ex!Steve Harrington x fem!reader who asks for him in the hospital [1.9k words]
part 1 -> part 2
summary: Steve has been operating on autopilot since the wake of your relationship ending, pretending that the ghost of what could've been doesn't haunt his every step. But when Robin calls saying you're in the hospital and asking for him, he doesn't even pretend to hesitate. Being wanted — however briefly — hurts worse than he thought it would.
CW: hospital fic, exes, disgusting amount of yearning and pet names, hurt, hurt/comfort
“Again, I’m really sorry, Steve,” Robin hisses, barely managing to keep up with Steve even though she’s the one technically leading him through the hospital corridors.
“Yeah, you said,” he mutters, not unhappy with her, not unhappy with you even, just…unhappy.
“She really is just kind of inconsolable and nothing we did would help and the doctors said it could last days and we-”
“Robin.”
“Yeah?”
Steve sighs and tries to put on his most composed voice. “Can you just show me to her room, please?”
Robin’s expression pinches as though she’s the one with a painful migraine brewing. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Sorry, she’s in three-oh-seven, just up ahead.”
“Thank you,” he imparts with a whisper before hurrying towards your hospital room.
It was one of those quiet evenings where no one needed anything (rare), and Steve had nowhere to go (quite common), which meant it was going to be spent vertically. Or, sort of crumpled up like a tin can and staying in whatever position he landed on the couch in.
He cursed his father once again for the need to flash his proverbial dick in the form of a cordless home phone (and then himself for leaving the cordless phone within reach) when his apathetic marathon of The A-Team was interrupted by it.
Steve barely rose from his position to swipe it off the coffee table, if only just to stop the horribly grating ringing. “Harrington residence.”
“Oh, thank God,” Robin breathed on the other end of the line, “Steve, can you come to the hospital?”
Steve sat up from his crumpled up position on the couch. “What?”
“The hospital,” Robin simply repeated. “Can you come?”
“Why?” Steve asked, though he was already standing and heading to grab his car keys.
“It’s Y/N.”
Steve swore as he caught the receiver before it hit the ground, returning it to his ear and leaning against the stair railing for support.
“Y/N?”
“She needed emergency surgery-”
“Surgery?”
“Yeah, her appendix. She called me ‘cause she didn’t feel well yesterday-”
Steve ignored the way that not knowing you were sick yesterday caused an organ somewhere near his own appendix to spasm painfully. “Is she okay?”
“She’s…yeah, yes. Well, I mean, sort of? She-”
“Robin.”
“She’s like, mostly okay. Pretty much okay. It’s just, well, she’s very upset and even more confused and she’s…she’s asking for you.”
Robin let that sit in the air, Steve allowed it to settle around him like dust.
“She’s asking for me?”
The sound of her sigh felt like it could blow him over in that moment. “She’s a little hysterical. Doctors say that memory loss is common when coming off of anesthesia, so I don’t think she really remembers that the two of you, you know…broke up? But the doctors also said it could last anywhere from a few hours to a few days. We’ve tried everything we can think of to calm her down and she won’t. She’s making herself sick looking for you and-”
“I’m on my way,” Steve told her simply as he grabbed his jacket. “Tell her I’m on my way.”
“Thank you, Steve,” she breathed, equal parts relieved and contrite. “I’m really sorry, by the way.”
“Yeah,” Steve sighed. “Don’t be.”
And so Steve shows up, like he always does. Upset that he didn’t know you had fallen unwell, mad that he wasn’t there to drive you to the hospital, angry that he wasn’t here when you woke up.
Devastated because he has no right to know, no right to drive you anywhere, no right to be here. He has no right to feel any which way about it, but he does.
“Robin said he’s on his way. He’s gonna be here soon.” Steve hears Vicky’s soothing tones before he sees her.
He rounds the corner to find the candy striper hovering over your bedside, holding your wrists down on either side of you in a way that could be either restricting or placating. Steve will soon find out that it is both.
“Hey,” he calls out awkwardly, clearing his throat when his voice catches. Both of you turn to look at him with wide eyes; Vicky’s in relief, yours in desperation.
“Hey, look who I found,” Robin announces from behind him, shooting Vicky a commiserating look of discomfort over his shoulder.
“Steve?”
You sound so small, so vulnerable, that Steve has to breathe around the ache in his chest as he takes cautious steps towards your bedside.
“Hi, baby,” he murmurs, the pet name slipping out like muscle memory and further splintering Steve’s already spiderwebbed heart. He can’t bring himself to regret it though when a relieved, breathy sob leaves you. “What happened, huh? What’s going on?”
You sob again, leaning towards him even while restrained. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Steve takes each of your hands from Vicky and perches himself on the edge of your bed. “Did you have surgery?”
Your head relaxes onto the pillow and you look at the ceiling as you suck in a shuddering breath. “I think so.”
Steve hums in agreement. “Robin told me you weren’t feeling very well.”
Your eyes squeeze shut and twin streams of tears cascade down your cheeks. Steve relinquishes your hands in order to cup your cheeks and catch them before they reach your jaw; an impossible feat. “You didn’t feel very well, hm?”
You hum in the negative.
“Do you feel better now?”
“Not so much,” you tell him, pathetically miserable as Steve makes it his full-time job of brushing his thumbs across your cheeks like miniature windshield wipers for tears.
“Does anything hurt, Y/N?” Vicky interjects then, and Steve stamps down any frustration at his fragile, stolen moment with you being impeded on, no matter how well-intentioned.
“I don’t want this,” you all but spit, suddenly sort of ferocious despite your despair and elbowing Steve in the ribs.
He thinks you mean him.
Vicky knows quite well that you don’t, immediately hissing your name and making her way back over. “No, no. You- hey, we talked about this. You cannot pull that out; you have to leave it.”
Steve watches as Vicky pins the hand of yours that was attempting to rip out your IV to the bed, only for your opposite hand to reach up to the oxygen tubes lining your face.
“Hey, you have to leave those too.”
“Steve,” Robin whines from the edge of the room. He snaps into action.
“Hey hey hey, enough of that, yeah? What’d Vicky say?”
You’re unhappy about it but you let Steve pull your hand away from your face regardless.
“You have to breathe, honey. Relax,”
“I can’t,” you wail.
“Okay, well that’s what the tubes are for, alright?” he explains, taking your other hand away from Vicky and trying not to glare at her for ever having it to begin with. “They’re gonna help you breathe and relax, but you gotta let ‘em.”
“I can’t,” you whisper woefully, eyes magnified on account of the tears pooling along your waterline and lips pursed into a pitiful pout. You look so sad and still so lovely, Steve’s heart splinters again.
“You can, baby. I know you can. I’ll help, okay?”
You close your eyes in defeat, tears falling again but Steve doesn’t let go of your hands now that he knows where they’re bound to go if he does.
“You okay?” Robin murmurs from the other end of the room; you don’t bother responding as if you know just as well as he does that you’re not the one she’s asking.
Steve looks over his shoulder. “Can you get us some water? Maybe juice?”
Robin quickly vanishes, but Vicky lingers in the doorway. “I’ll be just outside if you need anything, Steve.”
Steve nods at her, thankful for her support and eager for her absence as she steps out of the room.
The two of you are left with the sound of the oxygen, the gentle drip of whatever pain medication they have you on, and the general humming of the hospital.
“You okay?” Steve asks eventually, no more than a whisper.
“Steve?”
Okay, well, we’ll just ignore Steve’s question then. “Yeah?”
“Do you hate me?”
Another splinter in Steve’s sternum. “No, sweetheart.”
Your eyes crack open. “Are you mad at me?”
Steve shakes his head no. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“Because you weren’t here.” The end of your sentence peters out into another sob.
Steve’s been carrying a heavy grief around since the two of you broke up, but you not remembering that the two of you broke up is a special sort of torture Steve’s not sure he can withstand. “I’m sorry, baby. I…I didn’t know you’d want me here.”
You let out a heavy sigh. “I‘lways want you here.”
Steve’s not sure he heard you right; is quite sure he didn’t hear you right. Isn’t sure he can stand to hear you repeat it. But he asks anyway.
“What’s that?”
“I always want you here.”
It’s a good thing Steve’s in a hospital, because the remaining shards of his heart have finally fallen from their ribcage prison and punctured every vital organ in his torso. Time stills as his bones turn to lead and his muscles to stone and you simply blink at him.
“I’m here, honey.”
You relax minutely, though wary when you ask, “Will you stay?”
Steve will probably have a fight a nurse or two, or maybe convince Vicky to find him one of those pinstriped dresses, but if you want him here then he won't leave this hospital room until you do.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, transferring both of your hands into one of his so he can wipe away a wayward tear from your chin. You nod at him immediately. “Okay.”
The two of you simply watch each other, and Steve wonders what you’re thinking about as he tries to figure out where he went wrong, how he could have lost you, how he can bear to walk out of this hospital once you remember the two of you haven’t spoken in weeks.
He’s not sure how much time has passed before your blinks start to grow heavy.
“Go to sleep, babe,” he murmurs around a lump in his throat, preemptively grieving the fact that you won’t remember why he’s here – or rather, you’ll remember all of the reasons why he shouldn’t be – when you wake up next. “You’ll feel better once you wake up.”
Your eyes widen as though you didn’t realize you were drifting, fighting the inevitable as though you know the risk that comes with sleep too. But your head is heavy on the pillow and your hands melt into Steve’s grip. “Will you still be here when I wake up?”
It’s probably the cruelest thing you’ve ever said to Steve, and he finds himself wanting to thank you for it.
“Yeah, honey," he promises. “I’ll still be here.”
He presses an indulgent kiss to your forehead and hopes beyond measure that you’ll still mean it when you wake up; that you’ll still want him here once the anesthesia wears off.
summary: You and Steve crash on the couch after a long night of babysitting the kids, and when you wake up, the two of you are cuddled up together.
word count: 10.1k+
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
notes: friends to lovers that don't even realize they're in love with each other because they're idiots???? yes please i'll take ten
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, friends to lovers, oblivious idiots, fluff, unintentional cuddling, thunderstorm, the kids are done with you and steve, robin trying to meddle, uhhhh idk what else
The Wheeler living room is already loud by the time you and Steve step through the door, the kind of loud that rattles the picture frames and probably traumatizes the furniture. Will and Eleven sit cross-legged on the floor sorting pieces, Mike and Lucas are arguing over the rule book, Max lounges sideways in an armchair like she owns the place, and Dustin—Dustin is the one who spots you first, eyes bright with relief because backup has arrived. He practically launches himself across the carpet. “Finally! Reinforcements! Do you know how long I’ve been trying to stop them from killing each other? Mike insists the rules don’t apply to him—”
“That’s not what I said!” Mike shoots back from the floor without looking up. “I said they don’t apply in this version.”
“That’s even worse,” Lucas mutters, flipping a game card toward him.
Steve nudges your shoulder with his, a soft laugh slipping out. “You sure we signed up for this voluntarily?”
Dustin answers for you both. “Yes. Absolutely. Because you love me.” He wags his eyebrows with a confidence that deserves its own award.
Steve groans but ruffles Dustin’s curls anyway. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t start any fires.”
You follow the chaos toward the couch, thinking you might sit at one end while Steve stays somewhere in the middle. The kids, however, have other plans. Eleven immediately takes the armchair beside Max and pats the cushion pointedly as if to say, these seats are taken, adult or not. Will sits closer to the coffee table, lost in arranging tiny tokens, and Dustin drops straight into the last open chair like he’s claiming territory.
That leaves the single space on the couch, a narrow sliver between two throw pillows. Steve glances at it, then at you, then back at it. “Guess we’re getting cozy,” he says under his breath, trying for casual but landing somewhere near hesitant.
You sit first, tucking your legs to one side to make room. Steve squeezes in beside you, his knee brushing yours, warm even through denim. The couch dips under his weight, pulling you closer than you meant to be, but the moment feels harmless—comfortable, even. The kids’ bickering rises again, filling the room with a familiar, buzzing energy that makes the closeness feel almost necessary, like the two of you are sharing the last quiet corner in a storm.
Mike slams the rule book shut. “We’re just going to play it how we played last time.”
Max rolls her eyes. “Last time you cried.”
“I did not cry,” he snaps, cheeks reddening.
“You absolutely cried,” Lucas insists. “You—”
You let your head fall lightly against the back of the couch, exhaustion settling through you like sand. Steve notices immediately. “You okay?” he murmurs.
“Just tired,” you admit, half-smiling. “Didn’t know babysitting involved this much diplomacy.”
“Diplomacy?” Steve scoffs. “These gremlins haven't known peace since third grade.”
Their argument grows more animated, and the low warmth in the room lulls your brain into a haze. You feel yourself drifting, not fully asleep but hovering right beneath it. The kids fade into background noise, their voices blending with the lamp hum and the whisper of cards shuffling.
That’s when you feel it—light pressure over your shoulders, the soft weight of a blanket being eased around you. The movement is gentle, almost instinctive. Steve doesn’t make a show of it; he doesn’t even look at you while he tucks the corner behind your arm. He just settles back beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours again.
The warmth mixes with your drowsiness, and you lean just a little into his side without thinking. He doesn’t move away. You’re not sure how long the peaceful moment lasts, because a sudden knock at the front door jolts the entire room. Mike groans. “If that’s another pizza flyer—”
But it isn’t a flyer. A familiar voice calls out, “your favorite coworker is here to liberate you!”
Robin strides into the living room like she lives there, hands on her hips, eyebrows already raised. She takes in the scene—Dustin mid-rant, Max smothering a grin, Eleven’s serious concentration, Steve tucked against you under a shared blanket—and something playful sparks behind her eyes.
She doesn’t comment. Not out loud. But she absolutely smirks, slow and knowing, like she’s mentally taking notes for future teasing ammunition. Steve stiffens at her expression, shooting her a warning look that only makes her smirk widen. Robin plops onto the floor beside Eleven. “So. Who’s winning?”
“No one,” Will sighs softly. “We haven’t even started.”
“That’s because someone won’t read the rules correctly,” Dustin says pointedly.
Mike glares. “Everybody shut up and let me—”
Their voices climb again, and Robin leans back on her hands, glancing between you and Steve with the quiet satisfaction of someone who just walked into a scene she fully intended to gossip about later.
Steve shifts slightly, adjusting the blanket so it covers both of you more evenly, pretending not to notice his best friend’s smug stare. His arm brushes yours again, warm and steady. You can feel him fighting the urge to explain himself—explain the blanket, explain the closeness—but Robin doesn’t ask. She doesn’t need to.
You settle deeper into the cushion, the room bright with noise and energy, and Steve’s presence at your side grounding you in a way you don’t question. Not yet.
By the time the last game piece clatters into its box, the kids have moved past the argument stage and straight into the collapse phase. Max is the first to fold, grabbing a pillow from the couch arm and dropping onto a sleeping bag like she’s been waiting hours for gravity to win. Mike mutters something about unfair rules before he flops down beside Will, whose eyes are already half-closed. Lucas arranges his blanket with unnecessary precision, as if he’s preparing for a military inspection. Eleven curls up beside him, and Dustin, in true Dustin fashion, declares he isn’t tired a single second before he faceplants into his pillow.
The room finally settles into something quieter, soft breaths replacing chaotic chatter. Empty cups sit on the coffee table. The lamp glows low. The chicken-shaped kitchen clock ticks faintly in the background. For the first time all night, you and Steve aren’t being pulled in ten different directions.
You stretch your legs out on the couch, your back sinking into the cushions. Steve slumps beside you, shoulders dropping, head falling back as he exhales a long, weary breath that sounds suspiciously like relief. His knee bumps your thigh again, though this time he doesn’t bother to shift away. You feel the warmth of him, steady and familiar in a way you didn’t expect. “You think they’ll actually stay asleep?” he asks quietly, voice rough with exhaustion.
“They better,” you murmur. “If I hear one more debate about whether Mike was cheating—”
“He was cheating.”
“You can’t cheat a game that doesn’t have real rules.”
Steve snorts a tired laugh, head tipping toward you. The sound pulls a smile from you before you can stop it.
For a while neither of you speaks. There’s no reason to. The silence feels earned, warm, comfortable. The kids breathe softly on the floor, the kind of peaceful that only comes after burning off every last ounce of energy. The blanket Steve offered earlier still rests over your lap, and you tug it higher, letting your fingers graze the fabric.
Your eyelids feel heavier than you want to admit. You didn’t plan on staying much longer. You definitely didn’t plan on falling asleep here. But the mix of exhaustion and the steady presence beside you makes it hard to keep your thoughts sharp.
You feel your head tip slightly toward Steve before you realize you’re moving at all. He doesn’t startle. He doesn’t shift away. Instead he leans just a little nearer, enough that your shoulders brush again, enough that it feels intentional even if neither of you says anything. He whispers, “you okay?”
“Mmhmm,” you breathe, already sinking. “Just tired.”
“You can sleep if you want.”
“You first.”
“I’m not falling asleep,” he says, which is bold considering his voice sounds like he’s half unconscious already. “I’m just resting my eyes.”
“Sure you are.”
He gives a sleepy huff of a laugh, and then the quiet wraps around you both again. His arm settles along the back of the couch, close enough that the warmth radiates through you. You try to stay awake, you really do, but the mix of his closeness, the blanket, and the leftover warmth from the room finally pulls you under.
The last thing you feel is Steve’s shoulder steady beneath your cheek.
The next thing you know, sunlight is leaking through the Wheeler curtains, pale morning gold painting stripes across the room. Your eyes blink open slowly, vision fuzzy, mind slow to piece together where you are and how you ended up with an arm snugly wrapped around your waist.
His arm.
You freeze for a second, breath held. Steve is still asleep beside you, his chest rising and falling in soft, even patterns. His nose is tucked near your hair, lips ghosting warm against the top of your ear. One of his knees slots gently against yours like you two figured out puzzle-piece positions sometime in the night and just… stayed there.
You’re wrapped in him. Entirely. And it feels impossibly natural.
Then Steve stirs. His breathing changes, body tensing slightly as he shifts. You feel the moment realization hits him—a small, startled inhale, followed by stillness. His arm tightens once in a reflexive squeeze, then he jerks it back like the couch suddenly caught fire. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t—uh—” he mutters, scrambling upright so fast he nearly elbows a pillow off the couch. His hair sticks up wildly, his face flushed.
You push yourself upright too, clutching the blanket like it might hide how warm your face is. “I must’ve… I didn’t mean to—uh—lean on you all night.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” he says quickly. “Totally fine. Couch is small. Happens all the time. Not all the time. I mean—whatever. It’s cool.”
“Yeah. Cool.” You each sit there for an awkward heartbeat too long, both pretending you didn’t almost cuddle through the entire night.
A voice rises from the floor. “Oh my god,” Dustin groans dramatically, sitting up with all the energy of someone three seconds from combusting. He rubs his eyes as he peers toward the couch. “Did you guys seriously fall asleep together again?”
“Again?” Steve chokes.
Lucas rolls over, hair a mess. “They were basically on top of each other after the Snow Ball. Remember?”
Max sits up and smirks. “This is honestly not surprising.”
Mike points at both of you like he’s solving a mystery. “You always gravitate toward each other. It’s, like, magnetic or something.”
Eleven blinks sleepily at the scene, then nods once in agreement. “Yes. Always.”
You stare at the group, then at Steve, whose ears are turning a shade of red no human should naturally be capable of. Dustin flops back onto his pillow with the world’s heaviest sigh. “Unbelievable. I’m going to pull a muscle from how hard I’m rolling my eyes.”
You grab the blanket, suddenly too warm, while Steve runs a hand through his hair like he wants to hide inside it. The kids start packing up their sleeping bags with varying degrees of chaos, and you and Steve sit stiffly on the couch, avoiding each other’s eyes because neither of you knows how to handle the truth that, yes, you had gravitated toward each other—without even realizing it.
And somewhere in the middle of the mess, Dustin mutters, “I swear, one day you two are going to give me an aneurysm.”
A week passes, but the memory of waking tangled against Steve doesn’t fade as easily as you hoped. Every time you pass each other in the halls of Family Video, every time he hands you a VHS or brushes by you to reach the rewind station, there’s a flicker of that morning—sunlight on his face, his arm still wrapped around your waist like he belonged there. You keep pretending it’s no big deal. He keeps pretending he’s not thinking about it at all. Robin, on the other hand, has turned pretending into an Olympic sport.
Which is how you end up outside Family Video on a chilly Saturday morning, helping them haul in overstock boxes because Keith “accidentally” ordered three months of inventory at once. The air is colder than you expected, autumn biting a little sharper than last week. You try to hide the way you rub your arms for warmth, but Steve notices instantly.
He’s halfway to the door with a box when he glances over and blurts, “here.” Before you can respond, he shrugs off his jacket in one smooth motion and drapes it over your shoulders like it was already decided.
You blink at him, surprised. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine. I’m not cold,” he says too fast.
“You’re definitely cold.”
“Nah, I run hot,” he insists, though the goosebumps on his arms say otherwise.
Robin freezes mid-step, one eyebrow lifting with the kind of slow, deliberate judgment she usually saves for customers who return tapes that smell like cigarettes. She watches Steve for a long, amused second before speaking. “Smooth,” she drawls, lips twitching. “Very subtle.”
Steve glares at her, which only makes her grin wider.
You’re still adjusting the jacket on your shoulders, and the moment you settle into it, you feel Steve go very still. His eyes drag over the sight of you in his jacket—soft from wear, smelling faintly of piney cologne and Family-Video-cleaner—and something in his expression falters. It’s a full-body stutter: shoulders stopping mid-breath, hands freezing around the box he’s holding, mouth parted like words abandoned him.
Robin’s eyebrows climb so high they might actually leave her face. “You good?” she asks, deadpan.
Steve jerks back into motion. “Yep. Totally. Fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”
“Right,” she says, but the sarcasm drips enough to fill a swimming pool.
Inside, the store is a battlefield of cardboard towers. You help them stack boxes in the back, all while Steve keeps glancing at you like he’s trying not to, always looking away a second too late. Robin catches every single slip.
At one point, as you’re helping sort new releases, a customer wanders in—a woman in her thirties, cheerful, the type who probably owns matching holiday sweaters for her dog. She points at Steve, then at you. “You two are adorable,” she says warmly. “How long have you been together?”
You nearly drop the stack of VHS cases you’re holding. Steve goes rigid beside you. “We’re not—uh—we’re not together,” he stammers, waving his hands in front of him so wildly he nearly smacks a cardboard cutout of Tom Hanks.
The woman blinks. “Oh! Sorry, you just look like—well, you know. A couple.”
“No, yeah, totally fine,” Steve rambles. “We’re just, you know, coworkers. Friends. Normal friends. Nothing weird. Nothing romantic. Not that romance is weird or—I’m gonna stop talking now.”
The woman gives you a sympathetic smile before heading toward the rom-com aisle. Robin doesn’t even wait until she’s out of earshot. “Romance isn’t weird,” she mimics under her breath. “Wow. He’s really killing it today.”
Steve shoots her a glare so sharp it could slice through VHS plastic. “Can you not?”
“I can’t not,” she whispers, smug as ever. “This is better than cable.”
You try to keep your focus on stacking movies, but your cheeks feel uncomfortably warm. And the worst part? You don’t hate the assumption. You don’t hate the idea of being seen with Steve like you’re something more than coworkers and accidental couch cuddlers. But you don’t let yourself think too hard about it. You’re not sure your heart is ready for that.
The day goes on like that—little moments that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow do. Another customer asks if you and Steve are “movie-night regulars.” A teenager asks if you’re trying to “impress your boyfriend” with your horror recommendations. Steve denies it every time, and every time he gets a little pinker.
At one point, you’re shelving tapes near the back, Steve standing so close beside you that his arm brushes yours when he reaches for the top shelf. You swear he hesitates before pulling his hand back. “You sure you’re warm enough?” he asks softly, looking at his jacket wrapped around you.
“I’m warm,” you say, and you mean it. His smile is small but real.
From the counter, Robin mutters, “un. Be. Lievable.” You glance over to see her shaking her head, chin resting on her palm, smirk carved into her face like she’s witnessing the world’s slowest love story unfold in real time.
“What?” Steve snaps defensively.
“Nothing,” she says, sing-song and utterly unconvinced. “Just enjoying the show.”
Steve groans into his hands. You focus very hard on straightening a stack of VHS cases that absolutely do not need straightening. And yet despite the embarrassment, despite Robin’s commentary, despite customers assuming something neither of you have dared to name, you don’t take off Steve’s jacket.
Not even once.
Movie nights at the Wheeler house always start the same way: spilled popcorn, someone arguing about who gets the couch spot closest to the snacks, and Dustin insisting on an unnecessarily complicated projector setup that takes twice as long as it should. Tonight is no different. The kids have claimed most of the blankets, the lights are low, and Steve is fiddling with the VCR like it personally offended him.
You settle onto the couch, Steve’s jacket still wrapped around you from earlier that afternoon. You told yourself you’d give it back when the temperature evened out. You told yourself you’d hand it over once you got inside. You told yourself you’d return it when he asked.
He never asked.
And now, curled into the corner of the sofa, you can’t bring yourself to shrug it off. It’s warm. It’s soft. It smells like him in a way you absolutely refuse to think about too hard.
Lucas is the first one to notice. He stops dead in front of you, a bowl of pretzels in hand, eyes narrowing like a detective who’s just discovered a clue. “Whoa, whoa, hold on.” He points dramatically. “Why are you wearing Steve’s jacket?” You don’t even get a chance to answer. Lucas raises his voice—not a little, not gently—but with the subtlety of someone announcing the end of the world. “Are you two, like, dating now?”
The room goes still for exactly half a second before exploding. “What?!” Steve blurts, spinning around so fast he nearly pulls the VCR out of the wall. His face goes beet red immediately. “No. No! We’re not—there’s nothing—we’re not dating!”
“Sure,” Max says from the armchair, her tone so dry it could start a brushfire. “That’s why you keep staring every time the jacket moves.”
You choke on your own breath. “He’s not—”
“He absolutely is,” she cuts in. “Do you see his face right now?”
Steve, now floundering, tries to regain control. “Guys, it’s just a jacket. She was cold. I gave it to her. That’s it.”
Lucas doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah, but she never took it off. She’s still wearing it, man.”
“I’m going to,” you say quickly, even though you definitely don’t plan to. “Just… later.”
Max snorts and leans back. “Yeah, later. Sure.”
Dustin appears beside the couch, popcorn bowl tucked under his arm, shaking his head like he’s watching a soap opera he’s far too invested in. He leans toward Mike, who’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet. “This is painful to watch,” he whispers loudly enough for all of you to hear.
Mike nods solemnly. “Agreed.”
You want the couch to swallow you whole. Steve looks like he wants the entire house to collapse around him. He gestures vaguely toward your shoulder. “If it’s weird, I can take it back. Or you can—uh—give it back. If you want. Unless you don’t. I mean—whatever. No pressure.”
You stare at him, then at the collar he’s now fidgeting with between his fingers, picking at a loose thread like it’s a lifeline. “Steve,” you say slowly, “I’m fine. It’s fine.”
“Right,” he says, smoothing the fabric a little too carefully. “Okay. Cool.”
Max watches the whole exchange with narrowed eyes, elbow resting on the arm of the chair like she’s collecting data for a thesis. Lucas takes a handful of pretzels and throws himself into a beanbag with a dramatic sigh, muttering to Dustin, “they’re totally dating.”
Dustin doesn’t miss a beat. “No, they’re something, and it’s driving me insane.”
Eleven, sitting beside Mike, studies you with that serene, thoughtful look she gets when she knows more than she says. “Friends can share clothes,” she offers gently. You smile at her, grateful—until she adds in a quieter, almost conspiratorial voice, “but you both look happy.” Steve nearly drops the remote.
Mike groans. “Can we just watch the movie before this turns into a group therapy session?”
Everyone grumbles in agreement, and the chaos shifts as the kids rearrange themselves for the opening credits. But even as the room settles, the teasing dies down, and the screen flickers to life, Steve stays close beside you on the couch. His arm rests along the back, just near enough for your shoulder to brush his if either of you shifts even slightly.
And every once in a while, he glances over—not long enough to get caught again, but long enough to make your heart beat faster. You pretend you don’t notice. But you really, really do.
Domestic moments sneak in the way sunlight creeps through blinds—quiet at first, barely noticeable, then suddenly you’re surrounded by them, warmed before you even realize what’s happening.
