steve and mel. mel and steve. classmates for twelve years, friends for zero, having only ever orbited each other until a group project brings them together.
steve harrington x oc (18+)
friends to lovers; slowburn; eventual fwb to lovers; YEARNING!!!; explorations of humanity, what it means to be alive, and other existential questions that steve harrington has; eventual smut
(starts post s2, will run through s5 with changes to fix plot holes)
divider by @/enchanthings
main masterlist
ao3 link
Chapter Navigation (ao3 links):
part one
Chapter 1: Where Do We Belong?
Chapter 2: Anywhere But Here
Chapter 3: To Waste My Time
Chapter 4: Let Me Look A Little Older
Chapter 5: Late Dawns and Early Sunsets
Chapter 6: Love Threw Me Away
Chapter 7: It's A Different Blue
Chapter 8: When Routine Bites Hard
Chapter 9: It's You and Me Through All These Inconsistencies
Chapter 10: I'm Wide Awake, Why Can't I Dream Anymore?
Chapter 11: Kids Don't Wanna Come Home
Chapter 12: I Don't Just Want To Be a Footnote
Chapter 13: It's Cold Outside
Chapter 14: If I Will It All Away
Chapter 15: It's Just In My Nature
Chapter 16: That Was Just a Dream Some of Us Had
Chapter 17: I Just Wanna Let It Go
Chapter 18: I Was Never Meant To Be a Martyr In Disguise
Chapter 19: Now It's 3am, Everyone Goes Home Alone
Other content:
discord server
commed stevemel art by julesjuliiet
mel tag
stevemel tag
drag path tag
sneak peek - She's My Collar
Doctor McKey might scold you for inability to take things easy, but that might just be because you're his favourite patient.
pairing: doctor!walter mckey x figure skater!reader
words: 3.3k
contains: fluff, idiots in love, likely inaccurate medical descriptions, doctor!keys!! i repeat, DOCTOR!KEYS, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: request by 💫 nonnie | another one for the 3k special and i am on my knees thanking you for this request. this was my proper first keys fics and i am so glad that it was for doctor keys! i adored writing this one!
taglist | masterlist | 3k special masterlist | requests page
When Keys looked up at the triage board and saw ‘Figure skater – Possible stress fracture – Room 12’ he knew almost instantly it was you.
“Are you kidding me?” He mutters to himself as the charge nurse Monica hands him your file with a knowing smile. “Really? Her, again? Can’t I go to Trauma 3 instead?”
Monica glances up at the board and then looks back at Keys, amused. “You’d choose a motorcycle accident over a pretty figure skater?”
Keys clicks his against the roof of his mouth because he knew Monica had a point. He had a rough morning in the ER which included a chest puncture from a stab wound, an open fracture and a drowning victim that they hadn’t been able to save. A possible stress fracture would be a breath of fresh air in comparison to the morning he had.
But the thought of treating you for yet another figure skating-related wound irked Keys. Especially when he had told you only three weeks ago to take things easy after you had come in with inflammation on your ankle. In fact, he had told you countless times to stop being reckless, to stop trying to perfect your lutz jump or whatever it was called when you needed to rest your swollen ankles, to not push yourself any more than you needed to. But did you ever listen to him? Evidently not.
“Fine,” Keys says with a forced smile at Monica. “But only because I’m a good doctor. Because I care about all my patients.”
“Some more than others,” Monica mutters quietly. Keys pretends that he hadn’t heard her as he walks towards Room 12.
Ever since you had started figure skating professionally almost four years ago, you had visited the ER around twenty five to thirty times, give or take. Between sprains, swollen muscles, gashes, cuts and one or two concussions, you knew the ER department like the back of your hand. You knew the doctors, the nurses, the trainees, the cleaners, the receptionists and of course you knew Doctor Keys.
When you first met him he had still been a student doctor, having just finished medical school. You had sustained a small laceration on your leg and Keys had been the one to stitch you up. You had talked his ear off about how you had gotten into ice skating after watching Ice Princess when you were a kid, how you had bought your first pair of skates at fourteen and had never looked back. Keys didn’t quite understand why you would choose such a dangerous hobby and had told you to bear more careful next time. You had come back barely a week later with another, slightly bigger laceration.
For some unknown reason, maybe fate, maybe it was simply Monica’s strange sense of humour but whenever you came into the ER, he was always your doctor. And so, you had built quite the rapport with Doctor McKey. You teased him, he scolded you for being reckless and the cycle continued—another injury, another lecture, another promise you’d be back soon. The whole department was aware of it too. Keys had even once overheard Nurse Martinez and Doctor Bennett discussing a bet on how many injuries you were going to sustain that year and how long it was going to take before Keys finally lost it.
But he hadn’t. Not yet.
“There’s my favourite doctor,” you greet Keys as he walks into your room with a smile that doesn’t entirely cover up the pain you were in.
Keys hums in acknowledgement, though his ears turn a little red at your words. That was another thing about you—you teased him relentlessly. Monica called it flirting, Keys called it annoying.
“You know, I did tell you this might happen if you didn’t rest your ankle,” Keys comments, unable to stop himself from doing so as he approaches your hospital bed to have a closer look at your ankle. He could see that the flesh was swollen, tender.
“I know but I wanted an excuse to see you,” you say with a bright smile before you tilt your head to the side. “Did you get new glasses by the way?”
Keys pauses, hazel eyes flickering over to you as a faint flush begins to creep up his neck. You were wearing a grey zip up hoodie but your skating costume beneath was peaking out—Keys could see the obnoxious glittering orange material that you had worn a couple times before.
“I did,” he answers, his ears remaining that signature red as pushes up his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“They’re cute,” you tell him. “Suit you.”
Keys decides to ignore you. Though of course you notice the way the flush had spread up to his cheeks
After a gentle assessment, Keys confirms that you had a stress fracture. If he was honest, he was pissed off about it. You hadn’t listened three weeks ago when you had come into the ER with inflammation. You had continued to be your usual, reckless self and now you were at risk of chronic pain or permanent damage to your ankle if you didn’t rest for at least eight weeks.
“Eight weeks?” You echo, your playful facade faltering for the first time as Keys notices the genuine panic in your eyes. “But this is my job! I have a competition soon, I can’t take eight weeks out—”
“—either you take eight weeks out or you risk never being able to skate again,” Keys tells you bluntly. “Your choice.”
For perhaps the first time in four years, you look genuinely worried. Terrified even and Keys starts to feel bad for being so direct with you as he watches the way your fingers curl into the sheets of the hospital bed and how you look away from him with a tight jaw.
Keys hated to admit that he cared about you way more than he wanted to. That he felt a tightening in his chest whenever he saw the words ‘figure skater’ on the triage board. That the reason he got so short with you sometimes was because he wanted you to listen to him, wanted you to take what he said seriously so he didn’t have to worry about you anymore.
And there was a part of him that felt as though he failed you every time you showed up to the ER, every time you had to wait in the waiting room for hours on end. That was the part of himself he didn’t want to think too much about, didn’t want to think about why he cared so much about a patient. Why he cared that your eyes were now slightly glassy as your gaze fixed determinedly on the call bell.
“Look—I know it sucks and I know you love your job but if you put any more stress on this ankle by doing anymore Axels or Solcows—”
“—it’s Salchow—”
“—whatever it’s called. You do more of that? You’re going to cause some irreversible damage and I wouldn’t want that for you.”
You swallow, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth before you turn to look back at Keys.
“So eight weeks?” You repeat in a quiet voice.
“Eight weeks,” Keys confirms with a small nod and sympathetic smile. “Rest as much as you can and make sure to keep it elevated. Ice it when possible. If you need to take anti-inflammatory medication I can prescribe you some to save you a trip to the pharmacy and an ACE wrap would be preferable.”
“That’s a long list, Doc,” you say with a small smile. “But I’ll try to remember. I promise.”
Keys nod, trying not to think about the way that small smile had made his entire day.
“I’ll get some medication for you and a nurse will be over soon to wrap your ankle,” he tells you. “Don’t go anywhere.”
You snort with laughter and it’s a struggle for Keys to not smile at that sound.
“Can’t anyway,” you say. “Doctor’s orders.”
You stay in the ER for the next three hours, waiting for a nurse to become available to wrap your ankle, waiting for your prescription to be ready and finally waiting to be discharged. In that time, Doctor Keys had checked up on you six times. Not that you were counting.
“Don’t you have other patients you should be checking up on?” You ask him with a smile the seventh time he walks into your room to check your vitals for no apparent reason. “I don’t want there to be a HIPAA violation because you’re worried I’m going to burst into flames or something.”
Keys goes red—now that you had called him out for it, he was beginning to realise just how much he had been checking up on you.
“As far as I’m aware, bursting into flames isn’t a symptom of stress fracture,” he murmurs. “But what do I know? I only went to medical school for like five or six years.”
It took a moment for you to realise that for once, Keys was being indulging in your playful teasing and it was so endearing to you that you couldn’t help but smile. You open your mouth to continue the tennis match of playfulness when a nurse walks in.
“Oh sorry, Doctor McKey,” the nurse says with a nod. “I have her discharge papers here.”
“Oh,” Keys says, smiling at the nurse who hands him the papers. “Cool. Thank you, Nurse Richards.”
“I’m free to go?” You ask as the door closes shut behind the nurse.
“You’re free to go,” Keys confirms with a nod, ignoring the pit in his stomach at the thought of you leaving.
You manage to manoeuvre yourself off the hospital bed, hobbling a little to keep weight off your ankle as you grab your skating bag from the nearby armchair.
“Is someone picking you up?” Keys asks, watching your ankle carefully as you swing your bag over your shoulder. He knew your skates were in there from how heavy the bag looked. “Like your parents? A friend? A partner?”
Keys knew that the last suggestion had been loaded and that you could see right through him but you didn’t comment on it.
“No, I was just going to get an Uber,” you tell him.
Keys should have left it there. Should have told you to rest your ankle and sent you on your way. But instead, Keys opened his mouth and said something he almost instantly regretted.
“I could take you back home,” he says so suddenly that he surprises even himself. “Um, I have my lunch coming up so—I don’t mind taking you back home on my break.”
Why did he open his mouth? Why did he just offer to drive you home? Why did you have to look so damn pretty in that—
“Okay,” you say, forcing Keys out of the spiral he had been out to descend into. “Yeah. If that wasn’t a problem then—that would be great. Thank you, Doctor McKey.”
“It’s Keys,” he says gently. “Please, call me Keys.”
It was no surprise to you whatsoever that Doctor McKey—Keys—drove a Toyota Prius. It also didn’t surprise you that his most listened to artist was Noah Kahan or that the last playlist he had listened to had been called ‘Calming Mix’.
“Can you stop going through my Spotify?” Keys asks you, face red as his eyes remain on the road while you flick through the app on the screen in his car.
“You said I could be in charge of the music—”
“—you’ve also been trying to find a song for the past five minutes—”
“—in my defence, I am high on pain medication—”
“—you had one Advil like an hour ago—”
The back and forth between you and Keys carries on for the entire car journey to your apartment. In the end, you selected Staying Still just as Keys pulled into your street.
“Thank you Doc—Keys,” you say when his car finally stops. “You really didn’t have to.”
“I know,” Keys says with a curt nod. “But I wanted to. An Uber from the hospital would have been extortionate.”
“Sure,” you say with a small laugh as you reach for the door handle. “Well—I’ll see you in eight weeks for the all clear.”
Keys watches as you open up the car door, watches as you go to step out and—
“Do you mind if I stop by to um—to check you’re doing okay?” He asks you in a slight panic because all of a sudden, eight weeks was too long to not see you. “Bring you groceries or…whatever you need.”
You had half climbed out of his car at this point but you pause at the question, turning to look back at him with a smile tugging on the corners of your mouth.
“Is this in a professional context? Like are you gonna bring a stethoscope or—”
“—no,” Keys shakes his head, feeling his face burn as he wonders what the fuck he was doing. “No stethoscope."
“Shame,” you tell him with a wry smile. “I like the whole McDreamy thing you got going on.”
“Mc—what—”
But instead of answering, you finally climb out of his car before limping towards your apartment door. And Keys begins to wonder what the fuck had he just done.
Keys waits a respectable amount of time—four days—before he first shows up at your apartment door with his arms full of groceries. He had spent way too much time and way too much money on the grocery shop for you but he told himself it was all in aid for your recovery. That he was being a good doctor.
But then he kept showing up. With groceries, with pizza from that Italian palace he knew you liked and one time, with some cupcakes he had “accidentally” bought too many of. And after the first few visits, you began to invite him in—for dinner, for a few episodes of whatever TV it was that you were watching. And Keys was happy to note that you were actually listening to his advice—that you were resting, keeping your leg elevated as much as you could and that you hadn’t been skating since the trip to the ER.
It had been six weeks since then and Keys was over every couple of days now. You found that you had memorised the sound of his car pulling up outside your apartment. You found that those days Keys came over had quietly become your favourite. And Keys found himself thinking of excuses to visit you. He sometimes left his jacket on your couch just to come over the next day or because he had found a TV that he knew you’d like and needed to tell you about it immediately.
It was a Friday night and Keys had a difficult day in the ER. You didn’t ask what had happened but you had heard about the fatal car crash that had occurred in the city earlier that day. The one that had killed an entire family. And so, you had suggested trying to make pizzas from scratch. It had gone horribly but Keys had managed to crack a smile for the first time that day.
You beam when you see it and you can’t help yourself. Because Keys had been so good to you over the past few weeks that you wanted—needed—to say thank you. And so, you set down the dough you had been kneading with your hands for the past few minutes before you lean towards him, your lips aiming for his cheek.
But at that exact moment, Keys turned his head—likely to ask you to pass the sauce or the olives or whatever, you don’t find out—because instead of your lips landing on his cheek—they plant themselves directly onto his lips.
The millisecond or so that your lips were pressed together, you find that his were soft. Pillowy. Ones you wanted to melt into.
But the accidental kiss lasts barely a second before the both of you pull away as though scolded.
“Oh god,” you gasp, your face hot as you stare at Keys with wide eyes. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry! I was trying to kiss you on the cheek but you turned and I—”
“—no, no, no,” Keys says hurriedly, his face so red that he was almost the same colour as the tomatoey sauce as he raises his hands in surrender. “Don’t be sorry! I mean—it was an honest mistake. A big, big massive mistake—”
You laugh but it doesn’t meet your eyes as the words big, massive mistake settle somewhere in your gut. Oh god, you felt awful for making him so uncomfortable but you didn’t know what to say as he backed away from you a little. And so, you tell yourself that the best thing to do was laugh it off.
“Wow,” you say with a forced laugh. “Didn’t think you’d hate the idea of kissing me that much.”
You say it as a joke—you mean it as a joke but your tone makes it sound like anything but. Keys also stops kneading the pizza dough while you look away, not wanting him to see the look of disappointment on your face.
But before you could even think about returning your attention back to your half-made pizza, both of Keys’ large hands are suddenly resting gently on either side of your neck.
“Keys? What are you—”
Whatever you had been about to say is lost as Keys pulls you in. You barely have time to register what exactly was happening before his lips meet yours purposefully this time and suddenly? Nothing else matters.
His lips were still soft, still pillowy and they were gliding against yours as though they belonged there. You melted into him, your hands finding their way into his hair as his glasses pressed uncomfortably into your face. But you didn’t care—not as you felt his warm tongue dive into your mouth in a move that left you feeling hot all over, that left the blood running through your veins humming.
Keys kissed you like he never wanted to stop, not caring about the flour that was now in his hair from your hands. And likewise, you didn’t care about the flour that was now all over your neck. Not when kissing Keys felt this good. Not when his thumb gently traced over the skin of your neck as he deepened the kiss further, tilting your head back ever so slightly as you clung to him.
It was the sort of kiss that could have lasted for hours. But the sound of the pizza cutter that had been perched precariously on the edge of the kitchen countertop clattering to the ground was the thing that finally pulled you both apart.
You were both breathless, flustered and both unable to stop yourselves from smiling.
“I don’t remember that being on my treatment plan, Doc,” you tease him.
Keys rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. He leans in to gently press his forehead against yours, licking his bottom lip as his eyes shift between yours. “You make me sick sometimes, sweetheart,” he tells you before leaning in to press a gentle, sweet kiss to your lips. “But good thing you’re the cure for it too.”
Your stomach warms at his words and it’s impossible not to beam at his words.
“Maybe I should get stress fractures more often if this is the sort of treatment you deliver.”
Keys shakes his head before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Absolutely not. I’m wrapping you up in bubblewrap to keep you out of harm's way.”
You laugh but you have a feeling that he wasn’t joking. Because there was no way Keys was letting his favourite patient ever get hurt again.
summary: Max falls into the curse, but Dove will do anything to save her. And Steve will do anything to save Dove.
warnings: SMUT!!!! Trauma, parental death, scary thoughts, normal ST horror, lmk if I need to add anything else!!
authors note: WE"RE ALL CAUGHT UP ON THIS STORY ON A03. Also I recommend maybe going back and rereading if you can cause somethings have been changed for consistency sake and my sanity!
Chapter 20 | ao3 link
Chapter 21: Aphasia
The trees roll past the Beamer in a blur as something curls around the group in the car. It’s thick and suffocating, making everyone dizzy as their minds keep rolling over different scenarios and possibilities.
Steve’s eyes keep bouncing over to Dove and then to the rearview to look at Max. Road, Dove, Max. Road, Dove, Max. It’s a constant loop. He runs his hand over his mouth to keep himself from biting it raw.
Dove’s knees are drawn up in the seat, holding them to her chest. Her head lulled against the cool glass of the window. She’s not really looking at anything but her eyes are stuck in the same spot. They’re tearing up from not blinking as often as she should but she’s not really thinking about that. She’s thinking about that tear, the red flicker and how she felt drawn to it. Like she had been drawn to Eddie Munson’s trailer door the day before.
It’s itching up her throat again as her mind goes over it over and over again. She tries to push it down, stuff it under her mask but the car starts to feel smaller and smaller. Only when Max tells them to turn right into Roane Hill Cemetery is she able to swallow it thickly. Because she can’t make this about her. Not when Max's life is on the line.
Steve takes the curve around the sign, and Dove feels her throat start getting tighter for another reason. She hasn’t been to the cemetery since July, since her mother’s funeral. When the car parks, Max jumps out, storming off as Lucas yells after her.
They take off a little deeper into the cemetery, Lucas talking as Max continues to walk away, Dove opens the passenger door and starts to look in the direction of her mom’s grave. It’s just over a small clearing, near the middle, right next to her dad’s.
In the distance, she can hear Lucas telling Max he doesn’t want a letter. Then closer, covering their conversation, she hears Steve open the driver’s door. Dove’s taken a few steps away from the car, toward the clearing.
“Hey,” Steve says, gently placing a hand on her back. He knows what’s just past the clearing. “Do you… do you want to go over there?”
Dove sucks in a breath, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m… I’m thinking about it.”
Steve nods. “Okay, okay, let’s go over there. I’ll go with you—”
“No, I—I should go over there alone, I want to talk to her—”
“Honey, I don’t know if you should go alone. I mean, thank God Lucas went with Max, cause—”
“I have to do this alone, Steve,” Dove says, turning to him fully.
A breeze cuts through the clearing, the late afternoon air carrying the smell of honeysuckle. Dove’s hair blows in her face, and Steve reaches out and brushes it behind her ear.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Steve admits softly. “I don’t—I don’t know what I’d do—”
Dove leans forward, pushing up on her toes and placing her lips on his. The kiss is soft, her hand cupping his cheek gently, with the intention for it to ease his mind. And hers.
When she pulls back, he chases her lips, following her before settling back on his heels.
“That’s not fair,” he murmurs, but there’s no real complaint as his lips turn up ever so slightly.
“I’ll be just a few minutes, I swear. When Max finishes, come and get me,” Dove says, her thumb rubbing over the stubble on his cheek before dropping her hand.
Steve takes a second to look over her face before conceding. He leans forward, both hands cupping her jaw and placing a kiss on her forehead. He keeps his lips there longer than he usually would before he turns back to the car. Leaving Dove by herself and looking toward her parent’s graves.
