck through the house until you were leaning comfortably in the doorway to the kitchen.
Steve, as you suspected, was by the counter, his back to you, and seemed to be cooking. He was illuminated by the morning light. It brought attention to his strong back muscles and biceps.
Steve hadn't noticed you yet and was fully focused on preparing the meal in front of him. He was stirring (what you could only assume was more batter) with the seriousness of a navy seal and kept murmuring to himself, adding some more flour into the mixture.
The kitchen was a battlefield: the first batch of pancakes already sat tucked away on the side, faint traces of flower covered every other surface, clumps and blobs of pancake batter were stuck to the counter in different shapes and sizes, and spoons and various other ingredients littered the counter tops like they were planning an invasion on your home.
Steve was humming some song he heard on the radio while holding the mixing bowl under his arm and swaying to the imaginary beat. He was oblivious to the world around him, and from here, you could tell that his hair was dusted with flour- Steve always was a messy cook.
He was wearing the frilly pink and white apron Dustin had brought him as a gag gift for his latest birthday. Ever since then, Steve wore it non-ironically, claiming 'it was a gift', so it must be worn. Seeing Steve being all house-husband did things to you that you weren't proud of.
He had just begun pouring the next round of batter into a pan. You remember a time when he wasn't allowed near the stove when you made breakfast because of the mess he made. How times have changed. Having a baby really does make a person adjust accordingly.
You observed him for a while longer, watching the way his sleep pants rode low on his hips, the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt due to the heat, and the fact that his ass was looking amazing. The strings of the apron were tied in a lop-sided bow at the small of his back, pulling the fabric tight across his waist.
You could faintly see the gold font at the front as it curled around the side of the fabric. You couldn't read it all, but you knew what it said: 'Kiss The Cook'. It made you laugh the first time you saw it, and you secretly think he likes to wear it for the free kisses it gets him.
Suddenly, all your thoughts about getting him back into bed to cuddle before your 'terrors' awake left swiftly out the window. Instead, you would much rather the two of you do something a little more up close and personal. Still, you tried to refrain yourself and remain the 'responsible adult' you were.
At that moment, Steve leaned down to pick up a dropped spoon, and all your will power evapourated. His pants slipped even lower, and you could practically see the way his muscles move under the fabric.
Aw, well. You never had much restraint when it came to Steve anyway.
You pushed off from the doorway and mutely headed towards him, letting your hips sway as you went.
Every time he reached over for the spatula or flipped a pancake, the muscles in his back and arms would flex under his soft skin, making your mouth water.
The sight was enough to make you pause for a second, fully appreciating the man you married. The apron strings pull tight every time he leans forward to check the griddle, outlining the perfect dip of his waist, the swell of his ass, the long line of his thighs.
You’ve been watching from behind for three solid minutes. Thighs already slick. You've grown impatient now.
You make the final stretch, hugging him from behind as he's mid-pour. He jumped, then froze for a moment, his eyes flickered down. He realized it is indeed you and let himself relax again, placing a chaste kiss to your forehead and going back to the task at hand.
You pouted slightly at his obliviousness to your growing need. So, you tried again: leaning forward until your front is flush against his back, and you could rest your chin on his shoulder. You drew your arms around properly so that they could rest on his hips while your hands overlaped, tugging at his waist.
Steve looked down.
"G'morning, sweetheart. How'd you sleep?"
You sighed. Steve is a gentleman now, after all.
"I slept alright. But, you weren't there when I woke up..." you drew out the sentence until it was almost a whine.
He chuckled quietly, the sound reverberating in your chest. "Aw, I'm sorry, baby. I wanted to get up early to make the kids breakfast."
"You could have woke me up," you sighed, "I wouldn't mind."
That got a smirk out of Steve. "Oh, yeah, you wouldn't mind? Where was this attitude when I woke you up an hour early on game day to get a good parking space?"
He had you there. You pressed closer, nosing along the line of his neck placing sleepy kisses there as he dragged his eyes back to the frying pan.
"That was different..." You said slowly. "But I want to be with you now."
Steve finally seemed to get the hint after you began sucking the side of his neck. You switched between sweet kisses and soft sucks hoping to gain his attention.
He went quiet for a beat. It was clear he was trying to hold himself together, but he couldn't help but tilt his head to the side to give you better access. Steve shuddered when you bit softly at the sensitive spot under his jaw. You've had years to find all his sweet spots and today, you intended to use that knowledge.
You slid your hands under the apron next, feeling the warm expanse of his chest and stomach. The skin there prickled the moment you touched it, and Steve shivered pleasantly. He sucked in a deep breath but remained focused, flipping a pancake and placing it on the large plate on the side.
The lack of a reaction made you increase your advances. Your palms flattened over the slight pudge of his stomach that he still gets shy about when you stare too long. You smirked into his neck, an early warning that things were about to be a lot harder to ignore.
Your nails suddenly dragged downwards slightly. Over the cut of his hips. Into the waistband of his pants.
He breathed in sharply, his shoulders tensed so much that they almost went up to his ears. His whole body went rigid, and you could practically feel his heartbeat lurching out his chest.
"Baby..." He said, his voice rough and low. It's edged with that stubborn 'I'm really trying to stay responsible' tone he's been clinging to all morning. "The girls could be up any second. The pancakes. I– I gotta focus..."
You hummed against the nape of his neck, retracting one hand only to slide it up his back, giving his ass a firm squeeze on the way. He squeeked, tensing again, practically vibrating with dwindling self-control. It doesn't get much easier for him because your hand slid up into his hair, tugging it firmly to move his head so that you could place an open-mouthed kiss directly over his pulse.
"I am focused." You murmured. "Very focused."
You watched as Steve still tried to stay calm. He'd already pouring another pancake, but now his arms were shaking with the effort not to grab you.
Seeing this, you took the opportunity to slip your other hand lower. It wrapped around his already hardened cock. It was already thick and weeping at the tip. You could feel it throbbing against your palm with barely controlled need.
Steve choked on a moan, his head dropped forward without conscious thought until his hair hung heavily in front of his eyes.
"Fuck– Sweetheart, don't..."
You ignored his plea, stroking again. It was a slow, firm motion that left your thumb circling the wet head. He bucked, a helpless little jerk that forced his hips to press back into you. The bowl he was holding was instantly put down on the side. The bang echoed with a deep finality.
Circling again, you chuckled as he braced both hands on the counter as if he was actually being fucked. His hands gripped the edge of the marble tightly, and his knuckles turned white with strain.
The smell of burning pancakes filled the air, and it snapped him out of his haze just long enough to grab the pan and flip it. The pan shook with the tremors from his hand, and he managed to slide the ready, if slightly crispy, pancake onto the plate.
"Baby, sweetie, love of my life, please! The pancakes, nghh—they're gonna burn–" He whined, still pushing his hips forward with every stroke, unable to deny you this pleasure.
"I'll have the burnt ones," you said cheerfully, continuing your movements.
You kissed his neck again. It's an open, wet kiss, your tongue tracing the indent your teeth made earlier. His neck sunk further, instinctively giving you more throat to bite on. So you did bite. And it was strong enough to make him let out a beautiful, quiet sob of pure pleasure as his hips threw a particularly strong thrust forward.
Given his response, you sucked a mean bruise info the soft flesh of his jaw. His knees buckled– just a fraction- but it was just enough to show his surrender.
You ground against his ass in a slow, deliberate roll. You felt him twitch. Felt the way he braced, his forearms locked, his shoulders rigid, like he was about to be fucked raw right here.
He groaned softly.
"Care–careful. M'gonna..." He trailed off into a quiet moan. "M'gonna burn the pancakes. Don't let me burn the fucking pancakes."
You laughed against his neck. It made his pulse jump. You couldn't help but find it endearing how even after all this, he still was trying to ensure his girls got their breakfast.
"Then pay attention, Stevie."
Then you sped up your motions. Just a little. Just enough that you could twist your hand on every upstroke.
Steve was fully rocking up into your hand now, letting out whimpering moans and gasps and trying to push back harder for more friction. You drew your tongue up his throat to bite the soft spot behind his ear and squeezed his weeping tip at the same time.
Your husband let out an honest to God pornographic moan so loud that he clamped one trembling hand over his mouth in hopes of silencing it. Too late.
He whimpered as you kept going.
"What– w'bout the girls... Baby, what if they come down?" He said, full of fresh clarity.
"They're fast asleep, honey." You replied. "But, you're right."
Steve breathed a sob of relief that only turned into another strangled moan as you picked up the pace until it was impossibly fast. He could feel your hardened nipples flush against his sweaty back. The speed was so deliciously unbearable that he seriously considered flipping the two of you. He held against it, though, knowing this morning it's you who wanted to be doing the heavy lifting.
You pressed your lips against his ear and repeat again, "You are so right, honey. So smart, baby. But that just means you're gonna have to come a lot quicker. Can you do that for me? Can you come, Stevie?"
Your hand clenched the whole time as you dragged it from top to bottom. He gritted his teeth and nodded frantically. Little moans escaped him, and his quiet gasps filled the air.
Your other hand that had previously been tugging and pulling at his hair (scratching his scalp until he was trembling) joined your right hand on his thick cock. You used both hands, making his eyes roll back into his head. He shuddered viciously and you reached back, giving his tight, drawn up balls some attention too. You squeezed and rolled them until the pleasure was unbearable.
He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood and one of his large hands clamped down on your forearm for frantic support.
You felt his whole cock pulse with oncoming release and a warm gushing liquid poured out of his tip. It soaked your hand and the front of his sleep pants. Steve let out a drawn-out groan, leaning back into you as his shoulders sagged and his knees buckled with the force of his orgasm.
Both of you stayed like that for a moment, breathing heavily and sharing sloppy, little kisses until he was able to stand up straight without support.
You licked your hand clean, keeping eye contact. He groaned, dragging his hands down his face, muttering a quiet but love-filled, "You're going to be the death of me, y'know?"
"I know," you said back, wiping your palm on the side of his pants, making him scoff in an over the top tone.
"What? You gotta change anyway." You shrugged, giving him a cheeky grin and leaning on your tiptoes to kiss him again.
Steve smiled fondly, pulling you back in for a proper 'Steve Harrington morning kiss'. The two of you sighed into each others mouths. You eventually broke apart. You washed your hands and went to the stove to finish off what little batter was left. He left to go clean himself up.
He took off his apron with exaggerated care (sighing that it would be scarred for life) and placing it on its designated hook. Then, he quickly fixed his hair to the best of his abilities and snuck off out the other door to head to the bathroom to have a shower.
You had half the mind to join him as you watched him leave the room. However, that thought was pushed out of your mind as Dia and Jane sleepily came downstairs, just missing Steve's escape.
They yawned loudly, Dia sneezing in the process and Jane scratching her head. Together, they made their way into the kitchen, both seeing you by the stove and trailing after you like lost ducklings.
Dia hugged your leg tightly, whinging a quiet "Mama," while Jane gave you a quick squeeze and tried to look over your shoulder to see what you were doing.
"Pancakes for breakfast?" You offered, tilting the pan so they could both see what was cooking.
Both their faces lit up like it was Christmas morning.
"Yes!" They both cheered as if the question had an obvious answer. Which, to be fair, it did.
"Thank you, mom!" Jane said excitedly.
Dia nuzzled into your leg, her little, chubby fingers squeezing your dressing gown tightly.
"Yes! T'ank you, mama!" She giggled, rubbing her face into the soft fluff.
Your heart melted at the sight of both of them.
"Aw, no problem, my babies."
You then lowered your voice like you were telling a secret, "But, make sure to thank Daddy when he comes in, yeah? It was his idea, I'm just helping."
"Okay!" Dia squealed happily, running off to try crawl up into her seat at the table.
You followed Dia and picked her up, holding her against your hip to place another kiss to her head and sat her down in her chair. When you turned back to the stove, you realized Jane already had a hand in the pancake mix and was licking the rest off her fingers.
"Jane Harrington!" You gasped with exaggerated offence.
She jumped at the noise, turning around and hiding her hands behind her back, flashing you one of her cutest smiles paired with the puppy dog eyes she definitely got from her father.
"Yes?" She said innocently, sliding away from the counter and towards you.
"Nu uh. That isn't going to work on me, young lady. I love ya, but that just cost you first dibs."
She gasped, her face dropping. "No fair!"
You gave her a pat on the back as you went to turn off the stove.
"Well, I don't make the rules." You shrugged, "Maybe, if you set the table and sit extra quietly, I might be able to bend it slightly. Okay? If your dad comes back and sees your good behaviour, maybe, and I mean maybe, he might let you have the first pancake."
You said all that knowing damn well Steve would fold the minuet he saw Jane's face. You just wanted to tease.
"Okay, mom!" Jane nodded, running to grab the spreads and toppings for the pancakes and then bringing them back to the table.
You sighed happily, leaning against the counter and letting the warm morning sun come in through the window and warm your back. Today would be a good day.
A/n: here we have it! The first Steve fic! I actually co-wrote this with a friend of mine a while back but that was before I had a Tumblr account so she just uploaded it onto hers. Her account is @atropa-digitalis. She's actually the one who inspired and pushed me to start my own! She was fine with letting me also upload it onto my account and there's one more fic I also helped her write that ill upload onto here at a later date. Just wanted to clear this up so I wouldn't be accused of stealing <3
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. your neighbour, your confidant, your person. 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 didn't follow you to new york and doesn’t write all of his songs about you.
cw: swearing, alcohol use, smut, kissing, spit, oral (f receiving)
an: eeee i'm excited for this chapter, i hope you enjoy it!!
wc: 10.8k
• .·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
29th January, 2005
Hawkins, Indiana
Steve never really knew why, but there was something about grocery shopping that he always enjoyed now. Like if he stood in the right aisle long enough, picked up the right brand of something he didn’t need, he could convince himself he was just a normal guy doing a normal chore. Maybe it was because he’d never go grocery shopping with his parents when he was younger, and it was some sense of normalcy that he was now craving twenty years later.
Hawkins had a way of shrinking every time he came back. The same cracked pavements, the same flickering streetlights that haven’t been fixed in fifteen years, the same faces that looked like they’d been waiting for him to leave again before he even arrived.
He tries to avoid this town as much as he can nowadays, whenever he returns he tells himself it’s just a quick trip to see Robin, or Dustin and avoid his parents, who he still hasn’t actually spoken to since he decided to leave to pursue his music. But, somehow it never really works like that.
He’s wandering down an aisle in Melvald’s with a half filled basket hanging loosely from his hand, when he hears a familiar voice calling his name which his body reacts to instantly. Not recognition in the usual sense, but something that sits in his chest before his brain has even caught up. He stops in his tracks, but doesn’t turn straight away because voices like that don’t belong in places like this anymore, not to him.
But when he does look over his shoulder, your Mom is standing only a few feet away.
Time has been kind to her in the way it seems to be kind to people who stay still. A few more lines at the corners of her eyes, a softness around her face that makes Hawkins feel briefly less grey than it did a second ago.
Steve’s fingers tighten slightly around the plastic handle of the basket without him noticing and for half a second, he considers turning back around. Pretending he didn’t hear her and pretending this is just another aisle, another day, another version of Hawkins he doesn’t have to engage with.
But she’s already seen him, and her face breaks into recognition like it was always waiting there. “Steve,” She says, surprised. Then she speaks softer, like she can’t quite believe it. “Oh my goodness.”
His chest tightens at how easy it sounds, like nothing ever got messy. There was a point in his life where he practically lived at your house, where this woman standing in front of him was more of a mother to him than his own ever was.
“Hey,” He manages, it comes out smaller than he means it to, and he hates that she hears it like that. There’s a pause between the two of them, just the low hum of the fridges, the distant roll of a trolley, the kind of quiet that makes everything feel louder than it should.
“I didn’t know you were back in town,” She says gently as she takes a few steps closer to him, her familiar smile warm across her lips.
“Yeah,” He nods once, “Only for a couple days, catching up with a few friends and stuff.” Her eyes stay on him a second too long, just observing, like she’s trying to understand how someone can look the same and still feel completely rearranged.
“How are you guys?” He asks quickly to fill the silence, then clears his throat. “How’s everyone?”
She smiles a little at that, the kind of smile that already knows where this is going. “Oh, we’re all good. The boys are starting college soon and Elizabeth’s about to have her second baby, can you believe that?” Steve gives a small laugh, but it doesn’t really land. It just hangs there between them, polite and empty.
“And Blue is doing good too,” She adds, like it’s just another detail. Like it doesn’t shift anything at all, but the two of them both knew that it did.
It had been four and a half years since the last time he’d seen you, or even spoken to you. 1,670 days – not that he was counting. He used to hear you everywhere. In songs that didn’t sound like anything you liked, in jokes that weren’t funny until you laughed at them. It was only this past Christmas that he was able to sit and watch Home Alone and not hear your laughter in the back of his mind.
“Blue,” He repeats, like he needs to confirm it exists in this sentence. “Right. Yeah.”
New York. Of course, you were in New York. Steve had spent a lot more time than he’d like to admit thinking about where you were, and what you were doing.
Your dreams were always too big for Hawkins, but now you were too far away to fit neatly into anything he understands at this point in his life. His brain starts building the idea of you there automatically anyway, sauntering down streets he’s never seen, looking out at a skyline that doesn’t stop, a perfect version of you that exists somewhere completely outside of him.
“What’s she doing out there?” He asks after casually clearing his throat, trying to keep his voice even like it’s just passing conversation, like this information doesn’t even matter to him.
Your Mom adjusts her grip on the basket she’s holding, thoughtful for a second. “She’s doing okay,” She says softly. “She graduated, now she’s got her own apartment. She’s just figuring things out.”
Steve nods slowly, but it’s more automatic now like he’s not really in the aisle anymore, he’s somewhere between here and there, between what Hawkins is and what New York must be. “Well that sounds great,” He says quietly. “I’m glad.”
And he means it, but it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like something else entirely that he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he knows he won’t be able to stop thinking about it for the next couple months at least.
He shifts his weight, forcing himself back into motion, like movement will reset whatever just changed. “It was really good seeing you, but I’m actually meeting a friend. Give my love to the family, okay?” He offers her a small smile as he nods gently.
“You too, Steve,” She replies, and there’s something in her voice when she says it. Something soft like understanding she doesn’t say out loud. She knew all those years ago that you and Steve were hopelessly in love with one another, that it wasn’t just a crush you have when you’re fourteen. She was just as heartbroken as you were when you’d left all those summers ago, not only for you but for Steve, too.
He walks away before he can think too hard about it, before anything else about what she’s said about you can settle. And for the rest of his trip around Melvald’s, he doesn’t remember what he came in for, but he remembers one thing.
New York. He finally knew where you were.
3rd February, 2005
Austin, Texas
Ever since you’d left, Steve had never really been the kind of person who stayed in one place too long. Even Hawkins had only ever been a stop he hadn’t properly meant to return to, a place he kept coming back to like a habit he couldn’t fully break, even when he knew it didn’t fit him anymore.
Austin felt different. Louder and warmer like the city didn’t care if you belonged there as long as you made enough noise to justify existing inside it. The band had settled in Austin a few months ago, Chris had managed to get them a regular gig playing at a stuffy bar five nights a week which paid well enough and gave them the chance to get a real taste of the life they were working towards.
The house they were staying in wasn’t really a house, it was more like a half-converted rental that someone’s cousin knew someone else was subletting for cheap. The kind of place with mismatched furniture, scuffed floors, and an old fridge that hummed way too loudly.
Steve liked it more than he expected to. There were instruments everywhere, cables snaking across the floor like they’d taken root, empty coffee cups stacked on the counter, someone’s hoodie permanently draped over the back of a chair like it had claimed ownership of it.
It felt lived in, like a proper home, which Steve had been craving for as long as he could remember. But ever since he saw your Mom at the store, Steve couldn’t shake it. The thought sat with him constantly now, uninvited and persistent. New York.
You in New York. He’d heard like it was nothing, like it didn’t rearrange entire rooms inside him. He hadn’t told anyone in detail, he couldn’t as nobody knew about anything that had happened. Only Chris knew about the mysterious girl that broke his heart, and he wasn’t going to tell him about this now. So he just carried it instead, like everything else.
He’s sitting on the worn-out couch when Chris walks into the room, and Chris is already talking before he’s even properly through the door, phone pressed tight to his ear, his voice loud and cracking with excitement.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m telling you – that’s perfect. No, no, we can absolutely make that work. Yes, LA, we can be there.” He’s pacing now, barefoot, one hand running through his hair like he can’t physically contain whatever is happening on the other end of the call.
Steve watches him from the couch, guitar still resting against his leg but is now long forgotten. Jay is on the floor tuning a bass string that already sounds fine, Dan is half asleep on the armchair with his head tilted back like gravity gave up on him hours ago. Chris turns away, voice dropping into something more serious, then bursts out laughing again like he can’t help it.
“Okay, okay, yeah. We’ll talk in ten. Don’t go anywhere, alright? Don’t sign anyone else in the next ten minutes.” He hangs up and stares at the phone like it might start ringing again immediately. “Oh my God.”
Jay looks up slowly as his fingers twirl around the peg, his eyebrows furrowed at Chris’s outburst. “What?”
Chris turns to them, eyes wide, grin splitting across his face like he’s trying not to explode. “It’s happening, guys. It’s fucking happen. We’ve got an opportunity, like a proper opportunity.” The room shifts instantly, even the air feels different.
Steve can’t help but sit up slightly, and Chris points at them like he still can’t believe it. “LA, Upturn Records. They heard our set from last month at the bar, someone recorded it, passed it along. Apparently they’ve been looking for new acts and they want to talk to us. In LA.”
For a second, no one speaks. Then Jay lets out a low whistle, and Dan groggily sits up from his armchair properly for the first time in an hour. “You’re serious?”
Chris laughs again, breathless. “Deadly. We could actually do this.”
The room erupts all at once after that. Overlapping voices, disbelief, someone knocking over a beer bottle they don’t even bother to pick up. Jay is already smiling like he can see something just beyond the walls, Chris is pacing again, this time faster, like he’s trying to outrun how big it feels.
Steve should feel it too, and he does. Just not as much as the others, because even as everyone is talking over each other, already planning the setlist for their first headline tour, Steve’s thoughts go somewhere else entirely.
New York. You in New York. How LA is even further away from you than he is right now, and he’s not sure he wants to be any further away from you anymore.
Chris is still talking, half to himself now. “This is it, guys. This is actually it.”
Steve exhales once looking down at the guitar in his hands, then back up at the guys who are still pacing the room. “Or,” He says. His voice isn’t loud but the room quiets anyway. Steve shifts slightly, elbow resting on his knee now. He doesn’t look at anyone in particular at first, like he’s talking more to the idea than the room. “We could go somewhere else.”
Jay frowns, tilting his head over at Steve slightly. “What, like Nashville?”
Steve shakes his head once. “No. New York.”
Chris actually laughs at Steve then, “New York?” The room goes still in a different way now. More like everyone is questioning Steve than being excited.
Steve nods like it’s obvious, like he’s not already aware of how much this changes everything. “There’s this festival,” He adds quickly, before doubt can settle in too deep. “This summer. I heard about it, loads of labels go to sign new talent. It’s not just one shot like LA, it’s bigger.”
Dan leans back, arms folding across his chest as his face scrunches up slightly, almost concerned at the idea that Steve is against this idea. “We already have a shot in LA.”
“I know,” Steve says, sharper than he means to. Steve exhales through his nose, leaning forward slightly now, more certain as he speaks even if he doesn’t fully feel it yet. “I know. But – LA is where dreams go to die.”
That gets a reaction, a few quiet laughs and even scoff. But Steve doesn’t smile, he just keeps going. “Everyone goes there thinking it’s going to be different, and it just eats people. Chews them up, spits them out. Same story every time.”
Chris studies him now, sitting down on the coffee table opposite Steve and leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “And New York?”
“New York is where music is right now.” Steve tumbles out, it sounds more certain when he says it out loud like it’s been waiting in him for a while. He swallows, then adds quietly, “And this festival, it’s real. It’s big. If we’re going to do this properly, that’s where people are going to be looking.”
There’s a silence over the room again as Jay glances at Chris as Chris looks at Steve. Jay lets out a small sigh as he steps forward, shrugging a shoulder. “I actually know that festival. A few buddies and I used to play there,” Jay says finally, slowly. “Before we came here, but.. yeah. He’s not wrong, the scene’s picking up.”
Chris rubs his jaw, thinking as he leans back to look up at Jay. “LA is confirmed though,” He says, but he can see the look in Steve’s eye that he knows too well, that this is something that Steve really, really wants. Chris lets out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face. “We could split it. Try LA first. Then New York after? Or–”
Steve shakes his head immediately. “No. If we do this, we do it properly. Not half and half.” That lands harder between the group, and Chris looks at him again, really considering him now, not just the idea.
Jay is the first to break, “You know, we’d have more pull in New York anyway,” He says quietly. “If what you’re saying about the festival is right.”
Chris exhales as he looks around the room like he’s weighing something invisible, his eyes set on Jay for a moment before he nods gently. “Okay.”
Steve blinks, fighting a small smile that’s crept across his lips as he shifts forward slightly in his seat. “Okay?”
Chris points a finger at him, “Don’t make me regret this, Harrington.” There’s a beat, and then Chris grins, clapping his hands together as he stands up from the coffee table. “We’re going to New York.”
The room explodes again. But Steve can only lean back slightly, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction, even though his chest is still tight in a way he can’t quite name. But somewhere in the back of his mind, one thought rises clean and sharp through everything else.
New York. You’re there. And now, he will be too.
19th May, 2006
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
The green room feels too bright around you for an atmosphere that’s about to go dark in the best possible way. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering slightly every so often like they’re tired of holding themselves together. The air is warm in that stale, trapped way like it’s been breathed through too many lungs already and hasn’t had a chance to reset.
Haley is talking beside you, leaning back against the edge of a crate with her arms folded loosely, mid-story about something that happened earlier in the day. You’re nodding at the right moments, smiling when she expects it, but most of your attention is split in half without your permission.
Because Steve is across the room. He’s not looking at you, but you can feel when he almost does and somehow it’s worse than if he just stared.
The last time you’d seen Steve properly, just the two of you, was that night two weeks ago when Haley was in Boston with Chris. He’d called the next day to make plans to go out for a drink with you, but Haley asked if you wanted to go to the movies and you couldn’t tell her you had a date with Steve. This happened two or three more times over the last two weeks, but now you were in a completely different state, who knows what could happen?
He’s leaning against a road case like he belongs there with his guitar strapped across him, fingers idly resting near the neck like he’s forgotten they’re even there. Chris is pacing near the door, talking too fast into a phone call that’s already turned into shouting. Jay is crouched near an amp, tightening something that doesn’t need tightening, and Dan is standing next to Steve, talking his ear off about how excited he is about tonight.
Steve shifts his weight slightly, just enough that your eyes lift without you deciding to. It happens at the same time and for a second, it’s nothing obvious, nothing anyone else would catch. His gaze catches yours and holds it, not long enough to be safe in a room full of people who have no idea what’s happening between you, but it’s long enough to feel it in your stomach.
Then his mouth does something subtle, not a smile exactly, more like the idea of one he doesn’t let finish like he’s holding it back on purpose, and your breath catches before you can stop it.
Haley says something beside you, but you don’t hear it properly so you eventually force your eyes away from him first. “Hello?” Haley nudges your arm lightly, ducking her head toward you slightly as if she’s trying to pull you from wherever you are. “Are you even listening?”
You blink, turning toward her too quickly as you offer her a small smile. “Yeah, sorry. What?”
She squints at you, unconvinced, but there’s no heat in it. “I said, Chris is being weird at the moment. Like he’s keeping some secret from me or something, I don’t know.”
You frown gently as you watch her while she speaks before glancing over the room at Chris who’s still on the phone. You part your lips to say, I’m sure nothing’s going on, to calm her. But you can’t help but think about the fact that Chris is the only one that knows about you and Steve, what if he can’t handle keeping that secret?
“I’m sure everything is fine, babe.” You place your hand on her knee to give her a gentle squeeze, forcing a convincing smile across your lips as you try to push the thoughts of Steve and Chris out of your mind.
You try to settle back into the conversation, but it doesn’t quite take. Because now you’re aware of Steve in a different way, in a way where you’re going to have to pull him aside and tell him to tell Chris to get his act together.
Pulling you from your thoughts, Chris’s voice cuts through the room suddenly. “Ten minutes!” Everything shifts at once like a switch being flipped. The room tightens, straps are adjusted, water bottles picked up, someone knocking a set list back into place even though it’s already taped down.
Haley stands from next to you, stretching her arms slightly as she speaks, “I’m grabbing a water. Do you want anything, babe?”
You shake your head gently, flashing her a small smile. “I’m good, thanks.”
As she makes her way from next to you, your eyes drift again before you can stop them. Steve is standing straighter now, his hand adjusting the strap over his shoulder, slow and familiar, like he’s done it a thousand times and still checks it anyway. Chris is still talking near the door, but Steve isn’t listening properly.
Not to him, not to anyone. Not when his eyes catch you again, and this time neither of you look away. You both hold it, just enough to be noticed. His expression changes in response, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s annoyed at himself for reacting at all. Like he knows he shouldn’t be doing this here, now, in front of everyone.
Haley comes back in with a bottle, twisting the cap shut before her hand comes up to rest against your arm. “Wanna go find a good spot?” She asks lightly.
You nod gently, offering her your full attention with a soft smile, lifting your hand to lace her fingers through yours. “Yeah, definitely. Let’s go.”
Chris shouts again, that it’s almost time and the countdown snaps everything tighter. Jay rolls his shoulders and Dan pushes himself upright, Chris moves toward the door, hand already on the handle, energy pulling forward like gravity has changed direction.
Haley walks the two of you to the door leading to the stage, announcing to the group that you two were going to find the best spot in the house to cheer them on from. The two of you wished them all luck, blowing them kisses and just as you turn to leave the room, you catch Steve throwing you a small wink.
It landed in your chest, causing a small smile to pull at your lips before you quickly spun on your heels and trailed after Haley.
20th May, 2006
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
After a few drinks in the green room after the show, you all head back to the bar at the hotel. The band's taken over two pushed together tables near the back, half-empty glasses scattered between them, laughter carrying over the music humming through the speakers overhead.
The show had gone amazingly, the kind of night of their career that they’d remember forever. Chris is halfway through recounting something that happened during the show, his hands moving wildly as he talks. Jay is laughing so hard he's nearly spilling his drink and Haley is tucked into the booth beside you, smiling as Dan argues about a song nobody can agree on.
For the first time all day, everyone seems relaxed, including Steve. You catch him smiling from across the table, head tipped back as Chris exaggerates another detail. It's unfair, really, how beautiful he looks when he's truly relaxed and happy.
You look away first, taking another sip of your drink. A few minutes later, the noise starts feeling like too much, too warm and crowded. You push yourself out of the booth, grabbing your purse as you lean down to Haley’s ear that you’re heading out for a smoke, and you’ll be back in a minute.
She nods easily, flashing you a smile before she’s already turning back to whatever Chris is saying, nobody pays much attention as you weave through the bar and push through the front doors.
The cool night air hits you instantly, the city stretches around you in distant headlights and passing traffic, a welcome change from the noise inside. You lean against the brick wall near the entrance, taking a long breath.
For a moment, it's peaceful. But then the door opens behind you and you don't need to turn around, because you already know who it is.
“You disappearing on me, Blue?” You hear a familiar voice speak from behind you, you turn over your shoulder as you pull your cigarette from your lips to see Steve leaning against the wall next to you. A small smirk tugs at the corner of your lips as your fingers dip into your handbag and hold a cigarette out to him.
“Mm, no. Just needed some air.” Your voice was gentle as he pushed off of the wall to take a step closer to you, taking the stick between his fingers and placing it between his lips.
Just as you placed your own cigarette between your lips to free your hands and fish in your bag to grab your lighter, you felt his large hand come down to your waist to hold you steady as he leant down to you. Your eyes tracked him as the end of his cigarette hit the end of yours, and held it steady as his cigarette lit up.
He pulls himself away from you, but keeps his fingers splayed at your waist as he inhales then tilts his head back to exhale it out the side of his mouth. “Did you have fun at the show tonight?”
All you could do was nod gently, the words your brain was forming couldn’t make it out past any further than your lips as your eyes took in the sight before you. Steve in a long sleeve white shirt with the arms rolled up, the fabric stretching at his biceps. The way his curls had been drenched in sweat but have now dried, the way you’re being held so close to him right now that you can see the regrowth of his stubble across his jaw. You can smell the cologne he’d sprayed after the show to cover up the smell from being on stage, he smelt like sweat and a sweet blend of lavender and vanilla.
Someone exiting the hotel doors and walking past the two of you to the car park shook you from your trance instantly, causing you to pull from his grip and clear your throat gently as you took a long inhale from the cigarette. Steve’s lip quirked into a smirk as he watched you lean your shoulder against the wall and look up at him. He leant his back against the wall, his spare hand shoving into his pocket.
“I had a great time,” You nodded softly, still not being able to break your eyes from his. Your voice came out in a softer tone as you tilted your chin up to him. “You looked really hot on stage.”
“Oh?” He tilted his head down to you as he turned, his shoulder brushing the brick that was holding you both up. You watched his eyes take you in from your head to your toe, and you couldn’t deny the heat rising to your skin as he did. “Well, you look really hot right now.”
And as you swear he’s about to lean in, you distract yourself by huffing out a small laugh and take one last drag before letting it drop to the floor and ashing it out with the toe of your heel. “Shut up, Harrington.”
His eyebrows furrowed gently as he watched you, then looked out onto the street that your hotel was facing. The two of you stood there for a moment as you leant back against the wall next to him, your shoulder pressing into his arm. Your eyes briefly fluttered shut as you tried to ignore the feeling of your skin against his, even through a layer of fabric.
The cigarette drops from his fingers and now his own toe is putting it out, his hands slip into the pockets of his jeans as he takes a step away from the wall to look at you leaning against it. He took in the way your shoulders rose and fell with each deep breath you were taking in, knowing that you were trying to steady yourself.
Steve crossed the short distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your jaw gently. His calloused thumb barely skimmed against your cheek as it ran back and forth, his other hand coming up to hold against your waist as he spoke. He was close enough that the warmth of his breath fell past your own lips, “You really do look beautiful tonight, Blue.”
A small, unwarranted sigh left your lips at his words, the weight of your head falling into his hand as you felt yourself getting drunk from his touch. Your tongue parted past your lips to slip along your lower lip as your eyes switched from his to his lips. Both of your hands grasped at his shirt, not knowing if you were pulling him in or pushing him away as your voice croaked out weakly. “Everyone’s probably wondering where we went, Steve.”
He didn’t say anything, just slipped his fingers from your jaw to hold the back of your neck, his fingers swirling around the strands of your hair at the back of your head. You watched him lean in but miss your lips, his hot mouth grazing your jaw before settling beneath your ear. His hand that sat at your waist slipped round to your lower back, pulling your body closer to his as he spoke against your skin. “They’re definitely not, baby.”
The name he called caused a quiet moan to escape you, and you could feel his smirk growing against your skin as his teeth nipped you gently, before soothing you with his tongue. “They might, someone might come looking for us.”
You heard him let out a small huff as he lifted his head to look down at you. The hazel in his eyes sparkled as they got lost in yours, and any frustration he held for making him stop instantly melted. Instead, he nodded softly and slowly pulled his hands away from you, fingers dragging down your arm until they laced through your own. “Can I come see you? You know, later.”
Your teeth sunk into your lower lip slightly to stop the smile that was undoubtedly growing into your cheeks, your fingers squeezed around his own gently as you nodded up at him. “I was gonna head up soon anyway, actually.”
His head tilted like a puppy who’s just heard his favourite word. His eyebrows lifted gently as his lips mirrored the smirk that you were trying to hide, slowly pulling his hand away from yours to rest on his hip. “Where are you, 304?”
A confused laugh left your lips, “How’d you know that?”
“I was with Claire when she was booking the rooms.” He shrugged easily, like him memorising which room you were booked in was completely normal. He dug his hand into his pocket where he pulled out his wallet, flicking through the insides before speaking again gently.
“Besides, I had to make sure I was close to my girl.” His voice whispered as he pulled his key card out, flashing it round to you to show the number 306 written across the top. Before you could even open your mouth to reply, he flashed you a quick wink and was walking back into the hotel lobby.
After Steve disappeared into the hotel you gave yourself a minute to catch your breath, grounding yourself as the cool bricked wall pressed against your back. It was long enough for the air to settle your breathing, but not long enough to actually stop thinking about him and the way his hands felt pressed against your skin.
The city is quieter around you as the night rolls into the early hours of the morning, the rush of traffic thinning out as the city glows around you in scattered lights and reflections. Your eyes trail across the street in front of you one last time before pushing yourself off of the wall and make your way back into the hotel.
The second you step back inside, the warmth instantly wraps around you again. The bar is somehow louder than when you stepped out, you don’t know how long you’ve been outside but it was long enough to result in Chris standing on his chair shouting out the words to the song that’s playing softly through the speakers in the bar.
You find yourself smiling as you weave through the tables of people toward the rest of the group, everyone laughing with Chris and singing along with him as he tries to keep himself upright. You slip next to Haley, pressing your hand down on her shoulder to catch her attention.
Her head whips around to you as her straw sits between her lips, her eyes widening as she sees you. “There you are! I thought you’d gotten lost,” She giggles drunkenly as the straw falls past her lips, she pulls your chair out for you to sit back down. “Come sit, Chris is on his second rendition of Tina Turner now.”
You glance up at Chris once more, letting out a small laugh before you shake your head to catch Haley’s eyes again. “I’m actually going to head up to bed, it’s been a long day.” Your eyes glance around the table as you speak, taking note that Steve’s chair is now empty.
“Are you sure?” Her bottom lip pouted out gently as she looked up at you, her spare hand coming up to find yours.
“Yeah, honey. You enjoy your night, and I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast.” She nodded at your words and you leant down to press a kiss against her forehead. You waved at the others before slipping out of the doors that lead to the elevator.
As your finger pressed the metal button, you inhaled a long breath. What happens now? You know what room Steve is in, and he knows where you are. Do you text him? Do you go to your room? Do you just get into bed and forget about his lips on your skin?
You’re quickly pulled from your thoughts as the doors slide open and you make your way inside, hitting the button for your floor as you lean against the mirrored wall. Before you know it, the elevator dings and the doors are pulled open again.
You step into the hallway and follow the way to your room, your fingers fishing in your bag to find your room key. As you reach your door, you can see a familiar pair of sneakers attached to a familiar pair of jeans leaning against it. Your eyes follow the legs up and up, until you’re met face to face with Steve.
“Are you making sure I get home safe now, Harrington?” You smirk softly, pressing your key against the small machine attached to the handle until it buzzes green. You push it open, but don’t step inside, just look up at him.
“Just doing my job.” He shrugs casually, sinking his hands into his pockets as he presses off from the door and moves behind you as if he’s going to follow you into your room.
The two of you look at each other for a moment, waiting for the other to speak. You let out an exaggerated sigh as if you could read his mind, and push your door open and hold it open for him to walk through. He happily obliges, nodding his head at you as he does.
The door clicks shut behind you as you walk in, you hang your bag up on the hook that’s next to the door and slip off your heels, kicking them off so they land somewhere near the wardrobe.
“Do you want a drink?” You say softly as you pad further into the room where you see Steve in front of the window, holding the curtain open as he looks out. He turns to look at you over his shoulder and gives you a small nod.
He pushes off his own shoes, leaving them somewhere near the end of the bed before he sits himself on the edge of it. “What d’you have?”
You make your way over to the mini fridge that the hotel room supplied you with, crouching down onto your knees as you pull it open. “There’s a couple cans of beer in here,” You observe, a small hum following. Your fingers land on a small bottle of champagne that you assume had been left by the previous occupants. “Some bubbly?”
Steve lets out an approving laugh, nodding his head as he leans back on his hands. You stand up and press the fridge door shut with your foot, grabbing two mugs that sat on the desk above it next to the small coffee machine.
You avoid his eye contact as you cross the small distance of the hotel to sit next to him on the bed, handing him the mugs before you pull the wrapper off the top of the bottle and twist the neck open, and Steve hands the mugs out to you as you pour the bubbly liquid into each one.
He hands you your mug and takes the bottle off of you and places it on the floor next to him, he turns himself to you and lifts the mug up between the two of you. You let your eyes finally meet his, your breath catching in your throat slightly.
He shifts slightly, clearing his own throat before holding his mug up more confidently. “You know, I’ve dreamt of sitting here next to you, sharing a drink with you for the last six years. There’s not a day that’s gone by where I haven’t thought about you, Blue,” His lips twitch slightly as he pauses, “Here’s to all of the birthdays, New Year’s, Christmases, Fourth of July’s that we missed out on.”
You let out a small laugh as you clink your mug against his and take a sip of your drink, the bubbles hitting your nostrils as you look up at him. You rest the mug on your lap as you look down at it, your eyes following the bubbles, “I spent a lot of that time thinking about you, too. I guess, I never properly apologised to you about me leaving.”
He was half way through his sip when he shook his head, his spare hand waving between you gently as he quickly spoke to interrupt you. “Hey, Blue. You don’t need to apologise, that’s all behind us now–”
“No, Steve,” You shake your head gently, taking in a small breath in an attempt to push down any tears that you can feel brimming at your eyes. “I do. I knew how you felt about me, and I kissed you because I felt the same way. I loved you for – God, I think I loved you before I even knew what love was.” You let out a small, broken laugh as you thought back to all the years the two of you wasted pushing your feelings backwards and forwards.
You took in a sharp breath as you continued, “I loved you for so long, I think after I kissed you, with everything that was going on with Sam, and leaving for college, I just needed to think. And I’m not making excuses for myself, but I think when you didn’t reply to the letter I wrote you, I just assumed that you hated me for leaving.”
Steve shuffled beside you gently, itching closer to you as he pressed his hand onto your arm, causing you to look up at him. “What letter?” His voice was so soft, and gentle that if you’d have dropped a pin at the same time it would’ve been louder.
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as your eyes met his, “What do you mean, what letter? The letter that I wrote you.”
“I never got any letters from you.” He said as he shook his head, a small, almost unbelieving laugh passing his lips.
“Are you serious? Steve, that morning that I left I wrote you a letter and posted it through your door.” Steve continuously shook his head as you spoke, pulling his hand away from your arm to push a strand of hair behind your ear that had fallen across your cheek and rested in your hair gently.
He let out a soft breath before speaking, “Baby, I never got that letter. I never called you because you left with no explanation, I thought you’d regretted kissing me and never wanted to speak to me again.”
You shifted your body to face him properly now, taking in the look of regret across his face. Your lips parted to speak, but no words could come out. Everything that you wanted to say was lost in your brain, seemingly lost with that letter you’d written seven years ago.
Steve’s lips curved into a small smile as he pulled his hand through your hair and settled on the mattress behind you, leaning into you gently. Your posture straightened as you narrowed your eyes at him, your own voice gentle as you finally managed to speak.
“I met Mason and Emily for dinner the other night, and they told me that they’ve set a date for the wedding,” You beamed with a slight pride as you continued, “And they asked me to be a bridesmaid.”
“Wow. Well, congratulations. You’re gonna make a beautiful bridesmaid, Blue.” Steve spoke gently, lifting his mugs to his lips and took a small sip.
“I was thinking, actually,” You started, avoiding his eyes as you shifted gently before looking back up at him. “If you’d wanna come with me? Like, as my date.”
Steve’s eyes brightened at your words, his own slouched posture sitting up quickly as he sunk his teeth into his lower lip to contain his excitement. He cleared his throat gently before nodding as he spoke, “I’d like that, yeah. I’d love to, actually. When is it?”
The smile that was wide against your lips grew into a small smirk as you shifted your weight onto your spare hand, leaning into him slightly as your voice crept out not much louder than a whisper. “It’s in July, on the fourth. In Hawkins.”
Steve dropped his forehead to press against your shoulder as he let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head against you gently before lifting his head to look up at you. “You and me, at a wedding in Hawkins on the Fourth of July?”
You couldn’t help the giddy laugh that left your lips as your head rolled back, letting out a soft sigh before looking back down at him again. “I know, it’s almost like fate.”
He beamed at your words, shuffling himself to sit up straight and pointed toward you as he cleared his throat. “Actually, there was something I wanted to tell you, too.”
“Oh? Yeah, go for it.” You took a sip from your mug before settling it on your leg, the ceramic cooling the burn on beneath skin you’d been feeling since Steve’s lips were pressed against your neck outside.
“So, we haven’t announced anything yet but I wanted to tell you tonight,” He started, swigging the rest of the champagne from his mug and settling it next to the bottle on the floor before turning back toward you.
“On 9th June, we’re going on tour. An actual tour, we’re starting in New Mexico, then going to Phoenix, all over California, then Oregon and Washington.” His face had lit up like a Christmas tree as he dove into telling you all about their west coast tour, how they’d been having secret meetings with a label that they couldn’t tell anyone about. “It’s happening, Blue. It’s really, finally happening.”
“Steve,” You started, but found it hard to find the words to even begin to tell him how proud of him you were. You leant down and discarded your mug on the floor by your feet, scooting closer to him slightly, resting your hand gently on his leg. “That’s fucking incredible, I – I’m so proud of you.” Your hand lifted to push a few strands of his hair that curled over his eyebrow, trying to fight the smile across your lips.
“Well, that’s not all,” He lifted his hand to grab yours, lacing his fingers through yours. “I was wondering if you wanted to, you could take some time off of work and maybe come catch a few of the shows. You always wanted to travel, maybe you can come for a week. If you wanted to.”
You glanced down at his thumb that was tracing soft circles against your skin, then looked up to catch his eyes. Suddenly, you were transported back to the bench on your porch ten years ago when he first told you about his dream of being on stage.
The fingers that were laced through his pulled away as you lead them up to his neck, your fingernails grazing his skin as you nodded softly. You continued nodding as your grip on him tightened and pulled his head closer to yours, until your lips were finally pressed against his.
The kiss was soft, taking your upper lip between his as his fingertips slipped beneath the hem of your shirt just to hold you. He pulled his lips back from you, his eyes taking in every inch of you as your eyes were still pressed shut, waiting for him to come back to you.
You let out a gentle huff, lifting both of your hands to his chest and bunch up at his collar as your eyes opened to look up at him. His hand pulled you closer as he breathed into your mouth, your lips parted to take in as much of him as he’d allow you.
