[xpeachsunsidex]

I Knew You’d Come Back To Me

Steve Harrington x Henderson!Fem!Reader

saw 5sos a month ago, and i’m still in my post concert depression era 😔

Summary: Steve’s holding onto the memories he has of you, hoping desperately that you’ll come back to him from the prison your mind is trapped in.

WC: 5.4k

Warnings & What to Expect: reader is in the coma instead of max, mentions of hospitals, super quick needle mention, reader unable to move her body after waking up from the coma (similar to Max), brief descriptions of death, blood, and grieving, some horror elements, talks of having kids, season 5 plot but i have changed things around for the sake of the imagine, some details inspired by the song, lots of angst with a happy ending!

Peach’s (Jenn’s) Note: this is based off of this request 😭 it’s been quite a bit lovie, so sorry for the delay. writers block has beef with me rn. hoping you enjoy 🧡

“And then he made me sort the tapes. Again,” Steve huffs, head thrown back against the couch in frustration.

“That’s annoying,” you hum, carding a hand through his hair and pushing it back behind his ear.

“Right? You don’t think I’m being dramatic do you? Robin’s been giving me shit about it all week,” he whines, tilting his head to look at you.

“Not at all, baby,” you reply, dragging your free hand up the expanse of his chest to fiddle with the collar of his shirt.

Truthfully, you thought he was being a bit of a drama queen. But you weren’t going to tell him that when you were perched on his lap - curled up against him as he ranted on about how Keith was making his job at Family Video harder than it needed to be.

“He’s doing it on purpose too. The asshole wants to torture me into quitting,” Steve huffs.

“That’s so unfair,” you muse, shifting yourself closer to wrap your arms around his neck.

He continues to gripe about Keith being an asshole, Robin egging it on, and the never ending flow of customers who are rude to him.

And you’re trying to listen, really you are. But he’s looking particularly gorgeous today - clad in his light wash jeans that hug his thighs and the cute little polo shirt that peeks out from under his work vest. The first couple of buttons are popped open, exposing a small tuft of chest hair underneath that’s practically begging you to feel him up.

Your eyes wander to his lips as they move rapidly, then to his eyes that look dark brown in the moonlight and hazel in the shine of the daylight. You move on to tracking the unlimited amount of freckles and moles that dance across his skin, the same ones you swear you could count one day if he held still long enough.

God he’s a vision, and you just have to let him know.

“You’re so pretty, Stevie,” you grin, interrupting him mid rant.

Steve raises his eyebrows, “Oh you think so, honey?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pressing your lips along his jawline - giggling when you notice the kiss prints drenching his skin.

“Why’d you stop?” He frowns playfully, arms locking around your waist.

Your thumb rubs at the smudges littering along his jaw, “Lipstick’s getting on you.”

“Don’t wipe it off,” he complains, “I like being marked by you.”

The statement makes you bashful, and you can feel heat creeping up your cheeks.

“You blushing, baby?” He grins, which furthers the flush that you feel rushing to the tips of your ears.

“No,” you mutter, ducking your head.

He pouts, “Oh c’mon, sweet girl, don’t hide from me.”

Steve’s thumb and pointer finger hook under your chin, coaxing you to look at him.

But when you do, there’s something off about him. You can’t tell what it is, but it’s there - like a slight glimmer wavering around him, coating his being in something sickly that you don’t understand.

“Steve?” Your eyebrows furrow, trying to make sense of the image in front of you.

“Don’t hide from me,” his voice turns sour, becoming bitter and dark as it envelops you.

You try to move, desperate for answers, but something is tethering you to him - forcing you to stay still.

“It’s only a matter of time before I find you,” he sneers, face twisting and contorting - human flesh turning into grotesque veins.

You’re no longer in Steve’s living room, cozied up next to him while he frets about his day. Instead, you're in the lap of an all too familiar figure that you’ve been relentlessly trying to run from.

“Let me go!” You scream, fighting with every fiber to break away from his hold.

When it gives, you’re thrust backwards - landing in a puddle of remains, trying not to think too hard about whose they might be.

Your body is heavy, aching with exhaustion as you stare up into the abyss of the world you can’t comprehend, the one you’ve been trapped in since that fateful night Vecna consumed you.

You know you’re a target out in the open like this, a sitting duck for him to hunt down, but you’re tired of resisting - growing weary that you may never return to the physical realm.

And so you let yourself drift, succumbing to sleep from one world of nightmares to the next.

The combination of the bright fluorescent lights, low drum of machines whirring, and strong scent of disinfectant never failed to give Steve a headache.

It throbbed menacingly, a strong stinging sensation that felt like a bruise being poked over and over again - almost like it was warning him that each time he stepped into the miserable place of Hawkins Memorial, he’d be leaving disappointed.

But he would take a headache every damn day of his life if it meant you weren’t the one resting on the hospital bed in front of him.

“C’mon, honey. Need you to pull through this,” Steve mumbles, thumb stroking along the frigid skin of your hand that’s wrapped in his.

You’re unresponsive, as you have been for the past year and a half, and Steve’s never been more anguished than watching each day tick by without a sign that you could hear him.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this without you. Things are,” he sighs heavily, shaking his head, “not great.”

He grasps onto your hand more firmly, threading his fingers through yours and brings your arm to his lips. He tenderly presses kisses to your skin - careful to avoid the needle digging into the tissue underneath your forearm that's connected to an IV drip.

“This quarantine is driving people stir crazy. The crawls keep leading nowhere. And your brother,” he trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

Dustin had been a huge pain in his ass for the past few months. Steve knew the teenager was grieving - knew that he lost a piece of himself when he lost Eddie and couldn’t fathom the idea of having to live in a world without his older sister too. And he knew that Dustin also had far too much pressure thrust upon him than he should at his age.

But your brother was taking it out on Steve - constantly snapping, snarking, and throwing harsh quips his way.

Steve was nearing his boiling point over it - ready to open his mouth and release words of fire that he wouldn’t be able to take back. Each time he almost did so, he was reminded of you.

Reminded that he barely had time to say goodbye before you were ripped away from him, which ultimately always made Steve resist the urge to lob something hurtful back towards Dustin.

So instead of telling your motionless body that your little brother was being a raging prick to him, Steve simply says, “He needs you.”

Steve thinks about the night he lost you often, though it continues to rip open the wound in his heart again and again each time he replays it in his memories.

“You can’t,” Steve had protested.

“I can,” you replied firmly, thumb easing against the little wrinkle that formed over his brow bone.

Steve swallowed thickly, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you have Nancy and Robin to fight with you. Dustin has Eddie to protect him. But Max and Lucas need one of us. I’m going with them, Steve,” you answered, set in your decision to not leave them behind.

“That wasn’t the plan,” he retorted, gripping your waist tightly.

“It wasn’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t let them go alone,” you countered.

Steve felt his throat tighten, felt the familiar sting of tears threatening to fill his eyes, “I don’t want you to leave me.”

“Steve,” you cupped his face, fingers splaying out gently along the expanse of his neck, “I need you to trust me.”

“I do trust you, but I’m scared. You said it yourself, this time is different. Heavier. One of us might not make it out of this, and it cannot be you,” he implored, reaching up to grasp lovingly at your wrists.

You took a deep breath, “Steve, I love you, and-.”

He shook his head, cutting you off, “No. No, don’t do that to me. Don’t act like this is goodbye.”

“But it could be,” you whispered, “and I need you to know that you’ll be fine without me if something does happen.”

Steve scoffed at the thought, “I would never be the same without you.”

“You’d have to try. For Dustin. For me,” you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

He closed his eyes, let his hands slide down to your elbows - tried to ground himself in the moment, because if it truly was the last time he touched you, then he wanted to soak in your presence - bathe himself in these tiny pieces of yourself you were giving him before you were gone.

And when Steve heard the four chimes of that fucking clock a couple hours later, he thought Max was a goner - didn’t realize he was the one that would be brought to his knees at the sight of you, broken and bloody in her arms.

Steve still can’t shake Dustin’s cries that night - had to watch him scream his lungs out over Eddie dying before he repeated the same devastating noise at the sight of you.

He hears it in his nightmares, hears the screeching of the demobats, hears the own strangled sound of despair he let out when he saw you lying lifelessly in the aftermath of the battle.

The steady beep of your heart monitor drags Steve out of the horrific things that plague his mind, trying to focus back in on the sight of you in front of him - not moving, but at least you’re breathing.

“I need you,” he admits brokenly, forehead dropping down to rest against your thigh.

His palm lands against your knee, thumb brushing lazily over the thin material of the white cotton blanket that covers you.

“Please, honey. If you can hear me at all, find a way to show me,” he begs, feeling an overwhelming amount of agony from the lack of your reply.

A light knock at the door makes him look up to see Robin poking her head in, lifting her fingers in a brief wave to announce her presence.

She tentatively walks across the room towards Steve, quietly taking a seat next to him. She knows better than to ask if anything has changed at this point, and Steve finds her silence sickening, because god when Robin is silent - it meant that she thought things were bad.

“Steve,” she eventually says, placing a hand on his back.

He makes a rapt noise of recognition for her, but doesn’t take his longing eyes off of you - admiring your beauty even in the dullness that’s taken over your features from being stagnant for so long.

“When was the last time you showered?” Robin probs, no judgment in her tone - just pure concern for the well being of her friend.

“Dunno,” he mumbles desolately.

“Go home,” she presses, “take care of yourself. You know she’d be heartbroken if she saw you wallowing like this.”

Steve hates that she’s right, but still doesn’t move from his spot, “I don’t wanna leave her alone.”

“She won’t be alone. I’ll stay with her. Plus, I brought another visitor,” Robin tilts her head to the hallway, silently insinuating whoever came with her is out there.

“Dustin?” He questions.

Robin nods softly, “Yeah. The little twerp insisted he come today. Said he had a feeling she might wake up soon.”

“God, I hope so,” Steve admits.

“Me too,” she agrees quietly.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before he sighs, untangling himself from you before standing up.

“Gonna go home and freshen up, then I’m coming right back,” Steve declares while heading for the door.

Dustin’s leaning against the wall when Steve exits, “No updates?”

Steve closes his eyes briefly, disappointment washing over him at the question, “No. You doing okay, man?”

Dustin shrugs noncommittedly, “Could be better.”

“Yeah, same,” Steve replies dully.

He misses his friendship with the boy, hates the strained riff that hangs over their heads.

And he misses you. Misses how you could mediate things between the two of them. He often finds himself wondering if you never come to, if things will ever return to the way they once were between himself and your brother.

He places a soothing hand on Dustin’s shoulder, “I’m stepping out for a bit. Call me if you need me.”

Dustin nods solemnly, not bothering to bid Steve goodbye before walking into your room.

You wake up to the sound of Steve begging, watching as he clings to your frail body.

Please, honey. If you can hear me at all, find a way to show me.

His voice rings in your ears, the statement a loud roar echoing through your brain, but the sound of it is ripped away when you see the clouds beginning to shift - covering the vision in the hazy red of the sky.

“Steve!” Your throat feels raw from screaming his name, pleading for him to return to you.

You’ve lost track of how many times reaching him has been at the tips of your fingers, only for the illusion to fade - like a carpet being yanked from under you with nowhere soft to land.

Tears stream down your face as you frantically spin around, praying that you could see him one more time.

“No, please, no,” you cry, stumbling over a gnarled root that sticks out from the ground.

You land harshly on your knees, hands cutting open from the fall - nauseated by the blood that starts to seep out.

You squeeze your eyes shut, “It’s not real. It’s not real.”

The phrase is what keeps you going - playing on repeat because you know that your physical body is intact, have seen it when that blissful image of Steve appears in the thunderous clouds above you.

You’ve watched him hopelessly for months now, maybe longer, but time has been too hard to keep track of in this prison world that Henry has locked you away in. You’ve been hiding from him - somehow finding holes in his mind, and he lets you linger in pockets of memories that he won’t enter.

It feels like he’s toying with you sometimes, willing to let you go if you can play his game and find the way out. But as each day passes, you find it harder to distinguish what’s tangible and what’s not - slowly dwindling into madness.

The only thing keeping you from spiraling completely has been the glimpses of moments with Steve that flash in brief seconds before withering away.

You can feel one starting to creep into the crevices of your brain; the time you admitted you saw a future with him.

You were at Lover's Lake, watching the sun set across the horizon - fading into faint pinks and oranges as it drifted down.

The two of you were lounging on the hood of Steve’s Beamer, basking in the warmth of the summer evening - listening to the chittering of nightlife taking over.

Steve was leaning backwards, extending his legs to let your head rest on his lap, and his hand was combing gently through your hair.

“You’ve been quiet for a while, Stevie,” you mumbled, eyes growing heavy in content from his fingers working at your scalp.

“Hmm,” he hummed softly, eyes flickering towards you.

“I wanna know what you’re thinking about,” you rolled over, allowing yourself to look up at him.

If you could burn the image of him behind your eyelids you would, because the look on his face was one of pure adoration - staring in awe of your radiance.

“When I was younger, my parents would take me here during the summer,” he moved his thumb to brush gingerly along your jaw.

“Yeah?” You prompted, curious to know where he was going with that lead.

“Yeah. They were always distracted though. They’d be giving each other the silent treatment after an argument, or they were too focused on worrying about appearances in front of other families. Forced me to get really good at being creative since I didn’t have anyone to play with,” he continued, letting his index finger skim over the delicate skin under your eyes.

“There had to have been other kids there,” you remarked.

He shrugged, “There were, but uh, if you can believe it, I was kind of shy back then.”

Your heart faltered at the thought of him being a child and feeling the weight of being left out, even if it wasn’t intentional.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, curling a hand into the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t be. It made me realize that I won’t ever let my kids have to experience that,” he mused.

Your breath hitched, “Your kids?”

“Well, our kids. They’d have each other at least and-,” Steve cut himself off after realizing what he revealed.

His eyes squeezed shut, and he pinched the bridge of his nose in embarrassment, “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

You watched him internally panic for a second, before pushing yourself up so you could relieve the tension that you saw settling over his shoulders.

“Hey,” you started, pressing a reassuring hand against his thigh.

“That was stupid, forget it,” he groaned, dragging a hand roughly down his face.

“What if I don’t want to forget it?” You refuted.

“You mean it?” He asked timidly.

You crossed your legs underneath you and wrapped a hand around his bicep.

“I’ve thought about it too,” you admitted.

His eyes grew glassy as he let out a sharp breath of disbelief through his nose, “Seriously?”

You released a quiet laugh, “Of course. I know we’re young, but I see a future with you, Steve. And I can’t see myself having any of it - kids, marriage, whatever it may be - if you’re not there with me.”

“Fuck, I think I’m falling in love with you,” he confessed.

You let your eyelids flutter closed - nose nudging his, “It’s about time, Harrington. Because I know I’m falling in love with you.”

Steve slotted his lips with yours, no longer able to hold himself back from proving to you the unadulterated affection he has for you - capturing your mouth hungrily in swift, greedy presses to emphasize his appreciation.

You pulled back just a fraction, “Plus, we’ve got practice carting Dustin around. He’s kind of like our trial run, isn’t he?”

Steve laughed against your mouth, giddily pressing his lips against yours until you were light-headed with want.

The memory jolts something within you, like numb limbs gaining strength after falling asleep, and suddenly you can see it; the picture of yourself opening up in front of you, nearly paces away.

A sudden burst of sentences reverberates throughout the inner workings of your being.

Fight for Dustin. For me.

I need you, honey. We all need you.

I can’t do this without you, baby.

Please, come back to me.

It’s the last one, spoken so rawly by your lover that it spurs you on, forces you to move your feet from a trudge to a sprint - recognizing that this moment is critical, the one that could change the tides and tip the scale towards your loved ones victory against the sinister world you’ve been bound in.

There’s only one name that echoes inside of you as you get closer to a taste of the world - the real one, the one that you’ve been separated from for far too long - and it’s Steve.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve throws his keys on the kitchen counter, scrubbing his hands over his eyes, pressure building from yet another day without you waking up.

He leans against the cold surface, back digging into the granite as his eyes find the coffee cup that sits idle by the sink. It was your favorite to use when you spent the night at his place, and there’s a faint lipstick stain that’s wrapped around the rim - dust collecting inside the unwashed dish.

Steve can’t help but feel haunted by the ghost of you in his own home.

He lets himself pretend through the fragments of you he has left, because he’s starting to forget what your voice sounded like, what your touch felt like, what it felt like to be looked up and down by you when he wore your favorite yellow sweater of his. The same one he was wearing when you recognized that you were in love with him. Which was now gone, and yet another torturous reminder of his loss.

It’s why the coffee cup sits untouched, why he can’t sleep on your side of the bed, why he can’t bring himself to wash the last t-shirt you slept in. He swears there’s lingering traces of your perfume wafting through the air sometimes from it.

He imagines you dancing in the emptiness of his living room, twirling in his arms because if he lets himself sink into reality; he fears it means accepting that he’s lost you, that there’s no hope for you to return to him.

The first thing you notice when you come to is the darkness that reigns behind your eyelids. You can feel your muscles twitching, aching to move, but your body is not cooperating with the messages that your brain is signal firing.

You hear a sharp intake of breath, feel the warm press of someone’s hand slip into yours, the scrap of a chair indicating they’re moving closer.

The familiar rumble of your little brother’s voice infiltrates the room.

“Dusty?” You slur, tongue feeling heavy from not being used.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he squeezes your hand.

“Where, w-,?” You stutter, feeling an aggravating pain shoot through your vocal chords.

“Hey, take it slow. It’s been a while since you’ve talked,” Dustin reprimands.

“Steve,” you whisper, voice cracking - desperate to know where he is, eyes in a flurry of movement from trying to peel open.

Dustin slowly swims into your gaze, though it’s still blurry, and the intensity of the lights shining in your eyes causes streaks to glide across the room.

Another head comes into frame, and you recognize Robin’s voice before you can even see her clearly.

“Holy shit, Henderson. You’re awake,” she squeals, making your face pinch up in a wince.

“Robin,” Dustin seethes.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just so good to see you moving. Harrington’s going to be beside himself,” she says eagerly, voice lowering significantly.

At the mention of your boyfriend, you try to fight against the lethargy that’s taken over your body.

“Steve, I need Steve,” you croak, feeling like cotton’s been shoved in your mouth with how dry it is.

Robin jumps out of her seat, “I’ll call him.”

“Can you get the nurse after?” Dustin asks, and she nods her head before swiftly exiting the room.

You try to force yourself into a sitting position, wiggling around in frustration at the fact that you can’t seem to control your body.

Dustin places his hands on your shoulders, “You’ve been immobile for a long time. You need to stop before you hurt yourself.”

“Dustin, I need Steve,” you repeat, tears quickly filling your lash line.

“Wow, not even a hi for your favorite brother?” He jokes, reaching out to brush a stray tear of yours away with his knuckle.

“I’m so sorry, Dusty,” your head starts to clear, fog disappearing - realizing your only brother is the one here for you, and all you can think about is Steve.

“It’s okay. I just missed you, you know?” His throat constricts, leaning forward on his knees.

“I missed you too,” you utter, giving him a small smile.

Dustin catches you up to speed on the things you’ve missed - Eddie passing, Hawkins splitting open, El returning, searching for Vecna, and the list goes on.

“Steve brought me out of this. I don’t know how, but he did,” you murmur once he’s finished.

“That doesn’t surprise me. He’s been hovering over you nonstop. Usually isn’t gone for more than an hour at a time if he can help it,” Dustin grins.

“Really?” Your smile wobbles, heart swelling at the thought of him waiting for you.

“Yeah, he,” Dustin pauses, because it was once hard for him to believe his next words, “he really loves you.”

It’s then that the nurse comes in, paging for a doctor before hustling over towards you.

“It would be helpful if you stepped out so we could run some evaluations on her,” she instructs him politely.

“No way. I’m not leaving her,” Dustin scowls.

“It’s okay, Dusty. I’m okay. Just, get Steve for me, please?” You request weakly.

He sighs at your insistence, “If you need anything, have someone get me. Robin and I will be in the hallway.”

Robin frowns when she sees him step out of your room, “He’s not picking up.”

“He’s probably on his way back,” Dustin guesses.

The two of them sink into the chairs that line the hallway, feeling antsy at the span of time without being able to check in with you.

Finally the doctor leaves, sharing some brief updates about the stability of your condition - leaving to contact Claudia Henderson, who no doubt will be making her way to the hospital in record time when she hears the news.

Dustin stands, stretching out his arms, and Robin immediately seizes his hand - lugging him to crouch behind a medical cart that just happens to be big enough to hide them.

“Robin, what the hell?” Dustin yelps, and she swiftly covers his mouth with her hand.

She points down the hall towards Steve, who’s rounding the corner.

“Why are we hiding from Steve? We want him to know,” Dustin slaps her hand away.

“Because if we run into him, I’m gonna blabber about it and don’t you think it’ll be better for him to find out on his own?” She quips back, gesturing at the melancholy look on her best friend's face.

Dustin gives a hesitant pause, but ultimately concedes, “Yeah, guess you’re right. But I call spying on them from the doorway.”

Robin rolls her eyes, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Steve’s perfected the route to your room where he’ll avoid running into nurses that like to give him looks of pity each time he shows up.

He first stops by the vending machines to grab himself a shitty coffee and a snack for you. It’s a habit he can’t put down, buying something for you despite the fact that you can’t eat it right now.

There’s a whole box full of items that sits untouched in your hospital room - overflowing with expired food at this point, but Steve doesn’t have the heart to throw them out.

He trods up the back staircase, avoiding eye contact with anyone who could possibly stop him and ask where he was headed. Finally, he stops by your door which is now closed - probably Dustin’s doing he assumes, who likes to claim it keeps the noise level to a minimum. The walls are paper thin not matter what, but Steve doesn’t have the energy to debate him on it.

He swings the door open, and starts to chatter, which is his typical routine when he’s visiting you.

“Well, honey, I got you the regular M&M’s today. They were out of the peanut ones. Can you believe that shit? What kind of establishment runs out of the best type of-,” Steve’s rambling is cut off when he walks into your room and sees you, sitting up - on your own.

The coffee in Steve’s hands crashes to the floor, black liquid seeping across the vinyl flooring - soaking into the bottom of his jeans and coating his Nike shoes with the maroon swoops, arguably having just ruined his favorite pair, but it’s the least of his concerns.

His jaw drops in disbelief, blinking rapidly to decide if you were a figment of his imagination, wondering if his brain is making you up due to sleep deprivation.

“Hi Stevie,” you rasp, wishing you could throw yourself at him.

Steve’s frozen, planted on the spot he’s standing in, because hearing your voice - the same one that he swore he might’ve been forgetting - has just bloomed out of you, flooding his brain as it ricochets around the room.

“Steve,” you whimper, can’t help but let out a breathy sob at seeing him just a handful of feet in front of you.

The whine that escapes you knocks him back into motion, practically skidding through the spilled coffee and kneeling down by the edge of your bed - legs digging into the hard floor.

“Am I dreaming?” He asks, hands reaching out to you - stopping himself from touching you because he’ll surely be wrecked to find that none of this is real.

You smile faintly, “I don’t think so.”

Steve carefully lets his fingers glide across your palm, and when your fingers twitch - feebly curling around his own for the first time in ages, he can’t help but let the tears track down his face which sets off your own.

“God, I can’t believe you’re real. And here. How are you here?” His lips part, uncertainty still keeping him at bay.

You’re not ready to disclose the torture you’ve been through, so you simply lock your fingers through his and plead, “Hold me?”

Steve’s mouth flounders, letting himself finally believe he hasn’t somehow conjured up a replica of you, “Course I can, honey. C’mere.”

He scooches himself onto the bed, maneuvering your body to rest against him - back pressed to his chest, head tucked under his chin while his arms wrap tightly around you.

“I’m so sorry,” he groans, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up, honey.”

“It’s okay, Steve,” you try to reassure him.

“No, I knew not to leave you today. Dustin had a feeling you'd come back to us soon. Little shit is always right,” he grumbles, hating himself for not being there.

Fragile laughter bubbles up within you, “He always is, isn’t he?”

“I’m so sorry,” he cries, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“Steve,” you tilt your head back just a fraction, the best you can do for now, “you have nothing to be sorry for, baby. I know you’ve been here every day.”

“Because I knew you’d come back to me,” he tenderly dots kisses to the back of your neck.

“And I knew you wouldn’t give up on me,” you murmur, sniffling as you feel the pressure behind your eyelids build again.

“Never,” his voice is warm, laid bare with honesty.

Steve continues to grace you with his devotion, mapping your body with his hands, and it’s intimate in a way you’ve never experienced with him before.

“Can’t believe you’re here,” he repeats himself, letting the phrase hang between you two as he continues to lavish you - nose grazing your jawline, lips attaching sweetly under your ear before catching the corner of your mouth.

You suddenly feel the wet droplets that roll down his pretty face and land on the slope of your collarbone, making you itch to wipe his tears away. You try your best to shift, but no matter how much effort you put into it, you can’t get your body to move, which makes you grunt in irritation.

“What’s wrong? Does something hurt, honey?” He implores.

You bite your lip in annoyance at not being able to comfort him, “No. It’s just, I can’t move yet, and you're crying.”

Understanding ripples across his expression - knowing you're aching to provide him solace. He brings your hand up to his cheek, guiding your fingers to wipe swiftly under his eyes, along the highs of his cheekbones, before trailing down to catch the tears that puddle under his jaw.

It’s messy, but a reminder that you’re miraculously here in his arms.

“I love you,” he rasps, inhaling sharply - still in astonishment that you haven’t slipped away yet, that you haven't dissolved like ice melting under the ray of the burning sun.

And when Dustin and Robin sneakily slide in the room later, pretending like they weren’t on the verge of crying themselves, giving you the space to open up about what you’ve experienced, Steve continues to keep you grounded - unwilling to let you go, declining the notion of letting you go for even a moment, because he’ll be damned if he has to dance with the ghost of you again.

well, this started as a part two to they don’t know about us because i had some requests for that, but it just didn’t feel the same. hence why there’s hints of similarities if you’ve read that imagine!

Divider credits to @lobster-graphics

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[tearsof-scarlet]

 For Your Own Good

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Synopsis: Tutoring Steve Harrington was supposed to be simple. It wasn’t supposed to involve late nights, soft confessions, or his protectiveness turning sharp when Billy Hargrove starts paying you the wrong kind of attention. Tags: angst with a happy ending, Steve Harrington character study, protective Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove unwanted attention, tutoring AU, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, emotional intimacy, jealousy, self-sacrifice,

Warnings: canon-typical violence, harassment, physical assault, blood/injury, emotional distress

Words: ~24k

Detention smelled like old pencil shavings, floor polish, and the faint, tragic sweetness of someone’s contraband bubblegum.

You sat near the front because you always sat near the front. It wasn’t some noble commitment to education so much as it was a commitment to being left alone. The back of the classroom was loud, chairs scraping, whispers turning into laughs, the occasional thwack of a paper football. The front was quieter, safer. Predictable.

Mr. Hargreaves, History teacher, moustache like a warning sign, stood at the chalkboard with the kind of posture that said he’d seen every brand of teenage nonsense and had decided, years ago, to hate it all equally.

Behind you, the back row was a full-time circus.

Steve Harrington’s voice was the easiest to pick out. It wasn’t the loudest, exactly, but it carried like he was used to rooms tilting toward him. He had that effortless, lazy confidence that made people listen even when he wasn’t saying anything worth listening to.

“Dude,” Tommy H. whispered, too loud to qualify as whispering, “you think Hargreaves can smell fear?”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, and your fear smells like Aqua Net and regret.”

A couple of boys laughed. One of the girls, one of the ones who always had a fresh lip gloss and a fresh opinion, giggled like Steve had handed her something personally.

You kept your eyes on your notebook. Not that you were taking notes. It was detention, not class. But giving your hands something to do was easier than giving them away to nerves.

Your only real interaction with Steve Harrington to date had been… well.

Not interaction, exactly. More like… accidents.

Like the time you’d looked up from your locker and caught him watching you from across the hallway, leaning against the trophy case with a basketball under his arm like he’d been born glued to it. His eyes had met yours, hazel and bright and a little too sharp, and you’d broken the contact immediately, heat rising up your neck like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

Or the time in class when you’d turned a page and found him looking at you over his shoulder, chin propped on his palm like he was bored by the entire concept of the world. You’d blinked, and he’d smirked, as if the eye contact was a joke you didn’t understand. You’d stared resolutely at the textbook until your eyes went dry.

It wasn’t that you were shy, exactly. You could speak up when you needed to. You could tell off a boy who thought “quiet” meant “weak.” You could stand between a kid and a bully without your knees giving out.

But Steve Harrington was… Steve Harrington.

He wasn't just popular; he was a gravitational anomaly. His presence didn’t just draw attention—it warped the very social fabric of a room, bending conversations, glances, and intentions toward him like light around a star. People like you didn't orbit celestial bodies like that. You stayed in your own quiet, predictable lane, on your own sensible path, where the gravity was weaker but the footing was sure.

Mr. Hargreaves, a man whose patience had been weathered thin by decades of adolescent indifference, slapped a dog-eared attendance sheet onto his desk with a sound like a gunshot. “All right,” he announced, his voice a dry monotone that cut through the low buzz of whispered conversations. “Since some of you have mistaken detention for a social hour, we’re going to be productive. Shockingly.”

A synchronized groan of protest rolled through the back row, a chorus of discontent.

“Mr. Harrington,” Hargreaves said, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork.

The legs of Steve’s chair gave a protesting squeak as he shifted. “Yeah?” His tone was all easygoing recognition, as if he’d been called upon to settle a bet, not reprimanded.

“You can start,” the teacher continued, finally lifting his gaze, “by not speaking unless spoken to.”

A ripple of muted snickers traveled through the room. Steve’s own laugh was a low, warm rumble, utterly unbothered, as if he’d just been paid a charming compliment. “Sorry,” he said, the word dripping with a performative remorse that suggested he was anything but. “I’ll try. It’s a medical condition, honestly. Terminal charisma. The doctors are baffled.”

Mr. Hargreaves finally looked up fully. His eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, landed on Steve with the dull, heavy pressure of a thumb pressing down on an insect. “Your medical condition can write me a two-page reflection on the importance of respecting classroom environments. Single-spaced.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxed insolence, stretching his arms behind his head as if detention were a beachside lounge chair. “Two pages? Wow. You’re really worried about my emotional development, huh. That’s… touching.”

“Three pages,” Mr. Hargreaves corrected instantly, his voice devoid of all humor.

The class erupted in a collective, drawn-out ‘Ooooh’ of vicarious schadenfreude.

Steve placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of wounded nobility. “Cruel and unusual punishment. You know, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. I might have to call my lawyer.”

“And yet,” Hargreaves said, turning back to his desk, “here we are.”

He picked up a precarious stack of worksheets and tapped them sharply against the wood, aligning them into a punishingly neat pile. “Now. Since we’re already in the business of consequences, I’m going to address another pressing issue.” His gaze, flat and assessing, swept the room. It lingered for a discomfiting second on various faces, and your stomach tightened involuntarily. You hated being looked at in groups, it felt like being drafted into a team you never tried out for, suddenly responsible for the collective reputation of ‘students.’

“Midterms are in three weeks,” Mr. Hargreaves declared, as if announcing a plague. “Some of you are doing fine. Some of you are… decidedly not.” His eyes flicked like a whip toward the back row once more. “And because I would like to avoid the soul-crushing monotony of summer school paperwork, I’m implementing a peer tutoring system.”

The groans this time were louder, a symphony of despair.

“Tutoring?” someone muttered, the word soaked in disgust.

Steve’s voice, smooth and carrying, floated forward like a perfectly folded paper airplane. “This feels like communism, sir. Sharing the wealth of knowledge and all that. Very collectivist.”

“Sit up, Harrington.”

Steve made an exaggerated, slow-motion show of straightening his spine, his movements fluid with mocking precision. “Yes, sir. Posture is the foundation of learning, sir.”

Mr. Hargreaves ignored him, plowing onward. “I have a list. High-performing students will be paired with those who are struggling. This is not optional. This is not a debate. This is me choosing peace for myself in June. You are welcome.”

You held your breath, though you weren't sure why. You were, unfortunately and undeniably, a high-performing student. It wasn't a badge you wore with pride; it was a quiet, persistent fact of your existence, like your eye color or your heartbeat. Work diligently, get good grades, go home. It was a system designed to keep your life manageable, your future predictable. You could already feel the subtle ripple in the room, the collective shift of eyes darting toward the known academic achievers, as if they had just been declared communal property.

Mr. Hargreaves lifted a sheet of paper and began reading names in his dry, administrative drone.

“Karen Richards, you’re with Mark Ellison.”

A boy near the middle of the room slumped dramatically in his seat, as if sentenced to hard labor.

“Diane Cooper, Jeff Williams.”

Somebody in the back muttered, “Good luck, Jeff,” and was instantly shushed by a neighbor.

He read a few more pairs. The reactions were a spectrum of human resignation: some looked vaguely smug, some utterly defeated, some simply wished for the floor to open up and end their misery.

You kept your face a careful, neutral mask, but your fingers tightened around your pen, leaving slight indents in your skin.

Then—

“__________…”

Your heart performed a clumsy, sideways stutter in your chest.

The teacher paused, adjusting his glasses as he found the matching name. “…Steve Harrington.”

For one full, suspended second, the room went utterly quiet. It was the kind of silence that is thick with stunned potential, the silence that precedes an eruption, when something is so perfectly, ironically funny that everyone is collectively deciding if they’re allowed to laugh.

Then the dam broke.

Laughter burst out, sharp and uncontained, bouncing off the cinderblock walls. It wasn't malicious, necessarily; it was the sound of cosmic irony being acknowledged at top volume.

Steve turned in his seat immediately, the motion fluid and attention-commanding. He craned his neck, his eyes scanning the rows until they landed squarely on you. You felt the weight of his gaze like a physical spotlight, hot and inescapable, even before you reluctantly looked up from the safe harbor of your notebook.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes. It was a tactical error.

Steve Harrington’s expression was a masterclass in controlled reaction. Amusement and genuine surprise blended seamlessly, lifting his brows and curving his mouth. It was the look of a king who has just been handed an intriguing, unexpected puzzle, a gift he hadn’t known to ask for, but was immediately pleased to receive. His lips tilted into a slow, spreading grin that seemed to hold a private joke meant just for the two of you.

You stared back, your own face deliberately flat, a fortress of neutrality. You refused, absolutely refused, to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. You would not blush, you would not smile nervously, you would not look away.

His grin only widened, the spark in his eyes intensifying. Your silent defiance wasn't a rebuff; it was entertainment. A challenge. It made the whole situation more interesting.

Mr. Hargreaves slammed a meaty hand on his desk. “Enough! If you have something to say, say it quietly or write it down. In your three-page reflection, Harrington.”

Steve’s grin didn’t falter. He turned back around with a leisurely, unhurried confidence that spoke of a lifetime never spent worrying about whether he was liked. He simply was, and the world adjusted accordingly.

You looked back down at the clean, blue lines of your notebook, your vision momentarily swimming. You concentrated on the steady, silent mantra in your mind, pretending with every fiber of your being that your pulse wasn't hammering a wild, dramatic rhythm against your ribs.

Great. The word echoed in your skull, bleak and flat. Just… phenomenally, spectacularly great.

The rest of detention limped by, a slow, excruciating punishment measured not in minutes but in the agonizing, audible ticks of the wall clock above Mr. Hargreaves’ desk. Each tick was a tiny hammer on the silence, each tock a confirmation of your sentence. The room hummed with low, whispered commentary, a current of gossip you couldn't quite tune out. You heard your name, now permanently twinned with his, passed between classmates like a piece of contraband candy, sweet, scandalous, and meant to be savored. A voice, sharp and acidic, cut through the haze behind you: “Harrington’s gonna flirt his way to a B, easy.” Another, laced with a grudging admiration, answered, “Man can flirt his way to whatever he wants. That’s his whole thing.”

You didn’t turn. You didn’t flinch. You kept your eyes fixed on a random chip in the laminate of your desk, your posture rigid. Your job wasn’t to react. Your job was to be invisible until the clock ran out.

When the bell finally, mercifully, released its shrill cry and Mr. Hargreaves dismissed everyone with a weary, defeated wave, you moved with a speed born of pure self-preservation. You gathered your notebooks and pens in a frantic, silent flurry, shoving them into your bag, hoping to dissolve into the hallway’s chaotic stream before the inevitable could happen.

“Hey.”

His voice. Not from across the room, but close. Beside you. It was a low, warm sound that seemed to bypass your ears and vibrate directly in your chest.

You froze, your fingers stalling on the zipper of your bag. Slowly, as if moving through syrup, you turned.

Steve Harrington had somehow transformed the mundane act of loitering in a classroom doorway into a deliberate, effortless composition. He leaned one shoulder against the frame, his body a study in casual angles. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans, and his letterman jacket hung open, the rich red leather a stark contrast to the drab beige of the walls. He looked like he’d been placed there by a director, a perfect, living snapshot of charismatic nonchalance. There was a faint, bruise-colored shadow beneath his left eye, not dramatic, but enough to sand away a layer of his polished perfection, making him look less like an icon and more like a person who might walk into a door or take an errant elbow during gym. It made him real, and that was somehow more disarming.

He smiled at you, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that suggested you were both participants in a delightful, shared secret.

You did not smile back. Not out of intentional rudeness, but out of a profound mistrust of your own facial expressions. Your face had a history of betraying you, of flushing at inopportune moments, of eyes widening with unguarded surprise. You kept it carefully, painfully neutral.

“What?” you asked, aiming for a tone of detached curiosity and landing somewhere near flat annoyance.

Steve’s brows lifted a fraction, a flicker of genuine surprise, or perhaps appreciation, that you hadn’t immediately softened under his gaze. “We’re, uh…” He gestured lazily with his chin toward the crumpled paper still clutched in Mr. Hargreaves’ hand. “Apparently a team now. Academically speaking.”

“I heard,” you said, the words clipped and final.

He laughed, a soft, breathy sound. “Okay. Ouch.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That was cold,” he clarified, his grin tilting into something crooked, almost self-deprecating. “I’m Steve, by the way. In case you’ve been living under a very quiet, studious rock.”

You knew his name. The entire ecosystem of Hawkins High knew his name. It was a fundamental fact, like the location of the gym or the taste of cafeteria pizza. But you refused to grant him the satisfaction of the acknowledgment.

“I know who you are,” you stated, turning back to your bag to give your hands a purpose. “We’re in the same class. Have been for two years.”

He made a dramatic, wounded face, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wow. So you have noticed me. I’m flattered. Truly.”

You stared at him, your gaze level and unimpressed. “Is this… how you talk to everyone?”

Steve’s eyes, a warm, intelligent brown, crinkled at the corners. “Depends,” he said, as if considering a complex equation.

“On what?”

“On whether they look like they’re about to throw a textbook at my head.”

“I’m not about to throw a textbook,” you said, finally swinging your bag onto your shoulder. The weight was a comfort. “I’m just trying to leave.”

“Right.” He pushed off the doorframe with a graceful, unhurried motion, stepping aside and sweeping a hand out in a mock-gallant gesture, as if opening a stage curtain for the leading lady. “After you.”

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, a silent war between pride and prudence, before walking past him. The air in the doorway seemed charged, buzzing with his proximity. To your mild horror, he fell into step beside you as you entered the hallway, matching your pace with an easy, infuriating familiarity. It felt less like an invitation and more like an annexation, as if he’d decided your personal space was now communal property.

He was too good at this. At taking up space without asking.

“That pairing,” Steve announced, as if continuing a conversation you’d been having, “is a mistake. Just so we’re clear.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Why? Because you’re above needing help?”

“No,” he said quickly, then seemed to catch himself, his expression shifting into one of careless amusement. He shrugged, the movement emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders under the leather jacket. “I mean—yeah, sure. Because I’m perfect and brilliant and definitely not failing Mr. Hargreaves’ history class. Obviously.”

The sheer, bald-faced audacity of his lie, delivered with such cheerful conviction, was almost impressive. Against your will, the corner of your mouth twitched. It was a tiny, treacherous movement, a mere ghost of a smile, but you fought it down, clenching your jaw.

Steve noticed. Of course he did. His eyes brightened instantly, like a hunter spotting movement in the brush. A spark of pure, triumphant delight flashed within them.

“I’m serious,” you said, clearing your throat to erase any trace of amusement. The sound was too loud in the emptying hall. “If you don’t show up to our sessions, I’m going to tell Mr. Hargreaves. Immediately.”

Steve placed a hand over his heart again, his expression one of profound betrayal. “You’d narc on me? To Hargreaves? That’s cold-blooded.”

“It’s not ‘narcing,’” you corrected, your voice firm. “It’s reporting a failure to participate in a mandatory academic program. It’s consequences.”

“God,” he sighed, the sound long-suffering and theatrical. “You say that like a grown-up. With a briefcase and everything.”

“I am a grown-up,” you retorted, then instantly wished you could snatch the words back from the air. They sounded childish even to your own ears.

Steve’s grin widened, a predator sensing weakness. “You’re a grown-up?” he repeated, his voice dripping with mock awe. “In high school? Wow. That’s… a rare specimen. Should I be calling you ‘ma’am’?”

You stopped at your locker, a sanctuary of cold, painted metal. He stopped too, leaning his shoulder against the locker next to yours as if he had a standing reservation there. The hallway around you was draining of life, the sounds of slamming lockers and retreating footsteps growing fainter, leaving you in a bubble of unsettling quiet.

You spun your combination lock with practiced, furious speed, a code you could do in your sleep.

Steve watched your hands.

Not in a way that felt intrusive or creepy, but with a focused, open curiosity. It was as if he’d never seen someone open a locker before and found the mundane ritual fascinating. As if by observing the small, ordinary mechanics of your life, the twist of your wrist, the click of the lock, the way you neatly arranged your books, he could decipher the larger, more complicated puzzle of you.

It made your skin feel hyper-sensitive, as if every nerve ending was standing at attention.

“So,” Steve said, breaking the silence you were desperately trying to cultivate, “when do we embark on this… noble academic journey?”

You opened your locker door, using it as a shield between you. “When are you free?”

Steve blinked, as if the question itself was a novelty. “Me? I’m always free.” He said it like it was a point of pride, a testament to his desirable social flexibility.

You turned your head slowly to look at him over the edge of the locker door. “That’s not something to brag about, Harrington. It suggests a profound lack of commitment.”

He barked a laugh, sharp and surprised. “Okay. Fair. That’s… a solid point.”

You grabbed the strap of your bag and slammed your locker shut with more force than necessary. The metallic bang was satisfyingly final. “I’m free after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In the library.”

Steve’s expression flickered. For a split second, the mask of easygoing charm slipped. His eyes darted away, his brow furrowing just slightly. It was a look of rapid, internal calculation, not about his schedule, but about what it meant to have this obligation, this structure, imposed upon a life that was famously unstructured. It was the brief, vulnerable glimpse of a boy realizing he might have to show up, physically and mentally, for something he couldn’t charm his way through.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the crack was sealed over. He smoothed his features back into an approximation of his usual grin.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he repeated, nodding as if confirming a business meeting. “Cool. Cool, cool. I can do that. I can be… scholarly. I have the posture for it.” He straightened up, affecting a comically rigid, intellectual pose.

“Great,” you said, already starting to walk away. “Library. Four o’clock. Bring your textbook. And a pen. That can write.”

Steve made a face like you’d just asked him to bring a live, venomous snake. “Textbook. Right. Totally. The big green one with the… depressing pictures.”

You were walking, and he was following again, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your determined, faster ones.

“Do I have to bring anything else?” he asked, his tone light, teasing. “Like… an apple? For you? Teachers love apples. It’s a known thing.”

“I’m not your teacher,” you said, not breaking stride.

“Yeah,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur beside you, “but you’re gonna be telling me what to do, right? That’s kind of the same thing.”

You stopped so abruptly your bag swung forward on your shoulder. Turning to face him, you crossed your arms over your chest. “I’m going to help you understand the material. You are going to do the work. There’s a difference.”

Steve held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, but his eyes were still laughing. “Okay, okay. Relax. I’m just saying, this is kind of a power dynamic. You have the knowledge. I have the… charming personality. It’s a partnership.”

You stared at him, your face a masterpiece of deadpan delivery.

Steve stared back, his grin still firmly in place, but his eyes had changed. They were no longer just amused; they were searching, scanning your face for a crack, a clue, a way in.

And it struck you then, sharp and sudden as a paper cut: he was performing. Not just for you, but for himself. The jokes, the charm, the exaggerated nonchalance, it was a deflector shield. If he kept everything light, kept everything a game, he wouldn’t have to admit, even to himself, that he might be nervous. That he might be in over his head. You’d seen that behavior before, in people who were scared of being seen as vulnerable. You’d just never seen it crafted so skillfully, worn so comfortably, by Steve Harrington.

“You don’t have to make jokes,” you said, your voice quieter now, losing its defensive edge.

His grin faltered, just a millimeter. A flicker of uncertainty in the brown depths of his eyes. “I’m not making jokes.”

“Yes,” you said softly, holding his gaze. “You are.”

He recovered with a shrug, but the motion was stiffer now, less fluid. The performance was becoming work. “It’s what I do,” he said, a simple statement of fact that felt, for the first time, like a confession.

“And why do you do it?” you asked. The question was out before you could censor it, born of a curiosity that had now sharpened into something more pointed.

Steve’s eyes sharpened, the playful light in them hardening into something more alert, more guarded. It was the look of someone who’d just felt another person step onto a private, well-trodden path. His mouth opened, undoubtedly to fire back another quip, another deflection, and then he hesitated.

There it was again. That tiny, revealing crack in the foundation.

You knew you shouldn’t have pushed. You didn’t know him. This wasn’t your business. But something about the dissonance, the arrogant posture clashing with that fleeting glimpse of the boy working the levers behind the curtain, had hooked you. It made him… curiously human.

Steve exhaled a long, controlled breath through his nose, then leaned back against the lockers again, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. It was a pose meant to reclaim territory, to re-establish cool. “You always interrogate your tutoring clients?” he asked, his tone aiming for lightness but landing somewhere closer to wary.

“Only when they’re being deliberately distracting,” you said.

Steve’s eyebrows lifted. “Distracting,” he repeated, as if tasting the word.

“Mm-hmm.”

He smiled again, but this one was different. It was slower. More thoughtful. Less an automatic reflex and more a conscious choice.

He tilted his head, the movement considering, and studied you with an open, unabashed curiosity that had entirely replaced the lazy confidence he’d been wearing all afternoon. It was as if he’d decided the charming barrage hadn’t worked, and now he was switching tactics to simple, direct observation.

“So,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, almost intimate rumble in the quiet hallway. A small, challenging smile played on his lips. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m doing everything wrong?”

The question carried just enough challenge to make your spine straighten. His voice was smooth, casual—but his eyes weren’t joking. They stayed on you, steady, like he was bracing for something.

Then you met his eyes.

“No,” you said evenly. “This is the part where you decide whether you’re actually going to try.”

For a heartbeat, Steve looked caught off guard.

The grin that followed was slower, brighter, like you’d just nudged him into a game he hadn’t realised he wanted to play.

“Wow,” he said. “Direct. I respect that.”

He spread his hands, easy and open, the picture of confidence. “I try plenty. I just… prefer to do it my own way.”

“Your own way isn’t working,” you said, not unkindly.

Something flickered across his face—too quick to be a full expression. Not anger. Not offence. More like recognition.

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Tuesday. Four o’clock. Library.”

Steve nodded, but his attention lingered like he hadn’t quite moved on yet.

“Tuesday,” he echoed.

You took a step away.

“Hey.”

You stopped, not turning around right away. “Yeah?”

The hallway had emptied almost completely. When you finally looked back, Steve’s posture had changed. He still looked like Steve Harrington, confident, charming, infuriatingly put-together, but there was something more careful in his eyes now, like he was choosing his words instead of tossing them out.

“Don’t,” he said, then paused, exhaling softly. “Don’t go easy on me.”

It wasn’t delivered with a grin. There was no joke hiding behind it. Just honesty, bare and a little exposed.

You studied him for a second, then nodded once. “I won’t.”

The relief that crossed his face was subtle, but it was there. He watched you like your answer mattered more than he wanted it to.

You turned and walked away before the moment could stretch into something fragile.

And when you glanced back, just once, you saw him still leaning against the lockers, gaze fixed on the space you’d left behind, brow faintly furrowed.

By the third tutoring session, Steve Harrington stopped pretending he didn’t care.

He still acted like he didn’t—leaning back in his chair, tapping his pencil against the table, sighing dramatically whenever you asked him to actually read something—but the effort underneath it all was unmistakable.

You noticed because you noticed things.

The library became your first routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays, four o’clock sharp. You always arrived early, spreading your notes out neatly, lining up your pens by colour because it helped you think. Steve arrived late the first time—five minutes, then ten—but by the second week, he started showing up on time. Not early. Never early. But on time, hair still damp from a rushed shower, jacket half-zipped like he’d thrown it on mid-stride.

“Wow,” he said one afternoon, dropping into the chair across from you. “You always this organised, or are you trying to intimidate me?”

You didn’t look up from your notes. “If my handwriting intimidates you, we have bigger problems.”

He laughed, a warm, easy sound that carried a little too far in the quiet library. The librarian shot him a warning look over her glasses.

Steve leaned closer to you, lowering his voice theatrically. “See? You’re already getting me in trouble.”

You slid his textbook toward him. “Page eighty-six.”

He stared at it like it might bite. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

That alone made you glance up.

“Dangerous, I know,” he added quickly. “But I think my brain just… doesn’t like history.”

“That’s not how brains work,” you said.

“Mine does.” He tapped his temple. “Selective listening.”

You raised an eyebrow. He grinned, unbothered.

“Read,” you said.

He groaned, but he did it. Slowly. Haltingly. He stumbled over dates and names, but when you corrected him, he repeated them back, careful this time. You caught the way his shoulders tensed whenever he got something wrong, and the way he relaxed when you nodded instead of sighing.

He pretended not to notice your reactions.

You pretended not to notice his effort.

After the library came empty classrooms. When the weather turned colder and the library started closing earlier, you commandeered a spare room down the hall from the science wing. It smelled faintly of chalk dust and disinfectant, and the windows rattled when the wind picked up.

Steve liked it better there.

“No judgemental librarians,” he said, spinning a chair backward and straddling it like he belonged in the space. “Feels more… authentic.”

“You mean louder,” you said.

“Exactly.”

He still joked constantly. Still found ways to lean too close when he asked questions, to stretch his legs into your space like he was testing boundaries. You didn’t clock it as flirting—just Steve being Steve. You chalked it up to his inability to sit still, to the way he filled rooms without trying.

But you noticed other things.

Like how he started bringing the right notebook without being reminded. How he underlined things you’d mentioned before. How he stopped rolling his eyes when you corrected him—and started nodding instead, jaw set in concentration.

One day the suggestion came out of Steve’s mouth like it hadn’t been rehearsed.

“Okay, hear me out.”

You glanced up from your notes, pen hovering mid-word. “That sentence never leads anywhere good.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs like he trusted the floor more than he should’ve. “I’m just saying. The library closes early today. And that classroom smells like someone’s been microwaving regret in there.”

“That’s science wing,” you said. “It’s supposed to smell like that.”

He grimaced. “Yeah, well. My brain doesn’t work under chemical warfare.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were already packing up your notebook. “Then we’ll meet earlier tomorrow.”

“Or,” Steve said quickly, dropping the chair legs back to the floor with a soft thud, “we could just… go somewhere else.”

You paused. “Where?”

He shrugged, too casual. “My place is a disaster. Like, medically concerning. So that’s out.”

You waited.

Steve shifted in his seat, eyes darting briefly to the window, then back to you. “What about yours?”

The question hung there, light but deliberate.

You frowned slightly. “My parents are out late.”

“That’s… fine,” he said quickly, then added, “I mean, if that’s fine. Totally fine if it’s not. I’m not trying to, you know, invade your personal sanctuary or whatever.”

You studied him for a second. He looked oddly earnest, like he was trying very hard not to mess something up.

“It’s quiet,” you said slowly. “And small.”

Steve brightened. “Perfect. I thrive in small, quiet environments.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Okay,” he admitted. “But I want to thrive.”

You sighed, already resigned. “Fine. But we’re actually studying.”

“Absolutely.” He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honour.”

You didn’t believe him. But you grabbed your bag anyway.

Your house was dark when you unlocked the door, the kind of quiet that settled in once everyone else had left for the evening. You flicked on the hall light and kicked your shoes off by the mat.

“Whoa,” Steve said softly, stepping inside like the place might echo. “This is… nice.”

“It’s just a house,” you said, locking the door behind him.

“Yeah, but.” He shrugged, lowering his voice instinctively. “It feels… calm.”

You led him toward the kitchen, the warm overhead light spilling across the worn wooden table. You set your bag down in its usual place, books following, pen placed neatly on top like a marker.

Steve didn’t follow right away.

You glanced back to find him hovering in the hallway, suddenly very aware of himself. His eyes drifted over the closed doors, the framed photos on the walls, the quiet hum of a lived-in home. Family photos on the fridge. A mug drying by the sink. The faint, comforting smell of dinner lingering in the air.

“Hey,” you said. “You coming?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly, tearing his gaze away. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he tilted his head, lips twitching. “So, uh… do I get the full tour, or is that a second-date privilege?”

You paused. “There is no date.”

“Right, right,” he said easily. “Strictly academic.” He gestured vaguely down the hall. “Still. Just curious. Like, purely hypothetical, are we talking secret rock band poster phase? Or aggressively neat bedroom?”

You stared at him.

His grin widened. “Because if there’s embarrassing childhood decor, I feel like that’s important information.”

“No,” you said flatly. “You are not peeking into my room.”

Steve immediately raised his hands. “Whoa. Okay. Boundary respected. I wasn’t gonna peek peek.”

“That sounded exactly like peeking.”

“I was thinking more like… accidental glimpse,” he said. “I trip, door’s open—boom. Knowledge.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t smile.

He laughed under his breath and shook his head. “Kidding. I’m kidding. Mostly.”

“Kitchen,” you said, turning away. “Now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, mock-serious as he finally followed you. “Wow. Invite a guy into your home and immediately start bossing him around.”

You pulled out a chair. “Sit.”

He did, still smiling, but quieter now, like the joke had served its purpose and could be put away.

The kitchen felt smaller with him in it. More personal. Steve took it all in without comment, like he was suddenly aware he’d crossed into something private.

“This is… really you,” he said after a moment.

You glanced at him. “It’s a kitchen.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But still.”

You slid his textbook across the table. “Same chapter.”

He eyed it. “You’re ruthless.”

“I warned you.”

He flipped the book open, then looked up again. “Your parents really cool with this?”

“With studying?” you asked.

“With me,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself. “I have a reputation.”

You met his gaze evenly. “So do I.”

That caught him off guard.

For a second, the grin faded, not completely, but enough to reveal something real underneath. Then it returned, gentler.

“Okay,” he said. “Fair.”

For a while, it was just pages turning and pencil scratching. Steve fidgeted, tapping his foot against the table leg, humming under his breath until you shot him a look and he zipped his lips theatrically.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Habit.”

“You don’t have to whisper,” you said.

“Feels like I should.”

At one point, he leaned closer to look at your notes, his arm brushing yours. You stiffened instinctively, not from fear, just awareness.

“Sorry,” he said immediately, pulling back. “Too close?”

“It’s fine,” you said, even though your heartbeat had kicked up a notch.

He nodded, like he was filing that information away.

After a while, he pushed his book aside and stretched, arms lifting over his head. “Okay. I officially hate the Founding Fathers.”

“They hate you too,” you said.

He laughed, loud and unguarded, then winced and glanced toward the hallway. “Right. Quiet house.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Hey,” Steve said suddenly, more serious. “Thanks. For this. I know you didn’t have to.”

You looked at him sitting at your kitchen table, elbows resting where your family ate dinner every night, hair falling into his eyes like he hadn’t bothered to fix it this time.

“It’s just studying,” you said.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But still.”

The house hummed softly around you, refrigerator clicking on and off, the clock ticking above the sink.

“You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “I thought this was gonna be weird.”

“And?” you asked.

“And it’s not,” he said. “It’s just… nice.”

You nodded. You’d been thinking the same thing.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the table lightly. “Back to work.”

He groaned but picked up his pencil. “You’re really not going easy on me.”

You met his eyes. “I told you I wouldn’t.”

He smiled, small, genuine, and bent back over the page.

And if he stayed a little longer than necessary that night, if he lingered in the doorway when it was time to leave, neither of you said anything about it.

The house didn’t seem to mind.

And neither did he.

He was different here, less performative. Still funny, still charming, but quieter. More present. He joked under his breath instead of projecting to an audience. When he laughed, it was softer, like he wasn’t expecting anyone else to hear.

And then there were the moments you weren’t supposed to see.

The first time was in the hallway outside the classroom. You’d forgotten your notebook and gone back to grab it, only to find Steve crouched down in front of a freshman whose locker had jammed.

“Okay, no, don’t yank it,” Steve said, calm but firm. “You’re just gonna make it mad.”

The kid looked on the verge of tears. “I’m gonna be late.”

“You’re fine.” Steve twisted the handle gently, then gave it a sharp tap with his palm. The locker popped open. “See? Easy.”

The kid stared at him like he’d just witnessed magic. “Thanks.”

Steve ruffled his hair without thinking. “Yeah, yeah. Go.”

When Steve straightened and saw you watching, he froze for half a second.

Then he smirked. “What? Community service hours.”

You didn’t say anything. You just smiled, small and genuine.

The smirk faltered.

Another time, one of his friends—Tommy, you thought—made a crude comment about a girl passing by. You were close enough to hear it, close enough to see Steve’s reaction.

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he said, “Dude. Knock it off.”

Tommy scoffed. “Relax.”

“I’m serious,” Steve said, voice sharper now. “It’s not funny.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and walked off.

Steve noticed you again then, standing a few feet away with your books clutched to your chest. He shrugged like it hadn’t mattered.

“Guy’s an idiot,” he said lightly.

You nodded. You remembered.

Steve covered these moments with humour like it was instinct. Like kindness embarrassed him more than cruelty ever had. Whenever you looked at him too long, like you might be piecing something together, he cracked a joke. Whenever you thanked him, he waved it off.

“You’re gonna make me sound like a saint,” he said once, when you thanked him for walking you to your car after a late session.

“I said thank you,” you replied. “Not ‘I worship you.’”

“Slippery slope,” he said. “First it’s gratitude, next thing you know, I’m babysitting the entire town.”

You frowned. “Babysitting?”

He grimaced like he’d said something accidentally. “Just—forget it. Long story.”

You didn’t push. You just stored it away.

Because that was how you cared. Quietly. By noticing. By remembering.

And Steve, whether he realised it or not, started watching you the same way.

Not openly. Not boldly. But in the pauses. In the way his eyes flicked to you when he got something right, like he was checking your reaction. In the way he straightened when you praised him, like your approval weighed more than his friends’ laughter.

One afternoon, you corrected a date he’d written down wrong.

“Actually,” you said gently, tapping the page, “it’s 1776, not 1786.”

Steve stared at the paper. Then at you.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. That makes more sense.”

He erased it carefully and rewrote the number, slower this time.

When he looked up, you were still watching, not judging, just attentive.

Something in his expression shifted. Not big. Not dramatic. Just… thoughtful.

“Hey,” he said, quieter than usual.

“Yes?”

“Do you—” He stopped, then shook his head with a laugh. “Never mind.”

You waited anyway.

He glanced at you again, then away. “You’re really good at this.”

“Tutoring?”

“No,” he said. “Not making people feel stupid.”

The words landed heavier than he’d intended. You could tell by the way he swallowed after.

You softened your voice without thinking. “You’re not stupid.”

He scoffed. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you said. “You just learn differently.”

Steve studied you like he was trying to decide whether to believe that.

Then he smiled, small, unguarded, gone too quickly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess I do.”

When you packed up that day, he lingered, pretending to fiddle with his notebook while you slid your pens back into place.

“Hey,” he said casually. “Same time Thursday?”

“Yes,” you said.

“Cool. Cool.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, then paused. “Thanks. For, uh. Not giving up on me.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and realised something quietly important.

Steve Harrington was trying.

And he didn’t even know how much that mattered to you yet.

You watched him walk away down the hallway, joking loudly with a passing friend, the mask sliding back into place like muscle memory.

The first thing you noticed was the car.

It cut into the student parking lot like a challenge, engine loud, music spilling out with the confidence of someone who expected to be watched. Heads turned automatically. Conversations dipped, then picked back up in whispers as the Camaro rolled to a stop.

You slowed only long enough to register the driver’s door opening.

Billy Hargrove stepped out like the world was already his.

Tall. Broad shoulders. A faded denim jacket thrown over a sleeveless shirt despite the chill, collar tugged up like the weather was something that happened to other people. Dark hair perfectly messy in a way that felt practiced rather than accidental. He paused by the car, scanning the lot slowly, deliberately, like he was deciding what belonged to him and what didn’t.

A group of girls near the curb started whispering immediately. A couple of guys straightened, suddenly aware of their posture. Someone behind you muttered, “Who the hell is that?”

You didn’t stop. New kids showed up all the time. Loud ones, quiet ones, kids who lasted a week before Hawkins swallowed them whole and moved on.

Billy didn’t look like someone who got swallowed.

You pushed through the school doors and let the noise of the hallway take over. Lockers slammed. Shoes squeaked. The smell of cheap cologne and cafeteria food hung heavy in the air. You found your locker, spun the combination, and focused on the familiar click-click-click, grounding, reliable.

Then the hallway shifted.

Not dramatically. Subtly. Like a current passing through a crowd.

People stepped aside without being asked.

You glanced up just in time to see Billy walking down the hall like he’d been there for years. His gaze flicked from face to face with lazy interest. A couple of teachers watched him with immediate suspicion. He didn’t care.

He stopped near the trophy case, said something to a group of guys, Tommy, among them, that made them laugh a little too eagerly.

You turned back to your locker. Not your circus. Not your—

“Hey.”

The voice was closer than it should’ve been.

You shut your locker harder than necessary.

The metal clang echoed down the hallway, sharp and final. You kept your eyes forward, expression carefully neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of catching you off guard.

It worked.

Billy noticed anyway.

He stepped into your space like he’d already decided this conversation was happening. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just one smooth, confident movement.

“Afternoon,” he said, voice low and lazy.

You turned only enough to acknowledge him, nothing more. “I’m busy.”

Billy smiled like that was exactly the answer he’d hoped for. He took one step closer, just one, but it was enough to make the air feel smaller, heavier. The scent of cigarettes clung to him, sharp and stale beneath whatever cologne he’d layered on top.

“Maybe I do,” he said.

Your jaw tightened.

“Then you should find someone else,” you replied evenly.

Billy’s eyes dragged over you again, slower this time, like he was waiting for you to flinch. You didn’t. You met his gaze just long enough to make it clear you weren’t impressed, then shifted your bag strap higher on your shoulder.

That seemed to amuse him more than anything else.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You hesitated, not out of fear, but because you didn’t owe him anything. The hallway had gone quieter around you, people pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.

You gave him only your first name.

Billy repeated it like he was tasting it. “Pretty.”

You didn’t respond.

The silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Intentional.

Billy chuckled under his breath. “I like that,” he said. “Most people don’t make me work this hard.”

“That’s not my problem,” you said.

His smile sharpened. “We’ll see.”

You stepped around him before he could block you, brushing past with deliberate confidence. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t need to.

You could feel his attention cling anyway, heavy, lingering, like a hand at your wrist even after you’d pulled away.

And as you walked down the hall, spine straight and expression calm, you had the unsettling sense that Billy Hargrove didn’t see resistance as a warning.

He saw it as an invitation.

You ducked into the girls’ bathroom two minutes later, more irritated than rattled. The door swung shut behind you with a hollow thud, muffling the noise of the hallway. You exhaled, leaning briefly against the counter as you ran cold water over your hands.

Stupid. You hadn’t done anything wrong.

“__________.”

You startled, spinning toward the door.

Steve Harrington stood just inside the bathroom, one hand braced against the doorframe like he’d followed you in without thinking and only realised where he was once he’d already crossed the line. His hair was a mess like he’d dragged a hand through it too many times. His expression was tight—jaw clenched, eyes sharp with something dangerously close to panic.

“What were you doing with him?” he demanded.

Your irritation flared instantly.

“What?” you snapped. “Excuse me?”

Steve took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Billy. What was that?”

“I was existing,” you said flatly. “He came up to me.”

Steve scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t just come up to people.”

“And yet,” you said, gesturing between you, “here we are.”

Steve stopped short, chest rising as he tried to rein himself in. “You shouldn’t talk to him.”

The words hit wrong. Too sharp. Too familiar.

“And you don’t get to tell me that,” you shot back.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer again. “There’s something—he’s not—he’s bad news.”

You crossed your arms. “Then say that. Don’t corner me in a bathroom and act like I did something wrong.”

Steve’s mouth opened, then shut again. You could see it, the conflict, the frustration, the words he wasn’t saying stacking up behind his eyes.

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he said finally.