It starts with something small. You’re at Melvald’s picking up snacks for the kids’ weekend hangout when you bump into Steve in the cereal aisle. He’s holding a box of Lucky Charms, looking deeply conflicted, like the fate of the universe depends on marshmallow distribution. You tease him about it, he complains about Dustin’s “freakishly specific snack expectations,” and before either of you know it, you’re pushing your carts side by side, arguing over which brand of chips is superior. He ends up tossing an extra pack into your cart with a casual shrug that is anything but casual, and you don’t point out the smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.
The next time, it’s laundry. Your washer breaks spectacularly—a bit of flooding, awful noises, the works—and you’re left holding a basket of clothes with nowhere to put them. Steve just happens to call that afternoon, checking if you’re joining a movie night later. You mention the washer situation without thinking.
He shows up twenty minutes later with the trunk of his car popped open, leaning against it like he’s posing for a magazine cover called Accidental Heroics. “Laundry day?” he asks, totally nonchalant, except his voice is a little too bright with excitement.
“Are you offering your washer?”
“I’m offering my whole laundry room,” he says, then winces. “That sounded weird. Ignore that. Just—I don’t mind. Seriously.” You don’t ignore it. You smile instead, because of course he doesn’t mind.
Inside the Harrington house, you watch him gather detergent, fuss about water temperature, and act like this isn’t the domestic equivalent of a date. At one point, he stands beside you, arms folded, leaning on the counter while the washer rumbles softly behind you both. You talk about nothing in particular—movies you haven’t seen yet, the way Robin accidentally told a customer to “have a tolerable day,” Mike’s latest dramatic meltdown over homework—and you’re too aware of how close he is.
He’s comfortable. Relaxed. A little messy-haired from the humidity. Familiar in a way you’ve learned to accept but not examine too closely. His house echoes less when he’s speaking, less still when you laugh. You find yourself wondering how often he’s lonely in this big place, and the thought lingers longer than it should.
A few days later, he beats you to the familiar routine. You stop by Family Video on your way to the arcade with Max, planning on grabbing a few tapes. Steve spots you before you even make it past the counter. “Hey,” he says lightly, but then he’s already moving toward the break room. “Do you want coffee?”
“What? I didn’t even ask.”
He shrugs, awkwardly endearing. “You sort of have a look. Like a ‘please save me with caffeine’ look.”
Robin snorts from behind the counter. “Translation: he makes one pot and pretends it was my idea.”
Steve glares. “It was your idea!”
“I didn’t even want coffee.”
“Details,” he mutters.
But he hands you a mug anyway, warm and freshly poured, and the moment your fingers brush his, something in him softens. His eyes linger a second too long. The mug smells like vanilla creamer. His smile is small but real, the kind that sneaks up on you. “You make it good,” you admit.
He lights up more at that than at anything he probably should.
You catch him holding open doors for you without thinking. You find him saving the last bag of your favorite candy on movie nights. You realize he’s started keeping an extra soda in the fridge at Family Video “just in case.” You catch yourself smoothing the collar of his jacket before he leaves for his shift. You watch him wash dishes with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, humming off-key like he’s completely unaware of how easy he is to fall into step with.
Robin sees everything, of course. She sees the way Steve leans closer when you talk. She sees the way your hand rests near his without moving away. She sees the way you say his name a little softer lately, and how he straightens slightly every time you do. “You two are a disaster,” she mutters during a quiet shift, shaking her head like she’s dealing with toddlers. “A cute disaster, sure, but still a disaster.”
You pretend you don’t hear her. Steve pretends he isn’t listening. But the way he glances at you afterward, shy and hopeful, tells you both that she’s right. And little by little, something between you and Steve begins to settle too—warm, gentle, and too natural to be ignored forever.
Max and Eleven aren’t subtle when they ask for help with a school project. In fact, they aren’t asking at all—Max shows up at Family Video with a binder the size of a phone book, Eleven trailing behind her with glitter glue stuck to her sleeve. They plant themselves in front of the counter like a two-person intervention. “We need an adult,” Max announces.
Steve looks offended. “I’m an adult.”
“You’re barely an adult,” she counters.
Eleven nods, solemn. “You need supervision.”
You’re standing beside the display of horror tapes, trying not to laugh. Max turns to you next. “You’re the reasonable one,” she says. “We need help building this model of the solar system. It’s due Monday. It’s almost Monday.”
“It’s Saturday,” Steve mutters.
“Almost Monday,” Max repeats, giving the kind of look that says she will absolutely guilt you into this if she has to.
So the four of you end up at the Harrington house, the dining table buried under poster board, foam balls, paint cups, and construction paper. It’s the kind of chaos that looks innocent but will absolutely destroy the floor if left unattended. You settle into a chair, Steve drops into the one beside you, and Max drags over a lamp like she’s setting up a crime scene investigation.
For the first half hour, everything goes surprisingly well. Eleven carefully paints Saturn’s rings, Max supervises the glitter application with the authority of a seasoned general, and Steve handles the hot glue gun with far more confidence than he deserves.
But then Mars rolls off the table. The glitter gets everywhere. Steve burns his finger a little. Max shouts, “why is Jupiter bigger than the sun?!” and Eleven insists the sun looks lonely without a smiley face. The whole project devolves into laughter, complaints, and paint smudges across the poster board. And somehow, despite the mess, you end up enjoying yourself more than you expected.
By the time the solar system finally looks like a solar system—and not an arts-and-crafts explosion—the clock reads well past midnight. Max and Eleven are exhausted, the kind of slow-blinking tired that makes them stretch out on the floor with blankets and mutter about “five minutes” that quickly turn into sleep.
Steve runs a hand through his paint-flecked hair, sighing with the kind of relief that comes after surviving mild chaos. “I’m too tired to drive anyone home,” he admits quietly.
“They’ll be fine here,” you say, watching the girls curl closer under their blankets. “They did great.”
“You did great,” he counters, and the warmth in his voice catches you off guard.
The house feels different at night—quieter, softer, full of pockets of shadow and the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The dining table is a disaster zone of art supplies. Max mumbles something in her sleep. Eleven shifts, tucking her hands under her cheek. The girls look peaceful, and the sight makes something inside you settle too.
You and Steve drift toward the living room, neither of you saying it aloud, but both heading there like it’s the only place your bodies want to go. He collapses onto the couch with a groan, sliding down until his head touches the back cushion. You drop beside him, fully intending to stay awake, to keep some distance, to not repeat history. The moment your head brushes the cushion, your whole body sighs in surrender. Steve notices immediately. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft around the edges. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”
“You sound like you’re already asleep.”
“Not true. I’m extremely awake.”
You turn your head just enough to see his eyes half-lidded, his lips curled in a sleepy smile. He tries to sit up straighter, fails, and ends up leaning slightly toward you in a way that feels familiar. Natural. Like some quiet part of him gravitates to you without hesitation. You let your shoulder rest lightly against his. It’s not planned. Not something you think through. It just happens, the same way breathing does. And he doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts a little closer. “You comfy?” he asks, barely above a whisper.
“Maybe.”
“That’s good,” he says, and the softness in his tone makes your heart stutter.
The hum of the house fades into a warm nothingness. You feel the rise and fall of Steve’s breathing beside you. His head drops slightly until it rests against yours. You think about pushing yourself upright, about creating some polite distance so history doesn’t repeat itself… but the thought dissolves before it finishes forming. You’re tired. You’re warm. You’re comfortable. And Steve’s presence feels like a blanket all on its own.
The couch dips gently as he shifts again, and before you know it, you’re leaning into each other. His shoulder fits beneath your cheek. His arm settles near your side. His breath slows. Yours matches it without trying. You don’t plan to fall asleep. He definitely doesn’t plan to fall asleep. But the quiet wraps around you both like a spell, and somewhere between one blink and the next, your eyes close.
When you wake, it’s to soft morning light filtering through the curtains and the warmth of an arm around you—his arm, draped over your waist in a way that feels far too right. His nose brushes your hair. Your body is half against his. You’re wrapped in each other again, held by an instinct neither of you meant to let slip out.
You inhale sharply, and that’s what stirs him. Steve shifts, groggy, confused, then suddenly alert as he realizes exactly where—and how—you ended up. His hand flinches at your waist, and he sits up too fast, eyes wide, hair a spectacular disaster. “I—I didn’t mean—” he stammers. “I wasn’t—I didn’t know I—”
You sit up too, heat crawling up your neck. “It’s okay. We were just tired.”
“Right,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tired. Long night. Glue fumes, glitter poison. Makes sense.”
You’re both doing the thing where you avoid each other’s eyes, talking too quickly, pretending your heart isn’t still racing. It would almost work—if not for the two quiet figures who suddenly stir on the floor. Max lifts her head from her blanket, squinting. “Are you kidding me?” she croaks.
Eleven blinks awake, following Max’s gaze. “Again?” she asks, perfectly calm.
You feel your soul disintegrate. Steve covers his face with both hands. “Oh my god.”
Max sits up fully, pointing at the couch like she’s presenting evidence. “This is a pattern. A weird one. A very obvious one.”
Eleven nods, rubbing her eyes. “You always sleep close.”
Max snorts. “You don’t just ‘accidentally’ cuddle twice.” Steve makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a plea for the universe to swallow him whole. You can’t tell if you want to laugh or hide under a cushion. Max lies back down, pulling her blanket over her face. “Whatever. Just admit you’re into each other so I can sleep in peace next time.”
Steve chokes. You stare at the ceiling. Eleven simply closes her eyes again, satisfied that she has spoken truth into the world. And despite the embarrassment, despite the chaos, despite every reason you should deny it—you can’t help the small, traitorous flutter in your chest at the thought that maybe, just maybe, they see something you’ve been too scared to name.
The shift doesn’t happen all at once. It creeps in quietly, disguised as small, awkward moments that pile up until pretending nothing is wrong takes more effort than admitting something is.
Steve is the first to spiral. You notice it at Family Video before you really understand it. He stops leaning against the counter when you talk. He keeps a careful half-step of distance between you in the aisles. When you laugh at something dumb he says, his smile falters, eyes flicking away like he’s afraid he’ll give something away if he holds your gaze for even a second too long.
He starts overthinking everything. If your hand brushes his while passing a tape, he freezes like he’s done something wrong. If you smile at him, he smiles back a second too late. If you linger near the counter after your shift ends, he finds something else to do—restocking shelves that absolutely don’t need it, rewinding tapes that were already done.
Robin notices in approximately five minutes. She corners him behind the counter during a slow afternoon, arms crossed, expression sharp with concern and zero patience. “Okay. Explain.”
“Explain what?” he says too quickly, eyes on the register.
“Why you look like you’re one thought away from short-circuiting every time she breathes near you.”
“I don’t—”
“Steve.”
He exhales, shoulders slumping. “I just don’t want to mess things up.”
Robin blinks. “Mess what up?”
“Everything,” he mutters. “What if she didn’t mean to fall asleep like that? What if I crossed some invisible line? What if I make it weird and she stops wanting to hang out?”
Robin stares at him, unimpressed. “Buddy. You are already making it weird.” He winces. She sighs, softer now. “You like her. A lot. That’s not a crime.” He opens his mouth to deny it, then closes it again. His hands curl into the edge of the counter, knuckles pale. Robin leans closer. “You don’t panic this hard over people you don’t care about.”
The words hit deeper than he wants them to. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
Meanwhile, you’re spiraling in your own way. You’re sitting on the front steps of the Wheeler house with Max one afternoon, watching clouds roll lazily across the sky. She kicks at the concrete with the heel of her shoe, quiet for a moment longer than usual. “So,” she says eventually, glancing sideways. “How long are you and Steve planning on pretending you’re not together?”
You choke on air. “We’re not—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupts. “That’s what he says too.”
You groan, dropping your head back against the railing. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because everyone thinks that,” she replies simply. “You act like a couple. You fall asleep like one. You fight like one without actually fighting. It’s kind of obvious.”
You stare at the sky, heart thudding. “What if I’m reading it wrong?”
Max shrugs. “Then you’ll survive. But I don’t think you are.”
Her honesty sits heavy in your chest long after she goes inside. From there, things only get worse. You and Steve start orbiting each other like nervous planets, always close but never colliding. Conversations turn stilted. Touch becomes something you both overthink instead of instinctively reach for. You miss the easy closeness more than you’re ready to admit.
He hands you coffee without meeting your eyes. You thank him too brightly. He smiles and looks away. Robin watches from the counter like she’s witnessing a slow-motion train wreck. At one point, you both reach for the same VHS tape and jerk back at the same time, muttering apologies in perfect sync. It would be funny if it didn’t hurt a little.
The kids notice too. Of course they do. Dustin squints at you across the table during lunch one day. “Why are you both acting like divorced parents at Thanksgiving?”
Mike nods. “It’s uncomfortable.”
Lucas frowns. “Did you fight?”
“No,” you say quickly.
Steve says, “no,” at the same time.
Max sighs loudly. “That’s worse.”
Every interaction feels charged now. Every glance you don’t hold lingers longer than it should. Every step back feels heavier than stepping forward ever did. At night, you lie awake thinking about the way Steve’s arm felt around you. About how natural it was. About how careful he is now, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he touches you the wrong way. Across town, Steve lies awake doing the exact same thing—only instead of wondering if he should reach for you, he’s convinced himself that wanting you at all might be the problem.
The weather turns without warning. One minute you’re at Steve’s place helping him reorganize the basement—because somehow that’s become a normal thing now—and the next, the sky outside cracks open with a sharp boom of thunder that rattles the windows. Rain slams down hard enough to sound angry, like it’s taking something personally. You pause mid-step, box balanced in your hands, heart jumping even though you tell yourself it’s just a storm.
Steve notices immediately. He always does. “Hey,” he says, too quick, already moving closer. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you lie, shifting the box onto a shelf. “Just surprised.”
Another crack of thunder answers you, louder this time. The lights flicker once, twice—then the entire house drops into darkness. “Shit,” Steve mutters at the same time you gasp.
The sudden quiet is heavy, broken only by the rain and the distant rumble of thunder. The basement feels smaller without the lights, shadows pressing in around you. Steve swears softly again and reaches out, his hand brushing your arm as he fumbles for the flashlight he definitely meant to put batteries in weeks ago.
Before either of you can say anything else, the wind howls outside, a violent rush that rattles the door at the top of the stairs. Something bangs against the side of the house—maybe a branch, maybe something worse—and your nerves snap all at once.
You don’t even think about it when you let out a gasp. Steve turns toward the sound, instinct kicking in, and you step into him at the exact same moment. His arms come up automatically, wrapping around you, pulling you tight against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You grab onto his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, breath shaky as thunder crashes again overhead. “It’s okay,” he murmurs immediately, voice low and steady near your ear. “It’s just the storm. I’ve got you.”
The words undo you more than the thunder ever could. You cling to him, forehead pressed into his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat thudding strong and fast beneath your ear. He holds you without hesitation, one hand firm at your back, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s shielding you from the world itself.
The rain pounds harder as the wind screams. The house creaks and groans, but inside Steve’s arms, everything feels quieter, safer. You don’t realize how long you stay like that until the thunder fades into a distant rumble and the rain softens into something steady instead of violent. The moment stretches, then stretches some more—and you still don’t let go. Neither does he.
His grip loosens eventually, not pulling away but easing, like he’s checking if you’re okay before daring to move. You breathe him in, familiar and grounding, and realize with a sudden, aching clarity that this is exactly where you want to be.
You pull back first, just enough to look up at him. He looks wrecked. Not scared—focused. Protective. His hands linger at your sides like they’re reluctant to leave, his thumb brushing your hip once without meaning to. His eyes search your face, worried, intense, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “You okay?” he asks again, quieter now.
You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Of course,” he says quickly, stepping back like the space between you is suddenly dangerous. “Anytime. I mean—I didn’t even think. I just—”
“It’s fine,” you interrupt, though your voice comes out thinner than you want. “I didn’t mind.”
He nods, running a hand through his hair, clearly overthinking it already. “Right. Good. I just… yeah.”
Another silence settles between you, thick and awkward and heavy with everything you didn’t say while his arms were around you. The storm keeps raging outside, but inside, neither of you knows how to move forward from the way you just fit together so easily. A few minutes later, the lights flicker back on, the sudden brightness feels almost intrusive. Steve clears his throat. “Power’s back.”
“Yeah,” you say, though you haven’t moved.
He steps away fully this time, grabbing the flashlight like he needs something to do with his hands. You hug your arms around yourself, already missing the warmth you’d been wrapped in seconds ago. The storm keeps going, but the moment is gone. And neither of you knows how to bring it back—or how to pretend it didn’t mean something at all.
The storm drifts farther away, thunder fading into something distant and dull, like it’s finally run out of things to say. The house settles with it, creaks softening, the air feeling heavy but calm. Steve turns off the overhead light and leaves only the lamp in the corner on, dim and warm, like the room is exhaling after holding its breath too long.
Neither of you suggests sitting on the couch again. Instead, you end up on the floor without really deciding it, backs against the couch, legs stretched out in front of you. Steve grabs his jacket from where he tossed it earlier and drapes it over your shoulders before you can object. This time, you don’t even try.
You tug it closer around yourself, fingers curling into the fabric. It smells like him and comfort and something steady you didn’t realize you’d been craving all night. Steve sits close—close enough that your knees brush, close enough that the warmth of his body seeps through the space between you.
The house is quiet. No voices. No teasing. No interruptions. Just the soft tick of the clock on the wall and the hum of the refrigerator down the hall. It feels different without an audience. You rest your head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “That was… intense,” you say softly.
“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. “Didn’t realize storms could still get to me like that.”
“Me neither.”
Another pause stretches between you, but it isn’t awkward this time. It’s thoughtful. Careful. Like both of you are finally letting the moment exist instead of trying to rush past it. Steve shifts beside you, slow and deliberate. You feel the movement before you see it—the way his shoulder nudges yours, the way he hesitates, then leans just enough for his head to rest lightly against your shoulder. Not heavy. Not demanding. Just there.
Your breath catches for half a second. Then you lean into him. It’s instinctive, the way your shoulder angles slightly to support his weight, the way your head tips toward his without thinking. You fit together easily, like you’ve done this a hundred times already and only now stopped pretending it was an accident.
Steve exhales softly, tension leaving him in a way that feels almost tangible. His hand rests near yours on the floor, close but not touching, fingers flexing once like he’s fighting the urge. “You don’t have to,” he says quietly, almost unsure. “If you’re uncomfortable, I mean.”
“I’m not,” you answer just as softly. “I’m… comfortable.”
The word feels important. Real. He hums under his breath, something like relief. His head settles more fully against your shoulder, and you feel the warmth of him seep deeper into you. The jacket slips a little, and he reaches out to tug it back into place, careful and gentle, like he’s afraid to break the moment.
You let your eyes close. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time feels strange in the quiet, stretched thin and soft around you both. The rain becomes background noise, steady and harmless now. Steve’s breathing evens out, slow and calm, and you realize with a flutter in your chest that he trusts you enough to relax like this.
It makes something ache behind your ribs. You shift just enough to rest your head against his, temple to temple, and he responds by sliding his hand a fraction closer, your pinkies brushing.
Neither of you moves away. If anyone walked in right now, there would be no excuses. No scrambling. No pretending this is just another accident. But no one does. The house stays quiet. The moment stays yours. And for the first time in a while, you’re not overthinking it. You’re just there, wrapped in his jacket, his presence steady and warm beside you, leaning into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world—because maybe, finally, it is.
A few days pass, and the tension doesn’t fade the way you half-expect it to. It doesn’t explode either. It just… sits there. Quiet. Heavy. Following you through grocery aisles and movie shelves and half-finished conversations like a shadow neither of you knows how to outrun.
So when Steve asks if you can come over to help him reorganize the basement—again—you say yes without thinking about it too hard. His basement smells faintly like dust and cardboard and the lemon cleaner he used upstairs, the combination oddly comforting. Old boxes line the walls, some half-open, some still taped shut, relics of a life that keeps trying to move forward while dragging pieces of the past along with it. Steve hands you a stack of things to sort, apologizing like it’s a personal failing that he owns so much stuff. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, already tugging open another box. “I can finish it later.”
“You’ve been saying ‘later’ for months,” you point out, kneeling beside him. “I’m here. It’s fine.”
He smiles at that, small and grateful, and it makes your chest feel tight in a way you don’t bother fighting anymore.
You work for a while in companionable quiet. Dust clings to your hands. Your legs get tired from crouching. At some point, you give up and lay flat on the carpet, stretching your arms over your head with a soft groan. “I forgot how exhausting cleaning is,” you mutter.
Steve laughs and drops down beside you, back hitting the carpet with a thump. “Yeah. It’s a scam. Someone should warn people.”
You turn your head toward him, smiling, and for a moment you just look at each other. He looks tired. Comfortable. Real. There’s a faint smudge of dust on his cheek you fight the urge to wipe away.
You don’t lie down together at first. Not really. There’s a careful space between you, enough distance to pretend you’re not thinking about how easily it would disappear. You talk instead—about stupid things, important things, everything in between. He tells you about his latest nightmare of showing up to work in roller skates. You tell him about the song you can’t get out of your head. You talk about how strange it feels when life is quiet after everything you’ve all been through.
The words get slower as time passes. Sentences trail off and thoughts drift. At some point, you realize your eyes have been closed for longer than a blink. That your breathing has synced with his. That the space between you has shrunk without permission being asked. You don’t mean to fall asleep. Neither does he.
When you wake, it’s gradual. Warmth first. Pressure second. Awareness last. You’re curled against him, your face tucked into his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you like it’s been there forever. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head. Your hand is fisted in his shirt, knuckles pressing into fabric like you anchored yourself there in your sleep. You don’t pull away.
Steve stirs a second later, breath hitching slightly when he realizes you’re awake. You feel the moment he becomes aware of the position you’re in, the way his arm tightens just a fraction instead of loosening. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough and low.
“Hey,” you answer.
Neither of you moves. The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward. It’s fragile. Honest.
Steve’s fingers shift, brushing your knuckles gently, like he’s testing whether the moment will break if he acknowledges it. When it doesn’t, he threads his fingers through yours, slow and deliberate. “I don’t know when this started,” he admits quietly, staring at your joined hands like they might give him answers. “I don’t know when I started… wanting this. These moments. Being close to you like this.”
Your heart beats hard against his chest.
“I just know,” he continues, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soft, nervous rhythm, “that I don’t want it to stop. And I’m scared to say that out loud because I don’t want to mess things up. But I think pretending nothing’s happening is worse.”
You lift your head enough to look at him, really look at him. His eyes are open and vulnerable, fixed on you like this matters more than anything else in the room. “I’ve been wanting this too,” you say quietly. “For a while now. I just didn’t know if I was allowed to.”
His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale, relief softening his features instantly. His hand tightens around yours, grounding, certain. “You are,” he says immediately. “You always have been.”
You smile, small and real, and lean back into him like you belong there. This time, there’s no pretending it’s an accident. No excuses. No scrambling away when the moment settles. He pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours, and you let yourself stay.
Because this time, when you fall asleep tangled together again, it isn’t a mistake.
It’s a choice.
Movie night at the Wheeler house should come with a hazard warning. There are pillows everywhere, blankets in increasingly questionable piles, and snacks disappearing at rates that defy the laws of physics. You and Steve barely sit down before the chorus begins.
“We’re out of pretzels!” Lucas announces like an alarm.
“Popcorn’s gone,” Mike adds, peering into the bowl like it betrayed him.
Max holds up an empty chip bag. “Tragic.”
Dustin clasps his hands together. “If someone doesn’t refill the snacks in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to pass away dramatically on this carpet.”
Eleven nods in agreement. “More chocolate.”
You and Steve exchange a look—one of those looks you’ve been trading far more often lately, the kind that’s half can you believe them? and half come on, let’s just do it. You both reach for the empty bowls at the same time and stand in perfect sync.
Mike gestures at the two of you heading toward the kitchen. “See? I told you. They’re like… a domestic relay team.”
Dustin nods solemnly. “It’s disturbing how coordinated they are.”
You don’t hear any of this because Steve holds the swinging kitchen door open for you, hand grazing the small of your back in a way that still sends a warm spark up your spine no matter how many times he does it now.
Inside, the kitchen is quiet, lit only by the overhead fixture. Bowls line the counter, the chip bags waiting to be opened. Steve sets his bowl down beside yours, fingers brushing yours in a way that feels far too intentional to be chalked up to coincidence anymore.
He doesn’t pull his hand away this time. Instead, he lets his fingers trail lightly along your wrist, soft and slow. You inhale, surprised by how bold he’s suddenly become, though the warm flush in his cheeks says he’s feeling the moment just as intensely as you are. “You good?” he asks softly, trying for casual but sounding like he cares a little too much.
You smile up at him, leaning slightly closer without thinking. “I’m good.”
“Good,” he says, relieved. His thumb brushes your wrist again, and he steps into your space just enough that you feel the heat of him… not touching you yet, but close. Very close.
There’s a small pause, and then he reaches up and brushes your cheek, fingers lingering a moment too long—just long enough to make your breath catch. You don’t look away, and he doesn’t either.
The room goes still around you, the storm from a few days ago replaced with something quieter, warmer, but just as electric. His gaze flicks down toward your lips, then back up to your eyes, and you know—know—that he’s seconds from leaning in.
You’re seconds from meeting him halfway. Which is, of course, the exact moment the kitchen door slams open so hard it hits the wall.
“What the hell is taking so long?” Max demands, then freezes the second she actually sees you and Steve standing way too close, hands basically touching, faces definitely not far enough apart to be innocent. Behind her, the rest of the Party piles up like a traffic jam.
Dustin’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull. “I knew it!”
Lucas points dramatically at both of you. “This! This is exactly what I’ve been saying!”
Mike claps a hand over his face. “Oh my god, you were about to kiss. You were—oh my god.”
Eleven tilts her head, serene as ever. “They like each other,” she says simply, like she’s announcing the weather.
Will tries valiantly to stay neutral but fails, biting back a grin. “This is kind of adorable.”
You and Steve jump apart—or try to. He bumps the counter, you bump him, and the pretzel bowl nearly takes a dive before he catches it with reflexes that would impress even Hopper. Your face burns. Steve looks like he wants to crawl under the table and live there permanently. “We—we were just—snacks,” he stammers, holding up the bowl like proof in a trial.
“Yeah,” you add weakly, grabbing a bag of chips with shaking hands. “Just snacks.”
Dustin folds his arms, unimpressed. “If that’s what you call that, then I’ve been misusing the word ‘snacks’ my entire life.”
Max squints at Steve. “Are you seriously blushing? You’re blushing.”
“I’m not,” he lies terribly.
Eleven steps forward and gently pats your shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says sweetly. “We won’t tell Robin.”
“Oh my god,” Mike groans. “Please, please tell Robin. She’ll have a field day.”
Steve shoots him a murderous look. “Don’t you dare.”
But the damage is done. The kids are buzzing like they just discovered national treasure. They herd you and Steve back into the living room with far too much glee, and when you sit down on the couch, Steve hesitates for exactly one second before sitting close—closer than before, shoulder pressed to yours in a way that feels like a decision.
Max leans toward Lucas. “Told you. They were definitely a thing.”
Lucas smirks. “I’m just glad we got to witness it.”
Dustin sighs dreamily. “I’m so proud of them.”
Steve groans into his hands and you hide your smile in the popcorn bowl. And despite the chaos, despite the embarrassment, despite the kids narrating your love life like a nature documentary, Steve’s fingers find yours under the blanket, brushing softly before settling into a gentle, certain hold. This time, you hold on without hesitation.
The first time you realize everything has shifted for good, it’s over something stupid. You’re standing outside Family Video on a quiet evening, the sky soft with fading light, waiting for Steve to lock up. You’re wearing his jacket again—same one, same familiar weight on your shoulders—but this time no one’s questioning it. No teasing. No deflecting. No internal monologue about whether you’re allowed to want this.
It just is.
Steve finishes with the door, turns, and catches sight of you leaning against the railing, jacket collar pulled up against the breeze. His mouth curves into that easy, fond smile that still makes your chest tighten, like your body hasn’t quite gotten used to how good this feels yet. “You stealing my clothes again?” he asks, but there’s no edge to it. Only warmth.
“You keep offering them,” you reply. “Sounds like a you problem.”
He laughs and steps closer, fingers catching the lapel of the jacket without hesitation. He tugs you gently into his space, close enough that you can feel his warmth through the fabric, close enough that the answer to everything feels obvious.
Robin clears her throat loudly from the doorway. “If you two are about to do something nauseating, I want at least ten seconds’ warning.”
Steve doesn’t even look at her. He tips your chin up just a little and kisses you—slow and unhurried—right there in front of her. It’s soft and familiar and so easy it almost makes you laugh into it.