The grass that’s still a little dead crunches under her feet as she approaches the two headstones. It’s solemn and eerie now. A chill settles up her spine. Her mind flashes with the memory of her saying Veronica’s name in that comms room, the fear in her eyes when she saw her daughter behind the glass, and then the ringing of the shot that killed her.
She feels that dark voice, the one she pushed to a far corner of her brain creep out just a bit more. The guilt and shame crawling up her throat, beginning to choke her.
“Hi, Mom,” her voice shakes, and a tear falls out of her eye that she wipes away quickly. “No, Dad, I’m not crying.”
She chuckles lightly at her own joke, and she hopes her dad would’ve laughed too.
“Um,” she looks down at her hands, pulling on her fingers slightly as she takes in another shaky breath. “Mom, me and Steve are together now. I, uh, know how much you liked him, and even though you didn’t directly say it—” she laughs lightly— “I think you’d be happy for me.”
Another breeze passes through the cemetery. She tucks her hair behind both her ears and stands in silence, wiping heavy tears from her cheeks.
She sucks in a breath, trying to gain composure, trying to cling on to the last bit of her that feels like her. She doesn’t want to go back to where she was, she was feeling better. She was handling it. But all her resolve crumbles as the memory of last summer flashes through her brain again.
She remembered the way she felt bound to that chair, watching them torture Steve and Robin, feeling that generals hands on her. She shouldn’t have survived that night. She shouldn’t have walked out of that mall at all.
“I’m sorry, Mama, I shouldn’t have said your name that day. If I hadn’t, you would still be here, but I—I didn’t know what I was doing. I was just trying to keep everyone safe. And I tried, and tried but you still died, Billy died, Hopper died. Everything feels so wrong without you here. I should’ve tried harder, should’ve run in there to save you and—and now I've lost both of you guys. It’s all my fault mama, I shouldn’t—I don’t.”
She feels like the ground is sinking below her, trying to consume her. Maybe it will, maybe it will finally take her instead of her mom. She wasn’t trying to find out secrets she shouldn’t. She wasn’t snooping and being dumb. Why did she have to die for her daughter's mistakes?
“I can’t face Anna, or Stephen, or even Grandma. Because I know what happened and I know what I did and it just sucks, Mama. It sucks so fucking much.”
She doesn’t even bother wiping the tears coming out of her eyes anymore as she falls to her knees, a hand rising and settling on top of the grave.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
It takes a full minute for her to get past the point of almost hyperventilating. Her chest still is pressing in on herself and she starts to go numb from it. Finally it settles to a point where she can talk.
“I keep having these dreams, or visions, or something, and I thought they were from when we were in the hospital with Dad, but… why did we move to Hawkins from New York? I… I don’t really remember it. I didn’t remember any of this until Friday night, and… I wish you were here so I could ask you about it…”
Another breeze passes through—but this one’s different. It doesn’t carry that same honeysuckle smell. It’s stale and brings the promise of rain. A storm, charged with lightning and destruction. But the rest of the week calls for good weather—Dove saw it on the news at the Wheelers. And then she remembers that breeze, that change, in the basement of the station, then again at Dustin’s house.
She turns her head back to her friends, but everything’s fine. She sees Steve sitting on the hood of the Beemer, watching Max. Dustin’s propped against the passenger door, fiddling with his walkie, and Lucas’s arms are crossed as he also watches Max just up the hill.
Dove feels a gentler breeze, this one more like early Indiana spring. It ruffles her hair and tickles her cheeks. Giving a sense of normalcy and calm to the edge of the storm clouding her mind. Slowly, she turns back to the grave stones.
“I just don’t know why I don’t remember these… visions. You were there, Mom, in the first one. We… we talked about how what I was doing was going to help Dad, and I… I don’t understand why. I just wish I could talk to you.”
Some time must pass as Dove recounts all the visions to her mom, because her knees are starting to hurt from being folded under her. She’s picking at a blade of grass from under her as she tries to talk through the memories out loud.
She was at Hawkins Lab. Her parents brought her there. What she was doing was supposed to be helping her dad. Prick her skin, drip something into her, make her sleepy. There were other people there. The little boy. His parents. The doctor. The blonde man. She remembers yelling, blood, fear, so much fear. And then warmth.
It all goes away after that. To a point she has physical memories, what she’s been shown where she can remember what she saw, like watching a movie. But then it just becomes that. Flashes and feelings.
The one feeling she can recall the most now is that feeling of fear. It twists in her stomach and crawls up her spin. She can feel it behind her eyes like she’s being forced to watch something she doesn’t want to. It then rings her ears, like someone is telling her things she wants to block out. It’s all so strange.
But Dove tries to keep her focus on her mom’s grave, that memory of fear twisting into that darkness taking over her mind. It contorts with the guilt and it slinks out of that corner she shoved it to, winning the internal fight by gaining more ground.
Just across the clearing, Steve checks his watch again. His eyes have been bouncing back and forth between the two girls. Dove he can watch breathe and the movement of her talking and wiping a tear. He lingers on her before turning his eyes back to Max, who he had been trying to keep most of his attention on. What he thought would take about five minutes had stretched to ten…and now they were closing in on fifteen.
And she’s so still sitting up at the top of that hill, and it might be the distance but he can’t see her moving like Dove is. No bounce of her shoulders like if she was talking. It eats at him to check on her, make sure she’s okay. And when another breeze passes through, something in it stinks and Steve decides it’s time to call it.
“All right, it’s been long enough,” he says, pushing off the car and making his way up the hill, throwing one more look to Dove over his shoulder.
“Steve, just give her some time,” Lucas tries to reason.
“I have, alright, Sinclair?” Steve continues up the hill, body half-turned toward him as he moves up, then he begins walking backward. “I’m calling it—her and Dove. If Mayfield wants to lawyer up, she can.”
He jogs the rest of the way as he calls out, “Max! Time to giddy up, yeah?”
But when he looks down at her, his stomach drops. Her eyes are glazed completely over. The blue completely clouded. He says her name again and again, grabbing her shoulder and shaking it, but she doesn’t come out of it.
His stomach sinks and nose stings as he fears for the worse. He keeps shaking her shoulder before letting go and clapping in her face.
“Wake up! Max, please, wake up—hey!”
Down the hill, Lucas and Dustin look up, hearing Steve’s voice raise.
Beginning to move up the hill, Lucas mutters, “Something’s wrong.”
The next few minutes are a blur. Once up the hill and onto the plateau, they’re all shaking Max’s shoulders and saying her name until Steve grabs Dustin by the front of his sweatshirt.
“Henderson, go get Dove! Call Nancy and Robin! Go get ’em! Go get Dove!” Steve yells frantically, pushing Dustin away and then turning back to Max, holding her face with one hand and shaking her shoulder as he says, “Wake up, Max, come on!”
Dustin rolls off the platform of Billy’s grave, tumbling down the hill toward the car and screaming, “Dove! Dove, help! It’s Max! Dove!”
Dove rises from her spot on the ground at the call of her name and sees Dustin barreling toward the Beamer. She stumbles as she stands, taking off toward him, and as she gets closer, she sees Steve and Lucas at the top of the hill, yelling Max’s name in her face.
“Go help them! I’m calling Nancy and Robin!” Dustin yells as he reaches inside the open car window for his walkie.
Dove takes off up the hill, stumbling as she yells, “Max!”
And there, right behind Max, is the tear—the bend of a shadow that isn’t there— a tear in reality. Dove doesn’t need to think about the decision to run into it. A reason, an excuse, proof. A lot of things come to her mind as she goes head first into danger, hoping it’ll save Max.
While she keeps moving in, running toward the tear and making it through: entering the dark, horror-movie realm of the cemetery, her body doesn’t. In the real world, she locks up, stopping right behind Steve, eyes clouded over and her consciousness completely gone. She stands like a statue.
“Dove,” Steve says, turning back to her, but then his face drops. “No, no, no, baby, come on, don’t do this, Dove, Dove!”
He looks toward Max again, and then back to Dove, and then down to Dustin in the car, yelling, “Hurry!”
Dove is sprinting through the cemetery, following the sounds of what she hopes are Max’s feet thudding.
“Max! Max!” she yells out into the dark.
Then she hears a deep voice echoing through the cemetery saying, “You cannot hide from me, Maxine.”
Dove sprints faster, finally spotting red hair hiding just across the way behind a grave. Her gaze is turned toward something—or rather, someone.
Coming out of the fog, a tall figure appears, skin scorched and red. It’s awful, horrifying, worse than Dove imagined it would look like. But then again, when they said wizard she only thought of Merlin in Fantasia but wearing black.
Max’s chest rises quickly as she tries to hide again, but then he’s walking closer to her, and then Dove does something she knows is stupid.
Proof, a reason, a purpose.
“Max, run!” she yells. She yells it so loud that it draws Vecna’s attention away from Max and to her.
He stops walking dead in his tracks. “Dove?”
Her blood runs cold as the gravelly voice says her name, but she’s relieved as she watches Max get up and sprint away fast.
Dove’s eyes widen as Vecna begins to approach her, walking faster than he had with Max, and then she begins to run in the same direction Max had.
She outran the creature better than she thought she could and catches up with Max, the two of them hugging tightly before Dove looks over her face. She cradles her cheeks and pushes the bits of pieces that fell out of her pony tail away as she checks for cuts and bruises. Something shifts and they both turn, looking around them, back to back, as they try to find a way out.
“Lucas! Dustin! Steve! Help!” Max begins to yell, spinning around frantically, as Dove then sees Vecna start approaching them.
“Max, Max, you gotta go, you gotta—” And as she says this, turning to pull them away, the cemetery fades and a vast red hellscape appears.
“Oh, fuck that,” Dove says, but Vecna is approaching quickly. And as the thunder rumbles and the red fog thickens, Dove pushes Max toward it. “Go, I’ll distract him.”
“No! No, I’m not leaving you,” Max says, not letting go of Dove’s hand.
“Max, I’ll be close behind, just go,” Dove says, lying through her teeth, trying to pry her hand off hers.
Proof, a reason, a purpose.
“No!”
“Max! Go!”
“What’s her favorite song?!” Dustin yells at Lucas after dumping the contents of Max’s backpack on the ground.
The boys frantically look through the tapes dumped on the ground after Dustin hastily explained what he learned from Nancy and Robin.
Steve turns back to Dove, who’s frighteningly still. He’s fighting every fiber of his being to help her, but he looks back to Max and hears Dove in his head telling him to make sure she’s okay first and—
Dove’s body moves slightly, like it’s losing balance, swaying, and Steve leaves his spot to steady her. “Dove, Dove, hey, come on, come on, wake up please.”
Dove stands in front of the red fog, watching Max as she disappears, and hears a voice behind her say, “What are you doing in here, Dove?”
It’s deep and menacing and it shakes her to her core. Her breathing picks up as she feels him get closer, and closer, that thudding in her head, that feeling she’s been having for days now just right behind her. Now with a voice and an actual presence.
Dove turns slowly, facing the terrifying being. “Let her go.”
“How did you get in here?”
Dove shivers as he gets closer, her nose tingling in fear, but she keeps a stoic face. “Let her go.”
“You shouldn’t be here. It’s not time for you yet,” Vecna says, voice deeper than before as he extends a hand, quickly wrapping it around Dove’s throat.
Shit, not again.
Dove’s body collapses in the material world, and Steve barely has time to catch her as he yells out, “Whoa, hey, no, no, no! Wake up, Dove!”
Dove pushes against the hand, the one much more human than the other, clutching her throat. She chokes as she tries to breathe and spits out, “You’re such a little bitch, Vecna.”
He turns his head, bringing her face closer to his. Up close, Dove can see something reflecting in his eyes. Darkness, a feeling, creeping up her throat alongside the grip of his hand. And then recognition. She sees something there she’s seen before.
He turns his head. “That’s not my name.”
“Dove, Dove, wake up!”
Dove gasps, because before she could find out more, she’s sucked back into her body. Steve’s holding her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other pushing her forehead into his. He’s shaking and whispering her name.
“Oh, thank God, thank God,” Steve breathes, hugging Dove tightly to him, but she’s pushing him off and looking behind Max again for that same tear—but it’s gone.
“I had him, Steve, I had him, why did you do that? Why did—”
“What’s Max’s favorite song?!” Dustin yells as he holds up more tapes, but his question is answered asLucas finally finds Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill” and puts it into her Walkman.
The four of them sit and watch, and as the chorus of the song approaches, Max begins to rise up into the air. Floating high up, they can only watch with slack jaws.
And as the song’s bridge ends and it enters the last chorus, faintly heard now since Max is so high up, she finally drops. Lucas catches her as she lands, panting heavily, and he wraps his arms around her.
------------------
The Wheelers basement has always had an eerie feeling to it since Will disappeared. Especially at night. And as night approaches on this Monday evening, it feels even creepier.
There’s only the sounds of breathing and faint conversation. Everyone’s eyes drifting over to Max who’s sitting in a chair in the corner next to Lucas. The headphones of her Walkman haven’t left her ears since the cemetery.
Nancy and Robin had returned from Pennhurst and had been rattling off ideas and things they learned from Victor Creel. Dustin was intently listening, discussing with them as he took notes, and Steve was trying to listen. He really was.
But his leg is shaking violently as he stares at Dove’s back. She’s been staring out the basement door window for so long now—long enough that he’s concerned she could be back under a spell—but then she shifts and he can breathe.
Robin, the ever attentive best friend, keeps taking glances at Steve in between giving ideas and listening to Dustin and Nancy. She watches as he chews on his thumb nail and stares at the pretty blonde's back.
Steve consistently came to Robin when things with Dove got funny. Especially when she got really weird around Christmas. There was one night she went to go see her sister and came back crying and locked herself in the bathroom. Steve called Robin the next day to talk about it.
Robin was always of the notion that Steve needed to ask Dove what was wrong and to listen. He didn’t need to try and fix it like he always wanted to, Dove just needed someone to be there. She doesn’t need a white knight, she needs a friend.
“Steve,” Robin says.
Steve hums, not taking his attention away from Dove until Robin repeats his name more sternly, and then he’s looking at her eyes. They’re tired and sad and knowing as she cocks her head to the side with that look.
Don’t be a white knight.
When Steve looks back to where Dove was, he’s met with the basement door closing gently. He stands, following her and not listening to Robin as she repeats his name.
“This should go well,” Robin mutters, shaking her head and looking back to Nancy.
The night air is crisp as Steve walks down the slope of the backyard. The grass is dewy, and when a breeze comes through, it nips at his bare arms. He’s on edge—he’s been on edge since Roane Cemetery. The moment Dove came back into herself and Max dropped to the ground, Steve’s been on fight or flight. Even more so since Dove hasn’t spoken a word since she pushed herself off of him.
Not a single word. Not to Max, not to Dustin, not to Lucas, and especially not to Steve.
So Steve approaches with caution to Dove, who is sitting at the edge of the yard, looking into the woods. Her hair, which was neatly cared for yesterday, is a bit more frizzy today, but the weight from how long it is makes it cascade nicely down her back. Her knees are pulled to her chest, her chin resting atop them.
She’s in her head, in the normal sense, not the weird Vecna way, Steve thinks.
“Hey,” Steve says, his fists clenching and unclenching by his side.
Dove turns back to him for a second, not giving her full attention, but it’s more than what she had been giving. “Hi.”
“We… can we talk?”
Dove turns more, putting her hands behind her. “About what?”
Steve blinks, shaking his head. “Uh, I don’t know—maybe about what happened at the cemetery?”
Dove closes her eyes. “Yeah, right. That.”
“Yeah, that.”
Dove sighs, wiping her hands off on her black trousers, and stands. They’re still on the slope, making her significantly shorter than him.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “What about it?”
Steve huffs, mirroring her stance. “Well, maybe let’s start with what happened? What did you see?”
Dove shrugs and looks around the yard, avoiding Steve’s eyes. “It’s hard to explain…”
“Well, we’ve got time.”
Dove snaps her head back at his tone. She knows he’s mad. And of course he is, because if his hunch as to what happened is right, then she blatantly lied to him about doing this together.
Dove’s mouth opens and closes a few times as she tries to explain what she saw and how she got where she did. After another heavy sigh, she speaks.
“There was this… tear. Like—like the gate that we saw beneath Starcourt, but it wasn’t like that. It was like a shadow, and when we were at the trailer park, I saw it there, but… when you guys couldn’t wake Max up, I thought I could help, so I—”
“You what? You jumped into it?”
Dove nods, rubbing her arms up and down.
Steve feels the frustration rise up in his chest. “And what would’ve happened if you couldn’t get out of that? If I couldn’t pull you out—”
“You don’t need to pull me out of anything—”
“No, don’t do that. We said we would do this together. You said—”
“That was before Max was comatose, sitting at Billy’s grave, and Dustin was screaming my name! What else was I supposed to do?”
Steve scoffs, throwing his hands up and looking away before they settle on his hips. “I don’t know, Dove! Maybe stop and think before you go running into gates—”
“It wasn’t a gate.”
“Oh my God, that literally doesn’t matter right now, because you ran into something you didn’t know where it led to and could’ve gotten you killed!” Steve accentuates both points by pushing down his fingers as he says them.
“It wouldn’t have gotten me killed—”
“You don’t know that—”
“What does it matter anyway! Why shouldn’t I take a risk if it means saving Max, huh? Like you wouldn’t do the same for her? Or Dustin? Or any of those kids?”
Steve chews his bottom lip as they stare at each other, both breathing heavy.
“It matters because you could’ve died, Dove, you didn’t know what that would do! You don’t need to go running into those things because you’re important—”
“But we don’t need to worry about—”
“Will you stop interrupting me!” Steve finally snaps.
Dove’s mouth shuts, lips sealed, because Steve never raises his voice like this at her. In all their arguments, he hasn’t sounded like this, he never tries to because he doesn’t want to be like his father.
He sighs, taking one step closer, and before he speaks again, he breathes out shakily.
“It matters because you are important. No matter what you think, you are important to Max, Dustin, Lucas, all of the kids—even the ones not here. You’re important to Robin. You’re important to your sister and brother, no matter how much you ignore them.” Steve raises one hand and places it on her shoulder. “And you’re important to me. You’re so important to me, ’cause you know I need you. I love you, and I can’t have you jumping into things because you feel like you need to be a hero.”
Dove’s eyes water as she looks at him. “I don’t feel important.”
“You are—”
“No—”
“Yes, you are, please, Dove, please—”
“No, Steve, how do you expect me to just sit and wait? ’Cause if I didn’t run into that gate, or tear, or whatever the fuck it was—what if Max never made it out? I… I was able to distract him for a second, and Max got to that weird red fog place, and… and what if—”
Dove’s crying now.
Steve doesn’t have a response, truly unable to answer the what ifs.
But what if Dove didn’t wake up? What if she was the one who was floating twenty feet in the air and her bones started snapping?
“We need to game-plan,” Steve finally says, holding both her biceps. “There’s no time to look back on the what-ifs. We… we need to figure out how to keep you and Max safe. We’ve got the Walkman for her… we’ll go to the house and get yours. We’ll—”
“No, no, Steve, we worry about Max, not me. She’s the one cursed,” Dove interrupts again, shaking her head. “When… when I was distracting him, he was surprised I was there. Like I wasn’t supposed to be there, but… he knew who I was. He said my name, even though he wasn’t in my mind. At least I don’t think it was my mind. And it felt like all those times when I had those visions. I don’t know how to explain it, but it was like…”
“And that doesn’t worry you? Dove come on—“
“Steve, Max is who we need to worry about.”
Steve purses his lips, sighing heavily for the umpteenth time in this argument. Dove is stubborn. Probably the most stubborn person he’s ever met so he knows that if she's dead set on this, it might not be worth trying to change her mind. But he needs her to not try to make herself expendable in her efforts of saving Max. He needs to convince her that they’re a team.
“We’ll figure it out, we will, honey, I promise,” Steve says, continuing to rub her arms. “Just, please, please, don’t—”
Dove looks at him, eyes still watery and spilling tears as she gives him a look—the one that has Steve shaking his head because it’s so apologetic and heartbreaking.
“Dove, seriously.”
“I… I can’t, Steve, I can’t say I won’t do it, ’cause if it means saving her and everyone—”
“Dove, don’t put this on yourself, you don’t need to be the hero—”
“Steve, you literally cannot talk! You are always trying to be the hero! And this, this is something I know I can help deal with!”