Your chest tightened. Not with gratitude. With anger.

“By deciding for me?” you asked quietly. “By not trusting me enough to explain?”

Steve’s shoulders sagged just a fraction, like the fight drained out of him all at once. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand,” you said. “Because right now it feels like you’re mad at me instead of him.”

Silence settled between you, heavy and unresolved.

Steve looked away first.

“Just… stay away from him,” he muttered. “Please.”

The please almost softened you. Almost.

You stepped past him, opening the bathroom door. “I don’t like being talked to like I’m stupid,” you said over your shoulder. “Especially not by you.”

The door swung shut between you.

Steve stayed where he was, staring at it like he’d just lost something important, and hadn’t realised how easily that could happen.

By lunchtime, the rumours had already started.

You were halfway through eating when a folded flyer slid onto the table in front of you.

You looked up to find Carol standing there, perfectly lip-glossed and already bored. She dropped another flyer onto the table beside you, then another onto the table behind you.

“House party,” she said, like it explained everything. “Harrington’s place. Friday.”

You glanced down at the paper. Someone had taken the time to draw flames around the words HARRINGTON HOUSE in aggressive marker.

“No parents,” Carol added. “Obviously.”

She drifted away before you could answer.

You stared at the flyer for a moment longer than necessary, then folded it in half and slid it into your bag. You didn’t go to house parties. You never had. Too loud. Too many people. Too many expectations.

“Please tell me you’re not throwing that away.”

Steve dropped into the seat across from you like gravity had personally invited him. He looked… distracted. Less polished than usual. Like his mind was somewhere else and his body had followed out of habit.

“I wasn’t,” you said. “I was ignoring it.”

Steve winced. “Worse.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, leaning forward, lowering his voice like this was confidential, “this party is kind of… important.”

“Important how?” you asked.

“Well.” He gestured vaguely around the cafeteria. “King Steve has an image to maintain.”

You snorted despite yourself.

“There it is,” he said, brightening. “That sound. That’s why you should come.”

You shook your head. “I don’t do house parties.”

Steve’s smile softened, turning almost sheepish. “You don’t do them yet.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Okay, look,” he said, dropping the theatrics. “I’ll make it better. You can stick with me. I’ll keep people from bothering you. You can leave whenever you want. I’ll even—” he grimaced “—turn the music down if it gets too bad.”

“You would never,” you said.

“I would,” he insisted. “Once. For you.”

You studied him. He was watching your face closely, like this mattered more than he wanted to admit.

“I don’t belong there,” you said quietly.

Steve frowned. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” you replied. “Those parties aren’t for people like me.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, jaw tightening. Then he leaned forward again, elbows on the table, eyes steady on yours.

“They are if I want you there.”

The words slipped out before he could dress them up as a joke.

He blinked. Cleared his throat. “I mean—uh. It’d be less boring.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t look bored lately.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. Funny how that works.”

There was a beat. Just long enough to feel something settle between you.

“Please,” he added, softer now. “Just… come for a bit. For me.”

You exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the strap of your bag where the invitation waited.

“I’ll think about it,” you said.

Steve grinned like he’d just won something anyway. “That’s all I ask.”

As he stood to leave, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“And, uh,” he added casually, “if anyone gives you trouble? You tell me.”

You smiled faintly. “You always like playing hero?”

Steve hesitated.

“Only when it matters,” he said.

The promise of the party hits you long before the door even swings open, a deep, subcutaneous thrum of bass that leaks through the solid wood and the old Harrington siding. It rattles the porch planks beneath your feet, traveling up through the soles of your shoes to vibrate in the hollow of your chest, a second heartbeat that’s too loud, too eager. You freeze on the threshold, fingers instinctively plucking at the hem of your top—a nervous, futile gesture, as if you could rearrange your very decision to come. For one last, fleeting second, the fantasy of retreat flickers: you could turn around, walk back to the quiet of your car, and pretend this reckless yes was never uttered.

But it’s too late now. The decision has been made, and the house is waiting.

You push inside, and the wall of sound doesn’t just greet you, it swallows you. It’s a physical, smothering thing. The roar of a hundred overlapping conversations, shrieks of laughter sharp enough to cut, the thudding backbeat of a song swallowed by the crowd. Bodies are packed in a hot, shifting mosaic of denim and bright fabric, leaving you to navigate through a labyrinth of elbows and shoulders. The air is thick and hazy, carrying the sour-sweet tang of spilled beer, the chemical bite of cheap vodka, and beneath it all, the warm, damp smell of too many people in a closed space. Someone jostles your shoulder hard, moving past without a glance or an apology. From across the room, a voice you barely recognize shouts a variation of your name, the syllables wrong, turning you into someone else entirely.

You swallow, the motion dry and difficult, and adjust the collar of your jacket for the third time since entering. A sudden, piercing self-consciousness descends. You are a map of vulnerabilities: your hands feel awkward and oversized, your posture a confessed sin, the very rhythm of your breath seems out of sync with the room. Everyone else melts into the chaos with a practiced ease, a belonging that looks as natural as breathing. You feel transparent, a sketch among finished paintings.

Then—

Steve sees you.

He’s a fixed point in the swirling chaos, across the crowded living room, a red cup held loosely in his hand. He’s mid-laugh, a bright, easy smile directed at a guy clapping him on the back. And then his gaze, sweeping the room, snags. On you. The smile doesn’t vanish, but it falters, softens, reshapes itself into something quieter and infinitely more focused. It’s not a dramatic, movie-style double-take. It’s a subtle shift, a gentle zoom lens effect. The noise around him seems to mute, the people blur into vague, colorful shapes. For a second, pure, unguarded relief flashes in his eyes, a quick, bright spark he doesn’t manage to bank in time.

He moves without hesitation. Excusing himself with a nod, he begins weaving through the press of bodies, his path urgent and direct. He doesn’t saunter; he aims for you. When he finally reaches you, slightly breathless as if he’d sprinted the last few feet, his grin is wide and a little winded.

“You came,” he says, his voice pitched low, a secret meant only for your ear. The words aren’t a tease or a casual greeting. They are a statement of genuine, gratified surprise.

You manage a nod, your own voice fighting its way through the lump in your throat. “I said I’d think about it.”

Steve huffs a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, well. I was hoping thinking would work in my favour.”

The connection feels fragile, a bubble of calm in the storm. But the party is a living thing, and it asserts its claim. A heavy hand claps down on Steve’s shoulder, making him wince.

“Harrington! Stop hogging the new recruit. Beer pong throne’s waiting, and we need a king.”

Steve rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, the party king weariness settling on his features. “Of course it is.” His attention snaps back to you, swift and serious. “Don’t move. I’ll be back before you can blink.”

“That’s optimistic,” you murmur, already feeling the crowd pressing in.

He points a finger at you, the gesture playful but his eyes earnest. “Stay. Right. There.”

And then he is absorbed again, his back disappearing into the vibrant, swallowing mass.

You let out a slow, controlled exhale, the brief anchor gone. Almost immediately, the vacuum is filled. A red cup is thrust into your free hand.

“Drink!” commands a girl with smudged eyeliner and a brilliant smile, her words a shout against the music.

You stare down at the cloudy, suspicious liquid. Hesitation is a luxury here, and it’s spotted instantly.

From beside her, another girl with crossed arms snorts, her voice dripping with derisive amusement. “She’s probably too much of a pussy to drink it.”

The words land like a lit match on dry tinder. Your jaw tightens, a hot flush of defiance rising in your chest. Without another thought—without thinking at all—you lift the cup to your lips and throw the contents back in a few swift, burning gulps.

Fire races down your throat, exploding in your stomach, harsh and medicinal. You cough, eyes swimming with involuntary tears. The girls around you erupt in a chorus of approving shouts.

“Holy shit! Okay then!” “Damn, she went for it!”

You hand the empty cup back, your pulse hammering not just from the alcohol’s immediate, scorching shock, but from the sudden, chemical unraveling of your coiled nerves. A dangerous looseness seeps into your limbs. A simulated boldness.

The music shifts, a faster song with a driving, insistent rhythm taking over. Hands reach for you, pulling you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room. You give in, letting the beat move you, operating on instinct rather than confidence. The strobe light fractures the scene into snapshots, laughing faces, thrown-back heads, glinting cans. For a few minutes, the self-consciousness dissolves. You are just a body in motion, anonymous in the dark.

Almost.

You feel it before you see it, a pressure, a pinpoint of cold awareness on the back of your neck. A stare that doesn’t flicker or wander. Too steady. Too intent.

Your dancing slows. You glance, almost against your will, toward the shadowy margins of the room.

And your stomach plummets.

Billy Hargrove is propped against the archway to the kitchen like a lion at rest, owning the shade. His denim jacket hangs open, his muscular arms are crossed over his chest, and a cigarette dangles, forgotten, from his fingers, a long curl of smoke rising toward the ceiling. His eyes are not just on you; they are locked on you. Blue, intense, and utterly unapologetic.

He doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. Doesn’t offer a smirk or a nod of acknowledgment. Just holds the gaze, cool and assessing, as if dissecting every hesitant step you took onto the dance floor.

A cold ripple, antithetical to the room’s heat, cascades over your skin. You try to turn back to the music, to shake off the chill, but the feeling metastasizes. It’s a primal signal, a deep-seated knowledge that the predator has sighted the herd, and you are the one who has strayed. The air in the room turns gluey and suffocating. The laughter sounds suddenly shrill, the bodies too close, pressing in.

You have to get out.

Abandoning the dance floor, you push through the thicket of people, a new and frantic urgency in your movements. The back door, fresh air, solitude, just five minutes to let your heart settle back into its proper rhythm.

You stumble onto the relative quiet of the back porch, the cool night air a shock against your flushed skin. You drag in a deep, trembling breath, gripping the wooden railing.

The creak of the door behind you is soft, but it echoes like a gunshot in the sudden quiet. Slow, deliberate footsteps follow you out onto the porch.

The voice that cuts through the cool night air is a low, smooth drawl, designed to crawl under your skin. It carries no urgency, only a taunting, predatory amusement.

“Running away already?”

You don’t turn. Your fingers tighten on the rough wood of the porch railing, the splinters biting into your palms. “I needed air,” you say, the words clipped, aiming for a neutrality you don’t feel.

“Uh-huh.” The soft scuff of his boots on the weathered boards tells you he’s moved closer. The scent hits you anew, not just the ghost of tobacco, but the fresh, acrid bite of a recently lit cigarette, mixed with leather, cheap beer, and something purely, unsettlingly male. “Didn’t peg you for the party type,” he continues, his voice a rumble just over your shoulder.

A brittle, humorless laugh escapes you, fueled by the liquid courage still simmering in your blood. It makes your tongue reckless. “Didn’t think you were a mind reader, Hargrove.”

You can hear the shift in his silence, a pleased, intrigued pause. When you finally steel yourself to glance his way, Billy is grinning. It’s a slow, deliberate unfurling of expression, all white teeth and calculated charm. His head tilts, eyes raking over you with renewed interest.

“There it is,” he murmurs, as if he’s uncovered a secret. “You’re more fun like this.”

“Like what?” you challenge, turning fully to face him now, crossing your arms against the chill and his gaze. “Not ignoring you?”

He gives a loose, one-shouldered shrug, the denim of his jacket pulling taut. “Not pretending you don’t want the attention.” His eyes hold yours, blue and unblinking, issuing a challenge of their own.

Your pulse, already unsteady, kicks into a frantic drum against your ribs. “You don’t get to decide what I want,” you fire back, the words hotter than you intended.

Billy’s grin doesn’t falter. He closes the remaining distance between you in one fluid, invasive step. The night seems to shrink around him. Before you can react, his fingers brush against your forearm, a touch that is deceptively light, yet it brands your skin through your sleeve. It lingers, a hairsbreadth too long, a silent test of boundaries.

You freeze, a half-second of stunned inaction that feels like a lifetime. It’s all the opening he needs to read as consent.

And suddenly,

“Hey.”

Steve’s voice slices through the tension, sharp and clear as shattered glass. It isn’t loud, but it carries a command that instantly redraws the lines on the porch.

He’s there, framed in the golden light spilling from the kitchen door, his body a tense line. His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek, and his eyes, usually so warm and easy, are laser-focused, zeroing in instantly on the point where Billy’s fingers still ghost your skin. The distant thump of the bass becomes irrelevant. The world narrows to this triangle of charged silence.

“Back off,” Steve says. The words are simple, flat, and utterly devoid of their usual friendly cadence.

Billy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t remove his hand. He merely turns his head, the smirk on his face deepening into something smug and victorious. “Relax, Harrington. We’re just talking. No laws against that.”

Steve moves then. He doesn’t ask permission; he doesn’t even look at you to gauge your reaction. He simply steps forward, inserting his body squarely between you and Billy, a human shield made of simmering anger and frayed loyalty. “You don’t touch people who don’t want it,” he grinds out, his shoulders squaring.

Billy’s smile turns razor-edged. “She didn’t say that.” He lets the implication hang, his gaze sliding past Steve to pin you again. “Did you?”

Heat, shameful and fierce, floods up your spine, burning the tips of your ears. The objectification, the presumption, the sheer audacity of being spoken for, it combusts inside you.

“I can handle myself,” you snap, the words exploding into the space between them.

The effect is immediate. Both heads swivel toward you. Steve’s expression fractures, the protective anger melting into pure, wounded surprise, then into something that looks painfully like hurt. It’s as if you’ve shoved him away after he took a blow meant for you.

Billy’s eyes, in stark contrast, gleam with dark, appreciative delight. He’s found the spark he was looking for.

“I don’t need you jumping in,” you continue, your voice finding a steadiness that your trembling hands betray. You look at Steve, then at Billy, refusing to cede ground to either. “Either of you.”

Steve’s throat works as he swallows. “I was just—” he starts, his voice softer, confused.

“I know,” you cut him off, not unkindly but firmly. The hurt in his eyes makes your chest ache, but the principle is a fire you can’t snuff out. “But I didn’t ask.”

A thick, uncomfortable silence descends, broken only by the ragged sigh of the wind in the trees. You have dismantled their confrontation and made it about something else entirely.

Billy is the first to break it. A low, appreciative chuckle escapes him. “Damn,” he breathes, shaking his head slowly. “I like you even more now.”

Steve shoots him a look of pure, unadulterated venom, a promise of violence held in check by sheer will.

It’s your cue to exit. You take a deliberate step back, then another, reclaiming the territory of your own personal space. “I’m going back inside,” you announce, your tone leaving no room for debate.

Billy lifts his hands, palms out, in a gesture of mocking surrender. “Your call, sweetheart.”

You don’t wait for Steve. You don’t offer him a conciliatory glance. You turn on your heel and push through the door, letting the wall of sound and heat wash over you once more.

But as you disappear into the throbbing heart of the party, you can feel it, the weight of a gaze anchored to your back. It’s Steve’s. Heavy with confusion, with a fear he hasn’t yet named, and with that stubborn, protective instinct that is already, irrevocably, tipping into something deeper, more complicated, and far more dangerous.

And for the first time that chaotic night, a crystal-clear thought pierces through the alcohol and the noise: coming to the Harrington house wasn't the risky choice. The real danger was never the party itself, but the unpredictable currents of want and defiance it would unleash, currents that have already begun to pull you all toward a reckoning.

Either way, the night is far from over. You move through the crowd, a new, brittle energy crackling under your skin, and without breaking stride, you pluck a freshly filled red cup from a passing tray. The first sip is less a taste and more a decision, to feel everything, or to feel nothing at all. You drain it, and let the burn chart a new course through the chaos.

You don't slow down after that second cup, but you don't rush either. You move through the crowd with a new, liquid rhythm, a current pulling you deeper into the warm, noisy heart of the party. You take another cup from a passing tray, vodka, you think, something clear and vicious, and you drink it not as a challenge, but as a choice. The burn is an old acquaintance now, traveling a familiar path to settle like a low, persistent flame in your chest. It melts the last icy shards of adrenaline, turning the nervous hum under your skin into a gentle, manageable buzz.

The music transforms. It’s no longer an assault; it’s a current you can ride. The bass lines feel like they’re moving through you, not just around you. Your limbs are lighter, your thoughts less carefully corralled. They drift closer to the surface, shimmering and less afraid.

You talk more. To a guy wearing a faded band tee about a song you only half-know. To a girl who compliments your shoes. The words come easier, your laughter rings out louder at a joke that’s only mildly funny. You dance again, not with abandon, not yet, but with a reclaiming of your own physical space. You are present in your body, moving through the strobe-lit dark, feeling less like a specimen under observation and more like a participant in the night's strange, collective dream.

And then you feel it. A shift in the atmospheric pressure of the room.

Not Billy’s predatory, pinprick focus. This is different.

Steve.

You don’t have to scan the room to know he’s there. There’s a gravity to his attention now, a pull you’ve only just begun to calibrate. It’s steadier than the thumping bass, a fixed point in the swirling chaos. When you finally turn your head, he’s leaning against the doorframe that leads toward the darkened stairs, a half-full cup dangling forgotten from his fingertips.

He isn’t smiling his easy, party-host smile. He isn’t scowling with protective anger either. He’s just… watching. His gaze is so intensely focused on you that it makes your stomach perform a slow, dizzying flip. It isn’t jealousy, not precisely. It’s a concern held in such taut check that it vibrates with its own energy. He’s standing monumentally still, as if any movement might startle you, or might betray the depth of his own unease.

When your eyes finally meet across the humid air, something visible unlocks in him. A tension you hadn’t fully registered releases from his shoulders. He pushes off the wall, not with his usual confident swagger, but with a deliberate purpose. He meets you halfway, carving a path through the dancers until he’s close enough that he doesn’t have to shout, but not so close as to crowd you.

“You okay?” he asks.

Two words, simple and unadorned. They are quiet, careful, and they land with more weight than any dramatic interrogation could.

You blink, your head tilting slightly as the world tilts with it. The vodka lets you see him from a new, unfiltered angle—the genuine worry etched in the faint lines around his eyes, the way he’s holding his own body with a stiffness that speaks of withheld action.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, actually considering the question. The buzz in your veins is warm, the knot in your chest is gone. “Actually… yeah. I am.”

Steve’s brows knit together. His eyes perform a quick, professional scan of your face, checking your pupils, the looseness of your smile, the way you’re gripping your cup a little too tightly. It’s the look of someone who has seen one too many bad nights unfold.

“You’ve had a bit,” he observes, his voice gentle, devoid of accusation but full of implication.

You snort, a short, sharp sound. “Is that Harrington math or actual concern?”

He winces, just a flicker. Not because you’re wrong, but because the two are so entangled in him he can’t separate them. “I’m not judging,” he says quickly, taking a half-step back as if to prove it. “I just—”

“You just worry,” you cut in. The words aren’t unkind, but they aren’t soft either. They are an observation laid bare. “A lot.”

Steve exhales a long breath through his nose, his hand coming up to rub the tense muscles at the back of his neck. “Someone has to,” he says, and it sounds like a mantra he’s worn thin.

You laugh again, but this time it’s hollow, a dry sound in your throat. “Do they?”

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You take a small, deliberate sip, letting the silence stretch for a beat. The alcohol grants you a perilous, clarifying honesty. “It means,” you say, choosing each word as if placing a stone on a scale, “that you keep acting like things happen to me instead of around me. Like I’m not in the room making my own choices, even the stupid ones.”

Steve’s mouth opens, then closes on a rebuttal that doesn’t come.

“That’s not fair,” he finally manages, but it lacks conviction.

“Isn’t it?” you press, the warmth in your chest fueling your resolve. “You stepped in back there like I was scenery. Like the conversation was between you and him, and I was just the subject.”

“He touched you,” Steve snaps, the words cracking like a whip. He immediately lowers his voice, a flush of frustration coloring his cheeks. “He crossed a line.”

“I know he did,” you say, holding his gaze steadily. “And I was handling it.”

Steve’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering. “After,” he says, the single word heavy with meaning. After you froze. After he’d already made his point.

It lands. The truth of it settles in your chest, a cold, uncomfortable weight beneath the warmth of the vodka. The party noise, the laughter, the shrieks, the pounding music, swells around you like a turbulent sea, but in the eye of the storm between you and Steve, there is a profound, insulated silence.

“I didn’t ask you to,” you say, your voice dropping to match the quiet.

Steve looks at you then, and the defensiveness, the anger, it all drains away, leaving something raw and exposed. Just… hurt. “I wasn’t trying to be the hero,” he says, the words soft and earnest. “I just didn’t want you dealing with that alone.”

Your voice softens despite the armor you’re trying to hold onto. “I wasn’t alone.”

He flinches.

It’s not a dramatic motion. Just a slight recoil, as if the words were a physical tap on a fresh bruise. Enough to tell you everything.

“That’s not what it felt like,” he whispers, and the admission seems to cost him.

You study him in the fractured light. The deep crease between his brows, the way his hand flexes nervously around his cup, the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his posture. The "King of Hawkins High" is nowhere to be seen.

“You don’t get to decide when I need help,” you say finally. The statement comes out clear and steady, sharper than you intended, a line drawn in the sand.

Steve’s eyes flicker with a vulnerable, wounded light. “I wasn’t deciding,” he insists, but the certainty is crumbling. “I was just… trying to keep you safe.”

You shake your head slowly, sadly. “You don’t keep people safe by stepping over them, Steve. You keep them safe by standing with them.”

The sentence hangs in the air between you, dangerous and irrevocably true.

Steve swallows hard. “You think I was stepping over you.”

“I think,” you say, measuring the words with deliberate care, “that you didn’t trust me to handle it. And that feels worse than whatever Billy was doing.”

“That’s not—” he begins, but you lift a hand, stopping him.

“And before you say it,” you continue, a little breathless now from the emotion, “I know you meant well. I do. I see it. But intent doesn’t erase how it feels.”

Steve goes utterly quiet.

For a long, suspended moment, he just looks at you. It’s not the look of someone formulating a counter-argument. It’s the look of someone genuinely listening, of pieces being rearranged behind his eyes. He’s recalibrating. He’s seeing the delicate, often invisible line between protection and control, and realizing, with dawning horror, that his instincts have been leading him to toe it without his conscious consent.

“You’re different,” he says softly, almost to himself.

You huff a small, tired laugh. “I’ve always been like this. You’re just actually paying attention now.”

That earns you a faint, wry smile, but it doesn’t reach the concern still clouding his eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, the question even quieter now, stripped bare.

“Yes,” you affirm. “And if I’m not… I’ll tell you. You have to trust that I will.”

Steve nods, slow and deliberate, as if he’s agreeing to a much larger, more important treaty. “Okay.”

Neither of you moves. The charged silence stretches, filled with unspoken apologies and new understandings.

“KING! We need you back on the throne, man! Game’s falling apart without you!” a voice booms from across the room, followed by a chorus of agreeing shouts.

Steve doesn’t even glance in their direction. His eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m busy,” he calls back, his voice flat, firm, and utterly unmistakable.

A beat of surprised silence rolls through his immediate crowd, followed by a few confused laughs and muttered questions. The party, for a second, recalibrates around his absence.

You just blink at him, surprised. Steve shifts his weight, suddenly looking less sure of himself now that he’s commanded the room’s attention only to dismiss it. Up close, in this fragile pocket of privacy you’ve carved out, he looks younger. Less polished, more real. The veneer is gone.

“I, uh—” He clears his throat, his eyes darting past you for a half-second before returning, full of a nervous resolve. “I was gonna head out soon anyway.”

It’s a lie. A generous, face-saving revision of the night’s script. You both know the party is his domain, and leaving it early is an abdication.

He rubs the back of his neck again, the gesture familiar and endearing in its anxiety. “I just wanted to check if you… if you wanted a ride home. Later. Whenever.”

You study him, the warm buzz in your veins making his earnestness feel profound, softening the hard edges of the night. “You’re leaving your own party?”

He huffs a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve thrown enough of these to know the exact moment they stop being fun and start just being… loud.”

There’s something new in the way he looks at you now. It’s not the protective, possessive gaze from the porch. It’s careful. Concerned. Deeply present.

“And,” he adds, his voice lowering into a space meant only for you, “I don’t really love the idea of you walking home alone like this.”

“Like what?” you tease gently, a small smile touching your lips.

He mirrors it, a small, fond quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Like someone who just confidently out-drank half the varsity basketball team.”

You laugh, and the sound is genuine, lighter than anything you’ve felt all night. It feels like a release.

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “But… yeah. I’d like that. A ride.”

Relief, pure and unguarded, flickers across his face before he can compose his features. “Yeah?” he asks, as if he needs the confirmation to believe it.

“Yeah.”

Steve nods, a little too quickly, then immediately backpedals, the old uncertainty resurfacing. “No pressure,” he stammers. “I mean, if you want to stay longer, or if someone else is giving you a lift, or—”

“Steve,” you interrupt, your voice soft but firm.

He stops, his ramble cut short.

“I said yes.”

That, finally, seems to settle him. The tension fully leaves his shoulders, replaced by a simple, hopeful resolve. “Okay,” he says, and this time his smile reaches his eyes, real and unguarded. “Okay. Let me just grab my keys and my jacket.”

He takes a step away, then pauses, turning back. His expression is solemn, sincere. “Thanks for coming tonight. Seriously.”

You tilt your head, a playful glint in your eye. “You literally begged.”

He laughs, a warm, rich sound. “Still. It meant something.”

The drive home is quieter than you’d anticipated, not with the weight of unsaid things, but with a soft, shared exhaustion. It’s a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. Steve pulls the BMW away from the chaotic curb, the thumping bass of the Harrington house shrinking into a distant, rhythmic pulse, then dissolving entirely into the still Hawkins night. After a moment, his hand reaches out, not toward you, but toward the radio. He twists the dial with practiced familiarity, bypassing the stations playing party hits until he finds one crackling with static at the edges, bleeding a slow, melancholy guitar riff into the car’s interior. It’s a song from another decade, meant for open windows and long, contemplative roads.

Neither of you comments on it. The choice hangs in the air, understood.

Streetlights become a metronome, sliding past the windows in golden intervals. Each one illuminates Steve’s profile in a fleeting, cinematic flash: the strong line of his nose, the curve of his lower lip, his hands resting steady and capable on the wheel. The tightness has left his jaw; the party-host mask is gone, shed somewhere on the Harrington driveway. What’s left is just Steve, a little tired, a little sobered, beautifully real in the dashboard’s glow. The hum of the engine, the whisper of tires on asphalt, the faint radio melody, they blend into a lullaby for the overstimulated soul.

Your head lolls back against the plush headrest, eyelids heavy. The alcohol has completed its transformation from a sharp stimulant into a warm, woolly haze. It cradles your bones, makes your limbs feel deliciously detached and weightless. In the periphery, you sense Steve’s glance, a quick, sidelong sweep to check on you. You catch him in the act and offer a faint, sleepy smile. He looks away instantly, feigning deep interest in the empty road ahead, but you see the way the corner of his mouth lifts in a reluctant, pleased echo.

When the car finally glides to a stop outside your dark house, he cuts the engine but leaves the radio playing, a thin, gentle thread of sound connecting you. It feels like an acknowledgment that stepping out of this capsule, back into the real world, requires a moment of preparation.

“Home,” Steve says, his voice soft, almost reverent in the new quiet.

You nod, the movement slow. Your hand finds the door handle, the chrome cool under your palm. The second your feet meet the solid earth of your front walk, the world executes a slow, graceful tilt. The ground seems to swell gently toward you.

“Oh—”

The sound is out before you can stop it, a soft, surprised exhale. You haven’t even begun to stumble when you hear the decisive thunk of his car door. Steve is already there, having moved with a quiet urgency, rounding the front of the BMW. His hands come up, hovering near your elbows, a portrait of restrained readiness.

“Hey—hey,” he says, his voice low and calm. “You good?”

“I’m fine, Steve,” you insist, laughing a breathless, embarrassed laugh as you force your spine straight. You make a shooing motion with your hand. “Promise. Go back to the car.”

He hesitates, his brow furrowed in clear disbelief, but he takes a measured step back, granting you the space to prove it.

You manage five steps. The walkway is familiar, but tonight the pavement has developed a subtle, malicious camber. Your foot catches on the raised edge of a flagstone. With a small, helpless gasp, you pitch forward, the world tipping past the point of no return.

“Nope.”

The word is uttered with flat, undeniable finality. In two long, sure strides, Steve is at your side. His arm slides around your waist—not tentatively, but with a firm, confident warmth that stops your fall mid-arc. You let out a soft oof, your hands coming up to brace against the solid wall of his chest. You can feel the soft cotton of his shirt, the steady beat of his heart beneath.

“Okay, okay,” you concede, laughing into his shoulder, your cheeks burning with a mix of intoxication and chagrin. “That one didn’t count.”

Steve exhales a laugh that is mostly relief, shaking his head as he adjusts his hold. “Yeah, no way. I’m invoking best-friend—or, okay, driver—privileges.”

His movement is seamless. He guides your arm up and over his shoulders, his own arm locking securely around your waist, taking your weight without a hint of strain. It feels instinctive, practiced in the way only true caretaking can be. It feels, impossibly, like you belong right there.

You lean into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder more than you strictly need to. The scent of his cologne, faint beneath the smell of night air and party, is calming.

“_______,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a hushed, conspiratorial tone as he steers you toward the front door. “We have to be quiet. Your parents are definitely sleeping.”

You nod, suddenly and immensely serious. “Yes, sir,” you whisper back, the words overly precise. Then the absurdity of it hits you, and a giggle escapes, muffled against his shirt.

Steve bites his lip, trying to stern his expression, but the smile breaks through, lighting up his eyes in the dark.

The old porch wood groans a quiet protest under your combined weight. He stops, holding you steady as you fumble in your pocket for your keys. His hand at your waist gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze. When the lock finally clicks and the door swings inward, the profound silence of the sleeping house envelops you, cool and still.

You step across the threshold carefully, Steve’s support unwavering until you are firmly planted on the entryway rug.

“There,” you announce softly, giving his arm a pat. “See? Made it. Told you.”

He doesn’t release you immediately. He watches you for a beat longer, his eyes tracing your face in the dim light from the street. They are warm, fond, and still etched with a trace of that stubborn, endearing worry. Finally, he nods.

“Text me when you’re in bed,” he instructs quietly, his voice a soft rumble in the hall.

You tilt your head, your own eyes heavy-lidded but sparkling with mischief. “You gonna tuck me in, too, Harrington?”

Steve lets out a short, choked laugh, shaking his head as he follows you into the hallway, his steps silent on the carpet. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Mm,” you hum, swaying gently toward the wall. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Yeah,” he says, his hand shooting out to steady you by the elbow, guiding you back to center. “Shockingly, I’m a believer now.”

He ushers you gently into your room, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound so soft it seems to absorb into the walls. Steve pauses just inside, his gaze doing a slow, involuntary sweep of the space.

Your room is… a map of you.

The soft, buttery light from a small ceramic lamp on the nightstand. Band posters and art prints tacked up with careful precision, but not obsessively aligned. A worn, beloved stuffed rabbit peeking out from under a pile of pillows, as if hiding from judgment. Your desk is a curated chaos, a mosaic of ticket stubs tucked into the frame of a mirror, a chipped mug bursting with colorful pens, a precarious stack of well-loved paperback novels, their corners dog-eared to mark your progress. It’s a space that is neither aggressively girly nor austerely minimalist. It’s warm. It’s layered. It’s you.

Steve swallows, a sudden, strange tightness in his throat.

You, meanwhile, are blissfully unaware of his quiet audit. You’ve beelined for the bed, executing a move that is part graceful collapse, part tactical maneuver. You kick off your shoes and fall face-first onto the comforter with a deep, soul-satisfying sigh, immediately wrapping your arms around a pillow and nuzzling into it.

“Wow,” Steve murmurs, amusement thick in his voice. “Out like a light.”

“M’not asleep,” you mumble, the words smothered by cotton and down. “Just… resting my eyes. Strategically.”

He smiles, a private, tender thing, and sits carefully on the very edge of the mattress. It dips slightly under his weight, a gentle valley forming between you. You feel the shift in the universe, a slight, sleepy roll toward the new gravitational center he creates.

“Hey,” you murmur after a moment, your voice slurred and soft as worn velvet. “Thanks for tonight.”

Steve glances down at the crown of your head. “For driving you home? That’s a pretty low bar for gratitude.”

You turn your face just enough to peer at him with one heavy-lidded eye. “No. For the fun. And for not… staying mad at me.”

“I wasn’t mad,” he corrects gently, his hand resting on the comforter near your shoulder. “I was worried. There’s a difference.”

“Still,” you sigh, already drifting back toward the pull of sleep. “Thank you.”

He’s quiet, letting the silence breathe. Then, lightly, he adds, “Anytime. Though, for the record, maybe we pace the drinks next time? Just a thought.”

You make a vague, dismissive noise that vibrates through the pillow. “You’re such a mom, Steve.”

He snorts. “Yeah. I know.”

Then, softer, the bravado gone: “Seriously, though. I’m glad you came.”

The words land differently this time. They bypass the haze, shimmering with a sincerity that makes your sleepy heart give a sluggish, thick thump.

Before he can say anything else, you move. It’s a slow, dreamlike reach—your hand rising, fingers seeking. They find his hair, the strands soft and slightly mussed. You hum, a contented sound deep in your throat, and run your fingers through it once, twice, in a slow, rhythmic, utterly intimate caress. It’s an action of pure, unthinking affection, as natural as breathing.

Steve freezes.

Your touch is a brand of warmth. It’s gentle. It’s trusting. It unravels something tightly wound inside him.

With a final, sighing breath, you let your hand fall back to the bed, palm upturned. Your breathing deepens, evens out, sleep claiming you utterly and without preamble.

Steve doesn’t move for a long minute. He just sits there, anchored to the spot by the weight of the moment, watching you.

Watching the slow, steady rise and fall of your shoulders. The way all the guardedness, all the sharp wit and defiant pride, melts from your face, leaving only a peaceful, unlined openness. How devastatingly beautiful you are like this, not put together, not performing, but simply existing. Real and vulnerable and his to protect, if only for this silent moment.

He feels it then, an irrevocable shift deep within his chest. A locking into place. A settling of dust he didn’t even know was unsettled.

With movements as careful as if he were handling something infinitely precious, he stands. He pulls the blanket up from where it’s tangled at your feet, draping it over you with a tenderness that aches. He smooths it down, tucking the edges loosely around your shoulders. He hesitates, his hand hovering near your cheek. Then, with the backs of his fingers, he brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch so feather-light it’s almost a prayer.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, the word barely a breath.

You don’t hear him. You are far away in dreams.

But he lingers in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light, for much longer than is reasonable. He watches the gentle rhythm of your sleep, memorizing the scene, letting the terrifying, wonderful truth wash over him completely, without dilution or denial.

Somewhere between the deafening noise of the party and the profound quiet of this room, between a challenge issued on a porch and a touch granted in trust, Steve Harrington has fallen.

He’s fallen hard, and he’s fallen for you.

Monday arrives not with an alarm, but with the slow, throbbing ache of a consequence you’d briefly managed to forget. It settles behind your eyes, a dull pound that syncs with your heartbeat. Your mouth tastes like stale cotton and regret, and your head is filled with a fuzzy, static-filled fog. But cutting through the haze are crystalline shards of memory, replaying on a loop: the solid, steadying pressure of Steve’s arm around your waist, the conspiratorial hush of his voice in your dark hallway, the way the mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of your bed, an intrusion that felt like a belonging. The space between you had been rewritten that night, the rules erased and redrawn in something far softer, and infinitely more dangerous.

By the time you push through the heavy front doors of Hawkins High, you’ve crafted a plan. You will be a ghost of normalcy. You will move through the halls as if the party was a collective dream, a shared hallucination no one will be gauche enough to mention. You will be bland, uninteresting, and above all, untouchable.

It is an excellent, foolproof plan.

It lasts approximately seven minutes.

The first sign isn’t a shout or a pointed finger. It’s a low-grade hum, a change in the social atmosphere. It’s in the way conversations seem to stutter and dip as you pass, not into silence, but into a lower, more intentional register. It’s the flicker of eyes—not staring, but tilting, tracking your progress with a newfound, speculative interest. A junior from your chemistry class, a girl you’ve never spoken to, catches your eye in the crowded hall and offers a slow, approving nod. “Hey,” she says, her tone implying a shared secret. You’ve been voted into a club without your consent.

You ignore it. You perfect the art of looking straight ahead, of seeing nothing. You make it to your locker, a metal sanctuary in the chaos.

And then you see the second sign.

A folded square of notebook paper, neon yellow and obnoxious, is shoved into the air vent slits of your locker door. It isn’t tucked discreetly; it’s jammed in there, a flag planted on stolen land.

Your hand freezes on the combination lock. It’s just paper. It’s stupid. But a cold, intuitive dread pools in your stomach. You pull it free, the paper rough against your fingertips. Unfolding it feels like disarming a bomb.

The message is short, written in a slashing, aggressive script that digs into the paper, each letter leaning forward as if trying to escape the page:

Nice party. You clean up well.

No name. No signature needed.

The handwriting is a violence in itself, jagged, impatient, all hard angles and implied threat. It doesn’t feel like a note; it feels like a trespass.

A hot, sharp irritation, clean and bright, slices through your morning fog. You don’t blush; you burn with a quiet, furious indignity. How dare he. How dare Billy Hargrove infiltrate your Monday, your locker, your peace? He doesn’t get to litter the edges of your life with his presence. Without a second thought, you crumple the note into a tight, angry ball and shove it deep into your bag, as if burying evidence.

“Morning.”

The voice, so close, makes you jump. You slam your locker shut with a metallic clang that echoes too loudly in the hall.

Steve stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the neighboring lockers. His hair is still damp from a shower, dark waves falling across his forehead, and his leather jacket hangs open over a faded tee. He looks like he sprinted to make the bell, but his eyes are clear, alert, and already fixed on you. They perform that same familiar, worrying scan, over your face, your posture, searching for cracks. When he finds none, a visible relief softens his features.

Then his gaze drops, snagging on your hand, still clenched in a white-knuckled fist around the strap of your bag.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, the casual greeting vanishing. His voice is immediate, intense.

You blink, forcing neutrality. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t even entertain the lie. His head tilts, a familiar, stubborn concern etching lines between his brows. “Something’s wrong,” he states, taking a step closer. The hallway noise seems to fade around him. “Did he—”

“Did who?” you cut in, though you both know.

Steve’s jaw hardens, a clean, tight line. A muscle feathers along the ridge of it, a tiny tremor of restrained energy. “Billy,” he says, and the name is a stone dropped into the still water between you. Spoken in that low, graveled register he reserves for warnings and middle-of-the-night truths, it sends a cold, unwelcome current straight through your system.

“No,” you say, the word coming too quickly, too defensively. “Nothing happened.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, a minor release of immediate tension, but the sharpness doesn’t leave his eyes. They remain fixed on you, bright and unblinking, the eyes of a goalkeeper in a permanent state of anticipation, braced for a shot he is convinced, in his bones, is coming. “Are you sure?” he presses, the question not one of doubt in you, but of deep, ingrained suspicion of the world’s inherent threat.

You inhale slowly, drawing the school’s recycled air deep into your lungs, using the count of four to steady the erratic tempo of your pulse. “Yes.”

He studies you in a silence that feels both intimate and agonizing. You can see the calculation behind his gaze, the silent war between what he wants to say and what he feels he must do. It’s a familiar conflict now, etched in the slight furrow of his brow. Then he delivers it, not as a suggestion between equals, not as a shared strategy, but as a verdict handed down from a bench you never agreed to. His voice drops into that firm, unmistakably protective register that leaves no room for debate.

“Stay away from him today.”

It’s the tone that does it. Not the sentiment, which might have been offered as concern, but the unyielding finality of it. The unspoken premise that his assessment of risk is absolute, and his authority to manage it, unquestionable.

“Steve.” Your voice is quiet, a single syllable woven with warning and disappointment.

He mistakes it for a request for emphasis. “I’m serious.”

“I heard you,” you say, each word measured and even, a calm surface over roiling water. “I’m asking why.”

He pauses.

The hesitation is brief, a stutter in the rhythm of the hallway’s chaos, but it yawns into a chasm between you. In that silent gap, you see everything: the ghost of past confrontations in his eyes, the weight of unspoken rules, the shadow of a game he’s been playing on a field you can’t even see. Explaining would mean drawing back a curtain on a stage where he has been both actor and stagehand, and he isn’t ready for you to see the machinery.

His mouth opens, forming the ghost of a word, then closes on nothing. His fingers flex at his sides, empty hands curling and uncurling as if grasping for an answer that keeps slipping away.

“You don’t need a reason,” he says finally, and the words sound hollow even to him, a defensive mantra that has worn thin.

You stare at him, the cold from the crumpled note in your bag seeming to seep into your very bones. “I do, actually.”

Steve exhales a tight, frustrated breath through his nose, the sound of a man trying to leash his own fear. “Look—he’s not—” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening again, a visible wall going up. “He’s bad news, okay? The kind that leaves a mark. Just… trust me.”

There it is.

The refrain. The emotional shortcut he falls back on when the path of true communication seems too treacherous.

Trust me.

But trust is not a blindfold to be willingly worn. It is a bridge, and it is built, painstakingly, with the bricks of shared context and the mortar of mutual understanding. He is asking you to cross a chasm while refusing to show you the plans, to assure you the foundation is solid while hiding the cracks he sees from his side.

Your chest tightens into a familiar, aching knot. “You keep saying that.”

His brows knit together, frustration and a flicker of desperation darkening his features. “Because it’s true.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you snap, the heat rising before you quell it, lowering your voice as a cluster of freshmen giggle past. “It just means you want me to listen without understanding. To follow your lead without knowing the destination or the danger. It’s not a reason; it’s a request for obedience.”

Steve’s expression fractures. First, a flash of genuine, wounded hurt, as if you’ve questioned not his judgment, but his very character. Then, almost instantly, something defensive and weary slams into place, the practiced mask of the protector locking down. “I’m trying to keep you safe,” he says, the words ground out like a worn prayer, a mantra that has become both his purpose and his prison.

“You said that already,” you reply, and your voice softens despite the sting, because you can see the cost. The exhaustion is a tangible presence in the shadows beneath his eyes, in the slight slump of his usually proud shoulders. This self-appointed role of guardian is a weight he carries alone, and it is bending him. “And I told you, you don’t get to decide what ‘safe’ looks like for me. You don’t get to build the cage, however well-intentioned, and call it shelter. A cage denies the sky, Steve. Even a gilded one.”

His jaw clenches so tightly you fear he might crack a tooth. He looks away, his breath hitching in a ragged, suppressed sound, visibly wrestling with a torrent of words—fear, anger, pleading—that he knows would only make things worse.

When he looks back, the rawness is gone, replaced by a strained, deliberate calm. His voice is lower, steadier, but it carries the distinct chill of controlled desperation.

“Fine,” he says, the word quiet and utterly resigned. “Then just… don’t engage with him. Please.”

It is not an order this time. It is a boundary drawn with a trembling hand. A plea, stripped of all authority, naked in its vulnerability.

You search his face, looking past the worry for the truth that must be fueling it. “That’s still not an explanation, Steve. It’s just a different phrasing of the same request.”

“I know,” he admits, the confession bursting out of him, too fast and full of self-directed anger. “And I hate that. I hate how it sounds. I hate standing here sounding like I’m telling you what to do.”

“Then tell me,” you urge, your voice dropping to a whisper, a final lifeline thrown across the growing divide.

Steve hesitates.

And in that suspended, breathless moment, everything becomes devastatingly clear. The truth is not absent. It is present, a living, breathing thing he is consciously, actively, holding back. There is a specific reason. A history. An incident. A knowledge he possesses and is choosing, with full awareness, to withhold.

His hands curl into loose fists at his sides, then release, a physical echo of his internal struggle. He opens his mouth—you see the shape of a confession, the first syllable almost forming—and then he consciously, decisively, shuts it down. The words are swallowed back, locked away.

“I can’t,” he finally says.

The raw, unvarnished honesty of it lands with a force that steals your breath. It is not a evasion. It is a surrender. An admission of a limit he cannot, or will not, cross.

You nod slowly, the movement stiff and formal, an acknowledgment of a door being firmly closed in your face. “So you don’t trust me,” you state, the words a bleak conclusion, not an accusation.

“That’s not—” He lurches forward a half-step, genuine panic flashing in his eyes, erasing the practiced calm. “That’s not what this is. It’s the opposite.”

“Then what is it?” you ask, your voice achingly quiet, giving him one last, clear chance.

Steve swallows, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that feels almost physical. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a hushed, urgent whisper meant for you alone in the echoing hallway. “It’s me… trying to keep one last, ugly thing from touching you. To be a buffer between you and something rotten. And if you knew—if you had the full, unfiltered picture—you might make a choice. A brave, stubborn, you kind of choice. And I wouldn’t be able to stop it. I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”

The words aren’t cruel. They are worse. They are fear and fierce, possessive care twisted into a single, suffocating knot. A confession that his need to protect has completely outpaced his ability to truly partner.

The ache in your chest sharpens into a precise, heartbreaking pain. “So you trust me with your past,” you say, your voice miraculously steady even as it threatens to fracture. “With your failures. With the quiet confessions at my kitchen table. With the vulnerability of being in my room when the world was shut out.” You list the intimacies like sacred, earned treasures. “But you don’t trust me with this reality. Not with the truth of what’s happening right now, right here, to us.”

He looks at you as if you’ve reached inside his chest and laid bare his most fragile, guarded secret. “_______—” Your name is a broken sound, a plea and an apology.

You shake your head once, a small, definitive motion that silences him. “I don’t need every classified file, Steve. I don’t need to dissect every shadow. I just need to know that you see me standing beside you, not behind you. That you’re not deciding for me what I am, or am not, strong enough to face.”

His eyes shine, glassy with unshed tears he would never let fall here. His jaw works, a muscle ticking furiously as he battles the torrent of emotion fighting for release.

He says nothing.

And in that profound, chosen silence, you receive the only answer that matters.

You take a deliberate step back, physically creating a foot of space where, just moments before, there had been the aching potential for closeness. The air between you turns cold and still.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you say, the words soft, final, and infinitely weary. “Feeling like I’m trusted with the curated pieces of you, the fun companion, the comforting presence, but not with the raw truth that affects us both. It makes everything else feel… conditional. Like a loan of your trust.”

“Please,” Steve breathes, the word stripped of all pride, raw and exposed. It hangs in the space between you, a single thread holding a great weight.

You pause, feeling the pull of that thread, the ache to simply turn back and accept the partial version of things because the alternative is this cold distance.

But you don’t.

“When you’re ready to be honest,” you say, your voice firm yet not unkind, carrying the echo of the care you still feel, “really, fully honest… I’ll be ready to listen.”

Then you turn, and you walk away.

You don’t run. You don’t storm off in a performance of righteous anger. You simply leave, because to stay any longer would be to silently ratify a version of love that demands ignorance as its price, a partnership where one person holds the map and the other is simply told to follow.

Behind you, Steve does not follow.

He doesn’t call your name. He doesn’t rush to close the gap. He remains rooted in the spot, a statue of conflicted intention.

And that absolute stillness, that resigned letting-go, hurts almost more than a heated pursuit ever could. 

Billy Hargrove is wrong all day.

Not loud-wrong. Not aggressive-wrong. Not the familiar, swaggering menace you’ve learned how to clock and avoid with practiced ease. This isn’t the Billy who takes up space on purpose, who makes noise because noise means control.

He’s quiet.

Too quiet.

In first period, he sits without slouching, spine unnaturally straight, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact that never comes. His hands are folded flat on the desk, fingers perfectly still, as if he’s been instructed to keep them that way and is terrified of breaking a rule he doesn’t fully understand.

It’s unsettling. Billy never sits like that.

When the teacher calls on him, there’s a delay, just long enough to make the room shift uncomfortably. He looks at her too long before answering, eyes fixed and unblinking, like he’s processing the concept of authority rather than responding to it. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm. Flat. Almost polite.

That might be the worst part.

A group of students laughs behind him at something stupid and inconsequential. Billy’s head turns toward the sound, slow and precise, like a radar dish swiveling to lock onto a signal. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t react. He just watches until the laughter fades, then turns back to face the front of the room.

You feel it in your spine.

Every time you shift in your seat, his gaze follows.

Not openly. Not obviously. It’s subtle enough that you almost convince yourself you’re imagining it, until you glance up and catch his eyes already on you. They don’t flick away when you notice. They don’t sharpen or soften.

They just… stay.

There’s no appraisal there. No hunger. No challenge.

Just attention.

Like you’re a variable in an equation he hasn’t solved yet.

By second period, the unease has sunk beneath your skin. You keep your head down, focus on your notes, tell yourself you’re being paranoid. Billy is many things, but quiet isn’t a crime.

Still, you can feel him.

Waiting.

Across the hallway between classes, Billy stands alone near the lockers, not leaning, not posturing. Students move around him without acknowledging his presence, like their instincts are telling them to give him space even if they don’t know why.

You don’t look at him.

You can feel the moment he notices you’ve passed.

Steve does too.

You catch him watching Billy from across the hall, his usual easy posture gone rigid. His jaw tightens in that familiar way, like he’s biting back something he doesn’t want to say out loud. His eyes track Billy’s movements with a sharpness that makes your stomach drop.

You leave school unsettled, nerves humming beneath your skin, but you tell yourself you’re overreacting. You’re tired. You’re still angry. You don’t want to give Steve the satisfaction of being right about something he won’t explain.

You stop at Starcourt on the way home because you need something ordinary.

Groceries. Toothpaste. A carton of milk you don’t technically need. Something small and practical to anchor yourself to the world you understand. The mall is busy without being crowded, families drifting between stores, teenagers loitering with sodas in hand, the low, constant hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like the mall itself is breathing.

Normal. Safe. Predictable.

You let yourself believe it.

You move through the aisles on autopilot, fingers brushing familiar packaging, the cold air of the freezer section raising goosebumps on your arms. Muzak crackles faintly through the speakers. Somewhere, a child laughs. Somewhere else, a cashier argues about coupons.

The world is blissfully unaware of the tight knot lodged beneath your ribs.

By the time you exit the mall, the sky has begun to bruise. Purple bleeding into orange, dusk settling like a held breath. The parking lot stretches wide and open, asphalt still warm from the day, rows of cars catching the dying light in dull flashes.

You adjust the bags in your hands and head for your car.

You’re halfway there when the air changes.

It’s subtle. A pressure shift. The feeling you get when someone stands too close behind you—but sharper. Focused. Like a fingertip pressing between your shoulder blades.

From the long, navy-blue shadow between two parked trucks, Billy Hargrove steps into the last of the dusk’s glow.

He doesn’t emerge; he unfolds. He moves with a languid, terrifying certainty, as if he’s been a part of the landscape the entire time, a statue waiting for the light to hit him just right so he could step down from his plinth. As if he’d been waiting, perfectly still, for the exact moment the universe would deliver you into this empty pocket of the world, alone.

The performative costume is gone. No worn denim jacket, no cigarette prop. Just a simple, cheap white t-shirt, stretched drum-tight across the hard plane of his chest and shoulders. The fabric pulls taut over the coiled power of his arms, whispering of muscle held in a state of permanent, aggressive tension. He looks contained, but not calm. He looks like a spring compressed to its absolute limit, every line of his body straining against some unseen, internal leash. His eyes, reflecting the bruised sky, hold none of the mall’s indifference. They are fixed, intent, and utterly, terrifyingly present. He has not happened upon you. He has arrived.

“You really do like to play games, don’t you?”

The voice slides into the space behind you like a blade, cold, sharp, and intimately invasive. It doesn’t just reach your ears; it slithers down your spine.

You freeze.

Your heart doesn’t just beat faster; it slams against your ribcage once, a single, violent contraction so powerful it feels like it punches the air straight from your lungs. The plastic grocery bags grow impossibly heavy, their handles like biting wires in your clenched fists.

Your pulse spikes, a frantic drum against your throat. “Billy. I don’t want to talk to you.”

He smiles.

It’s a slow, careful peeling back of lips. Utterly empty. A mockery of warmth that dies long before it reaches his eyes, which remain flat, watchful, and chillingly intent.

“Why do you play so hard to get, ______?” he asks, his voice a low, almost gentle croon that somehow makes the words more vile.

Every instinct in your body screams a single, primal command: RUN. You take an involuntary step back, your shoes scuffing loudly against the gritty asphalt. “What—”

“Couldn’t you just submit,” he continues, stepping forward in perfect time with your retreat. His voice lowers, thickens, something wet and furious curling underneath the honeyed tone, “like all the others? Would make things so much easier for you.”

Your stomach twists violently, a wave of nausea rising with the bile of fear. “That’s not—” you stammer, backing away again, the plastic bags slipping in your sweaty grip.

Billy moves. It’s not a rush. Not a lunge. It’s a sudden, efficient annihilation of the space between you, too fast for your eyes to properly track. One moment he’s several feet away; the next, his hand snaps out with the speed of a striking snake.

His fingers clamp around your wrist.

The grip is crushing, absolute. It’s not the hold of a person; it’s the bite of a mechanical vice. A sharp, sickening pain radiates from the bones. The grocery bags tear from your other hand, hitting the pavement with a crash. A can of soup rolls away with a lonely, metallic clatter.

You gasp, the sound thin and desperate.

His skin is cold. Not just cool from the evening air. It is a deep, unnatural cold, as if he’s been standing in a shadow that leaches all warmth from the world.

“You don’t get to say no,” he hisses, the gentle pretense evaporating. His breath smells of stale smoke and something else, something metallic and wrong.

And then his face changes. Not dramatically. Not into some storybook monster.

It shifts in small, profoundly wrong ways. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the icy blue of his irises until his eyes are almost entirely black, depthless pools. His jaw jerks sideways in a quick, spastic twitch, once, twice, as if something inside the shell of him is yanking on the strings, struggling to fit behind the mask of skin and bone. The expression is one of intense, internal conflict, but the hand on your wrist only tightens further, until white-hot bolts of pain shoot in jagged lines up your arm.

You scream.

It’s a raw, unfiltered sound of pure terror. Adrenaline, sharp and clarifying, tears through the panic. You shove at the solid wall of his chest with both hands, twisting your body with all your strength, your foot kicking out blindly. For one miraculous second, you manage to wrench your wrist free from that icy, iron grip.

You duck on instinct. His fist swings through the space where your head had been.

It doesn’t whistle through air; it crushes it.

The blow connects with the driver’s side door of a parked sedan.

The sound is a sickening, catastrophic CRUNCH of buckling metal and shattering safety glass. The door panel caves inward, a grotesque dimple of ruined steel. The car’s alarm erupts in a frantic, whooping wail, strobe lights flashing across the asphalt.

You stare, blood freezing in your veins.

That should have shattered every bone in his hand. That should have been impossible.

Not human.

The thought detonates in your mind, and with it, a panic that is hot, dizzying, and total. It vaporizes all thought, leaving only the ancient, mammalian imperative to flee.

You run.

Your shoes slip on the pavement as you bolt, veering wildly between the rows of cars. Your lungs burn, clawing for air that doesn’t seem to reach them. Your heart hammers so violently it blurs your vision, turning the world into a shaky, impressionist painting of color and shadow.

Behind you, Billy laughs.

It’s not loud. Not gleeful. It’s a low, wet, broken sound—a chuckle that seems to come not from his throat, but from somewhere deeper, darker. It’s the sound of something that finds your terror amusing.

Fingers, cold and strong, snag the back of your jacket. They yank with violent, effortless force, pulling you completely off your feet. You are a doll in his grip. You hit the ground hard, the impact jolting through your teeth. The rough asphalt shreds the skin of your palms as you try to break your fall. The pain is bright, sharp, and grounding.

You roll, instinct taking over, your foot lashing out in a blind, frantic kick. Your heel connects solidly with his kneecap.

He barely stumbles. It’s like kicking a brick wall.

A ragged, sob-like gasp tears from your throat. You scramble backward on your elbows and heels, putting precious inches between you, just in time to see his open hand slam down, palm flat, where your head had been.

CRACK.

The sound is horribly final. A spiderweb of fractures erupts in the asphalt beneath his hand.

Your vision tunnels, darkness pressing in at the edges. The world shrinks to this patch of broken ground, the wailing car alarm, and him.

Your scrabbling hand finds purchase on something long, cold, and heavy—a tire iron, abandoned near a car’s flat tire. Your fingers close around the gritty metal. Without thought, without hope, you swing it with every ounce of desperate strength you have left.

It connects with his shoulder with a solid, sickening THWACK that vibrates up your arm, rattling your very bones.

Billy… barely reacts.

He turns toward you slowly, deliberately, his head tilting to one side at an angle that is just a few degrees past natural. His black, depthless eyes rake over you, your heaving chest, your bleeding hands, the useless weapon in your grip, with something akin to clinical curiosity. There is no anger, no pain. Just a chilling, fascinated assessment.

He looks like a scientist observing a trapped insect that has, against all odds, managed to sting him. He looks like he’s calculating, with detached interest, exactly how much force it will take to finally, definitively, end your resistance.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!”

The shout doesn’t just cut through the air, it splits the night open like an axe through rotted wood. It’s raw, ragged, and forged from pure, undiluted terror.

Steve Harrington crashes into Billy Hargrove not like a man, but like a force of nature. He comes from the side, a blur of motion and desperation, his shoulder driving into Billy’s chest with the full, reckless weight of his body. The impact is a visceral, punishing thud that echoes off the cars, knocking the air from both of them in a synchronized, choked gasp. Billy, caught off guard for the first time all evening, is driven backward, his boots scraping twin streaks of protest across the asphalt, surprise, real, human surprise, flashing across his distorted features.

Steve doesn’t pause. He doesn’t check his own injuries. The momentum of the collision is just a prelude. He uses it, stepping into the space he’s carved out, his body pivoting to plant itself as an immovable object between you and the threat. His arms fly out to the sides, not in a heroic pose, but in a primal, instinctive spread—a human shield making itself as wide as possible. His stance is wide, knees bent, every muscle corded. He is a wall. He is a barricade. He is the only thing that matters.

“Run!” The command is ripped from his throat, hurled over his shoulder at you. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a plea and an order fused together. “NOW!”

Your legs are stone. Rooted. Paralyzed.

Billy regains his footing, the surprise melting into something molten and vicious. A low, guttural snarl tears from his lips, his face contorting, lips peeling back from teeth that seem too white in the fading light.

“Wrong choice,” he growls, the words dripping with a promise of pain.

And then he moves.

He hits Steve.

It’s not a punch; it’s a demolition. Billy’s fist connects with Steve’s jaw with a sickening, wet crack of bone on bone. The sound is horribly intimate, echoing in the vast, empty lot. Steve’s head snaps sideways. A spray of saliva and blood catches the dull gleam of a distant security light. He doesn’t cry out; he just goes down, his body folding under the force, skidding across the rough asphalt with a sound like tearing cloth.

Something flies from his grip, clattering and spinning across the pavement.

The bat.

Your eyes track it dumbly as it rolls in a wobbly arc, coming to a stop near your feet, its familiar, nail-studded wood looking absurdly ordinary against the oil-stained ground.

Billy is on him instantly.

The speed is inhuman. He doesn’t pounce; he flows onto Steve, a tide of relentless violence. His fists rise and fall in brutal, piston-like arcs. Each impact lands with a dreadful, meaty finality. Thud. Thud. THUD. Steve, dazed but fighting, tries to roll, tries to curl into a protective ball, his arms coming up to guard his head. But Billy doesn’t tire. He doesn’t need to breathe. It’s as if some external, malignant force is lending strength to every blow, making gravity his ally.

You scream Steve’s name.

The sound is torn from a place deeper than your lungs, raw and guttural, shredding your throat. You scramble to your feet, your legs trembling violently. Your heart is a frantic, caged bird trying to beat its way out of your chest, the pulse thundering in your ears so loudly it drowns out the car alarm. Your vision tunnels, the edges blurring into a swimming darkness, the world collapsing to the horrifying diorama of violence on the ground.

Steve is losing. Badly.

He blocks what he can, his forearms taking brutal punishment, already darkening with welts and cuts. What he can’t block, he absorbs. A fist slips past his guard, connecting with a sickening crunch against his ribs. He arches off the ground, a pained groan escaping his bloodied lips. Another blow splits the skin above his eyebrow, and blood, shockingly bright and red, blooms instantly, streaming down into his eye, painting half his face in a grotesque mask.

Still, he fights back.

Every movement is wild, desperate, fueled by a stubborn, unkillable fire. He swings a weak, looping punch that glances off Billy’s arm. He tries to buck him off. It’s futile, but the message in every ragged breath, every pained gasp, every defiant snarl, is screaming the same thing, over and over:

Not her. Not her. Not her.

“STOP!” you scream again, your voice breaking into a sob, the word dissolving into the night air, useless as confetti against a hurricane.

Billy seems to grow larger, his muscles bunching under the white cotton with an unnatural, rippling tension. He rears back, his fist lifting high, cocking for a blow that has no purpose but annihilation. It’s a killing strike, aimed at the vulnerable curve of Steve’s temple.

Thought evaporates.

Instinct takes over—an instinct older than fear, fiercer than panic.

Your hands, scraped and bleeding, find the cold, rough wood of the bat on the ground. Your fingers close around the grip, sticky with Steve’s blood. It feels impossibly heavy, a log of deadweight. But also solid. Real. A tooth of the real world in this nightmare.

A terrifying, feral clarity descends. The dizzying fear sharpens into a single, white-hot point of purpose.

You lurch forward, your body moving without your mind’s permission.

You swing.

You put everything into it, the terror of the note, the chill of his grip, the sound of crushing metal, the sight of Steve’s blood. You put every ounce of your weight, every shred of your fury, every desperate atom of your love into the arc.

The bat cuts through the air with a terrible, whistling sound.

It connects.

The impact is not a thud, but a hollow, resonant CRACK, like splitting a dense, frozen log. The vibration judders up your arms, rattling your teeth.

Billy’s head jerks sideways with a violent, whip-like snap. His body goes rigid for a split, suspended second. His black, endless eyes, wide with a shock that isn’t pain, but profound, outraged interruption, find yours. In that fleeting moment, you see a bottomless fury, a universe of wrongness focused solely on you.

Then the connection between his will and his body seems to sever.

He collapses.

It isn’t a graceful fall. It’s a total, boneless slump. He hits the asphalt like a sack of wet cement, limbs splayed at awkward, unnatural angles, his face turned toward the bruised sky.

Silence.

It crashes down, heavier and more profound than any noise. The only sounds are your own ragged, sobbing breaths, the fading echo of the car alarm, and a low, pained groan from Steve.

The world rushes back in a dizzying, nauseating wave, the cold air, the smell of gasoline and blood, the distant hum of the mall. You stand there, the bat now a dead weight in your trembling hands, staring at the two bodies on the ground: one still, one struggling to move.

The silence is deafening. It rings in your ears, a high-pitched tone of pure, undiluted shock.

Your arms tremble violently, a post-storm quake that travels from your shoulders to your fingertips. The bat slips from your numb, blood-slicked grasp and hits the asphalt with a dull, hollow clang that seems to echo the finality of the moment.

“Steve—” you gasp, the sound tearing from a raw throat as you drop to your knees beside him, the rough pavement biting through your jeans.

He’s breathing. Shallow, wet, rattling breaths, but they are there. His eyes flutter beneath bruised lids, struggling to focus on your face through the mask of blood streaking from his temple down his cheek, a vivid red river against his pale skin.

“Hey,” he rasps, the word barely a whisper, a thread of sound spun from pain and sheer will. His gaze, clouded with concussion, finally finds yours. “You… okay?”

The question—absurd, selfless, utterly Steve shatters what little composure you have left. A choked sob escapes you, tears welling hot and immediate, blurring his broken form.

“You absolute idiot,” you weep, the words mangled by emotion. Your hands flutter uselessly over him, finally pressing against the solid, trembling plane of his shoulder. “You’re bleeding everywhere. You could’ve—he could’ve killed you.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, so faint you have to lean in to hear. A ghost of a smile, more a twitch of his split lip, touches his mouth despite the agony etched in every line of his face. “Worth it.”

Getting him to your car is an ordeal etched in fire and fear. You half-drag, half-carry his dead weight, every step sending white-hot pulses of agony through your screaming muscles and bruised spine. Steve sags into you, his arm a heavy, unsteady bar over your shoulders, his body shaking not just from injury, but from the sheer, draining effort of remaining conscious. Each shallow, ragged breath he takes ghosts warm and uneven against the side of your neck, a terrifying metronome counting the seconds he remains with you.

“You’re okay,” you whisper into his hair, the mantra as much for yourself as for him. Your voice is a thin, desperate thread in the vast, silent parking lot. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, just hold on.”

Your shoes, slick with a grimy mixture of spilled soda, oil, and his blood, slip on the pavement. You stumble, his weight almost pulling you both down. Your fingers clutch desperately at the bloodied leather of his jacket, bunching the material in your fists as you adjust your grip, your muscles shrieking in protest, your heart a wild, frantic drum against your ribs threatening to break free.

The memory hits you then, unbidden and cruel in its contrast.