Robin makes a gagging noise so dramatic it echoes. “I hate this. I waited years for this and I still hate it.”
Steve pulls back just enough to grin. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re both disgusting,” she mutters, but she’s smiling when she turns the lights off inside.
Later, it’s movie night again. Same couch. Same blankets. Same pile of bowls that somehow always ends up empty too fast. The difference now is that there’s no pretending you don’t gravitate toward each other. You sit together on purpose. His arm goes around you without hesitation. Your legs tangle with his because you want them to.
The kids complain briefly—about the movie choice, about snacks, about literally everything—then settle in, the room filling with familiar noise and warmth. Steve drapes the blanket over both of you, tugging it snug around your shoulders, and presses a kiss into your hair like it’s instinct.
Halfway through the movie, you’re curled fully against him, cheek resting on his chest, his arm firm and secure around your waist. You can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the gentle rise and fall beneath your ear. His fingers trace absent patterns on your arm, slow and soothing, like he’s memorizing you. “You comfy?” he murmurs.
“Very,” you whisper back.
“Good,” he says, and the word carries more weight than it should.
You fall asleep like that. Not by accident. Not because you’re too tired to move. But because you want to. Tangled up under a shared blanket, surrounded by quiet laughter and the soft glow of the TV, the world finally feels calm in a way you didn’t know you were missing.
Steve presses his forehead to yours when he feels your breathing slow, his hold tightening just slightly, protective and sure. Everything feels easy now; warm, real. And for the first time in a long while, you’re not bracing for something to go wrong.
summary: all you wanted was a perfect Valentine’s Day date with your boyfriend Steve. but when everything you planned goes wrong over the course of the day, Steve is there to remind you that he only needs you and nothing else to be happy on Valentine’s Day.
warnings: set between season 4 & 5, no mention of the Upside Down, sunshine!reader, clumsy!reader, sensitive!reader, established relationship, the fluffiest fluff, kissing, reader is having a hard time, chain reaction of inconveniences, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, Steve’s the best boyfriend ever, date night, making out, implied smut, happy ending
a/n: Happy Valentine's Day to all the baddies who spend the day alone and reading fics on here, still doing their best! 💕 I love you, I am you and you are wonderful and perfect as you are, don't you worry about it! (Steve Harrington masterlist)
💋
The light in Steve’s bedroom was always soft in the mornings.
Not much decorated the walls of his room, so the first careful sunbeams in the morning had enough space to dance on them. You blinked, nuzzling back into where you had woken up with your face squished into his naked chest.
You spent some time counting his heartbeat and softly caressing the scars on his neck, drawing little heart shapes and love declarations on the silver lines. Your heart never failed to seize up painfully at the sight, but it was only one more detail in the long list of why you had fallen hard for Steve Harrington.
Letting out a content hum, your boyfriend pillow stirred to consciousness after a while, his freckled arms tightening their protective hold on you on their own. Muscle-memory.
You felt the strands of his silky hair brush over your nose and let out a sleepy giggle, nose rubbing against his collarbone in pure affection. Steve and you barely had a filter when you were awake with each other to start with, but still floating in that half-asleep state of mind, it vanished completely.
If someone saw you right now huddled close under the navy-blue sheets of his bed, they would’ve seen two koalas with abandonment issues. You wouldn’t even object, you were just really in love with your clingy, perfect boyfriend.
And today, you loved him more than ever.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.” Steve murmured into your hair, followed by a sweet kiss to it as you stretched out with a throaty groan and rested your chin on his heart to look up at him. His big eyes were still hooded from a good night of sleep and cuddles with you, lazily blinking back at you with the kind of love-sick smile that was only reserved for you.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” You mumbled back, bridging the distance between you and him for a gentle kiss.
God, there was nothing like kissing Steve Harrington.
He always let out this little noise against your lips, like this was the first time and coming as a complete surprise. But only a second after, you always felt his entire being relax around you, hands pulling you closer and gently holding your head as he deepened the kiss.
You sighed happily, fingernails scraping over his shoulders as you hooked a leg over his. But Steve seemed to have other plans and slowly turned you on your back, shifting over you with one practiced motion so he could continue his journey of kisses down your neck.
You were like puddy in his hands, brushing your fingers through his hair as his lips ghosted over your skin, intent to find all your sweet spots and hear those little gasps he loved so much.
You could’ve stayed like this forever.
But unfortunately – before it was really Valentine’s Day and your boyfriend only belonged to you – reality was waiting.
“Steve…” You breathed, closing your eyes in bliss as he soothed a freshly sucked-on spot with his tongue, his hand drifting underneath your sleeping shirt, over your belly… “Steve, we have to get up. It’s getting late-“
“The kids can wait.” Steve huffed but pulled back, but not before peppering at least a dozen kisses on your face. You laughed underneath him, arching your back to escape the kiss attack but only ending up even more entangled with him.
“Maybe your bunch, but not my kids.”
With a sigh of lighthearted defeat, Steve rolled off you and let you sit up with a grin.
It might’ve been the most romantic day of the year, but life waited for no one.
Fortunately, Steve got a day off, but you were still expected to work the morning shift at the kindergarten. Steve had promised Lucas and Mike to help them pick out ties for their own little dates in the meantime and so, the two of you had settled to make it a romantic evening at his house, not telling each other your plans for the night.
“I’ll miss you.” Steve looked at you with his best puppy eyes and something big and loud inside of you wanted to give in and roll on top of him once more, but you were strong. Or at least, stronger than your primal urges to keep your boyfriend in bed all day.
“You’ll survive”. You kissed him one more time before slipping out of bed and walking to the attached bathroom.
Steve smiled to himself, crossing his arms behind his head as he listened to your steps and waited. He could hear them falter as you came to a stop in front of the mirror, a big gasp shortly following that made his heart flutter.
“Steve!”
When Steve drove you to work a little later, his hand rested on your thigh in the passenger seat, eyes tearing away from the road as often as he could to see you play in delight with the new shiny ring he bought for you.
“Have a good day, baby.” Steve smiled at you as he parked in front of your work, tucking a lost strand of your hair behind your ear and giving your forehead a featherlight kiss. “Take care, okay? I’ll see you in the evening. Love you.”
“Love you too.” You waved at him over your shoulder to show off your gift one more time and only when you made it to the door of the day care, Steve turned on the engine and allowed himself to drive off.
Just a few hours and you’d be all his again.
At work, your thoughts kept drifting towards the evening, a dreamy smile on your face as you thought of Steve while entertaining the toddlers in your kindergarten group. Luckily, today flew by with barely no tantrums, your kids all dutifully taking their midday naps so you could clean up the play area in peace for once.
Whenever one of your kids snuggled up to you as you read out loud for them or laughed at one of your jokes, it was almost impossible to not think of a future like this with Steve. You vividly remembered one afternoon where he had come to pick you up from work and stood frozen in the doorway, absolutely enchanted by the way you interacted with the kids, loving and patient and so adorable. Steve had wanted to make you his wife and mother of his future babies right there. And god, you were a strong woman, but when the love of your life murmured about wanting to see you pregnant with his babies while railing you expertly into the mattress, you had your weak moments.
You blushed to yourself at the memory while tying one of the boys’ shoes, lost in thought and silently going through your to do list for your big date with Steve.
“There you go, buddy, all done.” You let the kid go play with an encouraging nod, your hand playing with the delicate ring Steve had gotten you for your birthday. Not too many hours now…
Getting out of work was like a breath of fresh air.
After changing into one of the pretty dresses Steve liked so much, you felt light as a feather as you shouldered your bag and walked down to the small grocery store Joyce worked at. A week before, you had put together a list of everything Steve and you liked to eat when you were together.
Your boyfriend was a sucker for Boppers and good cheese, the bread they only sold on Saturdays for some reason and crackers he could dip into anything he found around the fridge. And there was this one sort of wine you were really into and that made a romantic night even fancier.
Joyce had kindly ordered everything from your list from a supplier outside of Hawkins, telling you with a wink that she was going to save it until you’d pick it up after work.
The grocery store was empty at this time of the day and when you entered, Joyce was rearranging canned soup and spices on a shelf near the cash register.
“Oh, hi honey!” The older woman greeted you, looking almost guilty at you. “I tried to call Steve’s home number earlier, but the two of you must’ve already left. We got a call this morning that the truck with our orders broke down. They won’t arrive until tomorrow.”
“Oh.” You frowned. “Are they…okay? Did someone get injured?”
Joyce opened her mouth in surprise. “No, no, they’re fine. But I know you really needed these things for your date with Steve, I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“It’s okay.” You sounded more cheerful than you felt, really. “I’ll just…browse for a moment and figure something else out then. Thank you, Joyce.”
“Of course, love.”
You walked past the shelves and freezers, but nothing really caught your eye.
Apparently, it was really hard to get your hands on Boppers these days and everything else wasn’t personal or special enough for a date night. When you got back to Joyce at the cash register with empty hands, she smiled sadly at you.
“I’m really sorry, sweetheart.” Joyce rubbed your shoulder, but perked up when she had an idea. “How about this, we got these red and pink balloons you can have? Balloons are nice for boyfriends, right?”
You laughed weakly and nodded. “I mean, if I can buy them, I’d love that.”
Joyce immediately walked to the back, talking over her shoulder to you: “I mean, my time for dating is long over, but I’d love some balloons on Valentine’s Day!”
“I’ll let Hopper know.” You called after her with a small smile, the disappointment over the lost food quickly becoming smaller when Joyce came back with multiple shiny heart balloons on a string. They were big and just the right amount of cheesy and you knew Steve would laugh at them.
“They’re perfect. Thank you so much, Joyce.”
You continued your journey downtown, the mass of pink hearts following you over your head. Maybe Steve would be happy about some pizza as well? But he’d spent the day with kids already and it was a real proper date night. Not even the wine had been in stock anymore, how would you look if you pulled up to your Valentine’s Day date with take out pizza and apple juice?
You rummaged around in your bag for some bubblegum, your own way to take the edge off as you mentally went through every other food store in Hawkins and if they maybe carried what was still on your list.
Your feet carried you forward blindly and just as you wanted to look up, there was a loud honk and you stumbled backwards in shock.
It all happened at once. The car that had nearly run you over drove past and you almost fell on your butt, the road way too close to where you had just stood. A split second later, you realized you had let the balloon string go.
“No, no, no…” You scrambled to your feet and jumped to get a grasp on them, but they were already gone.
You watched breathlessly as the red and pink hearts flew into the sky, mocking you silently as a few other people watched and marveled at them.
Shit.
There was something so sad about the sight, you felt tears prickle behind your eyes, harshly blinking them away to get a grasp on yourself. They were gone and they were not coming back. You were not going to stand in the streets and cry about some silly balloons.
Steve always knew how to cheer you up in small moments like this.
You knew if he were here with you now, he’d lay his arm around you and pull you along with a kiss, probably mumbling some sweet nonsense into your ear.
But with yet another fail of yours, the frustration in you grew and planted unease in your belly.
Luckily, the flower shop was still stacked in the afternoon, the room bursting at the seams with hundreds of different roses and other pretty flowers. Clueless boyfriends were running around and groaning about prices as you pushed through the chaos and quickly assembled your dream bouquet for Steve.
You added some extra flowers for good measure and left a tip for the ladies behind the counter.
With the bouquet pressed to your chest, you soldiered on.
At least you could get flowers right on Valentine’s Day.
You took a deep breath as you walked into Family Video, willing the growing overwhelming pit in your stomach away as you straightened out your skirt. Yeah sure, maybe plan a and b hadn’t worked out, but you still had Steve’s and your favorite movie.
To make sure it was in stock for today, you had asked Robin to hold it back for you without Steve noticing and you could always count on Robin. As you walked up to the busy counter – a lot of couples wanted to make it a romantic movie night, it seemed – you mentally took a note to bring Robin some flowers in the next few days, too.
“Oh my god, please don’t hate me.” Robin groaned, grimacing as she buried her face in her hands at your sight. “You’re gonna hate me so much, I’m so so sorry…”
You laughed nervously, prying her hands away from her reddening face as you frowned. “Um, Robin? Don’t be silly, why on earth would I possibly hate you? Is everything alright?”
“Noo…” Your friend cringed at herself, taking a deep breath. “Okay, so I meant to call you at work, but all these annoying couples are raiding our store like crazy and then I couldn’t and now you’re here and you’regonnahatemebecausethemovieisgone.”
You blinked at her, an eerie internal silence washing over you. “W-What?”
Robin sighed deeply, quickly excusing herself from business and coming to stand beside you around the counter to rest a hand on your shoulder. “I promise, I put the movie away for you, just like we had said. I even had it ready behind the counter because I knew you’d come in after work, but now it’s gone. There, I said it again. I’m so sorry, I lost the movie you wanted to watch with Steve tonight.”
Your heart sank, shoulder deflating as your gaze flickered behind her. “Are you sure? Maybe you just misplaced it, we can check again-“
“I already checked five times, I have no idea where it went.” Robin shook her head, really feeling for you as she gnawed on her lip. “Maybe one of my co-workers lent it to someone else while I was on break or someone took it from behind the counter…I can help you find something else? I bet Steve wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t your all-time favorite…”
If your bags had been full with food and the balloons were still with you, you would’ve agreed. But all you had for now were some flowers that would die in a few days and not even a romantic movie for the occasion.
You were surprised to open your mouth and find yourself at a loss for words, throat suddenly tight from boiling emotions. If you had not been through it two weeks ago, you would’ve guessed your period was close.
Of course, Steve wouldn’t mind.
Your boyfriend was one of the most patient, understanding people you knew. (At least with you.) But it was almost five and so far, you had nothing for your Valentine’s date with Steve and by now, it felt like it was all your fault.
Steve and you had watched that movie during one of your first dates. A night without the world ending or a bunch of chattering kids surrounding you. That night, in the dark of the movie theater, Steve had held your hand for the first time. A first sweet kiss had followed on your doorstep as he said goodnight.
It was special and maybe you were overreacting, but that wasn’t Robin’s fault.
You forced yourself to smile at her, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes and she could tell. “Okay, Robin. Thank you though, really. I’ll just…Have a good night with Vickie later.”
“Aw no, it’s gonna be alright!” Robin tried to cheer you up, but you had already turned for the door. You weren’t angry, of course not, but you felt like if you’d stayed just a minute longer, you’d burst into tears in front of everyone in Family Video and you had already been through enough today. “I’ll help you pick out another one, it’s gonna be fine-“
“Thanks Robin, but I’ll just go and think of something else.” You mumbled and pushed past the door, your nose itching as you tried to center yourself like Steve had taught you to when you were getting anxious.
Outside on the road, it was already becoming darker, your date with Steve shifting closer and closer.
You looked down the street, trying to think of another store you could burst into to get – at this point – anything that wouldn’t have you show up at Steve’s with empty hands.
But today, luck simply had abandoned you.
Checking your watch, you made a beeline for the crosswalk, not paying attention to the road.
“Watch out!” Someone called behind you, but it was already too late.
Startled, you dropped the bouquet, a splash of dirty water from the street landing on your dress as a careless driver waltzed the delicate flowers down under the wheels of their car.
You stood frozen, the skirt of your dress dripping wet and ruined with dark splashes, the flowers to your feet broken and trampled.
That was it.
The final straw.
A sob caught in your throat as you bent down and brushed a hand over the ruined flowers. What. The. Hell.
You walked up to Steve’s house feeling like a complete failure.
Your knees were still trembling from the run across half of Hawkins and exhaustion crept up your neck from holding back frustrated tears. Your shoes and calves were still splattered with dirty water from the car and you simply couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that nothing had worked out in your favor today.
There were no balloons with you or nice food or a gift. Hands empty except for a single pink rose you had managed to save from the squished bouquet on the sidewalk. Everything else had either been missing or destroyed.
Your fingers were trembling as your hold on the delicate flower tightened and you walked up the steps to the front door.
If you weren’t in such desperate need to be held by your boyfriend, you simply would’ve given up and gone home, ready to cry the night away with a big bucket of ice cream because you were such a pathetic girlfriend, you couldn’t even organize Valentine’s Day for the boy you loved more than anything.
You sniffled to yourself before trying (and failing) to take a deep breath.
You rang the doorbell and waited.
There were quick footsteps coming from the inside and you brushed over the skirt of your dress one more time, trying to be as presentable as possible in your current state. Then, the door opened and Steve greeted you with the biggest smile as he met your eyes.
It vanished in under a second.
Your boyfriend forgot how to breathe for a moment, the sight of unshed tears brimming in your tears and the dirt on your pretty dress nearly making his heart stop.
“Oh my- sweetheart, what happened?” Steve rushed out the door, both of his hands resting on your shoulders as he scanned you up and down for any injuries or pain. “Did you get into an accident? Someone say anything to you? I swear to god I’m gonna kill whoever made you cry like this-“
“I guess you’ll have to kill me then.” You shrugged miserably, not wanting to meet his eyes. But Steve only rested two fingers underneath your chin and tilted your face up and you went pliant at his soft touch.
“What?” Steve frowned, his heart breaking at the sight of your wobbling bottom lip and red rimmed eyes. “I don’t underst- c’mere baby, let’s get you inside first. You’re shaking.”
With a steady but gentle hand on your lower back, Steve led you into the hallway and closed the door behind him. His brain was going into overdrive, needing to get to the bottom of whatever made you so upset. He needed to fix it, to make you smile again and happy.
You hugged yourself as you looked at him guiltily, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you searched for the right words. But no matter how much you had wanted to keep it together, the tears were already overflowing as you struggled to stay calm.
“I only wanted to make tonight a good date.” You told him through the tears, too upset to refuse the immediate hug Steve was pulling you into. When you were like this, he always needed to hold you, no exceptions. It made him hurt just as much to see you hurting. “I had plans- I wanted to get all our favorite fancy food at the store and our favorite movie, but nothing worked out! I couldn’t even get Boppers! I had balloons and I let go of them and then I dropped your flowers and I feel so stupid, because I just wanted to surprise you and do something nice for you, but I can’t even manage that! The whole night is ruined because apparently, that’s all I do. I ruin nice things, I’m so sorry-“
Your ramble ended in a desperate gasp for air as you sobbed into Steve’s chest, the entire anxiety of today crashing together over you like a wave. You were sad, but also angry with yourself and it all felt like a big confusing cocktail of emotions that needed to burst out of you.
“Aw, my poor sweetheart.” Steve cooed comfortingly, swaying you back and forth as he held you and let you cry. You always had been an emotional girl and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Despite the pain in his chest to see your pain, it also made him feel grounded to know he was the one who could comfort you when everything just got too much.
And the reason for your tears? God, he just wanted to wrap you in his arms and never let go.
“Baby, it’s okay…” He kissed your temple and drew back just enough to carefully wipe away the warm trail of tears cascading down your face.
“I just wanted to do something nice for you.” You leaned into him, feeling stupid despite the kisses Steve pressed to your cheek and eyelids. “You always go out of your way to make me feel so special and I wanted to return the favor…”
“Baby, I love you so much for wanting to do that and I’m sorry you had such a bad day, okay? But I promise you I don’t need much to have a good Valentine’s Day with you. I would never be upset because you didn’t get me flowers. That’s part of my job, hm? To make you happy and spoil you like crazy. And who needs Boppers when I got the most beautiful, amazing girl I could ever ask for as my girlfriend? I’m the luckiest guy alive, okay? Not just today on Valentine’s Day.”
His kind, soothing words made a fresh round of tears well up in your eyes as you blinked up at him, sniffling. “Really?”
“Of course, sunshine.” Steve pulled you into his side to lead you towards the guest bathroom. “It’s all good now, okay? We’re fine, this is completely fine. And…you weren’t the only one who planned something for today, you know. How about you’ll freshen up and I’ll get you some of your other clothes, hm? Does that sound good?”
“Yes.” You sighed tiredly, the thought of washing your face and the whole day away sounding so good to your ears. “That would be nice.”
A couple minutes later, you were dressed in one of Steve’s comfy sweaters and shorts and your boyfriend was leading you out onto the terrace, his hands over your hands so you couldn’t see.
“Steve, I’m going to trip!” You giggled, holding on to his arms as he slowly led you forwards.
“I would never let you trip, baby, we’re almost there.”
You felt the grass tickling your ankles as he suddenly stopped, slinging his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. “Open your eyes.”
The most romantic sight was right in front of you.
A big blanket was splayed out in the garden, surrounded by dozens of little candles that painted the space in a soft, warm light. A tray of sparkling cider and two plates awaited alongside with a bouquet of pink flowers while a cake rested in the center of the picnic. It was the most spectacular cake you had ever seen, all decorated with sparkles and white cream icing. The elegant frosting on top spelled ‘I love you, sweet girl’.
“See?” Steve watched with a crooked smile as you gaped at it all. “I can plan a Valentine’s Day date too.”
“Oh Steve, this is so…” You blinked back tears for the third time this day as he laced your fingers together and led you towards the blanket. “I love this so much, it’s so pretty.”
“I also got our favorite movie for later.” Steve told you as you sank down to sit on a pillow, followed by an offended gasp coming from you.
“Oh my god, that was you!” You laughed, already feeling silly for being so upset earlier. “Robin held it back for me, but someone stole it from behind the counter. That was you?!”
Steve blushed filling up a glass for you with a mysterious shrug. “I won’t tell all my secrets, but…I might’ve had Mike distracting her so I could go through with it.”
You solemnly clinked glasses and Steve fed the first piece of chocolate-cherry cake to you as you talked about your day and everything that had gone wrong. But now, in Steve’s presence, you were even able to laugh about it. In return, Steve talked about the challenge that was picking ties for Mike and Lucas, especially when Dustin and Max had joined the mission only to make fun of them. Afterwards, the whole gang was going to meet up for a game with Will and El, so why dress fancy anyway?
“I guess they just want to impress the girls.” You said, having migrated to sit closer to Steve as you rested your head on his shoulder and looked up into the slowly darkening sky. “They learned from the best when it comes to girls, after all.”
“Who, me?” Steve smirked down at you, wiping a little icing from your bottom lip with a dreamy look in his eyes. “There’s just one girl in the world I’m trying to impress, baby.”
“You do.” You squeezed his hand in yours, warm and safe and snuggled against him. He widened his legs for you to sit between them, his hands automatically resting on your thighs and hips to steady you. “Every day. I know how much you care, Stevie…”
A shiver both from contentment and the chilly air outside ran down your spine.
Steve noted instantly, perfectly in tune with you as always.
“How about we go inside, hm?” He helped you up, hands rubbing up and down your back to get a little warmth back into you. “We can watch the movie, cuddle…”
Kiss. Kiss a whole damn lot.
It went on unspoken between you, but you saw how Steve’s eyes darkened when you bit your lip. The thought of heavily making out with your boyfriend on Valentine’s Day suddenly seemed way better than watching a movie you had already seen five times with him.
Steve seemed to think the same.
You stretched up on your tiptoes and played with the hair in his nape, your lips eagerly meeting his in the quiet silence of his garden. Steve almost stumbled backwards, but caught himself to hold you close, kissing you back feverishly.
You never got tired of the addicting way Steve kissed you.
He kissed with all the need and want in his body, all or nothing but still so soft and always giving you enough space to breathe if you wanted to. But right now, you didn’t need to – you needed to crawl inside of him, wrap yourself around him in a desperate attempt to become one.
Nothing felt more like home than Steve Harrington did to you.
And you were so ready to give yourself over into his experienced hands.
“Let me take care of you,sweetheart…” Steve mumbled against your lips, his arms already hooking underneath your thighs and lifting as the blankets slid from you. “’m gonna make love to you, take my time with my pretty perfect girl. I love you so much, you know that?”
“Yeah, I do…I love you too, Stevie.” You nodded at him with big eyes, gladly locking your ankles together behind his back and pressing your chest against his as he carried you up the stairs. “Take me to bed.”
The kisses didn’t stop once you were inside and there was a brief detour by the big couches in the living room and the bottom of the staircase, the two of you insatiable for each other as you kissed and kissed and messed up each other’s hair and clothes.
There was quiet laughter and the first careful moans let out into each other’s mouth while your hands explored each other’s skin. And when Steve pulled your sweater over your head for you and looked at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect in his life, you knew no matter what all had gone wrong today, this was still the best Valentine’s Day date ever.
There was still time for a movie later.
But if there was one thing you had learned today, it was that you didn’t always have to follow the exact same plan to be as happy as you could be.
summary: Steve thinks it's best keeping your relationship a secret, but what if you dont feel the same?
cw: hurt/comfort, fighting, happy ending, season 5 cannonish just a little change to make the story work! , fluff, fem!r, lmk if i missed anything <3
a/n: hi guys!!! here for my monthly post :P no but in all seriousness im gonna try really hard to get back to writing more frequently!!! I Swear!!!!!! enjoy this for now :)
The whole group already knew you two liked each other.
It was the way the two of you naturally gravitated towards each other. At first you came along with Robin, not originally being someone who was supposed to be part of the group. But over time Robin wasn't anywhere without Steve and you weren't anywhere without Robin. It also helped that you all got along really well.
Off the bat it was a friendship, something important to all those involved. For Robin it was nice to see her two friends get along but for you and Steve, it was something different. The way you were both a step towards a blurry line of friendship and something more. Starting by hanging out without Robin, then having sleepovers that consisted of the two of you sleeping in his bed. It was like a snowball effect, once it started it didn't stop.
That's how you ended up with Steve driving you home after your first date.
He had asked you out for dinner a few nights ago after your weekly movie night had ended. When you were both extremely tired and fighting to stay awake. Throughout the whole movie your head had rested on his shoulder and his hand on your knee that pressed against his. It was all he thought about, if he’s honest he probably couldn't even tell you what the plot was, his mind was focused on one thing. Asking you out, crossing the line, possibly messing up the best thing he’s ever had.
But luckily with sleepy eyes and zero awareness of how things will change in that moment– you said yes. Your half awake brain not giving you a second to think about how insane of a question that actually is. Steve Harrington asking you out after a year of dancing around each other. You‘d like to think if he asked you before the movie he would've gotten a more exciting response. But this is Steve, your Steve, the guy who knows everything about you already. Maybe that's why your brain is fine with powering off around him and saying yes to things you haven't even thought over fully.
After all, the reality of this sticking and working out was Steve's biggest worry. The sticking part. How long you two would be together and if this was lust or something more, something real. Because if it doesn't stick and Steve crashes and burns then you’re no longer going to want to see him, which means you won't see Robin. It’s all connected in a very serious way that means this can't be a fling, can't be a one time thing, it has to hold weight. So much so that both of you are held down by it, keeping you in place.
It was a real concern, so real it’s what kept you two away from the idea of dating this whole time. Although that’s what makes him asking you out that much more serious. Because if he’s asking it’s only because he simply can't hold onto it any longer, he can't pretend nothing is there, the feeling is just that intense. And in the morning when you woke up to a voicemail from Steve reminding you of said date is when you fully became aware of what had happened. You went from sleeping to screaming into your pillow and kicking your feet at how insane it was.
Throughout the whole date with Steve you felt the same way. Butterflies taking over your whole body, your legs feeling like they could take you a hundred miles an hour, and the burning sensation of his warm hand on the small of your back. It was all overwhelming and grounding at the same time. As if two things couldn't be true at the same time yet they were because it was Steve.
By the second date it felt a little bit more natural. It was at a cafe you two frequented, a familiar place that didn't have you feeling like you had to eat nicely in front of him. It’s silly how strong the need to be perfect in front of him is, like he hasn't seen you at your worst throughout this whole time he’s known you. Like you are going through meeting him all over again, trying to come off as one way despite him knowing you as another.
This cafe was nice, one of your favorite spots in Hawkins. It was never crazy busy, you two are always able to get the same spot each time. And just like any other time you put your leg over his thighs as he rubs little circles on your ankle. A routine that now in a new light felt very intense and more than him comforting you. How silly that your normal habits feel more significant now that you two aren't just friends. Habits that you would normally build up to in a relationship already sewn into your dynamic.
By the end of that date, right when you both reached your doorstep, he asked if he could kiss you. Within seconds you agreed and possibly even quicker than that he leaned in and did it. The first kiss was quick, like you two were testing the waters even though you both wanted it so badly. Although it didn't take long for him to lean back in for more, suddenly obsessed with the new found freedom. Finally reaching the point you have waited so long for.
The third date was already planned in Steve's mind. He’d ask you to come over for dinner and a movie. Impress you with his cooking skills– he can only make two things– and end the night cuddling, maybe sneaking a makeout session in here and there if he's lucky. It felt easy and yet a perfect date.