“I’m not going to let you get yourself killed because you think you have to do this alone!”
“I’m not going to get killed—”
“Really? ’Cause this sounds like a suicide mission! There are two people who are dead, Dove. Two. I do not want Max to die, believe me on that because she deserves so much more than what she’s been going through. We are going to do everything in our power to stop this, but your life shouldn’t end in the process!”
They’ve put some distance between each other from their outbursts, both breathing heavy. Steve’s chest is tight and aching and it hurts.
“Would you just listen to me? Please?”
Dove sighs shakily and looks at him.
He can see in her eyes that she’s sorry but she’s not going to promise anything. She won’t lie, she hates lying.
She lurches forward, grabbing his cheeks and planting her lips on his. It’s a bruising kiss, sloppy but disguised as passionate and loving. It’s not a promise. And that’s what is so heartbreaking about it when Steve’s hands go to her waist, pulling her closer to him.
It’s faster than it needs to be. Loud and aggressive. The sounds of their lips smacking together as Steve walks them down the last two feet of the slope and has her back against a tree. Her teeth tug at his bottom lip, and he opens up, allowing her tongue to slide in.
It’s a distraction. Steve knows it, and Dove knows it.
Because she knows it’s her manipulating this so he’ll stop trying to make it about her. She knows it’s wrong but she can’t help it. Behind it though, is a cry for help. The part of her, the part of her Steve knows feels loved and worthy of being loved, is trying to fight through and save her from herself. Letting him help her.
That’s what he can feel. And that’s what he’s going to chase.
Her hands tug in his hair as she pulls him closer, like she’s trying to absorb him into her skin.
“Please,” Steve mutters against her lips when they part for a second, taking in a breath.
His lips are back on her in an instant, tongue diving into her mouth as one hand drifts up to the side of her face. He deepens the kiss further, if that’s even possible, pushing against her when he whimpers into her mouth.
He doesn’t know if he’s begging her to keep going or begging her to stop. He’s exhausted, both from the lack of sleep and the fight against her trying to prove she needs to be the one to save everyone. He’s tired of watching her carry everything like she deserves to be crushed beneath it. But he can’t bear another time where she’s sobbing every night taking the blame for something that isn’t her fault. He doesn’t know how to convince her otherwise, but he will keep trying and trying until he can prove to her that she’s not expendable.
Steve just wants it to end. He wants some shitty little apartment with bad plumbing and thin walls. He wants to complain about her cold feet on him when they lay on the couch and hear her complain about not matching socks properly. He wants a life with her so painfully normal it almost hurts.
And he will take every hit, every beating, if it means he gets to keep loving her. In every lifetime, every universe, every version of their story. Steve thinks there has never been a reality where he wouldn’t end up bloodied and bruised if it meant she got to walk away alive. No matter how much she protests it.
Dove can’t respond, but the taste of salt in the kiss from her tears is Steve’s answer that has him separating.
Their lips are swollen, glistening with each other’s saliva in the moonlight. It’s heartbreaking when Steve looks at her face and sees the tears streaking.
“Please,” he pleads again, wiping her tears. His head dips to her neck, kissing down the side of it and tracing his teeth over the column of her throat before he falls to his knees.
The denim on his knees dampens against the ground as he kisses her stomach through his shirt she’s wearing. He pulls it from being tucked into her pants, finding skin with his mouth and attaching his lips there. The kisses are hot and open-mouthed, making Dove’s knees buckle slightly.
“Steve,” Dove breathes, hands moving to his hair. “Steve, please, please look at me.”
He does, his own eyes starting to glisten. She drops to her knees as well, coming face to face with him again.
“I love you, I love you so much… and… I-I don’t want to lie to you and say I won’t do something if Max ends up like that again, but we will do as much as we can together, okay? Okay, just please, please try to understand.”
Steve drops his forehead to hers, eyes closing so the tears won’t fall. “I love you so much, please don’t… Please don’t do anything… anything to get yourself… killed. I don’t—I couldn’t—”
“I know, I know, and that’s not what I want. I just want to make sure everyone’s safe.”
She’s holding his cheeks now, and when their eyes lock this time, it’s an understanding. As much as Steve doesn’t agree with it, as much as he wants to bear this burden himself, he understands. He understands because he wants to bear this burden—and that’s what makes him so mad.
They’re both too hardheaded to stop themselves from wanting to save everyone.
And so Steve’s lips are back on hers, kissing her deeply and slowly. It’s not the response Dove wants. She wishes she could tell him she wouldn’t do it. But this, for some reason, feels like her fault.
The kiss grows deeper and deeper, hands moving over each other and gripping. His tongue is in her mouth again, tasting her deeply and there’s a pooling feeling in her stomach as she feels him push against her.
Neither of them are sure how it happens but they end up leaving the ground and moving towards the beamer.
Once inside Steve’s car, Dove’s straddling his lap as her shirt has come off, his lips attached to the curve of her shoulder, leaving a light mark.
Her pants come off somewhere on the way, along with her underwear. Leaving her in just her bra. Steve’s lips stay on her as much as they can, tasting her skin and breathing in the amber from her perfume.
Dove paws at his chest, pulling the fabric of his polo off and then running her hands over him. The hair is coarse against her palms but she loves it as she dips her head to his neck to kiss there.
Most of the time they have sex, it’s not this frantic. It’s normally loving and caring, not a cry like this is starting to feel like.
Steve’s hand moves from where it was guiding her grinding motion on her hip towards her core. He touches lightly over the folds, trying to bring back that loving, caring feeling. His fingers slip between them though when she rocks her hips, picking up the pace of the action.
“Baby,” Steve’s voice groans, feeling her dripping.
“Steve please, please.”
His fingers dip into her without much more fanfare and she’s moaning his name and digging her nails into his bicep. The two fingers in her curl, finding that spot making her let out a wanton moan. Her back bows into him and she needs more, more, more.
“Steve, Steve, baby please.”
The pet name has him flipping her down onto the seat, moving between her legs and his mouth on her in a second. His tongue dips in, tasting her and she’s so sweet and he could live here. He really could because the noises she’s making, the way her body moves against his face as he sucks her clit and dips two fingers into her again is heaven.
He sucks on the bundle of nerves, flicking his tongue against it as he does. He keeps curling his fingers inside her as he does so. It’s messy and cramped due to the lack of space but she tastes so good. So good. And his mouth feels so good and Dove wishes this is just how they could stay forever. In this car, in their own world, with no looming dread.
She comes apart barely a minute into his actions and after riding out the orgasm she’s moving back on top of him. She’s pulling his jeans and boxers down swiftly and settling herself on top of him, lining herself up.
“Baby, baby, wait- oh God.” Steve has no time to even think before she’s sinking herself onto him, taking his large length fully.
“Oh, Steve,” Dove moans against his throat as she adjusts. No matter how many times they have sex, how many times he fills her up, she still feels like she’s splitting in two because of his size.
Steve wishes this could be slow and sweet like they usually have. Even when they’ve found themselves in the car like this before, it’s been sweeter than this. But this isn't normal. This is anger and sadness and something else Steve can’t recognize.
This is Dove crying for help because she wishes she could feel different but right now…right now the physical push and pull, the feeling of him inside of her, his lips, his moans, it’s all that’s keeping her from spiraling out into a panic.
The pace she sets is brutal, knocking the breath from her as she rolls against his cock. He’s moaning her name, hugging her against him, kissing any part of exposed skin he can reach and he’s still so sweet as she just takes from him.
Tears start pooling in her eyes as she gets closer and closer to the edge. But it’s not from pleasure, or maybe it is, but it’s they’re gone after one tips out of her eye.
And when she does tip over the edge, she cries out his name, collapsing against him as he pulls out. His own release coming out between them, hot and heavy.
Steve kisses her slowly again, hands cradling her face and hoping to convey the last of his pleas before he helps her clean up. He dresses her gently, kissing her forehead before exiting the car.
They’re silent as they walk back down towards the backyard basement door, not wanting to wake up the rest of the sleeping house.
As Dove reaches for the handle, Steve’s hand grabs hers.
“Hey,” he says, pulling her wrist hard enough to make her turn towards him. He cradles her face with one hand, kissing her lips softly one last time before resting his forehead against her. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, so much.”
Steve nods, squeezing the skin of her cheek that he’s holding gently. “We’re going to get through this.”
Dove nods, raising her hand to squeeze the one holding her cheek. “Yeah.”
And when they come back to the basement, everyone’s asleep. Sprawled across the floor, and in chairs. The couch is left open and Steve knows that was somehow Robin’s doing when he sees the short haired girl sleeping with her head against the table.
He kicks off his shoes, tucking himself against the back of the couch and opening his arm to Dove. She slides into the spot, her back against his chest.
From her position laying on the couch, Dove scans the room. Robin is right below them, laying against the table. Nancy is on the other side curled into a ball on the floor. Dustin’s back is against the entertainment center, mouth hung up. And Max is sitting in the arm chair sideways, one hand down and holding Lucas’s. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the seat. One of his hands holding Max's, the other clutching her Walkman, waiting for the tape to end so he can restart it.
“You okay?” Steve whispers into Dove's ear.
She turns her head and nods, settling back against him again and grabbing his hand that was resting on her stomach.
With his arms wrapped around her, their hands intertwined under her chin, they fall into sleep.
Well, Steve sleeps.
Dove stays awake staring at Max and Lucas for a while just thinking. She thinks about tomorrow and what that brings when the sun rises. How she won’t get to stay wrapped in Steve’s arms, how they’ll have to get up and she’ll have to tell them about what she saw in there with Max.
She’ll keep that brave face on and not act scared as shit. No matter what Steve says, how he pleads with her to just let him help, she can’t allow it. She can’t shake the feeling of being responsible and needing to stop this. To protect Max. To protect Steve, because she knows that if she doesn’t throw herself into the line of fire he will do it himself.
So she stuffs down the feeling of guilt and the other things she’s lying to herself about. She can’t live in a world without Steve Harrington. She can’t live in a world where another person she loves more than anything dies. Not when she can stop it.
Chapter Warnings: SMUT (unprotected p in v sex, m recieving oral, fingering, masturbation, denial?) slow burn friends to lovers, jealousy, depictions of grief, parental issues
Chapter Summary: as you and steve begin to navigate your new relationship, you have to find a way to reconcile your happiness with your baggage.
Fic Summary: You and Steve can't stand to be around one another... but you have to learn to coexist and raise your goddaughter together in the face of the apocalypse.
The first time you met Steve, you were new to Hawkins.
At nine years old, you had your own friends that you'd miss terribly, and you didn't want to have to meet anyone new. You moved across state lines for the good of your parents' careers and took a box of goodbye letters and friendship bracelets with you.
Your parents became members at the Hawkins Regency Country Club two weeks into moving, a recommendation from the head surgeon at Hawkins Memorial. The first community mixer was held in the event center at the club, a big ballroom overlooking the tennis courts.
You snuck away into the hot summer night knowing that you wouldn't be missed and sat on the patio with your legs tucked beneath your stupid, itchy dress. And, really, you didn't expect to be bothered, but you heard shoes scuffing behind you and knew that your isolation was short lived.
In some part of your mind, you thought you'd always remember that version of Steve— in ugly, corduroy pants and a green striped shirt, holding a plate of hors d'oeuvres. He'd sort of had a bowl cut too, which you suspected was the reason that he didn't keep too many pictures of his childhood around. Not until he had turned eleven and got his hair cut like Lief Garrett, at least.
"I didn't want you to be out here alone," he said. "It's dark."
You shrugged and turned out to face the tennis courts… and the woods beyond. It was so creepy and ugly here. The trees were big, and the woods felt so endless. Like you could just walk and walk and never escape. That's what being in Hawkins felt like.
But Hawkins, Indiana needed a cardiologist and had an opening in neurology with a path for advancement. It was like fate, your parents told you. It was the perfect place for them to go. Perfect for them, but… you weren't so sure.
"Do you… um… like to ride bikes?" Steve asked as he sat next to you. His nails were a little bloody around his cuticles, which you thought was gross, especially because he intended to eat finger foods. He was actively picking at them, which only made it worse, and you wondered why he was making them worse.
"No, I like to roller skate," you answered, nose wrinkling as he picked again and you watched him expose pink, raw skin. "Do you want a band-aid?"
He shook his head. "No, I'm fine." It went quiet then. You heard an animal calling in the woods, nothing you could identify. You wondered if there were entirely different animals here, or if anything overlapped. "I'm Steve. I live on Bradford Street."
"I live on Bradford Street." You turned to look at him, really look at him and gave a tiny smile before you told him your name. "I just moved here with my parents. They're doctors."
Steve offered you a small cocktail weenie. You declined. "I think you're the house next door," he said. "That's where the Thomases lived, but I heard my mom say that Mr. Thomas was having a baby with someone who wasn't Mrs. Thomas, so I guess they moved somewhere that they can all live together."
Your expression wrinkled. That didn't sound right, but Steve seemed so sure, so you jut went along with it. As you sat there, the music from the party was filtering through the crack in the sliding doors. Jive Talking, which you loved. You even had the 45. Steve didn't look particularly amused.
"Well, you live next door, so we can be friends," Steve said. "Maybe next week you can roller skate, and I'll ride my bike, and we'll see who's the fastest."
It was all so simple, it was exactly what you needed. A companion during parties where you were meant to be seen not heard, a friend to spend time with when the world felt so lonely. For a while, you tried to write your friends back home… but then Hawkins became your home.
It felt like all you needed was Steve, but then you got Carol and Tommy too, and that was perfect. You'd lost all of them in different ways, and you got them back in ones you didn't expect.
You woke up on the Friday of Sam's first birthday beside a sleepy Steve with his face smushed into a pillow, listening to the sounds of Sam breathing over the monitor. You moved closer, kissing his shoulder, right above the barely-there pink scars where he'd been dragged across the upside down version of Lover's Lake.
"Mmmph," Steve groaned into the pillow. He didn't bother opening his eyes for a while, but then he rolled over and blinked the sleepiness away. A fond smile played on his lips at the sight of you, even with your messy bed head and granny pajamas. "Morning, beautiful."
You rolled your eyes and laughed. "Good morning," you said with a tiny grin. He started to sit up, but you put a hand on his arm and tugged him back into bed. "Where are you going? I thought Robin cancelled the broadcast today for Peanut's party."
Steve grinned and kissed your forehead once before peeling himself off of you. "Yeah, but it's Peanut's birthday. I'm hosting the morning show so I can record it all on tape and show it to her when she's older."
You grinned and sat up. "That's cute," you replied. "Now I feel like my painted toy box is a stupid idea. It's not sentimental enough."
"No, it looks great and she can keep it forever. And who knows if she'll ever actually listen to the broadcast, y'know?" he insisted.
You followed him into the en suite and sat on the countertop while he got the shower running. He stretched, and your eyes flicked to the dark hair that trailed from his tummy and disappeared into his flannel pajamas.
He caught your gaze when you looked back up at him and rolled his eyes. "No. You're not showering with me." You laughed, cheeks burning hot as you tried to play coy. Just as you opened your mouth, he shook his head. "No way. Not to save water, not because you need one anyway. You're going to make me late."
A slow sigh escaped you. You hadn't actually slept together since the last time a week ago. And that wasn't to say you hadn't gotten close, but Steve kept pulling back before things could get too far, panting into your mouth with a gentle, I think we should slow down.
It was impressive, but generally frustrating. You wanted to sleep with Steve. Frequently. And you were confused about why every time that you tried to move beyond a heated make out, he politely rebuffed you.
I just want us to take our time, or, I don't want to rush.
But you hadn't taken your time. You had slept together after months of silent pining and jealousy and angst, and now… nothing. What good was taking your time when you'd already gone all the way? When, frankly, you'd missed a few bases on your way there?
But something about seeing him, with the grogginess of sleep still clinging to him, all unkempt and domestic… it was really doing it for you. You'd toe the line again and see if an entire week of behaving was slow enough for Steve. "I won't make you late," you insisted. "It's so cold today, a hot shower sounds really nice. And I don't want to go back to bed and be cold and alone."
Steve put his hands on his hips and sighed. A tiny smile played on your lips as he ran a hand through his messy hair and rolled his eyes again. "Fine. But it's just a shower."
Five minutes later, your hands were all over each other as you stood beneath the steaming spray. You panted, gasping into his mouth as he kissed you hungrily. His tongue dipped into your mouth, laving over yours like he was desperate to claim you inside and out.
But just as your hand moved down his stomach, following that dark thatch of hair, he pinned it to the tile. "Steve," you whined as he licked up your throat. "Let me touch you, baby."
And you swore you could feel him shiver against you. "You sound so hot calling me baby," he panted against your skin. And, Jesus, his dick twitched where it pressed against your hip. "But I want us to—" he hissed when you grabbed his ass to pull him closer, making him rut against you, "—to take this slow. Don't wanna cheapen it."
Huh. You'd need to unpack that later. For the moment, you pulled back just to meet his gaze. "Are you telling me that I can't suck your cock?" You asked with a pout.
"Oh, fuck me," he groaned. "No. I mean— not no I'm not telling you that. It's… yes, I'm… not yes as in—" He looked like he was being held at gunpoint, all soaking wet from the constant spray of water over the both of you, as pathetic as you'd seen him.
"Steve," you said, as gently as you could manage. "I am so fine with cheapening the moment. I'm literally begging to suck your dick right now, this is humiliating for me."
You kissed his throat, and he tasted like tap water and the remnants of his shampoo that had rinsed out. "Just…" You planted another wet kiss, sucking softly at the tender skin just beneath his pulse point. "Lemme take care of you. Please?"
He groaned, and you felt his cock twitch against your hip again. For just a moment, he gave in, rolling his hips almost imperceptibly against you. And then he sighed and pulled back to look in your eyes. "Can I take you on a date first?" He asked, tucking your wet hair behind your ear. "It's important to me."
You sighed softly, feeling an annoying sting of disappointment. Maybe he had a point— you'd done everything so backwards, maybe it was smart to cool off until you'd gone on a date and talked things out. So, with an annoyingly understanding and affectionate tug in your chest, you nodded. "Tomorrow," you said, meeting his gaze. "Promise?"
He smiled and kissed you again, slow and deep. Your eyes fluttered as he pinned you against the shower wall, groaning into your mouth. "Turn around, I want to wash your hair."
Steve's fingers moved over your scalp, combing through your wet hair as he massaged in the shampoo. You couldn't help the soft sighs that escaped your lips as he worked the suds through the ends of your curls.
A tiny laugh escaped him and you turned over your shoulder, brows furrowed. "Your perm is all grown out," he mused. "You should let me cut it."
"So you can get your payback?" You asked, raising a brow. He grinned and continued to work the shampoo in, until your eyes were half-closed and your knees felt weak.
He kissed your wet, soapy shoulder fondly once he'd gotten all of the shampoo rinsed. "I know the importance of a person's hair." He parted your hair and placed a gentle kiss at the back of your neck, sweet and tender. You listened as he lathered soap in his hands, then moved them to your slick skin.
A soft, shuddering sigh tumbled from your lips as his big hands massaged the soap onto your tits. One hand feebly grabbed at the slick, tiled wall. "Steve," you panted, almost a warning.
"Mmm?" He let his hands move, lower, sudsing up your tummy and ribs. "Just getting you clean."
Bullshit. His hands moved to your thighs, then squeezed your ass. He kissed the top of your spine again, pressing his forehead to your damp skin. He eased you beneath the spray, so all of the suds and bubbles rinsed down the drain between your feet.
"All better," he said softly. You opened your eyes and smiled up at him, feeling that stupid fluttery feeling that he seemed genetically engineered to instill in you. "Now get your cute ass back to bed. I have to take care of something before I leave."
A sly grin spread across your lips as you cast your eyes down, where his cock twitched, hard and flushed a pretty pink at the tip. You had a pretty solid idea of what that something was, and it wasn't something you really wanted to miss.
"Don't let me stop you," you said, and he groaned as you caught your bottom lip between your teeth and met his gaze once more.
"You're so evil," he muttered. But he couldn't stop his own eyes from wandering, falling from your eyes to your mouth, to your tits, to the soft curls at the apex of your thighs. He huffed and you watched his hand wrap around the base of his cock and squeeze.