The way he carried you once, just days ago, yet a lifetime away. So slow, so careful, as if you were made of the most delicate glass. One arm a firm, secure band around your back, the other cradling the bend of your knees, his voice a low, soothing rumble in the dark hallway telling you it was okay to lean on him, that he had you. You’d laughed then, hazy with drink and trust, letting your head loll against his shoulder, believing completely in his strength.

The irony of it burns now, acrid and sharp.

This time, it is you who holds him together. Your arms, now trembling with a different kind of weakness, are the only thing keeping him from crumbling to the ground.

You reach your car, fumbling for your keys with fingers that feel thick and foreign. They slip twice, clattering against the door handle, before you finally manage to fit the key into the lock. The click is deafeningly loud. Getting him into the passenger seat is a clumsy, frantic ballet of bracing and easing. You cradle his head, guiding it carefully against the headrest, murmuring his name over and over like a protective incantation.

"Steve. Steve. Almost there."

Blood smears across the pale upholstery in stark, Rorschach blooms. It coats your hands, drying sticky and dark under your nails. It is on everything, a brutal, undeniable testament.

He groans as you buckle the seatbelt across his chest, his eyes fluttering open. For a second, through the haze of pain, his gaze finds yours and holds, a startling, lucid connection.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice a hoarse scrape. A feeble attempt at a smile touches his ruined mouth. “You did good.”

Your throat closes completely, a solid wall of grief and love and terror. Fresh tears spill over, hot and silent.

“Don’t,” you beg, your voice breaking into pieces. “Just—don’t talk. Please.”

You slide into the driver’s seat on legs that feel like water. The leather is cold beneath your trembling palms. Your hands clamp around the steering wheel, knuckles bleaching white as you force yourself to take one deep breath, then another, fighting the dizzying tide of shock.

The only sound in the car is Steve’s breathing, shallow, uneven, a fragile rhythm in the dark.

And then it hits you.

Not like the fear, a lightning strike of adrenaline. Not like the panic, a cold flood.

This comes slower. Heavier. A deep, settling ache that displaces the shock.

He knew.

The realization unfolds with dreadful clarity. The way he found you, not by chance, not searching frantically, but with direct, horrifying purpose. As if he’d been anticipating this exact horror all along, a shadow he’d been trying to outrun or intercept. The way he didn’t hesitate for a single second, not when he saw Billy, not when he put his own body between you and those fists. He stepped into the violence as if it were a script he’d already read, a price he’d already agreed to pay.

Steve knew something was fundamentally, terribly wrong with Billy Hargrove.

And suddenly, the heated argument in the hallway plays back in your mind with a new, devastating soundtrack. His tight jaw, his clipped warnings, the raw desperation woven through every stay away from him, it wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about a lack of trust in you.

It was fear.

A bone-deep, history-informed terror he didn’t know how to articulate without unleashing the very monster he was trying to shield you from.

Your grip on the steering wheel loosens, just a fraction, as the fight drains out of you, replaced by a profound, sorrowful understanding.

He hadn’t been trying to build a cage around you.

He’d been trying, clumsily and imperfectly, with the only tools his battered heart knew how to use, to keep you out of reach of a darkness he recognized.

You survived.

Not just because you were brave enough to swing a bat.

But because Steve Harrington showed up anyway.

Because he’d been watching, waiting, a silent guardian orbiting your periphery, ready at a moment’s notice to throw himself into the grinding gears of that darkness if it meant you could walk away.

Your chest tightens, a complex knot of emotion burning behind your eyes as you glance at him slumped in the seat beside you. Blood is drying in a cruel corona at his temple. One hand lies curled weakly in his lap, already swelling. He looks young. Broken. Beautifully, terribly human.

The secret he kept didn’t almost get you killed.

The secret he kept is the precise, awful reason you are both still breathing.

And that realization doesn’t erase the hurt of his silence, it sharpens it, hones it into something quieter, more intimate, and infinitely more painful.

Because if Steve had found a way to trust you with the terrifying, ugly truth…

Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting beside you now, bleeding and broken, paying for that silence with his own flesh and blood.

You turn the key. The engine sputters to life, a mundane sound in the aftermath of chaos.

As you pull the car out of the Starcourt parking lot, leaving the scene of the violence swallowed by the night, one truth settles in your chest, heavy and undeniable as a stone:

You’re not angry that he tried to protect you.

You’re shattered that he ever felt he had to do it alone.

The hospital is quieter than you expect. Not silent, it’s a space that never truly sleeps, but subdued, a world muffled in soft noise and dimmed concern. Machines hum a low, continuous hymn from other rooms. Rubber-soled shoes squeak with purposeful gentleness somewhere down the polished linoleum hall. Behind a drawn floral curtain, a nurse murmurs steady, practiced reassurances in a voice meant to soothe. Even the fluorescent lights, usually so harsh and revealing, have been dialed down to a muted, almost apologetic glow, as if they, too, understand that this hour demands something softer than truth.

Steve lies in the narrow bed, a landscape of white sheets and bleached cotton. His left arm is a careful sculpture of gauze and tape, resting atop the blanket. A thin, stark bandage cuts across his temple, a white flag against the purple swelling beneath. His chest rises and falls in a steady, medicated rhythm now, thank God, thank everything, but the sight of him so still, so deliberately still, makes a quiet, persistent ache settle deep in your throat.

You perch on the stiff, unforgiving plastic chair beside his bed, the only anchor in the sterile sea of the room. You don’t leave.

You should be exhausted. A bone-deep, system-failure kind of tired. And you are. Your clothes carry the acrid scent of asphalt fear and sharp hospital antiseptic. Your hands, scrubbed raw at the sink until they tingled, still feel phantom-sticky, no matter how hard you’ve washed. But every time your heavy eyelids start to drift shut, every time you consider resting your head back against the cold wall, your gaze snaps back to him—to the steady pulse in his throat, to the faint twitch of his fingers, as if your vigil alone is the thread keeping him tethered here. So you sit.

You watch the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital gown. You listen to the metronomic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, a sound that has become both lifeline and lament. You replay the fractured day on a loop in your mind, the note, the argument, the parking lot, the crack of the bat, until the memories lose their sharp edges and blur into a single, prolonged smear of terror and adrenaline.

At some point deep in the night, a nurse with kind eyes and a quiet step enters to check his vitals. She smiles softly at you, her clipboard held like a shield against her chest.

“You can grab some coffee from the vending machine down the hall, sweetie,” she offers, her voice a gentle nudge. “He’s stable. Sleeping soundly. You don’t have to stay glued to that chair.”

“I’m okay,” you reply, the words coming a little too quickly, too tightly.

Her eyes, wise and weary, flick between your face and Steve’s still form, then back to you. Her smile deepens, becoming something knowing and warm. “Girlfriend?”

You blink, thrown. “Oh— no. I mean, we’re not—”

She chuckles softly, a sound like rustling pages. “Honey, you’ve been holding his hand for the last three hours. Pretty convincingly.”

You look down, startled.

You hadn’t even realized.

Somehow, while you were lost in the watchful silence, your fingers had woven themselves between his. Your palm rests against the back of his bandaged hand, your knuckles brushing the familiar, vulnerable curve of his palm. The contact feels as natural as breathing, as essential as the IV drip feeding into his other arm. Like your hand belongs exactly there.

A slow, warm flush climbs your cheeks. “I’m just… staying,” you murmur, lamely.

“Well,” she says, her tone softening into something approaching reverence, “he’s lucky to have you.”

She slips out as quietly as she came, the door clicking shut with a hushed finality.

You don’t let go.

Steve wakes just before dawn.

It’s not a dramatic awakening. No gasps, no jolting upright. It’s subtle, a slight hitch in his previously even breathing, a faint, pained furrow appearing between his brows. But you notice instantly. Your body jolts upright in the chair, the legs scraping a jarringly loud protest against the floor.

“Steve?” you whisper, your voice gravelly from disuse and emotion.

His eyelashes flutter, dark against his pale skin. His dry, cracked lips part. “Ow,” he croaks, the single syllable rough and genuine.

A wave of relief so potent it’s dizzying crashes through you. A sound escapes you—half a laugh, half a sob, entirely unguarded. “Hi,” you manage, your own voice trembling. “Welcome back.”

He squints at the speckled acoustic tiles of the ceiling, processing, then turns his head slowly, carefully, on the pillow. His eyes, clouded with pain and medication, drift, struggle to focus—and then land on your face.

And they soften. All the tension, all the guardedness he usually carries, melts away, leaving something open and unbearably tender.

“Oh,” he murmurs, the word filled with a quiet, wondrous realization. “You stayed.”

Your throat constricts painfully. “Of course I did.”

He swallows with visible effort, his jaw working. “Good,” he rasps, a ghost of his old smirk touching his mouth. “‘Cause I was gonna be real mad if you didn’t.”

You snort, the familiar, fond irritation bubbling up despite everything. “You got beaten half to death in a parking lot, and that’s your priority?”

“Hey,” he says weakly, but his eyes are shining. “Consistency matters.”

You shake your head, a real smile breaking through the fatigue and fear, even as fresh tears burn behind your eyes.

For a long moment, you just look at each other in the pre-dawn grey of the room. The unspoken things hang heavy in the air between you, weightier than any monitor or IV stand.

Then Steve exhales, a long, careful, deliberate breath, as if he’s gathering courage from the very bottom of his lungs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. So quietly.

The apology isn’t rushed. It isn’t defensive or wrapped in a joke. It is simple, stark, and utterly honest.

“I should’ve told you,” he continues, his gaze unwavering. “I knew something was wrong. I knew he wasn’t… himself. Not for a while. And I still didn’t tell you.” His voice cracks, just a hairline fracture of sound that speaks volumes. “I thought I could handle it alone. I thought if I just kept you far enough away, I could keep you safe without ever having to scare you with the… the realness of it.”

You hold his gaze, letting him speak, letting the truth he’d hoarded finally find air.

“And?” you prompt gently.

“And I was wrong,” he admits. No excuses. No deflection. Just the raw, humble admission. “I should’ve trusted you. I should’ve given you the choice. I was so afraid of you choosing to walk toward the danger that I didn’t realize I was already pushing you away.”

Your fingers, still laced with his, tighten gently. An anchor. A forgiveness.

“I don’t forgive you because you jumped in front of me,” you say, your voice soft but clear in the quiet room. “I forgive you because you’re sitting here right now, bleeding through your bandages, and you’re owning it. All of it.”

Steve lets out a shaky breath that sounds like the beginning of a release. “Yeah. Well. Growth. Apparently I’m doing that now. It’s… uncomfortable.”

You smile, a real one that reaches your eyes. “Terrifying.”

He huffs a pained laugh, then grows serious again, his thumb moving in a faint, unconscious stroke across your knuckle. “I didn’t tell you because… I didn’t want to be the guy who only matters when things get bad. The crisis guy. The fighter. I wanted you to like me when I was just… me. When I wasn’t bleeding or bruised or playing hero.”

Your chest aches with the sweetness and the sorrow of it.

“I liked you at my kitchen table,” you tell him, the memory vivid and warm. “With your stupid, nervous pencil tapping and your fake, overconfident grin.”

He groans faintly, a blush tinting the skin above his bandage. “God, I knew you clocked that.”

“You joke when you’re scared,” you continue, building the portrait of him you’ve been assembling in your heart. “You try to protect people when you don’t know how to just ask them to be careful. And you care so damn much it makes you reckless. It makes you walk into parking lots against things you don’t understand.”

Steve watches you, his eyes wide and soft, as if you’re reading from a book of his own secret history.

“I fell for you anyway,” you finish, the confession hanging softly in the space between you. “Maybe even because of it.”

Silence stretches, but it’s a comfortable, understanding quiet, filled with the hum of healing.

Then Steve smiles—not the dazzling, performative King of Hawkins grin, not the defensive jock’s smirk—but something smaller, softer, and completely unguarded. It transforms his battered face.

“You flirting with me right now,” he asks, his voice a gentle, hopeful rasp, “or are you?”

You laugh, the sound warm and real and free, and you lean closer, bridging the space the chair had created. “You finally noticed.”

He squeezes your hand, the grip weak but full of intention. “Guess I’m a slow learner.”

Outside the narrow hospital window, the world begins to lighten. Pale, tentative gold spills across the white sheets, gilding the edges of the blanket, washing over his tired face and your clasped hands. Steve watches the sunrise for a moment, a quiet peace settling over his features. Then he looks back at you, his eyes clear and certain.

“I’m still gonna want to protect you,” he says, the vow simple and true. “It’s in my wiring. But I’m gonna ask first. And I’m gonna listen. And I’m gonna trust you to stand next to me, not behind me. To be my partner in the weird, scary stuff. Not my… not my problem to solve.”

Your heart feels full, not with giddy lightness, but with a steady, chosen weight. Like you’ve both been looking for solid ground and have finally found it, together.

“Good,” you say, your own voice firm with promise. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve’s smile deepens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It’s the smile of a boy who has finally put down a burden he was never meant to carry alone.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his gaze holding yours with a promise as sure as the rising sun. “Me neither.”

[yasministration]

when does it become cheating? - jonathan b.

summary: jonathan is convinced he's not cheating on you with nancy, but even the cops who arrested him see it. wc: 1.4k+ cw: angst, breakup, implication of future steve x reader pt ii pt iii pt iv

The lights of the police station flicker above you as you walk down the corridor, anxiously looking around for Jonathan. You pull your jacket tighter around you, Joyce’s words still ringing in your head from when she’d called you to tell you the news. A call of your name attracts your attention to where Jonathan sits down with two police officers, and your shoulders sag in relief as you rush towards him. He smiles softly at you, blinking quickly when you cup his face to examine the bruising on his cheekbone.

“Oh Jonathan.” You sigh, and your boyfriend smiles sadly at you, one of his hands coming up to grab yours. He tugs you closer to him by the hand, touch migrating to rest on the back of your leg when you finally stand close enough for comfort. You lick your lips nervously at the sight of your beaten up boyfriend, but halt when his eyes flicker down the hall for the briefest moment before they widen in panic. Furrowing your eyebrows, you glance back, going rigid when you spot Nancy Wheeler halfway across the corridor, carrying a bag of ice in hand. You roll your shoulders back, and Jonathan desperately grabs one of your hands again in an attempt to get your attention away from the girl. You blink quickly, watching as Nancy comes to an abrupt stop where she stands, staring back at you with no expression on her face. All the concern built up on your face turns into hateful amusement, and you snatch your hand out of Jonathan’s grasp, only looking at him for a second before turning away and making your way straight back to the entrance.

Jonathan stands quickly, trying to follow you, but the cop holds him back, only the sounds of their struggle reaching your ears. “Man, you’re under arrest, you can’t leave.” One of them tells him while Jonathan hopelessly watches the door swing shut behind you. “No, I have to go! She already thinks I’m-she thinks I’m cheating on her!”

The second police officer tilts his head to the side, sarcastically asking “What, she thinks you’re cheating on her with the girl you beat a guy up for? Crazy.” Jonathan hopelessly slumps back into the chair, imagining you outside, all these narratives building in your head. You cross your arms over your chest, short gasps leaving you as tears build up in your eyes. Of course, he was with the very person he told you not to worry about. You cough to avoid breaking down into sobs in front of a police station, but you can’t help the warm tears that roll down your cheeks, making your shoulders heave forward as you silently sob.

It’s so unbelievably cold out here, you think, and the tears on your cheeks only let the cold air stick to your skin. It makes you fucking miserable. A hand on your shoulder makes you jump, and you turn around to find one of the officers who was with Jonathan inside. “Hey, kid. You okay?” You nod wordlessly, turning back around so he can’t see the tears continuously dropping from your eyes.

“Actually, is there any chance I can get a ride home?”

You're dropped off just in front of your parents’ house, but you swallow thickly, unable to muster the courage to go inside just yet. So instead, you look around the street in a poor attempt to find an excuse not to go home. Miraculously, you spot Steve Harrington sitting on the steps of his house, looking straight back at you. He's taking in the look on your face through his purple, swollen eye, but he doesn't look as though he is judging you. If anything, he thinks you're judging him by the way you step off your porch, walking towards him with your cold bitten cheeks and nose.

“Does that have anything to do with the fight Jonathan got arrested for?” You ask, nodding your head at him. He licks his lips, nodding his head slowly. “I-did he get in a lot of trouble?”

You scoff, sitting down next to him, not caring about whether he even wants your company or not. Steve slightly moves his head away from you so he can take you in as you loosely shrug your shoulders, mumbling “Probably not, his mom is friends with the chief.”

“Oh, I thought- Sorry, I thought you were upset because of that.”

“No, I’m upset because Nancy fucking Wheeler is at the station with him, bringing him ice for his swollen face.” Steve goes silent next to you, and the unbearable silence makes you suddenly turn to him, remembering a new piece of information as you ask him “Hey, weren’t you dating Nancy?”

Steve licks his chapped lips again, wincing slightly when he touches the red gash on his lip. “Yeah. Sort of got into a fight with him for that same reason. He was… God, no, I don’t want to upset you even more.”

“Are you talking about how he was in her bedroom the other night or was it when he slept in her bed?”

“He slept in her bed!?”

Your laugh startles Steve, who looks at you with treachery in his eyes, as though you’d been the one to cheat on him. “Always the one they tell you not to worry about, right?”

Close to you both, a car door slams loudly, causing both you and Steve to glance up to watch Jonathan race out of his lousily parked car and march straight up to your front door. He aggressively knocks on the door three times, running a hand through his hair, unaware of the way Steve mumbles “If you be very quiet, you can probably escape without him seeing.”

Jonathan puts his hands on his hips, glancing down at the floor before turning to the side, his eyes shutting tightly. When they open again, he finds himself staring straight at you. He sighs in relief, taking a few rushed steps in your direction before recognising the figure next to you. Jonathan freezes, his eyes trained on Steve Harrington before he turns his gaze towards you. Betrayal is written all over his features, jaw slack at his surprise over the situation. “What are you doing?” He questions, leaving the obvious part — ‘with Steve Harrington?’ — silent.

“I don’t think I owe you an explanation for anything, Jonathan.”

“Baby, it’s not what it looks like, I promise you.”

Steve gasps quietly when you harshly stand up, frowning at your boyfriend. “It’s not what it looks like? Jonathan, tell me you didn’t get into a fight for her.”

He gulps thickly, looking you firmly in his eyes and saying “I didn’t. I got into a fight because this jerk insulted my family!”

“Okay,” You nod, choosing to believe him as you cross your arms over your chest, shifting your body weight from one foot to another. “Then tell me you don’t have feelings for her.” Jonathan goes still at your plea, his mouth gaped open like he wants to tell you, but can't. “I don’t,” He finally tells you, “Not romantically.”

“You hesitated. Jonathan do you really think there’s nothing going on between you if both your and Nancy’s partners are convinced you’re cheating!?” Jonathan’s eyes flicker down to where Steve is sat, catching the boy’s glare thrown his way. “There’s nothing going on.”

“I don’t believe you Jonathan. And if you’re really saying the truth and I can’t trust you, then you don’t deserve to be with me. So I’m going to ask you again, Jonathan. Do you have feelings for Nancy?” Jonathan takes a step away from you, shutting his mouth and looking at you sadly. He bows his head down to stare at the floor as his eyes tear up. “I have feelings for Nancy but I don’t want to lose you.”

A sharp inhale tears Steve’s attention from Jonathan and back towards you, frowning when he sees the way tears instantly became present in your eyes again. He stands next to you, walking towards Jonathan and shoving him back harshly, letting your ex-boyfriend stumble onto the street. “You don’t have to be a jerk about it, Byers.” He sneers, walking back to you and gently putting an hand on your arm and guiding you into his house.

The last think Jonathan hears before the door slams is you telling Steve “Let me fix you up, Steve.”

taglist: @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @fandomhoe101, @sharkers00, @joonbread, @paankhaleyaaar, @bearymuchso, @princesstiti14, @challengers4ev, @selenewowww, @lunavelha, @iceyyhyeji, @doiki3, @maymo0, @daisylove3, @ballylagginblues, @cosm1cpiink, @laufeysvalentine, @eyantice, @cheetoscmj, @l0vesreceipt, @snake-in-a-flower-crown

[yasministration]

making myself comfortable - jonathan b.

summary: you and jonathan's calm living room cuddling is interrupted by his brother and his undeniably annoying friends. so you take things somewhere a little more private, and somehow jonathan becomes the annoying one. wc: 1.4k+ cw: suggestive themes, jonathan likes tits, groping

The calm evening you and Jonathan had was an absolute miracle. No boys in the house, a clean living room, and most importantly space on the couch for you to cuddle. You sat with your knees to your chest, feet planted on the couch in front of you with Jonathan cuddled by your side, squeezed between you and the back of the couch. His head rested on your shoulder, face snuggled in the crook of your neck, long legs extended on the couch. He hugged your legs, fingers absentmindedly brushing your soft skin with loving strokes.

Jonathan’s eyes kept fluttering shut at the feeling of your fingers in his hair, nails softly massaging his scalp. The television in front of you was muted, but neither of you were watching the moving images on the screen anyway, too busy enjoying each other’s mere presence. Jonathan sighed deeply, and you glanced down at him, a soft smile stretching on your lips when you saw his peaceful face.

But of course, good things never lasted.

The front door slammed open, and four loud figures entered the house, still panting as they loudly conversed, recovering from their bike ride over. You sighed as you watched the four boys throw their backpacks off and onto the floor, already reaching for paper to draw something out — inevitably to do with another theory of theirs. You glanced down at your boyfriend again, laughing quietly at the way his eyes tightly shut in annoyance.

“Can you guys go be loud in Will’s room?” He asked, and the four boys looked over at you boys as if just noticing your presence. Mike’s face twisted in disgust at the sight of you two cuddling, and retorted “You think the four of us are going to fit in Will’s room?”

“If you try hard enough, yeah.” Jonathan groaned, exposing his face from hiding as he sat up a little, his hand gripping the arm of the couch behind you to support his weight. “We were here first anyway.”

“Isn’t the whole point of a living room to welcome all living people?” Sassily asked Lucas. You licked your lips in amusement, watching the argument unfold. Jonathan huffed “Yeah, all living people, which we won’t be if you talk us to death.” Jonathan’s shoulders loosened a little when you returned your hand to his hair, running your fingers through it once. You turned back to the boys, catching Will’s eye. He smiled at you, raising a hand up to wave it at you, and you mimicked his actions with a smile.

“If you’re so annoyed by us, maybe you should be the one to leave.” Said Lucas again, shrugging his shoulders. Dustin rolled his eyes, gesturing to the piece of paper on the coffee table they were surrounding. “We’re doing science here, it shouldn’t matter if it annoys you or not. This is important.”

“Baby, how about we go to your room?” You offered as Jonathan slumped down onto you. You spread your legs open so he could slant his body between them, resting his head on your chest as he hugged your torso. He mumbled something incoherent, and you grinned, suggesting “Or we can go to mine.”

Jonathan lifted his head up, eyes hopeful. “Mhm, smells nice in your room. Your sheets are so soft and your bed is so comfortable.”

“Dude, they’re disgusting, how do you live with them?” Asked Mike loudly, the spot where he sat forcing him a view of the two of you. The three other boys turned to look at you, and Jonathan grinned at you as he lifted his weight off you, ducking his face down to capture your lips in a long kiss. Will smiled despite himself as his friends groaned, knowing exactly what his older brother was doing. Jonathan broke the kiss with a loud smooch, and your giggle filled the air as he instantly went in for another kiss. “Man, come on!” Dustin cried, “We’re trying to focus on science!”

Jonathan pulled away with a wide grin, pulling you off the couch with him. “Come on, let’s leave these nerds to their science.”

You quickly slipped your feet into your shoes, letting Jonathan cross the room to find his car keys. The journey to yours was quick, Jonathan’s hand not leaving your thigh once until he was forced to when he pulled into your drive way. He inhaled deeply when he stepped foot into your room, instantly making way to your well made bed and throwing himself onto it. You giggled as he shuffled on the bed, making himself comfortable. He opened his arms wide for you, but you mumbled “Just a sec”, reaching your hands under the back of your shirt and unclasping your bra.

Your boyfriend’s eyebrows rose slightly in amusement, and you shook your head at him. “Don’t get any ideas, I’m just making myself comfortable.” Jonathan watched attentively as you slid the straps down each arm before finally pulling your bra out from underneath your shirt. He swallowed thickly, eyes immediately dipping down to stare at your nipples, constraining against the tight fabric of your shirt. “Jonathan,” You warned, “No ideas.”

“No ideas.” He echoed, licking his lips as you approached him. You laughed in disbelief as you laid down on the bed facing him. “Jonathan.”

“They looked at me first!” He cried, whining when you shimmied around to face away from him. “Baby, that’s not fair. Want to see your beautiful face.”

“Want to see my beautiful face so you can stare at my tits?” You asked, biting on your bottom lip when Jonathan pressed his front to your back, arm snaking around your front to secure you there. “How about we go back to how we were sat at mine?” He suggested pleadingly, kissing your jaw softly. “Are you going to pull any stunts?” Jonathan shook his head eagerly, smiling when you sat up.

“Alright,” Jonathan scrambled up at your confirmation, freezing when you held a finger up. “Go get me one of your hoodies.” He nodded quickly, pecking your lips before jumping off your bed. He opened your closet, eyes widening at the sight of his hoodies hung up in your closet. He knew you had one or two, but this? No wonder he can never find any of them to wear. He sorted through the hoodies, humming when he spotted his favourite, taking it out by the hanger. Once he stood in front of your bed again, he held out the hoodie, eyes going wide when you gripped the hem of your top, pulling it over your head. You reached for the hoodie, but suddenly Jonathan snatched it back. You scoffed in surprise at your boyfriend’s audacity, looking up at his face to find him looking just as surprised as you.

“Jonathan.” You warned again, holding your shirt to your chest, however you were unable to help yourself from laughing when Jonathan dropped the hoodie to the floor, climbing back onto the bed. His hands pressed into the mattress on either side of you, and he leaned over you to press a kiss to your neck. “I don’t pull stunts,” Jonathan insisted, his hand coming down to pull your shirt away from your chest.

“No?”

“No, the stunts pull me.”

Jonathan smiled against the skin of your neck when you laughed softly, letting his kisses trail downwards until he could finally take one of your nipples in his mouth. He glanced up at you, sucking harder on your nipple when he found you staring down at him unimpressed. His second hand came up to pinch your nipple, and he chuckled softly when your body jerked, a hand coming up to his hair.

“Not trying anything.” Jonathan mumbled, biting down on the flesh of your breast. “Just doing this.”

“Because this isn’t trying anything?” You questioned, glancing down at where Jonathan toyed with one of your nipples. He shook his head, lips coming back up to the side of your neck. “No.”

You let out a breathy moan when he nibbled on your neck, cold hands groping your breasts. You held him close to you, arms slung over his shoulders as he played with you. Though his body was in the way, you desperately wanted to rub your thighs together, feeling your panties get wet. “Well you might want to try something,” You started, pausing when Jonathan lifted his head up to make eye contact with you. “I need you so bad Jonathan.” A smile spread on Jonathan’s face and his eyes lit up as you pulled him into a passionate kiss.

But even with his tongue in your mouth, Jonathan couldn’t help but pull away slightly and joke “I don’t know, I’m just making myself comfortable.”

taglist: @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @fandomhoe101, @sharkers00, @joonbread, @paankhaleyaaar, @bearymuchso, @princesstiti14, @challengers4ev, @selenewowww, @lunavelha, @iceyyhyeji, @doiki3, @maymo0, @daisylove3, @ballylagginblues, @cosm1cpiink, @laufeysvalentine, @eyantice, @cheetoscmj, @l0vesreceipt

[lovebugism]

forgive me for what is likely a basic ass request but... steve has a crush on eddie's best friend? smut optional but encouraged :) (love, j.d. aka mypoisonedvine)

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (i)

part one | part two

summary: steve harrington took extra care to avoid the local freaks of hawkins. having shared custody of a fourteen-year-old forced him into a bitter friendship with one, he's steadfast in his refusal to befriend the other. that is, until you start working at the groove beside family video. steve claims he only fell for you because you tripped him. (17k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, protective eddie, canon divergence TW swearing, bullying, some smooching, talks of insecurities, reader is doubtful of steve's intentions because steve used to be a dick <3

a/n: this request has been sitting in my inbox for ages. ages, i tell you! i wrote the outline the day it was sent in and ended up turning the blurb request into a full on 30k+ word fic. i'm sorry for the wait j.d. (and to everyone else who's been waiting patiently for me to put this out). i quite literally put my heart, soul, pussy, and so, so many hours into this. please enjoy! feedback is always appreciated! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Something happens and I'm head over heels.

It would be a total disservice to call you Eddie’s best friend.

It wouldn’t even feel right to call you his platonic soulmate or his sister from another dimension. Not when the two of you are essentially an extension of the same human being. It’s a twin flame on steroids — your mirrored souls make the rest of Hawkins believe in some sort of higher power. There’s no way it wasn’t destiny that placed the two of you together at exactly the right place, at exactly the right time.

Your entwined spirits could’ve been a beautiful thing.

It’s too bad you’re both total fucking freaks.

Unfortunately, being a couple of metalheads who spend their free time creating fantastical worlds in silly little board games hasn’t become cool yet — for some sad, strange reason. It leaves you and Eddie as the town’s token social pariahs. The kind of misfits you only spot when you care enough to look — laughing too loudly at the lunch table or sharing a cigarette in the alleyway between school buildings.

The kind of weirdos who get your attention without trying. The kind that people only look at when they need something to make fun of.

With that being said, everything Steve knew about you came from the people that hated you.

Tommy Hagan said that you and Eddie had been fucking since the seventh grade, that the two of you had gotten close between blowjobs and fingerbangs in the old chemistry classroom. No one’s quite sure where it came from, but they believed him without thinking twice. You and Eddie tried to squash the rumor for years before leaning into it full throttle.

“And these are the freaks,” Tommy announced when he approached your lunch table. He was giving Billy Hargrove a grand tour of the high school, or rather the shithole, and detoured like you and Eddie were some kind of sideshow attraction. Him and his goons ogled at you like zoo animals.

Steve idled some feet away, not as interested in the bit as the rest of them. He was even less interested in entertaining the new kid on the block thateveryone else seemed to be obsessed with.

“Hey, Tommy...” Eddie sing-songed through a mouthful of PB&J. You’d given him the other half of your sandwich, because you always give him the other half of your sandwich. “Hope you’re not comin’ back to ask for a handy again. I already turned you down, remember?”

A dumb grin took over the boy’s freckled face. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned over to the California boy. “I wouldn’t get too close to them. Don’t know where their hands have been, you know? If I had to guess, I think Punchy got Munson’s rocks off in the janitor’s closet before lunch period.”

Neither of you were particularly fazed by the laughter that erupted all at once and threatened to swallow you whole. Instead, you smiled with bits of grape jelly smeared on your chin. “I bet you think about it a lot, don’t you, Tommy?”

You really lived up to the nickname. Punchy. You weren’t entirely sure where it came from — your fierce temper, perhaps, or maybe your intense personality. Either way, it suited you.

Vicki Carmichael once said that you bit a guy on a date one time. Barry Jenkins, a tennis douchebag who thought the world revolved around him because his dad owned a string of local laundromats. He took you on a date in his mom’s Impala and assumed making out in the backseat gave him free rein to stick his hand up your skirt.

The asshole sported a red mark on his neck the next day.

When people asked you about it, you smiled with all your teeth in place of any real answer.

Carol Perkins loved to comment on the state of your wardrobe, telling anyone who would listen about the time she caught you rifling through the $1 bargain bins outside the thrift store. She liked to joke that you were stealing from them. “Because she can’t even afford a couple measly dollars. It’s kinda sad, honestly. I feel a little bad for her,” you overheard her saying once.

You were smoking a cigarette in the stall and watching through the crack of it while her and her friends touched up their lip gloss. 

“Wait, really?” Tina wondered, stopping mid-swipe of mascara through her long lashes to gape at the girl beside her. Because, god forbid, they don’t have someone to make fun of.

Carol snapped bright pink bubblegum between her teeth. She looked offended, almost — manicured brows furrowed and shiny lips snarled — like the idea of her taking pity on you was insulting. “No,” she snapped in response.

You’re pretty sure it’s the only rumor about you that’s got any bit of truth to it. Or any rumor of hers, really. The thrift store was great and all, but you firmly believe that your best pieces come remanufactured straight from Eddie Munson’s closet.

So it isn’t any wonder why the two of you seem to dress so similarly — all leather jackets and distressed jeans and hand-me-down t-shirts that are either too big or too small. The both of you take little care in your appearance, wearing only what you feel good in. And sometimes that means wild hair and baggy clothes that swallow you whole.

To make it worse, you and Eddie even talk the same. You’re both loud and brash and have very little awareness of personal space. You aren’t scared to make a scene or use your voice when you think it’s being stifled. And when you love someone, they know it, because you won’t leave them the hell alone.

These are all the things that Steve hated about Eddie. So he hasn’t quite figured out why he’s so damn in love with you. 

But he is. 

Quite dreadfully so. 

Head over heels and stumbling since the day he met you for a second time.

It was the spring of 1986 and The Groove had just opened up. Steve had heard murmurings of a record shop taking over the empty outlet adjacent to Family Video but had no idea it would nearly run them out of business. The shiny, new music store attracted all of their usual customers. People were more excited to buy new cassettes than rent movies they’d seen a thousand times already.

Steve didn’t mind, though. He liked it best when the store was empty. But all of his friends — a closeted lesbian, a basket case, and a couple of fourteen-year-olds — seemed to have the same affliction that was plaguing the rest of the town. 

He tried not to be offended when Robin said she was going to spend her break next door and not with him in the closet-sized break room. 

He failed.

Robin spent her half-hour and then some meeting you. She returned forty-five minutes later with a blushing face and a bleeding heart. Suddenly, there were two people in Steve’s life that couldn’t seem to shut up about you. As much as it annoyed him, he let her gush about you anyway, because that’s what best friends do, after all.

But Steve knew you once upon a time. Or he thought he did.

You were a loudmouthed metalhead who wore all black to blend in to Eddie’s shadow. You created fictional characters because it was easier than making friends with real people. You were strange and awkward and mean and gauche — the total opposite of this heavenly, mystical creature Robin was making you out to be.

But then it became this whole… thing.

With Robin and Eddie constantly talking over him about you, the rest of the kids were as confused as Steve was. And as they so often tend to do, the group decided to take matters into their own hands and make the short trek to meet you formally. Steve figured that their answer would be final. When those teenagers hate you, you know it. He learned that the hard way

They’re gone for a little over an hour and come back with a thousand stories and various tapes they say you gave to them for free.

Lucas has got a new Beastie Boys cassette and a proud smile on his face as he recounts the promise you’d made him about catching his next basketball game. “And she said she really liked my ranger,” he brags less than humbly, telling the older teens about how you’d heard stories about his track record in Hellfire campaigns. There’s a sudden suaveness to his voice as he bounces his brows up and down at them.

Max scrunches her face in disgust. She clutches a Kate Bush tape close to her chest, like it’s a prized possession she never wants to let go of. She rolls her eyes at her boyfriend (or maybe ex-boyfriend, but Steve can never keep up these days) and makes her own conversation with Robin. The two girls are the only ones with more than half a brain cell between them, or so they claim.

The redhead tells her that she plans on bringing her broken skateboard over to your store soon. She says the thing’s been wobbly for days, and Robin nods along like she knows all about it. “Well, apparently, she has some tools and knows how to fix it. Said the trucks just needed to be reinforced or some shit, I don’t know, I’m just glad it’s getting fixed.”

“Wait, why didn’t you tell me?” Steve asks her, confusion contorting his words along with his features. He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “I could’ve fixed it.”

“You don’t know anything about skateboards,” Max monotones.

“Okay, but you don’t even know this girl! She’s a total stranger, Max. That’s dangerous.”

She rolls her eyes. “She’s nice, Steve. Way nicer than you—”

That makes him scoff.

“—And you’d know that if you got to know her.”

It’s Dustin’s turn to gush about you next. His opinion, for a reason Steve has never been able to place, arguably means the most to him. And the kid is just absolutely fucking beaming about you. He holds a Star Wars orchestral vinyl in his hand —  the brand new one he’s been talking about for weeks but couldn’t afford. 

He talks of the collection of DnD figurines you were painting behind the counter and the promise you made to make one for his bard come the next campaign. 

Dustin gazes at Steve, wide-eyed and nodding like he’s as amazed by the revelation as Steve is.  “She’s cool, Steve. Like… really cool.” 

The boy thought that Robin just had a crush, that Eddie was just being Eddie and overdramatizing all of his stories about you. But you’re everything they said you’d be and then some. The kind of stranger you meet that takes your breath away, that makes you sad in the understanding that you’ll never see them again. Dustin is grateful you don’t have to be a stranger anymore.

You sounded… nice. More than nice. They painted you out to be a fucking angel, the way you took care of a bunch of kids you barely knew for the better part of an hour. You weren’t the freak everyone made you out to be all that time ago.

They talk a great deal about your looks, too. Dustin, mostly. Lucas had received a glare and a half-hearted punch on the arm from Max when he said how pretty you were — even though she ultimately agreed with him. The curly-headed boy uses too big words to describe the renaissance painting you are, all heavenly morose and beautifully strange.

“Hey,” Eddie scolds from the sidelines, mostly playful. “That’s my sister you’re talking about. Bring it down a few notches, ‘kay?”

Steve is silent for the rest of the day after that. He’s not pouting about it like Robin keeps saying he is, just reserved in his reminiscence. 

He can’t tell if he’s intrigued or annoyed. They talk about you the way people used to talk about King Steve — with a borderline obsession for someone they don’t really know. And deep down, he knows he’s just jealous. Jealous that no one talks about him that way anymore. Jealous that none of the kids have ever talked about him that way.

It leaves him skeptical and wanting to see the real thing for himself.

Steve opts to meet you on his lunch break the next day with a tight chest and sweaty palms, like a part of him knew it was going to change the trajectory of his life for the foreseeable future.

The door dings with his arrival. The record store smells like earth and nostalgia, a bit like flipping through the pages of an old book. Vinyls sit in rows and in towers that rise to the ceilings. Colorful cassettes, of which there are thousands, have nooks and crannies of their own. Posters decorate the walls along with various patterned records — there’s hardly a blank spot in the entire store.

And when Steve sees you for the first time, he only sees the back of you.

You’re in all black, just like he imagined you’d be. A sliver of skin at your midriff is showing from where your too small shirt has ridden up your torso. And your hair is as wild as ever, though a little longer than he remembers. You’ve haphazardly pinned back the ornery strings with a sparkly pin, but it doesn’t do much to tame them.

A breeze of warm wistfulness washes over him at the sight of you. A reminder of a life that used to be his, that you were a part of only passively.

It’s your smile that does him in. Maybe because you’ve never looked at him with it. As far as Steve’s concerned, no one’s ever smiled at him the way you do, and you barely even know him. You hadn’t seen him in over a year and if you shared any words in the past, it wasn’t anything more than snarky one-liners. But here you are, looking at him with sunshine anyway.

“Hi,” you beam with the warmest grin he’s ever seen, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Welcome in.”

He’s too stunned by the sight of you to respond. He just stands in the doorway, all wide-eyed and gaping, like he’s the first to see an angel on earth. And it’s strange because you’re far from perfect. 

You’re blousy and a little disheveled, like you’d been running late that morning. The lack of makeup allows your imperfections to shine through in a way that makes you somehow more alluring. And you’ve got paint splattered like freckles on your cheeks, the culprit being the figurines you’re painting behind the counter. If you know you’re dotted with shades of red, blue, and green, you don’t show it.

“Can I help you find anything?” you ask him, still kind even though he’s acting like a fucking weirdo. That’s supposed to be your thing, not his.

Steve grasps for something to say but comes up short. His lips part and then close again in an embarrassing pattern that resembles a fish out of water. It makes sense, though; it’s a bit how you’ve made him feel just now.

When he realizes he can’t make out anything intelligible, he shakes his head. “Uh… nope.”

He’s leaving before he even realizes he’s leaving. The door dings again and he’s on the other side of it, long legs carrying him the short distance to Family Video at record speed. 

He swings and slams the egress shut in quick succession, as though the ghost of you had been chasing him. He leans against the glass pane and exhales a heaving sigh, eyes squeezing shut as he recoils at what he’d just done.

He always knew that King Steve had died some time ago, but this was a new low.

Robin watches from the front counter with wide eyes. “…Did you forget something?”

Steve sighs a big, hopeless sigh, then peeks his eyes open. “My dignity.”

“She’s cute, right?” she asks, already knowing the answer. Her brows bounce in time with the smirk on her painted lips.

“Yeah, she’s cute,” he answers, all mad because it’s obvious. “She’s fucking— she’s beautiful.”

“Aw. Look at you,” she sing-songs and tilts her head to her shoulder. “I think your heart grew three sizes today, Stevie.”

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

I never find out 'til I'm head over heels.

Steve, all caught up in his boyish misery, has no idea that he’s enraptured you in a similar way.

You hadn’t cared very much for the guy in high school. You didn’t really know him then, and you didn’t particularly want to. King Steve was rich. King Steve was pretty — too pretty. King Steve got attention from pretty cheerleaders and overaggressive douchebags alike.

King Steve didn’t need any affection from the local freakshow.

But, by some strange turn of events, he’d managed to make nice with your best friend. 

The way Eddie talks about Steve, his words always dripping with a distant venom, it sounds like they still hate each other. Maybe they do. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit that they hang out far too often not to be friends.

If you were still in school, you probably would’ve judged him for it. Being friends with the boy whose buddies made your life hell certainly warranted some degree of ridicule. But now, having graduated and trying to move on from it all, you can’t find it in yourself to. 

High school might as well have been a lifetime now. There’s no use in holding onto old ghosts.

If Eddie could let that shit go, so could you.

He drops by after school to keep you company like he always does when he doesn’t have a campaign to prep for. It’s his favorite pastime, perhaps a close second to Dungeons and Dragons. He gets to hang out with his best friend and swim in an ocean of music while he does it. As far as freaks go, Eddie Munson considers himself the luckiest.

He likes to hear you talk about everything new you’ve gotten in while he rifles through the old stuff that isn’t selling as well. You happily let him take what he wants for free. And what he doesn’t take, he doesn’t pay for either, because you cheat the system with your employee discount and then wipe the record from inventory. Just to be safe.

“I love having a criminal for a best friend,” he jokes every time, without fail.

Eddie stays by your side until the sun sets. He parts only to flip the sign at the door to closingfor you, then plops himself back on the counter again. His legs hang off the side of it, sneakers occasionally thudding against the wood when he kicks them back and forth too hard. He scans the back of an old Lynyrd Skynyrd vinyl and bobs his head to the rhythmic bass as the song fills the empty store. He’ll take this one home, he decides.

You keep on painting like you have been all day, breaking only to assist customers or stretch your aching spine. The forest dragon had been far more work than you expected — made of pretty purple leaves instead of scales and blowing blush-colored flowers instead of fire. The little piece of clay has resulted in a day of back-breaking work. 

You’ll be damned if Eddie’s next campaign isn’t the most stellar looking one yet.

Focusing on that makes it easier not to bring up Steve. 

You want to. You just don’t know how. 

Eddie’s friends were Eddie’s, and you don’t get involved where it doesn’t concern you. Besides, you did sort of give him shit for hanging out with The Hair way back when. The last thing you want is him taking the piss out of you about it.  

You don’t want to sound like you care too much. Even more, you don’t want it to be obvious that you’ve been thinking about the boy all day — making yourself sick as you stew in what could’ve run him out like he did.

“Saw your friend today,” you remark, feigning a sort of absentmindedness, as you swipe your brush along the petals of your dragon. “King Steve.”

“Oh, you met him?” Eddie wonders, more intrigued by your words than you expected he’d be. He says it like you didn’t already know the guy — like this new Steve was a totally different person you needed to be reacquainted with to really know.

“I wouldn’t say met him exactly. He just, like, popped in for half a second and ran out.”

With your back facing him, you don’t see the shit-eating grin that pulls at the corners of his mouth. 

Eddie was waiting for Steve to crack and finally see you. He knew he’d bite after the way the kids had talked about you — Dustin, especially. Because even though he claims he doesn’t have favorites, he’s got a very obvious soft spot for the boy. And he knew Steve would like you because everyone likes you. When they’re not clouded by judgment and high school hierarchies, at least. 

He’s still got no idea how a guy that trips all over himself at the sight of a pretty girl could’ve ruled Hawkins once upon a time.

“Fucking idiot,” Eddie laughs to himself, already gearing up for the shit he was going to give Steve the next time he saw him. 

But you see the boy before Eddie does. Steve comes back the next day, an hour or more after opening, less frazzled than the day before. The nearly twenty-four hours he had to prepare himself for the angel he was going to see allowed him not to make a total fool of himself when he stepped into the store again.

And you wouldn’t say it out loud — hell, it’s not even something you want to admit to yourself — but you’d been hoping he’d stop by again. 

You thought Robin would come by and drag him with her, or that Dustin and his friends would come around before Steve dropped them all home. Frankly, you didn’t really care what brought him back. You just wanted to see him again.

Steve’s different than the boy he used to be. Enough that it was obvious from a measly thirty-second interaction. He used to be a charmer who could talk his way out of anything. Not to you, of course, he wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to you. But then he stops by out of nowhere, in rare form, stumbling all over himself and looking like he didn’t recognize you at all.

You’re still trying to figure out if that was a good thing or not.

He’s mystified you in a way he probably isn’t used to. Most girls like the hair and the arms — the super buff, super strong arms that fit so nicely in his uniform — or the fact that he’s got money and a reputation that precedes him. But you’ve never given a shit about any of that. 

You’re more enchanted by the way nothing could even begin to conceal the soft, shy boy that King Steve had apparently turned into.

The door chimes above his head when he enters. The scent of earthy nostalgia is already familiar to him — lavender, sage, and something deeper. Steve considers it progress when he plants himself a few feet away from the door this time. If he runs out again, he’ll have to make an embarrassingly longer escape.

You turn away from your nearly finished figurine to greet the new customer. The practiced smile unconsciously widens at the sight of him. “Hi!”

“Hey,” he smiles with a curt nod. He regrets the half-wave he gives you the second his hand shoots up.

“You gonna run off on me again?” you tease and swivel in your chair to face him completely.

You’re wearing a Hellfire shirt that’s just slightly too big for you. It probably belonged to Eddie before it belonged to you. And you wear a corset-looking thing over top of it, a sheer number with a lace embroidery and a ribbon that’s tied in a bow at your belly. It doesn’t cinch you in the slightest, though, more for decoration than practicality.

“No that was… I just—” Steve huffs out a laugh as he tries and fails to come up with an excuse. He figures anything is better than the truth — that he saw how pretty you were and his brain forgot how to work because he’s the lamest person on the planet. 

So he chucks a thumb over his shoulder and fibs. “I left something back at Family Video. Had to run back.”

“It’s okay. I was just teasing,” you assure. “Uh— Are you looking for anything specific?”

“No. Not really. Just… new records to add to my collection, you know?”

“Oh, you collect vinyls?”

He doesn’t realize that’s what he’s just said until you repeat the words back to him. 

He’s kind of just talking out of his ass and hoping something sticks. That line does, apparently, because you’re beaming at him instantly. He’s scared to say no because then you’ll stop smiling. And he can’t have that.

“Yep,” he answers with a nod. The stack of records collecting dust in his den has to count for something, right?

He can’t find it in himself to regret his little white lie when it has you lighting up like a christmas tree. 

You toss your paintbrush down when you rush from behind the counter to meet him. You seem to have forgotten that you’d just dipped the thing in purple paint. The thing splatters shades of lilac all over the limestone bench. And, in your haste, you nearly smack yourself with the leaden slab as you raise it to pass by.

Steve’s eyes widen when you narrowly dodge the weighty thing — then jumps, startled by the dense thwap that echoes through the small store when it slams back down again. He’s almost worried that it might’ve busted the hinge. 

You cower at the loud sound but move on with a commendable finesse, too focused on him to care about anything else.

“That’s so cool! I’ve always wanted to collect, but records are so expensive, it’s crazy,” you ramble as you walk up to him, totally unthinking in the way you grab his forearm and usher him to the back of the store. 

Your sheer black skirt swishes at your ankles as you walk. The dainty fabric is patterned with sparkly stars and crescent moons. He notices you wear a pair of dark shorts underneath for modesty. Steve tries his best not to stare at your ass. He almost succeeds.

“We actually just got in a couple of Dio records — The Holy Diver, you know, the one that just came out. I’m pretty sure there’s only, like, a couple thousand of these things in the whole world — which is totally fucking bonkers if you think about it,” you explain in one breath, laughing, before stopping abruptly in your tracks. Steve nearly runs into you when you turn around to face him. 

You laugh again, a sadder one, this time at yourself, as you bring your palm to your forehead. “Sorry. I don’t— I don’t even know if you like Dio. I mean, of course, you don’t, right? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… rambled like that.”

You’d just been so excited and Steve had just been so different that you forgot who you were talking to. Hawkins High Royalty, Prom King, Biggest Flirt and Life of the Party in the yearbook. 

As far as you’re concerned, Eddie Munson is your only friend. He’s the only person in the whole world you can be yourself around and never get self-conscious about any of it. 

But sometimes you have moments like this one with a total stranger. Moments where you lose yourself in the conversation and your own jumbled thoughts. Moments where you talk and talk and talk until something thumps you on the head and you realize how annoying you’re being. This time, it’s the musky smell of his cologne that knocks you back to Ms. Click’s history class. The crisp breeze of bitter nostalgia makes you shiver.

Steve can see the way you get so suddenly aware of yourself and how the cognizance of the moment makes you writhe. He tries to bat away the lingering insecurities with a smile. 

“Love ‘em,” he responds with a nod. He raises his brows and scoffs, grins and crosses his arms over his chest. “I mean, Dio? God, they’re like… top ten bands of all time, at least. Maybe even five.”

That isn’t totally true. He doesn’t know much about the band to have an opinion, but he’s pretty sure he might’ve said he hated them once. That was only because Eddie wouldn’t stop talking about them, though. Steve could learn to like them, if it means so much to you.

That’s exactly how he justifies spending $60 on four records. 

He tells himself that he’ll listen to them and think of you, that it’ll be a solid conversation starter the next time he sees you. 

You had a whole damn rack dedicated to all your favorite bands — “I put it together myself,” you’d bragged with a proud smile. S it’s a wonder Steve didn’t walk out with the entire damn store. Because you just kept on smiling and talking, so happy to have someone to care about what you had to say, and he ate up every second of it.

He’ll have to work overtime to keep his pockets from hurting, but it’ll be worth it. Because he’ll get to keep talking to you and indulging in all the things you seem to love more than life itself.

You’re still rambling as you ring him up. Steve notices you haven’t stopped yourself like you did before. His lack of dismissal has made you more comfortable, it seems. He likes that.

“I think we’re also gonna get a couple cases of Def Leppard cassettes tomorrow, which is super sick. I think I might have to start collecting, honestly. Tapes are whole lot cheaper than records, you know,” you tell him as you scan and bag all his vinyls. “And it’s also, like, a fucking stellar album. I don’t think I’ve stopped listening to Photograph since it came out.”

“Photograph. Right. Love that one,” Steve nods with a kind smile as he props his elbows on the counter. He doesn’t particularly care that he’s not entirely sure what you’re talking about, or that he’s never actually heard the song. He’s starting to realize you could talk for hours and he wouldn’t get bored.

“Oh, is that your favorite too? Eddie’s more of a Foolin’ kinda guy.”

Despite the fact that he’s never heard the song or this album in his life, he nods anyway. 

He sort of spent the first eighteen years of his life faking just about everything — it kind of came with being the King of Hawkins High. It’s a talent that hasn’t yet left him, it seems, lying through his teeth to impress people. It’s almost become a second nature to him.

“Foolin’s good, yeah, but I think Photograph is obviously better.”

“Obviously, right!” you exclaim with a sunshine-coated laugh. “That’s exactly what I told him! But he’s way too hard-headed to be wrong about anything, so…”

“Well, I’d like to put it on the record that I firmly agree with you,” Steve replies so smoothly that his tongue must be dripping with honey. It’s so easy for him to fall into King Steve mode — when he isn’t forgetting how to speak and running off, that is.

You’ve learned a lot Steve in the past half hour. He likes metal, but leans more toward rock. Particularly all the metal and rock that you like. He hasn’t once had a differing opinion than you, besides telling you he heard Eddie playing a Metallica song once that he didn’t particularly care for. The second you tell him it’s one of your favorites, he backtracks instantly, blaming the Munson boy for being too sloshed to play it properly.

And you don’t miss the way he’s looking at you just now either, with his chin toward his chest as he peers up at you with warm amber eyes. He’s the charmer that he always was. It makes you remember, again, just who you’re talking to.

“We have a lot in common, King Steve,” you lilt with a playful grin.

He deflates at the use of the old nickname. You see the light in his eyes flicker for a just moment before he’s ducking his gaze away from you completely. He tries to brush it off with a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not— I’m not really King Steve anymore…”

“No?”

“Nope. Just… Just Steve these days.”

When he looks back at you, he finds you nodding at him, almost in approval. 

Most people are upset to find that he’s changed so much. They hate that he’s no longer the recklessly stupid dumbass they used to get drunk with. 

Not you, though.

“Cool,” you mumble, smiling softly, as you hand him his bag and receipt.

“Uh, I’d love to, you know, come take a look at those tapes when you get ‘em in,” he says as he walks backward towards the door, finally making the brash offer he’s been thinking about this whole time. “Maybe I can bring lunch and we can—”

“Well, Hellfire’s been doing campaigns during lunch recently. And Gareth’s out sick, so I’ve been subbing for him, you know, so…” you interject awkwardly, shifting your weight on your feet. You hate to turn him down, but Eddie might just kill you if he has to get a substitute for the substitute.

“Oh…” he nods, softly puckering his plump pink lips that you can’t seem to stop staring at.

“But I don’t think they’re coming in until late, anyway,” you add quickly. “So, you can stop by at closing, if you want?”

“No, yeah, that’s cool. So cool,” he replies, a little more flustered than he’d been just moments before. He’s just happy that your rejection wasn’t a total refusal.

You try to bite back the wide grin threatening to take over your mouth. “Okay… I’ll catch you later, then, Just Steve.”

“See you,” he waves right before startling himself when he backs into the basket of clearance tapes sitting just beside the door. He barely catches the thing before it tips over completely. He flashes you a shaking smile afterward and finds you covering your mouth with your hand while you try not to laugh too loudly. 

He wishes you’d just went ahead and laughed at him. He wouldn’t have even cared that you were laughing at him, if it meant he got to see you smile.

And even though he’d just gotten done making the biggest fool of himself, he walks back to work feeling like the coolest man alive. There’s a foreign strut in his step that hadn’t been there before he saw you. It doesn’t leave him when he realizes he’s gone slightly over his break and that Keith is manning the counter in his absence.

The man mumbles a monotoned goodbye to the customer he’d just checked out.

She turns around and Steve realizes he recognizes this girl — Mindy or Mandy or maybe Monica — from Mr. Kaminsky’s class way back when. She did all of his homework for him before and after letting him fuck her on her twin-sized bed in her all pink room.  That’s when Steve was conquering girls like they were Mount Everest, way before Nancy, when King was a title he wore with pride. 

But he’s still so stuck in his head with thoughts of you that he doesn’t even see Mindy-Mandy-Monica or the flirtatious wave she throws his way.

“You’re ten minutes late,” Keith scolds, with his dead tone and his deader eyes.

Steve only shrugs, uncaring if it came out of his paycheck because — “I just got a date with the hottest woman on the planet,” he boasts with a puffed out chest and too smug smile.

It doesn’t lessen Keith’s anger, just diverts it. Because he knows exactly who he’s talking about. And so does Robin, as she pops her head out from behind the man from where she sits at the computer. “No way,” they chorus in disbelief at his words.

Steve nods. “Yes way.”

“Eddie’s gonna kill you,” Robin remarks with the shake of her head. 

He knows she’s right. He just doesn’t care. 

Eddie’s always been protective of you. Everyone knows that. But the two of them were friends now — or somewhat good-natured acquaintances, at the very least. He would’ve been mad about a year or more ago, if King Steve had decided to suddenly woo his best friend. 

But it’s different now. He’s different now. Eddie knows how much everything’s changed, it’s just a question of if he’s willing to rehash old wounds.

It’s a good thing Steve knows how to take a punch.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Don't take my heart, don't break my heart.

Steve finds you again the next day less happy than he’s gotten used to.

The record store is dim and the red sign at the entrance has been flipped to closed, but the door is left unlocked — for him. The warm scent is a distinct contrast to the frigid spring night, a cozy high hemp and lavender, but your absence is noticeable and terribly heavy. 

Steve lingers in the doorway, his shadow looming like a giant before him from the moonlight streaming in from outside. 

He calls for you in the emptiness.

“Uh… Punchy?”

He’s relieved when you answer. The “back here!” you shout to him is muffled and far away. He follows the sound of your voice, filled suddenly with a childlike consolation. 

The yellow fairy lights dangling over his head guide him through the aisles of cassettes and closer to you. Through a cluttered backroom, Steve finds you standing just outside an opened door — left ajar, for him.

The smile you flash when you see him is as dim as the closed-down store. It lacks all the sunshine you usually look at him with, shades of stormy gray rather than the usual yellows. 

A look of concern flashes across his features — furrowed brows and inquisitive twinkling eyes — as you take a drag from the lit cigarette caught between your pointer and middle finger. You muster your best grin, but it flickers like a shoddy radio signal. 

“Punchy, huh?” you tease.

Steve’s brows pinch together as confusion floods his features. It takes him a moment to realize what he’d said and the nickname he’d used — and he doesn’t want to be dramatic or anything, but he kinda wants to die. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to hold on to an old high school monicker. And, fuck, if you hate it half as bad as he hates being called king, he deserves a slap to the face right about now.

You laugh instead of ball your first. He’s able to smile meekly in relief. “Oh. Shit. Sorry, I… I don’t think I even realized it came out.”

“No, it’s okay,” you assure when you see him getting all apologetic. “Eddie still calls me that all the time, so… Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Steve tries to move on, but it’s hard to when you’re so obviously gloomy. He hates how reserved you’ve gone in your quiet, not talking up a storm like you had been the last time he saw you. Now you’re just… a storm. It’s a little like sitting next to a rumbling rain cloud.

The rumbling rain cloud beside him takes a drag of her cigarette.

“You okay?” he asks and sounds like he really cares.

You didn’t think King Steve was capable of caring about anything other than his hair, but he looks down at you like he can feel every blue bolt of your doom and gloom. He makes you feel seen in the void of your sadness despite all the years you spent being invisible to him.

“Uh, yeah. It’s just the tapes. They didn’t come in,” you answer with a shrug. Smokes leaves your mouth and lingers in white clouds in the air. “So I’m a little bummed.”

“Oh…” is all Steve says and his pink mouth forms a too pretty ‘o’ shape that you can’t draw your gaze from.

The following silence makes you momentarily cautious. Insecurity runs cold over you because no sane person gets this about upset over a broken promise of a couple cassettes. It’s stupid, you know it is, but you were really looking forward to them. It’s like promising a kid the most metal present ever and then snatching it out of their bare hands.

Now, over the course of a couple hours, you’ve managed to convince yourself you won’t remember happiness until you get those stupid tapes.

“Sorry,” you apologize to him for a reason he can’t place. You shift your weight on your feet and peer at him from beneath your lashes. “I know you were looking forward to them, too.”

You extend your hand and offer him the cigarette between your fingers like it’s an olive branch. He takes it from you with a distant smile, then opts to laze against the brick wall like you are. He stays a respectful distance on the other side of the entryway. 

“It’s okay. They’ll come. If I’m being honest, you know, I was kinda more excited to see you.”

His admission is brazen and a tad bit brash, even for a certified ex-douchebag. It lacks all of the usual honey-coated flirtation that usually tints his tone when he’s talking to a pretty girl. Because he wasn’t trying to make you swoon — though he certainly wouldn’t have minded if you had. This wasn’t some romantic advance, just a proclamation of his own personal truth.

A flash of shock contorts your features. “Really?”

“Of course,” he answers, breathing out a laugh that exits along with the smoke in his lungs. “I love talking to you. You’re… You’re cool, you know? S— Super cool.”

His face screws up at his stuttering, and he shakes his head at how the words sound leaving his mouth. His cheeks glow cherry red beneath an orange street lamp. 

“Super cool, huh?” you repeat with a giggle that’s bright enough to illuminate the velvet night. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before.”

Steve scoffs when he passes the cigarette back to you. Because, lately, that’s all he’s been hearing about you. From Eddie, from Robin, from Dustin — every good thing a person could say about someone else, they all say about you. 

He’s starting to understand why.

Because you’re sweet. Like, pure sugar poured on the tip of his tongue kind of sweet. You’re bright like sunshine and soft like summer rain. You’re a shot of pure espresso for a boy who thought his life was at a dead end. He’s not entirely sure how he ever could’ve thought you were some deep, dark, devil-worshipping freak.

“I don’t believe that,” he dismisses with the shake of his head.

You breathe out a sharp exhale and a puff of nicotine-coated smoke. “I’ve been the town pariah since I was eleven, Steve. Everyone thinks I’m some kinda delinquent who’s in a cult because I play a dumb board game. So, no. No one’s ever thought I was cool before.”

“Still?” Steve wonders with a twisted face. “You graduated, like, a year ago. Are... Are people really still on your ass about that?”

“A little,” you answer with a shrug, trying your best not to look as affected by it all as you feel.

Steve feels his chest swell with the fiery urge to protect you. The same one he gets when Dustin tells him about the assholes at school that are bothering him. He wants to defend you from the same sort of assholes that he used to be. The impulse is borderline primal, rooted somewhere deep and far within himself, because god knows he’s got a terrible track record when it comes to winning fights.

“Shit, Punchy… I’m— I’m sorry.”

You sputter out a laugh at the apology, louder when you realize he’s using the nickname again.

He can’t relate to any of this. The trials and tribulations of being persona non grata everywhere you went were certainly lost on him. Steve might’ve lost his touch somewhere down the road, but he’ll always be crown royalty — the kind of guy you think fondly of when your wonderyears are long gone. But you? You’re lucky if people don’t cross to the other side of the street when they spot you coming.

Perhaps that’s why his words warm you so much. Because, despite all that, he’s trying to make you feel better anyway.

You give him a tender smile and a dwindling cigarette. 

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s whatever, you know? I think it’s because I still hang out with Eddie all the time. Like, people see us and remember what fucking freaks we used to be,” you say with a laugh, then start to ramble without thinking. “We saw Tommy Hagan at Melvald’s the other day, and he looked at us like we caused him severe PTSD or something, like, he looked terrified. I honestly felt a little bad.”

Steve smiles, wide-eyed, equal parts intrigued and unsettled by the reminiscent glimmer in your eye and the daunting giggle that spills from your lips.

“But I wouldn’t leave Eddie, you know?” you blurt, suddenly serious, like you’ve taken offense at the very thought. “Not even if it meant people stopped being so mean. ‘Cause I love him and everything… Even though he’s a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, he’s a total pain in the ass,” Steve agrees and flicks the butt of the cig between his fingers. “He loves you too, though. I can tell. The asshole never shuts up about you.”

“He talks about me?” you ask, voice fragile and pitched higher than normal.

Steve doesn’t like the way you say it. He hates how you look at him even more, with a scrunched up face and eyes that flicker with embers of shock. Like you don’t believe it, like you think yourself unworthy of it.

“You’re all he talks about,” the boy assures, feeling so suddenly brave and wanting to make you feel brave too. He hands the cigarette back to you. “I don’t blame him. If I were him, I’d never shut up about you either.”

The contorted look of confusion on your face untwists itself, and your features fall flat with disbelief. A smile pulls slow at your mouth. Your eyes glitter an orange gold beneath the streetlight. They flit over to the boy beside you just long enough to take the stick from him.

“Steve Harrington…” you lilt, almost scoldingly so.

It makes him smile. “What?”

“Stop flirting with me.”

“Well, that’s very presumptuous of you,” he retorts playfully. “Who’s to say I was flirting?”

“So you weren’t then?”

“Maybe a little,” he shrugs with a knowing, practiced smirk. “Can you blame me?”

You don’t seem impressed by his not-so-subtle attempt at flirting, and he isn’t at all used to that. The bravado and the puppy dog eyes are his one-two punch — any other time, he’d have a phone number tucked safely in his pocket by now. But you’re not biting.

“I’m so not your type,” you dismiss with the shake of your head.

“Yeah?” he challenges, shoving himself off the brick wall with his shoulder and making the short trek over to you. He plants himself next to you, leans with one sneaker crossed over the other, and smiles with a playful twinkle in his eye. “And what’s my type?”

“Nancy Wheeler,” you answer without missing a beat. “Pretty girls.”

“Well, I think you’re very pretty—”

“Not like her,” you interject with a foreign firmness that Steve hasn’t seen from you until now. You’re still smiling at him, though, still kind but looking like you don’t believe him. Like you think this must be some kind of sick joke that he’s taking too far.