That was until the crawls started up.
Each week you two now had other things to do and other plans taking up your days. Instead of ending the night with front porch kisses you were lucky if he was able to drive you back home. Not only was what you started new but it didn't have boundaries or rules. There hadn't been time to ask if you wanted to share with the group you two were going out or if you wanted to be all coupley in public. So many unknowns that had no time to be answered, the stress of Vecna and the safety of everyone being more important.
In other words it felt like a big pause to your plans. Stopping something before it even had a real chance to begin. And with the lack of dates or one on one time with Steve it felt like you were back at square one. Possibly even worse than that because now you know what it’s like to be with him.
You know he loves splitting both of whatever you two are eating, loves having a hand on you– whether it's on the small of your back or in your jean loop, loves telling you when you're in his dream and how real it felt. Of course it wasn't like you two haven't been speaking at all during the crawls but it’s not like you can talk about the things that you need to talk about.
But then somehow someway for the first time this whole week you and Steve are actually alone together. Jonathan, Nancy, and Murray are outside. Will and Robin are currently at the hospital trying to nicely cancel on Vickie and making up an excuse so she doesn't break up with her mid explanation. And Mike, Lucas and Dustin are trying to get Erica to talk to the Turnbows. You and Steve are sitting on a couch down in the basement of the Squawk, you didn't even realise you were completely alone until Steve told you how nice the quiet was.
“I feel like I’ve been trying to get you alone since this whole thing started.” Steve says, it comes out in a slight whisper like it's a secret. His hand is on your thigh, a simple touch that he can pull away from if anyone were to come down.
“Oh you wanted me alone huh?” It’s hard not to tease him– especially when you've been around high schoolers, you swear it’s like their humor bleeds into your own.
Steve gives it to you and lets his head fall back on the couch with a laugh. The joke dies out pretty quickly though, and you let it. With a quick look around to really make sure no one is coming, you let yourself cuddle up next to him. Your head rests on his shoulder and your hand intertwines with his as it lays on his lap. He lets himself indulge as well, giving kisses to the top of your head and your temple.
“I wish we could have finished what we started before all of this.” He murmurs into the crown of your head, his voice softened and indistinct.
“Me too. I mean we barely got to talk about the group or anything.”
Steve thinks there might not be a good next time. That maybe the next time the two of you are alone it will be in another week or even more. He’ll have to keep all this in till then and waste time with unspoken words, letting the lack of communication ruin you both slowly.
“I think we keep this a secret from everyone.” He starts.
It’s enough to have you sit up, removing yourself from his hold. “A secret? For how long?” It sounds awful the way he says it.
“Just until we are sure about us, you know? I don't want the group pressuring us about anything and it all being too much.”
“What about us are you not sure about? And they already tease us about it already.”
It’s embarrassing how quickly he’s fucking this up. How easily you are using his words against him in a way he didn't mean for them to come out. Your brows are furrowed, creating two angry lines that tell him exactly how much his words are messing things up.
“No I- that didn't come out right. Of course I’m sure it’s just Robin and her questions and the kids being weird about it. I dunno, I just think we need to be more solid before we tell everyone.”
“We wouldn't even be acting that much different from how we normally do.” It’s all you can say because what you’re hearing is not something you want to verbalize. Words you don't want to go past your teeth and hear how they sound blunt and to the point.
“I know.” This is going so much worse than he thought. Nothing is being said right which can't happen because there isn't much time for it to be fixed.
A need to get up and move around separates you two. Your hand that was once in his is now picking anxiously at your other hand. “So what are you saying? Is this just some hook up for you? Are you with me just to fuck or something?”
Steve can see the wheels turning in your head as you pace around the room. “No, no, that's not what I'm saying. This is more than that. And I mean would it be better if it stayed between you and I for right now? Yeah I think so. But obviously not for long just-”
The loud sound of the metal storage unit upstairs rings through the whole room, cement walls allowing the sound to echo. Nancy comes down first, not even noticing how the tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Then follows Jonthan and Murray, the two talk but it dies out once they reach you and Steve.
Unfortunately the guys see your stance, how far you separated yourself from Steve and how he is rubbing his temples. It’s obvious a conversation of some sort happened and Murray is the first to speak about it.
“Man what happened down here?Was Stevie late to pick up his girlfriend today?” He mocks playfully.
What he doesn't know is that is the last straw for you. Because while Steve wants to keep this hidden half the group already knows. They tease you about it everyday, so for him to be worried about it doubling is well.. Bullshit. It’s complete bullshit and a lame excuse.
The comment is the last thing you hear before you turn and b line towards Nance, wanting anyone or anything else to take up your time. And this is what does it for Steve. Because for some reason he simply can't do anything right. Between his issues with Dustin, and Jonthan on his back the last thing he needs is for you to go to everyone but him.
If you weren't so upset with him you’d probably realize this as well. Anything involving Steve is always at the forefront of your brain. Especially if it has to do with how much of a hard time he’s had lately. But unfortunately for him, you’re trying your very best to not think anything of him. Trying so hard to not spiral thinking about his words. Like what he might've meant to say but didn't get there exactly. Giving him the benefit of the doubt as always.
Despite that feeling, a bigger one radiates off of you– disappointment. Because to you Steve really can't do anything wrong. Sure he can be a little slow for certain things and too sassy about others but overall he's the only person who you can't get enough of. Well– really that was till you found out that he’d rather create space between you two rather than being upfront and honest about something the whole group already knows about.
It’s a sick type of feeling to not understand why he feels this way. Was he embarrassed to be with you like that? Is it that you’re such a close friend he couldn't simply imagine introducing you as something more to his friends? All these unknown questions loom around you like a big dark cloud, so dark you think other people might be able to see it too.
–
This is how the next week continues. Steve being stuck with Dustin despite both of their complaints and you going with anyone who isn't Steve. It slightly messes things up, just because almost everyone has a pair they stick to. Nancy has Jonathan, Lucas has Max, Mike has Will. It’s a well oiled system between the group. But now with Steve only having a few people in his corner the pairings are off.
That's what you expected to happen today. Also known as day 8 of barely speaking to Steve. Not glancing at him from across the room, not talking to him unless necessary, and definitely not driving around with him. You don't think your car has ever been used so much before.
Although when you get to the Squawk some things have changed and some people aren't there. Kinda sorta like the person you need for ignoring Steve. Dustin.
He hasn't shown up and it’s 30 minutes past the time he was supposed to show. Half of the group is off already doing their part while you, Steve, Nancy, and Jonthan are left behind. In reality it’s you getting there late because you don't have Steve keeping you on time, Steve waiting on the kid he hates the most right now, and Nancy being so much of a control freak that she has to keep her and Jonathan behind. It’s certainly a recipe for disaster in the basement of the radio store.
“Alright screw it, he’s not coming. You’re gonna have to go with Steve.” Nancy says, looking at you.
It’s weird how your brain was almost going to say the most pleasant ‘okay’. Like a second nature thing you almost let slip. But Steve's big round eyes going wide was enough to stop your mouth from letting any sound out.
“I can go alone, I’ll just park to the side if I hear something.” His plan won't work, obviously, he’s letting whatever come out of his mouth. Anything to not be near you, it stings as much as salt on an open wound.
“Forget that, I’ll just sit in the back. Let’s go.” You mutter as you stand up, trying to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“Are you sure I mean-”
“Yeah, is that an issue?” It’s passive aggressive, barbed politeness.
“Nope. Not an issue for me at all.” Unlike you Steve says his words with real care. You can feel the olive branch grow towards you already but it’s not like you were the one who made him upset.
The two of you split up with Nancy and Jonathan, trying to quickly catch up for lost time. While you sit in the back you have headphones covering one of your ears trying to listen for sound while the other is out for your walkie talkie. Just in case Dustin comes through and sets you free.
This might be the first time in your entire friendship that you feel awkward with Steve. Ever since you met him it’s been a flow of consistency, up until now. It’s a weird feeling to not be able to bring anything up. You almost wish he would just say something to get the awkwardness out of the way. With you in the back of the van and him looking at you every other minute through the rearview mirror you’re already regretting agreeing so quickly to this.
But in the peak of the deadly silence your headphones cut out. “Wait, stop for a sec. The sounds gone.”
If you were mean and bitter you’d get on him about how aggressively he stopped the van, making you launch forward a bit. However, you won't make it far tonight if you bring things like that up. Still he keeps his foot on the break waiting for your ok. Also making the first real eye contact of the night.
When Steve sees the relief come back to your face he knows the sounds back. He gives a quick thumbs up with raised brows and a small ask of ‘is it good?.’ You respond with your own thumbs up and a small smile. Maybe your own olive branch. The hour of silence must've made something click for you Steve thinks. But before it gets back to the awkward stage both of you speak up.
“Thanks for stopping.”
“Can we talk?”
Each sentence comes out at the same time. Layering on top of each other in a way that doesn't help the awkwardness.
“Wait what did you say?” Steve asks.
“I just said thanks, y’know for stopping and waiting.” Really you don't need to be thanking him, what else would he have done?
“Yeah, of course.” He responds with a quick nod, almost like if he nods quickly you'll get to his question.
“What did you say?”
Finally you look back at him. Your whole body is facing him and he can see how you're sitting closer to the seat, a result of his harsh stop, but still you didn't move away. The question stuns him for a second because he isn't sure how he had the balls to ask that in the first place and now he has to ask it again.
“I asked if we could talk.” The van is still not moving, you’ll have to remind him of the task at hand.
“Yeah, we can talk.”
The response is open ended. You don't want to ask what the topic of conversation will be. If you’re lucky enough he’ll just talk about where Dustin might be, because despite his anger with him the safety of his friend matters more.
“Nothing I said that day was said right. I wasn't telling you exactly how I felt and it just made everything worse. I should've been more upfront with what I meant because now you hate me and I’ve ruined everything.” His words almost come out in one breath. He’s lucky his brain was able to catch up to his lips.
“I don't hate you Steve.” You say with a sigh. “But I feel like you were pretty clear, you don't want anyone to know about us.” It feels like acid on your tongue coming out. Like reality is hitting you in the face all over again.
“No, see I wasn't clear. I do want people to know about us. If I could tell the world about us I would.” It’s bad how he puts the van in park and turns his body completely towards you. But you like what you’re hearing too much to tell him otherwise. “I was just scared. I-I like you so much I didn't want to ruin it and somehow I did by trying not to.”
You can't help but smile at his words, letting a laugh slip past. It’s the most Steve thing ever to try to do something good for you but somehow mess it up in the process. Unable to get it right on the first try, too busy in his head for anything to happen naturally.
“So you don't want to hide it from the group?" It comes out quietly, afraid you’ve gotten his word wrong for the second time.
“No. I don't want to hide it. I just want this to be perfect. I want us to work out so badly I’m so scared of what we have going away.”
Steve feels so far from you despite being a few feet away. Letting himself get on your level– sitting on the floor of the van, grabbing both your hands in his. And by some miracle you let him. Scooting just a tiny bit closer that your knees touch. To say you’ve missed this is the understatement of the year.
“I feel the same way, but we can't hold ourselves back just to keep things safe. We have to make mistakes together and learn from whatever comes up y’know?” The way you tilt your head makes Steve want to punch himself in the face for not talking to you sooner. Depriving himself of all of this is his biggest regret.
“Yeah, yeah I know.” His smile is so big he has to give your knuckles kisses just to do something with it. Even hearing your giggle makes him feel woozy.
The second he lets go of your hands you wrap your arms around his neck. Not being able to touch him like this has been the hardest thing. And you can tell Steve feels the same when he groans into your neck, arms so tightly wrapped around your torso as if he’s afraid you’re gonna run away any second.
You follow suit and lay your head on his shoulder, giving his neck small kisses. “Are we okay?” You ask, breaking only for a second.
“Yeah angel, we're okay.”
There's a beat of silence before you speak up again.
“I think if we don't get back to tracking the group might kill us both.”
Steve laughs, letting you go but still keeping a hand on your thigh. “Yeah I think you might be right.”
He gets up first, having to bend over a good amount to not hit his head on the roof. His hand is held out for you to grab onto, when you do you copy his hunched over posture. Both of you sit in the front but you grab the headphones to keep track. The signals won't change much till you're out of the neighborhood.
As you buckle the seatbelt and Steve starts putting the van back in drive you start to see something in the distance. The late night doesn't do you any favors but it’s enough to make you tap Steve's arm. You’ve seen too much to ignore something in the distance like this.
“Is that a person?” Call it unresolved trauma or worry over your fellow community Steve still takes you 100% seriously. Looking out the window with the same confused face you have on.
It wasn't till he turned on his brights on the van that you could make out the person.
Just a few feet ahead of you stands Dustin, shirt bloody and face bruised. His hand goes to cover his face, the lights momentarily blinding him. It makes it hard to see what's happened but you get out of the car before you get a second longer to think about it.
Steve– still as petty as ever– stays in the car. Worried but not enough since he’s walking around and now has you by him.
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: NO ANGST!!! YIPPIEEEEE!!!! fluff, smut, sort of exhibitionism, foot job if you squint, face riding, p in v protected, GLASSES!
words: 9.5ksummary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.a/n: here you go you needy beggers (endearingly i promise) sorry, i kept hating everything i wrote... or felt like it wasn't enough. so i hope you enjoy this one. they're my babies so no more slander okay pleasemasterlist
Chapter 10
Two days later, on Monday afternoon, Hawkins holds its annual New Year's fundraiser at the elementary school gymnasium. A silent auction during a Little Dribblers game.
The building is older, one of those structures that's been standing since the fifties, all red brick and tall windows that let in weak winter light. Inside, the gym smells like floor wax and old rubber, the kind of scent that's baked into the wood paneling and never quite leaves no matter how many times they refinish the floors.
You tag along with Nancy, Robin, and Eddie, the four of you climbing the bleachers that creak and groan under your weight, metal cold even through your jeans. The gymnasium is packed with parents and families, kids running around with face paint and balloons, the air buzzing with that particular brand of chaos that only happens when you mix children, sugar, and competition.
The reason you're here—the only reason, really—is because Steve was recruited to help coach a group of elementary kids for the Little Dribbles game. Robin had mentioned it casually over breakfast at a diner that her, Nancy, and Eddie took you to. Nancy had immediately insisted you all go to watch, her eyes sparkling with mischief that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing.
Now, sitting on the hard bleacher seat with Robin on one side and Eddie on the other, you scan the court until you spot him.
Steve stands near the sideline, clipboard in one hand, whistle hanging around his neck, surrounded by a group of kids who barely reach his waist. He's wearing a faded gray t-shirt that's seen better days, the fabric soft and worn from countless washes, stretched across his shoulders in a way that suggests it might be a size too small. His jeans are dark blue, fitted but not tight, and there's a backwards baseball cap on his head—red with some logo you can't make out from this distance—curls escaping from the sides and back, sticking out in wild directions that somehow look intentional.
His team looks like a ragtag bunch—varying heights, mismatched jerseys in yellow and blue, one kid with his shoes on the wrong feet, another with glasses held together with tape. You recognize one of them immediately: Derek, the big kid from the arcade who'd stolen Dustin's tickets, looking just as troublesome now as he had then, picking at the hem of his jersey and bouncing on his toes with restless energy.
Steve crouches down, the cap staying firmly in place, eye level with the shortest kid on the team—a tiny girl with pigtails who looks terrified. His mouth moves, saying something you can't hear from this distance, but whatever it is makes her smile, small and tentative. He holds up his hand for a high five, and she slaps it with both of hers, giggling when he pretends it hurt, shaking his hand out like she's got superhuman strength.
"He's good with them," Nancy observes quietly beside you, her voice warm.
"Yeah," Robin agrees, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "He always has been."
The game starts with a referee's whistle—sharp and piercing in the enclosed space. The kids scatter across the court like marbles, some running in the right direction, others completely lost, one kid stopping mid-court to wave at his parents in the stands. It's chaos, pure and simple, and yet somehow endearing in its complete lack of coordination.
Steve paces the sideline, the clipboard tucked under one arm now, hands cupped around his mouth as he shouts encouragement. "That's it, Emily! Good hustle! Derek, pass it! Pass it!"
You watch as one of his players—a lanky kid with knobby knees—manages to get the ball and dribbles it awkwardly down the court, tongue poking out in concentration. Steve jogs alongside him on the sideline, the cap bobbing with each step, clapping his hands together. "You got this, Cameron! Take the shot!"
Cameron throws the ball toward the hoop with both hands, the motion more shot-put than basketball, and it bounces off the rim with a loud clang. The collective "aww" from the crowd is immediate, but Steve's already there, pumping his fist. "Good try! That was so close! Next time!"
Cameron's face, which had started to crumple with disappointment, brightens immediately.
The opposing team gets the ball, and you watch Steve's expression shift—still encouraging, but more focused now, analyzing. He calls out positions, trying to organize his scattered team into something resembling defense. "Hands up! Hands up! Make yourself big!"
Three of his kids actually do it, raising their arms over their heads and shuffling sideways. It's not effective defense by any stretch, but the effort is there, and Steve whoops like they've just executed an NBA-level play. "Yes! That's what I'm talking about!"
Then you see it—Derek, number seven on Steve's team, guarding a kid from the other side. The kid tries to dribble past him, and Derek doesn't just block him. He shoves him, both hands planted firmly on the kid's chest, sending him stumbling backward.
The referee's whistle blows immediately. Foul.
You watch Steve's jaw tighten, watch him reach up to adjust the brim of his backwards cap before closing his eyes for a brief second. Then he turns to Derek. He doesn't yell. Doesn't snap or get in his face like you've seen other coaches do, even with elementary kids. Instead, he walks over calmly, crouches down again so he's at Derek's height, and speaks quietly enough that no one else can hear.
Derek's face flushes red, arms crossing over his chest in that universal gesture of childhood defiance. Steve says something else, his hand coming up to rest gently on Derek's shoulder, and then he straightens, gesturing toward the bench.
Derek's mouth drops open in outrage, but Steve's expression doesn't change. Firm but not angry. The kid stomps over to the bench and throws himself onto it with all the drama of someone who's just been sentenced to death, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees, face hidden behind his hands.
The game continues, and you can't help but notice the way Steve keeps glancing back at Derek. The kid is clearly pouting, shoulders hunched, radiating misery, and after maybe two minutes of game time, Steve looks genuinely pained. He keeps watching Derek, then the game, then Derek again, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck under the cap, like he's warring with himself.
Finally, during a break in play, Steve walks back to the bench. He crouches in front of Derek, says something that makes the kid look up, eyes red-rimmed and watery. Steve extends his hand. Derek stares at it for a long moment before taking it, letting Steve pull him to his feet.
"He's putting him back in," Eddie says beside you, amused. "Lasted a whole three minutes."
"Caves so quickly," Robin laughs with Robin.
The second Derek gets back on the court, the dynamic shifts. He's bigger than the other kids, but he's also faster, more coordinated. He steals the ball twice in quick succession, passing it to teammates who actually manage to score. Steve's whooping from the sideline again, jumping up with both hands in the air when Emily—the tiny girl with pigtails—sinks a basket with Derek's assist, the cap somehow staying put through his celebration.
"Yes! That's teamwork! That's what I'm talking about!"
The game continues, scrappy and chaotic, and you find yourself getting invested despite the questionable skill level on display. Steve never stops moving—pacing the sideline, calling out encouragement, demonstrating footwork when the referee stops play, high-fiving every kid who comes off the court for a substitution regardless of whether they did well or not.
When one kid trips over his own feet and goes sprawling, Steve is there immediately, helping him up, checking his scraped palms, sending him back onto the court with a pat on the back and a "shake it off, buddy."
With thirty seconds left, Steve's team is up by two points. The other team has the ball, and you can see the tension in Steve's shoulders, the way he's gripping the clipboard so hard his knuckles have gone white. The opposing team's best player drives toward the basket, and Derek moves to block him—legally this time, hands up, feet shuffling.
The kid shoots. The ball arcs through the air in what feels like slow motion.
It bounces off the rim.
Cameron grabs the rebound, and the buzzer sounds.
For a moment, there's complete silence. Then chaos erupts.
Steve's team screams, high-pitched and joyful, and before he can react, all nine kids are running at him full-speed. They hit him like a tidal wave, small bodies colliding with his legs and waist, arms wrapping around whatever they can reach, and Steve goes down.
Not hard. He’s able to catch himself, letting the momentum take him to his knees and then his side on the polished wood floor, the cap flying off his head and skittering away across the gym. He's laughing as kids pile on top of him, all of them shrieking with victory, curls now completely free and wild around his face. His clipboard skitters away in the opposite direction, and you can see his expression, pressed against the gym floor, eyes squeezed shut but mouth stretched in a genuine smile, wider than you've seen since arriving in Hawkins.
"We won! We won! Coach Steve, we won!"
"I know! I know! You guys were amazing!" His voice is muffled under the pile of children, but the pride in it is unmistakable. "Okay, okay, you're crushing me. I need to breathe!"
They peel off reluctantly, still bouncing with excitement, and Steve sits up slowly, running a hand through his now-disheveled curls, making them stick up even more. His shirt is untucked, his cheeks flushed, and there's a happiness radiating from him that makes something in your chest feel strange. He reaches for the cap, slapping it back on his head backwards, not bothering to tame his hair first.
"That was disgusting," Eddie announces cheerfully beside you. "I think I got a cavity just watching that."
"Shut up," Robin says, but she's smiling, eyes soft as she watches Steve get to his feet and accept a handshake from the other team's coach.
Nancy doesn't say anything, but when you glance at her, she's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read.
Eventually, the games are over and the gym begins to empty, families filtering out into the cold afternoon, kids still hyped up on adrenaline and victory. Steve stays behind, helping to clean up—folding chairs, collecting stray basketballs, talking to a parent who wants to know about the summer basketball camp. The cap is still backwards on his head, curls poking out wildly around the edges.
The four of you make your way down from the bleachers, and Robin stretches her arms over her head with an exaggerated groan. "We should get some lunch. I'm starving."
Steve looks up from where he's stacking chairs, face slightly apologetic. "I offered to air up basketballs this afternoon. But you guys are still coming over tonight for the movie, right?"
There's a hopeful look in his eyes that makes your stomach twist, and you remember Robin mentioning that his parents had left sometime Sunday morning, heading back to Indianapolis for work. Which seemed shitty, not wanting to spend at least one full day of the new year with their son.
"'Course," Robin says immediately. "Assuming we should bring things to sleep in?"
Steve's smile is quick and genuine. "The guest rooms will be awaiting your stay." Then his eyes flash to you for half a second before skittering away, like making eye contact is dangerous.
You look behind him at the cart of basketballs, at least twenty of them, all flat or nearly flat. "You're going to do it all by yourself?"
Steve shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets, the gesture pulling the t-shirt tighter across his chest. "I'm used to it. Whenever I got in trouble in school, Coach would make me do it for detention. Takes forever because you have to get the correct air pressure. Like, there's a gauge and everything."
The words come out before you've fully thought them through. "I can stay and help. Then you'd be done faster and can hang out with us."
Steve looks almost bewildered. His gaze bounces between Robin and you, mouth opening and closing once. "Uh..."
Nancy cuts in smoothly, already linking her arm through Eddie's and reaching for Robin with her other hand. "Okay. Meet us in an hour at Family Video so we can choose a movie together." She gives you a strange smile, something that's more smirk than anything else, and pulls Eddie and Robin toward the exit before either of them can protest.
You realize, belatedly, the implications of what being alone with Steve means. But you smile anyway, turning back to him. "Okay. Tell me what to do."
Steve can't help himself. "Yeah, because I know you like that."
He doesn't smirk, but his eyes tell a different story entirely before he pivots and walks toward the cart of basketballs.
Twenty minutes later, you and Steve are sprawled on the gymnasium floor, the space around you littered with basketballs in various states of inflation. The gym is empty now, quiet except for the rhythmic sound of air pumps and the occasional squeak of rubber against the polished wood. Steve has taken off the cap at some point, set it aside on the floor between you, his curls free and messy, falling into his eyes every time he bends over a ball.
You were wrong to volunteer for this. Steve was absolutely right—it takes forever, and you have to be so precise, checking the gauge after every few pumps, making sure the pressure is exactly right or the ball will be too hard, too soft, completely unusable.
Your hand cramps suddenly, fingers seizing around the pump handle, and you let out a frustrated huff, shaking it out.
Immediately, you feel a big, rough hand close over yours, warm and gentle. Steve's thumb presses into your palm, massaging the cramped muscle with practiced pressure.
"So why did you volunteer to do this again?" you ask, trying to ignore the way your stomach coils at his touch, wondering where else those hands could massage.
"Why did you?" he counters, not looking up from where his thumb is working circles into your palm.
You smile despite yourself. "I don't know. Felt bad you were going to do it by yourself, I guess."
Steve stops massaging your hand and goes back to pumping a ball, a curl falling forward over his forehead as he bends down. You follow suit, flexing your fingers a few times before picking up your own pump. "I like it," he says after a moment, voice quiet. "Sometimes I want to be by myself but not in my house."
"Oh." Guilt flashes through you. "Sorry. You should've said so."
He chuckles, the sound low and genuine, pushing the curl back with his free hand only for it to fall right back. "No, it's okay. I like your company."
For the first time since you've known Steve Harrington, something in your stomach flutters. Actually flutters, like there are moths trapped under your ribs trying to find a way out.
You're probably just hungry.
You smile at him, then turn your attention back to the ball in front of you. "Well, that's a lot sweeter than what I thought."
"What'd you think?"
"I dunno. That you're reveling in your glory days of high school fame by volunteering to help coach and then air up basketballs."
Steve is quick. "Oh no, that too."
You both stop, look at one another, and the smile that spreads across his face is mirrored on your own. You share a laugh, the sound echoing slightly in the empty gym, before going back to your respective basketballs.
Steve nudges your knee with his foot. "Dustin told me he witnessed what a hot shot you are. Told me you could probably give me a run for my money in basketball."
You roll your eyes, still focused on the pump. "Is that what you're calling me now? Hot shot?"
Steve shrugs, and when you glance up, he's smirking, leaning toward you slightly, one hand reaching up to run through his curls. "Dunno. You wanna show me if he's right?" His eyebrows raise, teeth catching his bottom lip as he motions toward the basketball goal across the court.
Your eyes flash with the challenge before you can stop them. You've never been one to show off—never the type to seek attention or prove yourself unnecessarily. But oddly, you feel competitive with Steve. You can't explain why. Maybe it's the way his eyes flash hungry when he's about to win something, that downturned gaze sharpening with focus. Maybe it's just that you like seeing him lose that controlled composure.
Steve grabs an aired-up ball and you both make your way to half-court, the sound of your footsteps bouncing off the walls. He snatches the red cap from the floor as he stands, spinning it once in his hand before slapping it back on his head backwards, that cocky grin playing at his lips.
"Check," Steve says, bouncing the ball to you once.
You catch it, bounce it back, and he starts dribbling, the rhythm steady and controlled. The cap sits perfectly backwards on his head, curls escaping wildly from underneath. "Do you like Hawkins so far?"
You move with him, arms up, trying to guard him even though you're not entirely sure of the rules of one-on-one. "Yeah, I really do. It's refreshing compared to city life."
Steve drives left, and you follow, but he pivots smoothly and takes the shot. It swishes through the net with a clean sound that's almost offensive in its perfection.
You frown. "Damn."
"Lucky shot," Steve says, but he's grinning as he retrieves the ball and brings it back to the top, adjusting the cap with one hand. He bounces it to you for the check.
You dribble, less smooth than him but competent, trying to figure out the best angle. Steve's defense is surprisingly good, hands up but not reaching, feet shuffling to stay in front of you. "I mean... in the city, there's always strangers. People you never see again. But here..." You fake right, drive left, and manage to get past him enough to take a shot. It bounces off the rim. "I think I saw at least ten people who were at your parents' party last night when we were out today. It's kind of... endearing."
Steve smiles, grabbing the rebound, curls bouncing as he moves. He looks genuinely pleased by this observation. "Yeah. It's different here. Not always good different, but..."
You nod, understanding what he's not saying.
The game continues, your bodies finding a rhythm—dribble, guard, shoot, rebound. You manage to score, a clumsy layup that barely makes it over the rim, but Steve whoops anyway, hands clapping together once, the movement making his t-shirt ride up slightly, exposing a sliver of tanned stomach.
"There you go, Hot Shot!"
On the next possession, Steve gets the ball and pauses at the top, checking it to you softly. His voice drops, quieter than before. "I'm sorry about last night."
Your mind immediately flashes to the last ten minutes of the party—the alcove, the almost, the way he'd walked away. Your hands close around the ball, bouncing it back. "Why?"