His pretty eyes fluttered a bit, but when they locked on you, it sent a shot of pure electricity down your spine. It settled in your stomach, molten hot, and you gave a shaky exhale as his fist began to glide up and down his cock.
Holy fucking shit. Your mouth felt dry, and you swear you got a head rush just watching him. Rivulets of water streaming down his strong arms, the bulge of muscle as his hand worked over his length.
"This what you wanted?" He panted. His palm splayed against the tile beside your head, making him lean even closer to you. He smelled like the sweet honey of his shampoo and the spice of his body wash. You nodded quickly, and he fucking laughed. "Such a perv. Have you always been like this?"
No. God, no. He had a way of bringing out the most degenerate parts of you, it seemed. The angry, jealous rage, the toe-curling, horny need, the sappy, doting affection. So you just rolled your eyes and shook your head. "Shut up."
He tilted his head down, just enough that your noses pressed together and your lips were just barely grazing. Each of his panted breaths puffed over your wet mouth as he worked himself in his hand. You could hear the slick glide of his fist even over the spray of the water.
"Fuck, you look so pretty," he groaned, and his lips brushed yours in a cruel imitation of a kiss. So close, but still not enough.
You laughed weakly, holding his gaze. With his forehead against yours, you couldn't see much beyond the slope of his nose. That close, you could see every tiny freckle there, like pretty constellations.
"Wish you'd just let me touch you," you murmured. He groaned and pressed a sloppy kiss to your lips. He pulled back just to pant and moan, soft against the side of your mouth. "So stubborn."
He kissed you again, hungrier this time. His tongue moved over yours, careless and desperate, until he pulled back with blown pupils and flushed cheeks. "I'm really close," he panted. "You drive me crazy. I want you so bad."
"So bad?" You echoed. He nodded, knocking his nose against yours.
"Mhmm…" His nose nuzzled against your cheek as he sloppily kissed the side of your mouth. "So fucking bad, honey." The moan that escaped him sent a thrill through you— electric right down to your core. You felt his hot cum painting your thighs as he worked himself through his orgasm. It felt so intimate, seeing him come apart like that all on his own, that he'd done that for you, because of you.
His head slumped against your shoulder, wet hair sticking to your face as he huffed like he'd run a marathon. "Jesus christ," he panted. "Fuck." He kissed your shoulder, rinsed you clean, and kissed your forehead for good measure.
You slipped back into the bed and the cotton sheets felt like ice without him there to warm you up. And, frankly, you were still really turned on, enough that you had to slip a hand into your panties and get yourself off just listening to him humming and fixing his hair.
Just imagining him in his tight Levi's with the pudge of his tummy jutting over the waistband, with the dampness of the shower still clinging to the hair on his chest and his shoulders. The sounds he had made echoed in your brain, the smell of him close to you, sweet like honey.
You came embarrassingly fast, biting into the plush of your bottom lip as you worked yourself through it.
Steve stopped by the bed a few minutes later and planted a gentle kiss on your lips, totally oblivious. "Go back to sleep, dummy," he mumbled against your mouth. Then he stood and grinned. "The big broadcast is at eight, so make sure you have the radio on. I'll be back to help before the party, I promise."
Steve's broadcast started at 8AM, right as you eased a hungry Sam into her high chair and turned on the portable radio on the kitchen table. Sammie perked up at the sound of the station's jingle, or maybe it was just that you were bringing her a sippy cup of milk while you got ready to make her scrambled eggs on the stovetop.
Good morning Hawkins, I'm your host, Steve "The Hair" Harrington, and I hope you're ready for a very special broadcast in honor of a very special girl. My girl, my Peanut, turns a whole year old today.
You grinned at the sound of a cheesy cheering sound effect, followed by noisemakers. Even if he had a helping hand, that choice was all Steve.
Sorry to any parents listening, but compared to Peanut, your kids are total duds. She knows three whole words, and she has two teeth, both on the bottom. Her favorite food is oatmeal, and she totally hates all of the gross meat flavored baby food. She can walk a little, but prefers to be carried, and if you turn your head while she's on the ground, she's gone, because she's the fastest crawler on the planet. Her favorite Care Bear is Funshine, and I'm not ashamed to know all of their names.
And, you're probably thinking— Steve, you have a daughter at twenty, you're totally throwing your whole life away. But that's total bull. Honestly, it feels like I was just kind of aimless before I became her dad. I think now, I'm finally seeing things clearly.
Anyway, I hope she's listening to this someday on cassette, or maybe on hologram. Who knows? So Peanut, if you're listening right now or in the future— your dad loves you, your mom loves you— you're probably the most loved kid in the world. Happy Birthday, Sammie. This one's for you.
A dumb smile played on your lips as the bouncy bass riff of My Girl played through the speakers. You glanced over at Samantha, your girl, and felt such a strong tug of affection that your eyes went misty.
Stupid. You'd never been so sappy before now. A perk of motherhood, maybe.
Various party members and their families called in to leave birthday messages— for posterity. Auntie Rob was the first one to say her piece from the studio. And when the calls rolled in, they came in droves. Claudia and Dustin, The Wheeler's, The Sinclair's, Joyce and the boys.
Your girl, your peanut, was adored by everyone who was lucky enough to meet her. She smiled up at you with the few teeth she had as you put her plate down and fed her little bites. And every time she heard her dad's voice on the radio, you swore she looked a little happier.
The birthday party was later that day, with snow still falling in fat flakes that piled up in snowdrifts outside. It was a biting, nasty cold that no one would have wanted to leave the comfort of the indoors for.
And even so, the house was packed full of people who wanted to celebrate her. Soggy boots were left in the foyer, where they melted into snowy puddles that the beach towels on the floor did little to help with. Parkas overflowed the rack by the door and spilled onto Daniel Harrington's desk like it was a coat check at a fancy restaurant.
You'd attempted to frost the cake with little peanut shapes, but they turned into ugly brown blobs. Karen Wheeler stepped in to assist, easing the piping bag from your hands so you could, "enjoy the party."
You were doing your best to do just that, passing from group to group, trying to keep everyone entertained. You passed Sam being held by Mrs. Perkins, who was posing for a Polaroid. It was a full house— a combination of Carol and Tommy's families, yours and Steve's families (with large exceptions), and the family that he had found in the party.
It was nearly elbow to elbow, even in the large house, and it was far too cold for anyone to spill into the backyard. One of Steve's little cousins knocked into your legs as he ran to peek inside the dozens of gift bags that had spilled from the dining table and onto the floor. You hadn't really expected so much, but it was a welcome surprise.
You scanned the room, eyes furrowed, and frowned when you didn't spot either of your parents. They had called to tell you that they would be there, but the party was well underway and they still seemed to be missing. But you couldn't focus on that, just like Steve couldn't really think about his parents' absence, or whether they would have cared to show up in the first place. You just continued through the party, trying to keep things in order.
A smile played on your lips as you passed a table littered with pictures of Sam's first year. In the very middle, in a small metal frame, was a photo of Carol, Tommy, and Sam on the night she was born— red in the face and wrinkly. In a frame beside that was a framed photo of you and Steve holding Sam in her Halloween costume, with her full bucket of candy between you. It felt fair that all four of Sammie's parents were represented, and you couldn't imagine the day without them there in some capacity anyway.
As you passed the snack table, you felt a strong arm loop around your waist and tug you back, until you were held snug against a broad chest and felt lips peppering kisses onto your cheeks. "Hey, beautiful," Steve mumbled against your cheek, punctuating it with a final smack. "Did you fix the cake?"
"Mrs. Wheeler's got it," you answered, turning your face to plant a soft kiss on his lips. "Have you seen my parents yet?"
He sighed and shook his head. "Not yet, but they said they'd be here," he assured. He rubbed his hands over your arms like he and kissed the crown of your head. "And if they don't show up… that's their loss, right?"'
You sighed and nodded, then tilted your lips and accepted another chaste kiss, which was met by loud, exaggerated groaning. With a sheepish smile, you turned to look at Dustin and Robin, who were eating pinwheel sandwiches and peanut butter cookies that Claudia had brought.
"Can you tiptoe around each other again?" Robin asked. "I can't keep down my food."
"Yeah, this mushy shit is nauseating," Dustin said with a grimace.
Your brows furrowed and you tilted your head, a sly smile spreading across your lips. "Yeah? As nauseating as a certain song?" He swallowed, and had the good sense to look abashed. "A certain song about a certain story… It's on the tip of my tongue actually…"
Dustin's expression wrinkled and he shook his head. "You're both seriously evil people, you know that? You belong together." He grabbed the peanut butter cookie from Steve's plate and shook his head. "Don't eat my mother's cookies, you don't deserve them."
You shook your head and peeled yourself off of Steve so you could continue your rounds. The party was there, along with their families. You hadn't realized how much Steve was appreciated until Sue Sinclair was pulling you to the side to talk about how Steve had spent August of '85 practicing with Lucas to prepare him for basketball tryouts. How he'd never missed one of Lucas' games, so they wouldn't have dreamed of missing Samantha's birthday.
And it seemed like every one of the kids and their parents had a similar story. Steve let Mike wait out a storm inside of Scoops Ahoy after closing, and sent him off with free ice cream. He drove Will into the city to check out the one comic book store that had a comic he needed. Claudia had already told you about Steve helping Dustin get ready for every single school dance he's ever attended… and reiterated it any time she had your ear.
You just wished El could have been there. She was an angel in your eyes, and she loved helping with Sam whenever she came to visit. You'd always felt so lonely as an only child— it was part of why you and Steve bonded so quickly as kids— and being around El let you feel like a big sister.
You'd promised to save her a slice of cake for the next time you saw her, but it still felt a bit unfair that she had to hide in the shadows. A girl like her deserved life in the sun.
"There's Mama," you heard a voice say, and suddenly Sam was in your arms again. You weren't even sure who had handed her over, but you bounced her on your hip and carried her over to Steve.
He smiled at the sight of her, expression softening as he leaned in to kiss her forehead. She let out a happy dada, which Steve had been bragging to everyone about. You had definitely heard her say more and hi first, but you weren't going to ruin his fun.
You adjusted her dress and straightened the bow clipped to the tiny ponytail on the top of her head. A camera flash startled the three of you, and you gave Claudia a sheepish smile as she took more photos, until Dustin put a hand on her arm and guided her away.
"Baby parties are kind of boring," you said to Steve as you nodded back to the clusters of people just standing around and snacking. "Maybe we can knock out happy birthday, cut the cake, then open a few presents?"
He frowned. "You don't want to wait a little longer?" He asked. "We can hold out for your parents, if you want me to. I can stall for time, give a big, sappy speech."
Despite everything, you couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, you got that out of the way tenfold this morning," you said. "It was really sweet, by the way. I got a little weepy, which is totally lame. But, she's lucky you're her dad."
Steve's cheeks went a little pinker than they had before— you were around him enough now to notice things like that. And how he swallowed hard at compliments that really meant something, like he had to force himself to accept it.
"Yeah, thanks," he said quietly. "And we're both really lucky to have you. You're so…"
A sight over his shoulder made you stand up straighter, and the sound of whatever he had been saying was muffled in your ears like you'd been submerged underwater.
Because in the middle of the living room, with snow clinging to her hair and a beautifully wrapped gift in her arms was your mother. It was almost impressive, how little you'd crossed paths with her since your brief visit to the Hospital. Sometimes, when you would go with Steve to visit Max, you'd hear her voice down the hallway, but that was the extent of it.
You wondered if the nurses warned her— Maybe avoid that hallway, your whore daughter is visiting the comatose redhead with that boy she lives in sin with.
But that wasn't fair. Well, really, what they had done wasn't very fair either.
"Sorry I'm late. I was hoping your father would be out of surgery by now, but…" She gave a flippant wave of her hand. "I brought a gift for Samantha."
A strained smile played on your lips as you bounced her on your hip. "That's really sweet, Mom," you finally said. "I can go carry that into the dining room with the others. Do you want to hold Sam? She's an easy baby, really calm."
She gave a polite, but firm shake of her head. "You don't need to bother, darling," she insisted. It was her coded way of saying, I'm here, but not for that. So you took a deep breath and watched her disappear into the party again.
You looked towards the front door and let out a heavy sigh. "We should probably just get everything done," you finally said to Steve. "Because if we wait much longer, Sam's gonna get fussy, and people are going to get antsy and…"
Steve planted a kiss on your forehead and ran a thumb between your brows, smoothing the wrinkle there until you laughed softened your expression. He pressed a small kiss right where his thumb had just been. "I'll handle everything, don't even stress."
If there was one thing that Steve was good at, it was taking the burden off of your shoulders and moving it onto his own. So while you got Sammie into her high chair and made sure her bow was clipped on straight and her shoes were buckled right, Steve rallied the troops and brought in the cakes.
Steve counted the room off, and Sam wailed as the crowd around her sang happy birthday. Her face went strawberry red as she cried, so you and Steve had to blow out the single candle on her tiny, baby sized cupcake. It was unclear to you whether or not that counted as a wish, but you had one. Please let this all work out.
That afternoon, when the guests had cleared out and left only a few stragglers to help clean, you took inventory of Sam's haul. With the quarantine in place, the gifts hadn't exactly been top shelf, but there was a clear show of effort that made you happy.
Hand-sewn outfits, hand-me-down toys and books, baby gear that people had no need for and were willing to pass along. The dining room was filled with it all, and you were honestly a little worried about finding space to store everything.
As you counted the number of Care Bears that she had gained (two funshines, one good luck bear, one bedtime bear, and three cheer bears), you felt arms loop around your stomach and you laughed softly as you were tugged against Steve's broad chest.
"You did good today," he mumbled against your throat as he kissed the soft skin there tenderly. "The party was fun, the cake was delicious—"
"I heard Mike say the peanuts on the cake looked like balls."
"Mike's an asshole," he said. "Mrs. Wheeler fixed it either way, and everything was perfect. You're perfect." His palms splayed over your tummy, pulling you tighter against him as he continued to pepper gentle kisses.
"Steve," you murmured softly, as he moved your hair away to suck at your pulse point. For a moment, your knees threatened to buckle, and you couldn't do much more than exhale a shuddery sigh. "Steve, Claudia is right in the kitchen."
He smiled against your throat and you shivered as his teeth grazed over your jaw. "She's occupied." His voice vibrated against your throat, and you sighed weakly.
You laughed softly and turned around in his arms so you could look up at him. "Steve. What about our date tomorrow?" He groaned against you and the ticklish buzz of the sound made you shiver. "If the rules apply to me, they apply to you."
With a sigh, he peeled himself off of you and fixed you with a little pout. "That's too many Care Bears," he sighed. "Way too many. And she already has, like, a million upstairs."
You laughed and held the good luck bear to your chest. "I think you should keep this one," you said. "Put it in the van for the crawls. A real good luck charm."
He ran his fingers over a hand-sewn big bird pillow and laughed softly. "What'd your mom end up bringing, anyway?" He asked, meeting your gaze. "Baby's first MRI?"
You scoffed and shook your head. "No, uh… it was old baby things of mine that were in storage," you answered. "Mostly dusty, old clothes that Sam will never wear. And…"
You reached into the box and pulled out a curly stuffed bear with a big yellow ribbon around it's neck. With a big smile, you held him to your chest. "Do you recognize him?"
For a moment, there was little more than confusion behind his gaze, and then there was a flash of recognition. "Mr. Coco," he said with a grin. "I gave you that when we were, like, ten."
"Eleven," you corrected, squeezing the bear even tighter against your body. The top of its head smelled like the attic— ancient and musty, but it made your heart ache with nostalgia. "What are your parents sending?"
He shrugged. "Well, snail mail and quarantine aren't exactly the best ways to communicate," he said with a wry laugh. "Three months ago I sent a letter with pictures of the three of us to them and reminded them of her birthday. And two weeks ago I got a heavily redacted letter that mentioned that they had shipped us a camcorder as a combo birthday-Christmas gift, with their best wishes for the three of us."
A tiny grimace twisted your expression. "Bleak," you said softly. "But useful? It'll be nice to have some home videos of Sam."
"Yeah, well that's if it makes it through the blockade, or whatever. Ninety-nine percent chance some bozo MP is fucking around with it right now."
Steve wrapped his arms around you again and kissed you slow and sweet, and you felt the tension of the day melt like the snow that dripped from the eaves outside. His hands moved up to your shoulders and you sighed against his mouth as his thumbs worked out the tension there.
"You should bail on cleaning," he said softly, mumbled against the corner of your mouth. "Why don't you go take a really long, really hot bath and relax for the rest of the night, hm? We have a big day tomorrow."
A grin twitched onto your lips as you peered up at him through your lashes. "Are you telling me I need to rest up before our date?" You asked coyly. "What are we gonna do? Run a marathon?"
"Something like that."
Before you could respond, you felt a presence at your left and turned to see a scowling Mike Wheeler. "Gross. Can you two stop sucking face long enough to tell us where the recycling bin is?"
Steve groaned in annoyance and stalked off with Mike in tow, dragging him into the garage where you kept the bins during the snowstorm. In his absence, you slipped into the kitchen and gave Claudia a grateful smile.
"You've done so much for us already, you don't have to clean any more," you insisted. "You should get home, Mrs. Henderson. Let the rest of us pick up the slack."
She looked reluctant, but grateful as she gathered her things and her son and headed towards the car. In the morning, you'd call the florist and send her a thank you bouquet, and even that didn't feel like enough. Without even meaning to, she'd become Samantha's unofficial grandmother, in a way. Whether she'd ever claim that title or not, it made you happy that even with your own and Steve's parents being absent in one way or another, your girl still had a family around her to give her love.
You tidied up what was left of the kitchen, then joined Lucas and Erica in the living room. They were trying to silently pop balloons with tiny pinpricks that they squeezed the air out of, which meant whenever one popped loudly, the offender got yelled at.
"There's a baby asleep upstairs, shithead," Erica snapped and slapped her brother's arm.
"You just popped one!" He argued back.
Nancy, Robin, and Jonathan were trying to make tidying the display of Peanut's baby pictures a three person job. Will was folding up the banners and garlands that he had painted for you to keep, while Joyce sat staring longingly at the snowy patio like she was craving a smoke.
You slipped into your bedroom and smiled at the sight of a tiny present on your nightstand. You chewed on your lip as you took the little box into your hands and read the small note on top.
To the best mom in Hawkins, from the okay-est dad in Hawkins. One year down, seventeen more to go. At least.
Inside the box, you found a little ring rattling about. A pretty gold setting with two little diamonds framing a dainty ruby cut into a heart shape. It fit perfectly on your ring finger, the one on your right hand.
You recognized it immediately— Valentine's Day of '80, Sylvia Harrington got the ring as an apology. Steve told you as much, when you had to sit through the Hawkins Regency Valentine's Day dinner and watch her showing the little ring off to the other ladies.
I heard Mom say he's screwing the secretary again. That's why she got that and not, like… a card and a bouquet.
The next time you went over, you found the ring shoved in the back of the jewelry box and tried it on. Still too big for your fingers, but so pretty that you just wanted to take it home. He said you could, if you wanted, but you knew if your parents caught you with it, they'd drag you over to return it by your ear.
Steve had remembered, after all this time. It was funny, how it had been a thoughtless gift from his father, but meant so much coming from Steve. One woman's sorry-for-cheating present is another's treasure.
You took Steve's suggestion and had a long, hot bath in Sylvia Harrington's pink bathtub. And you figured if you could have her ruby ring, you could use her fancy soaps and bath oils. You stayed in, decompressing until the water went lukewarm and you felt like a lavender-scented raisin.
It was still snowing out— you could see it from the big windows in the bedroom, so you pulled on your comfiest sweatsuit and thickest socks before braving the living room.
"Oh look, Mom's back," Robin said when you walked back in. It made your face heat up still, that stupid nickname. "We're watching Clue, if you wanna join."
You grabbed an extra slice of cake and slid into the free spot beside Steve. The second you were beside him, his arm found its place around your shoulders like it was second nature. And, really, you fit against his side like you belonged there.
No crawls, no monsters, no fears. Just one really good day— the best day. Steve and the rest of the party sprawled around the living room, a stupid movie on TV, your girl upstairs napping.
His lips pressed against your temple and you melted against him. You wished every day could be just like that.