“Steve, please. I need you.” You whispered hoarsely, pushing your hands up so the tips of your fingers were touching the skin that peeked out from his collar. You watched the smirk grow against his lips, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he gently nodded.
He leant down to brush his lips against your neck, the same spot he’d prodded at earlier. His grip on your waist tightened as he slowly pushed you backwards onto the mattress, his steady body hovering over you as his voice hummed against your skin. “I got you, baby. I’ll give you whatever you want, what do you need?”
A soft moan fell past your lips as your head tipped against the mattress as he manoeuvred between your legs, his hand sliding from your waist down your body to hold your thigh as it automatically lifted to wrap around his back.
“You, Steve, please.” His breath was hot against your skin as his lips dragged from one side of your throat to the other, his hands dragging against your thighs before holding you at your waist. As his fingertips pushed beneath your shirt, he pressed his lips along your jaw, to your cheek and finally against your lips.
Your arms snaked around his neck as you pulled him closer to you, feeling the heat of his body pressed against you. His tongue ran against your lower lip, causing you to let out a heated sigh as your lips parted for him. The kiss grew heated as his tongue explored your mouth, making up for lost time as his teeth caught your lower lip between his.
His large hands caught the hem of your shirt at your waist as he slowly pushed the fabric up your body, he pulled his lips from yours to rest his forehead against yours as he held your shirt just beneath your breasts, his eyes feasted over your body for a moment before looking down into your eyes.
You managed a small nod, lifting your lips up to his jaw to press a few small kisses against the curve of his skin. He continued pulling your shirt to reveal your bra, you felt his breath hitch in his throat as your lips trailed across his neck. You pulled your lips away from him so he could discard your shirt, tossing it to the other side of the room absentmindedly.
“God, you’re so beautiful, Blue.” He held your gaze as he gently settled on the mattress next to you with your fingers still curled in his hair. His leg still wormed between yours as his fingers splayed against your skin beneath your bra, his head dropped to your chest and his wet lips dragged against the curve of your breast.
Your fingers curled around his hair as you held him against your skin, lifting yourself gently so his hand at your waist could snake around you to unclasp your bra. As he felt the garment give, he pulled away from you for a moment. He sat up slightly, his weight resting on his elbow beside you as his fingertips gently pulled each strap off of your shoulder.
It was like he was taking his time with what he was doing, really taking each second to remember the moment as you bared yourself for him. You watched his throat bob as you snaked your arms out of each of the straps, and slowly pulled it off of your body, tossing it to wherever your shirt ended up.
You looked up at him as his eyes trailed over your body, over every inch of you he hadn’t yet seen before but spent many, many nights thinking about. You lifted your hand to the back of his head again, your nails gently trailing through his hair as he leant down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, his grip at your waist tightening as his lips trailed down your neck and across your chest until they wrapped around your nipple.
A soft sight left your lips as you held his head against you, his other hand sliding up your body to cup the breast that he wasn’t paying attention to. His tongue twirled around the stiffened peak as he sucked it, the godly moans that your lips were pouring out for him spurring on as he made his way across the valley of your chest to the other.
“You sound so good for me, baby.” He murmured against your skin, his hazel eyes looking up at you through his lashes as a small smirk grew against his lips before pulling away with a small pop.
Your hand trailed down his neck, tugging gently at the t-shirt that he was wearing. He pushed himself up and quickly pulled his shirt off with one hand and tossing it behind him, watching your eyes look over his body. He’d grown into himself since the last time you’d seen him shirtless, which would’ve been years ago when you would spend most of your time at his pool.
Dark hair covered the span of his chest, and trailed beautifully down into his boxers. Your fingers trailed across his chest gently, feeling the hair beneath your fingers before running down the beautiful curve of his stomach. You watched as he flinched at your touch, your eyes returning back up to his and before you could move another inch, his lips were back against yours with purpose.
The two of you were fighting for dominance as your arms snaked around his neck, pulling him closer to you until the hair on his chest brushed against yours causing a hitch in your throat as it brushed your nipples. You felt him smirk into the kiss, his hands tightening at your waist before he pulled back slightly, watching as you inched forwards to chase his lips.
Your eyes fluttered open to see him staring down at your body, a small sigh passing your lips as your arms attempted to pull him closer to you. He pressed his lips against yours once gently, before mumbling against you softly. “I need you, Blue. I need to touch you, God, I need to taste you.” He pulled back a little farther to push some hair behind your ear, looking down into your eyes as he spoke. “Can I touch you, baby?”
You nodded quickly, the knot in your stomach tightening at his words. “Fuck, yes. Please touch me, Steve.” Your thighs pressed together in anticipation, watching as Steve slowly pulled himself away from you and travelled down your body.
He was slow at first, taking his time to press small, gentle kisses against your neck and your collarbone before finding your breasts again. His head pulled back slightly as he let a string of spit pass his lips and land on your nipple, causing a hitch in your breath at the wet sensation before his mouth wrapped around it again. He copied his actions on the other as his hand trailed to your hips, his fingertips digging into your flesh as his lips trailed down your sternum.
He kissed your belly button gently, causing a huffed laugh to leave your lips as your fingers pushed through his hair as you let yourself watch everything he was doing to you, taking in every sensation he left against your skin.
He pulled himself back gently as his eyes found yours again, wrapping his fingers around the hem of your skirt. You offered him another small nod, before he slowly pulled your skirt down, you lifted your hips off the mattress gently so he could pull it off of you.
Your knees pressed together subconsciously, and he leant down to press soft kisses against your knees and onto your thigh as they fell open for him. You watched as his eyes took in the sight before him, landing between your legs at the wet patch that had formed through your panties from his touch. As his lips inched closer and closer down your inner thigh, his hands wrapped around the backs of your legs to hold you open for him.
He settled on the mattress between your legs, making sure to keep his eyes connected with yours as he rounded a hand from your leg to slowly drag one of his fingers along your slit through your panties. A soft moan passed your lips at the first touch, your hips lifting to find more of his touch which caused him to press a kiss against your thigh.
A sigh passed your lips in anticipation as his fingers wrapped around the waistband of your underwear, you watched as his eyes were fused to your pussy as he slowly dragged the fabric off of you and pulled them off of your legs.
He settled between you again, taking a moment to look at the way you glistened for him in the light of your hotel room. He took his index finger and ran it up your slit again, noticing the way you sighed in pleasure the second he touched you. His fingers spread you apart slowly, a moan leaving his own lips before he mumbled gently. “You’re so wet for me, baby.”
He watched how you twitched gently at his praise, unable to hide the smirk against his lips before he finally leant forward and ran his tongue through your folds slowly and teasingly. Your fingers were quick to push through his hair, your head falling back against the mattress as you swore under your breath.
“Fuck,” He mumbled against you, his tongue pooling at your entrance to taste as much of you as he could. “You taste so fucking good.” His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking at it gently as his hand manoeuvred between your legs, his middle finger pressing gently at your entrance.
“Fuck, Steve.” One of your hands left his hair to find your breast, palming your hand against it gently as you lifted your head to look down at him.
He hummed against you, eliciting another trail of moans past your lips, his tongue tracing your folds before slowly pulling away from you. Watching closely as he pushed his finger inside of you slowly, his eyes darting between your face contorting in pleasure and the sight of you swallowing his finger.
Your hand guided his head back to your pussy, and he was quick to find your clit again as he started sliding his finger in and out of you. His tongue trails lower as he pulls his finger out of you, his nose brushing your clit as he takes a few moments to savour the taste of you against his tongue. His actions turn sloppy, his lips practically making out with your pussy as his finger is quick to return to your entrance.
He pushes two inside of you, curling as they enter you causing another loud string of moans to fill the room as he moans against you. The pace of his fingers quicken as they curl inside of you, the hum against your clit causing you to tighten around his fingers.
Your other hand flies down to curl back through his hair, holding him in place as your hips buck against his face, chasing your high. “Baby, fuck. I’m gonna–”
Your words were interrupted by a loud bang on your door, your attention quick to follow the source of the noise. Steve paused momentarily, but was quick to resume his actions, desperate to bring you to your climax. After a moment, you let yourself relax into him again before you hear your name being called from the other side of the door.
“I know you’re in there,” You heard Haley call, her constant banging against the door now drowning out the sound of Steve’s fingers inside of you.
Your hands are quick to pull Steve off of you by his hair, looking up at you dumbfoundedly as his chin was shining in the light of the room, covered in your slick. He went to speak, but your finger came up to your lip to shush him as you pulled yourself away from him.
He got up from his position on the bed, wiping his hand on his jeans before he picked up his shirt and pulled it on quickly. Crossing the room to pick up your underwear and clothes that he’d discarded across the room, you shush him again and grab ahold of his arm, pushing him into the bathroom.
“Just, stay in here. Don’t make a sound, okay?” You pleaded at a whisper, your eyes looking up into his. He nodded gently, leaning down to steal a kiss from you before you pushed him further into the bathroom.
You call out to Haley that you’ll be one second, grabbing a robe that was supplied by the hotel in the wardrobe and pulling it over yourself before walking toward the door. You took in a sharp breath in an attempt to steady your breathing and your thoughts, before pulling the door open.
Haley looked a mess. Her makeup was smudged across her face, her features looked a mixture of sadness and anger as she shrugged passed you and invited herself into your hotel room.
“I’m sorry for just showing up but Chris and I just had a massive fight,” She huffed as she started pacing your room, dragging her hands over her face before turning to look at you. “He’s a fucking asshole, making up stupid fucking lies that make no sense. I– I don’t know what to do.”
You shook your head gently, holding onto her wrist as you guided her to your bed. You were hesitant to sit down considering what you and Steve were doing there just a few moments prior, but you were quick to sit and pull her down next to you. “Hey, hey. Don’t apologise, what happened, babe?”
She parted her lips to speak as she looked over at you, scoffing gently as she shook her head. Her hand lifted to wipe under her eyes, taking in a short breath before she spoke. “Well, we were down at the bar and obviously you’d gone up to bed. Then like, twenty minutes had gone by and Steve never came back from going for a cigarette.”
Your heart stopped short in your chest, putting the pieces together that he never told the others he was going to bed. You cleared your throat gently, nodding as you listened to her.
“So, I obviously asked where he was. He’d disappeared, left his drink there, his jacket. I thought maybe something had happened, so when I asked Chris he said that he was probably off with his girlfriend. And I was so confused, because I’ve been around them all every day and every night for weeks and I’d never heard anything about Steve’s girlfriend.” She was tumbling over her words now, all of the vodka cranberries that she’d had tonight catching up to her as she was trying to place the conversation.
“Obviously, I questioned it. I said, I’ve been with Steve every day and not even seen him talking to a girl. Then he said that Steve was up here, fucking you.” Her eyes narrowed at you as she finally looked up at you, and you felt your heart drop to your stomach. “He’s such a fucking dick. I said to him, how dare he speak about you like that? The way he said it, it was so–”
She cut herself off, her eyebrows furrowing gently as her eyes took in the reaction on your face. The way you usually would’ve been half way to Chris’s room to rip him a new one, the way you’d be saying that’s fucking crazy, you’d never even think about doing that with Steve.
You watched as her eyes trailed over your room, glancing behind her to the rumpled bed sheets, down at the two mugs on the floor that she’d knocked her foot into, and finally on Steve’s familiar sneakers sat next to the window. You heard her breath hitch in her throat before she finally looked over at you, tears welling in her eyes for a whole new reason.
“Oh my God,” She laughed cruelly, rising to her feet and shaking her head as she crossed the room back toward the door she’d just come through. “Oh my fucking God. How long has this been going on?”
“Haley, please. Just let me explain, okay? It’s not–” You started, pushing yourself up and following after her before she spun on her heels to face you.
“How long?” She reiterated, her arms folding over her chest as she looked at you with venom.
“I-I guess, maybe since March? But it’s not like that, honestly. Please, let me explain.”
She scoffed at your words, shaking her head. “Explain what? That you’re fucking Steve and I’m the last one to know? Do I literally mean nothing to you? I’m your best friend, how could you not tell me?” Her lower lip started quivering, and your own mirrored as you felt the tears pricking at your eyes.
You watched as she began piecing things together, her lips moving but nothing coming out before she narrowed her eyes at you again. “Earlier, before the show, I said to you I thought Chris was acting weird, like he was keeping a secret. And he was, and you knew about it.”
“It’s not like that, Haley. It’s a really long, complicated story.” You pleaded gently, taking a step closer to her as you tried to find the words to explain yourself.
“Yeah, and I’m apparently not important enough to know,” She scoffed, holding her hand up in front of her to stop you from continuing. “Actually, I don’t want to know. You are the one person in my life that I tell everything to, you’re my sister. If you were really who I thought you were then you wouldn’t have kept me out of the loop, telling everyone except for me. I– I’m gonna stay at Chris’ when we get back to the city, I can’t even look at you right now.”
You watched as she rolled her eyes and exited the room, slamming the door behind her. You stood there for a few moments until you heard the bathroom door click, you looked over your shoulder to see Steve standing there looking at you with a sad, heartbroken smile.
“I’m so sorry, Blue. This is all my fault, I–” He started, but you were quick to cross the room to him and snake your arms around his waist, nuzzling your face into his chest. When you felt the warmth of his arms around you, engulfing you in his embrace, you let the tears fall from your eyes and let the fabric of his shirt soak them up. His lips pressed into your hair as his hand rubbed at your lower back gently, holding you against him like he was never going to let you go again.
Carve your name into my bedpost
'Cause I don't want you like a best friend
Only bought this dress so you could take it off
You and Steve Harrington have been dancing around your feelings for each other for months. You finally decide enough is enough at his birthday party.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 9.5k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) porn with a plot, slight dry humping, fingering, oral (fem receiving), finger sucking, steve is packing, p in v, unprotected penetrative sex, pet names (baby, sweet girl, pretty girl), friends to lovers, alcohol consumption, idiots in love, mutual yearning, men being awful (not steve though!!), humiliation and embarrassment, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: back at it again with another taylor swift songfic! i've had this one planned for a long time so i was really glad it won the 3k special songfic poll. hope you guys enjoy this one! also the fact i wrote a filthy smut while on my period too? maybe my biggest achievement
Robin Buckley was losing the will to live.
She didn’t know why she had agreed to go dress shopping with you. Perhaps it was your promise of a greasy hot dog after or perhaps she just wanted to be a good friend. Either way, she wished she hadn’t been so charitable and that she was anywhere in the world that wasn’t the GAP dressing room.
“You know, I think I’m starting to warm to the last dress,” Robin calls out to you through the curtain in the hopes that it would help end the shopping trip. Because after nearly two hours, Robin was beginning to wish she was back in the secret Soviet military base beneath Starcourt being interrogated by evil Russians.
“You said the dress made me look like I was going to church!” You call back, shuffling around in the changing room as you tug off a lime yellow chiffon dress that Robin said made you look like a lemon drop over your head. “I don’t want to look like that!”
Robin is thankful you’re still getting changed behind the curtain so that you don’t see her roll her eyes in exasperation.
“Then what do you want?” Robin asks with an air of impatience. “Because I’m hungry and you promised me hot dogs!”
You sigh and glance at the dresses you still had yet to try on and can’t help but feel a little dejected. Steve’s birthday party was on Saturday and you were struggling to find a dress that felt good enough for the party. If it was anyone else’s party, you would have just worn a nice top and either jeans or a denim skirt. But this was Steve Harrington’s party and you wanted to look good. Really good. Because after months of you and Steve dancing around your feelings for each other, you had finally had enough.
And so, you had come up with a little plan to show up to Steve’s party in a nice dress and hope that he would finally take a hint.
The only problem being—is that you were struggling to find said nice dress. And now you were starting to wonder if it was a stupid plan.
“I don’t know,” you tell Robin miserably, deciding to abandon the dresses you had left to try on in favour of pulling back on your jeans and t-shirt. “I just want something that makes me, you know, stand out to Steve.”
“You always stand out to him,” Robin tells you gently, softening a little at your slightly dejected tone. “But he’s also a guy so he’s also an idiot.”
You laugh a little but your stomach turns a little as you wonder—not for the first time—if Steve really did like you the way everyone told you he did. Robin insisted that Steve liked you, so did Dustin, Max, Lucas and even Nancy. Everyone told you Steve was crazy about you. So why hadn’t he made a move? Why hadn’t he been honest with you about his feelings? What if everyone was wrong? What if he didn’t actually like you and you were making a fool of yourself?
“Are you overthinking again?” Robin asks you when you say nothing.
“No,” you say, the uncertainty in your voice evident as you pull back the curtain to see Robin sitting in the armchair outside of the dressing room. “Maybe? I dunno Robin, I’m starting to doubt the plan.”
Robin sighs, glancing over at the dresses you still had to try on before looking back at you. “You know what I think the problem is?”
“What?”
“I think you’ve been trying to find the wrong type of dress.”
You blink, a little confused by Robin’s words. “What's wrong with the dresses?”
“Nothing! Not really they just—they don’t scream ‘fuck me’, you know?”
“Robin!”
“What?” Robin asks, holding her hands up in surrender. “Do you or do you not want Steve Harrington—christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this—want Steve to fuck you?”
You were aghast, your mouth hanging open in shock at her words. But you don’t deny it because yeah—you did want to him to fuck you.
“I—I um, I mean—”
“—see? You need a ‘fuck me’ dress not a ‘take me to church’ dress,” Robin tells you, stepping into the dressing room to grab the pile of dresses resting on the bench. “Stay right there. I’ll find a dress for you and it’ll make Steve want to fuck your brains out—”
“—Robin!—”
“—kidding! Mostly.”
But the thing is—Robin hadn’t been kidding.
Because the dress she had picked for you was one that didn’t just say ‘fuck me’—it screamed it.
“Are you sure it isn’t too booby?” You ask Robin for perhaps the millionth time as you adjust the strap: of your dress. It was the night of the party and you were getting ready at Robin’s before Steve came to pick you both up and it was only natural that your nervous system was a mess.
“I highly doubt Steve Harrington of all people would think a dress was ‘too booby’,” Robin says with a slight roll of her eyes. “He’ll just see that hint of your cleavage and forget what year it is.”
You smile a little but still, you weren’t entirely convinced. Because now that you were wearing the dress—which was beautiful, the glittering material a mix of black and a deep red that couldn’t help but catch the eye—you were wondering if it was too late to just wear some of Robin’s clothes instead.
But before you could suggest such a thing, the familiar sound of Steve’s car horn came from outside and the words die on your tongue.
“C’mon,” Robin tells you, seeing the slightly panicked look on your face. She gently fixes a piece of stray hair and smiles at you. “You look incredible. Don’t overthink it, okay?”
“Easier said than done,” you mutter as you grab the gift bag with Steve’s present—a watch you knew he had his eye on—in and following Robin out of her bedroom.
You vaguely hear Steve talking animatedly to Robin’s parents in her living room as you make your way down the stairs. Your heart was beating so fast that it felt as though it was attempting to beat its way out of your chest. You felt hot all over, clammy even and you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands because this dress was so far out of your comfort zone that you had the urge to run upstairs and take it off.
As if she had a sixth sense for any thoughts you had of fleeing—Robin grabbed your arm and gave you an encouraging smile when you reached the bottom of the staircase.
“You look great. Stop doubting yourself or I swear to god, I’ll slap you. That four hour shopping trip wasn’t for nothing, you know.”
You blink before a small laugh leaves your lips. “Four hours is an exaggera—”
It was the sound of Steve saying yours and Robin’s name that cuts you off. Your body stills and you turn around and—
Your breath hitches in your throat when you finally see Steve. He looked devastatingly handsome—he always did—but especially in those jeans that hugged his thighs and ass so well that it made your throat feel a little dry. He was also wearing that sage green shirt that you had told him looked nice the other week and you wonder for a moment if he was wearing it for that reason. But before you could think too deeply about it, you finally look at his face and Steve—he was just staring at you, lips parted and seemingly speechless.
Your face feels so hot that you were sure it was noticeable. You could barely hear Robin’s mom gushing about your dress, about how grown up and beautiful you looked because all you could focus on was Steve’s eyes slowly travelling up your body.
It was as though everything else around you had ceased to exist all because Steve Harrington was looking at you.
“Happy Birthday, Steve,” you say finally, your voice higher than usual due to the almost crippling nerves you were feeling.
Steve doesn’t say anything to that and you weren’t sure whether that made you feel better or worse.
“Cleans up well, doesn’t she?” Robin asks Steve with a somewhat smug smile and plainly ignoring the flustered look on your face.
Steve blinks, licking his lips as he tries to formulate a response whilst still looking at you, completely unable to look away.
“I, um—yeah, I mean—she—looks—”
Steve couldn’t string a sentence together and everyone in the room could see it—you, Robin and even her parents.
“She looks—yeah—she looks beautiful.”
Beautiful.
Steve had called you beautiful.
That word now lived somewhere deep in your ribcage and didn’t want to leave.
It was all you could think about as you sat in the passenger seat of Steve’s Beamer. Robin’s voice was almost completely drowned out as you repeated the way he had said it over and over again in your head. The way he had looked at you—
But arriving at Steve’s party felt like a bucket of ice cold water being poured over you.
Because you were painfully overdressed.
And that warmth that the word beautiful had given you almost entirely disappeared.
You felt as though everyone’s eyes were on you, wondering why the fuck you had turned up to Steve’s birthday party in a dress like that. And honestly—you were beginning to wonder the exact same thing.
“C’mon,” Steve says to you and Robin, his hand finding your lower back—just that little bit lower than he usually would—while the other gently pries the gift bag from your hand. “Let’s get you both a drink.”
You let Steve guide you into the kitchen because it was a welcome distraction from the people who were looking at you. Because having one of Steve’s large hands resting on the small of your back meant that you weren’t thinking of anything else.
But he doesn’t keep it there for long, much to your dismay. Steve withdraws his hand as he busies himself with making both you and Robin a vodka cranberry. You don’t even notice how he spills a little bit of the cranberry juice when he chances another glance at you because you were too busy trying to pull down the hem of your dress.
Once Steve had made your drinks, you wasted absolutely no time in taking a generous swig as some sort of liquid confidence.
Steve raises a brow but says nothing.
“I’ll just take this up to my room,” Steve says, holding up your gift bag with a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll open it later when things aren’t so—crazy.”
You nod and force a smile, the uncomfortableness you were beginning to feel seeping into your gut as you watch Steve head upstairs.
“Why the fuck did I do this?” You ask Robin almost as soon as Steve disappears, your knuckles turning wet as you grip the edge of the countertop. “What possessed me to do this, Robin? I look so fucking stupid—”
Robin’s eyes widen as she sees the genuine panic in your eyes—the embarrassment, the worry reflected there. She puts her solo cup down and steps toward you, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“You don’t look stupid, okay? I promise—”
“—everyone else is wearing jeans, Robin. I look so out of place—”
“—so? Did you or did you not see Steve’s reaction to the dress? He nearly crashed into like ten cars on the way here because he kept looking over at you.”
“It wasn’t ten cars—” Your face feels hot as you say it, something tightening in your gut as you remember feeling Steve’s eyes on you in the car, the way Robin had kept yelling at him to keep his eyes on the road.
“—stop deflecting or I will drag you upstairs and lock both you and Steve in his bedroom until you both stop being idiots.”
No matter how much the thought of being locked in a bedroom with Steve Harrington made your core ache with need, you knew it wasn’t the grand declaration of feelings that you had always envisioned for you and Steve.
And so, you try to enjoy yourself despite how uncomfortable you feel. It seems to work—at least for a little while.
You dance with Robin, laugh with a few of Steve’s friends and all the while, you keep catching Steve looking at you. But still—he doesn’t make a move. He doesn’t even ask you to dance when Heaven Is A Place On Earth starts to play like he usually would at a party. You tried not to let doubt creep in, tried not to listen to the small voice in the back of your head telling you that Steve clearly didn’t feel the same. That the months and months of flirting, of lingering touches and almost something moments were simply figments of your imagination. That buying a dress to try and encourage Steve to finally make a move was an act of desperation that Steve—another everyone else around him—pitied.
You were trying not to listen to those voices, instead remembering the way Steve had looked at you, the fact he had called you beautiful and meant it.
But it all came crashing down when you left Steve and Robin to grab yourself a drink.
You still feel eyes on you as you walk into the kitchen. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you just needed to wait it out until the party died down a little. You just needed to wait until then to—
You don’t register the sound of shouting right away. In fact, you were so in your own head that you barely hear it at all.
But you certainly register the warm, sticky liquid suddenly drenching the front of your dress.
“Oh shit,” the guy who had spilled his beer all over you laughs as embarrassment and humiliation stir so deep in your gut that it makes you feel physically sick. “Sorry about that babe, want me to help you clean up?”
The way his friends laugh loudly at the suggestion makes you suspect that the beer spilling had been anything but accidental and that this guy was anything but sorry.
You try to conjure up a quick, self-assured response. Try to conjure up the nerve to call these guys—who you were sure had just stumbled into the party without invitation—a bunch of assholes. But all you could focus on was trying not to burst into tears as shame, embarrassment and humiliation all swirled sickeningly in your gut. You felt it turn into something so all consuming that for a moment, you couldn’t move—didn’t want to move. All you could hear was the guys’ laughter, the beer that soaked your dress beginning to drip down your thigh and a faint ringing in your ears—
“Hey, hey, what happened here?”
You didn’t think that there would ever be a time that your stomach would turn horribly at the sound of Steve’s voice—at his hand on the small of your back, at the concern in his eyes as he looked at you.
You open your mouth to reply but no words come out—because your eyes became glassy and panic began to rise in your chest.
“Little black dress over here spilled her drink,” one of the guys lie easily to Steve as a smug smile tugs on the corner of his lips.
“That—that’s not what h-happened,” you say finally in a shaky voice. “I-I didn’t spill anything, that guy—”
“—clearly she’s had one too many,” the guy who had spilled his drink over you interrupts. “Should probably take that dress off, sweetheart. You’re pretty wet”
You don’t hear Steve’s pissed off response. In fact, you don’t hear anything at all—just the ringing in your ears as you finally look down at the front of your dress. You see how it was soaked through almost entirely, the wet fabric clinging to your skin and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
And that was the moment that the dam finally broke.
You don’t think as you push Steve aside, your body in autopilot as you rush out of the kitchen where you collide into Robin. You barely hear her as she asks you what had happened, why your dress was drenched and stank of beer and why you were crying. You don’t say anything, not even glancing her way as you slip into the crowd gathered in the living room, slipping through the mass of bodies before heading up the stairs. Your hands don’t stop shaking until you stumble into Steve’s large, family bathroom.
You slam the door shut behind you as sobs wracked through your body. Hot tears of shame and embarrassment spill down your cheeks as you sink down to the floor. Your back against the freestanding bath as you tug your knees close to your chest to try and find some semblance of comfort. But none came—all that lived inside you was humiliation and shame.
You wondered why you had even bothered. It was so clear to you now—because if Steve hadn’t made a move on you after months of flirting back and forth, months of touches and glances that felt anything but friendly—then maybe you and everyone else around you had been wrong. That sure—maybe Steve was attracted to you but not enough to risk your friendship, not enough to want you the way you wanted him.
You felt so stupid for hoping that he wanted more and you felt even more stupid for coming up with this plan that was dripping with desperation. Everyone at the party could see it—the way you had dressed up specifically for Steve. They also probably saw the way he had kept you at arms length all evening too and the shame returned in a fresh wave of sobs that you couldn’t hold back even if you had tried.
The sound of a gentle knock on the bathroom door makes you look up just in time to see Steve slipping into the bathroom.
You had the urge to yell at him to leave but instead, you let out another small sob before burying your face into your knees.
“Oh, please don’t cry,” Steve soothes you gently, sinking down onto the bathroom floor beside you and placing a cautious hand on your arm, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin. “Please don’t cry because of those assholes.”
You wish you were simply crying because of those assholes and not the mix of emotions you were feeling. The humiliation of the past three minutes, the embarrassment of being the girl so desperate for Steve Harrington’s attention that she wore a dress that she could barely afford and the almost crippling fear that Steve didn’t actually feel the same way, that you had made a fool out of yourself for being so certain that he had.
“It—it’s not j-just ab-about those a-assholes, Steve,” you tell him, hiccuping slightly as you force yourself to look at him. You almost wish you hadn’t because those big hazel eyes of his were looking at you with such kindness and concern that it very nearly split you open.
Steve blinks, brows pulled together in slight confusion as he looks back at you, his other hand finding home on your shoulder and squeezing reassuringly.
“What do you mean? What else is this about?”
You knew you should lie. You knew it wasn’t the time nor the place. It was his birthday party and his bathroom should be the very last place to have this conversation. Not only that but you stank of beer, you were incredibly upset and tethering on the edge of tipsy.
But that was also why you couldn’t stop yourself.
“This stupid f-fucking dr-dress,” you sob out, feeling utterly pathetic as tears keep falling down your cheeks with no sign of stopping.
Steve looks perhaps even more confused, eyes shifting down to your dress and the way the glittering material was almost a second skin, the way he had a clear view down your cleavage and the way the tops of your thighs were exposed. Steve swallows, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before he looks back at your face.
“Why?” He asks you gently. “You look fucking beautiful, even if you’re covered in beer.”
It was supposed to make you laugh, you know it from the way the corners of his lips curl upwards in amusement.
But you don’t laugh, instead you shake your head and let out another loud sob.
“Be-because I-I wore it for you and y-you don’t e-even care,” you stutter out, the words falling from your lips before you could even think about stopping them. “I-I feel s-so stupid and n-now it-it’s ruined and—”
“Wait, wait, wait—” Steve hushes you, his fingertips pressing into skin before one hand lifts to gently cup your jaw. “You—you wore it…for me?”
It was only then that you realised what you had told him, that you realised just how honest you had been. You think briefly about lying right to his face, telling him that you were joking and to forget all about it. But it was Steve’s thumb gently rubbing along your jaw that had you nodding before you could stop yourself.
“Yeah,” you admit quietly with a small sniffle. “To—I-I don’t know, impress you or m-make you s-see me di-differently. I told you—it was stupid—”
“Not stupid,” Steve assures with a gentle smile, another gentle caress of your skin that left you feeling a little lightheaded and your stomach tightening in a way you didn’t want to think about. “You just—you don’t need a dress like that to impress me or for me to see you. I already do.”
You blink, tears sticking to your lashes as you look back at Steve with your lips parted.
“B-but—but you’ve never—”
“—I know,” Steve says quickly, his other hand resting on your knee as he shifts that little bit closer to you. “Trust me, I know. I was—I was waiting for the right moment, I guess. Well, that’s what I told myself anyway because there were so many right moments where I should have told but you didn’t because I was—scared, honestly. Scared that I had just imagined that you liked me back, scared that I wouldn’t do it right and then you’d want nothing to do with me.”
You laugh a little at that because the notion of not wanting anything to do with Steve was so ridiculous that you couldn’t help but laugh.
“That’s almost as stupid as me b-buying a dress just for your attention,” you say with a small smile and a quiet sniffle.
Steve smiles and then his eyes shift back down to your dress and you watch as he swallows, his hand on your knee squeezing gently before he seems to force himself to look back at your face.
“Then we can be stupid together,” Steve murmurs affectionately and the way he says it, you can’t help but smile right along with him. There was a moment where you just look at each other. His big, hazel eyes keep yours hostage before they flit down to glance at your lips for a brief, barely there moment.
Steve clears his throat, looking away as he asks, “you uh, you want me to grab you something to wear while you have a shower so you don’t smell like a brewery all night?”
You nod, looking down at your dress and grimacing before looking back up at Steve with a small, grateful smile. “Please.”
Steve smiles back at you before he gives your knee a little final squeeze before getting to his feet and holding out his hand for you to take.
You try not to think about how his hand feels against yours as he pulls you up to your feet. You notice immediately how Steve doesn’t let go of your hand. Instead, he pulls you just that little bit closer and leans down to whisper in your ear. “The dress is incredible by the way, truly. You look so fucking good. I almost got hard right in the middle of Robin’s living room when I first saw you.”
You hadn’t been expecting it, not at all and the words go straight to your core. A current as strong as electricity flowing through you and making your cunt pulse with need for the man in front of you as he pulls away from you with a slightly smug smile.
“Steve!” You choke out, half laughing, half flustered, your face so hot that you wouldn’t be surprised to find steam rising from your skin.
“What?” Steve asks you with an innocent smile. “You said that you wanted my attention and you certainly got it. Why do you think I’ve tried to keep a respectable distance all night? Because I’m trying my best not to embarrass myself at my own party.”
You try to laugh but you’re too busy trying to not think about Steve and what was hiding beneath those fucking jeans. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t allowed yourself a good look at the crotch of his jeans from time to time. Mostly because the imprint of his cock against the denim was near impossible to ignore.
“Couldn’t be more embarrassing than me showing up to your party in a ‘fuck me’ dress when literally everyone else is dressed normal.”
The words came out before you could really think of what you were saying.
Steve chokes out a laugh, the tips of his ears reddening in a way that gives you a fluttery feeling in your stomach and makes you feel warm inside.
“A ‘fuck me’ dress?” Steve repeats with another quick glance down at the dress, at the way the damp fabric was clinging to your breasts. “Pretty accurate description.”
You swallow thickly and you weren’t sure if you could take anymore of his teasing, your panties were dampening at an alarming rate and your heart was surely beating its way out of your chest.
“Let me grab you those clothes, yeah?” Steve suggests before you could embarrass yourself any further. “And I’ll wash that ‘fuck me’ dress for you too.”
Your face warms but you manage to crack a smile.
“That’s funny,” you mutter as you watch him step away from you, your body still thrumming from the proximity to him. You register the distant sounds of the party on the floor beneath you and guilty twists in your gut. You wanted to tell him you were sorry for pulling him away from his own birthday party, sorry for potentially ruining his evening but Steve slips out of the bathroom before you could do so.
Now that you are alone, you try to comprehend the last ten minutes. But it was proven difficult when your heart was beating so fast, when your hands shook as you tried to unzip your beer soaked dress and when there was an intense ache between your legs that made everything else around you feel fuzzy.
You manage to peel off your dress, letting it pool around you at your feet before you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror—at the dark lace panties you had put on in the hopes that Steve would be the one undressing you. You took those off too in case the beer scent also lingered on them, noticing the way your panties stick momentarily to your puffy lips due to how wet you were and something hot pulses through your body at the sight of your slick coating your panties.
A sharp knock on the bathroom door pulls you back into reality.
“You decent?” Steve calls to you through the door as you scramble to find a towel to cover yourself with.
“Yep!” You shout back after wrapping the towel around your bare body, kicking your soaked panties beneath the vanity unit as the bathroom door opens.
Steve walks in with a small pile of clothes in arms but he very nearly drops them at the sight of you wrapped in one of his soft cotton towels.
You watch as for the second time that night, his eyes travel up and down the length of your body, his lips parted and wet as he looks as though he wanted nothing more than to gently tug the towel from your body. There was a large part of you that would have gladly let him do so.
“Here,” Steve finally says, placing the clothes onto the countertop and forcing his eyes to remain on your face. “I got you a t-shirt and those shorts you left here the other week.”
“Thank you,” you say with a small, grateful smile. You can’t help but notice the way Steve’s cheeks had turned red and you find your own face warming.
Steve clears his throat, eyes flickering away from you to your dress and your bra laying on the tiled floor. “I’ll um, wash these in the basement,” Steve tells you, bending down to pick up the discarded clothes and determinedly not looking at your legs as he does so.
You nod, feeling too breathless, too aroused to even form a thought as you watch Steve’s knuckles turn white when he grips the fabric of your dress tightly in his hands.
You look at each other again, Steve looking at you in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to do before he clenches his jaw and he turns to leave.
You nearly stop him. You nearly reach out to grab his arm so he wouldn’t leave you, nearly call out his name and ask him to stay. But you don’t—instead you watch him leave the bathroom with your clothes and you let the ache he leaves behind fill you.
You take your time in the shower, lathering the vanillary body wash that smelt like Steve over you and as the smell of beer washes down the drain. Your muscles relax beneath the hot water and you have to ignore the urge to let your fingers trail between your legs to ease the ache there.
You step out of the shower, water dripping from your body before you glance over at the clothes Steve had brought you. You feel that warmth in your stomach heat up when you imagine yourself wearing Steve’s t-shirt. When you eventually do pull it on over your head after gently drying your body, you’re hit with the smell of him that seems to linger on the material.
It made you feel dizzy with want, the tension that had been building between you and Steve all evening not lessening even in Steve’s absence.
You retrieve your soaked panties from beneath the vanity unit and pull them on, along with your shorts before stepping out of the bathroom.
The party downstairs continues and you find that there wasn’t a part of you that wanted to go and rejoin the party. And so, you head towards Steve’s bedroom, figuring you could just wait out the rest of the party in there.
But as you push open Steve’s bedroom door, you’re greeted by a truly heavenly sight.
Steve was standing near the end of his bed, in the middle of peeling off his shirt. You got a glimpse of his soft stomach, of his happy trail that kept you up at night, of various moles and freckles that were scattered over his skin and—finally the sight of the dark, coarse hair that covered his chest. He was fucking beautiful and you barely register him turning around to look at you.
“Hi,” he says by way of greeting, making zero attempt to cover up but you notice the way his cheeks flush slightly pink.
“Hey,” you say, hating how breathless you already sound.
Steve’s eyes shift down your body again, his gaze washing you in a rush of heat and want that you couldn’t control. You see the way his eyes linger for a moment too long on your hardened nipples that could be seen through the fabric of his t-shirt and you watch as he licks his lips slowly before looking back at your face.
“Good shower?”
You laugh because the tension between you was palpable. You could see the way Steve was trying to be normal and the way he was failing miserably.
“Great shower,” you tell him. “Incredible water pressure.”
Steve snorts lightly with laughter and you take a tentative step closer to him, closing his bedroom door behind you while your heart pounds in your chest.
“Robin kicked those guys out by the way,” he tells you, watching you carefully as you move towards him. “I would have done it but I needed to see if you were okay.”
You smile a little, pausing a foot away from him. “Glad you did.”
“Me too,” Steve says softly. “Made me realise how much of an idiot with the whole—you know, been waiting for the perfect moment to be honest with you when I should have just—I should have just told you.”
Your breath hitches, your eyes flickering over his face so that you didn’t miss a single facial expression. “Told me what?” You ask quietly.
Steve takes a deep breath before he closes the distance between you, lifting both of his large hands to cup your jaw gently between his palms, holding you like you were made of something more precious than gold.
“Told you that—that you’re not only my best friend but you’re my favourite person in the world. The one who I can’t go a day without seeing smile or hearing you laugh. The person who thinks I’m funny when I’m clearly not and the one who seems to know exactly what to say when things get too loud. The one who doesn’t just make me want to be a better man but the person who makes me a better man. The one who has seen my best times and my worst times and still—still sees the best in me even when I don’t. The person who I—who I love. Who I love whether you’re wearing a ‘fuck me’ dress or one of my old t-shirts. The person who I really hope isn’t too mad at me for making you wait while I tried to find a perfect moment.”
You were rendered speechless, words completely failing you as you stare back at Steve with wide eyes, trying to process every word he had just said.
“Was that too much or—”
You don’t let Steve finish his sentence because you decide that you couldn’t wait even a second longer. Because he loved you. He loved you, he loved you, he loved you—
“I love you too,” you tell him breathlessly as your hands plant themselves on his chest before you lean in and finally press your lips against his.
For a moment, Steve does nothing at all. He seems to freeze entirely, his brain short circuiting at the fact you were kissing him. But as your fingers gently brush through the hair that covered his chest, he seemed to finally come to his senses.
Steve groaned—actually groaned—against your lips as one of the hands still cupping your jaw gently threaded into your hair, his fingers curling at the back of your neck as he kisses you back with a sense of urgency he couldn’t seem to control.
The kiss was messy, spit-slick and desparate—months and months of tension finally snapping as Steve used his other hand to tug you closer by your waist, his mouth still moving against yours as though he wouldn’t ever be able to get enough.
Neither of you pulled away—the kiss moving from messy to slow and reverent, your lips gliding wetly against each other in a way that had your pussy throbbing. A small whimper escapes you before you could stop it because your body was thrumming with want.
Steve pulls away only to whisper your name before he dives back in. His hand in your hair titling your head back so that he could deepen the kiss, his tongue gently coaxing your lips apart in a way that had your stomach tightening deliciously as he licks into the wet heat of your mouth.
“Fuck,” Steve murmurs against your lips as his hand in your hair finds home on your waist. The other moves to rest on your hips where Steve squeezes the flesh before tugging you closer until you are flush against him.
You gasp against his lips when you feel just how fucking hard he was through the denim of his jeans and any intelligent thought left you as you moaned against his mouth.
“Shit, baby,” Steve practically whimpers as he pulls away to press a trail of wet kisses down your neck. “You’ve fucking ruining me already.”
You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a moan, your head tilting back as Steve’s tongue glides over the skin of your neck, still a little damp from the shower.
“Did you use my body wash, pretty girl?” Steve whispers against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip the globes of your ass and failing to suppress a groan. “Cause I can smell it on you.”
“Maybe,” you gasp out, your chest heaving as your eyelids flutter shut at Steve’s touch.
Steve hums against your skin before gently sucking on a spot on your neck that had you squirming against him.
“So fucking sensitive,” he murmurs, squeezing your ass again before one hand moves to the hem of his t-shirt that you were wearing—fingers just brushing the skin beneath in a silent question.
You lift your arms in response and Steve waits no time in peeling off the t-shirt.
But the moment he sees the sight of your bare breasts, all bravado he had possessed moments ago seems to leave him.
“Holy fuck—” he breathes out, his own chest heaving as his eyes feast on you. “You’re so—fuck—I can’t believe we’re finally doing this. We’re finally—holy shit—”
“—Steve,” you interrupt him with a faint smile and a finger over his lips. “It’s just me.”
Steve smiles back at you, pressing a kiss to your finger before you pull it away from him. “That’s exactly why this is—why I’m losing my shit right now I mean—fuck, look at you.”
The words go straight through your body like molten lava and you have to squeeze your thighs together to try and ease the tension between your legs.
And Steve—he fucking notices.
“Fuck it—”
Steve’s lips were back on yours and you could barely think straight as the kiss became almost frantic, his hands roaming your body greedily as he sank down onto the bed, pulling you down with him. His hands find your hips before he tugs you down onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his as you straddle him.
The position presses your clothed core against the bulge in his jeans and neither of you could suppress a moan at the contact.
“Please,” Steve asks, eyes half lidded and glazed over with want as he looks up at you. “Please, pretty girl. I need—”
You knew what he needed without him even needing to finish his sentence. You press yourself more firmly against his bulge and you swear you could feel every hard ridge of him through his jeans. The friction was dizzying and you could barely stop yourself from rolling your hips against him. Steve lets out a whimper, fingers squeezing the flesh of your hips before his lips find yours again.
The kiss was messy, little wet sounds filling the space between you as Steve’s hips bucked up instinctively, grinding his hard cock against your core. You were embarrassingly wet at this point as Steve encouraged the movement of your hips with his hands, the wet patch in your panties seeping through your shorts. You were almost sure that Steve could practically smell how aroused you were at this point, but you found that you didn’t care.
You could have come from the friction alone, but both you and Steve knew that wasn’t what you wanted.
“Steve,” you gasp, heat burning through your body as you look down at him. “Touch me, please.”
Who was he to deny you such a request?
You let out a small squeal as Steve wraps his arms around your waist, standing up for a brief moment before he lowers you back down onto his bed.
“Anything for you, baby,” Steve tells you before he tugs both your shorts and your panties down your legs.
“Fuck, baby—”
It was the only intelligent thing Steve could think to say when you were finally laid bare for him. You look back at him and you find that there wasn’t a part of you that felt nervous or self conscious with the confidence his gaze gave you. In fact, you found your thighs widening instinctively as he could see the mess he had caused between your legs—the way your folds were coated with arousal, slick dripping down onto his bedsheets beneath you and how swollen and desperate for attention your clit was.
“—you’re fucking beautiful,” Steve finally tells you as his fingers brush over the skin of your inner thigh, watching in awe as goosebumps erupt over the skin at his touch. “S’fucking beautiful. I could fucking cum just by looking at you, pretty girl.”
Your cunt pulses with need and you swear you see Steve’s cock twitch beneath his jeans.
“But I’m gonna take care of you first, yeah?” Steve murmurs, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your thighs before they glide through your wetness.
That first, direct touch of his fingertips against your slick folds made you whimper from relief.
“S’fucking wet,” Steve murmurs, his lips parting as his eyes filt down to watch how your wetness now coats his fingers. “Drenched for me already, aren’t you sweet girl?”
You nod frantically, eyes squeezing shut as two of Steve’s thick fingers glide through your slick, gathering it and then smearing it over your clit in a circular motion that had your back bowing off his mattress.
“I got you, baby,” Steve murmurs and you jolt as you suddenly feel his breath hot against your inner thigh. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”
You nod, parting your lips as you begin to take a deep breath—but you are cut off by your own, loud moan as he dips one thick finger inside of you.
“That’s it,” Steve murmurs, pressing another kiss to your inner thigh as he begins to pump his finger in and out of you, watching every trace of pleasure flit across your face as he adds a second finger. “That’s it, pretty girl. Look at you, soaking my fingers so well.”
You were a mess already and he had barely even begun. You were so fucking wet that the pump of his fingers in and out of your soaked pussy were causing a schlick-schlick-schlick sound to fill the room, mixing with your moans as liquid heat coursed throughout your entire body.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking pretty like this,” Steve tells you, curling his fingers against your front wall as he watched you in utter awe. “S’fucking pretty, baby. I swear.”
Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you, a pleasure so intense coursing through your body that you were surely soon to forget your own damn name. Your slick was dripping down his wrist, onto his sheets and Steve couldn’t help but breathe in your heady scent, his nose nudging against your clit as he did so.
“Fucking hell,” he groans out, scissoring his fingers gently inside of you. “Sweet girl, you smell so fucking good. I need to taste you, I need to—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence because one buck upwards of your hips and Steve finally takes the hint. His lips seal themselves over your aching clit while he continues to fuck two of his fingers into your needy hole. And the moan he lets out at that very first taste of you? It was divine.