But Steve just stands there, hands splayed on the ball, holding it to fidget. He looks up, and there's frustration clear in his expression, visible even under the shadow of the cap's brim. "For ignoring you, even if you didn't really care. That wasn't nice. And then you hearing my dad and me... and then I don't know..."
His eyes lift to yours, and you can see that he does know what else, but he doesn't finish the thought. He starts dribbling instead, the sound loud in the quiet gym.
He continues talking as he moves, and you move with him, trying to guard him. "It's different back in Hawkins because you're right. Everyone knows everyone. It's different here than back at school where I can get away with shit. But here there's always eyes. And well... to be truthful..." He shoots, and the ball hits the rim, bouncing off. You both go back to the top. "I sometimes don't know how to act when you're around. I don't hang out with the other girls, and they're not friends with Robin. And they have certainly never been invited by her to come here, and so—"
"Steve, you don't have to explain. Really. I get it." You bounce the ball to him for the check. "Your family and their friends were there last night. All is forgiven."
Something in his shoulders loosens, tension bleeding out that you hadn't fully noticed was there. He reaches up to adjust the cap, pushing it back slightly before pulling it forward again.
The game shifts after that. You're both less careful, less polite. When you go for a shot, Steve's there, pressing close, hand reaching up to block. When he drives for the basket, you're right behind him, your front against his back, arm reaching around to swat at the ball. Bodies pressing together, the cotton of his t-shirt soft against your skin, breath coming faster.
"What are your parents like?" Steve asks as he dribbles, his back to you, and you can feel the heat of him through your shirt, can see the way his shoulders move under the gray fabric.
"I guess normal? It's just me, so I equally feel smothered and loved at the same time." You try to reach around him for the ball but he's too quick, spinning away and taking the shot. It misses, and you grab the rebound, but he’s quick . "When you graduate, are you coming back to Hawkins?"
Steve falters while you dri, just for a second, his hand coming up automatically to adjust the cap even though it doesn't need adjusting, then shoots and makes it. "I dunno. I mean... you heard last night. I still have no fucking clue what I want to do. I don't know what I'm good at."
You check the ball to him, watching his face under the red brim. "What about this?"
Steve scoffs, starting to dribble. "About what? Flirting with you?"
That weird flip happens in your stomach again. You really must need water. "No, Harrington. I'm talking about today. Coaching."
You manage to steal the ball and drive for the basket, making it with a clumsy shot that somehow goes in.
Steve freezes at the top of the key, just standing there staring at you, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck under the cap. "I mean... I wouldn't really say that was a big deal, you know? I was just asked a few weeks ago to do it because the other volunteer couldn't do it anymore and I ran into Coach Halpern at the grocery store and it was kind of a joke... you know, last option sort of thing. It's not like I did anything special. It wasn't a—"
"Steve, shut up and check the ball."
You roll your eyes, but you also find it cute how nervous he is, the way he keeps fidgeting with the cap, adjusting it even though it's fine. You've never really had a one-on-one conversation with him that wasn't about sex or directly related to Robin or some party. Then again, you bolt out the door after any time you're alone with him, so maybe that's on you.
He swallows, doing as you say, and bounces the ball to you. He speaks again, softer this time. "You really think I'd be good at it? Like... teaching? I mean, I absolutely hated school. Still do."
"Steve, you've surrounded yourself with kids. You'd think it was weird, but you just have a way with them."
Steve gives you a shy smile, something boyish and uncertain, before checking the ball and shooting. It goes in, clean. "Okay. I'll think about it." Then he adds, quieter, "I don't really want kids one day, but I guess Max, Dustin, and the rest of them make up for it."
He looks at you, question in his eyes visible even in the shadow of the cap's brim. "Do you want kids someday?"
You smile, shrugging as you grab the rebound and dribble back to the top. "I mean, sure, I've thought about it. Maybe. It still feels so far away to think about those kinds of things."
Steve nods, understanding.
The game continues, your bodies finding a rhythm that's almost hypnotic—dribble, guard, shoot, the squeak of shoes on the polished floor, the sound of breath and movement and the ball hitting wood. You notice the way sweat has started to darken the gray of his t-shirt slightly, the way curls are sticking to his forehead under the cap.
You have possession, dribbling, trying to find an opening. Steve is behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his stomach against your back through the thin fabric of his shirt, his breath on your neck. Then he mutters, quiet but clear: "Have you ever been in love?"
You falter. Just for a second, but it's enough. Steve reaches around you, stealing the ball, and drives for the basket. The shot goes in, and the game is his.
You put your hands on your hips, catching your breath, biting your lip. "No. I don't think so. I'm not sure what it's supposed to feel like, I guess."
Steve raises a brow, walking back toward you, reaching up to take off the cap and run his hand through his sweat-damp curls before putting it back on. "You've never had a boyfriend?"
"I have. A few through high school. One the first semester of college. But I don't know..." You shrug, suddenly feeling exposed in a way you don't like. "I never thought of them when something really good happened to me." You force a laugh. "I know, I'm heartless."
Steve shrugs, and the way his eyes glisten under the fluorescent lights, visible even under the cap's shadow, makes your heart thump in an irregular way that you don't want to examine. "Maybe. Or maybe you haven't found the right guy yet."
"Right. Maybe." You tilt your head, studying him—the backwards cap, the messy curls, the gray t-shirt clinging to his chest, the way he's looking at you like you're a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Have you ever been in love?"
Steve laughs, but you don't miss the pain that flickers through his eyes, quick and sharp before he can hide it. "I'm as hopeless as you are, Hot Shot."
The words hang between you in the empty gymnasium, settling like dust in afternoon light, and for a moment, neither of you moves. Just standing there, breathing hard, looking at each other like you're both trying to figure something out.
Then Steve's watch beeps, shattering the moment.
"Shit," he mutters, glancing down at it. "We need to meet them at Family Video."
"Right," you say, and your voice sounds almost normal. "Let's go."
.-.-.-.
The Princess Bride starts with its storybook opening, the grandfather's voice warm and familiar through the television speakers. You're settled on the sofa in Steve's living room—a space that screams wealth in the most understated way possible. Cream leather couches arranged in a U-shape around a coffee table that's probably worth more than your car, floor-to-ceiling windows that during the day must flood the room with light, now dark and reflecting the glow from the massive television mounted above a fireplace you haven't seen lit once.
Robin and Nancy are curled together on the far end of a sectional on the other side of the room, Nancy's head on Robin's shoulder, their fingers intertwined between them. They lasted maybe ten minutes before the giggles started—soft at first, then progressively louder, little squeals escaping whenever they whisper to each other.
Steve's jaw tightens. His arms cross over his chest, wearing a new shirt. The backwards cap is gone now, curls free and wild, but you can still see the indent it left in his hair. "Some people are actually trying to watch the movie here."
Robin rolls her eyes, mouth opening to deliver what you're certain will be a biting retort, but Nancy leans in close and whispers something that makes Robin's expression shift entirely. She dissolves into giggles, that toothy grin spreading across her face as she clears her throat and stands, tugging Nancy up with her. "We're getting sleepy, so we're gonna—"
"You don't have to announce it," Eddie interrupts from his spot on the floor, sprawled on his stomach with his chin propped in his hands, completely engrossed in the sword fight between Inigo and Westley playing out on screen. "We know you're gonna fool around. Now go."
They laugh, Nancy's hand finding Robin's as she pulls her toward the stairs, both of them trying and failing to contain their amusement.
Steve rolls his eyes, sinking further into his corner of the couch. You're on the opposite end, a deliberate distance between you that feels somehow more obvious now that Robin and Nancy have left.
Eddie twists around, looking between the two of you with exasperation clear on his face. "Don't let me stop you two either."
"Shut up," Steve growls, face flushing red.
You scowl, crossing your arms. "Absolutely not. I love this movie." Your voice softens slightly. "My mom used to read the book to me when I was sick. It's my favorite."
Eddie's entire expression melts, his chin still perched in his palm, grinning at you with something dreamy and fond. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"
Steve grabs a throw pillow and whips it at Eddie's head. "Can you two be quiet?"
The pillow bounces off Eddie's shoulder harmlessly. He winks at you before turning back to the television, and you bite back a smile, catching the jealousy radiating off Steve in waves—the set of his shoulders, the way his arms are crossed so tight you can see the muscles in his forearms flexing.
The room settles into quiet again, only the movie filling the space. You glance at Steve and find him already looking at you. He doesn't look away, doesn't pretend he was doing anything else, and something warm unfurls in your chest.
You lean in slightly, keeping your voice low. "Can you hand me that blanket?"
Steve nods, reaching for the throw draped over the back of the couch. You watch his muscles work beneath the red cotton, the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders and biceps. He's still wearing that t-shirt, still looking rumpled and soft in a way that makes your fingers itch.
He hands you the blanket, and unlike the last time—the first night you hooked up when he'd used the same gesture as an opening move—his attention returns immediately to the screen.
You don't look at him as you fan the blanket out, the movement casual and innocent. Then you scoot closer, smooth and unhurried, rotating so your feet swing up into his lap. Your back rests against the arm of the couch, head propped on a throw pillow, the blanket draped over your legs and his lap.
Steve doesn't move. Doesn't acknowledge the shift except for the slight spreading of his legs. One hand rests against the back of the couch, the other propped against his cheek, elbow on the armrest. He looks bored, expression neutral as he watches Westley and Buttercup on screen.
The movie continues. Eddie remains glued to the floor a few feet in front of you, completely absorbed.
You move your foot slightly, the arch pressing against Steve's inner thigh. Your sock brushes over the denim, a whisper of contact.
Steve doesn't look at you, but his legs spread wider, making space. The hand on the back of the couch slides down under the blanket, finding your other foot first, then your ankle. His thumb presses into the sensitive skin there, rubbing circles that send heat up your calf.
You continue the pressure against his thigh, foot sliding higher, and you feel him twitch in his jeans. A shaky breath escapes him, so quiet you almost miss it. His jaw tightens, but then you catch it—the small smile playing at his lips when your own breath hitches.
His hand slides from your ankle up your calf, fingers tracing patterns on your skin through your jeans. Then higher, slipping between your thighs. Inching closer. One finger brushes over your cunt through the denim, feather-light.
Your foot presses harder against him in response, and his thumb finds the seam of your jeans, pressing it into your clit with controlled pressure that makes your toes curl.
You both continue like this—teasing, touching, nothing escalating beyond these hidden movements under the blanket. Nothing intense enough to make either of you lose control, but enough that you can feel the heat building, coiling low in your belly, every brush of his fingers making you acutely aware of how much you want more.
The movie plays on. Eddie laughs at something on screen, completely oblivious.
When the credits finally roll, Eddie sits up with a dramatic yawn, actual tears beading in his eyes. "So beautiful," he breathes, reverent.
He twists around to look at you both, smirking when he sees the blanket still draped over you, your feet still in Steve's lap. "Well, I'm going outside to smoke." He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. "Safe to say you two won't be joining? Always the guy left in the dust."
You laugh, pulling your feet back slightly. "Aw, don't be sad. You could always join."
Eddie barks out a laugh.
Steve's grip on your leg tightens suddenly—not painful, but unexpected enough to make you wince.
Eddie shakes his finger at you, grin widening. "Down, girl." He looks at Steve. "Don't worry, big boy. She's all yours."
You can't resist. "Aw, Steve, he could watch."
The look Steve shoots you could melt steel. Eddie howls with laughter, standing and stretching before heading toward the back door, whistling as he goes.
You're smiling, coy and pleased with yourself, when Steve deliberately brushes your feet off his lap. They thump against the couch cushion, forcing you to sit up properly.
Steve crosses his arms, visibly brooding.
"Steeeeve," you draw out his name, poking his bicep. "I was kidding."
He scoots away from you, giving you a sideways look that's all irritation and wounded pride.
You roll your eyes, getting up on your knees and crawling toward him across the couch. Your hands find his chest, palms flat against the soft cotton. "Steve, stop it."
He doesn't budge, jaw still tight, eyes still averted.
Your mouth finds his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the warm skin there. "Come on, Steve. I was kidding."
He grunts, but his neck tilts to the side, offering more access.
You smile against the junction of his shoulder, then trail your lips up to the spot right below his ear, kissing him there too. "I only want to fuck you tonight, Steve."
Your hand slides down his chest to his thigh, and you feel his hard cock straining against the denim. You notice he's already unbuttoned his jeans—probably did it sometime during the movie when the pressure became too much.
You lean in closer, breath hot against his ear. "Come on, baby. Will you fuck me tonight?"
Steve shudders, eyes fluttering closed. A small whimper escapes his lips, and his hand comes up to cup the side of your face, fingers threading into your hair. His mouth finds your neck, kissing and sucking, teeth grazing.
"Show me your room?" you pant.
Steve's bedroom is a study in contradictions.
The space is enormous—easily twice the size of your dorm room, maybe bigger. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, currently shrouded by heavy curtains that block out the night. The bed is massive, king-sized with a dark wood frame that looks expensive and old, like it's been passed down through generations. Navy bedding, perfectly made until you and Steve stumbled through the door and immediately started pulling at each other's clothes.
There's a desk in the corner—dark wood matching the bed frame, covered in textbooks and scattered papers, a lamp with a green glass shade. Bookshelves line another wall, filled with a mix of actual books and sports trophies, photographs in frames, a record player with a stack of vinyl beside it. The walls are a soft gray-blue, decorated with framed posters—a couple of bands you recognize, a vintage Indiana basketball print, a photograph of Steve with Robin and the kids that looks recent.
It's clean but lived-in, organized but not sterile. There's a hamper in the corner with a shirt draped over the edge, a pair of sneakers kicked off near the closet, glasses—
Wait.
You're on top of him now, kissing his neck, your hands raking down his bare chest. He's completely naked beneath you, cock hard against your stomach, and his mouth has found your breasts, lips closing around one nipple while his other hand cups and squeezes the other.
You lift your head, still holding yourself above him, when something on his nightstand catches the light. Something gleaming.
"Holy shit," you breathe.
"Feel good, babygirl?" Steve smirks into the plush of your breast, tongue flicking.
You scramble off him—he makes an "oomph" sound as your knee catches his ribs—and crawl across the bed to his nightstand. You pick up the object, turning around with a growing grin.
"Steve Harrington. You wear glasses?"
Steve, propped up on his elbows, groans and immediately falls back against the pillows, hands coming up to cover his face. "Oh god."
You're topless, wearing only your panties, and Steve is completely naked, but you're holding these glasses like they're treasure. They're wire-rimmed, simple, the kind that could be studious or stylish depending on who's wearing them.
You crawl back to him, legs bracketing his hips as you straddle him. Despite himself, his hands find your thighs, thumbs rubbing automatic circles into your skin.
"Come on, put them on," you say, grinning.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I look like a total dingus in them. I hate wearing them—"
"Please?" You pout, batting your eyes. "For me?"
Steve rolls his eyes, but you can see the resolve crumbling. "Okay. Fine."
You giggle, wiggling slightly, and the movement makes your pussy rub against his cock. You both moan—yours involuntary, his rough and strained.
You open the glasses carefully, holding them with both hands. Steve watches you, expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and anticipation, and you lean forward slowly.
The frames settle against his temples, and you slide them gently over his ears, adjusting them until they sit perfectly on the bridge of his nose. Then you pull back to look.
Oh.
His eyes, already beautiful, are magnified slightly by the lenses. You can see every fleck of color—hazel with those rings of gold and green, darker near the pupil, lighter at the edges. His lashes are long and thick, casting shadows on his cheeks in the low lamplight.
He looks... pretty. Unfairly so. The glasses add something—vulnerability maybe, or intelligence, or both. They make him look softer somehow, more approachable, the cocky fraternity president stripped away to reveal something genuine underneath.
He gives you a shy look, almost bashful, one corner of his mouth pulling up in an uncertain smile. His curls are wild around his face, mussed from your fingers, and the glasses frame his eyes in a way that makes your stomach flutter.
That feeling again. The one from the gymnasium. Moths under your ribs.
"Wow," you breathe, and you mean it.
"That bad?" Steve asks, voice quiet.
"Steve," you say seriously, hands coming up to frame his face. "They're sexy."
His cheeks flush immediately, color spreading down his neck. He gives you a dopey look, that crooked grin you've come to recognize, curls hugging his forehead beneath the frames. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You nod, biting your lip, feeling heat pool low in your belly. "Keep them on. Please. I want you to fuck me with them on."
You feel him twitch beneath you, cock jumping against your ass.
"Jesus," he groans, fingers looping in the waistband of your panties. "Take these off. I need you to sit on my face. Right now."
You start to shimmy out of them, but Steve suddenly says, "Wait!"
He rolls out from under you, scrambling off the bed and crossing to his door. You hear the lock click, then he's back, crawling across the mattress and nipping your shoulder before lying down and pulling you on top of him.
He shrugs when you raise an eyebrow. "What? I don't want anyone wandering in."
You nearly laugh. Anyone meaning Eddie.
"Now get up here," Steve says, hands on your hips, already guiding you forward.
You position yourself above his face, thighs bracketing his head, but you don't lower yourself yet. You hover there, watching the way his eyes darken behind those glasses, the way his fingers flex against your thighs.
"What are you waiting for?" Steve's voice is rough, impatient.
"Maybe I like keeping you waiting," you say, lowering just enough that he can feel the heat of you, close enough that his breath ghosts over your wet skin, but not close enough for contact. "So needy."
His hands grip your hips, trying to pull you down, but you resist. "Baby—"
"Say please."
His eyes flash up at you through those glasses, pupils already blown wide. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please sit on my face and let me taste you," he says, and there's an edge of desperation in his voice that sends heat flooding through you. "Please, I need it."
You lower yourself slowly, and the second his tongue makes contact, licking a long, broad stripe through your folds, you both gasp. Steve groans against you—a deep, satisfied sound that reverberates through your core and makes your thighs tremble.
"Oh my god," you whimper, one hand reaching out to grip the headboard while the other stays braced against the wall.
His tongue doesn't stop moving, exploring you thoroughly—circling your clit once, twice, then dipping lower to push inside you in shallow, teasing thrusts that have your hips rolling. The sounds are obscene, wet and hungry, punctuated by Steve's groans of appreciation.
You look down and the sight nearly destroys you.
Steve's face between your thighs, those wire-rimmed glasses already starting to fog at the edges from the heat of your body. His eyes are half-closed, lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, curls splayed wild and messy against the navy pillow. His mouth is on you, lips sealed around your clit, tongue flicking and circling, and you can see the way his jaw moves with purpose, the way his throat works when he swallows.
"Steve," you pant, hips rocking in small movements. "God, that feels—"
He makes a muffled sound of encouragement—"Mmhmm"—the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide from your hips to grip your ass with both palms, fingers spreading you open as he pulls you down harder against his mouth. The glasses fog more with each hot breath, condensation building on the lenses until his hazel eyes become hazy shapes behind the white clouds.
His tongue moves back to your clit, and the pattern he traces is maddening—slow, firm circles that make your toes curl, then quick flicks that have you gasping, then he sucks it between his lips and your head falls back.
"Don't stop," you breathe. "Please don't stop."
He doesn't. If anything, he works harder, tongue flattening to let you control the pressure as your hips start moving with more purpose. The wet sounds fill the room—his mouth on you, your gasping breaths, the little groans he makes every time you grind down against him.
You reach down with your free hand, threading your fingers through his curls. They're soft and thick, still slightly damp with sweat from the basketball game earlier, and when you tug experimentally, Steve moans—actually moans, the sound muffled but unmistakable—and his hips buck up into nothing.
"You like that?" you ask, voice shaking as you tug again with more force.
He can't answer with words, not with his mouth occupied, but the desperate sound he makes and the way his fingers dig harder into your ass tells you everything. His glasses are fogging faster now, two circles of white condensation obscuring his vision, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down.
You tug harder, fisting your hand in those curls, and Steve's response is immediate. His tongue works faster, more frantically, and then you feel it—one hand leaving your ass, sliding around, and two fingers pushing inside you without warning.
"Oh fuck!" Your other hand flies from the wall to grip his hair too, both fists now tangled in those curls. "Steve—"
"That's my girl," Steve praises, voice rough and wrecked. His fingers curl harder inside you, pumping in and out while his tongue stays focused on your clit. "Fuck my face. Pull my hair. Use me however you want. I'm yours."
His fingers curl up, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
"Right there," you gasp, pulling his hair harder. "Right there, don't stop, please—"
Steve doubles his efforts, fingers curling and stroking that perfect spot while his tongue traces tight circles around your clit. The sounds he's making are desperate and needy—little grunts and groans that vibrate through you, wet and muffled.
His free hand grips your ass so tight you can feel each individual finger pressing into your flesh, holding you exactly where he wants you. You know without looking that there will be bruises tomorrow, five perfect circles marking his possession.
"I'm close," you warn, voice breaking. "Steve, I'm so close—"
He makes an encouraging sound, fingers pumping faster, curling harder. His tongue speeds up, flicking your clit in rapid succession, and you can feel your orgasm building like a wave, cresting higher and higher.
You look down and the sight pushes you closer to the edge—his face buried between your thighs, glasses completely fogged and useless, curls gripped tight in your fists, the way his whole body is taut with effort and want.
"Please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for. "Please, Steve—"
His fingers curl hard against that spot inside you, his tongue flicks your clit once, twice, and then you're gone.
Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, so intense you actually cry out his name, thighs clamping around his head as you grind down against his face. Your hands pull his hair so hard it has to hurt, has to sting, but Steve doesn't stop—he licks you through it, fingers still moving, drawing out every last tremor and aftershock.
"Too much," you finally gasp when it becomes too intense, too sensitive. "Steve, I can't—"
Only then does he let you go, fingers sliding out carefully, mouth pressing one last kiss to your inner thigh that's so sweet it makes your chest ache. You lift off him on shaky legs and collapse beside him on the bed, completely boneless.
Steve sits up, removing his glasses with one hand. They're completely fogged, moisture clinging to the lenses, and he wipes them clean on the navy sheet with careful, methodical movements before holding them up to inspect his work in the lamplight. Satisfied, he puts them back on, settling them on the bridge of his nose.
When he looks at you, his lips and chin are shining with evidence of what he's done, and there's a self-satisfied smirk on his face that makes your stomach flip.
"You okay?" he asks, voice rough.
You're still trying to catch your breath, chest heaving. "I think you broke me."
He laughs, the sound warm and pleased. "Good."
Your eyes drift down to his cock—painfully hard and flushed dark against his stomach, a bead of precum leaking from the tip. Without thinking, you reach out and wrap your hand around him.
Steve hisses, hips jerking up into your touch. "Fuck—"
"My turn," you say, squeezing gently.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." You meet his eyes through those glasses. "Condom. Now."
His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the hazel. "Yeah. Okay."
He reaches for his nightstand, fumbling in the drawer and producing a foil packet. You take it from him before he can open it, tearing it with your teeth while maintaining eye contact.
"Fuck" he mutters, watching you.
"That's the plan," you say, rolling the condom onto his cock with slow, deliberate movements.
Steve's hips jerk up, seeking more friction. "Baby—"
You climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and position yourself over his cock. Then you hover there, just like you did over his face, the tip barely pressing against your entrance.
"Now who's teasing?" Steve groans, hands finding your hips.
"Learned from the best," you say, and sink down slowly.
Both of you moan as you take him inch by inch, feeling the stretch and fullness. When you're seated completely, his cock buried deep inside you, you pause to adjust, to breathe.
"Fuck," Steve breathes, fingers digging into your hips. His glasses are starting to fog again from the heat between your bodies. "You feel perfect. So tight and wet and perfect."
You start to move, lifting up and sinking back down in a rhythm that has both of you gasping. Steve watches you through those fogging lenses, eyes tracking every movement—the bounce of your breasts, the roll of your hips, the place where he disappears inside you.
"That's it," he encourages. "Take what you want."
You lean forward, hands on his chest for leverage, and pick up the pace. The new angle makes him hit deeper, and you both groan at the sensation.
"Touch yourself," Steve says, voice rough with need. "Want to see you."
Your hand slides between your legs, fingers finding your oversensitive clit. Steve's eyes track the movement even through the fogged lenses, and his grip on your hips tightens.
"God, you're so hot," he pants. "Could watch you all night."
You're climbing fast toward another orgasm, still sensitive from before. When Steve sits up suddenly, changing the angle, you cry out.
"Is this okay?" he asks, and you nod frantically because it's more than okay—it's perfect.
He flips you onto your back in one smooth motion, his glasses somehow staying in place, and starts moving with renewed intensity. His hips snap against yours with force, each thrust deep and purposeful.
"Yes," you moan, legs wrapping around his waist. "Just like that—"
His hand comes down on your ass—once, twice—and you gasp, clenching around him. The slight sting sends pleasure sparking through you.
"Good?" he asks, breathless.
"So good," you confirm, nails raking down his back.
He leans down, teeth finding your shoulder and biting down hard enough to leave a mark. You arch into him, hands coming up to tangle in his hair again, finding those curls and gripping tight.
Steve groans against your skin, and you tug harder, pulling until you feel his scalp give under your fingers. His response is to thrust harder, faster, the headboard banging against the wall with each movement.
"I'm close," you gasp, fingers working frantically on your clit. "Steve—"
"Me too," he pants, burying his face in your neck. His glasses are completely fogged now, useless white circles, but he hasn't taken them off. "Come for me. Want to feel you—"
You tug his hair hard, pulling with both hands, and that's what does it. Your orgasm tears through you, intense and overwhelming, and you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cry.
"Fuck," Steve groans, hips stuttering. "I'm—"
He doesn't finish the sentence, just buries himself deep and comes with a shudder, face pressed against your neck, breath hot on your skin.
You lie there afterward, both panting and slick with sweat. His weight on top of you is comforting, grounding, and when he finally pulls back to look at you, you reach up and carefully remove his glasses.
"Let me," you say, wiping them clean on the sheet before putting them back on his face with gentle hands.
He smiles at you, soft and genuine. "Thanks."
"Anytime." You trace your fingers through his hair, smoothing the mess you made. "You okay?"
"More than okay." He presses a kiss to your forehead before carefully pulling out and rolling onto his back. You collapse on top of him, pressing kisses to his throat.
His arms wrap around you, grip tight and possessive, and you bask in the warmth before eventually rolling onto your back beside him.
For once, you don't feel the immediate urge to leave.
Steve sits up, removing the condom and tying it off before standing and pulling on his boxers. He finds a pair of pajama pants on his desk chair, stepping into them.
"I'll be right back," he says.
A few minutes later he returns with two glasses of water, a plate with a peanut butter sandwich, and a warm washcloth. He sits at the edge of the bed, bare back to you, and you realize you've never really had time to look at it properly.
His back is a constellation of moles and freckles, scattered across his shoulders and down his spine. Some are darker, some lighter, creating patterns you could trace with your fingers if you wanted to.
He shoves half the sandwich in his mouth, handing you one of the glasses of water, then silently begins wiping between your legs with the washcloth, gentle and thorough.
"You don't have to do that, Steve," you murmur.
He shrugs, continuing his task. Then he holds up the half-eaten sandwich, offering you a bite with a half-hearted smile.
You giggle. "No, thank you."
He gives you a look—mock offense—before finishing it himself. You drink the water he brought, watching him over the rim of the glass.
You see him laugh quietly to himself.
"What?" you ask.
He doesn't look at you, licking peanut butter from his lips. "I don't know. I was thinking about earlier today. What you said about coaching."
"Are you going to do it?"
"I haven't decided." He pauses, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "But I was thinking about how much I hate talking about that sort of thing. I mean, I'll rant to Robin. And then anytime I talk to my dad, he'll try to tell me what I should do. But I didn't really feel that with you."
He opens his mouth to say something else, but then closes it, face falling. He clears his throat.
He turns slightly, not fully facing you, but his hand finds your thigh. The touch sends a tingle across your skin.
"Do you want to watch some TV with me before you go to your room?"
There's something nervous in the way he asks, something vulnerable that makes your chest ache.
You lean toward him, and his hand slides from your thigh to the back of it, then up to cup your ass. "What do you watch?"
He shrugs. "ALF."
"ALF?" You can't help but chuckle.
"Yeah, why's that so funny?" He lifts his hand from your ass to brush a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering as he searches your eyes. There's a small smile on his lips.
"Thought you'd be a late-night Baywatch viewer," you tease.
His fingertips trail down your arm, eyes scanning your body in a way that makes you feel seen. "No. Dustin used to come over and we'd watch it, so... I don't know. It makes me laugh, okay?"