Snow was still falling in fat, lazy flakes as Steve drove you into town the next day. The headlights illuminated them as they drifted down, landing in clumps atop yesterday's snow.
Steve had managed to strike a deal with Mrs. Henderson, or maybe he had just begged until she folded. Frankly, you weren't sure how he pulled it off, but you were baby free until the morning, which was as exhilarating as it was unfamiliar.
Your stomach fluttered with all sorts of strange feelings. Nerves, like any other first date you'd ever been on. Worry, because Sam was staying the night with Claudia and she'd never spent the night anywhere before. Giddiness, because you'd spent most of your adolescence dreaming about a date with Steve Harrington, and it was finally happening.
Enzo's was, as he put it, the only real option for your kind-of-first date. You didn't bring up that your last date had been to Enzo's as well, or how that date had turned out. All he knew was that it went bad, you didn't get to hook up, and he was stupidly smug about it.
The table he'd reserved was a little small, tucked into the corner next to the string quartet they had on Saturdays. They were playing Vivaldi— one of the songs that played from your childhood music box. You kicked Steve's shin as you tried to readjust your legs, and laughed bashfully as you mumbled a quick apology.
"You look so beautiful tonight," he murmured, and you melted a little as he brushed your hair behind your ears. "You got all dressed up for me, huh?"
Truthfully, you'd spent a stupid amount of time getting ready— flipping through Vogue and Cosmo for any inspiration for how to dress up while not freezing to death in the snow. Eventually, you copied an editorial as best as you could— a turtleneck sweater, a mini skirt, red tights, and black boots.
"I wanted to put in some effort," you admitted, a little bashful to have been called out for it. "Most of the time I'm just wearing sweats and a t-shirt covered in baby food, milk, and god knows what else. I thought you deserved me at my best for our date."
His brows furrowed at your words, and he shook his head quickly. "What? You're always at your best. You're— I mean, god, you're perfect all of the time, not just—" He exhaled hard and met your gaze. "I didn't mean to imply that you're… y'know, better, but—"
"Steve," you said gently. "I know what you mean, and thank you. I think you look pretty handsome yourself." He preened at that, and you grinned at his proud little smile as he read over the menu and tried not to look too happy about the compliment.
"Sam said milk today," you said, after a prolonged bout of silence. "Clear as day. So that's word number four."
His expression wrinkled a bit and he shook his head. "No, it's five. She said bye when we dropped her at Henderson's."
You were unconvinced. She'd said buh… and gah, and blew raspberries. But you shrugged and chewed on the crispy breadsticks the waiter had brought out with your waters. No wine— you tried to order their cheapest red and were promptly carded. That's what a fancy establishment got you.
While you waited for your food, the conversation was stiff. Talk about the station, about Sam and her newest milestones. About Robin, apparently dating someone new and totally stealing your thunder as the party's newest couple.
And then you just… sort of ran out of things to say. What was there that you hadn't said already earlier that day? Or that week? Or in the past nine months of living together?
There was so much balancing precariously on the shoulders of the date. It was your first full night away from the baby ever. It was your first real date with Steve. It was the requirement Steve had set before you could have sex again. And, in the back of your mind, it felt like a litmus test for the viability of your relationship.
"So…" you pushed your dinner salad around with your fork and the tomato on your fork mopped up the vinaigrette. "What's a normal first date conversation to have?"
Steve perked up at your attention and gave a small shrug. "I dunno… uh, where do you see yourself in five years?"
A snort escaped you and you couldn't help an amused smile that crept onto your lips. "What, like a job interview?" You laughed lightly as he ducked his head, but humored him. "Um… I would hope I've at least gotten my associates in nursing by then. I might think about trying to get a job at one of the schools when one of the batty, ancient nurses finally retire."
He looked at you expectantly, and you felt your face burn a little. "And in this very optimistic vision, your parents graciously hand over the keys to their place while still paying the bills so we can have a nice place to raise Sam," you joked, because it was the least mushy way you could communicate that he was still in your vision of the future. "What about you? Five years out, what do you want life to be like?"
You watched him think for a moment— brows drawn together, tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth. A soft, huh, escaped him, like he hadn't thought about what his own answer would be.
"I guess, y'know, I want all of the bad stuff in Hawkins to be over," he began. His thumb ran along your knuckles again, worrying over the ring as he thought. "I'd have a decent job doing whatever the hell I can get hired to do. That part doesn't matter as much as just, y'know, being a good provider for my girls. And Peanut would be in school by then, and she'd be doing really well because we'd be working with her at home too. And, I dunno… I think it'd be nice if she had a sibling or two by then, before she's too big and feels left out when we have more."
Oh. You took a slow drink of your water and tried to pretend like you couldn't feel Steve's eyes on you, studying your reaction. Steve wanted more kids. Steve wanted more kids before you even turned twenty five. Steve wanted to have kids with you. And maybe you hadn't schooled your expression well enough, because his eyes went a little soft and his throat bobbed nervously.
"If we… y'know, have more," he amended. "But have you thought about it? Having more kids, I mean."
"That's a… wild question for a first date," you said with a weak laugh, trying to brush off the seriousness of the question. "I guess I never really thought about it before everything happened, you know? I thought I'd decide whether or not I'd have kids when I was older and had everything else figured out first. But, uh… I guess it got decided for me."
Truthfully, you'd always wondered if you wanted kids at all. It seemed like everyone's parents let them down eventually. Your own, who hadn't ever really seemed interested in raising you in the first place, Steve's who tormented him with both emotional and physical distance. Carol's father whose benders drove her to your house for an escape, and Tommy's father, who pushed him aside to pour all of his attention onto his shiny new step-family.
It just felt like all parents did was fuck their kids up in some way. Whether intentionally, or as an unfortunate side-effect of just existing.
But you'd also seen Claudia doting over Dustin at the dinner table, encouraging his interests and hobbies even if she didn't understand them. You'd heard Steve singing Sam to sleep at three in the morning, exhausted but full of so much selfless love that it didn't even bother him that much. And you'd felt a new part of yourself growing and changing over the past year— like the muscle of your heart expanding to create a new space all for your girl. Full of pride and love and joy for every bit of her that you got to experience.
The odds felt stacked against you, in a way. Most parents messed up; everyone you knew had, at one point, slammed their bedroom door and just screamed into their pillow about how they hated their parents, or they just didn't understand. And you thought that, maybe, the inevitability of it was just part of life that you had to count on.
Because you still remembered how proud your father had been when you clumsily stitched your teddy bear's arm back on, and how your mother had beamed about how beautiful you looked before prom. You remembered Carol's father's slow recovery for his family's sake, and how he'd cried happy tears when they danced at her wedding.
"I guess I don't think it would be the worst thing," you said finally. "More, I mean. Like… two or three including Sam. If the circumstances are right."
"What about four?" He asked, and you couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
So you brushed your hair back and narrowed your eyes with an easy smile. "Do you always ask your dates how many babies they're willing to pop out for you on first dates?"
He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly and laughed. "Sorry, you're right, that's pretty intense, huh? Uh… it's been a while since I've been on a first date," he admitted. "Like a real, sit down, have a conversation date, you know? Not just…"
"Yeah, I know what a first date is," you replied with a tiny laugh. "Who was your last real one? Nancy?"
It was meant to be a teasing jab, but his cheeks went a shade of pink that might have been adorable if it weren't for jealousy roiling around your stomach. Which was stupid, really, but that didn't make it any less present. "I mean, yeah, pretty much," he admitted.
"Huh… Carol told me you were, like, really dating around after I left Hawkins," you said, raising a brow. "Like… constant stream of girls dating around. I guess I didn't realize she meant, like, fucking around."
He glanced at the tables on either side of you, but the string quartet was playing loud enough that it sort of muffled your conversation. "I took most of them out beforehand."
You laughed wryly. "Most of them."
His eyes narrowed, and you could sense defensiveness in the tick of his jaw. "Why are you being so weird about this? You're acting pissed."
You didn't know how to even begin to explain how you were feeling, because it was a weird feeling. This itch under your skin, a resentment. Of the girls, of him. Stupid, nagging, hot jealousy from a very loud, very tender spot you thought you'd outgrown.
"I'm not pissed," you insisted, because you were pretty confident that you weren't. "And I don't know what it is, okay? I just feel crazy when I think about you with other girls. It makes me feel like I'm in high school again."
Unfortunately, you were self aware enough to know where it all stemmed from. Carol's birthday party in the stupid basement closet and your first kiss with Steve (with anyone). How he had immediately confessed that he wished you had been Lisa.
It was watching his endless stream of girlfriends and going to parties where he'd disappear into the nearest door with a lock and walk out unkempt and smug. It was the mental image of Steve with pretty girls who he took on casual dates and hooked up with in his car, the same car that he'd gotten you in the backseat of.
It made you stupidly nauseous to think about. That you were one of many, that there was always a chance that you were being compared to some other girl he'd been with, for better or worse.
Maybe Amy was a better kisser. Maybe Laurie was better in bed. And Lisa had better tits, and Stacey had a better attitude, and, and, and. Maybe the only thing you had going for you was that, for now, he was in love with you.
"Hey, I can see your brain working," he said, and you thought it was sweet how visibly concerned he was, at least. "This isn't like high school, okay? After the wedding it was all just… meaningless. I was looking for something— for someone— that wasn't even in Hawkins."
Your chest fluttered a little at his words. There was a sick sort of pride you felt at being the one in the back of his mind while he was with other girls, just like he had been with you. It soothed that nagging voice in the back of your head, just knowing that you had been the one who he was comparing them all to.
Sure, it was immature and selfish, but it had always been a part of you, that jealousy. "Oh," you said softly, because you couldn't think of anything else to say.
"That's why this date means a lot to me, you know?" He said. His cheeks were dusted with the faintest ruddiness, the softest spray over his freckle dotted face. "I just… I needed this to be different than before, so you don't think that being your boyfriend isn't important to me. I didn't want you to think I just wanted to sleep with you, and that's all that mattered to me, because I wouldn't blame you if you thought of me that way."
You swallowed around a lump in your throat and nodded. "I don't think of you that way, and I know you really care about this," you said, lips twitching with a tiny smile. He took your hand from across the table, his thumb running over the ruby ring on your finger. Your heart was doing a funny, fluttery thing, one that made you feel like you were going to cry or laugh because you were so full of feeling that something had to come out.
You knew what it was, but you couldn't bring yourself to verbalize it. "Hey, about what you said before… I don't want you to just pick whatever job is available so you can be a provider, or whatever," you said. "Isn't there anything you want to do?"
He shrugged, brows knit. "I don't know," he admitted. "Remember that career aptitude test we took in senior year?" When you nodded, he sighed. "It told me I was best suited to be a, like, retail associate, which is just a fancy way of saying a schmuck who folds shirts for a living."
Your lips twitched with the beginnings of a frown at his dejected tone, like he'd given up on ever doing anything he cared about. "Steve, c'mon, they give you, like, twenty suggestions. They weren't all just retail."
He sighed, and the forced nonchalance in his expression was how you knew it really bothered him. "Alright, fine, they also said I should be an elementary school teacher."
Your brow knit. "Well, what's the problem with that?"
His laugh was bitter and dry. "Maybe that I'm a goddamn idiot," he muttered. He looked up and saw pure concern on your face, which made him quickly shake his head and try to look unbothered. "I'm sorry it's just… it doesn't matter what I'm suited for. I just want to be good to you, and good to Sam. I'm happy when I know you're both healthy and happy. And you're both healthy and happy so..."
"You're not an idiot, Steve," you pressed. "And I'm not going to be happy if you're killing yourself every day at some soul crushing job, just for my sake."
Across the table, his nails dug into the soft skin around his cuticles and pulled. It made your stomach turn just to watch it, especially when you had to look at the raw, tender flesh. "Do we have to talk about this?"
"Well, if you can ask how many kids I'm willing to give you, I think I can tell you that I want you to have a job you care about," you countered.
It struck you then that this wasn't a first date. It wasn't even a fiftieth date. While you were avoiding your feelings for Steve, your lives had grown around one another whether you wanted them to or not. Tightly woven, completely inextricable.
Nothing was as simple as just being each other's boyfriend and girlfriend when you'd been playing house since March. Mom and Dad. Samantha's Parents. Hello, this is the Harrington Household, we can't come to the phone right now, but—
Boyfriend felt too casual for what he was to you. It felt small and childlike. You were talking to Steve like your future together had already been written in permanent marker. And, really, you knew that feeling wasn't just about Sam. It was a choice you made daily, that you'd been actively making since March.
A choice to wake up and see things through, to live with hopefulness instead of anger. It was the harder path, you were more than sure of it, but the funniest sense of certainty settled over you as you looked at Steve across the table.
It had never felt so obvious until that moment.
"I think you're smarter than you give yourself credit for," you said finally. "And I think you're funny, and charismatic, and shockingly selfless. And if you ever can't decide on what to do, I vote that you stay a DJ, 'cause your voice sounds really sexy on the radio."
He laughed and shook his head incredulously, but the tiny smile on his lips as he stared at the tablecloth told you that you'd managed to cheer him up a little.
The waiter brought out your plates, which gave you both a healthy buffer to push thoughts of the future aside for another time. The conversation moved away from heavy topics like how many kids will we eventually have and what job will you have to support them and don't be jealous that I was sleeping around before we reconnected, I did it because I missed you, and into safer places like wow, these mashed potatoes are really good and I think the menu actually called it a potato puree.
Your fork dragged against your plate, and it suddenly felt very… calm. Sweet and well intentioned, but so much more grown up than you were used to. It reminded you of being twelve and having a babysitter come over so your parents could go have a date night. They went out, had a nice meal, and got home exactly at nine so they could hand over the cash to the babysitter.
You didn't want to feel like them— not now, not ever. Besides, the mention of a future career outside of interdimensional monster hunting had bummed your boyfriend out.
"Do you wanna do something fun after this?" You asked as you finished your last bite. "Like… maybe we can hit up Big Town and see if that bartender who always sold us drinks still works there."
"Big Town?" He asked, brows furrowing. "You want to go bowling?"
You nodded. "Yeah, why not? When's the last time either of us did anything fun?" Really, your lives had become a series of end-of-the-world emergencies, child-rearing, and brief moments of respite in each other. But fun… the kind of fun that you'd had before the world ended, had been a rare occurrence in your lives as of late.
He gave you a guilty look look, like like a puppy that had just been caught chewing on your favorite shoes. "This isn't fun?"
"No, it's great, Steve, and I appreciate that you planned all of this," you insisted. "But… I think we should take advantage of our baby-free night since it's only, like, half past eight. And I want to see if I can kick your ass in bowling still."
The promise of a little competition lit a spark in his eyes, and his guilty, disappointed expression disappeared. "I always went easy on you," he said with a grin. "And you're right, this isn't the most exciting date of all time. I just wanted it to be kind of fancy, I thought you deserved to be treated to something nice."
You leaned across the small table and planted a soft kiss on his lips, not caring that your blazer was at risk of dragging across your plate. "It's very sweet," you said against his lips. You gave him another slow kiss and sat back. "You're very sweet. And very, very bad at bowling."
Steve flagged the waiter for the check, unable to sit back while his athletic prowess was called into question. On the way to the car, after he had paid for the meal (a meal which you thought was way too expensive, but you weren't going to tell Steve that), you linked your fingers with his and tugged your jacket a little tighter around yourself.
But thoughts about how the conversations inside had gone kept nagging you with each step away from the warm glow from the windows. You didn't want to leave that part of the date with unsaid words or a dark cloud over it.
"Okay, to start, I'm sorry for getting weird about you dating around," you began, pausing at his car. You leaned against the passenger's side door and peered up at him. "It's totally fine that you did, y'know, and I'm not ever going to think lesser of you because you did, or judge you for anything, because that would be totally hypocritical. And it's not even about you it's—"
The soft warmth of a kiss on your cheek made you shut up and take a deep breath. He stepped back and brushed your hair out of your face with a an amused, if not understanding smile. "It just made me think about how much time we've wasted, y'know?" You asked, meeting his gaze. "I don't even know if there's anything we could have done to change how things ended up, or if this is just what we were meant for, but sometimes I catch myself thinking about all of the places we could have fit back together before."
You thought about senior year, and if Steve would've come to your window after Billy beat him senseless— cold tile under your knees as you cleaned the blood off of his face and stuck pink bandaids on the deep cuts. How easy it would have been then to just apologize for your fight before you slept together and things got more complicated.
Or, maybe, Fall break of your freshman year of college, when Carol and Tommy sent you to return a couple of tapes to Family Video. You had thought it was a simple favor because she was way too pregnant to deal with the asshole manager bitching her out about late fees, but, no. Steve was behind the counter like they'd planned it all. Honestly, they probably had.
Maybe if you'd just talked it out then. If he hadn't been so avoidant, if you hadn't been so angry.
"I'm glad it's now," he said finally. "I'm glad you got to stay away from… everything I come with for a little while." His eyes shifted over your shoulder and you turned, looking at the football stadium glow of the military base in the square. A shiver ran through you, not from the snow. "Let's get you in the car, you're freezing. And I don't want you to blame it on frostbite when I kick your ass at Big Town."
A smile played on your lips as you nodded. You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him again, slow and sweet, then got in the car.
Honestly, you didn't hate the Beamer that much anymore. It smelled like Steve's cologne, and a little bit like the strawberry applesauce that you'd spilled into the floor mats in the backseat when you'd tried to appease a crying Sam on the drive home from a doctor's appointment.
The radio was turned to WSQK, as it usually was. As Steve cranked the car, you heard Robin announcing her next track— a throwback by Depeche Mode. Steve made a face and turned the radio up.
"I put her onto that one," he muttered, without much venom at all. He flipped down the visor to check his hair in the mirror and your heart fluttered at the sight of the pictures of you and Sam clipped inside. He brushed his fingers against the pictures briefly, like it was a habit, before he shut the visor and gave you an easy grin.
That was your Steve. The Steve you felt that aching affection for that you couldn't bring yourself to place. He held your hand over the center console and drove into the snowy night.
Big Town Bowling Lanes was the one respite from Steve's carousel of women when you were in high school. It was like it had sacred wards carved into the foundation, forbidding him from bringing annoying skanks along whenever you went bowling with Carol and Tommy.
Or, maybe, it was just because it was four people per lane and Carol wouldn't let him kick you out to bring some girl. Either way, you relished in your weekends spent at the lanes. Tommy and Steve always took it way too seriously, and you always wound up barely edging Steve out in scores.
Darrell, who worked the concessions stand, would pour beers into styrofoam cups so you could pretend they were sodas, just as long as you tipped him nicely. It was a pleasant surprise to find him still behind the counter, and still willing to sell beers to underage drinkers like you and Steve.
A few teenagers were trying their hand at the open mic night while you waited for a lane to open up— singing Madonna and Paula Abdul and a few other top 40 songs. It wasn't the best background music, but the liveliness reminded you of your friends. It was a welcome reprieve from the constant sobriety of the end of the world and parenthood.
"Pinball while we wait?" Steve suggested. You fished around your purse for a couple of quarters and leaned against the machine while he played. Tommy had always been better than him at this exact machine, but Steve knew all the targets and how to get multipliers. Plus, it was nice to look at his handsome face lit up by the flashing lights.
You used a quarter to try the claw machine beside him— another thing Tommy had excelled at. He'd taught you all the tricks to get a prize every time, and even though you were out of practice, it was a bit like riding a bike. While Steve got a second ball in the playing field, the claw caught on a gorilla's arm and carried it to the prize chute. You put in another quarter and won a second one for Sam.
The bowling alley was packed— there wasn't much else to do in a quarantine. To make up time, you signed the two of you up for the open mic, where you fumbled your way through You're The One That I Want from Grease. Steve still hated Travolta, and still had a much better singing voice than you did. When the lanes still stayed full, you sang Don't You Want Me very, very badly.
Darrell poured you both beers, and you were about to just give up and call it a night when the lane you'd been desperately waiting for opened up. Already, enough time had passed that you were itching under your skin with anticipation about getting home, so you weren't exactly focused on bowling.
You watched Steve step up to the lanes each frame as you sipped at your beer, eyes on the way his jeans clung tight to his ass, the way his fingers slid into the bright green house ball. Your pulse fluttered at the sight, and your brain went a little fuzzy.