Steve Harrington wasted no time in giving you exactly what he knew you needed. His lips began to suck your clit gently, his thick fingers continuing to fuck you even as your one of your hands found its way into his hair and tugged at it harshly. If anything, the mix of pain and pleasure spurred Steve on, his fingers curling inside of you again as he started to alternate between giving soft licks to your clit and sucking it between his lips.
It was almost overwhelming, the deep penetration on his fingers and stimulation on your clit was making pleasure build up so intensely you were close to tears.
“C’mon, baby,” Steve murmurs against yours, his own hips rutting against the mattress but his focus remains on you and your pleasure and nothing else. “I got you. I got you.”
Your thighs tremble around his head, your head thrown back against his mattress as you let out a moan so loud that the partygoers downstairs were sure to hear it. Your orgasm was so intense that your entire body seemed to be overtaken by a white hot pleasure that you felt in every damn nerve, your vision whiting out briefly all because Steve Harrington sent you to another universe with his fingers and tongue.
He doesn’t let up, only withdrawing his fingers so he could replace them with his tongue, slurping up every last drop of your arousal and groaning against you as he does so.
You were still shaking, still sensitive and still coming down from the most intense orgasm that a man had ever given you and yet—there wasn’t a part of you that wanted to stop.
The fingers that were still in his hair gently tug him away from your cunt that was dripping with a mix of his saliva and your essence. He groans as you pull him away, eyes half lidded with need as he looks at you. Steve’s lips are swollen, wet and he had never looked so fucking handsome.
“That was—”
You silence him by grabbing his fingers—the ones that had just been inside of you, the ones still glistening with your slick—and raise them to your lips. Steve realises what you were about to do a millisecond before it happens and he could not contain the groan that leaves his lips as you take his fingers into your mouth and suck.
Steve had surely died and gone to heaven. That could be the only explanation as he watches you lick his fingers clean, your eyes not leaving his for even a second until you release them with a wet pop.
“Take your jeans off and fuck me, Harrington,” you tell him.
Steve Harrington did not need telling twice. In his haste to peel off his jeans, he stumbles but manages to catch himself at the edge of the bed.
He turns around when he hears you stifle a laugh.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me, baby,” Steve tells you with flushed cheeks. “That was completely purposeful.”
But you don’t respond, because you were too busy staring at the outline of his hard cock through his boxers. Even though the dark material, you could see how fucking big he was and it made your mouth water.
Steve notices—because of course he was—and he wastes no time in pulling down his boxers to free his cock.
“Oh my—”
You had heard rumours before that Steve was big, that his size sometimes intimated the women he had slept with in the past. But nothing could have prepared you for just how big and how beautiful his cock was. It was so big and heavy that it made a loud, audible slapping sound against his soft stomach as he freed himself. It wasn’t just long but it was thick and slightly curved in a way that made your cunt clench around nothing. The ruddy tip was glistening and already leaking with precum and you watch as a dribble of it slips over his veiny shaft.
Steve, seemingly taking you openly staring at his cock as worry, hesitates before joining you back on the bed, bracing his body over yours with his elbows as he looks carefully at your face. “We can do just the tip if you—”
“—what?” You ask him, slightly confused as you look back up at him, your hands gently rest on his shoulders. “No, no, no—I want all of you, Steve. I was just…looking.”
Steve blinks, his cheeks reddening before he smiles down at you. “Impressed?”
You smile and your heart feels warm at the way, even now, Steve was able to make you laugh. Because no matter how much your relationship had changed over the past twenty minutes and how much it would change after, the foundation of your friendship would always remain standing. That Steve loved and respected you as a person first, that he always would and that intimacy wouldn’t change that.
“Depends if you know what to do with it,” you tell him with a teasing smile.
Steve rolls his eyes a little but you see the way the corners of his mouth twitch as he tries not to smile.
“We’ll see about that,” Steve murmurs, wrapping a hand around his length and stroking himself once before he guides the bulbous head of his cock to your entrance. “You sure?” He asks, despite the fact he was so hard that it was nearly painful, despite the fact his dick was pulsing in his hand from need—he needed one last bit of reassurance that he wouldn’t be too much for you.
You nod, your eyes softening as you look up at him, one of your hands lifting to cup his cheek gently. Steve leans into your touch instinctively and the way he sought out your touch makes you feel almost invincible.
“I’m sure,” you whisper back. “I trust you, I love you and I’m sure.”
Steve’s resolve seemed to crumble at that, his eyes shining as he tells you, “I love you too.”
His lips found yours in a kiss that was surprisingly soft given the position you were in, given what you were about to do. You melt into it, your fingers gliding into his hair as Steve groans against your lips, carefully positioning himself back at your entrance. Your legs widen to accommodate him as you continue to kiss him as though he was your only source of oxygen. Steve’s brows are furrowed as he kisses you back, making sure to go slow as he finally—finally—pushes the fat head of his cock inside of you, slipping into your tight heat inch by inch.
The stretch was overwhelming—it almost felt as though he was splitting you open with his cock but fuck, it was incredible. You couldn’t pull but pull away from Steve’s lips so that you could look at where look your bodies were now joined, the way you were stretched obscenely around him.
“You okay?” Steve asks when he was almost buried to the hilt, his eyes not leaving your face as he searches for even a hint of pain. “Baby, please say you’re—”
“—I’m good,” you say breathlessly, your eyes flickering upwards to meet his. “Really, Steve. I’m good.”
Steve nods and then swallows before he presses forward, until his hips are flush against yours and you feel the tip of his cock hit your cervix.
“Fuuuccck,” Steve exhales, pressing his forehead against yours as the arm that was propping himself over you shakes with the effort of holding himself back. “You feel—fuck—you feel incredible. I swear, you were made for my cock, sweet girl.”
The words make you feel warm and your cunt flutters around his cock, making Steve groan out. You hook one of your legs over his hip and arch your back, trying to encourage him to move.
“Steve, please.”
It was exactly the encouragement he needed. With a groan of your name and sweet kiss to your forehead, Steve starts to move. He moves his hips back until only the bulbous tip of his cock remains inside of you before he pushes himself back home, setting a deep rhythm that has your nails biting into the skin of his shoulders.
The wet sounds from the mix of your juices quickly fill the room, along with both yours and Steve’s moans as Steve grabs your other thigh to hook it over hip. You whimper out his name as his cock nuzzles against your cervix and Steve couldn’t help himself anymore. He pulls out almost entirely before slamming back into you. And again. And again and again and again until his cock was continuously slamming in and out of you, the sound of skin slapping against skin so obscene it made your head spin.
“Fuck, Steve!” You mewl, your breasts bouncing with every deep thrust of Steve’s cock. “You feel so—”
“—I know, baby. I know,” Steve grunts as his balls slap against your skin from the force of his thrusts. “You trust me, yeah?”
You nod frantically, pleasure coursing through every damn nerve in your body as Steve shifts his position. You whimper out in protest before you watch as he gently lifts your thighs to rest over his shoulders.
“Feel good?” Steve asks as he leans over you, his cock now hitting so deep inside of you that you swear you saw stars.
You nod because no words could come out as you felt him in every damn pore in your body. Your body buzzes with anticipation as you expect him to move, but he doesn’t. Not yet.
“Words, pretty girl,” he tells you, two fingers gently gripping your chin. “I need words.”
You whimper out because you were throbbing with need and could barely think straight, let alone form a sentence.
“Steve, please—”
“Baby, no,” Steve murmurs, dipping his head down to brush his lips across your cheek. “Need you to feel me if it’s good. C’mon, sweet girl.”
“Yes,” you manage to gasp. “I feel—I feel really good.”
“Good,” Steve smiles before he rolls his hips forward. The tip of his cock hits that spot inside of you that had you squirming beneath him, clenching around him so hard that Steve’s fingers grips into the flesh of your thigh before he pulls out of you just to slam back in all over again.
“I love you,” Steve tells you as he sets a rhythm that has your toes curling. “I love you so fucking much, baby. I’m so fucking lucky.”
He was babbling nonsense as his cock drilled into you like it was the last time, not the first. You were a mess of moans and whimpers beneath him, your sobbing cunt convulsing around him with each and every thrust. You could hardly think straight because nothing existed beside Steve and the way his cock was pumping in and out of you.
“You look so fucking beautiful,” Steve tells you, eyes heavy from the intense pleasure he was feeling, from the effort of holding back his own release so it wasn’t over before you finished. “Taking my cock so well, baby. Look at you fucking taking it.”
And you do—your eyes shifting down to watch as Steve’s thick cock disappears inside of you, watch the way you suck him back in like you never wanted him to leave.
It was almost too much, every part of your body was singing with pleasure and all you could moan out was Steve’s name and the fact you loved him and—
Your second orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. It was somehow more intense than the first, nearly earth shattering in the way it left you clinging to Steve as though he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. You clenched tightly around his cock and it was all Steve needed, his release following yours only seconds later. He slams into you a final time and you swear you feel his heavy cock pulsing inside of you before he comes hard. Ropes of thick, hot cum flood your spent pussy, painting your walls with his release as your name fell from his lips like it was the only word he knew.
He doesn’t pull out right away and you don’t want him to, instead—your lips find each other's and the kiss was sweet and tender and everything you had ever wanted and more.
Steve eventually pulls out of you after a few moments to clean the mess between your legs with his boxers. You were tender but he was so gentle and loving that it made your heart thump loud in your chest.
When he returns to the bed, his arms wrap themselves around you and you waste no time in melting into him, the party downstairs entirely forgotten as you lay in Steve’s arms.
“I take it we’re a little more than best friends now?” He asks you quietly with a trace of amusement in his voice.
“I think we’ve always been more than best friends, Steve.”
Steve smiles at that before pressing a gentle but firm to your forehead because you were right—you had always been more than best friends and you always would be.
summary — steve harrington is your bodyguard. he's your bodyguard you've become overly fond of. you spend too much time with him. then, you're on your way to spain for a press tour, and steve is acting weird. he's cold and distant, and mean. you find out why.
or "his is hand closes around your arm and moves you back in one immediate motion, behind him, and the last fraction of the professional surface lifts away from him all at once and what replaces it is something you didn't know was there, something that has been underneath everything for eight months, and you understand standing behind him that you have been shown a very small and very managed portion of what Steve Harrington actually is."
content 12.2k words, bodyguard!steveharrington x reader, no pronouns, slowburn, steve being an ass, violence, blood, steve being too protective to be honest.
note omg first part to my last bgs work!! he is so yum in this and idc he's my fav vers of steve to write. thanks guys!!!
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You find out about Spain the way you find out about most things.
Not from your father. Never from your father.
Amelia appears in the kitchen doorway at half past ten on a Tuesday, tablet pressed to her chest like a shield, and the particular set of her jaw tells you everything you need to know about the next five minutes before she opens her mouth.
You've learned to read her the way you've learned to read most things in this house — by the things that aren't said, the micro-expressions that flicker through before professionalism irons them back out. Amelia has worked for your father for eleven years. She’s delivered bad news with the composure of someone defusing something, and she’s delivered it to you more times than either of you has ever counted.
You wrap both hands around your coffee and wait.
"Spain," she says.
Just the one word, dropped into the quiet kitchen like a coin into water.
"What about it?"
"The press tour got expanded." She's already pulling something up on the tablet, already moving, already three steps ahead of the conversation. "Madrid and Barcelona. One week. You leave Friday."
You put your mug down.
Outside, the grounds sit perfectly manicured in the late morning sun, the fountain near the back terrace doing its quiet, expensive thing. Inside, the kitchen smells of espresso and the flowers someone replaced yesterday, and the music drifting through the hidden speakers is something soft and orchestral that your father's housekeeper chose and nobody has ever bothered to change. It’s a beautiful house. It’s always a beautiful house. Some mornings, you can almost forget what it costs to live inside it.
"Friday," you repeat.
"Four days."
"Amelia."
"The confirmation came through this morning." She says. "The schedule is tight but manageable. Amelia has already—" She stops. Blinks. "I've already coordinated with the Barcelona team."
"Nobody told me there was a Barcelona team."
"There is now."
You sit with that for a moment. Two weeks in Spain — the words should feel like something. They do feel like something, actually, just not the thing that probably makes sense. Something restless and complicated, the feeling of a door being opened in a house you've stopped expecting doors in.
You've been to Spain once, years ago, before the security and the schedules and the strange half-life that comes with being your father's daughter in the particular way that you are. You remember the smell of it. Orange blossom and petrol and something underneath both that felt very old. You remember thinking you could disappear there, if disappearing were a thing available to you.
It isn't. But Spain still has the memory of the thought.
"Fine," you say.
Amelia's expression shifts almost imperceptibly — a micro-expression like she had prepared for significantly more resistance. "There's a briefing tonight."
"Of course, there is."
"Security coordination. International protocols." She pauses here, and the pause has something deliberate behind it. "Steve will run it."
You look at her. She looks at her tablet.
"He's been preparing since yesterday," she adds, which is a strange thing to add, and the fact that she adds it tells you something.
"How long has he known?"
"A few days."
"And I'm finding out now."
"The confirmation—"
"Amelia."
She meets your eyes. There's something apologetic in them, which is unusual enough to register. "It was a judgment call," she says carefully. "About timing."
His judgment call, she means. Not hers.
You nod once, slowly, and pick up your mug again. The coffee has gone cold while you were talking, which is a small and stupid thing to be annoyed about, but you're a little annoyed about it anyway.
"Send me the itinerary," you say.
"Already done."
"Of course it is."
She leaves the way she arrived — efficiently, without ceremony, the tap of her heels retreating back down the hallway before the kitchen has quite finished settling. The music keeps playing. Outside, a bird lands on the edge of the fountain and immediately leaves again.
You sit in the quiet and think about Spain.
Steve arrives twenty minutes later.
You hear him before you see him — the particular quality of the house when he enters it, a subtle shift in the atmosphere that you noticed embarrassingly early and have never quite been able to explain.
He’s worked for you for eight months now. In that time, you’ve developed an involuntary awareness of him that you find both useful and inconvenient, like a second sense that didn't ask your permission before installing itself.
He appears in the kitchen doorway and does the thing he always does — reads the room in about two seconds, windows, to exits, to you, the sweep so habitual now it barely registers as a movement. Dark suit. Loosened tie. The small earpiece that means he's already been working for hours before you were awake. He looks, as he almost always looks, like someone who has already thought of everything and is now simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
Except.
There’s something different about him this morning, and you clock it before you can decide not to.
It lives in his jaw, mainly. The way it's set a fraction too tight, the muscle there doing the slow flex that means he's holding something in. His shoulders carry more tension than usual under the jacket. And his eyes, when they land on you after their automatic sweep of the room, stay a beat longer than they normally would — like he's checking something, confirming something, running some internal calculation you're not privy to.
You file this away and say nothing about it.
"You knew," you say instead.
"Yes."
"Before I did."
"Yes."
"And you didn't think to—"
"Timing," he says, the same word Amelia used, which means it’s coordinated, which means there was a conversation you weren't part of about how and when to tell you things about your own life. You know this is how it works. You have always known this is how it works. Some mornings it bothers you more than others.
This is one of the others.
He sets a folder on the kitchen island.
It is — and you want to be precise about this — a substantial folder. Black. Tabbed. The tabs are colour-coded. There is a moment where you simply look at it and then look at him and then look back at it.
"Steve."
"Travel briefing."
"That is not a travel briefing. That’s a document you’d hand to someone about to make a covert insertion into a hostile territory."
"It's thorough."
"It has a table of contents."
"The table of contents is helpful."
"For who?"
Something moves at the corner of his mouth — not quite amusement, just the suggestion of one, there and then not. He opens the folder and turns it toward you and begins, because he has clearly been waiting to begin since before you were awake.
He walks you through it with the efficiency of someone who has rehearsed this and would rather you not know that. Commercial flight under a restricted manifest. Private arrival terminal. Local security coordination in both cities, which apparently has a name and a hierarchy and several contact protocols you're expected to memorise.
Movement windows. Hotel layouts. Exit routes. The annotated meal locations, which you stare at for a moment before looking up.
"Are these—"
"Estimated movement windows."
"For meals."
"It's easier to plan around."
"Steve. You’ve planned my trip to the bathroom."
"I've planned the window during which bathroom access is most logistically—"
"That's what I said."
He doesn't look embarrassed. Steve Harrington has never once looked embarrassed about anything he has professionally decided to be thorough about, which you have come to recognise as one of his more maddening qualities and also, privately, one of the ones you find least easy to argue with.
You flip through the pages and let him talk. He has a good voice for this — low, even, unhurried in the way of someone who knows the material well enough not to need the notes. You find yourself watching him more than the papers, which is something you do and something you're supposed to not do, and the monitoring of that habit is itself a habit at this point.
He's still doing it. The jaw thing. The weight in his shoulders. The way his gaze keeps drifting, just slightly, toward the windows while he speaks, and then back to you, and then to the windows again. Like he's checking something. Like he's been checking something for a while.
"You're doing the thing," you say, when he pauses.
He looks at you. "What thing?"
"Where you're somewhere else, and I can almost see it." You keep your voice even, curious rather than accusatory. "You've been doing it since you walked in."
A silence. Short enough that another person wouldn't notice. He is, among other things, very good at silences.
"International operations require more active risk assessment than domestic—"
"That's a sentence, not an answer."
His jaw does the thing again. One finger taps once against the edge of the folder and goes still.
"You'll need to stay closer to me than usual once we're there," he says instead. "I want you within arm's reach during all public-facing movement. When I redirect, you move. No delays, no questions."
The shift is deliberate. You notice it, and you let it go, because there’s an art to letting Steve Harrington decide when to tell you things, and the art involves knowing which battles are worth having in a kitchen at half past ten.
"Within arm's reach," you say.
"Yes."
"And if I decide I'd rather not be managed quite that closely?"
He looks at you like you’re stupid, and it's not the first time. You don’t care, to be honest.
"You won't," he says.
A quiet statement of fact from someone who has decided how something is going to go. You used to find it infuriating. You used to push back on it, because the alternative was admitting that his particular brand of quiet authority was doing something to your judgment that you hadn't signed up for.
These days, you mostly just look away first and pretend you were going to anyway.
"Send me the contact list," you say, pulling the folder back toward you.
"Already sent."
"Of course it is."
You look down at the pages. Hotel layouts. Movement windows. Colour-coded tabs. Spain in four days, and Steve Harrington watching the windows of your kitchen.
Outside, the fountain runs on. The music plays. The day moves around the house in its quiet, expensive way.
You close the folder.
"I'll read it tonight," you say.
"All of it," he says. It isn't a question.
"All of it," you agree.
Then he's gone, and the kitchen settles back into its orchestral music and its expensive quiet, and you sit with a colour-coded folder in your hands and the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that you are several steps behind a conversation that has been happening without you.
Spain in four days.
Steve, carrying something he hasn't told you.
You pick up your drink, and consider the window above the sink and think you've navigated worse than this.
You're just not entirely sure, yet, what this is.
—
Friday arrives the way bad things tend to — faster than it should.
You're awake before your alarm, which tells you something about the state of your nervous system, lying in the dark listening to the house come alive around you. The particular creak of the service corridor. Wheels against marble. Someone's radio crackling to life two floors below and then cutting off. By five-thirty, the whole building has a pulse to it, low and urgent, and by the time you get downstairs at half past six it has become something else entirely.
The foyer looks like a staging ground.
Two SUVs in the driveway, engines already running, exhaust curling in the cold grey air. Hard cases lined up beside the door in formation. Security moving between the vehicles and the house in the wordless, efficient way of people who have done this many times and are operating well within their own competence.
You know most of their faces by now, eight months will do that, but this morning, there are others you don't recognise. Bigger. Quieter. The kind of men who stand differently from everyone else, weight distributed in a way that makes them look permanently ready for something.
You stop on the bottom stair and take it in.
Nobody tells you anything. Conversations don't stop when you appear, exactly, but they adjust — shift registers slightly, like a radio being turned down without being turned off. Amelia is somewhere behind you, talking rapidly into her phone about revised press windows in Madrid. Someone near the door is discussing flight clearance like someone who doesn't want to be overheard discussing flight clearance.
You're still standing on the bottom stair when Steve looks up from across the room.
He's been speaking to one of the agents near the door. Dark overcoat, suit underneath, earpiece already in. Black gloves folded in one hand. He looks, at first glance, the way he always looks — composed, calibrated, the kind of put-together that suggests he has never once in his adult life been caught underprepared for anything.
At second glance, the jaw, again. The set of his shoulders. The way the conversation he was having, ends the moment he sees you, the other agent simply stepping back and away without a word, like this was already the arrangement.
He crosses the foyer.
"You're late," he says.
You look at the grandfather clock. "Seven minutes."
"Still late."
Normally, there's something underneath a comment like that — the faint ghost of amusement he lets through when he thinks you won't notice. This morning, it's just the words, flat and functional, and the absence of everything usually tucked beneath them is its own kind of information.
You look at him properly. He looks tired in a way he never lets himself look tired — just something in the eyes that suggests the night behind them was shorter than it should have been and worked harder than most. The muscle in his eye ticks. Once, twice.
"You look terrible," you say.
"You look underprepared."
"I'm dressed. I have shoes."
His gaze drops to your feet for a half-second — actually checks, which is so specifically him that it loosens something in your chest despite everything — and then comes back up.
"We're moving in ten," he says, already turning toward the door.
Outside, the morning air is cold and wet, the driveway slick from overnight rain. You step out after him and watch what happens to his body the moment he clears the threshold — the almost imperceptible shift, every line of him reorganising into something sharper, more deliberate.
You've watched him do this hundreds of times. Today it makes the back of your neck prickle.
One of the agents opens the rear door of the nearest SUV. Steve pauses before you get in — just a second, just long enough to look at you in the particular way he has when he's deciding how much to say.
"Terminal to gate, you stay between Carter and me," he says. "Someone approaches, keep moving. Someone stops you, keep moving. You don't stop for anything unless I tell you."
"I know how airports work," you say.
"This isn't about airports."
He says it quietly, without inflection, and it lands somewhere below your sternum and stays there.
Before you can ask what it is about, his hand goes to his earpiece. He listens, says something clipped and low, and the moment closes. You get in the car.
The drive is twenty-eight minutes, and it feels like three hours.
Steve sits beside you rather than across from you. Close enough that when the car takes a corner, his shoulder presses briefly against yours, a contact so ordinary it shouldn't register, and does anyway.
He doesn't look at his phone. He doesn't do anything you associate with a normal person spending twenty-eight minutes in a car. Doesn't fidget, doesn't make conversation, doesn't stare at anything at all.
He watches. Traffic, pavements, the cars alongside them, the junctions as they approach. Occasionally, his hand lifts to his earpiece and something passes through him, and his expression processes it without letting you see the result.
Copy. Understood. Negative.
You last about ten minutes with your book before putting it face down on your knee.
"Steve."
His eyes come to you immediately, which is the thing about Steve. He is always, somehow, already paying attention to you even when he appears to be paying attention to everything else.
"You're scaring me a little," you say. You keep your voice level and reasonable. "Not a lot. Just a little. And I think you should know that."
Something moves through his expression. Small and quickly managed, but there. "That's not the intention," he says.
"I know it's not. I'm telling you the effect."
He looks at you for a moment. Then, "You're safe."
"You say that," you say, "like it's an answer."
"It is an answer."
"It's the answer to a question I haven't asked yet." You hold his gaze. "I'm asking why. Why the extra team? Why you haven't relaxed once this morning? Why this feels different from every other departure we've done?"
He doesn't look away. He doesn't give you anything either.
"International operations require a higher—"
"Don't." You say it quietly, without heat. "Please don't give me the line. You've been running that line since Tuesday, and I'm getting on a plane with you in twenty minutes and I think I've earned something better than the line."
One hand, resting on his knee, closes briefly and opens again.
"There's nothing I can tell you right now," he says finally, and the right now is doing a great deal of work in that sentence, and you both know it.
"But there's something."
He says nothing, which is its own answer.
You turn back to the window. Outside, the city moves past in the flat grey of early morning, familiar streets emptied by the hour, everything ordinary and slightly unreal the way things look before the day has properly started. You think about what right now means. About the difference between there's nothing and there's nothing I can tell you and what lives in that gap.
Steve's hand lifts to his earpiece again.
You watch the city and say nothing and feel the distance between what you know and what's actually happening grow slowly wider, the way a sound does when the thing making it is moving away from you.
—
The private terminal is the kind of quiet that isn't peaceful.
You've been here before. The low-ceilinged calm of it, the way it always feels slightly outside of time, suspended between one place and another. Usually, it feels like a held breath before something good. Today, it feels like a held breath before something else.
The team moves around you in a formation you understand in theory and feel differently about this morning. Steve is always close — a step back, a step beside, one subtle shift forward whenever anyone unknown passes within a certain radius. You've clocked this pattern for months. Today, the radius feels smaller.
At the boarding desk, while the agent processes your passport, you keep your voice low.
"You've barely looked at me all morning."
"I'm looking at you now," he says.
He is. Directly, steadily, the full version. There's no warmth in it — not the particular warmth you've grown used to from him, the ones that live in the corner of his eyes. Just attention, clean and professional and entirely unrevealing.
Which is somehow worse.
"That's not what I mean," you say.
He doesn't answer. The agent hands your passport back, and you move toward the gate, Steve moving with you, that half-step behind, and you think about the last eight months.
The rhythm of him you've learned, the particular frequency he operates on that you've calibrated yourself to without meaning to — and you think about how entirely that frequency has changed this week, tightened into something you can't quite read, and you wonder what it means that the person who is supposed to make you feel safest is currently the primary source of your unease.
The plane is small and private and smells of leather and recycled air.
Steve does the thing he always does before sitting — reads the cabin the way he reads every room, exit to exit, aisle to windows, every passenger already seated assessed and apparently filed. Then he sits beside you, coat still on, and doesn’t relax.
You open your book. You read the same page four times.
Outside the small oval window, ground crew move through the mist in high-vis jackets, and the sky is the specific heavy white of a morning that hasn't decided what it's going to do yet, and the engines start their low preliminary rumble beneath the floor.
Beside you, Steve says something quietly into his earpiece. A pause. His hand — resting near his knee, close enough to yours that you're aware of it — tightens once against his leg.
Just that. Just the one small involuntary thing.
You close the book.
"Steve." You say it quietly, for him only. "You're making me nervous."
He looks at you. In his expression, for just a moment, is something more complicated, more tired, something that looks almost like it costs him to keep it contained. It's there for less than a second before it goes.
"I need you to stay aware today," he says. "That's all I can give you right now. I need you switched on."
"Switched on," you repeat.
"Yes."
"That is a genuinely terrible thing to say to a person you've just told to stay calm."
Something at the corner of his mouth. The ghost of the version of him you know better. "I'm trying to keep you safe," he says.
"I know you are." And you do. That's the thing, you do know, completely, with the bone-deep certainty that eight months of watching someone do their job with total commitment can produce. You know he's trying to keep you safe. What you don't know is what he's keeping you safe from, and the gap between those two things is where all your anxiety currently lives.
The plane begins to move.
Rain drags sideways across the glass. The terminal slides past the window and falls away, and then there's only the runway and the low sky and the gathering sound of the engines doing what engines do.
You look at Steve's hand near his knee. The slight tension still in it, the unconscious readiness. You think about right now again, about what gets added to that sentence once right now becomes later, once you've landed somewhere warm and loud and foreign, and whatever he's been carrying all week becomes the thing he finally tells you.
You don't ask again.
You turn to the window and watch home disappear beneath the clouds and carry the question with you instead, all the way to Spain.
—
You wake up somewhere over Spain.
For a few seconds, you don't know where you are. Then the seatbelt sign blinks on overhead, and a flight attendant moves quietly down the aisle, and the grey nothing outside the window resolves itself into cloud, and you remember.
Spain. You're going to Spain.
You turn your head.
Steve is awake. Of course, he's awake. As far as you can tell, Steve has not slept once during your four-hour nap, which means he has now been awake for something approaching twenty hours, and he looks it, in the specific way he only ever looks it when he's run out of resources to hide it.
The shadows beneath his eyes have deepened. There's a faint line in his brow that hasn't smoothed out since leaving. His face carries a particular tension, like he's been tensing unconsciously for so long it's stopped registering as effort.
He's reading something on his phone. Or looking at it, anyway. You're not sure he's actually reading.
Then the cabin doors open.
Warm air moves through the plane like something waking up — thick and golden and entirely different from the grey damp you left behind. You hear Spanish immediately, overlapping and rapid and musical in a way that English somehow never manages, voices carrying through the terminal outside.
You sit up properly. Roll your neck. Feel four hours of cramped sleep settling into your shoulders.
"Good morning," you say.
Steve looks over. Something shifts briefly, almost resembling relief that you're conscious and present and speaking, which tells you more about the last four hours than anything he might actually say.
"We've landed," he says.
"I can tell."
"You slept."
"Barely."
"More than I expected."
You look at him. "Did you sleep at all?"
The answer is in the way he doesn't answer, already moving, reaching above you for your bag from the overhead compartment.
"Steve."
"We're on the ground," he says. "That's what matters."
It isn't, but you let it go.
—
Barcelona arrives.
You step off the plane, and it hits you — the heat, the noise, the quality of the light, which is different from home in a way you feel before you can name. Sharper somehow. More insistent. The sky above the tarmac is a blue so dense it looks painted, and the air smells of warm concrete and aviation fuel and something beneath both of those things, something older, something that might be the city itself.
You stop at the top of the steps.
Just for a second. Just to stand in it.
Behind you, Steve says nothing. When you glance back, he's watching you with an expression you don't entirely know how to read, watchful in the particular quiet way he has sometimes that feels less like surveillance and more like attention.
"Sorry," you say.
"Don't be."
You start walking.
The private terminal is cool and hushed after the brightness outside, all polished floors and muted conversation. Steve coordinates with the local team in low urgent tones while your bags are sorted and a vehicle is confirmed, and you stand slightly to one side and watch him work and think about the conversation that is clearly waiting somewhere ahead of you.
The one where he tells you whatever it is he hasn't told you yet.
You watch him across the arrivals hall — the set of his shoulders, the way he listens more than he speaks, the way his attention keeps finding you between sentences the way a compass finds north. Like some part of him is running a continuous background check on your exact location without being fully aware it's happening.
He looks up. Finds you immediately, through the crowd, without having to search.
You look away first. You always look away first.
—
The hotel is the kind of beautiful that stops feeling real after a certain price point.
White marble and flowers and ceilings that have no practical reason to be that high. Staff who move like they've been choreographed. A lobby that smells of something expensive and faintly floral while light falls through tall windows in long warm columns across the floor.
You should feel something about it. You feel tired.
The suite is on the ninth floor, two rooms plus a sitting area, balcony doors open to an afternoon that has already turned golden. Beyond the glass, the coastline glitters. The ocean sits flat and brilliant beneath the heat haze, and from up here the beach looks like something from a film — all pale sand and coloured umbrellas and tiny figures moving in and out of the water.
You stand in the middle of the room and look at it.
"Stay back from the balcony edge," Steve says, not looking up from where he's checking the lock on the connecting door. "Until we've cleared sightlines."
"There are nine floors between me and the street."
"Stay back from the edge."
You stay back from the edge.
He moves through the suite — bedroom, bathroom, connecting doors, windows, balcony access, the view from each angle. He says something brief into his earpiece, listens to the response and says something else.
You drift toward the window anyway, stopping where the floor meets the open balcony threshold, close enough to feel the warm air coming in off the water without technically crossing the line.
The ocean from here is extraordinary.
"It's perfect beach weather," you say.
"No."
You turn around. "I haven't finished the sentence."
"You don’t need to."
He's looking at you now. The sunglasses are gone, and the exhaustion in his face is worse without them. He looks like a man who has been carrying something heavy for a long time and has gotten very good at not showing it, except that you’ve spent eight months learning to read him, and the showing is visible to you regardless.
"You cannot honestly expect me to fly to Spain and sit in a hotel room," you say.
"I expect you to follow security protocols."
"I'd like to go to the beach."
"No."
"Steve—"
"No."
Something about the flatness of it makes irritation flare properly through you for the first time all day. Not the low-grade frustration you've been managing since Tuesday. Something sharper.
"You've barely spoken to me since we left home," you say. "Unless it was an instruction. And now I'm in another country looking at the most beautiful coastline I've ever seen, and you're telling me no, like I've asked to do something dangerous."
"I'm telling you no because—"
"Because why?" You hold his gaze. "Give me an actual reason. Not a protocol. A reason."
His face shifts. Something moves behind his eyes that he pulls back before it reaches his mouth.
"Thirty minutes," he says flatly.
You blink. "What?"
"Public beach. Crowded. We leave before the light goes."
He says it like a concession that costs him, like each word is something being given up rather than offered. You stare at him for a moment, genuinely waiting for the reversal.
It doesn't come.
"Okay," you say carefully.
He's already reaching for his phone.
—
The beach in the early evening is the most beautiful thing you've seen in recent memory.
The sand is still warm underfoot when you take your shoes off. The water is the deep greenish-blue of late afternoon, the light coming in low and gold across it, turning everything amber at the edges. The city hums behind you, while ahead there's only ocean.
You walk into the shallows without thinking about it.
The water is cool around your ankles and the shock of it makes you laugh, quietly, just to yourself, and for the first time since getting on a plane this morning something in your chest releases.
When you look back, Steve is standing on the dry sand with his shoes on, watching the beach.
"You know," you call over the sound of the water, "most people enjoy this."
"I'm enjoying it," he says.
"You're scanning threat vectors."
"I can do both."
You walk out a little further. The foam curls around your feet and retreats. Behind you, Barcelona does its thing — noise and music and the particular alive quality of a city that doesn't really believe in evenings ending.
Eventually, you convince him to sit.
This takes longer than it should, and he does it with visible reluctance, but he does it, lowering himself onto the sand beside you with his arms across his knees and his attention still drifting across the beach at intervals that have a rhythm to them if you know how to watch.
You watch the horizon and let the quiet sit.
The sun is low enough now to turn the water silver at the edges. Somewhere down the beach, a group has started a fire, small and orange, voices drifting across the sand too distant to make out as words.
"Most people would say this is a good job," you say eventually.
Steve doesn't answer immediately.
"And what would you say?" he asks.
The question is quieter than you expect. You glance sideways. He's looking at the water, the last of the day's light moving across his profile, and he looks different out here. Softer somehow.
"I'd say the person doing it seems like they're carrying something they haven't put down in a while," you say.
He's quiet.
"You've been different this week," you say. "Since Tuesday. Since Spain became real. And I've been trying to figure out whether I've done something, or whether it's something else entirely."
"It's not you," he says immediately.
"Then what is it?"
The breeze moves off the water. Somewhere behind you, a scooter passes on the promenade, engine fading into the general noise of the city.
Steve looks at the horizon for a long moment.
"International operations carry different risk profiles," he says finally, and the line is so rehearsed you can hear the hours he's put into it, can hear all the times he's run it in his head.
"That's the version you prepared," you say. "I know. I've heard it four times this week." You look at him directly. "What's the version underneath it?"
He frowns.
"Steve."
"Later," he says, later, meaning not here, meaning I will, but not here, and something about that distinction makes you let it go.
"Okay," you say.
He looks at you briefly, surprised perhaps that you're not pushing.
"Okay," he says back, quieter.
You sit together while the beach empties around you, the sun dropping toward the water, the city starting to glow at the edges as the light changes. You stop three separate times to look at dogs on the walk back up the beach, which Steve notes like he's reassessing his life choices, and when you nearly lose your footing on the uneven ground near the pier, he catches your wrist before you've registered falling.
His hand is warm and immediate and gone again in the same second, the wall back in place before you've fully processed that it moved.
"Pay attention," he says.
"I was paying attention to a very good dog."
He exhales through his nose and keeps walking. You fall into step beside him and don't say anything, and the silence between you is easier than it's been all week.
The promenade at night is a different city.
The restaurant lights are all on now, and the tables outside are full, and the music has changed from afternoon to evening — slower, louder, more confident. Somewhere, a bad guitarist is playing something recognisable badly enough that a small crowd has stopped to listen.
"This is the most relaxed you've been since we arrived," you say.
Steve keeps his gaze forward. "That's concerning."
"You know what I mean."
"I usually do."
You're aware, walking beside him through the lit streets of Barcelona with the ocean somewhere behind you and the city ahead, that this is the thing that's been missing all week, and you hadn't fully realised how much it had been missing until you got it back.
Then his hand goes to his earpiece.
The change happens in real time beside you, and you watch it happen and can't stop it.
His posture shifts first — a half-degree adjustment in his shoulders, something tightening through him from the ground up. His gaze changes from relaxed-watchful to the other kind. His expression flattens, deliberately, efficiently, someone who has switched modes and left the previous one somewhere behind him on the street.
"Copy," he says quietly. Then, "Route change. Yes."
His hand drops. "We're cutting through the next block," he says.
"Why?"
"Congestion."
"The street looks fine."
"There's a better route."
You look at him. He's already moving, one hand coming to rest briefly at the small of your back as he steers you left off the promenade and into a narrower street, darker, the restaurant noise receding behind you.
"Steve," you say.
"Keep moving."
"That's not—"
"Please."
The please stops you more than anything else would have. There's something in it that isn't professional. Something underneath the control that's been there all week, and keeps almost surfacing and keeps getting pushed back down before it reaches the air.
You keep moving.
But the warm thing from the promenade has gone. The version of him that made the beach feel easy, that almost smiled at the dogs, that said later like he meant it — that version has folded back inside the other one so completely you can barely find the seam.
"You keep doing that," you say.
"Doing what?"
"Closing. Every time it starts to feel normal, you close."
He says nothing.
"I'm not imagining it."
"I know you're not."
"Then—"
"Not here," he says, and it's the same word as before — later, not here — but with more urgency underneath it now, something that makes the hair on your arms lift slightly without knowing why.
You walk. The street is narrower here, balconies overhead, the noise of the city muffled. Somewhere behind you, very far away, someone is still playing music.
"You're avoiding me," you say.
"I'm doing my job."
"You're using your job to avoid me."
He stops. You stop.
You're at a crossing, red light, people pressing past on both sides. He's looking at you, tired like he's been maintaining something at great cost for a long time.
"You think being around you isn't—" He stops himself. Looks at the crossing signal. Looks back at you. "You think this is simple for me."
"I think you're making it harder than it needs to be," you say. "I think you've been carrying something all week, and you won't put it down long enough to tell me what it is, and in the meantime you keep—" The words come out smaller than you want them to. "You keep disappearing. And I'm standing right here."
The light changes. He reaches for your arm.
And that's when you see it — his gaze snap to something over your shoulder, the shift happening so fast it's like watching a switch thrown, every line of him going from this conversation to something else in a single instant.
"We're crossing," he says.
"Steve—"
"Now." His hand closes around your arm, and he moves, steering you off the kerb into the crossing, and the urgency of it is different from the usual kind , something more afraid, and he's not hiding it as well as he was an hour ago.
By the time you reach the other side, you've had enough.
You pull your arm back. "Stop."
He turns.
And there it is — the thing he's been keeping below the surface all week, finally visible, finally closer to the surface than he has the resources left to suppress. Scared.
Real and immediate and almost immediately folded back under control, but not before you've seen it. Not before it's lodged somewhere in your chest like a splinter.
"Tell me," you say.
"We need to keep moving."
"Steve." Your voice shakes slightly. You hate that it shakes. "Tell me what's happening. Right now. Please."
He looks at you for a long moment.
Around you, the city continues its oblivious Friday night. Music. Laughter. Somewhere, someone drops a glass, and the sound gets a small cheer.
Then, "There's a man who has been trying to get to you," he says quietly, "for the last four months."
The words land in you strangely, like something you heard wrong and are waiting to hear again correctly.
"What?"
"Multiple attempts. Hotels, venues, your building." He's watching something over your shoulder while he talks, speaking low, barely moving his lips. "He's been tracking schedules. Getting close through staff. Through fan channels." A pause. "He followed the tour to Spain."
The city keeps moving.
You stand in the middle of it and feel the ground shift beneath you in a way that has nothing to do with the pavement.
"You knew," you say.
"Yes."
"Since when?"
"Before we left."
"And you—" The words come out thin. "You didn't tell me."
"We made a judgment call about how much information—"
"You let me walk around another country." Your voice is very quiet. Quieter than anger. Quieter than fear. It's gone past both of those things. "For a whole day. Without telling me."
"You were safe. You've been safe. That's what—"
"That is not the point."
He stops.
He knows it isn't. You can see him knowing it, the slight drop in his shoulders, the way the professional scaffolding takes a visible effort to maintain.
"I know," he says.
Just that. Just I know, and the weight of it, and his face in the streetlight looking more tired than you've ever seen it.
You stand there for a moment longer. The fear is still arriving, still settling into you in pieces you can't fully take in yet — four months, your building, Spain.
The extra team at the house. The way he never relaxed for a second on the plane. The constant scanning, the earpiece, the later, the way he kept putting distance between the two of you right up until the moment he couldn't.
Fear. Disguised as control.
"Steve," you say, and your voice has changed.
"We need to keep moving," he says, but he's looking at you now, not over your shoulder, and the look is different from any version of it you've seen today.
"I know," you say. "I will. Just—" You take a breath. Let it out. "You should've told me."
"I know," he says again.
"And we're going to talk about it properly."
A pause. "Yeah," he says quietly. "We are."
He takes one more look at whatever he's been watching over your shoulder. His hand settles at your back, light and careful and entirely different from the grip of ten minutes ago.
"There's a restaurant," he says. "Two streets over. I want you inside."
You glance at him sideways. "You want me to eat."
"I want you somewhere contained where I can see the door." A pause. "And I want you to eat."
"How long have you been planning the restaurant?"
He says nothing, which means since before you got on the plane, which means even while he was deciding not to tell you there was something to be frightened of, he was working out where he'd take you when you found out.
You walk. His hand stays at your back.
The city moves around you, warm and beautiful and entirely indifferent, and somewhere behind you in the crowd — though you won't know this until later, until Steve tells you — a man who has been watching you for four months watches you walk away.
—
The restaurant is small and warm and smells of garlic and wine and the particular amber comfort of a room that has been full of people eating good food for a long time.
Steve pauses inside the entrance.
You don't say anything while he reads the room. You watch him do it now with different eyes — exits, sightlines, the man at the bar who gets a second look before being apparently filed away. The corner table, half-shielded from the rest of the room, that he guides you toward with a hand at your back and a matter-of-factness that means he'd already decided on it before you got here.
He pulls your chair out. Sits opposite you, facing the door. Looks exhausted.
"How bad is it?" you ask, when the waiter has come and gone and the menus are sitting untouched between you.
He pours you both a glass of water from the carafe.
"Steve."
"He's been escalating," he says carefully. "The early attempts were opportunistic. More recently, they've been—" He pauses, choosing words. "More deliberate. Better planned."
"He followed us here."
"We believe so."
"You believe so."
"We're working to confirm."
You look at the candle between you. At the wax pooling around the wick. At the way the light catches the rim of the water glass and throws a small, bent circle of brightness onto the tablecloth.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask. It isn't a question exactly. More like thinking out loud.
"We determined that if you knew, your movements would change. The way you carry yourself in public, the decisions you make about where to go. Small tells. Enough to make the operation less—" He stops. "I wanted to keep your behaviour as natural as possible."
"My behaviour," you say.
"Yes."
"So I was the variable you were managing."
Something crosses his face. "That's not—"
"I know it's not." You look up at him. "I know that's not what you meant. I'm not—" You exhale slowly. "I understand the logic. I just also think that I had a right to know someone was following me into another country, and those two things can both be true at the same time."
He holds your gaze.
"Yes," he says. "They can."
You pick up your water glass. Put it down again.
"How long?" you ask. "Before you were going to tell me."
"I thought if I could get you through the trip—" He stops. "I hadn't planned past the trip."
"That's not like you."
"No," he agrees, and the word is very quiet. "It's not."
You look at him across the table. At the exhaustion sitting in the lines of his face, deeper now in the candlelight than in the city outside. At his hands resting near the table — stiller than they've been all day.
"You've been scared," you say.
He doesn't answer.
"Not of the job. You're not scared of the job." You keep your voice even. "You've been scared of something happening to me specifically."
The candle flickers. Somewhere in the restaurant, a table laughs at something.
Steve looks at the tablecloth for a moment. Then back up at you.
"I'm trained for threat management," he says carefully. "This is a high-value threat situation. The fear is—"
"Steve."
He stops.
"Is it just professional?" you ask.
A long pause. His finger taps once against the table and goes still.
"You're spiralling," he says, which is an avoidance, and you both know it, and he seems to know that you know it, because something shifts in his expression immediately afterward. Something like a person who is very tired of holding a very specific thing at a very careful distance.
"I thought you were pulling away from me," you say quietly. "All week. I thought I'd done something, or that I'd — read something wrong, between us. I thought you were trying to make me feel it."
"No," he says immediately.
"I know. I know that now." You hold his gaze. "But I want you to know what it looked like from where I was standing."
He's very still.
"I couldn't—" He keeps stopping. Starts again. "I needed to keep my head clear. And you—" Another stop. "It's harder to keep my head clear around you than it should be. And when I'm worried about you on top of that—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.
The candle keeps burning.
Across the table, Steve looks at you with an expression you are going to be sorting through for a very long time — tired, unguarded, careful in a way that isn't professional at all, that is in fact the opposite of professional, that is the look of someone who has been trying very hard not to look like this for quite a long time.
The restaurant moves around you, warm and indifferent, full of people having ordinary evenings. The food arrives eventually, and Steve orders for you without asking because he knows what you'll eat when you're not quite yourself, which is a thing you've never told him and a thing he knows anyway. The conversation becomes lighter, or tries to — he steers it gently toward tomorrow, toward practical things, away from the precipice you've both been standing at.
But before you leave, before the plates are cleared and the cheque is paid, he looks at you across the table and says:
"I should have told you."
"Yes," you say.
"I was trying to protect you."
"I know." You hold his gaze. "Next time, tell me anyway."
"Okay," he says.
The night air hits you when you step outside.
It's warmer than it should be for this hour — Barcelona holding onto the day's heat long past the point where it has any right to, the stone buildings releasing it slowly into the dark. The restaurant door swings shut behind you, and the noise inside cuts off, and the street opens up around you.
Steve steps out beside you.
His hand finds the small of your back before he's even fully through the door, warm and unhurried, the way it's been finding you all evening. And you let it be there, which is its own kind of answer to the things neither of you said properly over dinner.
You start walking.