You find yourself leaning forward and kissing his nose, pulling back to see him smile.
"Okay," you say.
He grins, reaching for the TV remote on his nightstand.
"Want me to ask Eddie if he wants to watch too?" you ask innocently.
Steve looks over his shoulder at you. "Watch it, Hot Shot."
You laugh, and Steve gets up, crossing to his dresser. You think maybe you've hurt his feelings again, but then he's digging around and pulling something out. He tosses it onto the bed without looking at you, clicking the TV on.
It's an old t-shirt of his—soft and worn, smelling like laundry detergent and something underneath that's purely Steve—and a pair of sweatpants.
You put them on, the fabric enormous on you, and when you look up, you catch him watching. His eyes track your movements before he looks away quickly.
You settle back onto the bed, and Steve lies down beside you. The TV bathes the room in flickering light, the theme song for ALF starting up, and through the window you can see starlight bleeding through where the curtains don't quite meet.
Neither of you tangles together. You keep your space, lying side by side with inches between you.
Except.
Steve's hand finds yours in the space between your bodies. His fingers lace through yours, palm warm against your palm, and neither of you says anything about it.
Tags: (real) slow burn, enemies to lovers, shared trauma (?)
Synopsis: Sophomore years starts just like any other year. You hang out with your best friends, scold your little brother, and keep up your grades. But one night, Will Byers disappears and after that nothing is ever the same. Soon, your entire world begins to spiral and you find yourself dragged into a nightmare you can't seem to escape.
Warnings: nothing that doesn't already happen in the show
Notes: Guys oh my, this took so much longer than I wanted to. I was flung back into driving lessons and uni since the beginning of the month and I forgot how chaotic my life is when I'm not rotting in bed all day. For that reason, this chapter isn't even properly proof read, and for that I sincerely apologize. I hope y'all enjoy this chapter anyway, and I promise to try my very best to balance being an academic baddie and a part time mediocre day dreamer ⭐ ALSO!! Would you guys be interested in me starting a tag list?? If so, please leave a comment below!!
Masterlist
Chapter 8 - Normalcy is scary
“Do you have any money??” Dustin bursts into my room, sliding the door open with so much force that it comes back and nearly hits him in the face.
I jolt in my bed, startled, letting go of my book to clutch my chest “Jesus, Dustin!! Do you have to scare me like that??” I scold him
He’s unfazed “Bunny, please, I’m in a hurry! Do you have any money?”
“What for?” I squint at him
“…the arcade” he says, eyes shifting away
I sigh “Dustin, that’s like..the fourth time this week!”
He hops from one foot to the other “I know, I know, but i’ll pay you back, i swear!”
I groan, laying back down “There’s some money in the drawer on my desk” I point to it lazily
Dustin runs to it immediately, thanking me non-stop
“You better pay me back!!” I yell after him as he runs out of my room
“I promise!!” he yells back, already out the front door.
I roll my eyes at the ceiling. The arcade craze has been taking over the kid’s lives, but i would be lying if i said i didn’t like to play a game or two from time to time.
I glance at the clock, and curse under my breath, scrambling out of bed. Jonathan’s picking me up in 5 and i’ve still got rollers in my hair.
***
“What do you mean, you don’t like Stevie Wonder?” Im looking at Jonathan in shock. He just shrugs his shoulders, in that non-conforming Jonathan way
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s got some good songs, but this one just pisses me off, for some reason” He turns the knob on the radio.
“You’re insane” I shake my head, reaching down to grab a cassette from my bag “In other news, i finally got my hands on this bad boy” I shake The Cure’s Pornography at him, and put it in the player
Jonathan chuckles “Your mom finally came around?”
I snort “Totally not. I sneaked it, and keep it hidden under a pile of random stuff in my wardrobe. And only listen to it when she’s not home”
“What do you listen to when she is home?” He asks
I let out a laugh “..Stevie Wonder”
***
Car drives with Jonathan have definitely become a habit in the past year. During those first weeks, last november, when everything was still too fresh, we relied on each other to remain sane and the routine just stayed.
We found shared interests, especially in music. Now every ride is a chance to explore something new together, or just enjoy something we l already love. When Joyce insisted i stay over for dinner, claiming it was ridiculous that she only saw me through a car window, he taught me some things about photography. And when my mom returned the favour, inviting him to lunch, i tried to teach him how to play some songs on the guitar. We quickly decided it wasn’t really his thing. But the lunches and dinners kept going, and the car rides with them too.
I like spending time with Jonathan. His quietness helps calm me down, and gives me a sense of security. And he’s also unexpectedly funny, and makes me laugh at the most random times.
We hang out with Nancy quite often, especially at school. Steve joins at times, but rarely so. Even after what we went through together, there’s this awkwardness between them. Maybe because things were weird between Nancy and Jonathan for a while. Maybe because Steve kept making jokes about “double dates” when Jonathan and I were very clear on our established friendship. I think it was Steve’s way of dealing with that tension between Jonathan and Nancy, but Jonathan hated those comments.
I move between the three of them as smoothly as possible. I’ve no interest in Jonathan as anything more than a friend, and i see the way his eyes linger on Nancy, and how he looks uncomfortable when Steve shows any affection towards her in front of him; Nancy and I became even closer this past year, but Jonathan is the one subject we never touch upon; Steve and I are on good terms again, but it’s not like we talk a lot outside of a group setting. Actually, we don’t talk at all.
I miss Barb. I miss her terribly, in pangs of pain that come and go, leaving me gasping for air in the middle of the street, or halfway through a shower. I miss the steady stability she brought into my life. I wish i could tell her about everything that happened, and how it changed us so permanently. I wish she was here.
***
“Im going to be late again” I groan, applying some lip gloss hurriedly, looking at my reflection in the car’s tiny mirror
“Hey, it’s not my fault you took so long to get out of the house” Jonathan excuses himself
“I know, I know” I huff, and comb my hair with my hands for the millionth time “Ms. Hughes already hates me for this, but I swear i don’t do it on purpose”
Jonathan parks the car in his usual spot in front of the school. I hardly wait for it to stop to get out, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Just as I’m about to slam the door, another car revs into the parking lot at full speed, making everyone’s head turn.
It comes to an abrupt stop in one of the parking spots, and almost immediately a blond, curly mullet steps out of the drivers side. The guy is probably our age, a faint mustache peeking behind the cigarette hanging from his mouth, leather jacket shining in the dim october light. He has style, i’ll give him that. It sort of matches the asshole look of his expression, sweeping over the school grounds like he already owns the place. From the passenger side, a younger girl with red hair steps out, slamming the door behind her. She has a skateboard in her hand, which she promptly sets on the ground. Without sparing the guy so much as a look, she skates away, toward the middle school.
The guy saunters down the path, seemingly unaware of the dozens of eyes following him, including my own
“Who the hell is that?” I ask nobody in particular
“No idea” Jonathan answers anyway
I look across the way, and see the other girls eating him with their eyes. They’re going to devour him alive.
***
Nancy, Jonathan and I are walking down the hallway after class. Nancy and I are discussing the group project for English class, while Jonathan quietly listens.
Tina, one of our classmates, is handing out flyers near the entrance.
“Hey Nancy, hey Bunny!” She greets us with a smile, giving us two bright orange papers. I greet her back, taking the paper and giving it a quick once-over
“Hey, can i get one more, actually?” Nancy asks her, turning back.
When she catches up to us again, she hands Jonathan the extra flyer
“You’re coming to this” She says
Jonathan looks at the paper “Tina’s Hallowen Party - Come and get shit-faced” He chuckles dryly “No, i’m not”
“Oh, come on Jonathan” I groan “I can’t go if you don’t”
“Besides” Nancy adds “We can’t just let you sit all alone on Halloween. That’s just not acceptable”
Jonathan laughs “First of all, you can relax. I’m not going to be sitting all alone. I’m going trick-or-treating with Will”
Nancy raises her eyebrows skeptically “All night?”
“Yeah” He affirms
“No way” I say “Both our brothers are going to that too, so i know damn well you’re gonna be home by like, 8:00, listening to the Talking Heads and reading Vonnegut or something”
He just gives me a smile “Sounds like a nice night”
Nancy shoves him slightly “Jonathan, just come! I mean, who knows, you might even meet someone”. She’s barely finished the sentence when two arms grab her from behind and spin her around, making her yelp in surprise. It’s Steve, wearing some stupid sunglasses, like he’s John Travolta or something.
Jonathan and I don’t stay to watch their lovey-dovey interaction. Rather, Jonathan starts walking away very quickly and I have to run a little to catch up to him.
“Geez, slow down a little” I say, huffing
“Sorry.” He slows down his pace to match mine
I look at him “You really won’t come to the party?”
He shrugs “I don’t really feel like it.” We step outside, and he stops walking, turning to me “And Bunny, I don’t have to go so you can go too, like you said back there.” He says quietly.
I stop walking too, and turn to him “Look, driving everywhere with you has become a habit, and i only keep leeching on to you because i know you don’t mind. I mean, during the day…i don’t mind driving myself. But at night…I’m not sure i can do it.” I shift from one foot to the other
“You could go with Nancy and Steve” He suggests
I snort “And third-wheel the entire time? Yeah, no thanks. Besides, if you don’t go, i don’t really have anyone to hang out with”
He raises his eyebrows “What do you mean? You know a ton of people. I mean, Tina herself knows you”
“Yeah, but they’re not really my friends” I say with an eye-roll “And when they’re all drunk it’s not like they’re great company” We start walking again
“I get that. It’s kind of why I don’t want to go”
I give him a smile “We could hang out anyway. Since neither of us is going” I suggest
“Listen to the Talking Heads and read Vonnegut?” He jokes
I laugh, “Sounds like a nice night.”
***
Mrs. Holland is serving each of us chicken wings and fries, excusing herself profusely
“Im so sorry i didn’t get to cook” She says “I was gonna make that baked ziti you guys like so much, but I just forgot about the time, and before you know it ‘Oh my God! It’s five o’clock’!” She chuckles nervously, straightening her dress before sitting down again.
Nancy, Steve and I cut our chicken politely, smiling at her and Mr. Holland from across the table
“It’s completely fine!” I assure her.
Nancy nods, smiling “Yes, it’s great!”
“Yeah, i love KFC” Steve says in between bites.
These dinners are another habit of the past year, although we postpone them a lot more than we should. Mr and Mrs Holland still think Barb is out there somewhere, waiting to come home. The three of us know better. So it’s just painful to sit, and smile, and eat their food politely, and listen to them talk about their daughter with so much hope in their eyes.
Nancy breaks the silence “So, I noticed a ‘For Sale’ sign out in your yard. Is that the neighbors’, or..?”
Mr and Mrs Holland both stop eating, and look at each other
“You wanna tell them?” Mrs Holland asks her husband
“Go ahead.” He prompts her with a nod
She turns to us with a small smile “We hired a man named Murray Bauman. Have any of you heard of him?”
We all shake our heads no.
“He was an investigative journalist for the Chicago Sun-Times. He’s pretty well known. Anyways, he’s free-lance now, and he’s agreed to take the case.” Mrs Holland can barely contain her joy
We kind of stop eating, and Nancy and I exchange a glance
I clear my throat, forcing a smile “That’s…that’s great!”
Steve takes the cue “No, yeah! That’s really great, right?” He looks at Nancy
“So..what exactly does that mean?” She asks them
“Means he’s gonna do what that lazy son of a bitch Jim Hop-“ Mr Holland is abruptly cut of by his wife kicking his side. “Sorry” he says, breathing deeply “what the Hawkins police haven’t been capable of doing” he corrects himself, speaking more calmly. “Means we have a real detective on the case.” He says, a smile painting his face
Mrs Hollands smiles at him, taking his hand. “Means we’re going to find our Barb!” She smiles at us
“If anyone can find her, it’s this man.” Mr Holland says confidently “He already has leads. By God, he’s worth every last penny!”
I feel sick to my stomach. “Is that why you’re selling the house?” I ask them
“Don’t worry about us sweetie” Mrs Holland reaches over to squeeze my hand “We’re fine”
“More than fine” her husband assures “For the first time in a long time, we’re hopeful.”
Nancy sets down her fork and knife, removing the napkin from her lap “Excuse me” she says while getting up “I’ll be right back.”
I have to fight the urge to follow her into the bathroom and vomit every last piece of chicken into the toilet bowl.
Steve rescues the awkward silence that has set over the table “It’s finger-lickin good” He says with a knowing smile, grabbing another wing.
Mr and Mrs Holland smile again, digging into their own plates.
I try very hard to swallow my chicken, but it dries in my mouth, churning around like sand, impossible to swallow.
Steve glances at me, noticing my torment, and quietly fills my cup with water. I send him a grateful look. “Thanks” I say quietly. He just nods,
When Nancy comes back, her eyes are red-rimmed, but she hides it by bending her head and completely facing the chicken, eating it as though she was starving. I reach under the table for her hand, and squeeze it tightly. Her fingers nearly crush mine in return.
***
“Alright, big smile!!” My mom tells Dustin behind the camera. In response, he smiles very big, showing off his new teeth.
“Ok wait, let me hold up the gadget” He raises the monster catcher he fashioned all by himself, waving it at the camera as my mom snaps another shot
“Oh you look wonderful darling! Doesn’t he, Bunny?” She asks, melting with pride
I laugh from the couch “Yes, you look awesome Dustin” I answer honestly
“We’re gonna be the coolest kids at school” He says confidently
I nod vehemently, teasing him just a little “Oh, no doubt.”
My mom is still snapping pictures of him “Who you gonna call?” She sings excitedly “Ghostbusters!”
I laugh at them both. “Ok. I have to go get ready. Jonathan’s gonna be here soon”
“Wait, wait honey!” My mom stops me from leaving “What are your plans for tonight?”
“Ummm nothing much. I think i’ll just hang out with Jonathan after he goes trick or treating with Will”
“Wait. Jonathan’s coming with us?” Dustin asks
“Yeah, I don’t think Joyce wants Will to go alone. You know how she is, Dustin” I say
My mom huffs a little “I don’t really see why she won’t let him out for trick or treating alone. I get that she’s afraid after everything last year, i would be too. But i really don’t think anything is going to happen to him out in the street with all the other kids around” She says
I shrug my shoulders “Well, all i know is Jonathan’s going. And then we’ll hang out after he comes back.” I start walking away, but my mom stops me again
“Wait, Bun! I don’t understand, dont you have parties to go to? Are your friends not doing anything?”
“Yeah, Bunny, you can’t just stay home!” Dustin says, grabbing his backpack “I have to go now, but seriously. You should go out and celebrate” He leaves without waiting for me to reply, and I sigh.
“I just don’t feel like going out” I justify, turning to my mom
She puts her hands on her hips, shaking her head slightly “Well, you do whatever you want, but you’re only young once, honey.” She comes up to me and caresses my hair “You should enjoy it while you can”
I give her a small smile, leaning in to her touch “I am mom, promise”
***
I don’t really want to do homework. Which is odd for me, because although i’m not a science genius like my brother, i’ve always kept on top of grades, and relished in doing things well and on time. I may have an undiagnosed teacher’s pet syndrome. So it’s odd that i’ve been staring at the same page for almost an hour, and got absolutely nothing done in all that time. My eyes keep drifting to the open door of my wardrobe, where my snoopy costume is neatly hanging from. Well, it’s not really a snoopy costume. It’s a white dress and black boots, and some dog ears i found at Melvald’s and then i was going to paint a dog nose on my face. I wanted to buy an actual dog suit, but Nancy convinced me to get a dress, because she was going to wear a dress, and she didn’t want to do it alone.
But now i’m not going to the Halloween party, so i guess she’ll be wearing a dress alone after all. I didn’t even tell her i’m not going, i just sort of hoped she wouldn’t bring the subject up. Because i know she’d offer a solution, like going with her and Steve, and the last thing i want is to third wheel the entire night.
So I just sigh really deeply, looking at my cute costume again, and bury my head in my book once more.
Until the doorbell rings.
“Bunny? Can you get that please?” My mom shouts from somewhere in the house
“Yeah, i’m coming!” I shout back, running to the door
I whip it open, revealing Jonathan on the other side.
“What are you doing here??” I ask, bewildered “the kids just left to go trick or treating”
“Yeah, yeah I know” he rubs his palms in his jeans “Hey, listen. How do you feel about going to that party?”
***
It’s loud before we even get out of the car. There’s people all over the lawn, trash littered between grass blades. The music bleeds through the walls, the bass marking a steady rhythm inside my eardrums, making my heart thump along.
I grab onto Jonathan’s arms as we make our way through the crowd, dodging stumblers and flying red solo cups. We open the door, and the noise engulfs us completely.
We hesitate in the foyer, a little unsure of where to go.
“Uhhh, do you want a drink?” I ask, unsure, loudly enough to be heard over everything happening around us
“Uh, y-yeah, yeah. Sure, ok. I’ll try and find Nancy” His eyes dart around, seemingly trying to locate her
“Okay. Be right back.” I let go of his arm, and turn right, looking for the kitchen.
When i finally find the drinks table, which wasn’t really in the kitchen at all, i’ve successfully saved my white dress about thirty times. I make a mental note to wear dark clothes to the next halloween party.
Im pouring myself and Jonathan some punch when a voice comes behind me, awfully close to my ear
“Who’s the second cup for?”
I whip my head, nearly bumping into the grinning face of the new guy at school
“Whats it to you?” I answer, defensive
This only seems to amuse him “Oh, feisty, I see. I like that. My name’s Billy. Billy Hargrove.” He extends his hand, presumably expecting me to shake it.
“What’s this, a business meeting?” I raise an eyebrow at his hand, pouring some more punch into my cup and drinking it
He laughs “Ok, no shaking hands. Can I at least get your name?” He smirks again, cocking an eyebrow
“ _____ Henderson” I answer flatly. I don’t like his smirk, or the way he’s eyeing me up and down. And i don’t like blond men.
“You wanna dance, miss Henderson?” He comes in closer, taking the cup away from my hands. I take a step back, and grab my cup again.
“No, thank you. i’m going to find my friend” I pick up the second cup from the table, and begin walking away, forcing myself not to turn my head to see if he’s looking back.
I find Jonathan by the stairs, talking to another girl. She seems to be leaving just as I arrive
“Ok well, we’ll see each other at school then” She’s saying “Bye.” She smiles at me when i get to them, but leaves without another word
“Who was that?” i ask Jonathan, handing him his cup.
“Oh. A girl from our school, I guess. She started talking to me after you left” He takes a sip from his cup
“She seemed nice.” I comment “Any interest?”
He sends a sideways look toward me “Come on, Bunny. You know me.”
I shrug my shoulders “I tried.” I look around the room “Did you find Nancy or Steve?”
He shakes his head negatively “No. But to be honest, i didn’t really leave this place.”
“Well, come on. Let’s go look, then!” I grab his arm and pull him after me, back where i came from.
We towards the drinks table, and just as we’re nearing it, a girl bumps into me from behind
“Oh, sorry” I start saying, even though it’s not my fault, and turn around. A stumbling Nancy is reeling from the impact, and Jonathan catches her as she trips towards him
“Nancy?” I reach out for her, helping Jonathan steady her
She looks at me, her eyes squinting “Bunny? Bunny! You came!!” She throws herself into my arms, hugging me. I stumble a bit with her sudden weight
“Yea- yeah, i’m here. Are you ok?” I straighten her again, concerned
“Of course! I’m getting one more drink, do you want some?” She walks toward the table
“Wait, wait!” A voice breaks through the crowd, and Steve appears next to us.
“Nancy, you can’t - you shouldn’t drink anymore!” He calls out after her. He takes one look at us, desperate “She’s been drinking like crazy, help me!”
Jonathan and i look at each other, then walk towards Nancy. Steve’s already reached her, and he’s tryin to pry a cup full of punch from her hands
“Nancy, no more! You’ve had enough, ok? ” He says gently but firmly, pulling the cup towards him.
But Nancy is stubborn, and yanks the cup toward her again “Screw you!” She shouts, trying to take a swing at the cup.
A crowd has started to form around the fighting couple, and Steve eyes them uneasily “Nance, please” he pleads quietly “Stop, i’m serious!”
“No!” She shouts
“Put i down” he pulls the cup towards him again
“Steve, stop!” With one forceful yank, the cup slips from Steve’s hand, and spills all over Nancy, covering her white dress in red punch.
I gasp, and everybody else lets out a collective “Ohhhhhh”. Nancy and Steve freeze, watching the red stain spread across her torso.
I circle the counter and reach her “Nancy, are you ok? Do you want me to help you clean up?” I ask. She barely looks at me “No, i’m fine” she answers, forcefully setting the cup down on the table. Without another word, she pushes her way through the crowd, disappearing.
“Should we go after her?” Jonathan asks. Steve sends him an annoyed look, and shakes his head “I’ll go, it was my fault. You guys wait here” and he disappears too.
“What a great party” Jonathan grumbles, leaning on the table
“i don’t think she’s ok” i comment, still looking toward the direction where they both disappeared.
“Yeah, clearly not. And i also dont think Steve’s helping” Jonathan says. I turn my head sharply, furrowing my eyebrows
“Come on, Jonathan! Really?” I chastise
He sighs “Ok, i’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It just feels like he’s trying to brush over her feelings, rather then actually listening”
i know what he means. He’s not referring to this specific incident, he’s talking about all the times Nancy has kind of lost control in the past year, riddled with sadness and regret, and Steve has pushed her to act like everything’s normal, like nothings wrong. We’ve both seen it happen.
“I know. But he’s trying he’s best. We all are.” I say, leaning on the counter next to him.
We stay like that for a few minutes, quiet in the middle of a loud party, just observing everyone around us.
Jonathan speaks up “They’ve been gone awhile, don’t you think?”
I look toward the door they went through, and nod. “Yeah. Should we go look?”
Jonathan nods in agreement, and we get up. Just as we reach the main entrance hallway, a distraught Steve bumps into us, heading towards the door
“Steve?” I call after him, confused. But he doesn’t even turn back. We look up the stairs, from where he came, but Nancy is nowhere to be seen.
I look at Jonathan “I think something happened.” I say
His eyebrow furrow, giving his face a grim look
“Do you want to go look for her, or should I?” He asks. I sigh, turning my head between the door where Steve left and the stairs that lead toward where we presume Nancy is.
“I don’t think you and Steve alone is a very good idea” I say “So you go after her, i’ll go look for him”
“What should I do when i find her?” He grabs my arm before i can leave
I shrug my shoulders “try and find us? If you can’t, take her home. She’s in no state to stay here” I instruct
“What about you? How will you get home?” He asks
“Dont worry about me, I’ll find a way.” I say, only thinking about Nancy, all alone in her intoxicated state “Now, go look for her!” I push him up the stairs and we part ways without another word.
I make my way to the door, pushing people aside and saying “excuse me” more times than i can count.
When i finally step outside, the fresh air hits me like life all over again, and I take a grateful breath.
“Steve?” i call, turning my head, trying to spot him in the darkened lawn. A few people are lingering around, but there’s no signs of Steve.
“Steve, where are you?” I walk around the house “Ste-?” I’m interrupted by a hand grab in my shoulder from behind, making me whip around in a fright
“Well, hello again” Even in the dim light, i can tell who it is. Billy Hargrove’s breath stinks of bear and cigarettes, and it makes me cough, taking a step back to get away from it
“What do you want, Billy?” i shrug away from his hand, which slips smoothly into his pockets
“God, i’m really struggling to understand what i did to deserve all this rudeness” He says with a smirk, taking a step towards me
“I can’t talk right now” I say, turning away. But he grabs my arm, forcing me to turn around again
“Why? Are you looking for someone special?” He asks, raising an eyebrow
“Let go!” I yank my arm away
“Come on, every other girl at this party is not nearly as pretty as you. Let me take you on a ride in my car, i promise you’ll love it” He tries to convince me, slowly backing me further away from everyone else
“No, thank you. I’m ok” My chest is starting to heave with every step i take backwards
Billy just smiles, deliberately taking slow steps, as though he’s taunting me “Alright no car. I don’t need it anyway, I can show you a fun time right here” With that, he grabs my arm again, fingers digging into my skin, making me yelp in pain
“Billy, let go!” I try to free myself, but his grip only tightens. He moves closer, pulling me toward his chest “Let go of me!” I shout, getting desperate
“Little Miss Henderson, you really should stop being so mean” He chuckles, his free hand reaching toward my waist. But before he can grab ahold of me, another voice stops him
“Hey!” A hand grabs Billy’s arm, pushing him away from me “She said to let go, man” Steve steps into view, putting himself between me and Billy. I breathe deeply, gasping a little, and swallow down the fear that was lumping in my throat.
“Harrington” Billy sounds displeased “I didn’t know you and _____ knew each other” He sounds like he’s mocking Steve a little, but Steve doesn’t miss a beat
“Yeah, we know each other. And from what i can tell, it doesn’t seem like she wants to know you.”
Billy chuckles drily “You got more game than i thought, Harrington. Two girls in one night? Impressive. What happened to the other pretty one?” He pokes
I can see Steve’s jaw tense “None of your business. Just go away, man.” He grabs my hand gently, leading me around Billy, back towards the house
“This isn’t over, Harrington” Billy shouts from behind us. I flinch at his tone, and grab Steve’s arm. He keeps walking, not looking back, until we’re a little further down the street, far enough to go unnoticed. We sit down on the edge of the sidewalk.
“Thank you” Is the first thing i say quietly. Steve just sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair
“Are you okay?” He inquires, looking at me.
I nod, taking a full breath again “Yeah, i’m fine. But i got scared for a second there. I don’t know what he would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up” I say, voice trembling a little.
“Asshole” Steve mutters, shaking his head “I should’ve just punched him right there and then”
I smile a little “I would’ve paid you to do that” I joke
He smiles too, and runs a hand through his hair again. “What were you doing outside anyway?” He asks
“I was looking for you. What happened? With Nancy, I mean”
He shifts uncomfortably at my question, turning his face away for some seconds “We had an argument, kind of” He says, eyes drifting through the street
“Kind of?” I raise an eyebrow
“Yeah, well. It’s not really an argument if the person is drunk and spilling all their true feelings” He says bitterly
“What do you mean?” I probe
“Apparently, Nancy’s main feeling about..basically everything, is “bullshit”. Everything is bullshit.” He says.
Im confused, “What’s bullshit?”
“This party is bullshit. Pretending everything is fine is bullshit. Our relationship is bullshit. I’m bullshit.” He buries his head in his hands
“Oh Steve…” I say, feeling terrible for him.
He raises his head again to look at me “She thinks we killed Barb, Bunny!”
My heart sinks in my chest. This is something that Nancy has confessed to me in her darkest moments, something i’ve tried very hard to deconstruct in her.
“She’s just drunk, Steve. She’s drunk, and she’s sad” I try to justify my best friends works
“I know that. Going to see Barb’s parents the other day killed her. I had to convince her that we can’t tell them anything, she was so set on telling them the truth!” He tells me
“What?” I say, alarmed “We can’t tell them anything, she knows that!”
“She can’t bear it anymore.” He shakes his head, hopeless “And i don’t know what to do anymore to make her feel better.”
I lay my hand on his back, rubbing it in circles softly, trying to comfort him “I know you’re doing the best you can, Steve. Really, you’ve been great to her!” I say
He smiles a bittersweet smile, unconvinced by my words “I don’t know what it is Bunny, but I feel her slipping away from me. And i feel like there’s nothing i can do about it.”
“Im sure you guys will work it out” I say “And everything will be alright”
We hear a car in the distance, coming from Tina’s house. We turn our heads to look at it as it drives past us, and i recognize it to be Jonathan’s car.
And, in a flash, during the mere seconds it takes to drive by us, i recognize Nancy passed out in the passenger seat.
Steve stays silent until the car disappears in the distance, and we’ve fallen into dark and silence again. Then, he looks at me
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: NO ANGST!!! YIPPIEEEEE!!!! fluff, smut, sort of exhibitionism, foot job if you squint, face riding, p in v protected, GLASSES!
words: 9.5ksummary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.a/n: here you go you needy beggers (endearingly i promise) sorry, i kept hating everything i wrote... or felt like it wasn't enough. so i hope you enjoy this one. they're my babies so no more slander okay pleasemasterlist
Chapter 10
Two days later, on Monday afternoon, Hawkins holds its annual New Year's fundraiser at the elementary school gymnasium. A silent auction during a Little Dribblers game.
The building is older, one of those structures that's been standing since the fifties, all red brick and tall windows that let in weak winter light. Inside, the gym smells like floor wax and old rubber, the kind of scent that's baked into the wood paneling and never quite leaves no matter how many times they refinish the floors.