You can entertain Steve. You like Steve. Mostly because he’s totally different from the douchebag you remember him being — the douchebag you were expecting him to be. 

You find that he’s terribly clumsy and not overtly good with words. He says dumb jokes that don’t come out right and smiles in relief when they make you laugh anyway. He’s soft like peach fuzz or a fluffy cloud, mushy like warm chocolatey gooey goodness, and not at all like you remember him.

But then he does this. He morphs into something else, changes shape right in front of you. He smiles at you with little of his dumbassery behind it — all smirks and faux longing gazes with the intent of making you swoon at his feet. He grins down at you and all you see is the teenage boy who would’ve never looked at you that way four years ago. Hell, not even one. 

It reminds you of who he is, who he used to be, and who you are now. 

You haven’t changed so much since high school. You’ve matured a little, sure, but there was never an asshole exterior that you felt the need to outgrow. You’re still loud at times, unaware and ignorant of the world around you. You still play lightsabers outside Eddie’s trailer in between lengthy Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. You still pretend like the lingering glares from all the people you used to know don’t bother you. 

They do, though. They always have.

You look at Steve and you see this butterfly — someone made of rainbow colors and mostly mature. He’s growing, and you’re stuck in the same cocoon you’ve been wrapped in since freshman year, still fumbling around and trying to figure out where you fit.

He’ll always be the pretty butterfly he always was, with his pretty little iridescent wings that catch the light and all the attention. He’ll feed off the applause he gets while you’re sitting on the sidelines. The girl who’s destined to stay bundled in her cocoon forever only hears all of his praise — never watches, never receives.

“You and I are completely different people, Steve Harrington,” you declare with a grin that tells him you’ve already made up your mind.

The boy doesn’t get it, though, why you seem so upset by the idea. Him and Robin were completely different people. Him and Dustin were, too. The two people he adored — tolerated — most in the entire world weren’t a single thing like him, and it was better that way.

You don’t seem to share a similar philosophy, though. You take a drag from your mostly gone cigarette and mourn what could have been; if only he had been the town freak or you had been born the pretty girl next door.

“That doesn’t have to be such a bad thing—”

He’s abruptly cut off by the sound of muffled rock music and the bright yellow headlights of Eddie Munson’s van. The two of you shield your eyes when he whips into the desolate parking lot and parks in front of you. The sudden intrusion feels like being blinding like the sun after you’ve found such comfort within each other in the dead of night.

The stifled Def Leppard song — or maybe Poison, Steve can never quite tell the difference — is brought to a sharp halt when the engine shuts off. The headlights dim. The metallic slam of the driver’s side door sounds so much louder in the darkness.

Eddie rounds the front of his van and eyes the two of you rather suspiciously. The boy inhales deeply, puffing out his chest and splaying his hands on his hips. “…What’s going on here?” he squints at you.

You give him a terribly manufactured sunshine smile and bat your lashes his way, like you’re pretending to be un-innocent. “Nothing…” you sing-song.

Eddie rolls his eyes at you, then turns his attention to Steve. They’re not really strangers anymore, but he still feels the need to treat him like an outsider anyway.

“Harrington,” he says in the place of any real greeting. “Don’t you have other shit to do? Like, I don’t know, a shift as the mannequin at the GAP or something?”

Steve can’t find it in himself to get self-conscious about his fitted-sweatshirt, khaki-slack combo when the insult comes from a guy in a decade-old leather jacket, unwashed t-shirt, and ripped jeans.

“Very funny,” the brunette monotones. 

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” you ask when you turn and walk backwards towards Eddie, like there’s a gravitational pull dragging you to him.

You say it to be polite mostly, but you’re hoping for an affirmative — a promise that you’ll have another night like this one, where he sees you just to be seeing you. Hell, you’ll even take a nod if that’s all he’ll give you. And when he does, he gives you a tiny smile that almost makes you trip over yourself.

Fuck, you think to yourself, like your brain is talking to your heart. We just agreed not to do that.

Before you get in the van, you walk by Eddie and bring your cigarette up to his mouth. You coax the stick between his lips with your pointer and middle finger, opting to let him take the last couple of hits because he never turns down a free smoke.

The passenger door shuts once you’re tucked into the seat of it. The sound it makes punctuates your absence. Steve feels all of its emptiness.

He eyes Eddie from the distance, immediately noticing the darkened skepticism dancing in his dark eyes. 

The boy’s always felt the need to protect you. When the entire town got spooked about stories of some satanic panic and started treating you like monsters, he wanted to shield you from the boogeyman everyone turned into. 

Steve wasn’t one of them, the bad men. But Eddie loves you and it’s made him doubtful.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Steve feels the need to say, as though he’d been caught with his pants down and not just sharing an innocent cigarette with a friend.

Eddie takes the final few puffs of it and exhales rather dramatically, lips pursing to blow it in his direction though it’s too far away to hit him. The boy throws the filter to the concrete and extinguishes the ashes with the toe of his dirty sneakers. 

He waits until the white smoke has fully dissipated to speak.

“Damn right, it isn’t.”

That’s all he says. He doesn’t even look at Steve when he says it, or when he rounds the van and hops into the driver’s seat next to you. Steve squints when the too bright headlights come alive again in time with the roaring engine and dated rock music. His tires screech when he speeds out of the back parking lot. 

The tin can he drives nearly tips over when he turns too sharply onto Main Street.

Steve doesn’t get a chance to get a good look at you before you’re gone completely. It makes him all boyishly upset, knowing the hours without you will be most agonizing, but the empty feeling is eclipsed by the warm relief of not getting clock cleaned by Eddie Munson.

Damn right, it isn’t. Four words. That’s all he gets. But they’re daunting and coated with a lingering foreboding that feels almost like a threat.

So, by all accounts, Steve probably should’ve known there was no way Munson was ever going to back down that easily.

Eddie comes back the next day, a thundering storm cloud of the boy he usually is, head wild with curly hair and a million thoughts. 

The door dings far too gently for such an aggressive arrival. Metal bangs against metal as the handle collides with the window pane. He stomps to the counter in several quick strides, dark eyes darting around the half-empty store — obviously searching for something.

Robin, manning the front counter, is entirely unable to be threatened by him. The all black, chunky metal rings, and crazy hair stopped being so intimidating when she found out you called him Eddie Spaghetti. Now, it’s all she can think about when she sees him. 

Even as he stands ahead of her, obviously upset, all she sees is a very cartoonishly angry Eddie Spaghetti, and it takes everything in her not to laugh.

“Where’s Steve?” the boy finally wonders when he realizes the boy’s not in the front.

“Uh, he’s in the back, I think. Why?”

Eddie doesn’t humor her with an answer. He just storms past the counter and makes a b-line for the break room.

Robin watches him over her shoulder. “You’re not supposed to go back there!” she half-heartedly shouts, but makes no further effort to stop him from doing so.

He finds Steve working beneath the dim yellow light of the back room. There’s a warmed-up container of leftovers on the small round table on one side of the room and a stack of unorganized tapes on the counter on the other. Steve multitasks between both and hums something summery under his breath — The Beach Boys, maybe.

He’s too distracted to notice Eddie’s abrupt appearance. It’s the subtle click of the shut door that gets his attention.

Steve’s confused at first. His head snaps over his shoulder like a ghost must’ve closed the door on him. He realizes that it’s just Eddie, and he’s so innocently relieved that it’s almost humorous, then confused all over again. His brows pinch together and through the chicken tender jutting out his check, he mumbles: “You’re not supposed to be back here—”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Eddie interrupts in a monotone.

He swallows. It’s as thick as the tension that settles between the two of them, made heavier by the lengthy silence. He crosses his arms over his chest, stands up a little straighter, and bares his neck when he lifts his chin. “I want you to leave her alone.”

Steve scoffs and chews through his mouthful. “Leave who alone?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” Eddie squints with an unusual sort of seriousness. “I don’t want you messing around with her anymore, man. I’m, fucking— I’m so fucking serious right now.”

The clarification makes Steve laugh. He shakes his head and goes back to piling the myriad of tapes into organized stacks on the counter. “We were just talking, Eddie. I don’t need the lecture, okay?”

“We both know it’s never just talking with you.”

“What? Are you in love with her or something?” he retorts, trying to make a joke of it.

Eddie, for the first time in his life, isn’t amused. “Oh, god, get over yourself, dude. I know what kinda guy you are, alright? I’m not gonna let you hurt her.”

His words hit Steve like a pot of boiling water. It prickles his skin, leaving blisters and burning red blotches in its wake. He’s all but on fire with his anger, less offended by the accusation than by the person it comes from.

Steve and Eddie aren’t friends by any means. They’re just two guys with shared custody of a bunch of teenagers, bonded in their want to keep them all safe. But through their lighthearted animosity, is a sort of understanding: neither of them are the assholes the entire town claims them to be. Eddie isn’t apart of some satanic cult. Steve isn’t a douchebag that uses women as accessories. And that’s just a silent agreement they’ve both come to on their own terms. 

But now here they are, talking like it’s 1984 all over again and they’re strangers who hate each other’s guts.

“No. I’m not gonna hurt her. Because we’re just friends, Eddie.”

The boy just shakes his head. He scrunches his nose like he’s wincing, then laughs — a big, dramatic laugh that fills the tiny break room. He begins to pace, waving an accusatory ringed finger Steve’s way. “No, see… That’s the thing. I don’t think King Steve is capable of being ‘just friends’ with a pretty girl.”

Steve rolls his eyes with a heavy huff. He comes to the conclusion that Eddie’s just projecting and that there’s no use in arguing his case. He shoves a black VHS tape into its designated sleeve and slots it in with the rest of them, muttering under his breath, “I’m not King Steve anymore…”

“What?”

“I said, I’m not King Steve anymore!” he yells, a bit louder than he intended to.

He drives a tape onto the pile with an unexpected aggression. It hits the wall with a resounding thud. His arms flail wildly at his sides when he turns to face Eddie again. “God, you guys act like people can’t change! I’m not the asshole I used to be, alright? Jeez…”

Eddie exhales sharply through his nose in the place of any real reply. Deep down, he knows all that. He knows it’s all true because he would’ve never befriended him otherwise. Steve Harrington — the king, the rich kid, the douchebag — turned out to be a pretty damn good guy. 

And maybe if Eddie didn’t love you so much, he’d be able to wrap his head around all that.

But does. So he can’t.

He saw you two together the night before, sharing a cigarette behind The Groove — albeit a little too close for his liking — and suddenly, it was junior year all over again.

You’re stressed out about the ACT and college acceptance rates, none of your clothes quite fit you, and you’re trying out bold things with your makeup that don’t quite fit you either. You grin wildly up at Eddie through the vibrant lipstick smeared on your lips, laughing at his half-hearted attempt to cheer you up. 

And Steve is a senior, standing on the other side of the hallway — with his pretty clothes and prettier hair — and he lets all of his friends laugh at you. They make fun of your un-styled hair and the way your shirt makes your boobs look, and Steve doesn’t find any of it particularly funny but he lets them mock you anyway.

Eddie sees you together and forgets about the man Steve is now. All he sees is a boy who never stuck up for you, for either of you, who let his best friends make your lives hell because his reputation mattered more.

And it wasn’t like it was his job to defend you, because it wasn’t. Not really. It’s just that you would’ve done it for him, if the roles were reversed. Eddie, too. Neither of you would’ve let a lamb be led to the slaughter quite like that. It was the Hellfire motto, after all — to protect the little sheep from the creeping wolves.

That’s where the difference lies. It’s where the mistrust settles deep and where the root of all of Eddie’s worries lingers.

But Steve has done more to prove himself than Eddie likes to give him credit for. 

He takes care of a bunch of kids like it’s his job. He runs Robin to and from school most days out of the week, on time each morning — which, for a guy who showed up late every day for four years, was definitely saying something. He even comes to Eddie’s shows when he’s not too busy working the graveyard shift, never minding that he sticks out in his collared shirt and slacks — a pretty boy amidst a crowd of freaks.

Fuck. Steve Harrington was a pretty alright dude.

But you’re better than alright. You’re better than good. Better than perfect. 

If you got your heart broken, Eddie thinks he’d feel all of it times a thousand.

Steve’s been through his own kind of heartbreak, though. He’s slapped a bandaid over his own bleeding heart, and it’s made him soft. The good kind of soft — the kind where he sees a bug on its back and has to flip it over because it hurts too much to let it suffer. Eddie knows he’ll be that kind to you. Kinder, even.

“Yeah, you better hope so, Harrington,” the boy concludes with a slow nod of his wild head. He steals a chicken tender from the styrofoam box it sits in, like it’s some kind of power move, and waves it at him like a condemnatory point. “I hear you do anything — anything — to her… And your ass is grass.”

Eddie takes a hearty bite from the strip, then tosses it back into the container again. He spins on the ragged heel of his sneaker and stalks out of the break room, punctuating his absence with the slam of the door. The ancient thing gets lodged and doesn’t quite shut all the way, so he has to double back and shut it fully.

Steve is left dumbfounded, in more ways than one.

“…He just ate my chicken,” he mumbles to himself with a frown settled deep between his brows. But there’s a lingering tension in Eddie’s storming out — a tangible fog within his words that settles something heavy in the Family Video breakroom that doubles as storage. 

It feels almost like a blessing.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Won't escape my attention...

The more time you spend with Steve, the more confident you get. 

You visit him at work more often, caring less and less about bothering anybody when you realize they all wanted you there. You let yourself ramble in front of him, too, not stopping yourself nearly as often as you used to. Steve guesses you started to believe him somewhere around the millionth time he promised he liked hearing you talk.

You turn to glitter in his presence, becoming more unapologetically yourself and glowing with it — with all the things that used to make you insecure, things that King Steve would’ve made fun of you for some time ago. Everything you were scared made you too different, is why he liked you in the first place.

And Steve gets to watch it all play out right before his eyes. You inch slowly out of the protective shell you’ve built around yourself and bloom like springtime flowers. He’s grateful he gets to witness it, even more that you feel comfortable enough to do it all in front of him.

You’re hardly as timid as you usually are when you saunter into Family Video. Rather than tiptoeing in and apologizing for intruding, you burst through the front door with a beam and a high-pitched squeal. You’re as bright as every star in the galaxy combined; even dressed head-to-toe in black, you’re more blinding than the sun. 

Eddie’s leather jacket, either stolen or unenthusiastically lent from the boy himself, swallows your upper half. You wear a piece of Metallica merchandise beneath it. The thing is cut up to your ribcage. The jagged edges in the fabric, likely from a dull pair of kitchen scissors, tells him the chop was intentional.

A leather skirt clings effortlessly onto you, revealing the pudge of your stomach and the curves of your hips. The thing is donned with two spiked belts and several chains hanging loosely at your waist.

Steve is dozing at the counter with his chin propped on his first when you walk in. He’s half-asleep until he sees you. The shot of espresso that walks in makes him instantly forget how tired he is.

“Guess what?” you ask with wide, sparkling eyes as you skip to the counter with your hands behind your back.

Steve always hated that question. Usually, it came from Dustin or Robin — or, god forbid, both of them — followed by a “No, seriously. Guess.” It left him with no choice but to humor them until they ultimately caved and told him something he couldn’t have guessed in a million years.

He isn’t so annoyed now, though. In fact, he smiles. “What?” he replies.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, as though in a futile attempt to conceal the wide grin on your face, and take your hands from behind your back. You flash him the cassette tape you hold in the palm of them, a blue and yellow thing with the angled Def Leppard logo printed on the cover.

“No way!” Steve finds himself exclaiming like he’s the number one fan of the rock and roll band. He isn’t; never has been, really. But he is a fan of you. All of his excitement, all of his bright and shining smiles — they’re all for you.

“They came in last night— when I was off, of course— and I opened this morning and there was a whole damn tower of these tapes! I’m the one who does the tape towers, okay? Plus, I’ve been doggin’ my manager for weeks about the things, so I can’t believe they came in and no one told me, you know?”

Steve gets lost in your rambling right along with you, nodding because he never wants you to stop talking. His twinkling gaze follows you back and forth as you pace in front of the counter. You gesticulate wildly with your hands, nearly elbowing a customer when they get too close to the line of fire.

“And she was all like ‘I can’t control when they come in,’ And I was like ‘well, you can’t control when I come in either, I’ll be taking a long lunch now, thank you’—” you recount, albeit at a slightly louder volume that shocks anyone who doesn’t know you. People shoot you lingering side eyes from over the aisles.

Steve doesn’t care. He’s even happier that you don’t seem to either. You feel comfortable enough with him now to stop caring about the rest. When you stop yourself, you do it because you’ve said everything you need to say, not because you feel like you’ve annoyed him in some way. 

“Anyway,” you conclude with a sigh. “I wanted to run it to you personally because, besides Eddie, you’re the only person I know who cares as much as I do.”

You smile sweetly at him, peering at him through your lashes, so suddenly timid — no longer the boisterous girl lighting up the whole room. Steve notices that you do that a lot, go from loud and sunny to shy and glimmering. Eddie does it too, sometimes, but it’s not nearly as cute.

“My wallet’s in my locker,” he tells you when you hand him the tape. He cocks his thumb over his shoulder with his free hand. “Let me go grab it. I’ll be, like, two seconds—”

You reach over the counter and take him by the arm, wrapping chipped maroon nails around the crook of his elbow to keep him from straying too far. Shock coats his features at the suddenness of your touch and the way it makes him buzz.

You scoff. “Are you serious? I’m not gonna make you pay, you weirdo.”

“No?”

“Of course not! It’s a gift.”

“Well, gee, Punchy. Considered me flattered,” he concedes with a faltering smile.

You laugh at his half-hearted attempt to be charming.

He rests his crossed arms on the counter and leans over the top of it in an effort to be the slightest bit closer to you. He gazes up at you with honey eyes and raised brows and a big, dumb smile. “And, you know, flattery... it goes a long way with me.”

You arch an un-manicured brow at him. “Does it, now?”

“Yep. So much so, I’m willing to break a few rules and let you pick out a couple of movies. On the house.”

It’s dumb and it’s sweet and so terribly innocent. He wants to give you so much than that but he’s got about eighteen dollars to his name, so all he can do is offer you a few measly VHS tapes. It has you beaming like he just offered you the world.

“Steve Harrington,” you scold playfully. “I didn’t know you were so naughty.”

He falters. His resolve slips and, for no more than half a second, his brain forgets how to work. 

He’s not quite sure how you manage to do that to him all the damn time. You make his brain shortcircuit and his belly quiver and his vision swim. He’s known you for a while now, long enough that the lovesickness should’ve well worn off.

Steve’s worried that there’s no cure for you, that he’s in it for the long haul now — upset stomachs, heart palpitations, and all.

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” he shrugs and sways on his feet. “What’s your poison, Punchy? Molly Ringwald? Robert Downey Jr.? The John Hughes type?”

You can tell he’s joking. You squint over at him and rest your elbows on the counter top your face-to-face. 

The wintergreen mint on his breath makes your head swim. 

Your rouge-tined lips are so close he can taste them — he wants to, desperately so. 

You don’t miss the way his gaze flits to your mouth, lingering there for no longer than a blink.

“Try Night of the Living Dead,” you challenge. 

“That is so dreadfully on brand for you,” he manages to reply without much stuttering. He’s surprised he’s able to get any words out at all, with the way his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest.

“I’m nothing if not predictable.”

Steve doesn’t respond as he leaves the counter to get what you asked for. Silence is easier than saying that you’re the most surprising thing he’s ever met in his life.

When he returns, he brings the entire film franchise with him. All three movies are stacked in his arms and he scans the backs of them, hoping Keith won’t notice that they’re being rented free of charge.

“Have you ever seen them?” you wonder.

He shakes his head. “No. I saw one of them at a drive-in a long time ago, but I wasn’t exactly paying attention, if you know what I mean—” he answers with a soft laugh, quick to cut himself off. It was supposed to be a dumb joke, but both of you know what he was insinuating and it makes everything awkward. 

Robin would’ve slapped him on the back of the head if she were around to hear it. 

He would’ve deserved it.

“Well, you missed out,” you scold, not quite meeting his gaze. “They’re actually pretty good.”

“I’ll try and watch ‘em sometime then.”

“Tonight?” you offer suddenly.

Steve furrows his brows. “…Huh?”

“I mean, like— I don’t know… I thought maybe we could watch them tonight,” you stammer with your eyes turned down toward the counter, where you draw invisible patterns onto the granite with the tip of your finger. “Like, together… if you want.”

Steve is momentarily speechless. He’s spent weeks plotting how he was going to ask you out. It would come to him in waves. He’d feel like he’d concocted the most perfect, foolproof plan right before realizing there was no way in hell he could ever go through with it — all in the same fleeting thought. 

But here you are, biting the bullet for the both of you. 

He’s grateful. He thinks he’s dreaming.

“That sounds…” Steve trails off with the mindless nod of his head. “Yeah. No. Totally. That sounds… really cool.”

A wide smile pulls at the edges of your lips. You purse your mouth to the side in attempts to conceal it. “Cool,” you murmur all cool-ly, like his affirmation isn’t heaven to your ears.

“Uh, not to sound like a total douchebag or whatever, but my dad— he’s got this theater room and everything, and my parents are almost never home,” Steve rambles as he puts all three movies into a paper bag. Then his eyes go wide and his face glows cherry red. “Not like that! I didn’t mean it like— That sounded really weird… I’m sorry—”

You giggle at him, at the way he can pretend to be so suave, and then reveal all the marshmallow fluff he tries to keep hidden a moment later. “It’s okay, Steve. I got what you meant.”

He writes his address on a yellow sticky note with the Family Video logo printed in green at the very top. His handwriting is boyish and sloppy, the sign of a boy who never did care much about school. Some letters are connected, others far apart; some written too big, while others are too small. You find it endearing, but Steve knows it’s just because his hand was shaking something fierce.

He leaves his number written at the very bottom. Just for good measure.

“No funny business, alright, Harrington?” you joke, waving a ringed finger at him as you walk backward out of the store, heading back to your own job.

Steve bites back a smile. Once upon a time, he was all funny business. No girl was ever going to invite King Steve over and not expect some heavy petting. And he wants so badly to kiss you — fuck, he wants to kiss you all the time — but the want to spend innocent time with you eclipses all of those boyish feelings.

He yearns to be close to you. Like magnets. Or a moon and the ocean’s tide.

“No funny business,” he promises.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You keep your distance with a system of touch.

It isn’t until you arrive at the front gates of the Harrington home you realize you’ve never been in the suburbs of Hawkins before.

You grew up on the very outskirts of town, where there were more trees than people or houses. The block was half rundown already and horribly secluded. The only interesting thing about it was the winding trail through the woods that led to the anterior of Forest Hills trailer park.

That’s where you spent the bulk of your time, practically living with Eddie and Wayne in their one-bedroom trailer, until you felt guilty enough to go back home for a day or two. Your parents would inevitably remind you why you ran off in the first place, and then the cycle would start all over again.

It was all just far enough away from Hawkins that you could pretend like the town’s bullshit didn’t exist. The freak from the wrong side of the tracks didn’t belong on Maple Street or Fairview Road or Laurel Avenue. That was for people who could afford new shoes every school year, who could go clothes shopping and not feel guilty about cutting into their food money, who were set up with trust funds before they were even born.

But here you are now, on Fairview Road, seven o’clock sharp, and standing in front of the biggest house you’d ever seen. 

You ring the doorbell and flinch when it’s louder than expected. The chime is light and jaunty. You wonder if it’s been programmed for the change in season.

Steve answers no more than a couple seconds later. He swings both French doors open, arms spreading wide like the smile on his face.

He’s traded in his slacks for comfier jeans and his vest for a form-fitting sweatshirt he’s bunched at the elbows. You realize, then, that you’ve never seen him without the forest green Family Video jacket. It makes him look naked, almost, like a totally different person — no longer the dork who works a measly nine-to-five with his best friend and visits the freak next door on the off chance his manager won’t dock his pay for it.

The vest had humbled him to a certain extent. Now he just looks cool. Like the boy people would either praise or avoid like the plague, for fear of getting in King Steve’s path — just a little bit more mature looking now, with his chiseled jaw and scruffy chin.

It makes you feel a little stupid from where you stand on the porch ahead of him, wearing the same thing he’d seen you in earlier that day. He’s got no idea you spent the past couple of hours agonizing over what to wear. For the sake of not seeming crazy overzealous, you opted not to dress up. Now you’re scared he thinks you just didn’t care enough to.

But you do care. So goddamn much that’s it scary. 

You never had to worry about what you wore or what you looked like before you left the house, about what you had too much of and what you lacked. Now, it’s all you can think about.

If Steve notices anything at all, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps on smiling at you, too happy to see you to care about what you’re wearing. He’s just glad that you showed up.

Truth be told, he had a six-pack and Robin’s number on speed dial on the off chance you canceled on him. He was preparing himself to wallow in self-pity and spend the rest of the night ranting to his best friend about the bleeding heart he had for you. Because, as far as he was concerned, you were far too good to be true. 

You were beautiful and funny and kind and perfect. You treat him like you’ve known him for years, like he didn’t spend so many of them avoiding you in attempts to keep some measly title that didn’t mean shit. You were too perfect. Sometimes, Steve gets scared that he just made you up.

But whether you’re a dream come true or the real thing, you’re standing on his front porch anyway, with a smile and a bottle of grocery store wine. 

He saves the beer in his fridge and the wallowing for another day. 

Steve escorts you through his lavish living room and to the downstairs area that’s got a movie screen hanging on the walls and a couple of leather couches sitting in front of it. The coffee table in front of them holds a myriad of glass bowls — popcorn, various candies, and more popcorn.

“You planning on throwin’ a party down here, Harrington?” you tease with a soft chuckle, trying to conceal how your heart’s about to burst at the mere sight of it all.

“Well, I just— I didn’t know what you liked, and I didn’t— I wanted to make sure you had something to eat, you know,” the boy stammers out. He brings the palm of his hand to rub at the back of his neck. “So I just… I got… everything.”

“It’s a good thing a like everything then, huh?” you smile at him as you pluck a Red Vine from its dedicated bowl. You rip off an inch or two with your teeth and then talk as you chew: “I hope you’re prepared for all of this shit get eaten, Harrington. I can get quite ravenous.”

Steve nods to himself and tries not to smile too big. “Sounds entertaining… Maybe I’ll just watch you instead of the movie.”

It was supposed to be a joke. 

But then you settled down next to him on the couch, keeping a respectful distance but sharing the same fuzzy blanket, and he has to physically force himself to drag his gaze away from you. 

He was right about what he said before, you were far more entertaining than the black and white film projected ahead of him — grabbing handfuls of popcorn at a time and quoting the movie through the mouthful. 

It’s a tad bit barbaric, the faintest bit off-putting, and otherworldly levels of endearing. It leaves him virtually unable to take his eyes off of you. 

He didn’t think you could get more beautiful, but you keep on proving him wrong. 

He’s starting to realize he doesn’t know shit.

You’re slowly coming to the same understanding.

You’ve heard stories about Steve. Usually from gossiping cheerleaders standing in circles at their lockers or whispering in the back of a classroom. Doomed as the freak and all but banished from the inner society of Hawkins High, you became an observer. You were so invisible that people sometimes didn’t realize they were talking right over you, sharing secrets they wouldn’t want someone else to get a hold of. 

But apparently you were the exception. Because you weren’t a someone to them.

They talked about how kind he was, how well endowed, how they were meant to go on some stupid date but missed their reservation because Steve got a little too handsy beforehand, and how they spent the rest of the night with their hands shoved down each other’s pants at Lover’s Lake. 

You were seeing, firsthand, how much he’d changed. How he made his promise of no funny business and how he was sticking to it — no teasing you about the whole thing with a knowing smirk and flirtatious honey eyes, no urging to close this distance between you, no tiny touches on your arm or thigh in the hopes of heavier petting.

He spends the entirety of the first movie perfectly respectful. Just like you’d asked him to be. 

And it was nice, knowing that you weren’t wasting your evening with some asshole who was only spending time with you in the hopes of you putting out later. But it leaves you the faintest bit empty. Hungry. You long for his touch like a missed meal. Starving and feeling it all.

It’s not even heavy petting you want, you just want to feel him next to you — to press yourself into his side and to warm yourself with him like a blanket. 

But you weren’t a pretty cheerleader or a girl dripping in expensive clothes and daddy’s money. You were the weirdo, the freak, the loudmouth nerd, Punchy — all names you wore proudly, like lit-up signs or steel armor. 

Until now. 

Now you think if you weren’t Punchy, if were you someone different, then maybe he’d want to touch you more.

The first hour and thirty-seven minutes of your favorite movie are strangely agonizing. 

Your hands itch with the desire to touch the boy next to you, and they busy themselves with the bowls of candy and savory junk food splayed out on the table in front of you. It’s mindless more than it is anything. You’re absentminded binging does nothing more than half-distract you from the thoughts raging rivers in your skull.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it until your hand falls into an empty bowl of popcorn and finds nothing but kernels at the bottom of it. 

It makes Steve laugh, thinking you were just too into the movie to notice — having no idea it was him taking up all your brain power. 

He leaves to fix more snacks for you while you slip the second VHS into the movie player. He returns with a bowl of freshly popped popcorn and two beers after the wine bottle has been sufficiently emptied. When he plops down next to you again, it’s in the same spot he’d been sitting in all night — a couple of excruciating inches away.

Under the guise of sharing the popcorn in his lap, you make the too bold decision to slither in at his side. It’s innocent at first — your thighs just barely graze and your elbows bump when you dip your hands into the bowl. And it’s still innocent some thirty minutes later, when you find yourself resting your head on his shoulder with your legs curled up behind you.

Steve tenses when he feels your temple pressed against him, but only for a moment before he relaxes again. It makes him all suddenly warm and self-aware of every movement he makes. He tries not to breathe too heavy or shift too often, for fear it might jostle you too much. He doesn’t want to stop feeling you against him like this, even if it’s got his skin prickling with a searing form of anxiety.

“Don’t tell me you’re falling asleep,” he jokes.

“Of course not. It’s way too riveting,” you scoff, even though he can feel you cuddling further into him. Your cheek rubs against the soft cotton of his sweatshirt when you look up at him. He turns his head to peer down at you and his nose nearly grazes your forehead. 

He finds you with a certain glint in your eye. It’s borderline playful, like it so often is, but coated with a sweetness that drips over him like honey. “You like it so far?” you wonder.

“Yeah,” the boy nods quickly. He couldn’t tell you what had happened the past two-and-a-half films, but he could tell you how your jaw tenses when you chew and how your smile curls just before you laugh out loud and how your eyes widen every time you quote the movie. “It’s really good. I like it.”

You beam at him before turning back to the projector again. You shift to get more comfortable against him. “Good.” 

By the third movie, you’re somehow even closer.

Truth be told, Day of the Dead wasn’t your favorite in the trilogy, so it left your mind wandering to far off places — namely, the pretty boy sitting beside you. He goes to put the tape into the projector, feeling immediately cold without pressing into his side, and when he returns he tries his best not to beg you to cuddle against him again.

“My shoulder’s gettin’ real cold over here,” he tries to joke. 

You see right through his beckoning, though. It makes you happy to know he wants it just as much as you do. 

“Just say you wanna be next to me, Harrington,” you tease like you aren’t happily obliging him. You snuggle into his shoulder and rest your head against him while your arms curl around his bicep.

“I wanna be next to you,” he repeats, a playful smile on his lips though his gaze softens with sincerity. “Is that so bad?”

You shake your head against him in reply. Suddenly as mushy as the boy beside you, you turn to look up at him. “Not unless it’s bad that I wanna be next to you, too…”

“Nah. It’s not bad,” he assures in something short of a whisper. “Guess I’m just glad I’m not the only one that’s so far gone.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what he means by that. He doesn’t have to.

Perhaps it’s the admission that this boy is so far gone for you that gives you a sudden burst of confidence. Maybe it’s the comforting feeling of being seen, of knowing you’re no longer alone in your similar far gone-ness. Each feels like rays of sunshine to your skin and has you pressing your lips to his wanting ones without much thought. 

The plump pink of his mouth are magnets for yours. They meet and lock together with little effort, almost destined to do it. It’s a soft, meager, and lingering little peck that sucks you both in a little too easily. It’s hard to pull away from him, but when you do, your lips click in protest.

Then there’s a look, then a deafening silence that says more words than either of you were capable of forming in that moment. His amber eyes dart between both of yours, asking a question without saying a goddamn thing. One that you answer with your own softening gaze. 

And it’s almost better than the kiss itself, the swirling feeling in the pits of your stomach, the knowing of what’s about to happen.

A silent plea and a blink later and his lips are on yours again. 

It’s an awkward mess of yearning mouths and tangled limbs as the both of you fight to find purchase on one another. Your fingers knot in the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him impossibly closer, while his grip the bare skin of your waist from where your shirt had ridden up. His touch makes you buzz, like a static shock or a bolt of lightning.

Steve makes several observations when he feels you melt into him like honey on toast. He notices how you press yourself into him, like you won’t be satisfied until you’ve swallowed him whole, and how it has you kissing him like you’re scared he’ll pull away — like you’ll open your eyes and he won’t be real. 

You’re as domineering against his mouth as you are in real life, still as all-consuming and overpowering as the girl he’s gotten so familiar with.

He doesn’t realize how you’ve settled so intently on top of him until his back meets the pillowy cushion of the leather couch. You don’t either, until he exhales a sharp gasp against your cupid’s bow. Then you part from him, for the first time in several minutes, breathing in the oxygen your lungs had just begun to scream for. 

Steve finds you with kiss-bitten lips and glassy eyes that look upon him with a softness that he didn’t know existed until now. He smirks with his own swollen and pinker mouth like he isn’t glowing red beneath you. 

“I thought you said no funny business,” he manages to tease through bated breaths.

You don’t bother to make up excuses for yourself. You’re already on top of him, all over him — you’ve already kissed him like you would’ve died if you hadn’t. Now, you’re straddling him, caging him between your legs and under your torso. You’ve settled on top of him with a comforting weightiness, like you’re building a home in the familiarity you’ve sought in him.

“I lied,” you mutter with a lazy shrug. A sly smile pulls slowly at your lips until you’re all but beaming sunbeams down at him. He revels in your warmth. “’S not my fault you’re so damn cute.”

It’s easier to blame it on him for all the reasons you’re attached to him like a magnet to his metal, your moth to his flame. You part his lips with your mouth, rut your tongue against his own, reveling in the foreign familiarity of it all, and then blame him for the way you can’t seem to stop any of it.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. The way his hands find purchase on your hips, petting the warmed skin there and sometimes squeezing to pull you further down onto him, tells you that he has a similar yearning to melt with you. He lets you kiss him all slow, allows you to taste all of him, and doesn’t rush you in your process. It’s comforting, tender. Free.

He’s not used to being on his back like this. Usually, he’s the one taking control. It’s his mouth that does all the work. So, it’s strange to be under you and to have you above him. But it’s more pleasant in an even stranger way not to be rushed — not to have to do all the work. His mouth opens so obediently for you and finds an effortless rhythm with your lips and your tongue. 

It’s the easiest thing he’s ever done in his life, kissing you. 

He delights in every ounce of the warmth and unfamiliarity you press to his mouth, and tries to shove down feelings of unworthiness that simmer in his chest while you do so.

You don’t part until your mouths are numb and tingling with it. 

Your lips are more vibrant in their color, aflame and swollen from being so ardently kissed and sucked and bitten. Neither of you mind making out like a couple of teenagers. It’s comforting to know that things won’t go further than a couple soft touches on burning skin. It was never supposed to be anything more than that, anyway. It was just about being close to each other.

You’ve almost succeeded in your effort to melt into the boy beneath you, when you hear the distant sound of a door opening and closing again. Muffled voices follow — unknown to you but obviously familiar to him. 

You part from him without thinking, like you’re a couple of kids again who’ll get in trouble if your parents ever found out what you were doing down here. Steve groans at the loss of you and in annoyance at the sound of his parents. His heavy eyes fall shut and his head leans back to the couch cushions as he fights to swallow down all of his anger.

His parents never really come around these days. They’ve got a bigger home in the city, closer to his dad’s work, and they choose to stay there most days of the week — month. 

They used to make excuses for why they left their only son behind. It’s five minutes from your dad’s firm. There’s more opportunity for your mom’s real estate business. Oh, don’t be so selfish, Steven, you’ll finally have the place to yourself. It’s a win-win for all of us.

Steve didn’t want their excuses. It was actually easier with them gone. 

But they come around every now and again, whenever it’s most convenient for them, and treat their arrival like something that needs to be celebrated. Like they aren’t supposed to be with their child in the fucking first place. And they somehow manage to pick the most inconvenient times for him, like they know he’s in a bind and want to see him struggle to get out of it.

Usually, it’s when he’s in between paychecks — when they want to take him out to some fancy dinner he could barely afford anyway, but especially when he’s hardly making it until payday. Now, it’s when he’s got the prettiest girl he’s ever seen on top of him, and he’s all hot and half-hard. Steve doesn’t want to let them ruin the moment, as good as they are at it.

“It’s okay. They won’t come in here,” he assures when he feels you tense at the unexpected company. “My mom will go to the bedroom and my dad will go to his office. We’re good, I promise.”

You figure he’s right. The voices grow more and more distant. Heeled shoes click up and up the stairs while heavy stomps head the opposite way. But you’ve already been so woefully knocked out of your stupor that you’re scared it’s too late.

Your lips are numb and the credits are rolling and you’re on top of this beautiful boy and you have no idea how you got there.

It’s almost frightening, the way Steve had consumed you mind, body, and soul by just existing next to you. You become dreadfully hyperaware of the whole thing — of who you are, who he is, and what you’re doing. You lose all your softness and turn to ice, hardening and shrinking back into yourself.

“I should—” you start before clearing your throat when the words come out heavier than expected. “I should head out anyway.”

“Oh,” is all Steve can say. “Right.”

You stare down at him, chest still pressed against his, nose nearly touching the tip of his own. “I just— I have to open tomorrow and everything, so—”

“No. Yeah. Yeah, I— I get it.”

You make tricky work of untangling yourselves.

His legs twist with yours when you both try to rise from the couch at the same time. Then your ring gets stuck in the fabric of his shirt, but not before his belt buckle gets somehow caught in yours. It’s like fate is protesting the imminent parting, but neither of you are paying attention to the signs.

He walks you to your car and chuckles under his breath as you scurry to the front door. 

You’re not-so-distantly terrified of running into his parents. They probably wouldn’t mind that he’s sneaking around with a girl, surely that they’re used to, but you’re almost certain they’re not used to girls like you. Girls with wild hair and leather skirts and chunky boots and too bold makeup. 

You’re not the girl next door. You’re the girl parents warn their sons about. “Leave that girl alone,” they say. “She’s nothing but trouble.”

You tell him all of this on the short trek to your half-broken-down car when you catch him laughing at you about the whole thing. You say it in jest, lighthearted and trying to make a joke of it. But there’s an underlying melancholia to your tone that reveals every truth you’re trying to evade.

“They don’t care enough about me to give a shit about a girl I’m with, I promise,” he confesses with a laugh that sounds more like a sad scoff than anything else. His chocolate eyes turn gold beneath the yellow street light. He smirks at you. “Besides, I don’t know if I told you this or not, but my middle name is actually trouble, so… I think we might be a match made in heaven.”

You roll your eyes at his attempts to flirt with you, though his lack of finesse makes you smile. “You’re an idiot, Steve Actually Trouble Harrington.”

“You really know how to say goodbye, don’t ya?” he grins when you reach the curb where your tin can car sits. 

“Yeah, I’m pro,” you shrug with a teasing glint in your eye, then you beam. “I’ll see you around, ‘kay?”

“Totally,” he nods, suddenly forlorn at having to leave you like he hadn’t just spent the past four hours with you.

Themetallic click of your car door opening sounds much louder in the emptiness of the suburbs. You glance at the boy right before you sink into the driver’s seat, feeling your heart swell with something short of yearning — anticipation. 

You weren’t actually a professional at saying goodbye, you find, because you’re realizing how hard it is to leave him.

“Steve!” he hears you shout from across the lawn when he’s halfway up the drive. 

He turns around, expecting to hear you tease him some more or tell him you were having car troubles. Neither would’ve shocked him. You’ve got a smart mouth and a shittier car. But you keep on surprising him, all but launching yourself into him before kissing him harder than he’s ever been kissed before.

Steve tenses against you at first, then relaxes again in record time. He sighs in the comfort of having your body pressed so intently into his and your arms wrapped around his neck to pull him somehow closer. 

You feel the breath of his exhale fan against your cupid’s bow. It makes you smile, and he feels the expression contort against his lips. His hands rise to the widest part of your hips without thinking. It’s all muscle memory now.

And even though he’s spent the better part of an hour kissing you, this one is so obviously different. This wasn’t just to pass the time. This was more than just to feel him — it was to tell him something. He hears every word you don’t say, but rather press like a stamp to his mouth.

He’s breathless when you pull away. You meet his flushed face with a mischievous grin.

“What was that for?” he wonders breathlessly, but doesn’t waver with his hold on you. He quickly notices that yours doesn’t either.

You shrug in response. “‘Cause you’re pretty.”

“Yeah, well…” he tries to play off like he’s not blushing like crazy. “You’re pretty too.”

Your beam ebbs into a teasing, tightlipped smirk. “Stop flirting with me, Steve Harrington.”

You shove him away with a rougher hand than you realize before you walk away from him. Steve rubs at the ache in his chest with the palm of his hand.

Your playful teasing and your lingering kiss is the only thing Steve has to remember you by when you turn on your chunky heeled boot and head off down the driveway again. He’s frozen, mesmerized by the sight of you and reeling at how you manage to drive him crazy without trying.

Your eyes find him again just before you duck into your car, and you see him still looking at you — mouth agape and eyes wide like you’re some kind of rare find. You figure you must be, in some way. Girls like you aren’t supposed to like guys like him. Vice Versa. Tale as old as time.

The boy stays locked in his stupor until the sprinkles whir on. The spurts of freezing cold water spray all over him and his pretty hair and expensive sweatshirt and his vintage jeans. “Shit!” you hear him swear as he rushes for cover on his front porch. 

He’s quickly soaked and freezing cold, but he smiles anyway when he hears the sound of your giggling behind him. It’s as animated as your personality and spills from your mouth like so many rays of sunshine, just a little too loud for the quiet midnight suburbs. 

It’s perfect, he realizes. You’re perfect. 

[lovebugism]

hi hello "love you on purpose" absolutely devasted me with it's cuteness and i cannot wait for part two!!!! 💗

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (ii)

part one | part two

summary: steve can't seem to stay away from the local freaks. he's more surprised to find himself falling for one of them. you have trouble believing that someone like him could want you in the first place. he wants to prove to you that he's not king steve anymore. (18k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, slight angst, hurt to comfort (sorta), fem!reader TW smut 18+, lots of intimacy and affection and awkwardness, p in v sex, talks of insecurities, reader has an allison reynolds-esque transformation but with a better ending (outfit inspo x, x), probable typos

a/n: welp. here it is. the final part of this 30k+ word fic. it was very fun and very painful to write and i'm very glad it's finally done and out in the world! thanks for all the love on the first part btw reading all the feedback has easily been my favorite part of writing this <3 with that being said, get comfy, get a snack, and enjoy! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Falling over you is the news of the day.

If yearning had a shape, you’re pretty sure it’d look an awful lot like you. 

The clumsiest of humans, fresh into her adulthood but still feeling like a child most days. Soaking wet, born yesterday. A caterpillar weaving her cocoon and trying to figure out where she fits in the world. The girl who decides she belongs right next to this big, boisterous, multi-colored butterfly she couldn’t stand a year or more ago.

And Steve Harrington, he was… Well, he was the kind of poem people spend their entire lives trying to write. 

He was the perfect mixture of beauty and warmth, of mystery and obscurity — the line where the pink of a sunset meets the purple of a starry night. He was all of this rolled up into a twenty-something-year-old boy. A fumbling butterfly that’s getting used to his new wings.

Maybe if you were talented enough, you could write the thing yourself. There’s something powerful in knowing that you could compose some dainty requiem so much bigger than yourself. A beautiful thing that would stand the test of time because there would never be anything else like it. 

It wouldn’t be because of you, though. You passed Ms. O’Donnell’s English class by the skin of your teeth, so your writing leaves much to be desired. It would be your muse that would enamor the masses come the next several centuries, because there will never, ever be another Steve Harrington.

At the very core of this poem would read a universal truth: I have fallen in love with his enigmatic being, and now I’m dealing with the consequences.

Well, you’re trying to deal with them, at least. You’re not having a very easy go at it.

Most of the time, you feel like a thousand bricks have piled on top of you. The jagged edges scrape up your arms and press varying shades of purple into your skin. They crush you underneath their weight, but you don’t try too hard to climb out from under them. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

You feel a little stuck underneath all the feelings you have for Steve. 

You’re not quite sure what to do with them all. They’re too heavy to lift; there’s too much of them to crawl out. It all leaves you feeling a bit trapped. 

It’s a good kind of trapped, though. 

Once the hurt passes, the weight starts to feel like you’re being swaddled in a blanket. Or a cocoon. 

As scared as it makes you, as overwhelmed as you feel, you don’t want this puppy-like adoration to end.

But sometimes, the scrapes sting more than they usually do. The scabs split and start to weep. The faded bruises turn purple again, then to blue and black, and they ache all over. They remind you that girls like you don’t end up with guys like Steve, and the harsh realization turns the comforting weight of being in love into feeling like you’re being buried alive.

Steve is a pretty boy. He’s a rich, prettyboy who wears vintage jeans and drives a new Beemer and has never wanted for anything in his life.

And you’re… whatever the total opposite of that is.

You wear whatever’s cheapest at the thrift store or what Eddie lets you steal from his closet. You drive a rust bucket that belonged to your dad until he lost his license, so the thing practically rotted in the backyard until you got yours. And all you’ve ever done is want for things because you’ve never had anything.

And the one thing you want the most is something you’ve never been able to admit to anyone. Not even Eddie. Not even yourself. 

Screw new clothes or a car fresh off the lot. You don’t want popularity — you don’t even want money (though it certainly wouldn’t hurt). You want so desperately to be loved that it makes your bones ache.

All you want is someone to hold your wrists and kiss your palms, to cradle you when the thunder is too loud and the cracks of lightning make you shake, to be a hiding place where you can keep every secret and be certain it stays safe.

You want someone to smile at you the way Steve smiles at you. You want to feel held the way he makes you feel held — without ever touching you. You want to feel wanted the way he makes you feel wanted.

You want Steve. 

And you’re not sure how long silly love songs will substitute your yearning.

“What do you think about Steve?” you ask Eddie out of the blue.

He was in the middle of a rant about his latest campaign, but you hadn’t heard a single word of it if you’re honest. The butterflies in your stomach were too loud.

The boy sits across the room at his desk, back hunched, while he scribbles ideas into his tattered Dungeons and Dragons composition journal. You’re sprawled out in the middle of his bed like you have been for the past hour, making constellations of Steve’s face from the marks on his ceiling.

“I think he’s an asshole,” Eddie answers without missing a beat.

It makes you roll your eyes. You shouldn’t have expected anything less out of him, really. You toy with the frayed hem of your crop top and rephrase. “Okay, but do you think he likes me?”

“I know he likes you,” he scoffs. “That’s the problem.”

You smile widely to yourself, then purse your lips to the side to keep it hidden. There’s no one looking to see you grinning like an idiot, but it doesn’t make you feel any less like one.

“He wants to take me on a date tonight,” you confess out loud for the first time.

It wasn’t like you to keep something like that from Eddie. Or anything. At all. But you found yourself hiding it like some kind of dark secret. A distant part of you was terrified that it was all in your head, but it’s been three days since Steve asked you now. Which means you’ve spent three days pinching yourself.

You haven’t woken up yet.

“Like, a date date,” you clarify and rise on your elbows to study the boy across the room. 

You feel the need to explain yourself because movie nights and rides around town and hanging out in the break room after closing don’t feel nearly as serious as Steve wining and dining you. It feels much more official now, as though the line between liking someone and like-liking them has been drawn.

“And I’ve never been on a date date before—”

“What about the one time you went out with, uh…” Eddie trails off as he aggressively erases something on his paper. He stills and squints over his shoulder at you. “What was his name? Matt? Marcus?”

“Mason,” you correct and try not to shudder at the memory. “And I left him at the restaurant because he asked me how big my boobs were within the first ten minutes, so he doesn’t count.”

A grin pulls at the boy’s face. He chuckles to himself. “Oh, yeah.”

“And I know I shouldn’t be so nervous about it ‘cause it’s just a dumb date, like… We’ve been alone together a billion times now, you know? It’s just…” you ramble in one breath, then trail off with a huff. You flop back onto the mattress rather dramatically. “Steve Harrington doesn’t date girls like me. He dates girls like Nancy Wheeler. And, as far as I’m concerned, they were a matching made in fucking heaven— I mean, I didn’t know them back then or anything—”

“Obviously,” Eddie murmurs. “That was a train wreck.”

“—But they looked fucking perfect together, Eds!”

The image of them walking the hallways of Hawkins High isn’t hard to picture. You can still see Nancy in her pretty pleated skirt and pink manicured nails and Steve with his stupid hair and brand new Ray-Bans. They owned the school like their parents owned Hawkins — it was practically kismet. 

You try to picture him and you together, and it doesn’t come as effortlessly. 

It’s like trying to wedge pieces from opposites puzzles together; it just doesn’t work. 

And it’s different from anyone Steve’s ever dated. It’s different from anyone you’ve ever dated. People look at him and his pretty girlfriend and gush, “oh, wow, they look good together.” People look at you and a guy with smudged eyeliner and heeled boots and whisper in disgust, “oh god, they deserve each other.”

You won’t get any of the kindness that Steve is used to, only stares from strangers as they try hopelessly to figure out whether or not you’re dating — because surely, he wouldn’t stoop low enough to date someone like you.

“And I don’t wanna…” you waver, trying and failing to put your fears into words. “I don’t know, I guess I’m just scared.”

Eddie shakes his head to himself. “You don’t need to be scared, okay?” he mumbles, his attention still turned down to his notebook.

“Oh, thanks, Eds. I’m cured,” you monotone.

“I just mean that—” he cuts himself off with a deep sigh and swivels in his chair to face you completely. “Steve’s a douchebag, alright? But he’s a good douchebag.”

Your brows furrow. “…What?”

“He used to be an asshole and everything, but… I don’t know, I guess he turned out to be a pretty good guy— and if you tell him I told you that, I will kill you,” Eddie explains in one breath. The half-hearted threat spills from his mouth,and he goes suddenly soft. “He’s not gonna hurt you, okay? I promise. I mean, the guy’s practically a fucking teddy bear.”

A smile pulls slow at your lips. 

It’s the nicest thing you’ve ever heard him say about Steve, despite having been friends with him for nearly a year now. The foreign kindness comforts you well enough. If Eddie didn’t think Steve was every bit the good douchebag he says he is, there’s no way he’d let you go anywhere near him.

“Yeah?” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he echoes with a huff, obviously upset about having to admit such a truth. Then he shrugs. “And if he does hurt you, I’ll beat him up. Which, with his track record, I’m guessing it wouldn’t be too difficult.”

A laugh tumbles from your mouth. “Thanks for looking out, Eds.”

He only grumbles in response.

And even though he complains the entire time, he drops you back off at your place and helps you agonize over what to wear. He sits on your bathroom counter to keep you company while you shower, then holds your makeup bag in his lap while you get ready. He only comments once about how differently you’re doing it.

Then the boy lounges on your bed, legs crossed and back propped on the headboard while you rifle through your closet. In true Eddie Munson fashion, he’s got something to say about everything you pick out.

Your white sweater is too tight, he tells you, and the fuzzy texture feels too weird. The plaid skirt you pull from the depths of your closet is too “christmas-y” and “totally not your color.” He tells you he likes your boots better as he helps you with the finicky buckle of your Mary Janes, then snaps the band of your knee-highs when he stands again.

Eddie tells you all of this because it’s easier to tease you than to say what he really thinks — that it feels like you’re in high school again and trying out styles that don’t suit you.

He loved you the way you were, in black and leather and silver chains and fishnets, because he knew that’s what you felt good in. You found your identity in your unconventional style and you sparkled in it.

And you were still pretty like this, dressed in brighter colors and looking like the girls that used to bully you in high school, but it’s so obviously not you. More than anything, it irks him that you’re doing all of this for Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

But Eddie knows that you’re nervous — he can tell by the way you’re talking a thousand miles a minute and checking your appearance in the mirror every couple seconds like something might’ve changed. He also knows that you’re still skeptical about this whole thing. Because you have no idea that Steve looks at you like the whole world could crumble around him, and he wouldn’t even blink.

You don’t know that you have nothing to worry about.

So Eddie figures he’ll wait to make fun of you. Save all his teasing remarks for when you’re gushing about the date the next day.

But you’re already aware of all this — how different you look. You hardly recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. You’ve traded in your shades of black for something brighter. Your blowsy hair is clipped back out of your face. Your makeup is more conventional and modest than you’re used to.

You look less like the freak you usually are and more like a wild thing that’s been tamed.

You feel pretty. 

Or, at the very least, the idea that Steve will think you’re pretty makes you feel pretty.

It makes all the imposter syndrome worth it. 

You stand in front of the full-length mirror and tug the scratchy socks up and over your knee when they start to slip down. You rise once more, giving yourself another once over, then nod in approval — pleased with the costume you’ve put on.

A fleeting through with a mean, green, bleeding heart and a mind of its own scratches bitterly at the confines of your skull.

Eat your heart out, Nancy Wheeler.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The ghost in you, she don't fade.

Steve, riddled with chronic feelings of inadequacy, overcooks the chicken and spritzes too much cologne on himself.

He had always been the kind of boy that loved things a little harder than he should’ve. 

Ask any plant he’s ever owned that he accidentally killed with every leaf he overwatered, frightened that anything less would be neglectful. He was always so scared of them dying that he suffocated them until they wilted anyway.

He thought he might’ve grown out of all that until he realized he did the same thing with Nancy. 

He squeezed her too tight and she squirmed at his smothering, called him bullshit and pushed him away so she could breathe again, then stomped on his heart until she was certain it stopped beating for her.

And therein lies the state of limbo Steve Harrington has lived in all his life — between loving something too much and not enough. He hasn’t yet found that balance that stops plants from dying and people from running away.

He isn’t quite sure how to be anything other than the man he is now. 

His conscious clings to your every move. He thinks about when he’s awake, and when he isn’t, he hopes he’ll be lucky enough to dream about you. He bothers you at work all day, then asks if you want to go for a ride when you’re off because he hates being away from you. The nights get too cold when you stray too far. And even though he’s never been much of a chef, he offers to cook for you because he wants to show you he cares enough to try.

Steve’s the kind of guy that overcooks his chicken because he’s terrified that you’ll get sick if it’s not done enough. He’s the kind of guy that douses himself in cologne, then breaks the bottle because he’s terrified of not smelling good enough. He wants everything to be enough for you. 

Steve Harrington, for once in his life, wants to be enough for somebody. 

But now all he is, is a stupid boy that never learns, who smells like he’s trying to overcompensate for being a terrible, terrible chef. 

When Nancy broke his heart, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to be this person again. Steve was scared he’d become someone he didn’t recognize — someone who didn’t care enough to water plants because, hey, they’re gonna die anyway, right? Because he gave and gave and gave, and had nothing to show for it but a stupid wilting flower.

Steve made a dark room of his broken heart. A boogeyman lived there, too. It made him scared that he’d never be able to love someone like he loved Nancy.

But then you came out of nowhere — this beautiful, loud, and mysterious thing that exudes every color of the rainbow when she laughs, despite her blacker-than-black wardrobe. You smile at him like you’ve never been hurt, like a sun that’s never known the night. It makes him feel like he can be that too.

The two of you seek a similar solace in one another. You fill each other’s voids without effort and without trying, like puzzle pieces or halves of an orange.

Steve met you and he realized that he didn’t get his ability to love from Nancy. He had always been a lover, a boy who could love something deeply, and that didn’t go away when she broke his heart.

And sometimes it was awful. It was painful and frightening more than it was anything else — love. It was doubtful and envious and distant. 

Love makes you selfish and creepy and uncharacteristically overbearing. Love makes you worry about your hair and overcook your chicken and drench yourself in cologne. Love takes a hell of a lot of hope, and that’s what he feels like when he’s with you — hopeful. Like he’s never been hurt before.

A surge of optimism and apprehension hits him like a bolt of purple lightning just behind his ribcage when the doorbell rings. Mostly because he knows you’re waiting on the other side of it. His hands shake when he opens the door, but not because he’s scared. He’s just full of hope and buzzing with its foreign intensity.

Steve finds the rest of his life standing on his front porch, dressed in all the trappings of his past.

You’re smiling wide when you see him, the same whizzing ball of hope that he is now, and clutching a bottle of wine. You’ve traded your usual grocery store alcohol for something bottom shelf from an actual liquor store. The sunshine grin you’re wearing is about the only thing familiar about you now.

With your hair pulled back, brows combed neatly to match the pretty makeup you’ve spotted gingerly on your features, dressed in foreign colors with knee-high socks and kitten heels — you look nothing like yourself. It’s a costume you’ve got on, still so pretty but pretending in some way.

It has Steve startled for a moment, thinking Halloween came a whole six months earlier and he never got the memo. Then he realizes you must’ve gotten all dressed up for him, even though you never had to. Just like he didn’t have to try and play chef to impress you.

Both of you are just stupid idiots who care too much, making it painfully obvious despite your best efforts to keep it hidden.

“Hi,” you grin sheepishly through a foreign, pale pink, and glossy mouth.

Steve’s too busy gaping at you to respond in a timely fashion.

The wind billows through your hair and sends strands of it flying in your face. And even though he can’t remember a time when you’ve ever worried about the wild halo on your head, you’re quick to tuck them back into place again. 

With most of it pulled back and combed with obvious intent, your face is left unhidden. Your neck and shoulders and collarbones are too. And you’ve got on this tight sweater and pretty skirt and tall socks that make your legs look longer. All of your usually concealed features are heightened. 

The dainty swipes of mascara, eyeshadow, and blush only accentuate them further, though your spots are attentively covered with foundation that isn’t exactly your shade. It’s a bit lighter than your skin tone, like you’d gotten it some time ago when you were still a bit paler.

You look less like the loud, plucky girl he’s come to know and someone more timid, delicate, and polished.

You’re so pretty he damn near forgets how to speak. His tongue swells and every word he could use loses meaning at the sight of you. But it isn’t you, and that only confounds him further.

It’s like you’ve covered yourself in body paint. The real version of you is hidden somewhere underneath it all, glimmering somehow more golden than the flaxen you’re playing pretend in.

When Steve realizes he hasn’t yet answered you, it feels like it’s been ten minutes or more. In reality, no longer than five seconds have gone by.

“Hey,” he greets finally, in an exhale that gets caught in his throat halfway through. He clears it and smiles shakily. “Hi.”

He steps to the side of the doorway and ushers you inside. He wipes his sweaty palms on his slacks when he thinks you aren’t looking, but you catch him in the act when you turn to face him again. Your grin widens and you trap it between your teeth.

“Smells good in here,” you compliment, walking slowly backward with your hands clasped behind your back.

“Thanks,” he accepts your flattery with an awkward hand on his neck. “Yeah, uh— I kinda burnt the chicken a little bit, but everything else should be good. At least, I hope it’s good. It’s kinda hard to mess up a salad, right?”

He laughs under his breath, then starts to ramble without realizing it.

“I’m not the best cook, as it turns out. I mean, I thought I could at least fake it, you know? Fake it ’til you make it, or whatever that bullshit saying is — but there is no faking the tornado I just had in the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve made a bigger mess in my life. But, uh, yeah… And don’t worry! I didn’t put tomatoes in the pasta. Or the salad. Or the sauce. I know you don’t think them, so…”

You’re in the middle of beaming and trying very hard not to laugh when he hits you with that one. 

Steve, like you, is having a very hard time shutting up just now. He’s in the same web of nervousness that you’re spun up in too. He’s all tangled and trying to weave words that make sense, though everything things his mouth in half-thoughts.

But then he says something so strangely profound out of nowhere, and it makes your pounding heart stop without warning. He’s just talking about fucking tomatoes, but you understand that — in some weird, roundabout way — that it’s much deeper than that.

You’d told him the mundane little detail in passing some time ago. At the diner, when you picked the fruit from your burger with a grimace on your face. You said it tasted like battery acid and tainted everything it touched. He took it back to the counter when you weren’t brave enough to. 

“Here you go, Punchy. Your battery-acid-free burger,” he’d joked when he set the fresh plate in front of you.

And he remembered all that. He tucked that tiny piece of information about you into the very back of his mind so that he could use it to make you happy later on.

That’s adoration at its core, you figure. Somewhere in all those minuscule remember-ings.

“You remembered that?” you wonder aloud in a bemused sort of whisper.

Steve has already moved on. He’s rambling about the broken spout of his cologne bottle but stops the second he realizes he’s doing it.

Of course, I did, scoffs the little voice in his head. I’m sorta obsessed with you, as it turns out.

He doesn’t tell you that, though, for reasons he finds are quite obvious — the most significant of which would be running you off entirely. So instead, he just shrugs and tries to be cool, despite having already established how terribly uncool he is.

“Yeah. I remember everything.”

When the two of you settle at the dining table, Steve realizes he’s eaten most of his dinners alone until now.

His parents stopped caring sometime around middle school. His dad got too busy with work, started staying after-hours to catch up on paperwork or screw his secretary. And his mom didn’t care because she was too busy getting wine-drunk on the phone with whatever book club friend that was just as miserable as she was. 

Steve would fork at his cold pad thai while he listened to his mother’s muffled rant about who went where and who wore a hat.

He couldn’t find it in himself to eat in his room. The empty dinner table was the only sort of stable routine he had in the swirling uncertainty of being a teenage boy.

But now he’s got you. 

He hopes he never stops having you. He doesn’t want to go back to being alone like that again, not after he’s found someone that can fill an entire room with their laugh.

The cackle you let out at Steve’s terrible, terrible cheese pun — “yeah, I guess you could say I cooked this all on my provol-own — echoes through the dining room. Even though he knows you’re laughing at him and not exactly with him, he figures it’s a small price to pay to keep hearing such a heavenly sound.

It reminds him of the real you, the one underneath all the foreign regalia. 

The rays of your usual sunshine peek from the clouds you hide behind. You’re way too bright to stay hidden.

Steve can tell you’re watching his every move. You eye him from across the table with the intent of doing everything he’s doing, lest you might do something wrong. He puts his napkin in his lap, so you put your napkin your lap. He cuts his chicken with his fork and knife, so you cut your chicken with a fork and knife — though you quickly realize you’re not quite as dexterous as he is for all that.

It’s endearing. The kind of cute that makes his heart hurt just a little bit. He hides his smile and happily abandons the conventional things he’d been taught to do. He eats with his fingers and then licks the pads of them, grinning when you giggle and do the same. 

It’s not something he’s used to — grabbing pieces of cut chicken with bare fingers and slurping noodles without having cut them first — especially not when he’s trying to impress a girl. But he can tell the lack of etiquette makes you more comfortable, and that’s all he really cares about.

He offers you another serving once you’ve finished your first. You decline politely with the mutters of “oh, no, I couldn’t,” but he’s seen your appetite. You could down five burgers at the diner and not break a sweat if you’re feeling hungry enough.

It’s one of those little heart-wrenchingly adorable things you do that both shock and enamor him. But, for a reason he can’t name, you’ve decided that part of yourself was too deplorable to add to your costume.

Steve only scoffs at you in response. He scoops more chicken and pasta onto your scrapped-clean plate despite your refusal.

You’re grateful he doesn’t let you get away with your stubbornness. Truth be told, you were still sort of starving.

He’s just grateful you don’t think his mediocre cooking skills total a complete dealbreaker.

Steve tries to fight you when you offer to help him clean up the kitchen. He tells you to make yourself at home on the couch while he tidies up, ushers you to pour yourself a glass of wine and pick out a record while you wait for him. 

But you have issues with authority and take little fondness in being told what to do. So, in true Punchy fashion, you do the exact opposite of what he tells you to do.

You roll up the sleeves of your pretty sweater and stand next to him at the deeply set sink in his kitchen island. “You wash, I’ll dry?” you offer.

He doesn’t argue, only nods. 

He’ll let you take the blame for not wanting to be too far away from him. It’s easier than admitting his own guilt in the matter. ‘Cause sometimes his heart breaks when he blinks and he has to miss you for the faintest fraction of a second. 

“You seriously don’t have to, you know—”

“Stop saying that,” you scold and snatch the dripping plate from his hands. You swipe a towel over the ceramic with a meticulous ease. “I actually like doing dishes, okay? I do them at all time. I’m practically a professional at this point.”

“Yeah?” Steve laughs, shooting you a grin as he dunks his hand into the warm, sudsy water.

You love that stupid smile so much you’ve started to hate it. 

It’s soft and so sincere, just wide enough to reveal the dimple in his left cheek. The gentle grin drips with so much honey you can practically taste it. It’s so tender it makes you feel unworthy, so full of love it fills you with a distant rage that he might’ve looked at someone else with it.