The city is beautiful in the way it's been beautiful all evening — completely, effortlessly, the way places are when they don't know you're watching. Couples lean over balcony railings overhead. A table outside a bar erupts in laughter about something.
You watch all of it and feel it at a slight remove.
Because underneath the warm night and the lights and the smell of the ocean still on your skin from the beach, you're walking through a city where someone has been watching you. Someone who knows your face well enough to have followed you here. Who has been in the background of your life for four months without your knowledge.
The knowing changes the texture of everything.
Every stranger who glances up as you pass. Every figure standing slightly still while the crowd moves around them. Every face you don't recognise, which is all of them, which is everyone on this street.
Steve's hand stays at your back, and you stay close, and neither of you mention it.
"How far?" you ask.
"Ten minutes. Twelve."
"Direct route?"
"Mostly."
Mostly means no. Mostly means he's already mapped an alternative and is running the calculation on which one is safer at this hour with this crowd density. You know that now. You know what all of it means now.
You nod and keep walking.
The main drag thins after a few minutes, the crowd dispersing into quieter streets that run back toward the hotel. Restaurants give way to apartment buildings with lit windows, small local bars below. The pavements narrow. The noise softens into something more ambient.
Steve hasn't spoken since you left the restaurant.
This isn't unusual. But this silence has a different quality to it — alert in a way that resting silences aren't, pointed, doing something.
You glance at him.
He's watching the street ahead with the precision you've seen him apply to terminals and arrivals and the open exposure of public venues. The scan moving constantly across doorways and side streets and the gaps between parked cars, so practised it barely registers as movement.
"Steve," you say quietly.
"I know," he says, before you've finished.
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"I know." He glances at you once. "Keep walking. We're close."
Something underneath his voice makes you close your mouth.
You keep walking.
You're two streets from the hotel when the man steps out of the crowd.
He comes from the right, stepping around one of the outdoor restaurant tables, slightly awkward, like he's been waiting for the right gap in the foot traffic. Dark jacket. Cap pulled low enough to shadow most of his face. Ordinary in every surface detail — height, build, the unremarkable quality of someone designed to blend.
Except that he doesn't pass. He slows. He looks at you.
And it isn't the usual recognition. You know the usual recognition by now — the shape it makes as it moves across a stranger's face, the double-take, the recalibration, the flutter of a person encountering someone they know from everywhere. It has a specific progression to it. Surprise, adjustment, the decision of whether to approach.
This man skips all of it.
He looks at you the way you look at something you've been trying to reach for a very long time. Not surprise. Not the recalibration.
Relief.
Something moves down the back of your neck before your brain has caught up enough to explain it. Beside you, Steve has already changed.
The hand at your back is different now, the pressure of it, and the quality of his presence beside you shifts in the same instant that the man slows. Like two things recognising each other across a pavement.
The man smiles.
"Oh, my god." His voice is warm, and it lands wrong, like he's been practising this. "It's actually you."
"She's not available tonight," Steve says. Pleasant. Professional. Carrying something very cold underneath it. "Enjoy your evening."
The man doesn't look at Steve.
This is what makes your pulse jump. He looks at you, and only you. You’ve been the only thing in this man's field of vision since he stepped out of the crowd, and everything else on the street, including Steve, who simply does not exist to him.
"I just wanted to say hello," he says, still to you. "I've been wanting to do that for such a long time."
"Thank you," you say, neutral, controlled, the voice you use when you need something to end. "Have a great night."
You move.
He moves with you.
No blocking or grabbing — nothing that looks like anything from the outside. Just walking beside you, keeping your pace, like this is a natural continuation of a conversation between two people who know each other.
"I've been following everything," he says, with the same conversational warmth. "Since the beginning. Since before anyone knew who you were." A small pause, loaded. "You never noticed me."
The grammar of it turns your stomach. Not I was watching you. Not I followed you. Just — you never noticed me, as if your not noticing is the aberration, as if his watching is the natural state of things, and your unawareness has been a kind of failing.
"Step back," Steve says.
The pleasant surface is completely gone from his voice.
What replaces it is something you've never heard from him and cannot fully name — flat and very quiet, stripped down entirely to its own meaning.
Several people nearby glance over without knowing why.
The man looks at Steve for the first time.
You watch him assess. You watch him run the calculation — Steve's height, Steve's shoulders, the expression on Steve's face that you can see from here and that you have never seen on him before. And you watch him arrive at his answer. Steve is an obstacle. Obstacles can be dealt with. He files Steve accordingly and looks back at you.
"I just want to talk to her," he says. Still pleasant.
"Step back," Steve says again. Identical. No variation.
The man's eyes come back to you and soften in a way that makes your skin feel wrong.
"You always talked about Spain," he says, and his voice has dropped now, intimate, like a secret being shared between two people in a room with no one else in it. "That interview. The one where you said you wanted to go somewhere and disappear." A pause that he lets sit. "I remembered."
Cold moves through you in a slow, complete wave.
You do remember it. Distantly. A press junket, years ago, a throwaway sentence said in a room full of lights and microphones, the kind of thing you say without thinking because you say dozens of things without thinking and they dissolve into the air the moment they leave your mouth.
Not for him.
He held it. He carried it here.
"I've been waiting," he says.
Steve says your name.
Your name, the way only a handful of people have ever said it, the version that means something has changed, and before you've consciously decided anything, you're already moving — your body responding to something in his voice that bypasses thought entirely.
His hand closes around your arm and moves you back in one immediate motion, behind him, and the last fraction of the professional surface lifts away from him all at once and what replaces it is something you didn't know was there, something that has been underneath everything for eight months, and you understand standing behind him that you have been shown a very small and very managed portion of what Steve Harrington actually is.
"Last chance," Steve says.
The man looks at you over Steve's shoulder.
"You don't have to let him speak for you," he says softly.
His hand moves inside his jacket.
There is no clean sequence to what happens next.
Your brain stops recording in order. What you'll have instead, in the weeks and months after, are pieces. Disconnected. Without reliable before or after, without cause and effect — just a series of images that exist in isolation, no thread between them.
The glint of it first. Light catching metal — the bar window behind him throwing a brief reflection off the blade before it fully clears his jacket — and your body knows what it is before your mind does, your body having apparently always known things your mind takes longer to catch.
Steve moving.
This is the image that stays longest. Steve moving in a way he has never moved in front of you. Something with no gap in it. He crosses the distance between himself and the man in what feels like no time at all, and the man barely gets his arm up before Steve is already inside it.
The sound of the first impact.
Nothing like how it sounds in films. Closer and flatter and more final than that.
Then pain.
Hot and immediate and shockingly personal, arriving along your left side beneath your ribs at a slight delay, like your body needed a second to process the information and report back.
You look down.
Your hand goes there automatically, pressing against the source of the heat, and when you lift your palm your fingers are dark in the light of the street.
You look at them.
You look at them for what is probably three seconds and feels like considerably longer, the world having narrowed down to the dark of your own hand, and then someone is shouting somewhere nearby, and the world expands again.
You don't fall.
Your back finds the wall of the building behind you — how you get there, you can't account for, whether you moved or someone moved you — and you stand against it with your hand pressed to your side and you watch what's happening in the narrow street in front of you.
Steve has the man against the opposite wall.
The man's jacket is bunched at the collar in Steve's grip, the knife on the pavement between them, and Steve is speaking directly into his face in a voice too low to carry. You can't hear the words. You're not sure they're words in any conventional sense.
Then Steve steps back and hits him.
The sound travels down the street, and the people nearby stop. A woman at a table outside a restaurant rises halfway from her chair. Someone's phone comes out. The sounds of a normal Friday night pause.
The man slides down the wall. He gets one hand beneath himself. Tries to rise.
Steve hits him again.
The pavement is rough-textured beneath the soles of your shoes, you notice this, you notice this specific detail with extraordinary clarity while the rest of the world feels muted and slowed. The pavement. The particular grittiness of it. The way your hand is shaking slightly against your side. The warm wet of it.
The man tries to cover his face.
Steve moves his arm aside.
And this — this — is the part your brain keeps returning to in the aftermath, the part that won't leave you alone. Not the knife. Not the blood on your hand. The specific quality of what Steve is doing, which is not the quality of rage.
Rage has a disorganisation to it, a loss of structure, something coming apart at the seams. This is not that. This is something that knows exactly what it's doing and has made a decision to keep doing it, and the decision is not unconscious. Every movement is efficient. Precise. Chosen.
That's what frightens you most.
The choosing.
The man on the pavement has stopped fighting back.
Steve has not stopped.
"Harrington."
Carter's voice, from somewhere to your right. Sharp and low, the voice of someone issuing an instruction to a specific person.
Steve doesn't stop.
"Harrington." Closer now. Carter is moving across the pavement toward him, and another figure is with him, and then a third, and it takes all three of them, it takes the physical weight of all three of them stepping in and getting between Steve and the man, and Carter's hand on his arm and another on his shoulder and the word again, twice, three times, before Steve finally steps back.
He breathes.
His chest moves with it, visible from here.
The man on the pavement makes a sound. Someone from the team steps over to him, says something into a radio. The street has rearranged itself around the event — the circle of onlookers at a careful distance, the phones raised, the low collective murmur of people trying to process what they just witnessed.
Steve looks at the man on the ground for a moment.
Then he turns.
His eyes find you the way they always find you. The same automatic thing, the same immediate locating, the compass-point of it that you've felt a hundred times without fully registering until now. And his face — for just a moment, before he gets anything back under control — shows you everything.
Not what he just did.
The fear of this. Of your face. Of what your face is doing right now and what it means.
He starts toward you. You press back against the wall like there’s any room.
It happens before you decide to. Your shoulders push back into the stone and your feet shift and the distance between you and him, which has been closing, opens again, and he stops.
He stops so completely, and so instantly, it looks involuntary.
Two feet between you. Maybe three.
He looks at you.
You look at him, and you look at his hands, and you look at the cut above his eyebrow that is bleeding freely now, a dark line running down into the hollow of his temple and along his jaw, a bright split in the skin that someone is going to have to close.
His knuckles are split, the skin torn across two of them, blood welling and running between his fingers and dropping, very slowly, to the pavement. His jacket sits wrong at the shoulder where the seam has given. There is a bruise already rising through the skin below his cheekbone, dark and fast the way bruises are when something has hit with real force.
He looks like something happened to him, too.
He looks like a stranger.
He looks like Steve.
You don't know how both of those things can be true at the same time, but they are.
"Hey," he says.
Low and careful. The voice you know. The specific voice that has been talking you through things for eight months, the one that cuts the size of a room down to something manageable, the one that you have been relying on to locate yourself by.
It reaches you, and you feel it reach you, and you feel it fail to land.
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
He watches this happen. Watches you try and fail, and watches whatever follows that on your face.
"Okay," he says, very quietly. "Okay."
He takes one slow step toward you. Stops. Holds his hands out at his sides — low, palms open, not reaching for anything. The gesture is so deliberate that it must cost him something.
You look at his hands.
You look at his open palms.
You look at the blood across his knuckles.
"I need to see your side," he says. "Can I do that?"
The asking costs him too. You can hear it. Steve doesn't ask permission for things — he moves, he acts, he makes decisions and executes them. The asking is what he has available to him right now, and he is using it because he has looked at your face and understood something and adjusted himself to it, and you know this, you know exactly what he's doing and why, and it doesn't help the way it's supposed to help.
You nod. Barely. Your chin drops a fraction of an inch.
He moves to you carefully, and he reaches out and moves your hand gently, just enough, and looks at what's underneath.
"It's not deep," he says, and his voice is controlled with visible effort now. "Caught you along the surface. You need stitches, you need it cleaned, but—" He looks up. Meets your eyes. "This is okay. You're going to be okay."
You look at his face.
You look at the blood on his face, the rise of the bruise below his cheekbone, the cut above his eye still running freely. You look at his mouth, which is forming words. You look at his eyes, which are doing the thing they do — the thing that has always made you feel located, anchored, like you exist in a specific place, and he’s confirmed it.
It doesn't anchor you right now.
Right now it just confirms the distance.
"Can you tell me your name?" he asks, and the question is so unexpected that something in you flinches. It's a grounding technique. You know it's a grounding technique. He's asking because you haven't spoken and your eyes have gone somewhere he can't follow, and he’s trying to bring you back with the simplest possible tool.
You know all of this.
You still can't answer.
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. "Okay," he says, for the second time, third time, like the word is the only one he has access to right now, like he's using it to hold the space while he figures out what comes next.
"Say something," he says quietly. "Anything."
Nothing.
You watch his face do something again. The flicker of it — something afraid, not of the man on the ground behind him, not of what just happened, but of this, of the silence you're giving him, of the step you took back against the wall — and he buries it quickly but not quickly enough. You see it and you can't speak and you don't know if you're ever going to be able to speak again in any way that matters.
"You're in shock," he says. "That's okay. That's—" He stops. His hand lifts toward your face, hovering for a moment near your jaw, not touching, giving you every possible chance to move away from it, and then his fingers brush very lightly against your cheek, checking for something, temperature maybe, responsiveness, the professional assessment underneath the personal need of it.
You don't move away.
But you don't move toward either.
His hand drops.
He takes the cloth from his inside jacket pocket — the folded cloth that he had ready, that he prepared, that he has been carrying since before you got on the plane because he plans for everything including this specific contingency — and he presses it carefully to your side and your hand comes up automatically to hold it there and for one second his hand stays over yours, warm and steady and entirely there.
Then it's gone.
He straightens.
"Talk to me," he says. Almost a request. Almost not. "Please."
You look at him.
You have nothing to give him. Not because you don't want to. Not because you've decided to withhold it.
He sees this.
That is the entire foundation of every interaction you have ever had with him. He plans. He prepares. He acts. He has a folder with colour-coded tabs for every contingency, and he had a cloth in his inside pocket, and none of that has prepared him for the silence you are giving him right now. You can see it on his face.
"Okay," he says again, and you might kill him for it.
Carter arrives.
He comes in from your left and stops beside you, and he looks at your side, then your face. He looks at Steve, and something passes between them that you don't follow.
"Ambulance is ninety seconds," Carter says.
Steve nods.
"Can you walk?" Carter asks you. "Just to the end of the street."
You look at him and nod also.
"Good," he says, simply, and he puts a hand under your elbow, careful and neutral, and he begins to guide you gently away from the wall.
You go with him.
Your feet move. One and then the other.
You don't look back.
Carter keeps your pace, says something quietly into his earpiece, and at the end of the street the ambulance is pulling up, its lights running blue and white against the buildings, casting everything in alternating colour.
Two paramedics come toward you, and there are hands and voices and questions in accented English, and you answer them, short and accurate, because you know how to do this, you have always known how to do this, the functioning of the exterior while the interior is somewhere inaccessible.
The ambulance doors are open.
There is a step into the inside. It's white and bright and smells of antiseptic, and the narrowness of it closes around you. Carter says something to the paramedics, and one of them is already cutting back the fabric at your side. You let them, you let all of it happen, because your job right now is to let things happen and not to think.
You don't think. Except that you do.
In the three seconds before the doors close, you look.
You don't decide to. You just do.
Steve is at the end of the short street.
He hasn't moved. He is standing exactly where Carter guided you away from him — torn jacket, blood drying dark on his jaw, the cut above his eye still running, hands at his sides — and he is looking at you through the open ambulance doors with an expression that you have no reference for in eight months of knowing him.
Just — him. Just his face. Just the fear in it that he's not doing anything to hide, not from this distance, not anymore.
The doors close.
White light. The smell of it. The sound of equipment and the murmur of the paramedics working.
The ambulance moves.
You face forward, and you press the cloth to your side. You breathe, you feel Barcelona moving underneath you, and you feel the distance between you and that end of the street growing with every second.
You breathe.
The image stays with you.
It will stay with you for a long time — Steve at the end of the street, hands at his sides, not following, blood drying on his jaw, looking at you through the gap in the closing doors with everything showing on his face that he's spent eight months keeping very carefully off it.
jason is about to start going on his diet to reveal the muscles he’d been meticulously building for months. just hiding beneath a layer of delicious pudge you loved dearly.
but secretly, you don’t want him to.
you’d miss the warmth that his body radiates off of him and how secure you felt in his arms at night. how soft his chest was with the extra cushion he’d had, though you loved how strong he felt beneath it all too. or how good he looked in the morning when he’d stretch, and his shirt would raise enough for you to get a look of his abdomen and the happy trail leading to—
“you’re staring again,” he says, snapping you out of it.
“sorry, can’t help it,” sighing as you sit up on your bed, comforter gripped tight in your hands. “i am enjoying the show.”
he makes the same face he always makes, the one that pretends that he’s annoyed but you both know he’s not.
slowly, his resolve crumbles and a smirk emerges as he walks back towards the bed. his hand extends towards you to catch your wrist, fingers wrapping effortlessly around and tugging it up toward his lips. he kisses the back of your hand and stares at you through his half lidded eyes, the whole time.
when you decide you wanted to go to the gym with him, you end up gawking at him the whole time. jason’s got the barbell over his head and benching at least six plates on either side. groaning at the last couple reps while you stand by the mirror ahead of him, dumbbell in your hand doing the worlds slowest bulgarian split squats.
after he wiped his sweat, you notice his gaze on you this time. he moves closer with some of his own dumbbells and his presence looms over you like a protective shield. it wasn’t even leg day for him, but he always stays near you like a human barrier. jason starts to work in with you, the weight in his arms a ridiculous size and amount that it looked difficult to carry. but jason didn’t look like he was struggling at all.
“hmm, like this baby.” he coos from behind you. one of his hands slipping to your thigh and the other beneath your elbow. “breathe a little deeper and drive your knees out.”
then he sets up the smith machine with no hesitation, lifting up the plates and putting them on the bar for you. he encourages you to lift heavier, says he knows you can do a little more than that. from behind you, his hard body was unmistakable, pressing against your ass. he groans when you make a movement. his warm breath by your ear was entirely distracting but you did your reps, finished your sets, and stole glances at him through the mirror only to find him already staring. you bite your lip to contain yourself, but what the fuck is the use anyway?
“see something you like?” he asks when he catches you for the nth time, shit eating grin plastered on his perfect face.
you barely make it to the change room.
tugging on the drawstrings of his sweatpants while he moans lowly into your mouth. he shuts the door with one arm while the other holds you up against him. he knows you don’t like to touch communal spaces, no matter how clean your gym may be. so jason holds you up against him, pulling your weight back into him over and over. moving your hips until you’re grinding back against him while his hands on your hips keep you firmly planted there. though he second guesses himself still and he watches you intensely.
“are you sure you’re good ma? we can go home.”
you shake your head vigorously, tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck to bring his mouth closer to yours. “i’m not waiting jay.”
when you fucked like this, it was an out of body experience.
mostly because jason held your weight and his own like no problem and there was nothing to dwell on but how it felt. he places a large palm over your mouth when he guides his length through your soaked folds. dragging it up and teasing before pushing inside like he belonged. he let you moan into his hand and watched your eyes roll back in your skull. he shushes you by your ear.
“i know baby, i know.” groaning out quietly as he prods to fit himself in. “fuck— you’re so tight.”
tears prickling at your eyes already, you shake your head slowly while his hips make slow circling movements. “it’s cause you’re so big.”
jason smiles wide, hips thrusting in a little meaner as he watches you try grind back against him, but still not to the hilt yet. “yeah? i’m big? but you like that shit don’t you?”
you’re nodding through the haze of pleasure, nails gripping his back as he continue fucking you slowly through it. not even fully inside but giving you half just to pull it away. it was like being manhandled in the gentlest way possible. his strength unmatched and his body intentional, grinding his hips back into you over and over just feeding a few inches before taking it away. waiting to see you whisper in his ear that you need more, desperation evident.
then he waits until he sees the tears by your eyes start to dissipate before he gives you anymore. feeding another inch inside you, his eyes dropping to watch him splitting you open. but even after taking him before this, you weren’t used to his size.
“jay, it’s too much.” you gasp out, the feeling overwhelming. “it won’t fit.” too much and not enough at the same time.
“you’ve done this before ma.” jason tsks, “and said you could handle it. so you can take it yeah baby?”
his voice deliciously sensual already. you cave immediately. your lip trembles and you nod to let him continue. immediately you moan out loud enough for someone to hear and jason clasps his palm right over your mouth again. but he doesn’t coo you through it, his eyes stay piercing yourself and his rhythm picks up and pushes himself deeper. choking on his own spit at how you felt around around him but his hold on you remained tight. he stays buried for a minute to stare at you, watch you catch your breath and adjust to his size.
“can you move please?” you’ll ask breathlessly and he’ll shake his head.
“remember what i said baby. deep breaths.” mimicking what he meant, he watches you. breathing deep and letting it out harshly. when you copy him he smiles. “there you go ma.”
then he shifts his hips again and you lose your train of thought. more intense than it usually is, every movement he makes feels like it drags through you. like you’re pulsating around him and he purposefully continues. but his hands still on your mouth when he realizes that you’re close and he pushes further like he could reach the depths of you. kissing your cervix effortlessly while he moves you head to bite at his shoulder. cause it only felt like the good kind of pain, he’d say.
jason would feel his high approaching and whisper sweet nothings in your ear, reminding you how much he loves you like he wasn’t taking you apart without breaking a sweat, yet. his flush top with the perfect curve, hitting sweet spots everytime. it was a good idea to make you bite down on something.
groaning into your hair, he lifts you sloppily up and down on him, creating the perfect friction. he almost whines when you clamp around him and whisper that you can’t hold on.
he pants by your ear and his voice is huskier than when he’s not like this. “gonna fuck you so full. take you again when we’re home.”
entirely feral just as you are for him, jason caves and sputters when you wrap your legs around him tighter. he’s just as gone as you and you’re practically begging him to follow through on his words. when you finally let go, that’s when he does too. shooting rope after rope and painting you deep from the inside. like the most beautiful and precious thing he’d ever held, he holds you through it.
his hips with a mind of his own, continuing to thrust up into even when your legs wobble around him. he keeps one arm around your waist, firm and stable while the other rests on the wall to keep him upright as he loses himself completely. still sloppily pushing back into you when you whimper and drop your head against his. that’s when he finally stills and pulls your hair gently, just enough to see your face again.
then he kisses you with all the sweetness the world has to offer. he deepens it as he eases you with both arms now, and keeps your legs around him so you don’t fall. letting lips trail down to your neck to leave gentle bites.
when the door gets knocked on hard, the voice that followed made both of your faces burn. suddenly it occurs to both of you that anyone could’ve heard you. roy’s voice is whisper yelling but you’re sure anyone could’ve heard him with how thin the walls are.
“please stop fucking so i can change outta my trunks. i’m chafing over here.”
saw you’re making jason todd reqs can you write him with a reader who’s always sleepy and tired and jason’s just so gentle and takes care of her especially during yeah
safe and sound. ⨾ Jason Todd ¹⁸⁺
pairing: Jason Todd x reader
summary: You were always tired from the stress and life, good thing Jason knows you so well to please you even when you're sleepy.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, flufffff, established relationship, jason is a gentleman, soft sleepy sex, jason todd is a consent king, almost no dialogues, unprotected p in v sex, creampie.
wc: 1.7k words.
a/n: i am so sorry for only making this one now nonnie!!! i love the request so much i wanted to make a drabble but it turned out longer. also yes this made me wanna cry bcs i want him so bad.
masterlist
For how ferocious he looks and acts to others, somehow, Jason Todd is the most tender person you know.
Like when you had a restless night where sleep just won’t come, his deep and gravelly voice would be a balm to your heart and mind, lulling you to sleep in an instant as he talked about anything and everything—from a childhood story, to a cat he met during patrol last week.
Mornings were a ritual where he’d wake up first, already washing up, ready in the kitchen to brew some coffee for the day. He would never wake you up on purpose unless you prompt him the night before.
When you’re sick? It feels like his tenderness triples—no, it was times a hundred. He would fuss out of love. He’d cook your favorite soup, brew some tea with a hint of honey for your sore throat. He would never mind if you were dampening the sheets underneath you as you sweat the fever out when you sleep, immediately changing the soft cotton the moment you wake up so you won’t feel chafed.
Even when you’re needy—he’d know your cues. Your eyes would flicker with a certain kind of look, filled with craving and, most of all, love. Jason would immediately ask what you want, however you want it, even if it’s full-on rough or lazy and soft. anything, he’d be there to make it come true.
And you’re someone who was always halfway to sleep. During the day, even after a full night of slumber, it’s even worse when your job gets in the way of your rest. It’s not laziness, more of an exhaustion already set deep inside your bones after the long shifts and the late nights, and not to mention, well, life.
Jason always noticed, though. When your eyes would droop slower, or when your hums became softer—he’d be there to guide you to bed in an instant. arms wrapping your frame, fingers absentmindedly running along your back as your breath settled and deepened.
Again, Jason Todd is the infamous anti-hero, Red Hood. known to fight brutally, have no mercy, always so sharp and savage. But to you, he’s just… Jason.
Soft and gentle Jason.
just like tonight, where you came into his flat soaked—your hood, tired and soaked from Gotham’s rain, and dripping onto his welcome mat. body shivering to no end ever since you realized how you forgot to pack your pocket umbrella into your bag.
He was already there. Sharp features highlighted by the only warm lamp lighting the whole living room, his scars—proof of his years of vigilante work—gleaming under it. He looked up at the sound of the lock turning, his face immediately etched in worry as he saw your state.
He stood up, went to his bathroom to get a towel, and began taking care of you as if it were routine. He helped you out of your soaked jacket, untied your shoes, and undressed you before leading you onto the couch, where he’d gently pat your hair dry.
His presence was warm as he carefully slipped you into fresh clothes, kissing your cheeks and your forehead wordlessly—but you could feel how much he was saying through the things he did.
He sits close beside you after. thumb finding the back of your hand, brushing your knuckles like he was remembering each bump as he recalled his day. You’d nod off, body leaning towards his—chasing his comfort. He would make sure to adjust himself so you won’t feel uncomfortable too.
And then he sees it the moment your eyes flicker towards him for just a beat. Though hidden underneath the exhaustion, it was there—the desire, burning lowly in your eyes, just enough for it to make his stomach clench.
So he asked gently, fingers brushing your cheekbone. “wanna sleep or do you want me?”
You felt the knot in your heart unravel. relieved that Jason understood you so much to read you so precisely, and also asked the questions before you both started something. And you know that you can be honest with him. no matter the answer, he won’t be disappointed. If you say sleep, he would tuck you in and stay—but if you say him, he would make it his life goal to make you feel satisfied.
You answered with a soft “yes”, reaching out to him.
He took it as an invitation, slowly leading you into the bedroom—not rushing you once. He matched every movement, every rhythm of your breath, so attentive.
When he softly laid you down on the bed, he lowered himself over you. His fingers brushed along your cheeks once more, thumb mapping out your lips, before he kissed you, so softly it almost made all the worry—tiredness in you all disappear.
The thing is, sex with Jason when you’re sleepy is never loud, never rough, and performative. It would start quietly, with kisses that let you know he was there fully. The way his fingers moved would make you feel safe to just to let everything go.
He would carefully strip you out of your fresh pajamas, kissing every inch of your newly exposed skin. When you’re both naked, he’d watch you—study you as if it was the first time you shared this kind of intimacy.
the way your face flushed, your chest rising more than normal, lips parted in anticipation—yet your eyes were still half-lidded, both from the sleepiness and need.
You look vulnerable and trusting.
But he wasn’t the type to take advantage in that. With each motion, he’d uttered the words.
“Is this okay?”
“Tell me if you want me to slow down.”
“Squeeze my hand if it’s too much.”
His voice stays constant with tenderness because he knows that when you’re sleepy, your consent often comes in tiny gestures: nods, soft sighs, and words breathed out, a subtle but visible clench of your thighs—he has learned all of it.
So when you spread wide and prop your legs up on his hips, he knows that you’re fully ready.
He’d stroke his thick and hard cock gently to spread the precum from his tip—already there the moment he saw how much you needed him—before kissing you once more. His fingers skimming your ribs, down to your hipbones.
You let out a soft gasp as his swollen tip finally grazes your sensitive clit. walls fluttering immediately from the tiny sensation he gave.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded, and he finally served. The moan you let out was the loudest one tonight as he began stretching you open inch by inch. His lips stayed close against your face, where they would kiss the furrow in your brows when you feel the delicious burn simmering in your guts.
He also let out the most unraveling sound as his own body shuddered. a deep guttural groan against your neck when his cock was buried to the hilt. “You always feel so good, sweetheart…”
He settled his pace. deep and slow, not once rushing. He’d learn when to pull and push in again from the way your lips let out soft breaths and your walls clenching.
And again, he’d make sure you’re still in it. If your eyelids fall, he’d murmurs soft words until you lift your eyes to look at him again. If you drift mid-kiss, he’d brush his thumb along the slow pulse of your neck, grazing it to make you more alert.
“Feel me, okay? look at me…”
He said before kissing you. Your arms would wrap around him, chasing his peacefulness as if you can’t get enough of the feeling of his body on yours. moans grew louder as the coil inside you was pulled more and more with each gentle thrust of his hips against yours.
He felt it. the way your cunt would flutter around him more frequently, how your eyes would roll back, your back arching—closing the gap between you more and more.
You finally came with a soft surrender rather than an explosive passion. a soft yet echoing exhale that made your body tremble. a small, unguarded sound as your body jolts in pleasure. The arms around him tightened with every clamping flutter of your walls, clinging onto him like he was a lifeline.
And he followed closely. The way your cunt gripped his cock, making him lose his composure—ending in him spilling his milky seed inside you with a louder moan. His own body trembled with the overwhelming pressure—no matter how subtle it is compared to the more detonating sex you’ve had before.
He kissed you again softly, muttering even softer words of gratitude and affection. When he pulled out, he was on his feet instantly. running a washcloth under the sink in his bathroom, making sure it’s the perfect temperature. When he came back, he saw how you were practically half asleep.
He’d carefully clean the sticky mess between your thighs, the sweat that made your hair stick on your forehead, before planting a lingering kiss there as well.
Pulling a stray shirt he threw earlier, he’d gently straighten you up to pull it over your head. then a fresh pair of panties from the dresser, and also boxers for himself. No shirt though, he knew how much you enjoyed the feeling of his bare skin as you slept.
His hand carefully tucked you under the sheets afterward, making sure you felt no cold throughout the night, before following you. His arms wrapped around your shoulders, cocooning you into the safety that is Jason.
You could only smile as you watched him, too exhausted to do anything else. but god, does he make you feel like you were the most cherished person in this world.
He’d murmured words like a lullaby. silly stories, gentle promises, I love yous. If you finally talk half-asleep about your worries or what happened throughout the day, he would listen—answering at the right times and without ever rushing you.
And with each day with him, you learn his roughness is an armor he wears for everyone else but you.
summary: one thing you and your fiancé have in common: you both hate people meddling in your business. it's a good thing gator has a plan to get everyone's hands off of your big day.
tags/warnings: fiancé to husband!gator tillman x reader, no use of y/n, tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship, suggestive content, domestic fluff, elopement, rude!gator (but you love it), soft!gator, use of petnames (mama, baby, sweetheart), use of "stupid" and "woman" as petnames, gator tillman doing anything to make his girl happy
author's note: based on this request, which has the companion proposal fic attached!
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It’s been five months of planning, and you still barely feel ready.
Five months of booking the church you didn’t think was busy enough to require a reservation. Five months of running over menus six times just to make sure the one vegetarian in Lehigh has something edible on their plate. Five months of technicalities and requirements for your wedding you couldn’t care less about.
And the unkillable, unending source of your frustration is that everybody and their mother seems to have an opinion on it. And for five months, everybody and their mother has elected to share those opinions with you.
From the reception hall to the party favors left out on the tables, there hasn’t been a single thing that’s escaped the judgement of the people of this miniscule, insipid town. They’ve dropped by your house with fabric samples; stopped you in the grocery store and absolutely insisted you use their cousin’s flower shop for your arrangements. Roy had even been so bold as to write the entire guest list himself and pass it off to you like a memo. And no matter how many nights you spent sitting between Gator’s legs crying to him about the mountainous stress on your shoulders while he listened and wiped your face of tears, there was nothing either of you could do about it. Lehigh was Lehigh. Everyone was entitled to their opinion, and what was worse was that they knew it.
You couldn’t help but feel a little bitter about it, even now. This was supposed to be your wedding– theoretically, the happiest day of your life. So why were everyone else’s hands all over it?
You knew Gator felt the same way, evidenced by how many times he’d grumbled in your ear over the past weeks that the next person to approach you and give you a direction was about to be told in no uncertain terms to fuck off. He’d even offered to help with some of the planning, which had made you loose an exhausted laugh– Gator planning anything would have been more of a hindrance than a help at this point. You hardly needed the man who couldn’t tell the difference between a rose and a chrysanthemum to be picking out dinnerware with you.
But you got through it– little by little, meltdown by meltdown, you forged forward, slapping away the helping hands clamped onto your shoulders, all with your eyes on this day and this boy and everything everyone told you you were doing wrong about it.
So why is there still a knot in your gut?
You stare back at the dolled-up version of yourself in the vanity mirror of the room you’ve secured for the bridal party, and you hardly recognize your own face. It’s the first moment you’ve had alone all day, and you only barely managed to force your bridesmaids and your mother and Karen out of the room, but it’s less peaceful than you’d thought it would be. Your makeup is flawless, your hair swept halfway up with sprigs of tiny white flowers. Your dress is perfect– just the way you pictured it. And you’re exhausted by all of it.
For a moment, a memory flashes through your mind. One perfect night, some eons ago– right at the beginning of all of this, back when you hadn’t ever pictured you and Gator might be built to last. It was late, and dark, and you were still in your pretty white sundress and the cowboy boots you’d been dancing all night with him in. He was reckless driving, drifting around corners and kicking up dust behind his truck. Country music was blaring from the radio, and you were screaming at the sharp turns, cackling with laughter as you grappled for purchase on the door handles, your hair flying in your face from the wind coming off the open windows.
And Gator was looking over at you, his face split ear to ear in a grin. So consumed with happiness it felt like it was piercing your chest, driving itself straight into your heart, so foolishly open and waiting. And you thought, nobody makes me laugh like this boy.
It didn’t matter that you’d lost track of the number of times you’d been told to stay away from him for your own good. It didn’t matter how many fights you’d already had, even just at the beginning of things between you. It didn’t matter that he called you a tease, mocked you for playing hard to get, just because you were insistent upon hiding your heart from him until you were sure he deserved it. In that moment, country lights blurring by, stretching your legs out into his lap so he could grip your shin, nothing Gator Tillman had been before he met you meant a thing. What mattered was who he could be– who he became on a perfect night, when you got him alone, when he sagged into your arms and admitted his bravado was defeated. You could see it happening, day by day, that change. He was growing toward you slowly, cautiously, like a houseplant that had never learned how to face the sun.
That was the night you finally gave in. You loved him. You’d loved him always. You’d love him forever.
You leaned across the car and tugged his face toward yours for one brief, searing kiss. Gator laughed against you, the noise rasping in his throat. The sound transformed him into a different person– a person he might have been long before he met you, if only life had dealt him a different hand. But he was here now– alive and sweet and grinning. And you grinned right back, unashamed and unhidden.
The memory flutters in your chest, soft and aching. That joy isn’t gone now– you know better than to think that. It’s just buried under miles and miles of stress and anxiety and shit people have been shoving on you for months. It’s too easy sometimes to forget why you wanted all this in the first place.
The door opens somewhere behind you, and you’re glad for the changing screen that stands between you and the doorway– you need a moment to school your face back into bland enthusiasm for whatever new visitor wants to impose upon your time.
“Baby?”
You whip around on your vanity stool, your heart leaping. That’s not Karen, and that’s not your bridesmaids, either. You’d recognize that voice anywhere. “Gator?”
“Hey, mama,” he returns, satisfied. “Where are you?”
“Gate, you can’t be in here,” you hiss. “It’s bad luck– we talked about this.”
“Yeah, and that’s why I couldn’t stay with you last night, either,” he gripes, and you hear his footsteps as he nears. “Stupidest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard.”
You shoot off your stool, equal parts exasperated by his ongoing irreverence with wedding traditions and thrilled he’s actually here. You haven’t seen him all day, or for most of yesterday, and damn it, but you’ve missed him like hell. “It’s not stupid,” you say again, although considering how much you wanted him next to you in bed last night, that argument is a little weak.
“Come out and let me see you,” he says, thankfully staying put on the other side of the screen.
“I can’t,” you tell him, heart pounding in your chest. Something about the one person you’ve been dying to see all day standing feet away from you and not being able to touch him is getting to you. “You can’t see me. We’ll be cursed, or something.”
“You tryin’ to kill me, woman?” he tosses at you. “You’re about to be my wife. I’m gonna see you every damn day. Now get out here and let me look at ‘ya.”
You roll your eyes and loose a reluctant laugh, and mostly because you can’t stand to do anything else, you step gradually out from behind the screen.
Gator looks unfairly good.
His hair is neat, but still loose the way you like it. His brown suit jacket sits crisply over his black dress shirt, the leafy boutonniere with white flowers pinned to his lapel expertly enough you know immediately he didn’t do it himself. There’s a formality to him, a stiffness that betrays how foreign these clothes feel on his body, but he still wears it exceptionally well. And when his dark eyes find you, he smiles at you in the way nobody else ever could.
He reaches out for you immediately, taking both of your hands in his. “Look at you,” he nearly whistles, spreading your hands so he can see you better. “Spin around for me, baby.”
You feel a little silly, but you do as he asks, a blush high on your cheeks. The gauzy, petal-like skirts of your dress swish against your legs as you turn, the short, flowy sleeves tickling your arms. Gator’s hands slip around your waist as you come back to him, and yours find his arms, smoothing over his pristinely ironed sleeves.
“You’re perfect,” he tells you, his eyes glittering as he smiles wider at you.
“Yeah?” you ask gently, a little ashamed to still need the assurance.
“Most beautiful woman in the world,” he affirms, and leans in to press a lingering kiss to your lips. “You make a pretty fuckin’ bride.”
The words send another flutter through your chest, and some of your nerves dissipate. “Karen said the dress makes me look promiscuous,” you inform him sardonically. You’d thought it was absolutely beautiful until she said something, and despite how you joked it off, the comment had been needling at the back of your mind all day.
“Karen’s a bitch from hell,” Gator retorts evenly.
Your lips press together to hide your laugh, your self-consciousness slipping away. “Gate, she’s your stepmother.”
“So?” he intones, dipping his head to kiss the side of your throat. “She’s still a bitch. She’s just jealous.”
“Jealous of me?” you snort.
“Mm,” he agrees, the vibrations travelling along your neck. “You’re younger and prettier and have a tighter ass.”
You huff a breathy laugh, still fighting your sour mood. It’s easier now that Gator’s hands are on you– now that you’re back in his grip. People have never understood how much he lifts your temper, but then, they’ve never been in love with Gator Tillman like you have. You’d take this boy over any of them– over anything in the world.
Gator pulls back, noticing the dryness in your tone. He lifts a hand and pokes your cheek with his knuckle. “What’s with the face, huh?” he asks, and even though he’s still teasing you, a flash of concern is in his eyes. “You thinkin’ ‘bout backing out?”
“You wish,” you joke back, your hands lifting to thread behind his neck.
Gator grins at you. “Come on. You gettin’ cold feet, or what?”
You heave a long sigh, borne on the exhaustion and clamor and stress of the day. “I hate everyone,” you admit, defeated, staring up at him guiltily. “I only like you. And I just want everyone else to fuck off.”
“That’s my girl,” he laughs, pushing in to kiss you again. “You tell ‘em, baby.”
“They don’t listen to me,” you protest weakly, letting him mess up the makeup on your cheek as he nuzzles into it. What the hell– you have time to fix it later, anyway. “Nobody does. I feel like this whole stupid thing is more for them than us.”
“That’s ‘cause it is,” he agrees into your skin. Finally, he pulls back to look at you again, his eyes sweeping down your face and back up. The mischief and humor haven’t left his expression, and they certainly don’t leave when he slips his hand back into yours and retreats a step back toward the door. “Come on.”
You frown, your brow knitting as he pulls you along. “I can’t go out there. Karen’s probably guarding that door like a pitbull.”
“Relax,” Gator intones, dragging you out the door and into the thankfully empty hallway. “How d’you think I got in here?” His head turns left and right, checking for members of your bridal party. He doesn’t find any, and the two of you forge ahead.
You’re amused but compliant as he tugs you down the hallway and towards the front door. You don’t know what insane idea has worked its way into his head, but you’ve learned over the years that it’s always best with Gator to just let it play out. “Where are we going?” you finally ask him as you make it out of the house unnoticed, spearing for his truck, parked in the driveway.
Gator doesn’t glance behind him as he says, “We’re goin’ to get married.”
You snort. “Yeah, I think you’re jumping the gun a little, Alligator. Ceremony’s not till five.”
You reach the truck, and he drops your hand to open the passenger side door for you. He’s grinning again— ear to ear. “Who said anything ‘bout a ceremony?”
Your eyes widen as you stare back at him. “What are you talking about?”
He nods to your seat, not budging. “Get in the car, sweetheart.”
The order leaves no room for debate. A little thrill runs through you at the words– at the realization of what, exactly, his batshit-crazy plan is. You give in quicker than you mean to and climb into the car, and he reaches over to tuck in your dress before shutting the door behind you.
As Gator backs the truck out of its spot in the driveway, you worry your hands, nerves and excitement indistinguishable inside you. “This is so stupid.”
“I can always drop you back off,” Gator threatens mildly, pulling onto the main road and gunning the accelerator.
“It’s our wedding, Gator!” you protest, though an anxious smile is already growing on your face. “We’re running away from our wedding. People are gonna care when they figure out we’re missing.”
“The hell are they gonna do about it?” he deadpans. “You’re my woman. You’re gonna be my wife. I can do what I want with ‘ya.”
“They’re probably gonna come after us on horseback,” you propose, biting at the skin beside your manicured nail.
Gator notices and grabs your hand away from your face, pulling it over to him and wrapping his fingers around it. “Relax, mama. You’re too stressed all the damn time.”
As the landscape of the ranch fades behind you, your smile grows and grows on your face. You can almost feel the expectations lifting one by one off your shoulders, kicked up like the dust behind Gator’s truck.
Gator glances over at you, glimpsing your expression. His own grin spreads, his eyes alight. “Hey, there she is.”
You press your lips together, but it’s a useless endeavor. You feel lighter than you have in months, that bubbling joy of being with him back in your chest with a vengeance. “This is so stupid,” you say again, shaking your head.
Gator huffs a laugh and reaches over to pull your head toward him, planting a kiss on your temple. He ruffles your perfectly-done hair as he lets you go, and you bat him away, your crinkling eyes on the open road.
By the time the truck skids to a stop outside a church you’ve only been to once in the middle of town, the ground is slick with rain.
“Alright, let’s go,” Gator announces plainly, throwing the truck in park and popping his door as casually as if you’re stopped outside a megamart. He comes around the truck and opens your door, too, and you stare past his shoulder at the drizzling rain.
“Gator–” you protest a little. “Gate, it’s raining.”
“So?” he drawls. “You’re not gonna melt like that chick in that stupid movie you showed me.”
“The Wizard of Oz?” You correct him flatly. “You don’t remember the name of The Wizard of– oh!”
Gator cuts you off by planting his hands on your waist and lifting you out of the truck. His arms bunch around your middle, carrying you over the puddle on the ground he sloshes through, uncaring. You yelp as you land unsteadily back on your feet, the icy rain already peppering your skin as he steadies you.
“I’m gonna look like a drowned rat,” you giggle, gripping his arms.
“Y’think that’s gonna stop me?” he teases, then slips his hand into yours again.
Your eyes flick back to the building before you, tall and white and imposing.
“This was the church you wanted, right?” Gator asks, voice low.
You glance over, surprised. “You remember that?”
Gator rolls his eyes. “I listen to you sometimes.”
In the early days of wedding planning, you’d scoured the area for chapels that might meet Gator’s father’s requirements, and this place had checked every single box.
It was large enough to hold all your guests, but not so much as to intimidate; it was close enough to the middle of town that no one would have complained about the commute like they did now with the chapel near the ranch. The pastor was an amenable type of man who would have let you have your wedding any day of the year you wanted.
And, perhaps selfishly, it was stunningly beautiful. Clean white walls, dark oak pews. Stained glass windows cut kaleidoscopically into the walls, and a stark gold crucifix at the altar.
It had been perfect– that is, perfect until Roy determined that he wouldn’t accept anything other than his home parish for the two of you. That decision, more than perhaps anything else these long months, had broken your heart the hardest. It had been the first night you’d cried to Gator about all of this, his fists clenching as he thrashed against that feeling he hated the most– being useless to you.
You shove down the emotion rising in you at the sight of the church– the one real ask you’d had, and the one thing you’d resigned yourself to lose. Emotion at the fact Gator had known what it meant to you, committed it to memory– and brought you here anyway, damning what anyone else thought. This was where he wanted to marry you. This was what he wanted to do: make you happy. Simple, unspoken, and rawer and more passionate for it.
He had always loved big, your Gator. It didn’t matter to you if he couldn’t say it well.
You grin at him again, eyes fighting tears as your voice falls back on teasing. “Boy, I’ve really got you whipped, huh?”
Gator shoots you a look. “I can still turn and run, baby.”
You cackle, slipping your hand into his again. “Aw, I’d like to see you try. Come on. Time’s wasting.”
When you stumble through the tall wooden doors of the church, you let out a breath at the opulence. It’s exactly as you remember from that one, heartbreaking visit– more beautiful like this, even, now that it’s empty of people and sunlight.
You aren’t really the religious sort– never have been. But when you and Gator walk through those doors, slick with rain and unable to kill your rowdy laughter, you’re sure for a moment that something different is in the air. In the shadows growing against the walls, the hazy overcast pushing dull light through the multicolored glass, there is a reverence, a meaning you hadn’t anticipated cloaking the quiet space.
Gator pulls you through the church, rapping his knuckles on the door of the pastor’s office. It takes some negotiating to get the man to come out, to make him understand that you’re not both crazy people, that you really do have a marriage license, but eventually, he relents and lets Gator drag him up the aisle to the altar.
You stand in front of the pastor resolutely as you wait impatiently for him to agree to marry you, the sight of Gator’s wet hair dripping in his face and your makeup smearing under your eyes not helping in convincing him you’re taking this seriously. He recognizes you from your visit, at least, but Gator’s pushiness has a way of getting under people’s skin, and the man doesn’t look as though he’s inclined to give in.