You tag along with Nancy, Robin, and Eddie, the four of you climbing the bleachers that creak and groan under your weight, metal cold even through your jeans. The gymnasium is packed with parents and families, kids running around with face paint and balloons, the air buzzing with that particular brand of chaos that only happens when you mix children, sugar, and competition.
The reason you're here—the only reason, really—is because Steve was recruited to help coach a group of elementary kids for the Little Dribbles game. Robin had mentioned it casually over breakfast at a diner that her, Nancy, and Eddie took you to. Nancy had immediately insisted you all go to watch, her eyes sparkling with mischief that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing.
Now, sitting on the hard bleacher seat with Robin on one side and Eddie on the other, you scan the court until you spot him.
Steve stands near the sideline, clipboard in one hand, whistle hanging around his neck, surrounded by a group of kids who barely reach his waist. He's wearing a faded gray t-shirt that's seen better days, the fabric soft and worn from countless washes, stretched across his shoulders in a way that suggests it might be a size too small. His jeans are dark blue, fitted but not tight, and there's a backwards baseball cap on his head—red with some logo you can't make out from this distance—curls escaping from the sides and back, sticking out in wild directions that somehow look intentional.
His team looks like a ragtag bunch—varying heights, mismatched jerseys in yellow and blue, one kid with his shoes on the wrong feet, another with glasses held together with tape. You recognize one of them immediately: Derek, the big kid from the arcade who'd stolen Dustin's tickets, looking just as troublesome now as he had then, picking at the hem of his jersey and bouncing on his toes with restless energy.
Steve crouches down, the cap staying firmly in place, eye level with the shortest kid on the team—a tiny girl with pigtails who looks terrified. His mouth moves, saying something you can't hear from this distance, but whatever it is makes her smile, small and tentative. He holds up his hand for a high five, and she slaps it with both of hers, giggling when he pretends it hurt, shaking his hand out like she's got superhuman strength.
"He's good with them," Nancy observes quietly beside you, her voice warm.
"Yeah," Robin agrees, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "He always has been."
The game starts with a referee's whistle—sharp and piercing in the enclosed space. The kids scatter across the court like marbles, some running in the right direction, others completely lost, one kid stopping mid-court to wave at his parents in the stands. It's chaos, pure and simple, and yet somehow endearing in its complete lack of coordination.
Steve paces the sideline, the clipboard tucked under one arm now, hands cupped around his mouth as he shouts encouragement. "That's it, Emily! Good hustle! Derek, pass it! Pass it!"
You watch as one of his players—a lanky kid with knobby knees—manages to get the ball and dribbles it awkwardly down the court, tongue poking out in concentration. Steve jogs alongside him on the sideline, the cap bobbing with each step, clapping his hands together. "You got this, Cameron! Take the shot!"
Cameron throws the ball toward the hoop with both hands, the motion more shot-put than basketball, and it bounces off the rim with a loud clang. The collective "aww" from the crowd is immediate, but Steve's already there, pumping his fist. "Good try! That was so close! Next time!"
Cameron's face, which had started to crumple with disappointment, brightens immediately.
The opposing team gets the ball, and you watch Steve's expression shift—still encouraging, but more focused now, analyzing. He calls out positions, trying to organize his scattered team into something resembling defense. "Hands up! Hands up! Make yourself big!"
Three of his kids actually do it, raising their arms over their heads and shuffling sideways. It's not effective defense by any stretch, but the effort is there, and Steve whoops like they've just executed an NBA-level play. "Yes! That's what I'm talking about!"
Then you see it—Derek, number seven on Steve's team, guarding a kid from the other side. The kid tries to dribble past him, and Derek doesn't just block him. He shoves him, both hands planted firmly on the kid's chest, sending him stumbling backward.
The referee's whistle blows immediately. Foul.
You watch Steve's jaw tighten, watch him reach up to adjust the brim of his backwards cap before closing his eyes for a brief second. Then he turns to Derek. He doesn't yell. Doesn't snap or get in his face like you've seen other coaches do, even with elementary kids. Instead, he walks over calmly, crouches down again so he's at Derek's height, and speaks quietly enough that no one else can hear.
Derek's face flushes red, arms crossing over his chest in that universal gesture of childhood defiance. Steve says something else, his hand coming up to rest gently on Derek's shoulder, and then he straightens, gesturing toward the bench.
Derek's mouth drops open in outrage, but Steve's expression doesn't change. Firm but not angry. The kid stomps over to the bench and throws himself onto it with all the drama of someone who's just been sentenced to death, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees, face hidden behind his hands.
The game continues, and you can't help but notice the way Steve keeps glancing back at Derek. The kid is clearly pouting, shoulders hunched, radiating misery, and after maybe two minutes of game time, Steve looks genuinely pained. He keeps watching Derek, then the game, then Derek again, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck under the cap, like he's warring with himself.
Finally, during a break in play, Steve walks back to the bench. He crouches in front of Derek, says something that makes the kid look up, eyes red-rimmed and watery. Steve extends his hand. Derek stares at it for a long moment before taking it, letting Steve pull him to his feet.
"He's putting him back in," Eddie says beside you, amused. "Lasted a whole three minutes."
"Caves so quickly," Robin laughs with Robin.
The second Derek gets back on the court, the dynamic shifts. He's bigger than the other kids, but he's also faster, more coordinated. He steals the ball twice in quick succession, passing it to teammates who actually manage to score. Steve's whooping from the sideline again, jumping up with both hands in the air when Emily—the tiny girl with pigtails—sinks a basket with Derek's assist, the cap somehow staying put through his celebration.
"Yes! That's teamwork! That's what I'm talking about!"
The game continues, scrappy and chaotic, and you find yourself getting invested despite the questionable skill level on display. Steve never stops moving—pacing the sideline, calling out encouragement, demonstrating footwork when the referee stops play, high-fiving every kid who comes off the court for a substitution regardless of whether they did well or not.
When one kid trips over his own feet and goes sprawling, Steve is there immediately, helping him up, checking his scraped palms, sending him back onto the court with a pat on the back and a "shake it off, buddy."
With thirty seconds left, Steve's team is up by two points. The other team has the ball, and you can see the tension in Steve's shoulders, the way he's gripping the clipboard so hard his knuckles have gone white. The opposing team's best player drives toward the basket, and Derek moves to block him—legally this time, hands up, feet shuffling.
The kid shoots. The ball arcs through the air in what feels like slow motion.
It bounces off the rim.
Cameron grabs the rebound, and the buzzer sounds.
For a moment, there's complete silence. Then chaos erupts.
Steve's team screams, high-pitched and joyful, and before he can react, all nine kids are running at him full-speed. They hit him like a tidal wave, small bodies colliding with his legs and waist, arms wrapping around whatever they can reach, and Steve goes down.
Not hard. He’s able to catch himself, letting the momentum take him to his knees and then his side on the polished wood floor, the cap flying off his head and skittering away across the gym. He's laughing as kids pile on top of him, all of them shrieking with victory, curls now completely free and wild around his face. His clipboard skitters away in the opposite direction, and you can see his expression, pressed against the gym floor, eyes squeezed shut but mouth stretched in a genuine smile, wider than you've seen since arriving in Hawkins.
"We won! We won! Coach Steve, we won!"
"I know! I know! You guys were amazing!" His voice is muffled under the pile of children, but the pride in it is unmistakable. "Okay, okay, you're crushing me. I need to breathe!"
They peel off reluctantly, still bouncing with excitement, and Steve sits up slowly, running a hand through his now-disheveled curls, making them stick up even more. His shirt is untucked, his cheeks flushed, and there's a happiness radiating from him that makes something in your chest feel strange. He reaches for the cap, slapping it back on his head backwards, not bothering to tame his hair first.
"That was disgusting," Eddie announces cheerfully beside you. "I think I got a cavity just watching that."
"Shut up," Robin says, but she's smiling, eyes soft as she watches Steve get to his feet and accept a handshake from the other team's coach.
Nancy doesn't say anything, but when you glance at her, she's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read.
Eventually, the games are over and the gym begins to empty, families filtering out into the cold afternoon, kids still hyped up on adrenaline and victory. Steve stays behind, helping to clean up—folding chairs, collecting stray basketballs, talking to a parent who wants to know about the summer basketball camp. The cap is still backwards on his head, curls poking out wildly around the edges.
The four of you make your way down from the bleachers, and Robin stretches her arms over her head with an exaggerated groan. "We should get some lunch. I'm starving."
Steve looks up from where he's stacking chairs, face slightly apologetic. "I offered to air up basketballs this afternoon. But you guys are still coming over tonight for the movie, right?"
There's a hopeful look in his eyes that makes your stomach twist, and you remember Robin mentioning that his parents had left sometime Sunday morning, heading back to Indianapolis for work. Which seemed shitty, not wanting to spend at least one full day of the new year with their son.
"'Course," Robin says immediately. "Assuming we should bring things to sleep in?"
Steve's smile is quick and genuine. "The guest rooms will be awaiting your stay." Then his eyes flash to you for half a second before skittering away, like making eye contact is dangerous.
You look behind him at the cart of basketballs, at least twenty of them, all flat or nearly flat. "You're going to do it all by yourself?"
Steve shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets, the gesture pulling the t-shirt tighter across his chest. "I'm used to it. Whenever I got in trouble in school, Coach would make me do it for detention. Takes forever because you have to get the correct air pressure. Like, there's a gauge and everything."
The words come out before you've fully thought them through. "I can stay and help. Then you'd be done faster and can hang out with us."
Steve looks almost bewildered. His gaze bounces between Robin and you, mouth opening and closing once. "Uh..."
Nancy cuts in smoothly, already linking her arm through Eddie's and reaching for Robin with her other hand. "Okay. Meet us in an hour at Family Video so we can choose a movie together." She gives you a strange smile, something that's more smirk than anything else, and pulls Eddie and Robin toward the exit before either of them can protest.
You realize, belatedly, the implications of what being alone with Steve means. But you smile anyway, turning back to him. "Okay. Tell me what to do."
Steve can't help himself. "Yeah, because I know you like that."
He doesn't smirk, but his eyes tell a different story entirely before he pivots and walks toward the cart of basketballs.
Twenty minutes later, you and Steve are sprawled on the gymnasium floor, the space around you littered with basketballs in various states of inflation. The gym is empty now, quiet except for the rhythmic sound of air pumps and the occasional squeak of rubber against the polished wood. Steve has taken off the cap at some point, set it aside on the floor between you, his curls free and messy, falling into his eyes every time he bends over a ball.
You were wrong to volunteer for this. Steve was absolutely right—it takes forever, and you have to be so precise, checking the gauge after every few pumps, making sure the pressure is exactly right or the ball will be too hard, too soft, completely unusable.
Your hand cramps suddenly, fingers seizing around the pump handle, and you let out a frustrated huff, shaking it out.
Immediately, you feel a big, rough hand close over yours, warm and gentle. Steve's thumb presses into your palm, massaging the cramped muscle with practiced pressure.
"So why did you volunteer to do this again?" you ask, trying to ignore the way your stomach coils at his touch, wondering where else those hands could massage.
"Why did you?" he counters, not looking up from where his thumb is working circles into your palm.
You smile despite yourself. "I don't know. Felt bad you were going to do it by yourself, I guess."
Steve stops massaging your hand and goes back to pumping a ball, a curl falling forward over his forehead as he bends down. You follow suit, flexing your fingers a few times before picking up your own pump. "I like it," he says after a moment, voice quiet. "Sometimes I want to be by myself but not in my house."
"Oh." Guilt flashes through you. "Sorry. You should've said so."
He chuckles, the sound low and genuine, pushing the curl back with his free hand only for it to fall right back. "No, it's okay. I like your company."
For the first time since you've known Steve Harrington, something in your stomach flutters. Actually flutters, like there are moths trapped under your ribs trying to find a way out.
You're probably just hungry.
You smile at him, then turn your attention back to the ball in front of you. "Well, that's a lot sweeter than what I thought."
"What'd you think?"
"I dunno. That you're reveling in your glory days of high school fame by volunteering to help coach and then air up basketballs."
Steve is quick. "Oh no, that too."
You both stop, look at one another, and the smile that spreads across his face is mirrored on your own. You share a laugh, the sound echoing slightly in the empty gym, before going back to your respective basketballs.
Steve nudges your knee with his foot. "Dustin told me he witnessed what a hot shot you are. Told me you could probably give me a run for my money in basketball."
You roll your eyes, still focused on the pump. "Is that what you're calling me now? Hot shot?"
Steve shrugs, and when you glance up, he's smirking, leaning toward you slightly, one hand reaching up to run through his curls. "Dunno. You wanna show me if he's right?" His eyebrows raise, teeth catching his bottom lip as he motions toward the basketball goal across the court.
Your eyes flash with the challenge before you can stop them. You've never been one to show off—never the type to seek attention or prove yourself unnecessarily. But oddly, you feel competitive with Steve. You can't explain why. Maybe it's the way his eyes flash hungry when he's about to win something, that downturned gaze sharpening with focus. Maybe it's just that you like seeing him lose that controlled composure.
Steve grabs an aired-up ball and you both make your way to half-court, the sound of your footsteps bouncing off the walls. He snatches the red cap from the floor as he stands, spinning it once in his hand before slapping it back on his head backwards, that cocky grin playing at his lips.
"Check," Steve says, bouncing the ball to you once.
You catch it, bounce it back, and he starts dribbling, the rhythm steady and controlled. The cap sits perfectly backwards on his head, curls escaping wildly from underneath. "Do you like Hawkins so far?"
You move with him, arms up, trying to guard him even though you're not entirely sure of the rules of one-on-one. "Yeah, I really do. It's refreshing compared to city life."
Steve drives left, and you follow, but he pivots smoothly and takes the shot. It swishes through the net with a clean sound that's almost offensive in its perfection.
You frown. "Damn."
"Lucky shot," Steve says, but he's grinning as he retrieves the ball and brings it back to the top, adjusting the cap with one hand. He bounces it to you for the check.
You dribble, less smooth than him but competent, trying to figure out the best angle. Steve's defense is surprisingly good, hands up but not reaching, feet shuffling to stay in front of you. "I mean... in the city, there's always strangers. People you never see again. But here..." You fake right, drive left, and manage to get past him enough to take a shot. It bounces off the rim. "I think I saw at least ten people who were at your parents' party last night when we were out today. It's kind of... endearing."
Steve smiles, grabbing the rebound, curls bouncing as he moves. He looks genuinely pleased by this observation. "Yeah. It's different here. Not always good different, but..."
You nod, understanding what he's not saying.
The game continues, your bodies finding a rhythm—dribble, guard, shoot, rebound. You manage to score, a clumsy layup that barely makes it over the rim, but Steve whoops anyway, hands clapping together once, the movement making his t-shirt ride up slightly, exposing a sliver of tanned stomach.
"There you go, Hot Shot!"
On the next possession, Steve gets the ball and pauses at the top, checking it to you softly. His voice drops, quieter than before. "I'm sorry about last night."
Your mind immediately flashes to the last ten minutes of the party—the alcove, the almost, the way he'd walked away. Your hands close around the ball, bouncing it back. "Why?"
But Steve just stands there, hands splayed on the ball, holding it to fidget. He looks up, and there's frustration clear in his expression, visible even under the shadow of the cap's brim. "For ignoring you, even if you didn't really care. That wasn't nice. And then you hearing my dad and me... and then I don't know..."
His eyes lift to yours, and you can see that he does know what else, but he doesn't finish the thought. He starts dribbling instead, the sound loud in the quiet gym.
He continues talking as he moves, and you move with him, trying to guard him. "It's different back in Hawkins because you're right. Everyone knows everyone. It's different here than back at school where I can get away with shit. But here there's always eyes. And well... to be truthful..." He shoots, and the ball hits the rim, bouncing off. You both go back to the top. "I sometimes don't know how to act when you're around. I don't hang out with the other girls, and they're not friends with Robin. And they have certainly never been invited by her to come here, and so—"
"Steve, you don't have to explain. Really. I get it." You bounce the ball to him for the check. "Your family and their friends were there last night. All is forgiven."
Something in his shoulders loosens, tension bleeding out that you hadn't fully noticed was there. He reaches up to adjust the cap, pushing it back slightly before pulling it forward again.
The game shifts after that. You're both less careful, less polite. When you go for a shot, Steve's there, pressing close, hand reaching up to block. When he drives for the basket, you're right behind him, your front against his back, arm reaching around to swat at the ball. Bodies pressing together, the cotton of his t-shirt soft against your skin, breath coming faster.
"What are your parents like?" Steve asks as he dribbles, his back to you, and you can feel the heat of him through your shirt, can see the way his shoulders move under the gray fabric.
"I guess normal? It's just me, so I equally feel smothered and loved at the same time." You try to reach around him for the ball but he's too quick, spinning away and taking the shot. It misses, and you grab the rebound, but he’s quick . "When you graduate, are you coming back to Hawkins?"
Steve falters while you dri, just for a second, his hand coming up automatically to adjust the cap even though it doesn't need adjusting, then shoots and makes it. "I dunno. I mean... you heard last night. I still have no fucking clue what I want to do. I don't know what I'm good at."
You check the ball to him, watching his face under the red brim. "What about this?"
Steve scoffs, starting to dribble. "About what? Flirting with you?"
That weird flip happens in your stomach again. You really must need water. "No, Harrington. I'm talking about today. Coaching."
You manage to steal the ball and drive for the basket, making it with a clumsy shot that somehow goes in.
Steve freezes at the top of the key, just standing there staring at you, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck under the cap. "I mean... I wouldn't really say that was a big deal, you know? I was just asked a few weeks ago to do it because the other volunteer couldn't do it anymore and I ran into Coach Halpern at the grocery store and it was kind of a joke... you know, last option sort of thing. It's not like I did anything special. It wasn't a—"
"Steve, shut up and check the ball."
You roll your eyes, but you also find it cute how nervous he is, the way he keeps fidgeting with the cap, adjusting it even though it's fine. You've never really had a one-on-one conversation with him that wasn't about sex or directly related to Robin or some party. Then again, you bolt out the door after any time you're alone with him, so maybe that's on you.
He swallows, doing as you say, and bounces the ball to you. He speaks again, softer this time. "You really think I'd be good at it? Like... teaching? I mean, I absolutely hated school. Still do."
"Steve, you've surrounded yourself with kids. You'd think it was weird, but you just have a way with them."
Steve gives you a shy smile, something boyish and uncertain, before checking the ball and shooting. It goes in, clean. "Okay. I'll think about it." Then he adds, quieter, "I don't really want kids one day, but I guess Max, Dustin, and the rest of them make up for it."
He looks at you, question in his eyes visible even in the shadow of the cap's brim. "Do you want kids someday?"
You smile, shrugging as you grab the rebound and dribble back to the top. "I mean, sure, I've thought about it. Maybe. It still feels so far away to think about those kinds of things."
Steve nods, understanding.
The game continues, your bodies finding a rhythm that's almost hypnotic—dribble, guard, shoot, the squeak of shoes on the polished floor, the sound of breath and movement and the ball hitting wood. You notice the way sweat has started to darken the gray of his t-shirt slightly, the way curls are sticking to his forehead under the cap.
You have possession, dribbling, trying to find an opening. Steve is behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his stomach against your back through the thin fabric of his shirt, his breath on your neck. Then he mutters, quiet but clear: "Have you ever been in love?"
You falter. Just for a second, but it's enough. Steve reaches around you, stealing the ball, and drives for the basket. The shot goes in, and the game is his.
You put your hands on your hips, catching your breath, biting your lip. "No. I don't think so. I'm not sure what it's supposed to feel like, I guess."
Steve raises a brow, walking back toward you, reaching up to take off the cap and run his hand through his sweat-damp curls before putting it back on. "You've never had a boyfriend?"
"I have. A few through high school. One the first semester of college. But I don't know..." You shrug, suddenly feeling exposed in a way you don't like. "I never thought of them when something really good happened to me." You force a laugh. "I know, I'm heartless."
Steve shrugs, and the way his eyes glisten under the fluorescent lights, visible even under the cap's shadow, makes your heart thump in an irregular way that you don't want to examine. "Maybe. Or maybe you haven't found the right guy yet."
"Right. Maybe." You tilt your head, studying him—the backwards cap, the messy curls, the gray t-shirt clinging to his chest, the way he's looking at you like you're a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Have you ever been in love?"
Steve laughs, but you don't miss the pain that flickers through his eyes, quick and sharp before he can hide it. "I'm as hopeless as you are, Hot Shot."
The words hang between you in the empty gymnasium, settling like dust in afternoon light, and for a moment, neither of you moves. Just standing there, breathing hard, looking at each other like you're both trying to figure something out.
Then Steve's watch beeps, shattering the moment.
"Shit," he mutters, glancing down at it. "We need to meet them at Family Video."
"Right," you say, and your voice sounds almost normal. "Let's go."
.-.-.-.
The Princess Bride starts with its storybook opening, the grandfather's voice warm and familiar through the television speakers. You're settled on the sofa in Steve's living room—a space that screams wealth in the most understated way possible. Cream leather couches arranged in a U-shape around a coffee table that's probably worth more than your car, floor-to-ceiling windows that during the day must flood the room with light, now dark and reflecting the glow from the massive television mounted above a fireplace you haven't seen lit once.
Robin and Nancy are curled together on the far end of a sectional on the other side of the room, Nancy's head on Robin's shoulder, their fingers intertwined between them. They lasted maybe ten minutes before the giggles started—soft at first, then progressively louder, little squeals escaping whenever they whisper to each other.
Steve's jaw tightens. His arms cross over his chest, wearing a new shirt. The backwards cap is gone now, curls free and wild, but you can still see the indent it left in his hair. "Some people are actually trying to watch the movie here."
Robin rolls her eyes, mouth opening to deliver what you're certain will be a biting retort, but Nancy leans in close and whispers something that makes Robin's expression shift entirely. She dissolves into giggles, that toothy grin spreading across her face as she clears her throat and stands, tugging Nancy up with her. "We're getting sleepy, so we're gonna—"
"You don't have to announce it," Eddie interrupts from his spot on the floor, sprawled on his stomach with his chin propped in his hands, completely engrossed in the sword fight between Inigo and Westley playing out on screen. "We know you're gonna fool around. Now go."
They laugh, Nancy's hand finding Robin's as she pulls her toward the stairs, both of them trying and failing to contain their amusement.
Steve rolls his eyes, sinking further into his corner of the couch. You're on the opposite end, a deliberate distance between you that feels somehow more obvious now that Robin and Nancy have left.
Eddie twists around, looking between the two of you with exasperation clear on his face. "Don't let me stop you two either."
"Shut up," Steve growls, face flushing red.
You scowl, crossing your arms. "Absolutely not. I love this movie." Your voice softens slightly. "My mom used to read the book to me when I was sick. It's my favorite."
Eddie's entire expression melts, his chin still perched in his palm, grinning at you with something dreamy and fond. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"
Steve grabs a throw pillow and whips it at Eddie's head. "Can you two be quiet?"
The pillow bounces off Eddie's shoulder harmlessly. He winks at you before turning back to the television, and you bite back a smile, catching the jealousy radiating off Steve in waves—the set of his shoulders, the way his arms are crossed so tight you can see the muscles in his forearms flexing.
The room settles into quiet again, only the movie filling the space. You glance at Steve and find him already looking at you. He doesn't look away, doesn't pretend he was doing anything else, and something warm unfurls in your chest.
You lean in slightly, keeping your voice low. "Can you hand me that blanket?"
Steve nods, reaching for the throw draped over the back of the couch. You watch his muscles work beneath the red cotton, the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders and biceps. He's still wearing that t-shirt, still looking rumpled and soft in a way that makes your fingers itch.
He hands you the blanket, and unlike the last time—the first night you hooked up when he'd used the same gesture as an opening move—his attention returns immediately to the screen.
You don't look at him as you fan the blanket out, the movement casual and innocent. Then you scoot closer, smooth and unhurried, rotating so your feet swing up into his lap. Your back rests against the arm of the couch, head propped on a throw pillow, the blanket draped over your legs and his lap.
Steve doesn't move. Doesn't acknowledge the shift except for the slight spreading of his legs. One hand rests against the back of the couch, the other propped against his cheek, elbow on the armrest. He looks bored, expression neutral as he watches Westley and Buttercup on screen.
The movie continues. Eddie remains glued to the floor a few feet in front of you, completely absorbed.
You move your foot slightly, the arch pressing against Steve's inner thigh. Your sock brushes over the denim, a whisper of contact.
Steve doesn't look at you, but his legs spread wider, making space. The hand on the back of the couch slides down under the blanket, finding your other foot first, then your ankle. His thumb presses into the sensitive skin there, rubbing circles that send heat up your calf.
You continue the pressure against his thigh, foot sliding higher, and you feel him twitch in his jeans. A shaky breath escapes him, so quiet you almost miss it. His jaw tightens, but then you catch it—the small smile playing at his lips when your own breath hitches.
His hand slides from your ankle up your calf, fingers tracing patterns on your skin through your jeans. Then higher, slipping between your thighs. Inching closer. One finger brushes over your cunt through the denim, feather-light.
Your foot presses harder against him in response, and his thumb finds the seam of your jeans, pressing it into your clit with controlled pressure that makes your toes curl.
You both continue like this—teasing, touching, nothing escalating beyond these hidden movements under the blanket. Nothing intense enough to make either of you lose control, but enough that you can feel the heat building, coiling low in your belly, every brush of his fingers making you acutely aware of how much you want more.
The movie plays on. Eddie laughs at something on screen, completely oblivious.
When the credits finally roll, Eddie sits up with a dramatic yawn, actual tears beading in his eyes. "So beautiful," he breathes, reverent.
He twists around to look at you both, smirking when he sees the blanket still draped over you, your feet still in Steve's lap. "Well, I'm going outside to smoke." He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. "Safe to say you two won't be joining? Always the guy left in the dust."
You laugh, pulling your feet back slightly. "Aw, don't be sad. You could always join."
Eddie barks out a laugh.
Steve's grip on your leg tightens suddenly—not painful, but unexpected enough to make you wince.
Eddie shakes his finger at you, grin widening. "Down, girl." He looks at Steve. "Don't worry, big boy. She's all yours."
You can't resist. "Aw, Steve, he could watch."
The look Steve shoots you could melt steel. Eddie howls with laughter, standing and stretching before heading toward the back door, whistling as he goes.
You're smiling, coy and pleased with yourself, when Steve deliberately brushes your feet off his lap. They thump against the couch cushion, forcing you to sit up properly.
Steve crosses his arms, visibly brooding.
"Steeeeve," you draw out his name, poking his bicep. "I was kidding."
He scoots away from you, giving you a sideways look that's all irritation and wounded pride.
You roll your eyes, getting up on your knees and crawling toward him across the couch. Your hands find his chest, palms flat against the soft cotton. "Steve, stop it."
He doesn't budge, jaw still tight, eyes still averted.
Your mouth finds his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the warm skin there. "Come on, Steve. I was kidding."
He grunts, but his neck tilts to the side, offering more access.
You smile against the junction of his shoulder, then trail your lips up to the spot right below his ear, kissing him there too. "I only want to fuck you tonight, Steve."
Your hand slides down his chest to his thigh, and you feel his hard cock straining against the denim. You notice he's already unbuttoned his jeans—probably did it sometime during the movie when the pressure became too much.
You lean in closer, breath hot against his ear. "Come on, baby. Will you fuck me tonight?"
Steve shudders, eyes fluttering closed. A small whimper escapes his lips, and his hand comes up to cup the side of your face, fingers threading into your hair. His mouth finds your neck, kissing and sucking, teeth grazing.
"Show me your room?" you pant.
Steve's bedroom is a study in contradictions.
The space is enormous—easily twice the size of your dorm room, maybe bigger. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, currently shrouded by heavy curtains that block out the night. The bed is massive, king-sized with a dark wood frame that looks expensive and old, like it's been passed down through generations. Navy bedding, perfectly made until you and Steve stumbled through the door and immediately started pulling at each other's clothes.
There's a desk in the corner—dark wood matching the bed frame, covered in textbooks and scattered papers, a lamp with a green glass shade. Bookshelves line another wall, filled with a mix of actual books and sports trophies, photographs in frames, a record player with a stack of vinyl beside it. The walls are a soft gray-blue, decorated with framed posters—a couple of bands you recognize, a vintage Indiana basketball print, a photograph of Steve with Robin and the kids that looks recent.