You have to duck away from his gaze before he can catch you blushing. 

“Yeah. That’s, like, my one chore when I’m over at Eddie’s,” you respond with a shrug. “Because, you know, Wayne’s always working and Eddie’s… Eddie, and he really shouldn’t be trusted with anything remotely sharp or breakable, so…”

“What about when you’re home?” he wonders, simply for the sake of keeping the conversation going, but noting how the mention of home makes you tense.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, considering every time I go back, it looks like there’s been a tornado, doing dishes is just one part of the shit pile that I need to clean up, you know? My parents are usually on some bender — or still passed out from said bender — to take care of the place while I’m gone.”

Steve sees how distracted you’ve gotten as you keep wiping down a bone-dry plate.

“But, uh, anyway. Point is, I think I’m destined to have a career as a professional dishwasher.”

When your gaze flits back to Steve’s, he forces a smile at you.

He’s noticed how you always seem to talk about your best friend and his uncle without ever mentioning your parents. He understands now that it’s because they weren’t your family, not like Eddie and Wayne were. The small Munson clan was your home, it seems, and he fights to steer you back that way.

“So, you stay with them most of the time, then?” he redirects innocently as he hands you a freshly washed wine glass.

“Yeah. I think I’m pretty much Eddie’s personal caretaker these days.”

“Wow,” he marvels playfully, wide-eyed and grinning. “On top of being a professional dishwasher? You’re really doin’ it all, aren’t ya, Punchy?”

“Mm-hmm. I am a real jack of all trades, Harrington,” you joke back with a commendable finesse and flash a teasing smile up at him. The pastel-colored lipstick has mostly disappeared from your mouth now. You look more like yourself.

“And Eddie— he’s got this crazy scar on his hand from when he was a kid, and he was helping Wayne wash the dishes. He, like, blindly reached into the water or something and stabbed himself. Knife went straight through his palm.”

Steve winces.

“Yep. Now he says he’s too traumatized to help do the chores,” you reminisce with a distant laugh and set the glass upside down on the drying rack. “I don’t mind, though. I like doing them on my own. Gives me time to think, you know?”

“I’m standing right here,” the boy beside you scoffs, feigning offense.

“You can be the exception, Stevie,” you assure with a grin.

Maybe it’s the look you give him. Maybe it’s the nickname he used to hate, but now makes his heart skip a beat or two — or three. Maybe it’s all those things and the way your fingers brush his wrist when you move to take the pot from his hands. Either way, something shifts and he forgets how to use his fine motor skills.

The pan slips from his fumbling hands and yours and plops back into the water. The metal bangs loudly when it hits the bottom of the sink. Both of you jump back to avoid the splash.

“Shit. Sorry,” he apologizes, eyes scanning your form to make sure he didn’t make a total mess of you.

“It’s okay,” you promise with a gentle laugh and swipe the towel in your hand over your sweater to remove the droplets clinging there.

Steve scrunches his nose. “I feel like I might’ve just ruined my co-dishwashing privileges.”

“Just a little,” you quip.

You give him no warning before bringing the waffle-patterned nettle up to his cheek to dry him off, too. He flinches at the suddenness of the action but melts into your touch without thinking twice.

“You know, you have a pretty cool scar, too,” you tell him, mostly out of the blue, while you dab at the stubble on his jaw.

Steve’s gotten used to all your abrupt mannerisms and the way you flip-flop between topics with an expertise only you seem to possess. He likes that about you, though. There’s never a quiet or still moment when he’s with you.

“Yeah?” he hums back.

You nod and move down to his neck. “I felt it a while ago, during our Night of the Living Dead marathon—” of which Steve has no recollection. He can’t remember a damn thing from those movies, but can still feel the tingle of your mouth against his own. 

“—On the back of your head. Felt pretty gnarly.”

You switch the towel to your other hand and use your free one to swipe through his hair. Your fingers muss at his hour or more of hard work, but your touch is a far better reward than nearly quaffed hair. You weave through the chocolate strands until you reach a marred, barren line.

“Right… there.”

Steve, still buzzing with your touch, manages a breathy chuckle. “Uh, yeah. It’s a… It’s a really long, really stupid story.”

“Wanna give me the short version?”

The grin you give him is impossible to say no to.

“I’m a super klutz,” he summarizes with a shrug and a sloppy grin. 

He mourns the loss of your touch when your hand slips from his hair. “Well, now I have to hear the story.”

“It’s dumb. Like, seriously—”

“I like dumb,” you assure quickly to stop whatever self-loathing he was about to spew. “I’m best friends with Eddie Munson. I think I can take it.”

“Touché,” he chuckles under his breath. The remaining dishes are left forgotten in the depths of the soapy water when he turns his back to him. He leans his weight on the countertop and grips the edges of it in his hands. “You see, I did this really smart thing when I was a baby where I’d, you know, crawl backwards—”

“Crawl backwards?” you repeat with an incredulous laugh.

“Yeah. I’d push with my hands — beep, beep, beep,” he flattens his palms and presses them against thin air to demonstrate it for you. “Always in reverse. I mean, it makes sense, right? You gotta push to move.”

“Sure,” you shrug. A laugh tumbles from your mouth shortly after.

“Did that until I reversed my way down a flight of stairs and hit my head pretty damn good,” he concludes with a wince. It’s like he can still feel the pain sometimes.

“Wow,” you marvel. “So, like… When people ask if you were dropped on your head as a kid, the answer would be—”

“Yep…” he sighs, then laughs when it makes you laugh. He looks over at you with sparkling cinnamon eyes. “It explains a lot, doesn’t it? I think, like, right out of the gate, I’m super confident, you know? But I’m also a total idiot, which is just a brutal combination.”

“I have noticed that, actually,” you confess with a gentle sort of smile.

“Yeah?” he winces.

“Yeah. You do this thing sometimes where you get all… suave and cool,” you tell him, squinting and lowering your voice a few octaves for effect. “Like you’re trying to be King Steve all over again. And then you, like, trip over a stack of DVDs or something because the universe is trying to humble you.”

“That is a… really good way of putting it, actually,” Steve confesses with a laugh.

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Well, the good thing is, I get a big enough thump on my head, I can change, you know? I can learn. So, I guess I’m pretty glad somebody bumped my head before we met. ‘Cause things probably would’ve turned out… a whole lot differently.”

Steve watches your face contort from understanding to confusion. Your manicured brows pinch together and your doe eyes squint over at him. He watches you break down his words in real time. 

“Somebody…” you murmur under your breath. “You mean… Are you talking about Nancy?”

“Yeah, uh… She gave me a— a pretty big thump, you know? Worse than the one I got falling down those stupid stairs,” he tells you with a reminiscent smile. 

It makes you feel like a total idiot, standing in front of him like this — a carbon copy of the girl that tore his heart to shreds.

“I deserved it, though. I mean, you knew me back then, I was a… a total asshole. And sometimes, I think I still would be if she didn’t, you know… if she didn’t… totally rip my fucking heart out,” he concludes with a sad sort of laugh. “Now I’m kinda grateful she did. As bad as it hurt — as angry as it made me — I think, in a lotta ways, it made me better.”

“Better?” you echo quietly.

“Yeah… If she didn’t break up with me when she did — if I didn’t get that dumb thump on my head — I wouldn’t have changed. I wouldn’t be… here right now. With you,” he confesses, revealing more of himself than he ever has before, to a girl he wouldn’t have been caught dead with a couple of years ago.

He looks beside him at this costumed girl — at you — and he sees someone he probably would’ve given the time of day back in high school. The lack of dark, baggy clothing makes you look approachable — like you won’t actually bite him for coming near you like the rumors always said.

And Steve’s self-aware enough to know he probably would’ve treated you like shit back then. He would’ve fucked you just to fuck you, then only talk to you when he needed you to do his homework for him. And you wouldn’t have been the first girl he did that to either, and the thought makes him want to puke.

He’s glad he’s found you when he did. He’s even happier you met him where he was at, in that awkward in-between stage of growing up where you’re trying to be someone different while still finding comfort in staying the same. You never complained even once when he reverted back to his old ways.

And even though you’re standing right next to him, your chest nearly brushing his arm with every heavy breath you take, he finds himself missing you. 

You’re not you — not without the fun outfits and the crazy hair and all your rings that clink together every time you move. He misses how the metal felt against his skin and the way they’d get caught in his hair.

You’re still beautiful like this, but it’s a strange type of beauty. One that both of you know doesn’t belong to you. You fit into it like baggy jeans or a too tight shirt. You’ve squeezed yourself into a ball to try to fit into a world far too small for you, because you thought that’s what Steve wanted.

“I’d still be that King Steve douchebag… Partying every night, getting drunk out of my mind, never settling down like I…” The words get trapped in his throat. He clears it to force them out. “Like I always wanted to, you know?”

“Right,” you murmur, voice not strong enough to be any louder than that.

“So, yeah, I don’t know. I guess, in some weird, roundabout way, I’m just to tell you that I’m not that guy anymore. King Steve,” he admits and presses his hip into the counter to face you fully.

When you gather the strength to look up at him, you find his gaze already dripping with honey and staring down at you. He’s all soft and mushy and twinkling with the adoration he’s got for you. And when he smiles, it’s so terribly sincere and coated with a distant sadness that’s been playing on the edge of his voice this whole time.

“And I know you might still see me as that guy. I don’t blame you. Honestly, I don’t really deserve to be looked at any differently, not after how I acted towards you—”

“Steve,” you breathe out in a tender sigh. “It’s okay—”

He shakes his head to himself. His eyes squeeze shut when his chin falls to his chest.

“It’s not. It’s… It’s really not. I just—” he inhales sharply, chest deflating on the exhale when his gaze turns back to you. He looks sterner now, but still so tender. “I just want you to know that I’ve changed, okay? I am changing. And I don’t want you to think I’m the kinda guy you have to change yourself for.”

When the weight of his words finally hits you, it feels a bit like being punched in the stomach.

It knocks all the wind out of you and makes it hard to think about anything other than the sudden loss of breath. Like a kid who’s fallen off the monkey bars and flat onto their back, you can’t do anything but writhe through the ache and hope you’ll be back to normal soon.

You got dressed that evening thinking you were the master of deception. You perfected your subterfuge and awaited Steve’s inevitable swooning because you looked like all the other girls he’d fallen in love with. 

But he sees through every inch of your pretending with his secret x-ray powers, and now you’re just a stupid girl standing in front of him, soaking wet with embarrassment.

It’s a little like when he and Tommy and all his basketball goons would make fun of you. They’d talk about you like you weren’t there while they tossed tiny crumbled up pieces of paper into your hair so they could watch you struggle to get them out. But, at the same time, it’s not like that at all. Because now he’s apologizing, and telling you that he likes you, and that you never had to change a single damn thing for him at all.

You’re equally as self-conscious, though, and feeling like a total idiot for thinking you could even pretend to be halfway normal.

“Oh…” is the only thing that leaves your mouth in that moment. Your mind is still going a million miles a minute. You want to blurt out an apology and an explanation all at once, while simultaneously turning into a puddle at his feet and disappearing entirely.

But rather than break down, you stay standing. Too stuck in your head to feel all there.

Steve seems to notice your trepidation almost immediately. His eyes widen and his brows raise and his pretty mouth falls open to let all of his reassurances spill out. 

“And it’s not that I don’t think you’re pretty! You’re— You’re perfect like this too, but I just…” he inhales and takes the tiniest step closer to you, putting an unsure hand on your waist. “I like you the way you were before. And this isn’t… This isn’t you.”

You blink back stinging tears and turn your gaze to where you toe your Mary Jane’s into the kitchen tile. You go to twist your rings like you always did when you were nervous before realizing you’d left them all at home.

“I just wanted to be like the girls you like,” you confess quietly.

“You are like the girls I like,” Steve corrects with a gentle laugh. “‘Cause I like you.”

Your eyes are all glassy when they flit back up to his. 

Even though you don’t look quite like yourself, the way you look at him hasn’t changed. You still gaze at him like you can see right through the nice hair and the dumb smirks and the stupid persona he puts on when he doesn’t feel good enough the way he is. You look at him like you’re in love with the boy he tries like hell to keep hidden.

The exact same way he looks at you.

“I think I just got a little spooked. Girls like me aren’t supposed to end up with guys like you.”

“I stopped believing in that shit a long time ago,” he admits with the shake of his head. “The whole soulmates-love-at-first-sight thing, it’s all… bullshit. If I’m gonna love someone, I’m gonna do it on purpose.”

Steve watches the lingering sadness in your eyes ebb to something sunnier. Your gaze sparkles and suddenly you’re beaming at him, not bothering to conceal the effect his words have on you. You don’t think you could even if you wanted to.

“I like that,” you murmur in approval, then more loudly proclaim: “Screw soulmates! Let’s start loving people on purpose!”

The two of you laugh about this promise you’ve just made to each other without really saying it to each other. It sort of goes unsaid — if I’m gonna love you, I’m gonna do it on purpose and let’s love each other on purpose. That’s what you mean, and neither of you has to say it out loud because you get it. 

It’s that exact realization that makes Steve’s heart flutter something fierce. Suddenly, the urge to touch you becomes too great to bear. He wants to feel you like he did on the couch of his theater room, when a film he could barely recall crackled in the background because the feel of you was too loud for him to hear anything else.

He needs you like that again, on him and all over him. The ache is a palpable one.

The boy squeezes your waist again, as though to remind you he was still there. Or, perhaps, to remind himself that you were still there —the real thing and not something his brain conjured up.

“It’s not totally insane how bad I want to kiss you right now, is it?” he wonders quietly to you. The low, sultry nature of his voice is not at all forced like it usually is when he’s trying most desperately to flirt with you. His words are just naturally weighed down by his desire for you.

You shake your head in a silent promise, then command through a grin, “Kiss me stupid, Harrington.”

Steve doesn’t waste a second.

He’s been anxiously awaiting his chance to touch you all night. He does so now with a vigor that makes you feel all of that anticipation. With one hand on your waist and the other cupping your jaw, you can feel his buzzing skin as it presses against your own — like the static of a television screen. His fingers settle between the strands of your hair while his thumb absentmindedly rubs along your cheekbone. 

The softness of his touch makes you hum against his mouth.

His lips are familiar like home — more than, because sometimes you think you’ve never really had one. 

There’s never been a cozy, warm, and tender place where you could rest your tired bones. Eddie’s trailer, maybe, but it wasn’t yours. No matter how often you slept within the four walls of his bedroom, no matter how hard you pretended like you’d lived there all your life, it would never belong to you.

But Steve could. 

Steve could be yours.

And you wouldn’t even have to pretend either. It would be for real this time.

His mouth was welcoming and pleasant and gentle, far more than you’ve ever gotten out of four walls and a roof. The plush pink of his lips — the cushion of his bottom one you like to dig your teeth into and the rough pad of his tongue that explores your mouth like undiscovered territory — is perhaps the softest thing you’ve ever known.

Even when he kisses you harder and guides you until your back is pressed against the edge of the countertop, it’s still so, so tender.

Steve’s hands migrate to your hips. His fingers clutch the fabric of your skirt as he cages you against his weight and the counter, as though out of fear you might slip away.

Your touch mirrors his desperate one. You cling to him with a similar intensity, balling the fabric of his navy blue Henley in one hand while you waltz through the pretty strands of his neatly styled hair with the other. You let him kiss you the way he wants to kiss you, keeping your obedient mouth plaint for him while he opens your mouth wider with his tongue.

His touches turn bruising, and yours go soft like summer rain.

Steve holds desperately onto you, like any moment he could wake up and none of this could be real. He kisses you like he won’t ever get to kiss you again, having no idea that you’ve already started to build a home in him. 

Meanwhile, your fingers tips trail like drops of water down his chest and stomach. They settle at his waist, on the top of his belt, and linger along the leather edge of it. You’re not quite sure what to do next — if you should wait for Steve to say something or if you should go ahead and take the lead.

Your sudden hesitation makes him nervous.

Steve’s lips click wetly as they part from yours. He peers down at you through heavy lids, amber eyes swimming with honeyed desire. His lips are pinker now, and swollen from being kissed so ardently. His brows pinch in concern. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t w—”

You barely let him get the words out before you press your mouth to his again. Your hands twist at the collar of his shirt to bring him back down to you. You stand on the tips of your toes to meet him halfway. 

“I want to,” you mumble, practically slurring from being so drunk on his touch.

“I wanna treat you right—” he tries to tell you. Some of his words are muffled against your mouth because you find yourself totally unable to stop kissing him now. “—Take things slow with you.” 

You smack a final kiss to his lips. When his honey eyes flutter open again, he finds you wearing a mischievous sort of smirk. There’s an accompanying teasing glint in your glazed over eyes.

“You can do all that when you’re inside of me,” you promise lowly, bold in a way neither of you are used to. The brazen nature of your dirty words is foreign but no less exciting.

They make Steve’s head get all swimmy and his cock tightens as it stiffens in his slacks. His spine tingles with his borderline overwhelming desire for you.

“Have mercy…” he murmurs within a heavy breath, more to himself than to you.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

And love, is only heaven away...

Steve’s curtains match his wallpaper.

It’s a questionable blue and gray plaid that you doubt he picked out himself. The framed pictures of sports cars only add to the boyish flair of his bedroom. It doesn’t look like him, though. None of it does.

The only real trace of Steve The Hair Harrington is the poster of Christie Brinkley hanging beside his window, diligently placed right next to his bed. It’s a blown-up Sports Illustrated cover — a beautiful, soaking wet woman posing less than effortlessly against a palm tree in all her blonde-haired, blue-eyed, perfected-bodied glory. It’s the most King Steve you’ve ever seen.

All the minute details of his bedroom make you giggle.

“You have great taste, Steve Harrington.”

He grumbles in annoyance at your teasing as he clicks his door shut behind you.

“Well, you can thank my mom for my great taste, okay? She decorated the place when we moved in, like, forever ago. I just haven’t, you know, gotten around to changing it yet.”

“I can tell,” you laugh and turn to him with a smirk. “Really cool bedsheets, by the way. I mean, seriously. This is state-of-the-art design here, Stevie.”

It isn’t until he’s being pelted with your relentless teasing that he remembers he’s got dinosaur-patterned linens spread out on his mattress.

Steve typically likes to alternate bedsheets in between washing them. His plain gray ones would’ve perhaps been more appropriate for times like this, but they were in his hamper along with another set of plaid ones. His dino sheets may be immature, but they’re no less comfortable. It’s not his fault they just happened to fall on the week you were coming over.

“Alright, Punchy—” The boy rolls his eyes and splays two wide hands on your sides, pressing himself into you rather shamelessly. You wonder if the clothed stiffness against your lower stomach is just your imagination. Any other teasing remarks dissipate from the tip of your tongue as your eyes widen.

Steve notices your silence and smiles. “—You wanna keep making fun of me, or do you wanna make out some more?”

“I think we can do both,” you answer with a shrug, resting your hands along his waist. “I’m quite the multitasker, Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

You nod.

“Wanna show me?”

You nod again, smiling wider now.

He smashes his lips into yours again. You meet him halfway. It’s all too easy to fall back into the swings of things — the desperate mouths and longing touches. Maybe because you’re always desperate and longing for him. And, with the way he’s clinging to you now, you figure he must always be those things for you, too.

You relish in all of his little touches, in the duality of them. He cups your jaw so tenderly yet clutches your hip like he’s still trying to discern whether you’re real or not. Then his palms slide around your waist and up your back until he’s all but hugging you. It’s too sweet a gesture for how he’s prying your lips open with his mouth to slip his tongue inside. 

His hands settle, finally, at the very bottom of your sweater. They linger at them hem, not pressuring you to do anything, just waiting for you to make a move. 

You part from him to abide by his unspoken want. Your trembling hands work together to free you from your top. You’re more than grateful to pry the itchy thing off of you.

Steve doesn’t get the chance to admire the bra you wear. He catches a glimpse of frilly lace, but there’s little time to praise your topless form before you’re pulling him into another searing kiss. It’s full of tongue and teeth now, far more hungry that just moments ago. Your fingers slither through his hair and curl in the strands. You keep him firmly locked against you as his lips trail down your neck.

He finds your most sensitive spot in record time — the one just under your jaw, right beside your racing pulse. Your legs nearly give out when his tongue runs over it. A breathy moan exhales from your mouth before you can stop it and you feel him smile against your neck. He doesn’t comment on it, just keeps kissing you there in the hopes that you’ll do it for him again.

You do.

Steve sucks and nips at your delicate skin, and you revel in the feeling of his mouth. Head thrown back, you let him paint your neck in varying shades of red. Some will disappear come morning; others will darken into souvenirs for you to admire for the next few days.

The thought of him marking you drives you nearly as crazy as the feeling of his lips against you. 

You stopped trying to hold back your whines somewhere around ten of them ago. It was easier, you found, for him to kiss you and to let yourself enjoy it than be hyperaware of all the sounds you were or weren’t making. Steve seems to like it when you moan for him, anyway. Every time you do, he kisses you harder, holds you tighter, and hums out his own subtle moans against you.

He digs his teeth into your skin. It makes you whimper. The desperate, high-pitched noise fades into a lower moan when the rough pad of his tongue rushes out to soothe the bite. He moves on to kiss you elsewhere. You shiver when your spit-slicked skin meets the cool air.

You don’t notice that you’ve hitched your leg up his hip until you feel his warm hand on your thigh to hold it up for you. His fingers inch up until the tips of them rest beneath the hem of your skirt.

You don’t bother to hide how much you want him.

He doesn’t bother to hide how badly he needs you close.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles into your neck, smiling when his words make you whine. “Can I make you feel good?”

You nod when the words get stuck in your throat.

He parts from you for the first time in several minutes. His heavy gaze meets your own. “Can you say it for me?” he asks, not teasing you, just wanting to make sure you want this. Him.

“Want you to…” you start, then swallow when your voice is tighter than expected. You manage the rest through bated breaths. “…to make me feel good.”

Steve kisses you again, a long and thorough stamp on your lips, followed by several tinier pecks. Then his mouth starts its journey down, down, down your body, stopping only to admire your exposed chest. He’s more than pleased to find that what you’re wearing is hardly a bra at all.

It’s a sheer thing with dainty lace detailing. He figures it’s more for decoration than to push up your breasts. There’s no padding at all. Just a pretty tulle number that leaves very little to the imagination.

You watch him intently with a smile, enamored by how enamored he seems to be by a pair of boobs. You never thought yours were much to ogle over, but Steve presses tender, wet kisses to them anyway. He takes the plush between his teeth, sucking on the delicate skin to leave a blossoming bruise there. He only trails further down when he’s satisfied with the mark he’s branded you with.

Steve falls to his knees with a soft thud upon the carpeted floor. The faint sound is much more obvious in the quiet of his bedroom. He looks somehow prettier below you — soft and delicate and sweet like chocolate syrup or marshmallow fluff. But he’s still got this air about him, something stern and domineering, that tells you he’s still got all the power.

He presses a kiss to your thigh, just above the top of your sock, then several more further up. His fingers raise the fabric of your skirt the higher his lips travel. And, strangely, you’re not all that nervous about being half-naked in front of him. It’s hard to be when he’s kissing you like you’re a beautiful thing that deserves to be touched so tenderly.

Steve keeps pushing up your skirt and stills when he reaches the apex of your thigh, right where the top of it meets the joint of your hip.

Your underwear doesn’t match the bra you’re wearing, he finds. It’s orange all over and spotted with bats — the color has faded slightly, like you’d bought them some number of Halloweens ago.

It’s endearing. Everything about you is endearing. Even when you aren’t trying.

“Hold it up for me, yeah?” he asks you with your skirt in his hands.

It shouldn’t surprise him when you do the exact opposite. You step back from him to shove the thing down your legs, then leave it in a pool of forgotten fabric on his bedroom floor when you gravitate towards him all over again. 

His hands rise to your outer thigh and rub soothingly along the warmed skin. You wonder if he can feel the goosebumps pebbling there. The smirk he flashes up at you tells you that he does.

He’s got a twinkle in his eye when he teases you. “Really cute underwear, by the way.”

“I was obviously very prepared for this,” you retort with ease, making fun of yourself just as effortlessly as you can make fun of him.

“I like them,” the boy assures. “I really like them. Very on brand, Punchy.”

“Would you like me better out of them?”

Your arched brow and knowing smirk, kept caged between your teeth, is met with a bemused gaze. Steve’s eyes go wide at your forwardness.

“Uh, yeah— I mean… yeah,” he nods with a breathless chuckle. Then, more sincerely says, “Only if you still want to.”

You scoff at his timidity, though it’s more at yourself than him. “Look at me, Steve,” you answer plainly, motioning to your half-naked form and the damp spot forming in your underwear. “If I didn’t want this, you’d know by now.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, just before pressing a chaste kiss to the black bow of your panties. He noses at the softness of your stomach while his fingers curl around the hem. He tugs them slowly downward, giving you ample time to stop him if you wanted. 

A part of him is still convinced that none of this is real — you, namely. Truth be told, he’s waiting for a smack to the face and a rant about how all of this was just bullshit.

It never comes, though.

Instead, he gets a sheepish grin and a sparkling gaze as you hold onto his shoulder to step out of your underwear. The giggle that spills from your mouth when he tosses them over his shoulder makes him smile. 

Your pussy is as pretty as the rest of you. It’s more manicured than he imagined for a girl as wild as you. There’s a tuft of hair on your pubic bone, cut down and shaved around the edges. It leaves your lips bare and glistening with your accumulating slick.

Steve’s all but salivating at the sight of you.

“You wanna put that mouth to work, Harrington, or do you wanna ogle some m— oh,” you try to tease him, all amused at how he looks like he’s never seen a naked girl before, knowing full well he’s seen plenty. But your taunts evaporate from your tongue when he finally puts his mouth on you. They ebb into a breathy, high-pitched moan.

The tip of his chiseled nose smushes against you while he licks at the rest of your pussy with a practiced tongue. 

It’s more than obvious he’s done this before. Enough to have become a borderline professional at it. He finds your sensitive button within seconds and with minimal effort. Your legs are already buckling, practically turning to jelly, and he’s only just started. 

He latches onto your lips with a swollen pink mouth. His warm, wide hands wrap around the backs of your thighs to keep you steady and anchored against him.

Steve kisses your cunt like he’s making out with you. He opens and closes his mouth in slow, rhythmic motions, rutting his tongue along your glistening skin all the while. He’s sloppy with intention. Every touch is meticulous. He’s trying to figure you out, trying to learn what you like the most and what makes you moan the loudest for him.

Steve’s attentive. He’s ambitious and ardent. It’s like he enjoys kissing you down there, and not like he’s doing you a favor so he can get something in return. He moans against you like it’s every bit as pleasurable for him, as it is for you.

He alternates his efforts while he discovers you like unexplored territory.

You giggled like it tickled you when he stuck his tongue into your cunt the first time, then moaned when his nose nudged your clit. “Your mouth is so good,” you’d praised through bated breaths, but your whines had gotten too quiet for his liking. He opted to give his tongue a break and latch his slick lips to your swelling clit.

You liked it most when he sucked you there. At least, he figures you must, with the way your mouth parts in a silent cry and your hands dart to his hair to push him further into you.

“You like that?” Steve asks you, just to be sure. He pulls enough away so the words are intelligible, but still close for you to feel the vibrations of them against your skin.

“Yes,” you answer in a broken sigh.

Steve barely lets you answer before he’s licking a flat stripe up the length of your pussy. He slows methodically when the tip of his tongue catches your puffy clit, just so he can see your legs tremble. They do, rather intensely so, and he revels in the way your thighs quiver at his temples.

He wishes he’d laid you down before putting his mouth on you. He regrets not getting to spread you open, to part your soft folds with his thumbs, and admire you the way you deserve to be admired. 

But to be under you this way is a reward in itself. To get on his knees for you, to let you grind your hips against his face, it’s heaven. He never wants to stop feeling you this way.

“Please, Steve…” you moan breathlessly. “Please, please, please.”

You plea like it’s a mantra. Your voice grows tighter and tighter the closer you get to your peak. 

Steve’s not entirely what you’re begging for. You’re not either, really. You just know that the pleasure is swelling. The wringing knot in your stomach is close to snapping. The thought alone is borderline overwhelming. You want to run away from the crescendoing feeling and keep it locked against your pussy all at once.

“Steve… Steve, please. I’m— fuck.”

“You can take it,” he promises, speaking the words into your cunt. His lips smack when he pulls away from you, just for a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves and his tongue darts to graze his bottom lip. “It’s yours, baby. Just take it—”

You’re a goner the second he wraps his lips around your clit again. He suckles there like his life depends on it. Your hips twitch and you tug at his hair when you come, perhaps a bit rougher than you realize. Steve delights in the burn at his scalp. He groans shamelessly into you, a hearty grumble that rolls over every inch of your body.

You make the mistake of looking down at him in the midst of your undoing. You bring your chin down to your chest and open your fluttering eyes to peer down at the boy below you. He’s already looking up at you, you find, with his own bleary gaze. His cinnamon eyes glitter up at you and you melt for him.

Something about the sight of Steve on his knees for you, face snug against your cunt, and gaze lidded with desire makes you keen. Your hips flex, then still against his mouth while you gush for him.

“There you go,” he murmurs against your cunt. “There you go, baby.”

A high moan gets hung in your throat at his praise. It escapes in a delicate cry when your orgasm pummels into you full throttle. You’re whining and terribly sensitive when the buzzing feeling starts to ebb.

Steve laps at your weeping cunt while you writhe. 

He knows to leave your throbbing clit alone now, but seeks to prolong your pleasure in other ways. He gathers the honey you leak from your pulsating hole with an eager tongue and doesn’t relent until you’re twitching away from him. Only when you’re tugging him off by his hair is he satisfied.

Then he goes effortlessly soft again.

He presses little kisses to the burning flesh of your thighs and runs his palms along the backs of them to coax you back to the earth again.

When your cries fade to more contented sighs and your eyes find his again, he smiles sweetly up at you. Too sweetly. He shouldn’t be grinning so tenderly, not when his lips and chin and nose glisten with your slick.

Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hands as he rises to his full height in front of you.

“Was that… Was that good for you?” he wonders, suddenly sheepish like he wasn’t lapping at your pussy a minute or more ago.

“Are you kidding?” you retort, trying to laugh at him. All that comes out is a fatigued scoff. Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt and you lean heavily against him when his arms wrap around you again. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life.”

That nearly does him in right then.

He leans to press a languid kiss to your mouth. There’s a foreign musk to his tongue now that wasn’t there before. You hum a moan against him when you realize it’s you that you’re tasting.

“Can I suck you off?” you blurt.

Steve freezes. 

There’s hardly a thing he wants more than to feel your warm mouth on his cock. He’s been hard and aching since the second he got you into his bedroom. And that’s exactly why he knows he won’t last.

He usually jerks off before dates for that exact reason. At least, King Steve did because King Steve knew wherever he was going, he was getting laid. He wouldn’t have the reputation he did if he only lasted eight seconds.

He would’ve gotten himself off before you came around, made sure he was able to last as long as you needed him to if he’d expected you to need him at all. But he wasn’t expecting any of this to happen — especially not for you to come against his mouth and ask to give him a blowjob minutes later. 

He didn’t invite you to dinner in the hopes you’d put out after. Call him old-fashioned, but he enjoys spending innocent time with you. He would’ve been more than happy to cook you dinner and kiss you on the cheek before you left.

But here you are, wanting more.

You never stop surprising him.

“I mean, it’s only fair, right?” you shrug at his silence. “You deserve to get off too.”

“You don’t have to. Not just because I did it for you—”

“I’ve been hearing about your dick since the tenth grade. I’m pretty sure I’m the only girl in the class of ’85 that hasn’t seen it. The least you can do is let me give you a measly blowjob,” you confess lowly.

Steve, knocked senseless at your words, starts working his belt off without a second thought. His hands fumble with the buckle while he smirks at you. “Yeah? What have you heard?”

“Oh, you know. The usual,” you answer vaguely and saunter the short distance to his bed. You plop down on the edge of it and lean your weight on your palms. “Just that you have a monster-sized dick and that Marianne from Soc nearly broke it when you took her virginity.”

“That was a rumor!” he defends as he steps out of his jeans. His shirt goes next. He pulls the thing up and over his head with an admirable sort of finesse, leaving his toned torso and hairy chest on display for you. 

“The monster-sized dick or the Marianne from Soc thing?”

He doesn’t entertain with an answer, just drops his boxers and lets you figure it out for yourself. 

His cock is already hard and glowing a faint strawberry color at the tip with neglect. It curves to his right hip and hangs there, weighed down by its own size. The hair upon his pubic bone rises to meet the happy trail on his lean stomach, trimmed slightly but still a bit wild. Tanned skin, heavy balls, and a singular vein that trails like a river from the base to the head — Steve Harrington’s got the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen.

You don’t even realize you’re gawking at him because you’re too busy trying to figure out how either could be rumors. You’re looking at beast right now, a wild thing that tiny, little Marianne from Soc certainly couldn’t handle. You’re not even entirely sure if you can.

Steve blanches at your hesitation. He sees you retreat into your head and rushes to bring you back. “Hey, we don’t have to… We don’t have to do this if you do want to. We don’t have to do any of this if—”

“I want to,” you assure quickly, eyes widening when you realize how quiet you’d gone. You can imagine how mortifying it must’ve been, for him to get naked in front of you and be met with total silence. “You just… have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.”

His concern ebbs to a relieved smile. “Well, thanks for stroking my ego, princess.”

“I would love to stroke something else,” you quip with a playful grin that’s far too proud of such a dumb joke.

Steve rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother to hide his smile. 

He wants it on record, though, that he’s not grinning at your mindless innuendo. It wreaks too much of Eddie. You both seem to possess a similar sort of humor in that way, in how you can make anything into a joke — particularly a dirty one.

“Thanks for stroking my ego,” Steve would say and Munson would joke, “Well, we both know nothing else of yours is getting stroked, Harrington, so it’s the least I can do.” And Eddie would’ve been right. But Steve would never let him know that.

The boy settles in the middle of his bed and watches with a glittering gaze as Eddie’s best friend climbs between his legs. She spits into her palm and starts tugging at his hard cock with it. Steve isn’t sure of what to do — if he should rub it in this boy’s face or keep this piece of heaven to himself. He decides on that latter when your lips wrap around his leaking tip.

You’ll tell Eddie about all this tomorrow. He’s your best friend, after all — Steve will be doing the same with Robin, no doubt. And that alone is a reward in and of itself.

Getting him into your mouth was easy in theory, but you quickly find that it’s a harder feat than you realized. Steve’s not just long, he’s wide, and the combination makes it nearly impossible to take him fully. 

You pay extra attention to his strawberry pink tip to make up for what you can’t reach. He seems to like that more than anything else. Pearly pre-come leaks from there and you happily lap up his dribbling honey. Steve shudders every time your tongue meets his mushroom tip. His cock keeps drooling for you, so you keep doing it.

You work the rest of him with your palm, made slippery with your spit. Your free hand anchors around his thigh.

The combined effort isn’t something Steve’s particularly used to. 

Most girls choose one or the other. They either try to swallow him whole or opt to use their hands when they know that they can’t. That is, if they even want to suck him off at all. The foreign attention you give him drives him to the edge embarrassingly quickly.

“Hey, we should, uh— we should maybe stop,” he cautions tightly.

You detach from the head of his dick with a soft pop, but keep working him slowly with your palm. Your brows pinch together with concern. “You okay? Is it not… Is it not good?”

“What? No! It’s not— It’s not that. It’s great. That’s the… That’s sorta the problem,” Steve assures with an awkward laugh. “I’m not gonna… I probably won’t last much longer. And if you wanna… you know…”

“Fuck?” you finish for him with a teasing grin.

“Yeah. Then we should, you know, maybe stop now.”

Your hand stills at the base of his cock. Steve can finally breathe without the worry of bursting entirely.

“I mean, we can stop if you want to. You know, no pressure or anything, but… I don’t mind. I was sorta looking forward to you coming in my mouth.”

And how the hell was Steve ever going to say no to that — to you? He’s never denied you of anything before, and with that godawful track record, he wasn’t exactly equipped to start now.

Your mouth wraps around him again. You kitten lick at his tip and moan at the musky taste before sucking at his blushing head.

It feels good — it feels great — but he’s plagued with a lingering worry. 

He wants so desperately to fuck you, more than he needs to breathe, it feels like. But your mouth is too perfect a thing to deprive himself of. He’s scared it’ll take him too long to get hard again, or worse, that he won’t be able to at all. 

The thought of embarrassing himself in front of you, of not making you feel as good as he wants to make you feel, is an unbearable one.

There’s no way he’s stopping you, though. How can he when you’re sucking him off like your life depends on it? Your hand tugs and squeezes at the base of his cock while your tongue laps at his drooling tip. And on top of all that, you moan against him like making him feel good is making you feel good, too.

“Holy shit,” Steve forces through a tightening throat when your tongue dips just below his head to lick where the pale blue vein fades. His neck stretches as he digs the crown of his head into the pillow, revealing all of the pretty tendons you want to sink your teeth into.

“Your mouth is— fuck… Your mouth is fucking perfect, babe, shit.”

All of his little reactions spur you forward. 

You want him to keep praising you. You want to keep making his legs shudder and his hips twitch and his cock jerk in your mouth. So you double your efforts, just to hear more of his pretty whines that get stuck in his throat.

When you duck your head to pay the same amount of attention to his balls, Steve’s a total fucking goner.

His hands, both of which were obediently fisting the bedsheets, immediately dart to your hair when you suck his sack into your mouth. One warm palm cradles your jaw while the other clings to the back of your hand. He doesn’t push you or force you to take him further — he just holds you.

“I’m gonna come,” he grunts before a groan climbs out from his throat. His head falls back again, but he forces it upright a moment later so he can keep on watching you.

His hips stutter when you hum a moan against him.

“Yeah? Is that what you want?” he manages through heavy pants. “You want my come?”

You nod with his balls still in your mouth, then pull off of them with a pop to put his cock back in your mouth. 

Steve gives you exactly what you want no more than ten seconds later, spitting several loads of his come onto your tongue. It tastes like what had been leaking from his tip, just a bit saltier and far more potent with so much of it in your mouth at one time.

Steve’s thighs tremble around you and hips buck wildly despite himself until he’s given you everything he can possibly give to you. 

He allows himself only a few moments to relish in the aftermath of his swirling pleasure before reaching for the box of tissues on his bedside table. He rises to his elbows to hand you the napkin when his dick slips from your mouth. 

“Here, you can—” he says, trying to offer you something to spit into. It’s a habit he’d developed after the tenth or so girl refused to swallow.

You’ve already wolfed down his come, though, and wiped the excess at the corners of your mouth with the tips of your fingers. You don’t let a single drop of him go to waste.

All this time, Steve assumed he just tasted bad. He figured that must’ve been why no girl ever swallowed for him — not even Nancy, the only other girl he was ever really serious about. And they were together for two years. On the off chance she ever actually wanted to give him a blowjob, he knew her swallowing his come was totally out of the question.

Steve never minded, though. He was a giver more than he was anything else and he preferred most to finish inside. But now, with you, he sees just how much he’d missed out on. It feels a bit strange and unearthly levels of gratifying.

The boy breathes out a laugh and falls back against the mattress. The tissue falls from his limp hand onto the carpeted floor as he revels in his post-orgasmic haze. With his head still swimming and his legs still tingling, his glassy eyes find the speckled ceiling above him but don’t focus on anything in particular.

“Was that—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” he interjects softly. 

There’s no use in asking if you were good or not. Surely, you could answer the question just by looking at him. He’s a puddle of a man in the middle of his bed, pliant and at your mercy.

You giggle and slither in beside him, pressing your mostly bare body into his side. One leg wraps over his own. The warmth of your slick pussy lingers at his hip. You prop your head up with your fist while your other settles along his chest, busying itself with the tufts of hair there.

“That was, like, really good,” you praise with a sheepish beam. You wish you knew bigger words that might be able to describe it better. Really good doesn’t come close to explaining how heavenly it felt to come in his mouth, for him to come in yours. “You certainly lived up to all the rumors, Harrington.”

“You say that like we’re done,” he chuckles at your conclusive tone.

Your eyes flit from his face to his softening cock lying limb on his thigh, then back to his face again. You arch a skeptical brow. “No?”

“Not even close,” he shakes his head defiantly. His honey eyes flit between the both of yours. “I need to fuck you, babe, I just… I need a few minutes. If that, you know— If that’s okay with you…”

“You just give me life-changing head. So, yeah, I think I can give you a couple minutes,” you promise with a playful, but not insincere smile.

Even after having his mouth on you, and your mouth on him, you still like kissing him the most.

No amount of pleasure can sate the feeling of having him so close in this way. There’s nothing equally gratifying as sucking his bottom lip into your mouth or feeling the wet muscle of his tongue running itself over your own. You’d be more than happy to kiss him like this until sunrise.

Steve’s hands stay locked on either side of your head while he pries your mouth open with his own. He’ll occasionally pull back to admire your spit-slick, kiss-bitten lips for a moment or two. Then he’ll flash you a smile, like you’re a piece of finished artwork he’s happy with, before pulling you back down again.

You lean just over him, elbow digging into the pillow beside his head as you rest your weight on your arm. That hand twists itself within the strands of his hair, fingers lazing in the chestnut halo on his head. Your other migrates down his body, touching him with feather-light grazes to coax him hard again. 

His stomach tightens when your nails sweep over the thin trail of hair there. His stiffening cock twitches where it lazes along his inner thigh.

“Top or bottom?” the boy mumbles between languid kisses. His eyes flutter open long enough to catch the brief flash of confusion on your face. You don’t stop pressing your lips to his, even amid your uncertainty.

“Like bunks?”

Steve sputters a laugh against your mouth. He pulls away so he can look at you. “No, like— I meant, do you wanna ride me? Or would you rather lay down?”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” you stammer quickly. You figure the question must’ve puzzled you because no guy has ever asked before. This kindness is still a tad bit foreign. “I just— I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. It was cute,” Steve assures with a smile so soft it has to be sincere.

“Um… I don’t— I mean, I don’t know. Is that, like, something you want me to do?”

His right hand leaves your face to find his cock. He wraps his fist around himself, pumping slowly to keep himself hard for you. “It’s whatever you want, okay? Promise. I just thought it might be easier for you if you were on top. So you can take things at your own pace and everything.”

“Yeah,” you affirm within a heavy exhale. You feel yourself growing wetter at the mere thought of being on top of him like that. You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yeah. Okay.”

It isn’t your first time being in this position, but something about straddling Steve’s hips feels foreign. You’re starting to notice that most things you do with him feels that way — new and strange and alarming. Even the most innocent things, the mundane shit you’ve done a thousand times before, it’s all brand new with him.

You twist your hand behind your back to unclip your bra. Steve watches you with wide eyes like you’re doing some sort of magic trick. When you toss the piece of fabric somewhere on his bedroom floor, he spits into his palm to wet his cock.

His eyes flit from his hand, to your glistening pussy hovering just above his lap, to your face. “You can, uh— You can rub yourself on me, if you want. You know, to get it wetter. I don’t have lube or anything. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m…” you trail off. I’m more than wet, you’d almost said. That felt a little too overzealous, though, so you settle on telling him: “I’m okay.”

“You’re still on the, um, the pill, right?” he wonders, feeling a bit lame for remembering something you’d said in passing so long ago.

You complained once that birth control made you feel crazy. You said it affected your mood so drastically sometimes that it didn’t feel worth it to take. That was weeks ago. A brief conversation you’d left in the Family Video parking lot. 

You nod wordlessly in reply.

Steve holds the base of his cock to keep it steady for you as you pierce yourself with it. 

Taking his blushing head was the easiest part. The sensitive tip slips so effortlessly into you, just bulbous enough for you to feel it but not enough to stretch you out. It’s a Goldilocks just right sort of feeling that has low moans crawling from the depths of your throats.

Down, down, down a couple more inches and that’s when the ache starts to set in.

His girth stretches you in an unfamiliar, but no less satisfying way. As good as it feels, the burning sensation is a hard one to ignore. It’s like a fire, a distant one. It’s sort of like reaching your hand toward a flame while your brain screams at you to not get any closer.

It’s a lot like that, actually.

Your brain cautions you about taking him any deeper than you have now lest he might totally split you in half.

“Sorry— Sorry. I’m sorry,” you sputter suddenly, a little embarrassed that he’s only a couple of inches within you and you’re already having so much trouble. With your chin tilted towards your chest and your eyes squeezed shut, you refuse to meet Steve’s concerned gaze. “It’s just… It’s kind of a lot.”

“It’s okay,” he assures quickly. He rubs two soothing hands along your hips and fights back the urge to thrust further into you. You don’t see the gentle smile he looks at you with your eyes closed. “Take your time.”

A little over a minute and a pep talk later, you finally build up the courage to sit on him fully. Come, you can do it, your inner voice spits at you. Stop being a baby. It’s just a penis, don’t be such a bitch. 

Your face scrunches when you slide slowly down upon him. Steve expects you to stop and take a break for anothera moment like you’d done just before. He’s more than surprised when you try to take him completely.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don’t have to— holy shit, babe— don’t hurt yourself— fuuuck.”

You breathe out a heavy sigh of relief when he’s finally sheathed within your pulsating pussy. A lazy, lopsided smile makes its way to your lips, delirious with pleasure and pride. 

Both of you exhale faraway moans at the new feeling, heads falling back on their own accord. You’re already more than gratified and you haven’t even moved yet. He’s reaching parts of you that most guys don’t on their best day, making you feel full without trying. Even without his thrusting, the minuscule twitches of his cock are already driving you toward an orgasm.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask him suddenly, smiling lazily at the ceiling. 

Steve’s adams apple bobs as he swallows. Then he nods.

“I’m already really fucking close,” you confess with a breathless laugh, face crumbling under the weight of your pleasure halfway through.

Steve chuckles, then groans quietly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am, too.”

You laugh together and your coinciding embarrassment fades like an ebbing tide. The intimate confessions affirm what you were already more than aware of — that the both of you are just a couple of lovesick idiots who are head over heels for each other and in so far over your heads that you can barely breathe.

You’re spurred on by the sight below you. Steve’s wild hair and amber eyes and swollen pink mouth make you ravenous. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, looking like the sight of you makes him hungry too, as you start to grind your hips over his lap.

He guides your rhythm with two wide hands on your hips. Your pace is slow, every roll of your hips is experimental, and he revels in every second of it.

You start by rocking back and forth over his lap, then by moving in small circles to add stimulation. When get more confident, you lift yourself up and down over his cock. He’s able to hit your most sensitive spot that way. Steve seems to like it too, because you feel the subtle jerks of his responsive cock.

He accommodates your every move — thrusting his hips in time with your bouncing, then flexing them to reach as deep as he can within you.

“That’s it…” Steve murmurs, mostly to himself. He’s not exactly trying to praise you, but his words send lightning strikes of pleasure to your pussy anyway. He keeps babbling to himself. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Just like that…”

You support yourself with your palms on his hairy chest when you double your efforts on top of him. Steve groans at the lewd sound of your slick thighs clapping over his lap every time you move down on his cock. Your cunt quickly drenches his lower stomach and the small thatch of pubic hair just below it.

You too easily forget that fucking is a marathon and not a sprint. 

You overexert yourself quickly in your attempt to rush toward an orgasm and the effects of your sudden fatigue make your legs feel numb.

“Sorry,” you apologize breathlessly when you’re bouncing slows to a stop. You collapse to your elbows, nose nearly grazing Steve’s, as you swivel your hips slowly over his lap. You try to laugh at yourself. “My legs are just getting a little tired… I haven’t done this in a while if you couldn’t tell.”

Steve smiles sympathetically up at you. His hands leave the plush of your hips to cradle your jaw. He gazes at you with a stern sort of gentleness. “Stop apologizing. You’re good,” he promises, then pulls you softly down to peck your mouth.

He rolls his hips up into you and grunts when it makes you whine. “So fucking good…”

Steve tells you to tuck your knees further up his torso and you obey without thinking. You tuck your face into his shoulder and let him cradle the back of your head with one hand while the other settles on your ass. 

He grips you there rather shamelessly, fingers digging into your plump skin, while he bends his knees behind you. He plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts up into you without warning. 

His pace is already a relentless one, having no need to work himself up to a rapid pass as you had. Being basketball team captain has done wonders for his stamina, it seems. He drills up into you and keeps drilling into you without tiring. 

He keeps you securely pressed against him all the while and you relax into his embrace, happily letting him fuck you in his own delicious rhythm as he’d done for you.

The new position stimulates you from all angles. Steve’s hard cock pounds into your weeping pussy. Your swollen clit catches the coarse hair on his taut stomach with each of his thrusts. Your pebbled nipples drag along his furry chest.

It leaves you a whining, writhing mess on top of him.

“You like this?” he murmurs in your ear through broken pants. 

He’s partly teasing you. He knows you mustlike what he’s doing to some degree because you’re moaning something fierce into his neck, peppering too sweet kisses in between your pretty whines. But he also wants to know that you like it. He wants to hear you say the words.

He feels you nod against his shoulder. “Yes...” You sigh, then whimper. “Yes, yes yes—”

“I knew you did,” he affirms. You can hear the smile on his face. You’re not sure if he’s mocking you or not. You’re not sure if you particularly care either. 

His stubbly jaw grazes your cheek when he turns his head to press a kiss to the burning skin. “Knew you’d like it… Takin’ my dick like a fuckin’ champ, babe.”

“Wanna be good for you,” you confess against his sweat-slicked skin, your voice high and wet like you’re close to crying.

Steve tugs at your hair, not enough to hurt you, just enough to pull you from the refuge you’d sought in the nook of his neck. He finds that your eyes are glassy with unshed tears, brows pinching and swollen lips softly agape. His amber eyes are just as wild, heavy with hunger.

“You are good for me, baby,” he promises and seals it with a searing kiss to your wet mouth. He means it in more ways than one and prays you understand. “You’re so good for me… Fucking perfect, babe— shit—”

His cock twitches in your snug slick when you clench around him. He tightens the grip he’s got on your ass and spreads you wider to pound harder into you. You hope his scorching touch will leave bruises come morning. You want to remember how it felt to have him touching you this way.

“Steve…” you sigh, helpless.

“Hmm?”

“I’m gonna…” you start, then whimper when you feel the familiar pleasure start to crescendo once more. It takes a moment for the words to return to you. “I’m about to come.”

“Touch yourself,” he blurts.

Your lidded gaze widens. You peer down at him, bemused by his sudden request. “Huh?”

“Touch yourself for me,” he repeats, groaning when the request makes you tighten around him. “Want this to be good for you, too.”

He says this like you’re not already in heaven. You listen to him anyway, though, and squeeze your hand between your slick bodies to find your sensitive button. You rub at your clit until your thighs tremble around his waist. You try your best to ride through every bolt of lightning the pleasure shoots down your spine, despite the distant fear that you won’t be able to weather them.

“Yeah, there you go,” he praises lowly. “Keep rubbing your clit for me…”

Your free hand stays locked in his hair. Your grip tightens within the chocolate strands as you near your peak. Steve revels in the ache, groaning into your shoulder when the burn at his scalp spreads. 

You’re already gut-wrenchingly close. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, a struck chord crescendoing — and then Steve changes the angle of his hips. He flexes them suddenly and his thick cock probes something much deeper inside of you. Something that’s never been touched before — not by another guy or a toy or you.

It’s tender, and much more sensitive than your clit. Your vision strays for a brief moment as a white-hot flame of pleasure makes you jerk against him. You gasp sharply, then forget how to breathe when a moan gets caught in your throat. Your hand stills between your slick bodies as you freeze on top of him.

The wet cry finally spills from your mouth after several long seconds. It’s as long and delicate and wet as the orgasm you gush around Steve’s cock.

The flame burns red hot just before you come, then turns to simmering embers when your cunt numbs from the intense pleasure. You blink, and suddenly the fire is burning blue. The rest of your body becomes a casualty to the inferno.

“Yeah? Is that the spot, baby?” you hear Steve wonder. He murmurs the words in your ear, but you don’t hear them. They sound muffled and far away. 

You hope he doesn’t expect you to answer. You’re not entirely sure if you can form words anymore, or any actual conceivable thoughts. All you can do is suffer through every overwhelming wave of your orgasm that leaves you a crying and convulsing mess on Steve’s lap.

“Holy fuck—”

The boy slams his hips against you with a final, dense clap that sounds deafening in the quiet of his bedroom. Your gushing and fluttering cunt milks his cock. The feeling of your weeping pussy and the sound of your pretty whines throw him headfirst into his own orgasm. His thrusts still as he twitches within you. A moment later, you feel the subtle tingle at the base of your spine when he spits his come inside of you. 

His come paints your welcoming, rippling walls. It’s warm, like the first sip of coffee in the morning or fuzzy socks on cold feet. It blankets you in a sinful comfort.

Steve noses at your cheek while he rides the high of his climax. He rolls his hips slowly into you, much softer now that his cock has grown so sensitive. He clamps his mouth shut between his teeth to stifle his too loud moans and desperate whines. They’re forced to crawl from his throat as suffocated grunts.

You mourn the loss of not seeing his face while you’re tucked so securely into the nape of his neck. It’s a work of art you can imagine so clearly — his pinched brows and scrunched nose and parted lips. But you relish in the searing hold he has on you now, happy to hold and to be held.

The shuddering is slow to subside, especially from you. The aftershocks of your orgasm keep your hips spasming over his lap. Steve groans into your shoulder every time your pussy quivers around his softening cock.

And then the two of you just lay there. You hold onto each other and try to catch your breaths. With the both of you covered in a fine sheen of sweat, your skin sticks together with every tiny movement. The feeling of it makes you smile. You feel like the two of you really are melting together.

Steve’s fingers part from your wild strands of hair and take to tracing the expanse of your damp back. You hum in contentment at the feeling, nuzzling your nose up and down the right side of his neck. 

The moment is melted ice cream and early morning rain and marshmallow fluff. It’s spring mornings on the porch and warm breezes in the fall. It’s a soft and familiar thing that’s still so, so new.

You think you could spend forever here, if you had to. In Steve’s bed and in Steve’s lap and with all of Steve’s languid touches.

But sex is different when you’re an adult. 

When you’re a teenager, you get to be irresponsible. Carelessness sort of comes with the territory. You have sex in a dirty bathroom of a bar you snuck into and don’t think twice about the implications of any it. But as an adult with bills and a nine-to-five and groceries you’ve got to get once a week, all you can think about is how inconvenient a UTI would be.

“I should probably use the bathroom,” you murmur, already grieving the loss of his touch before you’ve even parted from him. 

You leave the safety of his neck to peer down at him. His heavy lids mirror your own. 

“I have this thing where if I don’t piss after sex, I feel like I’m gonna be, like, cursed or something. Kinda like when you break a mirror and you’re stuck with shit luck for seven year— or however that dumb superstition goes,” you ramble, voice heavy with fatigue and lingering pleasure. “Anyway. Yeah. Plus, I should probably clean up, too.”

Steve breathes out a laugh at your sudden prattling but humors you nonetheless.

Somehow you manage to pry yourselves off of each other — you, feeling significantly emptier without him inside you and Steve, already shivering with the lack of your warmth all over him. 

You separate just long enough for him to wet a washcloth in the sink while you piss just a couple feet away from him. The bathroom connected to his bedroom seems to be a foreign sight for you — a least, that’s what he assumes because you rave so enthusiastically about it the entire time. 

It’s all Steve’s ever known, though, so he finds it difficult to do anything but nod along with your rambling. More than anything, he’s glad you’re not as weighed down by the domesticity  of the moment as he is. Because he, for one, feels a little like he’s been hit by a freight train. 

Perhaps spending so many years all alone has made him sensitive to closeness.

You sit on the marble countertop and rest your forehead on his shoulder while he cleans you up. He runs the warm cloth along your delicate folds and wipes away traces of your slick and his come that glisten on your thighs. He pleats the rag and does the same to his softening cock and surrounding skin. 

It feels so strangely intimate, more than the sex somehow.

Steve tugs on a fresh pair of boxers and gives you a faded Hawkins Phys. Ed tee to change into. The loose fabric and baggy fit feels much more familiar than the costume you’d initially arrived in. He might be happier than you are, though, to finally get to see you in your most natural state — makeup sufficiently smudged away and ill-suited clothes forgotten on his floor. 

You crawl beneath the mussed navy comforter of his bed and smush your face into his pillow. “See? The dino sheets aren’t so bad, are they?” the boy teases when you hum in contentment. 

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles in beside you.

You smile but don’t open your eyes. “I’m just sleepy… Sue me.”

“It’s barely nine o’clock, grandma.”

“It’s your fault,” you argue, voice dripping with exhaustion. Your skin purrs as he reaches blindly beneath the covers to rub his palm along your forearm.

He grins softly to himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wore me out, Harrington.”

“I’ll make it up to you in the morning, ‘kay?” he promises, then laughs when you smirk and raise your brows — eyes still shut. “Not like that, you perv. I was talking about breakfast. I make a mean scrambled egg.”

You tell him you’re looking forward to it, to breakfast in bed and breakfast in bed. He falls further for you somehow, despite his lingering disdain for your silly little innuendos. It’s the price you have to pay when you love someone, he figures, like when your crush gets a bad haircut or has shit music taste. 

It’s a quirk he welcomes along with your many others — your rambling and forgetfulness and social unawareness and inability to sit still. All your little idiosyncrasies weren’t obstacles he had to get over to love you, just more reasons for him to.

And it isn’t this one-sided thing, either. Most people would look at the two of you — at the dowager king and local freak — and they’d think he was doing charity work to love you. But Steve’s got peculiarities of his own. 

His best friends are a fourteen-year-old nerd and a closeted lesbian because they were the first two people in his life that didn’t judge him. He chews on the ends of pens and pencils, and his handwriting is shit because he never cared about school. He buys things without ever looking the price tag, then leaves them to collect dust in his room because he never really needed them anyway. He still feels the need to be the center of attention sometimes because the faintest hint of disregard makes him feel neglected.

These are all things you’re aware of. Most of them came with being the wealthy, popular kid from the right side of the tracks. And you liked him anyway — no, you liked him because of them. You adored him through all the heavy shit, and here he was, doing a shit job at pretending to like metal music and horror movies.

“Are you asleep?” Steve wonders after a few moments of velvet silence. He’s still looking at you, one arm propped beneath his hand and the other toying with your fingers splayed on the mattress between you. He hasn’t been able to stop looking at you.

“Almost,” you mumble in response.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Your heart stops at the innocent question, tired eyes flying immediately open and knocking you out of your fatigued stupor. 

All of a sudden, it’s 1984 again. You’re the weirdo who bites people and Steve’s royalty who’ll fuck anything that walks — and here you are, in bed with the asshole. For a moment, you expect Tommy Hagan to bust out of the closet with a tape recorder and for Steve to tell you this was all just some stupid bet.

It’s a pang of blue lightning, an ice pick to your abdomen, that lasts no more than a couple of seconds. 

Internally, you curse yourself for getting so worked up. You make a promise to yourself to work on all that — the regressing and the disbelief that comes with the not-feeling-good-enough bullshit.

“Yeah?” you finally answer.

“I don’t actually like Dio. Or Def Leppard,” he confesses, finding it hard to meet your gaze  like a child who’s been caught in a lie. He focuses on running his thumb over the irregular pattern of your chipped nailpolish. “And I don’t collect vinyls either, not really. I just… I kinda just said those things so you’d like me.”

And, compared to the web you were just spinning in your head, that’s nothing.

“Ooh,” you wince playfully. “Def Leppard I could take, but Dio? I don’t know… That might be a dealbreaker, Harrington.”

He only smiles because he can tell you’re making fun. “I could learn to like them, you know? If it means that much to you. That’s what we’re doing now, right? Loving things on purpose?”

You capture your smile with your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes sparkle at him when you nod. “Yeah… We are.”

“Which means you could learn to like football and Bruce Springsteen,” Steve jokes and shifts on the mattress so he’s closer to you. 

Your feet bump together, then entwine effortlessly. He plops his head on the same pillow you’re using. The proximity leaves your faces no more than a couple inches apart. 

You scrunch your nose, wondering if you should hide your disgust in his playful request or make a joke out of it. You don’t do either. “I could… If it means I get to keep you.”

“Keep me?” he scoffs. “Good luck, getting rid of me, Punchy.”

“Who said I wanted to, huh?”

“You will. When you get sick of me.”

He’s smiling like he’s kidding, but you can tell there’s an edge of self-loathing to his tone. 

Your hand crawls from beneath his own and settles on his stubbly jaw. You run your thumb over the cheek, effectively sealing your promise into the blushing apple of it. “I’m never gonna get sick of you, Steve Harrington.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head against the pillow, then shove the side of your face further into it when you get nervous. There’s a timid quirk to the corners of your lips and a more sheepish glint in your eye. “You don’t get sick of people you love,” you tell him.

Steve opens his mouth to retort. He wants to tell you that he gets sick of Dustin all the time, but that it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love the little shit. He gets sick of milkshakes and pizza and Cheers re-runs when he consumes too much of them in a single setting, but he loves all those things too. 

You get sick of things because you love them, he reasons, because you love them too hard and you hate how much you need them.

He doesn’t get the chance to argue any of this, though.

“Not when you love them on purpose,” you clarify with a sunshine-coated grin.

That shuts him up real quick.

[refiwrites]

Sparks

AN ALTERNATE STEVE ENDING FOR “Moral Of The Story”

WC: 1.7k

Warning/s: angst, mentions of blood, wounds, injury

Note: Surprise! An alternate Steve ending! Since a few of you suggested to have an alternate ending that reader ends with Steve, what shall I do than deliver? I hope you like this one.. Although I struggled quite a bit 😅 enjoy!!

GIF is not mine, credits to the owner!

Returning to Eddie’s trailer, the two of you sat on the ground, breathing heavily. Then there was a loud thud and a groan. You and Eddie snapped your gaze inside.

“Ah, shit, that hurts.” Dustin was there.

“Henderson! I thought I told you-“

“(Y/N)! Eddie!” At the sound of your voice, Dustin’s head perks up, scrambling to get on his feet. “(Y/N)! Eddie! Oh, thank god it’s really you!” Dustin ran to the two of you, and in an instant, he bends down to hug the both of you tightly. “Op, op, op. easy there Henderson.” Eddie breathes out.

You smiled, hugging Dustin back. Dustin pulls away, his smile bigger than before. “And you- Eddie, I didn’t like what you did earlier.” Dustin scolded him.

“To be honest, man, I didn’t either,” Eddie chuckled. “Thankfully, (Y/N) here came to my aid, thought we’re both going to be the main course of those assholes.” Eddie shows his patched up wound along with pointing at yours.

“Shit…” Dustin’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Yeah, shit.” You reply.

“You guys just about had me into having a full-blown heart attack back there.” Dustin sighs. “I’m glad you two are safe. And by the sounds of it, I think the other three are too.”

Letting out a breath, somewhere in you was relieved to find out that Steve was alright. He was alive, he made it. It made you smile.

“Guys!” You heard someone shout from the distance. “Robin!” Dustin shouts back as you saw the trio making their way towards Eddie’s trailer.

Then suddenly you find yourself standing up as Steve looked around, trying to find someone. Even with a few hours of not seeing and talking to him, seeing him standing there alive and breathing when he could’ve gotten hurt made you realized just how much you worried for him.

“Steve.” You called; he quickly turns his head to you. His face washed with relief as his features softened, slowly walking towards you. “(Y/N).” Steve said as you met him halfway.

Keep reading

[refiwrites]

Eventually

PART TWO TO “Moral Of The Story” / ALTERNATE STEVE ENDING

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem! Reader, Eddie Munson x Fem! Reader

Summary: Tonight was the night you fought for Hawkins, for your life, for your future. Was breaking up with Steve a mistake? Or perhaps breaking up with him made you see what you truly needed?

WC: 8.8k (the longest one i’ve written yet holy shmokes)

Warning/s: VOL 2 SPOILERS! lots of swearing, HEAVY ANGST, mentions of a panic attack, graphic description of injuries, wounds, blood, all in all just pure violence.

Note: What the heck I am absolutely baffled at the amount of people that supported the first part 😭 I never imagined that being a hit but here we are and here’s the long-awaited part 2! And for those asking for them to be tagged, I am greatly sorry I wasn’t able to tag all of you, since the limit of tagging in a post is 50! :(

I worked very hard on this, feedbacks, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated, let me know your thoughts!

You kept your chin up, holding your crossbow as you put on a fake smile. “How’s the shield lookin’?” You greeted, watching Eddie’s hand grip the handle, hurling it towards the air.

“Light. But durable,” he says, punching it towards the air again, getting a better grip. “Deadly. But reliable.” Eddie smiles proudly.

“Looks cool.” You compliment the two, Dustin bows his head before the two of you looked at Eddie to see him raising his hand, his foot stepping on the basket. “Hear me now,” he begins dramatically, raising a fist to the air before opening his hand. “There will be no more retreating…” He pumps his fist down, doing a little jig of happiness. “From Eddie the Banished.”