The pastor glances between you, skeptical. “I assume you have the rings?”
Gator pats his breast pocket. “Right here. She won’t get away that easy.”
“And you’re sure this marriage is made of your own free will?” The pastor clarifies with you, studying your face with mild concern.
You give Gator a look. “What should I say?”
Gator’s eyes flatten. “You think you’re so damn funny.”
You laugh, turning back to the pastor. “Yeah, I guess I love him pretty bad. Might as well.”
The pastor heaves a resigned breath. “And you wouldn’t like to invite anyone else to bear witness?”
Gator turns back to you, and you exchange a brief, incredulous look.
“Fuck no,” Gator barks, and you have to press a hand to your mouth to stifle your laughter.
Gator’s lips twitch at your expression, and he corrects himself. “Sorry– I mean, no. It’s just us.”
“Just us,” you affirm, eyes dancing.
The pastor sighs and goes to collect his book of rites.
Gator leans forward, his freshly-shaven face brushing your cheek as he whispers in your ear, “This is how it should have been this whole time– me and you and that dress. And whatever’s under that dress.”
You burst into laughter again, quieting yourself when the pastor turns slightly. “We’re in church, you cretin.”
Gator presses a kiss to your cheek and pulls back, smiling at you. “I love you.”
“I love you,” you repeat, etching that smile, that sweetness, into your memory forever.
Gator holds your hands as the pastor reads through the marriage rites– the shortcut version, at Gator’s impatient request. The quiet, rain-soaked church stares down at you, empty of judgement and opinion and objection. It’s only you and Gator and Gator and you, the mud flecks on your white skirt and the wilt of his boutonniere the only evidence it was a struggle getting here at all. And you think for a moment that whatever sealed you together to begin with, tangled you together like snarled fishing line, must be with you for this second in this church.
You’ve given a thousand furious words to this boy. He’s hurled hundreds right back at you, razor-sharp and meant to cut the both of you free from each other. It’s never worked. And the two that you utter, alone at the altar, are somehow the easiest to say.
You’re forty-five minutes late to your own wedding. Neither of you can bring yourselves to care.
By the time you make it back to the right chapel, the one with all of your flower arrangements and bridesmaids and overbearing relatives stacked up inside, the parking lot is so full Gator has to pull his truck over on the side of the road. The rain hasn’t stopped, seeping into your white dress and all but destroying your meticulously-styled hair. Gator isn’t in much better shape. His blazer is discarded in the backseat after he tried to make you use it as a canopy. His black dress shirt is sticking to his skin.
“Get your ass in gear and let’s go, woman!” Gator yells at you, waiting as you stumble away from the truck and run toward him again, pushing your sopping hair out of your eyes.
“It’s these fucking shoes!” you argue, yelping as your heels sink into the muddied grass. “I can’t exactly sprint in these things, Gator!”
Gator rolls his eyes and comes back for you, grabbing your hand and tugging you along once more. “Goddammit, you’re slow. Hope our kids don’t get that from you.”
“Not all of us played quarterback in high school,” you snap at him, though everything lacks its usual bite. You haven’t stopped grinning like an idiot since you left the empty church, and neither has Gator, much as he tries to hide it.
He all but drags you across the lawn in a shortcut to the church, laughing when the mud catches you again and you’re pulled out of one of your shoes. He goes back for it, and for the other one when you lose that, too, and then you’re booking it toward the church barefoot, your white pumps clutched in Gator’s free hand.
“We are in such deep shit,” you giggle, staring at the nearing chapel doors, which are suspiciously flung wide open despite the rain. They’re all waiting for you– probably furious and worried sick.
“That’s mud, stupid,” Gator teases, not slowing his pace. “And it’s on your face, by the way.”
“Better than looking like– whoop!”
Gator catches you just before you slide and eat shit on the slippery ground, and he hauls you upright with a laugh so infectious you wouldn’t have believed it came from him if you hadn’t seen it for yourself.
Finally, you make it to the chapel, skidding to a stop in front of the bleached wood of the old, white stairs.
Standing at the top of them is Roy Tillman, dressed and dry, staring down at you with twenty-seven years of disappointment and unchecked anger.
The humor drains out of you, Gator’s hand in yours the only thing keeping you from trembling with icy fear.
“Look at the two of you,” Roy drawls, still in that careful tone you’ve come to realize means he’s still holding back. “You keep these good people waiting, run off to do fuck all on the day a’your wedding?”
Neither you nor Gator offer an explanation– just wait.
“It’s a goddamn fuckin’ disgrace.” Roy shakes his head at you, his eyes simmering. “Now get your asses in there, clean yourselves up, and do what you’re fuckin’ told.” With that, he turns on his heel and makes his way back into the chapel, leaving you to soak in his disappointed hopes.
Your eyes slide to Gator, examining his reaction.
He’s already looking at you, mollified. But then his lips curl up, and he shrugs, guilty but uncaring.
You burst into laughter, and he clamps a hand over your mouth to shut you up, his shit-eating grin the same as that first day in his truck. Humor, elation, and not one ounce of regret.
“You heard him,” Gator mutters in your ear. “Better get in there, huh?”
You giggle again, pressing your lips together to hide it, and Gator loops your clasped hands over your head and around your waist, hurrying you both inside after his father.
By the end of the night, both you and Gator are exhausted.
Your clothes dry and your face wiped of mud and makeup, you sit in Gator’s lap in a chair in the reception hall, one of his arms tucked tight around you and the other resting on your leg. You’re ignoring the dirty looks Karen is shooting you from across the venue at the gall you have to be sitting in the same seat. People are making idiots of themselves dancing drunkenly, the lights are low and the candles in the centerpieces are glowing gently, and everything is almost exactly how you pictured it— except for one thing. You’re happier. Much happier than you would have been had things gone to plan today.
You lean back against Gator’s chest, heads pressed together in a comforting weight.
“It is pretty damn beautiful,” he admits, staring past your central table and toward the dance floor that’s only just starting to wind down.
“All that planning had to count for something,” you agree mildly. “And people aren’t nearly as mad at us as I thought they’d be.”
“They’re drunk,” Gator replies, snorting. “Trust me, when they sober up, they’ll be pissed.”
You huff a light laugh, his cheek resting on your head. “I don’t care,” you tell him.
Gator lets out a small, contented breath. “Yeah, me neither.”
“How’s it feel to be a husband?” You ask him, fingers rubbing up and down on his forearm. One of your hands finds the gold ring now sitting on his ring finger, and you fiddle with it, turning it around and around.
“The same,” he huffs, then snorts again when you pinch his arm. “How’s it feel to be a wife?”
“A wife?” you hum, lazy and contented. “Feels like I’ve gotta step up my casserole game. Your wife?” You pull back, turning to smile at him. “Feels pretty fuckin’ great.”
“Mm,” he smiles back, prodding his nose into your cheek, nuzzling at your skin. “My wife. Sounds kinda nice.”
You give him a flat look, amused. “Oh, you think so?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs against your cheek. “I like you bein’ mine. All this bein’ mine. Think I’ll probably stick with it for a while.”
Your smile spreads at his teasing, and your hands smooth up his arms as he begins to place kisses across your face. “Hate to break it to you, Alligator, but all this has been yours for a long time.”
The words make something shift in him, evidenced by the tightening of his hands on your body, the deepening of his kisses. “I’m gonna take real good care of you, you know that?” he tells you, the words gentle.
“I know,” you murmur, the noise of the reception hall fading into nothing in your head.
“Every damn day,” he promises, his voice muffled by your jaw. “Gonna give you anything you want, pretty.”
“I really do have you whipped,” you laugh lightly, scratching your nails gently against his arm.
Gator pulls back and meets your eyes, his expression so serious, so overwhelmingly focused on your face. “You gonna put up with me? Even when I’m a total shitbag?”
Your eyes crinkle as you smile at him, one of your hands coming up to touch his face. “Till I’m nothin’ but bones, baby.”
His lips curve upward, an unbelievable softness entering his dark eyes. “You know I’m gonna love you forever, right?”
“I’m pretty much banking on it,” you whisper, your thumb stroking over his cheek. “It’s a good thing I love you more.”
Gator leans forward and kisses you, so gentle it makes your chest hurt. “Sorry, stupid. Not possible.”
When he kisses you again, you feel that declaration sink into you, melt into your bones, seep into the very core of you. And for a moment, you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. You’re too tangled.
That feeling stays in your chest, tucked away like the secret you etched into stone today, hidden and sacred and beautiful. And it remains there, pressed somewhere between your intertwined arms, deep down where no one else can ever touch it.
---
author's note: this is so cornball but I tried. might come back to edit more later. thank you for the requests!!!
heat + camp counselor steve and reader AAAAA your writing is amazing everytime🌈💕🎆✨️🎉
thank you sweet angel <3333 here's a very ~loose~ interpretation of the prompt lol
prompt #4. heat
pairing: camp counselor!steve x camp counselor!reader (an absolute classic)
warnings: mdni/18+, this is my first time writing kinda smut in a minute so i hope it doesn't suck! drinking, mention of virginity loss, talks of edging and fingering, dirty talk? kinda?, afab reader, a little bit of grinding, sub!steve if you squint, not proofread sry
word count: 1.3k
spring + summer prompts are closed for now since i currently have a bunch to catch up on!!
After another long day spent entertaining second graders, bouncing between swim lessons at the lake and the mess hall, then arts and crafts, then organized sports, then back to the lake for free swim, then showers and dinner and s'mores by the campfire and lights out and making sure your group of girls were all asleep by curfew — well, it's truly a miracle that you actually made it to Steve's cabin.
He'd asked you to come by earlier that day, when you were zoning out and mindlessly nibbling on a bagel topped with cream cheese and jelly — your favorite. When you asked what the occasion was, his lips caught the shell of your ear, and you thought you were going to slide underneath the wooden table just from the sudden close contact.
"Eddie managed to smuggle in some beers. Thought it'd be nice to decompress after a few weeks of all of... this."
You had swallowed harshly and sent him a curt nod, to which he smiled at.
"So, 9? After curfew?"
So of course, after taking your own shower and scrubbing the scent of camp and sweat off your body, you were at Steve's cabin door at 9 p.m. on the dot.
Steve's... flirty. You don't know if he's flirty with all the counselors, because you honestly don't spend much time outside your tiny bubble of second grade girls. When you do socialize with the other counselors your age, it's either with Steve one-on-one, or in a group setting with Eddie and Robin, both of which are Steve's friends from home.
You don't mind the flirting. Not at all. You like it, really — you like it a lot, if you're being truthful. You just don't know what to make of it.
And you especially don't know what to make of you and Steve sitting crosslegged in the middle of his cabin, each with a can of beer perched in front of the other, while you exchange dirty stories because you're a bit too buzzed to feel embarrassed about it right now.
Steve's just finished recounting the time he lost his virginity — he was 15, it was after a high school dance, he came within 5 minutes of being inside her — and you're wiping tears away from the creases of your eyes, laughter still bubbling away at your mouth.
"Yeah, yeah," Steve rolls his eyes. He finishes off his beer and crushes the can, then leans over to grab another one. You blink as you watch his shirt ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Clearing your throat, you occupy yourself with your own drink. "Alright, your turn. Hit me with something good."
"I honestly think I've run out of embarrassing sex stories, Harrington. A girl can only have so many."
"Bullshit," he mocks, cracking the new can open, "Fine. Tell me a hot one then."
Your stomach flips, but you try to keep cool.
"A hot one?"
"Yeah, a hot one," Steve echos as he sets his beer down in front of him. "Or do you not have any of those, either?"
"I have hot sex stories. I just... I don't know which one to tell you."
You're not lying. Just like any other sexually active person, you've had your fair share of lackluster hookups, and you've also had some really, really good ones, too. Ones that you refer back to when you need something to get off to and your hands are helplessly wandering your body.
Steve thinks for a moment, and you suddenly feel self-conscious beneath his slightly squinted gaze. You wonder if he's analyzing you, but you don't have much more time to contemplate his actions before his lips are moving again.
"Tell me about a time you hooked up with someone and it was hot for you, not just for them."
Your throat bobs with a swallow. A memory immediately floats to mind. Steve knows instantly and he smirks, waiting for you to begin.
Shuffling onto your knees, you sit back on your ankles, and you feel Steve's eyes glued to you. You take a deep breath, finish off your beer, and toss the empty can to him.
"Atta girl." he grins.
"A few summers ago, there was this guy I hooked up with at a party. I thought it was gonna be, like... I don't know, a chill, normal thing, I wasn't really looking for anything, we just ended up talking and had a connection and we made out and he asked if I wanted to find a bedroom and— yeah, whatever, the details don't matter," you sigh, wringing your hands together nervously in your lap. You peer up at Steve, who doesn't say a word, so you continue. "Anyway... he, um. He taught me about edging. And we did that for, like... hours."
Steve's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "Hours?"
You nod.
"Just you? Or him too?"
"I mean, he was only edging me, but he didn't come the entire time either."
"At all?"
You shake your head, "No, we both came at the end, but it had been... I don't know, I think it was maybe 3 a.m. when we finished."
Steve whistles lowly. Your face warms.
"So what'd he do?" he asks, leaning back on his elbows. "Why was it so hot for you?"
You think for a moment. You've never really considered it — you've only just regarded it as one of the sexier nights of your life.
"I think I liked that he was in control of my orgasm," you eventually reply, nibbling on your bottom lip. You tilt your head, trying to ignore the incessant throbbing at your core. "He talked to me a lot. Praised me. Told me I was good for letting him play with me for so long."
Steve swallows thickly. "And how did he?"
"Hm?" You ask, feeling your pussy pulsate beneath your sweatshorts. "How did he what?"
"How did he play with you?"
In the back of your hazy, lust drunk mind, you're aware enough to know that this is the crossing point — the one that declares you and Steve as no longer platonic, flirty friends. You're not sure where it puts you two, but you're horny and tipsy enough not to care.
"I told him what I like," you breathe, and Steve's head ducks back, revealing the long column of his throat. "I like... small, tight circles on my clit. Two fingers inside of me, pushing up and grinding against my g-spot. And when I wanna come, I like them both."
"Fuck," Steve groans. You watch as his hand comes down to slowly palm at the erection straining in his shorts, and you lick your lips. His eyes flutter shut when he squeezes himself, and he's so lost in the feeling of relieving some of his tension that he doesn't even hear you as you crawl over the creaky wooden floors.
His eyelids only part when you gently slide over top his thighs, dragging your ass against the most sensitive and desperate part of him. The groan that falls from his mouth makes you shudder.
"I want you to make me come like that," you murmur, eyes locked on his. Steve's hands find your hips, intent on keeping you in your spot, almost as if he'll die if you move. "Can you do that?"
"I'll fucking do anything you want." he says, and it's only then that he's flipping you over onto your back with the hidden motive of replacing your memory of the hottest night of your life.
I need to see Steve and reader from Harrington household finally get the house to themselves 😉
Summary: Your birthday party is a disaster, and Steve surprises you with a weekend free of kids as an apology - along with some other ways to show you just how sorry he is.
WC: 4.4k
Warnings & What to Expect: hargrove!fem!reader, 18+, minors dni!!! explicit smut - oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, breeding kink, talks of birth control and pregnancy, explicit language.
Harrington Household Masterlist
putting reqs on pause so i can catch up on what i have! feel free to still send me chats! 🫶🏻
this would probably take place like a week or so before the oldest went off to college
Main Masterlist If Interested
Peach’s Note: hii anon!! this is my first time writing smut 🙈 so pls be gentle w/ me but im open to constructive feedback!!
im combining this with another request… so its still got plenty of plot (yall already know i yap in my fics). max and lucas are in it, and they’re just the best support system for reader & steve 🥹
smut is labeled and at the end of the imagine after the bday party, in case the anon that requested that does not want to read the smutty part!! hope y’all enjoy lovies 🧡
The moment you enter the threshold of your home, Steve twirls your body around - pressing you up against the door and revealing to you that the kids aren’t there.
“No kids?“ You ask in disbelief, stunned at what Steve’s just told you.
He grins, hands coming down to rest on your waist, “Nope.”
“For the whole weekend?” You hook your arms around his neck.
“The whole weekend,” he confirms, grinning wildly.
“How the hell did you pull that off?” You laugh in disbelief, playing with the wisps of hair at the back of his neck.
“Dustin offered to watch them,” he replies.
You raise your eyebrows at that, “Dustin? Dustin Henderson voluntarily offered to take care of our children?”
Dustin and his wife were the godparents of your eldest girl, and Dustin loved your kids - but letting all six of them stay at his place was rare.
“Well, he also owes me a few favors for constantly saving his ass as a kid. And after the absolute nightmare that your birthday party was, I decided to cash in one of those favors,” Steve shrugs sheepishly.
You bite your lip in amusement at the memory, because your birthday party had been a bit of a train wreck.
It was going to be a surprise, but living in a house with seven other people meant things that were supposed to stay quiet spilled easily.
It’s not shocking that your four year old was the one who told you either.
You already knew Steve was up to something with the way he was rolling into bed late each night - claiming he was working on coaching strategies for the summer baseball leagues he was teaching.
Which was strange, because he always left work at work - stating that he wanted to be as present as possible for you and your children at home. So when it had been nearly two weeks straight of him acting like he still had things to do, you were growing suspicious.
It was another night without Steve in bed, and you were tossing and turning without the warmth that he usually provided, when there’s suddenly a quiet pounding on your door - making you push up on your elbows as it swings open.
Your youngest boy’s standing there, tears streaming down his face with his favorite stuffed animal clutched in his small fists.
“What happened, baby?” You call softly, and he quickly scrambles over to the bed, hauling himself up.
“I had a bad dream,” he sniffles, crawling across the covers and laying himself next to you.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” you reply, pushing his messy hair back.
He grasps onto the sleeve of your shirt, “It was scary.”
“I’m sure it was. Nightmares scare me too,” you reply, rubbing soothing circles on his back.
“They do?” He asks with interest.
“Oh yeah, for sure. They scare Daddy too. It’s okay to be scared of them. Sometimes they feel real, but you know the good thing about them is that they don’t follow you into the real world,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
He nods into your shoulder, before pulling back and looking around the room.
“Where is Daddy?” He questions, the mention of Steve making him realize he’s not in the room with you.
“He’s working on something,” you answer.
Your boy's eyes light up at that, “I know what he’s working on!”
“And what’s that?” You smile as you see that sweet little grin of his.
He sits up on his knees, leaning in close and whispering, “Your birthday party tomorrow.”
“My what?” You ask incredulously, caught off guard by that response.
“Shh, it’s a secret, Mommy,” he giggles, holding a finger to his lips.
“Okay, babe,” you laugh lightly, “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?” Steve’s voice resounds as he walks in.
He looks tired - disheveled hair and bags under his eyes that make you want to trace the delicate skin there. It clicks into place then, what he’s really been spending his time doing, and it makes affection for him bloom throughout your chest.
“About Mommy’s party,” your son says giddily.
Steve closes his eyes in defeat, hands planted on his hips, “Awesome.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy. She won’t tell anyone,” your boy says seriously.
Steve collapses onto the bed next to you and slings an arm over your waist. Your hand instinctively comes up to brush over the arm that's now tucked around you.
“Guess you know now,” he grumbles into the side of your neck.
“It’s okay baby, I’m not telling anyone,” you laugh softly.
He hums sleepily in response, eyes cutting to the clock on the nightstand which reads just past midnight.
“Happy Birthday, honey,” he reaches up to press a kiss to the underside of your jaw.
Your boy repeats the statement while he worms his way in between you and Steve.
“Stop hogging your mom, buddy,” Steve says teasingly.
You start to drift off cuddled up next to them - gratitude stirring deep within your heart, contentment lulling you back into a peaceful sleep.
When the party started, Steve kept refusing your attempts to help - insisting that he and the kids had it under control.
They did not have it under control.
The party was mostly taking place outside with friends and family crammed into the backyard, but you came inside with Lucas and Max to take a break from the summer heat.
“Is Steve alright?” Max asks, eyeing your husband over the rim of her cup.
You glance over at him, watching as he bounces around the kitchen - constantly running his hands through his hair. It’s a tell-tale sign that he’s stressed, and you narrow your eyes in frustration because he won’t let you do anything to alleviate that tension.
“No, I don’t think so. But he keeps telling me he’s fine,” you mumble.
“He’s staring at that cake pretty hard for someone who’s supposedly okay,” Lucas laughs from where he stands next to her.
She gently elbows him, “Why don’t you go offer him a hand?”
He snorts at that, “No way. He nearly bit my head off when I asked him where the presents were supposed to go.”
“I’m gonna go check on him again,” you sigh.
The second you enter the kitchen, it’s like a mental radar goes off in Steve’s head, because he turns and starts shooing you out.
“Babe, I told you to go enjoy the party,” he emphasizes.
“Steve, I can’t when I can practically see you vibrating with nervous energy. Tell me what’s wrong,” you try to convince him, sliding your hands up his shoulders.
He gives in, melting at your touch, “The cake is lopsided.”
You smile a little, “So?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose in aggravation, “It’s really lopsided.”
“It’s my fault, Mom. I was on cake duty and hit a curb trying to get back here in time,” your eldest girl remarks from her space at the island. She cringes while she waits for your reaction to that, because Steve’s already gotten on to her about safe driving.
You take a deep breath, “You’re more important than the cake. I don’t care what it looks like. I’m sure it’s still gonna taste great.”
Lucas comes in at that moment, “Sorry to barge in, but you should probably head into the living room.”
“What now?” Steve asks anxiously.
“The twins,” Lucas says, which is enough of an answer because the two of them had been arguing more than usual lately - developing attitudes the closer they got to fifth grade.
Max is standing in front of them with her arms folded, disappointment clouding her eyes. In her hands is a ripped birthday card, and your kids are on the verge of tears at getting a scolding from their favorite aunt.
“What happened?” You hesitantly ask.
Your girls face crumples, “I worked really hard on my card for you, and he spilled his soda all over it.”
Your boy looks regretfully over at her, “I tried fixing it.”
“Yeah, and then you ripped it!” Your girl bites out.
“It was an accident!” He gripes back.
“I bet you were just jealous because my card for Mom was better than yours,” your girl seethes.
That comment makes your boy's tears spill over, and he turns around to run up the stairs. The sound of his door shutting reverberates throughout the house.
“I’ll go talk to him,” you decide, getting ready to follow him.
Steve turns to you, “No, honey, please sit down. I can handle it.”
“I can talk to him,” Max offers, and you shoot her a grateful look because it’s clear Steve’s stubborn tendencies are taking over his rational decision making.
When she disappears up the stairs, Steve turns to his middle girl - giving her a pointed look.
It makes her start crying too, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean it.”
Your oldest boy interrupts - carrying your toddler, who you heard before you saw because she’s screaming up a storm.
“She wants Mom,” he says, looking a little guilty.
“I’ve got her,” Steve cuts in, grabbing her from his boy.
It doesn’t soothe her, and Steve’s eyebrows pinch downwards as he tries to console her with no avail.
“Steve, I can take her. It’s fine,” you say calmly.
He looks like he’s on the verge of a breakdown, and you reach up to cup his face in your hands, thumbs lovingly skimming over the stubble on his jaw.
“Let me take her, baby,” your eyes glance over to your ten year old who’s dropped onto the couch in a fit of tears - quietly insinuating that he’s got another child that needs him.
He reluctantly lets your toddler squirm her way over into your arms before crouching down in front of his girl to talk to her.
It’s then that the fire alarm sets off, and your eldest girl squeals about forgetting to set the timer for the food in the oven - running back into the kitchen.
“Are you kidding me?” Steve barks out sarcastically.
Lucas claps a hand on his brother-in-law's shoulder, “I’ll take care of it, man.”
“Thanks, Lucas,” you smile, cradling your youngest babe in your arms.
Steve continues his conversation with your daughter, and since he has his back turned, you hightail it to your toddlers room before he can intervene - having a feeling she really just needs a good nap after all the excitement from the day.
When you try to lay her down on her bed, she starts clinging onto you, “What’s wrong, sweet girl?”
“Mommy, stay,” she begs.
You’ve never been any good at telling her no, especially when she gives you her puppy dog eyes - the color just like yours but the expression of it resembles those doe eyes Steve likes to give you.
“Just for a little bit, babe,” you concede, curling up next to her.
Eventually her breathing evens out, and the gentle puffs of air from your girl drags you into your own slumber.
“Baby,” Steve whispers, and you blink wearily when you feel his hand curl around your bicep.
“Hmm?” You muse groggily.
He reaches out to smooth down your top that’s riding up, “Been looking for you.”
“You found me,” you mutter, looking over to see your girl has turned around in her sleep - facing away from you now.
You sit yourself up, and Steve’s hands reach out to help you stand to your feet.
“C’mon,” he says quietly, trying to keep his voice down.
He guides you out into the hallway, shutting your girls door silently behind him. You expect him to usher you back to the party, but he leads you towards your bedroom.
“Steve?” You question, tone laced with confusion.
“Wait right here for me, please?” He requests.
When you nod, he heads into the walk in closet - clearly searching around for something.
A muffled screech of laughter catches your attention, and you peer out the window that overlooks the backyard. You smile at seeing all the people you love in one place and startle slightly when Steve’s arms wrap around your middle, pressing his body against yours as he stands behind you.
“God, I just wanted one day where you didn’t have to worry about anything,” he grumbles dejectedly, head dropping into the crook of your neck.
“Steve, we have six children,” you remind him, letting yourself relax in your hold.
“Yeah, who you take care of every single day. Just wanted you to have one day where you felt taken care of,” he refutes.
You turn in his arms, slipping yours around his waist, “How could you possibly think I don’t feel taken care of?”
You lightly run your fingers over the dark circles that still remain under his eyes from the work he put into planning this day for you.
“You take care of me, Steve,” you affirm.
He swallows hard, “Sometimes I feel like I don’t do enough for you.”
“Not enough? Babe, you go to work to teach middle schoolers, then you coach baseball, then you come home and still ask what you can do to help me. You spent weeks staying up way too late to try to plan something special for me, and just because it didn’t go exactly the way you planned doesn’t mean it’s any less appreciated. You do more than enough,” you declare, turning your head to tuck yourself under his chin.
“Do it because you’re everything, you know that?” He murmurs, resting his head on top of yours - making you grip tighter to the back of his shirt at hearing the emotion behind the words.
“Got another present for you,” he whispers, ducking down to press a kiss to your cheek.
“Steve, you’ve gotten me plenty already,” you object.
“It’s not finished, but thought you might wanna see what the kids and I have been working on for you,” he lets go of you, turning to grab whatever he was looking for in the closet.
He places a scrapbook in your hands, and on the front cover is a picture of you, Steve, and your babes posing cheesily for the camera last year on Christmas Day.
You start to flip through the pages, memories from milestones and celebrations filling them, and your throat constricts as you feel the familiar prick of tears.
“You crying, honey?” He asks fondly.
“This is literally the sweetest thing I’ve ever gotten, of course I’m crying,” you hiccup, thumbing each sleeve of the book adoringly.
“It was supposed to be another surprise, but I just had to show you it now. Guess I’m not much better than our four year old,” Steve says playfully.
“Don’t worry, baby. Remember, I won’t tell anyone,” you refer to your words from the night before.
“Good, because I think if you told the kids they’d riot against me,” he chuckles
You beam at him, setting the precious gift down on your bed before extending your hand to grab his - heading back to the chaos of your birthday party, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Though you reassured Steve that the effort put into the birthday party is what counted, he was still trying to make it up to you.
It’s why he’s just treated you to dinner at your favorite restaurant and promised the house as all yours for the next couple of days.
“And just what are we going to do with all that free time?” You ask coyly, hands coming up to toy with the collar of his button down.
“Hmm, I’ve got lots of ideas, honey,” he replies, dipping his head to nip at the base of your throat.
“Steve,” you say breathlessly, fingers messily popping open the buttons on his shirt so it hangs open, providing you with the heavenly sight of his naked chest.
He grunts in response, lips trailing down the valley of your breasts while his hands are pawing at the zipper of your dress - trying to get the damn thing off.
He shoves the fabric down, letting it pool at your feet - leaving you stripped down to your underwear.
He instantly drops to his knees in front of you, cupping his hands around the backs of your thighs - lips pressing eagerly against the exposed skin.
“Stop teasing,” you whine, pushing at his head - desperate for him to just be inside you already.
Steve doesn’t let up though; instead he moves his mouth to your panties, which are already wet with your slick.
“Play nice, baby. Wanna taste you first. Haven’t in god knows how long,” he mouths over the fabric that’s clinging to you.
Your head falls back against the door, fingers threading in his hair as he continues to tease you through the material before slowly taking them off.
“Oh, god,” you gasp at the feeling of being laid bare before him.
“That’s it, honey,” he coos, grasping at one of your legs - lifting it to have better access to your core.
He kisses your inner thigh that’s now hooked over his shoulder, hovering over your heat. His eyes flick up to meet yours as his tongue laves over your entrance - prodding inside gently, before licking his way up to your clit. A loud moan is torn from your throat, followed by a string of curse words as Steve’s lips secure themselves over the little nub.
“Taste so good, baby,” Steve moans, tongue working expertly against you.
Your hips rut involuntarily against his mouth, and you can feel the tension building faster than you’d like it too - embarrassingly close already from how worked up you are.
“Gonna come,” you whimper.
“Already, baby? Damn, must be good,” he smirks cockily, bringing two fingers up to sink inside of you to get you there faster.
You feel the coil in your stomach tighten as his fingers pump in and out of you - eyes rolling back when you feel the band snap.
Steve pulls away, breathing hard with your juices coating his mouth and jaw. The sight makes you needy, and you tug him to stand up.
“Bedroom, now,” you demand.
“Yes, ma’am,” he teases, sliding his hands down to cup your ass and lift you up into his arms.
He’s trying to multitask - kicking off his shoes while walking up the stairs at the same time.
As expected, it doesn’t end well. When his second shoe is off, he steps on it, causing him to tumble down at the top step that leads to the landing of the second floor.
Thankfully he catches your fall, arms still nestled securely behind your back. Once the shock wears off, you start giggling - back splayed out on the floor while Steve’s holding himself up over you.
“Sorry, baby,” he laughs, leaning forward to kiss you, and you can taste the remains of yourself on him.
It spurs you on, hands shooting out to eagerly unbuckle his belt. You toss it behind you somewhere before trying to shove his dress pants and boxer briefs down.
He helps you get them off, and your lips part at the sight of his member on full display. Your breath hitches as lust pools inside of you while you admire cock - fully hard and thick, with a prominent vein running down his shaft. The pretty pink tip is flushed, leaking incessantly with precum.
Steve takes the opportunity to hike your legs up and over his shoulders while you’re distracted, slipping a hand under your lower back to help guide you up off the hardwood floor.
His knees are digging into the steps of the stairs, back protesting the angle, but he can’t be bothered - greedily wanting to pull another orgasam from you.
“Please, just fuck me already, Steve,” you cry, weakly trying to move his head away.
“Patience, baby,” he replies, dragging his tongue up your slit - tasting your previous release, and he groans loudly when he feels your thighs press against his head.
“Shit, Steve, I’m too sens-,” you break off with a whine as his tongue flicks out to lap at your clit, lazily tracing circles over it.
When you come for a second time on his fingers, you know you’re not making it to the bed.
You push at his chest, forcing him to lay on his back. His eyes blow wide at your actions - hands shooting out to grasp at the meat of your hips when you sit down on him, cock nudging at your entrance from the movement.
You reach down to grab him, stroking unhurriedly - thumb brushing over the head, spreading the precum that’s now dribbling down towards the base.
Steve whimpers when you line him up, torturously gliding down on him - taking your time as each inch of his dick slides in until the hilt.
“Oh, fuck me,” Steve moans when your pussy flutters around him.
You pause, letting yourself adjust to the size of him before you start to rotate your hips slowly against him.
“Stop, it’s your birthday. I’m doing the work,” he pants, fingers sinking into your skin hard enough to leave bruises.
Steve starts to thrust up into you, steadily creating a rhythm that has you rocketing towards your third orgasam of the night.
“Feels so good,” you whimper as his hips jerk upwards into your tight cunt, deliciously stretching you open.
“C’mere, want you closer,” he pleads, reaching up to your necklace that’s swaying in the air.
He pulls at it, tugging you down so you’re flush against him. He’s relentless, continuing to thrust shallowly, so it’s more of a grind than anything, but you’re aching with need for him to move faster.
“Need you to go faster,” you mumble against his neck, fingers running through the dark hair on his chest.
His hips pick up speed at your request, pulling back till his ruddy tip nearly slips out before snapping forwards - burying himself deep inside of you.
“Steve, oh god, right there,” you cry out at the feel of him grazing your sweet spot.
“Doing so good for me, baby,” he starts planting sloppy kisses anywhere he can reach on your exposed skin.
The praise has your head spinning, clenching around him each time he bottoms out.
“Shit, ‘m not gonna last if you keep squeezing me like that, honey,” Steve moans, bucking up into you to chase his release.
At the realization that he’s about to come, you remember something that makes you panic.
“Wait, wait, wait,” you breathe worriedly.
Steve’s hips still immediately, “What? What’s wrong?”
Being stuffed full of him without moving is maddening, and you close your eyes blissfully - mewling at the feeling.
Steve leans forward to press his forehead against yours, “Baby, hey, tell me what’s wrong.”
You’re brought back to reality by him pinching lightly at your hipbone to get your attention.
“I, uh, I forgot to take my birth control today,” you admit.
Steve nods in understanding, “Okay. What do you wanna do?”
“The risk of getting pregnant is pretty low when you miss just one, but we’ve been so busy lately, and I haven’t exactly been taking it regularly because we haven’t had any alone time,” you trail off.
“That’s alright, honey. We can stop, and I’ll just finish w-,” Steve starts to try to lift you, but you grab onto his shoulders, refusing to let him move.
“No, no, don’t,” you protest frantically.
Steve runs his hands up your back lovingly, “You know I’m weak babe, haven’t ever been able to pull out.”
You scoff into his neck, “Yeah, you and your breeding kink. Trust me, I know.”
“Hey, don’t tease me. I’ve never heard you complaining when you call me Daddy,” his teeth skin over the shell of your ear and you lose all resolve.
“Just come inside me,” you whine, hips moving against his length.
Steve chokes out in surprise at the sudden action, before forcing you to stop again, “Wait, baby, seriously. Do you want that?”
“Do you?” You reply, looking into his eyes curiously.
“I mean, you know I love kids. I love our kids. And I love seeing you full with my kids,” he brushes a hand over your tummy, making you flush.
No matter how much your body has changed over the years, he still never fails to make you feel beautiful.
“But, it’s you who has to carry a baby - not me. And, six has been a lot on you. I know it has, and I don’t want you to feel forced into having another one,” Steve replies earnestly.
“God, I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.
“Love you too, gorgeous. But that’s not exactly an answer,” he mumbles against your lips.
You make a high pitched noise of pleasure when you feel him twitch inside of you, and you subconsciously start to move your hips up and down - feeling sweet relief at the friction.
Steve huffs a breath of laughter, “You listening to me?”
“Mhm,” your nose nudges against his before capturing his lips in another swift kiss.
“What’s the final verdict? Cause I can’t hold off much longer,” he grunts at the feel of you rocking against him.
“Want you to fill me up, give me another baby,” you’re babbling at this point, nearing your climax again.
Steve lets out a guttural sound at that, shifting his hips to feverishly meet yours, and it stuns both of you when you feel him spurting thick ropes of cum into your pussy - flooding you with his release.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry, baby,” he mutters miserably, “didn’t mean to come before you.”
You push at the sweaty hair that’s sticking to his temples, “It’s okay, handsome.”
“No, gonna keep going, need you to finish,” he jerks upwards, pushing his seed further into you while also forcing some of it out - causing it to trickle down his balls.
Your jaw drops at the feeling, hand slipping down to rub at your clit, which Steve pushes away and replaces with his own fingers.
“C’mon, baby,” he urges, breath fanning across your cheek.
You’re completely gone for him, and when you finally tip over the edge, gushing over his cock, you collapse on top of him - bones dissolving into mush.
Steve’s breath is ragged in your ear, heart beating rapidly against your own - hands coming up to caress through the tendrils of your hair.
“You okay?” He asks, pressing a kiss to your hairline.
You laugh lightly, “Better than okay.”
The two of you grow quiet as you lay there, basking in each other’s presence for a few moments more until the ache in your muscles encourages you to get up off the floor.
Before you’re able to move, Steve brings his hands to your face - grasping it tenderly and looking at you a bit timidly.
“You meant it, right?” He questions.
You lean into him, “Of course I meant it, babe. I love you.”
“I’m so in love with you,” he replies, kissing the spot below your ear.
You nuzzle into him, pleased with the affection, “Besides, I probably won’t even get pregnant.”
Those were famous last words for someone who would be staring in shock at a positive test a month and a half later - two pink little lines strikingly clear.
lmk in the comments or message me if you wanna be added to the HH taglist!
okay y’all, based off my last post for HH, majority rules for baby #7! BUT i wanna assure those of you who chose to keep it at 6 nuggets that i have plenty of reqs im still working on that will just include the six original babies and i do not plan on just writing for a new baby either!
hopefully that’s a good compromise 🫶🏻 anyways, lmk if baby should be a boy or girl 😁
Summary: Steve discovers that if he plays with your hair for long enough, you will fall asleep on him every single time.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, sleepy affection, domestic intimacy, kissing, touch-starved steve harrington, comfort fic (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 1.2k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
You’re both sprawled across his couch after a movie, the living room lit only by the television and the warm orange lamp beside the window. Rain taps softly against the glass while some terrible late-night advert mutters quietly in the background now that the film’s ended.
You’re tucked against his side beneath one of his old blankets, half talking about something Robin said earlier while Steve absentmindedly plays with your hair.
Not even consciously, really.
Just something his hands started doing at some point during the relationship and never stopped.
Twisting soft strands around his fingers. Scratching lightly against your scalp. Pushing hair back away from your face whenever it falls forward.
Steve likes touching you. This is not exactly new information.
What is new is the fact your voice suddenly cuts off halfway through a sentence.
Steve glances down.
You’re asleep.
Completely asleep.
Mouth slightly parted against his shoulder, breathing slow and even, one hand still loosely curled in the fabric of his t-shirt.
Steve blinks once.
“…seriously?”
You do not respond, mostly because you are unconscious.
Steve stares at you for another few seconds before looking down at his hand still buried in your hair.
Interesting.
The second time it happens, he starts suspecting a pattern.
You’re sitting between his legs on the floor of his bedroom while he half watches a movie over your shoulder and half messes with your hair mindlessly. You’d insisted you weren’t tired less than ten minutes earlier.
“You literally slept till eleven,” Steve reminds you while separating sections of your hair carefully.
“I know,” you mumble. “That’s why I’m not tired.”
“Hm.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You like me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Steve grins slightly to himself before dragging his nails lightly across your scalp again.
Your shoulders loosen immediately.
Another few minutes pass.
Then, nothing.
No response to his last comment. No movement either.
Steve leans slightly sideways to look at your face properly.
Dead asleep.
Again.
Still sitting upright between his legs.
Steve laughs so suddenly he nearly wakes you back up.
“Oh my god,” he mutters quietly.
By the fourth or fifth occurrence, it becomes less of a coincidence and more of a genuinely ridiculous amount of power for one person to hold.
Especially because Steve starts testing it.
Not maliciously.
Scientifically.
“You’re doing it on purpose now,” you mumble one afternoon, already sounding half asleep despite having argued thirty seconds earlier that you were “definitely awake.”
Steve, stretched out beside you on his bed, continues scratching softly through your hair with an expression of complete innocence.
“Doing what?”
“The hair thing.”
“What hair thing?”
“The…” You frown weakly. “The sleepy thing.”
Steve bites the inside of his cheek hard trying not to laugh.
Because it really is absurd.
You could be fully awake, actively talking, even complaining about not being tired at all, and within ten minutes of Steve touching your hair for long enough you’re suddenly fighting for your life trying to keep your eyes open.
“You’re being dramatic,” he says.
You squint at him suspiciously through obvious exhaustion. “You’re evil.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re like…” Another yawn interrupts you completely. “Like a tranquiliser gun.”
Steve loses it completely at that.
You fall asleep less than five minutes later with your face squashed into his chest while he quietly laughs into your hair.
After that, it becomes sort of unavoidable.
Steve starts noticing all the tiny signs before you even realise you’re tired.
The slower blinking. The way your body gradually gets heavier against him. The increasingly delayed responses during conversations.
And every single time, without fail, the second his fingers slide into your hair properly, you melt.
On the couch.
In bed.
Once in the passenger seat of his car while he waited for Robin to come out of Family Video after locking up.
Another time at the Wheeler’s house with your head in his lap while everyone else argued loudly over a board game around you.
“You cannot be serious,” Dustin says, staring at your sleeping form in disbelief. “How does she keep doing that?”
Steve barely looks up from where he’s still lazily playing with your hair. “Doing what?”
“She was literally talking.”
“Yeah?”
“And now she’s unconscious.”
Steve shrugs like this is completely normal behaviour.
Robin narrows her eyes immediately from the opposite couch.
“Oh, this is definitely psychological.”
Steve scoffs. “What does that even mean?”
“She’s associated you with sleep now.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It absolutely is,” Robin says. “You Pavlov’d your girlfriend.”
“I did not Pavlov my girlfriend.”
“You basically turned yourself into a human melatonin gummy.”
Steve rolls his eyes, but his hand never stops moving gently through your hair.
Mostly because Robin’s not entirely wrong.
There’s something about the trust of it that affects him more than he expects. The fact you fall asleep so easily against him. The way your whole body relaxes the second he touches you softly enough.
Like some part of you recognises him as safe before you even consciously think about it.
That part gets to him a little if he thinks about it too long.
Which is why he tries not to.
Unfortunately for him, you make this extremely difficult one rainy afternoon a few weeks later.
You’re both curled together in his bed while thunder rumbles softly outside, Steve lazily tracing shapes against your scalp while you blink sleepily up at him.
“You know,” you mumble eventually, “I think my body’s accidentally been trained.”
Steve grins immediately. “Finally admitting it?”
“This is your fault.”
“My fault you’re always sleepy?”
“My fault for trusting you enough to fall asleep this much.”
The smile slips slightly from Steve’s face at that.
You notice immediately, even half asleep.
“What?”
Steve looks down at you quietly for a second before shrugging one shoulder.
“Nothing.”
“Steve.”
His fingers slow slightly in your hair.
“It’s just…” He huffs softly through his nose. “I dunno. Kinda nice, I guess.”
Your expression softens immediately.
Because there it is.
The actual thing sitting underneath all the teasing.
Steve likes being trusted.
Likes being needed in these tiny quiet ways that nobody else really notices.
The way you automatically reach for his hand crossing roads. The way you sleep better beside him. The way you unconsciously move closer every time you’re tired.
You shift upwards slightly against his chest until you can kiss him properly.
Steve kisses you back slowly, one hand still tangled gently in your hair.
“I genuinely think this is my favourite thing.”
Your lips twitch.
“Me falling asleep?”
“No.” Steve smiles faintly. “You trusting me enough to.”
Something warm twists painfully through your chest.
You kiss him again before you can think too hard about it.
Steve’s fingers slide slowly through your hair once more afterwards, scratching lightly against your scalp in that familiar absentminded rhythm.
Dangerous.
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You know exactly what.”
Steve looks deeply unconvincing. “I’m just touching your hair.”
“You’re literally weaponising affection.”
Steve starts laughing quietly while you attempt to glare at him through increasingly heavy eyelids.
“You’re already falling asleep,” he says.
“No I’m not.”
“You just blinked for like six seconds.”
“That means nothing.”
Steve grins down at you, still gently combing his fingers through your hair.
“You’re done for, sweetheart.”
You open your mouth to argue.
Then immediately yawn instead.
Steve looks so unbearably pleased with himself that you weakly shove at his chest in protest.
It does absolutely nothing.
Mostly because less than ten minutes later, you’re asleep against him again.
And Steve, unfortunately, looks far too happy about it.
synopsis : moving to hawkins, indiana from sunny old california was a dread. max and maddy mayfield were both forced to move when their mother decides to get together with neil hargrove, sticking them with a new older brother, billy (william) hargrove.
warnings : offensive language, hints of ptsd from SA, strangers to enemies, enemies to friends, friends to situationship, situationship to fwb then to lovers, angst, fluff, smut, didn’t proof read (i’m sorryy :p
next chapter masterlist
Maddy moves her head to the music playing on her walkman. Heart of Glass by Blondie. It has been at least two days that she was cooped up in a family car, switching seats, staying in dirty motels and the cramped space inside. It was setting the mood as her stepfather pulls into the driveway of their new home. 4819 Cherry Lane. Max had fallen asleep on the drive down to Hawkins. The car halts to a stop and Billy got out of the car first. Finally space to breathe. Maddy thought to herself. It was spacious after Billy went out. She stretched her legs before tapping her little sister's shoulder softly.
"Max, Max wake up. We've reached." Max shrugged her sister's touch away, she tries one more time before Max woke up all groggy. She was not going to let the little grump spoil her moving day. Maddy slides out of the backseat and grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder before going to the trunk to help take some boxes out. A hand grazed against hers making her flinch, she looked up at her stepfather. She pulled her hand towards her.
He smiled, a shiver went down her back. Neil carried one of the boxes, "Can't wait to see the new room?" He chatted. Maddy nodded, shifting uncomfortably. Her posture tensing up when he got close.
"Give me a smile," Neil asked. She looked reluctant and his face dropped too. Her heart beats faster. "I work hard for us to move and you can't even give me a smile? Don't be ungrateful."
Her hands shook at her side, her lips turned up into a lopsided smile. "There it is."
His finger brushed against her chin for a second, her lip quivered. "You're going to have boys falling for you with that smile, you know that?" He walks away and she stood there, all tensed and uncomfortable.
Maddy closed her eyes before letting out a shaky breath. She felt his touch burning her chin. She brought her hand up to her chin and swiped the part he touched. Her headphones resting abandoned on her collarbones. The hair on her arms standing.
"Hey, you alright?" A voice made her jolt. Maddy nodded seeing Max standing behind her.
"Just peachy." She managed to let out. She picked up a box and walked to the direction of the new house.