God, you needed to get laid.
You took another drink as he threw the ball down the lane and the pins crashed at contact. Strike. He spun around, a smug grin on his lips, and marked an X on the scorecard.
"That's three in a row, baby. I'm going for a perfect game," he insisted, smacking a kiss on your forehead. You blinked yourself from your horny stupor and nodded. You took another drink of beer and took your turn.
You were distracted by his stupid hands and handsome face. Frankly, you were regretting bringing up bowling as an option, because you were stupidly needy and eager to get him back home so you could get your hands on him. You knocked down seven pins, then threw into the gutter on your attempt to pick up the spare.
"You're not giving me much competition, honey," he said as you sat back down, grinning smugly. You shook your head and rolled your eyes, leaning into his side, but as soon as you had cuddled up against him, he was back up and on the lanes.
You gave a strained smile and a thumbs up, and watched as, sure enough, he threw a clean strike. His excitement was palpable, as was his ego. He looked like he was back on the basketball court in high school after he'd shot a successful three-pointer.
When he sat down, you leaned into his side and put a hand on his thigh. He kissed your forehead, then nodded towards the lane. "Stop stalling 'cause you know I'm going to beat you," he said, completely oblivious to your intentions.
You sighed and stood, heading back to the lane. This time you managed to get a spare, which was met by a very sarcastic clap from your boyfriend. He stood, not even giving you time to sit beside him before he was up again.
Steve took competition very seriously, and you knew that. He had barely even sipped at his beer so he could keep his focus. Partially, you appreciated that he wasn't going easy on you as a form of flattery, but you also wanted a little more attention.
There was something cute about him getting all worked up and focused about it. The way his tongue peeked out in concentration as he wrote scores, how he'd turn around and give you a smug smile at the end of each frame. You were bowling in a technical sense, but really you were taking it as your opportunity to relish in the ghost of King Steve before you.
"Why don't you help me correct my form?" You asked him as the game neared its end, slipping your fingertips inside the V-neck of his collared shirt. His heart thrummed against your touch, beneath the soft chest hair and spattering of beauty marks hidden beneath. "Hm? Give me a fighting chance."
He swallowed hard, his warm brown eyes going wide. "You want me to… oh! Yeah, I'll just… yeah, I'll help you."
With a grin, you stood and pulled him to the lane and grabbed the ball. "Okay, so… you want to line up with the dots on the ground," he began.
You nodded and sighed contentedly as he fit himself against your back. "Start back here, and you walk to gain some momentum. And before you're at the line, you pull your arm back, and throw."
He guided your motions as best as he could with a twelve pound ball in your hands. But it wasn't the actual advice you wanted— you knew how to throw a bowling ball down a lane— you wanted the close press of his body against yours.
"Got it?" His breath puffed over your ear and you shivered. You nodded and he stepped back. "Show me."
You rolled the ball down the lane and grinned victoriously when nine pins came down. You turned on the balls of your feet and met his gaze, hands clasped behind your back.
He sat back, seemingly less interested in the actual sport of bowling now that he had you blatantly flirting with him, in a cute little skirt and an oversized blazer that you definitely stole from his dad's closet. You'd even put a little brooch on it— two interlocking gold hearts and a dangly little pearl.
"What are you gonna give me if I make the spare?" You asked with a coy smile. "I think I deserve a prize for my hard work."
He shrugged casually and nodded back to the prize counter, where a bored employee sat with her chin in her hand and read Seventeen. "Maybe you can get one of those slap bracelets."
You rolled your eyes. "Hm… not quite what I was thinking."
"I just think it's a waste of a prize if whatever you're asking for is something you're going to get anyway." He gave you a smug smile and you could do little more than laugh and shake your head.
You picked up the spare, and your temporary reward was a slow, hungry kiss when you joined him on the couch. Really, you should have been a little embarrassed by the fact that you were french kissing Steve in the middle of the bowling alley, but you were too drunk on him to care. His hands slid under your jacket, teasing the waistband of your skirt where your sweater was tucked in.
"Hey, I should probably finish this game," he pulled back suddenly, glancing at the lane. His thumb brushed under your bottom lip, tidying up your smudged lipstick. "I'm, like, five strikes from a perfect score."
You sat back, brows furrowed, bottom still tingling from the way he'd bitten it. "Wait, what?"
He held up the score sheet. Sure enough, while you'd been staring at his ass and drooling over the veins in his hands, he'd managed to pull off seven strikes in a row. Fuck… maybe he had been letting you win in high school.
"Wow… sexy," you deadpanned, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he looked really proud of himself when he bowled another strike.
"You must be, like, my lucky charm," he said, planting another kiss on your lips. "This is the universe telling me you're the one."
By the time you finally made it back to the car, Steve had his picture framed on the wall of Big Town Lanes, a tiny plastic trophy, and a rainbow slap bracelet he'd asked for from the prize counter.
"Hold out your wrist," he said. With an amused huff, you held out your arm and tensed in anticipation. "C'mon, don't be a baby, it's just a bracelet." He slapped it onto your wrist and you shrieked, yanking your hand back.
"You were right, bowling was fun," he said. "And I did totally kick your ass. I'm gonna have to ask Henderson the odds on bowling a perfect game. Maybe we should go buy a scratcher or something."
You laughed, shaking your head. It was something else you loved about Steve— he was naturally funny. He could make you laugh until your sides hurt, especially now that you weren't denying your feelings for him. Well, not like you were before, at least.
"Alright, champ, let's get home," you said with an affectionate eye-roll. "It's freezing."
The house felt a little less like home when you walked inside. It was cold and still, like a dollhouse. You wondered if it was how Steve felt growing up alone most of the time. You couldn't ask, because Steve hated feeling pitied, but you could wonder.
As you got settled, Steve put his trophy down on the counter and you eased off your coat and went to check the answering machine. "Hi sweethearts. Samantha was a perfect angel. She had some meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner, then watched the Care Bears movie on tape with Uncle Dusty. She's just gone down for the night, and I know she can't wait to see you in the morning. Enjoy your night, you two!"
You smiled fondly at the message and turned to face Steve with a smile. "Hear that? We've raised a perfect angel," you said with a tiny laugh. He was pouring glasses of wine into the pretty crystal that typically sat unused in the china cabinet. The deep red looked so inviting behind the etched glass, especially after cheap beer.
"Of course we did, you're a great mom," he said, and handed you the glass. Your fingers brushed against his as you accepted it into your own hand, just for a fleeting moment. "Feels weird having the house empty, huh?"
You brought the glass to your lips and took a slow sip. "Really weird," you agreed. "Not bad, just different."
He nodded and took a drink of his own. You both stood in the dark kitchen, lit only by the street lamps outside the window— a pale yellow glow. You finished your glass and felt a pleasant warmth all over— a buzz under your skin. His parents' wine collection was fancy enough that you actually enjoyed drinking it, unlike the cheap boxed stuff that you and Carol used to share.
"Wanna listen to some music on the couch?" He asked finally. "I have some pretty great mixes. Working at the station means I get access to all of the good stuff."
You snorted at the thought of Steve slacking off and making mixes on the clock. "Your big move right now is asking if I want to listen to music on the couch?"
"Well, it's a really good mix," he insisted with a stupid grin. You shook your head and put your empty glass back on the counter with full intentions to revisit it later.
You knew this move in his playbook, and you were totally shameless about the fact that it was actually going to work on you. So you let him lead you over to the couch, and sat patiently while he messed around with the fancy sound system hidden in the bookshelves.
He clicked the tape into place and joined you on the couch just as the sound of a synth started playing. You bit your lip to stifle a laugh as he slung an arm across the back of the couch, so his fingers brushed against your shoulder. It was just so obvious.
You shivered as his fingers played with the ends of your hair, twirling them around his fingertips. That was the invitation he needed. You grinned as he tugged you into his side, wrapping his arm tight around you. "Cold? Need me to warm you up?"
It was so corny. You figured this was a move of his, tried and true, but you didn't mind. Really, you had always wondered what the Steve Harrington hookup experience was like.
So you nodded and let him pull you into his lap where he was nice and warm beneath you. "'S that better?" He asked. Big hands settled on your arms, moving up and down in a showy attempt to warm you up.
"Mhmm… but maybe I'm a little hot now," you said, playing right into his hand. At that, his expression perked up, and you could sense his excitement in the way his eyes lit up.
"Yeah? Gotta get this off then, huh?" He tugged at the thick fabric of your sweater, right below your ribcage. As soon as you nodded, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your skirt and untucked your sweater so he could pull it over your head and toss it mindlessly aside.
It totally fucked up your hair, but neither of you seemed to mind. Steve's eyes flicked to your breasts, the soft flesh encased in delicate black lace. You ran a hand over your unkempt hair in a nervous attempt to make yourself presentable again while he just stared.
"Where'd you get this?" he asked, meeting your gaze. "Did you send Murray out for it?"
Your expression scrunched in distaste. "Ew, no, why would I ever ask him for that?" You muttered. "I got this at school."
He swallowed hard, and you sighed softly as his warm hands moved up your ribs to cup your breasts through the lace. "You wore this for some college guy?"
You really had to steel your expression to keep from grinning. There was something exciting about the hint of jealousy in his gaze, the tiniest tick in his jaw. "I wasn't exactly celibate in college," you said slowly. His fingers flexed and you exhaled shakily as he played with you. "If you'll remember, I was heartbroken and trying to put this total asshole in Hawkins behind me."
His lips turned into what you could only describe as a pout, just before he moved his mouth to your sternum, pressing soft kisses to the flat of your chest. You would never tell another soul, but giving Steve a taste of his own medicine was immeasurably cathartic.
"If the fact that another guy saw this bothers you so much, you can just take it off," you added. He sighed against your skin, and you moaned softly as his lips trailed hot, messy kisses over the thin fabric.
He shook his head, nuzzling his face deeper into your tits. He mumbled something that you couldn't understand and met your gaze. "I'm not jealous," he insisted. "I just feel like they probably didn't appreciate your effort."
You couldn't keep the smug grin from your lips. "No?" You asked, cocking your head. "But you appreciate it fully, right?" He nodded and sucked a bruise onto your exposed cleavage.
"I appreciate it so much." His voice vibrated against your skin, making you laugh softly. When he pulled back from your tits, his pupils were blown with desire. He gave a tiny nod towards your skirt before dragging his eyes back to yours. "Do they match?"
In lieu of a response, you stood up and unzipped your skirt, so it joined your discarded sweater on the floor. Steve groaned at the sight of you in your sheer red tights, barely concealing the promise of more black lace beneath— high cut and pretty.
Before you could slip your fingers under the waistband to roll the tights down, Steve grabbed your wrist. "I've got it," he said. "It's like unwrapping a present."
He kissed your stomach once, twice, then eased the tights down your legs. His hand came under your knee, easing it into a gentle bend so he could pull one leg off your feet, then he repeated for the other.
There was a certain intentionality to every one of his touches— a confidence that showed in the steadiness of his hand as he ran his hand up your thigh. It was gentle and sure— intimate.
His hands slid up your thighs and pulled you in closer, so his mouth was level with your lower stomach. You sighed when he ducked his head and kissed the front of your panties, nice and sweet.
"Wait," you said suddenly. He looked up at you with flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, and you swear you got a head rush. "Just sit there for me, okay?"
You swore you could hear his pulse kick when you sank to your knees between his thighs, or maybe that was your own. Your palms slid up his thighs, moving over the dark-wash denim. He was already hard, you could see the thick shape of him straining against the fabric.
"Can I?" You asked. One hand rubbed at the bulge beneath your palm, the other toyed mindlessly with the button to his jeans.
"Fuck— yeah, 'course you can, honey. You can do whatever you want to me."
You smiled prettily up at him and popped the button of his Levi's. He groaned at even the lightest amount of pressure against his dick as you eased the zipper down and freed him from the confines of the denim.
You'd seen his dick before— in the shower, while he was changing, even how it looked in your hand. Even so, you'd never seen it so close before. You spit into your palm before you wrapped your hand around the base of him, relishing in the warm pulse beneath your grip.
With just the slightest glide of your hand upwards, you watched precum dribble from the ruddy tip. He groaned, hips thrusting up into your grasp. He squirmed as he kicked off his jeans and briefs, then tossed his sweater to the side. Your hand caressed his now-bare thigh, soft and downy to the touch.
"You have the cutest little freckle right here," you said with a tiny grin, and relished in the way his cheeks went red with embarrassment. Your lips moved to the base of him, where there was a small beauty mark. He shivered above you as you planted a soft, wet kiss there and looked up at him through your lashes.
"Fuck," he groaned, chest already heaving. "You're killing me, honey."
Your lips trailed up his shaft, until you wrapped your lips around his tip and suckled. He moaned, deep and pretty, head lolling back against the cushions. It was hard to fit much of him inside of your mouth without triggering your gag reflex. Your hand had to pick up your slack, stroking the inches that didn't fit with slick twists.
"God, you're good," he panted. "So good for me." You nearly preened at the praise. His fingers threaded into your curls, twisting your locks into a loose ponytail. Not so he could guide your pace or force you to take him deeper, but to keep your hair from getting in your face.
You pulled off, just to spit the drool that had collected in your mouth back onto his cock. It dripped messily down his shaft and over your fingers, collecting at his base and dripping down his balls. You moved your mouth down to them, licking up the mess you made just to hear him cry out above you.
He swore under his breath as you licked up the underside of his cock once more on your way up, tasting the slick mix of his precum and your spit. You pressed an almost chaste kiss to the head— once, twice before you teased the precum-slick slit with your tongue.
He exhaled sharply through his teeth. hips bucking up towards the wet heat of your mouth. You licked around the tip, teasing a pretty moan out of his lips. When you finally wrapped your lips around him and took him deeper into your mouth, his thighs tensed on either side of you.
You were incredibly grateful that you had the experience you did before Steve, otherwise you'd probably humiliate yourself. Your lips stretched to accommodate him as you tried to take him deeper, and you had the experience to know exactly how to fight your gag reflex as his cock nudged your soft palate.
"Keep going, just like that," he panted, tummy tensing as you let your tongue massage the underside of his shaft. "God, you've got a perfect fucking mouth."
When your jaw began to ache, you pulled back, lips puffy and sticky with spit. You pumped his cock in your fist as you took a second to catch your breath. His free hand moved to your face, where he stroked your cheek tenderly.
You wet your lips before you took him back into your mouth, suckling softly on the head of his cock briefly before you swallowed him deeper.
You were sure the sight was obscene— your lips stretched wide around his girth, spit bubbling around the spot where your mouth and fist met with each messy bob of your head and twist of your wrist. His moans we're constant, and the taste of his precum was heady on your tongue.
When his fingers tightened around your hair, you moaned around him, eyes fluttering. He panted out a pathetic moan at the sound, at the feeling of your own noise vibrating against him. He was so close, you knew it. His thighs tensing, his moans getting breathier, his hips canting up as they tried to bury his cock deep into your mouth.
You looked up, meeting his half-lidded gaze as you swallowed around him, and he was done for. He barely had time to give you a weak warning of, "gonna cum—" before he was spilling into your mouth.
You did your best to swallow every spurt of cum that painted your tongue and work him through every last aftershock. You were panting like you'd run a marathon when you finally sat back and wiped your sticky lips on the back of your hand.
Steve's eyes were closed, one arm tossed over them as he caught his breath, cock flagging between strong thighs as he came down. When he finally opened his eyes, you kissed a beauty mark on his inner thigh and stood.
"Sick of me already?" He asked with a grin. He grabbed your hand and tugged you onto his lap, but you shook your head and leaned back.
"I was gonna grab some mouthwash before we do anything else," you explained with a sheepish laugh. "So it's not gross for you, I mean."
He shook his head and let his arm move to the small of your back to ease you closer. You sighed softly as he pressed his lips to yours, licking slowly into your mouth. "I don't care," he murmured. Then, like he was trying to prove his own point, he licked your pouty bottom lip with a grin. "That's, like, the least gross thing you could ask me to do."
"Yeah?" You asked with a grin. "You're such a slut."
You watched him close his mouth and swallow, pupils blown as his eyes flicked from your lips and back to your eyes. He laughed weakly, but you knew he was so gone that he'd agree with anything you said. You leaned in, laving your tongue over his as you kissed him slow and deep.
It was messy and desperate, but you didn't care. His head tilted back, and you took every opportunity he gave you to kiss deeper, to lick into his mouth and claim the space for your own. His hands slipped down to palm your ass over the lace, squeezing and tugging you closer on his lap.
"Are you gonna let me touch you?" He murmured against your lips. You nodded, and he licked your bottom lip before a smile spread across his lips. "Yeah? I bet you're soaking through your panties right now. Probably why you're sitting up like that— so I can't feel it."
He eased you back so you were laying on the couch beneath him. His mouth went to your throat, suckling softly on the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. With his knee between your thigh, you couldn't help but squirm, seeking a little bit of relief where you needed it most.
You hated to be so easy for him all of the time. You wanted to look a little more composed and in control, but Steve had a way of making your inhibitions melt away and drip down your thighs.
"You drive me crazy, Steve," you murmured, your words little more than desperate pants in his ear. As his hand moved down your torso, you arched into him, seeking the heat of it against your body.
The feeling of his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties pulled a whiny mewl from your lips. The rough pads of his fingers rubbed over your sensitive clit, just barely grazing it before dipping down to your slick entrance.
"So wet and I've barely even touched you." His words vibrated against your jaw, and he punctuated them with a soft kiss. He nudged your thighs apart with his knee, giving him better access to toy with you.
A shudder ran through you as he slid his slick fingers up to your clit, only to circle his fingers so he totally avoided giving you any real friction. "C'mon, Steve," you whined. "I didn't tease you."
He laughed, a low, pretty sound that tickled your throat. "You're always a tease."
"You jerked off in front of me yesterday," you panted, bucking your hips with the feeble hope that you might catch the pad of his fingers where you wanted them. "Didn't let me touch you for a week. Fuckin' tease."
You could feel his smile against your skin, but, sure enough, he relented and gave you what you wanted. You gasped softly as he finally rubbed your clit, a pretty noise that he swallowed up in a hungry kiss.
His tongue slipped into your mouth, lapping up each whine and moan as he played with your pussy. Thick fingers rubbing through your slick folds, curling deep inside of your aching entrance.
"That's what you wanted, yeah?" He murmured against your lips. His fingers flexed, curling until your walls squeezed around them. "Mhmm… I can feel it. You're always so sensitive for me."
The sound of his fingers plunging in and out of your sopping cunt made your cheeks burn. It felt pointless, being so embarrassed at the effect that he had on you. He was just as affected by you as you were of him… but you couldn't hear how turned on he was with every single thrust of his fingers inside of you.
You grabbed onto his shoulders with one hand, blunt fingernails digging into the firm muscle there to ground yourself as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. Your other hand moved down, squeezing his wrist in an impossible choice of needing more but feeling too much.
The heel of his palm rubbed against your clit, giving you relentless friction and pressure that you couldn't squirm away from. Your thighs trembled, walls fluttering around the intrusion as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.
The lap of his tongue into your mouth kept you from slipping away entirely. Sweet, sensual kisses that kept you there with him, relishing in the full-body high of being worshiped by Steve Harrington.
You felt that warm buzz in the pit of your stomach, a pressure just building and building until you couldn't deny its pull anymore. Gasping into Steve's mouth, you squeezed his wrist and bucked against his hand as he brought you over the edge.
"That's it, pretty girl," he hummed. Your eyes fluttered, rolling lightly as he curled his fingers, toying with you as the final waves of pleasure wracked your body. "That's what you needed, huh?"
When he pulled his hand from your panties, his fingers were slick with your juices. He wasted no time sucking them between his lips, cleaning every trace of you off.
He laid beside you, tracing spit-damp fingers along your tummy as his mixtape played on. You'd been so wrapped up in Steve that the music had gone fuzzy in the background. But now that you were fully back in your body, all fuzzy and content, the sound of saxophones struck you fully. With a giggle, you met his gaze. "Careless Whisper?" You asked with a grin. "You're so corny."
"Hey, it's the best," he insisted. "It's sexy."
You rolled your eyes and grinned up at him before you leaned up an kissed him again. He smiled into it, meeting your lips with the ease and confidence of a man who knew he had all of the time in the world with you.