Eddie looks at you as he toyed with the lid, his smile still etched upon his pretty face. “No more.” You assured him, smiling back.

Dustin stands up, holding his own shield. “Hey, Eddie, guess you’re really ready for bat-tle.”

The two of you look at each other before looking at Dustin with a serious look.

Dustin nods, checking if the two of you got the pun as he chortles. “You guys get it? Bat-tle.”

Eddie tilts his head at him, raising his eyebrows.

Dustin rolled his eyes. “B-A-T. No?”

Eddie shook his head, dropping his shield to the ground as you watched. “I thought I had a good one.” He says before he’s fully tackling Dustin, making you gasp out in surprise. “What are you doing?!” Dustin exclaimed; poor boy hadn’t got the chance to defend himself.

You laughed out loud before Eddie was pushing Dustin away with a teasing smile.

Dustin wouldn’t let himself go down that easily, being a tough kid he is. “You son of a bitch!” He said in fits of laughter as he tried tackling Eddie down, getting his own taste of revenge.

“Alright Henderson! Take him down!” You cheered. “No wedgies! No wedgies!” Dustin shouts, making you even laugh harder, clutching at your stomach.

You watched as the play-fight ceased, how Eddie laughed out of breath, his hair sticking to his face from the light layer of sweat as he held Dustin.

You smiled. You could tell Dustin really looked up to Eddie, how Dustin’s smile widened, it was like seeing your own favorite superhero come to life. “Never change. Dustin Henderson.” Eddie spoke. “Promise me?”

Tilting your head, you watched the two. “I wasn’t planning on it.” Dustin responded. “Good.” Eddie said. “Good.” Dustin repeated. They laughed as Eddie pat his back.

“And what do we have here?” Eddie breaks away from Dustin to face you, eyeing the crossbow in your hand and the arrows poking from your back.

You raised your crossbow, which was loaded, but the safety lock was on.

Eddie takes a second to glance at you. He noticed that your eyes were a little puffy, a sign that you had cried again, but he let it slide.

“We have our own archer.” Eddie says to you. “This is the coolest thing I saw there, why not? And my aim is very accurate.” You proudly say.

Eddie’s stare lingers on you for a little longer, you could feel it as you fixed the strap of your crossbow, slinging it over your body.

Eddie noticed his actions; he shakes his head before walking a few feet away. “Hey! Sinclairs!”

“How are those, uh… spears coming on?” He shouts over to them. You looked at the siblings, Lucas seemed to be struggling whilst Erica looked like she was doing a great job. Lucas throws a thumbs up in your direction, smiling.

“It just doesn’t make sense.” Steve says, holding the funnel still so Robin could pour gas onto the glass bottle. The conversation between the two of you bore into his mind, your words echoing in his head.

“Get your shit together, Steve. Because it’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.”

“We’re done.”  

Keep reading

[calumfmu]

thorns you couldn't reach

He didn't want to be known forever as Harrington or the legacy of Harrington, but you knew what it meant when it came to you. The two of you had moved slow before, but nothing like this. His hips rutting against you, the fabrics between you melting away as your bodies become one.

"You feel like home to me."

or; another installment of Baby, No Attachment: .

cw: 18+, mdni, soft!Stevie, smut, teasing, slow to rough, fingering, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, p in v, oral (f receiving), cream pie, AFAB!reader, anything else I missed thats dirty (3.7k+ words)

The heat of his body engulfed you as you leaned back into his arms. It was all encompassing, his arms holding you tight to his chest, the dip of his chin resting on top of your head, small hums escaping his throat as he tapped his fingers on your skin.

It was cold this time of year, the sun setting earlier and earlier as autumn approached. The perfect time to spend under each other's skin, you thought. Life couldn't be better for you, your relationship with Steve encroaching in unknown territory. It was no longer about the what if's or the when's or how long's. You weren't sure what it was about anymore, but that didn't matter as long as you were with him.

The brisk cold of the air nipped at your skin, the two of you in the trunk of your hatchback, door open as you two lay across the laid back seats, watching the sunset settle over the lake. Birds chirped in the distance, a million colors streamed across the sky. There was no one around this time of year, the water too cold to swim in, but definitely not frozen over in any way to skate over. It was like a secret hideaway for the two of you, a place you both went to escape everyone and everything.

"Princess?"

Rolling your eyes playfully at the nickname, you tilted your head back to rest on his shoulder, taking in the sight of your boyfriend. He looked down at you, leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of your nose before leaning down to press his mouth to yours lightly.

The kiss was a brush of lips against each other, a small gesture that meant the world to you as you hummed in compliance, his hand slowly trailing up your body to rest at the base of your neck. Fire coarsed through your body, flames licking at the base of your stomach, tingling with desire.

Leaning back, he stared down at you as he lightly ghosted his fingertips over your skin.

"I got you something," he whispered in your hairline, taking a deep breath in to get a whiff of your shampoo.

Brow crinkling, you sat up away from him, turning slightly so you could take a better look at him. He leaned back on one hand, placing his hand over his coat pocket. Only then did you notice the lump in the fabric, a boxy shape that you were curious how you didn't notice before.

Suddenly, your mind raced, scrambling at the thought if you missed any important dates, holidays, anniversaries.

"For what?"

He chuckled at you, shaking his head as he lifted the hand he was leaning on to smooth a fly away hair as the breeze picked up. The chill of the air circled in the back of the hatchback. Shaking his head, he shrugged, leaning in to place a kiss to the side of your mouth.

"Just because," he supplied, reaching in his pocket to pull out a small, black velvet box.

Your heart began racing as your eyes widened slightly, mouth suddenly becoming dry as you realize what this could be. Could he--no. There's no way, the both of you were too young, too inexperienced in life to take this next step. You hadn't even begun to have that conversation yet, there was no way your dad would've given him his blessing to do so. If he'd even asked-- holy, what if he didn't ask?

"Relax," he giggled at you, seemingly reading your thoughts. Realizing you wore your thoughts on your face, you dropped the expression, fully turning your body to face him.

He was stretched out, you sitting on your knees between his legs as he opened the box. It was a thin gold chain, its links adorning a small 'H' charm, tiny diamonds glistening along the letter. The necklace was dainty, thin and feminine as it sat in its box, glistening in what little light of day was left.

"Steve," you gasped, grabbing the box out of his hands. You knew this wasn't an easy feat for him, that gold letter 'H' standing out more than anything anybody has gotten you.

The Harrington last name was a touchy subject for him, a constant reminder of his dad that never got better with time. It was something that he struggled constantly with as it became known as his identity, well, his old identity. He didn't want to be known forever as Harrington or the legacy of Harrington, but you knew what it meant when it came to the two of you.

"Steve-"

"I know," he cut you off, grabbing it from your hands. He slowly took the necklace out of its encasing, displaying it in his hands as he held it out to you. "I know what you're thinking, but I want you to have it."

Nodding, your eyes flitted in between the jewelry and his eyes. The hazel glowed with a slight mist in them, a blush creeping across the bridge of his nose.

"You know what my name means to me," he started, unclasping the piece and reaching up to drape it across your neck. You leaned forward, close enough to feel the slight quiver in his breath. "But I, also, know what my name means to you."

Latching it closed, he leaned back, ghosting a finger over the way the charm hung over your collarbones. The gold you wore was contradictory to the silver pieces he wore, but in a way it fit. Two sides of the same coin that went together so well. His touch was light as his thumb stretched to run along the thin links.

"I figured it was a little early for, uhm, yeah," he blushed, stumbling over his words. Clearing his throat, his hazel eyes met your own. "But I guess we could just start with this. You make me feel..."

He leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth. His tongue licked lightly over your bottom lip before he pulled away.

"You make me feel like home," he finished, reaching up to rest his hand on the side of your cheek. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, sending a wave of goosebumps over your flesh.

You were silent for a moment as you took all of that in before jumping him, cackling as you wrapped your arms around his neck and nearly tackling him into the floor of the car. The old comforter you laid on cushioned the fall, billowing out as he laughed as you pressed your mouth to his.

It was a clash of teeth and bitten skin, the two of your laughter sounding out across the empty lake. The feeling in your heart was so, so full being here with him.

"Mr. Steve Harrington," you pulled away laughing, playfully raising an eyebrow at him. "Are you pre-proposing to me?"

Squinting his eyes at you, he leaned his head back, his hair fanning out around him. His hands slowly ran down your sides, landing at your thighs as he moved you to straddle him. Settling into him, your knees found their place on either side of his hips, bodies molding to each other perfectly.

"I guess, you could say that," he hummed, wiggling his eyebrows at you. "Besides your dad scares the shit out of me, I have to work up the courage to ask him."

Laughing at him, you kissed him once more, shaking your head at his words.

"Trust me when I say, I think my parents like you more than they like me," you hummed, pulling a hand to run through his fanned out hair. He shook his head, acting like that wasn't true. "Remember that time when I came home from work, and you were watching the game with my dad? You were surprised that I walked in, like I didn't live there."

He laughed at the memory, shaking his head.

"I wasn't surprised that you came home, just how fast the time flew," he smiled absently. He looked off behind you, like he was reminiscing. "What a guy."

Rolling your eyes, you continued, "You literally pushed our date back two hours that night because you couldn't miss the playoffs with him."

"Okay, two hours is a stretch-"

"And that one time, my mom made a five-course meal that I couldn't eat because she was prepping for that two-week internship my dad got you out of state?"

"She knows I'm the only one who likes her pot roast!"

"And how every time I walk through the front door, they call out 'Steve' instead of their daughter's name that they've known literally since birth?"

His eyes were squeezed shut as he continued laughing at you. You were smiling too, not irritated at the memories. It was great how much they got along, making life with Steve that much easier.

"And how-"

"Okay, okay! I get it, babe," he cut you off with a kiss, pulling you even closer to his body by your hips. You sighed, brushing your nose against him as you pulled away. "Everyone loves me."

Without fail, there he was.

"Especially you," one of his hands trailed up the small of your back, starting at the base of your spine to trail up under your clothes.

"You might be right about that," you mumbled, the heat from his body transferred to yours. His hands began to wander as he looked at your, lightly tracing over skin only to push you up, so that you were seated on top of him.

Your hands supported yourself as they rested on his stomach, fingers splayed across the sweater he wore. He leaned up on his elbows, reaching one hand up to snake in the sleeve of your own jacket. Getting the hint, you shook it off behind you, immediately feeling the brisk air around you.

"You look beautiful," he whispered, his hand now wandering to reach beneath the long sleeve you wore. Your stomach was exposed as he lifted up the fabric, his hand cupping at your breast from underneath the clothing.

Gasping, you grabbed his wrist.

"Steve, we can't-"

You looked behind you at the open air, the back door of the hatchback still wide open. The lake was more than empty, not even an animal in sight. But you still couldn't fathom the idea of exposing yourself this out in the open.

The sun was gone by now, remnants of pink and orange against the horizon as they faded into a deep blue.

"There's no one," he whispered, shaking off your grip on his wrist. He reached down to pull the draw string on your sweats, fingers dipping in to pull the stretch of the waistband. His hips jutted upwards into you, a gasp leaving your mouth as you felt the hardness in his own joggers. "I got you, babe."

You took a beat before nodding, thinking about the risk in this. It quickly faded away as he leaned up to shake off his coat, fingers immediately finding the hem of his sweater to pull it off. Left behind was his mole dotted skin, hair dusting his abdomen, the last kiss of summer fading away, revealing his porcelain skin.

You let him relieve you of your own top, the cups of your bra slowly dropping away as he unclasped it. Leaning down, you pressed your lips to the side of his neck. Steve gasped, a muttered curse falling from his lips as he gripped your hips again.

Rocking into each other, you felt the heat swarm at your core. The crotch at his pants grew tighter, tenting as you worked over him, the layers of fabrics between you separating you from the part of him that you wanted the most.

His skin began to blister dark red and purple as you sucked marks into his neck, slight teeth marks left behind as he began to lower your sweats over your ass. You felt exposed this way, kicking off the house shoes you definitely shouldn't have worn out and aiding him in his efforts to undress you. Meeting him halfway, you did the same for him, leaving the two of you in just your underwear.

Your skin was covered in goosebumps, yet you couldn't tell if it was from him or the cold air that crept in the car. The two of you had moved slow before, but nothing like this, with your hips rutting against each other, the fabric of his boxers and your panties becoming thinner with each slick movement. His large hands were on either side of your face, pulling you into him as the two of you kissed, tongues running against each other as breathless moans escaped him.

This side of Steve was your favorite, whimpers leaving his mouth as you worked your hips in circles, his shaft finding the dip between your legs, heat radiating between you. It was a private version of him nobody had seen before, vulnerability shared between two lovers.

"You feel-" a shaky breath left his mouth as you reached a hand between the two of you, reaching into his boxers to run along his cock.

The velvety skin was solid, wetness at the tip as it lay thickened against his hip. His head flew back, hitting the floorboards with a thud as he screwed his eyes shut.

Sitting up on your knees, you hovered above him, you pulled his boxers down just enough to expose him. With the fabric free, his cock sprang to life, angry red with desire as you settled over it once again.

"Babe–I need–"

He could barely get his words out, becoming a babbling mess as you ground over him once more. Leaning over him, you kissed him again, lingering long and slow as you pushed your tongue into his mouth. Moaning into the kiss, he reached down, pulling the cotton of your panties to the side, finger ghosting over your bundle of nerves.

His touch was magic, momentarily leaving you as he brought his fingers to his mouth, wetting them with a lick of his tongue only to return. Circling your clit with his thumb, he dipped two of his fingers inside of your cunt.

A deep moan left you, his name on your lips as it was your turn to fall apart.

"Steve, baby," you whined, feeling him deep.

A small smirk dusted his lips as he ran his other hand across your hairline, a small kiss placed above your eyebrow. His confidence grew as he felt the dangle of the necklace you wore over his chest, the 'H' ghosting over the hair across his chest.

"Feel good?" He licked into your open mouth, nipping at your bottom lip. Whining, you nodded, hips involuntarily jerking against him fingering you.

"Want more?"

Nodding, you winced at the absence of his fingers as he pulled them out of you. The tip of his cock replaced that feeling fast, his hand lining himself up with your entrance, your panties still pushed to the side to expose your dripping cunt.

"Shh, I got you, baby," he muttered, wrapping his arm around you. You were pulled into his chest, legs splayed over his hips wide as he slowly pushed into you, the burn of the stretch feeling so, so good.

A loud moan escaped you as he slowly worked his way deep. Shallow thrusts became deep ones as he rutted up into you, planting his feet below him so that he could steadily rock into that sweet spot inside of you.

Every thrust was blinding, a reason for you to shout out, grip at his hair, bite his lip a little harder than the last nip. He was so deep, hammering into you at a steady pace that made you forget everything, but his name.

With one hand pulling you into him and the other stretched on your hip, you felt engulfed by him, by his love.

You were dripping around him, slick sounds filling the air, drowning out the surrounding night sky. You had half a mind to realize you were in public, but Steve was the only thing you could think about right now.

Grinding back into him, you met his thrusts half way, resting your head to the side of him. Pants left your mouth, empty sentences leaving your lips as you became cock drunk on him. His slow, steady pace was killing you, his hips finding a deep pattern that reached parts of you that you were sure he hadn't gone before.

"Need–"

"What do you need, baby?" He moaned, gripping your hair to pull you back to look at him. Your lids were heavy, want etched in the crease of your brows.

"I need–"

A lengthy whine left you as he slowed down even more, thrusting deeper with a roll of his hips that left you breathless. Bottoming out, he circled his hips in a figure eight every time he reached the hilt.

"You need more?" He supplied, nodding with you as you closed your eyes, teeth dug into your bottom lip. They were surely deeply bruised by now, between his urgent kisses and the assault of your own mouth.

The movement was fast as he flipped you on your back in the small space of the van, removing himself from your to fully undress himself, boxers thrown somewhere behind him. You lay flat on your back, pussy twitching as your slick leaked out of it. Your underwear was still pushed to the side, emphasizing the swollen folds that ached to have him back.

Taking a look at you, he bit his lip, fingers reaching out to run lightly against the skin.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he moaned, leaning forward to lick at you. The tongue lapped between your legs, sucking at your clit in a way that had you tingling. Legs widening, you arched your back, hand gripping his wild hair.

"Ste–"

His name barely left your lips as you moaned, his teeth lightly nipping at the fabric of your underwear. Using his fingers and mouth to pull them down, his teeth didn't leave the fabric. It was a sight you want permanently etched in your brain, something you would definitely have to use later.

Strands of hair fell into his eyes as he looked down at you, the white cotton of your underwear hanging from his teeth for a moment before he slowly removed them, the fabric stretching his bottom lip down before he dropped them.

You sat up on your elbows, spreading your legs wider to usher him forward. Giggling slightly, you beamed at him as the fabric caught on his dick, hanging in an obscene way. You couldn't believe the man in front of you was real, he was something out of a graphic novel.

Looking down at the way your panties hung over him, he laughed back at you before shaking them off.

"Oh, that was funny?" He teased, leaning over you to line himself up with you.

The tip of his cock ran along your slit, at this point, you couldn't tell who was more wet.

"It was h–" You moaned as he slowly pressed inside, cock stretching you tight as its length made its way inside. "Hot."

He nodded before returning his mouth to your own. The kiss was deep as he thrusted into you, thick cock somehow deeper than before. His hips knocked into you, spreading them wide. Your hands were clasped with his own, stretched to either side of your head as he gripped his fingers between yours.

You knew what it was. He had a need to get dirty when he had sex, choke you, spank you, pull your hair, but when he couldn't do that, he improvised. Pounded into you as he pinned you down by your hands, fucking every rational thought out of you. He knew he had to be sweet with it, but a part of him still needed to have that point of control.

The thought of it made you tingle, stomach turning as your release crept up your spine.

"Fuck-" He cursed into your mouth, hips rolling as he felt you tighten around him.

His knee pushed up a bit, widening your stance even further as he pounded into you. His deep thrusts became more hurried, your body traveling up the length of the back of the car, the sounds of smacks filling the air.

Locking your ankles behind him, he released one of your hands and moaned loud. His fingers found your knee, pulling you tight and close to him as he went deep, his pelvis rubbing against your clit in all the right places.

"Steve-baby–"

It was your turn to babble incoherently, eyes fluttering shut as your release approached you. White filled your senses, back arching off of the floor as it all hit you at once, pussy fluttering around him as you came.

You felt it deep, walls squeezing him tight that resulted in him coming undone, painting you white deep inside. His hips stuttered a few times, gasps leaving his mouth as he pressed against you once last time.

Steve twitched inside of you, his own orgasm drawing out yours, a shared high reached amongst you two.

Kissing him softly, you left go of his hand, reaching up to tangle in his hair, sweaty and slightly matted. The kiss drew sloppy as you two came down, tongues running against each other, teeth nipping at skin. Small beads of sweat pilled at his hairline, his eyes fluttered shut as he collapsed on top of you.

Still inside of you, he tried catching his breath, cock falling soft.

"Fuck, I love you," he murmured against your skin. Nodding, you let your head hit the floor of the car, eyes squeezed shut. He began to mumble his own words, eyes closing as he relaxed into you. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"I love you," you whispered back, leaning up slightly to press a kiss to the top of his head. You felt him kiss you back, his lips pressed where the 'H' met the center of your collarbones, the metal pressing in between where you met.

Running your hands through his hair, you couldn't be more grateful for him. His warmth became your own as he grew tired, still lying naked with you, exposed to the world, but you couldn't care. As long as he's with you, you felt okay.

so how was this? masterlist. part one. part two. part three.

[calumfmu]

you've got the key to my heart.

It wasn't a matter of him being stubborn and not listening at this point, but a matter of him proving to you who he could be. He didn't understand why you would resist him, even with him being nice. You could send him a damn invoice for the whiplash you were getting.

Nonetheless, you recognized the bitchy tone he had, wondering where he was going to take it this time.

Third installment of Baby, No Attachment. Mean!Steve x reader.

cw: swearing, mean!Steve, toxic couples (what's not to love), confessions of love, angst, fluff at the end, no smut but always 18+, mdni (1.8k+ words)

Your hand was warm in his grasp, contrasting the icy wind that began to settle over the September sky. Fall was creeping in, leaves changing, wind getting more chilly with every blow, but at the same time that meant more intimate time with Steve, more cuddling, more kisses, more everything that involved his body heat.

You two had just left the theatre downtown, choosing to walk down to the burger joint a couple of streets away. Steve's jacket was draped over your shoulders, him opting to withstand the chill of the night.

It was routine at this point, Steve jumping over hoops to make sure you were comfortable no matter how persistent you were with the fact you were fine. It wasn't a matter of him being stubborn and not listening, but a matter of him proving to you who he could be. He didn't understand why you would resist him, even with him being nice. If he didn't understand the logic of something, he was going to make it known, you had learned this pretty early on.

"Steve, babe, I really am fine," you laughed quietly, beginning to lean into his rant that was to come.

Your clasped hands swung in between the two of you, his larger one completely encompassing your own.

"It's freezing out." Probably a few below 70 if you really thought about it. He was being dramatic. "You could get sic-"

"Steve?"

The shrill voice pulled the two of you out of your conversation, Steve absentmindedly turning his head in that direction. You were so intent on walking to get that burger you were craving, you nearly missed the way his body tensed up once he figured out who it belonged to.

Glancing behind him, the girl you had hoped you never saw again stood there.

"Nancy," his voice cracked slightly as she came out of a nearby camera place, chain of keys in her hand, a tall, meek boy on her heels.

For a moment, the four of you just stood there, awkwardly swallowing the silence, nothing but the sounds of the lessening crowds surrounding you, cars driving down the nearly barren streets. Steve's hand tightened in your grip, and your eyes flitted between staring at him and that boy behind Nancy, the mentioned girl in your peripheral. No matter how long it had been, you still couldn't bring yourself to make eye contact with her.

She spoke his name with a soft gasp, a sudden smile crossing her features as she came into your space, her hands briefly coming up to pull Steve in a hug. It lasted all of three seconds, him remaining frozen as he wasn't sure how to think about all of this.

"Hi, it's been, uhh, a while..." She trailed off, awkwardly throwing her hands to her side. She looked between the two of you, your clasped hands swaying slightly as the two of you loosened your grip slightly.

You could feel Steve's hesitation, his hands speaking for himself as he thought about how he could handle the situation. He attempted to resort to confidence, a facade he was all too familiar with.

"Nancy," he repeated, suddenly turning to look at you. His arm came up to drape around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. "You two have, uhh, met."

Her eyes darted in your direction, an indecipherable emotion behind them.

"I remember," she was short in her response.

That awkward tension still hung in the air, the tall boy behind her playing with the hem of his jacket, not sure how to process it. She suddenly remembered the boy behind her, her gasp loud as she reached out a hand to pull him closer to the three of you.

"This is Jonathan," Nancy smiled, her voice soft as she looked at him. In that brief look, you could tell that there were feelings involved, despite the awkward tension around you. "He's... we're together, after... y'know."

You winced at how still and stoic Steve remained through this, no emotion showing.

"I think we have a class together or something," you tried to get rid of that feeling in the air.

"I doubt it."

Eyes cutting towards your boyfriend, you immediately sensed which version of him you were going to get tonight. You could send him a damn invoice for the whiplash you were getting. His voice had a rough tone, bitterness dripping behind the words.

Nancy ignored the comment, bless her soul. It was awkward enough being in each other's presence, given the circumstances of Steve quite literally being dumped for you.

"We work together here at the shop," she continued to supply, pointing up at the sign.

"That's your camera?" Steve questioned, and even more warning bells sounded off in your mind. You recognized the bitchy tone he had, wondering where he was going to take it. Jonathan looked down at the piece of machinery he was holding, nodding as he turned it over in his grasp.

Jonathan cleared his throat, lifting it up slightly. "Yeah, it's what I use to-"

"Now that I think of it... weren't you that kid that got in trouble for, like... taking pictures of girls in the locker rooms?"

It was too far gone to save this conversation.

"Steve!"

You and Nancy had similar tones as his name left both of your mouths. Glancing at each other briefly, you placed a hand on him, beginning to guide him away from the others. Jonathan had immediately shut down, flushing red in the face as he looked away from the group, Nancy had a pissed off look on her face. Steve had a smug look, 'King Steve' returning for a long awaited cameo.

"I'm sorry," you rushed, grabbing his hand to begin to flee the scene. You couldn't come up with an excuse for his behavior, embarrassed that he would even bring up something like that. Angry that he would stoop that low even with the progress of character he had made, all that he had proven to you in the last couple of months.

The two of you began to head in the same direction that you were headed, you marching in front of the brown headed boy that seemed irritated for some reason. He was the last person who should be mad, embarrassed, whatever emotion he was feeling.

Your feet stopped in front of a random drug store along the way, a 24 hour sign illuminating the small crevice the two of you found yourself in. Steve stood a few feet away from you, looking down at his feet as he kicked a few loose scraps of gravel around him.

"I don't know why you're mad," he shrugged, moving his shoulders with his words.

"That was so uncalled for. It was mean."

"You know who you're with."

Your mouth dropped open in shock, the worst excuse he could've used. "Really Steve?"

He scoffed, a lopsided smile poking through. It was like you were in a time machine, those first few weeks of knowing him flashing before your eyes. He cleared his throat, "You act like I said I wanted to fuck her or something."

"Explain the attitude then, Steve," you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. You started at the neon sign, blinking on and off with a buzz. "You might as well take her back with the comments you were making."

He choked out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he paced in front of you, hands shoved down deep into his front jean pockets. "Yeah okay."

"You know what Steve-"

He came into your space, stepping in front of you, broad shoulders on display. Staring down at you, his eyes were squinted low, mouth pressed tight. "No, what is it? I'm dying to know."

"You could be such a dick sometimes," you choked it out, rolling your eyes away from him. Every angry emotion you felt for him came out in the moment, warning bells sounding off as you realized this was your gut feeling you had been fighting off.

"Sometimes babe? Please, go on... tell me more."

Shaking your head, you pressed a hand to his chest, pushing him away from you. You couldn't be around him right now. He stumbled back slightly, biting his lip before turning his head away from you.

You swallowed heavily, shaking your head as you tapped your fingers against your arm. That familiar cigarette craving was inching in again, not feeling the heat of the tobacco since the day you two first got together.

"I don't even know why I'm doing this," you whispered, looking down the street. You could run right now.

He looked at you again, a heartbroken emotion written all over him. "Doing what?"

"Just... never mind, Steve." You tightened the jacket draped around your shoulders, really feeling the cold that began to settle in around you. Suddenly, the warmth that you once felt from Steve's jacket just wasn't doing it for you.

Beginning to walk away from him, to where you weren't sure, you could tell yourself that this might really be it. Maybe it was the end of whatever this was, maybe this was the extent to which Steve could be better for you.

He called after you, but you ignored it, making it a few yards down the sidewalk before you heard the heavy drag of him jogging up to you.

"I'm sorry, okay," he rushed, grabbing your shoulder to spin you around. Staring up at him, you tried to ignore the pang in your chest as how beautiful he looked under the streetlights. His mole dotted cheeks were flushed red, wind whipping at the skin, eyes prickling with tears as the wind blew through them.

His voice cracked as you remained stoic, "I'm sorry."

You didn't answer him, lips pressed in a tight line as you assessed the situation.

"Please don't leave," he whispered, pulling you into him. His arms wrapped around your shoulders, his forehead pressed to your head as you remained still.

"It's, like... I don't want to do that, I don't want to be a dick," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I can't help it sometimes, like a knee jerk reaction to things I don't want to face."

You began to cave, his arms providing relief to the tension in your body. You hated your reaction to him. You repeated the one thing you had been saying over and over, the only thing that you could think of: "That was mean."

"I know," he whispered, pulling you even further into him. You slowly reached up to wrap your arms around him, ignoring that feeling in the pit of your stomach. The man in your arms was every red flag you were warned about, but everything you needed at the same time. "I don't want you to think differently of me."

You pushed your head into his chest, burying your face in his scent. Eyes squeezed shut, you spoke softly, "It's hard to even think when you're a dick to everyone except me. For now."

He suddenly pulled away, bringing his hands up to hold your face in his hands. He stared into your eyes, brows furrowed together as he shook his head.

"For now? No, no, absolutely not," he urged, pressing a kiss to your nose. You crinkled it up in response. "Not for now, not ever. I love you. So, so much."

You shook your head, your own face turning up at his words. He had said this before, but you didn't know whether or not to believe him.

"I love you, and you're perfect. Everything I've ever wanted."

"Steve, you're just making things up-"

Maybe it was how you were feeling that was protesting it, tales of your past failures even with him coming to surface. Maybe it was the fact that he was a short fuse, always ready to switch a flip and become a completely different person. Every instance of disappointment speaking out, trying to sabotage the moment before it truly got good.

"I do," he was even more firm in his speech. Steve leaned in, inches away from your face as he stared into your eyes, blinking slow as he took in your features. "I love you, and there's nothing you could do about it. I don't want to hear it."

He was truthful in all of his words, no deception behind it as he unfolded all of this on you. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, puppy dog eyes giving you a look that could bloom a million flowers.

"You're the only person I want to see. I want to be around," he continued, pressing another kiss to your nose. Others followed, your cheek, your temple, the space between your eyes, even a small nibble on the ear. "You make me feel like I could do anything. You make me feel like I want to run away from the world just to lay with you, be by your side all day, all night, just so I could be yours. Be a better person."

A tear pricked at the corner of your left eye, falling onto the side of your nose just for Steve to kiss the skin, soaking it up. His beauty outshined the moon that hung in the sky, a competition that was unfair for nature to handle.

"Okay, okay," you laughed, shaking your head at him. He smiled at the brightness on your face, nodding with you. "I believe you."

"Okay," he agreed, holding you close.

"We have to work on whatever just happened though," you said. "That was mean, and you have to apologize."

He rolled his eyes playfully, cringing as he thought of the past moment that had just occurred.

"Can we at least have sex first, and then, get back to it?"

And there he was. Your Steve.

"You're unbelievable," you laughed, shaking your head before walking off ahead of him. You had to remind yourself, progress wasn't linear, and Steve... he fell somewhere along that.

Aannddd.... my favorite toxic couple is back. As much as I love mean!Steve, idk how much longer I can take of him being the douchiest person ever. just kidding. I'd bend over backwards for him. Definitely making this into a series, so expect more, whether you like it or not babes.

part one. prev part. next part.

Masterlist. <3

[hellfireclubmember]

Pretty Girl III

a/n: okay, here is part 3. so sorry it took so long. pls tell me what u guys think. I've been so nervous to post this

w/c: 3.2k

pairing: Steve Harrington x reader

summary: Dustin wouldn't shut up about the pretty girl that joined hellfire to sub for Lucas, when Steve met her he understood why. and now they're on their first date

warnings: none tbh, idk if i even cursed but jic maybe curse words, fluff, tons and tons of fluff

!!!PART 1!!! !!!PART 2!!!

Steve Harrington was officially done for. Completely hopeless. After the movie at his place, he could not stop thinking about you. He didn’t spare any time thinking about anything other than your pretty smile and your pretty eyes and your pretty hand in his. Which obviously prompted Robin’s nonstop teasing.

The movie night had been a success, when it ended, he begrudgingly played chauffeur for everyone. Steve complained about driving everyone around all the time, but he genuinely didn’t mind it. In fact, he kind of loved it. He liked feeling needed. He would never admit it to Robin and the rest of the arrogant little pests. He had enough with the teasing about you, he wasn’t going to willingly give them any more ammunition.

On the drive to everyone’s homes he was thinking of a thousand ways to ask you on a proper date, but in the end, Dustin insisted on being dropped off last, claiming to have something really important to talk to Steve about. When the little moron started talking about this ‘very important’ thing, Steve felt like he was going to combust.

“You totally like (y/n) right?”

“Henderson, this better not be what you wanted to talk about.”

“What? This is important information. I could help you ask her on a date.”

Steve punched him on the shoulder. “I was going to, dickhead! When I finished dropping you and Robin off.”

Dustin felt so dumb when it finally clicked in his head. He totally cock-blocked his friend and he was going to find a way to fix it. And so there Steve was. Parked outside of Hawkins High, leaning on the hood of his car. The sun was setting behind the school, painting the sky several shades of orange and pink. The brisk summer breeze rustling some leaves.

Dustin’s idea was to have Steve pick him up from Hellfire in order to create a casual ‘accidental’ meet up. He kept telling Steve to trust him, arguing that he was a far better wing-man than Robin.

Steve had his arms crossed, digging the heel of his shoe into the dirt when he heard your giggle. You were walking out of the school with Dustin and Eddie. He was almost mad at how fast his face warmed just looking at you. You were so radiant you even made the Hellfire Club shirt look nice.

“Oh Steve! I totally forgot you were picking me up!” Dustin was speaking way too loudly and it made Steve roll his eyes. This kid was the worst actor in the world. The curly haired boy grabbed your hand and dragged you towards Steve’s BMW. “Look, (y/n). It’s Steve!” When you were two feet away from him, Dustin began to start yelling again. “Oh no, I forgot something back in the room. I must go retrieve that.” He turned around, walking away without another word.

You and Steve looked at each other for a moment before you both started laughing.

“I’m sorry.” Steve shook his head. “Clearly this was a set up. I just wanted to see you again, and I didn’t think Henderson would be such a bad liar.”

“You wanted to see me again?” You whispered, voice coy.

Steve felt like he was malfunctioning. There was no way one person could be so adorable without even trying. “Yeah, of course. I’ve got to tell you; I’m still finding potato chip crumbs around my kitchen.” He chuckled, trying to play it a little cooler.

You put your hands up to your face immediately, trying your best to hide the embarrassment from him. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, I’m kidding.” He gently grabbed your wrist and lowered your hands from your face. “Don’t hide that pretty face from me.” His hand slid down to get a hold of yours. Steve thought about how your hand felt like it was made to fit in his and how he wished he’d never have to let it go. “Actually, umm, I wanted to ask you” Steve intertwined your fingers. “if you would maybe like to go on a date with me. Just you and me.”

You looked up at him doe eyed as your head spun, Steve’s words were candy sweet and it made it very hard to focus. He was unknowingly chipping away at your heart with every touch and keeping each piece for himself. Honestly, you didn’t care, the second you walked into Family Video your heart was his for the taking.

“Y-yes. I would love that.”

Steve rubbed your knuckles with his thumb, in an attempt to comfort you when he realized he was making you nervous. “We can go do whatever you want. Say anything and I’ll do it.” His eyes scanned over every one of your features.

Everyone knew Steve Harrington was a charismatic guy. I mean he wouldn’t have been dubbed King Steve without the charm. But nothing could prepare you for this. Your legs felt like jelly with every word he spoke.

“Actually, I’ve been wanting watch this new movie. Top Sun or something.”

“Top Gun?”

“Yeah! Top Gun. Some guys in Hellfire were talking about it.”

His smile was big and warm. “Then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll pick you up at 8, okay?” He squeezed your hand before letting it go, immediately missing the feeling of it.

You nodded your head a little too enthusiastically. You stood there a moment, looking at him. It was now our never. You took a deep breath, stood on the tip of your toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. Your heart felt like it would beat out of your chest. Without looking back, you sped walked to your bike.  

You left Steve frozen. He felt a smile begin to spread on his face as he reached up to trace where your lips touched his cheek. Yeah, completely done for.

Apparently, Dustin had been watching the whole interaction from inside the school. When he saw you leave, he walked over to Steve and jumped up and down in front of him, giggling like a little kid.

“See! What’d I tell ya?” He was very pleased with his participation in – he insisted on naming the plan when he was briefing Steve – operation get the maiden. He was trying to help Steve but he was also trying to help you. Dustin didn’t know you super well but he thought you were one of the kindest people he had ever met. He thought you and Steve could really make each other happy and you both deserved that.

“Yeah, yeah, Henderson. Don’t get cocky.” He chuckled whilst he opened the car doors.

It was 7:56 PM and you were sat on the couch in your living room. You were trying really hard to keep your breathing leveled. This was your first formal date ever and it was with Steve fucking Harrington. You had never been more nervous in your life. Which is saying a lot because in the 3rd grade you had been in a school production of The Wizard of Oz and you were so nervous you puked all over the stage.

Steve wasn’t really doing any better. He had gone on hundreds of dates, especially recently; Heidi, Katy, Lisa, whatever. But this felt different, it felt real and as scary as that was, he was excited. He was standing outside your door, constantly looking down at his watch. He anxiously waited for it to hit 8, took a deep breath and knocked on your door.

The door swung open and when he saw you, he sucked in a breath. Steve couldn’t believe how lucky people were to have the chance to look at you, himself included. You were wearing this cute sundress; intricate flowers embroidered on the bodice, the skirt was the most flowy material he had ever seen, and the straps were made of pretty lace.

“Wow.” He mumbled under his breath. He just stared at you for a few seconds.

You looked down at your dress when he didn’t say anything else. “I wasn’t sure about the dress. I can change if you think it’s too much.”

“No!” He said entirely too quickly. “You’re like some sort of angel or something.” He was thinking out loud. Steve thought about how you looked like you had just walked out of a dream, delicate like a promise and pretty as the stars.

You smiled brightly up at him, your lips glossy. You took a proper look at Steve and couldn’t fathom how he liked you when he was literally the most beautiful man in the world. He was wearing blue jeans, god, never have jeans looked so good on a person. His cable knit sweater hugged his arms so nicely. He was, for lack of better of better words, hot and it made your face warm thinking about it.

With your bag on your shoulder, you stepped out of the house and locked the door. You made eye contact with Steve. “I’m ready then.”

He shook his head and told himself to focus. “Oh, yeah.” He was trying really hard not to stumble over his words. “Right, right. The movie starts in like 30 minutes so we should head out.” Steve walked ahead of you to the car, opening your door for you. If there was one thing, he was sure of, it was that he was going to be the most gentleman out of all the goddamn gentlemen out there. This date was going to be the best one you would ever have; he was going to make sure of it.

At the movie theater Steve walked with you to find some seats. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart.” He came back with just about everything at the concession stand for you. Popcorn, soda, candy, nachos, the works. You saw him struggling with all the food in his arms. You tried to help him but he kept telling you he could do it, so you sat back down. He started handing you the food and he looked so happy you really didn’t have the heart to tell him you didn’t like popcorn.

“Thank you, Steve. I was starved.” You took a sip from your soda, offering him the straw when you were done.

Steve smiled. “No problem at all.” He leaned forward to where you were holding the cup and took a drink from your coke. It felt oddly intimate but in a way that somehow made sense.

Almost every seat in the theater was occupied by other people. There was a family sitting in front of you and a group of friends one seat to your right. It smelled so strongly of popcorn and although you weren’t a fan of it you knew that the smell will forever remind you of tonight and that was okay with you.

Steve was looking at the side of your face whilst the opening credits of the movie played on the screen. The music was loud enough for him to talk to you without bothering anyone. “So, how’s hellfire going?”

You turned your head towards him and started to whisper. “It’s so cool, I still don’t really know a ton but Eddie is an amazing storyteller, really. We can never guess where the story is going and trust me, we all try. Actually, last session my character, she’s an elf by the way, she almost died. I was so sure she would but Dustin helped-“ You cut yourself off, realizing you had been rambling. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I do that sometimes, the rambling thing. I just get kinda nervous. Next time I do it you can just tell me to shut up.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed. “Hey, I would never tell you to shut up, okay?” He puts his hand on top of yours. “I asked you a question ‘cause I wanted to hear your answer, pretty girl. I like listening to you.”

I like listening to you playing over and over in your head. No one had ever said that to you before. Growing up everyone around you chastised you for talking more than anyone really cared for. Constantly telling you that you would only make friends by being quiet. So naturally it made it hard to believe that anyone could care about what you had to say. Opting to just not talk to people unless spoken to and saying as little as possible when they did. But Steve liked listening to you and it made your heart feel like it was about to explode in your chest.

“Thank you.” You sheepishly mumbled, looking down at his hand atop yours and then meeting his gaze once more. The feeling blooming in your chest was foreign but nothing about it was scary. It registered in your head how long it had been since you started staring at him. “Oh, um, how long have you and Robin been friends?”

“Just about a year actually. We worked at Scoops Ahoy together last year, before-” He made an explosion gesture with his hands. “You know, my relationship with Robin is completely platonic. With a capital ‘P’ as she likes to put it.” He heard you giggle and pride bubbled inside him for eliciting that beautiful sound.

“I think I know that, considering she kept making jokes about us holding hands.”

“You’re right, I forget that she is the most annoying person in the world.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “You love her.”

“Yeah, unfortunately.” He sighed. “She’s my best friend, I think she’s actually the only best friend I’ve ever had.” He said like he had just realized it in that moment.

Both of you were too busy talking to really notice the people around you. You weren’t really talking too loud but clearly loud enough to upset some of them. The guy in front of you got up abruptly and started speed walked out of the room.

“What about Dustin?”

“He’s my little brother. All of those twerps are.” There was a smile on Steve’s face the second the kids were brought up. “They’re my found family, you know? Robin too.” It was true, he barely knew where his parents were or who they were anymore. When he was a kid, they would show up to sports events sometimes, but only to save face in front of all the other parents. Now he had people, people that cared for him, that helped him and he would do anything for them. “My parents were never really there for me growing up and I guess I’m happy to be able to be there for all of them.”

Before you could reply to him, the man who had basically run out of the room came back, a teenage boy in an employee vest following him. The boy made his way in front of you both and with an apologetic look on his face said. “There have been some complaints about you guys and I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

You could feel everyone’s eyes on the both of you and it made you want to bury yourself alive. This was so embarrassing; it was like being scolded by a teacher in front of the entire class. Steve got up first, looking down at you. He could tell you were mortified and he felt awful. He reached out his hand for you to take, which you grabbed onto gratefully. Honestly, you were ashamed but the situation was so awkward it made you want to laugh so badly. You followed Steve out of the theater, trying your best not to laugh. The second you reached the lobby you fell into fits of giggles; Steve was watching you with an amused smile on his face. “You think this is funny, do you?”

“I’m sorry it’s not funny. I just…” You laughed out. “sometimes when I’m uncomfortable, I get so anxious I laugh.”

Steve chuckled as you began to settle down. He reached his arm over your shoulders and brought you closer to his side whilst you both walked outside. “You’re very cute, you know that?”

When you got to the car you both discussed what the next move would be now that the movies weren’t an option. You guys figured it would be a good idea to go somewhere you could talk without getting kicked out. Which is why you were sitting in Steve’s car in front of lover’s lake, paper bags full of greasy fast food in between the two of you. The crisp night air filtering through the open windows.

“You’re doing a good job, by the way. You know, taking care of Dustin and them.” You turned your body in the passenger seat to look at Steve as you spoke. “Dustin doesn’t stop talking about how cool you are, I think it kind of makes Eddie a little jealous.” You could see his face light up.

“Really? Sometimes I’m not so sure I’m doing too well.”

“You definitely are.”

Steve smiled. It felt nice to have his efforts recognized. He doesn’t do the things he does for the kids to be praised but the validation made him feel all warm and happy.

He grabbed a fry from one of the bags and dipped it into your vanilla shake. “Hey buster, you’re contaminating my shake.” You reached and took your shake from the cup holder in the middle console.

“Buster?” He snickered. “What are you? 40?” He grabbed another fry and tried to get into your cup but you moved it away. “C’mon. You don’t wanna share with me?” He pouted in attempt to sway you. And it worked. You rolled your eyes, a playful smile on your face, and held out your shake to him. simp behavior

The more you talked to Steve the more at ease you felt. You had never felt that comfortable with someone, you had gotten used to keeping people at arm’s length. It was funny, the more you did things you wouldn’t normally do the better the results.

Your gaze never left Steve’s face. “I forgot to tell you when you picked me up but you look very handsome tonight.”

“Oooooh you think I’m handsome?” He teased, a smirk on his face.

“Alright I take It back.”

“No no, you can’t do that. You totally think I’m handsome.”

You shook your head and smiled down at your lap. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah, but I’m nice to look at.” He brought his hand under your chin and lifted your head back up. He tried to keep the dumb grin off his face but failed. Steve couldn’t look away, your eyes held something sweet and he couldn’t get enough. He had never been happier to have met one of Dustin’s nerdy friends. He slid his hand up to cradle your face, rubbing your bottom lip with his thumb. “Can I kiss you?” He asked, his voice like honey.

“Yes.” You whispered. Steve didn’t hesitate to press his lips to yours when he heard you consent. The kiss was soft, almost timid and the remnants of your lip gloss tasted like strawberries. He had thought about kissing you the whole night and now that he has, he was addicted to the feel of your lips on his.

Meanwhile all you could think about was how his lips were as soft as they looked. Your body was covered in goosebumps, this was your first real kiss and in your opinion, it really couldn’t have been more perfect. You felt his other hand move to hold the other side of your face. He smiled against your lips before he pulled away.

“So how handsome am I exactly, pretty girl?”

tag list: @wh0reforbucknasty @somerandomasgardian @bubblebuttwade @johnricharddeacy @phantomxoxo @eloquentree @angelbbygrl @buginktsworld

[ghost-proofbaby]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

→ in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, minors dni

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader

chapters with smut marked with *

spotify playlist.

ao3

masterlist:

PROLOGUE: A BET

HOUR ONE

HOUR TWO

HOUR THREE

HOUR FOUR

HOUR FIVE

HOUR SIX

HOUR SEVEN

HOUR EIGHT

HOUR NINE

HOUR TEN

HOUR ELEVEN*

HOUR TWELVE

HOUR THIRTEEN*

HOUR FOURTEEN

HOUR FIFTEEN

HOUR SIXTEEN

HOUR SEVENTEEN

HOUR EIGHTEEN

HOUR NINETEEN*

HOUR TWENTY

HOUR TWENTY-ONE*

HOUR TWENTY-TWO

HOUR TWENTY-THREE

HOUR TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE: A BET*

"BEYOND THE HOURS" - extra content posted outside of canon 24 hours. (i.e. eddie povs, groupchat conversations that were cut, scenes mentioned in passing, etc.)

[lesservillain]

inmate!eddie munson x teacher!reader

When your 7th grade class is selected to participate in a prison pen pal program, you're unexpectedly thrust into the mix when the number of inmates is more than students in your class. After a bit of persuading, you take on a pen pal yourself. Little did you know that accepting that offer would change your life...for the better.

series cw: FLUFF, ANGST, SMUT. eddie and reader are implied to be around 28/29, implied drinking problem (reader), descriptions of domestic abuse towards reader, reader is divorced, reader was in an age gap relationship, talks of miscarriages and infertility, protected and unprotected sex, blood is mentioned at times. each year has it's own content warnings.

1994

1995

1996

1997

One Shots and Blurbs

Bear

[loveshotzz]

I guess it’s never really over

mechanic!steve x fem!reader exes to lovers

chapter Five -

Kissin’ and I hope they caught us

Fourth of July at Lover’s Lake & promises you shouldn’t make.

warnings: 18+ fluff so much fluff, and yearning (don’t get too comfortable though), drinking, smoking, semi public fooling around, finger sucking, dry humping, oral (steve receiving), big dick steve, unprotected p in v smut in the back of a car.

wc: 13k

authors note: I really cannot believe that after two years we are finally here. Thank you to everyone who’s ever messaged me about him, sent me asks, and just never gave up on the story. Writing this chapter made me realize how much I loved the little world I created here and I want to see it through. I wrote this for you guys 🥹💕 I hope it was worth the wait. ily endlessly.

series masterlist | series playlist

Cicadas buzz loudly, echoing through the trees that shroud the big lake in the middle of them. You’re hoping it’s enough to drown out the quick beating of your heart from reaching Robin’s ears as you approach the opening in the shrubs. It’s been a little over a week since your ‘date’ with Steve, and you aren’t really sure how to act around him anymore. Let alone your friends who bore witness to your biggest heartbreak and the years that followed. Shaky fingers absentmindedly reach up touching the warm gold still wrapped around your neck because you never took it off. You let it drop back against your chest, pushing down the thoughts of what that means.  

“So would you say that Steve is your summer lovin’?” 

Robin’s voice breaks through the jumbled mess of your thoughts that you hadn’t realized turned you mute. It takes a minute to finally comprehend what she’s implying, but when you do, the roll of your eyes couldn’t be any harder.

”Don’t start-“

”Are you guys having a blast? I mean, it happened so fast!” She smirks, sunburnt freckled cheeks pushing up with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

”You’re actually being really annoying about this whole thing.” You scold her in a hushed tone emerging from the woods, and into the chaos that is Lover’s Lake on the Fourth of July.

Smoke and sulfur fill your nose as the wrath of Indiana’s mid summer sun hits you both at full force without the shade of trees to hide from it. Kids run along the beach with fruit punch smiles and sticky fingers, while their parents spray way too much lighter fluid on the charcoal heating up their grills. Families spread out far leaving no part of the lake untouched, locked into their favorite spots for the colorful spectacle that’s expected tonight. A Hawkins tradition, one you hate to admit you missed.

”There they are!” Robin points with a chipped lime green finger, the nerves in your stomach twist into a knot.

Your eyes follow the invisible line to the corner end of the lake, immediately recognizing Eddie’s unruly hair tied up sloppily in a bun. He’s prepping the grill talking animatedly, throwing his head back in a full bellied laugh. Your eyes narrow, because only one person could be telling him a joke. 

Whatever it is, it can't be that funny. 

It takes you about a half a second to find Steve, unfortunately, it’s right as he’s taking off his shirt revealing tanned skin kissed by the kind of moles that make you want to play connect the dots with your fingertips. The dark thatch of hair on his chest you can’t seem to stop thinking about on full display. 

“Come on.” You grumble, huffing an irritated breath through your nose, making Robin cackle loud enough to catch the boy's attention. 

You avoid Steve’s gaze, defiantly.

”Quit acting like you don’t like it.” She snorts, grabbing your wrist, leading the way towards the table, “cat’s out of the bag, in fact it actually found its forever home when you came back to the apartment last week looking like a leopard.”

“I can - I can still think he’s annoying.” You argue feebly. Robin doesn’t entertain it, throwing you a deadly side eye.

”There’s the beer - I mean, my dear sweet friends, I’m so glad you can make it.” 

Eddie greets you both with Ray Bans covering his big brown eyes and dimples so deep they poke holes in his cheeks, squashing whatever bickering this conversation was going to turn into. There’s still evidence of sunscreen painted on the tip of his nose, and more sloppily covering the tattoo on his chest. Little white skulls dot the black swim trunks that hang low, revealing a slight farmer's tan around his hips, the creamy skin already turning red.

”Imagine I forgot it.” Robin quips, entertained by the way Eddie’s eyes narrow over the top of his frames at a joke that isn’t very funny to him.

”Ha - ha - ha Buckley.”

The holes that Steve burns into the side of your head make it extremely hard to focus on your two friends, especially when he’s wearing nothing but fucking cherry red swim trunks. You chance a glance in his direction and immediately regret it meeting his amused stare. His white teeth shine in a smile that stretches wide across his face, catching onto you. Clearing his throat, those same teeth dig into his bottom lip to try and contain it from growing as he walks over.  Eyes shamelessly trailing up and down the length of your body. 

“Are you really going to play hard to get with my chain around your neck?” He tuts, close to your ear, sunscreen and amber tickling your nose. 

Calloused fingertips whisper up your exposed back before curling around the strap of your beach bag, relieving you of the heavy weight you forgot you were carrying.

“You really like bringing that up don’t you?” You fight the curve of your lips with a roll of your eyes.

”Well, you keep wearing it.” He shrugs, setting the bag on the table before turning the full force of his attention onto you. You hate the way your thighs still press because of it. 

“It’s just funny to me, you know? Since you haven’t called after that ‘date’ you practically begged me for.” Your hum, refusing to meet his eyes, tightening the tie on your sheer cover up skirt that suddenly feels too short under his heavy gaze. 

Steve sucks his teeth.

”Just giving you space to process what happened, honey, because if I’m being completely honest, it’s been very hard to figure out if you want to kiss me or punch me. Like right now? The way you’re looking at me is a perfect example.” 

Still, he takes the gamble, invading the rest of your space with a knowing smirk before continuing.

“I’m happy to hear that it was in fact a date, but I’d like to take you on a better one.”

You look up at him from under the thick hood of your lashes, wondering if he can see the quick way your chest rises and falls. 

”Two things can be true at the same time. And the jury’s still out on that second date.”

Steve wets his lips, taking a deep breath through his nose, taking one last look at the gold that shimmers in the sun, 

”That’s okay honey, we’ll just have to see how today goes then, won’t we?” He says quietly, like no one else is around, gaze flicking down at your mouth. “But since you did say both things are true.”

He curves two fingers under your chin, tilting your head up the rest of the way while his other hand grabs at your hip pulling you in. Steve gives you a minute to do anything like push him away, tell him to fuck off, but when you don’t, he closes the gap without any hesitation. Full pink lips that you missed more than you’d like to admit slot between yours with a sweetness you aren’t familiar with. Your cheeks warm under his hand that spreads wide across the side of your face, a gentle swipe of his tongue begging you to open up, threatening the edge of what’s appropriate.

Steve kisses you like he missed you too.

”Alright, I know you guys are like rekindling things or whatever but there’s literal children around.” Eddie scolds wasting no time cracking open a beer, bringing you back to reality.

Steve smiles against your mouth, matching the one that curves up the corners of yours despite yourself.

”This is actually some real sick shit that you two have going on.” Robin interrupts, snorting “she was literally just calling you annoying.”

”Robin!-“

”Wait, were you really calling me annoying?” Steve pulls away amused at the clear guilt painted all over your face.

“Oh yeah, she absolutely was, look at her man.” Eddie points out laughing, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his netted pocket silently offering one to your best friend, “this is a weird dynamic, but I’m not gonna lie, I’m probably liiiiike seventy five percent excited to see how this plays out tonight.”

”Crazy fun idea, let's all talk about something else.” You snap, crossing your arms ditching Steve for the spot next to Robin at the faded red picnic table. “Just keep your hands to yourself okay, Harrington? We don’t need to provide an extra show with the fireworks tonight.”

“Come on, I’ll pay extra.” Eddie pleads, batting his lashes, your obvious annoyance only egging him on.

None of it seems to phase Steve, too lost in his own world staring at you with the kind of goofy smirk that actually does make you want to punch him and then maybe kiss it better. 

Baby steps.

”You couldn’t afford us Munson.” Steve winks not missing a beat, bringing himself back to the conversation like he never left, making Eddie smirk around his beer can.

“We’re not for sale! ” You interrupt, narrowing your gaze at your ex boyfriend, folding your hands on top of the table.

”But you are saying there’s a ‘we’?” Steve immediately takes the bait you’ve unknowingly laid out for him with the kind of glint in his eyes that tells you he’s going to be trouble all day.

”I’m afraid you walked right into that one.” Robin leans over whispering purposefully loud enough for everyone to hear, the corners of her eyes crinkling with a grin. 

She meets Steve’s high five without even having to look at him, begging your lips to twist no matter how hard you press them into a straight line.

”Everyone at this barbecue is really annoying.” You announce contradicting the smile that finally splits your face in two.

”Here! Here!” Eddie bellows, polishing off his beer with a loud ‘ahh’ wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

For the first time all summer, you give in to the part of yourself hidden so deep you thought you’d lost forever that’s actually happy to be back. You didn’t realize the weight of it until it clawed its way into your chest, cracking at the wall you’ve built around your heart. 

“It looks like those gremlin O’flanery kids finally got out of the lake, I’m gonna take advantage before I Emeril Lagasse the fuck out of these burgers.” Eddie announces his exit standing up tossing the crushed aluminum into the metal trash can near your set up. 

You’re almost positive you see him give Robin a look, and then you know you did when she starts standing up too.

”I’m gonna come with, I don’t want to be in there when they start playing Marco Polo again.” She follows his lead with an excuse that would be believable if it wasn’t for the notorious crack in her voice every time she tries to lie. 

She ignores the heat of your glare, fully knowing she’s going to get an earful on the way home.

”Have fun and don’t drown.” You grumble at her retreating figure, your tone making it sound like you mean the complete opposite.

“I will, thank you! I know you’d come save me if I diiid!” She sings in response, white teeth gleaming against the sun as she runs into the water, tossing her shorts on the sand cackling loudly with Eddie who splashes water at her.

You’ll drown both of them yourself.

The humidity feels thicker in the air once you’re alone with Steve for the first time without the buffer of your two friends. Heat steams, bubbling in the space between you with the kind tension that could combust without a release. Your own mind actively working against you when his words from the garage come sneaking out of the place you’ve tried to shove them down into.

”I could be so nice to you baby, don’t you want that?”

“I know you said to keep our hands to ourselves, paid or not.” he interrupts your wildly inappropriate thoughts pulling out a dark green backpack from under the picnic table. 

The smirk on his pink lips makes you feel like he can read your mind, your hips shuffle subtly to try and hide the way you want to squirm. It doesn’t work. 

“But I really don’t want to look like those two, especially since I’m gonna be on my back trying to fix the car you almost killed this week.” 

“I did not almost kill my car.” You scoff arching an eyebrow at him, looking at the baby pink Banana Boat sunscreen bottle he set on the table. “And really? This is the trick you’re going to use on me?”

”A trick? I’m just asking an old friend for some help. I can return the favor if you’d like?” The intention that darkens behind his eyes is anything but the innocent way he tries to sell it.

”You have to come over here if you want my help, I’m not coming to you.” You snap, agreeing in a way that isn't the word ‘yes’ giving yourself the illusion of control. You know it, he knows it, but still he doesn’t press his luck, playing along for your sake. 

For now.

He runs a big hand through his permanent bedhead, white teeth shining victoriously as he rounds the picnic table to your side. Straddling the bench, the sheer material of your swim cover slides up your thighs as you move back, giving him room to sit in front of you. Steve’s eyes track the movement, taking in the newly exposed skin with a lick of his lips, slinging his leg over the bench. He scoots back enough for the sides of your thighs to box him in at the hips, the heat of his body so close to that part of you that wants him more than you’re ready to accept. 

Your eyes follow the movements of his shoulder blades that still have the slightest remnants of what your nails left behind. They mix with the freckles and moles exploding across his tanned skin, the sun bringing out even more of them from their hiding places. Agreeing to this starts to feel like a mistake when he reaches back, wrapping his fingers around your knees, bringing them up to hook your ankles across his lap. The new position pulls you close enough to feel the muscles in his lower back through the thin material of your suit. Your teeth dig into the fat of your bottom lip holding back the gasp that threatens to spill out at the new pressure against where you’re most sensitive.

”Mmm,” he hums, palms squeezing at your thighs before making their way down to do the same to your calves. “Missed you.”

It comes out in quiet sincerity despite his teasing and you fight the urge to say it back.

”I know what you miss.” You snort, trying to brush him and the buzzing in your veins away. Grabbing the pink bottle, you squeeze a generous amount of lotion on your hand.

His body shakes with laughter, the vibrations making your lashes flutter against the top of your warm cheeks. 

“I can enjoy your company and also want to rip that swim suit off of you the moment I get you alone. Two things can be true at the same time, right?” He says with an obvious smile in his voice, hands wrapping around your ankles with thumbs that rub small circles on goosebump pebbled skin.

You’re thankful he can’t see your face when his words set in, because you didn’t even think about what happens after this. The realization that he has no plans on letting you go when fireworks end twists in your gut as your palms spread the cold lotion across the top of his back. The jump you get from him at the temperature difference interrupts your internal panic with a pleased smirk pulling at the corners of your lips. 

“Jesus, that's cold.” He grumbles sucking air between his teeth, the blunt ends of his nails digging softly into your skin.

“You asked for this.” You remind him doing your best to sound casual, letting your gaze turn heavy watching the way the muscles constrict and twitch against your palms.

Working your way down the softness of his back, you press the pads of your thumbs on either side of the dip at the bottom of his spine, before pushing them up a path to the base of his neck. The pointed pressure earns you the kind of groan that has your thighs searching for each other. Steve catches it, the blunt ends of his nails digging into dough, squeezing at the soft fat of them.

You can be trouble too.

“And you told me to behave.” He tsks, regaining control grabbing at your thighs in an empty warning.

”I have no idea what you’re talking about, Steve.” You sigh with a mischievous grin, fingertips brushing tenderly against a crescent moon shaped freckle, before gliding the white cream over his shoulders that twitch under your touch.

”Oh yeah?” There’s a playful edge in his voice as he reaches back to squeeze at the bottom apple of your ass, laughing when you squeal.

”Okay, you’re done!” You snort shoving his shoulder, untangling yourself from him. The grin you had turns into a smile that spreads wide across your face at his feeble attempt to keep you there. 

“We can’t go in the water yet, I haven’t done yours.” He tries with a pout, swinging his legs back over the bench with a devilish glint in his eyes. Big greedy hands grab for you but you back up just out of reach.

”I applied my own before we left the apartment, but thank you for such a kind offer Steven.” You feign disinterest, and his gaze narrows, silently accepting today’s challenge. “I’ll see you in the water.”

Tossing your swim cover at him, he catches it with ease, the whites of his teeth peeking out from behind plush pink lips at the wiggle of your fingers disappearing into the lake.

—-

The sun burns relentlessly in a clear blue sky, but the water underneath you is cold enough to battle its heat that’s threatened to take you out since you got here. You lay out on a pink inflatable tube with your eyes closed behind the Ray Bans you stole from the top of Eddie’s head. Basking in the weightless feeling, the tips of your fingers and toes glide along the water’s surface that slowly laps against the plastic.

The three of them have kept themselves entertained by loudly playing some kind of variation of monkey in the middle for the past twenty minutes. A seemingly permanent smirk curves up the edges of your mouth listening to Eddie get increasingly angry as the games go on. 

“I forgot that gym wasn’t a strong subject for you, Munson” You tease, lazily turning your head in his direction pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of your nose and onto your forehead, snorting at the glare you get in return.

Steve’s laugh booms behind him, running a wet hand through his already damp hair. The blonde tips look like honey dripping from a comb, the ends curling around the bottom of his ear. His eyes that you know haven’t left you all afternoon are covered in a pair of aviators, the sun making the freckles on his shoulders more prominent. He looks made for summer because it's always belonged to him.

“And I forgot how annoying you are, princess.” Eddie splashes enough water at you that nearly knocks the borrowed sunglasses from your head. 

You giggle like a gremlin despite his outburst, the sound poking dimples in his cheeks as he submerges himself back into the water, squatting down till it stops at the bottom of his chin. The four of you had lost track of time, the afternoon slipping away as you drifted further from your camp, successfully avoiding the O’ Flanery kids that made their dreaded return over an hour ago.

”We should go eat, then scope out a good place for tonight.” Eddie suggests sneaking up on Steve, stealing the ball from him easily from being too distracted staring at you.  

His competitive streak snaps him out of his daze, turning to the metal head jumping at him with no hesitation, dunking his head under water by his shoulders. Snatching the ball back, he tosses it to Robin who fumbles but saves it with a manic laugh. Eddie emerges, spitting the lake water that had gotten into his mouth at Steve who splashes more at him with a ‘gross man!’

“I’m going to start dinner, I need another beer if I’m going to be dealing with the three of you all night.” Eddie huffs starting to swim away, lips twitching to fight the smile that threatens to spread across his face, smacking water in Steve’s direction one last time.

”You’re a dick!” Steve calls, running a hand through his now completely soaked hair.

”Eat me, Harrington.” Is all he gets in response, earning uncontrollable laughter from you and Robin.

”Ha, ha, ha, very funny.” Your ex boyfriend sneers, splashing Robin in retaliation who screams ‘Hey!’.

”You’re a child!” You grin, flicking more at him in her defense.

He does his best to bite back his own laugh, wiping a hand over his face, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose revealing his eyes for the first time in what feels like hours. 

”I have to pee.” Robin announces, making you both groan. “Usually I would just do it in the lake, but I like you both too much for that.”

”Wow, what a friend.” Steve’s lips twist sarcastically, shaking his head with the borderline annoyance that's always lingering just under the surface. 

“Yeah, thanks for not peeing on me, I guess?” You grimace tempted to splash her for good measure but you don’t want to start that cycle all over again.

”You guys are so welcome.” She winks sarcastically, starting the swim back to shore throwing the ball at Steve who catches it like you knew he would.

“Sometimes I can’t believe the things that come out of her mouth.” He mutters turning to face you, letting it float.

”It’s part of her charm.” You hum, closing your eyes as you lay back, doing your best not to think too hard about the fact that you’re alone with him again. 

The butterflies stretching their wings do the opposite, though. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, a little too quiet for your liking as the sound of water moving softly catches in your ears sending goosebumps pebbling across heated skin. The musk of his cologne hits your nose before the thick honey of his voice comes out low by the shell of your ear, “I know.”

”Steve,” you warn, feeling the pruny tips of his fingers start to play with yours under the water, but the smile on your face when he nudges your temple with his nose doesn’t make it a convincing one.

”What honey?” He nips at your earlobe, groaning at the quiet whine that slips from the back of your throat. “Missed that sound, been dreaming about it.”

His hushed confession has your wet thighs meet and suddenly the sun feels too hot. 

“Will you stop? T-there’s people around.” You try to argue, the shake in your voice feeling like betrayal. 