She pushed the door, seeing their new house. It was smaller than the old house but she can make it work. Her eyes wander the living room before turning to the hallway, her room was opposite Max's while Billy's was at the end of the hall. She sets her box down and her bag. A blank canvas for her to decorate and paint.
New room, new environment. No memories of the ugly past.
All Maddy could do was hope. No more sleeping on the floor because the bed feels too disgusting to be slept in even when the sheets were changed. Max stops in front of her door, asking Maddy to follow her to her room. She nodded, following her little sister from the back. She looks so happy to have a new room. Max started rambling on and on about where she wanted things to go. She smiles widely at Max's rare chirpyness. She liked it when she was happy, there was nothing else Maddy wanted than to see her little sister happy.
"Okay, it sounds like you're liking the new room!" Maddy chuckled, Max nodded and pushed strands of hair behind her ear before going to open her boxes to start unpacking. Maddy went out of the room, retreating back to hers to unpack too.
Neil knocked on her door even though it was opened. He brought boxes with her handwriting all over it. He placed it down, grinning at her before heading out of her room.
"Disgusting piece of shit." She murmured while slicing the top of her box open with a letter opener. Her finger got pricked by it, making her wince. Red starts appearing at her fingertips.
She brought her finger to her lips and sucking lightly on it. "Fucking hell." Her finger throbbing from the prick.
The metallic taste of blood hits her tongue, she pulled her finger away and lets it be. Max comes by her room with a disappointed look on her face. Maddy's eyebrows furrowed. Max complains about Billy not wanting to take her to an arcade they passed by on the way to the house.
"I don't know Max, I'm barely done unpacking." Maddy had a conflicted look on her face.
"Pleasee, I'm done unpacking and it's getting boring now." Max drags herself into Maddy's room, standing in front of her begging to take her to the arcade. Maddy rolled her eyes and placed the letter opener down. She decided that it was time to take a break from unpacking too.
Maddy got on her feet, walking out the room with Max. She goes over to the kitchen where her mother was. "Hey mom, can I take your car out for a while? Max needs a ride somewhere and my car doesn't arrive till later in the week."
Her mother gave Maddy the permission. She grabs the keys from the counter and headed out the door. The car beeps with a click of a button. She hops into the drivers seat. Max pulled her seatbelt over herself to be securely strapped in. Maddy twists the ignition and the car starts up. she drives out of the driveway, turning into the street. She clicks on the radio and Upside Down by Diana Ross played. She cranked up the volume and sang along. "How you holding up?"
Maddy turned her head to her sister direction, Max shrugs. She scoffed at her nonchalant answer, "I'm seriously asking, do you like Hawkins?" She looks down to see Max fingers tapping against her knee to the beat of the song.
"It's fine I guess, mom said I start school tomorrow. Nerve wracking actually." Max finally opens up again, Maddy turned the music down softer. Her sister was nervous about starting in a new school. In addition, she also starts high school on the same day. Her hand moves to her sister's. She looked at her for a short second.
Maddy smiles, "Perfectly fine to be nervous. Tell you what, when I graduate and saved enough for my own place, I'll take you back to Cali with me. I promise you." She paused for a moment.
"That is if you don't grow attach to the small town life." Her sister's face immediately lit up, mouth open and everything. Max stuck her pinky out which was a rare thing to do.
She looked her sister dead in the eye, "Promise me you won't leave me behind."
Maddy hooked her pinky around Max's and nodded, agreeing to bring her back to California again. There was no way Maddy would leave her sister in Hawkins with that good for nothing son of a bitch and his son. She promised herself to not let Neil or Billy get a hold of her little sister even if it means she gets hurt in the long run. She despised her mother for even thinking of marrying that useless guy, that was one thing she would never forgive her mother for.
After a few more turns, they made it to the arcade. She could finally see the sign of the arcade. Palace Arcade. Weird name but fitting name for the place. She reached into her pocket to fish for some quarters that she could give Max to spend on games. Maddy placed the quarters in her hand and Max opened the car door. "I'll be back to pick you up in an hour or so!'
Max waved goodbye to her sister, rushing into the arcade probably towards Dig Dug or something. Maddy lets out a sigh before pulling out of the arcade drop off and back home to continue unpacking or maybe start thinking about what Halloween costumes she wanted to make for this year. She was stuck between Strawberry Shortcake or Starfire.
She pulled up to the driveway and got back into the house, she goes straight to her room. She unpacked her last few boxes. Putting her clothes onto hangers to put into the closet that was built in. After thirty minutes of that, she was on to her last box. Her sheets and pillows. She stared at the box. Her hands holding onto the two flaps. Her hands trembled slightly, hearing her own pleas and crying. She shuts the box immediately, her eyes closed. A tear rolled down her cheek. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Maddy takes the box, hauling it out the front door to the trash in front of the house near the mailbox. She never wants to see those sheets again. She pulled out her wallet, checking if she had enough to buy new sheets for her bed. She saw what looks like a Target near the RadioShack. Maddy got ready to go pick up Max. She took the car and drives off to the arcade again.
"Hey, Max!" Maddy called out. Her sister went into the car. She drives off, heading to town to go run errands at Melvalds. "I have to pick up new sheets and some other stuff. Want to come along or do you want me to drive you back first?'
She turned to look at her sister, "No, no. It's fine. I can follow." Max nodded.
Max brings up that she made a new high score on Dig Dug. Saying she was 100,000 points above the previous winner. She looked so proud, Maddy knew that the only other thing that keeps her going is her love for video games. Her nickname was MadMax when she goes to the arcade. Seeing something that her sister was so passionate about made her really happy .
They reached Melvalds and she parked by the sidewalk. They go through isles and grab what they needed. Max asking Maddy to buy her some things. She allowed it and Max placed it in the basket. Maddy picked out two new sheets, pillow covers and duvet. She heads to the register and paid for the things.
"Forty-five sixty." The woman at the register read out the total cost. Maddy pulled out her wallet and paid. She glanced at the woman's name tag. 'Joyce'.
"Thanks." Maddy smiled, taking the bag off the checkout counter. The worker looked very distressed, probably a mother. She swings the bag lightly as they walked back to the car. Maddy threw the bag to the backseat.
She turned the ignition on. Driving back home to their new house that they would have to called home. Hawkins at night was way quieter, everyone in their houses by the time the sun goes down and probably finishing up dinner. If it were Cali, Maddy would still be out with her friends enjoying the city night life, at the pier eating carnival food or catching late night movies. When nights were tough at home she would drive up alone to Mount Lee for the sight under the HollyWood sign like she was a main lead in a movie.
Max turned her head to look at her sister who was almost zoning out on the road. She clears her throat, "What's on your mind?"
Max asked Maddy before looking down to her lap and fidgeting with her fingers. Avoiding eye contact with her because she was not a good conversationalist like her sister. Maddy looks at her, "Hm? You're worried about me?" She smirked, teasing her sister.
The younger one rolled her eyes, scoffing at her sister. "You just look like you have a lot on your mind and I just want to know,"
Max hesitated before bringing this up. "Did he y'know, touch─"
"What no, why would you think that?" Maddy furrowed her eyebrows, shaking her head.
"I just thought it happened again because you've been out of it lately." Max stuttered, regretting the idea of bringing it up.
Maddy scoffed, getting slightly irritated. "Did you ever think that there was another reason for that?" Her sister remained speechless, Maddy sighed and realised that Max just wanted to know why her older sister was so disturbed this past few days. Max sunk into the seat, feeling guilty for that.
"I'm sorry, I get that you're worried." Maddy apologises, "You don't have to be worried about, that." She hesitated. Max nodded slowly, apologising to her sister too. She just shrugs and reached out for her sister's hand. "It's fine, you know I love you Max."
Max gave her a lopsided smile and squeezed her sister's hand. Maddy pulled into their driveway and parked. She grabbed the bag from the backseat. The air becoming more colder, she shivers when she pulled the car door open.
"We're back!" Maddy dragged her words, her mother coming to greet them at the door. She glances to the recliner and she sees her stepfather asleep on it, she rolled her eyes. Max rushes to her room, the older one knocked on Max's door. "You forgot your snacks."
The door opens and she grabs her stuff from the bag before closing it. Maddy turns to her door, pushing the door shut. She sat on the floor, unboxing her new sheets for her bare bed right now. The floral patterns with the light colours. She also bought another type which was more on the darker tone. It was a dark red. She pulled it out of the packaging, immediately going to put it on her bed. She took out the new duvet too. Maddy lifted the duvet with one swift motion and it covered half the bed. Finally, a clean bed.
summary: when something happens to your apartment and you need a place to stay, steve, your best friend, is quick to provide it for you. your prolonged proximity forces you both to realize some things.
word count: 13.6k
warnings: childhood bffs to lovers, absolute idiots in love, mentions of a negative relationship with parents, probably inaccurate descriptions of some things but it’s (say it with me) for the plot!!!
a/n: i know it’s been a LONG time since i’ve posted a long fic so thank u guys for ur patience <3 i had so much fun getting back to it and writing these two, and i hope it’s at least a little bit worth the wait!!! ily :,)
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Your shoes are still wet as you dial the first number that comes to mind: Steve’s.
He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Steve.”
“Hi,” you can imagine him on the other side of the phone, leaning casually against the wall, an easy smile on his face, “what’s going on?”
You’re not quite sure where to start.
Coming home from work earlier, you’d been excited to shower and change and lay around for the rest of the evening, your book hanging open in your lap and some mindless TV filling the silence.
The day seemed to have other plans for you, though, because as you walked down the stairs to your apartment—one in the basement of a sweet, older couple’s house who just never used the space and converted it—the carpet had made an ugly squelch as soon as you stepped on it.
You looked down at your shoe against the carpet, at the way its color was darker than usual from whatever water had gotten into it. Looking up, you found a complete mess. A piece of the ceiling hanging open right above your bed, water still dripping in steady drops from the gap, your bedding ruined among many other things.
You don’t know how long you stood there, hand over your mouth, eyes flickering over the damage like you were hoping it would vanish, like it was only something you imagined.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
The couple who owns the house came down when they heard you shout for them, unsure of what else to do. They’d both gasped when they came down, and began apologizing for something that really wasn’t their fault before one ran up to call whoever it was they needed to call to fix this and the other comforted you with a gentle “we’ll take care of it, sweetie.”
You nodded, eyes still roaming your space that was now uninhabitable.
It’s an old house, something was bound to happen at some point, you only wished it wasn’t so inconvenient for you. A small leak, you could have handled, but the ceiling practically caving in?
Yeah, it was a complete fucking mess.
Hours later, with the damage assessed and set to take a few weeks to fix up, you’re on the phone with the one person you’d known would pick up.
You fill Steve in on what happened, and his first response is a sigh of, “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit,” you agree. “And now I’m gonna have to live with my parents for a while and I don’t know how I’m gonna go back into that house, Steve.”
If you’re being honest, the couple you live with now was kinder to you than your parents were. You suppose that’s one of the many things that you and Steve have bonded over.
“Just come live with me, instead,” he offers without hesitation.
Steve says it like it’s obvious, a no-brainer, and you guess it should be, since you’ve slept over at the Harrington’s house countless times before. Only, this is different because you’d be staying for a while, because you’d be needing his help, which makes you feel all awkward and guilty.
He’s been your absolute best friend for as long as you can remember, and you’re one hundred percent sure you’d offer the same thing if the roles were reversed, but that doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept, not when you’re already frazzled from the events of the day.
“No, Steve, I’m sorry I’m just being dramatic,” you say, twisting the phone’s cord around your finger. “I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a month, or so, and I don’t wanna be in your way or-”
“When have you ever cared about being in my way, angel?” The pet name he’s called you ever since your ninth grade Halloween party slips out naturally, the way it always does. “Besides, this house is too fucking big for me as it is, and you know my parents won’t be around to care, either.”
“I can’t ask you to let me move in, Steve.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering. It’ll be like that one week when we were twelve and you stayed over for spring break, only longer. It’s perfect!”
There’s a small smile ghosting across your face as you recall the memory he’s talking about. A blanket fort in their spacious living room, sleeping bags and pillows piled inside it along with two flashlights.
You can picture the way he looks on the other end of the phone, his hair a bit messy from running his hands through it during the day, one strand rogue against his forehead, his shoulder leaned carelessly against the wall the way it usually is when he stands. Like he can’t be bothered to hold himself up, like there’s constantly a weight on him.
“Are you sure about this, Steve? It’s really okay if you’re not. I swear I’ll be fine.”
“As if I’m letting you spend multiple weeks back in your parent’s house. You’re staying with me, alright?” His voice is insistent, yet kind, letting you know that he’s being honest, that he means it. “We’ll order pizzas and watch shitty romcoms, ‘kay?”
“You can call romcoms shitty all you want, but we both know you get teary at every single one.”
“Don't change the subject, angel. Also, fuck off,” he says, though you can hear the smile in his voice. “So, you’re living with me, yeah?”
You don’t think you could say no to him even if you wanted to.
“Yeah, alright, Steve. Thank you so much.”
“None of that. I know you’d do the same.”
There’s something beautiful about the kind of trust and ease that comes with a friendship as long as yours. One where you’ve watched each other grow up, awkward phases and all, and stuck together the entire way. There’s no questioning whether or not you’d be there for each other if you were in need.
It’s known, felt. Like a fact.
“Now,” he continues, “I’ll pick you up, okay? Ten minutes, tops.”
“Okay.”
“You need me to bring boxes for your stuff?”
“I’m not sure how much is worth keeping. It’s pretty ugly in there.”
Your voice goes small at the end, because the gravity of it all is really sinking in. You’ll have to replace a lot of stuff. Stuff you don’t have money for right now.
But, you haven’t let yourself cry just yet, so you swallow it down.
“I’ll bring some anyway, then. We’ll figure it out, angel, don’t worry.”
“Thanks again, Steve. See you soon.”
“Ten minutes,” he assures you, then the line clicks.
-
True to his word, Steve arrives in under ten minutes, which isn’t surprising considering the size of Hawkins, but feels reassuring all the same.
You’re sitting on the curb in front of the house when Steve’s BMW pulls over on the other side of the road, and you stand just as he climbs out and shuts his door, rounding the car and jogging over to you.
His keys jingle as he tucks them into the pocket of his faded jeans, his opposite hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder, “You okay?”
The warmth of his palm seeps through your work shirt that you’ve yet to change out of, and you let your eyes fall shut just for a second before looking at his face, “Guess so,” you nod. “Maybe ask me again after all of this?”
Steve’s arm winds itself over your shoulders, tugging you into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of your head, simple as an instinct. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, angel.”
We’ll, he says. A team.
You reach up and squeeze his hand and nod, guiding him to the side-entrance leading to your basement apartment.
“I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes for this,” you say.
Steve looks down at his feet and shrugs, “Shoes can be replaced.”
He lets you lead the way down the stairs, his footsteps close behind yours. You wince when you look at the damage again, even though you’d seen it minutes ago. You can't bring yourself to look at Steve, to see the reaction on his face, because you think it’ll just make it all more real.
He mouths the word ‘fuck’ while you aren’t looking, then claps his hands once. “Okay, let’s figure out what we can save, yeah? Where do you want me?”
You’re grateful for his gentle guidance at what to do. “Maybe the bathroom? Everything in there should be fine, so it just needs to be packed.”
“‘Kay. I’ll just go grab some boxes from my car,” Steve says. He squeezes your hand once before heading up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”
You decide to tackle the worst spot first. Though the place is more like a studio, the side that houses your bed and your closet is the most affected, so you head over there and try to tune out the squish of the carpet beneath your feet.
You’re opening the sliding doors to your closet when Steve comes back, dropping a stack of boxes by your feet and running his hand down your arm softly before heading over to the bathroom to pack for you.
Even his presence seems to be making things a little bit easier for you, and each time he finds a small way to touch you or speak to you, to remind you that he’s there, you’re glad for it.
Half of your closet is a gross, wet mess, but some things are salvageable, which you take as a win. Things might be damp, but at least it’s only water, you suppose. A cycle in the dryer and most things will be wearable again.
Your dresses that are hung get the worst of it, soaked and smelly, and you decide that it’d be easier to get a couple new ones than to try and save what’s there.
Steve checks in every now and then, poking his head out of the bathroom’s doorway to look at you and make sure you’re doing alright, giving you a thumbs up when you look over to him.
You’re not sure how you’d be managing this if you were alone, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to.
The next time he checks on you, you’re by your nightstand.
Sitting atop of it is a framed picture of you and Steve from summer camp when you were around ten years old, maybe younger. Only now, the picture’s stained with water and the frame you’d decorated all those years ago at camp is a splotchy mess.
Where yours and Steve’s handwriting used to be, is now a blur from the water seeping into the wooden frame, the marker’s colors muddy. You frown, picking it up and running your thumb over the edge.
Before you can stop yourself, you’re tearing up, frustrated and sad and tired. Memories like this one are the most special to you, the ones that have kept you going for so long, and just like that, the picture that’s sat on your nightstand since being taken is gone, and it fucking sucks.
“Hey, angel?” Steve calls.
When all you do is sniffle and mumble an “mhm?” in response, he sets the box he’d been packing on the bathroom counter and walks over to you.
He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your upper-arms and peering over your shoulder at the ruined picture.
“It was my favorite one,” you say, voice breaking a little. You wipe your tear away as it trails down your cheek, your own fingertips too harsh against your skin.
Although it’s soaked and splotchy now, Steve knows which picture it is. The one where you’ve both got your neon summer camp t-shirts on, the one where his cheeks and nose are completely sunburnt and you’re both grinning up at the camera from your seats on the ground.
Steve’s clutching a stick in his hand for some reason, and you’ve got your fist tangled in the sleeve of his shirt.
It feels like no time and forever has passed since then.
Steve grabs the picture and pries it gently from your hands, setting it back onto the table and turning you around in his grip to face him.
“We can fix it,” he tells you, his brown eyes all soft as his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs swiping your tears away.
“But the frame-”
“We’ll fix it, angel. I’ll find a way, okay? We can pack it in one of the boxes and figure it out.”
“Steve-”
“Look at me,” he urges you when your gaze flickers to the ground. You listen. “This fucking sucks, I know it does, but you’re strong and I’m here, and we can handle this.”
His voice is quiet, but sure. You search his face for any trace of a lie and find none. He really believes what he’s saying, and he really believes in you.
“Thank you for being here.” You take a deep breath and drop your forehead against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry for crying. I know it’s kinda stupid. Most of this is replaceable, it’s just-”
“It’s not stupid,” he says, letting his chin rest atop your head. “You’re allowed to cry. Hell, I’d probably be kicking and screaming on the floor like I'm back in the terrible twos.”
You laugh wetly into his shirt.
“Now,” he says, pulling back and putting his hands on his hips, “the quicker we pack, the quicker we go home. I’ll even let you wear a pair of my good fuzzy socks.”
A smile tugs at your mouth. “Deal.”
-
Steve wouldn’t let you do much of the work after that.
Instead, he simply held up items for you to assess from where you’d been leaning against the wall and packed it into a box if it was a ‘yes,’ or tossing it aside dramatically just to try and get you to laugh if it was a ‘no.’
Once things were sorted through and packed, you loaded everything into Steve’s car—which wasn’t a whole bunch, considering how much you had to leave behind.
You’d refused to let Steve carry the boxes all on his own, though he tried, but he still managed to open the doors for you whenever you made it to his car, even when his own hands were full, too.
By the time you were finished, you were drained. It felt like you’d lived multiple days in the one. An eight hour shift opening at the store, then coming home to a wrecked apartment. All you wanted to do was shower and lay down and not get back up.
Steve knows you well enough to be able to tell when it’s time to fill the silence and when it isn’t, and on the drive back to his place, while your head was leaned against his window, he knew to stay quiet and give you a bit of space.
He turned the radio on, but not too loud, letting the songs hum through the speakers. At every stop sign, he reached over and gave your thigh a light squeeze. Reassuring, kind, somehow exactly what you needed at the moment. Nothing more, nothing less.
You were no stranger to the Harrington’s house, having been there countless times since you were little, but it feels more intimidating now, knowing you’ll be staying. You feel silly for being worried, but you are. Asking for help makes you feel like a burden.
Steve, however, doesn’t let you entertain that thought for long, parking in his driveway and jogging around to open the passenger door for you. “Honey, we’re home!”
“Dork,” you say, though you accept his hand and let him tug you up out of the car.
Grabbing the first couple of boxes, Steve leads you inside and upstairs, right to the guest room across the hall from his own bedroom. The closest one to him.
The house has at least two guest rooms, though you suppose with how little Steve's parents are around, you could consider there to be three. Three spare rooms and Steve puts you up in the nearest one possible. It makes your heart squish in your chest, how caring he is. He doesn’t even have to try, really, the goodness in him shows even when he tries to keep it hidden.
It only takes a few trips down to his car and back before all of your boxes are stacked against the wall. You decide you’ll deal with them later.
Steve runs over to his room and grabs a set of pajamas that you’d left there, and hands them to you. “I figured you’d wanna wash up.”
“You calling me smelly, Harrington?”
“Shut up, I think you smell nice. Usually.”
“Hey!”
“I’m teasing, angel.” He ruffles your hair. You swat his hand away. “You know where the bathroom is, and there should be soap and stuff in the shower already. Just yell if you need something, okay?”
You do know where the bathroom is. You have your own toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a set of travel-sized skin care products in the cupboard behind the mirror for whenever you end up staying over.
It’s funny, you’ve always felt more at home here than at your own parents house, and though he hasn’t said it to you, Steve much prefers this house when you’re in it. There’s a warmth that comes with your presence that makes him ache when it’s not around.
You nod, “Thank you again for letting me stay, Steve. I won’t be in the way, promise.”
“I want you in the way. You know you’re always welcome. This is no different.” He shrugs, “Plus, it’ll be nice having you around. Place always feels so empty when it’s just me.”
“Maybe I’ll just stay forever, then,” you say, tone light and joking.
Steve, completely serious, says, “I’d let you.”
There’s a zip that goes through you when he says it, quick as lightning, something you’ve never felt—or noticed, rather—around him. It throws you off just a little.
“Anyways,” Steve cuts your thoughts short, “I’ll let you get settled. Pizza will be waiting for you when you’re done.”
He leaves the room before you can thank him again, his footsteps retreating and heading downstairs.
You’ve been to his house a million times, so you don’t really feel the need to ‘get settled’ but you desperately need a shower so that’s where you go.
You stay in for longer than you need to, letting the too-hot water run down your neck and back.
When you finally do step out of the bathroom, now clad in your pajamas, and head downstairs, Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room, the romcoms he owns sitting out in front of the TV for you to choose from, your favorite blanket resting on your side of the couch, and pizza boxes on the coffee table just as promised.
It’s the best thing in the world, you think, to have a friend like Steve.
-
You’ve been staying at Steve’s for a couple of days already, and time seems to fly by a little quicker when you’re there, especially when you’re around him.
He’s taken it upon himself to have coffee ready in the pot for you every morning, one of your favorite mugs already next to it on the counter. You’ve cooked breakfasts together (pancakes one day, where you’d done most of the work, or something simple as toast when you both have to get to work), ordered dinners, and Steve comes home from his shifts with a new movie to watch almost every day.
It’s been so nice. Almost perfect, actually.
This morning, the first day where your shifts happen to be at the exact same time, he’d even insisted on driving you to work. It was an easy yes, considering it wasn’t out of his way at all.
After a short stint of working together at the grocery store in ninth grade, and your subsequent firing from the job after a month of constantly distracting each other on the clock, Tim, the grocery manager, took it upon himself to warn Hawkins not to hire the both of you together.
Eventually, you’d taken the closest you could get which resulted in you working at the arcade and Steve next door at Family Video.
You share a parking lot. Steve already drives you to work most days. You like to put up a bit of a fight just to annoy him.
Though you haven’t worked together in years, and he isn’t far away by any means, you miss having Steve around on days like this. Where the arcade is quiet save for the sounds of the games in the background, where you’re simply babysitting the desk and cleaning things multiple times to try and make the hours pass by.
If Steve were with you, he’d make stupid jokes that you don’t wanna laugh at but do, or coerce you into playing the games while on the clock with the change you find whenever you’re cleaning.
He’d probably trash talk you, and bump your hip with his while playing pinball, and be a sore loser, and for some reason you want him around so bad.
You chalk it up to getting used to spending hours and hours with him, every single day, these past couple of days. Staying with him has made you miss him more, you think.
That’s it.
Meanwhile, over at Family Video, Steve isn’t feeling too different from you.
He’s spent the morning stocking shelves, memories popping into his head whenever he’d come across a movie you loved or watched together, while Robin’s been manning the desk.
Then, when his cart was empty and put back into the back room, he sat on the chair behind the front desk, spinning around until Robin stopped him with her foot and asked what he was thinking so hard about.
Steve caught her up on what had happened with your apartment (you’d told him he could tell her, because she’s your friend too and would find out sooner or later) and how you’d ended up staying with him in his house.
She raised her eyebrows and hummed in a way that was automatically suspicious, because Robin isn’t very good at hiding things.
“What?” Steve asks.
“Nothing.” When Steve only gives her a pointed look, Robin continues, “Well… are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Now, Robin is one of Steve’s closest friends, and him one of hers, and she supports him in pretty much everything that he does even when she teases him relentlessly along the way, but she cares about both of you and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.
She can read Steve better than he can read himself, probably, because to Robin, it’s clear that he feels more than friendly towards you. And he doesn’t even know it.
When they became closer, it was clear to Robin, even before meeting you, just from the way Steve spoke of you, that there was a spot reserved for you in his life that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.
He would say it’s that of ‘best friend’ but Robin would call it something even bigger than that. Still, even though she thinks he’s an absolute dingus, she’s trying to let Steve figure it out for himself.
Clearly, it’s taking fucking forever.
He looks confused at her question, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”
Robin sighs and resists the urge to drop her forehead against the desk and decides on, “You know what they say: become friends with your roommates, don’t become roommates with your friends.”
“Whoever they are, they’re dumb as shit,” Steve says. “She’s been over, slept over, hundreds of times. It’s not any different, just longer.”
“I guess so,” she settles on. “The rules of the world never really seem to apply to you two.”
“That’s because the rules of the world are also dumb as shit.”
“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever tried following them.”
“‘Cause I’m a rule breaker, Robs.”
Steve wiggles his eyebrows. Robin shoves the rolling chair he’s sitting on with her foot, sending it into the other side of the desk with a thud.
“Don’t think that smoking weed in your backyard is enough to call yourself a rule breaker, dingus.”
-
That night, your routine was pretty much the same.
Steve was already waiting for you in his car when you left the arcade, a smile spreading onto his face when he saw you making your way across the parking lot to him, your skirt swishing a little with the breeze.
Rather than go straight home, you made a stop at your apartment to talk things over with the couple who owned the home. They’d met with a builder and plumber about getting everything fixed and wanted to walk you through it all.
Steve came with you and held your hand, and both of them cooed at him and pinched his cheeks and called him a cutie before getting to the important stuff.
After going over what had to be done (rip out the carpet, replace it, fix the pipes and make sure no others were at risk, replace the ceiling, and more you couldn’t even remember already), they’d assured you that they would be taking care of it all. Covering the entire cost.
You probably would’ve argued if not for how little money was in your bank account, and how stubborn you knew these people to be. Instead, you’d squeezed them both and thanked them while your eyes grew misty with tears.
Steve’s hand stayed in yours and squeezed when you sniffled.
He knew, because he knew pretty much everything about you, that these people were kinder to you than even your own parents. That, if this had happened at their house, they would’ve found a way to blame you for it.
You feel lucky to have found that kind of parental love elsewhere, sad that you didn’t know exactly what it felt like beforehand.
After giving the couple Steve’s phone number to call in case they needed you and giving them both another hug, you and Steve headed back home.
Home, you call it. Like it’s yours.
Sometimes it feels like it is.
Later, after you and Steve have both showered and had dinner and gotten comfy in your sweats, you’re back in the living room, Steve shows you the movie he’s brought back this time.
“Gremlins?” You ask, smiling and shaking your head.
“Hell yeah, angel. It’s a classic.”
Steve sets everything up, joining you on the couch after pressing ‘play’ on the movie and adjusting the volume with your guidance.
“So, how was work?” Steve asks during the opening credits. The two of you have a hard time being next to each other and not talking. It’s why you get dirty looks whenever you go to the movies.
“Weekdays are so boring, Steve,” you say, letting your head fall against the back of the couch. “You’re so lucky you have Robin to entertain you during the day. I think I dusted like, ten times at least.”
“Robin is a pain in my ass.” He says. He doesn’t really mean it, because even when she is, he’s glad to have her around. A different kind of gladness than he feels with you. “She kept pushing me every time I sat in the rolling chair. There’s probably a dent in the desk.”
“That’s because you were probably hogging the chair, Steve.”
“What the fuck!” Steve’s smiling when he says it, lacking any sort of anger. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Your smile mirrors his, the way it always does. It’s contagious, you think, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner.
Shrugging, you say, “I don’t know, I’d wanna push you around on that chair too, I think.”
“You’d spin me too much. I’d get sick all over you and then nobody’s happy.”
“Don’t talk about barf while I’m eating, Harrington.”
You throw a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his lap, and he doesn’t even flinch. Steve just picks it up and pops it into his mouth.
When the bowl’s empty, you lean forward and set it on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch, Steve's shoulder brushing yours. You let the warmth seep through your clothes and shut your eyes.
It’s a little more than halfway through the movie when Steve realizes you’re asleep. You’d been quiet, sure, but Steve only thought that meant you were paying attention to the movie.
That was, until your head slipped and rested against his shoulder.
He looked down at you, at the hair falling across your forehead (he smoothed it away gently, so it wouldn’t be in your eyes or your mouth), your eyebrows relaxed and free of any worry, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths.
He thinks of how tired you must be, after everything. Your apartment and dealing with the aftermath both emotionally and physically, working long shifts most days to keep your bank account full.
Steve, though he doesn’t let himself look too deep into it, also thinks of how beautiful you are. Now and always.
Not wanting you to get a kink in your neck from the position, Steve decides to rouse you from sleep as gently as possible. He slips a hand under your head to keep it steady and maneuvers himself to kneel in front of you.
“Hey, angel,” he almost whispers, thumb dragging across your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”
Your nose scrunches and you grumble, but after some coaxing, you blink your eyes open and squint at Steve. You blame your half-asleep mind on the way you nuzzle into his palm. “Hmm?”
“You fell asleep.”
“Oh, sorry,” you mumble.
Steve laughs softly. “Don’t be sorry, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
The warmth of his hand leaves your cheek as he stands and holds his hands out for you to grab. He pulls you up off the couch and starts leading you towards the stairs.
You knuckle at your eyes on the way, a tiny smile gracing your face at how sweet Steve’s being. As if you haven’t fallen asleep on his couch plenty of times before.
Still sleepy, you stumble a little on the stairs, but Steve catches you easily with an arm around your waist and a small “Careful.”
He leaves his arm there the rest of the way to what’s become your bedroom, guiding you over to the bed and lifting the covers for you.
Tomorrow, you’ll regret not brushing your teeth or washing your face before climbing in bed. But today, you don’t feel like risking not being able to sleep again if you wake yourself up further.
You’re practically asleep again by the time you’re settled with your head on the pillow as Steve tugs the blankets over you.
You’re just awake enough to feel the light press of his lips on your forehead and a soft “Goodnight, angel” against your skin before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.
-
On a random Thursday that you and Steve both have off, he convinces you to let him take you to the mall.
“We should go shopping,” he says when you walk into the kitchen. It’s a little later in the morning, having slept in since it’s a day off, the sun slipping through the window in warm beams.
You raise your eyebrows at him. “Like, groceries?”
“No, like shopping shopping. You know, the mall?”
You lean against the kitchen island, the countertop cool on your back where it touches the sliver of skin between your tank top and sleep shorts. Steve has his shoulder against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight against his muscles. Not that you’re looking.
You squint at him, trying to find his motive on his face. “You literally buy whatever the mannequins are wearing to avoid shopping.”
“That’s what they’re there for!” The sass in his voice has you biting back a smile. “You need new clothes,” he continues, “and I need to get out of this house.”
“We can do something else, Steve,” you say. “I thought you hated shopping.”
“Well, I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes lowering to that sliver of skin above your shorts. He flicks them back to your face quickly, hoping you didn’t notice, because even he’s not sure what compelled his eyes to wander. “Plus, Eddie called me a hermit the other day and I really can’t stand for that, can I?”
“Ohhh,” you ignore the way your skin suddenly feels warm beneath his gaze, “so you need to make a public appearance to prove Eddie wrong?”
“Exactly. We’ll replace some of the things you lost and restore my reputation. Two birds, one stone, right angel?”
So that’s how you’d ended up at the mall. After Starcourt burnt down, the closest place was a couple towns over, and Steve (as always) offered to drive.
He lets you pick the music the entire way, sings along when you hold your water bottle by his mouth like a microphone, even attempts to harmonize with you which just ends in laughter because neither of you sounded that great.
You’re a couple of stores in, and Steve’s been complaint-free so far—which makes sense, since this was his idea, but you’ve caught him side-eyeing some things, so you know he’s got some remarks in his head he just hasn’t said out loud—and follows you around as you browse. You try not to take too long, because you can’t imagine that this is any fun for him.
“How about that one?” Steve asks, pointing at one of the dresses hanging along the store’s wall.
He’d seen your apartment, though that was a bit ago, and he remembered what you’d lost the most of, along with the type of stuff you like. He pays attention like that, in small, quiet ways that you think mean the most.
He knows you. He cares enough to know you.
“Yeah, that’s really pretty, actually,” you admit.
At your approval, Steve grabs one in your size (which he also just happens to know) and adds it to the couple of things he’d already been holding for you. Every time you picked something up, he was quick to snatch it from you, telling you it was ‘too hard to browse with your hands full.’
After making your way through the rest of the store, you decided to head back to try things on, holding out a hand for the stuff Steve’s holding. “You can wait out here, I’ll be quick.”
“Hold on,” he says, holding the hangers out of your reach. “Why do you think I’m here, angel? I wanna help you pick.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. Give me a fashion show, yeah?”
“Oh my God,” you mumble, letting him follow you to the fitting rooms.
They’re hidden behind the back wall of the store, a hallway painted bright blue with pink changeroom doors on one side, and white benches along the other.
“Hi there,” an employee with auburn hair greets you both, her smile wide and kind, though you know it’s a practiced one. Customer service smile. “How many you got there, darling?”
“Oh, um,” you turn back towards Steve, who’s counting the hangers in his hand. “Five.”
“Perfect!” The girl takes the key hanging around her neck and unlocks one of the rooms for you. She takes the clothes from Steve and hangs them up inside for you, then turns to the two of you and says, “Your man can have a seat right here. We call them the ‘boyfriend benches.’”
“He’s not my-”
“Thanks,” Steve says, cutting off your correction because for some reason he didn’t want you to correct her.
Did he… like the idea of being your boyfriend?
Fuck. No. He just didn’t want you to have to explain the whole situation in your rambly way. That’s all.
The redhead smiles again, “Holler if you need anything,” she says before walking off.
You stand there for a second, something like confusion on your face. Did it look like you were boyfriend and girlfriend?
“Come on,” Steve says, snapping the both of you out of whatever that was. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“I can't believe you’re making me do this,” you say, walking into the fitting room and shutting the door.
You try on a couple of sweaters first, and Steve feels the fabric both times, making sure that it’s not scratchy on your skin. Then, there’s just some basic t-shirts that aren’t all that exciting, but Steve says they look nice anyway.
Finally, you get to the dress he picked out.
It really was pretty. A midi-length with a ruffled hem and straps that tie into little bows on your shoulders. You don’t always feel good in your clothes. Sometimes you wish you could crawl out of your skin when you look into the mirror, but right now, you don’t hate what you see.
You actually like it.
“Well?” Steve calls softly from the bench.
In response, you open the door and step out so he can see you.
Steve’s seen you in plenty of dresses—hell, you went to prom together—but for some reason this one makes his heart beat just a little bit quicker. Maybe it’s simply the fact that it looks great on you, or the way you’re smiling shyly as he looks you over.
Or, maybe it’s because he’s the one who picked it.
He stands up, spinning his finger in the air in a gesture for you to twirl. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. The hallway of fitting rooms isn’t very big, so with both of you in it, you’re standing toe to toe, the gold flecks in the middle of Steve’s eyes and the faint freckles that dot his nose are visible from where you stand.
As if he can’t help it, Steve lifts a finger and dips it beneath the strap on your shoulder. Not moving it or undoing it, just gliding along your skin where it sits.
“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice goes all quiet and soft when he says it, and his eyes widen a tiny bit, like he hadn’t meant it to slip out that way. It sounded… more than friendly. He clears his throat and steps back as much as he can in the small space, his finger leaving your skin. “I have great taste. Clearly.”
You blink at him, then shake yourself out of it as much as you can. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” You lift the tag where it hangs by your armpit and look at the price. You gasp and swat Steve’s arm. “Steve! Why would you let me walk into a place so expensive?”
You probably should’ve looked at the tag beforehand, but here you are. Steve, shrugging exaggeratedly, says, “I didn’t know!”
“Okay, I’m gonna change before she comes back. We can make a run for it.”
“We’re not stealing.”
“I know, but they look at you all judgemental when you try stuff on and don’t buy something. Trust me.”
You turn and go back into the fitting room to put on your own clothes, taking a look at the dress in the mirror one last time before shaking your head at yourself.
Steve, however, takes the opportunity to leave you and head back out into the store. He finds the dress easily and grabs another one in your size from the rack and heads to the cashier.
He’s just finishing up, bag in hand, when you walk out and meet him at the front of the store.
“For you,” he says, holding out the bag for you to take.
“Steve…” You grab it and look inside. Your chest aches when you see the dress, your heart suddenly too full and your stomach fluttering stupidly. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine with something from the Gap.”
“I know that,” he says, a hand lifting to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick of his, and the thought of him being nervous right now makes you melt even more. “I wanted to get it for you. You looked too pretty in it not to have it.”
Your eyes catch his, and again, something passes between you that you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. A fizzle, a spark.
You rock back on your feet, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. They’re so fucking soft it makes you wonder how lucky you have to be to have him in your life. Being your best friend, driving you to work even when he doesn’t have a shift, offering you a place to stay, buying you a dress.
He’s the sweetest boy you’ve ever known.
“Well,” you twist the straps of the bag around your fingers just to keep them busy. “Thank you, Steve. This is really nice.”
His knuckle traces down your arm just once, featherlight. “You’re welcome, angel.”
You don’t buy anything else after that, instead stopping at the food court for fries, stealing from each other’s baskets, smiling and slapping hands away.
It’s the best day you’ve had in a while.
-
You don’t think anything you do will convey just how grateful you are that Steve has been so kind to you. Always, but especially now. Letting you stay with him and refusing to let you pay rent. (“I don’t even pay rent, and I live here all the time.”)
But, this morning, you’ve decided you’re gonna try.
Steve’s favorite meal of the day happens to be breakfast, which is funny, considering he usually eats something as simple as cereal. He’d told you once that it was because, as a kid, breakfast was the most peaceful of meals, his parents too busy getting ready for work or wherever they were going that he’d have the kitchen table to himself.
Lunch was usually spent at school, and Steve was never a fan of school to begin with. Then there was dinner, which his parents (when they were home) still wanted to have all together. They’d ask him questions and make backhanded comments about every single answer he gave. He never won at dinner.
So, breakfast was, and has remained, his favorite.
You made sure to get up early enough to give yourself time to get everything ready before he wakes up. Steve’s usually the one making the coffee in the morning, and you figured the least you could do was give him a break.
Yesterday, while Steve had been at work, you went over to the Wheeler’s and asked Nancy if you could borrow their waffle maker. She’d directed the question to her mother, who went and grabbed it for you and handed it over with a smile. You promised to take good care of it and have it back in a couple of days.
By the time Steve walks into the kitchen, you’ve already made the batter and set out the toppings—berries, maple syrup, whipped cream—like a buffet. However, he just so happens to come in as you’re swearing at the waffle maker.
“Stupid fucking thing,” you mutter, trying to open it.
Steve smiles to himself before saying, “Morning, angel.”
You jump at his voice, not having heard him walk in. When you turn around, your heart beats for a different reason.
Steve’s still only in his pajama pants, plaid and soft, hanging low on his hips. And he’s shirtless, his chest smattered with hair and his skin a little tanned from the sun. He’s got beauty marks all over, like a constellation you could chart, and his abs are just visible beneath the soft of his stomach. A trail of hair leading to the waistband of his pants and disappearing beneath them.
You’ve seen Steve shirtless plenty of times. Swimming and sleeping over in the summer, in high school when you used to go to his practices, but it hits you harder for some reason this time.
The way his hair is still a mess from sleep, his eyes a bit heavy. The way it feels to be greeting him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Intimate. Domestic.
You clear your throat and turn back around to pry the waffle maker open, revealing a slightly burnt but otherwise good-looking waffle. “I’m making breakfast. Coffee’s already in the pot, too.”
He walks over, his chest close to your back as he grabs a mug from the cabinet above you before heading over to pour himself a cup. He looks at the spread you’ve prepared, “Waffles, huh? What did I do to deserve all this?”
“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” you say as Steve walks over to lean against the counter next to you, his hip barely touching yours. “To thank you, in a way. For letting me stay and the dress and-”
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop thanking me?” He says, though his voice is soft and still a bit rough from sleep. “I like having you around.”
“So you don’t want the waffles then?”
“Oh, I want the waffles. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s not some debt you’ll owe me, angel.”
“Want you to know I appreciate you is all,” you say, pouring a new scoop of batter into the waffle maker.
Steve, unsure of what exactly possesses him to do so, dips in and presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, his lips a whisper away from your skin when he says, “I appreciate you, too.”
Then he pulls away and moves to set the table. Like it was natural.
And it was, in a way. How you moved around each other in the kitchen. You leaning out of the way when he needed to reach something you were blocking, him putting a hand on your lower back when he walked behind you so you knew he was there.
Your cheek still tingles from where he’d kissed it when you bring the plate of waffles to the table, your skin somehow even warmer under his gaze, like he’s still remembering exactly how it felt, too.
You sit in the chair beside Steve, not noticing the way he tugs it a bit closer to him with his foot before you sit down. Soon enough, both of you are digging in. Steve’s got more whipped cream on his plate than waffle (you tell him as much) and you’ve got your berries on the side the way you always do.
Neither of you work until later in the day, and it’s nice knowing that you can take your time. Steve tells you about the advice he gave Dustin about how to be ‘cooler’ in school (he’d told him that being cool is completely overrated, he knew from experience, and that being himself is the most important). You’d told him he was going soft with age.
You talk about anything at all. How Keith somehow manages both of your places of work, how he also somehow does both terribly. The way he says ‘if you have time to lean, you have time to clean’ while literally having Cheeto dust on his fingers. Laughing at each other’s impressions of him.
What the new highscores were at the arcade, what people were renting from Family Video.
You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to leave. When you’re living alone again.
Logically, you know you’ll still see Steve frequently, because he’s your favorite person and you can’t remember the last time you went longer than a few days without hanging out. Still, it’ll be different than right now, waking up in the same space and sharing breakfast and brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror.
You’ll miss it, you think.
Trying not to dwell on something that’s still a few weeks away, you take another bite of your waffle. Steve catches your chin and wipes off a bit of whipped cream from the corner of your mouth, then pulling away and sucking it off his thumb.
He goes back to his own plate without a thought. Like touching you just now was an instinct.
Then, he teases you, “These are a little crispy, angel. Maybe you should stick to letting me make breakfast in this household.”
You kick his leg under the table. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’ Harrington.”
He kicks you back, much gentler than you’d been. “Thank you.”
“That’s what I thought.”
When you look at him, there’s an easy, boyish smile on his face.
A similar one stretches across your own lips.
-
Steve has had the thought pop up into his head a couple of times, that maybe he should’ve just asked you to live with him before you ever bought that apartment. Because having you around feels the most right things have ever felt in his house.
And though the circumstances of your moving in with him (temporarily, he has to remind himself), were far from ideal, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t glad that you’ve ended up sharing his space.
The room across the hall will always be yours, even when you move back to your place.
He knows that you feel indebted to him for all of it, but if anyone owes the other something, he feels like it’s him. For everything you’ve ever done for him. Sticking around even when he was an asshole in highschool, defending him to his parents whenever you’d cross paths, simply being the kind of friend he needed.
Even when you’re not around, he can picture your face, the way your smile spreads slowly until you’re fucking beaming. Worse, the way you cried into his chest that day at your apartment.
He remembers the crack in your voice when you spoke about that picture frame from summer camp. Though he hasn’t seen you cry since, or even bring it up, he’s decided he wants to fix it. He’d told you he would.
Dustin wound up roped into his plan: find a similar frame, decorate it the exact same way, and scour the photo albums in Steve’s room for his copy of that same picture.
When he was younger, the photo albums pissed him off, because they were purely for show. Pictures of his family that were all fake smiles. Now, he’s glad for them, because at least he has some good memories to look back on. To know it wasn’t always all bad.
Steve probably should’ve thought that one through, because when they looked through his albums, he was on the receiving end of relentless teasing from Dustin. (“Dude, you have an insane boogie in this picture.” “I was four!”)
He hopes it’ll be worth it.
Dustin was the one who found the picture they’d been looking for, and he cheered and waved it in Steve’s face as if they’d been racing.
Now, after driving Dustin back home, decorating the frame the way the two of you did as kids, trying to make his handwriting look like it did back then (which wasn’t too difficult, ‘cause Steve’s writing still isn’t that neat), he’s waiting for you to come downstairs before giving it to you.
He’d picked you up after your shift at the arcade not too long ago, but he knows you like to shower and change as soon as you get home from work, so he’d taken the opportunity to wrap the frame and have it ready for you.
Steve can hear you singing in the shower, and he knows you’re done when it goes quiet. A few minutes later you’re walking down the stairs in a baggy t-shirt and silky sleep shorts.
His eyes, for some reason, linger on your legs for a second.
He stands up, frame in his hand, when you walk over. “I have something for you.”
“Steve! Stop buying me things. Seriously.”
“This thing was free, so you can’t even be mad,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly.
Your eyes search his face, flickering between his own and dipping down to his lips and his nose and back to his eyes. He looks… nervous.
Steve’s never nervous around you.