It's clean but lived-in, organized but not sterile. There's a hamper in the corner with a shirt draped over the edge, a pair of sneakers kicked off near the closet, glasses—
Wait.
You're on top of him now, kissing his neck, your hands raking down his bare chest. He's completely naked beneath you, cock hard against your stomach, and his mouth has found your breasts, lips closing around one nipple while his other hand cups and squeezes the other.
You lift your head, still holding yourself above him, when something on his nightstand catches the light. Something gleaming.
"Holy shit," you breathe.
"Feel good, babygirl?" Steve smirks into the plush of your breast, tongue flicking.
You scramble off him—he makes an "oomph" sound as your knee catches his ribs—and crawl across the bed to his nightstand. You pick up the object, turning around with a growing grin.
"Steve Harrington. You wear glasses?"
Steve, propped up on his elbows, groans and immediately falls back against the pillows, hands coming up to cover his face. "Oh god."
You're topless, wearing only your panties, and Steve is completely naked, but you're holding these glasses like they're treasure. They're wire-rimmed, simple, the kind that could be studious or stylish depending on who's wearing them.
You crawl back to him, legs bracketing his hips as you straddle him. Despite himself, his hands find your thighs, thumbs rubbing automatic circles into your skin.
"Come on, put them on," you say, grinning.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I look like a total dingus in them. I hate wearing them—"
"Please?" You pout, batting your eyes. "For me?"
Steve rolls his eyes, but you can see the resolve crumbling. "Okay. Fine."
You giggle, wiggling slightly, and the movement makes your pussy rub against his cock. You both moan—yours involuntary, his rough and strained.
You open the glasses carefully, holding them with both hands. Steve watches you, expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and anticipation, and you lean forward slowly.
The frames settle against his temples, and you slide them gently over his ears, adjusting them until they sit perfectly on the bridge of his nose. Then you pull back to look.
Oh.
His eyes, already beautiful, are magnified slightly by the lenses. You can see every fleck of color—hazel with those rings of gold and green, darker near the pupil, lighter at the edges. His lashes are long and thick, casting shadows on his cheeks in the low lamplight.
He looks... pretty. Unfairly so. The glasses add something—vulnerability maybe, or intelligence, or both. They make him look softer somehow, more approachable, the cocky fraternity president stripped away to reveal something genuine underneath.
He gives you a shy look, almost bashful, one corner of his mouth pulling up in an uncertain smile. His curls are wild around his face, mussed from your fingers, and the glasses frame his eyes in a way that makes your stomach flutter.
That feeling again. The one from the gymnasium. Moths under your ribs.
"Wow," you breathe, and you mean it.
"That bad?" Steve asks, voice quiet.
"Steve," you say seriously, hands coming up to frame his face. "They're sexy."
His cheeks flush immediately, color spreading down his neck. He gives you a dopey look, that crooked grin you've come to recognize, curls hugging his forehead beneath the frames. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You nod, biting your lip, feeling heat pool low in your belly. "Keep them on. Please. I want you to fuck me with them on."
You feel him twitch beneath you, cock jumping against your ass.
"Jesus," he groans, fingers looping in the waistband of your panties. "Take these off. I need you to sit on my face. Right now."
You start to shimmy out of them, but Steve suddenly says, "Wait!"
He rolls out from under you, scrambling off the bed and crossing to his door. You hear the lock click, then he's back, crawling across the mattress and nipping your shoulder before lying down and pulling you on top of him.
He shrugs when you raise an eyebrow. "What? I don't want anyone wandering in."
You nearly laugh. Anyone meaning Eddie.
"Now get up here," Steve says, hands on your hips, already guiding you forward.
You position yourself above his face, thighs bracketing his head, but you don't lower yourself yet. You hover there, watching the way his eyes darken behind those glasses, the way his fingers flex against your thighs.
"What are you waiting for?" Steve's voice is rough, impatient.
"Maybe I like keeping you waiting," you say, lowering just enough that he can feel the heat of you, close enough that his breath ghosts over your wet skin, but not close enough for contact. "So needy."
His hands grip your hips, trying to pull you down, but you resist. "Baby—"
"Say please."
His eyes flash up at you through those glasses, pupils already blown wide. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please sit on my face and let me taste you," he says, and there's an edge of desperation in his voice that sends heat flooding through you. "Please, I need it."
You lower yourself slowly, and the second his tongue makes contact, licking a long, broad stripe through your folds, you both gasp. Steve groans against you—a deep, satisfied sound that reverberates through your core and makes your thighs tremble.
"Oh my god," you whimper, one hand reaching out to grip the headboard while the other stays braced against the wall.
His tongue doesn't stop moving, exploring you thoroughly—circling your clit once, twice, then dipping lower to push inside you in shallow, teasing thrusts that have your hips rolling. The sounds are obscene, wet and hungry, punctuated by Steve's groans of appreciation.
You look down and the sight nearly destroys you.
Steve's face between your thighs, those wire-rimmed glasses already starting to fog at the edges from the heat of your body. His eyes are half-closed, lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, curls splayed wild and messy against the navy pillow. His mouth is on you, lips sealed around your clit, tongue flicking and circling, and you can see the way his jaw moves with purpose, the way his throat works when he swallows.
"Steve," you pant, hips rocking in small movements. "God, that feels—"
He makes a muffled sound of encouragement—"Mmhmm"—the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide from your hips to grip your ass with both palms, fingers spreading you open as he pulls you down harder against his mouth. The glasses fog more with each hot breath, condensation building on the lenses until his hazel eyes become hazy shapes behind the white clouds.
His tongue moves back to your clit, and the pattern he traces is maddening—slow, firm circles that make your toes curl, then quick flicks that have you gasping, then he sucks it between his lips and your head falls back.
"Don't stop," you breathe. "Please don't stop."
He doesn't. If anything, he works harder, tongue flattening to let you control the pressure as your hips start moving with more purpose. The wet sounds fill the room—his mouth on you, your gasping breaths, the little groans he makes every time you grind down against him.
You reach down with your free hand, threading your fingers through his curls. They're soft and thick, still slightly damp with sweat from the basketball game earlier, and when you tug experimentally, Steve moans—actually moans, the sound muffled but unmistakable—and his hips buck up into nothing.
"You like that?" you ask, voice shaking as you tug again with more force.
He can't answer with words, not with his mouth occupied, but the desperate sound he makes and the way his fingers dig harder into your ass tells you everything. His glasses are fogging faster now, two circles of white condensation obscuring his vision, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down.
You tug harder, fisting your hand in those curls, and Steve's response is immediate. His tongue works faster, more frantically, and then you feel it—one hand leaving your ass, sliding around, and two fingers pushing inside you without warning.
"Oh fuck!" Your other hand flies from the wall to grip his hair too, both fists now tangled in those curls. "Steve—"
"That's my girl," Steve praises, voice rough and wrecked. His fingers curl harder inside you, pumping in and out while his tongue stays focused on your clit. "Fuck my face. Pull my hair. Use me however you want. I'm yours."
His fingers curl up, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
"Right there," you gasp, pulling his hair harder. "Right there, don't stop, please—"
Steve doubles his efforts, fingers curling and stroking that perfect spot while his tongue traces tight circles around your clit. The sounds he's making are desperate and needy—little grunts and groans that vibrate through you, wet and muffled.
His free hand grips your ass so tight you can feel each individual finger pressing into your flesh, holding you exactly where he wants you. You know without looking that there will be bruises tomorrow, five perfect circles marking his possession.
"I'm close," you warn, voice breaking. "Steve, I'm so close—"
He makes an encouraging sound, fingers pumping faster, curling harder. His tongue speeds up, flicking your clit in rapid succession, and you can feel your orgasm building like a wave, cresting higher and higher.
You look down and the sight pushes you closer to the edge—his face buried between your thighs, glasses completely fogged and useless, curls gripped tight in your fists, the way his whole body is taut with effort and want.
"Please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for. "Please, Steve—"
His fingers curl hard against that spot inside you, his tongue flicks your clit once, twice, and then you're gone.
Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, so intense you actually cry out his name, thighs clamping around his head as you grind down against his face. Your hands pull his hair so hard it has to hurt, has to sting, but Steve doesn't stop—he licks you through it, fingers still moving, drawing out every last tremor and aftershock.
"Too much," you finally gasp when it becomes too intense, too sensitive. "Steve, I can't—"
Only then does he let you go, fingers sliding out carefully, mouth pressing one last kiss to your inner thigh that's so sweet it makes your chest ache. You lift off him on shaky legs and collapse beside him on the bed, completely boneless.
Steve sits up, removing his glasses with one hand. They're completely fogged, moisture clinging to the lenses, and he wipes them clean on the navy sheet with careful, methodical movements before holding them up to inspect his work in the lamplight. Satisfied, he puts them back on, settling them on the bridge of his nose.
When he looks at you, his lips and chin are shining with evidence of what he's done, and there's a self-satisfied smirk on his face that makes your stomach flip.
"You okay?" he asks, voice rough.
You're still trying to catch your breath, chest heaving. "I think you broke me."
He laughs, the sound warm and pleased. "Good."
Your eyes drift down to his cock—painfully hard and flushed dark against his stomach, a bead of precum leaking from the tip. Without thinking, you reach out and wrap your hand around him.
Steve hisses, hips jerking up into your touch. "Fuck—"
"My turn," you say, squeezing gently.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." You meet his eyes through those glasses. "Condom. Now."
His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the hazel. "Yeah. Okay."
He reaches for his nightstand, fumbling in the drawer and producing a foil packet. You take it from him before he can open it, tearing it with your teeth while maintaining eye contact.
"Fuck" he mutters, watching you.
"That's the plan," you say, rolling the condom onto his cock with slow, deliberate movements.
Steve's hips jerk up, seeking more friction. "Baby—"
You climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and position yourself over his cock. Then you hover there, just like you did over his face, the tip barely pressing against your entrance.
"Now who's teasing?" Steve groans, hands finding your hips.
"Learned from the best," you say, and sink down slowly.
Both of you moan as you take him inch by inch, feeling the stretch and fullness. When you're seated completely, his cock buried deep inside you, you pause to adjust, to breathe.
"Fuck," Steve breathes, fingers digging into your hips. His glasses are starting to fog again from the heat between your bodies. "You feel perfect. So tight and wet and perfect."
You start to move, lifting up and sinking back down in a rhythm that has both of you gasping. Steve watches you through those fogging lenses, eyes tracking every movement—the bounce of your breasts, the roll of your hips, the place where he disappears inside you.
"That's it," he encourages. "Take what you want."
You lean forward, hands on his chest for leverage, and pick up the pace. The new angle makes him hit deeper, and you both groan at the sensation.
"Touch yourself," Steve says, voice rough with need. "Want to see you."
Your hand slides between your legs, fingers finding your oversensitive clit. Steve's eyes track the movement even through the fogged lenses, and his grip on your hips tightens.
"God, you're so hot," he pants. "Could watch you all night."
You're climbing fast toward another orgasm, still sensitive from before. When Steve sits up suddenly, changing the angle, you cry out.
"Is this okay?" he asks, and you nod frantically because it's more than okay—it's perfect.
He flips you onto your back in one smooth motion, his glasses somehow staying in place, and starts moving with renewed intensity. His hips snap against yours with force, each thrust deep and purposeful.
"Yes," you moan, legs wrapping around his waist. "Just like that—"
His hand comes down on your ass—once, twice—and you gasp, clenching around him. The slight sting sends pleasure sparking through you.
"Good?" he asks, breathless.
"So good," you confirm, nails raking down his back.
He leans down, teeth finding your shoulder and biting down hard enough to leave a mark. You arch into him, hands coming up to tangle in his hair again, finding those curls and gripping tight.
Steve groans against your skin, and you tug harder, pulling until you feel his scalp give under your fingers. His response is to thrust harder, faster, the headboard banging against the wall with each movement.
"I'm close," you gasp, fingers working frantically on your clit. "Steve—"
"Me too," he pants, burying his face in your neck. His glasses are completely fogged now, useless white circles, but he hasn't taken them off. "Come for me. Want to feel you—"
You tug his hair hard, pulling with both hands, and that's what does it. Your orgasm tears through you, intense and overwhelming, and you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cry.
"Fuck," Steve groans, hips stuttering. "I'm—"
He doesn't finish the sentence, just buries himself deep and comes with a shudder, face pressed against your neck, breath hot on your skin.
You lie there afterward, both panting and slick with sweat. His weight on top of you is comforting, grounding, and when he finally pulls back to look at you, you reach up and carefully remove his glasses.
"Let me," you say, wiping them clean on the sheet before putting them back on his face with gentle hands.
He smiles at you, soft and genuine. "Thanks."
"Anytime." You trace your fingers through his hair, smoothing the mess you made. "You okay?"
"More than okay." He presses a kiss to your forehead before carefully pulling out and rolling onto his back. You collapse on top of him, pressing kisses to his throat.
His arms wrap around you, grip tight and possessive, and you bask in the warmth before eventually rolling onto your back beside him.
For once, you don't feel the immediate urge to leave.
Steve sits up, removing the condom and tying it off before standing and pulling on his boxers. He finds a pair of pajama pants on his desk chair, stepping into them.
"I'll be right back," he says.
A few minutes later he returns with two glasses of water, a plate with a peanut butter sandwich, and a warm washcloth. He sits at the edge of the bed, bare back to you, and you realize you've never really had time to look at it properly.
His back is a constellation of moles and freckles, scattered across his shoulders and down his spine. Some are darker, some lighter, creating patterns you could trace with your fingers if you wanted to.
He shoves half the sandwich in his mouth, handing you one of the glasses of water, then silently begins wiping between your legs with the washcloth, gentle and thorough.
"You don't have to do that, Steve," you murmur.
He shrugs, continuing his task. Then he holds up the half-eaten sandwich, offering you a bite with a half-hearted smile.
You giggle. "No, thank you."
He gives you a look—mock offense—before finishing it himself. You drink the water he brought, watching him over the rim of the glass.
You see him laugh quietly to himself.
"What?" you ask.
He doesn't look at you, licking peanut butter from his lips. "I don't know. I was thinking about earlier today. What you said about coaching."
"Are you going to do it?"
"I haven't decided." He pauses, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "But I was thinking about how much I hate talking about that sort of thing. I mean, I'll rant to Robin. And then anytime I talk to my dad, he'll try to tell me what I should do. But I didn't really feel that with you."
He opens his mouth to say something else, but then closes it, face falling. He clears his throat.
He turns slightly, not fully facing you, but his hand finds your thigh. The touch sends a tingle across your skin.
"Do you want to watch some TV with me before you go to your room?"
There's something nervous in the way he asks, something vulnerable that makes your chest ache.
You lean toward him, and his hand slides from your thigh to the back of it, then up to cup your ass. "What do you watch?"
He shrugs. "ALF."
"ALF?" You can't help but chuckle.
"Yeah, why's that so funny?" He lifts his hand from your ass to brush a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering as he searches your eyes. There's a small smile on his lips.
"Thought you'd be a late-night Baywatch viewer," you tease.
His fingertips trail down your arm, eyes scanning your body in a way that makes you feel seen. "No. Dustin used to come over and we'd watch it, so... I don't know. It makes me laugh, okay?"
You find yourself leaning forward and kissing his nose, pulling back to see him smile.
"Okay," you say.
He grins, reaching for the TV remote on his nightstand.
"Want me to ask Eddie if he wants to watch too?" you ask innocently.
Steve looks over his shoulder at you. "Watch it, Hot Shot."
You laugh, and Steve gets up, crossing to his dresser. You think maybe you've hurt his feelings again, but then he's digging around and pulling something out. He tosses it onto the bed without looking at you, clicking the TV on.
It's an old t-shirt of his—soft and worn, smelling like laundry detergent and something underneath that's purely Steve—and a pair of sweatpants.
You put them on, the fabric enormous on you, and when you look up, you catch him watching. His eyes track your movements before he looks away quickly.
You settle back onto the bed, and Steve lies down beside you. The TV bathes the room in flickering light, the theme song for ALF starting up, and through the window you can see starlight bleeding through where the curtains don't quite meet.
Neither of you tangles together. You keep your space, lying side by side with inches between you.
Except.
Steve's hand finds yours in the space between your bodies. His fingers lace through yours, palm warm against your palm, and neither of you says anything about it.
Hello, Stranger Things fans. A few questions for you:
Do you wish the Stranger Things finale was… better?
Do you think ST seasons 4 and 5 were kind of… meh?
Do you hate how Eleven’s story ended? How Mileven’s story ended?
Do you wish you could read a Stranger Things story the size of a fantasy doorstopper novel that told an alternate version of S4 and S5?
Do you want a Stranger Things story with angst and romance, action and adventure, comedy and drama — and so much Mileven?
Then the Special Series might be for you. Two completed tales, one WIP, over 250,000 words of ST and Mileven goodness.
Book 1: When She Was Special
Book 2: When He Was Special
Book 3: And All The Days Were Special
All three tales are on AO3 right now, under the author name Constantius, available for your reading pleasure at the special low price of absolutely free.
And as part of this special introductory offer, I’m pleased to announce that All The Days, Chapter 10 has just dropped. It’s also yours, right now, for the low, low price of absolutely free.
steve loves fucking you with the risk of getting caught.
pairings: steve harrington x fem!reader
cw: smut | unprotected sex, fingering, lots of dirty talk, semi public
✉️ request
the air in the library is thick with the scent of old paper and the dust motes dancing in the slanted afternoon light. it's supposed to be a sanctuary of quiet knowledge, but for you, it's a torture chamber. every nerve ending is on fire, hyper-aware of the warm, heavy weight of steve harrington's hand resting on your thigh.
it started ten minutes ago. a casual, proprietary touch that he'd perfected over the last few weeks of your secret hookups. now, his thumb is stroking a slow, maddening circle on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, inching higher with every pass, a silent promise of what's to come. you're trying to focus on the highlighted text in your history book, but the words are swimming, blurring into meaningless shapes.
"so, the jacksonian democracy was basically a big 'fuck you' to the elite, right?" robin whispers, leaning across the table.
"something like that," you manage, your voice a little too high. steve's thumb has just grazed the seam of your jeans, right over the ache that's been building for the last hour. you squeeze your legs together, a pathetic attempt to quell the throbbing, but it only presses his hand more firmly against you.
steve chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that you feel more than you hear. he leans closer, pretending to look at your book, his breath hot against your ear. "having a little trouble concentrating, sweetheart?" he murmurs, his voice a low, seductive rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. "or are you just thinking about my cock?"
your breath hitches, and you shoot him a warning glare that he completely ignores. his fingers dance higher, tracing the zipper of your jeans, a feather-light touch that's somehow more torturous than a firm grip.
"i'm fine," you say to robin, who's now looking at you with a knowing smirk. "just... a headache."
"sure it's not a different kind of ache?" robin winks, and you feel your face flush with heat.
"ignore her," nancy says, not looking up from her notes. "she's just jealous she's not getting any."
"i get plenty," robin retorts, but you're not listening anymore. because steve's hand has moved again, his fingers now pressing firmly against your clothed core, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that are making you see stars. you have to physically bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.
"fuck," you breathe, the word escaping before you can stop it.
everyone looks at you.
"language," jonathan says mildly, from the other end of the table.
"sorry," you mumble, your face burning. "just... stubbed my toe."
"under the table?" steve asks, his voice laced with amusement. his fingers press harder, and you can feel your panties growing damp, the fabric sticking to you uncomfortably. "clumsy."
"you're one to talk," you shoot back, but your voice is weak, breathy. you're losing control. you can feel the tension coiling in your stomach, a tight, desperate knot that needs to be released.
"i think i need some air," you say suddenly, pushing your chair back. "or... a book. yeah, a book. for my english paper."
"what book?" nancy asks, ever the helpful one.
"it's... it's about..." your mind is a complete blank. you can't think of a single thing, except for the way steve's fingers are still tracing patterns on your thigh, even now.
"the sun also rises," steve says smoothly, his voice completely normal. "hemingway. she needs it for her paper on the lost generation. i'll help her find it. it's in the stacks, right?"
"yeah, back wall," jonathan says, already turning back to his own work.
"we'll be right back," steve says, pushing his own chair back. he stands up, and you get a perfect view of the bulge straining against the front of his jeans. he catches you looking and winks, a slow, filthy smirk that makes your stomach clench.
you follow him, your legs feeling like they're made of jelly. he leads you deeper into the library, past the main study area, into the tall, imposing stacks. the air is cooler here, and quieter, the silence broken only by the distant rustle of pages. he doesn't stop at the end of the aisle, but keeps going, pulling you into a narrow, dead-end corridor between the shelves of ancient, leather-bound books.
he pushes you against the cold, hard wood of the bookshelf, his body covering yours, his mouth crashing down on yours in a desperate, possessive kiss. it's all teeth and tongue, a frantic, hungry clash that tastes of desperation and lust.
"you have no fucking idea what you do to me," he growls against your lips, his hands fumbling with the button of your jeans. "walking around in those tight jeans, acting all innocent. i know what you are. you're a dirty girl who loves being touched in secret."
"only by you," you gasp, your head falling back against the books as his lips trail down your neck, his teeth scraping against your pulse point.
"damn right," he grunts, finally managing to undo your jeans. he pushes his hand inside your panties, his fingers sliding through your slick folds. "fuck, you're soaking. have you been this wet the whole time?"
"for you," you breathe, your hips bucking against his hand.
"that's my girl," he purrs, his voice a low, dirty rumble against your ear. "my perfect girl, dripping for me in the middle of the library. what would your friends say if they could see you now? if they knew you were letting me finger you right around the corner?"
"steve," you whimper, his words sending a jolt of arousal straight to your core. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in tight, merciless circles, and you can feel your knees start to buckle.
"what's the matter, baby?" he taunts, his voice mocking. "can't handle it? you were squirming in your chair like a bitch in heat. did you think i wouldn't notice? did you think i wouldn't know what you were begging for?"
you can only shake your head, your hands gripping his shoulders as he works you with his fingers. he's ruthless, his movements precise and calculated, designed to push you to the edge and hold you there.
"please," you whimper, your voice barely a whisper. "steve, please."
"please what?" he asks, his tone cruel. "use your words. tell me what you want."
"you," you gasp, your hips grinding against his hand. "i want you inside me. i want your cock."
"yeah?" he growls, his fingers stilling. "you want me to fuck you right here? right where anyone could walk by and see? see you with your pants around your ankles, taking my cock like my good girl?”
"yes," you moan, the filthy words sending a fresh wave of arousal through you. "yes, please, fuck me."
that's all he needs to hear. he pulls his fingers out of you, and you whine at the loss, but he's already undoing his own jeans, pushing them down just enough to free himself. he's hard and heavy in his hand, the tip leaking pre-cum, and the sight of him makes your mouth water.
he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pins you against the bookshelf. you can feel the hard length of him pressed against your entrance, and you grind against him, desperate for relief.
"look at me," he commands, his voice rough. you open your eyes, and his are dark, pupils blown with lust. "i want to see you when i fuck you. i want to see your face when i make you come."
he lines himself up and pushes into you in one smooth, brutal stroke, and you have to slap a hand over your own mouth to keep from screaming. he fills you completely, stretching you in the most delicious way, the thick head of his cock hitting that spot deep inside you that makes you see stars.
"fuck, you're tight," he groans, his face buried in your neck. "so fucking tight for me. this pussy was made for my cock."
you can only nod, your hands gripping his hair as he starts to move. his pace is punishing, each thrust driving you further up against the books, the hard wood digging into your back. it's rough and dirty and completely perfect.
"that's it," he grunts, his hips snapping against yours. "take it. take my fucking cock. you love it, don't you? you love being fucked in public."
you do. you love it. you love the risk, the filth of it, the way he's claiming you, marking you as his in the most primal way possible. you can feel your orgasm building, a tight coil in your stomach, ready to snap.
"i'm gonna come," you whimper, your voice muffled by your hand.
"not yet," he growls, his hand coming up to cover your mouth, his fingers pressing against your lips. "you don't get to come until i say so. you understand me?"
you nod, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement.
"good girl," he purrs, his hips moving faster, harder. "now, be quiet. you wouldn't want our friends to hear what a greedy girl you are, would you? hear you moaning like that for my cock."
you can only whimper against his palm, the sound muffled, pathetic. the pressure of his hand over your mouth is intoxicating, a symbol of his complete control. he's fucking you in a library, surrounded by the silent ghosts of literature, and the only sounds are the slap of skin on skin, the frantic rustle of your clothes, and the muffled whimpers you can't hold back.
"that's it," he grunts, his voice a low, possessive growl against your ear. "take it. take every fucking inch. you feel that? feel how deep i am? this pussy is mine. it was made for me to fuck."
he shifts his angle slightly, and the head of his cock drags against your g-spot with every brutal thrust. your eyes roll back in your head, and your body arches against him, a silent plea for more. he knows your body so well, knows exactly how to play it, how to push you to the brink and hold you there, dangling on the precipice of oblivion.
"you close, baby?" he asks, his voice strained. "i can feel you clenching around me. this little pussy is getting so tight, so hungry for me."
you nod frantically, your nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. you're so close you can taste it, the pleasure coiling in your stomach, hot and tight and ready to explode.
"not yet," he commands, his voice sharp. "i told you, you wait for me. you come when i say you come."
he slows his pace, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, a slow, torturous drag that has you seeing stars. it's agony. it's ecstasy.
"please," you beg against his hand, the word a muffled, desperate plea. "please, steve, let me come. i need to come."
"who does this pussy belong to?" he asks, his voice a low, dominant rumble. "who fucks you this good?"
"you," you moan, the answer immediate and absolute. "you, steve. only you."
"damn right," he grunts, his pace quickening again, his hips snapping against yours with renewed vigor. "and who do you come for?"
"you," you gasp, your body trembling. "i only come for you."
"that's my fuckin’ girl," he growls, and then he lets go. "come for me. now. come all over my fucking cock."
his permission is all it takes. your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, a blinding, all-consuming rush of pleasure that rips through your body. your walls clench around him, a vice-like grip that pulls a guttural groan from his throat. you scream against his hand, the sound lost in the meat of his palm as your body convulses, waves of ecstasy wracking your frame.
he fucks you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, his breathing ragged. "that's it, baby, milk my cock," he grunts, his face buried in your neck. "take my fucking cum. i'm gonna fill you up. gonna pump this tight little pussy full of me."
with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, and you feel him pulse, a hot, thick flood of his release filling you up. it's so much, so intense, that it triggers another, smaller orgasm, a faint aftershock that leaves you breathless and boneless.
for a long moment, you just stay there, tangled together, your bodies pressed against the cold, hard wood of the bookshelf. the only sound is your ragged breathing, the frantic pounding of your heart gradually slowing to a steady rhythm. you can feel his cum inside you, a warm, sticky reminder of your transgression, and the thought is both mortifying and incredibly arousing.
slowly, carefully, he lowers you back to the ground. your legs feel like jelly, and you have to grip the bookshelf to steady yourself. he pulls out of you, and you feel a sudden, aching emptiness, a sense of loss that's almost physical.
but before you can even process it, he's already moving, his hands tucking himself back into his jeans, his movements quick and efficient. then his hands are on you, pulling your panties up, then your jeans. he zips and buttons them for you, his touch surprisingly gentle after the rough, possessive way he just took you.
"hold it in," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "don't you dare let a drop spill. i want you to feel me for the rest of the day. i want you to walk back to that table with my cum dripping out of you, a little secret only we know. i want you to remember who this pussy belongs to."
you nod, your body still trembling, completely under his spell. you can feel his cum starting to leak out of you, a warm, sticky trickle down your inner thigh, and you clench your muscles, trying to keep it inside, just like he told you to.
he straightens your shirt, his hands lingering on your hips. "you okay?"
"yeah," you say, your voice hoarse, barely a whisper. "i'm... good."
"good," he says, a smug, satisfied grin spreading across his face. he leans in and kisses you, a soft, possessive press of his lips against yours. "now, let's go find that book. we wouldn't want to arouse suspicion."
he takes your hand, his fingers lacing with yours, and leads you out of the aisle and back toward the main part of the library. with every step, you can feel his cum inside you, a sticky, secret reminder of what you just did. your legs are shaky, your panties are soaked, and you're walking back to your friends with your enemy's cum dripping out of you.
Jane and Kali died in a hell dimension created by their abuser. Robin’s only arc this season was propping up Will. She got together and broke up with Vickie offscreen. The only thing mentions for Max in the ending is that she’s still with Lucas. No one looks out for Erica because she’s “tough”. You can’t convince me this show doesn’t hate women.
turnnoffyourmind
annaxmalina
romaincrisis
titsay