Steve sucks his teeth, and you feel him start to move around to the other end of the tube where your feet dangle facing out towards the lake. You’re determined to keep your eyes closed and ignore him but the feeling of both his hands wrapping around your ankles make it impossible.

”What are you doing?” You hiss, pushing yourself up slightly by your elbows to glare down at him. You’re not sure he can even see it.

”Me? I’m not doing anything. What are you doing?” He grins, keeping his gaze trained on your face, bending down to press a soft kiss right above the bone.

”Steve.”

”Hmm?” His mumbled response comes out hot against your skin with eyes closed pressing one more to your other ankle, leaving no one out.

Words feel foreign on the tip of your tongue, like you were never taught how to use them properly when his stare finds yours under hooded lids. Running his nose along the bottom of your calf, he inhales you. 

“Let me take you somewhere.” It comes out a little desperate, cracks in his bravado showing themselves.  

“St-“

”Please.” He begs for something you know you’re going to give him, because deep down being alone with him is all you’ve thought about this week. 

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you roll off the tube, skin sticking to the plastic before slipping into the lake. It's a temporary reprieve from the heat of the sun and the man next to you, but a short lived one as Steve wastes no time pushing the floatie out of his way. Big needy hands grab shamelessly at your hips, pulling you to him in woosh of water, like it’s been torture not to have you this close the past few hours. Your palms slide up his chest, relishing in the thick softness of his hair that tickles between your fingers before hooking your arms around his neck. Ringlets of water drip from the wild swoop of hair that never stays back kissing your cheeks as he stares down the slope of his nose at you. 

“And where exactly do you think you’re taking me?” You question, meeting him from under your lashes, twisting the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

The sun shines like a halo behind him, the green hidden in his eyes shimmering against the reflection of the lake. White teeth gleam behind pink lips stretched wide at the shy one that twists the edges of yours. His fingers glide down to the backs of your thighs, using the buoyancy of the water that comes up to your chest to curve around them and lift you up. They wrap around his waist without much coaxing, pressing the effects of your teasing against your thigh, making you gasp.

“Somewhere I can have you all to myself.” He smirks, starting to move even further away from your friends on shore. Abandoning the hot pink tube in the process.

“What about the tube?” You giggle a little breathless, secretly enjoying the feel of your wet skin sliding against each other with every step he takes.

“We’ll get it on our way back.” He answers like he’s already thought this through, the grip on your thighs tightening, keeping you close refusing to let you go.

He carries you towards the edge where a jagged cliff curves out cutting through the side of the lake creating the imaginary boundary of the public area. The water laps at your waists with a little more force this far out, the breeze skirting across the top of the small rippling waves. It doesn’t take him very long to find a secluded spot just around the bend, the sounds of 4th of July still close enough to tickle in your ears, but far enough from prying eyes. 

“I can’t be spending that much time away from you, anymore.” He murmurs, finally getting you alone, pressing your back into the rough grey rock after dropping you to your feet. His hungry mouth starts where his gold chain sits on your collar bone, before working a wet path up your neck. “I should’ve called.” 

“Yeah,” you agree breathlessly, tilting your chin up to give him more to kiss, hips rolling all on their own, “You should’ve.”

He nips at your shoulder in response, meeting the second one with a deep groan, relishing in the way his name slips off your tongue in a whimper. 

“Forgive me, baby.” He begs against your skin, lips ghosting to the hinge of your jaw, hands squeezing at every inch of you he can grab onto. “Let me make it up to you.”

His hand curves around the bend of your knee, pulling it up high on his waist keeping you open for him, while his fingers catch your chin forcing you to meet the moody storm in his gaze. The next snap of his hips feels pointed. A smug smile tugging up one side of his mouth at the quiet whimper he gets from it. 

“You like that, huh?” He asks too cocky for his own good doing it again — harder.

Your whimper turns into a moan that he swallows with a greedy tongue, tasting like beer, summer, and mistakes. It’s a clumsy kind of kiss, teeth nipping and scraping, lips moving with the kind of intensity that makes your brain fuzzy. The hold around his neck tightens, your fingers curling into his wet hair pulling at the roots every time the tip of him catches against your clit. 

“Think I can make you cum like this?” He pulls away to catch his breath with a wicked grin. 

It takes all of your will power to give him a weak roll of your eyes, just for them to stay back when he hits that spot again. The grip on your knee loosens letting his fingers skirt up your thigh. The tips of them push under the bottom of your swimsuit, curving harshly around the fat of your ass encouraging another snap of your hips. It’s hard to regain your focus, lost in the way he touches you like he knows all the secrets of your body still, even after all these years. 

“I’d like to see you try.” You manage to get out, fully prepared to lose but refusing to give him the satisfaction. 

You wrap your other leg round his waist completely opening yourself up in a silent challenge. Using both hands to cup your ass, he holds you against every inch of him like this, something darkening in the chocolate edges of his eyes. The first grind of his hips is agonizingly slow, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your lashes flutter tickling against the top of your cheeks feeling every ridge and dip of him through the thin material of your swimsuit. 

“Fuck,” He huffs, bravado breaking for a split second at the way your thighs tighten around him, pushing your hips off the rock daring him to move the fabric aside and bury himself inside. 

Pressing his forehead against yours, his brows furrow in concentration, eyes squeezing shut as a shudder rakes through his body. 

“Think I can make you cum like this?” You tease breathlessly, relishing in the twitch at the corners of his lips, the blunt ends of his nails digging into your soft skin trying to regain his strength. 

“Right now, it's about you, honey.” He finally comes around, drowning you in the heat of his gaze, the whites of his teeth slowly shining against the water’s reflection. 

The hard pointed grind of his hips has your head lulling back, gasping when he does it again, fingers grabbing at the slick skin of his back. 

“Oh my god.” You whine, his hands encouraging you to meet every harsh thrust. 

“Let me see you fall apart, I don’t think I can make it through the rest of the day without it.” He grunts, begging you for something you’re so close to giving, sending a shiver up your spine. “Can’t keep my fucking hands off you. Don’t want to.”

You can feel the band deep in your gut start to pull tight, legs shaking in his palms at the slow determined circle of his pelvis. He grips your ass with rough fingers, digging into the soft skin with the blunt ends of his nails, pulling you over his length again and again. 

“Steve, p-please.”  It’s your turn to beg, jaw going slack when he bends down to suck another bruise against the sensitive spot behind your ear.

”Please what, baby?” He whispers against the shell of your ear, the muscles in his arms twitching. 

You’re not sure what you’re even begging for. You don’t want his mercy.

“Come on,” Steve coaxes with a sweetness that doesn’t match the harsh way he snaps his hips, pressing a kiss to one of the many fading bruises on your neck. “Tell me how good it feels, I know you want to.”

“S- so fucking good.” You manage to get out before he catches on your clit with just the right amount of pressure that rips a moan so loud from your chest he has to cover your mouth. 

He keeps the pace, watching you transfixed with furrowed brows and a slack jaw. You manage the strength to keep your eyes open, holding his gaze, you roll your hips in time with his, slowly opening your mouth sucking three of his fingers into the heat of it.

“Jesus Christ." He hisses, eyes squeezing shut, hips stuttering fighting off his own release when your tongue glides between his index and middle. 

You keen around the pads of them when they open again completely black, the length of him pressing into you with just the right amount of pressure that the tip of his cock pushes the thin material of your swimsuit to the side exposing you like a live wire, giving him what he wants without warning. He drowns you in his stare, watching you come undone like a man possessed, locking his hips in place, fingers pushing down on your tongue that goes limp around them in your silent scream. Your nails dig fresh marks into his back, body shaking underneath him.

“Fuck, look at you. Always so good for me even when you don’t wanna be.” 

You’d be more annoyed at the smug way he says it, but everything feels too good to get there. He waits till your eyes slowly blink open, finally coming back down before pulling his fingers out.  His hairy chest rises and falls in quick succession watching the tips of them catch on your kiss bitten bottom lip, eyes glazing over at the string of spit that clings to the pads of them. 

“I can’t stand you,” You finally breathe, making him bark out a loud laugh in response, eyes shimmering with the kind of adoration that buzzes in your veins. A panic you’re not sure will ever go away tightening around your heart that swells because of it.

“There she is.” He winks, readjusting you in his arms relishing in the aftershocks that shake your thighs in his grasp, and the smile that tugs at the edges of your lips.

“Don’t let this get to your head, Harrington.” The roll of your eyes is feeble, fingers twisting the ends of his hair.

”Too late.” The grin that’s starting to feel like it’s reserved just for you pushes up his flushed cheeks as he bends down to press a light kiss to the base of your neck, peppering them up your jaw before claiming your own.

Your lips melt with ease, like they were always meant to be there, fingers burying themselves deeper in the thickness of his hair. They move slowly against each other this time, the need for dominance disappearing in the tender way his tongue brushes against yours. You get lost in it probably longer than you should, only stopping yourselves when the familiar heat starts to build between your thighs again.

”We should probably head back, huh?” You whisper against his mouth, the tips of your noses touching. 

His grip on you tightens, a low annoyed groan coming from the back of his throat before nodding his head begrudgingly, pulling away.  

“Yeah, Eddie’s gonna be pissed if we don’t start looking for a spot soon.” Steve huffs out a laugh, slowly letting go of your thighs just to grab onto your hips so you can find balance on shaky legs. 

”He’s always taken fireworks very seriously,” You smirk up at him, enjoying the way the water cools your skin, lapping at your chest. 

“He’s a pyro is what he is.” Steve corrects in a tone that tells you that it’s more than just fireworks, remembering the argument at their trailer about the fire pit.

You can’t stop the giggle that slips past your lips, earning a narrowed stare from your ex boyfriend that's not feeling so much like an ex anymore.

“Well, let's go then.” You sigh, walking away from him suddenly finding it very hard to look him in the eyes.

”Hey, not so fast. ” His hand wraps easily around your wrist, pulling you back to him, your palms landing on his chest. 

“What?” You ask too shy for your liking, finally meeting his gaze. 

He stares down at you, bright eyes shining in the sun tracing the edges of your face trying to read your mind. A wet hand cups the side of it, the pad of his thumb running delicately along your heated skin. 

“Stay at my place tonight.” There’s nothing smug about the small smile that twists at the edges of his mouth. It’s nervous — vulnerable. “Eddie’s gonna be gone, it’ll just be me and you.”

”Ste-“

”Don’t — don’t answer right now. Just think about it okay?” He says softly, holding you like he’s fighting with will power to let you go. You don’t think you want him to.

”O-okay.” You whisper, grappling with the fact that you’re probably going to say yes, and what that means for your heart in a month and a half. 

“Let’s get out of here.” He grins, pressing a kiss to your forehead before lacing his fingers with yours keeping you close as you walk back to your friends that you know are never going to let you hear the end of this. But when he lifts your hand to his lips once you round the bend, you can’t find it in yourself to care.

——

“Well, well, well, look who it is.” Eddie calls out from the picnic table with a mouth full of burger watching you and Steve walk up with the hot pink tube in tow, just like he promised.

”Didn’t know me having to pee wouldn’t make you two so horny.” Robin smirks around her beer can, taking a large gulp with a wink.

”Can you stop talking about pissing in the lake?” Steve sighs, irritation evident in the disgusted twist of his lips dropping the floatie onto the ground. He takes your hand, fingers lacing with yours like this is normal now, squeezing tighter when he feels your instinct to pull away. 

“He was just showing me this cool spot.” You try weakly, hoping for that one percent chance they’ll believe it.  An effort you know doesn’t work almost immediately, when your best friend snorts so loud she almost spits out her beer, making your face feel like the surface of the sun. 

“Do they give out hickies at this ‘cool’ spot too? If so, please let me know where you went.” Eddie antagonizes with air quotes, taking another bite of his burger, ketchup dripping onto his paper plate.

“No, she got those from me.” Steve grins unphased, admiring his work with a hunger in his eyes that somehow heats up your cheeks more. “I’ll tell you what though, I’m starving.” 

It might not be too late to fake an illness, or maybe you can just hide in the woods for the rest of the evening.

“I can’t wait to see if she punches you tonight.” Eddie responds, catching the mortified look on your face and you can’t stop the giggle that bubbles out because you actually want to right now.

Fuck, you want to kiss him too.

”Oh, it’s definitely going to happen.” Robin laughs, setting a plate full of food in the spot next to her and the other across the table where Steve sat before.

Excitement buzzes from your fingertips seeing your escape from his PDA in the sanctuary of a spot next to your best friend. A perfect place to bury the feelings you desperately tried to run away from five years ago. Maybe it was post orgasm clarity or maybe it was panic because you want to succumb to them so badly after realizing they were never really gone, just laying dormant.

He finally frees his hold on your hand to walk over to the cherry red cooler grabbing two beers. Robin pats the spot on the bench next to her with a wiggle of her eyebrows and a smirk that tells you that she’s not going to let you avoid this. Rolling your eyes at her, you try fighting the smile that plays on your lips that curve up anyway. Eddie hums knowingly, huffing out a laugh with a shake of his head that turns into a full bellied one when you flip him off.

”What’s so funny over here - and where do you think you’re going?” Steve chuckles, wrapping a toned bicep around your waist before you can make it to Robin, both of your hands reaching out for each other dramatically.

He tugs you onto his lap, palm splayed across your belly like it belongs there. Leaning over your shoulder the heat of his breath fans down the side of your neck as he drags your plate over, an involuntary shiver running up your spine. You can almost feel his knowing smirk against your skin. It feels natural to melt into him, muscles relaxing as he hooks his chin over your shoulder, squirting ketchup on your hot dog first. He noses the edge of your jaw before squeezing you, grabbing his burger with one big hand. Robin doesn’t miss the sparkle in your eye or the small smile that never goes away.

”I think she’ll give Harrington a black eye before fireworks. Want to take bets?” Eddie points to Robin who hasn’t stopped watching both of you, like she’s finally solved the puzzle.

”I don’t know anymore Munson, it looks an awful lot like she’s right where she wants to be.” She responds, a slow smile spreading across her face that turns blinding when you don’t argue.

The pad of Steve’s thumb starts tracing lazy patterns against your tummy, and it feels too good in his arms to want to keep true to your original plan. 

You can bury it after the Fourth of July.

——

It’s dark by the time you reach the spot Eddie picked out on top of the same cliff you and Steve hid behind. Out of breath, and covered in sweat, the hike up the side of it almost doesn’t feel worth it until you step onto the plateau and see the entire lake, even the shimmering lights from the main strip in town. Sparklers glitter beneath you leaving white streaks in the air as the kids run up and down the shore line. The stars shine bright in the clear night sky painted navy blue, despite the edges in the distance being swallowed up by billowing lavender storm clouds. Faint flashes of lightning dance inside of them, just far enough out that you know it won’t interrupt the show, but you’ll definitely need to run back to your cars when it’s done.

The thin zip up hoodie you changed into sticks to your skin just like the cotton shorts that replaced your swim trunks, goosebumps pebbling under the cool breeze that whips around you from this height. Steve trails close behind, just like he has the entire walk up, the heat of his stare only adding the muggy warmth that’s wrapped around you all day. That big hand of his always hovering against your lower back every time you’d lose your balance. 

“I also didn’t excel in gym class and I resent the way you under exaggerated the walk up here, Eddie.” Robin huffs stopping in front of you, bending over with her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

This is why you’re best friends.

”Yeah, I second that.” You gasp, the back of your hand smacking across your sticky forehead, the other supporting your lower back stretching your spine trying to even out your breathing. 

Steve snorts coming up beside you, stopping in that signature stance of his you haven’t seen since high school. He winks at you with hands on his cocked hips, like you can’t see the quick rise and fall of his chest from here. The fresh tan on his skin practically glows against the clean white of his sleeveless shirt, the wind blowing open the sides so you can see the thick patch of hair that your fingers itch to feel again. A cocky grin quirks up one side of his mouth when he catches you staring and you hate him for it — for always looking like that.

”Well, well, well, look who’s the monkey in the middle now.” Eddie grins from his place in front with his arms crossed over the Metallica logo on chest, stopping right at the edge of the cliff. 

“Is this revenge because you can’t catch a fucking ball?” Steve breathes, irritation evident looking wearily at the storm in the distance that seems to only grow in size.

“Fuck off, no. Maybe a little, but not really. I mean look at the view!” He smiles wide, spreading his arms out in hopes of a distraction.

”You’re annoying.” Robin groans, smacking one of them out her way before sitting down on the smooth grey stone. “You’re lucky it’s so pretty up here.”

”It’s going to be worth it guys, trust me.” Eddie coos like a parent trying to settle rowdy children plopping down next to your best friend.

“If we get struck by lightning up here, you’re fixing my car for free.” You finally find your voice, oxygen leaving in and out of your lungs like a normal person now.

”Ehh, maybe.” He shrugs, pulling out a joint from behind his ear, turning around to wink at you, barking out a loud laugh at the second middle finger he’s earned from you today. 

”So feisty, honey.” Steve tsks from right next to your ear, a shiver running up your spine not realizing he’d gotten so close. 

His fingers trail down the dip of your back, before finding your hand wasting no time  tugging you onto his lap instead of the rock beneath you in one quick motion. A shocked gasp escapes past your lips, as he loops his arm around your middle, and a hand around your thigh keeping you in the dip between his legs with yours draped over the side of his hairy thigh. It feels like he’s surrounding you,sinking guilt roiling in your gut because you hate that it’s still not enough. Despite the way you’ve been teasing him all night, you duck your head down resting your cheek against his collar bone, inhaling the cedar, beer and sunscreen that sticks to him. 

“Oh brother, am I going to have to hear giggles and lip smacking noises with my explosions?” Eddie grumbles looking back at the two of you lighting the joint.

”Shut up!” Robin smacks his arm with a scowl, “It’s cute, don’t ruin it.”

This is why she’s Steve’s best friend too.

”He’s clearly just mad that his little prediction didn’t come true.” Steve antagonizes, his deep voice vibrating against you from his chest, your eyes fixate on the way his Adam’s apple bobs with every word.

”There’s still time.” You manage, swallowing hard using all of your will power to tear your eyes away and meet Eddie’s toothy grin.

Steve huffs out a laugh over the top of your head, fingers squeezing your thigh playfully before the pad of his thumb smooths out the goosebumps that pebble under his touch. 

The first firework soars into the sky, surprising everyone with its loud boom. Kids squeal and laugh below you, drunk parents whistling as the next three follow in quick succession lighting up the darkness. Eddie passes Robin the joint he’s clearly saved for this, taking a few puffs she twists herself to pass it back to you, smiling warmly at the view. You give her a weak ‘don’t think about it’ kind of look that she sees right through, waving you off with a roll of her eyes but a grin still intact as you take it from her. 

You take a few hits, holding them in your lungs long enough to feel the burn before blowing it over Steve’s shoulder towards the woods. He’s too distracted to notice the way you stare at him, your gaze trailing up his neck that's stretched as he looks up at the sky. It gives you the perfect view of all the freckles and moles that dot this side more than the other. Colors burst in the reflection of his eyes with a slight part of his full pink lips, it’s obvious the only thing that’s been through his hair today is his fingers and yours. Still damp from sweat, the long swoop that’s constantly in his way tickles the narrow bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t seem to care, too enamored with show.

God damnit he was cute. 

The long day makes it easy for your body to relax, eyelids growing lazy folding into him from the slow strokes of his thumb and the weed. 

“Hey,” you whisper just loud enough for his ears, heart thumping wildly in your chest when he brings his full attention back to you. 

The whites of his teeth shine, pulling you closer on instinct like he just remembered you were here. That he could touch you. Feel you. His wandering hands wake up at the notion. 

“Hey pretty.” He murmurs so sweetly, that you almost ache with the need to hear it again. 

“D-do you want any?” You stutter, shy like you used to be in the 12th grade. 

Steve dips his head down, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. 

“No,” he breathes against your lips, “gotta be sober enough to take us home after this.”

“I never said I was going home with you.” You try to play coy with him and yourself but deep down you’ve always known you were going to say yes.

“Sober enough to take you back to Robin’s then.” He plays along but the way the edges of his mouth curve tells you he knows he’s won. 

Nudging your nose with his, there’s something mischievous in the way you narrow your eyes at him before leaning forward to pass the joint back to Eddie. He grabs it absentmindedly, barely tearing his gaze from the sky as you do your best to ignore the heat emanating off Steve’s. You go back to your spot against his shoulder, pressing your cheek back into his collar bone listening to the quick thumping of his heart that falls in step with the fireworks that have started to explode three to four at a time now. You wonder if he can feel yours beating faster with his long fingers curled around your ribs.

”Hey,” He whispers against the shell of your ear, making your teeth dig hard into your bottom lip.

”Yeah?” It comes out quiet as you bring your eyes back to his, all the blood in your body rushing to your cheeks at the lovesick look on his face. The kind you’d only seen on those late nights in his room. One that you’d thought was reserved for just you.

It still feels that way now, despite him proving you otherwise all those years ago. The reminder is a subtle pang in your chest, a pain you push down when the warmth of his palm cups the side of your face. The rough callouses on his thumb tickle tracing the line of your cheek bone before the curves of your bottom lip tilting your chin up a little more. He doesn’t say anything, the booms of the fireworks growing louder, their frequency letting you know it's reaching the end of the show. The soft roll of thunder catches your ears in the distance reminding you of the impending rain fall you’re sure to get trapped in but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he looks at you like this.

The bright colors dance in his eyes, the glittering lights casting shadows on his sharp features. His full pink lips curve softly at the edges, all traces of whatever game the two of you have been playing absent from his stare. Instead, it feels an awful lot like he’s in love with you, like he’s been waiting to look at you for years and it steals the air right from your lungs. The need to breathe becomes something you could care less about as you reach up curling your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer in a silent plea. One he answers eagerly, closing the space with the kind of urgency that tells you permission is all he was waiting for.

They slot together like you’ve missed each other despite his hands refusing to leave you all day. The sound of the finale hides the way they start moving together with the kind of desperation that feels like unspoken words trying to come out, confessions slipping off tongues.Your friends are too enthralled by the shimmering lights above not knowing you're breaking all your promises from a few feet away. Tugging at his roots the last brick of your wall starts to come loose from the cracked cement that holds it there. The last soldier standing, searching for his white flag. 

His teeth nip at your bottom lip before finally pulling away, the last explosion hiding the whimper he gets from everyone but him. The pad of his thumb traces where he just bit, before pulling away with perfect timing as Robin and Eddie turn around with red eyes and thrilled smiles. 

“Better than last yea — oh fuck.” Eddie starts only to get interrupted by the first rain drop landing on his cheek.

The loud roll of thunder following has the four of you meet each other with wide eyes, fight or flight kicking in as a wall of falling water starts gliding across the lake drenching everything it touches, reaching you when you all finally get to your feet.

”Run!” Robin screams with a laugh, flip flops clacking loudly taking off into the woods.

”Mother fucker!” Eddie follows, a wide smile splitting his face in two following her with the kind of pace that you know will have him passing her up in a matter of seconds.

Steve grins down at you, stealing one more kiss like he’s in no rush before grabbing your hand, setting a pace you can keep up with, lacing his fingers with yours when you encourage him to go faster, catching your stride through the dancing trees.

——

You’re completely soaked by the time you reach the break in the woods, feet hitting the pavement of the parking lot that’s in utter chaos as families try to hurry and pack everything up. 

”What’s the plan?” Eddie yells to Steve over the downpour that mixes with the sounds of kids screaming and laughing. Hair so wet his curls tighten. “Who’s driving who? I can take Robin on my way to Carol’s if you guys are gonna hang out.”

They all three look at you. Steve squeezes your hand, and you don’t meet his gaze when you answer.

”I- I’m gonna go with Steve.”

Robin’s smile can’t physically get any bigger.

”Have fun, love birds!” Eddie teases one last time walking backwards towards his van getting his third and final middle finger he pretends to catch and stick in his pocket.

”Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Robin calls over her shoulder with a giggle, the two of them disappearing into the crowd.

The curve of Steve’s lips is sweet when you finally find the courage to meet his gaze, the smugness from before nonexistent on his relaxed features as he lifts your hand brushing a kiss to your knuckles.

”There’s somewhere I want to show you before we head to my place.”

——

Steve’s car is still warm enough from baking in the sun all day that he doesn’t even need to turn on the heat as you drive around to the other side of the lake, a big hand on your thigh the whole way. Your clothes go from wet to damp by the time you reach this ‘secret’ spot hidden under a tent of leaning trees. It’s a small patch of gravel road wide enough to fit a car hidden on the side of an even bigger cliff. It stops right at the edge of the water, small waves lapping onto the smooth grey rocks. He squeezes your thigh before the heat of his hand disappears to put the car in park.

The engine cuts off just leaving the soft clicks of it cooling down, and the hard patter of the rain on the metal roof. Steve’s eyes meet yours from across the console leaning back against his window to face you. His white shirt is practically translucent, showing the dark patch of hair on his chest attached to the happy trail that disappears underneath his swim trucks that cling to his sunkissed skin. The sight has you biting your bottom lip mimicking his position, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of your mouth.

”Hi honey.” He grins, cocking an eyebrow, his gaze shameless as it takes in the tight way your wet hoodie sticks to the bottom swell of your breasts. You can feel your nipples pebble underneath the intensity of it, and he shifts in his seat.

”Hey,” you whisper, trying not to think about how the endearment doesn’t make your chest tighten with anger anymore, tongue wetting your lips, Steve tracks the movements.

”I know we’ve had this sarcastic back and forth since you’ve been here.” He clears his throat like the Steve you used to know, a nervous hand pushing his hair back, cracking open the cocoons hanging from your ribcage. ”But I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about what I’d do if I ever had you in front of me again. What I would say.”

His eyes look weary watching your face for any sign to shut up, and part of you wishes he would because you know the free fall that happens after this, but a bigger part of you doesn’t care anymore. You don’t even have a parachute.

”And now here you are in front of me,” he continues, squaring his shoulders when he realizes that you don’t want him to stop. “Letting me kiss you, touch you, fuck — hold you. I need you to understand how much I missed holding you, baby.” 

Baby.

“Stev -“

”Just let me finish please, I don’t want to be with you tonight and not have said any of this.” He pleads with another card of his hair, it’s the most serious he’s been all summer. Your pulse quickens, nerves buzzing in your veins. “You’re giving me your time when god knows I don’t deserve it — I just need you to know that I’m not taking you for granted this time. And I’ll never regret this no matter what happens this summer.”

His words take a wrecking ball to that last brick, cracking your chest wide open, unlocking that part of your heart that you tried to pretend didn’t exist anymore. The rain falls harder, the air growing thicker. 

“I need a redo of that kiss in the rain, Harrington.” You smile, leaning forward wrapping your hand around his wrist tugging him so close that your noses touch. 

The darkness of his pupils expands, stealing the emerald around them in a love sick way, understanding you without saying anything.

”I’m always going to give you whatever you want.” He reminds you, the corner of his mouth ticking up at the small sigh that slips from your lips.

Tilting your chin up, you steal a small kiss he can barely return before you’re pulling away with a giggle, yanking the door open slipping out into the storm. Steve wastes no time joining you, his head poking over the top of his car with playful narrowed eyes.

“You think that’s funny?” He raises his eyebrows, slamming his door shut, the rain making his shirt more see through as he rounds the front of his car. Your wet thighs meet at the way he stalks towards you like he’s ready to get exactly what he wants. 

You were going to let him.

”Mmhm.” You hum with a nod, biting back your grin with teeth that dig into your bottom lip, backing away from him.

”Why don’t you let me show you just how funny I can be then?” He smirks, closing in until your back hits the wide trunk of a tree. 

“And why should I do that?” You try, but the tone in your voice doesn't match the way your fingers curl around the waist band of his trunks pulling him closer. Begging him to crowd your space till there’s no more room left.

One big hand finds a home next to your head, while the other gently tugs down the zipper of your hoodie, letting it fall open sucking a breath through his teeth at the way your nipples stand at attention for him. The pad of his thumb brushes against one relishing in the small gasp he gets in return.

”Why?” He murmurs ducking down so the tip of his nose nudges against yours, black eyes swallowing you whole. “Because it’ll feel so good.”

The back of his fingers glide down your sternum, tickling against your navel before pushing past the elastic of your waist band. A low growl rumbles deep from his chest  finding you so wet they slip through your folds with so much ease that he can feel the way your walls already try to suck him in. 

“Jesus Christ baby.” He huffs, pressing his forehead to yours, doing it again only this time he pushes the tip of his middle finger in, becoming obsessed with the high pitch way you say his name.

You find the strength to fist the soaked hair at the nape of his neck, tugging at the roots, crushing your mouth into his, hungry and needy. He moans into it, his hand slipping out of your shorts to grab your face between slick covered fingers determined to steal the breath from your lungs with a brush of his tongue. Your back curves, pressing every inch of your body to his, shuddering when you feel the hard weight of him against the inside of your thigh. The trees do little to protect you from the rain, the cool drops tickling the tops of your cheeks, and dripping off your chin.

“C-car.” you manage to say in between kisses, gasping when he licks a path up your neck taking your earlobe into the heat of his mouth, sucking hard enough for your eyes to hit the back of your head.

”You sure?” He breaths against your skin, hands dropping down to squeeze at your hips.

All you can manage is a nod, pushing him towards the BMW determined to make a new memory in it and erase the one that broke your heart. He keeps his lips on yours the few feet to the car, his back hitting the wet metal. Nipping at your bottom lip, his hand reaches behind him to try and find the handle. It’s a fruitless effort though, he’s too distracted by the way you pull away and start trailing messy kisses down his neck. Tugging at the collar of his shirt, you nip at his clavicle before traveling down, mouthing at the wet cotton covering his chest following the happy trail all the way to what you want. He blinks slowly, staring at you, jaw going slack as you drop to your knees in front of him. 

“What - what are you doing?” He sounds wrecked, nothing like the confident man he’s been all day.

“What does it look like, Steve?” Looking up at him from under your lashes, you pull the front of his trunks down, releasing him from the net confines.

He throws his head back whispering a string of cuss words pushing his dripping hair out of his face. Eyes completely black when he finally looks at you again. 

Revenge is sweet, just like the precum that leaks from his tip that you lap up with the kind of greed you should be embarrassed of. Steve sucks a harsh breath through his nose, fingers twitching at his sides to grab onto you for dear life. Your hands wrap around the base of him, licking up the length relishing in the twitch you get in response before taking as much as you can in the heat of your mouth. The moan that rips from his chest is so loud that the roll of thunder shaking the sky barely hits your ears.

“You’re fucking perfect.” He breathes, the sweetest whimper leaving the back of his throat when you make a point to flick your tongue against his sensitive tip. 

You suck so hard, your cheeks hollow out, the lewd sounds of your wet mouth has drool dripping down your chin. The rain only aiding you in completely ruining him. 

“I- I don’t want to cum like this - shit.” He grunts, throwing his head back searching for reprieve in cold droplets that hit his rosy cheeks. “Need to feel you, I’ve wanted it all day.”

Ignoring his pleas, you open your throat and take him as far as he can fit, the tip of your nose brushing against the rough hair at the base of him. His hand smacks the side of the door with the kind of weight behind it that echoes through the trees. 

“Don’t make me beg, I fucking will if that’s what you want.” He babbles, when you do it again with a curve to your lips tasting just how close he really is. “Please, let me have it, please.” 

You hear him search for the handle of the back door again, making you quicken your pace.

“Jesus Christ.” He groans, finally finding what he’s looking for, wasting no time pulling you off him with a loud pop before yanking the door open. 

He tugs you up by your elbows, not letting you catch your breath before crashing his mouth into yours. One hand finds your hip, bringing your body flush against him, the hard length of his cock pressing into your tummy, the other wrapping around the back of your neck, tilting your head up. Licking into you, he moans at the eager way you match his energy, fingers curling into their favorite home in his hair. 

Steve wraps his arm around the small of your back tugging you into his back seat in one smooth swoop. Your knees land on the leather seat either side of hips, teeth sinking into his full bottom lip as he slams the door shut. It’s a mess of tongues fighting for dominance, the desperate need to devour each other turning touches animalistic. 

“Take this off.” He grunts, roughly shoving the rest of your hoodie off your shoulders, the fabric hitting the floor in a wet smack.

His lips waste no time taking your nipple into the heat of his mouth, the blunt ends of your nails digging into his biceps. A whine escapes the back of your throat when he sucks harshly, head lulling back against the head rest of the passenger seat. 

“Steve — god, I need you.” Panting, the slow flicks of his tongue have you start to paw at his soaked shirt.

He helps you remove the offending fabric, dropping it next to yours with another wet smack of water. Your hands waste no time, burying themselves in the hair on his chest sliding them up finding a new home on the cluster of moles that dot his shoulders. Lifting your hips, you hold his heavy gaze, grinding against him, shuddering when the tip of him brushes against your clit through the fabric of your shorts. 

“God damn it. Take. These. Off. Too.” he growls with flared nostrils, his fingers curling around the waist band shoving them down. 

You help him fight the cotton that tries to cling to your thighs, giggling at the irritated huff he gives, smiling against him when he finally gets what he wants, kicking off his trunks in the process. You moan in unison at the feeling of your skin against each other, lighting a fire making your brain fuzzy. His tongue licks at your bottom lip, begging for entry that you grant with no resistance. The length of his cock slides through the slick between your thighs with ease, so wet that you coat him instantly. Steve looks down, guiding your hips over him watching the way he glides between your folds, brows knitting together at the sheen you leave behind. 

“Gonna give me what I want, baby?” He teases your entrance, voice so low it sends another wave of arousal to your core.

“Mmhmm.” You nod with a whimper, lashes fluttering kissing the top of your cheeks at the tip of him pushing into you. 

“So good to me, you know that?” Pressing his forehead to yours, his words come out hot against your lips, keeping his eyes on you, burying himself half way in. 

“Oh my god.” You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut at the stretch you’ll never get used to, thighs shaking, body threatening to fold against him.

“I know, fuck, you feel — you’re so god damn wet.” His words come out through clenched teeth, using all of his will power to take his time and let you adjust. 

“M-more.” You manage after a moment, eyes finding him at the same time you rock your hips, letting him slip further inside. 

His name comes out in a gasp, jaw going slack as he buries himself to the hilt of you, the tip of him dangerously close to hitting your cervix. His head lulls back, bottoming out with a moan, the blunt ends of his nails digging into the soft dough of your hips. 

“Baby, baby, baby.” He practically whines, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, before meeting your eyes again. 

A lazy smile spreads across your face at the dazed way he looks up at you like he’s seeing for the first time and butterflies that used to exist for him stretch new wings. 

”I like when you call me that, now.” You admit shyly, fingers coming up to play with the gold chain still hanging from your neck. 

“Yeah?” He grins, rolling his hips up just enough to earn a whimper. “You don’t want to punch me anymore?”

“I didn’t say that.” The edges of your lips dare to grin as you lean back, your palms finding his hairy thighs, grinding against him from the kind of angle that has him groaning so loud it drowns out the storm outside. 

“One day you’ll quit lying to yourself, honey.” He manages with a soft laugh, gathering your ass in his big hands pulling you back against him, smiling with all his teeth at the moan he’s been waiting for. ”You would’ve done it already.”

It’s hard to concentrate on a witty comeback when his harsh grip keeps moving you at the kind of pace that has your hands land on his shoulders, the blunt ends of your nails digging into them. 

“Wearing my chain, acting like you don’t wanna be mine.” He growls, picking you up to slam you back down on his cock, burying himself somehow even deeper and you think you might break skin. “You’re not fooling me.”

”No?” You quip, finally finding the strength to meet his thrusts, slick knees sticking to the leather seats with every quick snap of your hips. “You think I’m lying?”

The corner of his mouth ticks up, sweat beading at his damp hairline as both of his palms come down on your ass in a loud smack, immediately massaging where he hit, relishing in the way you gasp his name with fluttering walls. 

“I don’t think,” He whispers, gripping you with one hand while his other curls around the gold metal chain. “I know.”

He pulls you to him by it, tongue tracing the curve of your bottom lip before swallowing your moan when he starts bucking up into you like he’s trying to prove his point. The kiss is sloppy, open mouthed and wet, your fingers digging back into his hair using it as your anchor to bounce yourself to the pace he’s trying to set. A growl rips low from the back of his throat, but you don’t miss the hint of a grin that pulls up the corners of his lips at your stubbornness.                                     

“Proving my point baby,” His words come out hot against your cheek, trailing his lips along your jaw catching his breath, “Just do it.”

”Do what?” You gasp at the hickey he starts to leave behind your ear.

His tongue laps the indentations of his teeth on your skin, nosing his way back up with contrasting soft kisses to your pouty lips as you take the lead, grinding slow against him.

”Be mine.” He breathes like it’s as simple as two words. Like you hadn’t promised yourself to never be here again. Two words that mean more to you that you swore never would.  

He presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, whispering ‘please’, then both your cheeks, chanting it like a mantra. The hand on your ass slides forward to dip between your thighs, the pad of his thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow circles. He adds just enough pressure for your body to shake, finally folding into him, sticky forehead pressing against his. 

“You don’t understand what you’re asking me.” You whisper, meeting his dark gaze through heavy lids, the roll of your hips chasing more, working your muscle to bring him with you to the end.

“Give me the summer then,” Steve lets go of his chain, using his free hand to cup your cheek, bringing a softness to everything, the fogged up windows smoothing all the edges.

Your hips circle in time with his thumb, lost in the gold flecks that come out like stars in his eyes. He makes it seem so simple.

“Give me the summer to prove myself to you. Show you how good we can be.” He nudges the tip of his nose with yours, the pace of your hips starting to pick back up. The coil in your gut tightening.

“What happens when summer ends?” Your response comes out inside a half moan when he slides further down in the seat, taking up all the space inside you. 

“We’ll worry about that later.” He grunts, eyebrows marrying in the middle of his forehead at the way you squeeze around him. “Don’t wanna play whatever game this is anymore, want you all the time.”

“Steve,” You whine his name without the intent to argue with him behind it.

“Like when you say my name like that.” He smirks, hips stuttering telling you he’s just as close. 

His thumb swipes over your bundle of nerves with the kind of fervor that feels like he’s determined to watch you far apart.

“Come on baby, let me take you on dates, cook you dinner. Wanna wake up to you.” He practically begs, as you grind down hard against him, realizing you’re tired of saying no.

You nod and Steve pushes his hips up, burying himself so deep it feels like he’s splitting you in two.

“Need to hear you say it.” He growls keeping his thrusts slow and pointed, drawing the kind of whimpers from you he’s become obsessed with.

“Y-yes.” You gasp, legs starting to shake as he adds more pressure to clit.

“Yes - fuck - yes what?” He antagonizes, a shudder rolling off his shoulders, holding himself back. 

“I’ll be yours.” You grit out, pushing your forehead harder into to his.

He moans so loud at your words like he’s been waiting to hear them all his life. The snap of his hips picks up the kind of pace that has your eyes rolling in the back of your head, the wire inside you ready to snap, your walls tightening with a vice grip around him.

“Need you to come with me, can you do that, pretty?” He whispers against your lips, swallowing you in the kind of stare that makes you always want to say yes to him.

Nodding, it feels impossible to form words, his name coming out in a whimper as you meet his thrusts with desperate energy to give him what he’s asking for. The lewd sound of sweat slick skin smacking against each other fills the quiet space of the car mixing in contrast with the calming rain. 

“Come on, I can feel it. Give it to me.” His demand comes out in a low growl, cock twitching inside of you.

His hands find the curve of your ass again, pulling you closer, pushing deeper, hitting that spot that has your jaw go slack in a silent scream. Your own fireworks explode  behind closed lids, the blunt ends of your nails digging harder into the freckles on his shoulders. 

“So fucking good for me.” He grunts, before his body goes rigid, spilling everything he has inside of you. It’s almost enough for you to cum again, your walls miking him for all of it. 

The two of you sit there sweaty, working hard to catch your breath while needy hands still wander, touching the skin you can reach. You wait for that familiar creeping itch of regret to make you want to run from all of this, but it doesn’t come when his eyes open meeting yours glazed over with love instead of lust. It still doesn’t show up even as he starts peppering soft kisses on your face whispering thank you’s and sweet words about how pretty you are. Still, nothing comes when he cleans you off using his own shirt, ringing out your clothes before trying his best to cover you up, in a mess of giggles.  

And when holds your face between his hands saying, “Let’s go home baby.” You don’t think it ever will.

[loveshotzz]

I guess it’s never really over

mechanic!steve x fem!reader exes to lovers

Chapter Four -

Honey, on your knees when you look at me

The consequences of your actions hang heavy around your neck when you wake up, so you go to the shop to tell Steve this is definitely not what he thinks it is.

warnings: 18+ slight angst, confused feelings, semi public smut, fingering (fem!receiving), oral (fem receiving), body worship, praise kink, unprotected p in v smut, cream pie, fluff.

wc: 10k

authors note: This chapter has been almost two months in the making between life and writers block, I didn’t think I would be here. Thank you to everyone who sent me messages about this story and about him because of you, I never gave up writing this series I was so excited about. beta’d by: @superblysubpar

series masterlist | series playlist

songs from the playlist that inspired this chapter: Unravel Me, If You Think I’m Pretty, Please Don’t Fall In Love With Me, Make Up, Eastside, Holy.

Streams of shining golden yellow make your lids still heavy with sleep flutter, lashes tickling the tops of your puffy cheeks as you surrender to the sun’s wishes to wake you up. The orange shag carpet in Robin’s living room slowly comes into focus, along with the rest of your surroundings as the ends of your palms rub the rest of the night from your eyes. Stretching your legs, they’re met with warmth like the rays of sunshine peeking through the blinds still lingering on the cushions next to you. 

¨Shit.¨ 

Your muscles freeze, threatening to cramp in your calf as the night floods back into your memories. How his plush pink lips slotted between yours like they should never be anywhere else, or how they made your back arch, kissing a messy path down your neck, perfect teeth nipping, threatening to bruise your delicate skin that lights up under his touch. 

A shaky breath pushes out of your lungs as you shimmy your body deeper into the couch, fingers finding their way to your chest where you swear you can still feel his smile pressed into your skin, the tips of them hitting something smooth and warm. 

A metal chain.

The weight of it around your neck finally registers through the sleepy fog that lifts from your brain. Looking down the slope of your nose, you nearly go cross-eyed when you’re met with the rich yellow gold that matches the sun, especially because It looks just like the one that belongs to Steve Harrington. 

“No, no, no, no.”

The realization that it is in fact, Steve Harrington’s kicks in just like your feet in a silent fit, the thin throw he must’ve put on top of you before he left falling to the ground. You remember his plea for a date, and it has panic curling deep in your gut, the consequences of your actions arriving first thing in the morning before you’ve even had any coffee. 

There’s a little bit of pride that hides in a small space in your chest that you didn’t just fold and say yes. Something you would have done in high school when he was giving you much less. Still, you didn’t say no. You were just prolonging the inevitable matter of letting him down right? It’s the self-respecting thing, it’s what you told yourself you’d always do. 

Say no.

You twist the metal between your fingers, your eyes finding the dust particles that seem to float between the plastic of Robin’s blinds. There’s an ache in your heart at the fresh reminder of what it feels like to be held in his arms, something he rarely did when you were dating, at least not if it wasn’t the dead of night. The sleepovers at his big empty house were your favorite until you realized how sad it was. All his whispered secrets and deep confessions that he only shared when you were lit by the moonlight - the kind that hid all the stars in the sky and that boy he was trying to hide. The ones that kept you hanging onto hope until the last bit of rope tethering you to him, cut your skin. Those were the nights that really made you have to run. 

You’re not sure if you could survive it again, and the end of August is only a distant friend. Pushing yourself off the couch, your eyes catch the bright bold numbers on the microwave that read 9:45 AM and you try to remember all the reasons you left in the first place. Not the way he looked at you last night in the kitchen making your best friend’s favorite snack. 

Your flip-flops clack loudly against the hot pavement, the determination in your walk up to the shop threatening to set the street ablaze. The spaghetti strap sundress you threw on in a rush trying to be careful not to wake up Robin does very little to help cool you or your mood down when you’re met with the mugginess of the Midwest. 

Steve’s chain bounces against your chest with each step, the gold shimmering against the sunlight in a pretty reminder that you still haven’t taken it off yet. One that you choose to ignore in your huff trying to think of all the mean things he's done and not the way he begged you to make it right.

Reaching the end of the block, you notice Eddie’s van is missing from the parking lot, leaving only Steve’s BMW against the side of the shop. It stops you dead in your tracks because the buffer that would stop you from making the same mistake isn’t there. Your proven lack of self-control only a few weeks into the summer has your confidence waver with nerves that try and get the best of you, but with a deep breath, you force your feet to keep moving.

Steve’s side of the garage is the only one open, the faded green metal door at half-mast to keep some of the sun away. Michael Jackson’s The Way You Make Me Feel bleeds out of the open space, bouncing and echoing off the cars inside, waking up the butterflies and sending them soaring. Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you try not to imagine the way he’s probably singing along, or that curl that won’t stay in place, falling over his forehead as he bobs his head to the beat.

Why is Eddie not here? 

You see his black work boots first, then the legs that were intertwined with yours just a few hours ago, now adorned by blue coveralls. Walking across the grease-stained cement, he comes to an abrupt stop, and for a second you think maybe he sees you, heart thumping wildly in your chest until he shuffles back a few steps before continuing forward. 

He was dancing and you hate the way the corners of your mouth twitch because of it.

The smell of oil is bittersweet hitting your nose as you stop in front of the opening, silently working up the courage to duck under the door. Steve doesn’t notice your sneaky entrance from where he stands at his workbench with his back facing you, completely lost in whatever’s on the paper he’s holding in black-stained hands. It gives you the few minutes you need to get your thoughts together as he bops his head to the music that’s loud enough to hide you a little bit longer. 

Your gaze lands on Eddie’s empty office, successfully diminishing the last bit of hope you clung onto that maybe he just didn’t drive today, before your eyes catch the burnt orange of your car tucked away in the corner. A cherry red Corvette sits parked in front of it, making your face sour at the instant comparison. It outshines the car you scraped up enough money to get after moving to the city, sparking the kind of anger you’d been scrambling to cling onto walking up here. Maybe if your car hadn’t broken down, you wouldn’t have kissed Steve Harrington, and then maybe you wouldn’t be standing here secretly wanting to do it again. 

Clinging to that notion with everything you have, you take a deep breath, straightening your posture before clearing your throat, letting him know he wasn’t by himself anymore.

”The music’s a little loud don’t you think?” 

The pleased grin that spreads wide across your face can’t be stopped when the sound of your voice makes him jump with a ‘Jesus Christ’ so loud you can hear it over the music, crumbling the paper in his hands.

Point one - you.

Your victory is short-lived the moment Steve turns around with his ever changing brown eyes that are somehow warmer in the daylight, reflecting the flecks of green that shine and light up even more at the realization that it’s you and not some random intruder. He runs those long fingers through his hair, trying to tame the mess on top of his head that you made, while his heavy stare fixates on the chain still hanging off your neck. Right where he left it.

Leaning over to turn the volume down on his boombox, he doesn’t break eye contact, giving you that crooked smile that makes your heart skip a beat pushing up the two moles on his cheek. Raising his hands in a silent apology, you try not to think about how big they look or the way they grabbed at your hips last night. It's a fruitless effort, so you try to make up for it with a sassy tongue.

”Wow, I could have easily stolen one of these cars if I had wanted to.” 

Crossing your arms, you suck at your teeth, deciding that standing right where you are is the best move, especially when you see the sweat that glistens, beading off of his tan skin, curling the coarse hairs on his chest that’s hardly hidden by the sheer white of his tank top. At least his coveralls are fully on this time.

“Maybe I should report you to Eddie.”

“Most of the cars in here don’t run,” Steve tuts, dark eyes roaming over your curves hugged tight by the soft cotton of your dress unashamed before meeting your narrowed gaze, “You of all people should know that.”

“Sounds like maybe you’re just bad at your job.” 

You ignore the uncontrollable press of your thighs that only gets worse the more his smile widens with your attitude, reading your body language like his favorite book.

“Did you come here just to pick a fight?” Steve sighs, carding another hand through his hair, threatening to punch the air out of your lungs when he looks up at you through his lashes “Or do you just want another kiss?”

It’s impossible to sound out the word ‘no’ even though it’s just two letters because watching him lick his full bottom lip before tugging it between his perfect teeth makes you wish it was yours instead.  

“Is that it baby?” Steve taunts, pushing himself off the work bench and tossing the crumbled paper aside.

”No,” you finally manage to get out, but the venom you had less than twenty-four hours ago is gone, and it barely stings when you try to deny with a jut of your chin and a quieter than intended, “That’s not why I’m here.”

The little bit of self-control you’ve been hanging onto with an iron grip starts to slip from in between your fingers with each heavy thud of his boots that bring you closer to your demise as he closes the gap.

”Are you sure?” He asks with a glint in the darkening russet of his eyes that land on the gold wrapped around your neck again, close enough now to smell last night's leftover cologne.

“A-absolutely,” you stutter, taking a few steps back, the clack of your flip flops echoing, making you wince with embarrassment as you try to counteract his advances only for your back to hit the cool metal of a pickup truck. 

”Hmmm, I know what it must be then,” he hums, a faint hint of smirk twisting the corners of his full lips, big boots stopping with a scuff on the cement floor right in front of your pink painted toes. 

Reaching up, his bold fingertips trace the smooth edges of his chain, rough calluses tickling your collar bone daring to explore a little more. The quick rising of your chest spurs him on as he tries to hold his composure, teasing the dip of your breasts, he curls his finger around the metal, lifting the chain a little before letting it fall back into place. Mischief twinkles in his stare that matches the same color staining his hands.

“You must be here to tell me when you’ll be ready for our date later tonight, huh baby?”

It takes your brain a second to catch up, the freckles that spread across his cheeks like wildfire in the light distracting you from this close.

“The opposite actually,” clearing your throat, you try to hide the way your tongue dries when he looks at you like this, “I’m here to say that whatever happened last night doesn’t change anything.” 

The corners of his lips twitch, his gaze getting lost in the details of your features like you weren’t denying him, finally giving you the fuel you needed to make your blood simmer, the anger you thought you’d lost forever buzzing under your heated skin.

“So!”  You snap your fingers in his face, interrupting whatever daydream he was getting lost in, getting the glare you were searching for, “You better get that out of your head right now. We’re not going on a date.” 

Your words finally bite with a tone that almost seems final and for a minute it starts to feel like you have a semblance of your self-control back. Holding your head up high, you try to really end whatever started on your best friend's couch last night. 

“We can be friendly for Robin’s sake, but it’s never going to happen again. I’m not your girl, Harrington.”

Steve rolls his tongue against the inside of his cheek, something you can’t quite put your finger on flashing behind the gold in his eyes. Leaning forward, his hand finds the chipped teal paint of the truck behind you. Caging you in, the spice of his cologne overwhelms you as it mixes with the heat in the garage, and the sweat glistening on his tan skin. The warmth of his breath fans across your cheeks that burn like they’re being licked by a flame, thighs pressing harshly under your dress as you try not to let his gaze swallow you whole. 

“If that’s how you really feel, fine.” He says cooly, seemingly unphased and it makes your blood boil more. “I’ll take my chain back now then.”

 “No.”

“No?” He snorts incredulously at your refusal, watching the way your fingers come up to play with it. Taunting him.

”I don’t even know why you put it on me in the first place,” you scoff with a roll of your eyes, channeling his nonchalance before ducking under his arm, your escape in sight.

You refuse to look back at him making a beeline to the open garage door, heart thumping wildly in your chest as you do your best not to give away the attachment you have to the weight of it around your neck that you really aren’t ready to unpack yet.

”I left it!” Steve yells hot on your heels, the cracks in his confident demeanor starting to show, “I left it so you didn’t think I just disappeared on you this morning because I personally have zero regrets about what happened last night.”

The sarcastic ‘HA!’ you let out is almost comical, picking up your pace with an extra sway to your hips because you know he’s staring.

”How about this, Steve?” You antagonize, turning around and walking backward with a smug grin that mirrors his from before, “I’ll think about it.”

Steve doesn’t take the bait, instead, he side-steps quickly to smash the round red button on the wall with a deadpan face. Letting the rumble of the garage door coming to life do all the talking for him.

”Are you serious?!“ You shriek, watching it close faster than your feet can carry you, even contemplating a tuck and roll when you see the sunlight and any chance you have at not going back on your promise start to disappear behind it.

“It’s simple honey,” he sighs with an irritated edge, “Give me my chain and I’ll open her back up so you can go run back to Robin’s and pretend like last night never happened. Just the way you want, right?”

”This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Let me out asshole!” 

A new level of stubbornness that you never thought you could reach locks you in place, facing him with arms crossed tight over your chest.

”I’m ridiculous?” Steve chuckles darkly, the steel toe of his boots echoing louder now that you’re sealed inside as he walks towards you, “Look at yourself.”

”What’s that supposed to mean?” You snap despite the way your teeth gnaw nervously on your bottom lip, greedy eyes roaming his tall frame as your body betrays you for what feels like the hundredth time today when he steps into your space again.

“I know you enjoyed drama club in high school, but you’ve always been a terrible actress.” 

“And you’ve always had way more confidence than you should.” 

Steve’s nostrils flare, his gaze threatening to set you on fire.

”I’m going to get back to work, you’re free to go whenever you give me my necklace back. I’m getting paid to be here all day baby, you aren’t, so just know that I’ve got time.” He holds your stare for a second longer, sucking at his teeth before turning around. Testing you.

“Come take it off me then, Harrington, if you want it so bad.”  

Two can play that game.

He stops in his tracks, shoulders tensing at the implication of your words, turning his head to the side, he gives you a perfect view of his sharp jawline. 

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he warns, with a tone sharp enough to make your stomach flip.

“I said,” your shoulders square with a defiance that matches your glare, acting as if you aren’t sealing your fate with the next four words, “Come and get it.”

Steve’s long strides close the distance faster than you can comprehend. A big hand grabs at your hip, grease-stained fingers digging into your curves, while the other cups the side of your face, surely leaving a mark. He's getting what he really wants.

Gasping into his mouth, the force of his kiss sends a shudder through the garage door when your back slams against it. Lost in the sensation of his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, you barely notice. Your fingers weave through the thick locks of his hair at the nape of his neck as if they were always meant to be there. A harsh tug on the silky strands earns you a groan that's deeper than you remember, and you immediately want to hear it again.

The clash for dominance ignites as your tongues collide clumsily, teeth grazing and noses pressing into each other’s cheeks. His grip tightens on your hip in a warning before his hand trails down to where the bottom hem of your dress rests at the top of your thigh. Pushing up the thin fabric, the blunt tips of his nails skim across your soft skin, goosebumps pebbling despite the heat.

His fingers tease the edge of your panties, tracing the curve where they meet your ass, stealing your whine with a cocky grin that he kisses into your lips. He lingers just long enough to turn you needy before he hooks your knee around his waist, getting the instant roll of your hips and more of your little noises that will haunt his every waking thought after this. 

“Steve,” you breathe, tugging your swollen bottom lip between your teeth while he starts kissing a slow, agonizing path down your jaw, tickling you with the stubble on his cheek.

He hums in between kisses, nipping at the sensitive spot behind your ear, he soothes it with a swipe of his tongue before he starts to suck–hard. Your moan bounces off the metal and concrete that surround you, echoing in your ears while your greedy fingers tug even harder at his roots. His grip on you tightens when you start to squirm as his efforts to mark what’s his intensify, leaving a bruise you’ll have to explain to Robin later.

”Yeah?” He mumbles against your heated skin, the tip of his nose running along your pulse point, a saccharine smile pressing into the curve of your neck where his chain still rests.

“Shut up,” you manage to get out, despite Steve leaving open-mouthed kisses on the swell of your breasts, palming roughly at the dough of your ass, encouraging another rock of your hips.

“You're always so mean to me, honey,” Steve sighs, nipping at the supple skin, before meeting your poor attempt at a glare from under the thick hood of his lashes.

”Yeah? And? What are you gonna do about it?” You bite, but it doesn’t sting the way you want it to, not with the way your chest heaves in anticipation of his next move.

Steve flips you around so quickly that the change in position has you gasping, your palms meeting the warm metal of the garage door that bakes in the sun outside. Heavy work boots push your legs apart, while hot breath that rivals the summer dances across the nape of your neck. He presses himself into you, letting you feel just how hard you really have him, the tip of his nose brushing along the shell of your ear. Butterflies multiply, tickling your rib cage just like your lashes that kiss the tops of your cheeks.

“I think it's pretty obvious what I want to do,” he whispers against your neck, lips ghosting across the freshly formed bruise, “The real question is…”

The backs of his fingers brush along the sides of your breasts, goosebumps pebbling across your skin. His big hands follow the curve of your waist, smoothing down to the tops of your thighs. Taking his time, he curls them under the hem of your dress, pulling it up to rest on top of your hips, still giving you the chance to stop him. One you don’t take.

“Are you gonna let me?” His words are gruff coming out next to your ear, your walls fluttering around nothing because of it.

The humid air doesn’t help your sticky thighs that only get worse as two of his calloused fingers trace agonizingly slow along the waistband of the only fabric separating you now. Peppering soft kisses to all the sensitive spots that make your skin come alive, his teeth nip playfully at your earlobe, fireworks lighting up in the sky behind your eyes when he takes it into the heat of his mouth. The sensation has you mewling, jaw going slack as your toes curl into the foam of your flip flops from a feeling only Steve Harrington can give.

”I could be so nice to you, baby,” he whispers, letting you go with a pop, his fingers daring to go lower than just teasing, smirking against your cheek at the gasp you give when he drags them through your slick folds, wrapping your hands around his wrist for support, your hips chase him for more. “Don’t you want that?”

Your pride has your teeth biting into your bottom lip. Refusing to answer his question loaded with too many double meanings for your head to wrap around right now, but you still spread yourself wider for him, because the last thing you want him to do is stop.

“Gonna make me earn it, huh?” He breathes, biting back his groan at how you start dripping down his hand, “That’s okay. I’ll show you I’m worthy.”

His promise is enough to finally draw out the moan you’ve been fighting, the sound making him kick up in his coveralls, while the movements of his wrist become more pointed. Your head lulls back against his broad shoulder, and his cologne smells even better with the way sweat starts to drip from his pores. Your eyes are needy, meeting the black coffee of his and you know it, especially at the furrow of his brows when he looks at you completely transfixed.

“God, I almost forgot how soft you are. How fucking wet you get for me.” He whispers between gritted teeth, awestruck at the feeling of your silk walls begging him for more, daring him to explore, “Bet you taste even sweeter than I remember too.”

Leaning down, he runs the tip of his nose along the bridge of yours, the mint that still lingers on his breath tickling your lips. Your hips roll with the rhythm of his wrist, warmth spreading across your cheeks as the sounds of just how wet you are echo in the big space. Too close to falling apart all over his fingers to care, the blunt ends of your nails dig half-crescent moons into his wrist chasing it.

“Baby, are you gonna come already? I’ve barely touched you.” 

His words mock you despite the sugary sweetness they drip with, every swipe against your bundle of nerves becoming unrelenting, determined even. But it’s still enough for you to take the bait and force your eyes open, meeting his hungry stare dead on and say:

”Y- you wish it was that easy.”

Amusement dances across the hard lines of his face, his dark gaze narrowing before something between a laugh and a growl rumbles deep from his chest. The motions of his wrist come to a halt, and it takes everything inside of you not to cry in protest. Pulling his hand from your soaked panties, his wet fingers dig into your hips spinning you around, quick strides pushing you to the corvette that started your spiral. 

“What are you doing?!” You squeal, your butt hitting the cherry-red metal of the hood that sticks to your sweat-slicked skin.

He just grins, the pearly whites of his teeth showing as grease-stained hands spread your knees apart enough for him to step between, leaving raven fingerprints in their wake before grabbing at your chin, he forces you to look at him.

“Need you to keep your eyes on me, honey, and remember what you just said.” He pulls your bottom lip down with the pad of his thumb, watching it pop back into place. 

Letting go of your chin, he holds your stare, fingers ghosting across the tops of your thighs as he drops to his knees like someone praying to a god. Hooking his arms under your bent legs, he tugs you to the end of the hood with a squeak. Spread wide for him to see, your calves rest on top of his shoulders that you hate to admit you wish you could see. Leaning forward, the tip of his nose traces the wet path of your covered folds, breathing you in like the sweetest summer breeze.

When his big eyes meet yours from between your thighs, just begging you to get lost in them like you used to, it’s almost enough for you to forget the game you’re both supposed to be playing. There’s a softness that lingers inside melting caramel that manages to shine through the black that overpowers it, and you wonder if he can hear the way your heart threatens to beat out of your chest. 

His touch is gentle now, long fingers curling around the waistband of your underwear, silently asking you for permission to cross the line that deep down you know there’s no going back from. Nodding your head with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you even help him, lifting your legs when he pulls them from around your ankles.

Steve stuffs the satin in his pocket ignoring the way you tell him that you want them back. His pink tongue that’s seconds away from being your undoing wets his lips, jaw going tight at the sight in front of him. Roses bloom on his tan cheeks, and he can’t help but run a hand through his hair, the reality setting in that he really has you like this. He looks completely wrecked. At least it isn’t just you.

“Fuck.” He breathes, the blunt ends of his nails digging into the dough of your thighs, shuffling himself even closer, his eyes glaze over. 

Goosebumps pebble across your buzzing skin, your velvet walls fluttering around nothing as you lose the witty response you had saved on the tip of your tongue, managing just a quiet, “I thought you were supposed to show me somethin’?” 

His lips twitch so close to where you need him most that you can almost feel the curve of them, your knees bending just a little more, urging him on by his shoulders.

“So impatient,” he tsks, the vibrations of his words only making it worse, “My girl needs me huh? She missed me as much as I missed her didn’t she?”

“Steve - shut uhhhhohmygod!”

His mouth latches onto your cunt like he’s thirsty for everything you’re offering him, collecting your dripping honey that’s sweet on his tongue. Running a broad stripe up your folds, his grip on your thighs tightens when you start to squirm, holding you in place, as he swirls messy circles on your bundle of nerves before sucking it hard enough for your head to fall back against the car. Your fingers bury themselves into the sweaty silk of his hair, pulling harshly at the roots, earning the kind of grunt that has you whimpering, dripping down the stubble on his chin as your hips buck up to meet him.

Letting you go with a loud pop, he huffs out a dark laugh at your whine, hardly giving you time to recover before pulling you even further down the hood of the car, till your ass hangs off the edge. The tip of his nose brushes against your sensitive clit while his tongue begins to tease your entrance that quivers just for him. The new angle has you practically sitting on his face, and before you have a chance to overthink it he slowly starts to work you open with his greedy mouth.

”Holy shit I -“ Your eyelids droop, jaw going slack as he starts to move side to side, licking into you like you’re the sweetest prize. His nose adds just the right amount of pressure while he eats you up like a man starved, “You’re gonna - fuck - Steve!”

His hands move from your thighs to the soft fat of your ass, encouraging your hips more, and if you weren’t so far gone, you’d be scared you’re suffocating him. You dare to look down at the scene between your legs, and it’s almost enough to have you cumming all over his face. His pitch-black eyes gaze up at you enamored, completely lost and still hungry because after all these years it’s still not enough. He moans into your folds when you meet his half-lidded stare, the sensation vibrating in all the right places, making your legs shake.

The feeling of your walls pulsing tight around his tongue, knowing how close you are already has him twitching painfully hard in his coveralls. It’s enough to ignore the discomfort of his knees, doubling down on the movements of his jaw. His name bounces off the metal and concrete, while the roll of your hips gets more and more aggressive because it feels like he’s eating you from the inside out, the tip of his tongue reaching the spot that makes you gasp.

“Right there, shit, right there, right there, I’m gonna, oh my god I’m gonna cum!”

Your scream is silent, body going rigid, giving into him already. The muscles in your legs tense, as your thighs squeeze tight around his head while your pussy tries to push him out but he only doubles down with a completely relentless tongue. He moans loud enough inside you to hear through the ringing in your ears, your fingers curling harshly in his thick locks, back hitting the metal of the hood again.

He ignores the first few pushes against his forehead when his kitten licks become too much before he finally listens. Sticky legs fall open releasing him from a trap he never asked to escape from, his shiny wet lips leaving kisses along your shaking thighs, tickling the supple skin with the stubble on his jaw. You feel his tongue dart out to collect everything he missed, earning the kind of sweet noises he can’t wait to hear all summer long. 

Steve stands up wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and you try to be mad at his smug grin but your body can’t help its reaction to the way he struggles against his coveralls. The hard outline of dick reminds you of the stretch that you know will ruin you for anyone else, spent walls fluttering despite yourself. 

”Now what was that you were saying a few minutes ago, pretty girl?” Leaning down, his palms find a new home on either side of your head. 

The whites of his teeth shine at the eyeroll you find enough energy to give him, even with your legs wrapped around his waist. His nose nudges the tip of yours, the playful glint in his eyes changes into something lovesick and it brings the ache in your chest back because you know it’s going to hurt even worse walking away again. 

“Hey, what’s going on up there?” He questions, placing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, eyebrows furrowing as he searches your face for answers.