“Okay,” you say, shuffling on your feet. “What is it?”
“Here,” he hands you the poorly-wrapped frame. “Open it.”
You scrunch your brows at him once, because you have no idea what it could be. It isn’t your birthday, or any sort of holiday at all. With zero guesses, you look down at the light yellow wrapping paper in your hands and slowly tear it open.
What you find makes your eyes grow misty, tears pooling at your lash line but not quite falling.
It’s your favorite picture, the one of you and Steve in those stupid neon shirts with messy hair and dirt on your hands. Only now, it’s not water damaged, and the frame is new, but decorated just like the old one. You run your thumbs over the glass lightly, smiling down at little you and little Steve.
When you look back up at him, he’s already looking at you, his brown eyes all warm, his smile kind but also worried, waiting for your reaction.
Seeing his face springs you into motion, jumping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck tightly with the frame still in your hand. “Thank you,” you say into his skin.
Steve’s arms move to hold you around your waist without a thought. A reflex. They squeeze you close to him, his nose pressed into your damp hair, smelling your shampoo.
“It’s not perfect,” he says. “But I know how much you love that picture, and I wanted to fix it.”
“Steve. Shut up. It is perfect.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he says, his thumbs running back and forth against your back.
You hug for what could’ve been minutes, but neither of you moves to pull away first. You’re not sure if it’s still considered friendly to stand in each other's arms, breathing each other in, for so long, but you don’t care at the moment.
This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a long, long time.
When you finally do pull away, you don’t go far. Your arms stay slung over his shoulders, Steve’s hands framing your hips. His thumbs still dragging those sweet patterns against you.
“I’m keeping it forever,” you tell him.
“You sure?” he asks.
“Certain. You’ll always be my best friend, Steve.”
“You’ll always be mine too, angel.”
Then, your eyes both move to each other’s lips, yours flick back up in a second, startled at their wandering.
Steve, however, is a bit transfixed. He looks at the slope of your cupid’s bow, the way your lips are shiny from your lip balm. He thinks it quickly, like a gust of wind that can’t be stopped: I really wanna kiss her right now.
Fuck. He wants to kiss his best friend.
He blinks a few times, clearing his throat and pulling back, letting his hands fall from your waist as yours slide off his shoulders. He misses the feel of your touch immediately, but he’s too freaked out and confused to do anything about it.
“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asks, cutting off his own thoughts. “I brought back a horror and a comedy. Take your pick.”
“Mmm,” he picks up two tapes from the coffee table and holds them up for you to choose from. “Horror. Unless you’re too scared?”
“You’ll just have to hold my hand, then, won’t you?”
“I guess I will.”
You look back at the picture while Steve puts the movie into the player. You smile at it every time you see it, because you can still see parts of Steve in him now that were in him then.
His eyes, always kind, the way he smiles when he laughs, and about a half hour into the movie, the way he holds your hand and squeezes it when he’s scared.
-
You’re having one of those nights. The kind where sleep seems to be fighting you.
You worked a closing shift at the arcade, which usually lasts until late considering how long you’re open plus all of the cleaning you have to do afterwards. Today was no different, and despite how much later you finish than him at Family Video, Steve waited and drove you home. He hung out in the arcade with you until close, actually.
You’d think that after such a long day, the second your head hit the pillow you’d be out and breathing steadily. Today, that is not the case. You fell asleep for maybe an hour before a nightmare woke you up. You can’t quite remember what happened, only that you’d been yelling for Steve and he wasn’t there.
Groaning quietly, you rub your eyes and toss the blankets away. You stand up and head down to the kitchen in the dark, hand trailing along the walls to make sure you don’t bump into anything.
Just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of water, you hear the shuffle of sleepy footsteps coming into the kitchen.
“Holy shit,” he says, walking over to grab a glass, one hand on his bare chest. “I thought you were a ghost or something just now.”
You shift out of the way to let him get some water just like you did, taking the second that he’s distracted to look at him. His hair a mess, wearing nothing but his boxers. You take a big sip from your glass.
“I feel like I should be offended right now,” you say, “if you think I look like a ghost.”
“Shut up,” he says, dragging out the second word. His voice being rough from sleep makes his words sound much warmer than they are. “My eyes aren’t awake yet. Nothing to do with you, angel.”
You shake your head, though there’s a soft smile on your face the way there always seems to be when you try to be annoyed with Steve. You tilt your head at him, asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”
He shakes his head. “Been tossing and turning. Just can’t get comfortable, then I got pissed ‘cause I couldn’t get comfortable and only made it worse.”
“You would get pissed at that. Probably slapped your pillow like it was at fault.”
He folds his lips inwards and blinks at you. Because he did smack his pillow and call it a dipshit. “Why do you know everything? Spying on me?”
“Hate to say it, but you’re getting predictable, Harrington.” You shrug, then move to put your now empty glass in the dishwasher. “I know you too well.”
He looks at you, your hair falling across your shoulders, your pajama shorts riding up a little as you bend down. The moonlight slipping through the window seems to hit you perfectly. Like a halo.
Fitting, he thinks. You’re his angel, after all.
“Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Then, “What about you? Why’re you up?”
“Nightmare. Been forever since I had one.”
“You okay?” he asks, trailing a knuckle over your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it.
“Yeah,” you say, skin tingling where he’d touched you. “I can't even remember most of it, but now my brain won’t let me sleep.”
Steve wishes he could’ve protected you from whatever haunted you in your sleep. It’s silly, he knows, to think he might be able to ward away anything that hurts you, but he wants to, nonetheless.
He thinks about how comfortable he is whenever you cuddle during movie night. Your head on his shoulder or his chest, his hand on your back or waist.
So, he blurts, “Why don’t you sleep over?”
You furrow your brows at him, “Um, I’ve been sleeping over. A couple of weeks now, actually.”
“No, I mean, like in my room with me,” he says, suddenly shy at the idea. He’s grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his cheeks warming up. “A proper sleepover.”
You’ve done it before. Shared a bed a bunch of times, but for some reason your heart jumps when he says it. Your stomach swirls as you say, maybe a little too quickly, “Okay.”
Steve’s eyes widen like he’s surprised, just for a split second, before a soft smile takes over his face. He holds out a hand for you to take, “C’mon.”
Soon enough, Steve’s lifting his navy bedspread for you, letting you slip into bed next to him. He stays further away at first, letting you settle and lay on your side the way he knows you always do.
You blame sleepiness—or, maybe, the lack thereof—for the way you reach behind you for his arm and tug him closer, draping it over your own waist.
He obliges, of course, his arm securing itself across your stomach, palm spread out and warm against your sleep shirt. His chest is only a breath away from your back, though he keeps his lower half a little more distanced.
His thumb runs circles over your shirt, once, twice, three times before stilling, his forehead pressing to the back of your neck.
“Goodnight, angel,” he says into your hair.
Your hand splays itself on top of his. “Night, Steve.”
And suddenly your eyes grow heavier, and sleep doesn’t feel like much of a battle anymore.
-
You wake up the most rested you’ve felt in a while. There’s warmth surrounding you, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that feels safe.
Somehow, you and Steve are even closer than you’d been when you fell asleep. His arm is still around your waist, his other outstretched and tucked beneath your head like a pillow. His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel it expand with every breath he takes.
Most differently of all, however, is the way his hips are snug against the curve of your butt. And you can feel him hard against you.
Your skin feels even warmer than before when you notice.
Steve hasn’t woken up yet, you don’t think, because the faintest snores are getting puffed out against your shoulder where his face is tucked. His hand on your stomach has worked its way beneath your shirt, though, and his fingertips press against your skin, like he’s fighting to keep you close.
As if you’d go anywhere even in your sleep.
His knee is tucked between your legs, and you’re quickly realizing that it’d be pretty impossible to get out of bed without him noticing. You’re completely tangled together, a knot of limbs somehow fitting together just right. Like two puzzle pieces.
In his sleep, Steve’s mouth presses against the back of your shoulder, and only when you involuntarily shiver at the contact, does he stir.
It takes Steve a bit to really wake up, mumbling words that don’t make sense, scrunching his eyes shut even further before blinking them open. He’s met with the sight of you right in front of him. Body curved perfectly against his.
“Steve? You awake?” you ask, checking.
“Mhm,” he hums.
Then, something that has his cheeks flushing pink, he registers the feeling of his boner pressed against your ass. He shuffles them back enough so there’s space between you. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you say. Because he can’t control the way his body reacts while he’s asleep.
“I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off, because he’s not quite sure how to say I didn’t think about the whole morning wood factor or that I’d fucking plaster myself to you when I suggested a sleepover without sounding stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “I’m sorry.”
You twist yourself around to face him, sheets crumpling and twisting as you move. When you settle back onto the pillow and look at his face, at the redness on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, you squeeze his hand that’s now laying between you.
“I don’t want you to think I invited you to sleep in here for some pervy reason,” he says, scrunching his nose when he says it.
“I don’t think that at all,” you tell him. You squeeze his hand again. “We’ve shared a bed like, a hundred times by now. If anything I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”
“Oh my God,” he groans, shutting his eyes and pushing his face into the pillow.
“Steve,” you drag out his name, fighting a giggle at the way he’s acting. He’s got a reputation, after all, and how shy and embarrassed he seems to be doesn’t reflect the things you heard about him in high school. He’s changed a lot since then. “It’s seriously fine. We can pretend it never happened. Promise.”
Steve pulls his face from the pillow, eyes catching yours as his fingers squeeze yours back in appreciation. He lets his eyes wander a bit, at the messy bits of your hair around your face from sleeping, the marks in your cheek from the pillowcase, the way your sleep shirt has fallen off your shoulder.
He feels lucky to get to see you this way, right after you’ve woken up. Vulnerable, unguarded, beautiful.
It’s during this small stretch of silence that you realize how close your faces are now. You’re sharing a pillow, his nose not even an inch from yours. Shift forward the slightest bit, and they’d be touching. Your eyes trail down to his mouth, to the visible patch of chest hair and the freckles that dot his skin. He’s already looking right at you when your eyes flick back upwards.
You know Steve, could tell what he’s feeling just from the look on his face, but this is one you’ve never seen before. At least, not directed at you.
Steve moves first, his eyes a little darker than usual, shifting forward slightly, then looking at you. Daring you to make the next move.
“What if we didn’t forget about it?” he says. Quiet and scratchy.
You don’t have time to think before you move forward a bit, too. Your noses brush. “What would that mean?”
Steve doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he moves forward the final bit and brushes his lips against yours in a question mark of a kiss, giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
Instead, the hand of yours that isn’t still holding his comes up to the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to do it again. His free hand tightens at your waist as he dips in a second time.
It isn’t as tentative now that you’ve urged him on. His lips meet yours more sure, more firm, but still soft against you. Neither of you cares one bit about morning breath, or about what this might change. As if the morning’s haze slows time, minds still a little sleepy.
You’re simply acting on instinct. And this feels too right to stop.
Soon enough it grows more heated, Steve shifting to hover over you, his elbows pushing into the mattress to hold himself up, his tongue sneaking out to lick against the seam of your lips for permission.
Just as you open up for him, the blaring sound of Steve's alarm cuts you off, pulling back with a gasp. He simply leans up on one arm and slams the snooze button—and you laugh, you laugh, at how hard he hits it—before diving back into you.
You feel hot all over, where one of Steve’s hands has moved to cup your jaw, his thumb running delicately against your face as his mouth moves against yours, practically devouring you. Where the blankets are still over your lower halves, trapping in heat. When he pulls back, looks into your eyes, fucking smiles all dopey and pretty, and then kisses you again.
It’s so good, you’re almost angry at yourself for not kissing him sooner.
You kiss until his alarm goes off again and Steve's forced to pry himself away from you, groaning about being on his ‘last tardy warning’ from Keith.
Still, he takes the time to kiss your forehead on his way out, Family Video vest slung over his shoulder, calling a sweet, “bye, angel,” on his way out. His hair’s still a mess from your fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to mind.
You stay in his bed longer than you probably should, blinking up at the ceiling, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re searching for physical proof that everything was real.
What the fuck just happened?
-
It’s been a couple of weeks, and Steve can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He doesn’t know it, but you can’t stop thinking about it either.
Neither of you have brought it up, and things have faded back to normal as if it had never happened. But you and Steve are both thinking the same things without knowing it. How good and natural and easy it felt, how, every now and then, you think about doing it again.
You talk and joke and watch movies and eat meals together the same way you always have, and it’d be so easy to stay that way, to never kiss again. But then, what if you could stay that way and kiss? Wouldn’t that be something close to perfect?
You lay awake thinking about it every few nights. Because, when you really reflect on your life and how intertwined it is with Steve’s, you realize that you’ve sort of always acted like a couple, minus the kissing and sex aspect. You go on what could easily be classified as dates—the movies, lunch or dinner—you cuddle on the couch almost nightly, and you’ve never shied away from physical touch with one another. Held hands, a palm on your back.
You haven’t brought it up with Steve because you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself. Feelings are so fucking confusing and messy and you’d like to have a better idea of what’s going on in your own head before asking him about his.
Meanwhile, Steve has allowed himself to come to terms with it. He’s in love with you.
He’s pretty sure he has been for a while. Months, maybe even years.
It hadn’t come easily, though. It was nights spent similarly to yours, running through interactions you’ve had and the way he felt that one time in senior year when you went on a date with some guy from your math class. Even then, a part of him felt wrong about it, that pit in his gut.
Then there were his shifts with Robin at Family Video where he’d practically spilled everything just to get her opinion. She looked up and sighed “thank you” before saying that it was nice of him to finally catch on.
Had he really been that obvious? All this time? And had he really been that oblivious to his own feelings?
Steve can’t answer those questions. He can’t say when his love for you changed from platonic to romantic, he just knows that it has and he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back from it.
You’re his best friend in the entire world, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and he can’t picture himself loving anyone but you so wholly.
He’s fucking terrified of losing you, but he’s also terrified of never telling you how he feels and testing that what if.
So, like a desperate idiot, he knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer.
Eddie opens it after a minute and what sounded like him stubbing his toe, “oh, hey Harrington. More weed?”
“No, shut up. I need your help.”
“You,” Eddie points at Steve, then at himself, “need my help for something? Are you ill?”
“Okay,” Steve, dramatic and bitchy as usual, sighs and mutters something about this being a stupid idea and turns to leave.
“Come on,” Eddie laughs, “I’m just joking. What’s up?”
Soon enough, Steve’s sitting on Eddie’s couch, Eddie pacing in front of the coffee table like this is a very serious matter, and telling him pretty much everything. Your kiss, the train of thought it sparked.
“Basically I’m in love with her and I have no clue what to do,” Steve finishes, sinking back into the couch cushions. It squeaks as he shifts.
Eddie pauses, tugging at his bottom lip between his fingers, then looks at Steve and says, “You know I’ve never dated anyone in my life, right?”
Steve groans into his hands, “Why do all of my friends have to be losers with no dating lives.”
Eddie ignores that, because he can tell how affected Steve actually is by all of this. How much he cares. He walks over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, telling her how you feel?”
Steve rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and letting his head hang for a moment before picking it up. “Of course I have, but I’m fuckin’ scared.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Um, she could reject me and not feel the same way and everything would be awkward because I ruined it and I’d lose my best friend in the entire world.”
“What if she does feel the same?” Eddie asks.
He’s both yours and Steve’s friend, he’s been around the both of you together. He’s seen the way you look at each other. Eddie might not be an expert, but it’s always looked a lot like love to him. He’s pretty sure the chances of you feeling the same are quite high.
“What do you mean?”
“What if she does feel the same and you never figure it out because you’re too afraid?” Eddie says. “Man, don’t you think that risk is worth taking?”
Steve thinks about it, and as much as he hates to admit it, Eddie’s right. He’d hate to always wonder, to lose out on the chance to really be with you when he knows it could be so good.
You are worth the risk to him.
“When the fuck did you become so wise, Munson?”
“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Wanna smoke?”
Steve laughs, “Yes I do.”
-
With Steve gone at work and you off for the day, there’s been too much room for your thoughts to creep in. Too much silence.
You’ve already been thinking about things so much. Thinking about him so much, that in his absence, your mind seemed to work overtime to fill in the gaps.
You thought about the day he picked you up from your apartment, how quick he was to drop whatever he’d been doing and come over and help you and take you home with him. The day he took you shopping and bought you a dress because he thought you looked pretty in it, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap on your shoulder when you tried it on for him.
The day he gifted you a remade version of your favorite picture from summer camp because he knew how much it meant to you, the way you held on to each other afterwards.
How you’d been waiting for him to get home that night he went to Eddie’s, just to make sure he was okay. How when he came in, he smiled at the sight of you curled on the couch, and he kissed your cheek when he walked by like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Your brain knew he was high, you could smell the weed mingling with his cologne on his clothes when he leaned in close, but your heart didn’t care about that. It thumped in your chest the second he leaned in closer, even worse when his lips touched your cheek.
The realization hits you now like a shock, a quick zip of electricity running through your system. You fucking love him.
Sure, you’ve loved Steve practically your whole life, but this was different. You love him, love him. Like, you want to kiss him when he comes home from work and in the morning. You want him to introduce you as his girlfriend and to be able to call him your boyfriend.
You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, because looking back on things now, knowing how you feel, you can see it written throughout your entire friendship. Holding hands and kissing foreheads and hands pushing hair away from faces.
For a second, you’re purely happy, because you get to be in love with your best friend and it feels as warm and sweet as sunlight. Then, the fear creeps in, and you’re scared. Scared of losing him, of making things weird, of change and doing the wrong thing.
So scared that you start to panic and pack up some of your things in your bag like you’re running away.
Truthfully, you’re not sure what else to do. You’ve never been in love before, you’ve never known it this way—so kind and unconditional. And your parents sure as hell didn’t set a good example for you. They’d fight, and someone would leave with the slam of a door, and then they’d be back and the cycle would continue.
You’re scared and confused and your instincts are telling you to run away even though the only place you really wanna be is with Steve. In his arms.
You’re stuffing clothes into your bag just to keep your hands busy, breathing hard and fast, when you hear the front door open and close. Steve’s quick to find you, his eyes scanning your room and then looking at you. “What are you doing?”
You feel like you might cry just looking at him. His brown eyes worried but warm as always, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s nervous.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the shake in your voice.
“It was dead, so Keith let me off early. I-” Steve furrows his brows, “are you leaving?”
You nod. “I’ve been in your way long enough.”
“I told you, you’re never in my way.” Steve knows you, and he loves you, and he can tell that there’s something going on. That you’re panicked and trying to get away from whatever it is. He cares too much to let that happen. “I want you to stay.”
You want to stay, too. You just don’t know what comes next, and that unknown, the lack of control, of familiarity, it makes your hands shake.
Your mind doesn’t work the same when you’re afraid.
“Give me one good reason why I should stay, Steve. I’ve been taking up your space for weeks and-”
“Because I love you.” Steve cuts you off. He hadn’t planned on telling you this way, he wanted it to be romantic and perfect but he can’t wait any longer. Especially not when you’re trying to run away. “I’m in love with you. And I want you here.”
You immediately stop in your tracks, blinking up at him like you’re not sure you’d heard him correctly. “You- what?”
“I love you. Romantically. And I think I have for a really long time.”
“You’re not high again, are you?” You ask, your eyes a little misty.
Steve walks over to you and grabs both of your hands in his, making sure you’re looking at him, at the sincerity written all over his face, when he says, “Completely sober. I fucking love you and I want you to keep living with me, because this house doesn’t really feel like home unless you’re in it.”
“What about when my apartment is ready?”
He squeezes your hands. “Stay then, too. Stay forever.”
You look up at him, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes so honest, a tentative smile on his mouth. The only boy you’ve ever loved.
You feel silly for trying to escape this when this is how it’s turning out. Steve had been brave just now, telling you he loves you and he wants you to stay, so you decide to be brave, too.
It’s easier than you thought it would be to say: “I love you, too, Steve. I feel the same. I only just realized it and freaked out. I’m so scared of losing you, is all.”
“You won’t. Not ever.”
You tip your chin up to kiss him after he says it, because you can. You pour your feelings into it, and Steve returns your kiss as if it’s one he’s known for years. It’s slow, and deep, and sweet, and so full of love you’re practically overflowing with it.
The two of you only pull away when you need a breather. Steve doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.
“So what happens now?” You ask.
“Well, we’ve been acting like a couple for a while, I think, so we stay the same. Mostly. Except now I get to call you my girlfriend-”
“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me first.”
He lets go of one of your hands and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckle running lovingly across your cheek. “My angel girl, will you be my girlfriend?”
Your grin is wide and lovesick and cheesy and you don’t care one bit. “Yeah, yes I will. Boyfriend.”
“And, being your boyfriend means I get to do this.”
He kisses you once more. And you don’t ever want to not be kissing him again.
𝜗𝜚
thank you guys so much for reading!!! it would mean a whole bunch if you would consider leaving a comment or a reblog and letting me know what you think!! it helps more than you know <3
𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢 : It's your birthday, something that you don't really like. Despite this, you are obliged to attend the party organized by your friend Robin. During the party, you realize that one of the guests is none other than Steve Harrington, the weirdo who keeps making advances toward you, which makes things quite awkward. However, everything takes an unexpected turn when you wake up the next morning with him in your bed…with a hangover and a memory gap.
𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 — Sunshine! Dorky! Steve × Grumpy! Birthday Girl! reader. afab! [no use of y/n!]
𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 — rated 18+ (mentions of sex, swear words, some angst, fluff), there is always consent between Steve x reader. afab! ! — the two of you aren't exactly friends, your connection to him was high school and robin buckley. you're not really a fan of him.
𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 — 6.790
𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚝 :
"Good morning, sleeping beauty."
"Why am I half-naked in my bed with you, Steve ?" you ask bluntly, not wanting to waste any time. Why is he here ?
I hope you will enjoy reading it. Especially if you love it, don't let it flop.
a/n : i’ve been trying to improve my writing a bit… idk if this draft is any good (?) just think of it as a practice run. i’m actually trying to mentally prepare myself for the next part of swinging… i also have to rewrite chapter one of that one oh my god i can’t even think about that yet.
[masterlist] — 💛
“Who invited him ?” you ask in a loud voice. Your longtime friend, Robin, is standing by your side. She seems completely absorbed in a marbled muffin. You prefer them.
She answers you, almost choking with the muffin in her mouth. She doesn’t meet your gaze when she says, “Who ?”
You shoot Robin an annoyed look. Your eyes return to the front of you. The man is standing there, clearly disoriented. It’s as if he’s searching for you in the living room. A slow sigh escapes your lips. You tap Robin on the shoulder, she immediately turns toward you — an expression of confusion and irritation appears on her face. “Don’t hit me like that —”
“Steve Harrington is here, in my house, at my birthday party — what is he doing here !?” You ask the question with a serious expression — without the slightest hint of amusement. Your friend, on the other hand, is grinning widely as she looks at Steve from across the room. Clearly happy to see her best friend — a guy you don’t like at all. You don’t like him.
Robin doesn't answer you, she remains silent. In fact, she just raises her hand and shouts at the top of her lungs, “Steve ! We're here !” Oh well, she's decided to become your enemy now.
When Steve spots Robin in the distance, it’s impossible not to roll your eyes. He starts walking toward you. The thought of having to talk to him makes you feel sick — you really don’t want to speak to him, not at all, because he’s just…
“Where’s the birthday girl ?” Awkward.
You're right in front of him — is he blind or what ?
Steve is now standing in front of the two of you. There's no smile from you directed at him, you'd rather look over at your other friends. They're hanging out, lying all over the couches and on top of them. They seem to be enjoying the party much more than you are, even though it's your birthday. It's funny.
“The birthday girl is here !” You hear Robin say just before she tugs on your elbow to pull you toward her. That’s clever. You were just starting to drift away from them. More specifically, Ambre. One of your friend — who just adopted a puppy. Talking about the little puppy’s behavior would have been both cute and entertaining, as opposed to the awkward situation with this young man — Steve. He seems to be watching you now with eyes sparkling with shades of brown and green. The shimmering hue.
It’s clear that you love sparkling looks — they reflect enthusiasm and joy. That’s why your home is decorated with garlands and glitter. The pink theme is everywhere, with balloons scattered all over the place, sometimes forming shapes of flamingos — you’re a huge fan. If you had the chance to become an animal, it would undoubtedly be this one — the pink flamingo.
Robin deserves an award for the decorations, the pastries, the music playing in the background. This gesture of hers perfectly captures your personality and your outfit for the day — your short, dark pink dress. Your birthday dress — understated. A birthday you don’t like. You hate it, mostly because of Steve now.
Robin, you can only express your gratitude to her, even if you don't like your birthday. Unfortunately, right now, you're feeling resentful toward her for inviting Steve.
He tries to talk to you, but you’re lost in your own world and don’t catch what he’s saying.
You frown as you watch your friend Ambre, sitting on the couch next to Thomas — a childhood friend. They seem lost in their own world, completely absorbed in each other. You wish they would let you in on it, so you could escape this disastrous encounter.
You turn to the person who seems much more engaged in the conversation than you are and say, “What ?”
The poor boy was so captivated by his story that you interrupted him. Steve looks both puzzled and irritated. Too bad. You felt Robin’s foot brush against yours, which made you want to reciprocate by touching her foot — a hard tap. Right in front of you, Steve had stopped talking, the big talker had gone silent. Now he’s looking at you with wide eyes, completely taken aback and at a loss for words.
“I — I was talking to you about… um, I just said happy birthday to you.” Steve, stammering a few words, explains the situation, his eyes shifting hesitantly from you to Robin. He looks embarrassed. You look at him with a neutral expression — without even a hint of a smile — before saying, “Thank you.”
You can hear him clear his throat, Steve doesn't seem too happy with your answer. In fact, he's no longer looking at you. Instead, he turns to Robin, searching for clues as to what he might say to you — he's nervously biting his lower lip.
It’s true that was cold of you. However, that guy is really boring, he’s nothing like the kind of man you’re into. He’s Robin’s friend — not yours.
In an atmosphere of heavy silence, punctuated by the lounge’s background music and the surrounding conversations, you spot Robin, who seems to be whispering silent words to Steve. The moment you set your eyes on him, he immediately catches your gaze — his Adam’s apple bobbing — before turning to take a look over his shoulder.
At that very moment, you notice that one of his arms is hidden behind his back. He’s hiding something, isn’t he ? He’s trying to hide something. And in fact, there really is a very large thing hidden behind him. No — please.
Another throat-clearing sound is heard, and Steve keeps his gaze fixed on you with intense focus. He then casts a discreet glance at your friend, before offering you a friendly smile. It is, indeed, a handsome smile. It must work on some women — but you’re not one of them.
His arm, hidden behind his back, moves slowly. You watch this movement intently, until you are enveloped by a wave of pale pink petals.
A huge bouquet of Gerbera daisies — your favorites — it’s really big.
It was like those boys in high school, with the gifts they gave their girlfriends, which often made you envious of such love — of that kind of greatness. You remain silent, your youthful features betraying no emotion. Steve looks at you.
“Happy birthday again — I — I know these are your favorites… I mean, I don’t know, like I’ve been stalking your life or something — no, no —” These beautiful flowers, offered by his hand, captivate your eyes in a sort of trance. Beside you, Robin’s persistent cough prompts Steve to continue his disastrous explanation, “— I know you like Gerbera daisies, because Robin told me… so I got them for your birthday.” He finishes.
Gerbera Daisy.
In your hand, you hold the bouquet, savoring and breathing in the delightful fragrance wafting from the flowers. With wonder, you breathe in deeply while holding the bouquet close to your chest, admiring these beautiful flowers up close.
As you look up — your nose buried in those pink flowers — you spot Steve, hands on his hips, watching you intently as you handle his gift. Steve seems a little anxious. He’s just like those boys. Girls accept with a kiss on the cheek. Yet you don’t even give him a smile. Instead, you lift your head and catch Robin’s gaze, she’s already staring at you. They seem eager for a reaction from you. They’ll have to wait. You're not one of those girls.
Enjoying the suspense, you turn your attention back to the bouquet you’re holding.
As you lock eyes with Steve, you whisper softly, “They are indeed my favorites… thank you.”
Steve's smile is beaming, his white teeth glistening under the room's lights. Despite the urge to smile back at him, you hold back. I don't love you — have you forgot ?
That's just thoughtful of him, that's all.
Harrington, beaming with joy, scans the room before turning his gaze back to you and Robin, a smile playing on his lips — though it won’t last long.
“And… is that it ?” You ask the question with a look on your face that shows dissatisfaction. It’s an act.
Immediately after you speak, two pairs of eyes turn toward you. However, you only notice Steve’s eyes — he looks particularly discouraged.
You really like these flowers, it’s a sweet gesture, they suit you. Still, since it’s Steve — that guy who likes to flirt with you before getting embarrassed when you don’t respond — you would have preferred a more meaningful gift. Something more special. Flowers are a bit too ordinary. Such a Romeo cliché. A high school thing.
It’s clear that if you’d wanted to, you could have bought it yourself. It’s really very easy.
It’s worth noting that when a boy gives a girl flowers, it’s often a sign that he wants to ask her out — like those boys.
Typical of Steve.
One of your eyebrows raises as you size Steve up from head to toe. He seems hesitant, struggling to find the right words, while casting several anxious glances at Robin. His hands sink into his front pockets, betraying a certain discomfort.
“I — I thought you’d just want flowers… Robin told me you like simple things… so…” You keep looking at him with a questioning expression. Stay strong. You’re aware of your mischievousness, Robin loves to point it out to you.
That’s why you feel a hand grab your forearm before pulling you back. “Wait, Steve, we’re coming back !” Suddenly, Robin’s voice rings out. Steve shoots your friend a look accompanied by a smile that reflects just as much confusion as her expression. Meanwhile, you walk away from him, letting Robin lead you toward your kitchen. This smells like a novel.
In the kitchen, Robin lets go of your arm, you take a step back, the bouquet still in your hand and a look on your face that remains hopelessly devoid of emotion. “You know, you’re really unbearable. He’s trying to do the right thing, and you’re treating him as if he’d spit in your bowl of cereal — just look at the huge bouquet he gave you.”
You roll your eyes. “I treat him just like all the other guys who hit on me but whom I have no interest in dating. Can I just stay single ?” you ask, shaking your head. She needs to get your point.
Robin frowns and steps away. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself with Elijah last Friday — and he’s a guy.”
“A guy who isn’t awkward and thinks he’s a pro at seduction. Ugh — I don’t like Steve, okay ?… I think he’s odd, like a weirdo, and Elijah isn’t a weirdo — he’s thoughtful and respectful !” You share your story with Robin, she watches you closely, her eyes searching yours. Your eyes sometimes drift away to rest on the white kitchen walls or the brown wooden floor. You’re not lying… are you ?
Elijah was nothing more than a one-night stand. After four months without sex, you just wanted to get lucky with a man. Elijah happened to be in the right place at the right time. He was the perfect remedy for you. These days, you don’t even talk to each other anymore. It was just a hookup.
Robin looks at the bouquet of flowers and then gives you a sad look. “Steve really put his heart into choosing a gift for you that was both beautiful and meaningful… I simply suggested he get you your favorite flowers, since he doesn’t know you very well and that bothered him a lot. If I hadn’t cut him off from his extravagant ideas, he might have gotten you a bigger gift.” She concludes by glancing over her shoulder, scanning the open doorway to the kitchen. It offers a perfect view of the living room, where Steve is standing.
You’re watching him closely now. Now that you’ve heard what Robin told you, you seem a little more empathetic. Steve is standing in the middle of the living room, his hands now buried in the back pockets of his pants, while a girl is talking to him right in front of him. It’s your older cousin — she’s four years older than you. Steve doesn’t seem to be paying attention.
His engagement in the conversation seems limited, he prefers to look around. His eyes, with their strange hue, scan the room until they meet yours. Your eyes have changed their opinion of him. You watch him from afar, from that other room — the kitchen. The music still plays in the background, mingling with the voices, you choose to keep staring at him. Don’t look away. Steve keeps staring at you, too. His eyes seem full of questions, his eyebrows now furrowed.
You turn your gaze back to Robin.
You finally give her a warm smile before saying, “I’ll think about it.” You say simply, then bury your nose in the many Gerbera daisies. As you walk past her, you think about heading to your room on the first floor to put the bouquet in a vase — one that was previously filled with old roses.
The look Robin gave you was more intense than the last one. She seemed pleased with your answer. Still, for you, this isn’t exactly confirmation either. You don’t know if Steve really deserves your respect… you’ll see how the evening goes. If things go well, if Steve’s behavior is tolerable over the next few hours, maybe your opinion of him will change. Maybe.
The evening went by quietly, filled with chatter — as everyone eagerly awaited the cake and the unwrapping of gifts. You spent the whole time by Robin’s side, talking with other people you knew. They explained how they’d had to keep quiet about the party. Robin had threatened them if they revealed that your best friend — Robin — was throwing a birthday party for you without your knowledge. You laughed, then played some games in the living room and in your garden, late into the night. The laughter and glances were shared and radiant.
Just as you’d predicted, Steve was always right by your side whenever Robin was near you. Sometimes he would get caught up in a conversation with a guy, then move closer to the two of you — speaking only to Robin. It made you uncomfortable. Strangely, he didn’t speak to you directly — his eyes remained fixed on Robin, painfully avoiding yours. He was ignoring you — that’s not how those boys usually act. They liked those girls.
Steve took it literally. He sadly realized how much you disliked him.
Okay, you must have done something to make him suddenly lose interest in you on your birthday. Your birthday, of all days. You’re clearly meant to be the center of attention.
You were all drunk, downing one red cup after another. Some of your acquaintances offered you a taste of a bottle of full-bodied wine, while others simply handed you a cup as soon as you finished one. And so, as you got drunker and drunker, you realized just how much you missed Steve’s gaze — immensely.
Then, out of nowhere, it happened. Your dependency.
At one point, you were standing by the crackling fire — a bright orange-red glow in your living room — talking with Robin, your best friend from kindergarten — Celine — and her boyfriend. Steve was there too, he smelled wonderful. You took advantage of the moment, especially with the alcohol coursing through your veins. Your body had decided to position you next to him, close — very close, in fact.
You could hear his steady breathing, his undoubtedly expensive cologne was enough to drive you crazy. Your eyes had met his profile, he was facing you out of the corner of your eye. Every chance you got, you studied his nose as you raised your drink to your lips — as an excuse, just to look at him. Okay, Steve has always been hot, it’s no secret… everyone knows it, confirms it — just like you.
You had quietly inhaled his scent, enjoying the smell, while Celine told how difficult her medical studies were — how excessive they were in some ways, she said. Yet, she went on, it was still addictive to pursue them. You were somewhere else. Far from her study problems. Far from medicine.
You caught another glimpse of Steve’s profile as he was now talking to Celine, his hands in his pockets, still looking a bit nonchalant — you wondered if he’d had a drink before coming over. This man wasn’t the Steve you knew. He was more of a young man, knowing how to use his sex appeal — or for once — meanwhile, Celine couldn’t stop laughing at what Steve was telling her. Her boyfriend kept shooting her irritated looks, as if he were scolding her. Yet no one scolded you for your naughty glances at Steve — at his nose, his expressive lips, his eyelashes, his neck.
Maybe it’s also because of your drunken side — it’s starting to take over as the minutes go by.
You admit that, after a few more drinks, you found yourself staring at Steve more and more intently. He was talking to Robin — your eyes were on him — he was laughing, eating some of your favorite muffins that were out in the kitchen, but your eyes were strangely fixated on his fingers. The ones he was bringing to his lips, licking them, putting them in his mouth. It’s a little too… addictive?
You also found yourself blushing strangely when his eyes, glazed over from alcohol — just like yours — fleetingly glanced your way. Your discreet silhouette. You felt like you were in the spotlight. The fear that he might know what your thoughts were conjuring up — all that filth. It was your way of speaking, just your eyes doing the talking. Did he figure it out at some point?
You were actually ashamed of it. Can he know that when he was sitting on the armchair chatting away, a bottle of alcohol in his hand, his legs spread apart, your eyes kept awkwardly drifting to his crotch and perverse thoughts were crossing your mind ? At that very moment, you realized just how imposing he was — it must be big.
At one point, you were playing with several of the guests, while Robin watched from the sidelines. It was a game called Twister, several of you were already on the white mat, standing on the circles arranged in vertical columns starting with red, blue, yellow and green. You had one foot on the second-to-last blue circle and were trying to hold onto a higher blue circle with one hand. Your position wasn’t exactly comfortable, you were trying to keep your balance and you were also laughing with your other friends at their ridiculous positions.
Everyone had too much alcohol in their system — red eyes, high-pitched laughter. Steve was playing too, he must have ended up facing you, legs spread apart — you had to look away. You tried desperately to shake off this sudden obsession with staring at his crotch, but luckily for you, Steve wasn’t looking at you. No, he was laughing, talking with others — with Robin, too. Not you.
She liked to tease him about his skills at this game. You learned from their banter that he used to play this game a lot as a kid. You smiled at that — a little too quickly. Your smile quickly faded when you realized there were others watching.
They were all having fun. You were stuck, unable to join in the fun without thinking about him. Just too close.
However, despite all that — the chatter and laughter, the festive atmosphere — your cheeks still flushed red, knowing that Steve was standing close to you. You close your eyes and take a deep breath through your nose, one of your acquaintances steps up beside you. From where you’re standing, you hear the laughter and comments about his posture, then it’s Steve’s turn.
Robin had just spun the wheel for him — as usual — since the game began. She was actually doing it for both of you. The black arrow landed on the right hand, he has to go stand on a red circle right next to you. You feel him move, you also feel his body getting closer to you, you lower your head, unable to bear the position the two of you are in right now. Steve lowers himself until you feel his arms brush against your side. Okay — the position isn’t that bad after all.
You could hear some of the girls complimenting him, Steve just laughs it off and takes the opportunity to crack a few jokes here and there. Deep down, you hate yourself for laughing at what he said. Steve is funny.
The worst part is, you believed him, even as you kept laughing at what he was saying and turned your head to look in Steve’s direction. He did the same, like a magnet, your eyes meeting for a few seconds, him looking at you intently until your cheeks burned, you lowered your head, too embarrassed, suddenly, under his intense gaze. The only intense look Steve gave you today, after the gift.
Then, for a moment, you felt Steve’s arm slide underneath you — at your belly. His arm came to rest against the side of your belly, you shivered at his touch, not having been ready to feel his huge hand on you.
Because of that, you heard Robin shout, “Hey !! You’re cheating, Steve ! He’s cheating !”
All eyes turned to the two of you, you looked over at Robin. She was glaring at Steve. “He lost ! You lost, Steve !” she kept saying. You could hear Steve’s hoarse laughter — it tickled one of your ears. You blushed even more.
“We help each other out. There’s no cheating — my arm was hurting. Just for a second, Rob.” Steve says. You hear his voice echoing beside you, you don’t dare meet his gaze. Your face is down again, eyes fixed on the playmat. After that, you hear Robin’s exasperated sigh and the others’ laughter as they make fun of the situation.
One of the girls — the one running the game — says with a hint of amusement in her voice, “If you don’t take your arm off her waist, it’s game over for both of you.” At that, you immediately turn your attention to the girl — it’s your cousin again. Her eyes are fixed on where Steve’s hand is resting on your waist. Can’t she just let go ? Why are you saying that ?
You hear Steve clear his throat, then his arm slips away from your waist. He says in a melodramatic voice, “My apologies.” His big hand is no longer on your waist. What a shame.
The evening then continued with your birthday celebration. The cake, which Robin had brought you while you were sitting at the table eating — eager for your cake. It glowed with the candles forming the numbers of your age — 24. They all sang in unison. When the cake was placed in front of you, you blew out the candles while making a wish. You then felt something land on your head, slightly cold, you lifted your face and saw Steve. He gave you a mischievous smile as he finished placing the tiara, which you could tell was there when you felt it with your hand afterward. A tiara — everything you’d ever wanted to wear since you were a little girl.
You whispered a “Thank you” to him, albeit timidly, without really bothering to see if he had heard it.
After that, the gifts came out. Along with jokes about your age and gifts that brought back childhood memories. All of this until the evening ended in a black hole of loud music and nostalgia about your teenage years.
The black hole consumed your memories and your senses until you opened your eyes — the atmosphere had changed.
You yawn, the hangover gradually setting in — a headache washes over you like a thunderbolt. You try to pull the blanket up over yourself. It shields you from the morning chill. Who’s the idiot who left the balcony door open ? It wasn’t me.
With this sudden irritation, you grumble into your pillow before turning over to face the other side of your room. With your eyes closed, you taste the flavor in your mouth, the bitterness hits you right away. Disgusted, you squint your eyes and make a mental note that you need to go brush your teeth. But then again, no one else is here to smell your morning breath.
For a moment, you burrow deep into the blankets, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. The cold becomes a little too unbearable, until you feel the bare skin of your body extending beyond your arms. You feel the bare skin of your belly beneath the palm of one of your hands, the sudden sensation of nakedness at your chest, which is pressed against the mattress.
Realizing all this, you furrow your brow and reach down below you. All you can feel are your panties — all your clothes are gone. You’re half-naked.
You suddenly open your eyes, the sight that greets you makes you gasp aloud. You freeze. Petrified.
In front of you lies a man on his back. He still seems to be asleep, wearing the same clothes as the day before, except for his sweatshirt, which is missing and has been replaced by a white T-shirt. The exposed skin on his arms is covered in mountains of moles. His hair is tangled, his hands are clenched into fists on his stomach. Steve is in your bed.
Your headache is getting worse, it’s getting stronger. You prop yourself up on your hands and lower your head to look at your bare breasts. You don’t take a second to wrap yourself in your blanket, pulling it a little too hard as you struggle, which causes Steve’s body to move. His weight is on it. He doesn’t react, he seems to be in a deep sleep. You're panicking.
For a moment, you must have moved closer to Steve, to his body, to check if he was really asleep. The thought of leaving to get dressed crossed your mind. He absolutely must not wake up — especially not to see you like this. And how did you end up like this ? Did Steve do something to you ? Did the two of you…
Questions flood your mind as you continue to gaze at Steve’s peaceful, sleeping face.
As you realize how close you are to him, you take the opportunity to lose yourself in his features — his nose, the freckles on it, the moles on his face, the stubble from a recently shaved mustache. He is handsome, it’s true.
He’s breathing calmly — evenly. His breath brushes against your face, his lips are parted. It tickles your chin. You study his hair, too — dark brown, even though it’s tousled, it looks just as perfect as when he takes care of it. You keep watching him. Your eyes rest on those lips, you linger there a little too long until you realize something. It burns — your face burns, especially your eyelids. There’s a change in the air.
Lifting your eyes, you meet Steve’s gaze, he’s looking at you intently, yet he doesn’t seem taken aback by your approach. You stand there a little too long for your liking until he utters the following words. The husky tone of his morning voice sends a thrill through your body,
“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”
“Why am I half-naked in my bed with you, Steve ?” you ask bluntly, not wanting to waste any time. Why is he here ?
Steve gives you a confused look before glancing around, as if it were obvious, “Hello — and first of all, you undressed in front of me, and second of all, you didn’t want me to leave.”
“You sure can hold your liquor…” You conclude with a bored look — it’s back. The alcohol no longer courses through your veins. You still widen your eyes, realizing exactly what he just said, “Wait — I undressed in front of you? How —” you begin to stammer. At the same time, you sit up to look around — your bedroom, which is a mess. You can see your tiara somewhere on the floor, mixed in with yesterday’s clothes, your red cup too.
Your eyes meet Steve’s again, you swallow before asking in a soft, cautious voice, “Did you fuck me?”
The red flush on Steve’s cheeks makes you want to throw up, he quickly starts saying, “We didn’t do anything. Nothing.” He explains. His embarrassed, shy eyes study your face before looking back at yours — your eyes are narrowed.
You clear your throat, accepting what he just said. You didn’t have sex, that’s a fact. Steve is in your bed, yesterday, you wanted him and you undressed, since you still wanted him. It’s simple. No sex. No misunderstanding. No kiss. Did you want to kiss him ?
You feel a weight on your shoulders, your eyes drift to your hand, which is holding the blanket in place over your chest, clutching it as if for protection. You slowly lift your gaze to look down at Steve’s still-reclining body, he’s now staring at the ceiling. Eyes closed. He still looks asleep. But that doesn’t stop you from asking the following question.
“I took my clothes off… why ? Did I do something embarrassing ?” you ask, slightly alarmed. You look at Steve, who is now looking at you with one eye, he gives you a half-smile before looking back at the ceiling, his hands still clasped over his stomach.
The silence. It's scary.
“You gave me a striptease...” He finally replies. You gasp in horror at this image of yourself, then decide to pull the blankets over you — you curl up in a ball. You keep repeating “no no no!”, you refuse to accept what he just said. This image of you, drunk and lost in a fantasy.
“No ! That’s horrible ! I haven’t sunk that low… tell me that’s all I did.” You try to ask, though you’re afraid of his answer. You’re still hiding from his view.
You hear him sigh, you feel the mattress shift beneath you, as if he’s getting comfortable before he speaks — it scares you. “You also tried to kiss me — no, actually, you told me you hated yourself for treating me like a weirdo and a lousy flirt, that I was the funniest guy you’d ever met… you also explained that you really wanted to kiss me as a way of saying sorry, but I didn’t accept it, even though you kept clinging to my clothes. You said I smelled good…”
You freeze the moment he finishes speaking, you’re completely screwed. So it was true after all. Everything you thought yesterday was just you. Alcohol is no joke, not at all. You remember having feelings for Steve yesterday, which was unusual for you — you admit that — but the idea of throwing yourself at him, wanting to kiss him, and undressing in front of him… why did you undress ?
“What happened next ? I mean… when I took my clothes off… can you explain it to me ?” you ask cautiously, shyly. You can tell, though, that his answer is going to make you blush more and more, you feel like the biggest idiot in the world.
“About that — yeah, hmm, to be honest, you undressed in front of me, because at first you wanted me to take off your dress, then you turned around and told me you didn’t need any help, and that I should just watch…” Steve replies, his voice faltering on certain words. Shame. You close your eyes, the shame and embarrassment having reached their peak in your thoughts.
There’s a long silence between the two of you, you can hear Steve’s breathing, your own and the wind coming from your balcony. You’re still hidden from him — he can’t see your flushed face.