You didn't want to wait another second. You shifted, pinning him beneath you on the cushions. He was hard already, and you had a feeling he had been for a while. As you stripped off your bra and tossed it aside, you watched his cock twitch where it rested against his stomach.
"Looks like you really want me," you teased, like you didn't want him just as bad. "Do you have it in you, baby?"
He swallowed hard and nodded. "Fuck, yeah I do," he breathed. His hands moved to your hips, and you didn't resist as he guided your hips in a slow grind. It was a little obscene, the sight of your clothed pussy rubbing over his bare cock. Precum beaded then dripped onto his stomach, making a slick little pool beneath the head that only seemed to grow with each lazy rut. "You gonna give it to me?"
Steve's pupils were blown wide as he looked up at you, swallowing up the honey-brown of his irises. He really did drive you crazy. Really, how was it fair that he could just look at you like that? Desperate and doting in equal measure.
You detached from him to wiggle off your panties, balancing against the back of the sofa as you kicked them off, then settled on his lap once more. His big hands went right back to their place on your hips and you couldn't help but give a testing roll of your hips.
Even with that tiny motion, you felt his fingers flex, dimpling your soft skin. Your eyes fluttered at the feeling of the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit, still sensitive from the first orgasm he'd pulled from you. You felt your cunt pulsing with need as you continued to slowly grind down against him.
"You're torturing me," he whined. His eyes were half-lidded and lazy, his mouth parted as he watched your slick pussy gliding along his length. One of your hand rested on his chest for stability as you moved, giving him the perfect view of your tits as they moved in time with your hips. "God, you're so hot, honey. Just wanna make you feel good, baby. You've gotta let me, 'cause I know you need it."
A breathy laugh escaped your lips as you looked down at him. "I barely have to do anything and you're begging," you teased. He groaned, grinding up against you, unabashed in his need.
And, yeah, it would've been fun to keep torturing him, but you were still just as impatient as he was. So you lifted your hips just enough that you could guide his cock to your entrance and begin to slowly sink down.
He felt even bigger with you on top, something you'd blissfully forgotten since your wedding hookup. It made you wonder if he had gone easy on you the week prior and hadn't tried to go all the way in. It felt like a challenge to prove you could take it— every single inch.
Your fingers twitched against his chest, curling into the downy hair there as your mouth fell open. He moved one of the hands resting on your hips to lay on top of yours, frustratingly affectionate. "C'mon, honey, just take it nice and slow."
"Shut up," you panted, which only made him grin up at you. "I've done it before."
It wasn't like riding Steve was some herculean task, even if he was stupidly hung. But you were more than a little out of practice, and after you finally managed to pick up a decent rhythm, you kind of just wanted him to flip you over and fuck you into the cushions.
You weren't a quitter though, and Steve's blissed-out reactions beneath you were all the encouragement you needed to keep going, aside from your body's need for release. Your thighs ached slightly from months of celibacy, but the room filled with a chorus of both of your moans each time you sank back onto him.
"You feel so good, baby," you moaned softly, giving your hips a little swivel that made a drawn out groan spill from his lips. "I love how you feel inside of me. So deep."
It wasn't just to fluff his ego— you swore you could feel every ridge and vein of his cock where it was buried within you. Every pulse, every twitch was just confirmation that he felt as good as you did.
The hand that was gripping onto your hip moved, flattening just beneath your belly button. It's as tender as it was debauched, just like him. His thumb stroked over your soft skin, sweeping back and forth in a display of affection. "Feel me here?" He asked, and it was a marvel that he could look so earnest when asking something so filthy.
You nodded, giving a slow rock of your hips. He was so deep that you could hardly think of anything else except for the drag of his cock against your fluttering walls, the way his tip nudged against your G-spot as you sank down on him again and again.
"Steve," you whined, looking down at him. "I want you to fuck me."
A lazy smile spread across his lips. "We are fucking." As if he was proving his point, he began to thrust up so he could sink deeper into your wet heat.
Your brows knit together as a soft moan fell from your lips. "Yeah, I— fuck, Steve— I know but I just want—" Your eyes rolled back as he fucked you nice and deep, stealing the words and your breath right from your lips.
"I know what you want." You almost regretted asking to switch positions when he pulled out, leaving you empty and wanting. But then he was shifting you beneath him and hooking your legs over his shoulders. "How's this?"
You swallowed hard. "It's good, it's so good," you said eagerly. You could feel the head of his cock nudging your puffy folds as he rutted against you. It would catch at your entrance and you would gasp in anticipation, but he didn't sink in yet.
"Can you bend a little more?" He asked, and moved so he was pressing your thighs into your chest, his body imposing above you. "Is that too much?"
When you shook your head, reached between your bodies and began to slowly push inside. You groaned, head lolling back as he moved. With the way he'd folded you in half beneath him, you felt every inch splitting you open. Thick, stretching you out obscenely around his girth.
"Oh god," he groaned, and you swore you felt his dick twitch inside of you. "You're squeezing me so tight. Perfect fucking pussy."
Your face went hot at his words. "Steve," you whined. He'd never said anything so dirty to you before, and it thrilled you as much as it made you feel a flash of embarrassment.
He grinned down at you, pulling out so he could glide back in nice and slow, just to torture you. "What? You don't want me to talk about how much I love your pussy? 'Cause the way you're gripping me makes me think you do."
"Fuck, Steve," you moaned. "You can't say stuff like that, baby. You're killing me."
"I think you like it," he said, pushing in again, so deep that his balls pressed tight against your ass. "I think you fucking love knowing that I'm obsessed with you."
He pulled out again, only to set a dizzying pace. Hips snapping against yours again and again and again, while you just laid there and took it. Your feet dangled where they rested over his shoulders, shaking each time he bottomed out.
"Oh my god. You're so wet, honey. Sound so fucking pretty."
His words made you conscious of the tacky, slick sounds of his cock plunging into your cunt. The slick sound of your walls swallowing him, the plap plap plap of his balls against you. You didn't particularly think the sounds of him fucking you were pretty. They were pornographic and obscene, sure, but not pretty.
He was heavy on top of you, rutting more than thrusting so each movement made him grind against the sensitive spots inside. Your eyes rolled back and you felt your walls squeezing around his cock. "Steve, just like that—"
"C'mon, beautiful, tell me how it feels."
You whined, toes curling. "So— ngh— so good, baby," you managed. "God, I feel you everywhere."
It wasn't the most coherent description, but it was true. He was inside you, so deep it felt like your body was moving to accommodate him. He was on top of you, pressing you into the bed, into him. Around you, holding you close. It was like your world started and ended where you touched him.
It was so easy to lose yourself to him. His head buried into your shoulder as he ground deeper, harder inside of you. A choked sob slipped past your lips, and you trembled as the pressure built up inside of you. His tip nudged your sweet spot over and over, until you weren't sure you could take much more.
"God, I fucking love you," he panted. Your pussy fluttered around him at those words, and he moaned at the feeling. "Want me to say it again? I love you so much."
It hit you suddenly then. Your cunt clenched around him as euphoria washed over your body. "Oh, fuck, Steve—" you gasped, until your words dissolved into keening moans and whines. You mewled, eyes rolling back as he continued fucking into you as you lost yourself to the pleasure.
He lifted his head just enough to capture your mouth in a messy kiss— tongues sliding against one another, licking into his mouth to swallow each other's cries. His rhythm grew sloppy and clumsy, until he swore into your mouth.
"Oh, fuck, honey, shit— I'm— fuck fuck fuck—" He barely managed to pull out before he was painting your cunt with hot ropes of his cum. His cock twitched with each spurt of cum, until there was nothing left to give. He exhaled sharply, looking more than spent as he eased your legs from his shoulders and caught his breath.
The tape had long since ended, leaving you in silence, save the chorus of your shaking breaths. You giggled weakly and peered up at him with a dopey smile. "Holy shit."
Steve took a shaky breath and met your smile with one of his own— equal parts exasperated and lovestruck. "God, we really can't go raw anymore, baby. I almost didn't make it."
Your heart did a funny little skip at that, but you nodded. "Yeah, probably shouldn't," you agreed. He leaned down to give you one more kiss. "Let's go to bed, yeah?"
Steve couldn't keep his hands off of you, even when you were just washing your face and brushing your teeth. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and dribbled minty foam down his chin. You hated how endearing you found that.
When you were taking your vitamins and medicine, he stood behind you, chin resting on the top of your head as you washed them down. "You're so clingy," you accused, meeting his gaze in the mirror.
"I just love you," he replied, and kissed your temple for good measure.
You climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling as Steve dozed beside you. The soft cadence of his breath rising and falling. But you didn't want to sleep yet. You just wanted more time with him.
So you grabbed the shabby quilt from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around your body as you crossed the room to your turntable. Behind you, there was the soft rustle of blankets as Steve sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"What're you doing?" He slurred sleepily. You glanced at him over your shoulder, at his half-lidded eyes and his messy hair, and felt such a strong tug of emotion that you had to look back at the task at hand— flipping through your crate of records.
"Trying to find something good to listen to," you replied casually, pausing to eye Purple Rain before flipping onward. "I'm not tired yet— don't really want the night to be over, y'know?" You grabbed your old Super Trouper album and smiled fondly as you set it on the turntable and put the needle to the vinyl.
Steve groaned at the choice in music, but you rejoined him in bed, curling up against his chest with a contented sigh. His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His fingers tangled with yours, playing with them as you laid in the quiet of the room.
"I want you to tell me something no one else knows," you whispered. "Even if it's just something small."
He leaned over, kissing the crown of your head briefly. You felt the warm puff of his breath over your scalp as he thought, a hum buzzing against your skin.
"I made you a tape, in case Vecna got in your head and started digging around," he said finally. "This was, like, a month after Hawkins split open, so we thought he might just start popping people into trances all over town. And I was so scared for you, y'know? I didn't want anything to happen to you."
A tiny smile played on your lips. Even when you felt like your whole life had shattered around you, he was still working to make things better, even if you didn't know it. You hated that it had taken you so long to see that, when it was something so beautiful about him.
"What song?" You asked after a beat, brows furrowing.
He laughed softly. "Well, I asked you what your favorite song was over breakfast, you glared at me, asked why I cared, and told me Baby I'm a Star. And I didn't really know if that was true, but I made the tape anyway. And then I made a second one with How Deep Is Your Love, because you used to say if that song was played at your funeral, it'd wake you right up."
A snort escaped you at the memory. You could remember him asking, and it felt like such a cheap attempt to bond that it had soured your mood for the rest of the morning. You felt a world removed from that moment, even though it hadn't even been a year since then.
"It actually would," you agreed. You squeezed his hand and brought the back of it to your lips to plant a soft kiss there. He had a tan line from his watch that was only just starting to fade from the winter gloom. It was so strange, to be so utterly seen by someone, and to see them just the same.
"What's your song?" Your lips brushed against the back of his hand as you spoke. "If you got lost, what would pull you back?"
"Under Pressure," he replied simply. "Sometimes I'll play that tape in the van just 'cause. I could listen to that song forever, y'know? Drives Dustin crazy."
A small laugh escaped you at the image. Maybe it was just that it was late and you were exhausted, but you were endlessly amused by the thought of Steve making Dustin listen to music on replay on top of the monotony of the crawls. "Tell me something else. Talk to me about anything, I just want to hear you."
He sighed, relaxing beside you. He was so warm where he pressed against you, accommodating the nudge of your knee between his thighs and the slip of your arm under his. The soft thud of his heartbeat was like a metronome where your ear rested against his chest.
"Mrs. Wheeler said she'd start babysitting Sam for us, if that's what we wanted," he said. "I was going to tell you tomorrow, after we'd had the date and everything. I know you never wanted to just sit around this big house all day, so I told her we'd talk about it."
You swallowed hard, and felt a strange mix of excitement, gratitude, and the strangest ache in your chest. "I mean… yeah, we could use more money," you agreed. "But I don't even know what I'd do, Steve. Like… bus tables at Enzo's? Work with Murray at Bradley's? Gross."
Both of your bodies shook as he laughed. "God, you're so dramatic. You could do whatever you wanted," he insisted. "You could help us at the station."
You snorted. "Mm… doesn't really solve the money problem, huh?" You curled even closer into him, like you just wanted him to envelop you completely. "And I dunno… maybe I don't want things to change just yet."
Hawkins was like a world frozen while life moved around it. It was all real life with real consequences, and you knew that, but it also felt like you were holding your breath until all of the interdimensional horror was over. Once that happened, the day to day problems would feel bigger.
You didn't want to leave Sam with Mrs. Wheeler during the day, but you knew that was probably best. Rip off the proverbial bandaid and start the slow process of detaching from your routine before things really changed for good. You were never meant to be a housewife forever— it wasn't what you wanted, even if you'd gotten good at playing that role.
Steve kissed the crown of your head and squeezed your hand. "They don't have to change," he insisted. "But they can if you need them to. I just don't ever want you to feel like you're trapped, or you're making yourself smaller to fit here."
"Thanks," you whispered. "I just feel like I need a little more time with her. When things go back to normal, I don't know if I'll ever have this much time again. I feel like she deserves it."
The record played on while you continued to talk about anything you could think of. Steve had been watching the Bulls whenever he could catch a game on TV, and was eagerly trying to explain why he thought this was their year. You told him about the Danielle Steel novel you'd borrowed from Nancy and were totally devouring. He played with the ends of your hair, you planted the occasional kiss to his chest and shoulders.
You closed your eyes, listening to the sounds of ABBA playing from your speakers. "In five years, I want to be doing this exact same thing," you whispered. "Listening to an outdated record, laying in bed, just talking until we run out of things to say."
"Why don't we make it ten?" Steve mumbled against the crown of your head. You smiled and chewed on your lip. Ten could work. Or twenty-five, or fifty. Forever, even.
The needle of the record stopped, raised, and returned to its cradle, leaving the room quiet. "Steve," you whispered. It felt louder in the stillness of the bedroom— breaking through the silence of the house the same way a scream would. "I love you too."
The words hung heavy in the air, and Steve froze at your side, barely even breathing. Waiting for him to say something, anything felt like torture. And you knew you'd squeezed the proverbial toothpaste out of the tube, but really, you didn't mind. Life was already so messy that it felt natural.
"You love me," he echoed. Not a question, exactly, and not self-important enough to be a statement… just sheer disbelief.
And you wouldn't stand for that, so you rambled on. "I was just scared to say it, and I kept telling myself it was too soon because we've only been official, for, like, one week, but, y'know, things are different for us. I don't want to hide behind walls to protect myself anymore, and I know that y—"
Your words were muffled by the pressure of Steve's lips on yours. You barely had time to kiss him back before he leaned away to meet your gaze. "You love me?" He beamed down at you. "You don't have to. I mean— I just didn't expect you to reciprocate so soon."
"How could I not?" You asked gently, meeting his gaze. It was so soft and hopeful, warm enough to melt away your fears and reservations about opening up. "Even when I wasn't saying it, I felt it, y'know? This… rightness. And I felt bad for a while, but I don't want to feel bad anymore."
It was this circular logic that you kept falling into— the idea that fate had brought you to that moment. You'd never been a big believer in anything before, except in yourself, Carol Perkins, and that things usually went wrong for you somehow. Fate was new.
Carol got pregnant with Sam, which meant she had to get married, which is where you slept with Steve and dredged up all of those old teenage feelings again— the yearning and angst. Carol and Tommy made you and Steve godparents, Carol and Tommy died when the rifts opened, you and Steve raised Peanut, you and Steve fell in love.
Good things happened which led to worse things. Horrible, painful things happened that led to beautiful ones. How could you ever move on if you let guilt and anger keep you from being happy?
You believed in a lot more now. You believed that there were good people who would give up their peace thanklessly to save a world that would never even know they needed to be saved. You believed in psychic powers and monsters. You believed that your daughter's near-toothless smile was the best medicine on a really hard day.
And you believed, as corny as it was, that you were always meant to be with Steve Harrington from the moment he sat with you out on that patio.
"Oh my god, you love me," he repeated, smiling even wider. Before you even had time to roll your eyes and insist that, yeah, that's what you just said, he had shifted on top of you so he could kiss you fully. "I mean, I probably should have known when you came just from me saying it, but—"
You rolled your eyes and pulled him in again, relishing in the full weight of his affection as your lips met. You'd worried before that it would feel like a burden on you, some awful weight to carry on your shoulders, but it felt right in a way few things ever had.
A/N: Thank you so much for your patience and continued love for these characters + this fic! As many of you know, I've been getting treatment for my OCD which took a lot of my headspace away from being able to get this out sooner. I appreciate your love and encouragement SO so much and I promise not a single day passed that I wasn't actively working on it!!
I hope you love this chapter as much as I do! Part 6 (the ACTUAL final part) will be a wombo combo of the events of the final season + epilogue from what I have planned now, but I think we all know by now that my plans vs what I actually write don't always align perfectly <3
Worst comes to worst... seven or eight parts. Who knows! But I'm hoping I can tie this story off with a little bow in this next chapter.
Please send me an ask with your thoughts/hopes/opinions on this chapter and the story so far!! Give me a like/reblog/comment if you see fit as well <3 And thank you so, so much for reading! XOXO
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
summary: watching other girls think they have a chance with steve hits a nerve inside of you that you thought you buried. looks like you’ll just have to remind him who he belongs to.
warnings: smut, p in v sex, public sex, getting caught during sex, finger sucking, fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex, tiniest bit of sub!steve - actually maybe just switch!steve, jealousy, cursing, probably more!
word count: 4k
from jen: longer than i hoped but i really love this one and i hope you guys do too. as always, with love <3
The bar was lit up by multi colored flashes. It almost felt like the walls were banging from the loud bass coming from the live band. The floor was full of people dancing, drinking and laughing. There was a smell in the air – cheap vodka, twelve different kinds of perfume and shitty bar food. It was overstimulation thrown into one building.
But it was so much fucking fun.
You, Robin and Nancy were dancing – well, attempting to – in the middle of the dance floor. Eddie and his buddies were to thank for the volume of the music as they played their cover of Enter Sandman.
The three of you were three drinks and two shots into the night and it was obvious Robin was already drunk, Nancy was teetering the line, and you were in a state of blissful tipsy.
It was a three day weekend and for the first time in months, the whole groups schedule managed to align perfectly. While you and the girls danced, Steve and Jonathan were ordering more drinks at the bar.
Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve
As soon as your brain reminded itself of your boyfriend, your eyes began to scan the crowd. You were a clingy girl on a regular day, but adding alcohol into the mix? You were about five seconds from sewing your skin to his.
Nancy and Robin continued to dance together as you stood on the tips of your toes to look for him. He was basically a damn tree, it shouldn’t be hard to find him!
Finally, your eyes graze over the far right side of the bar and you see his beautiful floppy hair. His back is to you on the dance floor, and he stands shoulder to shoulder with Jonathan as they wait for the drinks.
A dopey smile breaks onto your face at the sight of him, your feet are tingling to run to him. Quickly, you turn to the girls and grab their arms.
“C’mon! Steve’s at the bar!“ You urge them and make it a point to ignore the way they playfully roll their eyes. You don’t wait before you’re making your way to him, practically skipping the whole way.
You kept your eyes on him as you approached him. He still hasn’t turned around but with the view of his back, you were not complaining. Steve and Eddie had grown even closer this last year and he wanted to support Eddie so much that he’d bought a brand new outfit for tonight.
He still didn’t quite capture Eddie’s metal style but he tried. He went with an all black outfit: a nicer pair of new black jeans, a plain black shirt – a fitted one. One that clung to his skin so nicely you could see every ridge of muscle he had in his abdomen – and a new leather jacket thrown over it.
Truth be told, you were about five seconds away from devouring him. But tonight was about being with friends and you wanted to spend time with them, even if your boyfriend looked like that.
You were only a few feet away from reaching him when a girl slid into the chair next where he stood. The movement was so slick, effortless – like she fit right next to him. She rested both her elbows atop of the bar, swirling the barstool so her legs were only a few inches from his waist.
She had a look in her eye and you recognized it immediately, because it was the exact one you had. Hunger, desire, want. All aimed at your boyfriend.
Easily, she raised her hand and slid it up his bicep. Steve looked at her then, expecting it to be you but when he saw it wasn’t, his eyes flickered down to her palm on his arm.