You don’t give him one, pushing aside the worry for when you lay awake in the middle of the night. Instead, you let your fingers wrap themselves in the cotton of his tank top, pulling him to your lips that silently beg him to help you forget. He meets you with an eager mouth, and a big hand that comes up to rest on your flushed cheek. The pad of his thumb traces the high bone while his tongue asks you for permission for more. 

Your thighs lock tighter around his waist, granting him the access he wants, tasting yourself all over him. Shaking fingers find the zipper of his jumper, tugging down the metal, he helps your shimmy off his sleeves. The freckles that dot his shoulders like the night sky beg you to open your eyes as the top of his coveralls fall to his sides, the rock of his hips making you say his name like it’s the sweetest thing. 

“Want you,” you whisper with a nip at his bottom lip, ankles crossing at the two dips you know are on his lower back.

”Baby,” He groans, dropping his head down, burying it in the crook of your neck as you roll your pussy over the length of him that’s still covered by the navy blue material you can’t seem to get off fast enough.

He lets you do it a few more times before his hands find both your wrists, pinning them above your head, he peppers kisses along your jaw, letting his fingers glide down the length of your body, making sure to catch his chain still hanging off your neck as he stands back up. You finally get a good look at him, and the sight is enough to know the memory of today will be etched into the corners of your mind, just like the rest of them. 

Pink cheeks still kissed by the sun, and dark chestnut hair that matches his eyes twist at its golden ends in an even bigger mess now on the top of his head. The thick thatch of it on his chest curling from the sweat that drips down his neck, leaving translucent patches along the white cotton of his tank top, teasing even more of him to your starving gaze. His uniform hangs low on his hips, giving you a glimpse of the waistband of his boxer briefs, making you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. He grabs at the sides of your thighs, his handsome face going kind.

“You came in here ready to tell me to fuck off,” he laughs softly, thumbs rubbing gentle circles, “I just need to know this is what you really want.”

His words tighten in your chest, forcing you to make a decision so that when you have no one else to blame but yourself when you lay awake in your apartment with a broken heart in the fall, you can’t hate him anymore. 

“I really want it.” 

The answer stumbles past your lips before you can think too hard about it, pulling the rest of your rucked up dress over your head, leaving you completely exposed for his heavy chocolate eyes to drink in. Despite the muggy heat of the garage, your nipples pebble under it, cheeks going hot because you always feel like the most beautiful girl in the world when Steve Harrington looks at you like this. 

It’s all the encouragement he needs to let you go and do the same with his tank top, tossing it to the side before shoving the rest of his uniform down the tops of his thighs. Thick, long and heavy, your eyes widen as his hard length springs free, smacking against the happy trail at the bottom of his stomach. The pink tip leaks for you, shining with precum, while his big hand wraps around it, tugging a few times and making you drip more on the hood.

“I’ll go slow,” he coos, leaning down to capture your lips in something sweeter than the rest of them. “I know you can take it, honey.”

Nodding your head, you look up at him with glassy eyes, completely giving in, shutting off the part of your brain that’s telling you that you know better. Spreading your legs wider, his eyebrows marry in the middle of his forehead, cursing under his breath at the sight of you like this. He silently thanks whatever gods or girl that got Eddie sick, because this moment shatters any fantasies that have consumed his late nights. 

He runs the length of his cock through your slick, spreading you apart around him, earning the kind of mewl that makes him twitch in his hand. Your back arches off the corvette when he does it again only this time with added pressure to your clit. Locking your legs around his waist, you make sure he doesn’t get away. 

”So fuckin’ beautiful baby, Jesus Christ, look at you.” Steve grunts, lining himself up with your entrance, pushing just the tip into the tightening silk of your walls before both his hands find their way back to your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh. ”Wanna make you feel so good. You gonna let me?”

“Mmhmm,” you whimper a little high pitch and out of breath, letting go of all the control you’ve hung onto for the last five years with a dirty roll of your hips that begs to suck him in.

“Oh fuck, you’re still so - shit.” Steve practically whines, his jaw going hard with eyebrows that pinch together, trying to regain his composure from the way you pulse around him just nudging halfway in, the aftershocks of your first orgasm have you feeling every ridge of his cock, lighting your body up.

The stretch burns, your eyes rolling in the back of your head as flames lick deep in your gut from the feeling you’ll never get enough of. His calloused fingers grab at your chin, demanding your attention. Your lashes tickle the tops of your cheeks as you force them back open, only to find his face is closer now, both his palms landing on either side of your head, black iris’s threatening to drown you, holding your gaze with the kind of intensity that makes your heart palpitate.

”I want to look at you.” He breathes against your lips as one swift thrust has you completely filled up.

”Steve!” 

Gasping into his mouth, it takes all of your strength to keep your eyes open, focusing on the imperfect circles of the chestnut freckles that explode across the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah?” He smirks, pressing his forehead against yours, the rough hair on his chest tickling the softness of your breasts, nipples pebbling as your arms wrap around his neck.

“It feels, you feel -“

A loud moan rumbles from the back of your throat when the tip of him hits the spot that makes your toes curl into the fat of his ass, pushing him even deeper, the ends of your nails dig pretty marks all over his shoulders. 

“Tell me, baby. Tell me how good it feels.” He grunts, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth, the roll of his hips becoming a slow grind. 

His pelvic bone hits your bundle of nerves just right while the tip of him bullies the spot that has your eyes threatening to close against his wishes, and it has you sounding like ‘Steve’ is the only word you’ve ever known. It’s a hazy mess inside your mind, especially when he looks at you like this. It’s worse than before, and you don’t know how you’re going to find your way back this time, something different inside of his gaze that you know is going to make it impossible.

”Missed you so much, so damn gorgeous angel, think about you all the time. All the fucking time.” Steve babbles, completely drunk off the way you flutter at his words, the angry facade you’ve been putting on crumbling around him as your body lets the truth come out.

The confession makes your chest tighten with all the unresolved feelings you’ve shoved down for so long, the ones you almost forgot were there until a few weeks ago. Fingers curling into the hair on the nape of his neck you lean up, capturing his lips to shut him up, rocking your hips to meet his thrust. He grunts into your mouth, cock twitching against your walls, eagerly licking into your mouth. 

It’s easier to get lost in him without the reminder of what used to be, teeth scraping together as the kiss gets messier. The metal of the car crunches and bends under your movements, but neither one of you can find it in you to care with noses pressing into each other's cheeks, tongues fighting for the kind of dominance your hips are at war about.

Steve is the one that breaks first, coming up for air, with eyes that seem even darker than before as he pushes himself up to stand. Big hands grab at your hips as a loose strand of hair falls across his forehead. Pulling halfway out, he takes a moment to admire the sheen you coat him, pink tongue darting out to lick his swollen lips before shoving himself all the way back in.

”Oh my god!”  You gasp, throwing your head back against the hood, your hands landing on top of his, fingernails digging into the tops of them.

“I wanna watch you cum again, can you do that for me, baby?” He tugs you closer, your body squeaking across the metal that tries to stick to your skin, the tip of him hitting that spot again.

Nodding your head, every hard thrust of his hips echoes through the garage, the car shaking underneath you as tires threaten to roll. He feels himself getting close, the pad of his thumb finding your clit to rub the kind of messy circles that have you saying his name just how he likes. 

“Come on, let me see how pretty you can get, let me have it.” He coos, finding the perfect combination to make you come undone all over him.

Your walls clench hard enough to try and push him out but he just buries himself deeper, a loud groan rumbling from his chest watching the way your face contorts with pleasure. White dances behind your heavy lids that squeeze shut as your legs start to shake around his waist. You try to shove his hand away, but he refuses, remaining relentless, milking your second orgasm for everything it's worth, making you cum even harder. 

“Yeah, that’s it, that’s iiiiit, so fuckin’ good for me.” He praises, completely lost in the way your body responds to him and it’s enough to send him flying over the edge he’d been teetering on since had you against the garage door.

A string of curse words falls pretty from his lips, twitching hard inside you and with the last bit of strength you have, you squeeze him even tighter, relishing in the way his jaw goes slack because of it. The movements of his thumb finally end its assault so he can grab onto your sides with both hands, fingers digging bruises as one last hard thrust has his warmth filling you up.

The feeling of being so full sends your body buzzing, watching him fall apart on top of you with sweat dripping off the ends of his hair. His head drops between his shoulders, body shaking as his orgasm rakes through him. Red cheeks and skin so warm it rivals the sun, he lets himself collapse on top of you, burying his face in the crook of your neck totally spent, still chasing his high with a slow circle of his hips.

Your nose finds its way into his damp hair, inhaling deeply because it somehow smells even better than before. You wrap your arms around his shoulders even though you know you should leave and forget this ever happened, but it feels too good to have hands sliding up your curves as he starts to drip out of you and onto the car. 

“God, Eddie’s going to kill me.” He mumbles against your skin, making you squirm because it tickles, and you can feel him smile because of it.

“How’s he gonna find out?” You giggle, the metal of the Corvette popping under your shifting weight.

”Baby.” Steve snorts, leaving a kiss on the curve of your jaw before pushing himself up on his elbows, the endearment falling too easily off his tongue in a casual way, reminding you very quickly of your reality.

It’s harder to meet his eyes that search for yours, but you do anyway. They’re warm again, like a dark sand beach and it's hard not to want to lay out a towel and live inside them. Both of you wince as he pulls himself out, cursing under his breath at your walls staying greedy and trying to pull him back in. 

He doesn’t notice the shift in your demeanor pulling up his coveralls and tying the sleeves around his waist, or if he does he chooses to ignore it, grabbing your dress off the floor before offering you his hand. There’s less grease staining them now and you know it's because it's all over you, completely marked by him nearly head to toe whether you like it or not. 

Sliding your hand in his, you duck your head down as you take it, legs wobbling when your feet hit the ground, not missing the smug grin that pushes up his cheeks clocking it. You go for your dress but Steve just tuts at you pulling it out of reach, ignoring your scoff he shakes it out before lifting it above your head signaling for you to put your arms up. Rolling your eyes with a smile you can’t fight, you pretend not to feel the butterfly wings tickling your ribcage, turning around and doing as he asks, letting him drag the soft cotton down your body. Calloused fingertips tracing the goosebumps they create.

”Let’s go get cleaned up in the bathroom,” he hums softly, grabbing you by the hips, and pressing a kiss into the fresh bruise behind your ear.

You tell yourself you’ll leave after this letting him guide you by the waist and a chin on your shoulder. You think it again when the small space of the bathroom is filled with giggles and bashful smiles as he sits you on the closed toilet seat, wetting paper towels that turn into mache in his hands. You scream at yourself to do it watching him try and fix his hair in the mirror after wiping you down the best he can, pressing kisses on both your kneecaps. 

“I’ve been using this new product, but nothing hits like Farrah. I can’t believe they discontinued it. Dustin swears he can find me some, but who knows if you can even trust it’s the real deal, you know?”

Steve interrupts your inner turmoil with a face that’s far too serious for the words that just left his mouth and the thoughts running through your head. Your mood shifts almost instantly with a laugh loud enough to turn his cheeks the color of your toes, giving you an exaggerated eye roll despite the twitch of his lips.

“I can’t believe you still hang out with a middle schooler.” You tease, getting up on your feet, legs feeling a little less like jello but the reminder between your thighs only seems to intensify.

”I told you he’s like 19 - “

”Whatever you gotta tell yourself, Steve,” you grin, taking the break in the intensity of everything to try and work up the self-control to leave, wincing at the echoing clack of your flip flops that give you away instantly.

”Wait, where are you going?” Steve’s brows furrow in confusion, turning around to face you, he tightens the sleeves wrapped around his waist, biceps flexing while all the playfulness drains from his eyes.

”I should go before Robin -“

”What? No, she’ll be fine, it’s like noon. I’m sure she’s not even awake yet.” 

“Steve.”

”Honey.”

The two of you face off in a silent challenge, stares unwavering, mimicking each other with arms crossover over your chests. 

“Don’t run again.” He pleads with a whisper that’s barely audible against the beating of your heart in your ears, the room feeling smaller.

“I’m not running, I’m walking.” You try to lighten the mood with a joke, the corners of your eyes stinging but you refuse to acknowledge why.

”I’m not letting you walk home.”

“It’s down the road-“

“I don’t care! You’re not walking. Let me close up and then I’ll at least drive you.” 

You don’t argue with the hurt expression on his face, you can’t.

It’s somehow even hotter outside when the two of you sneak out the side door of the garage. A different kind of tension hangs thick in the air putting the humidity to shame, even with the sun shimmering from the highest point in the sky. His skin glows like liquid gold in its rays as he walks in front of you, your eyes following the movements of his freckled shoulders that flex with every swing on his arms. Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you hate the pit that settles deep in your gut because you don’t want to say goodbye just yet. Another consequence of a choice you made rearing its ugly head.

You aren’t expecting him to open the passenger door for you, the metal creaking loudly breaking a silence that’s filled with a thousand unspoken words just hanging on the tip of both of your tongues waiting to fill up the space. His gaze meets yours from under the thick length of his lashes, the corners of his lips twisting at the way you get bashful from the gesture.

”Thanks,” you whisper, catching a whiff of his cologne as you duck into the passenger seat that’s starting to feel like yours again.

He just hums in response, shutting it quickly and trapping you inside a metal box filled with every smell that reminds you of him. It pulls at your heart, and intensifies the burn between your thighs. Your fingers come up to twist the metal that still dangles from your neck, and you’re not sure you can bring yourself to give it back after this. The already small space of the car shrinks even more when the driver side door opens and he slides in next to you with a huff, keys jingling loudly in his hand closing the door behind him. 

His shoulders brush with yours shoving the keys in the ignition, the seat vibrating underneath you as the beemer quietly roars to life. He keeps his hand on the stick shift, sweat slick skin pressing into yours shifting the car into drive. The radio isn’t as loud as you thought it’d be considering the way he was blasting it in the shop. Meatloaf’s I’d Do Anything For Love spills out of the speakers and you try not to laugh at the irony, scrambling to think of what to say to him as Robin’s apartment complex quickly comes into view. 

But he never stops.

“Steve, what are you doing?” You sigh, crossing your arms across your chest watching the baby blue paneling of her apartments whiz past. 

“This is technically my lunch break, and I’m hungry.” He shrugs, glancing at you with something mischievous in his eyes that you want to smack away because it makes your heart skip a beat, “You’re telling me you’re not starving after that honey?”

Smacking your lips together, you roll your eyes as hard as you can, trying to hide the smile that pushes up your cheeks. 

“Wow, your confidence always just astounds me.” Shaking your head, your sarcastic laugh only makes him grin.

”I think you like it.” 

You can’t bring yourself to deny it, fluttering your lashes at him with an attitude instead.

”But if you really can’t stand the thought of spending like another hour with me, I’ll turn around right now, honey.” You know he means it, feeling his foot slowly press on the brake in anticipation for your answer, “Just say the words.”

‘Say it, say turn around Steve.’

“Take me somewhere with fries.”

When you left Robin’s house this morning, you didn’t think watching Steve juggle two shakes and a large order of fries to the booth you’re sitting at with a heart so full it threatens to crack your chest, was where you’d end up at. His cheeks flush a deep shade red almost losing his footing, lovesick eyes too busy staring at you to watch where his boots land. 

God, this was not a part of the plan.

“I got you strawberry,” his grin is proud, remembering your favorite from high school when he drops your cool treat in front of you, and instead of sliding into the seats across the table, he plops down into the spot right next to you, knees bumping underneath the wood.

“What if I wanted chocolate?” You tease, body turning into a lit match pressing into his side.

“That’s what I got, and maybe, if you ask nicely,” he breathes, leaning in close enough for the tips of your noses to brush, “I’ll share.”

You wonder if he can hear the way you swallow at his tone over that oldies station that plays in the Hawkins Diner. 

“No thanks, you can keep your cooties.” Sighing, you have to fight the twitch of your lips tearing your eyes away from him to focus on the fried potatoes in front of you.

”I think it’s a little late for that baby, I’m afraid you’re completely covered in them.” He doesn’t hesitate to press a sloppy kiss on your cheek that's loud enough to catch the attention of the girls that’d been staring at him since the two of you walked in.

”Steve!” You try to scold, but the smile that spreads across your face gives you up, even if you wipe the kiss away with the back of your hand.

”What?” He smirks, grabbing a few fries and plopping them in his mouth and you try not to focus on the way his tongue darks out to collect the salt left over on his lips.

“I can’t stand you.”

It’s impossible to keep a straight face around him, even avoiding the playful gold that swirls in his gaze that hasn’t stopped showering you with adoration. 

“Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep better at night.” He shrugs, taking a big swig of his shake, subtly scooting closer so your thighs touch.

The two of you eat in a peaceful silence for a few minutes, your head swimming with questions as your morning starts to really sink in. But your nerves make it impossible to focus on just one, especially every time you fingers brush, catching his small smirk from the corner of your eyes.

”So tell me something,” you try, ignoring the slight shake in your voice, “How did Steve Harrington, ‘king of Hawkins’, become a mechanic? I always thought you’d be in some big office with a suit working for your dad.” 

You notice the sour look that contorts the handsome features on his face at the former nickname again and you immediately feel bad for saying it. His thick eyebrows furrow, marrying in the middle as he tries to shake it off with a few harsh blinks grabbing another handful of fries.

”Umm, I did work for my dad’s firm for like six months actually.” He confesses, clearing his throat before tossing them into his mouth. “I think we hate each other even more now.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude that's not why I asked -“

”Honey, you’re fine.” He smiles warmly, a big palm finding the top of our thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting it occupy the space permanently. 

”Turns out I’m a terrible office manager. I’d get super overwhelmed, which made me disorganized and we’d lose clients making my dad pissed, then one day I just kinda snapped after he laid into me in his office. Had a panic attack and then never showed my face there again.”

”Steve-“

“I knew he was going to fire me anyway, it’s fine” he laughs, running his free hand through his hair, the other sliding down your thigh so his thumb can rub circles into the soft skin next to your knee cap.

“So I wallowed in self pity for a month before Eddie started needing help at the shop. At first it just gave me something to do, he’d teach me a few things and turns out, I’m actually pretty good at it. It honestly feels really fucking freeing to stop being the person everyone expected me to be.”

He smiles with all his teeth, the kind of pride radiating off of him that makes the hard brick wall you’ve built around yourself start to soften, cracks forming in its foundation.

”Well, it looks good on you Harrington.” You have to look away when you say it, the butterflies becoming unbearable, because you weren’t supposed to feel like this. “I guess.”

He snorts at your stubbornness, bumping shoulders with you before snatching your strawberry shake earning the kind of glare that makes him realize he’s never going to get over you. 

Steve’s one hour lunch turns into two, almost becoming three getting lost in the kind of conversation that barely scratches the surface of everything you’ve missed. It’s all hushed tones, sweet eyes, and linked fingers that threaten to make you fold again, with the only thing saving you is the reminder of the mess you made on top of his client's Corvette, and Steve reluctantly admitting he needed to leave so he didn’t actually lose his job in the morning. 

It didn’t matter though, he got his date. 

And when he pulls up to Robin’s he doesn’t hesitate to steal your breath away, grabbing you by the chin, giving you the kind of kiss over the center console that leaves you dizzy, just like in high school. He doesn’t ask for his chain back, and you don’t offer it, bounding up the stairs to the apartment with it shimmering against your chest.

🌻chapter five

[andvys]

Dancing with our hands tied | S.H.

And my, my love had been frozen. Deep blue, but you painted me golden.

Warnings: 18+, mdni! there will be smut in the future chapters. enemies to lovers, 'she fell first, he fell harder' kind of trope, allusions to unrequited love, mentions of death, injuries, allusions to self hatred, mentions of bullying, this story is set post s4, Vecna and the upside down are gone. slow burn. ‘hate’ sex. fwb kinda thing but they’re ‘enemies’. mean!reader, mean!Steve, hurt/comfort, happy ending.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: You and Steve have never seen eye to eye, and it never changed, not even when you were pulled into a world of monsters and risked your life to save him. But tension had always been between you both, something that neither of you ever wanted to admit -- but how much longer can you take it when the pull between you gets stronger and stronger each second you spend by each others side?

♡

Prologue ⭐︎

Chapter one ⭐︎ Waiting Room

Chapter two ⭐︎ I want you to notice, when I’m not around

Chapter three ⭐︎ So if you need to be mean, be mean to me

Chapter four ⭐︎ Every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness

Chapter five ⭐︎'Cause you know it could never be

Chapter six ⭐︎ Secrets I have held in my heart

Chapter seven ⭐︎ Got a feeling your electric touch, could fill this ghost town up with life

Chapter eight ⭐︎ Say my name and everything just stops

Chapter nine ⭐︎ And I'll show you if you let me, girl

Chapter ten ⭐︎ Weigh down on me, stay 'til morning

Chapter eleven ⭐︎ Yeah, I know it seems surprising when there’s lipstick still on the glass

Chapter twelve ⭐︎ When the curtains call the time, will we both go home alive?

Chapter thirteen ⭐︎ For a moment, I was heaven struck

Chapter fourteen ⭐︎ Somewhere in these eyes, I'm on your side

Chapter fifteen ⭐︎ I thought the plane was going down, how'd you turn it right around?

Chapter sixteen ⭐︎ Hold me, love me, touch me, honey

Chapter seventeen ⭐︎ What am I supposed to do? If there's no you.

Chapter eighteen ⭐︎ Tell me 'bout the first time you saw me

Chapter nineteen ⭐︎ For you, I would ruin myself, a million little times

Chapter twenty ⭐︎ Tell me it's love, tell me it's real

Chapter twenty one ⭐︎ Please, I've been on my knees, change the prophecy

Chapter twenty two ⭐︎ Let the world around us just fall apart

Chapter twenty three ⭐︎ And the first night that you saw me, nothing was gonna stop me

Chapter twenty four ⭐︎ I once believed love would be black and white, but it’s golden

Chapter twenty five ⭐︎ Who could stay? You could stay

The Epilogue ⭐︎

[andvys]

You said you were gonna grow up (then you were gonna come find me) ⭐︎ S.H.

⭐︎ Warnings: slight angst, mutual pining, idiots in love, childhood best friends to lovers, allusions to cheating (but not really), mentions of sex, mentions of unrequited love, hurt/comfort

⭐︎ Summary: You and Steve used to be inseparable, best friends since childhood, you shared something special, something rare. You promised each other forever but... promises are never to keep... right?

⭐︎ Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

⭐︎ Word count: 10k

⭐︎ Author's note: To my Steve girlies who have read (and still mourn) I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss -- in the middle of writing this little oneshot, I noticed that Steve and reader reminded me of someone, and then I realized that it's basically Steve and Cheer in a different universe (if Steve hadn't fucked up as badly as he did). This is... what they should have been.

Also shoutout to @hellfire--cult for inspiring me to finish this oneshot (finally) and @ghost-proofbaby thank you for picking a title for me, and for your sweet words about this little piece, you're both the bestest

⭐︎ my library

divider by @saradika (I screamed when I saw the folklore dividers)

♡

The smell of weed and smoke lingers in the air, music blares through the house and bounces off the walls, laughter and giggles come from every corner, conversations he couldn’t care less about yet listens in on because what else is there to do at a party? 

Steve once found himself at home in such gatherings, now he feels nothing but bored as he watches the people instead of interacting with them like he once used to do. 

He used to be on the dancefloor, at the keg stand, pressing some girl against the wall and kissing her neck before taking her upstairs into one of the empty bedrooms – but those days are long over and they are not to be missed, not in the slightest. 

Now he is sitting out in the backyard of some stranger’s house, sipping on a lukewarm soda and waiting for Robin to get sick of this party so he can take her home before going to his empty house and crashing out on his new bed. Seeing as she’s jumping around on the dancefloor with Vickie, it doesn’t seem like she'll want to leave anytime soon. 

 A sigh falls from his lips and he slumps his shoulders in boredom. 

He could be socializing, talking to girls, flirting with them, with the ones who keep waving at him and sending him suggestive, overly sweet looks – he isn’t interested. The past few months were wasted ones, disastrous dates, one or two meaningless hookups, girls who weren’t interested in him but only in sex – that was his reality and he didn’t want that anymore, he doesn’t want that anymore, he wants something real, he wants to feel something, he wants someone to want him for more than just that one thing, he wants a connection, a bond, he wants… you. 

Steve’s lips part, his eyes lighten up, glowing just like the stars in the night sky, he sits up straighter and cranes his neck to see you better, his heart skipping in a way it hasn’t in a long time, he forgot what it feels like… but of course you are the one to remind him of the way his heart can skip and flutter when he feels something, you have always been the one, the only one. 

Not even Nancy could make him feel half of the things you could make him feel. 

But he blew his chances with you – the only chances that ever mattered. 

He hears your laughter, your beautiful giggles that he missed every day since you left, even from all the way here, he can hear the voice that accompanied him throughout most of his life… until it didn’t. 

You were his best friend, the only friend that mattered until he found Robin. You were with him from the moment your mothers introduced you both to each other, joined at the hip, you went through it all together, different hobbies, different friend groups, first crushes and rough school days, arguments with so called friends, first parties, first drunken nights, you went through so much and you did it all together, you experienced everything together. 

Steve would sneak into your room, late at night, he would use the vines on the wall as a ladder, no matter how many times you scolded him, he still climbed up because he wanted to see you so desperately, even when he spent the whole day with you, it just wasn’t enough, you’d spent the nights whispering and talking about the newest gossips, sometimes he would paint your nails or braid your hair, sometimes you would just lie next to each other and listen to some new album and sometimes you would cuddle and fall asleep in each other’s arms, it was a regular thing, it was something constant. 

But then something changed, you both got curious, you both started acting upon feelings that have been there for a long time already, feelings that were no longer innocent and childish turned into something more. 

You were each other’s first kiss, it was nothing more than a peck at first… and then it was a second and a third before you kissed for real. And then, it was just another regular thing, you started cuddling and kissing every night, smiling and giggling through it all, holding hands and pulling each other closer and closer. 

Those innocent kisses turned into makeout sessions and those turned into your first time. 

It was his first time and yours, you shared it with each other, like you shared everything else together. 

It was filled with nervous giggles, blushing cheeks and shaky touches, you were both scared to do something wrong but you assured one another and you both did your best, he took care of you and you of him. It was slow, it was soft, it was perfect. A night he will never forget. 

Nothing ever came close to this moment, nothing came ever close to how you made him feel. 

Steve should have asked you out after that night, he should’ve, but he didn’t, he chickened out, he got scared and he left the next morning without saying goodbye. That was his biggest mistake. 

To this day, he doesn’t know how you felt about it all, you never spoke of this night again, you never mentioned it again, you both acted like nothing happened, you continued your friendship like you didn’t ruin it. 

He kept coming over, everything stayed the same… but it didn’t. 

You started slipping away from him and he was too busy to notice, he became captain of the basketball team, girls started noticing him, he started going on dates even though you were all he could think about, it felt wrong to hold their hands, to kiss them, to touch them, he felt as though he was betraying you but his new friend Tommy encouraged him, spoke lies into his ear about how you went on dates on the nights you canceled on him. 

He was hurt, he was angry, and it only was a matter of time before he invited a girl who wasn’t you into his sheets. 

He hated how he felt afterwards, but he didn’t stop, he kept going and before he could even blink, he was the most popular boy in school, he was King Steve, the guy who could have anyone but still only had eyes for one. 

Though your shared nights became less frequent, you still spent time with him, even when you weren’t fond of Tommy and Carol, his big parties or the way he treated girls, you were still there and it bothered him that he couldn’t have you. 

It was clear that you didn’t feel the same, despite the many signs that he had missed at that time. He was your best friend, just your best friend, just Steve. He could’ve made a move, he could've asked you out on a date, he could’ve finally confronted you about your night together and how you felt about it, how you felt about him, but he was scared and it was ironic really, because he was good with girls, very charming and cocky, smug and arrogant but not with you, no, not with you. You made him nervous, you made his chest feel weird, his stomach too, you made his heart race and flutter, you made his skin feel hot and his mind all crazy. 

You got him bad. 

You made him fall in love. 

But he was a coward when it came to his feelings for you, he really was, he didn’t even want to admit them to himself, so he watched you slip through his fingers instead of taking action and making you his. His feelings got stronger despite the distance that slowly grew between you.

You were still there, physically, but your mind was somewhere else and you seemed so far away.

He left notes in your locker, just like he did when he was a kid. 

And you did the same to him. 

You waved at each other from afar and shared smiles, you still drove around town and sang along to your favorite songs after an occasional trip to that one diner out of town, you sometimes slept over and left your sweet scent on his pillows, driving him crazy with it. You were still each other’s best friends. 

But then Nancy stepped into his life and that was it, at that point, it was already crumbling, your friendship was hanging by a thread and it earned its final blow when you moved away for college. 

Occasional calls and letters were all that existed between you at that point, it drove him crazy, it made him sad. He suffered heartbreak when you were gone and you weren’t there to mend it, you weren’t there to hold him, to wipe his tears and tell him that he would be alright – how could you? You were the reason for that heartbreak and Nancy was the one who gave him the final push to open his eyes to the feelings he kept pushing away and feeling so scared of. 

When he realized what a mistake he had made, it was far too late to fix it and he never stopped regretting the actions he took and didn’t take. 

But now you are here, you are back. 

He hasn’t heard your voice in so long, he hasn’t seen your beauty in forever, he missed your presence so dearly. 

One year, one whole year without you. 

Are you here to stay for the summer or are you back for good? He hopes it’s the latter, this town felt anything but home without you here. 

Steve stares at you, he stares and stares without shame. His lips are curled into a soft smile, his cheeks already blushing as he takes you in. 

You are so gorgeous. 

A confident smile is lingering on your lips, your makeup is a little bolder than it used to be, back then, but it suits you, your skirt is short, your top is tight, your cleavage is showing and your skin is glowing, your hair is much longer than he remembers it to be, a few highlights added to your pretty hair color and styled into waves. 

You have always been a sight for sore eyes, he was aware of your beauty from a young age, he called you his princess, his sweet, cute and beautiful princess. But you are more than just beautiful now, you are stunning, bewitching, you are heavenly. 

His heart jumps at the sound of your giggle, his skin heating up so rapidly that it catches him off guard. 

Steve watches you, he watches for what feels like forever, you’re here with friends, girls you used to hang out with back in high school. 

The smile never leaves his lips as he keeps his eyes on you, his heart fluttering more and more each passing second, eyes continuing to light up at every sound of your giggle. 

When you step away from your friends and walk back into the house, he wastes no time to follow, grabbing the chance that he once missed, he goes after you and leaves his drink abandoned on the floor. 

He brushes past a group of guys playing beer pong, dodging the dancing people on the dancefloor, keeping his eyes on your body as he follows. Your skirt is swaying, your waves are bouncing, your hips are shaking slightly, your sweet scent lingers in the air and he can’t help but inhale it deeply, it’s still the same scent that he missed on his pillows and the hoodies you used to steal.

With your back turned to him, you stop in front of the snack table and pour yourself a cup of the overly alcoholised punch. 

Steve doesn’t approach you right away, standing by the doorway, he decides to watch you for a second longer, feeling giddy and nervous now that he is so close to you again. 

You nearly choke on the punch, the bitter taste of alcohol overpowering the fruity taste, you scrunch your brows together and swallow it down in disgust, unimpressed by this drink after all the different kind of cocktails you have tried in the past months on your night outs to bars with your girlfriends from college. 

A sigh falls from your lips and you take a second, much needed sip. 

It feels weird to be back home in Hawkins, the town is much quieter than the big city you called home for the past year and you feel that weird tingly shudder on the back of your neck, knowing that he is so close somewhere. 

Steve. 

You miss him so much, you miss him everyday, but it’s been so long, you can’t even remember the last time you have talked to him. You know that he still works at Family Video and his friend Robin moved into his house with him after his parents moved away from Hawkins, for good. 

But that’s all, you don’t know if he is single or if he is dating – you fear your heart wouldn’t take the information very well, which is ironic really, you haven’t seen him in so long, all you have are your memories, some of which you kept in a shoebox under your bed, pictures, notes, letters and little presents from him. Steve was nothing but a ghost these past months and yet it didn’t stop your heart from falling deeper in love… even with just the boy in your memory, the one that will haunt you for the rest of your life. 

A sigh falls from your lips as you look down at the red beverage in your cup, you close your eyes and take another sip and swallow it but this time in delight, you welcome the burning in your throat. 

“You still make that cute face when you don’t like something.” 

The voice you have just been thinking about sounds deeper than it did when you left. 

Those shudders at the back of your neck, run down your spine and transform into heat across your whole body, your heart skips a few beats.

You turn to face him, sloshing the drink around in your cup, you nearly spill it on the white tiles beneath you. Your breath hitches in your throat and your chest tightens when you look at him for the first time again, those hazel eyes that you have missed so much staring back at you with excitement yet nervousness and you have no doubt that your own eyes match the look in his. 

Your lips curl into a shy smile, your cheeks heat up so quickly and you nearly crush the plastic cup in your hand when you let your eyes roam his body. He somehow got even taller, his arms look stronger and his shoulders wider, his hair got longer too, a spitcurl hanging over his forehead, his cheeks are rosy, a stubble covering his jaw and chin, your eyes move down his arm, stopping at the black hair tie around his wrist that momentarily steals your breath away and fills your chest with hope. You lick your lips and swallow as you stare at the veins in his hands. 

There he stands with his stupid, still perfectly styled hair and his Levi’s that are always way too tight around his crotch, looking down at you and reminding you of how much taller he is and always was. 

“Hey,” he breathes, nervously, happily. 

“Steve,” you say with a smile on your lips, “hi.”

Truthfully, Steve doesn’t know what to say, your heart is beating so hard, he can feel it in his throat, he feels so nervous, you make him nervous. His charm, his flirtatious side still fades into nothing when he is around you and the world around him still disappears when he is with you, some things truly never change. 

He wants to take a step closer and wrap his arms around you, he wants to hug you and never let go again but he doesn’t want to overstep so he forces himself to stay in place. 

“Y-You’re back,” he smiles, trying to hide his excitement. 

You nod, probably a little too quickly. 

“Yeah, I’m back,” you nod again, feeling awkward and tense standing here before him after all the countless nights you spent thinking, dreaming about him. 

He breathes heavily and fidgets with the hair tie around his wrist, “for the summer or…?”

You shake your head, unable to look away from his beautiful eyes. 

“No, I-I transferred to uh the community college here…” You scrunch your face up when you see the surprised look on his face. “I know, lame right? Moving away from Chicago and back to your hometown is uh not the.. move.” 

Not the move? He repeats in his head. 

This might be the best day of his life – the day he had been waiting for, for your return. 

Steve’s eyes widen, he purses his lips as he starts shaking his head, raising his hand a little, he steps closer to you. 

“No! No, I’m just surprised, that’s all, I didn’t think you’d ever come back… honestly,” he chuckles nervously and brings his hand up to scratch the side of his neck. “But I’m happy to see you back here again.” 

Happy is an understatement, the feelings in him can’t be put into words, they do not exist. 

Your eyes soften at his words, your smile transforming into a soft one, hope swirling inside of you. 

Did he miss you like you missed him? 

“I’m happy to see you,” he adds, his cheeks heating up at his admission and your beauty doesn’t help his case, his eyes roam your body, your pretty features, your soft skin, the chain around your neck that looks oh so familiar, his heart starts beating faster, his hands shaking from the giddiness lingering in him. “Y-You look…” Stunning, mesmerizing, gorgeous, sexy, adorable, like an angel or a goddess. “Amazing.” He breathes, blushing red.

Your eyebrows pull together as your wide eyes fill with emotion. 

You see the way he looks at you, you see the redness in his cheeks, the shyness in his eyes that surprises you the most. 

You take a shaky breath, cursing at the way your cheeks heat up and glow so hotly. 

“Thank you,” you say without stutter, to your own surprise. “You don’t look bad yourself, Harrington,” you smirk at him, smugness taking over your blushing features when you see him looking down in nervousness. 

Did you just make Steve blush? 

You open your mouth again, feeling the urge to compliment him again when a whistle interrupts you and wipes the smirk off your face, instead a look of disgust takes over your features when you turn your head to see Tommy Hagan looking you up and down with a perverted smile on his face. 

He pushes his way between you, earning a glare from Steve, whose face turned stone cold and angry. Tommy grabs a red solo cup and pours himself some of the punch while he continues to give you nasty looks, chuckling when looks at your cleavage, “shit, now I get why Harrington always kept his favorite toy to himself,” he smirks and takes a sip of his drink before he steps back to wink at Steve, wiping his chin and looking back to you, “you really grew up.” 

Your lips curl downwards, your brows pull together in a frown. 

“Dude, what the fuck,” Steve frowns at him, giving him a disapproving look. 

Tommy always made you feel uncomfortable with his comments and his weird looks, but it was something else back then. This is new, this is disgusting. 

“If I knew back then that you were hiding these behind your sweaters, I would’ve definitely hit it,” he chuckles darkly as he stares at your boobs. 

Bile rises in your throat and your grip tightens on your cup, the urge to throw your punch into his face growing strong. 

Steve rolls his eyes, a frustrated sigh falls from his lips and he steps towards his former friend, he places his hand on his chest and pushes him back as he takes a protective stance in front of you, protecting you from Tommy’s prying eyes. 

“Alright, that’s enough, asshole,” Steve mumbles angrily. “Leave her alone or I swear to–”

“You swear to what, man? You and I both know you can’t do shit,” Tommy laughs at Steve, his eyes crinkle in amusement, irritating Steve further. 

Steve might’ve lost most of his fights, but he wouldn’t lose one if it came to you. 

He clenches his jaw and glares down at him, feeling rage burn within him. 

“Seriously dude, get lost, alright?” He demands, his voice sounding deeper, more serious than before. 

You look over Steve’s shoulder, feeling safe and protected by him, the way you always did, just even more now. Your stomach flutters with warmth, your heart swelling in your chest. 

To your surprise, Tommy steps away without another word, continuing to chuckle at Steve and the glare on his face. He gives you another look. 

“Call me if you–”

“Fuck off, Tommy,” Steve says through gritted teeth, feeling hot rage flushing through him. 

Tommy takes another sip as he walks backwards, winking at you before he finally turns around and leaves the kitchen, allowing you to finally breathe. 

Steve runs his fingers through his hair and huffs, turning back to you, his features instantly soften. 

“I’m sorry about him.” 

You shake your head, your smile reappearing again, “it’s not your fault,” you shrug, “some people just never change.” 

“Yeah…” He mumbles, wondering if you changed at all, “did you?”

Did you change? You ask yourself. Maybe, surely college has shaped you in some way, being away from home, being independent and all alone, meeting new people and being pushed into situations you would have never allowed as a teenager, did change something in you. 

You got more confident, a little bolder too, you tried new things and did them without shame, something that was once impossible when you were still here and an insecure teen. 

You tilt your head to the side and give him a sly smirk, “why don’t you find out?” 

The anger Tommy left him with fades away, the flirtatious tone in your voice catching him by surprise and you take it even further when you take a step closer to him after placing your drink on the counter, you look up at him with your big eyes that still drive him crazy. 

He doesn’t remember you to be this flirty… this bold but he can’t complain, it makes the fluttering in his stomach feel so much more intense. 

Steve’s lips curl back into a smile, he blinks at you, looking into your eyes intensely, with want and need – nothing changed, if anything, the magnetic force between you has intensified, even when there was mostly only radio silence between you both in these past months. 

Steve licks his lips, a sliver of his confidence slipping back in when he sees the way you look at him, eyes roaming his face and his body. Though his cheeks are still burning and his heart is still racing, no matter how much confidence he can find within himself, you are still you, you are still the girl that holds his heart in the palm of her hand, the one who has him captivated in every way possible, the one who has had him wrapped around her finger, from a very young age. You aren’t just a girl to woo and impress for a single date, you aren’t someone he would forget if a conversation or a date went wrong, you are the one he always wanted to grow old with, to experience everything with, to spend a life with the one who is his everything – one wrong move and he loses it all… again. 

He doesn’t bother to ask if you are with someone, if you are dating and taken, the thought is disturbing to his heart. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” He asks as he slowly reaches for your hand and you allow him to take it when you slip your palm against his and give his hand a squeeze.

He nearly crumbles to his knees when he feels your soft touch again, it’s been too long. Your hand always fit into his so perfectly, like it was made to be held by him. 

You nod, whispering a sweet ‘yes, please’. That’s all he needs to hear before he pulls you closer to his body, pushing you in front of him slightly, keeping a protective stance right behind you as he never lets go of your hand, basking in the feeling of having you so close again, of being able to smell your perfume again and the sweet scent of your body wash. 

He rubs circles on the top of your hand, pressing his other hand on the small of your back as he pushes through the crowds of people. He leads you to Robin first, needing to make sure that she will get home safe without him. He finds her playing beer pong with Vickie and a few of their former bandmates from high school. He taps on her shoulder and when she turns around, Steve grows more nervous than before, because her eyes grow wide when she sees you next to him, excitement flashing in them and a big grin appearing on her face after a long moment of staring at you. 

She knows all about you. 

She knows all about his feelings and his regrets. 

She knows how much he missed you. 

She was there when he cried and never stopped talking about you. 

So after greeting you, probably a little too enthusiastically, she moves closer to Steve, raising her eyebrows at him and giving him a teasing, yet pointed look. 

“Go and don’t worry about me, Vickie can drive, she’s not drinking tonight.”

“You sure?” 

She nods, her waves bouncing as she moves her head a little too quickly. 

“Steve I’m fine, go and get your girl,” she winks at him, squeezing his shoulder before she moves back, giving him another look that says nothing but ‘i mean it, don’t fuck it up this time, this is your chance.’ 

Steve nods at her, smiling and feeling reassured by her. He holds your hand tighter and pulls you away before you can properly say goodbye to his friend that you only know from your days in high school. You look back at her to find her staring at the two of you, grinning from ear to ear, she raises her eyebrows at you, eyes glowing as she gives you a smirk and a small wave of her hand. 

You feel a little confused by the teasing look on her face but smile and wave back at her nonetheless before Steve whisks you away and out of the room.

It isn’t weird to hold each other’s hand, to be back together in his car like nothing ever happened, like you never stopped doing this, like things are still normal between you. He makes small talk, it’s not awkward or weird, it’s… nice, anything is as long as you’re with him, even the silly jokes makes or how he tries to quote Shakespeare but fails miserably, he makes you laugh and you… you make him smile. 

You stop by the gas station to grab a six pack and some snacks to share before you drive to the lookout, to the place you always went to when you wanted to be alone together. 

You get comfortable on the hood of his car, as comfortable as you can get on the rough surface. It’s a little chillier out here in the woods, the wind that blows through the trees makes goosebumps arise on your skin. Steve, of course, has to use the opportunity to throw his jacket around your shoulders, rubbing your arms to warm you up as he moves close enough for you to feel his breath on your skin. 

You feel something stir within you, something only ever he could make you feel. 

You grab the denim and pull it tighter around you, glancing at him through your lashes, you feel your cheeks heat up when you find him staring at you already, a soft smile playing on his lips that you can see, even in this darkness. 

“Thanks Stevie.” A grin tugs at your lips when his smile moves into a flustered one. 

Steve licks his lips, he removes his hands from your body and busies himself with opening the beer bottles for you and him, “you’re welcome, honey,” he whispers, winking at you. 

You look away from him with blushing cheeks, hiding the smile on your face as you tilt your head down but nothing goes unnoticed by him, he sees the flustered expression in your features, the cute smile you’re trying to hold back. 

He scoots closer to you until his shoulder is pressed against yours, he offers you the opened bottle. You glance at his hand, taking in the size of it, how big it is, how his veins pop, how long his fingers are – it makes you squirm and clench your thighs together and he notices it, he looks down and he almost regrets it, almost. Your skirt has ridden up, it nearly covers nothing, at this point. Your skin looks so smooth, thighs so soft, he wants to touch them, kiss them, feel them wrapped around his head. 

His skin heats up, his lower stomach tingles, he craves you, in every way possible, he just wants to… feel you, he wants to feel you close, he wants your skin on his, he needs to know that you are truly back. 

Your touch sends shivers down his spine, it makes his stomach flip. 

He blinks, looking down at the bottle he is still holding, watching the way your hand curls around it, fingers grazing his own. Your hand is so much smaller than his, the urge to compare the size of his own to yours growing strong. 

“Steve?” 

Your soft voice pulls him out of his thoughts, he blushes, cheeks burning maroon. He shakes his head a little, squeezing his eyes shut as he furrows his eyebrows, he removes his hand from your bottle, already missing the touch of your hand. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he runs his fingers through his hair, “I got a little uh… distracted.” 

He instantly regrets it when his eyes fall back on your lap again, your giggle makes him blush even deeper, he eyes you from the side, watching the way you press your lips against the bottle, you take a sip, trying to hide the smirk on your lips. 

He feels a sudden sense of nervousness rushing through him – here he is, in the presence of the girl of his dreams, the girl that slipped through his fingers, the girl that should be his and he is messing up. He begins to stutter, trying to distract himself once again, this time from your legs, from your soft skin, from how much he wants to touch and kiss you, from how beautiful you are but you make him stutter, you make it difficult for him to talk, you make it impossible for him to be smooth, to flirt with you the way he always did with other girls and suddenly, he is reminded of why he was always so scared of revealings his feelings to you, there was too much at stake, he didn’t want to lose you. 

He always felt so pathetic around you, like a stupid kid in love, one that can’t talk to his crush without blushing, without stuttering. 

And this is exactly what you always adored about him. 

But he doesn't know it, he doesn’t even realize it, he doesn’t even see the way your eyes always light up, the way they soften as you look at him, the way you admire him. 

Before he even takes a sip of his beer, he already feels like he is drunk, his skin is hot, his mind hazy, he feels happy, at ease, like he is floating, all because of you, you make him feel so… light. 

He is drunk on you, without having touched you properly, your presence is enough. 

He wonders how you are holding up, what emotions linger inside of you — you look so calm, relaxed. 

You fall into a comfortable conversation, catching up on the things you have missed in each other's lives, since being separated. And while your eyes stay glued on the night sky, only glancing at him every once in a while, he watches you, with a fluttering feeling in his chest and a smile on his lips. 

You laugh with each other, getting lost in the memories that you both start bringing up, joking and slapping each other’s shoulders softly as you start to tease one another about the stupid things that you both have done in the past. 

You have changed, not only physically did you get even more beautiful, you got something that you didn’t have before, a boldness that you always admired others for. You used to be so shy, anxious to ask the simplest questions, too nervous to hold eye contact for longer than two seconds, even with him, sometimes. But now, despite you choosing to look at the sky instead of him, he can tell that you are not that shy girl anymore, who was afraid to look into his eyes. You are confident, comfortable in your own skin, not afraid to be you, not afraid to gaze into his eyes when you tilt your head to look at him. 

He wonders what or… who caused it, the change in you. 

Was it just the circumstances? The big city that pushed you out of your comfort zone? 

New friends? Being on your own? Or… was it the experiences you have made in these past few months that have shaped you from an innocent, shy teenager into a confident, young woman? 

His stomach churns at the thought of the things you have done while being away from home, or better yet, who you have done them with. He has no right to be upset about it, he knows it, yet he can’t stop the sinking feeling inside of him as he thinks of the hands that have touched your body or the lips that kissed yours, if you had dated someone, if you are someone else’s right now. 

The question tumbles from his lips before he can even stop himself. 

“Do you have anyone?” 

The storm that was just raging in his mind, the string of questions that followed now silenced as he stares at you, waiting for your answer with a racing heart and clammy hands. 

The sound of crickets and the rustling of the trees are the only sounds now filling the space around you.

“You mean… a boyfriend?” 

He nods and you shake your head at that. You bring the bottle up to your lips, taking a much needed sip. 

“No, I don’t,” you murmur as your eyes roam his face, “why?”

You notice the frown on his face, the way his lips are curled down and his eyebrows are tightly scrunched together. 

“Just wondering… someone like you still single?” 

“What do you mean…?” You ask slowly.

Steve huffs, shaking his head with a smile on his face. 

“I mean… Come on, honey. You’re funny, you’re smart and you’re just… you’re amazing,” he sighs adoringly, hazel eyes running up down and your face and your body. “You’re beautiful, a fucking catch.”

You almost want to scoff at his words, you want to roll your eyes and look the other way. A catch, right. A catch he never wanted. Your heart betrays you when it flutters and prompts a girlish giggle to fall from your lips. 

“Stop.”

He nudges his shoulder against yours, grinning at your flustered face, “it’s the truth.”

Steve feels relieved to know that you don’t have anyone waiting on you, that there isn’t some guy out there that got the girl he always wanted. 

“You have to say that,” you shake your head and drink the last drop of your beer before you throw the bottle down on the grass, making a mental note to pick it up later. 

Because he is your best friend, because he was always your best friend, no matter what – so of course, he has to say these words to you. 

He rolls his eyes at you, huffing, “I’m not just saying that.” 

You try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach, the way his words can make you feel like that shy teenage girl again, you try to steer the attention away from you. 

You press your palm against the cold, almost icy hood, leaning back, you tilt your head to the side and gaze at him, loving how long his hair grew, how his features are more… manly now, though the boyish grin still lingers. 

“What about you?” You whisper, swallowing the bitterness on your tongue. “Got anybody, Stevie?”

He shakes his head quickly, almost frowning at your question. 

“Me? No… no one really… felt right.” He says with a look of longing in his eyes, the one that is only reserved for you. 

The tension in your chest disappears, almost instantly, you have an idea of what you would feel like had the answer been a different one. 

“I was seeing a girl… for a while but uh… like I said, it… she didn’t feel right,” he admits with a nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

You nod, swallowing harshly. 

“Why didn’t she feel right?” You’re aware of how small, how shaky your voice sounds. 

You wait, wait and wait for him to answer your question, the answer he tries to find in your eyes as it seems because he won’t stop looking at you, it’s like he is searching for something, like he is trying to figure you out, like he is trying to make sense of the question you just asked. 

He doesn’t give you what you want, as always, Steve Harrington pretends like nothing happened, like nothing had been asked. 

But you know what he means, you know exactly what he means, you had someone too, back in Chicago. 

He was nice, he was good to you, in more ways than just one but no matter how much you tried not to think of him, you always failed. He was always there, always in the back of your mind, always ready to haunt you and remind you that he is and will always be the only one that your heart will belong to. 

Your relationship was only short lived, and you left him the moment you realized how unfair it was to stay with him when your heart was somewhere else, when you couldn’t stop thinking about Steve. 

Something rustles in the bushes, something echoes loudly through the woods, something that would have normally made you flinch, doesn’t even faze you now because he is here. You feel safe in his presence, you always did, not even the darkest night or the loudest storm could make you feel afraid as long as he was by your side. 

And yet, you scoot closer to him, not even noticing that you do until his fingers brush against yours and sparks shoot through your entire body. 

And through his. 

You clear your throat and take a deep breath, “yeah… I had someone… but he didn’t feel right either.” You say softly, vulnerably as you meet his eyes again. 

A soft ‘oh’ leaves his mouth and he nods, looking down at the bottle in his hand, he brings it up to his lips and downs the rest of it. He feels his stomach churning, his insides crawling at the mere thought of you with someone who isn’t him and it makes him feel awful, it makes him feel ridiculous because wasn’t that his own fault? He blew his chances with you. He let you go, hell, he didn’t even fight for you. 

He puts the bottle down, wipes his mouth and runs his fingers through his hair before he turns back to you to find you staring at him just the way you always did, with your big doe eyes, those pleading and begging looks you never stopped throwing at him. 

He’d have to be blind to not see it – he always did, he just never allowed himself to admit it, not even to himself, not even when you were all he ever wanted. 

“Why didn’t he feel right?” 

Steve watches the way your lips curl downwards, the way you squint your eyes at him, the softness fleeing as you glare at him instead.

And suddenly, the air around you feels different, tense for another reason, heavy and filled with something neither of you ever addressed before. 

While you take deep breaths, trying to calm yourself – Steve tries to mend the aching in his chest, the hammering that feels just too strong. 

“Why didn’t she feel right, huh?” You ask, scooting away from him and getting off the hood, placing your feet back on the ground, you don’t even bother to smooth down your skirt. You cross your arms over your chest and stand in front of him, demanding the answer you tried to ask softly before. 

Steve sighs, growing fearful and anxious, feeling like he is messing up yet again, like he is about to lose again. 

But you are close, so goddamn close, even through the anger in your eyes, you still stand in reach, your knees now brush against his. He straightens his back, fighting the urge to reach for your hands and just pull you into him, showing you why no one ever felt right. 

He promised Robin, he promised her that if you ever came back, he would go and get you, he would come clean about it all, he would make it all right again. 

“This goes both ways, Steve. You can’t just ask me and then–”

“Because no one is you.”

He won’t fail this again, no matter how scared he is, he just can’t. 

Your lips part in surprise, a painful look crosses your eyes, though the anger doesn’t fade away just yet. You uncross your arms, and shake your head at him. 

His words should bring you joy, shouldn’t they? 

But as you stand here before him, his knees brushing your own, his golden brown eyes staring at you with nothing but love, you can’t help but feel your heart aching because why now? Why not then? 

“So… it took me to leave town… go to college… for you to say this?” You whisper, holding back a choke as your eyes well up with unwanted tears. 

His own eyes panic when he sees just how much pain there is inside of you, how much you hid it. He reaches forward, taking your hand in his, he sighs in relief when you don’t push him away like he thought you would. 

“It was always there. Before our first kiss, before our first time, and then it never stopped. But you were… you were scary. Feeling love that strong at such a young age– it wasn’t in my plans. I was scared… I was scared of loving you and losing you. It happened before.” 

His parents. 

He loved them unconditionally, he loved them no matter what they did and didn’t do, he loved them and he lost them – they abandoned him and then they forgot about him. 

Your eyes show nothing but pain, your heart breaks, all over again, for him. 

And you’re stunned, so goddamn shocked because that word fell from his lips. Love. He loved you. 

You curl your hand around his, squeezing them tightly as he gets off his car, standing tall before you again. 

“You… still could have–”

“Risked it?” Steve interrupts you, furrowing his brows as he looks down at you. “No… I wasn’t going to risk it. Risk losing you…” He scoffs, shaking his head at himself, “now I see how stupid that was because I lost you anyways.” 

His eyes well up with tears, his voice almost cracks and you finally… finally get to see a glimpse into his heart, how much pain he was always hiding.

“No… I don’t think you lost me.”

“Honey, we haven’t talked in–”

“What you felt for me… Is it… Is it past tense?” 

Steve should see the hope in your eyes, he should hear it in your voice too, but he is so scared, so nervous at this moment. 

Everything he had always been afraid of was losing you because of his feelings and he can’t help but wonder, what if he confesses his love to you now and his saddest fear creeps in and he will lose you for good, forever? 

“Why do you want to know?” He asks, shakily. 

You hold his hands tighter, taking another step closer until you are chest to chest. You close your eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, you look up at him, begging with your eyes, yet again. “Because I deserve to know, Steve, do you still have feelings for me?”

He takes a long pause, feeling like his heart might explode, feeling like the ground might disappear beneath him if he doesn’t finally give you the whole truth. 

His eyes flicker down to your lips, the ones he craved to feel on his own for years, his body aches for you just the way his heart does, desire running deep but love taking full control, driving both his heart and his mind insane over you. He feels the pounding from his chest to his throat, his eyes glossy with tears he shed so many times over you, over his regrets. 

“Yes,” he whispers, already feeling his chest deflating as the pressure slowly sinks away, “like I said, they never stopped.”

Tears spill down yours and his cheeks, his shoulders slump in relief and you, you finally breathe. You sniffle and a giggle falls from your lips, one that makes him furrow his brows but smile because now he can see the happiness in your eyes, the joy from hearing this from him. 

“Oh, thank god,” you whisper and throw your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his chest, you hug him tightly, catching him off guard. 

It takes him a moment, it takes him a very long moment. 

His glassy eyes are wide, his heart is threatening to break free from his chest. He wanted this, he wanted you for so long, he feels like this is too good to be true but when he feels your tears seeping through his shirt and how you cling to his body, like you are afraid that he might disappear if you let go, he finally relaxes. His eyes close gently, tears spilling down his cheeks, he melts into your touch and curls his arms around you, cupping the back of your head, he holds you closely, tightly. 

“I missed you so much,” he whispers into your hair, pressing his lips to the top of your head, he gives a first kiss again. 

“I missed you, Stevie,” you murmur into his chest, holding onto his shirt. 

He moves even closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck as you rise to your tippy toes, wanting to feel more of him, as though he isn’t close enough already, not even when your chest to chest. 

Steve breathes in your scent, the one he used to sink his face into when it still lingered on his pillows, when he longed to feel you in his arms, when he craved you so badly but felt too cowardly to make the move he just made now. 

You cling to one another, like you never have before, not even when he held you during nights you needed him the most, when you were both so convinced that you were nothing more than friends… when just friendship was never something possible between you. 

Steve’s eyes are shut tightly, he is so lost in the feeling of you, feeling so warm, so safe, so loved in your embrace. 

How can his heart race so fast yet feel so… calm? 

You don’t know how much time passes as you stand there in each other’s arms, you are so lost in the moment, you couldn’t care less about anything around you, about the time, about your surroundings, about the world – only you and him matter, nothing more. 

He cups the side of your face when you begin to pull away to look at one another, glossy eyes gazing into each other, lips begging to be connected. His fingers brush through your hair, he tucks your front pieces behind your ears and caresses your cheeks. His hazel eyes flash with adoration. You are so beautiful. It makes his heart clench in his chest.  

You slide your hands up his chest, moving up to his neck and cupping his cheeks, your stomach growing with anticipation the closer you both move to each other. 

No words are spoken, there is no need for them, your eyes tell everything, just like your touch when your lips finally connect. 

Your hearts stop beating, time stops ticking, the world stops moving. 

Everything around you stops. 

Just absolutely everything. 

Your eyes flutter shut, just like his. 

A kiss you both never stopped craving finally happening, not only in your minds, but in reality. 

Steve sighs in contentment, a whimper following close behind, your lips move slowly, softly with each other, you savor each and every second, even when you know that this is only the beginning of it all. 

Nothing and no one could ever compare to this, no one could ever come between you, you are two puzzle pieces, ones that were made for only each other, no one else to match you both. It’s only you and him. Your hearts know, you know, he knows. 

The way he kisses you so gently, so sensually, makes your stomach flip in ways it never did before, not even back then when you shared first and second kisses. 

And Steve, he feels like he is in a dream that he never wants to wake from again, he is too scared to open his eyes and find himself in his lonely bed, surrounded by the scent of you that he only imagines, that forever lingers like a kiss upon his skin. 

But your whimper is real, your lips are real, you are real, your lips taste just like they did before, sweet and peachy, like home. 

You only pull away to catch your breath, smiling when Steve chases your lips with his own, nuzzling his nose against yours as a soft giggle falls from his puffy lips, “god… I missed you, princess.” He murmurs against your lips, knowing that he will keep repeating these words, over and over again, he feels like he has been blessed by the universe. 

Your best friend’s eyes shine so brightly, the love in them that you always craved to see, is so evident, it’s all out in the open now, all in reach, all there for the taking – when not even a few hours ago, you didn’t even know where he was, if he still thought of you, if he still cared for you… 

Tears escape your eyes and he wastes not second to catch them, to wipe them away and kiss your wet cheek. 

“Please don’t cry,” he whispers, feeling like his heart might break, knowing that you have suffered just the way he did, when he thought that you moved on, that you had forgotten all about him just like everyone else did when that was never even the case, when all you did was long for him, love him, even from afar. 

“I love you,” he whispers in relief, feeling like the weight of the world is off his shoulders, “I love you so fucking much, you’re my–”

You cup his cheeks and pull him down once again, kissing him deeply. “You.” Kiss. “Don’t.” Kiss. “Know.” Kiss. “How.” Kiss. “Much.” Kiss. “I.” Kiss. “Dreamed.” Kiss. “Of.” Kiss. “This.” Kiss. “Moment.” 

Steve's heart flutters the way it never did before, butterflies go wild in his stomach, his eyes crinkle and he smiles so brightly, his cheeks hurt. 

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips, “I love you so much, Steve Harrington, you have no idea how much–”

His lips are on yours, pressed against them so strongly as he pulls you into another deep, passionate kiss before you can even finish your sentence. He kisses you in a way no one ever did before. 

His thumbs linger on your cheekbones, his tongue parts your lips so effortlessly, your own clashing against his as the softness of your feelings disappears and transforms into something needy, hungry. This kiss is much faster, much rougher, much more passionate than the first, you get lost in it so quickly. 

When he takes a step back and he sits back down on the hood of his car, he moves his hands down to your waist, pulling you in between his legs. 

Your arms move around his shoulders, your hands get lost in his hair, fingers gripping it tightly as moans escape you. The kiss makes you feel so hot, your stomach burns, your skin feels like it’s on fire as his hands move up and down your back, slipping underneath his jacket that is still around your shoulders, under your shirt and then, he touches your soft skin with his cold hand, something that makes you shiver yet lean closer against him. 

He moans against your lips, he is so intoxicated by you, needing more and more, like you’re his own personal drug. He could keep doing this, he could take you right here, right now. He could taste you, unravel you with his tongue, with his fingers, he could hold your hands and make love to you like he always wanted to, like he hoped he’d get to tonight – because he thought that this might be all he would get, a night with you, only that and no more, because how could you ever want anything more than this with him after all the times he messed up with you? After he let you slip through his fingers like it was nothing?

But this won’t stay a single night, this won’t be one that will haunt him for the rest of his life. 

This will turn into more, so much more. 

He doesn’t want to mess it up again, he wants to take it slow, he wants to give you everything you deserve, everything he craved to give you, all these years, everything he dreamed about, during the day and the night. 

So as much as he wants this, you, your bare skin on his and your whimpers blessing his ears, you deserve more, you deserve to be taken on a date first. 

“Hang on,” he whispers against your lips, cupping your cheeks again, his lips curl into an amused smile when he opens his eyes to see your smudged lipstick that is no doubt on his face now too, your hair a mess just like his own, “I want to… fuck… I want you so bad, I couldn’t stop thinking about this, about you. But I want to take it slow, I-I want to do it right this time, I want to take you on a date and–”

You cut him off with a kiss, once more. Pressing your lips against his plush ones, over and over again until it makes you both giggle. He grabs your waist and pulls you down on his lap, grabbing your cheeks, he presses his forehead to yours.

“Slow is good,” you whisper, caressing his cheek as his fingers run up and down your spine underneath the denim jacket. “I like slow.”

“Yeah?” He smiles.

You nod, though an almost sad smile makes its way on your lips, “you know, I kinda thought you forgot about me until all of this.” You wave your hand around, wiping at your wet cheek as a soft laugh tumbles from your lips. 

You weren’t the only one who stopped calling, who stopped sending letters, he did too, but not for the reasons you thought, clearly. 

A deep frown appears on his face, he tightens his hold on you, raising his hand up towards your face, he cups your cheek. Despite everything he just said, despite the kiss, you still don’t understand just how deep his feelings for you are, how his heart isn’t even his own because it is completely, devotedly yours. 

“I could never forget you,” he whispers with a sad smile on his face, “you’re all I ever think about, now and then, even when we were kids, even when I was… King Steve,” he rolls his eyes at the nickname he used to be so proud of. “You never once left my mind, not once.” 

The smile that makes his way to your lips makes his heart skip a beat, he kisses your cheek, letting his lips linger for a moment. 

“So please, let me make it right, let me fix everything… go on a date with me?” He asks with nothing but hope in giddiness in his voice. 

You squint your eyes and tilt your head, giving him a teasing smile as you pretend to think but his soft eyes make your teasing an impossible task at this moment, you wipe the lipstick off his mouth and nuzzle your nose back against his. 

“I would love to go on a date with you, Stevie,” you whisper, feeling your heart burst from joy and love. 

The one thing you always wanted, you always craved now finally happening, at a moment when you least expected it. 

Coming back home made you so nervous, knowing that you would see him again after all this time of being apart, knowing that your feelings will only continue to grow, no matter the tie between you, filled you with a sense of… dread, because you couldn’t help but wonder – does he even want to see you? 

But, to find out that he had spent every passing moment, thinking about you, about your past, wanting you back and willing you to come running back into his arms lights up everything inside you again – flames you have tried to put out, burning stronger than ever. 

Steve’s eyes well up with tears of joy again, he cups the back of your neck, his lips brush against yours, he can’t even describe his feelings with words, so he doesn’t even try, but he shows you the happiness you brought back into his life, the happiness that was just gone when you were… gone. He kisses you, once, twice… He keeps kissing you, over and over again, unable to stop himself from going back in for more, consumed by love, by gratitude and happiness to know that you came back. 

To know that you won’t haunt his what if’s. 

He won’t chase your shadows wherever he will go. 

Your scent won’t linger from just his memory alone. 

He waited and waited, and he let the lamp burn and now… now you are here, you came back, you came back to him. 

Here, at the lookout where you used to sit on your saddest days, you find your way back to one another again. 

As you embrace the future written for you, you know that the rings on your fingers won't only be imaginary ones like the ones from your childhood.