You can hear the few trees rustling in the wind. You sigh and decide to move under the blanket, crawling until you reach Steve. Once you’re next to him, you lift your head from under the blanket and are met by Steve’s face, he’s already looking at you intently — as if he’d already sensed your approach. You’re close to each other, right next to one another.
You hear him clear his throat, glance at your hand resting on his chest — which you’d placed there to help you pull yourself up so you could speak to him face-to-face, up close — and it doesn’t seem to bother you. “Did you dare to look ?” you ask in a low voice.
You try to ignore the scent beneath your palm, his heart is beating fast — just like yours. It’s pounding.
Steve glances at your nose before saying, in a voice as low and hoarse as yours, “No.”
With that reply, you give him a little smile before saying, “Thank you.”
Steve gives you a confused look, you tap your fingers on his torso, watching him intently. A sense of calm hangs between the two of you, you don’t seem embarrassed anymore. After all, he must love you. He does love you.
Maybe the alcohol did something to you — a spell, perhaps. Something that made Steve Harrington seem much more attractive than your previous encounters, one year at Family Video, the next at WSQK.
Steve is a fine-looking young man today — he’s always been attractive, you were just too stubborn to admit it. He exuded confidence last night, which you loved. That’s what you like in a man. Alcohol claimed two victims at your birthday party. You and the man you keep staring at — he’s doing the same.
Steve gives you a flat smile before looking over your makeshift shelter of blankets. “Are you going to… you’re going to stay here.” You shoot him a narrow-eyed look before nodding — your feverish state returning just like last night.
“I’m sorry.” you say suddenly, your voice a little lower. You see Steve’s eyes widen slightly before he narrows them and furrows his brow. He looks confused. “It’s hard for a girl like me to admit… but I realized just how much of a normal guy you are, Steve — not some weirdo from Hawkins at all… I made so many mistakes ignoring your advances that yesterday — I… I realized you weren’t so bad after all.”
Steve looks around, his lips moving silently, no words coming out, as if he’s searching for the right ones to answer you.
“Are you serious ? I mean… are you okay ? Are you drunk again ?” He starts saying this, looking at you, studying your face — your eyes still fixed on him.
Steve props himself up on one elbow to lean forward and face you more clearly. You’re lying on your stomach, he continues, “Do you have a fever ?” His big hand rests on your forehead — it’s cold, comforting — and you immediately pull away, shaking your head, denying the accusation.
“I’m fine.” You’re lying. You’re hungover, obviously — a pounding headache, a dry mouth ever since you woke up. Still, you know how to choose your words right now. You’re being completely honest about what you’ve admitted. He doesn’t seem to get it, though. Get it, Steve.
His hand finds yours — which had been resting on his torso — after it had slipped onto the mattress when he shifted to face you. He takes it and squeezes it before looking you straight in the eyes, you look right back at him. “I think you need something to help with your hangover.” You roll your eyes. You don’t need anything — just him.
Steve is sitting down now. He sounded so confident when he said that that you fell silent, simply looking at him, not trying to argue with what he had said.
Steve may be right after all. Maybe it was the alcohol that put a spell on you, made you lose your head last night with him. Steve is right.
“You’re right.” you say simply, your voice now back to its normal volume. You’ve forgotten about your hoarse voice from this morning.
The breeze from the balcony tickles the top of your head, Steve gives you a friendly look. He’s already getting up from the bed. Your breathing quickens, you keep watching him as he moves away. You aren’t thinking straight, you just let it happen. He hasn’t left the bed yet — but you know very clearly that he’s going to leave. You have to stop him.
You hear the birds chirping outside, then the wind rustling above your head, Steve’s smile, his kind eyes. You lose all self-control, your heart beats faster than usual. You sit up and cup Steve’s face in your hands. You feel his cold lips against your warm ones.
It's just a simple kiss. Quick.
Steve pulls away immediately. He gives you a strange look before staring again at your slightly damp lips, you continue to hold his head in your suddenly weak hands. Your hands don't hold the blanket around your chest.
You feel the breeze sweeping through the room brush against your bare nipples and your bare back, but you pay it no mind — you keep staring intently into Steve’s eyes. He seems to be studying yours in particular. Your eyes return to his closed lips. “Do you accept my apology, Steve ?” you ask, pleading and weak. It’s not the alcohol, no. It’s you, your sober decision.
You want to be like those girls with those boys who are in love with them — the flowers and the kiss on the lips.
Steve’s lips curve upward before dropping back down, you can sense his hesitation, even as you look up to find his eyes already studying yours. Doesn’t he like it ? Isn’t this what he was looking for ? The kiss wasn’t good…
He doesn’t glance at your bare chest, at your nipples, which have hardened from a shiver. A cold shiver from the wind, his fault. You thank him. You want him to look, too.
You open your mouth to ask another question, to pour out your troubles, but his lips part as well, his deep voice beats you to it, “What did you put in your drinks yesterday ?” he asks, a laugh escaping his lips as they curve upward — a playful, teasing smile. A beautiful smile.
Your eyes now light up at the sight of his positive change in behavior toward you. You roll your eyes and say, “Nothing at all.” There it is again — your sullen tone, your pouting face. Steve recognizes you because of that.
Suddenly, you feel one of his hands brush against the back of your neck before moving up to stroke your hair at the back of your head. You can still see a mix of amusement and confusion cross Steve’s face — especially in his eyes, with the faint, youthful wrinkles around them. You give him a smile, he sees it, then returns it — his teeth gleaming.
“You agree…” You whisper, the question hanging in the air between the two of you. He agrees.
The young man standing in front of you — the one who’s been interested in you for months now, your best friend’s friend, a former weirdo — looks you straight in the eye and says, “Maybe.”
His expression remains neutral, though you get the impression that a faint hint of amusement flits across his face — his eyes and lips.
Your eyes narrow, you repeat his own words, “Maybe ?” His hand reaches up behind your head to gather your loose hair — tousled from sleep — and you take the opportunity to move closer to him. Steve doesn’t pull away.
“Yeah — maybe.” Steve gives the same answer again. He’s teasing you, you can tell from his voice. The right corner of his mouth turns up — he’s smiling at you. You’ll quickly realize he’s just teasing you. With that, you see no problem in bringing your lips closer to Steve’s, brushing them against his, your warm breaths mingling. It tickles your chin.
“So maybe.” you repeat. That’s all. Steve nods, his eyes fixed on your lips as they brush against his. You lick your lower lip, before he closes the gap between you.
You are the girl of the boy with the flowers. Gerbera daisies.
Summary: You want to celebrate New Year's Eve with your boyfriend, but for some reason, he seems to be drifting further and further away from you, especially when you have your first drink.
Words: 8,5k.
Warnings & Tags: mentions of alcohol, kissing and a very traumatised steve. established relationship. angst WITH happy ending+hurt/comfort. very vague temporarily, outside the canon and more like an au. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: Soo plot twist, I’m enough in love with Joe Keery to write a fic of Steve without watching the whole series, just with my fuzzy memories of the first season, tiktok edits and my lovely friend maru<3 (@timesquarevils love uuu) who literally tell me everything i need to know. BE NICE WITH ME.
Steve Harrington didn’t like parties now.
And not in the casual, “eh, I’d rather stay in tonight” kind of way. No, he avoided parties with the bone-deep reluctance of someone who had once lived inside them and had clawed his way back out. It wasn’t visible at first glance; people who’d known him back in high school still carried a picture of who he had been in the past, the golden boy with sun-bleached confidence and a laugh big enough to fill an entire room. They remembered someone who thrived under cheap neon lights and the sticky heat of too many bodies packed together. Someone who found comfort in noise the same way some people found comfort in silence. Someone who used to be so effortlessly magnetic that even a bad party felt like a good one if Steve Harrington happened to be in it.
But you hadn’t been there for any of that.
You hadn’t grown up in Hawkins, hadn’t wandered the same cramped hallways or seen his name scrawled across the bathroom stalls or heard whispers of King Steve echoing between lockers. You hadn’t witnessed the rise or the fall, the messy evolution from the boy he was to the man he became. You didn’t know the version of him who’d broken things, hearts, rules, and expectations. You didn’t know the version who’d tried too hard to be the person everyone thought he already was.
By the time you arrived, Hawkins had already chewed Steve up and spit him out somewhere softer. You met the aftermath of the mess. The stripped-down, humbled, gentler version. The Steve who seemed permanently a bit tired around the eyes, who flinched at sudden chaos, who carried a quiet loneliness like a shadow he’d long stopped trying to hide. A Steve who cared too much, apologized too often, and listened like every word you said meant something deep.
So when he told you he didn’t really “do” parties, it wasn’t a dramatic admission. You assumed someone who spent half his life being practically adopted by a gaggle of kids, driving them to school, babysitting them, rescuing them from God-knows-what, wouldn’t exactly be the type who spent his nights dancing on tables or downing shots. It was simply part of him, woven in with the rest of the contradictions he carried. And because you weren’t a party person either, you accepted it without question. Loud, unfiltered nights had always felt like a performance you couldn’t keep up with. You hated the way the music never matched the mood, the way strangers pressed in too close, the way your head throbbed and your clothes smelled like smoke long after the fun had ended. So Steve’s aversion didn’t stand out; it fit neatly beside your own. It even felt like compatibility.
Still, you noticed his patterns.
They were impossible to miss once you started paying attention.
Whenever someone invited him somewhere; a birthday, a bonfire, a “low-key gathering” that was never actually low-key, Steve’s whole demeanor shifted. Not dramatically. His shoulders would go just a little tense. His fingers would twitch, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His smile would hold, but thin out in the way polite smiles do when they’re stretched over something uncomfortable. His eyes would always, always flick to you, like a silent plea, a question, a hope that you might somehow telepathically say we don’t have to go.
He never outright refused at first.
Instead came the excuses, increasingly elaborate over time.
“I’m not feeling great,” he’d murmur, rubbing his forehead.
“I’ve got an early shift tomorrow,” even when he didn’t.
“Robin needs me,” which was believable because Robin always needed something.
“Henderson’s having…a Henderson issue,” which was vague enough to mean anything.
Or the classic: “Maybe next time.”
There was never a next time.
It worked flawlessly…until December arrived.
December made everything complicated for him. Not because he suddenly felt drawn to the festivities, not because he woke up desperate to hang garlands or pretend he liked eggnog. December complicated things because you were suddenly lit up from the inside, warm as a fireplace, buzzing with that soft holiday cheer he secretly loved watching take over you. You walked through the month like every streetlight had gotten brighter just for you, like every store window was a promise. Steve wasn’t built for that kind of brightness but he loved how it didn’t scare you. He loved how you never dimmed for him.
It had all started with a throwaway comment, something he’d blurted without thinking, because that’s how Steve spoke when he was comfortable. You were both sitting on the carpet in his living room, eating cold leftover pizza straight from the box, your socked feet tangled with his. He’d leaned back on his palms, stared at the ceiling like it might give him answers, and muttered that he hadn’t even realized the year was ending. How time felt weird in Hawkins. How days blurred together. How nothing changed unless it was something terrible. He said it casually, like brushing off dust. But you heard the crack underneath the sentence, the softness in his voice he tried to swallow. You heard a boy who felt suspended, stuck between heartbreaks and responsibilities he never asked for. You heard a boy who deserved so much more than another year slipping past him unnoticed.
And because you loved him—really loved him, in that loud way that makes Steve Harrington stare at you like you’re some miracle he isn’t sure he’s allowed to believe in—you decided that if he couldn’t feel the year changing, you would change it for him. That little ache he thought he’d hidden? Yeah. You caught it and held it like it was your job.
So you latched onto the idea of New Year’s the same way you latched onto everything that made him brighter. Suddenly, the New Year’s party he absolutely did not want became your new mission. Not a blowout. Not a rager. Just something warm and safe, something soft enough for Steve to settle into without feeling like he had to perform. A night that reminded him he was loved, that he wasn’t just drifting through time waiting for something to hurt. A night you believed, with your whole ridiculous, hopeful heart, that he deserved.
It started tiny, innocuous. A pack of gold confetti you tossed into the cart at the store because “why not?” Steve had given you that adorably confused look he always gave you when you made impulsive decisions, that half-frown, half-smile thing he did when he was pretending he didn’t find you cute. Then you picked up a string of warm lights, claiming they were “for ambience,” and he’d rolled his eyes, but he’d also taken the box from your hands and carried it for you like it was priceless. Then came the dress. You bought it because you wanted to look…right. Like if you were going to pull your boyfriend into a new year, you wanted to look like you were someone worth stepping into the future with. Steve didn’t know about the dress yet, but he would. And he’d lose his mind.
By the end of the week, your notebook had somehow turned into a full-blown battle plan: doodles, ideas, a list of snacks Steve liked more than he admitted, little scribbles like “make sure Robin doesn’t let him hide in a corner!!” and “midnight kiss :)” circled three times. You had decorations hidden under your bed, a bag of glittery nonsense stashed in your closet, and a vision in your head that made your chest feel warm every time you thought about it.
But of course, when the days started to pass, his excuses started.
One night, you were both pressed into the backseat of his car, the engine off, the hum of the streetlights outside washing everything in a soft golden glow. He had his hands tangled in your hair, one of his fingers brushing along your cheek as if he couldn’t decide whether to touch you or just look at you. His lips moved against yours with this warm, like he wanted to memorize the taste, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how unless he wrote it with his mouth. You could feel the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way he was trying not to fidget, not to make a sound, not to ruin the moment by thinking too hard about what came next.
And then, mid-kiss, he pulled back.
Just a few centimeters.
Just enough for his forehead to drop against yours, for his breath to ghost across your lips. His hair fell forward in messy strands, brushing your cheek. His chest rose and fell too fast.
“Uh…hey,” he murmured, voice low. The guilty-boy tone. The one he used when he’d already decided he was going to disappoint you.
You knew that tone. You felt it before he even said the words.
“I have to tell you something,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek like maybe he could soften the blow with touch alone. He didn’t look directly at you, he looked everywhere else. Your lips. Your collarbone. Your shoulder. The window. His own hands.
“I…don’t think I can go to the party.”
It hit you like a cold breath against the back of your neck.
Your face dropped before you could stop it, just a tremor of disappointment across your features, but Steve noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed when it came to you, especially when it made him feel like a goddamn villain.
He scrambled, immediately reaching for your hand, cradling it like it was breakable. His words tumbled out in a flood. “It’s not—it’s not like I don’t wanna, I just—I have a ton of stuff to do, and it’s kinda late already, and, uh, maybe I’m getting sick? And I didn’t sleep great last night so I feel weird and—”
You gently pulled your hand away.
Not mean.
Not slapping or yanking.
Just removing yourself.
And it gutted him instantly.
He froze, halfway through a lie he hadn’t even finished inventing. His eyes shot up to yours, wide and soft and horrified. Like you’d just held up a mirror to something he didn’t want to see.
“Oh God,” he choked, face crumpling. “Baby, don’t—don’t look at me like that.”
But you were. And it killed him.
He panicked in that sweet way so him: leaning in, kissing your cheek, your temple, your jaw, like he could coax the disappointment away. One of his hands cupped your face like you were something precious, something he was terrified of losing.
“I’m sorry—shit, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking as he tried to catch your gaze. “I didn’t mean— I just— I wasn’t thinking— I don’t want to ruin anything, I swear.”
He rested his forehead against yours again, eyes fluttering shut like he was praying to something.
“Okay, listen,” he breathed, brushing his thumb slowly over your lower lip. “Maybe it’s fine. Maybe I can go. I’ll go. If you want me there, I’ll go.”
He swallowed hard.
“I want to be there. I want to be with you. I just…I get stupid about this stuff sometimes.”
He opened his eyes then.
“So if you say the word…I’m yours. I’ll be there.”
And he meant every syllable.
“I really want you there.”
Fuck.
Steve Harrington didn’t fear the kind of things normal people feared.
Not anymore.
He’d already stared down the kinds of creatures that rewired your understanding of what “danger” even meant. Things with too many teeth, skin that peeled back like it was stitched on wrong, limbs that bent like broken branches but still moved with horrifying precision. He’d fought in basements that smelled like rust, decay, and something wet and ancient. He’d swung a nail-studded bat until his arms throbbed and his lungs burned, until the metal dug into his palms and left tiny half-moon scars. He’d dragged bleeding kids through tunnels lit only by adrenaline and stubborn hope, knees scraping against dirt and rock while the sound of chittering echoed behind them. At seventeen, he’d learned that real terror wasn’t loud. It was quiet, creeping, the kind that crawled up the back of your neck while the world around you split open into something unrecognizable.
So no, darkness didn’t scare him anymore. Neither did the crunch of leaves behind him or the low, gurgling growl of something unseen in the woods. Monsters were monsters. They were awful, yes, but they were consistent. Predictable. They wanted to kill you. They didn’t lie, didn’t judge, didn’t decide you weren’t enough. You could swing at a monster and it made sense.
People didn’t.
Fear, for Steve, had become something that seeped into him during stillness, in the quiet spaces between one heartbeat and the next. When the world wasn’t ending and he wasn’t holding a bat like a lifeline, when he was just a boy in a room, a boy in front of someone he cared about, a boy who suddenly had nowhere to hide his own shaking insides. That was when the fear slithered in. Human moments terrified him more than any interdimensional nightmare ever had.
Fear was you.
Not you in the literal sense…not the way you nudged his foot under the table when he overthought things, or the way you laughed at his jokes even when they were stupid, or the way your hand fit perfectly in his, thumb brushing the same spot on his knuckle like you were memorizing it. Not the way your eyes softened when he rambled himself into a corner. You weren’t frightening.
It was what you meant to him. What you had the power to do to him without even realizing it.
He could face a Demogorgon armed with nothing but a bat, a bad plan, and blind determination, but the idea of you finding out that he wasn’t as brave or put-together or invincible as he pretended to be? That he was just a scared kid who’d never learned how to stop feeling abandoned? That he’d spent so long being terrified he forgot what normal fear even looked like?
Fuck.
That thought hollowed him out.
And parties…parties were where that fear had been born.
Where it had learned to walk, to breathe, to whisper in his ear.
Steve didn’t talk about it. He didn’t know how to. He never told Robin, not even on their worst days in the video store when honesty came easier. He didn’t tell Dustin, because Henderson still looked at him like he was unshakeable, and Steve didn’t want to break that illusion. And he definitely didn’t tell you, not when you were the one person whose opinion could splinter him cleanly in half. The truth stayed under his skin like a bruise that no amount of time could fully fade, pulsing every time someone said the word party with too much excitement.
It wasn’t the crowd that bothered him. He’d spent years being worshipped in rooms like that, basking in the glow of being the guy people wanted to stand next to. It wasn’t the noise or the music or even the chaos, Steve had once been the chaos. It wasn’t the drinking or the sweat or the clatter of beer bottles being knocked over on sticky floors.
No. His fear lived somewhere deeper.
It lived in the memory of harsh bathroom lighting bouncing off the tiled walls, of the way his heart cracked in his chest while tears burned at the backs of his eyes. It lived in the echo of Nancy Wheeler’s voice, breaking him open with a few sentences that bled into the night. It lived in the awful realization that he had poured every piece of himself into someone only to learn, suddenly and painfully, that he was nowhere near enough.
He didn’t remember everything about that night, alcohol had fuzzed the edges thank Goodness, but he remembered the feeling. The shame. The sudden drop in his stomach when her voice, loose with liquor, cut through the noise of the party like a blade. He remembered how her words hit with unsettling clarity: how she said she didn’t love him, how she couldn’t even pretend. He remembered the sting of watching the girl he held so carefully shove him away with the truth spilling unfiltered from her mouth. The room had tilted, and every person around them felt like a witness to his humiliation, like they were watching the King of Hawkins High crumble into something small and pathetic. And Steve had stood there, sober enough to feel everything, drunk enough not to escape it. That night rewired him. Parties stopped being fun. Alcohol stopped being harmless. Love stopped feeling safe.
And what scared him most wasn’t the idea of you getting drunk around other people. It was what alcohol had done to someone he cared about once before. How it stripped away her restraint. How it let things slip that maybe she didn’t mean, or maybe she did and just never intended to say aloud. Alcohol made people honest, in the worst ways. It made them cruel without noticing, brave without thinking, blunt without caring. And Steve had lived the consequences of that honesty. He had lived the gutting moment of realizing he cared more than she did. That he saw forever, and she saw a mistake she needed to confess.
So when he thought of you, of your laugh, your warmth, the way you looked at him like he was someone good, it terrified him how much he had to lose. Because drunk people talk. Drunk people confess. Drunk people say the quiet parts out loud without realizing the shrapnel they’re launching into someone else’s chest. And Steve couldn’t shake the fear that if you ever drank too much, if the party ever got too loud or the night too long, you might look at him through a haze of alcohol and say something you didn’t mean to say sober…or something you’d never been brave enough to say sober. Something that told him he wasn’t enough. Something that shattered the world he’d built around you without warning.
He imagined it sometimes, against his will and better judgment, flashes of memory bleeding into unwelcome scenarios. You, slurring something sharp. You, pulling your hand out of his. You, laughing at the wrong moment. You, turning away when he reached for you. You, telling him that he was too much, or not enough, or that you didn’t feel the way he thought you did. He knew it wasn’t fair to think that of you, and it wasn’t because he doubted your feelings. It was because he doubted himself. Alcohol had once turned the person he loved against him in the span of minutes. And no matter how much he trusted you, he didn’t trust fate, or chance, or whatever cruel force had decided to teach him lessons through heartbreak.
And God, the idea of you waking up the next morning with a hangover and a vague recollection and maybe a pit in your stomach that he couldn’t interpret, it made him nauseous. Because he didn’t want you to ever regret him. He didn’t want to become another mistake, another story you told with a wince or a sigh.
Fuck.
And now here he was.
A New Year’s Eve party, the kind he used to walk into like he owned the place, the kind he once would’ve lit up just by stepping through the door. Except tonight the house felt too loud in a way that didn’t energize him. It was more like the noise pressed against his skin, buzzing along his nerves until he wanted to flinch. The music thumped low through the walls, lights flickered gold and blue, people laughed in bursts that felt too sharp, like glass clinking in a quiet room. The air smelled like cheap champagne, perfume, sweat, and the faint fizz of fireworks waiting to happen.
Steve sat alone on the corner of the couch, shoulders hunched slightly forward, elbows planted on his knees. He kept his hands locked together like he needed to physically hold himself in place. Anyone else might’ve mistaken it for boredom, maybe even for the stubborn aloofness he used to wear like a jacket. But it wasn’t boredom, it was tension. It was dread. It was the weight of memory settling in the hollow of his stomach.
He felt out of place in his own skin.
The party moved around him without really touching him, like he was sitting behind a sheet of glass. People floated in and out of conversations, someone yelled from the kitchen about running out of chips, someone else tripped over a rug and laughed it off, and you—God, you—were across the living room, laughing as you tried to help your friends find where the missing champagne glasses had gone.
You weren’t drunk. You weren’t even tipsy yet. But you were glowing, cheeks warmed from the heat of the room, hair slipping slightly out of place as you reached up into cabinets, opened drawers, gestured wildly while your friends searched around you. You looked effortless and alive. You looked like everything good about the night.
And he felt miles away from you.
He hated that. Hated how quickly old fears could climb back up his throat, how easily they could wrap around the present and choke the air out of it. Because nothing was wrong. Nothing had happened. You hadn’t said anything sharp, hadn’t looked at him with regret or distance or disappointment. You’d kissed him on the cheek when you arrived together, fingers lingering on his jaw for a second longer than necessary. You’d whispered, “Give me five minutes, babe. I need to help them find the glassware for the toast.”
That was all.
But as soon as your attention shifted, as soon as the crowd swallowed you up, something twisted inside him. That same old unease. That whisper of this is where it starts, even though he knew better. Even though he trusted you. Even though you had never once made him feel like he had to brace himself.
He watched you from the couch, watched the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear as you laughed, watched how your friends hovered around you with the kind of effortless familiarity he envied. You fit in so seamlessly, and he felt like the room dimmed around him. Like the party was something happening to him, not with him.
Someone nearby popped open a bottle of beer. The can hissed sharply. Steve flinched.
A reflex. A ghost. Something old.
He dragged a palm down his face, exhaling slowly, trying to shake it off. His jaw clenched. His knee bounced. He barely had a second to gather himself before someone dropped onto the couch beside him with all the grace of a bowling ball being tossed onto a mattress.
Robin.
Of course.
She didn’t even look at him at first. She just sat there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the room like she was watching a disaster slowly unfold. Then she made a low noise, somewhere between a sigh and a grunt.
Finally, she turned her head and stared directly at him.
“Okay,” she said, voice flat. “What’s your deal?”
Steve blinked. “What?”
“What,” she repeated slowly, “is. Your. Deal.” Her fingers tapped rhythmically against her arm. “Maybe I need you to remember what night it is.”
He frowned. “I know what night it is.”
“Do you?” She arched a brow. “Because I’m starting to think you believe it’s National Brood Like a Moron Day.”
“Rob—”
“Nope.” She held up a finger. “It is literally New Year’s Eve. People are happy. You’re usually…not happy, but at least tolerable. You’re acting like somebody told you the world was ending at midnight.”
Steve exhaled through his nose, leaning back into the couch cushions. “I’m fine.”
Robin scoffed so hard the air around them vibrated. “Yeah, okay. Totally believable. Very convincing. Thank you, Mr. Academy Award Winner.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been staring at her for the last ten minutes like she is a bomb about to explode in your face.”
Steve’s head snapped toward her. “I— what?”
“You heard me.”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face again. “I’m not— that’s not— I’m just…tired.”
“Tired?” Robin echoed. “Tired. At 11:09 pm. On New Year’s. At a party you willingly came to? With the girl you’re completely in love with—”
“Robin—”
“—and who is currently looking for champagne glasses like it’s a life-or-death mission.” Robin leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Which, for the record, is the only reason she’s not over here asking why you look like someone kicked your puppy.”
Steve’s jaw clenched. He stared at the floor.
Robin watched him for a beat. The sharpness softened, not much, but enough.
“Steve…” she said gently this time. “What’s going on?”
He let out a shaky breath. “Nothing. Just…parties, okay?”
Robin tilted her head. “Parties.”
“Yeah.”
“As in…the concept? The location? The historical invention of social gatherings? Be specific, dingus.”
He huffed out a humorless laugh. “You know what I mean.”
Robin didn’t speak. She simply waited in that particular way she reserved for moments where she refused to let him lie to himself.
After a long silence, Steve muttered, “I just don’t enjoy being here.”
Robin’s expression shifted, not surprise, not pity, just…understanding. “Because of her?” she asked softly, nodding toward the memory he hated. “Or because of her.” Her chin flicked toward you, still laughing with your friends, your hand gesturing wildly as you explained something about glass sizes.
He swallowed. “Both.”
Robin leaned back, letting out a slow breath. “Steve… she’s not Nancy.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” she pressed. “Because you’re sitting here acting like she’s gonna turn around in five minutes, get tipsy, and break your heart in front of the streamers.”
He flinched.
Robin winced. “Sorry. Too much?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Because that’s…exactly what I’m thinking.”
“Steve,” she said, nudging his knee with hers. “She’s not gonna do that.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes,” Robin said, firm. “I do. Because she adores you. Like…actually adores you so much that get me sick.”
Steve fought a small, helpless smile. “You think so?”
“I know so.” Robin elbowed him. “And also, you’re being an idiot.”
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“It’s my job.”
Across the room, you finally found the glasses you’d been searching for, holding them triumphantly above your head. Your friends cheered, and you laughed.
And then your eyes found Steve again.
The second they did, your smile faltered. Not in a bad way. Just in that soft, searching way you reserved only for him. You excused yourself from your friends and started walking toward the couch.
Robin nudged Steve again.
“Try not to look like you’re about to flee the country,” she whispered. “It’s New Year’s. She wants to kiss you at midnight, not stage an intervention.”
Steve swallowed hard as you approached, heart thumping like it was desperate to outrun his ribs.
You crossed the room with purpose. Your steps soft, dress swaying around your legs with a shimmer that caught the lights just right. Steve swore the entire place dimmed when you moved; not because the party quieted, but because everything else just mattered less.
And then you were in front of him.
“Hey,” you said, voice warm and bright and impossibly gentle compared to the chaos buzzing behind you. “Why are you over here all alone?”
Steve opened his mouth to answer, but you didn’t give him the chance. Instead, you slid right onto his lap, effortless, like you’d done it a hundred times, like his body was exactly where you belonged. Your pretty dress rustled as you settled, one arm looping around his shoulders, your other hand flattening against his chest. The scent of your perfume washed over him.
His hands found your waist without thinking, palms warm against the fabric, fingers curling instinctively like they were afraid to let go.
You smiled, nose brushing his. “Hi.”
He felt something unclench in his chest. “Hi,” he murmured back, his voice softer than he intended.
You didn’t even seem to notice the shift in him. You were too busy talking, words spilling in that excited, rambling way that always melted him.
“Okay so, first of all, these decorations are insane,” you said, gesturing with your free hand toward the glittering strands of tinsel taped haphazardly to the ceiling. “Like, when I said I’d help set up, I didn’t realize Hannah meant she bought six feet of metallic fringe and thought it would just magically attach itself to the walls.”
Steve couldn’t help it, his lips twitched.
“And don’t even get me started on the banner.” You leaned in, eyes widening dramatically. “It says Happy New Year but the Y is literally upside down. Upside. Down. And everyone keeps pretending it’s fine but it’s not fine, Steve. It’s not.”
He let out a small laugh. “I mean, it’s kind of charming.”
“You’re defending the stupid banner?” you gasped. “You traitor.”
He shook his head slightly. “I’m defending you. You put it up, didn’t you?”
You paused. “…Maybe.”
His smiled deepened, and he pressed a hand to your hip, thumb tracing an idle circle through the fabric. You were glowing up close. Warm cheeks, bright eyes, lips curved in that way that made his heart do complicated, inconvenient things.
“You look really pretty,” he said suddenly, helplessly.
You blinked, caught off guard for only a second before a slow, warm grin took over your face. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Like…stupid pretty.”
Your fingers played with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Well, thank you. You look pretty stupid too.”
He snorted, and you laughed, leaning your forehead against his. And God, that sound—your laugh—pulled him clean out of his spiral like nothing else could.
“See?” you whispered. “I knew you weren’t in a bad mood. You were just…missing me.”
He groaned, but he was smiling, and you could feel the tension easing out of him under your hands.
You brushed your nose along his jaw, soft and sweet. “You okay now?”
He didn’t even have to think about it. Not with you sitting on him like you were made to fit there. Not with your dress brushing his legs and your arms around his shoulders and your heartbeat thumping softly against his chest.
“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice dipping low. “I’m okay.”
And then he kissed you.
Soft at first, just his lips pressing into yours, warm and gentle, like he was grounding himself in the feeling. Your fingers tightened in his hair, and he kissed you again, deeper this time, letting himself fall into it, into you, into the safety you carried without even trying.
You smiled against his mouth. “You taste like…nothing,” you said between kisses. “Did you not drink anything?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t want to.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face, your brows drawing together. “Are you sure you’re okay? Really okay?”
His hand slid up your back, stopping between your shoulder blades, holding you close like he was afraid you’d slip out of his orbit.
“I am now,” he murmured.
Your expression softened, eyes warm in a way that made his ribs ache.
“Good,” you whispered, cupping his cheek with one hand. “Because I was about to drag you into the kitchen and force-feed you sparkling cider.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Sounds romantic.”
“It would’ve been,” you insisted.
He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth, each one gentle.
The party kept spinning around you both, counting down the minutes toward midnight, but right then, Steve wasn’t thinking about noise or crowds or memories that still stung. He wasn’t thinking about fear at all.
You were still curled in his lap, kissing him back like the rest of the party didn’t exist, when someone shouted your name from across the room.
“Hey! Can you come take a picture with the group camera?”
You groaned dramatically, forehead falling to Steve’s shoulder. “Why do they always remember I know how to use it?”
He smiled into your hair. “Because you’re perfect.”
“That is not a compliment right now,” you muttered as you slid off his lap like your body didn’t fully agree with the motion.
Steve already missed your warmth.
You smoothed your dress, still smiling like you weren’t, thirty seconds ago, kissing him senseless. You tapped his cheek before standing. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
“As if I’m going anywhere,” he said, eyes following you immediately.
You crossed the room toward the little table where the old Polaroid camera sat, some clunky, half-broken thing your friends insisted had “charm.” You picked it up delicately, brows furrowed in concentration as you tried to figure out which switch was the flash and which was the timer. You muttered something under your breath, something like why does this thing have twelve buttons? and Steve bit back a laugh.
God, he loved watching you.
Loved how busy your hands got, how expressive your face was when you were annoyed or excited or trying really hard not to break something.
You shook the camera once. Twice. Squinted at it like intimidation might make it cooperate.
Steve leaned an elbow on the back of the couch, chin propped on his hand, blatantly mesmerized. He wasn’t subtle about it at all.
Then someone appeared beside you—Mia, maybe, or Hannah—with two drinks in hand.
“Oh, here,” she said, handing you one. “You look like you need this.”
You blinked at the glass, then laughed. “Do I look that stressed?”
“Yes,” she deadpanned. “You’re fighting with a camera.”
You accepted the drink anyway, bringing it to your lips for a small sip before turning the camera over again. “Okay, but this thing is held together by hope and duct tape. I’m pretty sure it wants me dead.”
You lifted the glass without hesitation, laughing as someone teased you about the camera, and that was it.
That was the moment something inside Steve broke.
He tried—he really, genuinely tried—to swallow it down. To be reasonable. To be normal. To remind himself that this was you, not Nancy, not that night, not that version of him who had been bleeding out on a bathroom floor without any visible wounds.
But the room suddenly felt too loud.
Too bright.
Too familiar in all the wrong ways.
You took another small sip, humming at the taste. “Oh, this is actually good—”
Steve’s breath stuttered.
Robin glanced over at him from across the room, her expression sharpening instantly. “Steve?” she mouthed.
But he couldn’t answer.
Couldn’t move.
Couldn’t stay.
Your laugh hit him like a punch because he didn’t trust himself to believe it anymore. Not with alcohol in your system. Not with the way his stomach twisted, warning him, run, run, run.
Someone brushed past him on the couch, jostling his leg, and that tiny contact shattered what little control he had left.
Steve stood up too quickly.
Chest tight.
Vision tunneling.
He didn’t look at you, not because he didn’t want to, but because if he did, he might fall apart right there. And falling apart in front of you was his worst nightmare.
He slipped out of the living room, head down, weaving through bodies and noise and confetti like he was wading through smoke. Robin tried to grab his arm as he passed, whispering urgently, “Steve? Hey—HEY, where are you going?”
But he shook her off, barely managing, “I just…I need a second.”
“Steve—”
He didn’t hear the rest.
He was already pushing through the door, stepping into the cold night air like he’d been underwater for too long.
The door swung closed behind him, cutting off the music, the laughter, you.
He exhaled shakily, hands on his knees, trying to breathe through the tightness in his throat. The yard was quiet except for distant fireworks and the muffled thump of bass inside.
He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.
“God,” he whispered to no one. “Not this. Not now.”
Because leaving you, even for a second, felt wrong. Like he’d done something unforgivable. But staying in there while you drank, while you looked so happy, while memories clawed up his spine?
That felt impossible.
He sank onto the porch step, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground as if it could steady him.
Inside, he knew you were laughing. Taking pictures. Enjoying your night.
And all he could think was:
Please don’t say something tomorrow that’ll kill me.
Please don’t prove I’m right to be scared.
Please don’t break my heart without meaning to.
A firework exploded prematurely in the distance.
He paced down the front walkway like the ground was on fire beneath his feet, boots scraping too loudly against the concrete, keys already clenched in his fist. His breath puffed out in sharp, uneven clouds, lungs working faster than his thoughts could keep up. He wasn’t thinking, he was escaping. Every instinct in him screamed the same command: get out. Get into the car. Shut the door. Sit in the dark with the engine off where nothing could blindside him, where memories couldn’t sneak up behind him wearing someone else’s face, where no one could hurt him without meaning to. The house behind him throbbed with noise and laughter and music, a living thing he needed to outrun before it swallowed him whole.
He reached the driver-side door, fingers trembling as they wrapped around the handle—
“Steve?”
Your voice froze him.
He froze mid-motion, breath hitching hard in his chest, the sound of his name pulling him back whether he wanted it to or not. Slowly he turned around.
You stood on the porch steps, framed by warm yellow light, your dress shimmering faintly as it caught the glow. You hadn’t bothered with a coat. Your arms were bare to the cold, your breath shallow and quick from hurrying after him, confusion written all over your face. Behind you, the party noise had dulled to a distant thrum, like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
He swallowed hard. “You should go back inside.”
Your brows pinched instantly, the way they always did when something didn’t add up. “Why are you out here?” you asked, stepping down a stair. “Why are you leaving?”
He looked away, jaw tightening like he could physically lock the truth behind his teeth. “I just…need air.”
“That’s not air,” you said, moving closer, your voice sharp with something wounded underneath it. “That’s you trying to bail.”
He flinched, because it was true. Because you always saw through him too easily. Because that terrified him more than the drink still warm in your hand, more than the noise inside, more than the memories clawing at his chest.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, the lie weak even to his own ears.
“You’re lying.”
God, he hated how soft your voice was when you said it. How gentle. How careful. It made everything feel sharper, uglier…like he was the villain in a story he never meant to write.
“Just go enjoy the party,” Steve said, fumbling with his keys, the metal clinking far too loud in the cold. His hands were shaking now, and he hated that you could probably see it. “Seriously. It’s New Year’s. Don’t worry about me.”
“I am worried about you,” you snapped, stepping directly in front of the car door before he could open it. Your voice echoed slightly in the quiet street. “You disappeared, Steve. One minute you’re kissing me, the next you’re bolting outside like the place is on fire.”
He winced, shoulders caving in, the words hitting him square in the chest. You didn’t stop.
“What happened?” you demanded, hurt bleeding into every syllable. “Did someone say something? Did I do something?”
“No,” he said too quickly.
“Then what is it?”
He backed up a step, jaw tight, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “I said it’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Oh.
Fuck.
That word again.
His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and panicked, like a cornered animal. Your anger cracked then, not loud, not explosive, but fragile.
“Did I…” Your voice wavered. “Did I make you uncomfortable? Was I—too much?”
“No,” he said, louder now, raw. “God, no. Don’t do that. Don’t make it about something wrong with you.”
“Then tell me what it is,” you said, hands out in front of you like you were begging and demanding at the same time. “Because you look like you saw a demogorgon, and you’re trying to leave without even saying goodbye.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
The words died somewhere behind his ribs, tangled up in fear and memory and everything he’d never learned how to say without ruining things.
You swallowed hard, eyes shining. “You didn’t even look at me,” you said quietly. “You just ran. Like being in the same room with me suddenly felt wrong.”
“It wasn’t you,” he said instantly. Too fast. Too desperate.
“Then why won’t you let me touch you?” you whispered.
His breath stuttered, chest hitching like he’d been punched. You were standing inches from him now, your dress fluttering in the wind, mascara perfect and ruined all at once by the tears gathering in your eyes, tears he never meant to cause.
“I came out here thinking you were sick,” you said, voice breaking. “Or that something bad happened. I didn’t think you were trying to leave me on New Year’s Eve.”
“It’s not that—” He dragged a hand through his hair, panic seeping into every movement. “I just…I didn’t even want to come to this stupid party in the first place.”
Your breath caught.
“This stupid party?” Tears finally spilled over. “I only did this stupid party for you.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The words hit him like a memory slamming into place. Like harsh bathroom lights. Like a voice slurred with alcohol telling him he wasn’t loved. Except this time, he wasn’t the one being shattered.
He was the one doing the breaking.
“And now everything I do just feels like bullshit to you,” you finished, voice hollow.
Déjà vu wrapped around his throat, tight and unforgiving.
Except this time, he was sober.
Clear-headed.
Fully aware of every second he was ruining.
He stared at you, keys still biting into his palm, chest aching with the awful realization that the thing he’d been running from, hurting you, was already happening. He didn’t answer right away, because if he spoke now, something irreversible might come out. The truth was tangled and ugly and soaked in fear, and he didn’t trust himself not to weaponize it the way alcohol once had been weaponized against him.
You watched him unravel in real time.
“Well?” you asked, voice raw now. “Say something, Steve. Yell at me. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m dramatic. Do something.”
He flinched at the edge in your voice. Slowly, he lifted his head.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t mean that you were bullshit.”
“But that’s how it feels,” you shot back immediately. “That’s how it always feels when you shut down and walk away.”
He swallowed. His throat burned. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”
You laughed, short and bitter. “Congratulations. You’re failing.”
The silence after that was brutal.
“I saw you take the drink,” he blurted suddenly, like ripping off a bandage he’d been worrying at for too long. “And something just—” He pressed a fist to his chest. “I panicked.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I panicked,” he repeated, quieter now. “I know it doesn’t make sense. I know it’s unfair. But I saw that glass in your hand and my brain just…went somewhere else.”
Your anger faltered, confusion bleeding through. “I took one sip, Steve.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know. And that’s the worst part. Because you didn’t do anything wrong. You never do.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m being punished?” you whispered.
He had no answer for that. None that didn’t sound like an excuse. None that didn’t make him look as broken as he felt.
“I didn’t want to be there,” he admitted, voice shaking. “I didn’t want to feel like that again. I didn’t want to look at you and start being scared of losing you for no reason.”
Your face crumpled slightly at that. “So your solution was to leave me?”
“I wasn’t leaving you,” he said, the words tumbling out of him like he couldn’t hold them in anymore, like if he didn’t say them right now they’d choke him from the inside. His voice was rough, frantic at the edges. “I was leaving the situation before I said something stupid. Before I turned into someone you’d hate.”
You stepped back instinctively, arms folding over your chest like you needed the pressure just to keep yourself upright. The cold bit at your skin, the night sharp and unforgiving, but it was nothing compared to the way his words landed. “You don’t get to decide what version of you I can handle,” you said, voice steady even though everything inside you was cracking. “You don’t get to disappear and call it protection.”
He stared at you then, really stared, like the ground had shifted under his feet and he didn’t know where to stand anymore. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, lashes clumped together with unshed tears he was clearly fighting like hell not to let fall. “I don’t want you to see this version,” he admitted, quieter now. Bare. “I don’t want you to look at me and realize I’m…like this.”
“Too late,” you said softly, and there was no accusation in it. Just truth.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavy. The kind that pressed into your ears and made your heart pound too loud in your chest. Somewhere inside the house, music thumped, laughter spilled through walls, glasses clinked, but out here, it was just the two of you and everything that had finally been said out loud.
“I love you,” he whispered at last, the words breaking apart as soon as they left his mouth, like a confession and an apology tangled together. Like something sacred he was terrified of ruining. “And that scares the hell out of me.”
Your throat tightened. “Loving me shouldn’t feel like a threat,” you said, tears burning behind your eyes.
“I know,” he said immediately, voice cracking wide open now. “I know. And I hate myself for it.”
Fireworks cracked in the distance, bright and almost cruel in the way they split the sky apart, spilling color where everything between you felt gray and fragile. Red. Gold. White. They bloomed and died too fast, like moments you didn’t get to hold onto. Inside the house, voices began counting down, muffled through thick walls and closed doors, joy leaking out in bursts that felt completely disconnected from the ache settling deep in your chest.
Ten.
You wiped at your cheeks with the heel of your hand, frustrated with yourself for crying and even more frustrated that he was the reason. Your breath came out shaky in the cold air. “I can’t keep chasing you every time you get scared, Steve.” Your voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
Nine.
He took a step toward you on instinct, then stopped short like he’d hit an invisible wall. Like he was afraid that if he moved any closer, he’d ruin something beyond repair. “I’m not asking you to chase me,” he said, but even he knew how hollow it sounded.
Eight.
“Then what are you asking?” you demanded, finally looking at him fully. Your eyes were red, glossy, filled with hurt he never meant to cause and somehow always did anyway. “Because I’m standing here in the cold on New Year’s Eve, begging you to stay, and you still look like you want to run.”
Seven.
His chest tightened. His throat burned. “I want to stay,” he said, voice cracking under the truth of it. “I just—” He swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”
Six.
Your chest rose and fell as you forced yourself to breathe. The anger drained, leaving something sadder behind. Something heavier. “Then you need to learn,” you said quietly. “Because I can’t be the one paying for what someone else did to you.”
Five.
The words landed exactly where they were meant to.
Four.
He nodded slowly, the motion barely there, tears finally slipping free despite his effort to hold them back. Steve Harrington, who had fought monsters and stood between danger and everyone else, looked small under the open sky. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, like admitting it out loud might make it real.
Three.
“Then stop trying to leave,” you whispered.
Two.
He reached out, tentative, asking permission without words.
One.
Midnight hit.
Cheers exploded from inside the house, laughter and shouting and champagne popping all at once. Fireworks tore through the sky, brighter and louder than before, shaking the air around you. And something in Steve finally snapped, not broke, but shifted.
He didn’t think.
He didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t run.
He closed the distance between you in two quick strides, hands coming up to cup your face like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d been meant to do it all along. His palms were warm despite the cold, thumbs brushing over your cheeks with reverence, wiping away tears like they mattered, like you mattered more than his fear ever could.
“I’m not leaving,” he breathed.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t soft or careful at first. It was desperate, aching, his mouth crashing into yours like he was terrified the moment would disappear if he didn’t hold onto it hard enough. You gasped against his lips, surprise melting instantly into something raw and familiar, something that had always lived between you. His hands shook against your jaw, grounding himself through you, like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
Another firework cracked open the sky, painting your closed eyelids red and gold.
You kissed him back.
Your fingers fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer, pressing your body into his like you needed proof he was real, like you were anchoring him in place. The kiss slowed then, softened, turning into something tender and fragile and overwhelming, full of everything neither of you had been able to say. Apology. Fear. Love. Promise.
Steve rested his forehead against yours when you finally pulled apart, breath uneven, heart pounding like it might give him away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking completely now. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”
You closed your eyes, still holding him, your hands warm against his chest. “Then don’t.”
“I won’t,” he said.
And for the first time all night, for the first time in a long time, he meant it without doubt.
Fireworks bloomed again overhead, louder, brighter, the world celebrating a new beginning while Steve Harrington stood in the cold, kissing the girl he loved like it was both the first and last choice he’d ever make.
And this time…he stayed long enough to realize that maybe, just maybe, parties weren’t so terrifying after all.