Immediately, he dropped his arm from where it leaned on the bar and turned away. He was still looking at her but he pushed himself backwards, almost until his back was fully leaning into Jonathan’s chest. It might have been funny if it wasn’t for the girl touching him.
Still, it didn’t seem to deter her. She smiled up at him, the gloss on her lips glistening under the flashing red lights. You couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying from where you stood and a few seconds later, Robin and Nancy barreled into your back.
Their confusion quickly dissipated when they realized why you had stopped. The girl had leaned even closer into Steve’s spaced, her chin resting in one of her palms. She was still smiling up at him – not a friendly smile, a sultry one. She was a beautiful girl, there was no denying it and you wondered if Steve also noticed.
Jealousy bubbled in your chest. You weren’t worried about him or his loyalty, but there was no reasoning with a drunk version of yourself seeing another girl flirt with him.
Without much thinking, you resumed your walk towards him – Nancy and Robin hot on your tail. Now, you were able to hear the conversation.
“Uh yeah, I’m not sure,” Steve’s voice rang in your ears first. “My girlfriend picked the spot,”
Good. He mentioned me. She’ll get the hint, you think.
“Girlfriend?” The girl echoed, her fingers tapping against the counter top. “Is she here?”
“Yep,” Steve replied. You could tell he was uncomfortable and he was being as dry as he could be without coming off as an asshole. From behind him, you noticed the way Jonathan also seemed to look uncomfortable.
“Hmm,” She hummed. Her eyes raked down his body before looking back up at him. The same hand he shrugged off only a few minutes earlier came back up and landed on him again, her fingers curling around his elbow. Finally, you were right next to Steve, but neither of them noticed yet. “I don’t see her anywhere,”
Before Steve could respond, your own hand raised and you easily grabbed hers and pushed it off him again. You barely glanced at her as you wrapped your own arms around his neck, pushing your chest into his own.
When Steve looked down at you in his arms, you felt his entire body relax. He didn’t spare another glance at the girl before his arms wrapped around your waist and tugged you closer to him.
“Hi baby,” You smiled, leaning on the tips of your toes to kiss him. He smiled into it and you could feel the girls eyes burning into the back of your head. Steve murmured a greeting back against your mouth, but before he could deepen in, you maneuvered your body to lean your back to his chest.
The girl looked at you now, almost glaring at you, but you smirked back at her.
“Thanks for keeping my seat warm. You can go now,” Your voice was syrupy sweet but it was more than clear how little kindness it carried.
Her eyes narrowed just a bit. “I was actually pretty comfortable,”
You sent her a fake sympathetic pout. “I’m sure you were – not anymore though,”
Even if there was a part of you that could have felt even remotely threatened by her, the warmth of Steve’s body behind you and one of his hands holding onto your hips and the other arm wrapped around the front of your shoulders, silenced those feelings immediately.
Her eyes glanced down and she seemed to also notice the way he was holding onto you. She scoffed before reaching over the bar, quickly plucking a pen and a napkin before scribbling over it. When she finished, she hopped off the stool and stood directly in front of you, the napkin in hand.
She looked back at Steve behind you and slid the napkin towards him. You could feel it now – the way you were glaring at her and from beside you, you saw the way Nancy and Robin also were. “Here’s my number,” She glanced back down at you. “For when you get bored tonight,”
The words landed exactly where she intended them to and if it weren’t for Steve’s arm wrapped around your shoulder, you would’ve pounced on her. He felt the way your body tensed and held you closer to his chest.
Before you could react, Steve raised the napkin. Still looking at her, he crumpled the flimsy paper into a ball and threw it over the other side of the bar. You watched the way her expression pinched, and a look you clearly recognized as embarrassment covered her features. “I’m good.” He said simply, both hands sliding down your sides to land on your hips. Easily, he spun your body around so you were facing him again.
Oh, he was so fucking hot.
Neither of you paid any attention to where the girl wandered off to. Steve was smiling down at you and that was enough for you to feel like you were going insane.
The smile on his face, his rejection of that girl, his hair, his fucking outfit. Nope, you were done restraining yourself.
You grabbed Steve’s hand and glanced over at Nancy, Robin and Jonathan. The three of them were looking at you expectantly but you didn’t give them a chance for questions.
“Be right back,” You rushed, tugging Steve along with you. You heard a small surprised sound come from him as you pulled him along.
“Wait! Where are you guys going?” Nancy asked, and Robin snicked beside her. You didn’t respond as you pulled Steve further into the crowd and towards the other side of the bar. But you were able to catch Robin’s last comment.
“Twenty bucks says they’re gonna bone in the bathroom,”
Hopefully no one takes that bet – because she’s right.
Still holding onto Steve’s hand, you approach the women’s bathroom and swing the door open. When you let go of his hand, he stands directly in front of the doorway, still not entering, and you quickly wander through the stalls to make sure it’s empty.
Once you’re sure it is, you turn back to Steve and you twist the front of his shirt in your hand and drag him into the bathroom.
“Woah baby, wh-what are you doing?” He laughs nervously, quickly catching his balance against the porcelain sink. You lock the door behind him and within seconds, your hands are tugging at his leather jacket and shoving it off his shoulders.
Breathlessly, Steve murmurs your name. First and last.
“Hey, this is the women’s bathroom, all of our friends are outside and anybody could walk in right now,”
He’s so damn cute when he tries to be so serious.
Without his help, you’ve managed to strip his jacket off his shoulders and your fingers are working at unbuckling his belt. As you pull the metal away from the buckle, you look back up at him.
“The doors locked. You’re right, our friends are outside and if anybody walks in,” You pause for a moment and pull his belt from the loops of his jeans, dropping it to the ground. “Then they can watch.”
Something in Steve’s eyes switch and within seconds, his mouth is on yours. It’s messy and desperate, and you’re moaning into his mouth immediately. His hands raise, both palms holding your cheeks as he deepens the kiss.
The sound of your lips sloppily meeting his fills the room and the sound of the band playing begins to fade away as he kisses you. Between your bodies, your hands slip beneath his black shirt and trace the skin of his stomach. You can feel the way his muscles twitch under your touch and he begins to walk forward, until your back his pressed against the wall of the stall.
Steve pulls his mouth away from yours and his lips begin a trail from your lips to your jaw and down your throat. He lands on that patch of skin where your neck and shoulder meet and bites.
You whine into the air, palms sliding up his sides and curling around his biceps. His teeth graze against your skin again, but this time his tongue swipes over it right away to soothe it and then he’s sucking that piece of skin into his mouth.
You can feel the mark already beginning to form and your stomach flips. You bring your hand back up to his face and you pull him away from your neck to kiss him again.
One hand continues to cradle his jaw and the other tangles itself in his hair. All the while, Steve brings his hands between your bodies and shoves your skirt up, all the way until it’s bunched around your waist.
Without breaking the kiss, his large hand splays across your thigh, gripping the skin and hikes your leg up until it’s resting over his hip. His other hand curls around your throat, not to squeeze but to keep you grounded to him.
Steve pushes you further back into the wall and grinds his hips forward. You moan is muffled against his mouth when you can feel the clothes outline of his cock grinding into your core. The denim of his jeans slides perfectly against the cotton of your panties, feeding you a delicious feeling of friction.
Your eyes squeeze shut at the way his hips rut into yours and you’re both whining against each others mouths. His hand slips from its place on your thigh and trails up, up, up until the tips of his fingers graze against the wet spot of your panties.
At this point, you’re not even kissing anymore. The rock of his hips and the touch of his fingers knocks all common sense out of you and you’re left breathing against his mouth. His fingers continue to tease you. He runs them up and down your clothed pussy, still not giving you any skin to skin contact.
“Steve-Steve please,” You’re mindlessly begging for more and you can feel the way he smirks against your lips.
“What is it, baby? Tell me what you need,” He murmurs, carefully tracing the hem of your panties. When his thumb pressed against your clit, you break.
“I just – I just want you Steve, please,” You cry out, hands tugging at the ends of his hair.
To your surprise, he doesn’t tease anymore. Two fingers curl around the side of your panties, sliding them over and finally, they sink into the warm heat of your pussy.
Steve’s reflexes are quick – his hand flies to cradle the back of your head when you throw it back with a moan, making sure you don’t slam it against the wall.
Your head thuds against his palm and you’re whining into the air as his fingers thrust in and out of you. While you keep your eyes squeezed shut, Steve keeps his eyes on the way his fingers disappear in and out of you.
The air is filled with the sounds of his uneven breathing, your moaning and the sounds of your slick drenching his fingers. Your wetness leaks down his fingers, all the way down to his wrist.
“Fuck baby, you’re soaking me,” He groans, resting his forehead against yours. You whine incoherently and he feels the way you clench around his fingers at his praise.
It’s almost embarrassing how quick he can get you off but your mind finally came back to you. Steve was always the dominant one and he could so easily turn you into putty in his hands, but you came in here with one purpose – and that was reminding him who he belonged to.
With every bit of strength you had left, you opened your eyes back up and look up at him. He was still so lost in the way you were sucking his fingers in that he didn’t notice the mischievous look in you eyes.
Almost reluctantly, you wrapped one of your hands around his wrist and halted his movements. His gaze flicked up to yours, confusion and concern swirling in his expression.
“Why’d you stop me?”
Wordlessly, you drop your thigh from where it rested over his hip and the clack of your heel slamming back onto the floor echoed in the room. Keeping your eyes locked onto his, your fingers worked fast to pop the button of his jeans and the sound of you pulling his zipper down bounces off the walls.
“What was that girls name?” You asked softly, hand slipping into his jeans. Your palm gently grazed his length, but still not touching - teasing him the same way he did you.
“What?” Steve asked breathlessly. He kept his eyes trained on you and the movement of your hands.
“From the bar. What’s her name?”
“I don’t know baby,” He shook his head, groaning when you tightened your grip on him.
“No? Do you think she’s pretty?” Without waiting for a response, your hand slid beneath his boxers and finally, the skin of your palm met his.
He let out a shuddered breath but quickly shook his head again.
“No! No, f’course not. Barely – barely even looked at her,” He promised, mouth dropping open as your squeezed his length in your hand.
You hummed, leaning up to leave open mouthed kisses across his neck. He smelled so fucking good – a mix of sandalwood, your own perfume and something inherently him. It was intoxicating.
“I believe you baby,” You promised and you felt him physically relax. You smiled against his throat. It was nice to be reminded that even though he could turn you into a mindless mess, you did the same to him. Still, you tsked softly and pulled your face from his shoulder. “But she looked so damn comfortable around you. Touching you,”
You pulled your hand from his jeans and rested them against your own thighs, pulling away all contact from him. He whined softly, pushing his hips into yours but you push your palm back into his chest.
“I don’t care,” He said. “Didn’t matter to me. Only you do, baby. Please let me touch you,”
Maybe if you weren’t in public, you would have prolonged the agony but you knew there was a ticking clock before someone came knocking.
And you just really wanted him to fuck you.
Your hands found his jeans again, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. He groaned as the air hit his skin and his forehead settled against yours.
“Prove it to me baby,” You demanded, voice still soft.
Steve didn’t need to be told twice before his own hands were reaching back under your skirt, yanking your panties all the way down until they were wrapped around one ankle. Within seconds, his palms slid to the back of your thighs and lifted you effortlessly.
His cock slid between your soaked pussy and you both moaned at the first feeling of real contact of the night. Steve seemed to share the same sense of working on borrowed time and without words, he wrapped one arm around your waist to hold you up while the other gripped his cock in his hand and lined himself up.
You felt that delicious burn you craved all night the moment he began to push in. No matter how many times he fucked you, it almost always felt like the first time. His hand gripped your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks as he pressed his lips to yours.
Steve groaned against your mouth as he bottomed out, and you whined against his when he started his brutal pace. He felt the way you squeezed around his cock and his free hand squeezed your hip hard enough to bruise.
“Were you jealous?” Steve asks suddenly. His mouth was turned up into a smirk now, his hips still thrusting harshly.
“Yeah, I was fucking jealous,” You didn’t hesitate in your response and your forwardness seemed to take him by surprise. Steve reared his head backwards just a bit, careful enough to not lose his pace and let you continue. “Because that girl thought she could have what’s mine,”
Somehow, you find the strength to drop your hips down, meeting each of Steve’s brutal thrusts. He whines aloud at the way you match his speed, his cock twitching inside you.
“Can they?”
The words fall on deaf ears as Steve keeps his gaze locked on the way your pussy stretches to suck him in. His brows are pinched, cheeks flushed and strands of his hair hang over his forehead messily. As sexy as he looks, you’re dissatisfied with his lack of response. Almost meanly, your hand grips onto his jaw, nails digging into his cheeks to regain his attention.
“Can they?” You repeat when his gaze meets yours again.
“N-No!” He says quickly.
You grin and lean down, you hover your mouth over his – not quite a kiss yet. “Good. You’re mine, Steve. Nobody else gets to have you like this.”
It’s not a question, it’s a statement and you both know it.
He nods feverishly and you can feel the way his thrusts begin to get sloppy. He’s close, and you’re right behind him. His fingers dig into the bare skin of your thighs as he pushes his cock deeper into you.
“Nobody else. Just you baby, just - just you,” He blubbers and you’re quickly whining into his mouth again. He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, one hand sliding between you two to rub circles into your clit.
Your orgasm is fast approaching – you’re almost across the finish line when you suddenly hear the sound of a key sliding into the lock and the door swings open.
But instead of feeling embarrassed or worried, you feel so fucking smug.
Because standing in the doorway is the girl from the bar, a customer key to the restroom in her hand, and her eyes locked on the way Steve fucks you into the wall.
Heat rushes to her face and a blush to intense, her entire face is red. She looks something like embarrassed, mortified and humbled all in one.
Thankfully, Steve hasn’t noticed – or doesn’t care – her interruption and continues fucking you until you’re both teetering the edge of release.
Your arms wrap tightly around Steve’s back and you pull him close to your chest. As you look into her eyes, you give her one final smirk – one that reads: Good. Look at what you’ll never have.
Just as quickly as she entered, she stumbles backwards and slams the door shut.
You let yourself get lost in the feeling of Steve again.
“Fuck I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna – fuck,” Steve curses, teeth sinking into the skin of your throat and spills inside you. He keeps his pace as even as possible with the movement of his thumb over your clit and only seconds later, he pulls you over the edge with him.
“SteveSteveSteveSteve,” You whine. His thumb continues moving over your swollen bud, helping you ride out your orgasm entirely.
Once you reach the point of overstimulation, you gently push his hand away from between your thighs. Steve watches the way your head lolls to the side and despite the fact that you had damn near all the power barely five minutes ago, you’ve effectively turned into jell-o.
With a smirk on his face, he raises his two wet fingers and brings them to your mouth. Instinctively, you part your lips when he taps them and he easily slides them into your mouth. You moan around his fingers, the taste of yourself filling your senses.
He groans quietly, gently thrusting them in and out of your mouth. “That prove it to you, baby?”
With your mouth full from his fingers, you give him a nod.
If your father knew you were in love with the stable boy, he would probably send you somewhere far away. To another Kingdom, perhaps. Somewhere like Glacorien where you had heard tales about how it was so cold that travellers frequently froze to death on their journey there. Or perhaps Vervos which was so far away that no one had dared to venture there in well other a century.
You were already in trouble with your father for asking to learn how to sword fight instead of learning embroidery. You were also in trouble for being late to a ball that had been thrown in your honour. The reason for the latter was because you had been with said stable boy and had lost track of time. It was only because your younger brother had covered for you that you had avoided a Kingdom wide search for your whereabouts. The downside to being a princess meant people tended to notice your absence.
And yet, despite the risk you poised to yourself and to the stable hand—Steve—you still found yourself falling into his arms. You'd follow him whether he would go. Even if that meant following him into Thornbloom Forest.
"But my father said it was dangerous," you mutter to Steve beneath your breath, your fingers digging into his arm as you let him lead the way through the dark forest. "He said there were ogres and banshees and—"
"—banshees?" Steve repeats with an amused look back at you thrown over his shoulder. "The King is simply trying to scare you, your Highness. There's no banshees."
"Oh," you breathe out in relief as you step carefully over a root. "But what about ogres?"
Steve simply shrugs. "They're harmless."
"Harmless?! Steven—"
"—Your Highness—"
You scowl slightly at the formal title. It sounded so unnatural from his lips.
"—I told you to stop calling me that. My name will suffice."
Steve smiles a little and then he says your name. Your name had never sounded so good than when it came from Steve's lips, his voice sweet like honey and making you forget all about royal duties and about your father who would never approve of your lover.
"What did you want me to show me again?" You ask as he pulls you into a clearing, the moonlight slipping through the trees to cast a ghostly glow on the ground beneath your feet. "Or was this a rouse to get me alone?"
Steve finally stops walking, turning to look at you with a smile pulling on the corners of his lips. "That's always the goal, my lady."
His words send warmth surging through your body that you try your very best to ignore.
Steve seems to sense how affected you were by his words but decides not tease you any further. For now.
"I found something," he tells you, stepping away from you before walking towards an old oak tree. "And you have to promise me you will not tell a soul about what you see."
"Steven, what could you possibly—oh, gods—is that a—a dragon egg?"
Your eyes were wide, staring at the large, blood red and golden egg that Steve had pulled from beside the oak tree and now held carefully in his hands. You knew it to be an dragon egg from the scaly exterior and from its colouring but still—you couldn't quite believe your eyes.
"It is," Steve confirms, gently turning the egg over in his hands. "I found it this morning. By the river. I knew it would not survive near water and so, I took it here. Where no one would look."
"But Steve, what about its mother—"
"Killed," Steve tells you solemnly, looking up at you just in time to watch the way your eyes soften, the way your face falls. "Your father—the King—saw her on his morning ride. And—well, you know your father's attitude towards dragons."
You go quiet, your eyes on the egg in Steve's hands as try not to think about what your father did to its mother. Try not to think about all the barbaric things your father had done to other beautiful creatures that he deemed too threatening to belong in his kingdom.
You realise then why Steve had bought you here. You could see it in the way he was looking between you and the egg.
"Steven, you cannot be serious. We cannot raise a dragon—"
"—but do you not see that this could be our way out of here? Out of this Kingdom? They would chase us on horseback but dragon back—"
"—you have lost your mind? Dragon back? Do you even hear yourself? A dragon is not a dog, it could kill us—"
"—it wouldn't kill us if it saw us as its mother—"
"—and what of my family? My brother—"
"—he could come with us. Dustin adores dragons."
You could hardly believe what Steve was suggesting. Raising and attempting to tame a dragon in order to escape the Kingdom? It was nothing short of insanity.
And yet—
And yet you couldn't help but wonder if it would work. You couldn't help but hope that there was someway you could be with Steve. But he was stable hand. He wasn't a Prince nor was a Duke or an Earl or even a Viscount. He didn't have a penny to his name. And yet you loved him enough to hope that his insane plan would work.
"If this does not work Steve—"
"—then at least we tried," Steve says, placing the egg carefully into his satchel before stepping closer to you until his hands were gently cupping your face.
"I cannot stand by and do nothing anymore. I hear things. People talk. Your father wants you to be wed by your twentieth year and I cannot—will not—stand by and let it happen. I cannot fight, I cannot shower you in riches and I cannot give you anything that you don't already have. But I can love you until my last breath and I can do my very best to get us somewhere I am just Steve and you are just my lady."
The words make you feel everything all at once. You feel scared, frightened, even a little terrified. But you also feel determined, feel a passion and love that ran so deep that it lived in your bones. And before you could second guess the plan, before you could let doubt creep in—you accept the plan with a fierce kiss to his lips. A kiss that he returns with equal enthusiasm—his hands in your hair and yours fisting into the front of his shirt.
"Is that a yes to the plan?" Steve asks the question against your lips—a little breathless as he pulls away, his honeyed brown eyes meeting yours.
"Yes," you breathe out. "We'll keep the egg safe. Raise the dragon until it's fully grown and then—then we'll go somewhere where they can't find us."
There's a look in Steve's eyes that you don't quite recognise—hope, maybe—before he's pulling you back in for another kiss as the moonlight shines above you. The egg—the key to your future—safe in Steve's satchel.
dividers by @saradika-graphics
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